the boy land boomer or dick arbuckle's adventures in oklahoma by captain ralph bonehill author of "three young ranchmen," "a sailor boy with dewey," etc. [illustration: "the youth had to cling fast around his neck to save himself a lot of broken bones"] illustrated by w. h. fry h. m. caldwell company new york publishers boston copyright, , by the saalfield publishing company made by robert smith printing co., lansing, mich. --------------- transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. all other inconsistencies have been left as they were in the original. --------------- list of illustrations page "the youth had to cling fast around his neck to save himself a lot of broken bones" _frontispiece_ "the next instant the boy was hurled headlong into the boiling and foaming current" "dick had let fly the jagged stone, taking him directly in the forehead and keeling him over like a tenpin" "in a second more the two men were in a hand-to-hand encounter" preface. "the boy land boomer" relates the adventures of a lad who, with his father, joins a number of daring men in an attempt to occupy the rich farming lands of oklahoma before the time when that section of our country was thrown open to settlement under the homestead act. oklahoma consists of a tract of land which formerly formed a portion of the indian territory. this region was much in dispute as early as and , when captain "oklahoma" payne and captain couch did their best to force an entrance for the boomers under them. boomers remained in the neighborhood for years, and another attempt was made to settle oklahoma in , and up to , when, on april , the land was thrown open to settlement by a proclamation of the president. the mad rush to gain the best claims followed, and some of these scenes are related in the present volume. the boomers, who numbered thousands, had among them several daring and well-known leaders, but not one was better known or more daring than the leader who is known in these pages as pawnee brown. this man was not alone a great indian scout and hunter, but also one who had lived much among the indians, could speak their language, and who had on several occasions acted as interpreter for the government. he was well beloved by his followers, who relied upon his judgment in all things. to some it may seem that the scenes in this book are overdrawn. such, however, is not the fact. there was much of roughness in those days, and the author has continually found it necessary to tone down rather than to exaggerate in penning these scenes from real life. captain ralph bonehill. the boy land boomer. * * * * * chapter i. dick arbuckle's discovery. "father!" the call came from a boy of sixteen, a bright, manly chap, who had just awakened from an unusually sound sleep in the rear end of a monstrous boomer's wagon. the scene was upon the outskirts of arkansas city, situated near the southern boundary line of kansas and not many miles from the oklahoma portion of the indian territory. for weeks the city had been filling up with boomers on their way to pre-empt land within the confines of oklahoma as soon as it became possible to do so. the land in oklahoma had for years been in dispute. pioneers claimed the right to go in and stake out homesteads, but the soldiers of our government would not allow them to do so. the secret of the matter was that the cattle kings of that section controlled everything, and as the grazing land of the territory was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to them they fought desperately to keep the pioneers out, delaying, in every manner possible, legislation which tended to make the section an absolutely free one to would-be settlers. but now the pioneers, or boomers as they were commonly called, were tired of waiting for the passage of a law which they knew must come sooner or later, and they intended to go ahead without legal authority. it was a dark, tempestuous night, with the wind blowing fiercely and the rain coming down at irregular intervals. on the grassy plain were huddled the wagons, animals and trappings of over two hundred boomers. here and there flared up the remains of a campfire, but the wind was blowing too strongly for these to be replenished, and the men had followed their wives and children into the big, canvas-covered wagons, to make themselves as comfortable as the crowded space permitted. it was the rattle of the rain on the canvas covering of the wagon which had aroused the boy. "i say father!" he repeated. "father!" again there was no reply, and, kicking aside the blanket with which he had been covered, dick arbuckle clambered over some boxes piled high in the center of the vehicle to where he had left his parent resting less than three hours before. "gone!" cried the lad in astonishment. "what can this mean? what could take him outside in such a storm as this? father!" he now crawled to the opening at the front of the wagon and called at the top of his voice. only the shrieking of the wind answered him. a dozen times he cried out, then paused to strike a somewhat damp match and light a smoky lantern hanging to the front ashen bow of the turn-out's covering. holding the light over his head he peered forth into the inky darkness surrounding the boomer's temporary camp. "not a soul in sight," he mused. "it must be about midnight. can something have happened to father? he said he felt rather strange in his head when he went to bed. if only jack rasco would come back." from the front end of the wagon dick arbuckle shifted back to the rear. here the same dreary outlook of storm, mud and flapping canvases presented itself. not so much as a stray dog was in sight, and the nearest wagon was twenty feet away. "i must find out where he is. something is wrong, i feel certain of it." thus muttering to himself the youth hunted up his overcoat and hat, put them on, and, lantern in hand, swung himself into the sea of half-submerged prairie grass, and stalked over to the other wagon just mentioned. "mike delaney!" he cried, kicking on the wagon wheel with the toe of his boot; "mike delaney, have you seen my father anywhere?" "sure, an' moike delaney is not here, dick arbuckle," came in a female voice. "he's gone off wid pawnee brown, and there's no tellin' whin he'll be back. is yer father gone?" "yes, and i don't know where," and now dick stepped closer, as the round and freckled face of rosy delaney peered forth from a hole in the canvas end. "he went to bed when i did, and now he's missing." "saints preserve us! mebbe the injuns scalped him now, dick!" came in a voice full of terror. "there are no indians around here, mrs. delaney," answered the youth, half inclined to laugh. "but he's missing, and it's mighty strange, to say the least." "he was sick, too, wasn't he?" "father hasn't been real well for a year. he left new york very largely in the hope that this climate would do him some good." "moike was sayin' his head throubles him a good bit." "so it does, and that's why i am so worried. when he gets those awful pains he is apt to walk away and keep right on without knowing where he is going." "poor mon! oi wisht oi could help yez. mebbe moike will be back soon. ain't jack rasco about?" "no, he is off with pawnee brown, too. rasco and brown have been looking over the trails leading to oklahoma. they are bound to outwit the united states cavalry, for the boomers have more right to that land than the cattle kings, and right is always might in the end." "especially wid pawnee on the end o' it, dick. he's a great mon, is pawnee, only it do be afther givin' me the shivers to hear him spake the pawnee language loike he was a rale injun. such a foine scout as he is has no roight to spake such a dirthy tongue. how illegant it would be now if he could spake rale oirish." "his knowledge of the indian tongue has helped both him and our government a good deal, mrs. delaney. but i mustn't stop here talking. if my father----" a wild, unearthly shriek cut short further talk upon dick arbuckle's part. it came from the darkness back of the camp and caused mrs. delaney to draw back and tumble to the bottom of her house on wheels in terror. "it's the banshee----" she began, when dick interrupted her. "it's pumpkin bill. i'd know his voice a mile off," he declared. "somebody ought to send him back to where he belongs. creation, what a racket!" nearer and nearer came the voice, rising and falling with the wind. the shrill shrieking penetrated to every wagon, and head after head was thrust out of the canvases to see what it meant. in another minute pumpkin bill, the dunce of the boomer's camp, "a nobody from nowhar," to use cal clemmer's words, came rushing along, hatless and with his wild eyes fairly starting from their sockets. "save me! a ghost!" he yelled, swinging his hands over his head. "a ghost full of blood! oh, oh! i'm a dead boy! i know i am! stop him from following me!" "pumpkin!" ejaculated dick, striding up and catching the fleeing lad by the arm. "hold on; what's this racket about?" the dunce paused, then stood stock still, his mouth opening to its widest extent. he was far from bright, and it took him several seconds to put into words what was passing in his mind. "about, about?" he repeated. "dick arbuckle! oh, dear me! i've seen your father's ghost!" "pumpkin!" "yes, i did. hope to die if i didn't. i was just coming to camp from town. some men kept me, and made me sing and dance for them--you know how i can sing--tra-la-la-da-do-da-bum! they promised me a dollar, but didn't give it to me. i was running to get out of the wet when i plumped into something fearful--a ghost! your father, covered with blood, and groaning and moaning, 'robbed, robbed; almost murdered!' that's what the ghost said, and he caught me by the hand. see, the blood is there yet, even though i did try to wash it off in the rain. oh, dick, what does it mean?" "it means something awful has happened, pumpkin, if your story is true----" "hope to die if it ain't," and the dunce crossed his heart several times. suddenly, to keep up his courage, he burst into a wild snatch of song: "a big baboon glared at the moon, and sang la-la-la-dum! 'come down to me and i will be your lardy-dardy----'" "stop it, pumpkin," interrupted dick. "come along with me." "to where?" "to where you saw my father." "not for a million dollars--not for a million million!" cried the half-witted boy. "it wasn't your father; it was a ghost, all covered with blood!" and he shrank back under the delaney wagon. "it was my father, pumpkin; i am sure of it. he is missing, and something has happened to him. perhaps he fell and hurt himself. come on." the dunce stopped short and stared. "missing, is he? then it wasn't a ghost. la-la-dum! what a joke. will you go along, too?" "of course." "and take a pistol?" "yes." "poor mon, oi thrust he is not very much hurted," broke in rosy delaney, who had been a close listener to the foregoing. "if he is, dick arbuckle, bring him here, an' it's rosy delaney will nurse him wid th' best of care." as has been said, many had heard pumpkin bill's wild cries, but now that he had quieted down these boomers returned to their couches, grumbling that the half-witted lad should thus be allowed to disturb their rest. in a minute dick arbuckle and pumpkin were hurrying along the road the dunce had previously traveled. the rain was letting up a bit, and the smoky lantern lit up the surroundings for a circle thirty feet in diameter. "here is where i met him," said pumpkin, coming to a halt near the edge of a small stream. "there's the hat he knocked off my head." he picked it up. "oh, dear me! covered with blood! did you ever see the like?" dick was more disturbed than ever. "which way did he go?" "i don't know." "didn't you notice at all, pumpkin? try to think." "nary a notice. i ran, that's all. it looked like a bloody ghost. i'll dream about it, i know i will." to this dick did not answer. getting down on his knees in the wet he examined the trail by the lantern's rays. the footsteps which he thought must be those of his father led around a bend in the stream and up a series of rocks covered with moss and dirt. with his heart thumping violently under his jacket he followed the footprints until the very summit of the rocks was gained. then he let out a groan of anguish. and not without cause. beyond the summit was a dark opening fifteen feet wide, a hundred or more feet long and of unfathomable depth. the footprints ended at the very edge of this yawning abyss. chapter ii. dick on a runaway. "if he fell down here he is dead beyond all doubt!" such were dick arbuckle's words as he tried in vain to pierce the gloom of the abyss by flashing around the smoky lantern. "gosh! i reckon you're right," answered pumpkin in an awe-struck whisper. "it must be a thousand feet to the bottom of that hole!" "if i had a rope i might lower myself," went on the youth, with quiet determination. "but without a rope----" a pounding of hoof-strokes on the grassy trail below the rocks caused him to stop and listen attentively. "somebody is coming. i'll see if i can get help!" he cried, and ran down to the trail, swinging his lantern over his head as he went. in ten seconds a horseman burst into view, riding a beautiful racing steed. the newcomer was a well-known leader of the land boomers, who rejoiced in the name of pawnee brown. "ai! pawnee brown!" cried dick, and at once the leader of the land boomers came to a halt. "what is it, arbuckle?" he asked kindly. "my father is missing, and i have every reason to fear that he has tumbled into an opening at the summit of yonder rocks." "that's bad, lad. missing? since when?" dick's story was soon told, and pawnee brown at once agreed to go up to the opening and see if anything could be done. "it's the devil's chimney," he explained. "if he went over into it i'm afraid he's a goner." a lariat hung from the pommel of the scout's saddle, and this he took in hand as he dismounted. soon he stood by the edge of the black opening, while dick again waved the lantern. "you and the dunce can lower me by the lariat. i don't believe the opening is more than fifty feet deep," said pawnee brown. the lariat was quickly adjusted around the edge of a smooth rock, and with his foot in a noose and the lantern in hand, the scout was lowered into the depths of the opening. down and down he went, the light finding nothing but bare, rocky wall to fall upon. presently the lowering process ceased. "we have reached the end of the lariat," called out dick. hardly had he spoken when a fearful thing happened. there was a snap and a whirr, and dick and pumpkin went flat on their backs, while ten feet of the lariat whirled loosely over their heads. the improvised rope had broken. "gone!" gasped dick. "merciful heavens!" he scrambled up and looked over the edge of the opening. the lantern had been dashed into a thousand pieces, and all was dark below. "pawnee brown!" he cried, and pumpkin joined in with a cry which was fairly a shriek. the opening remained as silent as a tomb. again and again both called out. then dick turned to his companion. "this is awful, pumpkin. something must be done. i shall mount his mare and ride back to camp and get help. for all i know to the contrary both my father and pawnee brown are lying dead below." "i shan't stay here alone," shivered the half-witted boy. then, before dick could stop him, he set off at the top of his speed, yelling discordantly as he went. "poor fool, he might have ridden with me," thought dick. he was already rushing down to the trail. now he remembered that he had heard a strange noise down where pawnee brown's beautiful mare, bonnie bird, had been tethered--a noise reaching him just before the lariat had parted. what could that mean? he reached the clump of trees where bonnie bird should have been. the mare was gone! "broken away!" he groaned. "was ever such luck before! everything is going wrong tonight! poor father; poor pawnee brown! i must leg it to camp just as pumpkin is doing. hullo!" he had started to run, but now he pulled up short. grazing in the wet grass not a dozen steps away was a bay horse, full and round, a perfect beast. at first dick arbuckle thought he must be dreaming. he ran up rubbing his eyes. no, it was no dream; the horse was as real as a horse could be. he was bridled, but instead of a saddle wore only a patch of a blanket. "it's a godsend," he murmured. "i don't know whom you belong to, old boy, but you've got to carry me back to camp, and that, too, at a licking gait, you understand?" the horse pricked up his ears and gave a snort. in a trice dick was on his back and urging him around in the proper direction. he was a new york boy, not much used to riding, and the management of such a beast as this one did not come easy. the horse arose upon his forelegs and nearly pitched dick over his head, and the youth had to cling fast around his neck to save himself a lot of broken bones. "whoa, there! gee christopher, what a tartar! whoa, i say! if only i had a whip!" he panted, as the horse began to move around on a pivot. "now, why can't you act nice, when i'm in such dire need of your services? if you don't stop--whoa! whoa!" for the horse had suddenly stopped pivoting and started off like a streak, not up or down the trail, but across a stretch of prairie grass. on and on he went, the bit between his teeth and gaining speed at every step. in vain dick yelled at him, kicked him and banged him on the head. it was of no use, and he had to cling on for dear life. "i might as well let him go and jump for it," he thought at last, when nearly a mile had been covered. "it's just as useless to try to stop him as it would be to stop a limited express. if i jump off--but i won't, now!" for the prairie had been left behind, and the bay was tearing along a rocky trail leading to goodness knew where, so dick thought. a jump now would mean broken bones, perhaps death. he clung tighter than ever, and tried to calm the horse by speaking gently to him. at first the beast would not listen, but finally, when several miles had been covered he slackened up, and at last dropped into a walk. he was covered with foam, and now he was quite willing to be led. "you old reprobate!" muttered dick, as he tightened his hold on the reins. "now where in the name of creation have you brought me to, and how am i to find my way back to camp from here?" sitting upright once again, the youth tried to pierce the darkness. the rain had stopped, only a few scattering drops falling upon himself and the steaming animal, but the darkness was as great as ever. on two sides of him were forest lands, on the third a slope of rocks and on the fourth a stretch of dwarf grass. the trail, if such it could be called, ran along the edge of the timber. should he follow this? he moved along slowly, wondering whether he was right or wrong. "halt! who goes there?" it was a military challenge, coming out of the darkness. dick stopped the horse, and presently made out the form of a man on horseback, a cavalryman. "i'm a friend who has lost the way," began the youth, when the cavalryman let out a cry of surprise. "tucker's horse, hang me if it isn't! boy, where did you get that nag? tucker, ross, come here! i've collared one of the horse-thieves!" in a moment more there came the clatter of horses' hoofs through the timber, and dick found himself surrounded by three big and decidedly ugly-looking united states cavalrymen--troopers who belonged to a detachment set to guard the oklahoma territory from invasion. "a boy and a boomer!" ejaculated the fellow named tucker. "i saw the kid over near arkansas city a couple of days ago. and riding chester, too! git off that hoss, before i kick you off!" and riding up he caught dick by the collar and yanked him to the ground. in an instant he was beside the boy and had produced a pair of reservation handcuffs. "out with your hands, sonny, and be quick about it." "what for?" asked dick, somewhat bewildered by the unceremonious way in which he was being handled. "i didn't steal that horse." "too thin, sonny. all you boomers are a set of thieves, and i suppose you think stealing our hossflesh is the rarest kind of a joke. out with those hands, i say, and consider yourself a prisoner of uncle sam. you've nearly ridden chester to death and for two pins i'd take the law into my own hands and string you up to the nearest tree. take that!" and having handcuffed dick the cavalryman let out with his heavy right hand and landed a savage slap that sent the helpless youth headlong at his feet. the blow aroused all of the lion in the youth's makeup. as quickly as he could he leaped up. "you brute!" he cried. "why don't you fight fair? take that, and that and that!" each "that" meant two blows, for dick could not separate his hands, and therefore struck out with both at a time--two in the chest, two on the chin and the final pair on either side of tucker's big and reddish nose. the cavalryman, taken by surprise, let out a cry of rage and pain. "you imp!" he screamed. "to hit a man in uniform! i'll show you what i can do! how do you like that?" with incredible swiftness he drew his heavy sabra and leaped upon dick. the boy tried to retreat, but slipped on the wet ground and went down. on the instant tucker was upon him, and, with a fierce cry, the infuriated cavalryman raised his blade over dick's head. chapter iii. a cave and a cave-in. let us go back and see what happened to pawnee brown at the time the lariat parted and he found himself going down into what seemed bottomless space. instinctively he put out both hands as far as he was able, to grasp anything which might come within reach and thereby check his awful downward course. the lantern fell from his fingers and jingled to pieces on a protruding rock. then his right hand slid over the ends of a bush growing out of a fissure. he caught the bush and held on like grim death. the bush gave way, but not instantly, and his descent was checked so that the tumble to the bottom of the hole, fifteen feet further down, was not near as bad as it would otherwise have been. yet he came down sideways, and his head striking a flat rock, he was knocked insensible. half an hour went by, and he opened his eyes in a wondering way. where was he and what had happened? soon the truth burst upon him, and he staggered to his feet to see if any bones had been broken. "all whole yet, thanks to my usual good luck," he thought. "but that's a nasty lump on the back of my head. hullo, up there!" he called out as loudly as he could, but no answer came back, for dick and pumpkin were already gone. "well, i always allowed that i would explore the devil's chimney some day, but i didn't calculate to do it quite so soon," he went on. "what can have become of those boys? have they deserted me or gone off for help? if i can read character i fancy that dick arbuckle will do all he can for me--and, by the way, can his father's corpse really be down here?" he brought forth a match and lit it. the battered lantern lay close at hand, and, although without a glass, it was still better than nothing, and, turned well up, gave forth a torch-like flame which lit up the surroundings for a dozen feet or more. no body was there, nor did he find any for the full distance up and down the dismal hole. "the boy was mistaken; his father wandered elsewhere," was the boomer's conclusion. "poor fellow, he was in no mental or physical condition to push his claims in the west. he should have remained at home and allowed some hustling western lawyer to act for him. if he falls into the clutches of some of our land agents they'll swindle him out of every cent of his fortune. i must give him and the boy the tip when i get the chance." the great scout laughed softly. "when i get the chance is good. i reckon i had best pull myself out of this man-trap first." he made a careful investigation of the rocks. at no point was there anything which gave promise of a footing to the top. "in a pocket and no error," he mused. "i wonder if i've got to stay here like a bull-croaker at the bottom of a well?" the rain had formed a long pool between the slanting rocks. he threw a chip into this pool and saw that it drifted slowly off between two scrub bushes growing partly under a shelving rock. with the light he made an inspection of the locality, and a cry of surprise escaped him. beyond the bushes was the opening to an irregular, but apparently large cavern. the stream flowed along one side of the flooring to this opening. "must be some sort of an outlet beyond," he mused. "i'll try it and see," and in a moment more he was inside of the cavern and crawling along on hands and knees. he had not far to go in this fashion. twenty feet beyond the cavern became so large that he could stand up with ease. he flashed the light above his head. "by jove! a miniature mammoth cave of kentucky!" burst from his lips. on he went until a bend in the formation of the cavern was gained. here the stream of water disappeared under a pile of loose stones, and the opening became less than six feet in height. "checked!" he muttered, and his face fell. it looked as if he would have to go back the way he had come. again he raised his light and gazed about him with more care than ever. the loose rocks soon caught his attention, and, setting down the lantern, he began to pull away first at one and then another. the last turned back, he saw another opening, evidently leading upward. "this must lead to the open air--" he began, when a grinding of stone caught his ears. in a twinkle a veritable shower of rocks came down around his head. he was knocked flat and almost covered. for fully ten minutes he lay gasping for breath. the blood was flowing from a wound on his cheek, and it was a wonder that he had not been killed. "in the future i'll have more care," he groaned, as, throwing first one stone and then another aside, he sat up. the falling of the stones had been followed by some dirt, and now a regular landslide came after, burying him up to the armpits. "planted," was the single word which issued from his lips. he was not seriously hurt, and was half inclined to laugh at his predicament. still, on the whole, it was no laughing matter, and pawnee brown lost no time in trying to dig himself free. the stones and dirt were wedged tightly about his legs, and not wishing to run the risk of a broken or twisted ankle, the scout worked with care, all the time wondering if dick arbuckle was back, and never once dreaming of the peril the poor lad was encountering. the rain was soaking through the ceiling of the cavern, and the situation was far from a comfortable one. at last he was free again, and striking a match, he hunted up the lantern and lit it once more. the opening to the inner cave was now large enough to pass through with ease, and making sure of his footing, the scout moved forward, straining his eyes eagerly for some sign of an egress to the outer world. presently he saw a number of straggly things dangling downward from the rocks and soil overhead. they were the bottom roots of some great tree standing fifteen or twenty feet above. "not far from the surface now, that's certain," he thought, with considerable satisfaction. "and yet, hang me if i can see an opening of any sort yet." on and on he went, until nearly a hundred feet more had been passed. the cave had widened out, but now it narrowed once again to less than a dozen feet. the roof, too, sloped downward until it occasionally scraped the crown of his sombrero. the light of the lantern began to splutter and flare up, showing that the oil in the cup was running low. "if only the thing lasts until i find the door to this confounded prison," he thought. suddenly a peculiar hiss sounded out upon the darkness. pawnee brown knew that hiss only too well, and leaping back he snatched a pistol from his belt. the hiss was followed by a rattle, and now, flashing the light around, the scout saw upon a flat rock the curled-up form of a huge rattlesnake. the eyes of the reptile shone like twin stars, and when pawnee brown discovered him he was getting ready to strike. the rattler was less than six feet away, and the scout knew that he could cover that space with ease. therefore, whatever was to be done must be done quickly. like a flash the pistol came up. but ere pawnee brown could fire a curious thing happened. a large drop of water, splashing down from the roof of the cavern, caused the light to splutter and go out. the scout was in the dark with his enemy. more than this, he was boxed up in a narrow place, from which escape was well-nigh impossible. aiming as best he could under the circumstances, he fired. the bullet struck the flat rock, bounded up to the side wall of the cavern and then hit him in the leg. "missed, by thunder!" he jumped past the spot and moved up the cavern a distance of several yards. a rattle and a whirr followed, as the great rattlesnake made a vicious strike in the dark. an intense hiss sounded out when the reptile realized that the object of his anger had been missed. listening with strained ears, the boomer heard the deadly thing sliding slowly from rock to rock, coming closer at every movement. to flee was impossible, so with bated breath he stood his ground. chapter iv. out of the cavern. slowly but surely the great rattlesnake came closer to where pawnee brown stood motionless in the darkness of the cavern. the reptile had been enraged by the shot the great scout fired, and now meant to strike, and that fatally. listening with ears strained to their utmost, the boomer heard the form of the snake slide from rock to rock of the uneven flooring. the rattler was all of ten feet long and as thick around as a good-sized fence rail. one square strike from those poisonous fangs and pawnee brown's hours would be numbered. yet the scout did not intend to give up his life just now. he still held his pistol, four chambers of which were loaded. "if only i had a light," he thought. retreat was out of the question. a single sound and the rattlesnake would have been upon him like a flash. it was only the darkness and the utter silence that made the reptile cautious. suddenly the scout heard a scraping on the rocks less than three feet in front of him. the time for action had come; another moment and the rattler would be wound around his legs. crack! crack! two reports rang out in quick succession and by the flash of the first shot pawnee brown located those glittering eyes. the second shot went true to its mark, and the rattler dropped back with a hole through its ugly head. the long, whip like body slashed hither and thither, and the scout had to do some lively sprinting to keep from getting a tangle and a squeeze. as he hopped about he struck a match, picked up the lantern, shook the little oil remaining into the wick and lit it. another shot finished the snake and the body curled up into a snarl and a quiver, to bother him no more. it was then that pawnee brown paused, drew a deep breath and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. "by gosh! i've killed fifty rattlers in my time, but never one in this fashion," he murmured. "wonder if there are any more around?" he knew that these snakes often travel in pairs, and as he went on his way he kept his eyes wide open for another attack. but none came, and now something else claimed his attention. the cavern was coming to an end. the side walls closed in to less than three feet, and the flooring sloped up so that he had to crouch down and finally go forward on his hands and knees. the lantern now went out for good, every drop of oil being exhausted. at this juncture many a man would have halted and turned back to where he had come from, but such was not pawnee brown's intention. "i'll see the thing through," he muttered. "i'd like to know how far i am from the surface of the ground." a dozen yards further and the cavern become so small that additional progress was impossible. he placed his hand above him and encountered nothing but dirt, with here and there a small stone. with care he began to dig away at the dirt with his knife. less than a foot of the cavern ceiling had thus been dug away when the point of the knife brought down a small stream of water. feeling certain he was now close to the surface, he continued to work with renewed vigor. "at last!" the scout was right. the knife had found the outer air, and a dim, uncertain light struck down upon the hero of the plains. it did not take long to enlarge the opening sufficiently to admit the passage of pawnee brown's body. he leaped out among a number of bushes and stretched himself. having brushed the dirt from his wet clothing, he "located himself," as he put it, and started up a hill to the entrance to the devil's chimney. he was on the side opposite to that from which he had descended, and, in order to get over, had to make a wide detour through some brush and small timber. this accomplished, he hurried to where he had left bonnie bird tethered. as the reader knows, the beautiful mare was gone, and had been for some time. "i suppose that young arbuckle took her," he mused. "but, if so, why doesn't he come back here with her?" there being no help for it, the scout set off for the camp of the boomers on foot. he was just entering the temporary settlement when he came face to face with jack rasco, another of the boomers. "pawnee!" shouted the boomer, "you air jess the man i want ter see. hev ye sot eyes on airy o' the arbuckles?" "i'm looking for dick arbuckle now," answered the scout. "isn't he in the camp? i thought he came here with my mare?" "he ain't nowhar. rosy delaney says he went off with pumpkin to look for his dad, who had disappeared----" "then he didn't come back? what can have become of him and bonnie bird?" pawnee brown's face grew full of concern. "something is wrong around here, jack," he continued, and told the boomer of what had happened up at the devil's chimney. "first it's the father, and now it's the son and my mare. i must investigate this." "i'm with yer, pawnee--with yer to the end. yer know thet." "yes, jack; you are one of the few men i know i can trust in everything. but two of us are not enough. if harm has befallen the arbuckles it is the duty of the whole camp--or, at least, every man in it--to try to sift matters to the bottom." "right ye air, pawnee. i'll raise a hullabaloo and rouse 'em up." jack rasco was as good as his word. going from wagon to wagon, he shook the sleepers and explained matters. in less than a quarter of an hour a dozen stalwart boomers were in the saddle, while jack rasco brought forth an extra horse of his own for brown's use. "has anybody seen the dunce?" questioned the scout. no one had since he had gone off with dick to look for the so-called ghost. "we will divide up into parties of two," said pawnee brown, and this was done, and soon he and jack rasco were bounding over the trail leading toward the indian territory, while others were setting off in the direction of arkansas city and elsewhere. "something curious about them air arbuckles," observed rasco as they flew along side by side. "mortimer arbuckle said as how he was coming hyer fer his health, but kick me ef i kin see it." "i think myself the man has an axe to grind," responded the leader of the boomers. "you know he came west to see about some land." "oh, i know thet. but thar's somethin' else, sure ez shootin' ez shootin', pawnee. it kinder runs in my noddle thet he is a'lookin' fer somebuddy." "who?" "ah, thar's where ye hev got me. but i'll tell ye something. one night when the boy wuz over ter arkansas city the old man war sleeping in the wagon, an' he got a nightmare. he clenched his fists an' begun ter moan an' groan. 'don't say i did it, bolange,' he moans. 'don't say that--it's an awful crime! don't put the blood on my head!' an' a lot more like thet, till my blood most run cold an' i shook him ter make him wake up. now, don't thet look like he had something on his mind?" "it certainly does, and yet the man is not quite right in his upper story, although i wouldn't tell the son that, rasco. but what was the name he mentioned?" "bolange, or volange, or something like thet. it seems ter me he hollered out louis onct, too." a sudden light shone in the great scout's eyes. he gripped his companion by the arm. "try to think, jack. did arbuckle speak the name of vorlange--louis vorlange?" "by gosh! pawnee, you hev struck it--vorlange, ez plain ez day. do yer know the man?" "do i know him?" pawnee brown drew a long breath. "jack, i believe i once told you about my schoolboy days at wellington and elsewhere before i left home to take up a life on the cattle trails?" "yes, pawnee. from all accounts you wuz cut out for a schoolmaster, instead of a leader of us boomers." "i was a professor once at the indian industrial school at pawnee agency. that is where i got to be called pawnee brown, and where the pawnees became so friendly that they made me their white chief. but i aspired to something more than teaching and more than cow punching in those boyhood days at wellington; i wanted to have a try at entrance to west point and follow in the footsteps of grant and custer, and fellows of that sort." "ye deserved it, i'll bet, pawnee." "i worked hard for it, and at last i got a chance to compete at the examination. among the other boys who competed was louis vorlange. he had been the bully of our school, and more than once we had fought, and twice i had sent him to bed with a head that was nearly broken. he hated me accordingly, and swore i should not win the prize i coveted." "did he try, too?" "yes, but he was outclassed from the start, for, although he was sly and shrewd, book learning was too much for him. the examination came off, and i got left, through vorlange, who stole my papers and changed many of my answers. i didn't learn of this until it was too late. my chance of going to west point fell through. there was nothing to do but to thrash vorlange, and the day before i left home i gave him a licking that i'll wager he'll remember to the day of his death. as it was, he tried to shoot me, but i collared the pistol, and for that dastardly attack knocked two of his teeth down his throat." "served him right, pawnee. but i don't see whar--" "hold on a minute, jack. i said vorlange didn't go to west point; but he was strong with the politicians, and as soon as he was old enough he got a position under the government, and now i understand he is somewhere around the indian territory acting as a spy for the land department." "by gosh! i see. an' ye think mortimer arbuckle knows this same chap?" "it would look so. if i can read faces, the old man is innocent of wrong-doing, and if that is so and there is the secret of a crime between him and louis vorlange you can wager vorlange is the guilty party." "pawnee, you hev a head on yer shoulders fit fer a judge, hang me ef ye ain't," burst out jack rasco admiringly. "i wish yer would talk to arbuckle the next time he turns up. mebbe yer kin lift a weight off o' his shoulders. the poor old fellow--creation! wot's that?" jack rasco stopped short and pulled up his horse. a wild, unearthly scream rent the air, rising and falling on the wind of the night. the scream was followed by a burst of laughter which was truly demoniacal. pawnee brown pulled his horse up on his haunches. what was this new mystery which confronted him? again the cry rang out; but now the scout recognized it and a faint smile shone upon his face. "it's the dunce," he exclaimed. "pumpkin! pumpkin! come here!" a moment of silence followed and he called again. then from the brush which grew among the rocks emerged the form of the half-witted boy. "pumpkin, where is dick arbuckle?" questioned pawnee brown, leaping to the ground and catching the lad by his arm. "lemme go! i didn't hurt him!" screamed pumpkin. "he went that way--like the wind--on a bay horse which was running away. oh, he's killed, i know he is!" "you are sure of this?" "hope to die if it ain't so. poor dick! he'll be pitched off and smashed up like his father was smashed up. hurry, and maybe you can catch him." "i believe the dunce speaks the truth," broke in jack rasco. "how long ago was this?" "not more'n an hour. hurry up if you want to save him," and with a yell such as he had uttered before, pumpkin disappeared. pawnee brown and rasco wasted no more time. whipping up their steeds, they set off on a rapid gallop in the direction the runaway horse had pursued. chapter v. the cavalrymen. let us rejoin dick arbuckle at the time that the incensed cavalryman, tucker, was about to attack the hapless lad with his heavy sabra. had the cruel blow fallen as intended it is beyond dispute that dick would have been severely injured. "don't!" cried the boy, and then closed his eyes at the terrible thought of such dire punishment so close at hand. but just at that instant an interruption came from out of the darkness of the brush. "hello, there! what are you up to?" tucker started, and the sabra was turned aside to bury itself in the exposed roots of a tree. "if it ain't pawnee brown!" muttered another cavalryman, ross by name. "pawnee brown!" burst from dick's lips, joyfully, and, rising, he attempted to rush toward his friend. "not so fast, boy!" howled tucker, and caught the youth by the collar. "what's the meaning of this? what are you doing to that boy?" asked pawnee brown as he rode closer, with rasco beside him. "he's a horse thief, and we are going to take him to our camp," answered tucker, somewhat uneasily, for he had seen pawnee brown before and knew he had a man of strong character with whom to deal. "a horse thief!" ejaculated jack rasco. "say, sod'ger, yer crazy! thet boy a thief! wall, by gum!" "that boy is no thief," put in pawnee brown. "he belongs to our camp, and is as square as they make them--i'll vouch for it." "i ain't taking the word of any boomer," muttered tucker sourly. "that kid--hold on! don't shoot!" and he dropped back in terror, for the great scout had drawn his pistol like a flash. "you'll take my word or take something else," came the stiff response. "be quick, now, and say which you choose." "i didn't mean any harm, pawnee. maybe you don't know it, but the boy is a thief just the same. we just caught him riding my horse--this bay. my comrades can prove it." "it's true," said ross. "true as gospel," added skimmy, the third cavalryman. "we caught him less than half an hour ago." without answering to this, pawnee brown turned to the youth. "tell me your yarn, dick. i know there is some mistake here." "there is not much to tell, major. when the lariat broke up at the devil's chimney and i couldn't make you reply to my calls i ran off to get help and a rope. i intended to ride your mare back to camp, but when i got to where the mare had been tethered i found her gone and this bay loafing around in her place. i got on the bay, but, instead of riding to camp, the animal ran away with me and brought me here. these fellows were mighty rough on me, and that man was going to split my head open when you came along in the nick of time." "that's a neat fairy tale," sneered tucker. "this horse was stolen four hours ago. more than likely the boy couldn't manage him and lost his way and the horse tried to get back to where he belonged." "that doesn't connect with what i know," answered pawnee brown, quietly. "my mare was tethered where he went to look for her. i might as well accuse you of riding down there, taking bonnie bird and leaving this nag in her place." "do you mean to insinuate we are horse thieves?" cried ross hotly. "i'm giving you as good as you send, that's all. dick, have you any idea where bonnie bird is?" "not the slightest, sir." the great scout heaved a sigh. the little racing mare was the very apple of his eye. "i'll not give up the hunt until i have found her." he turned again to the cavalrymen. "if the finest little black mare, with a white blaze, that you ever saw strays into your camp remember she belongs to me," he went on. "i want her returned at once, and if anybody attempts to keep her there will be a hotter time than this territory has seen for many a day. dick, hop up behind me," and he turned to his horse. "that boy is to remain here," blustered tucker, growing red in the face. "hardly, my bantam. hop up, dick, and we'll strike back for camp before the sun comes up and see if the others who are on the search have seen anything of your father. i saw nothing of him at the bottom of the devil's chimney." "i'm not going to have a lazy, good-for-nothing boomer lay it over me----" began tucker, when once more the sight of pawnee brown's pistol silenced him. no more was said as the scout, dick and rasco rode away down the trail by which they had come. but, once out of sight, tucker raised his fist and shook it savagely. "i'll get square with you some day, pawnee brown, mark my words!" he muttered between his set teeth. "we'll all get square," said ross. "i hate the sight of that man." "i understand the boomers have made him their leader," broke in skimmy. "if they have, he'll try to break through to oklahoma as sure as guns are guns." "and he'll get shot, too," answered tucker dryly. "the lieutenant is having all of the boomers' movements watched." "pawnee brown will do his level best to give us the slip, see if he don't," remarked skimmy. "four thousand boomers wouldn't make him their leader for nothing." thus, talking among themselves, the three cavalrymen mounted their horses and rode back to their various picket stations along the boundary line of the indian territory. they were a detachment of the seventh united states cavalry, and the lieutenant referred to by tucker was in command. for over a month they had been watching the boomers assembling in kansas. other portions of the united states troops were watching the would-be oklahoma settlers in arkansas and texas. there was every prospect of a lively time ahead, and it was not far off. reaching his station, tucker drew from his pocket a briar-root pipe, filled and lit it and began to puff away meditatively. his face had been ugly before, but now as he began to meditate it grew blacker than ever. "hang me, if everything ain't going wrong," he muttered. "i won't stand it. i'll make a kick, and when i do----" he paused as a shadow among the trees caught his eye. "who goes there?" he called out and drew his pistol. "a friend. tucker, is that you?" "vorlange!" cried the cavalryman, and the next moment the newcomer and the military man were face to face. "it's about time you showed up," growled tucker, after a brief pause, during which the newcomer looked at him anxiously. "say, vorlange, when do you intend to settle up with me. give it to me straight, now." "that's why i left the trail to hunt you up, tucker--i knew you were anxious about that five hundred dollars." "why shouldn't i be? it took me a long time to save it--a good sight longer than it did for you to gamble it away." "tucker, i didn't gamble that away--i'll swear it. i used it in business." "business? what business have you got outside of your position as a land office spy?" "a good business, if you only knew it. i've been following up a little deal that started in the east--in new york. out there i had to hire a fellow i could trust to work for me, and that took most of the money. but the whole thing is coming my way now, and i want to talk things over with you. how would you like to have a thousand back in return for the five hundred you loaned me?" "what sort of a game are you working on me now?" "a square deal, tucker. i've been keeping my eye on you, and i reckon you are the fellow to do what i want done." "and what do you want done?" vorlange stepped closer. "the boomers are going to try to cross into oklahoma either to-morrow or day after. there will be a fight, i am certain of it, and somebody will be shot and killed. when you fire i want you to pick out your man--two men--or, rather, a man and a boy, if you can do it. i may be on hand to take part myself, but there is a possibility that i may be ordered elsewhere." "and you are willing to pay me five hundred extra for picking out my target, vorlange?" "you've struck it." "who is the man?" "can i trust you?" "yes." "pawnee brown." at the mention of the great scout's name tucker started back. "why--why do you want him knocked over?" "he is my enemy. i have hated him from my boyhood!" cried louis vorlange. "and there are other reasons--he stands in the way of my pushing the scheme i mentioned." "pawnee brown was here but a short while ago. he insulted and abused me," growled tucker. "i'll put a bullet through him quick enough if i get the chance--that is, in a skirmish. i don't want to run any risk of being strung up for--you know." "the shooting will be o. k., tucker, and i'll help if i'm not ordered away. do it and the five hundred extra are yours, i'll give you my word." "what about that boy you mentioned?" "his name is dick arbuckle. he is----" "dick arbuckle? i know him. he stole my horse. i captured him and pawnee brown came to his rescue and made me, ross and skimmy give him up," and tucker gave the particulars in his own version of the affair. "then you bear the lad no love?" "love?" the cavalryman grated his teeth. "i was wishing i could get a shot at him." "then keep that wish in mind, tucker, when the time for action arrives." "if it's worth five hundred to you to have pawnee brown knocked over it ought to be worth more to have both of 'em laid low," suggested tucker, who was naturally a grasping fellow. "five hundred in cold cash is a good deal in these times," was the slow answer. "but i'll tell you what i'll do. if, after a fight, you can bring me absolute proof that pawnee brown and dick arbuckle are dead i'll give you an even twelve hundred dollars, the five hundred i borrowed and seven hundred extra. there's my hand on it. what do you say?" "will you promise to give me the money as soon as you have the proofs?" "i will," and louis vorlange raised his right hand as though to make good such a blasphemous promise. "all right, then; i take you up," answered tucker. chapter vi. dick's hunt. "don't you take it so hard, my lad; i feel certain that your father will turn up sooner or later." it was pawnee brown who spoke. he addressed dick, who sat on a horse belonging to jack rasco. the pair had been scouring the plains and the woods for three hours in search of dick's father. "poor father! if only i knew what had become of him!" sighed the lad. in his anxiety he had forgotten all about his adventures among the cavalrymen who had sought to detain him as a horse thief. "it's a mystery, thet's what it is," burst in jack rasco. "it looks loike the hivens hed opened an' swalleyed him up," was mike delaney's comment. "be jabbers, we all know th' hivens was wide open enough last noight. me turn-out is afther standin' in two foot o' wather, an' rosy raisin' the mischief because she can't go out. 'moike,' sez she, 'moike delaney, git a boat or oi'll be drowned,' an' niver a boat in sight. th' ould woman will have to shtay in the wagon till the wather runs off of itself." "i wonder if it is possible my poor father wandered into town," mused dick. "perhaps he did that and was locked up by the police. he is--well, you know he gets strange spells," and the youth's face flushed. "run into town, lad, and make a search," answered the boomer. "if i and rasco get the chance we'll follow. we shan't strike camp for several hours yet." dick thought this good advice and was soon on his way. the rain had stopped entirely and the sun was just peeping up over the distant plains when he entered arkansas city and began his hunt. a visit to the police station speedily revealed the fact that nothing was known there concerning his missing parent. here dick left a description of his father, and was promised that if anything was discovered of the man word would be sent to him immediately. having ridden around to the depot, hotels and other public places, dick tied up his steed and began a hunt through the various streets, looking into the doors of the stores and saloons as he passed. his footsteps soon brought him down to the vicinity of the river front. here, situated along several blocks, were a number of eating and drinking houses, patronized principally by river men, gamblers and similar persons. having satisfied himself, with a sigh of relief, that his father was not in any of the saloons, the youth came to a halt in front of a restaurant. he had not eaten anything since the evening before, and his night of adventures had made him decidedly hungry. "i'll get a cup of coffee and some rolls to brace me up," he thought, and entered the establishment. his order was soon given, and he took a seat at a side table, close to a thin board partition. his order served, he was disposing of the last of it, when the sound of voices on the other side of the partition attracted his attention. "leave me alone, juan donomez!" came in the voice of a girl. "you have no right to touch me." "you are too pretty to be left alone," came in the slick tones of a mexican vaquero. "come, now, senorita, give me just one kiss." "i will not, and you must leave me alone," went on the girl, and her trembling voice showed plainly that she was much frightened. "where is the man who sent for me?" "he is not here yet." "i do not believe he sent for me at all. it was a trick of yours to get me here. let me go." "not yet, senorita; you can go after a while. but first you must give me a kiss. then i will explain why i had you come." as the last words were uttered dick heard a scurry of feet, then came a faint scream, cut short by the mexican. the boy waited to hear no more. "the contemptible greaser!" he muttered and leaped up. throwing down the amount of his check on the cashier's desk he hurried from the restaurant. as he had supposed there was a hallway next door, where the talking he had overheard was taking place. "oh, save me!" cried the girl, and one glance at her told dick that she was not over sixteen and as beautiful as any maiden he had ever seen. she was attired in true western style and wore on her mass of shining curls a big, soft riding hat. "let that young lady alone," cried the youth to the mexican, who glared at him savagely. "i overheard your talk, and if she wants to leave she shall do it." "oh, thank you for coming to my aid," burst out the girl gratefully. "this bad man----" "say no more, nellie winthrop," interrupted the mexican. "go to the rear. i will attend to this cub who dares to interfere with my business." and he shoved the girl behind him. his roughness made dick's blood boil over, and, rushing forward, he put out his foot, gave a push, and juan donomez measured his length upon the floor. during the encounter nellie winthrop had escaped to the front end of the hallway, and here dick now joined her. "we might as well go," said the youth. "yes, yes; let us get out as quickly as we can," answered the girl trembling. "he may attempt to attack you." "i ought to hand him over to the authorities, but i won't," said dick. "come," and he opened the door and followed her to the street. "i shall never forget you for your kindness," the girl burst out as soon as they had left the vicinity of the spot where the trouble had occurred. "you are very brave, mr.----" "i'm only dick arbuckle, miss----" "nellie winthrop is my name. i just reached arkansas city yesterday. i am from peoria, and am looking for my uncle, who is somewhere among the oklahoma boomers." "indeed! i'm one of the boomers myself--at least, i've been with them a good part of the time. perhaps i know your uncle. what is his name?" "john rasco, but i believe the men all call him jack rasco." "why, is it possible! i know jack rasco well--in fact, my father and i have been stopping with him ever since we came on from new york. as soon as the rush into oklahoma was over my father was going to get your uncle to locate a certain mine claim in the west for him--a claim that belongs to us, but which can't be located very easily, it seems." "and where is my uncle now?" demanded nellie winthrop. "at the boomers' camp, i suppose. you see," went on dick, his face falling, "there is something wrong afoot." and in a few words he told of his father's disappearance and of the search being made to find him. "i sincerely trust he is safe," said nellie when he had concluded. "i presume you want to resume your search. do not let me detain you. if you are among the boomers we will certainly meet again," and she held out her hand. "do you feel safe enough to find the camp alone?" he asked. "perhaps i had better take you there. it is about a mile in that direction," and he indicated the locality with a wave of his hand. "i feel safe enough in the open air," she smiled. "it was only when that mexican had me cornered in a dark hallway that i felt alarmed. i was born and brought up on the plains, and i've been to peoria only to get educated, as they say. i've a horse at the livery stable, and i can ride the distance." "may i ask how you fell in with that greaser?" "i think he overheard me asking for my uncle at the hotel, and after that he sent a note saying my uncle was at the place where you found me. i saw him first on the train, where he tried his best to get some information from me about some horses. but i told him little," concluded the girl. five minutes later they parted at the livery stable, where nellie had left her horse, and dick went on his way to continue his search for his lost parent. the girl had thanked him again for what he had done and had squeezed his hand so warmly that his heart thumped pretty hard, while his face was flushed more than ever before. chapter vii. out on the river. for over half an hour longer dick tramped the streets of the city looking for some trace of his father. presently he found himself down by the docks along the muddy river. the stream was much swollen, and the few boats tied up were bumping freely against the shore as the current swung them in. "i wonder if father could have come down here?" he mused. "he had a great fondness for the water when he got those strange spells." slowly and with eyes wide open he moved down the river shore, ready to seize upon any evidence which might present itself. suddenly he uttered a cry and leaped down into a rowboat lying before, him. "father's hat! i'd know it among a thousand!" dick was right. there on the stern seat of the craft rested the head-covering mortimer arbuckle had worn ever since he had left new york. the tears stood in the youth's eyes as he picked up the hat and inspected it. one side of the brim was covered with dirt, and it was still soaked from the rain. "poor father! is it possible he fell overboard?" dick said "fell overboard," but he thought something else. he knew as well as anybody that his father did strange things while under the influence of the melancholy spells which at times haunted him. he looked up and down the stream. nothing was in sight but the boats and here and there a mass of driftwood. he sat down on the seat and covered his face with his hands. "say, boy, wot yer doin' in my boat?" it was a burly fellow standing upon the shore who asked the question. "excuse me; i am looking for my father, who is missing. i just found his hat on the seat here. did you see anything of him?" "missing, eh--an' thet's his headgear? say, boy, thet's no laughin' matter," and the burly fellow looked at the youth kindly. "i know it. i am afraid he tumbled overboard. he had times when he wasn't feeling quite right in his head." the burly individual whistled softly to himself. "then i reckon sary was right, arter all," he half mused. "sary? who do you mean?" "sary's my wife. she woke me up about five o'clock this mornin'. we live up in the shanty yonder. sary said she heard somebody moanin' an' yellin' down here. i said she wuz dreamin', but i allow now ez i might hev been mistook, eh?" "you didn't come out to investigate?" "no; it war too stormy. i listened, but there wuz no more of the noise arter sary waked me up. if yer father fell overboard i'm mighty sorry fer yer. if he did go over his body must be a long way down stream by this time." "poor father!" it was all dick could say. he and his parent had been alone in the wide world, and now to think that his only relative was gone was almost beyond endurance. "take the boat and go down if yer want to," went on the burly individual. "ye can leave the craft at woolley's mill. i'd go along, only the old woman's took sick an' i've got to hustle fer a doctor." "i will take a look around in the boat," answered dick, and, having procured the oars, he set off. the current was so strong it was not necessary to use the blades, and he had all he could do to keep the craft from spinning around and dashing itself against the shore or the other boats which lay along both banks. on and on the rowboat sped, until about a quarter of a mile had been covered. nothing unusual had yet been noted, yet the boy kept his eyes strained for some sign of his father, praying inwardly that all might still be well with the only one who was left to him. "if father is dead, what shall i do?" he thought with a shiver. "he had all of our money with him, all of those precious papers, everything. i would be left a pauper, and, worse than that, without a single relative in the wide world. oh, pray heaven he is spared to me!" "look out there, youngster!" it was a wild cry, coming from a bend in the stream. dick had been gazing across the river. now he turned to behold his craft rushing swiftly toward the trunk of a half-submerged tree which the storm had torn away from the shore. the river was almost a torrent at this place. he grasped the oars, intending to turn the boat from its mad course. but the action came too late. crash! the craft struck a sharp branch of the tree with fearful force, staving in the bow completely, and the next instant the boy was hurled headlong into the boiling and foaming current. [illustration: "the next instant the boy was hurled headlong into the boiling and foaming current"] chapter viii. exposing a swindler. it was less than an hour after separating from dick arbuckle that pawnee brown found his way to arkansas city. he was accompanied by jack rasco and cal clemmer, and the great scout's object was not alone to aid dick in the search for mortimer arbuckle, but also to help cal clemmer get back some money out of which the cowboy boomer claimed he had been swindled. clemmer had played cards with a certain sharp known as pete stillwater, and lost two hundred and fifty dollars. at first he had imagined he had lost it fairly enough, but after thoughts, coupled with what he heard on the sly the next day, made him certain that stillwater had cheated him. he had brought his case to pawnee brown, and the leader of the boomers at once concluded that the gambler had not acted fairly. he had met stillwater at wichita, where the gambler's reputation was far from savory. "you were a fool to bet at cards, cal," he said flatly. "but that is no reason why stillwater should cheat you. i'll do what i can, but you must promise to leave playing for high stakes alone in the future." "don't yer fear, pawnee," was clemmer's ready reply. "a scorched injun keeps hez distance from the blaze, don't he? wall, i'm the scorched injun in this air case. git back my money fer me an' i won't play nothin' higher then penny-ante ez long ez i live." the gambling resort at which stillwater was holding forth was soon reached, and the three entered, to find the place comfortably crowded by boomers, men-about-town, cowboys and gamblers, all anxious to add to their wealth without working. as pawnee brown surveyed the assemblage his lip curled with a sarcasm which was by no means displaced. "poor fools!" he thought; "they expect to win, and nine-tenths of them are bound in the end to be fleeced out of all they possess. why men who have brains will throw away good money in this fashion is more than i can understand." "thar's stillwater," whispered cal clemmer. "hang hez hide, i'd like ter wring hez neck fer him." "better wring his money bag first," smiled pawnee brown. without hesitation he called stillwater outside and explained the situation. "you can say what you please, stillwater," he said. "i am certain you have been cheating, for i know your past record. you must restore that money and do it right away." a stormy war of words followed, but pawnee brown was firm and at last stillwater gave up about a hundred dollars--all he had with him. he went off vowing vengeance and when at a safe distance turned and drew a pistol from his pocket. "he's going to shoot ye!" cried one of the boomers, but stillwater was afraid to fire. as pawnee brown started after him on a run the gambler fled toward the river. "let us go after him!" cried one of the others, and away they went. soon they came in sight of the river and saw stillwater in a small craft, sculling his way to the opposite shore. presently a bend in the stream hid him from view. "hullo!" sang out pawnee brown. "here comes another rowboat, and--yes, there is dick arbuckle in it. what can he be doing on the river?" "the boat is makin' fer thet half-sunk tree!" interrupted cal clemmer. "he'll strike ef he don't look out! heavens!" "look out there, youngster!" yelled pawnee brown, and those were the words which attracted dick's attention, as mentioned in the former chapter. it was useless to say more. standing upon the bank, pawnee brown and the cowboy boomer saw the craft strike and go to pieces and saw dick thrown out into the madly rushing current. as the boy sped along his head came into painful contact with the furthest of the tree branches, and he was partially stunned. his eyes closed and he struck out wildly and ineffectually. "he'll be drowned!" gasped clemmer. "it would take a strong swimmer to gain the bank with the water runnin' ez it is to-day." "i don't believe he could catch a rope," answered pawnee brown, starting off down the river bank. "cal, hunt one up somewhere; i'm going in after him!" "but the risk----" "never mind the risk. get the rope if you can," and away went the scout again. "help!" came faintly from dick. he was dazed and weak, and could hardly see in what direction the shore really was. "keep up, boy, and we'll save you!" shouted pawnee brown encouragingly. reaching a spot twenty or thirty feet below where dick was drifting, he threw off his hat and coat and leaped into the stream. down he went over his head, to come up a second later and strike out powerfully for the youth. the cold water chilled him, but to this he paid no attention. he had taken a fancy to dick, and was resolved to save the boy at any cost. nearer and nearer he came. it was a tough struggle, for in the bend of the swollen stream the water boiled and foamed upon all sides. he was yet ten feet away from dick, when he saw the youth sink beneath the surface. "gone!" he thought, and made a leap and a dive. his outstretched hand came in contact with dick's left arm, and he dragged his burden upward. "keep cool, dick," he said when he could speak. "can't you swim?" "yes, but not extra well," panted the half-drowned lad. "i struck my head upon something." "then lay hold of my shoulder and i'll keep you up. steady, now, or the current will send us around like two tops." no more was said, as both felt they must save their breath. with dick clinging loosely, so as not to hinder his swimming, pawnee brown struck out for the shore. it was perilous work, for other trees and obstructions were upon every hand, and more than once both were torn and scratched as they sped by in what was little short of a whirlpool. "catch the rope!" suddenly came from clemmer, and a noose whizzed in the air and fell close beside the pair. both pawnee brown and dick did as requested, and the cowboy boomer began to haul in with all the strength at his command. it was hard work, but clemmer was equal to it, and presently those in the water came close enough to gain a footing, and then the peril was over. dick's story was soon told, to which the great scout added that of his own. "i shall not attempt to follow up stillwater," pawnee brown concluded. "it is high time i got back to camp, for let me tell you, privately, we move westward to-day. you may continue the hunt for your father or come with me, just as you choose. it is possible you may find some trace of him around here, but it is doubtful to me, after such a storm. it's hard lines, boy, but cheer up; things may not be as bad as you imagine," and he laid a dripping but affectionate arm upon dick's shoulder. "i will stay here for a while, at least," answered dick. "but--but i am without a cent, and----" "how much do you want, dick?" and pawnee brown's pocketbook came out without delay. "if you will lend me ten dollars----" "here are twenty. when you want more let me know. now, goodbye, and good luck to you." and the next minute pawnee brown and clemmer were gone. dick watched them out of sight and a warm feeling went over his heart. "the major is as generous as he is brave," he murmured. "he is one scout of a thousand. no wonder all the boomers asked him to lead them in this expedition." ten minutes later dick was drying himself at the fire in a house near by. hearing his tale of misfortune, the man who took him in insisted upon treating him to some hot coffee, which did a good bit toward making him feel once more like himself. "it may be a wild-goose chase, but i can't give it up," he muttered as he continued his search by walking along the river bank. "poor father, where can he be?" the outskirts of the city had been left behind and he was making his way through a tangle of brush and over shelving rocks. a bend was passed and he gave a wild cry. and small wonder. there on the river bank lay the motionless form of his parent, dripping yet with the water of the river. the eyes were closed as if in death. with a moan dick threw himself forward and caught one of the cold hands within his own. then he placed his ear to his parent's heart. "too late! he is gone!" he wailed. "poor, poor father, dead after all! oh, if only i had died with you!" and he sank back utterly overcome. chapter ix. mike and the mules. "we move in an hour!" this was the word which was whispered about the boomers' camp shortly after pawnee brown's arrival. the great scout had found it out of the question to attempt to enter the indian territory in a direct route from arkansas city. the government troops were watching the trail, and the soldiers were backed up by the cattle kings' helpers, who would do all in their power to harass the pioneers and make them turn back. many a man would have gone ahead with a rush, but pawnee brown knew better than to do this. if he was brave, he was also cautious. "a rush now would mean people killed, horses shot down or poisoned, wagons ditched, harnesses cut up and a thousand and one other disasters," he said. "we must beat the cattle kings at their own game. we will move westward to honnewell either this afternoon or tonight. get ready to go on whenever the signal is passed." "but vot goot vill it do to vait by honnvell?" questioned carl humpendinck, a german boomer. "we'll not wait very long there," answered pawnee brown. so the word went around that the boomers would move in an hour. this was not actually true, but it was necessary to spread some report of this kind in order to make the slow ones hustle. if left to themselves these few would not have gotten ready in two days. "it's a move we are afther makin' at last, is it?" burst out rosy delaney when mike brought the news. "sure, an' oi'm ready, moike delaney, but how are ye to git this wagon out av thet bog hole, oi dunno." "oi'll borry a horse," answered mike. "it's jack rasco will lind me the same." mike ran around to where jack rasco was in earnest conversation with a stranger who had just come in from town. the stranger had brought a letter from nellie winthrop, posted two days before, and saying when she would arrive. the letter caused rasco not a little worry, as so far the girl had failed to appear. "i haven't any horse to spare just now, mike," he said; "but hold on, you can have billy, the mule, if you wish." there was a little twinkle in his eyes as he spoke, but mike didn't see the twinkle and readily accepted the mule and led him over to where his own turn-out stood. "moike delaney, phot kind av a horse do yez call that?" demanded rosy. "it's a mule, ye ignoramus," he answered. "an' a good puller, i'll bet me whiskers. just wait till oi hitch him beside the tame." billy was soon hitched up as mike desired, and the irishman proceeded to urge him forward with his short whip. it was then the fun began. billy did not appreciate being called upon to do extra work. instead of pulling, he simply turned around, tangling up and breaking the harness, and began to kick up the black prairie dirt with both hind hoofs. "oh, the villain!" spluttered rosy delaney, who received the first installment of dirt full in her eyes and mouth. "moike delaney, ye made him do that a-purpose!" and she shook her fist at her husband. "ye bould, bad mon!" "oi did not," he ejaculated. "git back there, ye baste!" he added, and tried to hit billy with his whip. the knowing mule dodged and, turning swiftly, planted a hoof in mike's stomach so slickly that the irishman went heels over head into a nearby puddle. a shout arose from those standing near. "score one round for the mule!" "mike, thet summersault war good enough fer a show. better jine the circus!" "oi'll show the mule!" yelled mike, and rushed in again. but once more billy turned and got out of the way, and this time he caught the seat of mike's trousers between his teeth and lifted the frightened man six feet from the ground. "don't! let me down! somebody save me!" yelled the terrorized son of erin. "rosy! clemmer! rasco! hit him! shoot him! make him let go av me! oi'll be kilt entoirely!" outsiders were too much amused to help mike, but rosy came to the rescue with a woman's best weapon--a rolling-pin, one she occasionally used in making pies for the family when in camp. whizz! came the rolling-pin through the air, hitting billy on the ear. the mule gave a short snort, broke what remained of the harness and scampered off to make a complete circuit of the camp and then fall into his regular place near jack rasco's turn-out. "want him some more?" asked jack, who had seen the fun, and was compelled to laugh, in spite of his worry. "want him some more, is it?" growled mike. "not fer a thousand dollars, rasco! yez kin kape the mule, an' be hanged to yez!" and he stalked off to borrow a horse that was warranted to be gentle under the most trying of circumstances. in the meantime pawnee brown was completing his arrangements for moving to honnewell and then to enter the promised land by way of bitter creek and the secaspie river. scouts sent out to watch had reported that the cavalry were watching every movement closely, but pawnee brown did not dream that louis vorlange had overheard what was said at a meeting in the woods, or that this scoundrel had hired tucker, the cavalryman, to shoot down both himself and dick arbuckle. presently jack rasco found his way to the scout's side. "pawnee, if you can spare a little time i would like your advice," he said, and mentioned the letter from nellie winthrop. "it's mighty strange the gal don't turn up, ain't it?" "perhaps so; but she may have been detained," answered the scout. at this rasco shook his head. the bearer of the letter had seen nellie's name on the hotel register. something was wrong, he felt sure of it. the letter had contained nellie's photograph, and he showed it to pawnee brown as he asked for permission to leave his work of assisting the boomers to be prepared for a moving in order to pay arkansas city another visit. "go on, jack. you're my right-hand man, but i'll manage somehow without you," answered the great scout. "a pretty niece for any man to have," and he handed back the photograph, after a somewhat close inspection. two minutes later found jack rasco on his way, to encounter adventures of which he had never imagined. "a note for you, pawnee." it was one of the scouts sent out that morning who spoke as he rode up. pawnee brown read the communication with interest. "come up to the ravine back of honnewell as soon as possible," ran the note. "i think the cavalry are up to some new dodge, or else the cattle men are going to play us foul. urgent. dan gilbert." "i must away, boys!" cried pawnee brown, tearing up the note. "be ready to move, but don't stir until you hear from me," and, giving a few more instructions, he borrowed a fresh horse from carl humpendinck and set off on a gallop of twelve miles across the country. as he covered mile after mile, through woods and over stretches of broad prairie, he could not help but think of his racing mare, bonnie bird. how she would have enjoyed this outing, and how she would have covered this ground with her twinkling feet. "i must find her and find the rascal who stole her!" he muttered. "i wouldn't take twenty thousand dollars for bonnie," and he meant what he said. the little mare and the great scout were almost inseparable. the afternoon sun was sinking low when pawnee brown struck the outskirts of honnewell (spelled by some writers, honeywell). not caring to be seen in that town by the government agents, who might inform the cavalry that the boomers were moving in that direction, the scout took to a side trail, leading directly for the ravine mentioned in the letter. soon he was picking his way down a path covered with brush and loose stones. upon either side were woods, and so thick no sunlight penetrated, making the spot gloomy and forbidding. "now, i suppose i'll have no picnic in finding dan," he mused. "i'll give the signal." the shrill cry of a night bird rang out upon the air, and pawnee brown listened attentively for a reply. none came, and he repeated the cry, with the same result. "i'll have to push on a bit further," he thought, and was just about to urge forward his horse when a crashing on the opposite side of the ravine caught his ear. instinctively he withdrew to the shelter of some brush to learn who the newcomer might be. he was not kept long in waiting. the sounds came closer and closer, and presently a tall indian came into view, astride a horse, and carrying an odd-looking burden in his arms. "yellow elk!" almost burst from pawnee brown's lips. the indian he mentioned was a well-known chief, a warrior noted for his many crimes, and a redskin whom the government agent had tried in vain to subdue. the scout crouched back still further and drew his pistol, for he felt that yellow elk was on no lawful errand, and a meeting would most likely mean a fight. then he made a discovery of still greater importance--to him. "bonnie bird, as sure as shooting! so yellow elk is the horse thief. the rascal! i've a good mind to shoot him down where he sits!" he handled his pistol nervously. "what is that he is carrying, wrapped up in his blanket? ha!" a murmur of amazement could not now be suppressed. in shifting his burden from one shoulder to the other the indian had allowed the blanket to fall partly back, and there was now revealed to pawnee brown the head and shoulders of a beautiful, but unconscious white girl. nor was that all. the girl was--nellie winthrop! chapter x. mr. arbuckle's story. "father! father! speak to me! tell me that you are not dead!" over and over again did poor dick repeat these words as he sat by the side of that wet and motionless form on the muddy river bank. the boy's heart seemed to be breaking. but suddenly there came a change. he saw one of his father's arms quiver. then came a faint twitching of an eyelid. "he is alive!" gasped dick. the joy of the discovery nearly paralyzed him. "father! father!" no answer came back, indeed, it was not to be expected. kneeling over his parent, dick set to work to resuscitate the almost drowned man. fortunately the youth had, during his school days in new york, heard a lecture on what was best to do in just such a case, so he did not labor in ignorance. his treatment was as skillful as memory and his love for his parent could make it, and in less than half an hour he had the satisfaction of seeing his father give a gasp and open his eyes. "father, don't you know me?" "dick!" came the almost inaudible reply. "where--where am i?" "you are safe, father. you fell into the river and came near to drowning." "is that so? i did not know there was a river near here." mr. arbuckle was silent for several minutes, during which dick continued his work and made him as comfortable as possible by wrapping his parent in his own dry coat. "where is that rascal?" "what rascal, father?" "the man with the red mask--the fellow who struck me down?" "i do not know. so you were struck down? where?" "just outside of the boomers' camp. somebody brought me word that pawnee brown wanted to see me privately. i went, and a rascal rushed on me and demanded my private papers. i resisted and he struck me down. i know no more than that," and mr. arbuckle gave another gasp. his eyes were open, but in them was that uncertain look which dick had seen before, and which the lad so much dreaded. "why, you were struck down last night, father, and several miles from here. you must have come down to the river at a spot above here. don't you remember that?" mortimer arbuckle tried to think, then shook his head sadly. "it's all a blur, dick. you know my head is not as strong as it might be." "yes, yes; and you must not try to think too far. so he got your private papers?" "yes." "the ones referring to that silver mine in colorado?" "yes, and all of the others." at this dick could not help but groan. the papers were gone--those precious documents by which he and his father had hoped some day to become rich. the history of the deeds to the silver mine was a curious one. two years before mortimer arbuckle had paid a visit to creede, colorado, on business connected with a mining company then forming under the laws of the state of new york. while in creede the man had materially assisted an old miner named burch, who was falling into the hands of a set of swindlers headed by a rascal called captain mull. mortimer arbuckle had never met captain mull, but he had saved burch's claim for him, for which the old miner was extremely grateful. over a year later burch had died and left with another old miner the deeds to a new mine of great promise, deeds which had not yet been recorded. the old miner had forwarded these papers, along with others of importance concerning the exact location of the claim, to mortimer arbuckle, and the gentleman had then begun preparations to go to the west and see if the claim was really as valuable as old burch had imagined. dick was just out of school, and would not think of remaining behind, so it was arranged that father and son should go together. a spell of sickness had detained the father several months. before this, however, he had hired jack rasco to go to creede with him and assist in locating the new claim. as mortimer arbuckle failed to come west, jack rasco returned to the companionship of pawnee brown, for, as already stated, he considered himself the great boomer's right-hand man. at last mortimer arbuckle had come on with dick, to find rasco had given his word to pawnee brown to stick with the boomers until the desired entrance into oklahoma was effected. "yer will hev ter wait, mr. arbuckle," jack had said. "i'm sorry, but i hev given my word ter pawnee an' i wouldn't break it fer a cool million, thet's me." "let us go with the boomers!" dick had returned enthusiastically. "it will be lots of fun, father, and it will give you a chance to get back your health before you tie yourself down to those silver mine schemes." and rather against his wishes mortimer arbuckle had consented. dick saw his father was in no mental condition to locate claims, form a new mining company, and do other labor of this sort, and trusted that the days to be spent with the boomers would make him much stronger in both body and mind. "do you think the robber thought of the deeds when he robbed you?" went on dick, after a pause. "i--i--don't know, dick. it runs in my mind he spoke of the deeds, but i can't remember for certain." "he took your money?" "every cent." mortimer arbuckle gave a groan. "we are now out here penniless, my son." "no we are not, father. i asked pawnee brown for the loan of ten dollars and he gave me twenty, and said i could have more if i needed it." "a good man--as generous as he is brave," murmured mortimer arbuckle. "would the world had more of such fellows." "pawnee brown and jack rasco are the best fellows in the world!" answered the youth. "but, come, let me carry you to yonder house, where you can get dry and also get something to eat." he assisted his parent to his feet, then lifted the man to his back and started off. a backwoodsman saw him coming, and ran to meet him. soon mortimer arbuckle was in the house and lying tucked in on a warm couch. a relapse followed, coming almost immediately after father and son had exchanged stories and detail. in alarm dick sent off the backwoodsman for a doctor. the medical man was half an hour in coming. after a thorough examination he looked grave. "the man must be kept absolutely quiet," he said. "if you have been talking to him it has done him more harm than good. you had better go away and leave him among strangers." in a further conversation dick learned that the backwoodsman, peter day, and his wife were ready to take charge of the invalid for fair pay, and could be trusted to do their best, and it was arranged to leave mr. arbuckle at the house, while dick returned to camp, hunted up pawnee brown and jack rasco and tried to get on the track of the man of the red mask. "and if i ever get hold of him i'll--i'll--mash him," said dick, and the look on his youthful but stern face told that he meant just what he said. the western idea of shooting had not yet entered his mind, but woe to louis vorlange if his villainy was once unmasked. "do not worry about me, father," said dick taking his departure. "i will take care of myself, and i am sure that either pawnee brown, jack rasco or myself can get on the track of the rascal who robbed and struck you down." "be cautious, dick," murmured the sick man. "be cautious--for you are all the world to me!" and he kissed his son affectionately. "who could have attacked father?" he murmured, half aloud. "it was a dastardly thing to do. i must find out, even if i have to remain in the city. but who knows but what it was one of the boomers? perhaps the man saw father had money and only asked about his papers to put him off the track. as a rule, the boomers are as honest as men can be, but there are several hang-dog faces among them." dick had covered a distance of half a mile and was within sight of the spot where he had been rescued by pawnee brown from a watery grave, when a murmur of voices broke upon his ear, coming from a thicket down by the river bank. the murmur grew louder and he paused to listen. suddenly two pistol shots rang out, followed by a cry of pain and rage. there was a brief silence, then came the words which made dick's heart almost stop beating: "now i'll fix you for helping to run me out of town, jack rasco! i never forget my enemies!" chapter xi. a strange letter. to return to pawnee brown at the time when he made the double discovery that yellow elk, the rascally indian, was riding his stolen mare, bonnie bird, and had as his fair captive nellie winthrop, jack rasco's niece. for the moment the great scout was nearly dum founded by the revelation. he had not met yellow elk for several months, and had imagined that the indian chief was safe within the territorial reservation allotted to him and his tribe. as yellow elk shifted his fair burden, nellie winthrop's eyes opened and she started up in alarm. "oh, you beast! let me go!" she screamed faintly. she was about to say more, but yellow elk clapped a dirty hand over her mouth and silenced her. "no speak more," he muttered in his broken english. "white girl speak too much." "but--but where are you taking me? this is not the boomers' camp." "we come to camp soon--girl in too much hurry," rejoined the wily redskin. "i was told the camp was but a short distance out of town." "camp he move. pawnee brown not safe near big town," went on yellow elk. "you're a good one for fairy tales," was the boomer's silent comment. he had withdrawn to the shelter of the thick brush and sat his steed like a statue, while his pistol was ready for use, with his forefinger upon the trigger. "but--but--what happened to me?" went on nellie, struggling to sit up, while yellow elk held her back. "white girl lose breath and shut eyes," was the answer, meaning that nellie had fainted. "no more fight--yellow elk no hurt her." "i will go no further with you--i do not believe your story!" cried nellie. "let me down." at these words the face of the indian chief grew dark, and he muttered several words in his own language which nellie did not understand, but which pawnee brown made out to be that the white bird was too sweet to be lost so easily, he must take her to his cave in the mountains. "will you?" murmured pawnee brown. "well, maybe, but not if i know it." the mentioning of a cave in the mountains made pawnee brown curious. did yellow elk have such a hiding place? where was it located, and was the indian chief its only user? "perhaps some more of these reds have broken loose," he thought. "i would like to investigate. who knows but what the cavalrymen are after them and not the boomers, as dan gilbert imagined." a brief consideration of the subject and his mind was made up. so long as the indian did not offer positive harm to nellie winthrop he would not expose himself, but follow on behind, in hope of locating the cave and learning more of yellow elk's intended movements. "let me go, i say!" cried nellie, but the indian chief merely shook his head. "white girl be no fool. indian friend; no hurt one hair of her head. soon we be in camp and she will see what a friend yellow elk has been." at this nellie shook her head. that painted and dirty face was far too repulsive to be trusted. but there was no help for it; the indian held her as in a vise, and she was forced to submit. moving along the trail, indian and horse passed within a dozen feet of where pawnee brown sat, still as silent as a block of marble. it was a trying moment. what if the horse he rode should make a noise, or if his own bonnie bird should instinctively discover him and give the alarm? "poor bonnie bird, to have to carry a dirty redskin," thought the boomer. the ears of the beautiful mare went up as she drew close, and she appeared to hesitate. but yellow elk urged her along by several punches in the ribs, and in a moment more the danger of discovery just then was past. on went the tall indian along the ravine, peering cautiously ahead, with one hand around nellie's waist and the other holding the reins and his pistol. he knew he was on a dangerous mission, and he stood ready, if unmasked, to sell his worthless life dearly. pawnee brown followed at a distance of a hundred feet, taking care to pick his way so that his horse's hoofs should strike only the dirt and soft moss, and that the brush growing among the tall trees should screen him as much as possible. presently he saw the indian halt and stare long and hard at a tall pine growing in front of a large flat rock. "wonder if he has missed his way?" mused the scout, but a moment later yellow elk proceeded onward, faster than ever. coming up to the pine, pawnee brown saw instantly what had attracted the redskin's attention. there was a blaze on the tree six inches square, and on the blaze was written in charcoal: f. e. d. g. "hullo, a message from dan," he cried, half aloud. he had read the strange marking without difficulty. it ran as follows: "ten feet east. dan gilbert." pacing off the ten feet in the direction indicated, pawnee brown located a flat rock. raising this, he uncovered a small, circular hole, in the centre of which lay a leaf torn from a note book, on which was written: "i write this to notify pawnee brown or any of my other friends that i have gone up the ravine on the trail of half a dozen cavalry scouts who are up here, not only to watch for boomers, but also to try and locate several indians who have left the reservation without permission. i will be back soon. dan gilbert." the boomer read the note with interest. then he hastily scribbled off the answer: "have read the note that was left. am following yellow elk, who stole my mare and has jack rasco's niece a captive. yellow elk is bound for some cave in the mountains. pawnee brown." the answer finished, the boomer placed it in the hole, let back the flat rock and wrote on the blaze of the tree, under dan gilbert's initials: p. b. chapter xii. yellow elk. the writing of the answer to gilbert's communication had taken several minutes, and now yellow elk was entirely out of sight. but pawnee brown was certain of the trail the indian had taken, and by a little faster riding soon brought the rascal again into view. yellow elk was now descending into a valley bound on the north by a rolling hill and on the south by a cliff varying from twenty to forty feet in height. even at a distance pawnee brown could see that the indian was having considerable trouble with nellie winthrop, who felt now assured that her first suspicions were correct and that yellow elk had taken her far from the boomers' camp. "i will not go with you!" cried the girl, and did her best to break from the warrior's grasp. but yellow elk's hold was a good one, and she only succeeded in tearing her dress. "we be dare in few minutes now," replied the redskin. "den all be right--you wait and see." "i won't go with you--let me down!" screamed nellie, but he silenced her by a fierce gesture which made the boomer's blood boil. it was only by the exercise of all his will power that the great scout kept himself from shooting down yellow elk on the spot. the end of the long cliff was almost reached when the indian chief reined up the mare and sprang to the ground, still holding nellie tight. as he held the girl by the wrist with one hand he led bonnie bird forward with the other. in a few seconds, girl, mare and indian had disappeared from view in the midst of a thick fringe of bushes. they had scarcely vanished when pawnee brown was on the ground and had tethered his horse in a little grove of pines a hundred feet away. this done, he stole forward to what he felt must be the mouth of the cave yellow elk had mentioned. the great scout knew he was on delicate and dangerous ground. there was no telling how many indians beside yellow elk there might be in the vicinity, who had left the reservation without permission; it was likely all who were there would be in war paint ready to kill him on sight. "the reds who train with yellow elk are not to be trusted," he muttered. "yellow elk wouldn't like anything better than to scalp me just for a taste of his old blood-thirsty days. making a 'good indian' out of such a fellow is all nonsense--it simply can't be done." pawnee brown had dropped down in the long grass and was now wiggling along like a snake through the bushes and between the rocks. soon the entrance to the cave was gained, hidden by more bushes. he hesitated, looked to see that his pistol was all right, shoved the bushes aside and slipped within. it was so dark inside that for a moment he could distinguish nothing. but his ears were on the alert and he heard the footsteps of yellow elk resounding at a distance of fully fifty yards. he could hear nothing of nellie, and rightfully concluded that the indian had been compelled to pick her up and carry her. an instant later he stumbled close to his mare. bonnie bird recognized him with a snort of joy. "sh-sh!" he said softly, and the gentle animal understood and made no further sound. but she gladly rubbed her soft nose up and down his neck to signify her pleasure. "good bonnie bird," he whispered. "i'll be with you soon again," and went on after yellow elk. the indian had now come to a halt and was striking a match. soon some dry brush was set on fire and the redskin heaped upon it some stout tree branches, for the air in the cave was chilly. "now me and white girl have long talk," said yellow elk, as he motioned nellie to a seat. "where is the boomers' camp?" she faltered, hardly knowing how to answer him. "camp ten miles from here," came the short reply. "you here all alone with yellow elk." at this the frightened girl gave a scream of terror. "you base wretch!" she sobbed. "take me back at once." "no take back--yellow elk no fool. white girl stay here--make yellow elk good squaw, maybe," and he grinned into her pretty face. but now an interruption came which all but stunned yellow elk. leaping from his hiding place, pawnee brown pounced upon the redskin, caught him by the throat and hurled him backward and almost into the midst of the fire! "you miserable dog!" came from the scout's lips. "oh, sir, save me from that indian!" came from nellie, as she quickly turned to the man she felt sure would assist her. "i will, miss winthrop, don't fear," answered pawnee brown. "so, yellow elk, we meet again. i reckon you remember the man who kicked you all around the agency two years ago because you tried to steal his new pair of boots?" "ugh!" grunted yellow elk. he had just managed to scramble out of the fire, and was beating out the flames which had caught on a fringe of his garments. "pawnee brown." he muttered a fierce imprecation in his native tongue. then, before pawnee brown could stop him his pistol flashed in the fire-light. he took aim at the scout's head and fired. but though the action of the indian chief was quick, the movement of the boomer was quicker. many times had he been under fire, and he had learned to drop when occasion required as rapidly as it could be done. with the pressure upon the pistol trigger he went down like a flash and the bullet intended for his head merely grazed the top of his hat and flattened itself upon the cave wall opposite. "bah!" hissed yellow elk, when he saw how he had missed. he attempted to take him once more, but now pawnee brown hurled himself on the redskin, turning the barrel of the weapon aside, and both went to the stone flooring with a crash. nellie winthrop let out a shriek of terror. "do not let him shoot you! make him throw the pistol away!" she cried, as she wrung her hands. she would have liked to assist pawnee brown, but could not see how it could just then be done. chapter xiii. nellie's flight. over and over on the stone flooring rolled the boomer and his red enemy, now close to the fire and again off to one side, where there was a slight hollow still wet from the recent storm. pawnee brown had yellow elk by the throat and across the back, while the indian held his antagonist by the shoulder with one hand, while trying to beat his brains out with the pistol that was in the other. once yellow elk succeeded in getting in a glancing blow, which drew blood, but did no great harm. but now pawnee brown's grip was tightening. the redskin was choking. his eyes bulged from their sockets and his tongue hung out several inches. "ugh!" gasped the indian chief. in vain he tried to shake off that grip. it was like that of a bulldog and could not be loosened. he struck out wildly, but the pistol butt only landed upon pawnee brown's shoulder, a shoulder that was as tough as iron and could stand any amount of pounding. suddenly the tactics of the indian changed. knowing that he was in immediate danger of death by choking, and feeling how unlikely it was that he could throw off his assailant, he let fall his pistol and caught the boomer around the body. then he began to roll toward the fire, which was now blazing up more brightly than ever. the scout saw the redskin's intention instantly, but before he could stop it both he and his enemy were close to the flames. "me die you die too!" hissed yellow elk, and gave another roll, which took both himself and pawnee brown into the very edge of the blaze. "take care! you will be burnt up!" cried nellie winthrop, and gave a scream. rushing forward, she caught pawnee brown by the arm and attempted to draw him back. but of this there was no need, for the great scout had already changed his tactics, feeling convinced that to choke yellow elk was now impossible. his hand left the redskin's throat, to double up and sail forth into a crushing blow, which took the indian chief beneath the eyes and made him see more stars than were ever beheld in the blue canopy of heaven. as yellow elk fell back pawnee brown did likewise, but in a different direction. the indian was now in the midst of the flames and the cry he let out was truly blood-curdling. excited as he was, pawnee brown did not let the intonation of that cry escape him. understanding the indian language well, he knew it was more than a cry of terror or pain, it was a call for help! other indians must be somewhere in the vicinity. "you had better run for it!" he said, turning to nellie. "mount my horse--the mare the indian had--and ride down the ravine." "run?" she faltered. "yes, and hurry. hark! as i thought! other indians are coming!" the boomer was right. the footsteps sounded from the opposite end of the cave, which had two entrances, similar to each other. by this time yellow elk had rolled out of the fire and was dancing around like a madman, trying to beat out the flames which had communicated to his clothing. as nellie ran off, pawnee brown drew his pistol, resolved to not only defend himself but cover the girl's retreat as well. little did he dream of the fresh perils which awaited nellie. what those perils were the immediate chapters which follow will relate. as yellow elk danced around, pawnee brown leveled his revolver at him. crack! went the weapon and the indian chief fell back with a wound through his shoulder. the flickering of the fire-light had saved him from death. a cry that was little less than a war whoop now sounded out, and with this four other indians appeared, two whom pawnee brown had before seen in yellow elk's company and two who were utter strangers to him. "capture the white dog!" howled yellow elk, in his native tongue. "shoot the dog down!" "pawnee brown!" grunted one of the newcomers, and up went several pistols. the scout fired at the same time, and one of the strange indians threw up his hands and fell lifeless. but the bullet this indian had sent on its mission struck the boomer across the forehead and sent the scout to the flooring of the cave senseless. when pawnee brown came to a clear mind again he found himself aching in every portion of his body, for in their usual custom the indians on finding him helpless had each taken their turn at kicking him to suit their pleasure, yellow elk especially delighting in this cruel performance. the scout was bound tightly with a lariat which started from his feet and was wound and crossed up to his very neck, making body, legs and arms as stiff as those of an egyptian mummy. he lay on the cave flooring not a dozen feet from the fire, which yellow elk was in the act of replenishing. as he opened his eyes one of the other indians, spotted nose by name, stopped in front of him. the scout instantly closed his eyes again, but it was too late. "you all right," cried spotted nose, and gave him a sharp kick in the side. "well i won't be if you keep on kicking me," replied the boomer, as cheerfully as he could, although it must be admitted he was much disturbed. he glanced around and was relieved to see that nellie was nowhere in sight. yellow elk now came up and also kicked the prostrate scout. "you heap dirty dog!" he exclaimed, his face full of bitter hatred. "you shoot me--you die for dat." "i suppose i will--if you have the saying of that, yellow elk. but perhaps you won't dare to kill me." "why not indian dare? indian dare anything," growled yellow elk. "my friends are not far off--they will soon come here, and if you harm me it will go hard with you." at this all of the indians laughed. "no white man around here--we on guard all time," said spotted nose. "on guard, eh? and yet you didn't see me come in, dirty nose?" "spotted nose did see pawnee brown," was the answer; but this was a falsehood. an indian hates to admit that he has been in any manner outwitted by a white man. "you tell a good story, dirty nose." pawnee brown turned to yellow elk. "yellow, how did you run across that girl?" "yellow elk no tell his secrets," came the answer. "pawnee brown fool to ask. pawnee brown think him heap sly, like fox, but him sly only like cow!" this produced another laugh, for the indians from the indian territory are not as stolid as were their forefathers, and thoroughly enjoy their own rude manner of joking. presently yellow elk turned to his companions and spoke to them in an undertone. a moment later he sped away, but whether in pursuit of nellie winthrop or not, pawnee brown could not tell. the indian chief was gone fully an hour, and came back looking unusually grave. pawnee brown had tried in vain to get spotted nose and the other indian to talk--to tell him why they had left the reservation. not one would speak further than to tell him to keep quiet. on returning, yellow elk at once set to work to rig up an upright pole from the floor to the ceiling of the cave, using a heavy tree branch for the purpose. the upright was placed close to where the smoke from the fire found a vent through several large cracks in the ceiling, and the boomer watched these proceedings with much alarm. the indians were erecting a fire-stake, such as they had used in the wild west when some victim was to be roasted alive! "heavens! can that be meant for me?" was the question he asked himself. the stake planted and fastened firmly, yellow elk heaped some fresh, dry brush around its bottom and then came up to pawnee brown. "pawnee brown see the fire-stake?" he asked, his savage eyes gleaming like two stars. "i do, yellow. who is it for?" "why does pawnee brown ask? does he not deserve death?" "i suppose i do--according to your notion." "pawnee brown shall burn--he shall burn slowly," went on yellow elk, meaning that he would make the great scout's torture last as long as possible. "your training on the reservation hasn't civilized you much, yellow, if that's the way you feel about it." "i hate white man--all of them," grumbled the indian chief. "they take all my land away and put me in a little yard to live. i would kill all white man if could," and he grated his teeth. a moment later yellow elk nodded to the other indians and all leaped forward and bound pawnee brown fast to the fire-stake. this done the redskins heaped the brush around the scout's feet. "now the dirty white dog can die!" hissed yellow elk, as he advanced with a torch. "he can pray, but the white man's great father cannot save him! he must burn until his bones are as charcoal!" and so speaking yellow elk thrust the torch into the dry brush and set it on fire! chapter xiv. dick to the rescue. "that man is going to shoot jack rasco!" such was the thought which rushed into dick arbuckle's mind as he heard the fatal words spoken in the woods near the river bank. he could not see either of the men, but he felt tolerably certain in his mind that rasco's assailant was stillwater, the gambler, who had been run out of arkansas city by pawnee brown, rasco, clemmer and a dozen others. "would you kill me?" came in rasco's voice. the boomer was concerned and was doing his best to gain time, in the hope that something would turn up to his advantage. "kill you?" sneered stillwater. "do you think i'm going to put up with the way i've been treated? not much! i had a fine thing in arkansas city--something worth a thousand a week to me, and you and your friends spoiled it all. i'm going to settle with you, and after that i shall hunt up pawnee brown and the rest and settle with them, also." "you'll have your hands full a-settlin' with pawnee." "bah! i am not afraid of him. he had me foul over to the golden pick, but i'll be careful when next we meet. but i'll not waste time with you here, rasco. i've got you alone and 'dead men tell no tales.'" "alone?" jack rasco began to smile. "you're mistaken. look behind you." stillwater started, but did not look back. "that's an old dodge, rasco, but you can't work it off on me. i have you alone and i'm going to end the business right here." "not yet!" cried a youthful voice behind stillwater, and crash! down came a heavy stick, hitting the gambler squarely upon the head and sending him with a thud to the earth. as stillwater went down, rasco leaped forward and came down upon him. but this movement was useless. the rascal was more than three-quarters knocked out and lay for several minutes helpless. "i owe you one fer that, dick arbuckle!" cried rasco, gratefully. "yer came in the nick o' time!" now the peril was over the boomer dropped back into his own peculiar manner of speech. "i am glad i happened this way," returned dick, as he drew a long breath. "gosh! what a lot of excitement we are passing through out here! more than i experienced in all my life in new york." "the west is the place fer stirrin' times, lad." jack rasco turned to his prostrate foe. "wall, stillwater, do yer think it war a trick now, tellin' yer ter look behind yer?" the rascal answered with a groan. "my head is split in two!" he cried. "who struck me? what, that boy? i'll remember you, youngster, and some day----" he did not finish. "i ain't done with yer yet, stillwater," said rasco. "you war goin' ter shoot me. i reckon turn about is fair play, ain't it?" "would you--you shoot me--now?" faltered the card sharp. at the bottom of his heart he was a coward. "why not?" "i wasn't going to do it, rasco--i was only--only scaring you." "thet's a whopper--made outer the hull cloth, stillwater. yer war going ter shoot me--an' i'm a-goin' ter be jess as accommodatin'," and on the sly rasco winked at dick who was much relieved to think the boomer did not really intend to carry out his blood-thirsty design. the face of stillwater grew as white as a sheet and he trembled from head to foot. "don't! don't you do it! let me off, and i'll give you all the money i have with me." "it won't do, stillwater." "it's nearly a thousand dollars. take every cent of it and let me go!" the gambler fairly grovelled at jack rasco's feet. his horror of dying was something fearful to contemplate. "i'll give yer one chance, stillwater," said rasco, in deep disgust, and at once the rascal's face took on a look of hope. "yer ain't fit ter die, an' thet's why i say it. promise ter let me an' my friends alone in the future." "i promise." "promise ter give up cheatin' at cards. if yer don't, some day it will be the death of yer." "i'll never cheat again." "all right, i'll take yer at yer word. now come on down to the river." "what for?" "you hev got ter swim across to the other side whar yer belong. decent folks ain't a-goin' ter have yer over here." again stillwater was much disturbed. but jack rasco was firm, and soon the trio were down by the water's edge. still pale, the gambler plunged into the river and struck out for the opposite shore. it was a hard battle against that current, but presently rasco and dick saw him wade out at the other side. he shook his fist at them savagely, then disappeared like a flash into the woods. "he'll not keep any of his promises," said dick. "keep 'em? yer didn't expect it o' thet viper, lad? no, he's an enemy to the death. but whar did yer come from, and have yer found out anything about yer poor father?" dick's story was soon told, to which rasco listened with much interest. "i don't believe a boomer would rob yer father," said he, reflectively. "like as not it war somebody who followed yer from new york--some man as knew the value of them air minin' deeds." "well, i'll go back to camp and make a search, anyway, rasco. but what brought you here?" "i'm lookin' fer my niece, nellie winthrop." and rasco told of the letter received and of how nellie was missing and no trace of her could be found anywhere. dick was almost as much disturbed as rasco, for he still carried in his mind a picture of the beautiful girl he had saved from juan donomez's insults. "can the mexican have waylaid her?" he asked. "perhaps," said the man of the plains. "but i've hunted the city high and low." a short while after the two found themselves in the town once more. nellie had put up at the commercial hotel, and to this hostelry they made their way and entered the office. "no news of the young lady," said the clerk in charge, who had been interviewed before. "i am quite certain she started for the boomers' camp on horseback." rasco heaved a sigh. "might as well go back," he said to dick, then as he saw the boy start he continued: "what's up? do yer see anything of her?" "no, rasco. but look at that man, the fellow sitting down by the corner table in the reading room, he with the brown hat." "i see him. what of him?" "he's from new york--a fellow who used to come sneaking around father's office, trying to gather information about mining shares." "gee shoo, dick! yer don't mean it!" jack rasco was all attention instantly. "maybe he's the rascal as knocked yer dad over?" "perhaps. if i--there is a man joining him." "i've seen thet chap afore. 'pears ter me he works fer the government." "do you know his name?" "no. wot's the other fellow's handle?" "dike powell. he is known as a wall street sharper. i wish i could hear what the two have to say to each other. yet i don't want dike powell to see me." "it's easy enough, lad. thar's a window close to the table, an' it's open. we'll walk out on the veranda, and get under the opening. come." in a second more they were outside. tiptoeing their way across the veranda, which was deserted, they soon found themselves close to the open window mentioned. "and so that is settled," they heard the man from new york remark. "i am glad to hear it, vorlange." vorlange! dick started and so did jack rasco. the boy was trying to think where he had heard it before. ah, he had it now. many and many a time had he heard his parent murmur that name in his sleep, and the name was coupled with many other things, dreadful to remember. surely there was some awful mystery here. what made his father mutter that name in his dreams, and why at such time was he talking of murder and hanging, and sobbing that he was innocent? a cold chill crept down the boy's backbone. was the heart of that secret to be laid bare at last? chapter xv. an important conversation. "yes, it's settled, powell; and as soon as we are done here with the boomers, i'll get to work and find out what the claim is worth." "how about being shadowed in the affair?" "i'm not afraid--i'm laying my plans too well," answered louis vorlange. "i would go ahead at once, but to throw up my position under the government just now might excite suspicions." "have you the papers with you?" "no; i left them at the cavalry camp. they are too valuable to carry in one's coat pocket." "supposing the camp moves?" "i have my belongings secreted in a nearby cave where they are as safe as in a deposit vault of a bank." "well, vorlange, what am i to do now i am out here?" "remain in arkansas city for the present and take it easy." "you promised me a hundred dollars on my arrival." "and there it is." there was the rustle of bank notes. "new money, eh?" was dike powell's comment. "been printing some out here?" "not much. i know better than to go into the counterfeiting business." dick clutched rasco's arm. the youth's face was full of concern. "my father's money was in new bills," he whispered into his companion's ear. rasco nodded, but quickly motioned for silence. "i reckon this is drinks on me," said powell, arising. "come down to the bar before you go back to the cavalry camp." "i'm in a hurry, powell, but i'll take one glass," concluded louis vorlange, and the two men hurried from the reading-room. "he is the man--i feel certain of it!" burst from dick's lips, when he felt safe to speak. "rasco, there is some mystery here. my father----" he stopped short and bit his lip. "i know wot's in yer mind, dick. i've heard yer father go on in his sleep, and war talkin' ter pawnee brown about it. an' pawnee knows this air vorlange. the two air enemies from school days. pawnee said vorlange wasn't squar nohow!" "he is evidently in the employ of the government." "yes; a land-office spy, now workin' ag'in the boomers fer the cavalry as intends ter keep us out of oklahoma." "it will be hard to bring such a man to justice, without some direct evidence against him, rasco." "don't yer try ter do it--yet, lad. take my advice an' watch him. an' afore yer come down on him yer hed better question yer father about vorlange." at this dick winced. "rasco, my father's manner is against him--i know that. but i'm certain he never committed a crime in his life." "i believes yer, dick. yer father's a gentleman, every inch o' him; i seed thet the fust i clapped eyes on him. but knowin' the truth is one thing an' provin' it is another, especially in the wild west. this air vorlange may hev yer father in a mighty tight hole, and if you show him up as the thief who stole the deeds an' the money, he may turn on yer dad and squeeze him mightily, see?" "i see. but what shall i do just now?" "follow vorlange and spy on to him all yer can. it ain't no ust ter hurry matters, with your father flat on his back. powell will remain here and vorlange will be with the cavalry, so yer will know whar ter clap eyes on ter both of 'em if it's necessary." a moment's reflection convinced dick that this was sound advice, and he said he would follow it, mentally resolved not to accuse vorlange of anything until he had gotten his parent to confess to the true state of affairs. by this time the boy and the man of the plains had left the veranda and walked around to where rasco had left his horse. a moment later they saw louis vorlange hurry from the barroom of the hotel, leap upon his own animal, and strike out of town in a westerly direction. "if i had a horse i'd follow him," began dick, when rasco motioned the youth to hop up behind. soon they were riding after vorlange, but not close enough to allow the spy to imagine that he was being followed. "if you go after him you'll get no chance to hunt up your niece," began dick, when the city was left behind. "that's true, lad." jack rasco's face grew troubled. "i don't know wot's best ter do. it ain't fair ter let yer follow vorlange alone; an' with only one hoss----hullo, wot does this mean? carl humpendinck, an' wavin' his hand to us like he war crazy." rasco had discovered the german boomer sweeping up a side trail. humpendinck had made out rasco but a second before and now shouted for the man of the plains to halt. "what is it, dutchy?" called out rasco, when they were within speaking distance. "vot ist it? donner und blitzen, rasco, it vos der vorst news vot efer you heard!" burst from carl humpendinck's lips. "i chust here him apout quarter of an hour ago, und i ride der horse's legs off ter told yer." "but what is it--out with it?" "it's apout dot girl you vos lookin' for. rosy delaney, dot irish vomans vot haf such a long tongue got, she tole me der sthory. gott im himmel! it vos dreadful!" "but tell me what it is, dutchy!" exploded rasco. "wot is dreadful?" "der sthory she tole--i can's most believe him." "see here, out with the whole thing, or i'll swat yer one on the cocoanut, humpendinck!" roared rasco. "yer as long-winded ez a mule thet's gone blind." "gracious, rasco, you vouldn't hit me, afther i ride me dree miles und more ter tole you?" wailed the german, reproachfully. "i dink me you vos mine pest friend, next to pawnee prown, ain't it?" "there'll be a dead dutchman here in another minute if yer don't open up clear down ter the bottom!" howled rasco, who had never before suffered such exasperation. "tell us the exact trouble," put in dick, calmly. he saw that exciting humpendinck still more would do no good. "der indian haf carried dot girl avay!" exploded humpendinck. "carried the girl away!" ejaculated dick. "my nellie?" yelled rasco. "dot's it, rasco. ain't it awful! dot irish vomans seen dot indian mit dot girl in his arms, flying der trail ofer like a biece of baber pefore a cyclone alretty!" "humpendinck, are you telling the truth?" "i vos tole you vot dot irish vomans tole me. mike delaney und dree udder mans vos lookin' for you." on the instant louis vorlange was forgotten, not only by rasco, ut also by dick. it made both shudder to think that nellie had been carried off by a redskin. they turned into the trail from which humpendinck had emerged, and were soon on their way to the camp. here rosy delaney was found very much disturbed. she came up to rasco wringing her hands. "to think o' the red rascal a-takin' thet young leddy off!" she cried. "i know her by thet photygraph! och, the villain! an' it moight have been rosy delaney, bad cess to him!" "show me the exact trail he followed," said rasco, and this the irish woman did willingly. soon rasco was tearing over the prairie, followed by humpendinck, delaney, clemmer and by dick, who borrowed a horse from another boomer. the trail left by yellow elk was easily followed to the vicinity of honnewell, but here it led away to the southwest and was swallowed up among the bushes and rocks leading down into the ravine previously mentioned. "oi reckon thot's the trail," said delaney, after an examination. "and i vos dink dot ist der trail," put in humpendinck. "an' i calkerlate this is the trail," added cal clemmer. each pointed in a different direction, while rasco and dick were of the opinion that none of them were right and that the trail led up the ravine, just as it really did. an interruption now occurred. there was a stir in the bushes above their heads, and an elderly scout peered down upon them, rifle in hand. "hullo, jack rasco, wot's the best word? whar is pawnee brown?" "dan gilbert!" cried rasco. "come down, pawnee ought to be somewhere about here." in a moment more dan gilbert, a heavy-set, pleasant-looking frontiersman, stood among them. a hasty consultation immediately followed. dan gilbert was on his way back to where he had left the blaze on the tree, and it was decided that rasco and dick should accompany him, while clemmer, delaney and humpendinck went to reconnoitre in the opposite direction. a double pistol shot from either party was to bring the other to its aid. in less than five minutes the first party was on its way to the blazed tree. dan gilbert feeling certain that if pawnee brown had passed that way he must have seen the sign and left word of his own. "if pawnee was down here you can bet he spotted that injun if he came within a hundred yards of him," said gilbert. "he can smell a red like a cat can smell a rat." the tree reached, the frontiersman threw back the flat rock and brought forth the message left by the great scout. he read it aloud. "following yellow elk!" cried jack rasco. "i know the rascal! and it was he as stole my gal! jess wait till i git my hand on his windpipe, thet's all! whar's thet cave, gilbert?" "i don't know, but it must be somewhere up the ravine. come on." and away went the trio, on the hunt for yellow elk, pawnee brown and poor nellie winthrop. chapter xvi. attacked by a wildcat. "you fiend!" this was all pawnee brown could say, as with a face full of bitter hatred yellow elk advanced and applied the torch to the dry brush which encircled his feet. in vain the great scout endeavored to wrench himself free from the fire-stake. yellow elk and his followers had done their work well and he was held as in a vise. "pawnee brown shall burn slowly," said the indian chief, hoping to make the scout show the white feather. "yellow elk will watch that the fire does not mount to his body too quickly." "if you want to kill me why don't you put a bullet through my heart and have done with it," said the boomer as coolly as he could. the fire was now burning around his feet and ankles and the pain was increasing with every second of time. "white man shall learn what it is to suffer," said spotted nose. "he killed my friend, the little mule." "your friend tried to take my life." "bah! say no more but burn! burn!" hissed yellow elk. and with a stick he shoved the flaming brush closer in around the scout's legs. it was a fearful moment--a moment in which pawnee brown's life hung by a single thread. the flames were leaping up all around him. he closed his eyes and half murmured a prayer for divine aid. crack! bang! crack! two pistol shots and the report of a rifle echoed throughout the cave, and as pawnee brown opened his eyes in astonishment spotted nose threw up his arms and fell forward in the flames at his feet, dead! the indian who had been with spotted nose also went down, mortally wounded, while yellow elk was hit in the left arm. "down with the reds!" came in the ringing voice of jack rasco, and he appeared from out of a cloud of smoke, closely followed by dan gilbert and dick. "pawnee! am i in time? i hope ter heaven i am!" "jack!" cried the great scout. a slash of rasco's hunting knife and he was free. "good for you!" and then pawnee brown had his hands full for several minutes beating out the flames which had ignited his boot soles and the bottoms of his trousers. "we plugged the three of 'em," said gilbert. "i knocked thet one," and he pointed to the indian who was breathing his last. "i hit the indian with the yellow plume," put in dick, and he could not help but shudder. "that was yellow elk," said rasco. "but whar is he now?" all the white men turned quickly, looking up and down the cave. it was useless. yellow elk had disappeared. "he must not escape!" cried pawnee brown. "i have an account to settle with him for starting that fire." "but whar is nellie?" asked rasco, impatiently, looking around with a falling face. "she ran away when the other indians came to yellow elk's assistance," answered pawnee brown, and in a few hurried words he told his story. "then she can't be far off." "let us hunt for her at once," cried dick, and his enthusiasm made the men laugh, at which the boy blushed furiously. "never mind, dick, yer don't think no more of her nor i do," said rasco. "which way, pawnee?" "this way, boys." the scout turned to the indian who had been wounded. "dead as a door nail. pity it wasn't yellow elk." "so say i," answered rasco. "but we'll git him yet, mark my words!" with all possible speed they ran out of the cave and to the spot where they had left their horses. here a disagreeable surprise awaited them. every animal was gone, including the one pawnee brown had ridden. "more of yellow elk's work!" muttered the boomer. "i'll tell you, men, that red is a corker, and as a dead indian he couldn't be beat." "i declar' this most stumps me!" growled dan gilbert. "here's the trail plain enough, but it's all out of the question ter follow on shank's own mare." "let us hunt up clemmer and the others," suggested jack rasco. "we must be cautious--the cavalry may be somewhere in the vicinity," added pawnee brown. "how the redskins escaped them is a mystery to me." "they are evidently as sly as their forefathers," said dick. "but, really, something ought to be done. if we--hullo, there's a horse down in yonder clearing!" "bonnie bird!" shouted pawnee brown, in great delight. it was indeed the beautiful mare. a second cry and the steed came bounding up to her master. "now i can follow even if the others can't," said the scout. "rasco, it's a pity you haven't a mount. it is no more than right that you should follow up your niece. if you insist upon it i'll let you have bonnie bird. i wonder if nellie or the redskin had her?" "i won't take yer horse, pawnee--it's askin' too much," answered rasco. "supposin' we both mount her? if bonnie bird got away from yellow elk it's more'n likely one of the other hosses got away, too." "that's so. well, get up, jack, and let us lose no time." soon both men were mounted. a few words all around followed, and it was agreed that dick and gilbert should try to hunt up clemmer and the others, and then away went pawnee brown and rasco upon yellow elk's trail. suddenly jack rasco uttered a cry. "see, pawnee, here's whar another of the hosses got away. hang me if i don't think it war my hoss, too!" "yes, and here is where the horse dropped into a walk," he answered. "i don't believe he can be far off." without delay rasco slid to the ground. "i'll follow him up afoot," he declared. "i'm fresh and can run it putty good. you go ahead with the regular trail." the trail left by yellow elk ran down along the edge of the stream for a distance of perhaps a hundred yards, then it came out on a series of flat rocks and was lost to view. pawnee brown came to a halt. had yellow elk crossed the stream, or doubled on the trail and gone back? dismounting, he got down upon his hands and knees and examined the last hoof-prints with extreme care. the examination lasted for fully ten minutes. no white man could follow a trail better than this leader of the boomers, yet for the time being he was baffled. yellow elk had led the horses into the water, but the trail did not extend across the stream. "he's an artful dodger!" mused pawnee brown, when of a sudden he became silent. a faint scratching, as of tree bark, had come to his ears. the noise was but a short distance away. "some animal," he thought. "no human being would make such a sound as that." another ten seconds of painful silence followed. the scratching sound had just been resumed when bonnie bird wheeled about as if on a pivot. "ha!" the exclamation came from between pawnee brown's set teeth. there, from between the branches of a tree just in front of him, glared a pair of yellowish-green eyes. the blazing optics belonged to a monstrous wildcat! as quick as a flash pawnee brown raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. crack! the wildcat was hit in the side. the shot was a glancing one and did but little damage. whirr! down came the body straight for the boomer, landing half upon his shoulder and half upon bonnie bird's mane. the little mare was thoroughly frightened, and giving a snort and a plunge she threw both rider and wildcat to the ground. as pawnee brown went down he tried to push the monstrous cat from him, but the beast had its claws fastened in the scout's clothing and could not be shook off. crack! again pawnee brown fired. the flash was almost directly in the wildcat's face, and shot in the left forepaw the beast uttered a fearful howl of pain and dropped back. but only for an instant. the pain only increased its anger, and with gleaming teeth it crouched down and made another spring, right for the boomer's throat. crack! crack! twice again the pistol rang out. but the big cat was now wary and both shots failed to take effect. the pistol being now empty, pawnee brown hurled it at the enraged beast, striking it in the nose and eliciting another scream of rage. then, as the wildcat came on for a final attack, the scout pulled out his hunting knife. as the wildcat came down the hand holding the hunting knife was raised, with the blade of the knife pointing upward. a lightning-like swing and a thrust, and for one brief instant the wildcat was poised in the air, upon the very blade of the long knife. the blow had been a true one, the knife point reaching the beast's heart, and when the animal fell it rolled down among the leaves, dead. "by thunder! but that was something i hadn't bargained for!" murmured the great scout, as he surveyed the carcass. "that's about the biggest wildcat i ever saw. it's a good thing i didn't meet him in the dark." wiping off his hunting knife, he restored it to his belt. then he picked up his pistol and started to reload it, at the same time whistling for bonnie bird, who, he felt sure, must be close by. as pawnee brown stood reloading the pistol and whistling for his mare he did not notice a shadow behind him. slowly but surely someone was drawing closer to him. it was yellow elk. the indian chief was on foot. in his left hand he carried a cocked revolver, in his right an old-time tomahawk, from which he had refused to be parted when placed on the indian reservation. the redskin's face was full of the most bitter animosity it is possible to imagine. the glare of wickedness in his eyes fairly put the look that had lived in the wildcat's optics to shame. his snags of yellow teeth were firmly set. he was resolved to kill his enemy there and then. pawnee brown should not again escape him. chapter xvii. the meeting in the woods. after leaving pawnee brown, jack rasco followed the trail of his horse through a small grove of trees and along the upper bank of the very stream upon which the great scout encountered yellow elk. "blamed ef he didn't go further nor i expected," muttered rasco to himself as he trudged along. but the hoof-prints were now growing fresher and fresher, telling that the animal could not be far off. the woods passed, he began ascending a small hill. at the top of this was a level patch, thickly overgrown with short brush. he had just entered the brush when he heard a strange sound. he listened intently. "thet's a hoss in pain," he said to himself. "too bad if the critter hez had a tumble an' broke a leg! if that's---- by gum!" jack had stumbled upon a large opening directly in the midst of the brush. before he could turn back the very soil beneath his feet gave way, and over and over he rolled down an incline of forty-five degrees, to bring up at last at the edge of a pool of black water and mud. fortunately he was not hurt, although the roll had dazed him and cut short his wind. as soon as he could he leaped to his feet and gazed around him. the horse he had heard lay half in and half out of the mud. its leg was caught between two rocks, and it was trying frantically to free itself. it was his own beast, and at once recognized him. "whoa there!" cried rasco, and did all he could to soothe the animal. the horse appeared to understand that assistance was at hand, and became quiet, while rasco quickly released the locked leg and the beast floundered up to a safe footing. "well, we're in a pocket, 'pears ter me," reflected the man of the plains as he gazed about him. on three sides the walls of the hole were very nearly perpendicular, on the fourth the slant was as previously stated, but here the soil was spongy and treacherous. "hang me ef i'm a-goin' ter stay here all day," muttered rasco, after a view of the situation. "come, boy, it's up thet slope or nuthin'," and he leaped on the horse's back and urged him forward on a run. twice did the horse try to ascend to the plain above and fail. then rasco urged him forward a third time. this time the beast balked and away went the man of the plains over his head. fortunately rasco landed in a tolerably soft spot, otherwise his neck would surely have been broken. as it was, his head struck the root of a fallen tree, which had once stood upon the edge of the hole, and he rolled back near the pool all but senseless. it was a quarter of an hour later before he felt like stirring again. "hang the hoss!" he murmured half aloud, yet, all told, he did not blame the animal so much for balking. "couldn't do it, eh, boy?" he said, and the beast shook his mane knowingly. "git along alone, then!" went on rasco, and struck the horse on the flank. away went the steed, and this time the top of the hole was gained without much difficulty. "now you're out, how am i ter make it?" it was easy to ask this question, but not so easy to answer it. rasco tried to run up the spongy incline and sank to his knees. "ain't no use; i'll try a new game," he growled. fortunately, rasco was in the habit of carrying, in cowboy fashion, a lariat suspended from his belt. this he now unwound and with a dexterous throw caught the outer loop over a sturdy bush growing over one of the perpendicular sides of the opening. testing the lariat, to make certain it was firm, he began to ascend hand over hand. this was no light task, yet it was speedily accomplished, and with a sigh of relief he found himself safe once more. but in the meantime the horse had trotted off, alarmed by a black snake in the long grass. rasco saw this snake a minute later, but the reptile slunk out of sight before he could get a chance to dispatch it. the trail of the horse led again back to the ravine, but not in the direction of the cave. bound to secure the animal before rejoining pawnee brown, rasco loped along in pursuit. he was in the ravine, and had just caught sight of his steed once more, when he heard several pistol shots coming from a distance. these were the shots fired by pawnee brown at the wildcat. he listened intently, but no more shots followed, and being below the level of the surrounding country, he was unable to locate the discharge of firearms. "something is wrong somewhar," he mused. "can thet be pawnee shootin', or is it dick an' the others?" he secured the horse and began to ascend out of the ravine, when a murmur of voices broke upon his ears. one of the voices sounded familiar and he soon recognized it as that of louis vorlange. instantly dismounting, he tied his animal fast to a tree that the creature might not wander away again, and worked his way noiselessly through the brush. the voices came from a nearby clearing, and approaching, rasco saw on horseback louis vorlange and half a dozen cavalrymen, among them tucker, ross and skimmy, the trio who had sought to detain dick as a horse thief. "i feel certain they will come this way," one of the strange troopers was saying. "i saw at least two boomer spies along yonder ravine." "they will come to honnewell," answered vorlange. "it may be that instead of making a rush they will try to sneak in during the night, one at a time." "we'll be ready for 'em," muttered tucker. "i know my meat," he added, significantly, to vorlange, meaning that he had not forgotten the reward offered if, in a battle he should lay pawnee brown and dick low. at the words vorlange nodded. "when will the reinforcements be up this way?" asked ross. "i have already sent word to headquarters," answered vorlange. "the lieutenant is sure to respond without delay." "do you reckon the boomers know we are on hand to stop them?" questioned skimmy. "they know nothing," answered vorlange. "if pawnee brown leads his men in this direction they will fall directly into a trap--if the lieutenant does as i have advised, and i think he will." "i hope the boomers start to fight and give us a chance to wipe 'em out," muttered ross. "there will be a fight started, don't you fear," answered vorlange. the spy meant what he said. too cowardly to meet pawnee brown face to face, he wanted to make sure that the great scout should be killed. this would happen if a battle came off, for he felt sure tucker would do exactly as he promised. vorlange had determined to be on hand. secreted in a tree or elsewhere he could fire a dozen shots or so into the air, and this would arouse both cavalrymen and boomers to think that actual hostilities had already started, and then neither side would longer hold off. "when will the boomers move?" was one of the cavalryman's questions. "they are waiting for pawnee brown," said the spy. "where is he?" "somewhere about the country." "can he be up here?" vorlange started. "i--i think not. "he's a slick one, vorlange; remember that." "i know it, but some men are slicker. wait until this boom is busted and you'll never hear of pawnee brown again." so the talk ran on. rasco listened with much interest, forgetting the fact that he had promised to follow pawnee brown as soon as the stray-away horse was secured. what he had heard surprised him greatly. many of the plans of the boomers, made in such secrecy, were known to the government authorities. the plan to move westward to honnewell was known, and a passage through to oklahoma from that direction was, consequently, out of the question. "the boys must know of this," thought rasco. "i must tell clemmer and gilbert before i try to hunt up pawnee again, or go after nellie. if there was a fight as vorlange seems to think, there might be a hundred or more killed." having overheard all that he deemed necessary, the man of the plains started to retreat. he had taken but a few steps when he found himself cut off from his horse. three additional cavalrymen were approaching from the thicket. "here's a horse tied up!" cried one. "boys, whose animal is this?" the call instantly attracted the attention of vorlange and his companions. they turned toward the speaker, and now there remained nothing for rasco to do but to run for it, and this he did at the top of his speed. as long as he could he kept out of sight behind the bushes. but soon tucker caught sight of him. "halt, or i'll fire!" came the command. tucker spoke first, and several others followed. as rasco was now in plain view, and as each of the enemy had a firearm of some sort aimed at him, it would have been foolishness to have thus courted death, and the man of the plains halted. "it is jack rasco!" cried vorlange. "boys, this is pawnee brown's right-hand man!" "i know him!" growled tucker. "rasco, you're in a box now and don't you forget it. you've been spying on us." "make him a prisoner," said another of the cavalrymen, an under officer. "if he is a spy we'll have to take him back to the fort and turn him over to the captain." a minute later jack rasco found himself a close prisoner. it was destined to be some time ere he again obtained his liberty. thus were his chances of helping pawnee brown cut off. chapter xviii. a cry from the darkness. let us return to pawnee brown, who, totally unconscious of the fact that yellow elk was creeping up behind him, stood beside the body of the dead wildcat, re-loading the empty revolver. one of the chambers of the firearm had been loaded, when something about the pistol caused the great scout to examine it more closely. as he was doing this yellow elk advanced to within three feet of him and raised the tomahawk for the fatal blow. at this terrible moment it must surely have been providence which interfered in the boomer's behalf, for, totally unconscious of his peril, he would have done absolutely nothing to save himself. he bent over the pistol more closely. "that trigger seems to catch," he thought, and threw the weapon up and fired it over his shoulder, just to test it. the bullet did not pass within a yard of yellow elk, but the movement came so unexpectedly that the indian chief was taken completely off his guard and dropped back as though actually shot. his cry of astonishment and fear lasted longer than did the pistol report, and pawnee brown swung around to confront him. "yellow elk!" came from his lips, when whizz! the tomahawk left the redskin's hand and came swirling through the air directly for his head. he dropped like lightning, and the keen blade sank deeply into the tree behind him. "wough!" grunted the indian when he saw how he had missed his mark. then he leveled the pistol in his left hand at pawnee brown's head. the great scout felt his position was still a trying one. his own shooter, though still in hand, was empty. he pointed it and started to back away to the tree behind him. "stop, or i kill!" commanded yellow elk, but instead of complying, the scout took a flying leap to a safe shelter. seeing this, yellow elk also lost no time in getting behind cover. with the pistol loaded once more the boomer felt safer. he listened intently for some movement upon the part of his enemy, but none came. the indian is a great hand at playing a waiting game and yellow elk was no exception to this rule. "well, if you can wait, so can i," thought pawnee brown and settled down with eyes and ears on the alert. he thought of nellie winthrop and of rasco, and wondered what had become of uncle and niece. he did not want to wait, feeling it was important to get back to the boomers' camp, but there was no help for it, and he remained where he was. fifteen minutes went by and no sound broke the stillness saving that of the water in the brook as it flowed down over a series of rocks. then came the faint crack of a single dry twig over upon his left. he turned around and blazed away in that direction. a fierce but suppressed exclamation in the indian tongue followed, showing that yellow elk had been hit. how serious the indian chief was injured there was no telling. it might be only a flesh wound, it might have been fatal and yellow elk might have died without further sound, and then again it might be only a ruse. again pawnee brown paused to listen. thus another quarter of an hour was wasted. it must be confessed that the great scout's nerves were strung to the topmost tension. at any moment a shot might come which would end his life. it was ten times more trying than to stand up in line of battle, for the enemy could not be seen. again came the crack of a twig, but very faint, showing that the sound came from a distance. there followed a faint splash, some distance up the stream. yellow elk was retreating. "i reckon i hit him pretty bad," mused pawnee brown. "but i'll go slow--it may be only a trick," and away he crawled as silently as a snail along the brook's bank. inside of the next half hour he had covered a territory of many yards on both sides of the brook. in one spot he had seen several drops of blood and the finger marks of a bloody hand. yellow elk, however, had completely disappeared. "he is gone, and so is the trail," muttered the great scout at last. he spoke the truth. further following of the indian chief was just then out of the question. "there is one thing to be thankful for," he mused. "i don't believe he captured nellie winthrop again after he left the cave. i wonder what has become of that girl?" bonnie bird had wandered down the brook for a drink and instantly returned at her master's call. with something of a sigh at not having finished matters with yellow elk the boomer leaped once again into the saddle and turned back in the direction from whence he had come. it was now growing dark, and the great scout felt that he must ere long return to the boomers' camp and give the order necessary to start the long wagon train on its way westward to honnewell. little did he dream of what the government spy and the cavalrymen had discovered and how jack rasco had been taken prisoner. "pawnee!" it was a cry from a patch of woods to the northward, and straining his eyes he saw cal clemmer waving his sombrero toward him. scout and cowboy boomer were soon together. "well, whar's rasco and the gal?" were clemmer's first words. "both gone--i don't know where, cal. where are the other boys?" "started back toward honnewell; thet is, all but dick arbuckle. he's over ter yonder spring gittin' a drink o' water." "i am sorry i failed to find the girl," said pawnee brown. "she must have wandered off in the woods and got lost. i am quite certain the indians did not spot her again." "and jack?" "went off after his horse." "wot do yer advise us ter do--stay here?" "i am afraid staying here will do no good, cal. i must get back to camp and start the wagons up. i know they won't move a step unless i am personally there to give directions. the old boomers are all afraid of being fooled by some trick of the soldiers." "thet's so. wall, if yer want me ter stay here i'll stay--otherwise i'll go back," concluded clemmer. dick now came up, as anxious as clemmer had been to know the news. his face grew very sober when he heard that nellie had not been found. "i wish i knew more of this territory--i'd go after her myself," he said, earnestly. "i hope you won't abandon the search?" "oh, no, lad; that is not my style. but i must get back to the camp first and start the train along. i'll be on this ground again by midnight." "then why can't i stay here? i am not afraid." "alone?" ejaculated clemmer. "yes--if you want to join pawnee." "by gosh, but that boy's nervy fer a city chap!" cried the cowboy boomer, in admiration. "well, you know there's a girl in this, cal," rejoined pawnee brown, dryly. "and i reckon she's a girl well worth going through fire and water for." at this dick blushed. "i want to find out about rasco, too," he hastened to say. "you know i was going through with him, and he was going to do some business for my father, later on." the matter was talked over for several minutes, and it was at last decided that dick should secrete himself in a thicket and stand watch there or close by until he heard from pawnee brown again. "be on your guard, boy, for enemies may be thick here," were the boomer's last words of caution. "don't uncover to anybody until you are positive it is a friend." "and here's a bite for yer," added clemmer, handing out some rations he carried in a haversack. "you'll get mighty hungry ere the sun comes up again." in a minute more the two horsemen were galloping away. dick watched them until they were lost to view, then dropped to a sitting position on a flat rock in the centre of a clump of trees. the youth's heart beat rather strongly. he was not used to this sort of thing. how different the prairies and woods were to the city streets and buildings. "lonesome isn't a name for it," he mused. "puts me in mind of one vast cemetery--a gigantic greenwood, only there aren't any monuments. what is that?" there was a flutter and a whirl, and dick grasped his pistol tighter. it was only a night-bird, starting up now that the sun was beginning to set. soon the woods and the prairies began to grow dark. the sun was lost to view behind tall trees which cast shadows of incalculable length. it grew colder, too, and he buttoned his light coat tightly about him. to pass the time he began to eat some of the food left behind by clemmer. it was not particularly appetizing, and in the city dick might have passed it by for something better. but just then it tasted "just boss," to use dick's own words. a bracing air and hunger are the best sauces in the world. an hour had gone by, and all was dark, when dick started up from a reverie into which he had fallen. what was that which had reached his ears from a distance? was it a cry, or merely the moaning of the rising wind? he listened. no, it was not the wind--it was a cry--a girl's voice--the voice of nellie winthrop! "it is nellie!" came from his set lips, and his face grew pale. again came the cry, but this time more faintly. from what direction had that cry for help proceeded? in vain the boy asked himself that question. he was not used to a life in the open and the rising wind was very deceptive. "i must find her!" he gasped, leaping from the rocks. "i shan't remain here while she is in trouble." he had no horse the men being unable to provide him with one when they had come together, but for this he did not care. he was resolved to aid the girl if such a thing were possible. away he went over the prairie at a rapid gait, in the direction from whence he imagined the cry had proceeded. two hundred yards were covered and he came to a halt and listened. not a sound broke the stillness, although he fancied he heard the hoof-strokes of a horse at a great distance. then he turned in another direction, and then another. it was all to no purpose. no trace of the girl could be found. he gave a groan. "it's no use; she's gone and that is all there is to it. poor girl!" with a sinking heart he set off to return to the spot from whence he had come. he advanced a dozen steps, then halted and stared about him. suddenly an awful truth burst upon him. he was lost among the brush! chapter xix. nellie meets vorlange. what had that awful cry heard by dick meant? to learn the particulars, we must go back to the time when nellie winthrop started to escape from the cave in the cliff. the heart of the poor girl almost stopped beating as she saw pawnee brown face about, ready to defend both her and himself from any enemy who might appear to help yellow elk. urged by the great scout, she set off on a hasty run for the mouth of the cave. before the entrance was gained she heard the crack of a pistol, but whether fired by the boomer or an indian she could not tell. "heaven spare that brave man!" was the prayer which came to her almost bloodless lips. she looked around in vain for the horse spoken of by pawnee brown. not an animal was in sight. then she remembered what the scout had said about riding down the ravine, and she set off on foot. not far from the mouth of the cave the ravine forked into two branches, the smaller fork ending at the distance of quarter of a mile in a cul de sac, or blind pocket. not knowing she was making any mistake, she entered this fork and kept on running, expecting each instant to find pawnee brown coming up behind her. "oh, dear, i can't be right!" such was the cry which escaped her when she came to a halt, realizing she could go no further in that direction. on both sides and in front arose a series of rocks, more or less steep, and covered only with scrub brush, impossible to ascend. she looked behind. no one was coming. all about her was as silent as a tomb. "perhaps i had better go back," she mused, but the thought of encountering an indian made her shiver. in her life in the open she had had many an encounter with a wild animal, but redskins were as yet almost new to her, and her experience with the hideous yellow elk had been one she did not care to repeat. she had just turned to move back to the ravine proper, when a sound among the rocks caused her to pause. she looked intently in the direction, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. "hullo, there, miss; what are you doing away out here?" the cry came from the rocks on her right. turning swiftly, she saw an evil-looking man scowling down upon her from a small opening under one of the rocky walls of the _cul de sac_. the man was louis vorlange. nellie did not know the fellow; indeed she had never heard of him. but there was that in the spy's manner which was not at all reassuring as he leaped down to where she stood. "i say, how did you come here?" went on vorlange. "i--i just escaped from an indian who carried me off from arkansas city," answered nellie. "an indian! who was it, do you know?" "a fellow named yellow elk." vorlange uttered a low whistle. "where is he now?" he questioned. "i left him back in yonder hills, in a cave." again the spy uttered a whistle, but whether of surprise or dismay nellie could not tell. "were you alone with yellow elk?" "i was for a time. but a white man came to my aid and the two had a fight." "who was the white man?" before she gave the matter a second thought, nellie answered: "mr. pawnee brown." "ha!" vorlange's eyes gleamed, and the girl felt certain she had made a mistake. "where is pawnee brown now?" "i left him in the cave with the indian. i expected him to follow me." "i see. and what may your name be?" the man's words were fair enough, but nellie did not like his manner at all, so she turned upon him coldly. "and what is your name, and who are you?" "i am not here to answer questions, miss. i am a government official, let that be enough for you to know." as he spoke louis vorlange caught nellie by the arm. "let go of me," cried the frightened girl, and attempted to pull away, but vorlange held her tight. "you come along with me. no one, and especially pawnee brown, has any right in this territory just now, and it is my business to see that all such people are kept out. i presume you belong to that crowd of boomers, since you say you were carried off from arkansas city?" "i shall answer no more of your questions, sir. let me go!" "you'll come along with me," muttered vorlange. "i take it you know what the boomers intend to do, and, if that is so, your information is just what the government wants." so speaking he attempted to drag nellie up the rocks to the opening before mentioned. the girl resisted with all of her strength, and vorlange received a box on the left ear which made that member of his body hum for a long time after. "you little wretch!" he cried, as he caught her up in his arms. "i will get square with you for that." "you are no gentleman! let me go!" replied nellie. then she attempted to scream, but he promptly clapped his hand over her mouth. in another moment, despite her utmost struggles, he was carrying her up to the opening. this spot once reached, he took her inside and over to a well-like hole upon one side. "do you see that hole?" he said sternly. "i am going to put you in that for the present, for safe keeping. i call it my prison cell, and no cell could be better. it is not a cheerful place, but you will be as safe there as in the best prison in chicago or san francisco. i'll be back for you soon, and in the meantime you had better make no attempt to escape, for at the mouth of this opening is set a gun, with a wire attachment, which may blow you up." this latter statement was a false one, but vorlange rightfully calculated that it would have its due effect upon the frightened girl. having thus intimidated nellie, vorlange lowered her into the opening in the rocks, which was about six feet in diameter and at least ten feet deep. this done, he lit a lantern and hung it so that its rays might shine down upon his captive. "you won't feel so lonesome with the light," he said. "now keep quiet until i return. if you behave yourself you have nothing to fear. i am a government officer and i am holding you as a prisoner only until i can turn you over to the proper authorities." "it is a--a queer proceeding," faltered nellie. she could hardly bring herself to believe the man. "out here we can't do things exactly as they are done in the big cities," grinned vorlange. "we are out here after the boomers just now, and your being here with pawnee brown will rather go against you. but keep quiet now until i return." thus speaking, the spy quirted the opening, leaving nellie alone. with hasty steps vorlange made his way along the fork of the ravine until the opening proper was reached. here he settled himself in a tree to watch for pawnee brown's possible coming. but, as we know, the scout did not move in that direction. for over two hours nellie was left alone, a prey to the keenest mental torture it is possible to imagine. as the day was drawing to a close vorlange appeared, a peculiar smile upon his face. he had met the cavalrymen, and jack rasco had been captured as previously described. "well, we are going to move now," he said to nellie, and threw down a rope that he might haul her up out of the hole. "where to?" "you'll learn that later." as she did not wish to remain in that damp spot longer, she caught the rope and was drawn up. then vorlange took her outside and sat her down before him on his horse, first, however, tying her hands. it was during the ride that followed that dick heard her cry for help and started to her rescue, only to miss her and get lost in the brush. a ride of half an hour brought the pair to the edge of a heavy timber. through this they picked their way, until a small clearing was gained, where was located a low log cabin, containing two rooms. the log cabin was not inhabited, and vorlange pushed open the door without ceremony. "you'll stay here over night," he said, as he ushered nellie into the smaller room. "you can see this has been used for a prison before, as all of the windows are nailed up. i don't believe you'll try to escape anyway, for, let me warn you, it won't pay. make yourself as comfortable as you can, and in the morning we'll come to an understanding. we've got another prisoner besides yourself, and between the two of you i reckon we'll find out before long just what the boomers are up to." and with a dark look upon his face, louis vorlange stalked out of the apartment, locking the door after him, and thus leaving nellie to her fate. chapter xx. the moving of the boomers. "pawnee brown at last!" the words came from one of the boomers, a fat but spry old chap named dunbar. "yes, dunbar," answered the great scout. "were you getting anxious about me?" "well, just a trifle, pawnee." "the camp must move at once. send the word around immediately, dunbar." "whar do we move to?" "to honnewell. as soon as all hands are at honnewell i'll send out further orders." in less than half an hour the immense wagon train organized by the boomers located in kansas was on the way. at the front rode pawnee brown, clemmer and several others who were personal friends of the scout. it was a grand sight, this moving. to this day some of the boomers say it was the grandest sight they ever beheld. every heart was full of hope. past trials and hardships were forgotten. the boomers were to enter the richest farming lands in the states and there start life anew. the movement was made in silence and in almost utter darkness. of course, it was impossible to hide the news from the citizens of arkansas city, but the train was well on its way before the news had any chance of spreading. at the time of which we write there were several trails to honnewell from arkansas city. the regular road was a fair one in good weather, but, after such a rain as had fallen, this trail was hub-deep with mud in more than one spot. "oi'll not go thot trail," was delaney's comment. "oi'll take the upper road." "thot's roight, mike," put in rosy, his wife. "it's not meself as wants to stick fast in this black mud. sure, and it's worse nor the bogs of erin!" "vot's dot road you vos speakin' apout alretty?" put in humpendinck, who had as heavy a wagon as anyone. "it's a better road nor this, humpy," replied mike delaney. "folly me an' we'll rach honnewell afore enny of 'em, mark me wurrud." thus encouraged, humpendinck followed delaney on the upper trail, and, seeing the two go off, half a dozen followed. it was more than half an hour after before pawnee brown heard of their departure. the great scout was much disturbed. "it's foolishness for them to start off on the upper trail," he declared. "i went over it but a few days ago, and at brown's crossing the road is all torn up by a freshet. besides that, we must keep together." "yer right thar, pawnee," answered clemmer. "delaney ought to know better. but yer can't tell the irish anything." "humpendinck went with him," put in dunbar, who had brought the news. "both the irishman and the german are smart enough in their way," answered pawnee brown. "but they've made a mistake. cal and dunbar, you continue at the head, and i'll ride across country and head delaney and his crowd back through the allen trail. i'll probably rejoin you just this side of honnewell." with this command, pawnee brown left the wagon train and plunged off through the darkness alone. he had been over that district many times and thought he knew about every foot of the ground. but for once the great scout was mistaken, and that mistake was destined to bring him into serious difficulty. about half a mile had been covered, and he was just approaching a patch of small timber, when he noticed that bonnie bird began to show signs of shyness. she did not refuse to go forward, but evidently was proceeding against her will. quick to notice a change in the beautiful mare's mood, pawnee brown spoke to her. she pawed the ground and tossed her head. "what is it, bonnie? danger ahead?" again the mare pawed the ground. feeling certain something was wrong, pawnee brown stood up in his stirrups and looked about him. all was dark and silent upon every side. overhead the faint stars shed but an uncertain light. "it's one too many for me, bonnie," he mused. "forward until the danger becomes clearer." thus commanded, the mare moved forward once more, but this time much slower. once or twice her feet seemed to stick fast, but pawnee brown did not notice this. at last she came to a dead halt and would not go another step. "the danger must be in the timber," thought the boomer. "bonnie bird wouldn't balk for nothing. i'll dismount and reconnoitre." springing to the ground, he drew his pistol and moved forward silently. scarcely had he taken a dozen steps than he realized the cause of his mare's unwillingness to proceed further. he was in a bed of quicksand. anybody who knows what a bed of quicksand is knows how dangerous it is--dangerous to both man and beast. just as the scout made his discovery he sank up to his knees in the mass. "by jove! i must get back out of this, and in double-quick order," he muttered, and tried to turn, to find himself sinking up to his waist. pawnee brown was now fully alive to the grave peril of his situation. he tried by all the strength at his command to pull himself to the firm ground from which he had started. he could not budge a foot. true, he took one step, but it was only to sink in deeper than ever. several minutes of great anxiety passed. he had sunk very nearly up to his armpits. quarter of an hour more and he would be up to his head, and then----? brave as he was, the great scout did not dare to think further. the idea of a death in the treacherous quicksand was truly horrible. his friends would wonder what had become of him, but it was not likely that they would ever find his body. and even faithful bonnie bird would be dumb, so far as telling the particulars of her master's disappearance was concerned. the mare now stood upon the edge of the quicksands, fifteen feet off, whining anxiously. she knew as well as though she had been a human being that something was wrong. suddenly an inspiration came to pawnee brown. "how foolish! why didn't i think of that before?" he muttered. at his belt had hung a lariat, placed there when the wagon train started, in case any of the animals should attempt to run off in the darkness. the boomer could use a lariat as well as clemmer or any of the cowboys. more than once, riding at full speed upon his mare, he had thrown the noose around any foot of a steer that was selected by those looking on. he put his hand down to his waist and felt for the lariat. it was still there, and he brought it up and swung it over his head, to free it from the quicksand. as has been stated, the belt of timber was not far away, the nearest tree being less than fifty feet from where he remained stuck. preparing the lariat, he threw the noose up and away from him. it circled through the air and fell over the nearest branch of the tree. hauling it taut, pawnee brown tested it, to make sure it would not slip, and then began to haul himself up, as rasco had done at the swamp hole. it was slow work, and more than once he felt that the lariat would break, so great was the strain put upon it. but it held, and a few minutes later pawnee brown found himself with somewhat cut hands, safe in the branches of the tree. winding up the lariat, he descended to the ground, and made a detour to where bonnie bird remained standing, and to where he had cast his pistol. the mare and weapon secured, he continued on his way, but made certain to wander into no more quicksand spots. "it was too narrow an escape for comfort," was the way in which pawnee brown expressed himself, when he told the story later. an hour after found him again among the boomers. mike delaney was just coming in by the allen trail. the irishman was much crestfallen over his failure to find a better trail than that selected by the scout, and rosy was giving it to him with a vengeance. "th' nixt toime ye go forward it will be undher pawnee brown's directions, moike delaney!" she cried. "it's not yerself thot is as woise as moses in the wilderness, moind thot!" and her clenched fist shook vigorously to emphasize her words. after that delaney never strayed from the proper trail again. all of the boomers but jack rasco were now on hand, and as hour after hour went by and rasco did not turn up, pawnee brown grew anxious about the welfare of his right-hand man. "looking for the girl had brought him into trouble, more than likely," he thought, as he rode away from honnewell, taking a due south course. "and what can have become of her?" pawnee brown was on his way to the spot where he had left dick. he had decided that as soon as he had found the lad, he would return to camp, and then the onward march of the boomers for oklahoma should at once be begun. on through the ravine where he had met yellow elk he dashed, bonnie bird feeling fresh after a short rest and her morning meal, for the sun was now creeping skyward. on through the brush, and he turned toward the open prairie. "halt! throw up your hands!" the unexpected command came from the thicket on the edge of the prairie. on the instant the boomer wheeled about. the sight which met his gaze caused his heart to sink within him. there, drawn up in line, was the full troop of cavalry sent out by the government to stop the boomers' entrance to the much-coveted territory. vorlange's spy work was responsible, and pawnee brown's carefully-laid plan had fallen through. chapter xxi. dick's disagreeable discovery. "lost!" dick murmured the word over and over again, as he peered through the brush, first in one direction and then in another. "i ought to have kept track of where i was going," he went on bitterly. "of course, away out here one place is about as good as another for hiding, but how am i going to find the others, or, rather, how are they going to find me, when they come back?" he pushed on for nearly a quarter of an hour; then, coming to a flat rock, threw himself down for reflection. "just my luck!" he muttered. "i'll have to have a string tied about my neck like a poodle dog. what a clown i was to go it blind! but nellie's cry for help made me forget everything else. poor girl! i do hope she is safe. if that redskin--gosh! what's that?" the flat rock was backed up by a number of heavy bushes. from these bushes had come a peculiar noise, half grunt, half yawn! dick leaped to his feet, the bushes parted and there appeared the savage face of yellow elk! dick knew the indian by that plume of which he had heard so much. he rightfully guessed that yellow elk had been taking a nap behind the bushes. he had been shot in the thigh, and this, coupled with the fact that he had had no sleep for two nights, had made him very weary. as the indian chief shoved his face into view he caught sight of dick and uttered a slight huh! up came the boy's weapon, but on the instant yellow elk disappeared. for the moment dick was too paralyzed to move. like a flash he realized that yellow elk had the better of him, for the indian was behind shelter, while he stood in a clearing. "white boy stand still!" came in guttural tones from the redskin. "don't dare move, or indian shoot." "what do you want of me?" asked dick. "white boy all alone?" "what business is that of yours?" at this yellow elk muttered a grunt. then from out of the bushes dick saw thrust the shining barrel of a horse pistol. "white boy throw down little shooter," commanded the redskin. by little shooter he meant dick's pistol. there was no help for it, and the youth did as requested. "white boy got udder shooter?" "no." "now say if white boy alone. speak if want to save life." "yes, i am alone, yellow elk." "ha! you know yellow elk?" cried the indian in surprise. "i've heard of you." "what white boy do here?" "i am lost." "lost. huh!" and a look of disgust crossed the indian chiefs face. the idea of a human being losing his way was something he could not understand. during his life he had covered thousands of miles of prairie and forest lands and had never yet lost himself. such is the training and instinct of a true american aboriginal. while speaking yellow elk had leaped through the brush, and now he came up and peered into dick's face. instantly his eyes filled with anger. "i know white boy; he friend to pawnee brown. indian see him at big moving."--meaning the camp of the boomers. he had not noticed dick in the fight at the cave. "yes, pawnee brown is my friend," answered dick. "where is he now?" he added, to throw the indian off the series of questions he was propounding. "pawnee brown dead!" muttered yellow elk simply. "white boy come with me." "with you!" ejaculated dick, a chill creeping up to his heart. "yes; come now. no wait, or yellow elk shoot!" and again the horse pistol was raised. the tone was so ugly that dick felt it would be useless to hang back. yellow elk pointed with his arm in the direction he wished the lad to proceed, and away they went, the indian but a pace behind, and keeping his pistol where it would be ready for use whenever required. dick never forgot that walk in the starlight, taken at about the same time that pawnee brown was floundering in the quicksand. a mile or more was covered, over prairies, through a wood and across several small streams, for the fertile indian territory abounds in water courses. yellow elk stuck to him like a shadow, and the pistol was continually in evidence. yellow elk had likewise appropriated dick's weapon, the one cast to the ground. presently a clearing was gained where stood a cabin built of logs. all about the place was deserted. going up to the cabin the indian opened the door and lit a match. "white boy go inside and we have talk," said yellow elk, when there came a noise from the woods beyond. at once yellow elk pushed dick into the cabin and bolted the door from the outside. "white boy keep quiet or yellow elk come in and kill!" he hissed, in a low but distinct tone. "no make a sound till indian open door again." the indian's words were so terrifying that dick stood still for several minutes exactly where he had been thrust. all was pitch dark around him. he listened, but not a sound reached his ears. "where in the world is this adventure going to end?" was the thought which coursed through his mind. he wondered what had alarmed yellow elk. was it the approach of some white friend? fervidly he prayed it might be. a low, half-suppressed cough from somewhere close at hand caught his ear and made him start. "who is there?" he asked aloud. "oh, dick arbuckle, is that you?" came in an eager voice. "nellie winthrop! is it possible? where are you?" "in the next room." "can't you come out?" "no; i'm locked in." "gosh, you don't say!" forgetting his former fear, dick hurried across the cabin floor to the door of the inner apartment. feeling around in the dark he found a hasp and staple and pulled out the plug which fastened the barrier. in another instant boy and girl plumped into each other's arms in the darkness. even in that moment of peril dick could not resist giving nellie a little squeeze, which she did not resent. "but how came you here?" asked the youth quickly. "i was captured by a government spy, who wants to get from me some secret of the boomers. he is a bad-looking man, and i was awfully afraid of him." "yellow elk brought me here. we are prisoners together. some noise in the woods just took yellow elk off." "the man has been gone less than five minutes. perhaps they are in league with each other," suggested nellie. "perhaps, or they may be enemies. but never mind how that stands. we must get away, nellie, and that before yellow elk comes back." "heaven knows, i am willing!" gasped the trembling girl. "i want no more of yellow elk." "the window is nailed up," went on dick, after an examination. "and the indian fastened that door from the outside. i wonder if i can't get out by way of the roof?" he lit a match and gazed upward. "there is an opening. here goes!" in another instant he was climbing up beside the fireplace, to where a scuttle led to the sloping roof. he was soon without, and nellie heard him drop to the ground. then the outer door was thrown back. "quick! the indian is coming back, and there is somebody with him!" whispered dick, and, taking hold of nellie's hand, he led her away as fast as possible. their course was from the rear of the cabin and across a broad but shallow stream. "we'll go down the stream a bit before we land," said dick, as they were on the point of stepping out of the water. "that may serve to throw yellow elk off the trail." "yes, yes, but do hurry!" answered the girl. "if yellow elk gets hold of me again i'll die!" the fear of getting into the clutches of the red man was so great she trembled from head to foot and would have gone down had not dick's strong arm supported her. it was wonderful how strong the youth felt, now that he had somebody besides himself to protect. it is said that nature fits the back to the burden, and it must have been so in this case. for himself, he might have feared to face yellow elk single-handed; defending nellie he would, if called upon, have faced a dozen redskins. on and on they went, as silently as possible. the trees overhung the brook from both sides, making it pitch dark beneath. a distance of fifty yards had been covered, when they heard a loud exclamation of rage, followed by an indian grunt. "the white man and the indian have met and both have discovered our flight," whispered dick. "come, we will leave the stream and take to yonder woods. surely among those trees we can find some safe hiding place." they turned in toward shore. as they were about to step to dry land nellie's foot slipped on a round stone, making a loud splash. at the same time the girl gave a faint cry. "my ankle--it's twisted!" "quick! let me carry you!" returned dick, and, seeing the ankle must pain her not a little, he picked her up in his arms and dove in among the trees. they were not a moment too soon, for the ready ears of yellow elk had heard the splash and the cry, and now he came bounding in the direction, with louis vorlange at his heels. chapter xxii. dick hits his mark. "they are coming closer, dick! what shall we do?" it was nellie winthrop who asked the question. boy and girl had entered the woods a distance of fifty feet from the bank of the brook, and both rested where several large rocks and some overhanging bushes afforded a convenient hiding place. "keep quiet, nellie," he said in a murmur, with his lips close to her shell-like ears. and he gripped her arm to show her that he would stand by her no matter what danger might befall them. it would have been foolhardy to say more, for yellow elk and louis vorlange were now within hearing distance, and the ears of the indian chief were more than ever on the alert. the government spy had lighted a torch, which he swung low to the brook bank, while yellow elk made an examination of the ground. "here footmarks!" grunted the redskin, a minute later, and pointed them out. "they go this way--cannot be far off." "then after them," muttered vorlange. "it was through your stupidity that the girl got away. yellow elk, i always put you down for being smarter than that." "yellow elk smart enough!" growled the indian chief. "no, you're not. in some things you are like a block of wood," grumbled vorlange. the escape of nellie had put him out a good deal. the manner of the government spy provoked the indian. to be called a block of wood is, to the red man, a direct insult. yellow elk straightened up. "white man big fool!" he hissed. "yellow elk not make chase for him," and he folded his arms. "you won't go after the boy and the girl?" queried vorlange. "no--white man hunt for himself if he want to catch the little woman again." and having thus delivered himself, yellow elk sat down by the brook and refused to budge another step. the indian's objections to continuing the search were more numerous than appeared on the surface. the so-called insult, bad as it was, was merely an excuse to hide other motives. yellow elk had known vorlange for years and as the spy was naturally a mean fellow, the redskin hated him accordingly. another reason for refusing to go ahead was that yellow elk knew only too well that if dick and nellie were again taken, vorlange would consider both his own captives, and yellow elk would be "counted out" of the entire proceedings. he could not go to the agency and claim any glory, for he had run away without permission, although he had told vorlange he was away on a special mission connected with the soldiers. and deeper than all was the thought that if he did not capture nellie now, he might do so later on, when he had separated from the spy. ever since he had first seen the beautiful girl he had been covetous of making her his squaw. indian fashion, he felt he could compel nellie to choose him, even if he had to whip her into making the choice. "you won't go on with the search?" cried vorlange, in a rage. "no," was the short answer. "i say you shall! see here, yellow elk, do you want to be shot?" "yellow elk not afraid of vorlange--vorlange know dat. yellow elk go back to cabin to see if girl or boy leave anything behind." then he got up, waded across the brook again and disappeared among the trees surrounding the log cabin. louis vorlange muttered a good many things in a very angry tone. then, torch in hand, he started up the brook bank to follow the trail alone. dick and nellie listened to the quarrel with bated breath. both hoped that vorlange would follow to the cabin. when he approached closer than ever, their hearts seemed to almost stop beating. feeling that a contest was at hand, dick groped around in the darkness for some weapon. no stick was at hand, but at his feet lay a jagged stone weighing all of a pound. he took it up and held it in readiness. closer and closer came vorlange, turning now to the right and now to the left, for following the trail among the rocks and brush was no easy matter. "might as well give yourselves up!" he called out. "i am bound to spot you sooner or later." to this neither offered any reply, but dick felt nellie shiver. they could now see the flare of the torch plainly, for vorlange was less than thirty feet away. presently the spy uttered a low cry of pleasure. he had found several footprints, where dick had slipped from a rock into the dirt. now he came straight for them, waving the torch above his head that it might throw its light to a greater distance. [illustration: "dick had let fly the jagged stone, taking him directly in the forehead and keeling him over like a tenpin"] "so there you are!" the man caught sight of nellie's dress. "i told you i would catch you. it's not such an easy matter to get away from louis vorlange. the next time i lock you up--oh!" a deep groan escaped the spy. dick had let fly the jagged stone, taking him directly in the forehead and keeling him over like a tenpin. the blow left a deep cut from which the blood flowed in a stream, and vorlange was completely stunned. "oh, dick, have you--you--killed him?" burst from nellie's lips, in horror. "i guess not, nellie; he's stunned, that's all. come, let us run for it again--before that indian changes his mind and comes back." "you might take his pistol," suggested the quick-witted girl. "a good idea--i will. now let me carry you again, i see you can hardly stand on that foot." for nellie had limped along a dozen steps in great pain. "but i am so heavy, dick----" "never mind, i can carry you a little distance, at least." "you had better save yourself and let me go." "what! nellie, do you think me so selfish? never! come, and we'll escape or die in the attempt." and catching her up as before, he started off on as rapid a gait as the weight of his fair burden would permit. a distance of a hundred yards had been covered and dick found himself ascending a slight hill. the climb was by no means easy, yet he kept on manfully, knowing what capture by yellow elk might mean. "he would tomahawk me and carry nellie off," he thought, and it would be hard to say which he thought the worst, the tomahawking or the carrying off of the girl for whom he entertained such a high regard. the top of the hill reached, they saw before them a broad stretch of open prairie, flanked to the north and the south by the woods from which they had just emerged. "i'll be thrashed if i know where we are," he said. "have you any idea?" "no, dick, i am completely bewildered." "i wonder if it is safe to attempt to cross this prairie? it is pretty dark, but that redskin has mighty sharp eyes." "let us go down to the edge of the woods first and rest a bit. i am sure you are pretty well out of breath, and if i can bathe my ankle in some cold water perhaps i'll be able to walk on it before long." "don't try it, nellie; i'll carry you," and again the youth picked her up. it was not long before they reached a convenient hollow, where there was a small pool. here nellie made herself comfortable and took off the shoe which hurt her so much. bathed, the ankle which had been twisted felt much better. it was still, however, much swollen, and to walk far on that foot was as yet out of the question. an hour went by, a quiet hour, in which only the cries of the night birds and the occasional hoot of an owl disturbed them. they conversed in whispers and dick's ears were ever on the alert, for he felt certain that vorlange or yellow elk would sooner or later continue the search for them. nellie was very sleepy and at last her eyes closed and she dropped into a slumber upon dick's shoulder, forming such a pretty picture the youth could do nothing but admire her. "i'll save her--i must do it!" he murmured, and kissed her wavy tresses softly. it wanted still two hours to sunrise when he awakened her. she leaped up with a start. "i have been asleep! oh, dick, why did you let me drop off?" "i knew how tired you must be after going through all you did. but we must be on our way now, before it grows lighter. how is the foot?" "it is stiff, but much better. which way shall we go?" "let us strike across the prairie and to the north. that is bound to bring us into kansas sooner or later, and once there we'll be sure to locate the boomers without much trouble." both were hungry, but, as there was no food at hand, neither said a word on that point. getting a drink at a running brook close by, they started off, dick holding nellie's hand, that she might not go down on the ankle that was still weak. only a corner of the broad prairie passed, and then they turned again into a woods. the sun was now up and it was growing warmer. "i'll shoot a few birds if i can't find anything else," said dick. "we can't starve, and birds broiled over a fire will make a fair meal." "but the noise?" began nellie. "i know; but, as i said, we can't starve, nellie. we'll have to take the risk. here goes!" dick crept forward to where half a dozen birds sat on a nearby bush. the birds were in a flutter over something, but dick did not notice this. bringing two of the birds into range for a single shot, he blazed away with his pistol. the sharp crack of the firearm was still echoing through the woods when there came a roar from behind the bushes the birds had occupied. dick had brought down his game and more, he had struck a bear in the shoulder. in another moment the huge beast leaped into sight, and with angry eyes and gleaming teeth bore straight for the astonished boy. chapter xxiii. the soldiers again. never was dick arbuckle more astonished than when the big bear leaped out from behind the bushes and confronted himself and nellie winthrop. "oh, dick! a bear!" screamed the girl, and stood still, too paralyzed with fright to move. as we know, dick had just brought down several birds with his pistol--indeed it was this very shot which had clipped the bear--and now the weapon was empty and useless, having had but one chamber loaded. but as the great beast came forward, dick knew enough not to stand still. he retreated in double-quick order, and forced nellie to accompany him. away they went through the woods with the bear in close pursuit. at the start of the chase girl and boy were at least forty feet in advance, but despite his bulk the bear made rapid progress, and slowly but surely began to lessen the distance between himself and those he sought to make his victims. looking over his shoulder, dick saw him lumbering along, his mouth wide open and his blood-red tongue hanging out as though ready to lick him in. "i--i--can't run any more," gasped nellie. her heart was beating as though ready to break. "oh, dick, what shall we do?" "here is a tree with low branches--jump for that--i will help you up!" returned the youth, and in a few seconds they were in the tree, a scrub oak, with the big bear underneath, eying them angrily, and speculating upon how he could bring them down within reach of his powerful embrace and his hungry maw. "he is going to climb up," came from nellie's lips a few seconds later. she was right. bruin had attacked the tree trunk and now he was coming up slowly, as though afraid of moving into some trap. dick did not answer, for talking would have done no good. he was re-loading the pistol with all possible speed. crack! dick had leaned down through the branches of the oak and taken aim at one of those bloodshot eyes. there was a howl and a roar, and the bear fell down with a crash that shook the forest. as to whether the bullet had found that eye or not dick could not tell, but certain it was that once on the ground the bear picked himself up in short order and started to run away. "you hit him!" cried nellie. "oh, dick, if only he don't come back!" "he's not going away--very far," answered the boy. the shot had encouraged him and his blood was up. a moment later nellie was horrified to behold him drop to the grass and make off after the beast. "that bear will kill him sure!" she ejaculated. "oh, dick, come back! please do!" she screamed. a shot answered her, a shot which was quickly followed by another. a minute of painful silence; then suddenly the bear staggered into view with dick at his heels. "i've nailed him!" shouted the boy, joyfully, and another shot did the work. with a groan the bear keeled over, gave a jerk or two, and died. nellie was in such a tremble she could scarcely descend from the tree. when she did come down she found dick hard at work cutting out a juicy steak from the bear's flank. "we'll have a breakfast fit for a king now," he said, with a little laugh, to scatter his former nervousness. "just wait till i light a fire. i must gather the driest available sticks, so as to make as little smoke as possible." "yes, we don't want our enemies to locate us," answered the girl, and saw to it that every twig which went on the blaze which was kindled was as dry as a bone. in less than half an hour the steak had been done to a turn, and they sat down to eat it. it was certainly a most informal meal, without plates or platter, and only dick's pocket knife to cut the steak with. yet neither had ever enjoyed a repast more. having finished, they procured a drink at a flowing stream behind them, and then dick cut off a chunk of the bear meat, wrapped it in a bit of skin and slung it over his shoulder. "we may want another meal of it before we reach civilization," he explained, "nothing like preparing one's self, when we have the chance." "it's a shame to leave such a beautiful bear skin robe behind," answered nellie. "but i suppose it cannot be helped. oh, if only we were safe once more." again they set off on their weary tramp northward, and thus nearly two miles were covered. the sun was now coming out strongly, and dick saw that his fair companion was beginning to grow tired. "we will rest a little, nellie," he said, "i think perhaps we can afford to take it easy now." "i am so fearful that indian is following us!" answered the girl with a shudder. "if he should find that bear, and--oh, dick, look!" nellie leaped to her feet from the seat she had just taken, and pointed behind her. dick gave one look and his heart sank within him. yellow elk was bearing down upon them as swiftly as his long legs would permit! in his hand the indian chief carried a gun, and as nellie arose he caught sight of the pair and pointed the weapon at dick's head. "white boy throw down pistol!" he called out, when within speaking distance. "let yellow elk throw down his gun," answered dick. his pistol was up and now he shoved nellie behind him. "white boy fool--cannot shoot against yellow elk," growled the redskin. he had been following their trail since sun-up and was somewhat winded. "perhaps i can shoot. did you see that bear i brought down?" rejoined dick. at this the indian frowned. "bear must have been sick--white boy no bring game down like that if well--too powerful." "i brought him down and i'll bring you down if you don't stop where you are," was the steady answer. "oh, dick, he'll shoot you," whispered nellie. she wanted to get before him, but he would not allow it. by this time yellow elk had arrived to within a dozen steps of them. now he stopped and the frown upon his ugly countenance deepened. "did white boy hear what yellow elk said?" "i did." "does white boy want to die?" "does yellow elk want to die? i can shoot as straight as you." the words had scarcely left dick's mouth than there came a clear click. the redskin had fired point-blank at the lad, but the gun had failed to go off, the weapon being an old one the indian had found at the fort--a gun some soldier had discarded as useless. following the click nellie uttered a scream. then came a crack as dick fired, and yellow elk uttered a yell of pain, having received a painful wound in the side. with clubbed gun the indian now rushed in and a hand-to-hand struggle followed. dick fought valiantly, but was no match for the tall redskin, and a well-directed blow laid him senseless upon the prairie grass. "you have killed him!" screamed nellie. she was about to kneel at dick's side, when yellow elk hauled her back. "white dove come with me--boy no killed--be right by-an-by," said the redskin. "i will not go with you!" she gasped. "let me down!" for yellow elk had raised her up to his broad shoulder. the redskin merely smiled grimly and set off on a swift walk, which speedily took both nellie and himself out of sight of poor dick. the girl's heart was almost broken by this swift turn of affairs. she had hoped in a few more hours to be safe among her friends, and here she was once again the captive of the indian she so much feared. on and on kept yellow elk until the stream was reached upon which was located the log cabin where nellie had been a prisoner. she wondered if yellow elk was going to take her there again, but she asked no questions. presently the indian chief came to a sudden halt and raised his head as if to listen. nellie listened, too, and at a distance heard the tramp of several men. at once yellow elk darted behind a number of bushes. "white girl make noise yellow elk kill!" he hissed into his fair captive's ear, and drew his hunting knife. the tramp of feet came closer. a detachment of foot soldiers were moving through the woods. soon they came within sight of the pair. as they came closer nellie saw they were government troops. a prisoner was between them--a man. it was jack rasco. "uncle jack!" she moaned, when yellow elk clapped his hand over her mouth and pointed the hunting knife at her throat. "hush!" he commanded, but this was unnecessary, for the discovery and her great fear had caused nellie to swoon. she fell back, and for a long while she knew no more. in the meantime dick had slowly recovered consciousness. the blow had been a fearful one, and long after he sat up he was unable to rise to his feet, so shaky was he in the legs. slowly the realization of what had occurred came back to him. "gone--poor nellie!" he gasped, and braced himself as best he could. gazing around he saw that neither girl nor redskin was in sight. without delay he started to search for yellow elk's trail. he was loping along over the prairies when a shout from his left struck upon his ears. as he gazed in the direction he beheld a number of soldiers swooping down upon him. these were the men who had jack rasco a prisoner, the cavalrymen having turned the man of the plains over to them. in a moment dick was surrounded. "jack!" cried the youth, and rushed up to rasco. "what does this mean?" "it means i'm a prisoner," answered rasco, sadly. "have you seen anything of nellie?" in a moment dick had told his story, to which the soldiers as well as rasco listened closely. at once several of the guard were sent off to hunt up the redskin, if it were possible to do so. rasco wanted to go along, but his request was refused. "you'll slip us if you get the chance," said the officer in charge. "you'll go to the fort. and i fancy the boy will go, too, since he seems to belong to the boomers." and against his earnest protestations dick was made to accompany the soldiers, being bound hand to hand with the man of the plains. an hour later the soldiers' camp was reached, and rasco and dick were placed in a temporary guard house. they had been there but a short while when a visitor entered. it was--louis vorlange! "so they have you safe, i see," began vorlange, when rasco sprang at him and knocked him down. "will you make my niece a prisoner," he cried, wrathfully, for dick had told him the story. "you dirty spy!" "hold up," gasped vorlange, his face growing white. "rasco, don't be a fool. i--i--made her a prisoner because i have orders to arrest anybody found roaming around----" "i won't argy the p'int!" roared rasco. "i know you, vorlange, and so does dick here. you robbed and nearly murdered thet boy's father!" at these words vorlange staggered back as though struck a blow. "who says i--i did that?" he faltered. "i say so." "and so do i," put in dick, boldly. "we'll have a nice story to tell when we are brought out for examination, i'll tell you that." vorlange breathed hard and glared from one to the other. then of a sudden he caught dick by the arm and turned him to one side. "boy, beware how you cross me," he hissed into dick's ears. "beware, i say! i have known your father for years, and i have the knowledge in my possession which can send your father to the gallows." chapter xxiv. chased by cavalry. "checkmated! by jove, but this is too bad." such were the words which issued from pawnee brown's lip as he swung around and saw the cavalrymen sitting on their horses at attention. his disappointment was keen. in speaking of it afterwards he said: "i never felt so bad in my life. i had promised to take the boomers through and i felt that i had disappointed nearly four thousand people who were looking to me with utmost confidence." but disappointment was not the worst of it. hardly had the command to halt been issued than the captain of the troops advanced toward the scout. "pawnee brown!" he ejaculated, in surprise, and a smile of satisfaction crossed his face. "this is a great pleasure." "is it?" answered the great scout, coldly. "it is indeed. do you intend to throw up your hands?" for the scout's hands had not yet been lifted skyward. "this looks as if you meant to arrest me, captain." "why shouldn't i? you are at the head of the kansas boomers, are you not?" "i have that honor, yes." "it's a question to me if it is an honor. you are transgressing the laws of the united states when you try to get into oklahoma for homestead purposes." "say rather that we transgress the laws of the cattle kings, captain. under the u. s. homestead law we have a perfect right to this land, if we can get in and stake our claims, and you know it." "i know nothing of the sort. this talk about the cattle kings is all nonsense!" roared the cavalry officer. he knew pawnee brown was more than half right, but felt he must obey the orders he had received from his superiors. "i'll have to take you to the fort." "all right, take me--if you can, captain," came the quick answer. "don't you dare fire on me, for you know i am a crack shot and i promise i'll fire on you in return and lay you low!" thus speaking, the boomer wheeled about and sent bonnie bird off like a shot along the trail he had come. the movement was so quick that for the moment the cavalry officer was paralyzed and knew not what to do. he raised his long pistol, but pawnee brown's stern threat rang in his ears and he hesitated about using the weapon, having no desire to be laid low. "after him, men!" he roared, upon recovering his wits. "we must capture him!" "shall we fire, cap'n?" came from several, and a number of shining pistol barrels were leveled toward the great scout. "n--no, capture him alive," came the hesitating reply; and away went the calvary men at a breakneck speed in pursuit. looking back over his shoulder, pawnee saw them coming. to lessen the chances of being shot, he bent low over his faithful mare's neck. "on, bonnie, on!" he cried softly, and the beautiful animal seemed to understand that it was a race for life and death. "crack!" it was the report of a pistol close at hand. looking among the trees, pawnee brown saw an arm wearing the colors of a cavalryman disappearing among the foliage of a nearby tree. he aimed his own weapon and pulled the trigger. a yell of pain followed. the marksman had been tucker, the fellow hired to take the great scout's life. tucker had been on picket duty for the cavalry troop, but had failed to note pawnee brown's first movement in that direction. seeing the scout coming, he had instantly thought of the promised reward and taken aim. the bullet had struck pawnee brown's shoulder, merely, however, scraping the skin. on the return fire tucker was hit in the side and nearly broke his neck in a tumble backward into a hole behind him. the chase was not of long duration. although they had good steeds, not one of the cavalryman's horses could gain upon the scout's sturdy racing mare, and soon they dropped further and further behind. seeing this, pawnee brown turned to the eastward, out of the ravine, and in three minutes had his pursuers entirely off the trail. his face grew thoughtful as he allowed bonnie bird to drop into a walk. the cavalry had followed the wagon train westward--they were bound to keep the boomers in sight. what was to be done? should he advise another movement during the night to come and then a forward dash? "we might make it," he mused. "but if we did not there would be a fearful fight and possibly slaughter. i wish i knew just how matters were going at washington." pawnee brown had friends at the capital, men who were doing their best to defeat the cattle kings by having a bill passed in congress opening oklahoma to settlement--a bill that would smooth the present difficulty for all concerned. he felt that the bill was not needed, yet it would be better to have such a law than to have some of the boomers killed before their rights could be established. "i'll send a messenger off to the nearest telegraph station and telegraph for the news," he went on. "a day's delay may mean many lives saved. it shall never be said that pawnee brown rushed in, heedless of the danger to those who trusted in him." it was not long before the scout reached the boomers' camp. here he found several waiting for him. "i want to see pawnee brown." it was dan gilbert, who was making his way through the crowd to the great scout's side. gilbert held a message from arkansas city. it was to the effect that pawnee brown should telegraph to washington at once and wait until noon at arkansas city for a reply. five minutes later pawnee brown was on the trail over which the wagon train had journeyed the night before. he had told gilbert, clemmer and the others of the nearness of the government cavalrymen and had advised a halt until further orders from himself. clemmer had promised to wait, although ready "ter swoop down on 'em, b' gosh, an' take wot belongs ter us," as he expressed himself. the ride back to arkansas city was an uneventful one, and arriving there, pawnee brown lost no time in visiting the telegraph office. "a message for you," said the operator, and handed it over. it was from washington and stated: "the oklahoma bill is now before the lower house; wait for more news." "i'm glad we've woke up those politicians at washington," murmured the scout, and then wrote out a telegram in reply. there was now nothing to do but to wait, and impatient as he was to rejoin the boomers, pawnee brown had to content himself until another message should reach him. to make the time pass more quickly the great scout went around to a number of places buying supplies that were much needed. an hour later he found himself on the outskirts of the city, whence he had come to look up several wagons, to replace some that had broken down. he was galloping along on horseback when the sight of two men quarreling near the open doorway of a deserted barn caught his eye, and impelled by something which was more than curiosity, he turned in from the road to see how the quarrel might end. as he came closer he saw that one of the men was mortimer arbuckle! "hullo, what can this mean?" he cried, softly. "i thought dick's father was still in bed from the effects of that dastardly night's work. who can that stranger be?" dismounting, he tied bonnie bird to a tree and came forward, but in line with the barn, that he might not be seen. soon he was within easy hearing distance of all that was being said. "i want to know what brought you out here, dike powell?" he heard mr. arbuckle say in excited tones. "did you follow me?" "no, i did not, arbuckle," came in reply. "what makes you think i did?" "i was knocked down and robbed but a few nights ago, and my most valuable papers, as well as my money, were taken from me." "do you mean to insinuate that i am a thief?" cried dike powell. "you are none too good for it. i have not forgotten how you used to sneak around my office in new york after information concerning my western mining claims." "you're getting mighty sharp, arbuckle." "i hope i am. i used to feel queer in my head at times, but--but--i think i am growing better of that." as he spoke mortimer arbuckle drew his white hand across his forehead. the attack and the adventure on the river had been fearful, but it really looked as if they were going to prove of benefit to him. his eyes were brighter than they had been for many a day. pawnee brown noticed, too, that his manner of talking was more direct than he usually employed. "i hope for the boy's sake his mind is clearing," he thought. "i think you are growing more queer--to accuse me," said dike powell. "i never harmed you." "i know better. while i was on my back i thought it all over. dike powell, you are a villain, and if ever i get the chance i'll turn you over to the police. you have followed me to the west, and for no good purpose. i will unmask you." "will you? not much!" thus speaking, dike powell leaped forward. he was a powerful man, and catching mortimer arbuckle by the throat, he would have borne the semi-invalid to the floor had not pawnee brown interfered. there was a rush and a crack, as the scout's fist met dike powell's ear, and over the man rolled, to bring up against the side of the barn with a crash. "who--who hit me?" spluttered the rascal, as, half dazed, he staggered to his feet. "if i--pawnee brown!" "dike powell!" ejaculated the scout, as he saw the fellow full in the face for the first time. "where have you been these long years?" "oh, pawnee, how glad i am that you came in," panted mortimer arbuckle, sinking down upon an old feed box. "the villain was--was----" "i saw it all, arbuckle; rest yourself. i will take care of this forger." "forger!" came simultaneously from mortimer arbuckle and from his assailant, but in different tones of voice. "do you then know dike powell?" "yes, i know him as powell dike, a forger, who fled from peoria a dozen years ago. and what do you know of him?" "i know him as a wall street sneak--a man who was forever hanging around, trying to get information out of which he might make a few dollars. i have accused him of following me to the west. i am inclined to think he robbed me----" "i did not," ejaculated powell dike, for such really was his name. "i believe you," replied pawnee brown. he had spoken to dick and rasco of this man. "but you know who did rob mortimer arbuckle," he went on, significantly. "i--i--do not," answered powell dike, but his lips trembled. "you lie, dike. now tell the truth." pawnee brown saw the manner of man he had to deal with and tapped his pistol. instantly powell dike fell upon his knees. "don't--don't shoot me!" he whined. "i'll tell all--everything. i am not dead positive, but--but i guess louis vorlange robbed arbuckle." pawnee brown looked at mortimer arbuckle to see what effect this declaration might have upon dick's father. he saw the ex-stock broker start forward in amazement. then he faltered, threw up his hands, and fell forward in a dead faint! chapter xxv. good news from washington. "fainted, by jove!" so spoke pawnee brown as he sprang forward to mortimer arbuckle's aid. the man was as pale as the driven snow, and for the instant the great scout thought his very heart had stopped beating. he raised mortimer arbuckle up and opened his collar and took off his tie, that he might get some air. "wot's the row here?" it was the voice of peter day, the backwoodsman who had agreed to take care of arbuckle during his illness. he had followed the man out of the house to see that no harm might befall him. "he has fainted," answered pawnee brown. "fetch some water, and hold that--hang it, he's gone!" pawnee brown rushed to the barn door. far away he saw powell dike running as though the old nick was after him. a second later the rascal disappeared from view. the boomer never saw or heard of him again. between the great scout and pawnee brown, mortimer arbuckle was once again taken to day's home and made comfortable. "he insisted on taking a walk to-day," explained the backwoodsman. "i told him he couldn't stand it. i reckon he's as bad now as he ever was." "take good care of him, day, and beware of any men who may be prowling about," answered pawnee brown. "there is something wrong in the air, but i'm satisfied that if we help this poor fellow we'll be on the right side of the brush." mortimer arbuckle was now coming around, but when he spoke he was quite out of his mind. the doctor was hastily sent for, and he administered a potion which speedily put the sufferer to sleep. "it's an odd case," said the medical man. "the fellow is suffering more mentally than physically. he must have something awful on his mind." "he is the victim of some plot--i am certain of it," was the scout's firm answer. not long after this, pawnee brown was returning to arkansas city, certain that mortimer arbuckle would now be well cared for and closely watched until he and dick could return to the sufferer. "as soon as this booming business is over i must try to clear things for that old gent," murmured the boomer to himself as he rode up to the telegraph office. "i'd do a good deal for him and that noble son of his." another telegram had just come in, by way of wichita, which ran as follows: "the lower house of congress has passed the oklahoma bill. pawnee brown has woke the politicians up at last. stand ready to enter oklahoma if an attempt is made to throw the bill aside in the senate, but don't be rash, as it may not be long before everything comes our way--in fact, it looks as if everything would come very soon." at this telegram the great scout was inclined to throw up his hat and give a cheer. his work in kansas was having an effect. no longer could the cattle kings stand up against the rights of the people. he handed the message to a number of his friends standing near. "hurrah fer pawnee brown!" shouted one man, and standing on a soap box read the telegram aloud. "score one fer the boomers!" "an' a big one fer pawnee." "don't hurry now, pawnee, you've got 'em whar the hair ez good an' long!" "it would seem so, men," answered the great scout. "no, i'll be careful now--since the tide has turned. in less than sixty days i'll wager all i am worth we'll march into oklahoma without the first sign of trouble." it did not take the news long to travel to the boomers' camp, and great was the rejoicing upon every side. "dot's der pest ding i vos hear for a month," said humpendinck. "pawnee ought to haf a medal alreatty." "it's a stattoo we will put up fer him in oklahomy," said delaney. "a stattoo wid pawnee a-ridin' loike mad to the new lands, wid the homestead act in wan hand an' a bundle o' sthakes in th' other, an' under the stattoo we'll put the wurruds, 'pawnee brown, the st. patrick av oklahomy!'" "ach! go on mit yer st. patrick!" howled humpendinck. "he vos noddings but a snake killer." "oh, mon!" burst in rosy delaney. "a snake killer, moike, do ye moind thot? swat the dootchman wan, quick!" and mike "swatted" with an end of a fence rail he was chopping up for firewood. but humpendinck dodged, and rosy caught the blow, and there followed a lively row between her and mike, in the midst of which the german boomer sneaked away. "dot irishmans vos so fiery as der hair mit his head," he muttered to himself. "i dink i vos keep out of sight bis he vos cool off, and den--mine gracious, bumpkin, var did you come from? i dinks you vos left behind py arkansas city." for there had suddenly appeared before humpendinck the form of the dunce, hatless and with his black hair tumbled over his face in all directions. "ha, ha! where have i been?" cried pumpkin. "where haven't i been you had better ask. i've been everywhere--among the soldiers and the boomers and the indians." he stopped short. "where is pawnee brown?" "ofer py clemmer's vagon. but he ton't vont ter pother mit you now." "he will bother with me," and so speaking pumpkin ran off, to reach the great scout's side and pluck him by the coat sleeve. "at your service, sir," he said, bowing low, for with all of his peculiarities pumpkin had a great respect for pawnee brown. "what is it, lad?" "i have to report, sir, that your pard is captured--jack rasco; he had a fearful fight and the soldiers have him. ha! ha! they will shoot jack--if you let 'em, but i know you won't--will you now?" "you are certain jack is captured?" "dead sure--saw him with my own eyes. ha! ha! they tried to catch pumpkin, but they might as well try to catch a ghost. ha! ha! but i give 'em a fine run." it took a good deal of talking to get a straight story from the half-witted youth, but at last pawnee brown was in full possession of the facts. pumpkin had seen rasco on the march just before dick was taken. immediately after this the boomer held a short consultation with clemmer. "i feel it my duty to help rasco to escape, if it can be done," he said. "besides, it is high time for me to return to dick arbuckle and to find out, if possible, what has become of jack's niece." "shall i go along?" questioned clemmer, "i wouldn't like anything better." "all right, come on," answered the great scout. he had scarcely spoken when a loud cry rang out, coming from the lower end of the camp. "buckley's bull has broken loose! look out for yourself, the beast has gone mad!" "buckley's bull!" muttered pawnee brown. "i ordered him to slaughter that vicious beast. why, he's as fierce as those the mexicans use in their bull fights!" "he's a terror," answered clemmer. "if he--by gum, here he comes, pawnee!" as he spoke clemmer turned to one side and started to run. looking forward the great scout saw the bull bearing down upon him. the eyes of the creature were bloodshot and the foam was dripping from the corners of his mouth, showing that he was clearly beyond control. the bull, which was of extra large size, had clemmer in view, and made after the cowboy, who happened to be unarmed. away went man and beast in something of a circle, to fetch up near pawnee brown less than a minute later. as they came close, clemmer fell and went sprawling almost at the scout's feet. "save me!" he panted. "save me, pawnee!" pawnee brown did not answer. leaping over the cowboy's prostrate form, he pulled out his pistol and his hunting knife and stood ready to receive the bull, who came tearing along, with lowered horns, ready to charge the scout to the death. chapter xxvi. the boomer and the bull. for the moment it looked as if pawnee brown meant to let the mad bull gore him to pieces. on and on came the beast until less than two yards separated him and the great scout. crack! came the report of the boomer's pistol, and the bull fell back a pace, clipped between the horns. a lucky swerve downward had saved him from a bullet wound through the eye. there was no time for another shot. with a bellow the bull leaped the intervening space and landed almost on top of pawnee brown! a yell went up from those who saw the movement. "pawnee is done fur. the bull will rip him inside out." "buckley ought to have killed that bull long ago--that's the second time he's gone on a rampage." "somebody shoot him and save pawnee!" the last was a well meant cry, but a shot could not be thought of, for man and beast were too close together. but pawnee brown was not yet defeated. he still held his trusty hunting knife, and he was not terrorized as some of the onlookers imagined. a few words will explain the cause. in his day the scout had visited mexico more than once, and while there had participated in more than one bull fight, on one occasion defeating a celebrated mexican fighter and gaining a handsome prize. as the mad bull charged, the scout leaped like lightning to one side, and drove the hunting knife up to the hilt into the beast's throat. there was a spurt of blood, a bellow of pain, and the bull staggered back several steps. he was badly wounded, but by no means out of the fight, as his glaring eyes still showed. he shook his head vigorously, then charged again. once more the knife went up and came down, this time just below the beast's ear. a fearful bellow came after the stroke. before the bull could retire, the knife was withdrawn and plunged in a third and last time. this third stroke wound up the encounter, for limping to one side the bull fell forward upon his knees, gave a kick or two with his hind legs, and rolled over on the prairie grass, dead. "hurrah! pawnee has killed him." "talk about yer bull fighters! they ain't in it with pawnee!" "yer saved my life," exclaimed clemmer, who had risen. "i shan't forget yer, pawnee," and he held out his broad hand for a shake. the bull dead, pawnee brown called buckley up and gave him a lecture for not having killed the vicious beast long ago. "you have no business to bring such a bull into camp in the first place, buckley," he said. "be more careful in the future, or you'll have to get out, bag and baggage. that bull might have killed half a dozen people had he charged the crowd." a short while after this the great scout and clemmer set off from honnewell along the ravine in search of dick, rasco and nellie winthrop. the cheering news from washington had set pawnee brown at rest so far as his duty to the boomers was concerned, and he felt quite free to pursue his own affairs and those of his immediate friends. "if possible i would like to meet louis vorlange and have a talk with him," he said to clemmer, after having related what had occurred near peter day's home. "i think that spy can clear up much of this mystery concerning mortimer arbuckle, if he will." "it ain't likely he'll open his trap," answered clemmer. "by doin' thet he'd only be gettin' himself in hot water." "we'll make him speak," was pawnee brown's grim response. an hour of hard riding brought them to the spot where dick had been left. not a single trace of the lad could be found. both men looked blank. "bet he's wandered off and got lost," said clemmer, and pawnee brown nodded. "we'll strike off eastward, cal, and see if we can't find some trace of him. it is no use of going westward. if he had gone that way, he would have reached the ravine and come up into kansas." once again they set off. an hour was spent here and there, when suddenly clemmer uttered a cry. "been a struggle hyer, pawnee. see them footprints?" "three people," answered the scout, making an inspection. "a boy, a girl or a woman, and an indian. can they have been dick, nellie winthrop and yellow elk? hang me if it doesn't look like it." "hyer's where the trail leads off," said clemmer. "and that's the boy's. can't see nuthin' o' the gal's." "that means the indian carried her off," ejaculated pawnee brown. "let us follow his trail without delay." "but the boy's?" "you follow that, and i'll follow the redskin. if he had the girl i want to know it." a few words more and they separated. pawnee brown was on his mettle and followed yellow elk's trail with all the keenness of an indian himself. in half an hour he had reached the brook. here he came to a series of rocks and was forced to come to a halt. but not for long. fording the water-course, he began a search which speedily revealed the trail again, leading to a small river a quarter of a mile further on. he followed the river for less than fifty feet, when a number of voices broke upon his ears. "i'm sure i saw the redskin on the river, and he had a girl with him, ross." "you must have been dreaming, tucker. no redskins up here." "all right, i know what i am talking about." "i think i saw something, too," said a third voice, that of skimmy, the calvary man. the three calvary men were out on a scouting expedition, to learn if the boomers were in the vicinity of the river. tucker especially was on the lookout for pawnee brown, determined to bring the great scout down and thus win the reward louis vorlange had promised. the scout listened to the talk of the cavalrymen for fully ten minutes with great interest. he had just started to move on, satisfied that it would be of no benefit to remain longer, when tucker turned and walked his horse directly toward the spot where he was concealed. "a boomer behind the brush!" shouted the cavalryman. "come, boys, and take him!" immediately there was a rush, and pawnee brown was surrounded. he had his pistol out and in return came the weapons of the trio. "well, gentlemen, you seem to want to make me your prisoner," said the scout, coolly. "thet's wot," cried ross. "eh, tucker?" to make pawnee brown a prisoner would be of no personal benefit to him. "you seem to bear me a grudge," said the boomer, eying him sharply. tucker could not stand that gaze and his eyes dropped. "yes, you're a prisoner," said ross. "let's bind him up, skimmy." "take that!" pawnee brown leaped forward and hurled both ross and skimmy to the ground. ere they could rise he had turned upon tucker. the tall calvary man had his pistol cocked, and now he blazed away almost in pawnee brown's face, and then both went down, with the scout on top. the flash of the pistol had scorched the boomer's skin, but the bullet sung over his head, missing him by less than an inch. as he came down upon tucker he hit the cavalryman a terrific blow in the jaw, breaking that member and knocking out several teeth. "on him!" yelled skimmy, and tried to rise. but now pawnee brown was again up, and flung skimmy on top of ross. in a moment more he was running along the river bank. he was almost out of sight, when there came two shots, from ross and skimmy. neither hit him, however, and he continued on his way, while the two cavalrymen turned back to pick up tucker, who lay in a heap, groaning and twisting from intense pain. the tall cavalryman could not, of course, talk, and his wound was so serious that there was nothing to do but to carry him to his horse, support him in the saddle and ride back to the fort for medical assistance. it was a clean knock-out, and one that tucker had good cause to remember to the day of his death. it was some time ere pawnee brown struck the trail of yellow elk again, but having once spotted it he pursued his course with increased vigor. the trail led along the river to where there was almost a lake. this had just been reached, when he heard a scream. instantly he recognized nellie winthrop's voice. "thank heaven i came as soon as i did," he murmured, and dashed forward to the spot from whence the sound had proceeded. chapter xxvii. the last of yellow elk. when nellie winthrop recovered sufficiently to realize what was going on around her, she found herself upon yellow elk's back, with her hands tied together at the wrists behind her. away went the redskin until the vicinity where the encounter with dick had occurred was left far behind. the brook crossed, the indian chief set off for the river. not once did he stop or speak until a pond was gained. beyond the pond was a shelter of trees, growing in a circle which was about fifteen feet in diameter. against the trees the brush had been piled, forming a rude hut. taking nellie inside of this shelter, yellow elk deposited her on the ground. of the cord which bound her hands there were several feet left, and this end he wound around a tree and tied fast. "now white girl no run away," he grinned. "stay here now until yellow elk ready to let her go." to this she made no answer, for what would be the use of talking to such a fierce creature? she looked at his hideously painted face and shivered. yellow elk now went off, to be gone a long while. when he came back he found her so tired she could scarcely stand beside the tree. she had tried to free herself from her bonds but failed, and a tiny stream of blood was running from one of her tender wrists. "yellow elk got horse now," said the redskin. "we ride now--go many miles." "where to?" she faltered. "never mind where--white girl come on." yellow elk's manner was so fierce she was frightened more than ever. the indian had stolen a horse and he had also stolen a lot of "fire-water," and this drink was beginning to make him ugly. he drew out his hunting knife. "white girl got to become yellow elk's squaw!" he cried, brandishing the knife before her face. "no marry yellow elk me cut out her heart wid dis!" at this nellie gave a shriek and it was this which was borne to the ears of pawnee brown. "crying do white girl no good," growled the redskin. "come with me." "i will not go another foot," and nellie began to struggle. the indian chief upbraided her roundly in his own language and ended by raising his knife over her once more. "help!" cried nellie, and a moment later pawnee brown burst into view. a glance showed him the true situation, and without hesitation he fired at yellow elk. his bullet clipped across the redskin's chest. by this time yellow elk had his own pistol out, and standing erect he aimed straight for the boomer's heart. nellie screamed, and knowing nothing else to do, gave the indian a vigorous shove in the side, which destroyed the aim and made the bullet fly wide of the mark. in a second more the two men were at it in a hand-to-hand encounter each trying his best to get at the other with his hunting knife, being too close together to use a pistol. as pawnee brown afterward said: "it was yellow elk's life or mine, and i made up my mind that it should not be mine--i considered myself worth a good deal more than that worthless redskin." a cut and a slash upon each side, and the two broke. yellow elk had had enough of the fight, and now ran for it in sudden fear. he did not take to the river shore, but skirted the pond and began to ascend a slight hill, beyond which was another fork of the ravine which has figured so largely in our story. "let him go! he may kill you!" called out nellie, when she saw pawnee brown start in pursuit. but the scout paid no attention to her. his blood was up and he was determined to either exterminate yellow elk or bring him to terms. [illustration: "in a second more the two men were in a hand-to-hand encounter"] the top of the hill was reached. yellow elk paused, not knowing exactly how to proceed. looking back, he saw pawnee brown preparing to fire upon him. a pause, and he attempted to leap down to a ledge below him. his foot caught in the roots of a bush and over he went into a deep hollow headlong. there was a sickening thud, a grunt, and all became quiet. yellow elk had paid the death penalty at last. when pawnee brown managed to climb down to the indian's side, to make certain the wily redskin was not shamming, he found yellow elk stone dead, his neck having been completely broken by his fall. he lay on his back, his right hand still clutching his bloody hunting knife. "gone now," murmured the great scout. his face softened for an instant. "hang it all, why must even a redskin be so all-fired bad? if he had wanted to, yellow elk might have made a man of himself. i can't stop to bury him, and yet----hullo, what are those papers sticking out of his pocket?" the boomer had caught sight of a large packet which had been concealed in yellow elk's bosom. he took up the packet and looked it over. it consisted of half a dozen legal-looking documents and twice that number of letters, some addressed to mortimer arbuckle and some addressed to louis vorlange. he read over the letters and documents with interest. those of dick's father related to the mine in colorado and were evidently those stolen by louis vorlange upon the night of the opening of this tale. the letters belonging to the government spy were epistles addressed to vorlange from a former friend and partner in various shady transactions. of these we will hear more later. "yellow elk must have robbed vorlange of these," mused the great scout, as he rammed the packet in his pocket. in this he was right. vorlange had dropped the packet by accident and the indian had failed to restore it, there having been, as the reader knows, no love lost between the two rascals. having placed the dead body among the bushes in a little hollow, pawnee brown climbed out of the ravine again and rejoined nellie, who was growing impatient regarding his welfare. the story of what had happened to yellow elk was soon told, the scout softening out the ghastly details. then, to change the subject, he asked her if she knew her uncle was a prisoner of the soldiers. "yes," she replied. "oh, sir, what will they do with him?" "i don't believe they can do much, nellie," he answered. "according to the news from washington, everything is to be smoothed out, and of course the government will have no case against any of us." "can i get to my uncle from here? where is he?" "about five miles from here. yes, we can get to him if we want to." pawnee brown mused for a moment. "i'll risk it," he said, half aloud. "they can't arrest me for coming to expose a criminal, and i have the facts right here in my pocket." a moment later he was riding the horse yellow elk had stolen, while nellie was seated upon bonnie bird. in this manner they struck out for the agency, called by the soldiers a fort. about three miles had been covered, when suddenly there came a shout from a thicket to one side of them. "the cavalry!" gasped nellie. "what shall we do?" "take it coolly, nellie. i have a winning card this trip," smiled the great scout. a few seconds later half a dozen fine looking men rode forward, a well-known official of the indian territory at their head. "pawnee brown!" ejaculated the official, on recognizing the scout. "it would seem we had made quite a capture. what are you doing with sergeant morris' horse?" "is this the animal?" "it is. "i found him in the possession of a runaway indian, yellow elk. if he is your property you are welcome to him," and pawnee brown leaped to the ground. "humph! that is all right, but what are you doing here? don't you know you are on forbidden ground?" the scout's coolness was a great surprise to the official. "i would be--under ordinary circumstances, sir. but just now i am on a mission to the agency: a mission i am convinced you will not attempt to hinder." "what is it?" "i wish to expose a great criminal, a man who is now in the active service of the united states, although he ought to be in prison or on the gallows." the official was much surprised. "i would like to know some of the particulars, pawnee." "are you bound for the agency?" "yes." "then we will go together, and you can see what takes place. it will probably be well worth your while." "this is no trick--i know you are itching to get into oklahoma." "i will give you my word of honor, sir. i have received word from washington, and i feel certain that ere long this whole matter will be settled to our mutual satisfaction. in the meantime, booming can wait," and pawnee brown smiled in a quiet way. a few words more followed, and nellie was introduced. then the whole party set off on a gallop for the agency, where was to be enacted the last scene in this little drama of the southwest. chapter xxviii. clearing up a mystery--conclusion. as vorlange uttered his dire threat into dick's ear, the boy turned pale and staggered against the wall of his prison. "wot's that yer sayin'?" demanded jack rasco, who plainly saw the changed look upon his companion's features. "it is none of your business, rasco," muttered the spy. "i told the boy; that's enough." dick breathed hard. part of that mystery of the past was out at last. his father was accused of murder--vorlange held the evidence against him. like a flash came back to him several things he had almost forgotten. he remembered how on more than one occasion his father had sent money to the west after a letter had come which had upset him greatly. that must have been hush money, to keep this rascal quiet. "i--i--do not believe you!" he cried in a faint tone. "my father is as upright as any gentleman in the land." "is he?" sneered vorlange. "all right, if you think so, just drive me to the wall and see." "where was this crime committed?" "in creede, colorado--at the time the camp was started." "who was killed?" "a miner named rickwell. he was once a partner of a man named burch, of whom you have no doubt heard ere this." "yes, burch left us the property you know all about, since you stole the deeds to it. louis vorlange, you are playing a deep part but you cannot make me swallow your statements about my father." "do you want me to expose him?" "we'll see about that later. rasco and i will certainly try to show you up for what you really are." "very well," blustered vorlange. "your father is a murderer, and he shall swing for it--unless you keep your mouth shut. i----" footsteps outside of the prison interrupted louis vorlange. an instant later pawnee brown and half a dozen others stepped inside of the apartment. "pawnee brown!" cried dick and rasco together. "are you a prisoner, too?" continued the boy. "hardly," smiled the great scout. then he noticed vorlange. "just the men we are after." "me?" ejaculated the spy. "yes, you." "what do you want of me, pawnee brown? i want nothing to do with such as you--a thieving, low-down boomer--who--oh!" vorlange ended with a yell, for pawnee brown had caught him by the ear and almost jerked him off his feet. "let up! let up! oh!" "now keep quiet vorlange," said the scout sternly. "you can thank your stars that i didn't put a bullet through you for letting your tongue run so loosely." "thet's so, b'gosh," was rasco's comment. "but say, pawnee, he's a reg'lar snake in the grass." "i know it." pawnee brown looked at dick. "has he been threatening you, lad?" "yes; threatened me and my father, too." "have no fear of him, dick. louis vorlange, you have about reached the end of your rope." "what do you mean?" and the spy's lips quivered as he spoke. "i mean that i am here to expose you." pawnee brown turned to the others who had come in. "gentlemen, let me introduce to you louis vorlange, alias captain mull, once of creede, colorado." "captain mull!" exclaimed several. "do you mean the captain mull that was wanted for several shady doings, pawnee?" "the same captain mull, gentlemen." "it is a--a lie!" screamed louis vorlange, but his looks belied him. "it is the truth, gentlemen, he is the man who once sported under the name of captain mull. but that is not all." "what else, pawnee?" "some years ago a man by the name of andrew rickwell was murdered in the last chance hotel at creede. at that time creede was but a small place and captain mull ran the hotel. who murdered rickwell was not discovered. but he had occupied a room with another man, a mining agent from new york named mortimer arbuckle, the father of this lad here, and some thought arbuckle had done the foul deed, and he had to run away to escape the fury of a mob. the horror of this occurrence unbalanced the man's mind and to this day he sometimes thinks he may be guilty. but he is innocent." "he is guilty!" shrieked louis vorlange. "i saw him do the deed!" "i see you acknowledge you were in creede at that time," answered pawnee bill, and vorlange staggered back over the bad break he had made. "as i said, mortimer arbuckle is innocent. there is the murderer, and here are the documents to prove it--and to prove more--that vorlange is a thief, that he assaulted mortimer arbuckle in the dark and left him for dead, and that he is now acting against the best interests of the united states government." as pawnee brown ended he pointed at vorlange, and held aloft the packet he had taken from yellow elk. "my father's documents!" cried dick. "the letters!" shrieked louis vorlange. then he made a sudden leap to secure them, but pawnee brown was too quick for him. the scout turned to the captain of cavalry standing near. "you had better arrest him before he tries to escape." "they shall not arrest me!" came from louis vorlange's set lips. "clear the way!" like a flash his pistol came up and he fired into the crowd, which parted in surprise and let him pass. but not more than ten steps were covered when pawnee brown caught him by the arm and threw him headlong to the ground. at the same time the prison sentry fired, and vorlange was mortally wounded in the side. "i'll not forget you!" he cried to pawnee brown. "but for you i would have lived in clover the balance of my life!" then he fell into a faint from which he recovered presently, to linger for several days in terrible anguish, dying at last in convulsions. with the death of vorlange we bring our story to a close. by what was said during the man's last hours on earth, mortimer arbuckle was entirely cleared of the cloud which had hung over his honorable name. soon after this his right mind came back to him and to-day he is as well and happy as it is possible to imagine. whatever became of stillwater and juan donomez is not known. with the truce declared by the actions of the authorities at washington and the word given by pawnee brown that no attempt should be made to enter oklahoma for the present, it was not deemed advisable to hold either dick or rasco longer, and the two were given their freedom, to journey at once to honnewell, in company with the great scout and nellie winthrop. from honnewell, dick rode post haste to carry the glad news to his father. a scene followed which no pen can describe, a scene so sacred to the two it must be left entirely to the imagination of the reader. never was a man more proud of his son than was mortimer arbuckle of dick, or more grateful than was the mine-owner to pawnee brown for his courageous and marvelous work in clearing up the mystery. "he is a man among men," he said. "god bless him!" nellie winthrop was overjoyed to be with her uncle once again, and took good care that nothing should separate them. as for jack, he guarded her with a care which could not be exceeded. "ef they carry her off again it will be over my dead body, b'gosh," he murmured more than once. and yet nellie was carried off four years later. but this time the carrying off was done by dick arbuckle, and both nellie and jack were perfectly willing. the wedding was a grand one, for the colorado claims had panned out big for the arbuckles, and the best man at the affair was pawnee brown. in due course of time the bill concerning oklahoma was passed by the united states senate and signed by the president. this was followed by a grand rush of the boomers to get the best of the land granted to them. the advance was led by pawnee brown, who, riding his ever faithful bonnie bird, covered twenty miles in the short space of sixty-five minutes and located his town site at the mouth of big turkey creek. this town site, along with his other oklahoma possessions, made the great scout a rich man. he never grows weary of telling about this great rush into oklahoma. "it was grand, awe-inspiring," he says. "i would go a thousand miles to see it again--those hundreds of wagons, thousands of horsemen and heads of cattle, all going southward, over hills, through forests, crossing brooks and rivers--all bound for the land which has since made them so prosperous and happy." and here let us take leave of dick arbuckle, pawnee brown, and all their friends, wishing them well. _working on the theory that you can skin a sucker in space as well as on earth, the con team of harding and sheckly operated furtively but profitably among natives of the outer planets. that is--until there was a question of turnabout being fair play in a world where natives took their skinning literally!_ skin game by charles e. fritch illustrated by kelly freas "people are basically alike," harding said democratically. he sat idly against the strawlike matting of the hut wall and reached for a native fruit in a nearby bowl. "they're all suckers, even the smartest of them; in fact, the ones who think they're the smartest generally wind up to be the dumbest." carefully, he bit into the fruit which resembled an orange and, mouth full, nodded approvingly. "say, these aren't bad. try one." sheckly shook his head, determined to avoid as many aspects of this culture as he could. "but these aren't people," he reminded, not happy with the thought. "they're lizards." harding shrugged and settled back, his grinning features ruddy in the flaring torchlight. "humanoids have no monopoly on suckerhood. when it comes to that, we're all brothers under the skin, no matter what color or how hard the skin may be." he sighed, contemplating the harvest-to-be. "no, sheckly, it'll be like taking candy from a baby. we'll be out of here with our pockets bulging before the space patrol can bat an eyelash in this direction." unconvinced, sheckly stared glumly through the open doorway of the hut into the warm humid night, where a fire flared in the darkness and long shadows danced and slithered around it. "it's not the space patrol i'm worried about," he said, after a while. "i don't mind fleecing humanoids--" he shivered, grimacing--"but lizards!" harding laughed. "their riches are as good as anybody else's. the trouble with you, sheckly, you're too chicken-hearted. if it weren't for me, you'd still be small-timing back on earth. it takes imagination to get along these days." sheckly grunted, for he had no ready answer to deny this truth. while he didn't like the reference to his inability to get along in the world without harding's help, the man was right about other things. it did take imagination, all right, mixed with a generous supply of plain ordinary guts; that, plus an eye focused unfalteringly on the good old credit sign. he certainly could not get along without harding's timing. the man knew just when patrol ships would be at certain spots, knew their schedules for visiting these small otherworlds, and always he was several steps ahead of them. they went into a planet, their rocket ship loaded with gambling devices--cards, dice, roulette wheels, and other cultural refinements--and set up shop which could be folded at a moment's notice if necessary. natives seemed almost eager to be skinned of their riches, and he and harding happily obliged them. "listen to them out there," harding marveled, leaning forward to hear the sharp scrapings that represented music. "they must be having some kind of ceremony." sheckly nodded, shivering slightly, though the air was hot and humid. he wished again, as he often had in the past, he could have some of harding's assurance, some of that unrelenting optimism that insisted everything would turn out favorably. but he didn't like these strange primitive worlds, he didn't trust them or their inhabitants. the lizard-people had seemed friendly enough, but by looking at a strange reptile you couldn't tell how far it would jump. when the earth ship landed, the creatures had come slithering to them with all but a brass band, welcoming the earthlings with the hissings that composed their language. one of them--the official interpreter, he proclaimed himself--knew a peculiarly good brand of english, and welcomed them in a more satisfactory manner, but still sheckly didn't like it. harding had called him chicken-hearted, and he felt a certain amount of justified indignance at the description. cautious would be a better word, he decided. * * * * * these people appeared friendly to the earthlings, but so did the earthlings give the appearance of friendliness to the natives; that was proof in itself that you couldn't trust actions to indicate purpose. but even more than that, their basic alienness troubled sheckly more than he dared admit aloud. differences in skin color and modified body shapes were one thing, but when a race was on a completely different evolutionary track it was a time for caution. these were a different people, on a different planet under a different star. their customs were strange, how strange he could yet only guess, though he preferred not to. this ceremony now, for example, what did it mean? a rite for some serpent god perhaps. a dance in honor of the earthmen's arrival. or it might just as easily be a preliminary to a feast at which the visitors would be the main course. "i just wish we knew more about the creatures," he complained, trying to shove that last thought from his mind. harding looked annoyed, as he drew his attention from the alien music which had fascinated him. "stop worrying, will you? they're probably among the friendliest creatures in the universe, even if they do look like serpents out of eden. and the friendly ones rate a- on my sucker-list." sheckly shuddered and cast an annoyed glance into the night. "how can anybody concentrate with that infernal racket going on out there? don't they ever sleep?" "patience," harding advised calmly, "is a noble virtue. ah, here comes our interpreter." sheckly started involuntarily, as a scaley head thrust itself into the hut. the serpentman had a long sharp knife gleaming in one hand. "pardon, sirs," the head said slurringly, as a forked tongue sorted over the unfamiliar syllables. "the leader wishes to know will you join us?" "no, thanks," sheckly said, staring at the knife. harding said, "we should join them. we don't want to offend these creatures, and if we're real friendly we might make out better." "_you_ go out then. i'm going to see if i can get some sleep." harding shrugged, his glance making it plain he knew sheckly lacked nerve more than sleep. to the serpentman he said, "tell your leader my companion is tired from our long journey and would rest now. however, i will be happy to join you." "yesss," the serpent head hissed and withdrew. "boy, will i be glad to get out of here," sheckly muttered. "sometimes i wonder why i ever teamed up with a pansy like you, sheckly," harding said harshly, a disgusted look on his face. "there are times when i regret it." he turned and walked from the hut. sheckly stared bitterly after him. he felt no anger at the denunciation, only a plaguing irritableness, an annoyance with both harding and himself. he should have gone out there with harding, if only to show the man that he was not afraid, that he was no coward. and yet, as he sat there listening to the strange sounds creeping across the warm dampness, he made no move to rise, and he knew he would not. grunting disgustedly, sheckly stretched out on the floor matting and tried to think of other things. he stared at the orange-flaring torch and contemplated putting it out, but the sounds from the outside drifted in upon him and changed his mind. after a while, he closed his eyes and dozed. * * * * * he woke suddenly and sat upright, a cold sweat making him tremble. what had wakened him? he wondered. he had the vague notion that someone had screamed, yet he wasn't sure. in the faltering torchlight, he could see harding had not returned. he listened intently to the noises outside, the scraping, the hissing, the slithering. no screams came. [illustration] i'm not going to stay here, he told himself. i'll leave tomorrow, i don't care what harding says. i'll go crazy if i have to spend another night like this. exhausted, he fell asleep. morning came, and the alien sun slanted orange rays through the cabin doorway. sheckly opened his eyes and stared at the thatched roof. the torch had burned out, but it was no longer needed for light. thank goodness for morning, he thought. morning brought a temporary sanity to this world, and after the madness of the night it was a reprieve he welcomed gladly. he had not opposed harding till now, but desperation was a strong incentive to rebellion. when harding returned-- startled, he considered the thought. _when_ harding returned? he sat up and stared around him. harding was not in sight. panic came, and he leaped up, blood racing, as though to defend himself against invisible enemies. perhaps he'd gotten up early, sheckly thought. but suppose he hadn't returned? suppose-- he jumped, as the interpreter entered the hut behind him. "the leader wishes you to join him for eating," the serpentman said. "no," sheckly said hastily. they weren't going to make a meal out of him. "no, thanks. look, i've got to leave your planet. leave, understand? right away." "the leader wishes you to join him," the creature repeated. this time the sword crept into his hands. sheckly stared at the sword, and his heart leaped. he thought there was a tinge of red on the blade's edge. mentally, he shook his head. no, it was his imagination again. just imagination. still, the drawn sword clearly indicated that the invitation was not to be refused. "all right," he said weakly. "all right, in a few minutes." "now," the other said. "okay, now," the earthling agreed listlessly. "where is my companion?" "you will see him," the creature promised. sheckly breathed a sigh of relief at that. harding was probably all right then. it made him feel better, though it would make the task of leaving much harder. * * * * * they had arrived at twilight the previous day, so they hadn't the opportunity to see the village in its entirety. they hadn't missed much, sheckly realized as he walked along, for the grouped huts were unimpressive, looking somewhat like a primitive african village back on earth. but the earthling would have preferred the most primitive earth native to these serpents. in the distance, the slim nose of the rocket ship pointed the way to freedom, and sheckly looked longingly at it. at one end of the village was a small mountain of what appeared to be plastic clothing, milkily translucent--which was strange, since these creatures wore no clothing. the earthling wondered at this but did not ask about it. other thoughts more important troubled him. "in here," the interpreter told him, stopping before the largest hut. hesitating briefly, sheckly entered and the creature followed him in. seated on the floor were the leader and his mate and several smaller reptiles that evidently were the children. between them lay several bowls of food. sheckly grimaced and turned hastily away as he saw small crawling insects in one bowl. "sit down," the interpreter directed. harding was not in evidence. "where is my companion?" he asked. the interpreter conferred briefly with the leader, then told sheckly, "he could not come. sit down--eat." sheckly sat down, but he didn't feel like eating. he wondered _why_ harding could not come. at a sudden thought, he said, "i have rations on my ship--" "eat," the interpreter said, gripping his sword. sheckly nodded weakly and reached out for the bowl of fruit, taking one that resembled that which harding had eaten the previous night. it wasn't bad. the leader stuffed a fistful of squirming insects in his mouth and offered the bowl to sheckly, who shook his head as politely as he could and indicated the fruit in his hand. fortunately, the serpentman did not insist on his taking anything other than fruit, so the meal passed without physical discomfort. when they were through, the leader hissed several syllables to the interpreter, who said, "the leader wishes to see your games. you will set them up now." sheckly ran his tongue over dry lips. "they're in the ship," he said, and eagerness crept into his voice. "i'll have to get them." once inside the ship, he'd never come back. he'd slam the airlock door and bolt it and then blast off as fast as he could get the motors going, harding or no harding. he got up. "we will help you," the interpreter said. "no. i can do it myself." "we will help you," the interpreter insisted firmly. his eyes bored into the earthling, as though daring him to refuse again. sheckly's mouth felt dry once more. "where's harding?" he demanded. "where's the other earth man? what have you done with him?" the interpreter looked at the leader, who nodded. the interpreter said gravely, "it is too bad. it is the season for the shedding of skins. at the shedding feast last night--" "the shedding of skins!" sheckly said, remembering the pile he'd seen at one corner of the village; "those translucent things were your cast-off skins." he recalled that some reptiles back on earth had regular seasons of shedding. that intelligent creatures should do it made him feel slightly sick. "your friend joined us last night," the serpentman went on. "but he could not shed properly, so--" sheckly felt his blood turn to ice. "--so we helped him." "you _what_?" "we helped him out of his skin," the serpentman went on calmly. "we try to help those who are friends with us. your friend had trouble getting his skin off, but with our help--" "no!" the earthling cried, trying to reject the thought. the full realization of what had happened struck him at once. despite himself, he could picture harding struggling, trying to convince these creatures that earthlings don't shed their skins. his struggles must have convinced them only that he was having trouble shedding, so they "helped him." they had come to skin the natives, but the reverse was happening--only literally. "where--where is he?" he asked finally, though he knew it didn't really matter. "we will take you to him," the interpreter said. "no," sheckly cried. "no, i--i'd rather not." the serpentman nodded. "as you wish. he does not look pretty. i hope that tonight you do not have as much trouble." sheckly's eyes went wide. "what do you mean?" "in your shedding," the serpentman explained. "we will try to help you all we can, of course." "of course," the earthling agreed weakly, licking cottony lips. he wondered how he could just stand there so apparently calm, instead of letting out a shriek and running as fast as he could for the rocket ship. he decided it was some sort of paralysis, the shock of finding himself in the middle of something so alien his mind told him it couldn't possibly be. * * * * * knees wobbling, sheckly went to the door and out into the morning. that he had gotten that far surprised him pleasantly. the tall rocket ship was in a clearing several yards beyond the edge of the village. he headed for it. he thought of running, but his legs felt like rubber, his blood like ice. he walked past the pile of drying skins on the ground without looking at them, and he was followed by the interpreter and several others whom the serpentman had motioned to join them. except for their swords, they had no weapons, he noticed. poor harding, he thought, and wondered if the earthling's skin were somewhere in the pile; he felt sick, thinking about it. "you'd better stay outside the ship," he suggested testily. "i'll lower the equipment to you." "i will go aboard with you," the serpentman said. "but--" "i will go aboard with you." sheckly shrugged, but he hardly felt complacent. he felt as though a giant icy hand held onto his spine with a firm paralyzing grip. he trembled visibly. got to think, he told himself desperately, got to plan this out. but fear jumbled his thoughts, and he could only think of harding back in the village minus his skin, and of what was going to happen that night if all went as these creatures planned. the second thought was the more terrifying, and when they were within a hundred feet of the rocket ship, sheckly broke into a frantic run. "stop," the interpreter cried. sheckly had no intentions of stopping. his glands told him to run, and he ran. he ran as fast as he could and didn't look back. he imagined the serpentman was on his heels, knife poised, and he ran even faster. he reached the rocket ship and went up the ladder, scrambling, missing his foothold, pulling himself up with clutching hands. he threw himself through the airlock and slammed the massive door behind him. he ran through the metal corridors to the control room. they must be on the ladder, he thought, prying at the airlock with their metal swords. he pressed switches, slammed down on the throttle, and the sweet music of the rockets came and pressed him into his seat. he looked down at the planet dwindling into space below him and he laughed hysterically, thinking of the narrow escape he'd had. no more planets for him, no more trying to skin anyone. * * * * * "there it goes," the space patrolman said, watching the rocket rise. harding trembled with helpless rage. "that blasted fool sheckly'll lead you right to the money, too," he complained. "that's the way we planned it," the patrolman smiled. "i must compliment our native friends on their fine acting. your pal took off like a scared rabbit." "yeah," harding grimaced, clenching his fists as though wishing he had someone's neck in them. "don't blame your friend too much," the patrolman advised. "whether you realize it or not, the fact that you were consciously avoiding our schedules caused you to follow a pattern in your visits to these outerspace planets; we just figured a bit ahead of you and posted hidden patrols on all the inhabited planets in this sector, knowing that sooner or later you'd land on one of them. we spotted your ship last night and hurried over by 'copter so we wouldn't be seen." "forget the synopsis," harding growled. "you walked in when these blasted lizards were making believe they were going to skin me alive. they didn't have to act so realistic about it." "you're wrong about one thing," the patrolman said. "the act didn't start until after we arrived to direct it." harding looked at him, puzzled. "what do you mean by that?" "we arrived, as the books say, just in time," the patrolman told him. "they _weren't_ making believe." he offered a bowl of fruit to his prisoner. "we'll be here for another hour yet. eat something." weakly, harding shook his head no. he sat down, suddenly pale at what the officer had said. he didn't feel very hungry. ... the end transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _if: worlds of science fiction_ may . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. ragged dick series fame and fortune; or, the progress of richard hunter. by horatio alger, jr. author of "ragged dick," "frank's campaign," "paul prescott's charge," "charlie codman's cruise," etc. loring, publisher. cor. bromfield and washington streets. boston. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by a. k. loring, in the clerk's office of the district court for the district of massachusetts. to my father, from whom i have never failed to receive literary sympathy and encouragement, this volume is dedicated. preface. "fame and fortune," like its predecessor, "ragged dick," was contributed as a serial story to the "schoolmate," a popular juvenile magazine published in boston. the generous commendations of the first volume by the press, and by private correspondents whose position makes their approval of value, have confirmed the author in his purpose to write a series of stories intended to illustrate the life and experiences of the friendless and vagrant children to be found in all our cities, numbering in new york alone over twelve thousand. in the preparation of the different volumes, the requisite information will be gathered from personal observation mainly, supplemented, however, by facts communicated by those who have been brought into practical relations with the class of children whose lives are portrayed. the volumes might readily be made more matter-of-fact, but the author has sought to depict the inner life and represent the feelings and emotions of these little waifs of city life, and hopes thus to excite a deeper and more widespread sympathy in the public mind, as well as to exert a salutary influence upon the class of whom he is writing, by setting before them inspiring examples of what energy, ambition, and an honest purpose may achieve, even in their case. in order to reach as large a number of these boys as possible, the publisher is authorized, on application, to send a gratuitous copy of the two volumes of the "ragged dick series" already issued, to any regularly organized newsboys' lodge within the united states. new york, _december_, . fame and fortune; or, the progress of richard hunter. chapter i. a boarding-house in bleecker street. "well, fosdick, this is a little better than our old room in mott street," said richard hunter, looking complacently about him. "you're right, dick," said his friend. "this carpet's rather nicer than the ragged one mrs. mooney supplied us with. the beds are neat and comfortable, and i feel better satisfied, even if we do have to pay twice as much for it." the room which yielded so much satisfaction to the two boys was on the fourth floor of a boarding-house in bleecker street. no doubt many of my young readers, who are accustomed to elegant homes, would think it very plain; but neither richard nor his friend had been used to anything as good. they had been thrown upon their own exertions at an early age, and had a hard battle to fight with poverty and ignorance. those of my readers who are familiar with richard hunter's experiences when he was "ragged dick," will easily understand what a great rise in the world it was for him to have a really respectable home. for years he had led a vagabond life about the streets, as a boot-black, sleeping in old wagons, or boxes, or wherever he could find a lodging gratis. it was only twelve months since a chance meeting with an intelligent boy caused him to form the resolution to grow up respectable. by diligent evening study with henry fosdick, whose advantages had been much greater than his own, assisted by a natural quickness and an unusual aptitude for learning, he had, in a year, learned to read and write well, and had, besides, made considerable progress in arithmetic. still he would have found it difficult to obtain a situation if he had not been the means of saving from drowning the young child of mr. james rockwell, a wealthy merchant in business on pearl street, who at once, out of gratitude for the service rendered, engaged our hero in his employ at the unusual compensation, for a beginner, of ten dollars a week. his friend, henry fosdick, was in a hat store on broadway, but thus far only received six dollars a week. feeling that it was time to change their quarters to a more respectable portion of the city, they one morning rang the bell of mrs. browning's boarding-house, on bleecker street. they were shown into the parlor, and soon a tall lady, with flaxen ringlets and a thin face, came in. "well, young gentleman, what can i do for you?" she said, regarding them attentively. "my friend and i are looking for a boarding-place," said henry fosdick. "have you any rooms vacant?" "what sort of a room would you like?" asked mrs. browning. "we cannot afford to pay a high price. we should be satisfied with a small room." "you will room together, i suppose?" "yes, ma'am." "i have a room vacant on the third floor, quite a good-sized one, for which i should charge you seven dollars apiece. there is a room on the fourth floor, not so large, which you can have for five dollars each." "i think we'll look at that," said richard hunter. "very well, then follow me." mrs. browning preceded the boys to the fourth floor, where she opened the door of a neat room, provided with two single beds, a good-sized mirror, a bureau, a warm woollen carpet, a washstand, and an empty bookcase for books. there was a closet also, the door of which she opened, showing a row of pegs for clothing. "how do you like it?" asked fosdick, in a low voice, turning to his companion. "it's bully," said dick, in admiring accents. i may as well say here, what the reader will find out as we proceed, that our hero, in spite of his advance in learning, had not got entirely rid of some street phrases, which he had caught from the companions with whom he had for years associated. "five dollars is rather a steep price," said fosdick, in a low voice. "you know i don't get but six in all." "i'll tell you what, fosdick," said dick; "it'll be ten dollars for the two of us. i'll pay six, and you shall pay four. that'll be fair,--won't it?" "no, dick, i ought to pay my half." "you can make it up by helpin' me when i run against a snag, in my studies." "you know as much as i do now, dick." "no, i don't. i haven't any more ideas of grammar than a broomstick. you know i called 'cat' a conjunction the other day. now, you shall help me in grammar, for i'm blessed if i know whether i'm a noun or an adjective, and i'll pay a dollar towards your board." "but, dick, i'm willing to help you for nothing. it isn't fair to charge you a dollar a week for my help." "why isn't it? aint i to get ten dollars a week, and shan't i have four dollars over, while you will only have two? i think i ought to give you one more, and then we'd be even." "no, dick; i wouldn't agree to that. if you insist upon it, we'll do as you propose; but, if ever i am able, i will make it up to you." "well, young gentleman, what have you decided?" asked mrs. browning. "we'll take the room," said dick, promptly. "when do you wish to commence?" "to-day. we'll come this evening." "very well. i suppose you can furnish me with references. you're in business, i suppose?" "i am in henderson's hat and cap store, no. ---- broadway," said henry fosdick. "and i am going into rockwell & cooper's, on pearl street, next monday," said dick, with a sense of importance. he felt that this was very different from saying, "i black boots in chatham square." "you look like good boys," said mrs. browning, "and i've no doubt you're honest; but i'm a widow, dependent on my boarders, and i have to be particular. only last week a young man went off, owing me four weeks' board, and i don't suppose he'll ever show his face again. he got a good salary, too; but he spent most of it on cigars and billiards. now, how can i be sure you will pay me your board regular?" "we'll pay it every week in advance," said dick, promptly. "them's our best references," and he produced his bank-book, showing a deposit of over one hundred dollars to his credit in the savings bank, motioning at the same time to fosdick to show his. "you don't mean to say you've saved all that from your earnings?" said mrs. browning, surprised. "yes," said dick, "and i might have saved more if i'd begun sooner." "how long has it taken you to save it up?" "about nine months. my friend hasn't saved so much, because his salary has been smaller." "i won't require you to pay in advance," said mrs. browning, graciously. "i am sure i can trust you. boys who have formed so good a habit of saving can be depended upon. i will get the room ready for you, and you may bring your trunks when you please. my hours are, breakfast at seven, lunch at half-past twelve, and dinner at six." "we shan't be able to come to lunch," said fosdick. "our stores are too far off." "then i will make half a dollar difference with each of you, making nine dollars a week instead of ten." the boys went downstairs, well pleased with the arrangement they had made. dick insisted upon paying five dollars and a half of the joint weekly expense, leaving three and a half to fosdick. this would leave the latter two dollars and a half out of his salary, while dick would have left four and a half. with economy, both thought they could continue to lay up something. there was one little embarrassment which suggested itself to the boys. neither of them had a trunk, having been able to stow away all their wardrobe without difficulty in the drawers of the bureau with which their room in mott street was provided. "why are you like an elephant, fosdick?" asked dick, jocosely, as they emerged into the street. "i don't know, i'm sure." "because you haven't got any trunk except what you carry round with you." "we'll have to get trunks, or perhaps carpet-bags would do." "no," said dick, decisively, "it aint 'spectable to be without a trunk, and we're going to be 'spectable now." "_re_spectable, dick." "all right,--respectable, then. let's go and buy each a trunk." this advice seemed reasonable, and fosdick made no objection. the boys succeeded in getting two decent trunks at three dollars apiece, and ordered them sent to their room in mott street. it must be remembered by my readers, who may regard the prices given as too low, that the events here recorded took place several years before the war, when one dollar was equal to two at the present day. at the close of the afternoon fosdick got away from the store an hour earlier, and the boys, preceded by an expressman bearing their trunks, went to their new home. they had just time to wash and comb their hair, when the bell rang for dinner, and they went down to the dining-room. nearly all the boarders were assembled, and were sitting around a long table spread with a variety of dishes. mrs. browning was a good manager, and was wise enough to set a table to which her boarders could not object. "this way, if you please, young gentlemen," she said, pointing to two adjoining seats on the opposite side of the table. our hero, it must be confessed, felt a little awkward, not being used to the formality of a boarding-house, and feeling that the eyes of twenty boarders were upon him. his confusion was increased, when, after taking his seat, he saw sitting opposite him, a young man whose boots he remembered to have blacked only a week before. observing dick's look, mrs. browning proceeded to introduce him to the other. "mr. clifton," she said, "let me introduce mr. hunter and his friend, mr. fosdick,--two new members of our family." dick bowed rather awkwardly, and the young man said, "glad to make your acquaintance, mr. hunter. your face looks quite familiar. i think i must have seen you before." "i think i've seen _you_ before," said dick. "it's strange i can't think where," said the young man, who had not the least idea that the well-dressed boy before him was the boot-black who had brushed his boots near the park railings the monday previous. dick did not think proper to enlighten him. he was not ashamed of his past occupation; but it was past, and he wanted to be valued for what he might become, not for what he had been. "are you in business, mr. hunter?" inquired mr. clifton. it sounded strange to our hero to be called mr. hunter; but he rather liked it. he felt that it sounded respectable. "i am at rockwell & cooper's, on pearl street," said dick. "i know the place. it is a large firm." dick was glad to hear it, but did not say that he knew nothing about it. the dinner was a good one, much better than the two boys were accustomed to get at the eating-houses which in times past they had frequented. dick noticed carefully how the others did, and acquitted himself quite creditably, so that no one probably suspected that he had not always been used to as good a table. when the boys rose from the table, mrs. browning said, "won't you walk into the parlor, young gentlemen? we generally have a little music after dinner. some of the young ladies are musical. do either of you play?" dick said he sometimes played marbles; at which a young lady laughed, and dick, catching the infection, laughed too. "miss peyton, mr. hunter," introduced mrs. browning. miss peyton made a sweeping courtesy, to which dick responded by a bow, turning red with embarrassment. "don't you sing, mr. hunter?" asked the young lady. "i aint much on warblin'," said dick, forgetting for the moment where he was. this droll answer, which miss peyton supposed to be intentionally funny, convulsed the young lady with merriment. "perhaps your friend sings?" she said. thereupon fosdick was also introduced. to dick's astonishment, he answered that he did a little. it was accordingly proposed that they should enter the next room, where there was a piano. the young lady played some well-known melodies, and fosdick accompanied her with his voice, which proved to be quite sweet and melodious. "you are quite an acquisition to our circle," said miss peyton, graciously. "have you boarded in this neighborhood before?" "no," said fosdick; "at another part of the city." he was afraid she would ask him in what street, but fortunately she forbore. in about half an hour the boys went up to their own room, where they lighted the gas, and, opening their trunks, placed the contents in the bureau-drawers. "blessed if it don't seem strange," said dick, "for a feller brought up as i have been to live in this style. i wonder what miss peyton would have said if she had known what i had been." "you haven't any cause to be ashamed of it, dick. it wasn't a very desirable business, but it was honest. now you can do something better. you must adapt yourself to your new circumstances." "so i mean to," said dick. "i'm going in for respectability. when i get to be sixty years old, i'm goin' to wear gold spectacles and walk round this way, like the old gentlemen i see most every day on wall street." dick threw his head back, and began to walk round the room with a pompous step and an air of great importance. "i hope we'll both rise, dick; we've got well started now, and there've been other boys, worse off than we are, who have worked hard, and risen to fame and fortune." "we can try," said dick. "now let us go out and have a walk." "all right," said fosdick. they went downstairs, and out into the street. accustomed to the lower part of the city, there was a novelty in the evening aspect of broadway, with its shops and theatres glittering with light. they sauntered carelessly along, looking in at the shop-windows, feeling more and more pleased with their change of location. all at once dick's attention was drawn to a gentleman accompanied by a boy of about his own size, who was walking a little in advance. "stop a minute," he said to fosdick, and hurrying forward placed his hand on the boy's arm. "how are you, frank?" he said. frank whitney, for it was he, turned in some surprise and looked at dick, but did not at first recognize in the neat, well-dressed boy of fifteen the ragged boot-black he had encountered a year before. "i don't think i remember you," he said, surveying dick with a puzzled expression. "perhaps you'd remember me better if i had on my washington coat and napoleon pants," said our hero, with a smile. he felt rather pleased to find he was not recognized, since it was a compliment to his improved appearance. "what!" exclaimed frank, his face lighting up with pleasure, "is it possible that you are--" "richard hunter, at your service," said our hero; "but when you knew me i was ragged dick." chapter ii. introduction to mercantile life. frank whitney was indeed surprised to find the ragged boot-black of a year before so wonderfully changed. he grasped dick's hand, and shook it heartily. "uncle," he said, "this is dick. isn't he changed?" "it is a change i am glad to see," said mr. whitney, also extending his hand; "for it appears to be a change for the better. and who is this other young man?" "this is my private tutor," said dick, presenting fosdick,--"professor fosdick. he's been teachin' me every evenin' for most a year. his terms is very reasonable. if it hadn't been for him, i never should have reached my present high position in literature and science." "i am glad to make your acquaintance, _professor_ fosdick," said frank, laughing. "may i inquire whether my friend dick owes his elegant system of pronunciation to your instructions?" "dick can speak more correctly when he pleases," said fosdick; "but sometimes he falls back into his old way. he understands the common english branches very well." "then he must have worked hard; for when i first met him a year ago, he was--" "as ignorant as a horse," interrupted dick. "it was you that first made me ambitious, frank. i wanted to be like you, and grow up 'spectable." "_re_spectable, dick," suggested fosdick. "yes, that's what i mean. i didn't always want to be a boot-black, so i worked hard, and with the help of professor fosdick, i've got up a little way. but i'm goin' to climb higher." "i am very glad to hear it, my young friend," said mr. whitney. "it is always pleasant to see a young man fighting his way upward. in this free country there is every inducement for effort, however unpromising may be the early circumstances in which one is placed. but, young gentlemen, as my nephew would be glad to speak further with you, i propose that we adjourn from the sidewalk to the st. nicholas hotel, where i am at present stopping." "yes, dick," said frank, "you and professor fosdick must spend the evening with me. i was intending to visit some place of amusement, but would much prefer a visit from you." dick and fosdick readily accepted this invitation, and turned in the direction of the st. nicholas, which is situated on broadway, below bleecker street. "by the way, dick, where are your washington coat and napoleon pants now?" "they were stolen from my room," said dick, "by somebody that wanted to appear on broadway dressed in tip-top style, and hadn't got money enough to pay for a suit." "perhaps it was some agent of barnum who desired to secure the valuable relics," suggested frank. "by gracious!" said dick, suddenly, "there they are now. it's the first time i've seen 'em since they was stolen." he pointed to a boy, of about his own size, who was coming up broadway. he was attired in the well-remembered coat and pants; but, alas! time had not spared them. the solitary remaining coat-tail was torn in many places; of one sleeve but a fragment remained; grease and dirt nearly obliterated the original color; and it was a melancholy vestige of what it had been once. as for the pantaloons, they were a complete wreck. when dick had possessed them they were well ventilated; but they were now ventilated so much more thoroughly that, as dick said afterwards, "a feller would be warmer without any." "that's micky maguire," said dick; "a partic'lar friend of mine, that had such a great 'fection for me that he stole my clothes to remember me by." "perhaps," said fosdick, "it was on account of his great respect for general washington and the emperor napoleon." "what would the great washington say if he could see his coat now?" said frank. "when i wore it," said dick, "i was sorry he was so great, 'cause it prevented his clothes fitting me." it may be necessary to explain to those who are unacquainted with dick's earlier adventures, that the clothes in which he was originally introduced were jocosely referred to by him as gifts from the illustrious personages whose names have been mentioned. micky maguire did not at first recognize dick. when he did so, he suddenly shambled down prince street, fearful, perhaps, that the stolen clothes would be reclaimed. they had now reached the st. nicholas, and entered. mr. whitney led the way up to his apartment, and then, having a business engagement with a gentleman below, he descended to the reading-room, leaving the boys alone. left to themselves, they talked freely. dick related fully the different steps in his education, with which some of our readers are already familiar, and received hearty congratulations from frank, and earnest encouragement to persevere. "i wish you were going to be in the city, frank," said dick. "so i shall be soon," said frank. dick's face lighted up with pleasure. "that's bully," said he, enthusiastically. "how soon are you comin'?" "i am hoping to enter columbia college next commencement. i suppose my time will be a good deal taken up with study, but i shall always find time for you and fosdick. i hope you both will call upon me." both boys readily accepted the invitation in advance, and dick promised to write to frank at his boarding-school in connecticut. at about half past ten, the two boys left the st. nicholas, and went back to their boarding-house. after a comfortable night's sleep, they got up punctually to the seven o'clock breakfast. it consisted of beefsteak, hot biscuit, potatoes, and very good coffee. dick and fosdick did justice to the separate viands, and congratulated themselves upon the superiority of their present fare to that which they had been accustomed to obtain at the restaurants. breakfast over, fosdick set out for the hat and cap store in which he was employed, and dick for rockwell & cooper's on pearl street. it must be confessed that he felt a little bashful as he stood in front of the large warehouse, and surveyed the sign. he began to feel some apprehensions that he would not be found competent for his post. it seemed such a rise from the streets to be employed in such an imposing building. but dick did not long permit timidity to stand in his way. he entered the large apartment on the first floor, which he found chiefly used for storing large boxes and cases of goods. there was a counting-room and office, occupying one corner, partitioned off from the rest of the department. dick could see a young man through the glass partition sitting at a desk; and, opening the door, he entered. he wished it had been mr. rockwell, for it would have saved him from introducing himself; but of course it was too early for that gentleman to appear. "what is your business?" inquired the book-keeper, for it was he. "i've come to work," said dick, shortly, for somehow he did not take much of a fancy to the book-keeper, whose tone was rather supercilious. "oh, you've come to work, have you?" "yes, i have," said dick, independently. "i don't think we shall need your valuable services," said the book-keeper, with something of a sneer. the truth was, that mr. rockwell had neglected to mention that he had engaged dick. dick, though a little inclined to be bashful when he entered, had quite got over that feeling now. he didn't intend to be intimidated or driven away by the man before him. there was only one doubt in his mind. this might be mr. cooper, the second member of the firm, although he did not think it at all probable. so he ventured this question, "is mr. rockwell or mr. cooper in?" "they're never here at this hour." "so i supposed," said dick, coolly. he sat down in an arm-chair, and took up the morning paper. the book-keeper was decidedly provoked by his coolness. he felt that he had not impressed dick with his dignity or authority, and this made him angry. "bring that paper to me, young man," he said; "i want to consult it." "very good," said dick; "you can come and get it." "i can't compliment you on your good manners," said the other. "good manners don't seem to be fashionable here," said dick, composedly. apparently the book-keeper did not want the paper very particularly, as he did not take the trouble to get up for it. dick therefore resumed his reading, and the other dug his pen spitefully into the paper, wishing, but not quite daring, to order dick out of the counting-room, as it might be possible that he had come by appointment. "did you come to see mr. rockwell?" he asked, at length, looking up from his writing. "yes," said dick. "did he tell you to come?" "yes." "what was that you said about coming to work?" "i said i had come here to work." "who engaged you?" "mr. rockwell." "oh, indeed! and how much are you to receive for your valuable services?" "you are very polite to call my services valuable," said dick. "i hope they will be." "you haven't answered my question." "i have no objection, i'm sure. i'm to get ten dollars a week." "ten dollars a week!" echoed the book-keeper, with a scornful laugh. "do you expect you will earn that?" "no, i don't," said dick, frankly. "you don't!" returned the other, doubtfully. "well, you're more modest than i thought for. then why are you to get so much?" "perhaps mr. rockwell will tell you," said dick, "if you tell him you're very particular to know, and will lose a night's rest if you don't find out." "i wouldn't give you a dollar a week." "then i'm glad i aint goin' to work for you." "i don't believe your story at all. i don't think mr. rockwell would be such a fool as to overpay you so much." "p'r'aps i shouldn't be the only one in the establishment that is overpaid," observed dick. "do you mean me, you young rascal?" demanded the book-keeper, now very angry. "don't call names. it isn't polite." "i demand an answer. do you mean to say that i am overpaid?" "well," said dick, deliberately, "if you're paid anything for bein' polite, i should think you was overpaid considerable." there is no knowing how long this skirmishing would have continued, if mr. rockwell himself had not just then entered the counting-room. dick rose respectfully at his entrance, and the merchant, recognizing him at once, advanced smiling and gave him a cordial welcome. "i am glad to see you, my boy," he said. "so you didn't forget the appointment. how long have you been here?" "half an hour, sir." "i am here unusually early this morning. i came purposely to see you, and introduce you to those with whom you will labor. mr. gilbert, this is a young man who is going to enter our establishment. his name is richard hunter. mr. gilbert, richard, is our book-keeper." mr. gilbert nodded slightly, not a little surprised at his employer's cordiality to the new boy. "so the fellow was right, after all," he thought. "but it can't be possible he is to receive ten dollars a week." "come out into the ware-room, and i will show you about," continued mr. rockwell. "how do you think you shall like business, richard?" dick was on the point of saying "bully," but checked himself just in time, and said instead, "very much indeed, sir." "i hope you will. if you do well you may depend upon promotion. i shall not forget under what a heavy obligation i am to you, my brave boy." what would the book-keeper have said, if he had heard this? "how is the little boy, sir?" asked dick. "very well, indeed. he does not appear even to have taken cold, as might have been expected from his exposure, and remaining in wet clothes for some time." "i am glad to hear that he is well, sir." "you must come up and see him for yourself, richard," said mr. rockwell, in a friendly manner. "i have no doubt you will become good friends very soon. besides, my wife is anxious to see and thank the preserver of her boy." "i shall be very glad indeed to come, sir." "i live at no. ---- madison avenue. come to-morrow evening, if you have no engagement." "thank you, sir." mr. rockwell now introduced dick to his head clerk with a few words, stating that he was a lad in whose welfare he took a deep interest, and he would be glad to have him induct him into his duties, and regard with indulgence any mistakes which he might at first make through ignorance. the head clerk was a pleasant-looking man, of middle age, named murdock; very different in his manners and bearing from mr. gilbert, the book-keeper. "yes, sir," he said, "i will take the young man under my charge; he looks bright and sharp enough, and i hope we may make a business man of him in course of time." that was what dick liked. his heart always opened to kindness, but harshness always made him defiant. "i'll try to make you as little trouble as possible, sir," he said. "i may make mistakes at first, but i'm willin' to work, and i want to work my way up." "that's right, my boy," said mr. murdock. "let that be your determination, and i am sure you will succeed." "before mr. murdock begins to instruct you in your duties," said mr. rockwell, "you may go to the post-office, and see if there are any letters for us. our box is no. , ." "all right, sir," said dick; and he took his hat at once and started. he reached chatham square, turned into printing house square, and just at the corner of spruce and nassau streets, close by the tribune office, he saw the familiar face and figure of johnny nolan, one of his old associates when he was a boot-black. "how are you, johnny?" he said. "is that you, dick?" asked johnny, turning round. "where's your box and brush?" "at home." "you haven't give up business,--have you?" "i've just gone into business, johnny." "i mean you aint give up blackin' boots,--have you?" "all except my own, johnny. aint that a good shine?" and dick displayed his boot with something of his old professional pride. "what you up to now, dick? you're dressed like a swell." "oh," said dick, "i've retired from shines on a fortun', and embarked my capital in mercantile pursuits. i'm in a store on pearl street." "what store?" "rockwell & cooper's." "how'd you get there?" "they wanted a partner with a large capital, and so they took me," said dick. "we're goin' to do a smashin' business. we mean to send off a ship to europe every day, besides what we send to other places, and expect to make no end of stamps." "what's the use of gassin', dick? tell a feller now." "honor bright, then, johnny, i've got a place at ten dollars a week, and i'm goin' to be 'spectable. why don't you turn over a new leaf, and try to get up in the world?" "i aint lucky, dick. i don't half the time make enough to live on. if it wasn't for the newsboys' lodgin' house, i don't know what i'd do. i need a new brush and box of blacking, but i aint got money enough to buy one." "then, johnny, i'll help you this once. here's fifty cents; i'll give it to you. now, if you're smart you can make a dollar a day easy, and save up part of it. you ought to be more enterprisin', johnny. there's a gentleman wants a shine now." [illustration] johnny hitched up his trousers, put the fifty cents in his mouth, having no pocket unprovided with holes, and proffered his services to the gentleman indicated, with success. dick left him at work, and kept on his way down nassau street. "a year ago," he thought, "i was just like johnny, dressed in rags, and livin' as i could. if it hadn't been for my meetin' with frank, i'd been just the same to day, most likely. now i've got a good place, and some money in the bank, besides 'ristocratic friends who invite me to come and see them. blessed if i aint afraid i'm dreamin' it all, like the man that dreamed he was in a palace, and woke up to find himself in a pigpen." chapter iii. at the post-office. the new york post-office is built of brick, and was formerly a church. it is a shabby building, and quite unworthy of so large and important a city. of course dick was quite familiar with its general appearance; but as his correspondence had been very limited, he had never had occasion to ask for letters. there were several letters in box , . dick secured these, and, turning round to go out, his attention was drawn to a young gentleman of about his own age, who, from his consequential air, appeared to feel his own importance in no slight degree. he recognized him at once as roswell crawford, a boy who had applied unsuccessfully for the place which fosdick obtained in henderson's hat and cap store. roswell recognized dick at the same time, and perceiving that our hero was well-dressed, concluded to speak to him, though he regarded dick as infinitely beneath himself in the social scale, on account of his former employment. he might not have been so condescending, but he was curious to learn what dick was about. "i haven't seen you for some time," he said, in a patronizing tone. "no," said dick, "and i haven't seen you for some time either, which is a very curious coincidence." "how's boot-blacking, now?" inquired roswell, with something of a sneer. "tip-top," said dick, not at all disturbed by roswell's manner. "i do it wholesale now, and have been obliged to hire a large building on pearl street to transact my business in. you see them letters? they're all from wholesale customers." "i congratulate you on your success," said roswell, in the same disagreeable manner. "of course that's all humbug. i suppose you've got a place." "yes," said dick. "who are you with?" "rockwell & cooper, on pearl street." "how did you get it?" asked roswell, appearing surprised. "did they know you had been a boot-black?" "of course they did." "i shouldn't think that they would have taken you." "why not?" "there are not many firms that would hire a boot-black, when they could get plenty of boys from nice families." "perhaps they might have secured your services if they had applied," said dick, good-humoredly. "i've got a place," said roswell, in rather an important manner. "i'm very glad i didn't go into henderson's hat and cap store. i've got a better situation." "have you?" said dick. "i'm glad to hear it. i'm always happy to hear that my friends are risin' in the world." "you needn't class me among your friends," said roswell, superciliously. "no, i won't," said dick. "i'm goin' to be particular about my associates, now that i'm gettin' up in the world." "do you mean to insult me?" demanded roswell, haughtily. "no," said dick. "i wouldn't on any account. i should be afraid you'd want me to fight a duel, and that wouldn't be convenient, for i haven't made my will, and i'm afraid my heirs would quarrel over my extensive property." "how much do you get a week?" asked roswell, thinking it best to change the subject. "ten dollars," said dick. "ten dollars!" ejaculated roswell. "that's a pretty large story." "you needn't believe it if you don't want to," said dick. "that won't make any difference to me as long as they pay me reg'lar." "ten dollars! why, i never heard of such a thing," exclaimed roswell, who only received four dollars a week himself, and thought he was doing well. "do you think i'd give up a loocrative business for less?" asked dick. "how much do you get?" "that's my business," said roswell, who, for reasons that may be guessed, didn't care to mention the price for which he was working. judging dick by himself, he thought it would give him a chance to exult over him. "i suppose it is," said dick; "but as you was so partic'lar to find out how much i got, i thought i'd inquire." "you're trying to deceive me; i don't believe you get more than three dollars a week." "don't you? is that what you get?" "i get a great deal more." "i'm happy to hear it." "i can find out how much you get, if i want to." "you've found out already." "i know what you say, but i've got a cousin in rockwell & cooper's." "have you?" asked dick, a little surprised. "who is it?" "it is the book-keeper." "mr. gilbert?" "yes; he has been there five years. i'll ask him about it." "you'd better, as you're so anxious to find out. mr. gilbert is a friend of mine. he spoke only this morning of my valooable services." roswell looked incredulous. in fact he did not understand dick at all; nor could he comprehend his imperturbable good-humor. there were several things that he had said which would have offended most boys; but dick met them with a careless good-humor, and an evident indifference to roswell's good opinion, which piqued and provoked that young man. it must not be supposed that while this conversation was going on the boys were standing in the post-office. dick understood his duty to his employers too well to delay unnecessarily while on an errand, especially when he was sent to get letters, some of which might be of an important and urgent nature. the two boys had been walking up nassau street together, and they had now reached printing house square. "there are some of your old friends," said roswell, pointing to a group of ragged boot-blacks, who were on the alert for customers, crying to each passer, "shine yer boots?" "yes," said dick, "i know them all." "no doubt," sneered roswell. "they're friends to be proud of." "i'm glad you think so," said dick. "they're a rough set," he continued, more earnestly; "but there's one of them, at least, that's ten times better than you or i." "speak for yourself, if you please," said roswell, haughtily. "i'm speakin' for both of us," said dick. "there's one boy there, only twelve years old, that's supported his sick mother and sister for more'n a year, and that's more good than ever you or i did.--how are you, tom?" he said, nodding to the boy of whom he had spoken. "tip-top, dick," said a bright-looking boy, who kept as clean as his avocation would permit. "have you given up business?" "yes, tom. i'll tell you about it some other time. i must get back to pearl street with these letters. how's your mother?" "she aint much better, dick." "buy her some oranges. they'll do her good," and dick slipped half a dollar into tom's hand. "thank you, dick. she'll like them, i know, but you oughtn't to give so much." "what's half a dollar to a man of my fortune?" said dick. "take care of yourself, tom. i must hurry back to the store." roswell was already gone. his pride would not permit him to stand by while dick was conversing with a boot-black. he felt that his position would be compromised. as for dick, he was so well dressed that nobody would know that he had ever been in that business. the fact is, roswell, like a great many other people, was troubled with a large share of pride, though it might have puzzled himself to explain what he had to be proud of. had dick been at all like him he would have shunned all his former acquaintances, and taken every precaution against having it discovered that he had ever occupied a similar position. but dick was above such meanness. he could see that tom, for instance, was far superior in all that constituted manliness to roswell crawford, and, boot-black though he was, he prepared to recognize him as a friend. when dick reached the store, he did not immediately see mr. rockwell. he accordingly entered the counting-room where gilbert, the book-keeper, was seated at a desk. "here are the letters, mr. gilbert," said dick. "lay them down," said the book-keeper, sourly. "you've been gone long enough. how many did you drop on the way?" "i didn't know i was expected to drop any," said dick. "if i had been told to do so, i would have obeyed orders cheerfully." mr. gilbert was about to remark that dick was an impudent young rascal, when the sudden entrance of mr. rockwell compelled him to suppress the observation, and he was obliged to be content with muttering it to himself. "back already, richard?" said his employer, pleasantly. "where are the letters?" "here, sir," said dick. "very well, you may go to mr. murdock, and see what he can find for you to do." mr. rockwell sat down to read his letters, and dick went as directed to the head clerk. "mr. rockwell sent me to you, mr. murdock," he said. "he says you will find something for me to do." "oh, yes, we'll keep you busy," said the head clerk, with a manner very different from that of the book-keeper. "at present, however, your duties will be of rather a miscellaneous character. we shall want you partly for an entry clerk, and partly to run to the post-office, bank, and so forth." "all right, sir," said dick. "i'm ready to do anything that is required of me. i want to make myself useful." "that's the right way to feel, my young friend. some boys are so big-feeling and put on so many airs, that you'd think they were partners in the business, instead of beginning at the lowest round of the ladder. a while ago mr. gilbert brought round a cousin of his, about your age, that he wanted to get in here; but the young gentleman was altogether too lofty to suit me, so we didn't take him." "was the boy's name roswell crawford?" "yes; do you know him?" "not much. he thinks i'm too far beneath him for him to associate with, but he was kind enough to walk up nassau street with me this morning, just to encourage me a little." "that was kind in him, certainly," said the head clerk, smiling. "unless i am very much mistaken, you will be able to get along without his patronage." "i hope so," said dick. the rest of the day dick was kept busy in various ways. he took hold with a will, and showed himself so efficient that he made a favorable impression upon every one in the establishment, except the book-keeper. for some reason or other mr. gilbert did not like dick, and was determined to oust him from his situation if an opportunity should offer. chapter iv. life at the boarding-house. dick found his new quarters in bleecker street very comfortable. his room was kept in neat order, which was more than could be said of his former home in mott street. there once a fortnight was thought sufficient to change the sheets, while both boys were expected to use the same towel, and make that last a week. indeed, mrs. mooney would have considered the boys "mighty particular" if they had objected to such an arrangement. mrs. browning, fortunately, was very different, and dick found nothing to complain of either in his chamber or in the board which was furnished. dick had felt rather awkward on his first appearance at the table, but he was beginning to feel more at his ease. it was rather remarkable, considering his past life, how readily he adapted himself to an experience so different. he left the store at five o'clock, and got to his boarding-house in time to get ready for dinner. dick had now got to be quite particular about his appearance. he washed his face and hands thoroughly, and brushed his hair carefully, before appearing at the table. miss peyton, the lively young lady who has already been mentioned in the first chapter, sat near the boys, and evidently was quite prepossessed in their favor. both had bright and attractive faces, though dick would undoubtedly be considered the handsomest. he had a fresh color which spoke of good health, and was well-formed and strong. henry fosdick was more delicate in appearance; his face was thinner, and rather pale. it was clear that he was not as well able to fight his way through life as dick. but there was something pleasant and attractive in his quiet sedateness, as well as in the frank honesty and humor that could be read in the glance of our friend dick. "won't you and your friend stop a little while and sing?" asked miss peyton, addressing henry fosdick on the evening of the second day of dick's business career. fosdick hesitated. "my friend has an engagement this evening," he said. "i suppose i may not ask where," said she. "i am invited to spend the evening with some friends on madison avenue," said dick. "indeed?" said miss peyton, surprised. "i wasn't aware you had such fashionable friends, or i couldn't have expected to retain you." "all my friends are not as fashionable," said dick, wondering what the young lady would say if she could see his late fellow-lodgers at mrs. mooney's, on mott street. "if i can't hope to keep you this evening, you must promise to stay awhile to-morrow evening. i hope to have the pleasure of hearing you sing, mr. hunter." "when i give a concert," said dick, "i'll be sure to let you in gratooitous." "thank you," said miss peyton. "i shall remind you of it. i hope that time will come very soon." "just as soon as i can engage the academy of music on reasonable terms." "you'd better try first in the parlor here. we'll take up a contribution, to pay you for your exertions." "thank you," said dick. "you're very kind, as the man said to the judge when he asked him when it would be perfectly agreeable for him to be hung." miss peyton laughed at this remark, and dick went upstairs to get ready for his visit to madison avenue. our hero felt a little bashful about this visit. he was afraid that he would do or say something that was improper, or that something would slip out which would betray his vagabond life of the streets. "i wish you was going with me, fosdick," he said. "you'll get along well enough alone, dick. don't be afraid." "you see i aint used to society, fosdick." "nor i either." "but it seems to come natural to you. i'm always makin' some blunder." "you'll get over that in time, dick. it's because you have so much fun in you. i am more sober. miss peyton seems very much amused by your odd remarks." "i have to talk so; i can't think of anything else to say." "there's one thing, dick, we mustn't give up at any rate." "what's that?" "studying. we don't either of us know as much as we ought to." "that's so." "you can see how much good studying has done for you so far. if it hadn't been for that, you wouldn't have been able to go into mr. rockwell's employment." "that's true enough, fosdick. i'm afraid i don't know enough now." "you know enough to get along very well for the present, but you want to rise." "you're right. when i get to be old and infirm i don't want to be an errand-boy." "nor i either. so, dick, i think we had better make up our minds to study an hour or an hour and a half every evening. of course, you can't begin this evening, but there are very few when you can't find the time." "i'll send a circ'lar to my numerous friends on fifth avenue and madison, tellin' 'em how much i'm obliged for their kind invitations, but the claims of literatoor and science can't be neglected." "do you know, dick, i think it might be well for us to begin french?" "i wonder what johnny nolan would say if i should inquire after his health in the polly-voo language?" "it wouldn't be the first time you have astonished him." "well, fosdick, i'm in for it if you think it's best. now tell me what necktie i shall wear?" dick displayed two. one was bright red with large figures, which he had bought soon after he began to board in mott street. the other was a plain black. "you'd better wear the black one, dick," said fosdick, whose taste was simpler and better than his friend's. "it seems to me it don't look handsome enough," said dick, whose taste had not yet been formed, and was influenced by the bowery style of dress. "it's more modest, and that is all the better." "all right. i suppose you know best. before i get ready i must give a new shine to my boots. i'm going to make them shine so you can see your face in them." "better let me do that for you, dick. i can do it while you're dressing, and that will save time." "no, fosdick, i was longer in the business than you, and none of the boys could beat me on shines." "i don't know but you're right, dick. i freely yield the palm to you in that." dick stripped off his coat and vest and went to work with a will. he had never worked so hard for one of his old customers. "i'm goin' to give it a twenty-five cent shine," he said. just then a knock was heard at the chamber-door. "come in!" said dick, pausing a moment in his labors. mr. clifton, a fellow-boarder, entered with a cigar in his mouth. "holloa," said he, "what's up? going to the theatre, hunter?" "no," said dick. "i'm goin' out to spend the evening with some friends up in madison avenue." "so i heard you say at the table, but i thought you were joking." "no," said dick; "it's a fact." "seems to me you handle the brush pretty skilfully," remarked mr. clifton. "i should almost think you had served a regular apprenticeship at it." "so i have," answered dick. "didn't you ever see me when i blacked boots on chatham square?" "good joke!" said the young man, who was far from supposing that dick was in earnest. "oh, yes, of course i've seen you often! did you make money at it?" "i retired on a fortun'," said dick, "and now i've invested my capital in mercantile pursuits. there," and he took up one boot, and showed it to his visitor, "did you ever see a better shine than that?" "no, i didn't, that's a fact," said clifton, admiringly. "you beat the young rascal i employ all hollow. i say, hunter, if you ever go into the 'shine' business again, i'll be a regular customer of yours." "he little thinks i've blacked his boots before now," thought dick. "all right," said he, aloud. "when a commercial crisis comes, and i fail in business, i think i'll remember your encouragin' offer, and remind you of it." "have a cigar either of you?" asked clifton, drawing out a case. "excuse my not offering it before." "no, thank you," said fosdick. "don't smoke, eh? won't you have one, hunter?" "no, thank you. fosdick is my guardian, and he don't allow it." "so you're a good boy. well, i wish you a pleasant evening," and clifton sauntered out to find some other companion. "he wouldn't believe i'd been a boot-black," said dick, "even after i told him. i knew he wouldn't, or i wouldn't have said so. is my hair parted straight?" "yes, it's all right." "how's my cravat?" "it'll do. you're getting to be quite a dandy, dick." "i want to look respectable; got it right that time. when i visit turkey i want to look as the turkeys do. won't you go with me,--as far as the door, i mean?" "yes, if you're going to walk." "i'd rather. i feel kind of nervous, and perhaps i'll walk it off." the two boys got their caps, and walked up broadway on the west side. the lights were already lit, and the shop windows made a brilliant display. at intervals places of amusement opened wide their hospitable portals, and large placards presented tempting invitations to enter. they reached union square, and, traversing it, again walked up broadway to madison park. at the upper end of this park commences the beautiful avenue which bears the same name. only about half a dozen blocks now required to be passed, when the boys found themselves opposite a residence with a very imposing front. "this is the place," said dick. "i wish you were going in with me." "i hope you will have a pleasant time, dick. good-by till i see you again." dick felt a little nervous, but he summoned up all his courage, and, ascending the broad marble steps, rang the bell. chapter v. dick receives two valuable presents. at the end of the last chapter we left dick standing on the steps of mr. rockwell's residence in madison avenue. he had rung the bell and was waiting to have his summons answered. to say that dick expected to enjoy his visit would not be strictly true. he knew very well that his street education had not qualified him to appear to advantage in fashionable society, and he wished that fosdick were with him to lend him countenance. while under the influence of these feelings the door was thrown open, and a servant looked at him inquiringly. "is mr. rockwell at home?" asked dick. "yes. would you like to see him?" "he asked me to call this evening." "what! are you the boy that saved master johnny from drowning?" asked the servant, her face brightening up, for johnny was a great favorite in the house. "i jumped into the water after him," said dick, modestly. "i heard mr. rockwell say he was expecting you to-night. come right in. mistress is very anxious to see you." placed a little at his ease by this cordial reception, dick followed the servant upstairs to a pleasant sitting-room on the second floor. mr. and mrs. rockwell were seated at a centre-table reading the evening papers, while johnny and his sister grace were constructing a tower of babel with some blocks upon the carpet before the fire. dick entered, and stood just within the door, with his cap in his hand, feeling a little embarrassed. "i am glad to see you, richard," said mr. rockwell, rising from his seat, and advancing to our hero with a pleasant smile. "mrs. rockwell has been anxious to see you. my dear, this is the brave boy who saved our little johnny." mrs. rockwell, a tall, graceful lady, with a smile that quite captivated dick, offered her hand, and said, earnestly, "my brave boy, i have been wishing to see you. i shudder to think that, but for your prompt courage, i should now be mourning the loss of my dear little johnny. accept a mother's thanks for a favor so great that she can never hope to repay it." now this acknowledgment was very pleasant to dick, but it was also very embarrassing. it is difficult to receive praise gracefully. so our hero, not knowing what else to say, stammered out that she was very welcome. "i understand that you have entered my husband's employment," said mrs. rockwell. "yes," said dick. "he was kind enough to take me." "i hope to make a man of business of our young friend," said mr. rockwell. "he will soon feel at home in his new position, and i hope we may find the connection mutually satisfactory." "have you a pleasant boarding-place?" asked mrs. rockwell. "tip-top," said dick. "i mean pretty good," he added, in a little confusion. "where is it?" "in bleecker street," said dick, very glad that he was not obliged to say mott street. "that is quite a good location," said mr. rockwell. "how do you spend your evenings, richard?" "in studying with a friend of mine," said dick. "i want to know something by the time i grow up." "that is an excellent resolution," said his employer, with warm approval. "i wish more boys of your age were equally sensible. you may depend upon it that a good education is the best preparation for an honorable and useful manhood. what is your friend's name?" "henry fosdick. he rooms with me." "i am glad you have a friend who shares your tastes. but perhaps you would like to renew your acquaintance with the young gentleman to whom you have rendered so great a service. johnny has been allowed to stay up beyond his usual bedtime because you were coming. johnny, come here!" johnny rose from his blocks, and came to his mother's side. he was a pleasant-looking little fellow, with a pair of bright eyes, and round, plump cheeks. he looked shyly at dick. "did you ever see this young man?" asked his mother. "yes," said johnny. "when was it?" "when i was in the river," said johnny. "he pulled me out." "are you glad to see him?" "yes," said johnny. "what is his name?" "dick," said our hero, who somehow could not help feeling, when called richard, that some other boy was meant. "won't you come and help me build a house?" asked little johnny. dick accepted the invitation with pleasure, feeling more at home with children than with older persons. "this is sister grace," said johnny, with an offhand introduction. "i saw you on the boat," said dick. "yes," said grace, "i was there. oh, how frightened i was when johnny fell into the water! i don't see how you dared to jump in after him." "oh, i've been in swimming many a time. i don't mind it," said dick. "i s'pose you're used to it, like the fishes," said johnny. "i'm glad i'm not a fish. i shouldn't like to live in the water." "i don't think i should, either," said dick. "now, what do you think the fishes do when it rains?" "i do not know." "they go down to the bottom of the sea to get out of the wet." "isn't it wet down at the bottom of the sea?" asked johnny, in good faith. "of course it is, you little goose," said grace, with an air of superior wisdom. "will you make me a house?" said johnny. "what kind of a house do you want?" said dick, seating himself on the carpet, and taking up the blocks. "any kind," said johnny. dick, beginning to feel quite at home with the children, erected an imposing-looking house, leaving little spaces for the doors and windows. "that's better than the house grace made," said johnny, looking at it with complacency. "but it won't last very long," said dick. "you'd better sell it before it tumbles over." "do you own any houses?" asked johnny. "not many," said dick, smiling. "my father owns this house," said johnny, positively. "he paid fifty dollars for it." "i didn't think houses were so cheap," said dick. "i'd like to buy one at that price." "you're a little goose, johnny," said grace. "he gave as much as five hundred dollars." "grace doesn't know much more about the price of real estate than johnny," said mr. rockwell. "didn't the house cost as much as five hundred dollars?" asked grace. "as much as that certainly, my dear." just then, by an unguarded movement of johnny's foot, the edifice of blocks reared by dick became a confused ruin. "i've got tired of building houses," he announced, "won't you tell me a story, dick?" "i don't think i know any," said our hero. "here is a book of pictures," said his mother, bringing one from the table. "perhaps your new friend will show them to you." dick took the book, and felt very glad that he had learned to read. otherwise he might have been considerably embarrassed. the children asked a great many questions of dick about the pictures, some of which he could not answer. johnny, on being shown the picture of a turkish mosque, asked if that was the place where the turkeys went to church. "if there was any place for a goose to go to church, you'd go there," said his sister. "i aint a goose any more than you are," said johnny, indignantly; "am i, dick?" just then the servant came in to carry the children to bed, and, considerably against their wishes, they were obliged to withdraw. "come again, dick," said johnny. "thank you," said dick. "good-night." "good-night," said the two children, and the door closed upon them. "i think i'll be going," said dick, who did not feel quite so much at ease, now that his young friends had left him. "wait a few minutes," said mrs. rockwell. she rang the bell, and a servant brought up some cake and apples, of which dick was invited to partake. i need not detail the conversation; but mrs. rockwell, with the tact of a genuine lady, managed to draw out dick, and put him quite at his ease. "how old are you, richard?" she asked. "fifteen," said dick; "goin' on sixteen." "you are getting to be quite a young man,--old enough to wear a watch. have you one?" "no," said dick, not suspecting the motive that led to her question. "will you allow me the pleasure of supplying the deficiency?" said mrs. rockwell. as she spoke, she drew from a box at her side a very neat gold watch and chain, and placed it in dick's hands. our hero was so astonished at first that he could scarcely believe that this valuable present was intended for him. "is it for me?" he asked, hesitatingly. "yes," said mrs. rockwell, smiling pleasantly. "i hope you will find it of service." "it is too much," said dick. "i do not deserve it." "you must let me be the judge of that," said the lady, kindly. "here is the key; i nearly forgot to give it to you. i suppose you know how to wind it up?" "yes," said dick. "i understand that. i am _very_ much obliged to you." "you are very welcome. whenever you look at it, let it remind you that under all circumstances you can rely upon the friendship of johnny's parents." dick slipped the watch into a watch-pocket in his vest, for which he had never before had any use, and attached the chain to his button-hole. "how beautiful it is!" he said, in tones of admiration. "it was bought at ball & black's," said mrs. rockwell. "if it should not keep good time, or anything should happen to it, i advise you to take it there, and they will repair it for you." dick perceived by his new watch that it was nearly ten o'clock, and rose to go. he was kindly invited to renew his visit, and promised to do so. just as he was leaving the room, mr. rockwell handed a sealed envelope to dick, saying, "put this in your pocket, richard. it will be time enough to open it when you get home." dick sped home much more quickly than he had come. he thought with delight of fosdick's surprise when he should see the new watch and chain, and also with pardonable exultation of the sensation he would produce at the table when he carelessly drew out his watch to see what time it was. when he reached his boarding-house, and went upstairs, he found fosdick sitting up for him. "well, dick, what sort of a time did you have?" he asked. "tip-top," said dick. "who did you see?" "mr. and mrs. rockwell, and two children,--johnny, the one i fished out of the water, and his sister, grace. johnny's a jolly little chap, and his sister is a nice girl." "halloa, what's that?" asked fosdick, suddenly espying the watch-chain. "what do you think of my new watch?" asked dick, drawing it out. "do you mean to say it is yours?" "yes. mrs. rockwell gave it to me." "it's a regular beauty. mr. henderson has got one that he paid a hundred dollars for; but it isn't as nice as yours." "seems to me i have no end of luck," said dick. "i'll be a young man of fortun' before i know it." "people will think you are now, when they see you wear such a watch as that." "johnny nolan'd think i stole it, if he should see it," said dick. "poor chap! i wish some luck would come to him. i saw him to-day lookin' just as i used to before i met frank." "there's some difference between then and now, dick." "yes. i was a rough chap in them days." "in those days, dick." "in those days, and i don't know but i am now, but i'm trying to improve. with you to help me, i think i'll grow up respectable." "i hope we both will, dick. but who's that letter from that you've just taken out of your pocket?" "oh, i forgot. mr. rockwell handed it to me just before i came away, and told me not to open it till i got home. p'r'aps it says that he hasn't no more occasion for my valuable services." "that isn't very likely, considering the present you have brought home. but open it; i am curious to see what is in it." the envelope was cut open, and a piece of paper dropped out. fosdick picked it up, and to his inexpressible amazement ascertained that it was a check on the park bank for the sum of one thousand dollars made payable to richard hunter, or order. "a thousand dollars!" repeated dick, overwhelmed with astonishment; "you're only foolin' me. p'r'aps it's ten dollars." "no, it's a thousand dollars. read it yourself if you don't believe it." "i wish you'd pinch me, fosdick," said dick, seriously. "certainly, if you wish it." "that's enough," said dick, hastily. "i only wanted to make sure i wasn't dreamin'. i can't believe i'm worth a thousand dollars." "you're a lucky fellow, dick," said fosdick, "and you deserve your luck. i'm heartily glad of it." "about the best luck i ever had was in meeting you," said dick, affectionately. "i'm goin' to give you half the money." "no, you're not, dick. thank you all the same," said fosdick, decidedly. "it was meant for you, and you must keep it. i'll get along well enough. if i don't, i know you'll help me." "but i wish you'd take half the money." "no, dick, it wouldn't be right. but your new watch says it's getting late, and we had better go to bed." it was some time before dick fell asleep. his good luck had so excited him that he found it difficult to calm down sufficiently to sink into a quiet slumber. chapter vi. mr. gilbert is astonished. when dick woke up in the morning the first thing he thought of was his watch, the next the check which he had received from mr. rockwell. "i'll go to the bank this morning, and get my money," said he. "how are you going to invest it, dick?" asked fosdick. "i don't know," said dick. "i'll put it in the savings bank till i decide. that'll make more'n eleven hundred dollars. i didn't use to think i ever'd be worth that, when i slept in boxes and old wagons." "eleven hundred dollars at six per cent. interest will yield you sixty-six dollars a year." "so it will," said dick, "and all without working. i tell you what, fosdick, at this rate i'll soon be a man of fortune." "yes, if you can make a thousand dollars a day." "i wonder what old gilbert'll say when he sees it," said dick. "who's he?" "he's the book-keeper. he aint very fond of me." "what has he against you?" "he thinks i don't treat him with proper respect," said dick. "besides he tried to get his cousin roswell crawford in, but he couldn't." "then it seems both of us have interfered with roswell." "he's got a place now. i guess he's the senior partner by the way he talks." the breakfast-bell rang, and the boys went down to breakfast. clifton was down already, and was standing in front of stove. being an observing young man he at once noticed dick's watch-chain. "halloa, hunter!" said he; "i didn't know you had a watch." "i didn't know it myself till last night," said dick. "where did you get it?" "it came from ball & black's," said our hero, willing to mystify him. "that's a nice chain,--solid gold, eh?" "do you think i'd wear anything else?" asked dick, loftily. "will you allow me to look at the watch?" "certainly," said dick, drawing it from his pocket, and submitting it to clifton's inspection. "it's a regular beauty," said the young man, enthusiastically. "do you mind telling how much you paid for it?" "how much do you think?" "a hundred dollars?" "it cost all of that," said dick, confidently. "if you see one for sale at that price, just let me know, and i'll buy it for a speculation." "you must be getting a pretty good salary to buy such a watch as that." "pretty good," said dick, carelessly. mr. clifton was rather a shallow young man, who was fond of show, and had a great respect for those who were able to make it. when dick first came to the boarding-house he looked down upon him as a boy; but now that he proved to be the possessor of an elegant gold watch and chain, and might, therefore, be regarded as in prosperous circumstances, he conceived a high respect for him. the truth was that clifton himself only got two dollars a week more than dick, yet he paid eight dollars a week for board, and spent the rest in dress. his reputation among tailors was not the best, being always more ready to order new clothes than to pay for them. while they were talking the rest of the boarders entered, and breakfast commenced. miss peyton was there, of course. "how did you find your friends in madison avenue last evening, mr. hunter?" she inquired. "they were all up and dressed," said dick. "they sent their partic'lar regards to you." "oh, you wicked story-teller!" simpered miss peyton; "just as if i'd believe such nonsense. have they got a nice house?" "beautiful," said dick. "i haven't seen any like it since i called on queen victoria last year." "how is the house furnished?" "well," said dick, "as near as i can remember, there's diamonds worked in the carpet, and all the tables and chairs is of gold. they'd be rather hard to set on if it twan't for the velvet cushions." "aint you afraid to tell such stories, mr. hunter? mr. fosdick, you will have to talk to your friend." "i am afraid it wouldn't do much good, miss peyton, if you fail to cure him." "mr. hunter has just been investing in a handsome watch," remarked clifton, passing his cup for a second cup of coffee. "oh, do let me look at it! i dote on watches," said miss peyton. "certainly," said dick; and he detached the chain from his button-hole, and passed the watch across the table. "it's a perfect little love," said miss peyton, enthusiastically. "isn't it, mrs. browning?" "it is very beautiful, certainly," said the landlady. she could not help feeling surprised that dick, who, it will be remembered, had represented himself at his first visit to be in limited circumstances, and now occupied one of her cheapest rooms, could afford to purchase an article which was evidently so costly. "where did you buy it, mr. hunter?" asked another boarder. "i did not buy it at all," said dick, deciding to let it be known how it came into his possession. "it was given to me." "perhaps you'll mention my name to the person that gave it to you," said mr. clifton. "if he's got any more to dispose of in that way, i should like to come in for one." "how do you know but it may have come from a _lady_ friend, mr. clifton?" said miss peyton, slyly. "how is that, hunter?" "i haven't had any presents from any of my lady friends yet," said dick. "perhaps i may some time." "you don't mean anybody in particular, of course, mr. hunter?" said miss peyton. "oh, no, of course not." this conversation may seem scarcely worth recording, but it will serve to illustrate the character of dick's fellow-boarders. miss peyton was rather silly and affected, but she was good-natured, and dick felt more at home with her than he would have done had she been a lady like mrs. rockwell, for instance. it got to be the custom with dick and fosdick to remain in the parlor a short time after supper, or rather dinner, for this was the third meal, and fosdick joined the young lady in singing. dick unfortunately had not been gifted by nature with a voice attuned to melody, and he participated only as a listener, in which capacity he enjoyed the entertainment. after breakfast dick set out for the store as usual. he felt unusually happy and independent as he walked along. the check in his pocket made him feel rich. he wondered how it would be best to invest his money so as to yield him the largest return. he wisely decided to take mr. murdock, the head clerk, into his confidence, and ask his advice upon this point. when dick arrived at the store neither mr. gilbert nor mr. murdock had yet arrived. half an hour later the latter came, and five minutes after him the book-keeper. the latter noticed that the morning paper appeared to have been disturbed, and, glad of any opportunity to find fault with dick, said, angrily, "so you've been reading the paper instead of minding your work, have you? i'll report you to mr. rockwell." "thank you," said dick, "you're very kind. are you sure i read the paper? is there any news missin' out of it?" "you're an impudent boy," said the book-keeper, provoked. he wanted to overawe dick; but somehow dick wouldn't be overawed. evidently he did not entertain as much respect for the book-keeper as that gentleman felt to be his due. that a mere errand-boy should bandy words with a gentleman in his position seemed to mr. gilbert highly reprehensible. "you're an impudent boy!" repeated gilbert, sharply, finding dick did not reply to his first charge. "i heard you make that remark before," said dick, quietly. now there was nothing out of the way in dick's tone, which was perfectly respectful, and he only stated a fact; but the book-keeper became still more angry. "who rumpled that paper?" he asked. "suppose you ask mr. murdock?" said dick. "did he come in here?" asked gilbert, cooling down, for it was against dick that his charge was made, and not against the head clerk. as to the paper, he really cared nothing. "yes," said dick. "then it's all right. i supposed you had been idling your time over the paper. go and ask mr. murdock what time it is. i left my watch at home." "it's half past eight," said dick, drawing out his watch. up to this time the book-keeper had not noticed dick's watch-chain. now that his attention was drawn not only to that, but to the beautiful gold watch which dick carried, he was not a little surprised. "whose watch is that?" he asked, abruptly. "mine," said dick, briefly, rather enjoying the book-keeper's surprise. "how did you come by it?" "honestly," said dick. "is it gold, or only plated?" "it's gold." "humph! did you buy it, or was it given you?" "well," said dick, "i didn't buy it." "did you say it was yours?" "yes." gilbert looked at dick in surprise. our hero was becoming more and more an enigma to him. that a boy in dick's position should have a gold watch given him, especially now that he had learned from his cousin roswell the nature of dick's former employment, seemed indeed wonderful. "let me look at your watch a minute," he said. dick handed it to him. "it seems to be a very good one," he said. "yes," said dick; "i aint proud. it's as good as i want to wear." "it looks entirely out of place on such a boy as you," said the book-keeper, sharply. "perhaps it would look better on you," suggested our hero, innocently. "yes, it would be more appropriate for me to wear than you. you're not old enough to be trusted with a watch; least of all with such a good one as that." "perhaps you'd be kind enough to mention it to the one that gave it to me." "whoever gave it to you didn't show much judgment," said gilbert, in the same pleasant way. "who was it?" "it was mrs. rockwell." if a bombshell had exploded in the office, it could hardly have taken gilbert more by surprise. "who did you say?" he repeated, thinking his ears might have deceived him. "mrs. rockwell," said dick, once more. the book-keeper could hardly suppress a low whistle. "when did she give it to you?" "last evening." "were you up there?" "yes." "did mr. rockwell invite you?" "yes." just then dick was called away by mr. murdock, who had some work for him to do. "there's something mighty queer in all this," thought the book-keeper. "what mr. rockwell can see in that boy, i don't understand. he's an impudent young rascal, and i'll get him turned off if it's a possible thing." chapter vii. a financial discussion. in the course of the morning dick called at the park bank, and presented the check which was made payable to himself. his employer had accompanied him to the bank on a previous day, and introduced him to the cashier as one who was authorized to receive and pay over money for the firm. dick therefore found no difficulty in obtaining his money, though the fact that the check was made payable to him created some surprise. "your salary seems to be a large one," said the teller, as he handed our hero ten bills of a hundred dollars each. "yes," said dick, "my services are very valooable." on leaving the bank, dick went to the savings bank, and presented his book. "how much do you wish to deposit?" "a thousand dollars," said dick, briefly. the bank officer looked at him in surprise. "how much did you say?" he repeated. "a thousand dollars." "no nonsense, young man! my time is too valuable," said the other, impatiently. he was justified in his incredulity, since dick's deposits hitherto had been in sums of from one to five dollars. "if you don't want to take the money, i can go somewhere else," said our hero, who was now on his dignity. "i have a thousand dollars to deposit. here it is." the bank officer took the money, and counted it over in considerable surprise. "business is improving,--isn't it?" he said. "yes," said dick. "i made all that money in one day." "if you should want a partner, call round and see me." "all right. i won't forget." dick took the bank-book, and, putting it in his inside coat-pocket, buttoned up his coat, and hurried back to the store. his reflections were of a very agreeable nature, as he thought of his large deposit in the savings bank, and he could not help feeling that he had been born under a lucky star. nothing of consequence transpired in the store that day. dick was attentive to his duties. he was determined to learn the business as rapidly as possible, not only because he felt grateful to mr. rockwell for his kindness, but also because he knew that this was the best thing for his future prospects. mr. murdock, who has already been mentioned, was of service to him in this respect. he was himself an excellent business man, and very conscientious in the discharge of his duties. he required the same fidelity of others. he had observed dick closely, and was attracted towards him by his evident desire to give satisfaction, as well as by his frank, open face. he resolved to help him along, more especially when he saw the manner in which he was treated by the book-keeper. to tell the truth, mr. gilbert was not a favorite with mr. murdock. he understood his business, to be sure, and, so far as mr. murdock knew, kept the books correctly. but personally he was not agreeable, and the head salesman doubted whether his integrity was what it should have been. so, altogether, he made up his mind to help dick on as well as he could, and take pains to instruct him in the business. dick, on his side, was pleased with mr. murdock, and determined to make him a confidant in the matter of his sudden accession of fortune. he took an opportunity, therefore, during the day, to say to him, "mr. murdock, i want to ask your advice about something." "well, my lad, what is it?" said his friend, kindly. "if it's about choosing a wife, i don't know whether my advice will be good for much." "it isn't that," said dick. "next year'll be soon enough for that." "so i should think. well, if it's nothing of that sort, what is it?" "it's about investing some money. i thought you might be able to advise me." "how much is it?" asked mr. murdock, supposing the sum could not be more than fifty or sixty dollars. "eleven hundred dollars," said dick. "how much?" demanded the salesman, in surprise. "eleven hundred dollars." "is it your own?" "yes." "of course you couldn't have earned so much. was it left to you?" "i'll tell you all about it," said dick. "i wouldn't tell mr. gilbert, and i don't mean he shall know it, but i'd just as lieves tell you. do you know why mr. rockwell gave me this place?" "no; i've wondered a little, not at that, but at his giving you so much higher pay than boys usually receive." "then i'll tell you." dick proceeded to give an account of the manner in which he had rescued little johnny from drowning, as related in the adventures of "ragged dick." "it was a brave act," said mr. murdock. "it was nothing at all," said dick, modestly. "i could swim like a duck, and i didn't mind the wetting." "but you ran the risk of drowning." "i didn't think of that." "if you had been a coward or a selfish boy, it would have been the first thing you would have thought of. so mr. rockwell gave you this place in acknowledgment of your service. i am glad he did. you deserve it." "he has done more," said dick. then he related the events of the evening previous, and told mr. murdock of the two gifts he had received. "so, with the money i had before, i have now eleven hundred dollars," dick concluded. "shall i leave it in the savings bank, or can i do better with it?" "i'll tell you what i think will be a good investment," said mr. murdock. "i know a party who owns four adjoining lots on forty-fifth street. he is pressed for money, and wishes to dispose of them. he offered them to me at twenty-two hundred dollars, half cash. i offered him a thousand dollars cash for two of them, but he wishes to sell the whole together. i think it will be an excellent speculation, for the laying out of central park is carrying up the price of lots in the neighborhood rapidly." "why didn't you buy them, then?" "because i didn't want to buy anything that i couldn't pay for at once. i've got a wife and three children to look out for, and so i can save money but slowly. if i only had myself to take care of, i wouldn't hesitate." "can't we club together, and buy it?" suggested dick, eagerly. "that is just what i was going to propose. i think the owner will take two thousand dollars down for the lots. that will be a thousand dollars apiece. i've got that money, and so have you. what do you think of it?" "tip-top," said dick, enthusiastically. "it's just what i'd like to do." "of course it wouldn't bring us in anything, but would, instead, be an expense for the present, as we should have to pay taxes on it. on the other hand, you could invest the money in bank-stock, so as to receive seventy or eighty dollars annually at interest. you must decide which investment you prefer. the land we may have to keep on hand four or five years, paying taxes yearly." "but the price'll go up." "there is no doubt of that. the city is extending northwards rapidly. i shouldn't be surprised if the lots would bring a thousand dollars apiece in less than five years. this would be equal to a very handsome interest." "i'm in for buying 'em," said dick. "so, if you'll see the owner, i'll have the money all ready whenever you want it." "very well, but perhaps you would like to see them first. we'll manage to get off an hour earlier than usual this afternoon, and go up and take a look at them." "it seems to me mr. murdock and that boy are pretty thick together," said the book-keeper, glancing through the glass partition. he could see that they were conversing earnestly, but of course couldn't hear a word that was said. "what he or mr. rockwell can see in the young rascal passes my comprehension." he called sharply to dick, and ordered him to go to the post-office for letters. "all right," said dick. "and mind you don't loiter by the way," said the book-keeper, sharply. "you were gone long enough at the bank this morning. did you come right back?" "no," said dick. "why didn't you?" "there was somewhere else i wanted to go." "on your own business, or mr. rockwell's?" "on my own business." "so i thought. i shall report you to mr. rockwell," said gilbert, triumphantly. "i wouldn't, if i were you," said dick, coolly. "and why not, you young rascal?" "because he knows it already." "knows it already," repeated the book-keeper, discomfited. "well, i hope he gave you a good scolding." "i am sorry to disappoint you," said dick; "but he knows it, because he gave me leave to go." "i don't believe it," said gilbert, mortified to find that dick was in the right after all. "then perhaps you'd better ask mr. rockwell." "i will," said gilbert, who really had no intention of doing so. "you must have had some very urgent private business," he added, with a sneer. "you're right, there," said dick. "playing marbles with some of your ragamuffin friends, i suppose." "playin' marbles is a very refined and intellectual amusement," said dick; "but i don't play marbles in business hours." "where did you go?" said the book-keeper, impatiently. "i don't want any of your impertinence." "i went to the savings bank," said dick. "i suppose you have a very large account there," sneered gilbert. "yes," said dick, quietly; "pretty large." "it's to be hoped you won't withdraw your patronage, or the bank might fail." "then i won't," said dick. "shall i go to the post-office now?" "yes, and be quick about it." the book-keeper had some curiosity as to the amount of dick's account at the savings bank, but there was no good chance for him to inquire, and he accordingly returned to his writing, more prejudiced against dick than ever. on the whole, i have some doubts whether dick's manner was quite as respectful as it ought to have been to one who was older and higher in office than himself. i should not recommend my young readers to imitate him in this respect. but it is my business to describe dick just as he was, and i have already said that he was not a model boy. still in most respects he tried to do what was right, and it must be admitted that the book-keeper's treatment of him was not likely to inspire much attachment or respect. dick had no difficulty in perceiving the dislike entertained by gilbert for him, and he was beginning to cherish a similar feeling towards the book-keeper. he determined, however, to give him no cause of complaint, so far as he was entitled to command his services; but it must be confessed he found much more satisfaction in obeying mr. rockwell and mr. murdock. chapter viii. new plans. at the close of the afternoon, as had been proposed, mr. murdock, accompanied by dick, rode up as far as forty-fifth street, to look at the lots which he had suggested buying. they were located in a very eligible situation, between fifth and sixth avenues. some of my young readers may not be aware that the dimensions of a city lot are twenty-five feet front by one hundred feet in depth. the four lots together made a plot of one hundred feet by one hundred, or a little less than quarter of an acre. in the country the whole would scarcely have been considered sufficient for a house with a good yard in front; but if people choose to live in the city they must make up their minds to be crowded. "it looks small,--don't it?" said dick. "i shouldn't think there was four lots there." "yes," said mr. murdock, "they are of the regular size. some lots are only twenty feet wide. these are twenty-five. they don't look so large before they are built on." "well," said dick, "i'm in for buying them." "i think it will be a good investment for both of us," said mr. murdock. "the money shall be ready whenever you want it," said dick. "very well. i will see the owner to-morrow, or rather this evening, as it is best to be prompt, lest we might lose so favorable a bargain. i will make the best terms i can with him, and let you know the result to-morrow." "all right!" said dick. "good-night, mr. murdock." "good-night. by-the-by, why won't you come round and take supper with us? my wife and children will be glad to make your acquaintance." "thank you," said dick. "i will come some other evening with pleasure; but if i stay away without saying anything about it, fosdick won't know what's become of me." dick got back to bleecker street a little late for dinner. when he entered the dining-room, the remainder of the boarders were seated at the table. "come, mr. hunter, you must render an account of yourself," said miss peyton, playfully. "why are you late this evening?" "suppose i don't tell," said dick. "then you must pay a fine,--mustn't he, mrs. browning?" "that depends upon who is to benefit by the fines," said the landlady. "if they are to be paid to me, i shall be decidedly in favor of it. that reminds me that you were late to breakfast this morning, miss peyton." "oh, ladies mustn't be expected to pay fines," said miss peyton, shaking her ringlets. "they never have any money, you know." "then i think we must let mr. hunter off," said mrs. browning. "if he will tell us what has detained him. you must excuse my curiosity, mr. hunter, but ladies, you know, are privileged to be curious." "i don't mind telling," said dick, helping himself to a piece of toast. "i'm talking of buying some lots up-town, and went up with a friend to look at them." fosdick looked at dick, inquiringly, not knowing if he were in earnest or not. "indeed!" said mr. clifton. "may i inquire where the lots are situated?" "i'll tell you if i buy them," said dick; "but i don't want to run the risk of losing them." "you needn't be afraid of my cutting you out," said clifton. "i paid my washerwoman this morning, and haven't got but a dollar and a half over. i suppose that won't buy the property." "i wish it would," said dick. "in that case i'd buy half a dozen lots." "i suppose, from your investing in lots, mr. hunter, that you are thinking of getting married, and living in a house of your own," said miss peyton, simpering. "no," said dick, "i shan't get married for a year. nobody ought to be married before they're seventeen." "that's just my age," said miss peyton. mr. clifton afterwards informed dick that miss peyton was twenty-five, but did not mention how he had ascertained. he likewise added that when he first came to the boarding-house, she had tried her fascinations upon him. "she'd have married me in a minute," he said complacently; "but i'm too old a bird to be caught that way. when you see mrs. clifton, gentlemen, you'll see style and beauty, and--_money_" he added, after a moment's reflection. mr. clifton had a tolerably good opinion of himself, as may be inferred from this remark. in fact, he valued himself rather more highly than the ladies appeared to do; but such cases are not remarkable. "mrs. clifton will be a lucky woman," said dick, with a sober face. "you're very kind to say so," said mr. clifton, modestly. "i believe i'm tolerably good-looking, and nobody'll deny that i've got style. but money,--that's my weak point. you couldn't lend me five dollars, could you, till next week?" "i'm afraid not," said dick. "my up-town lots cost so much, and then there'll be the taxes afterwards." "oh, it's of no consequence. i thought a little of going to the opera to-night, and i need a new pair of gloves. it costs a sight to keep a fellow in gloves." "so it does," said dick. "i bought a pair for fifty cents six months ago, and now i've got to buy another pair." "ha, ha! good joke! by the way, i wonder you fellows don't take a better room." "why should we? isn't this good enough?" asked fosdick. "oh, it's comfortable and all that," said clifton; "but you know what i mean. you wouldn't want any of your fashionable friends to call upon you here." "that's a fact," said dick. "suppose," he said, turning to fosdick, with a twinkle in his eye, "johnny nolan should call upon us here. what would he think of our living in such a room?" "he would probably be surprised," said fosdick, entering into the joke. "is he one of your madison-avenue friends?" asked clifton, a little mystified. "i don't know where he lives," said dick, with truth; "but he's a friend of mine, in business down town." "wholesale or retail?" "retail i should say,--shouldn't you, fosdick?" "yes," said fosdick, amused at clifton's evident mystification. "well, good-evening, gents," said clifton, sauntering out of the room. "call and see me when you haven't anything better to do." "thank you. good-night." "were you in earnest, dick, about the up-town lots," asked fosdick, after clifton had left the room. "yes," said dick. "it's an investment that mr. murdock advised. i'll tell you about it, and then you can tell me what you think of it." dick thereupon gave an account of the conversation that had taken place between him and the head clerk, and what they proposed to do. "what do you think of it?" he concluded. "i have no doubt it is an excellent plan," said fosdick; "but of course my opinion isn't worth much. i don't see but you stand a chance to be a rich man some time, dick." "by the time i get to be a hundred," said dick. "a good while before that, i presume. but there's something else we must not forget." "what is that?" "money is a good thing to have, but a good education is better. i was thinking to-day that since we have come here we haven't done any studying to amount to anything." "that is true." "and the sooner we begin the better." "all right. i agree to that." "but we shall need assistance. i've taught you about all i know myself, and now we want to go higher." "what shall we do?" "i'll tell you, dick. have you noticed the young man that has a room just opposite ours?" "his name is layton,--isn't it?" "yes." "what about him?" "i heard yesterday that he was a teacher in a private school. we might engage him to teach us in the evening, or, at any rate, see if he is willing." "all right. is he in now, i wonder?" "yes. i heard him go into his room a few minutes since." "very well; suppose we go in and speak to him." the boys at once acted upon this suggestion, and, crossing the entry, knocked at the door. "come in!" said a voice from within. the door being opened, they found themselves in the presence of a young man of pleasant appearance, apparently about twenty-five years of age. "good-evening, gentlemen," he said. "i am glad to see you. will you have seats?" "thank you," said fosdick. "we came in on a little business. i understand you are a teacher, mr. layton." "yes, i am engaged in a private school in the city." "my friend and myself are engaged in business during the day, but we feel that our education is quite deficient, and we want to make arrangements to study evenings. we cannot do this to advantage without assistance. are you occupied during the evenings?" "no, i am not." "perhaps you would not like teaching in the evening, after being engaged in the daytime." "on the contrary, i have been hoping to secure scholars; but i hardly knew how to set about it." "are you acquainted with the french language, mr. layton?" "yes, i am tolerably familiar with it. i studied it at college with a native teacher." "if you are a college graduate, then, you will be able to teach us whatever we desire to learn. but i am afraid we may not be able to make it worth your while. we have neither of us large salaries. but if four dollars a week--two dollars for each of us--would be satisfactory--" "i shall be satisfied with it," said mr. layton. "in fact," he added, frankly, "i shall consider it quite a welcome addition to my salary. my father died a year since, and my mother and sister are compelled to depend upon me in part for support. but i have not been able to do as much for them as i wished. this addition to my earnings will give me the means of increasing their comforts." "then it will be a pleasant arrangement all round," said fosdick. "what would you advise us to study?" after a few inquiries as to their present attainments, mr. layton recommended a course of mathematics, beginning with algebra, history, and the french language. he gave the boys a list of the books they would be likely to need. the next evening the boys commenced studying, and determined to devote an hour and a half each evening to mental improvement. they found mr. layton an excellent teacher, and he on his side found them very apt pupils. dick had an active, intelligent mind, and an excellent capacity, and fosdick had always had a thirst for learning, which he was now able to gratify. as his salary would have been insufficient to pay his expenses and the teacher besides, he was obliged to have recourse to his little fund in the savings bank. dick offered to assist him, but fosdick would not consent. just as his savings were about exhausted, his wages were raised two dollars a week, and this enabled him to continue the arrangement without assistance. in the course of a few weeks the boys commenced reading french, and found it quite interesting. chapter ix. roswell crawford at home. while fosdick and dick are devoting their evenings to study, under the guidance of mr. layton, we will direct the reader's attention to a young gentleman who considered himself infinitely superior in the social scale to either. roswell crawford could never forget that dick had once been a boot-black, and looked upon it as an outrage that such a boy should be earning a salary of ten dollars a week, while he--a gentleman's son--was only paid four, which he regarded as a beggarly pittance. roswell's father had once kept a small dry goods store on broadway, but failed after being in business a little less than a year. this constituted his claim to gentility. after his failure, mr. crawford tried several kinds of business, without succeeding in any. his habits were not strictly temperate, and he had died two years previous. his wife hired a house in clinton place, and took boarders, barely succeeding in making both ends meet at the end of the year. the truth was that she was not a good manager, and preferred to talk of her gentility and former wealth to looking after the affairs of the household. she was very much like her son in this respect. among mrs. crawford's boarders was mr. gilbert, who is already known to the reader as the book-keeper of rockwell & cooper. it has been mentioned also that he was roswell's cousin, being a son of mrs. crawford's only brother. he, too, was not unlike his aunt and cousin, and all three combined to hate and despise dick, whom mrs. crawford saw fit to regard as her son's successful rival. "how's the boot-black, cousin james?" asked roswell, on the evening succeeding that which dick had passed at mr. rockwell's. "putting on airs worse than ever," replied gilbert. "mr. rockwell has a singular taste, to say the least," said mrs. crawford, "or he wouldn't hire a boy from the streets, and give him such extravagant wages. to pay such a vagabond ten dollars a week, when a boy of good family, like roswell, can get but four, is perfectly ridiculous." "i don't believe he gets so much," said roswell. "it's only one of his big stories." "you're mistaken there," said gilbert. "he does get exactly that." "are you sure of it?" "i ought to be, since i received directions from mr. rockwell to-day to pay him that amount to-morrow night, that being the end of the week." "i never heard of such a thing!" ejaculated mrs. crawford. "the man must be a simpleton." "if he is, there's another besides him." "who do you mean?" "mrs. rockwell." "has she made acquaintance with the boot-black, then?" asked roswell, with a sneer. "yes, he visited them last evening at their house." "did he tell you so?" "yes." "i should think they'd feel honored by such a visitor." "probably they did, for mrs. rockwell made him a present of a gold watch." "what!" exclaimed roswell and his mother in concert. "it's true. i sent him out to ask the time to-day, when he pulled out a new gold watch with an air of importance, and told me the time." "was it a good watch?" "a very handsome one. it must have cost, with the chain, a hundred and twenty-five dollars." "the idea of a boot-black with a gold watch!" exclaimed roswell, with a sneer. "it's about as appropriate as a pig in a silk dress." "i can't understand it at all," said mrs. crawford. "it can't be that he's a poor relation of theirs, can it?" "i should say not. mr. rockwell wouldn't be likely to have a relation reduced to blacking boots." "is the boy so attractive, then? what does he look like?" "he's as bold as brass, and hasn't got any manners nor education," said roswell. poor dick! his ears ought to have tingled, considering the complimentary things that were said of him this evening. but luckily he knew nothing about it, and, if he had, it is doubtful whether it would have troubled him much. he was independent in his ideas, and didn't trouble himself much about the opinion of others, as long as he felt that he was doing right as nearly as he knew how. "do you think this strange fancy of mr. rockwell's is going to last?" inquired mrs. crawford. "i wish roswell could have got in there." "so do i, but i couldn't accomplish it." "if this boy should fall out of favor, there might be a chance for roswell yet; don't you think so?" asked mrs. crawford. "i wish there might," said roswell. "i'd like to see that beggar's pride humbled. besides, four dollars a week is such a miserable salary." "you thought yourself lucky when you got it." "so i did; but that was before i found out how much this boot-black was getting." "well," said gilbert, "he isn't a favorite of mine, as you know well enough. if there's anything i can do to oust him, i shall do it." "couldn't you leave some money in his way? he might be tempted to steal it." "i don't know yet what course would be best. i'll try to get him into trouble of some kind. but i can tell better by and by what to do." gilbert went up to his room, and mrs. crawford and roswell were left alone. "i wish you were at rockwell & cooper's, roswell," said his mother. "so do i, mother; but it's no use wishing." "i don't know about that. your cousin ought to have some influence there." "the boot-black's in the way." "he may not be in the way always. your cousin may detect him in something that will cause his discharge." "even if he does, i've tried once to get in there, and didn't succeed. they didn't seem to take a fancy to me." "i shouldn't expect them to, if they take a fancy to a common street boy. but when they find him out, they may change their opinion of you." "i don't know how that will be, mother. at any rate, i think i ought to get more than four dollars a week where i am. why, there's talbot, only two years older than i, gets eight dollars, and i do more than he. to tell the truth, i don't like the place. i don't like to be seen carrying round bundles. it isn't fit work for a gentleman's son." roswell forgot that many of the most prosperous merchants in the city began in that way, only on less wages. one who wants to climb the ladder of success must, except in very rare cases, commence at the lowest round. this was what roswell did not like. he wanted to begin half-way up at the very least. it was a great hindrance to him that he regarded himself as a gentleman's son, and was puffed up with a corresponding sense of his own importance. the more roswell thought of his ill-requited services, as he considered them, the more he felt aggrieved. it may be mentioned that he was employed in a dry goods store on sixth avenue, and was chiefly engaged in carrying out bundles for customers. a circumstance which occurred about this time deepened his disgust with the place. about the middle of the next week he was carrying a heavy bundle to a house on madison avenue. now it happened that mr. rockwell, who, it will be remembered, lived on the same street, had left home that morning, quite forgetting an important letter which he had received, and which required an early answer. he therefore summoned dick, and said, "richard, do you remember the location of my house?" "yes, sir," said dick. "i find i have left an important letter at home. i have written a line to my wife, that she may know where to look for it. i want you to go up at once." "very well, sir." dick took the note, and, walking to broadway, jumped on board an omnibus, and in a few minutes found himself opposite the fifth avenue hotel. here he alighted, and, crossing the park, entered madison avenue, then as now lined with fine houses. walking briskly up the avenue, he overtook a boy of about his own size, with a large bundle under his arm. glancing at him as he passed, he recognized roswell crawford. "how are you, crawford?" said dick, in an offhand manner. roswell looked at the speaker, whom he recognized. "i'm well," said he, in a stiff, ungracious manner. ashamed of the large bundle he was carrying, he would rather have been seen by any boy than dick, under present circumstances. he did not fail to notice dick's neat dress, and the gold chain displayed on his vest. indeed there was nothing in dick's appearance which would have been inconsistent with the idea that he lived on the avenue, and was, what roswell claimed to be, a gentleman's son. it seemed to roswell that dick was immensely presumptuous in swaggering up madison avenue in such a style, as he mentally called it, and he formed the benevolent design of "taking down his pride," and making him feel uncomfortable, if possible. "have you lost your place?" he inquired. "no," said dick, "not yet. it's very kind of you to inquire." "i suppose they pay you for walking the streets, then," he said, with a sneer. "yes," said dick, composedly; "that's one of the things they pay me for." "i suppose you like it better than blacking boots?" said roswell, who, supposing that dick was ashamed of his former occupation, felt a malicious pleasure in reminding him of it. "yes," said dick, "i like it better on the whole; but then there's some advantages about boot-blackin'." "indeed!" said roswell, superciliously. "as i was never in the business, i can't of course decide." "then i was in business for myself, you see, and was my own master. now i have to work for another man." "you don't seem to be working very hard now," said roswell, enviously. "not very," said dick. "you must be tired carrying that heavy bundle. i'll carry it for you as far as i go." roswell, who was not above accepting a favor from a boy he didn't like, willingly transferred it to our hero. "i carried it out just to oblige," he said, as if he were not in the daily habit of carrying such packages. "that's very kind of you," said dick. roswell did not know whether dick spoke sarcastically or not, and therefore left the remark unnoticed. "i don't think i shall stay where i am very long," he said. "don't you like?" asked dick. "not very well. i'm not obliged to work for a living," added roswell, loftily, but not altogether truly. "i am," said dick. "i've had to work for a living ever since i was six years old. i suppose you work because you like it." "i'm learning business. i'm going to be a merchant, as my father was." "i'll have to give up the bundle now," said dick. "this is as far as i am going." roswell took back his bundle, and dick went up the steps of mr. rockwell's residence and rang the door-bell. chapter x. a store on sixth avenue. roswell kept on his way with his heavy bundle, more discontented than ever. the bundle seemed heavier than ever. dick had no such bundles to carry. he had an easier time, his business position was better, and his wages more than double. and all this in spite of the glaring fact that roswell was a gentleman's son, and dick wasn't. surely fortune was very blind, and unfair in the distribution of her favors. "i suppose he'll be crowing over me," thought roswell, bitterly, judging from what would have been his own feeling had the case been reversed. "i hope he'll have to go back to boot-blacking some day. i wish mother'd buy me a gold watch and chain. there'd be some sense in _my_ wearing it." roswell evidently thought it very inappropriate that dick should wear a handsome gold watch, more especially as he was quite sure beforehand that his mother would not gratify his own desire to possess one. still he resolved to ask. there was another thing he meant to ask. feeling that his services were worth more than the wages he received, and convincing himself that his employers would be unwilling to lose him, he determined to ask an advance of two dollars a week, making six dollars in all. not that he considered that even this would pay him, but as he could hardly hope that he would be appreciated according to his deserts, he limited his request to that sum. he concluded to defer making his application until saturday evening, when he would receive his week's wages. he consulted his mother upon this subject, and she, having nearly as high an opinion of her promising son as he had himself, consented to the application. if his cousin, james gilbert, had heard of his intention, he was enough of a business man to have dissuaded him from the attempt. though he saw fit to espouse the cause of roswell against dick, it was more because he disliked the latter than because he was blind to the faults of the former. indeed, he had a very moderate opinion of his young cousin's capabilities. the days slipped by, and saturday night came. it was nine o'clock before roswell was released, the saturday-night trade being the best of the week. the other clerks had been paid, roswell's turn coming last, because he was the youngest. the designation of the firm was hall & turner. mr. hall, the senior partner, usually went home early in the evening; and mr. turner, the junior partner, a man of about thirty-five, attended to the evening business, and paid the weekly wages. "here, crawford," he said, counting out four one dollar bills; "it's your turn now." "i want to speak to you for a moment, mr. turner," said roswell, beginning to feel a little nervous; for now that the time had come for making his request, he felt a little uncertain how it would be received. "very well," said his employer, showing a little surprise; "be quick about it, for i want to get through." "i want to know if you will not be willing to raise my wages," said roswell, rather awkwardly. "on what ground do you ask for it?" said mr. turner, looking up. "i thought i might be worth more," said roswell. "how long have you been in my employment,--do you remember?" "about four months," said roswell. "do you think you have learned enough in that time to make you worth more?" "yes, sir," said roswell, with a little hesitation. "how much more would satisfy you?" "two dollars more,--for the present," said roswell, beginning to feel a little hopeful. "that is six dollars a week." "yes, sir." "and how soon would you expect another advance?" asked mr. turner, quietly. "in about six months." "you are quite moderate in your demands, certainly." there was something in mr. turner's tone which struck roswell as unfavorable, and he hastily said in his own justification:-- "there's a friend of mine, no older than i am, who gets ten dollars a week." certainly roswell must have spoken inadvertently, or he would hardly have referred to dick as his friend; but his main idea at present was to produce an impression upon the mind of mr. turner. "is your friend in a dry goods store?" asked mr. turner. "no, sir." "then i don't see that his wages have any bearing upon your case. there may be some special circumstances that affect his compensation. how long has he been in the service of his present employer?" "only a week or two." "is this his first place?" "yes, sir." "it may be that he is some relative of his employer." "that isn't very likely," said roswell, his lip curling. "he used to be a boot-black about the streets." "indeed!" said mr. turner, keenly. "i think you said he was a friend of yours." "no, sir," said roswell, proudly; "i haven't the honor." "you certainly said 'there's a friend of mine, no older than i am, who gets ten dollars a week.'" "i didn't mean to speak of him as my friend," said roswell; "i'm a gentleman's son." "if you are, his friendship might do you no harm. if he receives the wages you state, he must be a smart fellow. if he didn't earn as much, probably he would not receive it." "i don't believe he'll keep his place long," muttered roswell, his wish being father to the thought. "if he doesn't, you may be able to succeed him," said mr. turner. "i shall be compelled to refuse your request. indeed, so far from increasing your compensation, i have been considering during the last week whether it would not be for my interest to get another boy in your place." "sir!" exclaimed roswell, in dismay. "i will give you my reasons. you appear to think yourself of too great consequence to discharge properly the duties of your position." "i don't understand you, sir," stammered roswell. "i believe you claim to be a gentleman's son." "yes, sir," said roswell. "my father used to keep a store on broadway." "and i am led to suppose you think it incompatible with your dignity to carry bundles to different parts of the city." "i would rather stand behind the counter and sell goods," said roswell. "of course you will be a salesman in time, if you stick to business faithfully. but it so happens that we didn't hire you as a salesman, but as a boy, whose chief business it should be to carry bundles. but we don't want to impose a disagreeable duty upon you. therefore, if you think upon reflection that you would prefer not to continue in your situation, we will hire somebody else." "that won't be necessary, sir," said roswell, considerably crest-fallen. "you are content, then, to remain?" "yes, sir." "and upon four dollars a week?" "yes, sir. i suppose i may hope to have my wages increased some time?" "when we find your services worth more, you shall receive more," said mr. turner. "that is fair,--isn't it?" "yes, sir." "then here is your money. i didn't mean to talk so long; but it's as well to come to an understanding." roswell left the store considerably crest-fallen. he found that, instead of regarding him worth an advance of wages, mr. turner had had it in his mind to discharge him; and that hurt his pride. it was certainly very singular that people shouldn't be more impressed with the fact that he was a gentleman's son. he could not have received less deference if he had been an ex-boot-black, like dick himself. he certainly was no more contented than before, nor was his self-appreciation materially diminished. if the world did not recognize his claims, there was one comfort, his mother appreciated him, and he appreciated himself. as to his cousin, he did not feel quite so certain. "why are you so late, roswell?" asked his mother, looking up from her work as he entered. "it seems to me they kept you later than usual at the store, even for saturday evening." "i'm sick of the store," said roswell, impatiently. "what's the matter?" "i asked old turner to-night if he wouldn't raise my wages," said roswell. "well, what did he say?" "he said he wouldn't do it." "did he give any reason?" "he said i didn't earn any more. he's a stingy old hunks, any way, and i wish i was in another place." "so do i; but it isn't so easy to get a new position. you had better stay in this till another offers." "i hate carrying bundles through the streets. it isn't fit work for a gentleman's son." "ah, if your poor father had lived, things would have been very different with us all!" said mrs. crawford, with a sigh. she chose to forget that previous to his death her late husband's habits had been such that he contributed very little to the comfort or support of the family. "i wouldn't care if i were a salesman," continued roswell; "but i don't like being an errand boy. i'd just as lives go to the post-office for letters, or to the bank with money, but, as for carrying big bundles of calico under my arm, i don't like it. i was walking on madison avenue the other day with a ten-pound bundle, when the boot-black came up, dressed handsomely, with a gold watch and chain, and exulted over me for carrying such a big bundle." there was a little exaggeration about this, for dick was very far from exulting over roswell, otherwise he certainly would not have volunteered to carry the bundle himself. but it often happens that older persons than roswell are not above a little misrepresentation now and then. "he's an impudent fellow, then!" said mrs. crawford, indignantly. "then mr. hall won't raise your wages?" "it wasn't mr. hall i asked. it was mr. turner," said roswell. "didn't he hold out any hopes of raising your wages hereafter?" "he said he would raise them when i deserve it. he don't amount to much. he's no gentleman," said roswell, scornfully. "who's no gentleman?" inquired james gilbert, who chanced just then to enter the room. "mr. turner." "who's mr. turner?" "my employer,--hall & turner, you know." "what's amiss with him?" "i asked him to raise my wages to-night, and he wouldn't." "umph! how much did you ask for?" "two dollars more a week." "you're a fool!" "_what!_" said roswell, astonished. "what!" exclaimed mrs. crawford, angrily. "i say the lad's a fool to ask for so large an advance so soon. of course his employers refused it. i would, in their place." "you're very hard upon the poor boy!" said mrs. crawford. "i thought you were his friend." "so i am; but he's acted foolishly for all that. he should have known better." "i ought to be worth six dollars, if your boot-black is worth ten," responded roswell. "he isn't worth ten." "why do you pay him that, then?" "it's mr. rockwell who pays him, not i. why he does it, i can't say. it isn't because he earns it. no boy of his age, or yours either, can earn ten dollars a week." "at any rate he gets ten, and i get only four. i certainly earn more than that," said roswell. "i am not so sure about that," said his cousin. "but if it will afford you any comfort, i'll venture to make the prediction that he won't remain in rockwell & cooper's employment a week longer." "has anything happened?" asked roswell, eagerly. "_not yet_," said james gilbert, significantly. "then something is going to happen?" "you need not trouble yourself to ask questions. wait patiently, and when anything happens i'll let you know." here james gilbert left the room, and went up to his own chamber. his words had excited hope in both roswell and his mother. the former felt that it would be a satisfaction to him to learn that dick had lost his situation, even if he failed to get it himself. chapter xi. a new alliance. the name of micky maguire is already familiar to the readers of "ragged dick." he had acquired a prominent position among the down-town boot-blacks by his strength, which he used oftentimes to impose upon boys weaker than himself. he was a young ruffian, indeed, with few redeeming qualities. when dick was in the same business, he tried on two or three occasions to make him acknowledge his superiority; but it was not in dick's nature to be subservient to any one whom he did not respect. moreover, dick had two good stout arms of his own, and knew how to use them in self-defence. the consequence was that micky maguire signally failed in the attempts which he made on different occasions to humble our hero, and was obliged to slink off in discomfiture with his satellite, limpy jim. the last glimpse we had of micky was in dick's cast-off clothes, of which by some means, probably not honest, he had become possessed. he did not wear them long, however. the famous washington coat and napoleon pants were only mortal, and, being already of venerable antiquity, became at length too fragmentary even for micky's not very fastidious taste. one morning, accordingly, having levied an unwilling contribution from a weaker but more industrious boot-black, micky went to baxter street, and invested it in a blue coat with brass buttons, which, by some strange chain of circumstances, had found its way thither from some country town, where it may at one time have figured at trainings and on town-meeting days. a pair of overalls completed micky's costume. he dispensed with a vest, his money not having been sufficient to buy that also. certainly micky presented a noticeable figure as he stood in the city hall park, clad in the above-mentioned garments. he was rather proud of the brass buttons, and may even have fancied, in his uncultivated taste, that his new costume became him. while he was swaggering about he espied part of a cigar, which some one had thrown aside. micky, who was fond of smoking, picked it up, and looked about him for a light, not being provided with a match. a young man was slowly crossing the park with a cigar in his mouth. but he was evidently plunged in thought, and hardly conscious of the scene about him. micky observed this, and a cunning scheme suggested itself. he walked up to the young man, and said, cavalierly, "give us a light, mister, will yer?" the young man mechanically took the cigar from his mouth, and passed it to the questioner without observing who he was. had he done so, it is doubtful whether the request would have been complied with. rapidly calculating that he would not notice the substitution, micky, after lighting the "stub," handed it to the young man, retaining the good cigar himself, and placing it straightway in his mouth. this trick would probably have passed off undetected, if it had not been observed by some of micky's fellow-professionals. a jeering laugh from these called the young man's attention to the substitution, and, with a look of indignation, he said, "you young rascal, you shall pay for this!" [illustration] but micky evaded his grasp, and scudded rapidly through the park, pursued by the victim of misplaced confidence. "run, micky; i'll bet on you!" cried pat nevins, encouragingly. "go it, long legs!" said another, who backed the opposite party. "give him a good lickin' when you catch him." "maybe you'd have to wait too long for that," said pat. "leave yer cigar wid us, mister," said another boy. james gilbert, for he was the young man in question, began to find that he was becoming rather ridiculous, and felt that he would rather let micky go free than furnish a spectacle to the crowd of boot-blacks who were surveying the chase with eager interest. he accordingly stopped short, and, throwing down the "stub," prepared to leave the park. "don't give it up, mister! you'll catch him," said his first backer. "micky can't run far. ragged dick give him a stretcher once." "ragged dick!" said gilbert, turning abruptly at the sound of this name. "maybe you know him?" "does he black boots?" "he used to, but he don't now." "what does he do?" "oh, he's a swell now, and wears good clothes." "how is that?" "he's in a store, and gets good pay." "what's the name of the boy that ran away with my cigar?" "micky maguire." "was he a friend of ragged dick, as you call him?" "not much. they had two or three fights." "which beat?" "dick. he can fight bully." gilbert felt disappointed. he was in hopes our hero had met with a defeat. somehow he seemed born for success. "then i suppose maguire hates him?" "i'll bet he does." "humph!" thought gilbert; "i may turn his enmity to some account. let me consider a little." at length a plan suggested itself, and his countenance cleared up, and assumed an expression of satisfaction. on reaching home he held the conversation with roswell and his mother which has been recorded at the close of the last chapter. meantime micky went home to a miserable lodging on worth street, in the precincts of the five points, and very near where the five points house of industry now stands. this admirable institution has had a salutary influence, and contributed greatly to the improvement of the neighborhood. then, however, it was about as vile and filthy as could well be. micky exulted not a little at the success of his cunning, and smoked the cigar--an expensive one, by the way--with not a little satisfaction. he recounted the story to a group of admiring friends who had not been fortunate enough to witness it. "it's you that's got the cheek, micky," said teddy donovan. "you did it neat," said another. "maybe i'll try that same, some day." "you'd better not. the copp might get hold of you." "was it a good cigar, micky?" "wasn't it, just! i wish i'd got another. stand treat, teddy." "i would if i had the stamps. i'm savin' up my money to go to the old bowery to-night." the boys were standing in a little group, and in the interest of their discussion did not observe the approach of james gilbert, who was now visiting the park with a special object in view. with an expression of satisfaction he recognized the boy who had served him a trick the day before. indeed, it was not easy to mistake micky. the blue coat with brass buttons and the faded overalls would have betrayed him, even if his superior height had not distinguished him from his comrades. had micky been aware of gilbert's approach he would have thought it prudent to "change his base;" but, his back being turned, he was taken by surprise. his attention was drawn by a tap on the shoulder, and, looking round, he recognized his enemy, as he regarded him. he started to run, but was withheld by a strong grasp. "leave me alone, will yer?" he said, ducking his head as if he expected a blow. "i believe you are fond of smoking," said gilbert, continuing to hold him tight. micky maintained silence. "and sometimes exchange a poor cigar for a good one?" continued his captor. "it was a mistake," said micky. "what did you run for, then?" "what you going to do about it, mister?" asked one boy, curiously. "so it was a mistake,--was it?" said gilbert. "yes, sir," said micky, glibly. "take care you don't make the mistake again, then. now you may black my boots." not only the boys who were standing by, but micky himself, were considerably surprised at this unexpected turn. they confidently expected that micky would "get a lickin'," and instead of that, he had found a customer. their respect for gilbert was considerably diminished for failing to exact punishment, and, their interest in the affair being over, they withdrew. micky laid down his box, and commenced operations. "how long have you been a boot-black?" asked gilbert. "five years--goin' on six," said micky. "can you earn much?" "no," said micky. "business aint very good now." "you manage to dress well," said gilbert, with an amused look at micky's habiliments. "yes," said micky, with a glance at the brass buttons; "but i had to borrer the money to buy my clo'es." "there used to be a boy around here that was called dick. did you know him?" "there be a good many dicks. which did you mean?" "this boy was nearly your size. i believe they called him 'ragged dick.'" "i know'd him," said micky, shortly, with a scowl. "was he a friend of yours?" "no, he wasn't. i give him a lickin' once." the fact happened to be the other way; but micky was not very scrupulous as to the strict truth of his statements. "you don't like him, then? where is he now?" "he's in a store, and swells round with good clothes." "have you seen him lately?" "no, an' i don't want to." "he wears a gold watch now. i suppose he wouldn't have anything to say to you." "maybe not," said mickey. "it would be a good joke if he should lose his place and have to go back to boot-blacking again." "i wish he would," said micky, fervently. "it 'ould cure him of puttin' on airs." "if, for example, his employer should be convinced that he was a thief, he would discharge him." "do you know him, mister?" asked micky, looking up suddenly. "yes." "is he a friend of yours?" "i like him about as well as you do," said gilbert. "done!" said micky, releasing the second foot. "suppose you brush the other boot again. i'll pay you double. i want to talk to you a little." "all right!" said micky, and he resumed operations. the conversation that followed we do not propose to chronicle. the results will appear hereafter. enough that gilbert and micky departed mutually satisfied, the latter the richer by five times his usual fee. chapter xii. dick falls into a trap. one evening, when dick and fosdick returned from their respective stores, a surprise awaited them. "the postman left some letters for you," said the servant, as she opened the door to admit them. "maybe they're from the tax-collectors," said dick. "that's the misfortun' of being men of property. what was your tax last year, fosdick?" "i don't remember such trifles," said fosdick. "i don't think they was taxes," said the girl, seriously; "they looked as if they was from a young lady." "very likely they are from fosdick's wife," said dick. "she's rusticatin' in the country for the benefit of her health." "maybe they're from yours, mr. hunter," said the girl, laughing. "no," said dick, gravely, "i'm a disconsolate widower, which accounts for my low spirits most of the time, and my poor appetite. where are the letters?" "i left them on the bureau in your room," said the servant. "they come this afternoon at three o'clock." both fosdick and dick felt not a little curious as to who could have written them letters, and hastened upstairs. entering their chamber, they saw two very neat little notes, in perfumed french envelopes, and with the initial g in colors on the back. on opening them they read the following in a neat, feminine, fine handwriting. as both were alike, it will be sufficient to give dick's. "miss ida greyson presents her compliments to mr. richard hunter, and solicits the pleasure of his company on thursday evening next, at a little birthday party. "_no._ -- _west twenty-fourth street._" "we're getting fashionable," said dick. "i didn't use to attend many parties when we lived in mott street and blacked boots for a livin'. i'm afraid i shan't know how to behave." "i shall feel a little bashful," said fosdick; "but i suppose we've got to begin some time." "of course," said dick. "the important position we hold in society makes it necessary. how'll i be able to hold levees when i'm mayor, if i don't go into society now?" "very true," said fosdick; "i don't expect to occupy any such position; but we ought to go in acknowledgment of mr. greyson's kindness." mr. greyson was the teacher of the sunday-school class of which both dick and fosdick were members. his recommendation had procured fosdick his present place, and he had manifested his kindness in various ways. those who have read "ragged dick" will remember that he had a very sprightly and engaging daughter of ten years of age, who seemed to have taken an especial fancy to dick. being wealthy, his kindness had been of great service to both boys, inspiring them with self-respect, and encouraging them to persevere in their efforts to raise themselves to a higher position. the dinner-bell rang just as the boys had finished their discussion, and they went down and took places at the table. soon miss peyton came sailing in, shaking her ringlets coquettishly. she was proud of these ringlets, and was never tired of trying their fascinations upon gentlemen. but somehow they had not succeeded in winning a husband. "good-evening, mr. hunter," said she. "you look as if you had had good news." "do i?" said dick. "perhaps you can tell what it is." "i know how it came," said miss peyton, significantly. "then i hope you won't keep me in suspense any longer than you can help." "perhaps you'd rather i wouldn't mention before company." "never mind," said dick. "don't have any regard to my feelin's. they're tough, and can stand a good deal." "how do you like the letter g?" asked miss peyton, slyly. "very much," said dick, "as long as it behaves itself. what is your favorite letter?" "don't think i'm going to tell you, mr. hunter. that was a pretty little note, and in a young lady's hand too." "yes," said dick. "perhaps you'd like to see it." "you wouldn't show it to me on any account, i know." "you may see it if you like," said dick. "may i, really? i should like to very much; but would the young lady like it?" "i don't think she'd mind. she's written one to my friend fosdick just like it." dick passed the invitation across the table. "it's very pretty indeed," said miss peyton. "and is miss ida greyson very handsome?" "i'm no judge of beauty," said dick. "so she lives in west twenty-fourth street. is her father rich?" "i don't know how rich," said dick; "but my impression is that his taxes last year were more than mine." "i know now what your favorite letters are," said miss peyton. "they are i. g." "i. g. are very well as long as you don't put p. before them," said dick. "thank you for another cup of tea, mrs. browning." "i should think you'd need some tea after such a brilliant effort, hunter," said mr. clifton, from across the table. "yes," said dick. "i find my brain gets exhausted every now and then by my intellectual efforts. aint you troubled that way?" "can't say i am. don't you want to go out and try a game of billiards this evening?" "no, thank you. i've got to study." "i expect to see you a college professor some of these days." "i haven't made up my mind yet," said dick. "i'm open to an offer, as the oyster remarked when he was placed on the table. if i can serve my fellow-men best by bein' a college professor, and gettin' a big salary, i'm willin' to sacrifice my private feelin's for the public good." "do you agree with your friend, mr. fosdick?" said miss peyton. "won't you favor us with your views?" "i have none worth mentioning," said fosdick. "i leave my friend to do the talking, while i attend to the eating." "mr. hunter's remarks are very entertaining," said miss peyton. "thank you," said dick; "but my friend prefers a different kind of entertainment." the boys rose from the table, and went up to their room to look over the evening's lessons. they were quite pleased with their new teacher, whom they found not only competent for his task, but interested in promoting their progress. he was able to help them readily out of their difficulties, and encouraged them to persevere. so they came to look forward to their evening lessons not as tasks, but as pleasant exercises. "it's strange," said dick, one evening after the teacher had left them; "i used to enjoy goin' to the old bowery so much. i went two or three times a week sometimes. now i would a good deal rather stay at home and study." "then you didn't have a home, and the lighted theatre must have been much pleasanter than the cold and cheerless streets." "yes, that was it. i used to get so tired sometimes of having no home to go to, and nobody to speak to that i cared about." "you'd hardly like to go back to the old life, dick?" "no, it would come pretty hard to me now. i didn't seem to mind it so much then." "because you had never known anything better." "no. it was a lucky day when i met you, fosdick. i'd never have had the patience to learn. readin', or tryin' to read, always gave me the headache." "you always leave off the last letter in such words as 'reading,' dick. you should be more careful, now that you associate with educated persons." "i know it, fosdick, but i'm so used to droppin'--i mean dropping--the g that it comes natural. i will try to remember it. but about this party,--shall we have to get new clothes?" "no, we have each a nice suit, and we shan't be expected to dress in the height of the fashion." "i wish it was over. i dread it." "so do i a little; but i think we shall enjoy it. ida is a nice girl." "that's so. if i had a sister i'd like her to be like ida." "perhaps she'd like a brother like you. i notice she seems to fancy your company." "i hope you're not jealous, fosdick. you can be a brother to miss peyton, you know." fosdick laughed. "there's no chance for me there either," he said. "she evidently prefers you." "i'll adopt her for my aunt if it'll be gratifying to her feelings," said dick; "but i aint partial to ringlets as a general thing." it is well perhaps that miss peyton did not hear these remarks, as she cherished the idea that both fosdick and dick were particularly pleased with her. a day or two afterwards dick was walking leisurely through chatham street, about half past one o'clock. he was allowed an hour, about noon, to go out and get some lunch, and he was now on his way from the restaurant which he usually frequented. as it was yet early, he paused before a window to look at something which attracted his attention. while standing here he became conscious of a commotion in his immediate neighborhood. then he felt a hand thrust into the side-pocket of his coat, and instantly withdrawn. looking up, he saw micky maguire dodging round the corner. he put his hand into his pocket mechanically, and drew out a pocket-book. just then a stout, red-faced man came up puffing, and evidently in no little excitement. "seize that boy!" he gasped, pointing to dick. "he's got my pocket-book." contrary to the usual rule in such cases, a policeman did happen to be about, and, following directions, stepped up, and laid his hand on dick's shoulder. "you must go with me, my fine fellow," he said "hand over that pocket-book, if you please." "what's all this about?" said dick. "here's the pocket-book, if it is yours. i'm sure i don't want it." "you're a cool hand," said the guardian of the public peace. "if you don't want it, what made you steal it from this gentleman's pocket?" "i didn't take it," said dick, shortly. "is this the boy that stole your pocket-book?" demanded the policeman of the red-faced man, who had now recovered his breath. "it's the very young rascal. does he pretend to deny it?" "of course he does. they always do." "when it was found on him too! i never knew such barefaced impudence." "stop a minute," said dick, "while i explain. i was standing looking in at that window, when i felt something thrust into my pocket. i took it out and found it to be that pocket-book. just then that gentleman came up, and charged me with the theft." "that's a likely story," said the officer. "if any one put the pocket-book into your pocket, it shows you were a confederate of his. you'll have to come with me." and poor dick, for the first time in his life, was marched to the station-house, followed by his accuser, and a gang of boys. among these last, but managing to keep at a respectful distance, was micky maguire. chapter xiii. dick in the station-house. poor dick! if trinity church spire had suddenly fallen to the ground, it could scarcely have surprised and startled him more than his own arrest for theft. during the hard apprenticeship which he had served as a street boy, he had not been without his share of faults and errors; but he had never, even under the severest pressure, taken what did not belong to him. of religious and moral instruction he had then received none; but something told him that it was mean to steal, and he was true to this instinctive feeling. yet, if he had been arrested a year before, it would have brought him less shame and humiliation than now. now he was beginning to enjoy the feeling of respectability, which he had compassed by his own earnest efforts. he felt he was regarded with favor by those whose good opinion was worth having, and his heart swelled within him as he thought that they might be led to believe him guilty. he had never felt so down-hearted as when he walked in company with the policeman to the station-house, to be locked up for examination the next morning. "you wasn't sharp enough this time, young fellow," said the policeman. "do you think i stole the pocket-book?" asked dick, looking up in the officer's face. "oh, no, of course not! you wouldn't do anything of that kind," said the policeman, ironically. "no, i wouldn't," said dick, emphatically. "i've been poor enough and hungry enough sometimes, but i never stole. it's mean." "what is your name?" said the officer. "i think i have seen you before." "i used to black boots. then my name was ragged dick. i know you. your name is jones." "ragged dick! yes, yes, i remember. you used to be pretty well out at elbows, if i remember rightly." "my clothes used to be pretty well ventilated," said dick, smiling faintly. "that was what made me so healthy, i expect. but did you ever know me to steal?" "no," said the officer, "i can't say i have." "i lived about the streets for more then eight years," said dick, "and this is the first time i was ever arrested." "what do you do now?" "i'm in a store on pearl street." "what wages do you get?" "ten dollars a week." "do you expect me to believe that story?" "it's true." "i don't believe there's a boy of your age in the city that gets such wages. you can't earn that amount." "i jumped into the water, and saved the life of mr. rockwell's little boy. that's why he pays me so much." "where did you get that watch and chain? are they gold?" "yes, mrs. rockwell gave them to me." "it seems to me you're in luck." "i wasn't very lucky to fall in with you," said dick. "don't you see what a fool i should be to begin to pick pockets now when i am so well off?" "that's true," said the officer, who began to be shaken in his previous conviction of dick's guilt. "if i'd been going into that business, i would have tried it when i was poor and ragged. i should not have waited till now." "if you didn't take the pocket-book, then how came it in your pocket?" "i was looking in at a shop window, when i felt it thrust into my pocket. i suppose it was the thief who did it, to get out of the scrape himself." "that might be. at any rate, i've known of such cases. if so, you are unlucky, and i am sorry for you. i can't let you go, because appearances are against you, but if there is anything i can do to help you i will." "thank you, mr. jones," said dick, gratefully. "i did not want you to think me guilty. where is the man that lost the pocket-book?" "just behind us." "i should like to speak to him a moment." the red-faced man, who was a little behind, came up, and dick asked, quietly, "what makes you think i took your pocket-book, sir?" "wasn't it found in your pocket, you young rascal?" said the other, irritably. "yes," said dick. "and isn't that enough?" "not if somebody else put it there," said dick. "that's a likely story." "it's a true story." "can you identify this as the boy who robbed you, and whom you saw running?" "no," said the red-faced man, rather unwillingly. "my eyesight is not very good, but i've no doubt this is the young rascal." "well, that must be decided. you must appear to-morrow morning to prefer your complaint." "mind you don't let the rascal escape," said the other. "i shall carry him to the station-house, where he will be safe." "that's right, i'll make an example of him. he won't pick my pocket again in a hurry." "i hope the judge won't be so sure that i am guilty," said dick. "if he is, it'll go hard with me." "why don't you call your employer to testify to your good character?" "that's a good idea. can i write a note to him, and to another friend?" "yes; but perhaps the mail wouldn't carry them in time." "i will send a messenger. can i do so?" "when we get to the station-house i will see that you have a chance to send. here we are." escorted by the officer, and followed by his accuser, dick entered. there was a railing at the upper end of the room, and behind it a desk at which sat a captain of the squad. the officer made his report, which, though fair and impartial, still was sufficient to cause our hero's commitment for trial. "what is your name?" questioned the captain. dick thought it best to be straightforward, and, though he winced at the idea of his name appearing in the daily papers, answered in a manly tone, "richard hunter." "of what nation?" "american." "where were you born?" "in this city." "what is your age?" "sixteen years." these answers were recorded, and, as dick expressed a desire to communicate with his friends before trial, permission was given him to write to them, and the trial was appointed for the next morning at the tombs. the red-faced man certified that his wallet contained nine dollars and sixty-two cents, which was found to be correct. he agreed to be present the next morning to prefer his charge, and with such manifest pleasure that he was not retained, as it sometimes happens, to insure his appearance. "i will find a messenger to carry your notes," said the friendly officer. "thank you," said dick. "i will take care that you are paid for your trouble." "i require no pay except what i have to pay the messenger." dick was escorted to a cell for safe-keeping. he quickly dashed off a letter to mr. murdock, fearing that mr. rockwell might not be in the store. it was as follows:-- "mr. murdock,--what will you think when i tell you that i have been unlucky enough to be arrested on suspicion of picking a man's pocket? the real thief slipped the wallet into my pocket as i was looking into a shop window, and it was found on me. i couldn't prove my innocence, so here i am at the station-house. they will think strange at the store because i am absent. will you tell mr. rockwell privately what has detained me; but don't tell mr. gilbert. he don't like me any too well, and would believe me guilty at once, or pretend he did. i am sure _you_ won't believe i would do such a thing, or mr. rockwell either. will you come and see me to-night? i am to be tried to-morrow morning. i aint very proud of the hotel where i am stopping, but they didn't give me much choice in the matter. "richard hunter." "_station-house, franklin street._" the other letter was to fosdick; here it is:-- "dear fosdick,--i didn't much think when i left you this morning that i should be writing to you from the station-house before night. i'll tell you how it happened." [here follows a detailed account, which is omitted, as the reader is already acquainted with all the circumstances.] "of course they will wonder at the boarding-house where i am. if miss peyton or mr. clifton inquires after me to-night, you can say that i am detained by business of importance. that's true enough. i wish it wasn't. as soon as dinner is over, i wish you'd come and see me. i don't know if you can, not being acquainted with the rules of this hotel. i shan't stop here again very soon, if i can help it. there's a woman in the next cell, who was arrested for fighting. she is swearing frightfully. it almost makes me sick to be in such a place. it's pretty hard to have this happen to me just when i was getting along so well. but i hope it'll all come out right. your true friend, "dick. "p.s.--i've given my watch and chain to the officer to keep for me. gold watches aint fashionable here, and i didn't want them to think me putting on airs. "_station-house, franklin street._" after dick had written these letters he was left to himself. his reflections, as may readily be supposed, were not the most pleasant. what would they think at the boarding-house, if they should find what kind of business it was that had detained him! even if he was acquitted, some might suppose that he was really guilty. but there was a worse contingency. he might be unable to prove his innocence, and might be found guilty. in that case he would be sent to the island. dick shuddered at the thought. just when he began to feel himself respectable, it was certainly bad to meet with such hard luck. what, too, would mr. greyson and ida think? he had been so constant at the sunday school that his absence would be sure to be noticed, and he knew that his former mode of life would make his guilt more readily believed in the present instance. "if ida should think me a pick-pocket!" thought poor dick, and the thought made him miserable enough. the fact was, that ida, by her vivacity and lively manners, and her evident partiality for his society, had quite won upon dick, who considered her by all odds the nicest girl he had ever seen. i don't mean to say that dick was in love,--at least not yet. both he and ida were too young for that; but he was certainly quite an admirer of the young lady. again, if he were convicted, he would have to give up the party to which he had been invited, and he could never hope to get another invitation. all these reflections helped to increase dick's unhappiness. i doubt if he had ever felt so unhappy in all his life. but it never once occurred to him that his arrest was brought about by the machinations of his enemies. he hadn't chanced to see micky maguire, and had no suspicion that it was he who dropped the wallet into his pocket. still less did he suspect that gilbert's hostility had led him so far as to conspire with such a boy as micky against him. it was lucky that he did not know this, or he would have felt still more unhappy. but it is now time to turn to micky maguire and mr. gilbert, whose joint scheme had met with so much success. chapter xiv. micky maguire's disappointment. micky maguire waited until dick was actually on the way to the station-house, and then started for pearl street to acquaint gilbert with the success of his machinations. his breast swelled with triumph at the advantage he had gained over his enemy. "may be he'll keep his 'cheerin' reflections' to himself another time," thought micky. "he won't have much to say about my going to the island when he's been there himself. they won't stand none of his airs there, i'm thinkin'." there was another pleasant aspect to the affair. micky had not only triumphed over his enemy, but he was going to be paid for it. this was the stipulation between gilbert and himself. the book-keeper had not promised any definite sum, but micky, in speculating upon the proper compensation for his service, fixed upon five dollars as about what he ought to receive. like many others who count their chickens before they are hatched, he had already begun to consider what he would buy with it when he had got it. now, only the day previous, micky had noticed hanging in a window in chatham street, a silver watch, and chain attached, which was labelled "genuine silver, only five dollars." since micky had been the possessor of a blue coat with brass buttons, his thoughts had dwelt more than ever before on his personal appearance, and the watch had struck his fancy. he did not reflect much on the probable quality of a silver watch which could be sold for five dollars, and a chain thrown into the bargain. it was a watch, at any rate, and would make a show. besides, dick wore a watch, and micky felt that he did not wish to be outdone. as soon as he received his reward he meant to go and buy it. it was therefore in a very cheerful frame of mind that micky walked up in front of rockwell & cooper's store, and took his stand, occasionally glancing at the window. ten minutes passed away, and still he remained unnoticed. he grew impatient, and determined to enter, making his business an excuse. entering, he saw through the open door of the office, the book-keeper, bending over the desk writing. "shine yer boots?" he asked. gilbert was about to answer angrily in the negative, when looking up he recognized his young confederate. his manner changed, and he said, "yes, i believe i'll have a shine; but you must be quick about it." micky swung his box from his shoulder, and, sinking upon his knees, seized his brush, and went to work scientifically. "any news?" asked gilbert, in a low voice. "yes, mister, i've done it," said micky. "have you managed to trap him?" "yes, i left him on his way to the station-house." "how did you manage it?" "i grabbed an old fellow's wallet, and dropped it into dick's pocket. he pulled it out, and while he was lookin' at it, up came the 'copp' and nabbed him." "how about the man from whom the wallet was taken?" "he came up puffin', and swore dick was the chap that stole it." "so he was carried off to the station-house?" "yes; he's there safe enough." "then we shall have to carry on business without him," said gilbert, coolly. "i hope he will enjoy himself at his new quarters." "maybe they'll send him to the island," said micky, beginning his professional operations upon the second boot. "very likely," said gilbert. "i suppose you've been there before this." "wot if i have?" said micky, in rather a surly tone, for he did not relish the allusion. "no offence," said gilbert. "i only meant that if you have ever been there, you can judge whether your friend dick will enjoy it." "not a great deal," said micky; "but you needn't call him my friend. i hate him." "your enemy, then. but get through as soon as possible." micky struck his brush upon the floor to indicate that the job was finished, and, rising, waited for his fee. gilbert took from his pocket ten cents and handed him. "that's for the shine," he said; "and here's something for the other matter." so saying, he placed in the hand of the boot-black a bank-note. micky glanced at it, and his countenance changed ominously, when he perceived the denomination. it was a one-dollar bill! "it's one dollar," he said. "isn't that enough?" "no, it isn't," he answered, sullenly. "i might 'ave been nabbed myself. i can't afford to work on no such terms." micky was right. it certainly was a very small sum to receive for taking such a risk, apart from all moral considerations, and his dissatisfaction can hardly be wondered at. but gilbert was not of a generous nature. in fact he was disposed to be mean, and in the present instance he had even expected to get the credit of being generous. a dollar, he thought, must seem an immense sum to a ragged boot-black. but micky thought differently, and gilbert felt irritated at his ingratitude. "it's all you'll get," said he, roughly. "then you'd better get somebody else to do your dirty work next time, mister," said micky, angrily. "clear out, you young blackguard!" exclaimed gilbert, his temper by this time fully aroused. "clear out, if you don't want to be kicked out!" "maybe you'll wish you'd given me more," said micky, sullenly picking up his box, and leaving the office. "what's the matter?" asked mr. murdock, who happened to come up just as micky went into the street, and heard the last words of the altercation. "oh," said gilbert, carelessly, "he wasn't satisfied with his pay. i gave him ten cents, but the young rascal wanted more." as he said this, he turned back to his desk. "i wonder whether gilbert's going anywhere," thought the head clerk. "i never knew him so extravagant before. he must be going out this evening." just then it occurred to him that dick had been absent longer than usual, and, as he needed his services, he asked, "has richard returned, mr. gilbert?" "i haven't seen him." "did he go out at the usual time?" "yes." "what can have detained him?" said mr. murdock, thoughtfully. "he's probably fallen in with some of his old friends, and forgotten all about his duties." "that is not his way," said mr. murdock, quietly, as he walked away. he understood very well mr. gilbert's hostility to dick, and that the latter was not likely to receive a very favorable judgment at his hands. five minutes later a boy entered the store, and, looking about him a moment in uncertainty, said, "i want to see mr. murdock." "i am mr. murdock," he answered. "then this note is for you." the clerk felt instinctively that the note was from dick, and, not wishing gilbert to hear the conversation, motioned the boy to follow him to the back part of the store. then he opened and read the note quickly. "did richard hunter give this to you?" he asked. "no," said tim ryan, for that was his name. "it was the 'copp' that arrested him." "i suppose a 'copp' is a policeman." "yes, sir." "were you present when he was arrested?" "yes, sir." "do you know anything about it?" "yes, i seed it all." "you saw the wallet taken?" "yes, sir." "did richard take it?" "you mean dick?" said tim, interrogatively, for richard was to him a strange name. "no, he didn't, then. he wouldn't steal. i never know'd him to." "then you know dick?" "yes, sir. i've knowed him ever since i was so high," indicating a point about three feet above the floor. "then who did take it, if not he?" "micky maguire." "who is he?" "he blacks boots." "then how did it happen that he was not arrested?" "micky was smart enough to drop the wallet into dick's pocket as he was standin' before a shop winder. then he got out of the way, and dick was nabbed by the 'copp.'" "is this micky of whom you speak a friend of yours?" "no; he likes to bully small boys." "then why didn't you tell the officer he had arrested the wrong boy?" "i wanted to," said tim, "for dick's always been kind to me; but i was afraid micky would give me a beatin' when he got free. then there was another reason." "what was that?" "it's mean to tell of a fellow." "isn't it meaner to let an innocent boy get punished, when you might save him by telling?" "maybe it is," said tim, perplexed. "my lad," continued mr. murdock, "you say dick has been kind to you. you now have an opportunity to repay all he has ever done, by clearing him from this false charge, which you can easily do." "i'll do it," said tim, stoutly. "i don't care if micky does lick me for it." "by the way," said mr. murdock, with a sudden thought, "what is the appearance of this micky maguire?" "he's rather stout, and has freckles." "does he wear a blue coat, with large brass buttons?" "yes," said tim, in surprise. "do you know him?" "i have seen him this morning," said mr. murdock. "wait a minute, and i will give you a line to dick; or rather it will not be necessary. if you can get a chance, let him know that i am going to call on him this afternoon. will you be at the station-house, or near it, at six o'clock?" "yes, sir." "then we can arrange about your appearing as a witness at the trial. here is half a dollar for your trouble in bringing the note." "i don't want it, sir," said tim. "i don't want to take anything for doing a good turn to dick." "but you have been prevented from earning money. you had better take it." but tim, who was a warm-hearted irish boy, steadfastly refused, and left the store in quest of henderson's hat and cap store, having also a note to deliver to fosdick. "so that was micky maguire who was here a little while since," said mr. murdock to himself. "it seems singular that immediately after getting richard into trouble, he should have come here where he was employed. can it be that gilbert had a previous acquaintance with him?" the more mr. murdock reflected, the more perplexed he became. it did cross his mind that the two might be in league against dick; but then, on the other hand, they evidently parted on bad terms, and this seemed to make such a combination improbable. so he gave up puzzling himself about it, reflecting that time would clear up what seemed mysterious about the affair. gilbert, on his part, could not help wondering on what errand tim ryan came to mr. murdock. he suspected he might be a messenger from dick, but thought it best not to inquire, and mr. murdock did not volunteer any information. when the store closed, the head clerk bent his steps towards the station-house. chapter xv. the franklin street station-house. the station-house to which dick had been conveyed is situated in that part of franklin street which lies between centre and baxter streets. the last is one of the most wretched streets in the city, lined with miserable tenement houses, policy shops, and second-hand clothing stores. whoever passes through it in the evening, will do well to look to the safety of his pocket-book and watch, if he is imprudent enough to carry either in a district where the ten commandments are unknown, or unregarded. the station-house is an exception to the prevailing squalidness, being kept with great neatness. mr. murdock ascended the steps, and found himself in a large room, one side of which was fenced off by a railing. behind this was a desk, at which sat the officer in charge. to him, mr. murdock directed himself. "have you a boy, named richard hunter, in the house?" "yes," said the sergeant, referring to his minutes. "he was brought in this afternoon, charged with picking a gentleman's pocket." "there is some mistake about this. he is as honest as i am." "i have nothing to do with that. he will have a fair trial to-morrow morning. all i have to do is to keep him in safe custody till then." "of course. where is he?" "in a cell below." "can i see him?" "if you wish." the officer summoned an attendant, and briefly ordered him to conduct mr. murdock to dick's cell. "this way, sir," said the attendant. mr. murdock followed him through a large rear room, which is intended for the accommodation of the officers. then, descending some steps into the courtyard, he descended thence into the apartments in the basement. here are the cells for the temporary detention of offenders who are not at once sent to the tombs for trial. the passages are whitewashed and the cells look very neat. they are on either side, with a grating, so that one passing along can look into them readily. they are probably about seven feet long, by four or five in width. a narrow raised bedstead, covered with a pallet, occupies one side, on which the prisoner can either lie or sit, as he pleases. "how are you, boss?" asked a negro woman, who had been arrested for drunkenness, swaying forward, as mr. murdock passed, and nearly losing her balance as she did so. "can't you give me a few cents to buy some supper?" turning from this revolting spectacle, mr. murdock followed his guide to the second cell beyond where our hero was confined. "is it you, mr. murdock?" exclaimed our hero, joyfully jumping to his feet. "i am glad to see you." "and i am glad to see you; but i wish it were somewhere else," said mr. murdock. "so do i," said dick. "i aint partial to this hotel, though the accommodations is gratooitous, and the company is very select." "i see you will have your joke, dick, even in such a place." "i don't feel so jolly as i might," said dick. "i never was in the station-house before; but i shall be lucky if i don't get sent to a worse place." "have you any idea who took the wallet which was found in your pocket?" "no," said dick. "do you know a boy called micky maguire?" proceeded mr. murdock. "yes," said dick, looking up in surprise. "micky used to be a great friend of mine. he'd be delighted if he only knew that i was enjoyin' the hospitality of the government." "he does know it," said mr. murdock, quietly. "how do you know?" asked dick, quickly. "because it was he that stole the wallet and put it in your pocket." "how did you find out?" asked dick, eagerly. "do you know a boy named tim ryan?" "yes; he's a good boy." "it was he that brought me your note. he saw the whole proceeding." "why didn't he tell, and stop my bein' arrested, then?" "i asked him that; but he said he was afraid micky would beat him when he found out. but he is a friend of yours, and he stands ready to testify what he knows, at your trial, to-morrow morning." "that's lucky," said dick, breathing a sigh of relief. "so it was micky that served me the trick. he always loved me like a brother, micky did, but i didn't expect he'd steal for my benefit. i'm very much obliged to him, but i'd rather dispense with such little favors another time." "you will be surprised to learn that micky came round to our store this afternoon." "what for?" questioned dick, in amazement. "i don't know whether he came by accident or design; but mr. gilbert employed him to black his boots." "mr. gilbert!" "yes. they seemed to be conversing earnestly; but i was too far off to hear what was said. finally, gilbert appeared to get angry, and drove the boy out." "that's strange!" said dick, thoughtfully. "mr. gilbert loves me about as much as micky does." "yes, there seems to be some mystery about it. we may find out some time what it is. but here is your friend fosdick." "how are you, fosdick?" hailed dick from his cell. "i'm holdin' a little levee down here. did you receive my card of invitation?" "i've been uneasy all the afternoon, dick," said fosdick. "ever since i heard that you were here, i've been longing to come and see you." "then you aint ashamed of me, even if i am in the station-house?" "of course i know you don't deserve to be here. tell me all about it. i only got a chance to speak a minute with tim ryan, for there were customers waiting." "i'll tell you all i know myself," said dick. "i'm sorry to keep you standing, but the door is locked, and i've accidentally lost the key. so i can't invite you into my parlor, as the spider invited the fly." "don't stand on ceremony, dick. i'd just as lieves stay outside." "so would i," said dick, rather ruefully. the story was told over again, with such new light as mr. murdock had been able to throw upon it. "it's just like micky," said fosdick. "he's a bad fellow." "it was rather a mean trick," said dick; "but he hasn't had a very good bringin' up, or maybe he'd be a better boy." that he should have spoken thus, at the moment when he was suffering from micky's malice, showed a generosity of feeling which was characteristic of dick. no one was more frank, open, or free from malice than he, though always ready to stand up for his rights when he considered them assailed. it is this quality in dick, joined to his manly spirit, which makes him a favorite with me, as he is also with you, let me hope, young reader. "it'll come out right, dick," said fosdick, cheerfully. "tim ryan's testimony will clear you. i feel a good deal better about it now than i did this afternoon, when i didn't know how things were likely to go with you." "i hope so," said dick. "but i'm afraid you won't get any supper, if you stay any longer with me." "how about your supper, dick?" asked fosdick, with sudden thought. "do they give you any in this establishment?" "no," said dick; "this hotel's on the european system, with improvements. you get your lodgin' for nothing, and nothing to eat along with it. i don't like the system much. i don't think i could stand it more'n a week without its hurtin' my constitution." "i'll go out and get you something, dick," said fosdick, "if the rules of the establishment allow it. shall i?" "well," said dick, "i think i might eat a little, though the place isn't very stimulatin' to the appetite." "what shall i bring you?" "i aint particular," said dick. just then the attendant came along, and fosdick inquired if he would be allowed to bring his friend something to eat. "certainly," was the reply. "we provide nothing ourselves, as the prisoners only stay with us a few hours." "i'll be right back," said fosdick. not far from the station-house, fosdick found a baker's shop, where he bought some bread and cakes, with which he started to return. as he was nearing the station-house, he caught sight of micky maguire hovering about the door. micky smiled significantly as he saw fosdick and his burden. "where are you carryin' that?" he asked. "why do you ask?" said fosdick, who could not feel very friendly to the author of dick's misfortune. "never mind why," said micky. "i know well enough. it's for your friend dick. how does he like his new lodgins'?" "how do you like them? you've been there often enough." "don't be impudent, or i'll lam' ye," said micky, scowling. as fosdick was considerably smaller than himself, micky might have ventured upon an assault, but deemed it imprudent in the immediate vicinity of the station-house. "give my compliments to dick," he said. "i hope he'll sleep well." to this fosdick returned no answer, but, entering the building, descended to dick's temporary quarters. he passed the bread and cake through the grating, and dick, cheered by the hope of an acquittal on the morrow, and a speedy recovery of his freedom, partook with a good appetite. "can't you give me a mouthful, boss?" muttered the negro woman before mentioned, as she caught sight of fosdick's load. he passed a cake through the grating, which she seized eagerly, and devoured with appetite. "i think i must be going," said mr. murdock, consulting his watch, "or my wife and children won't know what has become of me." "good-night, mr. murdock," said dick. "thank you for your kindness." "good-night, richard. keep up your courage." "i'll try to." fosdick stopped longer. at last he went away, and our hero, left to himself, lay down upon his pallet and tried to get to sleep. chapter xvi. roswell crawford retires from business. "can you send this home for me?" asked a lady in hall & turner's store about three o'clock in the afternoon of the day on which dick, as we have related, was arrested. "certainly, madam. where shall it be sent?" asked the clerk. "no. west fortieth street," was the reply. "very well, it shall be sent up immediately. here, roswell." roswell crawford came forward not very willingly. he had no great liking for the task which he saw would be required of him. fortieth street was at least a mile and a half distant, and he had already just returned from a walk in a different direction. besides, the bundle was a large one, containing three dress patterns. he did not think it very suitable for a gentleman's son to be seen carrying such a large bundle through the streets. "why don't you send edward?" he said, complainingly. "he doesn't do half as much as i." "i shall send whom i please," said the clerk, sharply. "you wouldn't do anything if you could help it." "i won't carry bundles much longer," said roswell. "you put all the heaviest bundles off upon me." roswell's back being turned, he did not observe mr. turner, who had come up as he was speaking. "what are you complaining about?" asked that gentleman. roswell turned, and colored a little when he saw his employer. "what is the matter?" repeated mr. turner. "mr. evans always gives me the largest bundles to carry," said roswell. "he is always complaining of having to carry bundles," said the clerk. "he says it isn't suitable work for a gentleman's son." "i have noticed it," said mr. turner. "on the whole, i think, mr. crawford," he said, with mock deference, "i think you have mistaken your vocation in entering a dry-goods store. i advise you to seek some more gentlemanly employment. at the end of the week, you are at liberty to leave my employment for one better suited to you." "i'm ready to go now," said roswell, sulkily. "very well; if you desire it, i will not insist upon your remaining. if you will come up to the desk, you shall receive what is due you." it was somewhat humiliating to roswell to feel that his services were so readily dispensed with. still he had never liked the place, and heartily disliked carrying bundles. by going at once, he would get rid of the large bundle to be carried to west fortieth street. congratulating himself, therefore, on the whole, on escaping from what he regarded as a degrading servitude, he walked up to the desk in a dignified manner, and received the wages due him. "i hope you will find some more congenial employment," said mr. turner, who paid him the amount of his wages. "i have no doubt i shall," said roswell, loftily. "my father was a gentleman, and our family has considerable influence." "well, i wish you success. good-by." "good-by," said roswell, and walked out of the shop with head erect. he did not quite like going home at once, as explanation would be rather awkward under the circumstances. he accordingly crossed over to fifth avenue, considering that the most suitable promenade for a gentleman's son. he could not help regarding with some envy the happy possessors of the elegant buildings which he passed. why had partial fate denied him that fortune which would have enabled him to live in this favored locality? "plenty of snobs have got money," he thought. "how much better i could use it than they! i wish i were rich! you wouldn't catch me slaving my life out in a dry-goods store, or any other." this was undoubtedly true. work of any kind had no charms for roswell. to walk up the avenue swinging a dandy cane, dressed in the height of the fashion, or, what was better yet, sitting back luxuriously in an elegant carriage drawn by a dashing span; such was what he regarded himself most fit for. but, unfortunately, he was not very likely to realize his wishes. the desire to enjoy wealth doesn't bring it, and the tastes of a gentleman are not a very good stock to begin life with. so roswell sauntered along in rather a discontented frame of mind until he reached madison park, where he sat down on a bench, and listlessly watched some boys who were playing there. "hallo, roswell!" said one of his acquaintances, coming up by chance. "how do you happen to be here?" "why shouldn't i be here?" "i thought you were in a store somewhere on sixth avenue." "well, i was, but i have left it." "when did you leave it?" "to-day." "got sacked, hey?" "sacked," in the new york vernacular, means discharged from a place. the idea of having it supposed that he had been "sacked" was not pleasing to roswell's pride. he accordingly answered, "i never was 'sacked' in my life. besides, it's a low word, and i never use it." "well, you know what i mean. did they turn you off?" "no, they didn't. they would have been glad to have me stay." "why didn't you then?" "i didn't like the business." "dry goods,--wasn't it?" "yes, a retail dry-goods store. if i ever go into that line again, it'll be in a wholesale store. there's a chance there for a man to rise." "you don't call yourself a man yet,--do you?" "i call myself a gentleman," said roswell, shortly. "what are you going to do now?" "i'm in no hurry about a new place. i shall look round a little." "well, success to you. i must be getting back to the shop." "what are you doing?" "i'm learning a trade." "oh!" said roswell, turning up his nose slightly, which was quite easy for him to do, as nature had given that organ an upward turn. he thought all trades low, and resolved hereafter to hold as little communication as possible with the boy who had so far demeaned himself as to be learning one. that was worse than being in a dry-goods store, and carrying around bundles. towards six o'clock roswell rose from his seat, and sauntered towards clinton place, which was nearly a mile distant. he entered the house a little before dinner. "are you not earlier than usual, roswell?" asked his mother. "i've left the store," he said, abruptly. "left the store!" echoed his mother, in some dismay. "why?" "because they don't know how to treat me. it's no fit place for a gentleman's son." "i am sorry, roswell," said mrs. crawford, who, like her son, was "poor and proud," and found the four dollars he earned weekly of advantage. "i'm afraid you have been foolish." "listen, mother, and i'll tell you all about it," he said. roswell gave his explanation, which, it need hardly be said, was very favorable to himself, and mrs. crawford was finally brought to believe that hall & turner were low people, with whom it was not suitable for one of her son's gentlemanly tastes to be placed. his vindication was scarcely over, when the bell rang, and his cousin gilbert was admitted. mr. gilbert entered briskly, and with a smiling face. he felt unusually complaisant, having succeeded in his designs against our hero. "well, james," said mrs. crawford, "you look in better spirits than i feel." "what's happened amiss?" "roswell has given up his place." "been discharged, you mean." "no," said roswell, "i left the place of my own accord." "what for?" "i don't like the firm, nor the business. i wish i were in mr. rockwell's." "well," said gilbert, "perhaps i can get you in there." "has the boot-black left?" "he's found another place," said gilbert, smiling at what he regarded as a good joke. "you don't mean to say he has left a place where he was earning ten dollars a week?" said mrs. crawford, in surprise. "where is this new place that you speak of?" "in the station-house." "is he in the station-house?" asked roswell, eagerly. "that is what i hear." "what's he been doing?" "charged with picking a pocket." "well, i do hope mr. rockwell will now see his folly in engaging a boy from the streets," said mrs. crawford, charitably concluding that there was no doubt of our hero's guilt. "what'll be done with him, cousin james?" asked roswell. "he'll be sent to the island, i suppose." "he may get clear." "i think not. circumstances are very much against him, i hear." "and will you try to get me in, cousin james?" "i'll do what i can. perhaps it may be well for you to drop in to-morrow about ten o'clock." "all right,--i'll do it." both mrs. crawford's and roswell's spirits revived wonderfully, and mr. gilbert, too, seemed unusually lively. and all because poor dick had got into difficulties, and seemed in danger of losing both his place and his good name. "it's lucky i left hall & turner's just as i did!" thought roswell, complacently. "may be they'd like to engage the boot-black when he gets out of prison. but i guess he'll have to go back to blacking boots. that's what he's most fit for." chapter xvii. dick's acquittal. after his interview with mr. murdock and henry fosdick, dick felt considerably relieved. he not only saw that his friends were convinced of his innocence, but, through tim ryan's testimony, he saw that there was a reasonable chance of getting clear. he had begun to set a high value on respectability, and he felt that now he had a character to sustain. the night wore away at last. the pallet on which he lay was rather hard; but dick had so often slept in places less comfortable that he cared little for that. when he woke up, he did not at first remember where he was, but he very soon recalled the circumstances, and that his trial was close at hand. "i hope mr. murdock won't oversleep himself," thought our hero. "if he does, it'll be a gone case with me." at an early hour the attendant of the police station went the rounds, and dick was informed that he was wanted. brief space was given for the arrangement of the toilet. in fact, those who avail themselves of the free lodgings provided at the station-house rarely pay very great attention to their dress or personal appearance. dick, however, had a comb in his pocket, and carefully combed his hair. he also brushed off his coat as well as he could; he also critically inspected his shoes, not forgetting his old professional habits. "i wish i had a brush and some blackin'," he said to himself. "my shoes would look all the better for a good shine." but time was up, and, under the escort of a policeman, dick was conveyed to the tombs. probably all my readers have heard of this building. it is a large stone building, with massive columns, broad on the ground, but low. it is not only used for a prison, but there are two rooms on the first floor used for the holding of courts. into the larger one of these dick was carried. he looked around him anxiously, and to his great joy perceived that not only mr. murdock was on hand, but honest tim ryan, whose testimony was so important to his defence. dick was taken forward to the place provided for those awaiting trial, and was obliged to await his turn. one or two cases, about which there was no doubt, including the colored woman arrested for drunkenness, were summarily disposed of, and the next case was called. the policeman who had arrested dick presented himself with our hero. dick was so neatly dressed, and looked so modest and self-possessed, that the judge surveyed him with some surprise. "what is this lad charged with?" he demanded. "with taking a wallet from a gentleman's pocket," said the policeman. "did you arrest him?" "i did." "did you take him in the act?" "no; i did not see him take it." "what have you to say, prisoner? are you guilty or not guilty?" said the judge, turning to dick. "not guilty," said dick, quietly. "state why you made the arrest," said the judge. "i saw him with the wallet in his hand." "is the gentleman who had his pocket picked, present?" "he is." "summon him." the red-faced man came forward, and gave his testimony. he stated that he was standing on the sidewalk, when he felt a hand thrust into his pocket, and forcibly withdrawn. he immediately felt for his wallet, and found it gone. turning, he saw a boy running, and immediately gave chase. "was the boy you saw running the prisoner?" "i suppose it was." "you suppose? don't you know?" "of course it was, or he would not have been found with the wallet in his hand." "but you cannot identify him from personal observation?" the red-faced man admitted with some reluctance that his eyesight was very poor, and he did not catch sight of the boy till he was too far off to be identified. "this is not so clear as it might be," said the judge. "still, appearances are against the prisoner, and as the wallet was found in his possession, he must be found guilty, unless that fact can be satisfactorily explained." "i have a witness who can explain it," said dick. "where is he?" tim ryan, who understood that his evidence was now wanted, came forward. after being sworn, the judge asked, "what is your name?" "tim ryan, sir." "where do you live?" "in mulberry street." "tell what you know of this case." "i was standing in chatham street, when i saw the ould gintleman with the red face (here the prosecutor scowled at tim, not relishing the description which was given of him) standing at the corner of pearl street. a boy came up, and put his hand into his pocket, and then run away as fast as his legs could carry him, wid the wallet in his hand." "who was this boy? do you know him?" "yes, sir." "tell his name." "it was micky maguire," said tim, reluctantly. "and who is micky maguire?" "he blacks boots." "then if this micky maguire took the wallet, how happened it that it was found in this boy's possession?" "i can tell that," said tim. "i ran after micky to see if he'd get off wid the wallet. he hadn't gone but a little way when i saw him slip it into dick's pocket." "i suppose you mean by dick, the prisoner at the bar?" "yes, sir." "and what became of this micky?" "he stopped runnin' after he'd got rid of the pocket-book, and a minute after, up came the 'copp,' and took dick." "why didn't you come forward, and explain the mistake?" "i was afraid micky'd beat me." "do you know this micky maguire?" said the judge, turning to the officer. "i do." "what is his reputation?" "bad. he's been at the island three or four times already." "did you see him anywhere about when you made the arrest?" "i did." "do you know this boy who has just testified?" "yes. he is a good boy." "the case seems a clear one. the prisoner is discharged from custody. arrest micky maguire on the same charge as early as possible." the next case was called, and dick was free. mr. murdock came forward, and took him by the hand, which he shook heartily. "i congratulate you on your acquittal," he said. "i feel a little better than i did," said dick. "tim, you're a good fellow," he said, clasping tim's hand. "i wouldn't have got off, if it hadn't been for you." "i ought to do that much for you, dick, when you've been so kind to me." "how are you getting along now, tim?" "pretty well. mother's got so she can work and we're doin' well. when she was sick, it was pretty hard." "here's something to help you along," said dick, and he drew a bill from his pocket. "five dollars!" said tim, in surprise. "you can buy some new clothes, tim." "i ought not to take so much as that, dick." "it's all right, tim. there's some more where that comes from." they were in centre street by this time. fosdick came up hurriedly. "have you got off, dick?" he asked, eagerly. "yes, fosdick. there's no chance of my being entertained at the expense of the city." "i didn't expect the trial was coming off so early. tell me all about it." "what did they say at the house at my being away?" asked dick. "miss peyton inquired particularly after you. i said, as you directed me, that you were detained by important business." "what did she say then?" dick was so particular in his inquiries, fearing lest any suspicion should have been formed of the real cause which had detained him. there was no reason for it; but it had always been a matter of pride with him in his vagabond days that he had never been arrested on any charge, and it troubled him that he should even have been suspected of theft. "you are fishing for compliments, dick," said fosdick. "how do you make that out?" "you want to know what miss peyton said. i believe you are getting interested in her." "when i am, just send me to a lunatic asylum," said dick. "i am afraid you are getting sarcastic, dick. however, not to keep you in suspense, miss peyton said that you were one of the wittiest young men she knew of, and you were quite the life of the house." "i suppose i ought to blush," said dick; "but i'm a prey to hunger just now, and it's too much of an effort." "i'll excuse you this time," said fosdick. "as to the hunger, that's easily remedied. we shall get home to breakfast, and be in good time too." fosdick was right. they were the first to seat themselves at the table. mr. clifton came in directly afterwards. dick felt a momentary embarrassment. "what would he say," thought our hero, "if he knew where i passed the night?" "good-morning, hunter," said clifton. "you didn't favor us with your presence at dinner last evening." "no," said dick. "i was absent on very important business." "dining with your friend, the mayor, probably?" "well, no, not exactly," said dick, "but i had some business with the city government." "it seems to me that you're getting to be quite an important character." "thank you," said dick. "i am glad to find that genius is sometimes appreciated." here miss peyton entered. "welcome, mr. hunter," she said. "we missed you last evening." "i hope it didn't affect your appetite much," said dick. "but it did. i appeal to mr. fosdick whether i ate anything to speak of." "i thought miss peyton had a better appetite than usual," said fosdick. "that is too bad of you, mr. fosdick," said miss peyton. "i'm sure i didn't eat more than my canary bird." "just the way it affected me," said dick. "it always improves my appetite to see you eat, miss peyton." miss peyton looked as if she hardly knew whether to understand this remark as complimentary or otherwise. that evening, at the dinner-table, clifton drew a copy of the "express" from his pocket, and said, "by jove, hunter, here's a capital joke on you! i'll read it. 'a boy, named richard hunter, was charged with picking a pocket on chatham street; but it appearing that the theft was committed by another party, he was released from custody.'" dick's heart beat a little quicker while this was being read, but he maintained his self-possession. "of course," said he, "that was the important business that detained me. but i hope you won't mention it, for the sake of my family." "i'd make the young rascal change his name, if i were you," said clifton, "if he's going to get into the police record." "i think i shall," said dick, "or maybe i'll change my own. you couldn't mention a highly respectable name that i could take,--could you?" "clifton is the most respectable name i know of," said the young gentleman owning that name. "if you'll make me your heir, perhaps i'll adopt it." "i'll divide my debts with you, and give you the biggest half," said clifton. it is unnecessary to pursue the conversation. dick found to his satisfaction that no one at the table suspected that he was the richard hunter referred to in the "express." chapter xviii. the cup and the lip. while dick's night preceding the trial was an anxious one, gilbert and roswell crawford passed a pleasant evening, and slept soundly. "do you think mr. rockwell would be willing to give me the same wages he has paid to the boot-black?" he inquired with interest. "perhaps he won't take you at all." "i think he ought to pay some attention to your recommendation," said mrs. crawford. "you ought to have some influence with him." "of course," said gilbert, "i shall do what i can in the matter; but it's a pity roswell can't give better references." "he's never been with a decent employer yet. he's been very unlucky about his places," said mrs. crawford. she might have added that his employers had considered themselves unfortunate in their engagement of her son; but, even if she had known it, she would have considered that they were prejudiced against him, and that they were in fault entirely. "i will do what i can for him," continued gilbert; "but i am very sure he won't get as much as ten dollars a week." "i can earn as much as the boot-black, i should hope," said roswell. "he didn't earn ten dollars a week." "he got it." "that's a very different thing." "well, if i get it, i don't care if i don't earn it." "that's true enough," said gilbert, who did not in his heart set a very high estimate upon the services of his young cousin, and who, had the business been his own, would certainly not have engaged him at any price. roswell thought it best not to say any more, having on some previous occasions been greeted with remarks from his cousin which could not by any means be regarded as complimentary. "do you think i had better come in at ten o'clock, cousin james?" inquired roswell, as breakfast was over, and gilbert prepared to go to the counting-room. "well, perhaps you may come a little earlier, say about half-past nine," said the book-keeper. "all right," said roswell. being rather sanguine, he made up his mind that he was going to have the place, and felt it difficult to keep his good fortune secret. now, in the next house there lived a boy named edward mclean, who was in a broker's office in wall street, at a salary of six dollars a week. now, though edward had never boasted of his good fortune, it used to disturb roswell to think that his place and salary were so much superior to his own. he felt that it was much more respectable to be in a broker's office, independent of the salary, than to run around the city with heavy bundles. but if he could enter such an establishment as rockwell & cooper's, at a salary of ten dollars, he felt that he could look down with conscious superiority upon edward mclean, with his six dollars a week. he went over to his neighbor's, and found edward just starting for wall street. "how are you, roswell?" said edward. "pretty well. are you going down to the office?" "yes." "you've got a pretty good place,--haven't you?" "yes, i like it." "how much do you get?" "six dollars a week." "that's very fair," said roswell, patronizingly. "how do you like your place?" asked edward. "i believe you're in a dry-goods store on sixth avenue." "oh, no," said roswell. "you were?" "yes, i went in temporarily to oblige them," said roswell, loftily; "but, of course, i wouldn't engage to remain any length of time in such a place, however large the inducements they might offer." considering roswell's tone, it would hardly have been supposed that the large inducements were four dollars a week, and that, even at that compensation, his services were not desired. "then it wasn't a good place?" said edward. "well enough for such as liked it," said roswell. "i have no complaint of hall & turner. i told them that it was not dissatisfaction with them that led me to leave the place, but i preferred a different kind of business." "have you got another place?" "i have an offer under consideration," said roswell, consequentially; "one of the most solid firms in the city. they offer me ten dollars a week." "ten dollars a week!" repeated edward, somewhat staggered by the statement. "that's big pay." "yes," said roswell; "but i think i ought to get as much as that." "why, i thought myself lucky to get six dollars," said edward. "yes, that's very fair," said roswell, condescendingly. "in fact, i've worked at that figure myself; but, of course, one expects more as he grows older." "i suppose you'll accept your offer," said edward. "i haven't quite made up my mind," said roswell, carelessly. "i think i shall." "you'd better. such places don't grow on every bush." though edward did not more than half believe roswell's statement, he kept his disbelief to himself, feeling that it was a matter of indifference to him whether roswell received a large or small salary. "i must be going down to the office," he said. "good-morning." "good-morning," said roswell, and he re-entered the house, feeling that he had impressed edward with a conviction of his superiority, and the value set upon his services by the business men of new york. he went upstairs, and picked out a flashy necktie from his drawer, tied it carefully before the glass, and about nine set out for rockwell & cooper's warehouse. it is necessary for us to precede him. gilbert reached the counting-room at the usual time. his thoughts on the way thither were pleasant. "i shan't be subjected to that young rascal's impertinence," he considered. "that's one satisfaction." his astonishment, nay, dismay, may be imagined, therefore, when, on entering the counting-room, the first object his eyes rested on was the figure of dick. "good-morning, mr. gilbert," said our hero, pleasantly. "how came you here?" he demanded. "i walked," said dick. "i don't often ride. i think walkin's good for the constitution." "you know what i mean, well enough. how did you get out of prison?" "i haven't been there." "you were arrested for picking a man's pocket yesterday afternoon," said gilbert. "excuse me, mr. gilbert, you're slightly mistaken there. i was arrested _on suspicion_ of picking a man's pocket." "the same thing." "not quite, as it has been proved that i was innocent, and the wallet was taken by another boy." "have you been tried?" "yes, and acquitted." gilbert looked and felt disappointed. he could not conceive how dick could have escaped when the plot to entrap him had been so artfully contrived. "well, young man," he said, "i'll give you a piece of advice, and if you're wise you'll follow it." "that's kind in you," said dick. "i pass over your impertinence this time, and will advise you as a friend to resign your situation before mr. rockwell comes." "why should i?" "it'll save your being discharged." "do you think he'll discharge me?" "i know he will. he won't have any one in his employ who has been arrested for picking pockets." "not even if he didn't do it?" "not even if he was lucky enough to get off," said gilbert. "you think i'd better give up my place?" "that'll be the best course for you to pursue." "but how'll i get another place?" "i'll do what i can to help you to another place if you leave at once." "i think i'll wait and see mr. rockwell first." "i'll make all the necessary explanations to mr. rockwell," said the book-keeper. "i think i'd rather see him myself, if it doesn't make any difference to you." "you're acting like a fool. you'll only be kicked out of the store. if you don't follow my advice, i shan't interest myself in getting you another place." "do you think i took the wallet, mr. gilbert?" asked dick. "of course i do." "then how could you recommend me to another place?" "because i think this may prove a lesson to you. you've been lucky enough to escape this time, but you can't expect it always." "i'm much obliged to you for your favorable opinion; but i don't think i shall resign at once." at this moment mr. rockwell entered the warehouse. he had been informed of dick's misfortune by mr. murdock, who had had occasion to call at his house on his way from the trial. "how's this, richard?" he said, advancing, with a frank smile. "i hear you got into strange quarters last night." "yes," said dick; "but i didn't like it well enough to stay long." "why didn't you send for me?" "thank you, sir, i didn't like to trouble you. mr. murdock was very kind." "have they got the real thief?" "i don't know, sir." "well, 'all's well that ends well.' you can afford to laugh at it now." mr. gilbert listened to this colloquy with very little satisfaction. it seemed to show such a good understanding between dick and his employer that he perceived that it would be a very difficult thing to supersede him. "mr. rockwell seems to be infatuated with that boy," he muttered to himself. "i think i won't resign just yet," said dick, in a low voice, to the book-keeper. "you'll be found out some day," said gilbert, snappishly. "go to the post-office, and mind you don't stop to play on the way." dick started on his errand, and, in passing out into the street, encountered roswell crawford, who, attired with extra care, had just come down the street from broadway. on seeing dick, he started as if he had seen a ghost. "good-morning, roswell," said dick, pleasantly. "good-morning," said roswell, stiffly. "your cousin is in the counting-room. i am in a hurry, and must leave you." "i thought he was on his way to the island by this time," thought roswell, perplexed. "what can it mean?" it occurred to him all at once that dick might just have been discharged, and this thought cheered him up considerably. he entered the counting-room with a jaunty step. "good-morning, cousin james," he said. gilbert turned round, and said, in a surly tone, "you may as well take yourself off. there's no chance for you here." "hasn't the boot-black been discharged?" "no; and isn't going to be." "how is that?" asked roswell, looking very much disappointed. "i can't stop to tell you now. you'd better go now, and i'll tell you this evening." "just my luck!" said roswell to himself, considerably crest-fallen. "i wish i hadn't said a word to edward mclean about the place." chapter xix. another arrest. micky maguire, as the reader will remember, was by no means satisfied with the compensation he received from gilbert for his share in the plot which came so near proving disastrous to our friend dick. he felt that the book-keeper had acted meanly to him, and he meant to have his revenge if a good opportunity should ever offer. he was very much disappointed to think he must do without the watch which he had set his heart upon. he would have felt no particular scruples against stealing it, but that would be rather dangerous. he began to wish he had kept the pocket-book. very probably it contained more than enough to buy the watch. but, in spite of his disappointment, he had one satisfaction. he had avenged himself upon dick, whom he had long disliked. he knew nothing of tim ryan's testimony, and supposed there was no doubt of dick's conviction. he would like very well to have been present at the trial; but he had unpleasant associations connected with the court-room at the tombs, having figured there on several occasions in an important but not very enviable capacity. as he was standing by the park railings, his particular friend and admirer, limpy jim, came up. "mornin', jim," said micky. "what luck?" "none at all," said jim. "i haven't had a shine yet, and i'm precious hungry." "come and take breakfast with me," said micky, in an unusual fit of generosity; for he was generally more willing to be treated than to treat. "have you got stamps enough?" "look at this," and micky displayed the bill which he had received from gilbert. "you're in luck, micky. did you make all that by shines?" "never mind how i made it. i guess it's good. come along if you're hungry." limpy jim followed micky across printing-house square to a cheap restaurant on nassau street, between ann and beekman streets, and they were soon partaking with relish of a breakfast which, as they were not very fastidious, proved abundantly satisfactory. "i've got some news," said micky, after he had drained his cup of coffee. "you haven't forgot ragged dick, have ye?" "he's set up for a gentleman. i saw him a week ago strutting round as if he lived on fifth avenue." "well, he's set up for something else now." "what's that?" "a pick-pocket." "what?" asked jim, amazed. "he stole an old chap's pocket-book yesterday afternoon, and i seed a policeman haulin' him off to the p'lice station." "that's where he gets his good clo'es from?" suggested jim. "most likely. i expect he's on his way to the island by this time." "serve him right for puttin' on airs. he won't pretend to be so much better than the rest of us now." "wonder what tom wilkins'll say? he's a great friend of dick's." "he's a sneak," said micky. "that's so. i wanted to borrer a shillin' of him last week, and he wouldn't lend it to me." this tom wilkins was a boot-black like the two who were expressing so unfavorable an opinion of his character. he had a mother and two sisters partially dependent upon him for support, and faithfully carried home all his earnings. this accounts for his being unwilling to lend limpy jim, who had no one to look out for but himself, and never considered it necessary to repay borrowed money. tom had reason to feel friendly to dick, for on several occasions, one of which is mentioned in the first volume of this series, dick had given him help in time of need. he was always ready to defend dick, when reviled by micky and his followers, and had once or twice been attacked in consequence. limpy jim was right in supposing that nothing would disturb tom more than to hear that his friend had got into trouble. micky, who was in a generous mood, bought a couple of cheap cigars, of which he presented one to his satellite. these were lighted, and both boys, feeling more comfortable for the hearty meal of which they had partaken, swaggered out into the street. they re-entered the park, and began to look out for patrons. "there's tom wilkins now," said limpy jim. tom was busily engaged in imparting a scientific shine to the boots of an old gentleman who was sitting on one of the wooden seats to be found in the neighborhood of the city hall. when he had completed his task, and risen from his knees, limpy jim advanced towards him, and said, with a sneer, "i've heard fine news about your friend dick." "what's that?" asked tom. "he's got nabbed by a 'copp.'" "i don't believe it," said tom, incredulously. "isn't it so, micky?" said jim, appealing to his friend. "yes, it's true. i seed him hauled off for pickin' an old fellow's pocket in chatham street." "i don't believe it," repeated tom; but he began to feel a little uneasy. "i saw him and spoke to him yesterday mornin'." "what if you did? it didn't happen till afternoon." "dick wouldn't steal," said tom, stoutly. "he'll find it mighty hard work provin' that he didn't," said micky. "you won't see him for the next three months." "why won't i?" "because he'll be at the island. maybe you'll go there yourself." "if i do, it'll be for the first time," retorted tom; "and that's more than either of you can say." as this happened to be true, it was of course regarded as offensive. "shut up, tom wilkins!" said micky, "if you don't want a lickin'." "none of your impudence!" said limpy jim, emboldened by the presence and support of micky, who was taller and stronger than tom. "i've only told the truth," said tom, "and you can't deny it." "take that for your impudence!" said micky, drawing off, and hitting tom a staggering blow on the side of the head. limpy jim was about to assist micky, when there was a very unlooked-for interruption. micky maguire was seized by the collar, and, turning indignantly, found himself in the grip of a policeman. "so you are fighting, are you, my fine fellow?" demanded the guardian of the public peace. "he insulted me," said micky, doggedly, not attempting resistance, which he knew would be ineffectual. "didn't he, jim?" but jim had already disappeared. he had a prejudice, easily accounted for, against the metropolitan police, and had as little communication with them as possible. "i don't know anything about that," said the policeman. "all i know is that you're wanted." "just for hittin' him? i didn't hurt him any." "he didn't hurt me much," said tom, generously, not desiring to see micky get into trouble on his account. "he says i didn't hurt him," urged micky. "can't you let me go?" "that isn't what i want you for," said the policeman. micky was astonished. the real cause of his arrest never once occurred to him, and he could not understand why he was "wanted." "what is it, then?" he asked in some surprise. "what 'ave i been doin'?" "perhaps you don't remember relieving an old gentleman of his pocket-book yesterday in chatham street." "'twasn't me." "who was it then?" "ragged dick,--the feller that was took at the time. i seed him pick the man's pocket." "it seems that you remember something about it." "but it was dick that did it. if he says i did it, he lies." "i've nothing to do with that. you must tell your story to the judge." "has he let dick go?" "yes." micky received this intelligence with dismay. somehow it had got out that he was the real thief, and he began to think that his chance of getting off was small. just then, while in custody of the policeman, he saw advancing towards him the man who had inveigled him into the plot,--gilbert, the book-keeper. his anger against gilbert overcame his prudence, and he said, "well, if i did take the pocket-book, i was paid for doin' it, and that was the man that hired me." with some surprise, the policeman listened to this story. "if you don't believe me, just wait till i speak to him." "mr. gilbert!" called micky. gilbert, who had not till now noticed his confederate, looked up, and, rapidly understanding what had happened, determined upon his course. "who speaks to me?" he said, quietly. "you've got me into trouble, mr. gilbert," said micky, "and i want you to get me out of it." "what does he mean?" asked gilbert, coolly, addressing the policeman. "you hired me to steal a man's pocket-book, and i'm took up for it," said micky. "i want you to help me, or i'll be sent to the island." "the boy must be crazy," said gilbert, shrugging his shoulders. "you give me a dollar to do it," said micky, very much incensed at the desertion of his confederate. "do you know the boy?" asked the policeman respectfully, for he put no faith in micky's statement. "he blacked my boots once," said gilbert. "that's all i know about him. what is he arrested for?" "for picking pockets. there was another boy arrested on suspicion, but it appeared on trial that he was innocent, and that this boy really took the wallet." "he looks like a young scamp," said gilbert, coolly. "i'm much obliged to him for introducing my name into the matter. i hope he'll get his desserts." this was too much for micky's patience. he assailed gilbert with such a shower of oaths that the policeman tightened his grip, and shook him vigorously. gilbert shrugged his shoulders, and walked off with apparent unconcern. "wait till i get free," said micky, furiously. "i'll fix him." in regard to micky, i have only to say further at this time, that he was at once conveyed to the tombs, summarily tried and convicted, and spent the same night on blackwell's island, where we leave him for three months. chapter xx. before the party. "you'll be able to attend ida greyson's party after all, dick," said fosdick, on tuesday evening. "yes," said dick, "i was afraid that i should be wanted to grace the fashionable circles at blackwell's island; but as my particular friend micky maguire has kindly offered to go in my place, i shall be able to keep my other engagement." "micky's a bad fellow." "i'm afraid he is," said dick; "but he's never had a fair chance. his father was a drunkard, and used to beat him and his mother, till micky ran away from home, and set up for himself. he's never had any good example set him." "you speak kindly of micky, considering he has always been your enemy." "i haven't any ill will against micky," said dick, generously. "if i ever can do him a good turn i will. i've been luckier than he and most of my old companions, i'm going to do all i can to help them along. there's good in them if you can only bring it out." dick spoke earnestly, in a very different tone from his usual one. he had a certain philosophy of his own, and had always taken the world easily, however it treated him; but he had a warm and sympathizing heart for the sufferings of others, and he felt that he was in a position to befriend his old associates, and encourage them to higher aims and a better mode of life. "you're a good fellow, dick," said fosdick. "it isn't everybody that is so charitable to the faults of others." "i know one," said dick, smiling. "you mean me; but i'm afraid you are mistaken. i can't say i feel very well disposed towards micky maguire." "maybe micky'll reform and turn out well after all." "it would be a wonderful change." "haven't both of us changed wonderfully in the last eighteen months?" "you were always a good fellow, even when you were ragged dick." "you say that because you are my friend, fosdick." "i say it because it's true, dick. you were always ready to take the side of the weak against the strong, and share your money with those who were out of luck. i had a hard time till i fell in with you." "thank you," said dick; "if i ever want a first-rate recommendation i'll come to you. what a lot of friends i've got! mr. gilbert offered to get me another place if i'd only resign my situation at rockwell & cooper's." "he's a very disinterested friend," said fosdick, laughing. "do you think of accepting his offer?" "i'm afraid i might not be suited with the place he'd get me," said dick. "he thinks i'm best fitted to adorn the office of a boot-black. maybe he'd appoint me his private boot-black; but i'm afraid i shouldn't be able to retire on a fortune till i was two or three hundred, if i accepted the situation." "what shall we wear to the party, dick?" "we've got good suits of clothes. we can carry them to a tailor's and have them pressed, and they will look well enough. i saw a splendid necktie to-day at a store on broadway. i'm going to buy it." "you have a weakness for neckties, dick." "you see, fosdick, if you have a striking necktie, people will look at that, and they won't criticise your face." "there may be something in that, dick. i feel a little nervous though. it is the first fashionable party i ever attended." "well," said dick, "i haven't attended many. when i was a boot-black i found it interfered with my business, and so i always declined all the fashionable invitations i got." "you'd have made a sensation," said fosdick, "if you had appeared in the costume you then wore." "that's what i was afraid of. i don't want to make a sensation. i'm too modest." in fact both the boys, though they were flattered by ida's invitation, looked forward rather nervously to the evening of the party. for the first time they were to meet and mingle on terms of equality with a large number of young people who had been brought up very differently from themselves. dick could not help remembering how short a time had elapsed since, with his little wooden box strapped to his back, he used to call out, "black your boots?" in the city park. perhaps some of his old customers might be present. still he knew that he had improved greatly, and that his appearance had changed for the better. it was hardly likely that any one seeing him in mr. greyson's drawing-room, would identify him as the ragged dick of other days. then there was another ground for confidence. ida liked him, and he had a sincere liking for the little girl for whom he had a feeling such as a brother has for a cherished younger sister. so dick dressed himself for the party, feeling that he should "get through it somehow." i need not say, of course, that his boots shone with a lustre not to be surpassed even by the professional expert of the fifth avenue hotel. it was very evident that dick had not forgotten the business by which he once gained his livelihood. when dick had arranged his necktie to suit him, which i am bound to confess took at least quarter of an hour, had carefully brushed his hair, and dusted his clothes, he certainly looked remarkably well. dick was not vain, but he was anxious to appear to advantage on his first appearance in society. it need not be added that fosdick also was neatly dressed, but he was smaller and more delicate-looking than dick, and not likely to attract so much attention. as the boys were descending the stairs they met miss peyton. "really, mr. hunter," said that young lady, "you look quite dazzling this evening. how many hearts do you expect to break this evening?" "i'm not in that line of business," said dick. "i leave all that to you." "you're too bad, really, mr. hunter," said miss peyton, highly pleased, nevertheless. "i never think of such a thing." "i suppose i must believe you," said dick, "but why is it that mr. clifton has looked so sad lately?" "mr. clifton would not think of poor me," said miss peyton. "if you only knew what he said about you the other day." "do tell me." "i couldn't." "if you will, i'll give you--" "thank you," interrupted dick, gravely; "but i never accept kisses from ladies over six years old." "how can you say so, mr. hunter?" "i'm sorry to disappoint you, miss peyton, but i really couldn't." "as if i ever thought of such a thing!" said miss peyton, in affected horror. "i appeal to my friend fosdick." "did i say so, mr. fosdick?" fosdick smiled. "you mustn't appeal to me, miss peyton. you and mr. hunter are so brilliant that i don't pretend to understand you." "then you won't tell me what mr. clifton said. it is too bad. i shan't sleep to-night for thinking of it." "suppose you ask mr. clifton." "i don't know but i will." miss peyton went into the parlor, her heart fluttering with the thought that she had made a conquest of the gentleman referred to. as mr. clifton was a clerk on a small salary, continually in debt, and with no expectations, he could not be considered a very brilliant match; but miss peyton was not very particular, and she would have readily changed her name to clifton if the chance should present itself. as we may not have occasion to refer to her again, it may be as well to state that mr. clifton's pecuniary affairs came to a crisis some months afterwards. he had always been in the habit of laughing at miss peyton; but in his strait he recollected that she was mistress of a few thousand dollars over which she had absolute control. under these circumstances he decided to sacrifice himself. he accordingly offered his heart and hand, and was promptly accepted. miss peyton informed him that he was "the object of her heart's tenderest affection, her first and only love." mr. clifton expressed no doubt of this, though he was aware that miss peyton had been laying her snares for a husband for nearly ten years. the marriage took place at the boarding-house, dick and fosdick being among the invited guests. mr. clifton with his wife's money bought a partnership in a retail store on eighth avenue, where it is to be hoped he is doing a good business. any one desirous of calling upon him at his place of business is referred to the new york city directory for his number. whether mr. and mrs. clifton live happily i cannot pretend to say, not being included in the list of their friends; but i am informed by my friend dick, who calls occasionally, that mrs. clifton is as fascinating now as before her marriage, and very naturally scorns the whole sisterhood of old maids, having narrowly escaped becoming one herself. chapter xxi. ida greyson's party. when dick and his friend reached mr. greyson's house, two carriages stood before the door, from each of which descended young guests, who, like themselves, had been invited to the party. one of these brought two young girls of twelve, the other two boys of twelve and fourteen, and their sister of ten. entering with this party, the two boys felt less embarrassed than if they had been alone. the door was opened by a servant, who said, "young ladies' dressing-room, second floor, left-hand room. young gentlemen's dressing-room opposite." following directions, the boys went upstairs and entered a spacious chamber, where they deposited their outer garments, and had an opportunity to arrange their hair and brush their clothes. "is your sister here this evening?" asked one of the boys, addressing dick. "no," said dick, soberly; "she couldn't come." "i'm sorry for that. she promised to dance with me the first lancers." "wouldn't i do as well?" asked dick. "i don't think you would," said the other, laughing. "but i'll tell you what,--you shall dance with my sister." "i will, with pleasure," said dick, "if you'll introduce me." "why, i thought you knew her," said the other, in surprise. "perhaps i did," said dick; "but i exchanged myself off for another boy just before i came, and that makes a difference, you know. i shouldn't have known you, if you hadn't spoken to me." "do you know me now?" asked the other boy, beginning to understand that he had made a mistake. "you live on twenty-first street,--don't you?" "yes," was the unexpected reply, for dick had by a curious chance guessed right. "you're henry cameron, after all." "no," said dick; "my name is richard hunter." "and mine is theodore selden; but i suppose you knew that, as you knew where i live. if you're ready, we'll go downstairs." "come, fosdick," said dick. "we're going to have the lancers first," said theodore. "ida told my sister so. have you a partner engaged?" "no." "then i'll introduce you to my sister. come along." i may explain here that dick, and fosdick also, had several times danced the lancers in the parlor at the boarding-house in the evening, so that they felt reasonably confident of getting through respectably. still his new friend's proposal made dick feel a little nervous. he was not bashful with boys, but he had very little acquaintance with girls or young ladies, and expected to feel ill at ease with them. still he could not think of a good reason for excusing himself from the promised introduction, and, after going up to ida in company with his new friend, and congratulating her on her birthday (he would not have known how to act if theodore had not set him an example), he walked across the room to where one of the young ladies who had entered at the time he did was seated. "alice," said theodore, "this is my friend mr. hunter, who would like to dance with you in the first lancers." dick bowed, and alice, producing a card, said, "i shall be most happy. will mr. hunter write his name on my card?" dick did so, and was thankful that he could now write a handsome hand. "now," said theodore, unceremoniously, "i'll leave you two to amuse each other, while i go off in search of a partner." "i'm in for it," thought dick, seating himself on the sofa beside alice. "i wish i knew what to say." "do you like the lancers?" inquired the young lady. "yes, i like it," said dick, "but i haven't danced it much. i'm afraid i shall make some mistakes." "i've no doubt we shall get along well," said alice. "where did you learn?" "i learned at home," said dick. "i thought i had not met you at dodworth's. i attended dancing school there last winter." "no," said dick; "i never took lessons." "don't you like ida greyson?" inquired alice. "yes, i like her very much," said dick, sincerely. "she's a sweet girl. she's a very intimate friend of mine. who is that boy that came into the room with you?" "his name is henry fosdick." "he's going to dance with ida. come, let us hurry and get in the same set." dick offered his arm, and, as the sets were already being formed, led his partner to the upper end of the room, where they were just in time to get into the same set with ida. theodore, with a girl about his own age, had already taken his position opposite dick. fosdick and ida were the first couple, and opposite them isaac and isabella selden, cousins of theodore and alice. they had scarcely taken their places when the music struck up. dick felt a little flustered, but determined to do his best. being very quick in learning figures, and naturally gracefully in his movements, he got through very creditably, and without a mistake. "i thought you expected to make mistakes," said alice selden, as dick led her back to her seat. "i think you dance very well." "it was because i had such a good partner," said dick. "thank you for the compliment," said alice, courtesying profoundly. "seems to me you're very polite, alice," said theodore, coming up. "mr. hunter was paying me a compliment," said alice. "i wish you'd tell me how," said theodore to dick. "i wish he would," interrupted alice. "all your compliments are of the wrong kind." "it isn't expected that brothers should compliment their sisters," said theodore. mrs. greyson came into the room during the dancing, and was pleased to see that dick and henry fosdick, instead of sitting awkwardly in the corner, were taking their part in the evening's amusement. dick made an engagement with alice for another dance later in the evening, but danced the second with ida greyson, with whom, by this time, he felt very well acquainted. [illustration] "i didn't know you knew alice selden," said ida. "where did you meet her?" "her brother theodore introduced me this evening. i did not know her before." "you haven't been here lately, dick," said ida, familiarly. "no," said he. "it's because i've been very busy." "you don't work in the evening,--do you?" "i study in the evening." "what do you study, dick?" "french, for one thing." "can you speak french?" "a little. not much." "i'm going to try you '_comment vous portez-vous, monsieur?_'" "'_très bien, mademoiselle. et vous?_'" "that's right," said ida, gravely. "i can't talk much yet myself. who teaches you?" "i have a private teacher." "so have i. she comes twice a week. when i don't know my lesson, she boxes my ears. is your teacher cross?" "no," said dick, laughing. "he doesn't box my ears." "that's because you're so large. i wish i could have you for my teacher. i'd ask papa, if you could only speak it like a native." "so i can," said dick. "you can, really?" "yes, like a native of new york." ida laughed, and was afraid that wouldn't do. when the dance was over, and dick was leading ida to her seat, a surprise awaited him. a boy came forward hastily, and said in a tone blending amazement with gratification, "is it possible that this is dick hunter?" "frank whitney!" exclaimed dick, clasping his hand cordially. "how came you here?" "just the question i was going to ask you, dick. but i'll answer first. i am spending a few days with some cousins in thirty-seventh street. they are friends of the greysons, and were invited here this evening, and i with them. i little dreamed of meeting you here. i must say, dick, you seem quite at home." "mr. greyson has been a kind friend of mine," said dick, "and i've met ida quite often. but i felt a little nervous about coming to this party. i was afraid i'd be like a cat in a strange garret." "you're a wonderful boy, dick. you look as if you had been used to such scenes all your life. i can hardly believe you're the same boy i met in front of the astor house a little more than a year ago." "if i'm changed, it's because of what you said to me then, you and your father. but for those words i might still have been ragged dick." "i'm glad to hear you say that, dick; but, for all that, a great deal of credit is due to yourself." "i've worked hard," said dick, "because i felt that i had something to work for. when are you going to enter college?" "i expect to apply for admission in about two months." "at columbia college?" "yes." "i am glad of that. i shall hope to see you sometimes." "you will see me often, dick." here the music struck up, and the boys parted. it is unnecessary to speak farther of the events of the evening. dick made several other acquaintances, and felt much more at ease than he had anticipated. he returned home, feeling that his first party had been a very agreeable one, and that he had on the whole appeared to advantage. chapter xxii. micky maguire returns from the island. for three months micky maguire was not seen in his accustomed haunts. during his involuntary residence at the island he often brooded over the treachery of gilbert, to whom his present misfortune was due. he felt that he had been selfishly left to his fate by his equally guilty confederate. it had certainly been a losing speculation for poor micky. he had received but a paltry dollar for his services, and in return he was deprived of his liberty for three months. the disgrace of being sent to the island micky did not feel as dick would have done. he had been there too many times to care for that. but he did not like the restraints of the place, and he did like the free and independent life of the streets from which for a time he was debarred. the result of micky's brooding was a strong thirst for vengeance upon the author of his misfortunes. he could do nothing at present, but only bide his time. meanwhile things went on pretty much as usual at the establishment in pearl street. gilbert liked dick no better than he had done. in fact, he disliked him more, but, seeing the friendly relations between dick and his employer, found it prudent to treat him well whenever mr. rockwell was by. at other times he indulged in sneers and fault-finding, which dick turned off good-humoredly, or returned some droll answer, which blunted the edge of the sarcasm, and made the book-keeper chafe with the feeling that he was no match for the boy he hated. dick, by faithful attention to his duties, and a ready comprehension of what was required of him, steadily advanced in the good opinion of every one except gilbert. "keep on as you have begun, richard," said mr. murdock to him, "and you'll be a member of the firm some time." "do you really think so, mr. murdock?" asked dick, with a flush of gratification. "i really do. you have excellent abilities, mr. rockwell likes you, and you have only to continue steady and faithful, and you'll be sure to rise." "you know what i was, mr. murdock." "you are none the worse for that, richard. it is a great credit to a boy to earn his own living when circumstances force it upon him. if his employment is an honest one, it is an honorable one." by such remarks as these dick was encouraged, and he felt that mr. murdock was a true friend to him. meanwhile a way was opening for his advancement. one day micky maguire appeared in his old haunts. the second day he met gilbert in the street; but the book-keeper took not the slightest notice of him. that touched micky's pride, and confirmed him in his resolution. he decided to make known to mr. rockwell gilbert's share in the little plot, thinking that this would probably be the best method of injuring him. he ascertained, by means of a directory, with some difficulty, for micky's education was rather slight, the residence of mr. rockwell, and about eight o'clock in the evening ascended the steps and rang the bell. he might have gone to his place of business, but gilbert would be there, and he preferred to see mr. rockwell at home. the servant stared at the odd and not particularly prepossessing figure before her. "is mr. rockwell at home?" asked micky. "yes." "i want to see him." "did he tell you to call?" "it's on particular business," said micky. "stop here and i'll tell him," said the girl. "there's a boy at the door wants to see you, mr. rockwell," said the girl. "did you ask him in?" "no sir. he looks like a suspicious carakter," said bridget, laying the stress on the second syllable. mr. rockwell rose, and went to the door. "what is your business?" he asked. "it's about dick,--ragged dick we used to call him," said micky. "you mean richard hunter." "yes," said micky. "he was took up for stealin' a gentleman's pocket-book three months ago." "but he was proved innocent," said mr. rockwell, "so, if you have anything to say against him, your time is thrown away." "i know he was innocent," said micky; "another boy took it." "who was he?" "i did it." "then you did a wicked thing in stealing the money, and a mean thing in trying to get an innocent boy into trouble." "i wouldn't have done it," said micky, "if i hadn't been paid for it." "paid for stealing!" said mr. rockwell, astonished. "paid for tryin' to get dick into trouble." "that does not seem to be a very likely story," said mr. rockwell. "who would pay you money for doing such a thing?" "mr. gilbert." "my book-keeper?" "yes," said micky, vindictively. "i can hardly believe this," said mr. rockwell. "he paid me only a dollar for what i did," said micky, in an injured tone. "he'd ought to have given me five dollars. he's a reg'lar mean feller." "and is this why you betray him now?" "no," said micky; "it isn't the money, though it's mean to expect a feller to run the risk of bein' nabbed for a dollar; but when the 'copp' had got hold of me i met him, and he said i was a young scamp, and he didn't know anything about me." "is this true?" asked mr. rockwell, looking keenly at micky. micky confirmed his statement by an oath. "i don't want you to swear. i shall not believe you the sooner for that. can you explain why mr. gilbert should engage in such a base conspiracy?" "he told me that he hated dick," said micky. "do you like him?" "no, i don't," said micky, honestly; "but i hate mr. gilbert worse." "why do you hate richard?" "because he puts on airs." "i suppose," said mr. rockwell, smiling, "that means that he wears good clothes, and keeps his face and hands clean." "he wasn't nothin' but a boot-black," said micky, in an injured tone. "what are you?" "i'm a boot-black too; but i don't put on airs." "do you mean to be a boot-black all your life?" "i dunna," said micky; "there aint anything else to do." "tell me truly, wouldn't you rather wear good clothes than poor ones, and keep yourself clean and neat?" "yes, i should," said micky, after a slight hesitation. "then why do you blame dick for preferring to do the same?" "he licked me once," said micky, rather reluctantly, shifting his ground. "what for?" "i fired a stone at him." "you can't blame him much for that, can you?" "no," said micky, slowly, "i dunno as i can." "for my own part i have a very good opinion of richard," said mr. rockwell. "he wants to raise himself in the world, and i am glad to help him. if that is putting on airs, i should be glad to see you doing the same." "there aint no chance for me," said micky. "why not?" "i aint lucky as dick is." "dick may have been lucky," said mr. rockwell, "but i generally find that luck comes oftenest to those who deserve it. if you will try to raise yourself i will help you." "will you?" asked micky, in surprise. the fact was, he had been an ishmaelite from his earliest years, and while he had been surrounded by fellows like limpy jim, who were ready to encourage and abet him in schemes of mischief, he had never had any friends who deserved the name. that a gentleman like mr. rockwell should voluntarily offer to assist him was indeed surprising. "how old are you?" asked mr. rockwell. "seventeen," said micky. "how long have you blacked boots?" "ever since i was eight or nine." "i think it is time for you to do something else." "what will i do?" "we must think of that. i must also think of the information you have given me in regard to mr. gilbert. you are certain you are telling the truth." "yes," said micky; "it's the truth." micky did not swear this time, and mr. rockwell believed him. "let me see," he said, reflecting; "can you be at my store to-morrow morning at ten o'clock?" "i can," said micky, promptly. "what is your name?" "micky maguire." "good-night, michael." "good-night, sir," said micky, respectfully. he walked away with a crowd of new thoughts and new aspirations kindling in his breast. a gentleman had actually offered to help him on in the world. nobody had ever taken any interest in him before. life to him had been a struggle and a conflict, with very little hope of better things. he had supposed he should leave off blacking boots some time, but no prospect seemed open before him. "why shouldn't i get up in the world?" he thought, with new ambition. he half confessed to himself that he had led a bad life, and vague thoughts of amendment came to him. somebody was going to take an interest in him. that was the secret of his better thoughts and purposes. on the whole, i begin to think there is hope for micky. chapter xxiii. fame and fortune. mr. gilbert chanced to be looking out of the window of mr. rockwell's counting-room, when he was unpleasantly surprised by the sudden apparition of micky maguire. he was destined to be still more unpleasantly surprised. micky walked up to the main entrance, and entered with an assured air. gilbert hastened to meet him, and prevent his entrance. "clear out of here, you young rascal!" he said, in a tone of authority. "you're not wanted here." "i've come on business," said micky, with a scowl of dislike, showing no intention of retreating. "i have no business with you," said gilbert. "perhaps you haven't," said micky, "but mr. rockwell has." "mr. rockwell will have nothing to say to a vagabond like you." "he told me to come," said micky, resolutely, "and i shan't go till i've seen him." gilbert did not believe this, but suspected that micky intended to betray him, and to this of course he had a decided objection. "go out!" he said, imperiously, "or i'll make you." "i won't then," said micky, defiantly. "we'll see about that." gilbert seized him by the shoulders; but micky was accustomed to fighting, and made a vigorous resistance. in the midst of the fracas mr. rockwell came up. "what does this mean?" he demanded, in a quiet but authoritative tone. "this young rascal has attempted to force his way in," said the book-keeper, desisting, and with a flushed face. "i asked to see you," said micky, "and he said i shouldn't." "i told him to come," said mr. rockwell. "you may come into the counting-room, michael. mr. gilbert, i should like your presence also." in surprise, not unmingled with foreboding, mr. gilbert followed his employer and micky maguire into the counting-room. "mr. gilbert," commenced mr. rockwell, "are you acquainted with this boy?" "he blacked my boots on one occasion," said the book-keeper; "i know no more of him except that he is a young vagabond and a thief." "who hired me to steal?" retorted micky. "i don't think you would need any hiring," said gilbert, with a sneer. micky was about to retort in no choice terms, but mr. rockwell signed to him to be silent. "this boy has made a charge against you, mr. gilbert," he said, "which you ought to be made aware of." "he is capable of any falsehood," said the book-keeper; but he began to be nervous. "i thought your acquaintance with him was very slight." "so it is; but it is easy to judge from his looks what he is." "that is not always a safe guide. but to the charge. he asserts that you hired him to fix the charge of theft upon richard, on account of your dislike to him." "so he did, and all he give me was a dollar," said micky, aggrieved. "that was mean." "do you believe this story?" asked gilbert, turning to mr. rockwell. "i know that you dislike richard, mr. gilbert." "so i do. he's artful and bad; but you'll find him out some day." "i don't think you do him justice. artful is the very last word i should apply to him." "you may be deceived." "if i am, i shall never put confidence in any boy again. but you haven't answered the charge, mr. gilbert." "it isn't worth answering," said the book-keeper, scornfully. "still, i would be glad to have you give an answer one way or the other," persisted mr. rockwell. "then it's a lie, of course." "it's true," said micky. "i hope you consider my word as of more value than this vagabond's," said gilbert, contemptuously. "why were you so anxious to prevent his entering, mr. gilbert?" "i didn't see what business he could possibly have here." "michael, will you give an account of all that has taken place between mr. gilbert and yourself? i do not yet feel satisfied." "mr. rockwell," said gilbert, in a passion, "i do not choose to submit to the insulting investigation you propose. my month is out next thursday; i beg leave to resign my situation." "your resignation is accepted," said mr. rockwell, quietly. "if it is convenient to you, i should like to leave at once," said the book-keeper, livid with passion. "as you please," said his employer. "your salary shall be paid up to the end of the month." to this gilbert offered no opposition. the balance of his salary was paid him, and he left the warehouse in a very unpleasant frame of mind, much to the gratification of micky maguire, who felt that his vengeance was complete. "now, michael," said mr. rockwell, "i must see what i can do for you. do you wish to give up your present business?" "yes," said micky, "i don't like it." "i can give you a situation as errand-boy in my own employ," said mr. rockwell. "my head clerk will explain your duties." "what wages will i get?" asked micky, anxiously. "for the present you shall have a dollar a day, or six dollars a week. i will besides give you a new suit of clothes. will that suit you?" "yes," said micky, feeling as if he had unexpectedly become heir to a fortune. "when will i begin?" "to-morrow if you like. come here this afternoon at three, and i will send richard with you to a clothing-house." just then dick, who had been to the post-office, entered, and mr. rockwell in a few words informed him of the changes that had taken place. "i believe you and michael haven't been very good friends," he added; "but i trust you will get over that." dick promptly offered his hand to his old enemy. "i am glad you are coming here, micky," he said "i'll do all i can to help you on, and if we are not good friends it won't be my fault." "do you mean that, dick?" said micky, almost incredulous. "yes, i do." "i've acted mean by you more'n once." "if you have, it's all over now," said dick. "there's no use in remembering it." "you're a good fellow, dick," said micky, "an' i ought to have known it before." dick was gratified by this testimony from one who for years had been his active opponent, and he determined to help micky to turn over the new leaf which was to bear a very different record from the old one. when micky had gone out, mr. rockwell said, "well, richard, i have lost my book-keeper." "yes, sir," said dick. "and i can't say i am sorry. i will do mr. gilbert the justice to say that he understood his business; but he was personally disagreeable, and i never liked him. now i suppose i must look out for a successor." "yes, sir, i suppose so." "i know a very competent book-keeper, who is intending to go into business for himself at the expiration of six months. until that time i can secure his services. now, i have a plan in view which i think you will approve. you shall at once commence the study of book-keeping in a commercial school in the evening, and during the day i will direct mr. haley to employ you as his assistant. i think in that way you will be able to succeed him at the end of his term." dick was completely taken by surprise. the thought that he, so recently plying the trade of a boot-black in the public streets, could rise in six months to the responsible post of a book-keeper in a large wholesale house, seemed almost incredible. "i should like nothing better," he said, his eyes sparkling with delight, "if you really think i could discharge the duties satisfactorily." "i think you could. i believe you have the ability, and of your fidelity i feel assured." "thank you, sir; you are very kind to me," said dick, gratefully. "i have reason to be," said mr. rockwell, taking his hand. "under god it is to your courage that i owe the life of my dear boy. i shall never forget it. one thing more. i intend michael to undertake most of your present duties, such as going to the post-office, etc. do you think he will answer?" "i think so," said dick. "he has been a rough customer, but then he has never had a chance. i believe in giving everybody a chance." "so do i," said mr. rockwell. "michael shall have his chance. let us hope he will improve it." there are many boys, and men too, who, like micky maguire, have never had a fair chance in life. let us remember that, when we judge them, and not be too hasty to condemn. let us consider also whether it is not in our power to give some one the chance that may redeem him. that afternoon micky maguire was provided with a new suit of clothes, of which he felt very proud. the next morning, on his way to the post-office, he fell in with his old confederate, limpy jim, who regarded him with a glance of the most bewildering surprise. "it aint you, micky,--is it?" he asked, cautiously, surveying his old comrade's neat appearance. "when did you come back from the island?" "shut up about the island, jim," said micky. "do i look as if i had been there?" "you look nobby," said jim. "where's your brush?" "i've give up the blackin' business," said micky. "you have? what are you going to do? sell papers?" "no," said micky, consequentially. "i'm in business on pearl street." "why," said limpy jim, surprised, "that's where that upstart ragged dick works." "he aint an upstart, an' he aint ragged," said micky. "he's a friend of mine, an' if you insult him, i'll lam' ye." "o my eyes!" ejaculated jim, opening the organs of vision to a very wide extent; "that's the biggest joke i ever heerd of." "you'll hear of a bigger one pretty quick," said micky, rolling up his sleeves, and squaring off scientifically. limpy jim, who had a respect for micky's prowess, incontinently fled, surveying micky from a safe distance, with a look in which surprise seemed to mingle with incredulity. it may seem strange, but, from that time forth, dick had no firmer friend than micky maguire, who, i am glad to say, though occasionally wayward, improved vastly, and became a useful employé of the establishment which he had entered. of course both in ability and education, though in the last he gained considerably, he was quite inferior to dick; but he was advanced as he grew older to the position of porter, where his strength stood him in good stead. his pay increased also, and through dick's influence he was saved from vicious habits, and converted from a vagabond to a useful member of society. and now, almost with regret, i find myself closing up the record of dick's chequered career. the past with its trials is over; the future expands before him, a bright vista of merited success. but it remains for me to justify the title of my story, and show how dick acquired "fame and fortune." i can only hint briefly at the steps that led to them. in six months, at the age of seventeen, dick succeeded to mr. gilbert's place with a salary, to commence with, of one thousand dollars. to this an annual increase was made, making his income at twenty-one, fourteen hundred dollars. just about that time he had an opportunity to sell his up-town lots, to a gentleman who had taken a great fancy to them, for five times the amount he paid, or five thousand dollars. his savings from his salary amounted to about two thousand dollars more. meanwhile mr. rockwell's partner, mr. cooper, from ill health felt obliged to withdraw from business, and richard, to his unbounded astonishment and gratification, was admitted to the post of junior partner, embarking the capital he had already accumulated, and receiving a corresponding share of the profits. these were so large that richard was able to increase his interest yearly by investing his additional savings, and three years later he felt justified in offering his hand to ida greyson, whose partiality to dick had never wavered. he was no longer ragged dick now, but mr. richard hunter, junior partner in the large firm of rockwell & hunter. mr. greyson felt that even in a worldly way dick was a good match for his daughter; but he knew and valued still more his good heart and conscientious fidelity to duty, and excellent principles, and cheerfully gave his consent. last week i read dick's marriage in the papers, and rejoiced in his new hopes of happiness. so dick has achieved fame and fortune,--the fame of an honorable and enterprising man of business, and a fortune which promises to be very large. but i am glad to say that dick has not been spoiled by prosperity. he never forgets his humble beginnings, and tries to show his sense of god's goodness by extending a helping hand to the poor and needy boys, whose trials and privations he understands well from his own past experience. i propose in my next story to give an account of one of these boys, and shall take the opportunity to give further information in regard to some of the characters introduced in this volume. this story, the third in the ragged dick series; will be entitled mark, the match boy; or, richard hunter's ward. * * * * * horatio alger's successful juvenile books. * * * * * ragged dick books. i. ragged dick; or, street life in new york. ii. fame and fortune; or, the progress of richard hunter. iii. mark, the match boy. iv. rough and ready; or, life among new york newsboys. v. ben the luggage boy; or, among the wharves. vi. rufus and rose; or, the fortunes of rough and ready. * * * * * tattered tom books. a continuation of the ragged dick series. first series, in four volumes i. tattered tom; or, the story of a street arab. ii. paul, the peddler; or, the adventures of a young street merchant. iii. phil, the fiddler; or, the young street musician. iv. slow and sure; or, from the sidewalk to the shop. second series. i. julius; or, the street boy out west. * * * * * luck and pluck books. first series, in four volumes i. luck and pluck; or, john oakley's inheritance. ii. sink or swim; or, harry raymond's resolve. iii. strong and steady; or, paddle your own canoe. iv. strive and succeed; or, the progress of walter conrad. second series. i. try and trust; or, the story of a bound boy. ii. bound to rise; or, how harry walton rose in the world. iii. risen from the ranks; or, harry walton's success. * * * * * bold and brave books. _to be completed in four volumes._ i. bold and brave; or, the fortunes of a factory boy. * * * * * campaign books. i. frank's campaign. ii. paul prescott's charge. iii. charlie codman's cruise. the confidence-man: his masquerade. by herman melville, author of "piazza tales," "omoo," "typee," etc., etc. new york: dix, edwards & co., broadway . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by herman melville, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. miller & holman, printers and stereotypers, n. y. contents chapter i. a mute goes aboard a boat on the mississippi. chapter ii. showing that many men have many minds. chapter iii. in which a variety of characters appear. chapter iv. renewal of old acquaintance. chapter v. the man with the weed makes it an even question whether he be a great sage or a great simpleton. chapter vi. at the outset of which certain passengers prove deaf to the call of charity. chapter vii. a gentleman with gold sleeve-buttons. chapter viii. a charitable lady. chapter ix. two business men transact a little business. chapter x. in the cabin. chapter xi. only a page or so. chapter xii. the story of the unfortunate man, from which may be gathered whether or no he has been justly so entitled. chapter xiii. the man with the traveling-cap evinces much humanity, and in a way which would seem to show him to be one of the most logical of optimists. chapter xiv. worth the consideration of those to whom it may prove worth considering. chapter xv. an old miser, upon suitable representations, is prevailed upon to venture an investment. chapter xvi. a sick man, after some impatience, is induced to become a patient. chapter xvii. towards the end of which the herb-doctor proves himself a forgiver of injuries. chapter xviii. inquest into the true character of the herb-doctor. chapter xix. a soldier of fortune. chapter xx. reappearance of one who may be remembered. chapter xxi. a hard case. chapter xxii. in the polite spirit of the tusculan disputations. chapter xxiii. in which the powerful effect of natural scenery is evinced in the case of the missourian, who, in view of the region round about cairo, has a return of his chilly fit. chapter xxiv. a philanthropist undertakes to convert a misanthrope, but does not get beyond confuting him. chapter xxv. the cosmopolitan makes an acquaintance. chapter xxvi. containing the metaphysics of indian-hating, according to the views of one evidently not so prepossessed as rousseau in favor of savages. chapter xxvii. some account of a man of questionable morality, but who, nevertheless, would seem entitled to the esteem of that eminent english moralist who said he liked a good hater. chapter xxviii. moot points touching the late colonel john moredock. chapter xxix. the boon companions. chapter xxx. opening with a poetical eulogy of the press, and continuing with talk inspired by the same. chapter xxxi. a metamorphosis more surprising than any in ovid. chapter xxxii. showing that the age of music and magicians is not yet over. chapter xxxiii. which may pass for whatever it may prove to be worth. chapter xxxiv. in which the cosmopolitan tells the story of the gentleman-madman. chapter xxxv. in which the cosmopolitan strikingly evinces the artlessness of his nature. chapter xxxvi. in which the cosmopolitan is accosted by a mystic, whereupon ensues pretty much such talk as might be expected. chapter xxxvii. the mystical master introduces the practical disciple. chapter xxxviii. the disciple unbends, and consents to act a social part. chapter xxxix. the hypothetical friends. chapter xl. in which the story of china aster is, at second-hand, told by one who, while not disapproving the moral, disclaims the spirit of the style. chapter xli. ending with a rupture of the hypothesis. chapter xlii. upon the heel of the last scene, the cosmopolitan enters the barber's shop, a benediction on his lips. chapter xliii. very charming. chapter xliv. in which the last three words of the last chapter are made the text of the discourse, which will be sure of receiving more or less attention from those readers who do not skip it. chapter xlv. the cosmopolitan increases in seriousness. chapter i. a mute goes aboard a boat on the mississippi. at sunrise on a first of april, there appeared, suddenly as manco capac at the lake titicaca, a man in cream-colors, at the water-side in the city of st. louis. his cheek was fair, his chin downy, his hair flaxen, his hat a white fur one, with a long fleecy nap. he had neither trunk, valise, carpet-bag, nor parcel. no porter followed him. he was unaccompanied by friends. from the shrugged shoulders, titters, whispers, wonderings of the crowd, it was plain that he was, in the extremest sense of the word, a stranger. in the same moment with his advent, he stepped aboard the favorite steamer fidèle, on the point of starting for new orleans. stared at, but unsaluted, with the air of one neither courting nor shunning regard, but evenly pursuing the path of duty, lead it through solitudes or cities, he held on his way along the lower deck until he chanced to come to a placard nigh the captain's office, offering a reward for the capture of a mysterious impostor, supposed to have recently arrived from the east; quite an original genius in his vocation, as would appear, though wherein his originality consisted was not clearly given; but what purported to be a careful description of his person followed. as if it had been a theatre-bill, crowds were gathered about the announcement, and among them certain chevaliers, whose eyes, it was plain, were on the capitals, or, at least, earnestly seeking sight of them from behind intervening coats; but as for their fingers, they were enveloped in some myth; though, during a chance interval, one of these chevaliers somewhat showed his hand in purchasing from another chevalier, ex-officio a peddler of money-belts, one of his popular safe-guards, while another peddler, who was still another versatile chevalier, hawked, in the thick of the throng, the lives of measan, the bandit of ohio, murrel, the pirate of the mississippi, and the brothers harpe, the thugs of the green river country, in kentucky--creatures, with others of the sort, one and all exterminated at the time, and for the most part, like the hunted generations of wolves in the same regions, leaving comparatively few successors; which would seem cause for unalloyed gratulation, and is such to all except those who think that in new countries, where the wolves are killed off, the foxes increase. pausing at this spot, the stranger so far succeeded in threading his way, as at last to plant himself just beside the placard, when, producing a small slate and tracing some words upon if, he held it up before him on a level with the placard, so that they who read the one might read the other. the words were these:-- "charity thinketh no evil." as, in gaining his place, some little perseverance, not to say persistence, of a mildly inoffensive sort, had been unavoidable, it was not with the best relish that the crowd regarded his apparent intrusion; and upon a more attentive survey, perceiving no badge of authority about him, but rather something quite the contrary--he being of an aspect so singularly innocent; an aspect too, which they took to be somehow inappropriate to the time and place, and inclining to the notion that his writing was of much the same sort: in short, taking him for some strange kind of simpleton, harmless enough, would he keep to himself, but not wholly unobnoxious as an intruder--they made no scruple to jostle him aside; while one, less kind than the rest, or more of a wag, by an unobserved stroke, dexterously flattened down his fleecy hat upon his head. without readjusting it, the stranger quietly turned, and writing anew upon the slate, again held it up:-- "charity suffereth long, and is kind." illy pleased with his pertinacity, as they thought it, the crowd a second time thrust him aside, and not without epithets and some buffets, all of which were unresented. but, as if at last despairing of so difficult an adventure, wherein one, apparently a non-resistant, sought to impose his presence upon fighting characters, the stranger now moved slowly away, yet not before altering his writing to this:-- "charity endureth all things." shield-like bearing his slate before him, amid stares and jeers he moved slowly up and down, at his turning points again changing his inscription to-- "charity believeth all things." and then-- "charity never faileth." the word charity, as originally traced, remained throughout uneffaced, not unlike the left-hand numeral of a printed date, otherwise left for convenience in blank. to some observers, the singularity, if not lunacy, of the stranger was heightened by his muteness, and, perhaps also, by the contrast to his proceedings afforded in the actions--quite in the wonted and sensible order of things--of the barber of the boat, whose quarters, under a smoking-saloon, and over against a bar-room, was next door but two to the captain's office. as if the long, wide, covered deck, hereabouts built up on both sides with shop-like windowed spaces, were some constantinople arcade or bazaar, where more than one trade is plied, this river barber, aproned and slippered, but rather crusty-looking for the moment, it may be from being newly out of bed, was throwing open his premises for the day, and suitably arranging the exterior. with business-like dispatch, having rattled down his shutters, and at a palm-tree angle set out in the iron fixture his little ornamental pole, and this without overmuch tenderness for the elbows and toes of the crowd, he concluded his operations by bidding people stand still more aside, when, jumping on a stool, he hung over his door, on the customary nail, a gaudy sort of illuminated pasteboard sign, skillfully executed by himself, gilt with the likeness of a razor elbowed in readiness to shave, and also, for the public benefit, with two words not unfrequently seen ashore gracing other shops besides barbers':-- "no trust." an inscription which, though in a sense not less intrusive than the contrasted ones of the stranger, did not, as it seemed, provoke any corresponding derision or surprise, much less indignation; and still less, to all appearances, did it gain for the inscriber the repute of being a simpleton. meanwhile, he with the slate continued moving slowly up and down, not without causing some stares to change into jeers, and some jeers into pushes, and some pushes into punches; when suddenly, in one of his turns, he was hailed from behind by two porters carrying a large trunk; but as the summons, though loud, was without effect, they accidentally or otherwise swung their burden against him, nearly overthrowing him; when, by a quick start, a peculiar inarticulate moan, and a pathetic telegraphing of his fingers, he involuntarily betrayed that he was not alone dumb, but also deaf. presently, as if not wholly unaffected by his reception thus far, he went forward, seating himself in a retired spot on the forecastle, nigh the foot of a ladder there leading to a deck above, up and down which ladder some of the boatmen, in discharge of their duties, were occasionally going. from his betaking himself to this humble quarter, it was evident that, as a deck-passenger, the stranger, simple though he seemed, was not entirely ignorant of his place, though his taking a deck-passage might have been partly for convenience; as, from his having no luggage, it was probable that his destination was one of the small wayside landings within a few hours' sail. but, though he might not have a long way to go, yet he seemed already to have come from a very long distance. though neither soiled nor slovenly, his cream-colored suit had a tossed look, almost linty, as if, traveling night and day from some far country beyond the prairies, he had long been without the solace of a bed. his aspect was at once gentle and jaded, and, from the moment of seating himself, increasing in tired abstraction and dreaminess. gradually overtaken by slumber, his flaxen head drooped, his whole lamb-like figure relaxed, and, half reclining against the ladder's foot, lay motionless, as some sugar-snow in march, which, softly stealing down over night, with its white placidity startles the brown farmer peering out from his threshold at daybreak. chapter ii. showing that many men have many minds. "odd fish!" "poor fellow!" "who can he be?" "casper hauser." "bless my soul!" "uncommon countenance." "green prophet from utah." "humbug!" "singular innocence." "means something." "spirit-rapper." "moon-calf." "piteous." "trying to enlist interest." "beware of him." "fast asleep here, and, doubtless, pick-pockets on board." "kind of daylight endymion." "escaped convict, worn out with dodging." "jacob dreaming at luz." such the epitaphic comments, conflictingly spoken or thought, of a miscellaneous company, who, assembled on the overlooking, cross-wise balcony at the forward end of the upper deck near by, had not witnessed preceding occurrences. meantime, like some enchanted man in his grave, happily oblivious of all gossip, whether chiseled or chatted, the deaf and dumb stranger still tranquilly slept, while now the boat started on her voyage. the great ship-canal of ving-king-ching, in the flowery kingdom, seems the mississippi in parts, where, amply flowing between low, vine-tangled banks, flat as tow-paths, it bears the huge toppling steamers, bedizened and lacquered within like imperial junks. pierced along its great white bulk with two tiers of small embrasure-like windows, well above the waterline, the fiddle, though, might at distance have been taken by strangers for some whitewashed fort on a floating isle. merchants on 'change seem the passengers that buzz on her decks, while, from quarters unseen, comes a murmur as of bees in the comb. fine promenades, domed saloons, long galleries, sunny balconies, confidential passages, bridal chambers, state-rooms plenty as pigeon-holes, and out-of-the-way retreats like secret drawers in an escritoire, present like facilities for publicity or privacy. auctioneer or coiner, with equal ease, might somewhere here drive his trade. though her voyage of twelve hundred miles extends from apple to orange, from clime to clime, yet, like any small ferry-boat, to right and left, at every landing, the huge fidèle still receives additional passengers in exchange for those that disembark; so that, though always full of strangers, she continually, in some degree, adds to, or replaces them with strangers still more strange; like rio janeiro fountain, fed from the cocovarde mountains, which is ever overflowing with strange waters, but never with the same strange particles in every part. though hitherto, as has been seen, the man in cream-colors had by no means passed unobserved, yet by stealing into retirement, and there going asleep and continuing so, he seemed to have courted oblivion, a boon not often withheld from so humble an applicant as he. those staring crowds on the shore were now left far behind, seen dimly clustering like swallows on eaves; while the passengers' attention was soon drawn away to the rapidly shooting high bluffs and shot-towers on the missouri shore, or the bluff-looking missourians and towering kentuckians among the throngs on the decks. by-and-by--two or three random stoppages having been made, and the last transient memory of the slumberer vanished, and he himself, not unlikely, waked up and landed ere now--the crowd, as is usual, began in all parts to break up from a concourse into various clusters or squads, which in some cases disintegrated again into quartettes, trios, and couples, or even solitaires; involuntarily submitting to that natural law which ordains dissolution equally to the mass, as in time to the member. as among chaucer's canterbury pilgrims, or those oriental ones crossing the red sea towards mecca in the festival month, there was no lack of variety. natives of all sorts, and foreigners; men of business and men of pleasure; parlor men and backwoodsmen; farm-hunters and fame-hunters; heiress-hunters, gold-hunters, buffalo-hunters, bee-hunters, happiness-hunters, truth-hunters, and still keener hunters after all these hunters. fine ladies in slippers, and moccasined squaws; northern speculators and eastern philosophers; english, irish, german, scotch, danes; santa fé traders in striped blankets, and broadway bucks in cravats of cloth of gold; fine-looking kentucky boatmen, and japanese-looking mississippi cotton-planters; quakers in full drab, and united states soldiers in full regimentals; slaves, black, mulatto, quadroon; modish young spanish creoles, and old-fashioned french jews; mormons and papists dives and lazarus; jesters and mourners, teetotalers and convivialists, deacons and blacklegs; hard-shell baptists and clay-eaters; grinning negroes, and sioux chiefs solemn as high-priests. in short, a piebald parliament, an anacharsis cloots congress of all kinds of that multiform pilgrim species, man. as pine, beech, birch, ash, hackmatack, hemlock, spruce, bass-wood, maple, interweave their foliage in the natural wood, so these mortals blended their varieties of visage and garb. a tartar-like picturesqueness; a sort of pagan abandonment and assurance. here reigned the dashing and all-fusing spirit of the west, whose type is the mississippi itself, which, uniting the streams of the most distant and opposite zones, pours them along, helter-skelter, in one cosmopolitan and confident tide. chapter iii. in which a variety of characters appear. in the forward part of the boat, not the least attractive object, for a time, was a grotesque negro cripple, in tow-cloth attire and an old coal-sifter of a tamborine in his hand, who, owing to something wrong about his legs, was, in effect, cut down to the stature of a newfoundland dog; his knotted black fleece and good-natured, honest black face rubbing against the upper part of people's thighs as he made shift to shuffle about, making music, such as it was, and raising a smile even from the gravest. it was curious to see him, out of his very deformity, indigence, and houselessness, so cheerily endured, raising mirth in some of that crowd, whose own purses, hearths, hearts, all their possessions, sound limbs included, could not make gay. "what is your name, old boy?" said a purple-faced drover, putting his large purple hand on the cripple's bushy wool, as if it were the curled forehead of a black steer. "der black guinea dey calls me, sar." "and who is your master, guinea?" "oh sar, i am der dog widout massa." "a free dog, eh? well, on your account, i'm sorry for that, guinea. dogs without masters fare hard." "so dey do, sar; so dey do. but you see, sar, dese here legs? what ge'mman want to own dese here legs?" "but where do you live?" "all 'long shore, sar; dough now. i'se going to see brodder at der landing; but chiefly i libs in dey city." "st. louis, ah? where do you sleep there of nights?" "on der floor of der good baker's oven, sar." "in an oven? whose, pray? what baker, i should like to know, bakes such black bread in his oven, alongside of his nice white rolls, too. who is that too charitable baker, pray?" "dar he be," with a broad grin lifting his tambourine high over his head. "the sun is the baker, eh?" "yes sar, in der city dat good baker warms der stones for dis ole darkie when he sleeps out on der pabements o' nights." "but that must be in the summer only, old boy. how about winter, when the cold cossacks come clattering and jingling? how about winter, old boy?" "den dis poor old darkie shakes werry bad, i tell you, sar. oh sar, oh! don't speak ob der winter," he added, with a reminiscent shiver, shuffling off into the thickest of the crowd, like a half-frozen black sheep nudging itself a cozy berth in the heart of the white flock. thus far not very many pennies had been given him, and, used at last to his strange looks, the less polite passengers of those in that part of the boat began to get their fill of him as a curious object; when suddenly the negro more than revived their first interest by an expedient which, whether by chance or design, was a singular temptation at once to _diversion_ and charity, though, even more than his crippled limbs, it put him on a canine footing. in short, as in appearance he seemed a dog, so now, in a merry way, like a dog he began to be treated. still shuffling among the crowd, now and then he would pause, throwing back his head and, opening his mouth like an elephant for tossed apples at a menagerie; when, making a space before him, people would have a bout at a strange sort of pitch-penny game, the cripple's mouth being at once target and purse, and he hailing each expertly-caught copper with a cracked bravura from his tambourine. to be the subject of alms-giving is trying, and to feel in duty bound to appear cheerfully grateful under the trial, must be still more so; but whatever his secret emotions, he swallowed them, while still retaining each copper this side the oesophagus. and nearly always he grinned, and only once or twice did he wince, which was when certain coins, tossed by more playful almoners, came inconveniently nigh to his teeth, an accident whose unwelcomeness was not unedged by the circumstance that the pennies thus thrown proved buttons. while this game of charity was yet at its height, a limping, gimlet-eyed, sour-faced person--it may be some discharged custom-house officer, who, suddenly stripped of convenient means of support, had concluded to be avenged on government and humanity by making himself miserable for life, either by hating or suspecting everything and everybody--this shallow unfortunate, after sundry sorry observations of the negro, began to croak out something about his deformity being a sham, got up for financial purposes, which immediately threw a damp upon the frolic benignities of the pitch-penny players. but that these suspicions came from one who himself on a wooden leg went halt, this did not appear to strike anybody present. that cripples, above all men should be companionable, or, at least, refrain from picking a fellow-limper to pieces, in short, should have a little sympathy in common misfortune, seemed not to occur to the company. meantime, the negro's countenance, before marked with even more than patient good-nature, drooped into a heavy-hearted expression, full of the most painful distress. so far abased beneath its proper physical level, that newfoundland-dog face turned in passively hopeless appeal, as if instinct told it that the right or the wrong might not have overmuch to do with whatever wayward mood superior intelligences might yield to. but instinct, though knowing, is yet a teacher set below reason, which itself says, in the grave words of lysander in the comedy, after puck has made a sage of him with his spell:-- "the will of man is by his reason swayed." so that, suddenly change as people may, in their dispositions, it is not always waywardness, but improved judgment, which, as in lysander's case, or the present, operates with them. yes, they began to scrutinize the negro curiously enough; when, emboldened by this evidence of the efficacy of his words, the wooden-legged man hobbled up to the negro, and, with the air of a beadle, would, to prove his alleged imposture on the spot, have stripped him and then driven him away, but was prevented by the crowd's clamor, now taking part with the poor fellow, against one who had just before turned nearly all minds the other way. so he with the wooden leg was forced to retire; when the rest, finding themselves left sole judges in the case, could not resist the opportunity of acting the part: not because it is a human weakness to take pleasure in sitting in judgment upon one in a box, as surely this unfortunate negro now was, but that it strangely sharpens human perceptions, when, instead of standing by and having their fellow-feelings touched by the sight of an alleged culprit severely handled by some one justiciary, a crowd suddenly come to be all justiciaries in the same case themselves; as in arkansas once, a man proved guilty, by law, of murder, but whose condemnation was deemed unjust by the people, so that they rescued him to try him themselves; whereupon, they, as it turned out, found him even guiltier than the court had done, and forthwith proceeded to execution; so that the gallows presented the truly warning spectacle of a man hanged by his friends. but not to such extremities, or anything like them, did the present crowd come; they, for the time, being content with putting the negro fairly and discreetly to the question; among other things, asking him, had he any documentary proof, any plain paper about him, attesting that his case was not a spurious one. "no, no, dis poor ole darkie haint none o' dem waloable papers," he wailed. "but is there not some one who can speak a good word for you?" here said a person newly arrived from another part of the boat, a young episcopal clergyman, in a long, straight-bodied black coat; small in stature, but manly; with a clear face and blue eye; innocence, tenderness, and good sense triumvirate in his air. "oh yes, oh yes, ge'mmen," he eagerly answered, as if his memory, before suddenly frozen up by cold charity, as suddenly thawed back into fluidity at the first kindly word. "oh yes, oh yes, dar is aboard here a werry nice, good ge'mman wid a weed, and a ge'mman in a gray coat and white tie, what knows all about me; and a ge'mman wid a big book, too; and a yarb-doctor; and a ge'mman in a yaller west; and a ge'mman wid a brass plate; and a ge'mman in a wiolet robe; and a ge'mman as is a sodjer; and ever so many good, kind, honest ge'mmen more aboard what knows me and will speak for me, god bress 'em; yes, and what knows me as well as dis poor old darkie knows hisself, god bress him! oh, find 'em, find 'em," he earnestly added, "and let 'em come quick, and show you all, ge'mmen, dat dis poor ole darkie is werry well wordy of all you kind ge'mmen's kind confidence." "but how are we to find all these people in this great crowd?" was the question of a bystander, umbrella in hand; a middle-aged person, a country merchant apparently, whose natural good-feeling had been made at least cautious by the unnatural ill-feeling of the discharged custom-house officer. "where are we to find them?" half-rebukefully echoed the young episcopal clergymen. "i will go find one to begin with," he quickly added, and, with kind haste suiting the action to the word, away he went. "wild goose chase!" croaked he with the wooden leg, now again drawing nigh. "don't believe there's a soul of them aboard. did ever beggar have such heaps of fine friends? he can walk fast enough when he tries, a good deal faster than i; but he can lie yet faster. he's some white operator, betwisted and painted up for a decoy. he and his friends are all humbugs." "have you no charity, friend?" here in self-subdued tones, singularly contrasted with his unsubdued person, said a methodist minister, advancing; a tall, muscular, martial-looking man, a tennessean by birth, who in the mexican war had been volunteer chaplain to a volunteer rifle-regiment. "charity is one thing, and truth is another," rejoined he with the wooden leg: "he's a rascal, i say." "but why not, friend, put as charitable a construction as one can upon the poor fellow?" said the soldierlike methodist, with increased difficulty maintaining a pacific demeanor towards one whose own asperity seemed so little to entitle him to it: "he looks honest, don't he?" "looks are one thing, and facts are another," snapped out the other perversely; "and as to your constructions, what construction can you put upon a rascal, but that a rascal he is?" "be not such a canada thistle," urged the methodist, with something less of patience than before. "charity, man, charity." "to where it belongs with your charity! to heaven with it!" again snapped out the other, diabolically; "here on earth, true charity dotes, and false charity plots. who betrays a fool with a kiss, the charitable fool has the charity to believe is in love with him, and the charitable knave on the stand gives charitable testimony for his comrade in the box." "surely, friend," returned the noble methodist, with much ado restraining his still waxing indignation--"surely, to say the least, you forget yourself. apply it home," he continued, with exterior calmness tremulous with inkept emotion. "suppose, now, i should exercise no charity in judging your own character by the words which have fallen from you; what sort of vile, pitiless man do you think i would take you for?" "no doubt"--with a grin--"some such pitiless man as has lost his piety in much the same way that the jockey loses his honesty." "and how is that, friend?" still conscientiously holding back the old adam in him, as if it were a mastiff he had by the neck. "never you mind how it is"--with a sneer; "but all horses aint virtuous, no more than all men kind; and come close to, and much dealt with, some things are catching. when you find me a virtuous jockey, i will find you a benevolent wise man." "some insinuation there." "more fool you that are puzzled by it." "reprobate!" cried the other, his indignation now at last almost boiling over; "godless reprobate! if charity did not restrain me, i could call you by names you deserve." "could you, indeed?" with an insolent sneer. "yea, and teach you charity on the spot," cried the goaded methodist, suddenly catching this exasperating opponent by his shabby coat-collar, and shaking him till his timber-toe clattered on the deck like a nine-pin. "you took me for a non-combatant did you?--thought, seedy coward that you are, that you could abuse a christian with impunity. you find your mistake"--with another hearty shake. "well said and better done, church militant!" cried a voice. "the white cravat against the world!" cried another. "bravo, bravo!" chorused many voices, with like enthusiasm taking sides with the resolute champion. "you fools!" cried he with the wooden leg, writhing himself loose and inflamedly turning upon the throng; "you flock of fools, under this captain of fools, in this ship of fools!" with which exclamations, followed by idle threats against his admonisher, this condign victim to justice hobbled away, as disdaining to hold further argument with such a rabble. but his scorn was more than repaid by the hisses that chased him, in which the brave methodist, satisfied with the rebuke already administered, was, to omit still better reasons, too magnanimous to join. all he said was, pointing towards the departing recusant, "there he shambles off on his one lone leg, emblematic of his one-sided view of humanity." "but trust your painted decoy," retorted the other from a distance, pointing back to the black cripple, "and i have my revenge." "but we aint agoing to trust him!" shouted back a voice. "so much the better," he jeered back. "look you," he added, coming to a dead halt where he was; "look you, i have been called a canada thistle. very good. and a seedy one: still better. and the seedy canada thistle has been pretty well shaken among ye: best of all. dare say some seed has been shaken out; and won't it spring though? and when it does spring, do you cut down the young thistles, and won't they spring the more? it's encouraging and coaxing 'em. now, when with my thistles your farms shall be well stocked, why then--you may abandon 'em!" "what does all that mean, now?" asked the country merchant, staring. "nothing; the foiled wolf's parting howl," said the methodist. "spleen, much spleen, which is the rickety child of his evil heart of unbelief: it has made him mad. i suspect him for one naturally reprobate. oh, friends," raising his arms as in the pulpit, "oh beloved, how are we admonished by the melancholy spectacle of this raver. let us profit by the lesson; and is it not this: that if, next to mistrusting providence, there be aught that man should pray against, it is against mistrusting his fellow-man. i have been in mad-houses full of tragic mopers, and seen there the end of suspicion: the cynic, in the moody madness muttering in the corner; for years a barren fixture there; head lopped over, gnawing his own lip, vulture of himself; while, by fits and starts, from the corner opposite came the grimace of the idiot at him." "what an example," whispered one. "might deter timon," was the response. "oh, oh, good ge'mmen, have you no confidence in dis poor ole darkie?" now wailed the returning negro, who, during the late scene, had stumped apart in alarm. "confidence in you?" echoed he who had whispered, with abruptly changed air turning short round; "that remains to be seen." "i tell you what it is, ebony," in similarly changed tones said he who had responded to the whisperer, "yonder churl," pointing toward the wooden leg in the distance, "is, no doubt, a churlish fellow enough, and i would not wish to be like him; but that is no reason why you may not be some sort of black jeremy diddler." "no confidence in dis poor ole darkie, den?" "before giving you our confidence," said a third, "we will wait the report of the kind gentleman who went in search of one of your friends who was to speak for you." "very likely, in that case," said a fourth, "we shall wait here till christmas. shouldn't wonder, did we not see that kind gentleman again. after seeking awhile in vain, he will conclude he has been made a fool of, and so not return to us for pure shame. fact is, i begin to feel a little qualmish about the darkie myself. something queer about this darkie, depend upon it." once more the negro wailed, and turning in despair from the last speaker, imploringly caught the methodist by the skirt of his coat. but a change had come over that before impassioned intercessor. with an irresolute and troubled air, he mutely eyed the suppliant; against whom, somehow, by what seemed instinctive influences, the distrusts first set on foot were now generally reviving, and, if anything, with added severity. "no confidence in dis poor ole darkie," yet again wailed the negro, letting go the coat-skirts and turning appealingly all round him. "yes, my poor fellow _i_ have confidence in you," now exclaimed the country merchant before named, whom the negro's appeal, coming so piteously on the heel of pitilessness, seemed at last humanely to have decided in his favor. "and here, here is some proof of my trust," with which, tucking his umbrella under his arm, and diving down his hand into his pocket, he fished forth a purse, and, accidentally, along with it, his business card, which, unobserved, dropped to the deck. "here, here, my poor fellow," he continued, extending a half dollar. not more grateful for the coin than the kindness, the cripple's face glowed like a polished copper saucepan, and shuffling a pace nigher, with one upstretched hand he received the alms, while, as unconsciously, his one advanced leather stump covered the card. done in despite of the general sentiment, the good deed of the merchant was not, perhaps, without its unwelcome return from the crowd, since that good deed seemed somehow to convey to them a sort of reproach. still again, and more pertinaciously than ever, the cry arose against the negro, and still again he wailed forth his lament and appeal among other things, repeating that the friends, of whom already he had partially run off the list, would freely speak for him, would anybody go find them. "why don't you go find 'em yourself?" demanded a gruff boatman. "how can i go find 'em myself? dis poor ole game-legged darkie's friends must come to him. oh, whar, whar is dat good friend of dis darkie's, dat good man wid de weed?" at this point, a steward ringing a bell came along, summoning all persons who had not got their tickets to step to the captain's office; an announcement which speedily thinned the throng about the black cripple, who himself soon forlornly stumped out of sight, probably on much the same errand as the rest. chapter iv. renewal of old acquaintance. "how do you do, mr. roberts?" "eh?" "don't you know me?" "no, certainly." the crowd about the captain's office, having in good time melted away, the above encounter took place in one of the side balconies astern, between a man in mourning clean and respectable, but none of the glossiest, a long weed on his hat, and the country-merchant before-mentioned, whom, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, the former had accosted. "is it possible, my dear sir," resumed he with the weed, "that you do not recall my countenance? why yours i recall distinctly as if but half an hour, instead of half an age, had passed since i saw you. don't you recall me, now? look harder." "in my conscience--truly--i protest," honestly bewildered, "bless my soul, sir, i don't know you--really, really. but stay, stay," he hurriedly added, not without gratification, glancing up at the crape on the stranger's hat, "stay--yes--seems to me, though i have not the pleasure of personally knowing you, yet i am pretty sure i have at least _heard_ of you, and recently too, quite recently. a poor negro aboard here referred to you, among others, for a character, i think." "oh, the cripple. poor fellow. i know him well. they found me. i have said all i could for him. i think i abated their distrust. would i could have been of more substantial service. and apropos, sir," he added, "now that it strikes me, allow me to ask, whether the circumstance of one man, however humble, referring for a character to another man, however afflicted, does not argue more or less of moral worth in the latter?" the good merchant looked puzzled. "still you don't recall my countenance?" "still does truth compel me to say that i cannot, despite my best efforts," was the reluctantly-candid reply. "can i be so changed? look at me. or is it i who am mistaken?--are you not, sir, henry roberts, forwarding merchant, of wheeling, pennsylvania? pray, now, if you use the advertisement of business cards, and happen to have one with you, just look at it, and see whether you are not the man i take you for." "why," a bit chafed, perhaps, "i hope i know myself." "and yet self-knowledge is thought by some not so easy. who knows, my dear sir, but for a time you may have taken yourself for somebody else? stranger things have happened." the good merchant stared. "to come to particulars, my dear sir, i met you, now some six years back, at brade brothers & co's office, i think. i was traveling for a philadelphia house. the senior brade introduced us, you remember; some business-chat followed, then you forced me home with you to a family tea, and a family time we had. have you forgotten about the urn, and what i said about werter's charlotte, and the bread and butter, and that capital story you told of the large loaf. a hundred times since, i have laughed over it. at least you must recall my name--ringman, john ringman." "large loaf? invited you to tea? ringman? ringman? ring? ring?" "ah sir," sadly smiling, "don't ring the changes that way. i see you have a faithless memory, mr. roberts. but trust in the faithfulness of mine." "well, to tell the truth, in some things my memory aint of the very best," was the honest rejoinder. "but still," he perplexedly added, "still i----" "oh sir, suffice it that it is as i say. doubt not that we are all well acquainted." "but--but i don't like this going dead against my own memory; i----" "but didn't you admit, my dear sir, that in some things this memory of yours is a little faithless? now, those who have faithless memories, should they not have some little confidence in the less faithless memories of others?" "but, of this friendly chat and tea, i have not the slightest----" "i see, i see; quite erased from the tablet. pray, sir," with a sudden illumination, "about six years back, did it happen to you to receive any injury on the head? surprising effects have arisen from such a cause. not alone unconsciousness as to events for a greater or less time immediately subsequent to the injury, but likewise--strange to add--oblivion, entire and incurable, as to events embracing a longer or shorter period immediately preceding it; that is, when the mind at the time was perfectly sensible of them, and fully competent also to register them in the memory, and did in fact so do; but all in vain, for all was afterwards bruised out by the injury." after the first start, the merchant listened with what appeared more than ordinary interest. the other proceeded: "in my boyhood i was kicked by a horse, and lay insensible for a long time. upon recovering, what a blank! no faintest trace in regard to how i had come near the horse, or what horse it was, or where it was, or that it was a horse at all that had brought me to that pass. for the knowledge of those particulars i am indebted solely to my friends, in whose statements, i need not say, i place implicit reliance, since particulars of some sort there must have been, and why should they deceive me? you see sir, the mind is ductile, very much so: but images, ductilely received into it, need a certain time to harden and bake in their impressions, otherwise such a casualty as i speak of will in an instant obliterate them, as though they had never been. we are but clay, sir, potter's clay, as the good book says, clay, feeble, and too-yielding clay. but i will not philosophize. tell me, was it your misfortune to receive any concussion upon the brain about the period i speak of? if so, i will with pleasure supply the void in your memory by more minutely rehearsing the circumstances of our acquaintance." the growing interest betrayed by the merchant had not relaxed as the other proceeded. after some hesitation, indeed, something more than hesitation, he confessed that, though he had never received any injury of the sort named, yet, about the time in question, he had in fact been taken with a brain fever, losing his mind completely for a considerable interval. he was continuing, when the stranger with much animation exclaimed: "there now, you see, i was not wholly mistaken. that brain fever accounts for it all." "nay; but----" "pardon me, mr. roberts," respectfully interrupting him, "but time is short, and i have something private and particular to say to you. allow me." mr. roberts, good man, could but acquiesce, and the two having silently walked to a less public spot, the manner of the man with the weed suddenly assumed a seriousness almost painful. what might be called a writhing expression stole over him. he seemed struggling with some disastrous necessity inkept. he made one or two attempts to speak, but words seemed to choke him. his companion stood in humane surprise, wondering what was to come. at length, with an effort mastering his feelings, in a tolerably composed tone he spoke: "if i remember, you are a mason, mr. roberts?" "yes, yes." averting himself a moment, as to recover from a return of agitation, the stranger grasped the other's hand; "and would you not loan a brother a shilling if he needed it?" the merchant started, apparently, almost as if to retreat. "ah, mr. roberts, i trust you are not one of those business men, who make a business of never having to do with unfortunates. for god's sake don't leave me. i have something on my heart--on my heart. under deplorable circumstances thrown among strangers, utter strangers. i want a friend in whom i may confide. yours, mr. roberts, is almost the first known face i've seen for many weeks." it was so sudden an outburst; the interview offered such a contrast to the scene around, that the merchant, though not used to be very indiscreet, yet, being not entirely inhumane, remained not entirely unmoved. the other, still tremulous, resumed: "i need not say, sir, how it cuts me to the soul, to follow up a social salutation with such words as have just been mine. i know that i jeopardize your good opinion. but i can't help it: necessity knows no law, and heeds no risk. sir, we are masons, one more step aside; i will tell you my story." in a low, half-suppressed tone, he began it. judging from his auditor's expression, it seemed to be a tale of singular interest, involving calamities against which no integrity, no forethought, no energy, no genius, no piety, could guard. at every disclosure, the hearer's commiseration increased. no sentimental pity. as the story went on, he drew from his wallet a bank note, but after a while, at some still more unhappy revelation, changed it for another, probably of a somewhat larger amount; which, when the story was concluded, with an air studiously disclamatory of alms-giving, he put into the stranger's hands; who, on his side, with an air studiously disclamatory of alms-taking, put it into his pocket. assistance being received, the stranger's manner assumed a kind and degree of decorum which, under the circumstances, seemed almost coldness. after some words, not over ardent, and yet not exactly inappropriate, he took leave, making a bow which had one knows not what of a certain chastened independence about it; as if misery, however burdensome, could not break down self-respect, nor gratitude, however deep, humiliate a gentleman. he was hardly yet out of sight, when he paused as if thinking; then with hastened steps returning to the merchant, "i am just reminded that the president, who is also transfer-agent, of the black rapids coal company, happens to be on board here, and, having been subpoenaed as witness in a stock case on the docket in kentucky, has his transfer-book with him. a month since, in a panic contrived by artful alarmists, some credulous stock-holders sold out; but, to frustrate the aim of the alarmists, the company, previously advised of their scheme, so managed it as to get into its own hands those sacrificed shares, resolved that, since a spurious panic must be, the panic-makers should be no gainers by it. the company, i hear, is now ready, but not anxious, to redispose of those shares; and having obtained them at their depressed value, will now sell them at par, though, prior to the panic, they were held at a handsome figure above. that the readiness of the company to do this is not generally known, is shown by the fact that the stock still stands on the transfer-book in the company's name, offering to one in funds a rare chance for investment. for, the panic subsiding more and more every day, it will daily be seen how it originated; confidence will be more than restored; there will be a reaction; from the stock's descent its rise will be higher than from no fall, the holders trusting themselves to fear no second fate." having listened at first with curiosity, at last with interest, the merchant replied to the effect, that some time since, through friends concerned with it, he had heard of the company, and heard well of it, but was ignorant that there had latterly been fluctuations. he added that he was no speculator; that hitherto he had avoided having to do with stocks of any sort, but in the present case he really felt something like being tempted. "pray," in conclusion, "do you think that upon a pinch anything could be transacted on board here with the transfer-agent? are you acquainted with him?" "not personally. i but happened to hear that he was a passenger. for the rest, though it might be somewhat informal, the gentleman might not object to doing a little business on board. along the mississippi, you know, business is not so ceremonious as at the east." "true," returned the merchant, and looked down a moment in thought, then, raising his head quickly, said, in a tone not so benign as his wonted one, "this would seem a rare chance, indeed; why, upon first hearing it, did you not snatch at it? i mean for yourself!" "i?--would it had been possible!" not without some emotion was this said, and not without some embarrassment was the reply. "ah, yes, i had forgotten." upon this, the stranger regarded him with mild gravity, not a little disconcerting; the more so, as there was in it what seemed the aspect not alone of the superior, but, as it were, the rebuker; which sort of bearing, in a beneficiary towards his benefactor, looked strangely enough; none the less, that, somehow, it sat not altogether unbecomingly upon the beneficiary, being free from anything like the appearance of assumption, and mixed with a kind of painful conscientiousness, as though nothing but a proper sense of what he owed to himself swayed him. at length he spoke: "to reproach a penniless man with remissness in not availing himself of an opportunity for pecuniary investment--but, no, no; it was forgetfulness; and this, charity will impute to some lingering effect of that unfortunate brain-fever, which, as to occurrences dating yet further back, disturbed mr. roberts's memory still more seriously." "as to that," said the merchant, rallying, "i am not----" "pardon me, but you must admit, that just now, an unpleasant distrust, however vague, was yours. ah, shallow as it is, yet, how subtle a thing is suspicion, which at times can invade the humanest of hearts and wisest of heads. but, enough. my object, sir, in calling your attention to this stock, is by way of acknowledgment of your goodness. i but seek to be grateful; if my information leads to nothing, you must remember the motive." he bowed, and finally retired, leaving mr. roberts not wholly without self-reproach, for having momentarily indulged injurious thoughts against one who, it was evident, was possessed of a self-respect which forbade his indulging them himself. chapter v the man with the weed makes it an even question whether he be a great sage or a great simpleton. "well, there is sorrow in the world, but goodness too; and goodness that is not greenness, either, no more than sorrow is. dear good man. poor beating heart!" it was the man with the weed, not very long after quitting the merchant, murmuring to himself with his hand to his side like one with the heart-disease. meditation over kindness received seemed to have softened him something, too, it may be, beyond what might, perhaps, have been looked for from one whose unwonted self-respect in the hour of need, and in the act of being aided, might have appeared to some not wholly unlike pride out of place; and pride, in any place, is seldom very feeling. but the truth, perhaps, is, that those who are least touched with that vice, besides being not unsusceptible to goodness, are sometimes the ones whom a ruling sense of propriety makes appear cold, if not thankless, under a favor. for, at such a time, to be full of warm, earnest words, and heart-felt protestations, is to create a scene; and well-bred people dislike few things more than that; which would seem to look as if the world did not relish earnestness; but, not so; because the world, being earnest itself, likes an earnest scene, and an earnest man, very well, but only in their place--the stage. see what sad work they make of it, who, ignorant of this, flame out in irish enthusiasm and with irish sincerity, to a benefactor, who, if a man of sense and respectability, as well as kindliness, can but be more or less annoyed by it; and, if of a nervously fastidious nature, as some are, may be led to think almost as much less favorably of the beneficiary paining him by his gratitude, as if he had been guilty of its contrary, instead only of an indiscretion. but, beneficiaries who know better, though they may feel as much, if not more, neither inflict such pain, nor are inclined to run any risk of so doing. and these, being wise, are the majority. by which one sees how inconsiderate those persons are, who, from the absence of its officious manifestations in the world, complain that there is not much gratitude extant; when the truth is, that there is as much of it as there is of modesty; but, both being for the most part votarists of the shade, for the most part keep out of sight. what started this was, to account, if necessary, for the changed air of the man with the weed, who, throwing off in private the cold garb of decorum, and so giving warmly loose to his genuine heart, seemed almost transformed into another being. this subdued air of softness, too, was toned with melancholy, melancholy unreserved; a thing which, however at variance with propriety, still the more attested his earnestness; for one knows not how it is, but it sometimes happens that, where earnestness is, there, also, is melancholy. at the time, he was leaning over the rail at the boat's side, in his pensiveness, unmindful of another pensive figure near--a young gentleman with a swan-neck, wearing a lady-like open shirt collar, thrown back, and tied with a black ribbon. from a square, tableted-broach, curiously engraved with greek characters, he seemed a collegian--not improbably, a sophomore--on his travels; possibly, his first. a small book bound in roman vellum was in his hand. overhearing his murmuring neighbor, the youth regarded him with some surprise, not to say interest. but, singularly for a collegian, being apparently of a retiring nature, he did not speak; when the other still more increased his diffidence by changing from soliloquy to colloquy, in a manner strangely mixed of familiarity and pathos. "ah, who is this? you did not hear me, my young friend, did you? why, you, too, look sad. my melancholy is not catching!" "sir, sir," stammered the other. "pray, now," with a sort of sociable sorrowfulness, slowly sliding along the rail, "pray, now, my young friend, what volume have you there? give me leave," gently drawing it from him. "tacitus!" then opening it at random, read: "in general a black and shameful period lies before me." "dear young sir," touching his arm alarmedly, "don't read this book. it is poison, moral poison. even were there truth in tacitus, such truth would have the operation of falsity, and so still be poison, moral poison. too well i know this tacitus. in my college-days he came near souring me into cynicism. yes, i began to turn down my collar, and go about with a disdainfully joyless expression." "sir, sir, i--i--" "trust me. now, young friend, perhaps you think that tacitus, like me, is only melancholy; but he's more--he's ugly. a vast difference, young sir, between the melancholy view and the ugly. the one may show the world still beautiful, not so the other. the one may be compatible with benevolence, the other not. the one may deepen insight, the other shallows it. drop tacitus. phrenologically, my young friend, you would seem to have a well-developed head, and large; but cribbed within the ugly view, the tacitus view, your large brain, like your large ox in the contracted field, will but starve the more. and don't dream, as some of you students may, that, by taking this same ugly view, the deeper meanings of the deeper books will so alone become revealed to you. drop tacitus. his subtlety is falsity, to him, in his double-refined anatomy of human nature, is well applied the scripture saying--'there is a subtle man, and the same is deceived.' drop tacitus. come, now, let me throw the book overboard." "sir, i--i--" "not a word; i know just what is in your mind, and that is just what i am speaking to. yes, learn from me that, though the sorrows of the world are great, its wickedness--that is, its ugliness--is small. much cause to pity man, little to distrust him. i myself have known adversity, and know it still. but for that, do i turn cynic? no, no: it is small beer that sours. to my fellow-creatures i owe alleviations. so, whatever i may have undergone, it but deepens my confidence in my kind. now, then" (winningly), "this book--will you let me drown it for you?" "really, sir--i--" "i see, i see. but of course you read tacitus in order to aid you in understanding human nature--as if truth was ever got at by libel. my young friend, if to know human nature is your object, drop tacitus and go north to the cemeteries of auburn and greenwood." "upon my word, i--i--" "nay, i foresee all that. but you carry tacitus, that shallow tacitus. what do _i_ carry? see"--producing a pocket-volume--"akenside--his 'pleasures of imagination.' one of these days you will know it. whatever our lot, we should read serene and cheery books, fitted to inspire love and trust. but tacitus! i have long been of opinion that these classics are the bane of colleges; for--not to hint of the immorality of ovid, horace, anacreon, and the rest, and the dangerous theology of eschylus and others--where will one find views so injurious to human nature as in thucydides, juvenal, lucian, but more particularly tacitus? when i consider that, ever since the revival of learning, these classics have been the favorites of successive generations of students and studious men, i tremble to think of that mass of unsuspected heresy on every vital topic which for centuries must have simmered unsurmised in the heart of christendom. but tacitus--he is the most extraordinary example of a heretic; not one iota of confidence in his kind. what a mockery that such an one should be reputed wise, and thucydides be esteemed the statesman's manual! but tacitus--i hate tacitus; not, though, i trust, with the hate that sins, but a righteous hate. without confidence himself, tacitus destroys it in all his readers. destroys confidence, paternal confidence, of which god knows that there is in this world none to spare. for, comparatively inexperienced as you are, my dear young friend, did you never observe how little, very little, confidence, there is? i mean between man and man--more particularly between stranger and stranger. in a sad world it is the saddest fact. confidence! i have sometimes almost thought that confidence is fled; that confidence is the new astrea--emigrated--vanished--gone." then softly sliding nearer, with the softest air, quivering down and looking up, "could you now, my dear young sir, under such circumstances, by way of experiment, simply have confidence in _me_?" from the outset, the sophomore, as has been seen, had struggled with an ever-increasing embarrassment, arising, perhaps, from such strange remarks coming from a stranger--such persistent and prolonged remarks, too. in vain had he more than once sought to break the spell by venturing a deprecatory or leave-taking word. in vain. somehow, the stranger fascinated him. little wonder, then, that, when the appeal came, he could hardly speak, but, as before intimated, being apparently of a retiring nature, abruptly retired from the spot, leaving the chagrined stranger to wander away in the opposite direction. chapter vi. at the outset of which certain passengers prove deaf to the call of charity. ----"you--pish! why will the captain suffer these begging fellows on board?"; these pettish words were breathed by a well-to-do gentleman in a ruby-colored velvet vest, and with a ruby-colored cheek, a ruby-headed cane in his hand, to a man in a gray coat and white tie, who, shortly after the interview last described, had accosted him for contributions to a widow and orphan asylum recently founded among the seminoles. upon a cursory view, this last person might have seemed, like the man with the weed, one of the less unrefined children of misfortune; but, on a closer observation, his countenance revealed little of sorrow, though much of sanctity. with added words of touchy disgust, the well-to-do gentleman hurried away. but, though repulsed, and rudely, the man in gray did not reproach, for a time patiently remaining in the chilly loneliness to which he had been left, his countenance, however, not without token of latent though chastened reliance. at length an old gentleman, somewhat bulky, drew nigh, and from him also a contribution was sought. "look, you," coming to a dead halt, and scowling upon him. "look, you," swelling his bulk out before him like a swaying balloon, "look, you, you on others' behalf ask for money; you, a fellow with a face as long as my arm. hark ye, now: there is such a thing as gravity, and in condemned felons it may be genuine; but of long faces there are three sorts; that of grief's drudge, that of the lantern-jawed man, and that of the impostor. you know best which yours is." "heaven give you more charity, sir." "and you less hypocrisy, sir." with which words, the hard-hearted old gentleman marched off. while the other still stood forlorn, the young clergyman, before introduced, passing that way, catching a chance sight of him, seemed suddenly struck by some recollection; and, after a moment's pause, hurried up with: "your pardon, but shortly since i was all over looking for you." "for me?" as marveling that one of so little account should be sought for. "yes, for you; do you know anything about the negro, apparently a cripple, aboard here? is he, or is he not, what he seems to be?" "ah, poor guinea! have you, too, been distrusted? you, upon whom nature has placarded the evidence of your claims?" "then you do really know him, and he is quite worthy? it relieves me to hear it--much relieves me. come, let us go find him, and see what can be done." "another instance that confidence may come too late. i am sorry to say that at the last landing i myself--just happening to catch sight of him on the gangway-plank--assisted the cripple ashore. no time to talk, only to help. he may not have told you, but he has a brother in that vicinity. "really, i regret his going without my seeing him again; regret it, more, perhaps, than you can readily think. you see, shortly after leaving st. louis, he was on the forecastle, and there, with many others, i saw him, and put trust in him; so much so, that, to convince those who did not, i, at his entreaty, went in search of you, you being one of several individuals he mentioned, and whose personal appearance he more or less described, individuals who he said would willingly speak for him. but, after diligent search, not finding you, and catching no glimpse of any of the others he had enumerated, doubts were at last suggested; but doubts indirectly originating, as i can but think, from prior distrust unfeelingly proclaimed by another. still, certain it is, i began to suspect." "ha, ha, ha!" a sort of laugh more like a groan than a laugh; and yet, somehow, it seemed intended for a laugh. both turned, and the young clergyman started at seeing the wooden-legged man close behind him, morosely grave as a criminal judge with a mustard-plaster on his back. in the present case the mustard-plaster might have been the memory of certain recent biting rebuffs and mortifications. "wouldn't think it was i who laughed would you?" "but who was it you laughed at? or rather, tried to laugh at?" demanded the young clergyman, flushing, "me?" "neither you nor any one within a thousand miles of you. but perhaps you don't believe it." "if he were of a suspicious temper, he might not," interposed the man in gray calmly, "it is one of the imbecilities of the suspicious person to fancy that every stranger, however absent-minded, he sees so much as smiling or gesturing to himself in any odd sort of way, is secretly making him his butt. in some moods, the movements of an entire street, as the suspicious man walks down it, will seem an express pantomimic jeer at him. in short, the suspicious man kicks himself with his own foot." "whoever can do that, ten to one he saves other folks' sole-leather," said the wooden-legged man with a crusty attempt at humor. but with augmented grin and squirm, turning directly upon the young clergyman, "you still think it was _you_ i was laughing at, just now. to prove your mistake, i will tell you what i _was_ laughing at; a story i happened to call to mind just then." whereupon, in his porcupine way, and with sarcastic details, unpleasant to repeat, he related a story, which might, perhaps, in a good-natured version, be rendered as follows: a certain frenchman of new orleans, an old man, less slender in purse than limb, happening to attend the theatre one evening, was so charmed with the character of a faithful wife, as there represented to the life, that nothing would do but he must marry upon it. so, marry he did, a beautiful girl from tennessee, who had first attracted his attention by her liberal mould, and was subsequently recommended to him through her kin, for her equally liberal education and disposition. though large, the praise proved not too much. for, ere long, rumor more than corroborated it, by whispering that the lady was liberal to a fault. but though various circumstances, which by most benedicts would have been deemed all but conclusive, were duly recited to the old frenchman by his friends, yet such was his confidence that not a syllable would he credit, till, chancing one night to return unexpectedly from a journey, upon entering his apartment, a stranger burst from the alcove: "begar!" cried he, "now i _begin_ to suspec." his story told, the wooden-legged man threw back his head, and gave vent to a long, gasping, rasping sort of taunting cry, intolerable as that of a high-pressure engine jeering off steam; and that done, with apparent satisfaction hobbled away. "who is that scoffer," said the man in gray, not without warmth. "who is he, who even were truth on his tongue, his way of speaking it would make truth almost offensive as falsehood. who is he?" "he who i mentioned to you as having boasted his suspicion of the negro," replied the young clergyman, recovering from disturbance, "in short, the person to whom i ascribe the origin of my own distrust; he maintained that guinea was some white scoundrel, betwisted and painted up for a decoy. yes, these were his very words, i think." "impossible! he could not be so wrong-headed. pray, will you call him back, and let me ask him if he were really in earnest?" the other complied; and, at length, after no few surly objections, prevailed upon the one-legged individual to return for a moment. upon which, the man in gray thus addressed him: "this reverend gentleman tells me, sir, that a certain cripple, a poor negro, is by you considered an ingenious impostor. now, i am not unaware that there are some persons in this world, who, unable to give better proof of being wise, take a strange delight in showing what they think they have sagaciously read in mankind by uncharitable suspicions of them. i hope you are not one of these. in short, would you tell me now, whether you were not merely joking in the notion you threw out about the negro. would you be so kind?" "no, i won't be so kind, i'll be so cruel." "as you please about that." "well, he's just what i said he was." "a white masquerading as a black?" "exactly." the man in gray glanced at the young clergyman a moment, then quietly whispered to him, "i thought you represented your friend here as a very distrustful sort of person, but he appears endued with a singular credulity.--tell me, sir, do you really think that a white could look the negro so? for one, i should call it pretty good acting." "not much better than any other man acts." "how? does all the world act? am _i_, for instance, an actor? is my reverend friend here, too, a performer?" "yes, don't you both perform acts? to do, is to act; so all doers are actors." "you trifle.--i ask again, if a white, how could he look the negro so?" "never saw the negro-minstrels, i suppose?" "yes, but they are apt to overdo the ebony; exemplifying the old saying, not more just than charitable, that 'the devil is never so black as he is painted.' but his limbs, if not a cripple, how could he twist his limbs so?" "how do other hypocritical beggars twist theirs? easy enough to see how they are hoisted up." "the sham is evident, then?" "to the discerning eye," with a horrible screw of his gimlet one. "well, where is guinea?" said the man in gray; "where is he? let us at once find him, and refute beyond cavil this injurious hypothesis." "do so," cried the one-eyed man, "i'm just in the humor now for having him found, and leaving the streaks of these fingers on his paint, as the lion leaves the streaks of his nails on a caffre. they wouldn't let me touch him before. yes, find him, i'll make wool fly, and him after." "you forget," here said the young clergyman to the man in gray, "that yourself helped poor guinea ashore." "so i did, so i did; how unfortunate. but look now," to the other, "i think that without personal proof i can convince you of your mistake. for i put it to you, is it reasonable to suppose that a man with brains, sufficient to act such a part as you say, would take all that trouble, and run all that hazard, for the mere sake of those few paltry coppers, which, i hear, was all he got for his pains, if pains they were?" "that puts the case irrefutably," said the young clergyman, with a challenging glance towards the one-legged man. "you two green-horns! money, you think, is the sole motive to pains and hazard, deception and deviltry, in this world. how much money did the devil make by gulling eve?" whereupon he hobbled off again with a repetition of his intolerable jeer. the man in gray stood silently eying his retreat a while, and then, turning to his companion, said: "a bad man, a dangerous man; a man to be put down in any christian community.--and this was he who was the means of begetting your distrust? ah, we should shut our ears to distrust, and keep them open only for its opposite." "you advance a principle, which, if i had acted upon it this morning, i should have spared myself what i now feel.--that but one man, and he with one leg, should have such ill power given him; his one sour word leavening into congenial sourness (as, to my knowledge, it did) the dispositions, before sweet enough, of a numerous company. but, as i hinted, with me at the time his ill words went for nothing; the same as now; only afterwards they had effect; and i confess, this puzzles me." "it should not. with humane minds, the spirit of distrust works something as certain potions do; it is a spirit which may enter such minds, and yet, for a time, longer or shorter, lie in them quiescent; but only the more deplorable its ultimate activity." "an uncomfortable solution; for, since that baneful man did but just now anew drop on me his bane, how shall i be sure that my present exemption from its effects will be lasting?" "you cannot be sure, but you can strive against it." "how?" "by strangling the least symptom of distrust, of any sort, which hereafter, upon whatever provocation, may arise in you." "i will do so." then added as in soliloquy, "indeed, indeed, i was to blame in standing passive under such influences as that one-legged man's. my conscience upbraids me.--the poor negro: you see him occasionally, perhaps?" "no, not often; though in a few days, as it happens, my engagements will call me to the neighborhood of his present retreat; and, no doubt, honest guinea, who is a grateful soul, will come to see me there." "then you have been his benefactor?" "his benefactor? i did not say that. i have known him." "take this mite. hand it to guinea when you see him; say it comes from one who has full belief in his honesty, and is sincerely sorry for having indulged, however transiently, in a contrary thought." "i accept the trust. and, by-the-way, since you are of this truly charitable nature, you will not turn away an appeal in behalf of the seminole widow and orphan asylum?" "i have not heard of that charity." "but recently founded." after a pause, the clergyman was irresolutely putting his hand in his pocket, when, caught by something in his companion's expression, he eyed him inquisitively, almost uneasily. "ah, well," smiled the other wanly, "if that subtle bane, we were speaking of but just now, is so soon beginning to work, in vain my appeal to you. good-by." "nay," not untouched, "you do me injustice; instead of indulging present suspicions, i had rather make amends for previous ones. here is something for your asylum. not much; but every drop helps. of course you have papers?" "of course," producing a memorandum book and pencil. "let me take down name and amount. we publish these names. and now let me give you a little history of our asylum, and the providential way in which it was started." chapter vii. a gentleman with gold sleeve-buttons. at an interesting point of the narration, and at the moment when, with much curiosity, indeed, urgency, the narrator was being particularly questioned upon that point, he was, as it happened, altogether diverted both from it and his story, by just then catching sight of a gentleman who had been standing in sight from the beginning, but, until now, as it seemed, without being observed by him. "pardon me," said he, rising, "but yonder is one who i know will contribute, and largely. don't take it amiss if i quit you." "go: duty before all things," was the conscientious reply. the stranger was a man of more than winsome aspect. there he stood apart and in repose, and yet, by his mere look, lured the man in gray from his story, much as, by its graciousness of bearing, some full-leaved elm, alone in a meadow, lures the noon sickleman to throw down his sheaves, and come and apply for the alms of its shade. but, considering that goodness is no such rare thing among men--the world familiarly know the noun; a common one in every language--it was curious that what so signalized the stranger, and made him look like a kind of foreigner, among the crowd (as to some it make him appear more or less unreal in this portraiture), was but the expression of so prevalent a quality. such goodness seemed his, allied with such fortune, that, so far as his own personal experience could have gone, scarcely could he have known ill, physical or moral; and as for knowing or suspecting the latter in any serious degree (supposing such degree of it to be), by observation or philosophy; for that, probably, his nature, by its opposition, imperfectly qualified, or from it wholly exempted. for the rest, he might have been five and fifty, perhaps sixty, but tall, rosy, between plump and portly, with a primy, palmy air, and for the time and place, not to hint of his years, dressed with a strangely festive finish and elegance. the inner-side of his coat-skirts was of white satin, which might have looked especially inappropriate, had it not seemed less a bit of mere tailoring than something of an emblem, as it were; an involuntary emblem, let us say, that what seemed so good about him was not all outside; no, the fine covering had a still finer lining. upon one hand he wore a white kid glove, but the other hand, which was ungloved, looked hardly less white. now, as the fidèle, like most steamboats, was upon deck a little soot-streaked here and there, especially about the railings, it was marvel how, under such circumstances, these hands retained their spotlessness. but, if you watched them a while, you noticed that they avoided touching anything; you noticed, in short, that a certain negro body-servant, whose hands nature had dyed black, perhaps with the same purpose that millers wear white, this negro servant's hands did most of his master's handling for him; having to do with dirt on his account, but not to his prejudices. but if, with the same undefiledness of consequences to himself, a gentleman could also sin by deputy, how shocking would that be! but it is not permitted to be; and even if it were, no judicious moralist would make proclamation of it. this gentleman, therefore, there is reason to affirm, was one who, like the hebrew governor, knew how to keep his hands clean, and who never in his life happened to be run suddenly against by hurrying house-painter, or sweep; in a word, one whose very good luck it was to be a very good man. not that he looked as if he were a kind of wilberforce at all; that superior merit, probably, was not his; nothing in his manner bespoke him righteous, but only good, and though to be good is much below being righteous, and though there is a difference between the two, yet not, it is to be hoped, so incompatible as that a righteous man can not be a good man; though, conversely, in the pulpit it has been with much cogency urged, that a merely good man, that is, one good merely by his nature, is so far from there by being righteous, that nothing short of a total change and conversion can make him so; which is something which no honest mind, well read in the history of righteousness, will care to deny; nevertheless, since st. paul himself, agreeing in a sense with the pulpit distinction, though not altogether in the pulpit deduction, and also pretty plainly intimating which of the two qualities in question enjoys his apostolic preference; i say, since st. paul has so meaningly said, that, "scarcely for a righteous man will one die, yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die;" therefore, when we repeat of this gentleman, that he was only a good man, whatever else by severe censors may be objected to him, it is still to be hoped that his goodness will not at least be considered criminal in him. at all events, no man, not even a righteous man, would think it quite right to commit this gentleman to prison for the crime, extraordinary as he might deem it; more especially, as, until everything could be known, there would be some chance that the gentleman might after all be quite as innocent of it as he himself. it was pleasant to mark the good man's reception of the salute of the righteous man, that is, the man in gray; his inferior, apparently, not more in the social scale than in stature. like the benign elm again, the good man seemed to wave the canopy of his goodness over that suitor, not in conceited condescension, but with that even amenity of true majesty, which can be kind to any one without stooping to it. to the plea in behalf of the seminole widows and orphans, the gentleman, after a question or two duly answered, responded by producing an ample pocket-book in the good old capacious style, of fine green french morocco and workmanship, bound with silk of the same color, not to omit bills crisp with newness, fresh from the bank, no muckworms' grime upon them. lucre those bills might be, but as yet having been kept unspotted from the world, not of the filthy sort. placing now three of those virgin bills in the applicant's hands, he hoped that the smallness of the contribution would be pardoned; to tell the truth, and this at last accounted for his toilet, he was bound but a short run down the river, to attend, in a festive grove, the afternoon wedding of his niece: so did not carry much money with him. the other was about expressing his thanks when the gentleman in his pleasant way checked him: the gratitude was on the other side. to him, he said, charity was in one sense not an effort, but a luxury; against too great indulgence in which his steward, a humorist, had sometimes admonished him. in some general talk which followed, relative to organized modes of doing good, the gentleman expressed his regrets that so many benevolent societies as there were, here and there isolated in the land, should not act in concert by coming together, in the way that already in each society the individuals composing it had done, which would result, he thought, in like advantages upon a larger scale. indeed, such a confederation might, perhaps, be attended with as happy results as politically attended that of the states. upon his hitherto moderate enough companion, this suggestion had an effect illustrative in a sort of that notion of socrates, that the soul is a harmony; for as the sound of a flute, in any particular key, will, it is said, audibly affect the corresponding chord of any harp in good tune, within hearing, just so now did some string in him respond, and with animation. which animation, by the way, might seem more or less out of character in the man in gray, considering his unsprightly manner when first introduced, had he not already, in certain after colloquies, given proof, in some degree, of the fact, that, with certain natures, a soberly continent air at times, so far from arguing emptiness of stuff, is good proof it is there, and plenty of it, because unwasted, and may be used the more effectively, too, when opportunity offers. what now follows on the part of the man in gray will still further exemplify, perhaps somewhat strikingly, the truth, or what appears to be such, of this remark. "sir," said he eagerly, "i am before you. a project, not dissimilar to yours, was by me thrown out at the world's fair in london." "world's fair? you there? pray how was that?" "first, let me----" "nay, but first tell me what took you to the fair?" "i went to exhibit an invalid's easy-chair i had invented." "then you have not always been in the charity business?" "is it not charity to ease human suffering? i am, and always have been, as i always will be, i trust, in the charity business, as you call it; but charity is not like a pin, one to make the head, and the other the point; charity is a work to which a good workman may be competent in all its branches. i invented my protean easy-chair in odd intervals stolen from meals and sleep." "you call it the protean easy-chair; pray describe it." "my protean easy-chair is a chair so all over bejointed, behinged, and bepadded, everyway so elastic, springy, and docile to the airiest touch, that in some one of its endlessly-changeable accommodations of back, seat, footboard, and arms, the most restless body, the body most racked, nay, i had almost added the most tormented conscience must, somehow and somewhere, find rest. believing that i owed it to suffering humanity to make known such a chair to the utmost, i scraped together my little means and off to the world's fair with it." "you did right. but your scheme; how did you come to hit upon that?" "i was going to tell you. after seeing my invention duly catalogued and placed, i gave myself up to pondering the scene about me. as i dwelt upon that shining pageant of arts, and moving concourse of nations, and reflected that here was the pride of the world glorying in a glass house, a sense of the fragility of worldly grandeur profoundly impressed me. and i said to myself, i will see if this occasion of vanity cannot supply a hint toward a better profit than was designed. let some world-wide good to the world-wide cause be now done. in short, inspired by the scene, on the fourth day i issued at the world's fair my prospectus of the world's charity." "quite a thought. but, pray explain it." "the world's charity is to be a society whose members shall comprise deputies from every charity and mission extant; the one object of the society to be the methodization of the world's benevolence; to which end, the present system of voluntary and promiscuous contribution to be done away, and the society to be empowered by the various governments to levy, annually, one grand benevolence tax upon all mankind; as in augustus cæsar's time, the whole world to come up to be taxed; a tax which, for the scheme of it, should be something like the income-tax in england, a tax, also, as before hinted, to be a consolidation-tax of all possible benevolence taxes; as in america here, the state-tax, and the county-tax, and the town-tax, and the poll-tax, are by the assessors rolled into one. this tax, according to my tables, calculated with care, would result in the yearly raising of a fund little short of eight hundred millions; this fund to be annually applied to such objects, and in such modes, as the various charities and missions, in general congress represented, might decree; whereby, in fourteen years, as i estimate, there would have been devoted to good works the sum of eleven thousand two hundred millions; which would warrant the dissolution of the society, as that fund judiciously expended, not a pauper or heathen could remain the round world over." "eleven thousand two hundred millions! and all by passing round a _hat_, as it were." "yes, i am no fourier, the projector of an impossible scheme, but a philanthropist and a financier setting forth a philanthropy and a finance which are practicable." "practicable?" "yes. eleven thousand two hundred millions; it will frighten none but a retail philanthropist. what is it but eight hundred millions for each of fourteen years? now eight hundred millions--what is that, to average it, but one little dollar a head for the population of the planet? and who will refuse, what turk or dyak even, his own little dollar for sweet charity's sake? eight hundred millions! more than that sum is yearly expended by mankind, not only in vanities, but miseries. consider that bloody spendthrift, war. and are mankind so stupid, so wicked, that, upon the demonstration of these things they will not, amending their ways, devote their superfluities to blessing the world instead of cursing it? eight hundred millions! they have not to make it, it is theirs already; they have but to direct it from ill to good. and to this, scarce a self-denial is demanded. actually, they would not in the mass be one farthing the poorer for it; as certainly would they be all the better and happier. don't you see? but admit, as you must, that mankind is not mad, and my project is practicable. for, what creature but a madman would not rather do good than ill, when it is plain that, good or ill, it must return upon himself?" "your sort of reasoning," said the good gentleman, adjusting his gold sleeve-buttons, "seems all reasonable enough, but with mankind it wont do." "then mankind are not reasoning beings, if reason wont do with them." "that is not to the purpose. by-the-way, from the manner in which you alluded to the world's census, it would appear that, according to your world-wide scheme, the pauper not less than the nabob is to contribute to the relief of pauperism, and the heathen not less than the christian to the conversion of heathenism. how is that?" "why, that--pardon me--is quibbling. now, no philanthropist likes to be opposed with quibbling." "well, i won't quibble any more. but, after all, if i understand your project, there is little specially new in it, further than the magnifying of means now in operation." "magnifying and energizing. for one thing, missions i would thoroughly reform. missions i would quicken with the wall street spirit." "the wall street spirit?" "yes; for if, confessedly, certain spiritual ends are to be gained but through the auxiliary agency of worldly means, then, to the surer gaining of such spiritual ends, the example of worldly policy in worldly projects should not by spiritual projectors be slighted. in brief, the conversion of the heathen, so far, at least, as depending on human effort, would, by the world's charity, be let out on contract. so much by bid for converting india, so much for borneo, so much for africa. competition allowed, stimulus would be given. there would be no lethargy of monopoly. we should have no mission-house or tract-house of which slanderers could, with any plausibility, say that it had degenerated in its clerkships into a sort of custom-house. but the main point is the archimedean money-power that would be brought to bear." "you mean the eight hundred million power?" "yes. you see, this doing good to the world by driblets amounts to just nothing. i am for doing good to the world with a will. i am for doing good to the world once for all and having done with it. do but think, my dear sir, of the eddies and maëlstroms of pagans in china. people here have no conception of it. of a frosty morning in hong kong, pauper pagans are found dead in the streets like so many nipped peas in a bin of peas. to be an immortal being in china is no more distinction than to be a snow-flake in a snow-squall. what are a score or two of missionaries to such a people? a pinch of snuff to the kraken. i am for sending ten thousand missionaries in a body and converting the chinese _en masse_ within six months of the debarkation. the thing is then done, and turn to something else." "i fear you are too enthusiastic." "a philanthropist is necessarily an enthusiast; for without enthusiasm what was ever achieved but commonplace? but again: consider the poor in london. to that mob of misery, what is a joint here and a loaf there? i am for voting to them twenty thousand bullocks and one hundred thousand barrels of flour to begin with. they are then comforted, and no more hunger for one while among the poor of london. and so all round." "sharing the character of your general project, these things, i take it, are rather examples of wonders that were to be wished, than wonders that will happen." "and is the age of wonders passed? is the world too old? is it barren? think of sarah." "then i am abraham reviling the angel (with a smile). but still, as to your design at large, there seems a certain audacity." "but if to the audacity of the design there be brought a commensurate circumspectness of execution, how then?" "why, do you really believe that your world's charity will ever go into operation?" "i have confidence that it will." "but may you not be over-confident?" "for a christian to talk so!" "but think of the obstacles!" "obstacles? i have confidence to remove obstacles, though mountains. yes, confidence in the world's charity to that degree, that, as no better person offers to supply the place, i have nominated myself provisional treasurer, and will be happy to receive subscriptions, for the present to be devoted to striking off a million more of my prospectuses." the talk went on; the man in gray revealed a spirit of benevolence which, mindful of the millennial promise, had gone abroad over all the countries of the globe, much as the diligent spirit of the husbandman, stirred by forethought of the coming seed-time, leads him, in march reveries at his fireside, over every field of his farm. the master chord of the man in gray had been touched, and it seemed as if it would never cease vibrating. a not unsilvery tongue, too, was his, with gestures that were a pentecost of added ones, and persuasiveness before which granite hearts might crumble into gravel. strange, therefore, how his auditor, so singularly good-hearted as he seemed, remained proof to such eloquence; though not, as it turned out, to such pleadings. for, after listening a while longer with pleasant incredulity, presently, as the boat touched his place of destination, the gentleman, with a look half humor, half pity, put another bank-note into his hands; charitable to the last, if only to the dreams of enthusiasm. chapter viii. a charitable lady. if a drunkard in a sober fit is the dullest of mortals, an enthusiast in a reason-fit is not the most lively. and this, without prejudice to his greatly improved understanding; for, if his elation was the height of his madness, his despondency is but the extreme of his sanity. something thus now, to all appearance, with the man in gray. society his stimulus, loneliness was his lethargy. loneliness, like the sea breeze, blowing off from a thousand leagues of blankness, he did not find, as veteran solitaires do, if anything, too bracing. in short, left to himself, with none to charm forth his latent lymphatic, he insensibly resumes his original air, a quiescent one, blended of sad humility and demureness. ere long he goes laggingly into the ladies' saloon, as in spiritless quest of somebody; but, after some disappointed glances about him, seats himself upon a sofa with an air of melancholy exhaustion and depression. at the sofa's further end sits a plump and pleasant person, whose aspect seems to hint that, if she have any weak point, it must be anything rather than her excellent heart. from her twilight dress, neither dawn nor dark, apparently she is a widow just breaking the chrysalis of her mourning. a small gilt testament is in her hand, which she has just been reading. half-relinquished, she holds the book in reverie, her finger inserted at the xiii. of st corinthians, to which chapter possibly her attention might have recently been turned, by witnessing the scene of the monitory mute and his slate. the sacred page no longer meets her eye; but, as at evening, when for a time the western hills shine on though the sun be set, her thoughtful face retains its tenderness though the teacher is forgotten. meantime, the expression of the stranger is such as ere long to attract her glance. but no responsive one. presently, in her somewhat inquisitive survey, her volume drops. it is restored. no encroaching politeness in the act, but kindness, unadorned. the eyes of the lady sparkle. evidently, she is not now unprepossessed. soon, bending over, in a low, sad tone, full of deference, the stranger breathes, "madam, pardon my freedom, but there is something in that face which strangely draws me. may i ask, are you a sister of the church?" "why--really--you--" in concern for her embarrassment, he hastens to relieve it, but, without seeming so to do. "it is very solitary for a brother here," eying the showy ladies brocaded in the background, "i find none to mingle souls with. it may be wrong--i _know_ it is--but i cannot force myself to be easy with the people of the world. i prefer the company, however silent, of a brother or sister in good standing. by the way, madam, may i ask if you have confidence?" "really, sir--why, sir--really--i--" "could you put confidence in _me_ for instance?" "really, sir--as much--i mean, as one may wisely put in a--a--stranger, an entire stranger, i had almost said," rejoined the lady, hardly yet at ease in her affability, drawing aside a little in body, while at the same time her heart might have been drawn as far the other way. a natural struggle between charity and prudence. "entire stranger!" with a sigh. "ah, who would be a stranger? in vain, i wander; no one will have confidence in me." "you interest me," said the good lady, in mild surprise. "can i any way befriend you?" "no one can befriend me, who has not confidence." "but i--i have--at least to that degree--i mean that----" "nay, nay, you have none--none at all. pardon, i see it. no confidence. fool, fond fool that i am to seek it!" "you are unjust, sir," rejoins the good lady with heightened interest; "but it may be that something untoward in your experiences has unduly biased you. not that i would cast reflections. believe me, i--yes, yes--i may say--that--that----" "that you have confidence? prove it. let me have twenty dollars." "twenty dollars!" "there, i told you, madam, you had no confidence." the lady was, in an extraordinary way, touched. she sat in a sort of restless torment, knowing not which way to turn. she began twenty different sentences, and left off at the first syllable of each. at last, in desperation, she hurried out, "tell me, sir, for what you want the twenty dollars?" "and did i not----" then glancing at her half-mourning, "for the widow and the fatherless. i am traveling agent of the widow and orphan asylum, recently founded among the seminoles." "and why did you not tell me your object before?" as not a little relieved. "poor souls--indians, too--those cruelly-used indians. here, here; how could i hesitate. i am so sorry it is no more." "grieve not for that, madam," rising and folding up the bank-notes. "this is an inconsiderable sum, i admit, but," taking out his pencil and book, "though i here but register the amount, there is another register, where is set down the motive. good-bye; you have confidence. yea, you can say to me as the apostle said to the corinthians, 'i rejoice that i have confidence in you in all things.'" chapter ix. two business men transact a little business. ----"pray, sir, have you seen a gentleman with a weed hereabouts, rather a saddish gentleman? strange where he can have gone to. i was talking with him not twenty minutes since." by a brisk, ruddy-cheeked man in a tasseled traveling-cap, carrying under his arm a ledger-like volume, the above words were addressed to the collegian before introduced, suddenly accosted by the rail to which not long after his retreat, as in a previous chapter recounted, he had returned, and there remained. "have you seen him, sir?" rallied from his apparent diffidence by the genial jauntiness of the stranger, the youth answered with unwonted promptitude: "yes, a person with a weed was here not very long ago." "saddish?" "yes, and a little cracked, too, i should say." "it was he. misfortune, i fear, has disturbed his brain. now quick, which way did he go?" "why just in the direction from which you came, the gangway yonder." "did he? then the man in the gray coat, whom i just met, said right: he must have gone ashore. how unlucky!" he stood vexedly twitching at his cap-tassel, which fell over by his whisker, and continued: "well, i am very sorry. in fact, i had something for him here."--then drawing nearer, "you see, he applied to me for relief, no, i do him injustice, not that, but he began to intimate, you understand. well, being very busy just then, i declined; quite rudely, too, in a cold, morose, unfeeling way, i fear. at all events, not three minutes afterwards i felt self-reproach, with a kind of prompting, very peremptory, to deliver over into that unfortunate man's hands a ten-dollar bill. you smile. yes, it may be superstition, but i can't help it; i have my weak side, thank god. then again," he rapidly went on, "we have been so very prosperous lately in our affairs--by we, i mean the black rapids coal company--that, really, out of my abundance, associative and individual, it is but fair that a charitable investment or two should be made, don't you think so?" "sir," said the collegian without the least embarrassment, "do i understand that you are officially connected with the black rapids coal company?" "yes, i happen to be president and transfer-agent." "you are?" "yes, but what is it to you? you don't want to invest?" "why, do you sell the stock?" "some might be bought, perhaps; but why do you ask? you don't want to invest?" "but supposing i did," with cool self-collectedness, "could you do up the thing for me, and here?" "bless my soul," gazing at him in amaze, "really, you are quite a business man. positively, i feel afraid of you." "oh, no need of that.--you could sell me some of that stock, then?" "i don't know, i don't know. to be sure, there are a few shares under peculiar circumstances bought in by the company; but it would hardly be the thing to convert this boat into the company's office. i think you had better defer investing. so," with an indifferent air, "you have seen the unfortunate man i spoke of?" "let the unfortunate man go his ways.--what is that large book you have with you?" "my transfer-book. i am subpoenaed with it to court." "black rapids coal company," obliquely reading the gilt inscription on the back; "i have heard much of it. pray do you happen to have with you any statement of the condition of your company." "a statement has lately been printed." "pardon me, but i am naturally inquisitive. have you a copy with you?" "i tell you again, i do not think that it would be suitable to convert this boat into the company's office.--that unfortunate man, did you relieve him at all?" "let the unfortunate man relieve himself.--hand me the statement." "well, you are such a business-man, i can hardly deny you. here," handing a small, printed pamphlet. the youth turned it over sagely. "i hate a suspicious man," said the other, observing him; "but i must say i like to see a cautious one." "i can gratify you there," languidly returning the pamphlet; "for, as i said before, i am naturally inquisitive; i am also circumspect. no appearances can deceive me. your statement," he added "tells a very fine story; but pray, was not your stock a little heavy awhile ago? downward tendency? sort of low spirits among holders on the subject of that stock?" "yes, there was a depression. but how came it? who devised it? the 'bears,' sir. the depression of our stock was solely owing to the growling, the hypocritical growling, of the bears." "how, hypocritical?" "why, the most monstrous of all hypocrites are these bears: hypocrites by inversion; hypocrites in the simulation of things dark instead of bright; souls that thrive, less upon depression, than the fiction of depression; professors of the wicked art of manufacturing depressions; spurious jeremiahs; sham heraclituses, who, the lugubrious day done, return, like sham lazaruses among the beggars, to make merry over the gains got by their pretended sore heads--scoundrelly bears!" "you are warm against these bears?" "if i am, it is less from the remembrance of their stratagems as to our stock, than from the persuasion that these same destroyers of confidence, and gloomy philosophers of the stock-market, though false in themselves, are yet true types of most destroyers of confidence and gloomy philosophers, the world over. fellows who, whether in stocks, politics, bread-stuffs, morals, metaphysics, religion--be it what it may--trump up their black panics in the naturally-quiet brightness, solely with a view to some sort of covert advantage. that corpse of calamity which the gloomy philosopher parades, is but his good-enough-morgan." "i rather like that," knowingly drawled the youth. "i fancy these gloomy souls as little as the next one. sitting on my sofa after a champagne dinner, smoking my plantation cigar, if a gloomy fellow come to me--what a bore!" "you tell him it's all stuff, don't you?" "i tell him it ain't natural. i say to him, you are happy enough, and you know it; and everybody else is as happy as you, and you know that, too; and we shall all be happy after we are no more, and you know that, too; but no, still you must have your sulk." "and do you know whence this sort of fellow gets his sulk? not from life; for he's often too much of a recluse, or else too young to have seen anything of it. no, he gets it from some of those old plays he sees on the stage, or some of those old books he finds up in garrets. ten to one, he has lugged home from auction a musty old seneca, and sets about stuffing himself with that stale old hay; and, thereupon, thinks it looks wise and antique to be a croaker, thinks it's taking a stand-way above his kind." "just so," assented the youth. "i've lived some, and seen a good many such ravens at second hand. by the way, strange how that man with the weed, you were inquiring for, seemed to take me for some soft sentimentalist, only because i kept quiet, and thought, because i had a copy of tacitus with me, that i was reading him for his gloom, instead of his gossip. but i let him talk. and, indeed, by my manner humored him." "you shouldn't have done that, now. unfortunate man, you must have made quite a fool of him." "his own fault if i did. but i like prosperous fellows, comfortable fellows; fellows that talk comfortably and prosperously, like you. such fellows are generally honest. and, i say now, i happen to have a superfluity in my pocket, and i'll just----" "----act the part of a brother to that unfortunate man?" "let the unfortunate man be his own brother. what are you dragging him in for all the time? one would think you didn't care to register any transfers, or dispose of any stock--mind running on something else. i say i will invest." "stay, stay, here come some uproarious fellows--this way, this way." and with off-handed politeness the man with the book escorted his companion into a private little haven removed from the brawling swells without. business transacted, the two came forth, and walked the deck. "now tell me, sir," said he with the book, "how comes it that a young gentleman like you, a sedate student at the first appearance, should dabble in stocks and that sort of thing?" "there are certain sophomorean errors in the world," drawled the sophomore, deliberately adjusting his shirt-collar, "not the least of which is the popular notion touching the nature of the modern scholar, and the nature of the modern scholastic sedateness." "so it seems, so it seems. really, this is quite a new leaf in my experience." "experience, sir," originally observed the sophomore, "is the only teacher." "hence am i your pupil; for it's only when experience speaks, that i can endure to listen to speculation." "my speculations, sir," dryly drawing himself up, "have been chiefly governed by the maxim of lord bacon; i speculate in those philosophies which come home to my business and bosom--pray, do you know of any other good stocks?" "you wouldn't like to be concerned in the new jerusalem, would you?" "new jerusalem?" "yes, the new and thriving city, so called, in northern minnesota. it was originally founded by certain fugitive mormons. hence the name. it stands on the mississippi. here, here is the map," producing a roll. "there--there, you see are the public buildings--here the landing--there the park--yonder the botanic gardens--and this, this little dot here, is a perpetual fountain, you understand. you observe there are twenty asterisks. those are for the lyceums. they have lignum-vitae rostrums." "and are all these buildings now standing?" "all standing--bona fide." "these marginal squares here, are they the water-lots?" "water-lots in the city of new jerusalem? all terra firma--you don't seem to care about investing, though?" "hardly think i should read my title clear, as the law students say," yawned the collegian. "prudent--you are prudent. don't know that you are wholly out, either. at any rate, i would rather have one of your shares of coal stock than two of this other. still, considering that the first settlement was by two fugitives, who had swum over naked from the opposite shore--it's a surprising place. it is, _bona fide_.--but dear me, i must go. oh, if by possibility you should come across that unfortunate man----" "--in that case," with drawling impatience, "i will send for the steward, and have him and his misfortunes consigned overboard." "ha ha!--now were some gloomy philosopher here, some theological bear, forever taking occasion to growl down the stock of human nature (with ulterior views, d'ye see, to a fat benefice in the gift of the worshipers of ariamius), he would pronounce that the sign of a hardening heart and a softening brain. yes, that would be his sinister construction. but it's nothing more than the oddity of a genial humor--genial but dry. confess it. good-bye." chapter x. in the cabin. stools, settees, sofas, divans, ottomans; occupying them are clusters of men, old and young, wise and simple; in their hands are cards spotted with diamonds, spades, clubs, hearts; the favorite games are whist, cribbage, and brag. lounging in arm-chairs or sauntering among the marble-topped tables, amused with the scene, are the comparatively few, who, instead of having hands in the games, for the most part keep their hands in their pockets. these may be the philosophes. but here and there, with a curious expression, one is reading a small sort of handbill of anonymous poetry, rather wordily entitled:-- "ode on the intimations of distrust in man, unwillingly inferred from repeated repulses, in disinterested endeavors to procure his confidence." on the floor are many copies, looking as if fluttered down from a balloon. the way they came there was this: a somewhat elderly person, in the quaker dress, had quietly passed through the cabin, and, much in the manner of those railway book-peddlers who precede their proffers of sale by a distribution of puffs, direct or indirect, of the volumes to follow, had, without speaking, handed about the odes, which, for the most part, after a cursory glance, had been disrespectfully tossed aside, as no doubt, the moonstruck production of some wandering rhapsodist. in due time, book under arm, in trips the ruddy man with the traveling-cap, who, lightly moving to and fro, looks animatedly about him, with a yearning sort of gratulatory affinity and longing, expressive of the very soul of sociality; as much as to say, "oh, boys, would that i were personally acquainted with each mother's son of you, since what a sweet world, to make sweet acquaintance in, is ours, my brothers; yea, and what dear, happy dogs are we all!" and just as if he had really warbled it forth, he makes fraternally up to one lounging stranger or another, exchanging with him some pleasant remark. "pray, what have you there?" he asked of one newly accosted, a little, dried-up man, who looked as if he never dined. "a little ode, rather queer, too," was the reply, "of the same sort you see strewn on the floor here." "i did not observe them. let me see;" picking one up and looking it over. "well now, this is pretty; plaintive, especially the opening:-- 'alas for man, he hath small sense of genial trust and confidence.' --if it be so, alas for him, indeed. runs off very smoothly, sir. beautiful pathos. but do you think the sentiment just?" "as to that," said the little dried-up man, "i think it a kind of queer thing altogether, and yet i am almost ashamed to add, it really has set me to thinking; yes and to feeling. just now, somehow, i feel as it were trustful and genial. i don't know that ever i felt so much so before. i am naturally numb in my sensibilities; but this ode, in its way, works on my numbness not unlike a sermon, which, by lamenting over my lying dead in trespasses and sins, thereby stirs me up to be all alive in well-doing." "glad to hear it, and hope you will do well, as the doctors say. but who snowed the odes about here?" "i cannot say; i have not been here long." "wasn't an angel, was it? come, you say you feel genial, let us do as the rest, and have cards." "thank you, i never play cards." "a bottle of wine?" "thank you, i never drink wine." "cigars?" "thank you, i never smoke cigars." "tell stories?" "to speak truly, i hardly think i know one worth telling." "seems to me, then, this geniality you say you feel waked in you, is as water-power in a land without mills. come, you had better take a genial hand at the cards. to begin, we will play for as small a sum as you please; just enough to make it interesting." "indeed, you must excuse me. somehow i distrust cards." "what, distrust cards? genial cards? then for once i join with our sad philomel here:-- 'alas for man, he hath small sense of genial trust and confidence.' good-bye!" sauntering and chatting here and there, again, he with the book at length seems fatigued, looks round for a seat, and spying a partly-vacant settee drawn up against the side, drops down there; soon, like his chance neighbor, who happens to be the good merchant, becoming not a little interested in the scene more immediately before him; a party at whist; two cream-faced, giddy, unpolished youths, the one in a red cravat, the other in a green, opposed to two bland, grave, handsome, self-possessed men of middle age, decorously dressed in a sort of professional black, and apparently doctors of some eminence in the civil law. by-and-by, after a preliminary scanning of the new comer next him the good merchant, sideways leaning over, whispers behind a crumpled copy of the ode which he holds: "sir, i don't like the looks of those two, do you?" "hardly," was the whispered reply; "those colored cravats are not in the best taste, at least not to mine; but my taste is no rule for all." "you mistake; i mean the other two, and i don't refer to dress, but countenance. i confess i am not familiar with such gentry any further than reading about them in the papers--but those two are--are sharpers, aint they?" "far be from us the captious and fault-finding spirit, my dear sir." "indeed, sir, i would not find fault; i am little given that way: but certainly, to say the least, these two youths can hardly be adepts, while the opposed couple may be even more." "you would not hint that the colored cravats would be so bungling as to lose, and the dark cravats so dextrous as to cheat?--sour imaginations, my dear sir. dismiss them. to little purpose have you read the ode you have there. years and experience, i trust, have not sophisticated you. a fresh and liberal construction would teach us to regard those four players--indeed, this whole cabin-full of players--as playing at games in which every player plays fair, and not a player but shall win." "now, you hardly mean that; because games in which all may win, such games remain as yet in this world uninvented, i think." "come, come," luxuriously laying himself back, and casting a free glance upon the players, "fares all paid; digestion sound; care, toil, penury, grief, unknown; lounging on this sofa, with waistband relaxed, why not be cheerfully resigned to one's fate, nor peevishly pick holes in the blessed fate of the world?" upon this, the good merchant, after staring long and hard, and then rubbing his forehead, fell into meditation, at first uneasy, but at last composed, and in the end, once more addressed his companion: "well, i see it's good to out with one's private thoughts now and then. somehow, i don't know why, a certain misty suspiciousness seems inseparable from most of one's private notions about some men and some things; but once out with these misty notions, and their mere contact with other men's soon dissipates, or, at least, modifies them." "you think i have done you good, then? may be, i have. but don't thank me, don't thank me. if by words, casually delivered in the social hour, i do any good to right or left, it is but involuntary influence--locust-tree sweetening the herbage under it; no merit at all; mere wholesome accident, of a wholesome nature.--don't you see?" another stare from the good merchant, and both were silent again. finding his book, hitherto resting on his lap, rather irksome there, the owner now places it edgewise on the settee, between himself and neighbor; in so doing, chancing to expose the lettering on the back--"_black rapids coal company_"--which the good merchant, scrupulously honorable, had much ado to avoid reading, so directly would it have fallen under his eye, had he not conscientiously averted it. on a sudden, as if just reminded of something, the stranger starts up, and moves away, in his haste leaving his book; which the merchant observing, without delay takes it up, and, hurrying after, civilly returns it; in which act he could not avoid catching sight by an involuntary glance of part of the lettering. "thank you, thank you, my good sir," said the other, receiving the volume, and was resuming his retreat, when the merchant spoke: "excuse me, but are you not in some way connected with the--the coal company i have heard of?" "there is more than one coal company that may be heard of, my good sir," smiled the other, pausing with an expression of painful impatience, disinterestedly mastered. "but you are connected with one in particular.--the 'black rapids,' are you not?" "how did you find that out?" "well, sir, i have heard rather tempting information of your company." "who is your informant, pray," somewhat coldly. "a--a person by the name of ringman." "don't know him. but, doubtless, there are plenty who know our company, whom our company does not know; in the same way that one may know an individual, yet be unknown to him.--known this ringman long? old friend, i suppose.--but pardon, i must leave you." "stay, sir, that--that stock." "stock?" "yes, it's a little irregular, perhaps, but----" "dear me, you don't think of doing any business with me, do you? in my official capacity i have not been authenticated to you. this transfer-book, now," holding it up so as to bring the lettering in sight, "how do you know that it may not be a bogus one? and i, being personally a stranger to you, how can you have confidence in me?" "because," knowingly smiled the good merchant, "if you were other than i have confidence that you are, hardly would you challenge distrust that way." "but you have not examined my book." "what need to, if already i believe that it is what it is lettered to be?" "but you had better. it might suggest doubts." "doubts, may be, it might suggest, but not knowledge; for how, by examining the book, should i think i knew any more than i now think i do; since, if it be the true book, i think it so already; and since if it be otherwise, then i have never seen the true one, and don't know what that ought to look like." "your logic i will not criticize, but your confidence i admire, and earnestly, too, jocose as was the method i took to draw it out. enough, we will go to yonder table, and if there be any business which, either in my private or official capacity, i can help you do, pray command me." chapter xi. only a page or so. the transaction concluded, the two still remained seated, falling into familiar conversation, by degrees verging into that confidential sort of sympathetic silence, the last refinement and luxury of unaffected good feeling. a kind of social superstition, to suppose that to be truly friendly one must be saying friendly words all the time, any more than be doing friendly deeds continually. true friendliness, like true religion, being in a sort independent of works. at length, the good merchant, whose eyes were pensively resting upon the gay tables in the distance, broke the spell by saying that, from the spectacle before them, one would little divine what other quarters of the boat might reveal. he cited the case, accidentally encountered but an hour or two previous, of a shrunken old miser, clad in shrunken old moleskin, stretched out, an invalid, on a bare plank in the emigrants' quarters, eagerly clinging to life and lucre, though the one was gasping for outlet, and about the other he was in torment lest death, or some other unprincipled cut-purse, should be the means of his losing it; by like feeble tenure holding lungs and pouch, and yet knowing and desiring nothing beyond them; for his mind, never raised above mould, was now all but mouldered away. to such a degree, indeed, that he had no trust in anything, not even in his parchment bonds, which, the better to preserve from the tooth of time, he had packed down and sealed up, like brandy peaches, in a tin case of spirits. the worthy man proceeded at some length with these dispiriting particulars. nor would his cheery companion wholly deny that there might be a point of view from which such a case of extreme want of confidence might, to the humane mind, present features not altogether welcome as wine and olives after dinner. still, he was not without compensatory considerations, and, upon the whole, took his companion to task for evincing what, in a good-natured, round-about way, he hinted to be a somewhat jaundiced sentimentality. nature, he added, in shakespeare's words, had meal and bran; and, rightly regarded, the bran in its way was not to be condemned. the other was not disposed to question the justice of shakespeare's thought, but would hardly admit the propriety of the application in this instance, much less of the comment. so, after some further temperate discussion of the pitiable miser, finding that they could not entirely harmonize, the merchant cited another case, that of the negro cripple. but his companion suggested whether the alleged hardships of that alleged unfortunate might not exist more in the pity of the observer than the experience of the observed. he knew nothing about the cripple, nor had seen him, but ventured to surmise that, could one but get at the real state of his heart, he would be found about as happy as most men, if not, in fact, full as happy as the speaker himself. he added that negroes were by nature a singularly cheerful race; no one ever heard of a native-born african zimmermann or torquemada; that even from religion they dismissed all gloom; in their hilarious rituals they danced, so to speak, and, as it were, cut pigeon-wings. it was improbable, therefore, that a negro, however reduced to his stumps by fortune, could be ever thrown off the legs of a laughing philosophy. foiled again, the good merchant would not desist, but ventured still a third case, that of the man with the weed, whose story, as narrated by himself, and confirmed and filled out by the testimony of a certain man in a gray coat, whom the merchant had afterwards met, he now proceeded to give; and that, without holding back those particulars disclosed by the second informant, but which delicacy had prevented the unfortunate man himself from touching upon. but as the good merchant could, perhaps, do better justice to the man than the story, we shall venture to tell it in other words than his, though not to any other effect. chapter xii. story of the unfortunate man, from which may be gathered whether or no he has been justly so entitled. it appeared that the unfortunate man had had for a wife one of those natures, anomalously vicious, which would almost tempt a metaphysical lover of our species to doubt whether the human form be, in all cases, conclusive evidence of humanity, whether, sometimes, it may not be a kind of unpledged and indifferent tabernacle, and whether, once for all to crush the saying of thrasea, (an unaccountable one, considering that he himself was so good a man) that "he who hates vice, hates humanity," it should not, in self-defense, be held for a reasonable maxim, that none but the good are human. goneril was young, in person lithe and straight, too straight, indeed, for a woman, a complexion naturally rosy, and which would have been charmingly so, but for a certain hardness and bakedness, like that of the glazed colors on stone-ware. her hair was of a deep, rich chestnut, but worn in close, short curls all round her head. her indian figure was not without its impairing effect on her bust, while her mouth would have been pretty but for a trace of moustache. upon the whole, aided by the resources of the toilet, her appearance at distance was such, that some might have thought her, if anything, rather beautiful, though of a style of beauty rather peculiar and cactus-like. it was happy for goneril that her more striking peculiarities were less of the person than of temper and taste. one hardly knows how to reveal, that, while having a natural antipathy to such things as the breast of chicken, or custard, or peach, or grape, goneril could yet in private make a satisfactory lunch on hard crackers and brawn of ham. she liked lemons, and the only kind of candy she loved were little dried sticks of blue clay, secretly carried in her pocket. withal she had hard, steady health like a squaw's, with as firm a spirit and resolution. some other points about her were likewise such as pertain to the women of savage life. lithe though she was, she loved supineness, but upon occasion could endure like a stoic. she was taciturn, too. from early morning till about three o'clock in the afternoon she would seldom speak--it taking that time to thaw her, by all accounts, into but talking terms with humanity. during the interval she did little but look, and keep looking out of her large, metallic eyes, which her enemies called cold as a cuttle-fish's, but which by her were esteemed gazelle-like; for goneril was not without vanity. those who thought they best knew her, often wondered what happiness such a being could take in life, not considering the happiness which is to be had by some natures in the very easy way of simply causing pain to those around them. those who suffered from goneril's strange nature, might, with one of those hyberboles to which the resentful incline, have pronounced her some kind of toad; but her worst slanderers could never, with any show of justice, have accused her of being a toady. in a large sense she possessed the virtue of independence of mind. goneril held it flattery to hint praise even of the absent, and even if merited; but honesty, to fling people's imputed faults into their faces. this was thought malice, but it certainly was not passion. passion is human. like an icicle-dagger, goneril at once stabbed and froze; so at least they said; and when she saw frankness and innocence tyrannized into sad nervousness under her spell, according to the same authority, inly she chewed her blue clay, and you could mark that she chuckled. these peculiarities were strange and unpleasing; but another was alleged, one really incomprehensible. in company she had a strange way of touching, as by accident, the arm or hand of comely young men, and seemed to reap a secret delight from it, but whether from the humane satisfaction of having given the evil-touch, as it is called, or whether it was something else in her, not equally wonderful, but quite as deplorable, remained an enigma. needless to say what distress was the unfortunate man's, when, engaged in conversation with company, he would suddenly perceive his goneril bestowing her mysterious touches, especially in such cases where the strangeness of the thing seemed to strike upon the touched person, notwithstanding good-breeding forbade his proposing the mystery, on the spot, as a subject of discussion for the company. in these cases, too, the unfortunate man could never endure so much as to look upon the touched young gentleman afterwards, fearful of the mortification of meeting in his countenance some kind of more or less quizzingly-knowing expression. he would shudderingly shun the young gentleman. so that here, to the husband, goneril's touch had the dread operation of the heathen taboo. now goneril brooked no chiding. so, at favorable times, he, in a wary manner, and not indelicately, would venture in private interviews gently to make distant allusions to this questionable propensity. she divined him. but, in her cold loveless way, said it was witless to be telling one's dreams, especially foolish ones; but if the unfortunate man liked connubially to rejoice his soul with such chimeras, much connubial joy might they give him. all this was sad--a touching case--but all might, perhaps, have been borne by the unfortunate man--conscientiously mindful of his vow--for better or for worse--to love and cherish his dear goneril so long as kind heaven might spare her to him--but when, after all that had happened, the devil of jealousy entered her, a calm, clayey, cakey devil, for none other could possess her, and the object of that deranged jealousy, her own child, a little girl of seven, her father's consolation and pet; when he saw goneril artfully torment the little innocent, and then play the maternal hypocrite with it, the unfortunate man's patient long-suffering gave way. knowing that she would neither confess nor amend, and might, possibly, become even worse than she was, he thought it but duty as a father, to withdraw the child from her; but, loving it as he did, he could not do so without accompanying it into domestic exile himself. which, hard though it was, he did. whereupon the whole female neighborhood, who till now had little enough admired dame goneril, broke out in indignation against a husband, who, without assigning a cause, could deliberately abandon the wife of his bosom, and sharpen the sting to her, too, by depriving her of the solace of retaining her offspring. to all this, self-respect, with christian charity towards goneril, long kept the unfortunate man dumb. and well had it been had he continued so; for when, driven to desperation, he hinted something of the truth of the case, not a soul would credit it; while for goneril, she pronounced all he said to be a malicious invention. ere long, at the suggestion of some woman's-rights women, the injured wife began a suit, and, thanks to able counsel and accommodating testimony, succeeded in such a way, as not only to recover custody of the child, but to get such a settlement awarded upon a separation, as to make penniless the unfortunate man (so he averred), besides, through the legal sympathy she enlisted, effecting a judicial blasting of his private reputation. what made it yet more lamentable was, that the unfortunate man, thinking that, before the court, his wisest plan, as well as the most christian besides, being, as he deemed, not at variance with the truth of the matter, would be to put forth the plea of the mental derangement of goneril, which done, he could, with less of mortification to himself, and odium to her, reveal in self-defense those eccentricities which had led to his retirement from the joys of wedlock, had much ado in the end to prevent this charge of derangement from fatally recoiling upon himself--especially, when, among other things, he alleged her mysterious teachings. in vain did his counsel, striving to make out the derangement to be where, in fact, if anywhere, it was, urge that, to hold otherwise, to hold that such a being as goneril was sane, this was constructively a libel upon womankind. libel be it. and all ended by the unfortunate man's subsequently getting wind of goneril's intention to procure him to be permanently committed for a lunatic. upon which he fled, and was now an innocent outcast, wandering forlorn in the great valley of the mississippi, with a weed on his hat for the loss of his goneril; for he had lately seen by the papers that she was dead, and thought it but proper to comply with the prescribed form of mourning in such cases. for some days past he had been trying to get money enough to return to his child, and was but now started with inadequate funds. now all of this, from the beginning, the good merchant could not but consider rather hard for the unfortunate man. chapter xiii. the man with the traveling-cap evinces much humanity, and in a way which would seem to show him to be one of the most logical of optimists. years ago, a grave american savant, being in london, observed at an evening party there, a certain coxcombical fellow, as he thought, an absurd ribbon in his lapel, and full of smart persiflage, whisking about to the admiration of as many as were disposed to admire. great was the savan's disdain; but, chancing ere long to find himself in a corner with the jackanapes, got into conversation with him, when he was somewhat ill-prepared for the good sense of the jackanapes, but was altogether thrown aback, upon subsequently being whispered by a friend that the jackanapes was almost as great a savan as himself, being no less a personage than sir humphrey davy. the above anecdote is given just here by way of an anticipative reminder to such readers as, from the kind of jaunty levity, or what may have passed for such, hitherto for the most part appearing in the man with the traveling-cap, may have been tempted into a more or less hasty estimate of him; that such readers, when they find the same person, as they presently will, capable of philosophic and humanitarian discourse--no mere casual sentence or two as heretofore at times, but solidly sustained throughout an almost entire sitting; that they may not, like the american savan, be thereupon betrayed into any surprise incompatible with their own good opinion of their previous penetration. the merchant's narration being ended, the other would not deny but that it did in some degree affect him. he hoped he was not without proper feeling for the unfortunate man. but he begged to know in what spirit he bore his alleged calamities. did he despond or have confidence? the merchant did not, perhaps, take the exact import of the last member of the question; but answered, that, if whether the unfortunate man was becomingly resigned under his affliction or no, was the point, he could say for him that resigned he was, and to an exemplary degree: for not only, so far as known, did he refrain from any one-sided reflections upon human goodness and human justice, but there was observable in him an air of chastened reliance, and at times tempered cheerfulness. upon which the other observed, that since the unfortunate man's alleged experience could not be deemed very conciliatory towards a view of human nature better than human nature was, it largely redounded to his fair-mindedness, as well as piety, that under the alleged dissuasives, apparently so, from philanthropy, he had not, in a moment of excitement, been warped over to the ranks of the misanthropes. he doubted not, also, that with such a man his experience would, in the end, act by a complete and beneficent inversion, and so far from shaking his confidence in his kind, confirm it, and rivet it. which would the more surely be the case, did he (the unfortunate man) at last become satisfied (as sooner or later he probably would be) that in the distraction of his mind his goneril had not in all respects had fair play. at all events, the description of the lady, charity could not but regard as more or less exaggerated, and so far unjust. the truth probably was that she was a wife with some blemishes mixed with some beauties. but when the blemishes were displayed, her husband, no adept in the female nature, had tried to use reason with her, instead of something far more persuasive. hence his failure to convince and convert. the act of withdrawing from her, seemed, under the circumstances, abrupt. in brief, there were probably small faults on both sides, more than balanced by large virtues; and one should not be hasty in judging. when the merchant, strange to say, opposed views so calm and impartial, and again, with some warmth, deplored the case of the unfortunate man, his companion, not without seriousness, checked him, saying, that this would never do; that, though but in the most exceptional case, to admit the existence of unmerited misery, more particularly if alleged to have been brought about by unhindered arts of the wicked, such an admission was, to say the least, not prudent; since, with some, it might unfavorably bias their most important persuasions. not that those persuasions were legitimately servile to such influences. because, since the common occurrences of life could never, in the nature of things, steadily look one way and tell one story, as flags in the trade-wind; hence, if the conviction of a providence, for instance, were in any way made dependent upon such variabilities as everyday events, the degree of that conviction would, in thinking minds, be subject to fluctuations akin to those of the stock-exchange during a long and uncertain war. here he glanced aside at his transfer-book, and after a moment's pause continued. it was of the essence of a right conviction of the divine nature, as with a right conviction of the human, that, based less on experience than intuition, it rose above the zones of weather. when now the merchant, with all his heart, coincided with this (as being a sensible, as well as religious person, he could not but do), his companion expressed satisfaction, that, in an age of some distrust on such subjects, he could yet meet with one who shared with him, almost to the full, so sound and sublime a confidence. still, he was far from the illiberality of denying that philosophy duly bounded was not permissible. only he deemed it at least desirable that, when such a case as that alleged of the unfortunate man was made the subject of philosophic discussion, it should be so philosophized upon, as not to afford handles to those unblessed with the true light. for, but to grant that there was so much as a mystery about such a case, might by those persons be held for a tacit surrender of the question. and as for the apparent license temporarily permitted sometimes, to the bad over the good (as was by implication alleged with regard to goneril and the unfortunate man), it might be injudicious there to lay too much polemic stress upon the doctrine of future retribution as the vindication of present impunity. for though, indeed, to the right-minded that doctrine was true, and of sufficient solace, yet with the perverse the polemic mention of it might but provoke the shallow, though mischievous conceit, that such a doctrine was but tantamount to the one which should affirm that providence was not now, but was going to be. in short, with all sorts of cavilers, it was best, both for them and everybody, that whoever had the true light should stick behind the secure malakoff of confidence, nor be tempted forth to hazardous skirmishes on the open ground of reason. therefore, he deemed it unadvisable in the good man, even in the privacy of his own mind, or in communion with a congenial one, to indulge in too much latitude of philosophizing, or, indeed, of compassionating, since this might, beget an indiscreet habit of thinking and feeling which might unexpectedly betray him upon unsuitable occasions. indeed, whether in private or public, there was nothing which a good man was more bound to guard himself against than, on some topics, the emotional unreserve of his natural heart; for, that the natural heart, in certain points, was not what it might be, men had been authoritatively admonished. but he thought he might be getting dry. the merchant, in his good-nature, thought otherwise, and said that he would be glad to refresh himself with such fruit all day. it was sitting under a ripe pulpit, and better such a seat than under a ripe peach-tree. the other was pleased to find that he had not, as he feared, been prosing; but would rather not be considered in the formal light of a preacher; he preferred being still received in that of the equal and genial companion. to which end, throwing still more of sociability into his manner, he again reverted to the unfortunate man. take the very worst view of that case; admit that his goneril was, indeed, a goneril; how fortunate to be at last rid of this goneril, both by nature and by law? if he were acquainted with the unfortunate man, instead of condoling with him, he would congratulate him. great good fortune had this unfortunate man. lucky dog, he dared say, after all. to which the merchant replied, that he earnestly hoped it might be so, and at any rate he tried his best to comfort himself with the persuasion that, if the unfortunate man was not happy in this world, he would, at least, be so in another. his companion made no question of the unfortunate man's happiness in both worlds; and, presently calling for some champagne, invited the merchant to partake, upon the playful plea that, whatever notions other than felicitous ones he might associate with the unfortunate man, a little champagne would readily bubble away. at intervals they slowly quaffed several glasses in silence and thoughtfulness. at last the merchant's expressive face flushed, his eye moistly beamed, his lips trembled with an imaginative and feminine sensibility. without sending a single fume to his head, the wine seemed to shoot to his heart, and begin soothsaying there. "ah," he cried, pushing his glass from him, "ah, wine is good, and confidence is good; but can wine or confidence percolate down through all the stony strata of hard considerations, and drop warmly and ruddily into the cold cave of truth? truth will _not_ be comforted. led by dear charity, lured by sweet hope, fond fancy essays this feat; but in vain; mere dreams and ideals, they explode in your hand, leaving naught but the scorching behind!" "why, why, why!" in amaze, at the burst: "bless me, if _in vino veritas_ be a true saying, then, for all the fine confidence you professed with me, just now, distrust, deep distrust, underlies it; and ten thousand strong, like the irish rebellion, breaks out in you now. that wine, good wine, should do it! upon my soul," half seriously, half humorously, securing the bottle, "you shall drink no more of it. wine was meant to gladden the heart, not grieve it; to heighten confidence, not depress it." sobered, shamed, all but confounded, by this raillery, the most telling rebuke under such circumstances, the merchant stared about him, and then, with altered mien, stammeringly confessed, that he was almost as much surprised as his companion, at what had escaped him. he did not understand it; was quite at a loss to account for such a rhapsody popping out of him unbidden. it could hardly be the champagne; he felt his brain unaffected; in fact, if anything, the wine had acted upon it something like white of egg in coffee, clarifying and brightening. "brightening? brightening it may be, but less like the white of egg in coffee, than like stove-lustre on a stove--black, brightening seriously, i repent calling for the champagne. to a temperament like yours, champagne is not to be recommended. pray, my dear sir, do you feel quite yourself again? confidence restored?" "i hope so; i think i may say it is so. but we have had a long talk, and i think i must retire now." so saying, the merchant rose, and making his adieus, left the table with the air of one, mortified at having been tempted by his own honest goodness, accidentally stimulated into making mad disclosures--to himself as to another--of the queer, unaccountable caprices of his natural heart. chapter xiv. worth the consideration of those to whom it may prove worth considering. as the last chapter was begun with a reminder looking forwards, so the present must consist of one glancing backwards. to some, it may raise a degree of surprise that one so full of confidence, as the merchant has throughout shown himself, up to the moment of his late sudden impulsiveness, should, in that instance, have betrayed such a depth of discontent. he may be thought inconsistent, and even so he is. but for this, is the author to be blamed? true, it may be urged that there is nothing a writer of fiction should more carefully see to, as there is nothing a sensible reader will more carefully look for, than that, in the depiction of any character, its consistency should be preserved. but this, though at first blush, seeming reasonable enough, may, upon a closer view, prove not so much so. for how does it couple with another requirement--equally insisted upon, perhaps--that, while to all fiction is allowed some play of invention, yet, fiction based on fact should never be contradictory to it; and is it not a fact, that, in real life, a consistent character is a _rara avis_? which being so, the distaste of readers to the contrary sort in books, can hardly arise from any sense of their untrueness. it may rather be from perplexity as to understanding them. but if the acutest sage be often at his wits' ends to understand living character, shall those who are not sages expect to run and read character in those mere phantoms which flit along a page, like shadows along a wall? that fiction, where every character can, by reason of its consistency, be comprehended at a glance, either exhibits but sections of character, making them appear for wholes, or else is very untrue to reality; while, on the other hand, that author who draws a character, even though to common view incongruous in its parts, as the flying-squirrel, and, at different periods, as much at variance with itself as the butterfly is with the caterpillar into which it changes, may yet, in so doing, be not false but faithful to facts. if reason be judge, no writer has produced such inconsistent characters as nature herself has. it must call for no small sagacity in a reader unerringly to discriminate in a novel between the inconsistencies of conception and those of life as elsewhere. experience is the only guide here; but as no one man can be coextensive with _what is_, it may be unwise in every ease to rest upon it. when the duck-billed beaver of australia was first brought stuffed to england, the naturalists, appealing to their classifications, maintained that there was, in reality, no such creature; the bill in the specimen must needs be, in some way, artificially stuck on. but let nature, to the perplexity of the naturalists, produce her duck-billed beavers as she may, lesser authors some may hold, have no business to be perplexing readers with duck-billed characters. always, they should represent human nature not in obscurity, but transparency, which, indeed, is the practice with most novelists, and is, perhaps, in certain cases, someway felt to be a kind of honor rendered by them to their kind. but, whether it involve honor or otherwise might be mooted, considering that, if these waters of human nature can be so readily seen through, it may be either that they are very pure or very shallow. upon the whole, it might rather be thought, that he, who, in view of its inconsistencies, says of human nature the same that, in view of its contrasts, is said of the divine nature, that it is past finding out, thereby evinces a better appreciation of it than he who, by always representing it in a clear light, leaves it to be inferred that he clearly knows all about it. but though there is a prejudice against inconsistent characters in books, yet the prejudice bears the other way, when what seemed at first their inconsistency, afterwards, by the skill of the writer, turns out to be their good keeping. the great masters excel in nothing so much as in this very particular. they challenge astonishment at the tangled web of some character, and then raise admiration still greater at their satisfactory unraveling of it; in this way throwing open, sometimes to the understanding even of school misses, the last complications of that spirit which is affirmed by its creator to be fearfully and wonderfully made. at least, something like this is claimed for certain psychological novelists; nor will the claim be here disputed. yet, as touching this point, it may prove suggestive, that all those sallies of ingenuity, having for their end the revelation of human nature on fixed principles, have, by the best judges, been excluded with contempt from the ranks of the sciences--palmistry, physiognomy, phrenology, psychology. likewise, the fact, that in all ages such conflicting views have, by the most eminent minds, been taken of mankind, would, as with other topics, seem some presumption of a pretty general and pretty thorough ignorance of it. which may appear the less improbable if it be considered that, after poring over the best novels professing to portray human nature, the studious youth will still run risk of being too often at fault upon actually entering the world; whereas, had he been furnished with a true delineation, it ought to fare with him something as with a stranger entering, map in hand, boston town; the streets may be very crooked, he may often pause; but, thanks to his true map, he does not hopelessly lose his way. nor, to this comparison, can it be an adequate objection, that the twistings of the town are always the same, and those of human nature subject to variation. the grand points of human nature are the same to-day they were a thousand years ago. the only variability in them is in expression, not in feature. but as, in spite of seeming discouragement, some mathematicians are yet in hopes of hitting upon an exact method of determining the longitude, the more earnest psychologists may, in the face of previous failures, still cherish expectations with regard to some mode of infallibly discovering the heart of man. but enough has been said by way of apology for whatever may have seemed amiss or obscure in the character of the merchant; so nothing remains but to turn to our comedy, or, rather, to pass from the comedy of thought to that of action. chapter xv. an old miser, upon suitable representations, is prevailed upon to venture an investment. the merchant having withdrawn, the other remained seated alone for a time, with the air of one who, after having conversed with some excellent man, carefully ponders what fell from him, however intellectually inferior it may be, that none of the profit may be lost; happy if from any honest word he has heard he can derive some hint, which, besides confirming him in the theory of virtue, may, likewise, serve for a finger-post to virtuous action. ere long his eye brightened, as if some such hint was now caught. he rises, book in hand, quits the cabin, and enters upon a sort of corridor, narrow and dim, a by-way to a retreat less ornate and cheery than the former; in short, the emigrants' quarters; but which, owing to the present trip being a down-river one, will doubtless be found comparatively tenantless. owing to obstructions against the side windows, the whole place is dim and dusky; very much so, for the most part; yet, by starts, haggardly lit here and there by narrow, capricious sky-lights in the cornices. but there would seem no special need for light, the place being designed more to pass the night in, than the day; in brief, a pine barrens dormitory, of knotty pine bunks, without bedding. as with the nests in the geometrical towns of the associate penguin and pelican, these bunks were disposed with philadelphian regularity, but, like the cradle of the oriole, they were pendulous, and, moreover, were, so to speak, three-story cradles; the description of one of which will suffice for all. four ropes, secured to the ceiling, passed downwards through auger-holes bored in the corners of three rough planks, which at equal distances rested on knots vertically tied in the ropes, the lowermost plank but an inch or two from the floor, the whole affair resembling, on a large scale, rope book-shelves; only, instead of hanging firmly against a wall, they swayed to and fro at the least suggestion of motion, but were more especially lively upon the provocation of a green emigrant sprawling into one, and trying to lay himself out there, when the cradling would be such as almost to toss him back whence he came. in consequence, one less inexperienced, essaying repose on the uppermost shelf, was liable to serious disturbance, should a raw beginner select a shelf beneath. sometimes a throng of poor emigrants, coming at night in a sudden rain to occupy these oriole nests, would--through ignorance of their peculiarity--bring about such a rocking uproar of carpentry, joining to it such an uproar of exclamations, that it seemed as if some luckless ship, with all its crew, was being dashed to pieces among the rocks. they were beds devised by some sardonic foe of poor travelers, to deprive them of that tranquility which should precede, as well as accompany, slumber.--procrustean beds, on whose hard grain humble worth and honesty writhed, still invoking repose, while but torment responded. ah, did any one make such a bunk for himself, instead of having it made for him, it might be just, but how cruel, to say, you must lie on it! but, purgatory as the place would appear, the stranger advances into it: and, like orpheus in his gay descent to tartarus, lightly hums to himself an opera snatch. suddenly there is a rustling, then a creaking, one of the cradles swings out from a murky nook, a sort of wasted penguin-flipper is supplicatingly put forth, while a wail like that of dives is heard:--"water, water!" it was the miser of whom the merchant had spoken. swift as a sister-of-charity, the stranger hovers over him:-- "my poor, poor sir, what can i do for you?" "ugh, ugh--water!" darting out, he procures a glass, returns, and, holding it to the sufferer's lips, supports his head while he drinks: "and did they let you lie here, my poor sir, racked with this parching thirst?" the miser, a lean old man, whose flesh seemed salted cod-fish, dry as combustibles; head, like one whittled by an idiot out of a knot; flat, bony mouth, nipped between buzzard nose and chin; expression, flitting between hunks and imbecile--now one, now the other--he made no response. his eyes were closed, his cheek lay upon an old white moleskin coat, rolled under his head like a wizened apple upon a grimy snow-bank. revived at last, he inclined towards his ministrant, and, in a voice disastrous with a cough, said:--"i am old and miserable, a poor beggar, not worth a shoestring--how can i repay you?" "by giving me your confidence." "confidence!" he squeaked, with changed manner, while the pallet swung, "little left at my age, but take the stale remains, and welcome." "such as it is, though, you give it. very good. now give me a hundred dollars." upon this the miser was all panic. his hands groped towards his waist, then suddenly flew upward beneath his moleskin pillow, and there lay clutching something out of sight. meantime, to himself he incoherently mumbled:--"confidence? cant, gammon! confidence? hum, bubble!--confidence? fetch, gouge!--hundred dollars?--hundred devils!" half spent, he lay mute awhile, then feebly raising himself, in a voice for the moment made strong by the sarcasm, said, "a hundred dollars? rather high price to put upon confidence. but don't you see i am a poor, old rat here, dying in the wainscot? you have served me; but, wretch that i am, i can but cough you my thanks,--ugh, ugh, ugh!" this time his cough was so violent that its convulsions were imparted to the plank, which swung him about like a stone in a sling preparatory to its being hurled. "ugh, ugh, ugh!" "what a shocking cough. i wish, my friend, the herb-doctor was here now; a box of his omni-balsamic reinvigorator would do you good." "ugh, ugh, ugh!" "i've a good mind to go find him. he's aboard somewhere. i saw his long, snuff-colored surtout. trust me, his medicines are the best in the world." "ugh, ugh, ugh!" "oh, how sorry i am." "no doubt of it," squeaked the other again, "but go, get your charity out on deck. there parade the pursy peacocks; they don't cough down here in desertion and darkness, like poor old me. look how scaly a pauper i am, clove with this churchyard cough. ugh, ugh, ugh!" "again, how sorry i feel, not only for your cough, but your poverty. such a rare chance made unavailable. did you have but the sum named, how i could invest it for you. treble profits. but confidence--i fear that, even had you the precious cash, you would not have the more precious confidence i speak of." "ugh, ugh, ugh!" flightily raising himself. "what's that? how, how? then you don't want the money for yourself?" "my dear, _dear_ sir, how could you impute to me such preposterous self-seeking? to solicit out of hand, for my private behoof, an hundred dollars from a perfect stranger? i am not mad, my dear sir." "how, how?" still more bewildered, "do you, then, go about the world, gratis, seeking to invest people's money for them?" "my humble profession, sir. i live not for myself; but the world will not have confidence in me, and yet confidence in me were great gain." "but, but," in a kind of vertigo, "what do--do you do--do with people's money? ugh, ugh! how is the gain made?" "to tell that would ruin me. that known, every one would be going into the business, and it would be overdone. a secret, a mystery--all i have to do with you is to receive your confidence, and all you have to do with me is, in due time, to receive it back, thrice paid in trebling profits." "what, what?" imbecility in the ascendant once more; "but the vouchers, the vouchers," suddenly hunkish again. "honesty's best voucher is honesty's face." "can't see yours, though," peering through the obscurity. from this last alternating flicker of rationality, the miser fell back, sputtering, into his previous gibberish, but it took now an arithmetical turn. eyes closed, he lay muttering to himself-- "one hundred, one hundred--two hundred, two hundred--three hundred, three hundred." he opened his eyes, feebly stared, and still more feebly said-- "it's a little dim here, ain't it? ugh, ugh! but, as well as my poor old eyes can see, you look honest." "i am glad to hear that." "if--if, now, i should put"--trying to raise himself, but vainly, excitement having all but exhausted him--"if, if now, i should put, put----" "no ifs. downright confidence, or none. so help me heaven, i will have no half-confidences." he said it with an indifferent and superior air, and seemed moving to go. "don't, don't leave me, friend; bear with me; age can't help some distrust; it can't, friend, it can't. ugh, ugh, ugh! oh, i am so old and miserable. i ought to have a guardian. tell me, if----" "if? no more!" "stay! how soon--ugh, ugh!--would my money be trebled? how soon, friend?" "you won't confide. good-bye!" "stay, stay," falling back now like an infant, "i confide, i confide; help, friend, my distrust!" from an old buckskin pouch, tremulously dragged forth, ten hoarded eagles, tarnished into the appearance of ten old horn-buttons, were taken, and half-eagerly, half-reluctantly, offered. "i know not whether i should accept this slack confidence," said the other coldly, receiving the gold, "but an eleventh-hour confidence, a sick-bed confidence, a distempered, death-bed confidence, after all. give me the healthy confidence of healthy men, with their healthy wits about them. but let that pass. all right. good-bye!" "nay, back, back--receipt, my receipt! ugh, ugh, ugh! who are you? what have i done? where go you? my gold, my gold! ugh, ugh, ugh!" but, unluckily for this final flicker of reason, the stranger was now beyond ear-shot, nor was any one else within hearing of so feeble a call. chapter xvi. a sick man, after some impatience, is induced to become a patient the sky slides into blue, the bluffs into bloom; the rapid mississippi expands; runs sparkling and gurgling, all over in eddies; one magnified wake of a seventy-four. the sun comes out, a golden huzzar, from his tent, flashing his helm on the world. all things, warmed in the landscape, leap. speeds the dædal boat as a dream. but, withdrawn in a corner, wrapped about in a shawl, sits an unparticipating man, visited, but not warmed, by the sun--a plant whose hour seems over, while buds are blowing and seeds are astir. on a stool at his left sits a stranger in a snuff-colored surtout, the collar thrown back; his hand waving in persuasive gesture, his eye beaming with hope. but not easily may hope be awakened in one long tranced into hopelessness by a chronic complaint. to some remark the sick man, by word or look, seemed to have just made an impatiently querulous answer, when, with a deprecatory air, the other resumed: "nay, think not i seek to cry up my treatment by crying down that of others. and yet, when one is confident he has truth on his side, and that is not on the other, it is no very easy thing to be charitable; not that temper is the bar, but conscience; for charity would beget toleration, you know, which is a kind of implied permitting, and in effect a kind of countenancing; and that which is countenanced is so far furthered. but should untruth be furthered? still, while for the world's good i refuse to further the cause of these mineral doctors, i would fain regard them, not as willful wrong-doers, but good samaritans erring. and is this--i put it to you, sir--is this the view of an arrogant rival and pretender?" his physical power all dribbled and gone, the sick man replied not by voice or by gesture; but, with feeble dumb-show of his face, seemed to be saying "pray leave me; who was ever cured by talk?" but the other, as if not unused to make allowances for such despondency, proceeded; and kindly, yet firmly: "you tell me, that by advice of an eminent physiologist in louisville, you took tincture of iron. for what? to restore your lost energy. and how? why, in healthy subjects iron is naturally found in the blood, and iron in the bar is strong; ergo, iron is the source of animal invigoration. but you being deficient in vigor, it follows that the cause is deficiency of iron. iron, then, must be put into you; and so your tincture. now as to the theory here, i am mute. but in modesty assuming its truth, and then, as a plain man viewing that theory in practice, i would respectfully question your eminent physiologist: 'sir,' i would say, 'though by natural processes, lifeless natures taken as nutriment become vitalized, yet is a lifeless nature, under any circumstances, capable of a living transmission, with all its qualities as a lifeless nature unchanged? if, sir, nothing can be incorporated with the living body but by assimilation, and if that implies the conversion of one thing to a different thing (as, in a lamp, oil is assimilated into flame), is it, in this view, likely, that by banqueting on fat, calvin edson will fatten? that is, will what is fat on the board prove fat on the bones? if it will, then, sir, what is iron in the vial will prove iron in the vein.' seems that conclusion too confident?" but the sick man again turned his dumb-show look, as much as to say, "pray leave me. why, with painful words, hint the vanity of that which the pains of this body have too painfully proved?" but the other, as if unobservant of that querulous look, went on: "but this notion, that science can play farmer to the flesh, making there what living soil it pleases, seems not so strange as that other conceit--that science is now-a-days so expert that, in consumptive cases, as yours, it can, by prescription of the inhalation of certain vapors, achieve the sublimest act of omnipotence, breathing into all but lifeless dust the breath of life. for did you not tell me, my poor sir, that by order of the great chemist in baltimore, for three weeks you were never driven out without a respirator, and for a given time of every day sat bolstered up in a sort of gasometer, inspiring vapors generated by the burning of drugs? as if this concocted atmosphere of man were an antidote to the poison of god's natural air. oh, who can wonder at that old reproach against science, that it is atheistical? and here is my prime reason for opposing these chemical practitioners, who have sought out so many inventions. for what do their inventions indicate, unless it be that kind and degree of pride in human skill, which seems scarce compatible with reverential dependence upon the power above? try to rid my mind of it as i may, yet still these chemical practitioners with their tinctures, and fumes, and braziers, and occult incantations, seem to me like pharaoh's vain sorcerers, trying to beat down the will of heaven. day and night, in all charity, i intercede for them, that heaven may not, in its own language, be provoked to anger with their inventions; may not take vengeance of their inventions. a thousand pities that you should ever have been in the hands of these egyptians." but again came nothing but the dumb-show look, as much as to say, "pray leave me; quacks, and indignation against quacks, both are vain." but, once more, the other went on: "how different we herb-doctors! who claim nothing, invent nothing; but staff in hand, in glades, and upon hillsides, go about in nature, humbly seeking her cures. true indian doctors, though not learned in names, we are not unfamiliar with essences--successors of solomon the wise, who knew all vegetables, from the cedar of lebanon, to the hyssop on the wall. yes, solomon was the first of herb-doctors. nor were the virtues of herbs unhonored by yet older ages. is it not writ, that on a moonlight night, "medea gathered the enchanted herbs that did renew old Æson?" ah, would you but have confidence, you should be the new Æson, and i your medea. a few vials of my omni-balsamic reinvigorator would, i am certain, give you some strength." upon this, indignation and abhorrence seemed to work by their excess the effect promised of the balsam. roused from that long apathy of impotence, the cadaverous man started, and, in a voice that was as the sound of obstructed air gurgling through a maze of broken honey-combs, cried: "begone! you are all alike. the name of doctor, the dream of helper, condemns you. for years i have been but a gallipot for you experimentizers to rinse your experiments into, and now, in this livid skin, partake of the nature of my contents. begone! i hate ye." "i were inhuman, could i take affront at a want of confidence, born of too bitter an experience of betrayers. yet, permit one who is not without feeling----" "begone! just in that voice talked to me, not six months ago, the german doctor at the water cure, from which i now return, six months and sixty pangs nigher my grave." "the water-cure? oh, fatal delusion of the well-meaning preisnitz!--sir, trust me----" "begone!" "nay, an invalid should not always have his own way. ah, sir, reflect how untimely this distrust in one like you. how weak you are; and weakness, is it not the time for confidence? yes, when through weakness everything bids despair, then is the time to get strength by confidence." relenting in his air, the sick man cast upon him a long glance of beseeching, as if saying, "with confidence must come hope; and how can hope be?" the herb-doctor took a sealed paper box from his surtout pocket, and holding it towards him, said solemnly, "turn not away. this may be the last time of health's asking. work upon yourself; invoke confidence, though from ashes; rouse it; for your life, rouse it, and invoke it, i say." the other trembled, was silent; and then, a little commanding himself, asked the ingredients of the medicine. "herbs." "what herbs? and the nature of them? and the reason for giving them?" "it cannot be made known." "then i will none of you." sedately observant of the juiceless, joyless form before him, the herb-doctor was mute a moment, then said:--"i give up." "how?" "you are sick, and a philosopher." "no, no;--not the last." "but, to demand the ingredient, with the reason for giving, is the mark of a philosopher; just as the consequence is the penalty of a fool. a sick philosopher is incurable?" "why?" "because he has no confidence." "how does that make him incurable?" "because either he spurns his powder, or, if he take it, it proves a blank cartridge, though the same given to a rustic in like extremity, would act like a charm. i am no materialist; but the mind so acts upon the body, that if the one have no confidence, neither has the other." again, the sick man appeared not unmoved. he seemed to be thinking what in candid truth could be said to all this. at length, "you talk of confidence. how comes it that when brought low himself, the herb-doctor, who was most confident to prescribe in other cases, proves least confident to prescribe in his own; having small confidence in himself for himself?" "but he has confidence in the brother he calls in. and that he does so, is no reproach to him, since he knows that when the body is prostrated, the mind is not erect. yes, in this hour the herb-doctor does distrust himself, but not his art." the sick man's knowledge did not warrant him to gainsay this. but he seemed not grieved at it; glad to be confuted in a way tending towards his wish. "then you give me hope?" his sunken eye turned up. "hope is proportioned to confidence. how much confidence you give me, so much hope do i give you. for this," lifting the box, "if all depended upon this, i should rest. it is nature's own." "nature!" "why do you start?" "i know not," with a sort of shudder, "but i have heard of a book entitled 'nature in disease.'" "a title i cannot approve; it is suspiciously scientific. 'nature in disease?' as if nature, divine nature, were aught but health; as if through nature disease is decreed! but did i not before hint of the tendency of science, that forbidden tree? sir, if despondency is yours from recalling that title, dismiss it. trust me, nature is health; for health is good, and nature cannot work ill. as little can she work error. get nature, and you get well. now, i repeat, this medicine is nature's own." again the sick man could not, according to his light, conscientiously disprove what was said. neither, as before, did he seem over-anxious to do so; the less, as in his sensitiveness it seemed to him, that hardly could he offer so to do without something like the appearance of a kind of implied irreligion; nor in his heart was he ungrateful, that since a spirit opposite to that pervaded all the herb-doctor's hopeful words, therefore, for hopefulness, he (the sick man) had not alone medical warrant, but also doctrinal. "then you do really think," hectically, "that if i take this medicine," mechanically reaching out for it, "i shall regain my health?" "i will not encourage false hopes," relinquishing to him the box, "i will be frank with you. though frankness is not always the weakness of the mineral practitioner, yet the herb doctor must be frank, or nothing. now then, sir, in your case, a radical cure--such a cure, understand, as should make you robust--such a cure, sir, i do not and cannot promise." "oh, you need not! only restore me the power of being something else to others than a burdensome care, and to myself a droning grief. only cure me of this misery of weakness; only make me so that i can walk about in the sun and not draw the flies to me, as lured by the coming of decay. only do that--but that." "you ask not much; you are wise; not in vain have you suffered. that little you ask, i think, can be granted. but remember, not in a day, nor a week, nor perhaps a month, but sooner or later; i say not exactly when, for i am neither prophet nor charlatan. still, if, according to the directions in your box there, you take my medicine steadily, without assigning an especial day, near or remote, to discontinue it, then may you calmly look for some eventual result of good. but again i say, you must have confidence." feverishly he replied that he now trusted he had, and hourly should pray for its increase. when suddenly relapsing into one of those strange caprices peculiar to some invalids, he added: "but to one like me, it is so hard, so hard. the most confident hopes so often have failed me, and as often have i vowed never, no, never, to trust them again. oh," feebly wringing his hands, "you do not know, you do not know." "i know this, that never did a right confidence, come to naught. but time is short; you hold your cure, to retain or reject." "i retain," with a clinch, "and now how much?" "as much as you can evoke from your heart and heaven." "how?--the price of this medicine?" "i thought it was confidence you meant; how much confidence you should have. the medicine,--that is half a dollar a vial. your box holds six." the money was paid. "now, sir," said the herb-doctor, "my business calls me away, and it may so be that i shall never see you again; if then----" he paused, for the sick man's countenance fell blank. "forgive me," cried the other, "forgive that imprudent phrase 'never see you again.' though i solely intended it with reference to myself, yet i had forgotten what your sensitiveness might be. i repeat, then, that it may be that we shall not soon have a second interview, so that hereafter, should another of my boxes be needed, you may not be able to replace it except by purchase at the shops; and, in so doing, you may run more or less risk of taking some not salutary mixture. for such is the popularity of the omni-balsamic reinvigorator--thriving not by the credulity of the simple, but the trust of the wise--that certain contrivers have not been idle, though i would not, indeed, hastily affirm of them that they are aware of the sad consequences to the public. homicides and murderers, some call those contrivers; but i do not; for murder (if such a crime be possible) comes from the heart, and these men's motives come from the purse. were they not in poverty, i think they would hardly do what they do. still, the public interests forbid that i should let their needy device for a living succeed. in short, i have adopted precautions. take the wrapper from any of my vials and hold it to the light, you will see water-marked in capitals the word '_confidence_,' which is the countersign of the medicine, as i wish it was of the world. the wrapper bears that mark or else the medicine is counterfeit. but if still any lurking doubt should remain, pray enclose the wrapper to this address," handing a card, "and by return mail i will answer." at first the sick man listened, with the air of vivid interest, but gradually, while the other was still talking, another strange caprice came over him, and he presented the aspect of the most calamitous dejection. "how now?" said the herb-doctor. "you told me to have confidence, said that confidence was indispensable, and here you preach to me distrust. ah, truth will out!" "i told you, you must have confidence, unquestioning confidence, i meant confidence in the genuine medicine, and the genuine _me_." "but in your absence, buying vials purporting to be yours, it seems i cannot have unquestioning confidence." "prove all the vials; trust those which are true." "but to doubt, to suspect, to prove--to have all this wearing work to be doing continually--how opposed to confidence. it is evil!" "from evil comes good. distrust is a stage to confidence. how has it proved in our interview? but your voice is husky; i have let you talk too much. you hold your cure; i will leave you. but stay--when i hear that health is yours, i will not, like some i know, vainly make boasts; but, giving glory where all glory is due, say, with the devout herb-doctor, japus in virgil, when, in the unseen but efficacious presence of venus, he with simples healed the wound of Æneas:-- 'this is no mortal work, no cure of mine, nor art's effect, but done by power divine.'" chapter xvii. towards the end of which the herb-doctor proves himself a forgiver of injuries. in a kind of ante-cabin, a number of respectable looking people, male and female, way-passengers, recently come on board, are listlessly sitting in a mutually shy sort of silence. holding up a small, square bottle, ovally labeled with the engraving of a countenance full of soft pity as that of the romish-painted madonna, the herb-doctor passes slowly among them, benignly urbane, turning this way and that, saying:-- "ladies and gentlemen, i hold in my hand here the samaritan pain dissuader, thrice-blessed discovery of that disinterested friend of humanity whose portrait you see. pure vegetable extract. warranted to remove the acutest pain within less than ten minutes. five hundred dollars to be forfeited on failure. especially efficacious in heart disease and tic-douloureux. observe the expression of this pledged friend of humanity.--price only fifty cents." in vain. after the first idle stare, his auditors--in pretty good health, it seemed--instead of encouraging his politeness, appeared, if anything, impatient of it; and, perhaps, only diffidence, or some small regard for his feelings, prevented them from telling him so. but, insensible to their coldness, or charitably overlooking it, he more wooingly than ever resumed: "may i venture upon a small supposition? have i your kind leave, ladies and gentlemen?" to which modest appeal, no one had the kindness to answer a syllable. "well," said he, resignedly, "silence is at least not denial, and may be consent. my supposition is this: possibly some lady, here present, has a dear friend at home, a bed-ridden sufferer from spinal complaint. if so, what gift more appropriate to that sufferer than this tasteful little bottle of pain dissuader?" again he glanced about him, but met much the same reception as before. those faces, alien alike to sympathy or surprise, seemed patiently to say, "we are travelers; and, as such, must expect to meet, and quietly put up with, many antic fools, and more antic quacks." "ladies and gentlemen," (deferentially fixing his eyes upon their now self-complacent faces) "ladies and gentlemen, might i, by your kind leave, venture upon one other small supposition? it is this: that there is scarce a sufferer, this noonday, writhing on his bed, but in his hour he sat satisfactorily healthy and happy; that the samaritan pain dissuader is the one only balm for that to which each living creature--who knows?--may be a draughted victim, present or prospective. in short:--oh, happiness on my right hand, and oh, security on my left, can ye wisely adore a providence, and not think it wisdom to provide?--provide!" (uplifting the bottle.) what immediate effect, if any, this appeal might have had, is uncertain. for just then the boat touched at a houseless landing, scooped, as by a land-slide, out of sombre forests; back through which led a road, the sole one, which, from its narrowness, and its being walled up with story on story of dusk, matted foliage, presented the vista of some cavernous old gorge in a city, like haunted cock lane in london. issuing from that road, and crossing that landing, there stooped his shaggy form in the door-way, and entered the ante-cabin, with a step so burdensome that shot seemed in his pockets, a kind of invalid titan in homespun; his beard blackly pendant, like the carolina-moss, and dank with cypress dew; his countenance tawny and shadowy as an iron-ore country in a clouded day. in one hand he carried a heavy walking-stick of swamp-oak; with the other, led a puny girl, walking in moccasins, not improbably his child, but evidently of alien maternity, perhaps creole, or even camanche. her eye would have been large for a woman, and was inky as the pools of falls among mountain-pines. an indian blanket, orange-hued, and fringed with lead tassel-work, appeared that morning to have shielded the child from heavy showers. her limbs were tremulous; she seemed a little cassandra, in nervousness. no sooner was the pair spied by the herb-doctor, than with a cheerful air, both arms extended like a host's, he advanced, and taking the child's reluctant hand, said, trippingly: "on your travels, ah, my little may queen? glad to see you. what pretty moccasins. nice to dance in." then with a half caper sang-- "'hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle; the cow jumped over the moon.' come, chirrup, chirrup, my little robin!" which playful welcome drew no responsive playfulness from the child, nor appeared to gladden or conciliate the father; but rather, if anything, to dash the dead weight of his heavy-hearted expression with a smile hypochondriacally scornful. sobering down now, the herb-doctor addressed the stranger in a manly, business-like way--a transition which, though it might seem a little abrupt, did not appear constrained, and, indeed, served to show that his recent levity was less the habit of a frivolous nature, than the frolic condescension of a kindly heart. "excuse me," said he, "but, if i err not, i was speaking to you the other day;--on a kentucky boat, wasn't it?" "never to me," was the reply; the voice deep and lonesome enough to have come from the bottom of an abandoned coal-shaft. "ah!--but am i again mistaken, (his eye falling on the swamp-oak stick,) or don't you go a little lame, sir?" "never was lame in my life." "indeed? i fancied i had perceived not a limp, but a hitch, a slight hitch;--some experience in these things--divined some hidden cause of the hitch--buried bullet, may be--some dragoons in the mexican war discharged with such, you know.--hard fate!" he sighed, "little pity for it, for who sees it?--have you dropped anything?" why, there is no telling, but the stranger was bowed over, and might have seemed bowing for the purpose of picking up something, were it not that, as arrested in the imperfect posture, he for the moment so remained; slanting his tall stature like a mainmast yielding to the gale, or adam to the thunder. the little child pulled him. with a kind of a surge he righted himself, for an instant looked toward the herb-doctor; but, either from emotion or aversion, or both together, withdrew his eyes, saying nothing. presently, still stooping, he seated himself, drawing his child between his knees, his massy hands tremulous, and still averting his face, while up into the compassionate one of the herb-doctor the child turned a fixed, melancholy glance of repugnance. the herb-doctor stood observant a moment, then said: "surely you have pain, strong pain, somewhere; in strong frames pain is strongest. try, now, my specific," (holding it up). "do but look at the expression of this friend of humanity. trust me, certain cure for any pain in the world. won't you look?" "no," choked the other. "very good. merry time to you, little may queen." and so, as if he would intrude his cure upon no one, moved pleasantly off, again crying his wares, nor now at last without result. a new-comer, not from the shore, but another part of the boat, a sickly young man, after some questions, purchased a bottle. upon this, others of the company began a little to wake up as it were; the scales of indifference or prejudice fell from their eyes; now, at last, they seemed to have an inkling that here was something not undesirable which might be had for the buying. but while, ten times more briskly bland than ever, the herb-doctor was driving his benevolent trade, accompanying each sale with added praises of the thing traded, all at once the dusk giant, seated at some distance, unexpectedly raised his voice with-- "what was that you last said?" the question was put distinctly, yet resonantly, as when a great clock-bell--stunning admonisher--strikes one; and the stroke, though single, comes bedded in the belfry clamor. all proceedings were suspended. hands held forth for the specific were withdrawn, while every eye turned towards the direction whence the question came. but, no way abashed, the herb-doctor, elevating his voice with even more than wonted self-possession, replied-- "i was saying what, since you wish it, i cheerfully repeat, that the samaritan pain dissuader, which i here hold in my hand, will either cure or ease any pain you please, within ten minutes after its application." "does it produce insensibility?" "by no means. not the least of its merits is, that it is not an opiate. it kills pain without killing feeling." "you lie! some pains cannot be eased but by producing insensibility, and cannot be cured but by producing death." beyond this the dusk giant said nothing; neither, for impairing the other's market, did there appear much need to. after eying the rude speaker a moment with an expression of mingled admiration and consternation, the company silently exchanged glances of mutual sympathy under unwelcome conviction. those who had purchased looked sheepish or ashamed; and a cynical-looking little man, with a thin flaggy beard, and a countenance ever wearing the rudiments of a grin, seated alone in a corner commanding a good view of the scene, held a rusty hat before his face. but, again, the herb-doctor, without noticing the retort, overbearing though it was, began his panegyrics anew, and in a tone more assured than before, going so far now as to say that his specific was sometimes almost as effective in cases of mental suffering as in cases of physical; or rather, to be more precise, in cases when, through sympathy, the two sorts of pain coöperated into a climax of both--in such cases, he said, the specific had done very well. he cited an example: only three bottles, faithfully taken, cured a louisiana widow (for three weeks sleepless in a darkened chamber) of neuralgic sorrow for the loss of husband and child, swept off in one night by the last epidemic. for the truth of this, a printed voucher was produced, duly signed. while he was reading it aloud, a sudden side-blow all but felled him. it was the giant, who, with a countenance lividly epileptic with hypochondriac mania, exclaimed-- "profane fiddler on heart-strings! snake!" more he would have added, but, convulsed, could not; so, without another word, taking up the child, who had followed him, went with a rocking pace out of the cabin. "regardless of decency, and lost to humanity!" exclaimed the herb-doctor, with much ado recovering himself. then, after a pause, during which he examined his bruise, not omitting to apply externally a little of his specific, and with some success, as it would seem, plained to himself: "no, no, i won't seek redress; innocence is my redress. but," turning upon them all, "if that man's wrathful blow provokes me to no wrath, should his evil distrust arouse you to distrust? i do devoutly hope," proudly raising voice and arm, "for the honor of humanity--hope that, despite this coward assault, the samaritan pain dissuader stands unshaken in the confidence of all who hear me!" but, injured as he was, and patient under it, too, somehow his case excited as little compassion as his oratory now did enthusiasm. still, pathetic to the last, he continued his appeals, notwithstanding the frigid regard of the company, till, suddenly interrupting himself, as if in reply to a quick summons from without, he said hurriedly, "i come, i come," and so, with every token of precipitate dispatch, out of the cabin the herb-doctor went. chapter xviii. inquest into the true character of the herb-doctor. "sha'n't see that fellow again in a hurry," remarked an auburn-haired gentleman, to his neighbor with a hook-nose. "never knew an operator so completely unmasked." "but do you think it the fair thing to unmask an operator that way?" "fair? it is right." "supposing that at high 'change on the paris bourse, asmodeus should lounge in, distributing hand-bills, revealing the true thoughts and designs of all the operators present--would that be the fair thing in asmodeus? or, as hamlet says, were it 'to consider the thing too curiously?'" "we won't go into that. but since you admit the fellow to be a knave----" "i don't admit it. or, if i did, i take it back. shouldn't wonder if, after all, he is no knave at all, or, but little of one. what can you prove against him?" "i can prove that he makes dupes." "many held in honor do the same; and many, not wholly knaves, do it too." "how about that last?" "he is not wholly at heart a knave, i fancy, among whose dupes is himself. did you not see our quack friend apply to himself his own quackery? a fanatic quack; essentially a fool, though effectively a knave." bending over, and looking down between his knees on the floor, the auburn-haired gentleman meditatively scribbled there awhile with his cane, then, glancing up, said: "i can't conceive how you, in anyway, can hold him a fool. how he talked--so glib, so pat, so well." "a smart fool always talks well; takes a smart fool to be tonguey." in much the same strain the discussion continued--the hook-nosed gentleman talking at large and excellently, with a view of demonstrating that a smart fool always talks just so. ere long he talked to such purpose as almost to convince. presently, back came the person of whom the auburn-haired gentleman had predicted that he would not return. conspicuous in the door-way he stood, saying, in a clear voice, "is the agent of the seminole widow and orphan asylum within here?" no one replied. "is there within here any agent or any member of any charitable institution whatever?" no one seemed competent to answer, or, no one thought it worth while to. "if there be within here any such person, i have in my hand two dollars for him." some interest was manifested. "i was called away so hurriedly, i forgot this part of my duty. with the proprietor of the samaritan pain dissuader it is a rule, to devote, on the spot, to some benevolent purpose, the half of the proceeds of sales. eight bottles were disposed of among this company. hence, four half-dollars remain to charity. who, as steward, takes the money?" one or two pair of feet moved upon the floor, as with a sort of itching; but nobody rose. "does diffidence prevail over duty? if, i say, there be any gentleman, or any lady, either, here present, who is in any connection with any charitable institution whatever, let him or her come forward. he or she happening to have at hand no certificate of such connection, makes no difference. not of a suspicious temper, thank god, i shall have confidence in whoever offers to take the money." a demure-looking woman, in a dress rather tawdry and rumpled, here drew her veil well down and rose; but, marking every eye upon her, thought it advisable, upon the whole, to sit down again. "is it to be believed that, in this christian company, there is no one charitable person? i mean, no one connected with any charity? well, then, is there no object of charity here?" upon this, an unhappy-looking woman, in a sort of mourning, neat, but sadly worn, hid her face behind a meagre bundle, and was heard to sob. meantime, as not seeing or hearing her, the herb-doctor again spoke, and this time not unpathetically: "are there none here who feel in need of help, and who, in accepting such help, would feel that they, in their time, have given or done more than may ever be given or done to them? man or woman, is there none such here?" the sobs of the woman were more audible, though she strove to repress them. while nearly every one's attention was bent upon her, a man of the appearance of a day-laborer, with a white bandage across his face, concealing the side of the nose, and who, for coolness' sake, had been sitting in his red-flannel shirt-sleeves, his coat thrown across one shoulder, the darned cuffs drooping behind--this man shufflingly rose, and, with a pace that seemed the lingering memento of the lock-step of convicts, went up for a duly-qualified claimant. "poor wounded huzzar!" sighed the herb-doctor, and dropping the money into the man's clam-shell of a hand turned and departed. the recipient of the alms was about moving after, when the auburn-haired gentleman staid him: "don't be frightened, you; but i want to see those coins. yes, yes; good silver, good silver. there, take them again, and while you are about it, go bandage the rest of yourself behind something. d'ye hear? consider yourself, wholly, the scar of a nose, and be off with yourself." being of a forgiving nature, or else from emotion not daring to trust his voice, the man silently, but not without some precipitancy, withdrew. "strange," said the auburn-haired gentleman, returning to his friend, "the money was good money." "aye, and where your fine knavery now? knavery to devote the half of one's receipts to charity? he's a fool i say again." "others might call him an original genius." "yes, being original in his folly. genius? his genius is a cracked pate, and, as this age goes, not much originality about that." "may he not be knave, fool, and genius altogether?" "i beg pardon," here said a third person with a gossiping expression who had been listening, "but you are somewhat puzzled by this man, and well you may be." "do you know anything about him?" asked the hooked-nosed gentleman. "no, but i suspect him for something." "suspicion. we want knowledge." "well, suspect first and know next. true knowledge comes but by suspicion or revelation. that's my maxim." "and yet," said the auburn-haired gentleman, "since a wise man will keep even some certainties to himself, much more some suspicions, at least he will at all events so do till they ripen into knowledge." "do you hear that about the wise man?" said the hook-nosed gentleman, turning upon the new comer. "now what is it you suspect of this fellow?" "i shrewdly suspect him," was the eager response, "for one of those jesuit emissaries prowling all over our country. the better to accomplish their secret designs, they assume, at times, i am told, the most singular masques; sometimes, in appearance, the absurdest." this, though indeed for some reason causing a droll smile upon the face of the hook-nosed gentleman, added a third angle to the discussion, which now became a sort of triangular duel, and ended, at last, with but a triangular result. chapter xix. a soldier of fortune. "mexico? molino del rey? resaca de la palma?" "resaca de la _tomba_!" leaving his reputation to take care of itself, since, as is not seldom the case, he knew nothing of its being in debate, the herb-doctor, wandering towards the forward part of the boat, had there espied a singular character in a grimy old regimental coat, a countenance at once grim and wizened, interwoven paralyzed legs, stiff as icicles, suspended between rude crutches, while the whole rigid body, like a ship's long barometer on gimbals, swung to and fro, mechanically faithful to the motion of the boat. looking downward while he swung, the cripple seemed in a brown study. as moved by the sight, and conjecturing that here was some battered hero from the mexican battle-fields, the herb-doctor had sympathetically accosted him as above, and received the above rather dubious reply. as, with a half moody, half surly sort of air that reply was given, the cripple, by a voluntary jerk, nervously increased his swing (his custom when seized by emotion), so that one would have thought some squall had suddenly rolled the boat and with it the barometer. "tombs? my friend," exclaimed the herb-doctor in mild surprise. "you have not descended to the dead, have you? i had imagined you a scarred campaigner, one of the noble children of war, for your dear country a glorious sufferer. but you are lazarus, it seems." "yes, he who had sores." "ah, the _other_ lazarus. but i never knew that either of them was in the army," glancing at the dilapidated regimentals. "that will do now. jokes enough." "friend," said the other reproachfully, "you think amiss. on principle, i greet unfortunates with some pleasant remark, the better to call off their thoughts from their troubles. the physician who is at once wise and humane seldom unreservedly sympathizes with his patient. but come, i am a herb-doctor, and also a natural bone-setter. i may be sanguine, but i think i can do something for you. you look up now. give me your story. ere i undertake a cure, i require a full account of the case." "you can't help me," returned the cripple gruffly. "go away." "you seem sadly destitute of----" "no i ain't destitute; to-day, at least, i can pay my way." "the natural bone-setter is happy, indeed, to hear that. but you were premature. i was deploring your destitution, not of cash, but of confidence. you think the natural bone-setter can't help you. well, suppose he can't, have you any objection to telling him your story? you, my friend, have, in a signal way, experienced adversity. tell me, then, for my private good, how, without aid from the noble cripple, epictetus, you have arrived at his heroic sang-froid in misfortune." at these words the cripple fixed upon the speaker the hard ironic eye of one toughened and defiant in misery, and, in the end, grinned upon him with his unshaven face like an ogre. "come, come, be sociable--be human, my friend. don't make that face; it distresses me." "i suppose," with a sneer, "you are the man i've long heard of--the happy man." "happy? my friend. yes, at least i ought to be. my conscience is peaceful. i have confidence in everybody. i have confidence that, in my humble profession, i do some little good to the world. yes, i think that, without presumption, i may venture to assent to the proposition that i am the happy man--the happy bone-setter." "then, you shall hear my story. many a month i have longed to get hold of the happy man, drill him, drop the powder, and leave him to explode at his leisure.". "what a demoniac unfortunate" exclaimed the herb-doctor retreating. "regular infernal machine!" "look ye," cried the other, stumping after him, and with his horny hand catching him by a horn button, "my name is thomas fry. until my----" --"any relation of mrs. fry?" interrupted the other. "i still correspond with that excellent lady on the subject of prisons. tell me, are you anyway connected with _my_ mrs. fry?" "blister mrs. fry! what do them sentimental souls know of prisons or any other black fact? i'll tell ye a story of prisons. ha, ha!" the herb-doctor shrank, and with reason, the laugh being strangely startling. "positively, my friend," said he, "you must stop that; i can't stand that; no more of that. i hope i have the milk of kindness, but your thunder will soon turn it." "hold, i haven't come to the milk-turning part yet. my name is thomas fry. until my twenty-third year i went by the nickname of happy tom--happy--ha, ha! they called me happy tom, d'ye see? because i was so good-natured and laughing all the time, just as i am now--ha, ha!" upon this the herb-doctor would, perhaps, have run, but once more the hyæna clawed him. presently, sobering down, he continued: "well, i was born in new york, and there i lived a steady, hard-working man, a cooper by trade. one evening i went to a political meeting in the park--for you must know, i was in those days a great patriot. as bad luck would have it, there was trouble near, between a gentleman who had been drinking wine, and a pavior who was sober. the pavior chewed tobacco, and the gentleman said it was beastly in him, and pushed him, wanting to have his place. the pavior chewed on and pushed back. well, the gentleman carried a sword-cane, and presently the pavior was down--skewered." "how was that?" "why you see the pavior undertook something above his strength." "the other must have been a samson then. 'strong as a pavior,' is a proverb." "so it is, and the gentleman was in body a rather weakly man, but, for all that, i say again, the pavior undertook something above his strength." "what are you talking about? he tried to maintain his rights, didn't he?" "yes; but, for all that, i say again, he undertook something above his strength." "i don't understand you. but go on." "along with the gentleman, i, with other witnesses, was taken to the tombs. there was an examination, and, to appear at the trial, the gentleman and witnesses all gave bail--i mean all but me." "and why didn't you?" "couldn't get it." "steady, hard-working cooper like you; what was the reason you couldn't get bail?" "steady, hard-working cooper hadn't no friends. well, souse i went into a wet cell, like a canal-boat splashing into the lock; locked up in pickle, d'ye see? against the time of the trial." "but what had you done?" "why, i hadn't got any friends, i tell ye. a worse crime than murder, as ye'll see afore long." "murder? did the wounded man die?" "died the third night." "then the gentleman's bail didn't help him. imprisoned now, wasn't he?" "had too many friends. no, it was _i_ that was imprisoned.--but i was going on: they let me walk about the corridor by day; but at night i must into lock. there the wet and the damp struck into my bones. they doctored me, but no use. when the trial came, i was boosted up and said my say." "and what was that?" "my say was that i saw the steel go in, and saw it sticking in." "and that hung the gentleman." "hung him with a gold chain! his friends called a meeting in the park, and presented him with a gold watch and chain upon his acquittal." "acquittal?" "didn't i say he had friends?" there was a pause, broken at last by the herb-doctor's saying: "well, there is a bright side to everything. if this speak prosaically for justice, it speaks romantically for friendship! but go on, my fine fellow." "my say being said, they told me i might go. i said i could not without help. so the constables helped me, asking _where_ would i go? i told them back to the 'tombs.' i knew no other place. 'but where are your friends?' said they. 'i have none.' so they put me into a hand-barrow with an awning to it, and wheeled me down to the dock and on board a boat, and away to blackwell's island to the corporation hospital. there i got worse--got pretty much as you see me now. couldn't cure me. after three years, i grew sick of lying in a grated iron bed alongside of groaning thieves and mouldering burglars. they gave me five silver dollars, and these crutches, and i hobbled off. i had an only brother who went to indiana, years ago. i begged about, to make up a sum to go to him; got to indiana at last, and they directed me to his grave. it was on a great plain, in a log-church yard with a stump fence, the old gray roots sticking all ways like moose-antlers. the bier, set over the grave, it being the last dug, was of green hickory; bark on, and green twigs sprouting from it. some one had planted a bunch of violets on the mound, but it was a poor soil (always choose the poorest soils for grave-yards), and they were all dried to tinder. i was going to sit and rest myself on the bier and think about my brother in heaven, but the bier broke down, the legs being only tacked. so, after driving some hogs out of the yard that were rooting there, i came away, and, not to make too long a story of it, here i am, drifting down stream like any other bit of wreck." the herb-doctor was silent for a time, buried in thought. at last, raising his head, he said: "i have considered your whole story, my friend, and strove to consider it in the light of a commentary on what i believe to be the system of things; but it so jars with all, is so incompatible with all, that you must pardon me, if i honestly tell you, i cannot believe it." "that don't surprise me." "how?" "hardly anybody believes my story, and so to most i tell a different one." "how, again?" "wait here a bit and i'll show ye." with that, taking off his rag of a cap, and arranging his tattered regimentals the best he could, off he went stumping among the passengers in an adjoining part of the deck, saying with a jovial kind of air: "sir, a shilling for happy tom, who fought at buena vista. lady, something for general scott's soldier, crippled in both pins at glorious contreras." now, it so chanced that, unbeknown to the cripple, a prim-looking stranger had overheard part of his story. beholding him, then, on his present begging adventure, this person, turning to the herb-doctor, indignantly said: "is it not too bad, sir, that yonder rascal should lie so?" "charity never faileth, my good sir," was the reply. "the vice of this unfortunate is pardonable. consider, he lies not out of wantonness." "not out of wantonness. i never heard more wanton lies. in one breath to tell you what would appear to be his true story, and, in the next, away and falsify it." "for all that, i repeat he lies not out of wantonness. a ripe philosopher, turned out of the great sorbonne of hard times, he thinks that woes, when told to strangers for money, are best sugared. though the inglorious lock-jaw of his knee-pans in a wet dungeon is a far more pitiable ill than to have been crippled at glorious contreras, yet he is of opinion that this lighter and false ill shall attract, while the heavier and real one might repel." "nonsense; he belongs to the devil's regiment; and i have a great mind to expose him." "shame upon you. dare to expose that poor unfortunate, and by heaven--don't you do it, sir." noting something in his manner, the other thought it more prudent to retire than retort. by-and-by, the cripple came back, and with glee, having reaped a pretty good harvest. "there," he laughed, "you know now what sort of soldier i am." "aye, one that fights not the stupid mexican, but a foe worthy your tactics--fortune!" "hi, hi!" clamored the cripple, like a fellow in the pit of a sixpenny theatre, then said, "don't know much what you meant, but it went off well." this over, his countenance capriciously put on a morose ogreness. to kindly questions he gave no kindly answers. unhandsome notions were thrown out about "free ameriky," as he sarcastically called his country. these seemed to disturb and pain the herb-doctor, who, after an interval of thoughtfulness, gravely addressed him in these words: "you, my worthy friend, to my concern, have reflected upon the government under which you live and suffer. where is your patriotism? where your gratitude? true, the charitable may find something in your case, as you put it, partly to account for such reflections as coming from you. still, be the facts how they may, your reflections are none the less unwarrantable. grant, for the moment, that your experiences are as you give them; in which case i would admit that government might be thought to have more or less to do with what seems undesirable in them. but it is never to be forgotten that human government, being subordinate to the divine, must needs, therefore, in its degree, partake of the characteristics of the divine. that is, while in general efficacious to happiness, the world's law may yet, in some cases, have, to the eye of reason, an unequal operation, just as, in the same imperfect view, some inequalities may appear in the operations of heaven's law; nevertheless, to one who has a right confidence, final benignity is, in every instance, as sure with the one law as the other. i expound the point at some length, because these are the considerations, my poor fellow, which, weighed as they merit, will enable you to sustain with unimpaired trust the apparent calamities which are yours." "what do you talk your hog-latin to me for?" cried the cripple, who, throughout the address, betrayed the most illiterate obduracy; and, with an incensed look, anew he swung himself. glancing another way till the spasm passed, the other continued: "charity marvels not that you should be somewhat hard of conviction, my friend, since you, doubtless, believe yourself hardly dealt by; but forget not that those who are loved are chastened." "mustn't chasten them too much, though, and too long, because their skin and heart get hard, and feel neither pain nor tickle." "to mere reason, your case looks something piteous, i grant. but never despond; many things--the choicest--yet remain. you breathe this bounteous air, are warmed by this gracious sun, and, though poor and friendless, indeed, nor so agile as in your youth, yet, how sweet to roam, day by day, through the groves, plucking the bright mosses and flowers, till forlornness itself becomes a hilarity, and, in your innocent independence, you skip for joy." "fine skipping with these 'ere horse-posts--ha ha!" "pardon; i forgot the crutches. my mind, figuring you after receiving the benefit of my art, overlooked you as you stand before me." "your art? you call yourself a bone-setter--a natural bone-setter, do ye? go, bone-set the crooked world, and then come bone-set crooked me." "truly, my honest friend, i thank you for again recalling me to my original object. let me examine you," bending down; "ah, i see, i see; much such a case as the negro's. did you see him? oh no, you came aboard since. well, his case was a little something like yours. i prescribed for him, and i shouldn't wonder at all if, in a very short time, he were able to walk almost as well as myself. now, have you no confidence in my art?" "ha, ha!" the herb-doctor averted himself; but, the wild laugh dying away, resumed: "i will not force confidence on you. still, i would fain do the friendly thing by you. here, take this box; just rub that liniment on the joints night and morning. take it. nothing to pay. god bless you. good-bye." "stay," pausing in his swing, not untouched by so unexpected an act; "stay--thank'ee--but will this really do me good? honor bright, now; will it? don't deceive a poor fellow," with changed mien and glistening eye. "try it. good-bye." "stay, stay! _sure_ it will do me good?" "possibly, possibly; no harm in trying. good-bye." "stay, stay; give me three more boxes, and here's the money." "my friend," returning towards him with a sadly pleased sort of air, "i rejoice in the birth of your confidence and hopefulness. believe me that, like your crutches, confidence and hopefulness will long support a man when his own legs will not. stick to confidence and hopefulness, then, since how mad for the cripple to throw his crutches away. you ask for three more boxes of my liniment. luckily, i have just that number remaining. here they are. i sell them at half-a-dollar apiece. but i shall take nothing from you. there; god bless you again; good-bye." "stay," in a convulsed voice, and rocking himself, "stay, stay! you have made a better man of me. you have borne with me like a good christian, and talked to me like one, and all that is enough without making me a present of these boxes. here is the money. i won't take nay. there, there; and may almighty goodness go with you." as the herb-doctor withdrew, the cripple gradually subsided from his hard rocking into a gentle oscillation. it expressed, perhaps, the soothed mood of his reverie. chapter xx. reappearance of one who may be remembered. the herb-doctor had not moved far away, when, in advance of him, this spectacle met his eye. a dried-up old man, with the stature of a boy of twelve, was tottering about like one out of his mind, in rumpled clothes of old moleskin, showing recent contact with bedding, his ferret eyes, blinking in the sunlight of the snowy boat, as imbecilely eager, and, at intervals, coughing, he peered hither and thither as if in alarmed search for his nurse. he presented the aspect of one who, bed-rid, has, through overruling excitement, like that of a fire, been stimulated to his feet. "you seek some one," said the herb-doctor, accosting him. "can i assist you?" "do, do; i am so old and miserable," coughed the old man. "where is he? this long time i've been trying to get up and find him. but i haven't any friends, and couldn't get up till now. where is he?" "who do you mean?" drawing closer, to stay the further wanderings of one so weakly. "why, why, why," now marking the other's dress, "why you, yes you--you, you--ugh, ugh, ugh!" "i?" "ugh, ugh, ugh!--you are the man he spoke of. who is he?" "faith, that is just what i want to know." "mercy, mercy!" coughed the old man, bewildered, "ever since seeing him, my head spins round so. i ought to have a guard_ee_an. is this a snuff-colored surtout of yours, or ain't it? somehow, can't trust my senses any more, since trusting him--ugh, ugh, ugh!" "oh, you have trusted somebody? glad to hear it. glad to hear of any instance, of that sort. reflects well upon all men. but you inquire whether this is a snuff-colored surtout. i answer it is; and will add that a herb-doctor wears it." upon this the old man, in his broken way, replied that then he (the herb-doctor) was the person he sought--the person spoken of by the other person as yet unknown. he then, with flighty eagerness, wanted to know who this last person was, and where he was, and whether he could be trusted with money to treble it. "aye, now, i begin to understand; ten to one you mean my worthy friend, who, in pure goodness of heart, makes people's fortunes for them--their everlasting fortunes, as the phrase goes--only charging his one small commission of confidence. aye, aye; before intrusting funds with my friend, you want to know about him. very proper--and, i am glad to assure you, you need have no hesitation; none, none, just none in the world; bona fide, none. turned me in a trice a hundred dollars the other day into as many eagles." "did he? did he? but where is he? take me to him." "pray, take my arm! the boat is large! we may have something of a hunt! come on! ah, is that he?" "where? where?" "o, no; i took yonder coat-skirts for his. but no, my honest friend would never turn tail that way. ah!----" "where? where?" "another mistake. surprising resemblance. i took yonder clergyman for him. come on!" having searched that part of the boat without success, they went to another part, and, while exploring that, the boat sided up to a landing, when, as the two were passing by the open guard, the herb-doctor suddenly rushed towards the disembarking throng, crying out: "mr. truman, mr. truman! there he goes--that's he. mr. truman, mr. truman!--confound that steam-pipe., mr. truman! for god's sake, mr. truman!--no, no.--there, the plank's in--too late--we're off." with that, the huge boat, with a mighty, walrus wallow, rolled away from the shore, resuming her course. "how vexatious!" exclaimed the herb-doctor, returning. "had we been but one single moment sooner.--there he goes, now, towards yon hotel, his portmanteau following. you see him, don't you?" "where? where?" "can't see him any more. wheel-house shot between. i am very sorry. i should have so liked you to have let him have a hundred or so of your money. you would have been pleased with the investment, believe me." "oh, i _have_ let him have some of my money," groaned the old man. "you have? my dear sir," seizing both the miser's hands in both his own and heartily shaking them. "my dear sir, how i congratulate you. you don't know." "ugh, ugh! i fear i don't," with another groan. "his name is truman, is it?" "john truman." "where does he live?" "in st. louis." "where's his office?" "let me see. jones street, number one hundred and--no, no--anyway, it's somewhere or other up-stairs in jones street." "can't you remember the number? try, now." "one hundred--two hundred--three hundred--" "oh, my hundred dollars! i wonder whether it will be one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, with them! ugh, ugh! can't remember the number?" "positively, though i once knew, i have forgotten, quite forgotten it. strange. but never mind. you will easily learn in st. louis. he is well known there." "but i have no receipt--ugh, ugh! nothing to show--don't know where i stand--ought to have a guard_ee_an--ugh, ugh! don't know anything. ugh, ugh!" "why, you know that you gave him your confidence, don't you?" "oh, yes." "well, then?" "but what, what--how, how--ugh, ugh!" "why, didn't he tell you?" "no." "what! didn't he tell you that it was a secret, a mystery?" "oh--yes." "well, then?" "but i have no bond." "don't need any with mr. truman. mr. truman's word is his bond." "but how am i to get my profits--ugh, ugh!--and my money back? don't know anything. ugh, ugh!" "oh, you must have confidence." "don't say that word again. makes my head spin so. oh, i'm so old and miserable, nobody caring for me, everybody fleecing me, and my head spins so--ugh, ugh!--and this cough racks me so. i say again, i ought to have a guard_ee_an." "so you ought; and mr. truman is your guardian to the extent you invested with him. sorry we missed him just now. but you'll hear from him. all right. it's imprudent, though, to expose yourself this way. let me take you to your berth." forlornly enough the old miser moved slowly away with him. but, while descending a stairway, he was seized with such coughing that he was fain to pause. "that is a very bad cough." "church-yard--ugh, ugh!--church-yard cough.--ugh!" "have you tried anything for it?" "tired of trying. nothing does me any good--ugh! ugh! not even the mammoth cave. ugh! ugh! denned there six months, but coughed so bad the rest of the coughers--ugh! ugh!--black-balled me out. ugh, ugh! nothing does me good." "but have you tried the omni-balsamic reinvigorator, sir?" "that's what that truman--ugh, ugh!--said i ought to take. yarb-medicine; you are that yarb-doctor, too?" "the same. suppose you try one of my boxes now. trust me, from what i know of mr. truman, he is not the gentleman to recommend, even in behalf of a friend, anything of whose excellence he is not conscientiously satisfied." "ugh!--how much?" "only two dollars a box." "two dollars? why don't you say two millions? ugh, ugh! two dollars, that's two hundred cents; that's eight hundred farthings; that's two thousand mills; and all for one little box of yarb-medicine. my head, my head!--oh, i ought to have a guard_ee_an for; my head. ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh!" "well, if two dollars a box seems too much, take a dozen boxes at twenty dollars; and that will be getting four boxes for nothing, and you need use none but those four, the rest you can retail out at a premium, and so cure your cough, and make money by it. come, you had better do it. cash down. can fill an order in a day or two. here now," producing a box; "pure herbs." at that moment, seized with another spasm, the miser snatched each interval to fix his half distrustful, half hopeful eye upon the medicine, held alluringly up. "sure--ugh! sure it's all nat'ral? nothing but yarbs? if i only thought it was a purely nat'ral medicine now--all yarbs--ugh, ugh!--oh this cough, this cough--ugh, ugh!--shatters my whole body. ugh, ugh, ugh!" "for heaven's sake try my medicine, if but a single box. that it is pure nature you may be confident, refer you to mr. truman." "don't know his number--ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh! oh this cough. he did speak well of this medicine though; said solemnly it would cure me--ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh!--take off a dollar and i'll have a box." "can't sir, can't." "say a dollar-and-half. ugh!" "can't. am pledged to the one-price system, only honorable one." "take off a shilling--ugh, ugh!" "can't." "ugh, ugh, ugh--i'll take it.--there." grudgingly he handed eight silver coins, but while still in his hand, his cough took him and they were shaken upon the deck. one by one, the herb-doctor picked them up, and, examining them, said: "these are not quarters, these are pistareens; and clipped, and sweated, at that." "oh don't be so miserly--ugh, ugh!--better a beast than a miser--ugh, ugh!" "well, let it go. anything rather than the idea of your not being cured of such a cough. and i hope, for the credit of humanity, you have not made it appear worse than it is, merely with a view to working upon the weak point of my pity, and so getting my medicine the cheaper. now, mind, don't take it till night. just before retiring is the time. there, you can get along now, can't you? i would attend you further, but i land presently, and must go hunt up my luggage." chapter xxi. a hard case. "yarbs, yarbs; natur, natur; you foolish old file you! he diddled you with that hocus-pocus, did he? yarbs and natur will cure your incurable cough, you think." it was a rather eccentric-looking person who spoke; somewhat ursine in aspect; sporting a shaggy spencer of the cloth called bear's-skin; a high-peaked cap of raccoon-skin, the long bushy tail switching over behind; raw-hide leggings; grim stubble chin; and to end, a double-barreled gun in hand--a missouri bachelor, a hoosier gentleman, of spartan leisure and fortune, and equally spartan manners and sentiments; and, as the sequel may show, not less acquainted, in a spartan way of his own, with philosophy and books, than with woodcraft and rifles. he must have overheard some of the talk between the miser and the herb-doctor; for, just after the withdrawal of the one, he made up to the other--now at the foot of the stairs leaning against the baluster there--with the greeting above. "think it will cure me?" coughed the miser in echo; "why shouldn't it? the medicine is nat'ral yarbs, pure yarbs; yarbs must cure me." "because a thing is nat'ral, as you call it, you think it must be good. but who gave you that cough? was it, or was it not, nature?" "sure, you don't think that natur, dame natur, will hurt a body, do you?" "natur is good queen bess; but who's responsible for the cholera?" "but yarbs, yarbs; yarbs are good?" "what's deadly-nightshade? yarb, ain't it?" "oh, that a christian man should speak agin natur and yarbs--ugh, ugh, ugh!--ain't sick men sent out into the country; sent out to natur and grass?" "aye, and poets send out the sick spirit to green pastures, like lame horses turned out unshod to the turf to renew their hoofs. a sort of yarb-doctors in their way, poets have it that for sore hearts, as for sore lungs, nature is the grand cure. but who froze to death my teamster on the prairie? and who made an idiot of peter the wild boy?" "then you don't believe in these 'ere yarb-doctors?" "yarb-doctors? i remember the lank yarb-doctor i saw once on a hospital-cot in mobile. one of the faculty passing round and seeing who lay there, said with professional triumph, 'ah, dr. green, your yarbs don't help ye now, dr. green. have to come to us and the mercury now, dr. green.--natur! y-a-r-b-s!'" "did i hear something about herbs and herb-doctors?" here said a flute-like voice, advancing. it was the herb-doctor in person. carpet-bag in hand, he happened to be strolling back that way. "pardon me," addressing the missourian, "but if i caught your words aright, you would seem to have little confidence in nature; which, really, in my way of thinking, looks like carrying the spirit of distrust pretty far." "and who of my sublime species may you be?" turning short round upon him, clicking his rifle-lock, with an air which would have seemed half cynic, half wild-cat, were it not for the grotesque excess of the expression, which made its sincerity appear more or less dubious. "one who has confidence in nature, and confidence in man, with some little modest confidence in himself." "that's your confession of faith, is it? confidence in man, eh? pray, which do you think are most, knaves or fools?" "having met with few or none of either, i hardly think i am competent to answer." "i will answer for you. fools are most." "why do you think so?" "for the same reason that i think oats are numerically more than horses. don't knaves munch up fools just as horses do oats?" "a droll, sir; you are a droll. i can appreciate drollery--ha, ha, ha!" "but i'm in earnest." "that's the drollery, to deliver droll extravagance with an earnest air--knaves munching up fools as horses oats.--faith, very droll, indeed, ha, ha, ha! yes, i think i understand you now, sir. how silly i was to have taken you seriously, in your droll conceits, too, about having no confidence in nature. in reality you have just as much as i have." "_i_ have confidence in nature? _i?_ i say again there is nothing i am more suspicious of. i once lost ten thousand dollars by nature. nature embezzled that amount from me; absconded with ten thousand dollars' worth of my property; a plantation on this stream, swept clean away by one of those sudden shiftings of the banks in a freshet; ten thousand dollars' worth of alluvion thrown broad off upon the waters." "but have you no confidence that by a reverse shifting that soil will come back after many days?--ah, here is my venerable friend," observing the old miser, "not in your berth yet? pray, if you _will_ keep afoot, don't lean against that baluster; take my arm." it was taken; and the two stood together; the old miser leaning against the herb-doctor with something of that air of trustful fraternity with which, when standing, the less strong of the siamese twins habitually leans against the other. the missourian eyed them in silence, which was broken by the herb-doctor. "you look surprised, sir. is it because i publicly take under my protection a figure like this? but i am never ashamed of honesty, whatever his coat." "look you," said the missourian, after a scrutinizing pause, "you are a queer sort of chap. don't know exactly what to make of you. upon the whole though, you somewhat remind me of the last boy i had on my place." "good, trustworthy boy, i hope?" "oh, very! i am now started to get me made some kind of machine to do the sort of work which boys are supposed to be fitted for." "then you have passed a veto upon boys?" "and men, too." "but, my dear sir, does not that again imply more or less lack of confidence?--(stand up a little, just a very little, my venerable friend; you lean rather hard.)--no confidence in boys, no confidence in men, no confidence in nature. pray, sir, who or what may you have confidence in?" "i have confidence in distrust; more particularly as applied to you and your herbs." "well," with a forbearing smile, "that is frank. but pray, don't forget that when you suspect my herbs you suspect nature." "didn't i say that before?" "very good. for the argument's sake i will suppose you are in earnest. now, can you, who suspect nature, deny, that this same nature not only kindly brought you into being, but has faithfully nursed you to your present vigorous and independent condition? is it not to nature that you are indebted for that robustness of mind which you so unhandsomely use to her scandal? pray, is it not to nature that you owe the very eyes by which you criticise her?" "no! for the privilege of vision i am indebted to an oculist, who in my tenth year operated upon me in philadelphia. nature made me blind and would have kept me so. my oculist counterplotted her." "and yet, sir, by your complexion, i judge you live an out-of-door life; without knowing it, you are partial to nature; you fly to nature, the universal mother." "very motherly! sir, in the passion-fits of nature, i've known birds fly from nature to me, rough as i look; yes, sir, in a tempest, refuge here," smiting the folds of his bearskin. "fact, sir, fact. come, come, mr. palaverer, for all your palavering, did you yourself never shut out nature of a cold, wet night? bar her out? bolt her out? lint her out?" "as to that," said the herb-doctor calmly, "much may be said." "say it, then," ruffling all his hairs. "you can't, sir, can't." then, as in apostrophe: "look you, nature! i don't deny but your clover is sweet, and your dandelions don't roar; but whose hailstones smashed my windows?" "sir," with unimpaired affability, producing one of his boxes, "i am pained to meet with one who holds nature a dangerous character. though your manner is refined your voice is rough; in short, you seem to have a sore throat. in the calumniated name of nature, i present you with this box; my venerable friend here has a similar one; but to you, a free gift, sir. through her regularly-authorized agents, of whom i happen to be one, nature delights in benefiting those who most abuse her. pray, take it." "away with it! don't hold it so near. ten to one there is a torpedo in it. such things have been. editors been killed that way. take it further off, i say." "good heavens! my dear sir----" "i tell you i want none of your boxes," snapping his rifle. "oh, take it--ugh, ugh! do take it," chimed in the old miser; "i wish he would give me one for nothing." "you find it lonely, eh," turning short round; "gulled yourself, you would have a companion." "how can he find it lonely," returned the herb-doctor, "or how desire a companion, when here i stand by him; i, even i, in whom he has trust. for the gulling, tell me, is it humane to talk so to this poor old man? granting that his dependence on my medicine is vain, is it kind to deprive him of what, in mere imagination, if nothing more, may help eke out, with hope, his disease? for you, if you have no confidence, and, thanks to your native health, can get along without it, so far, at least, as trusting in my medicine goes; yet, how cruel an argument to use, with this afflicted one here. is it not for all the world as if some brawny pugilist, aglow in december, should rush in and put out a hospital-fire, because, forsooth, he feeling no need of artificial heat, the shivering patients shall have none? put it to your conscience, sir, and you will admit, that, whatever be the nature of this afflicted one's trust, you, in opposing it, evince either an erring head or a heart amiss. come, own, are you not pitiless?" "yes, poor soul," said the missourian, gravely eying the old man--"yes, it _is_ pitiless in one like me to speak too honestly to one like you. you are a late sitter-up in this life; past man's usual bed-time; and truth, though with some it makes a wholesome breakfast, proves to all a supper too hearty. hearty food, taken late, gives bad dreams." "what, in wonder's name--ugh, ugh!--is he talking about?" asked the old miser, looking up to the herb-doctor. "heaven be praised for that!" cried the missourian. "out of his mind, ain't he?" again appealed the old miser. "pray, sir," said the herb-doctor to the missourian, "for what were you giving thanks just now?" "for this: that, with some minds, truth is, in effect, not so cruel a thing after all, seeing that, like a loaded pistol found by poor devils of savages, it raises more wonder than terror--its peculiar virtue being unguessed, unless, indeed, by indiscreet handling, it should happen to go off of itself." "i pretend not to divine your meaning there," said the herb-doctor, after a pause, during which he eyed the missourian with a kind of pinched expression, mixed of pain and curiosity, as if he grieved at his state of mind, and, at the same time, wondered what had brought him to it, "but this much i know," he added, "that the general cast of your thoughts is, to say the least, unfortunate. there is strength in them, but a strength, whose source, being physical, must wither. you will yet recant." "recant?" "yes, when, as with this old man, your evil days of decay come on, when a hoary captive in your chamber, then will you, something like the dungeoned italian we read of, gladly seek the breast of that confidence begot in the tender time of your youth, blessed beyond telling if it return to you in age." "go back to nurse again, eh? second childhood, indeed. you are soft." "mercy, mercy!" cried the old miser, "what is all this!--ugh, ugh! do talk sense, my good friends. ain't you," to the missourian, "going to buy some of that medicine?" "pray, my venerable friend," said the herb-doctor, now trying to straighten himself, "don't lean _quite_ so hard; my arm grows numb; abate a little, just a very little." "go," said the missourian, "go lay down in your grave, old man, if you can't stand of yourself. it's a hard world for a leaner." "as to his grave," said the herb-doctor, "that is far enough off, so he but faithfully take my medicine." "ugh, ugh, ugh!--he says true. no, i ain't--ugh! a going to die yet--ugh, ugh, ugh! many years to live yet, ugh, ugh, ugh!" "i approve your confidence," said the herb-doctor; "but your coughing distresses me, besides being injurious to you. pray, let me conduct you to your berth. you are best there. our friend here will wait till my return, i know." with which he led the old miser away, and then, coming back, the talk with the missourian was resumed. "sir," said the herb-doctor, with some dignity and more feeling, "now that our infirm friend is withdrawn, allow me, to the full, to express my concern at the words you allowed to escape you in his hearing. some of those words, if i err not, besides being calculated to beget deplorable distrust in the patient, seemed fitted to convey unpleasant imputations against me, his physician." "suppose they did?" with a menacing air. "why, then--then, indeed," respectfully retreating, "i fall back upon my previous theory of your general facetiousness. i have the fortune to be in company with a humorist--a wag." "fall back you had better, and wag it is," cried the missourian, following him up, and wagging his raccoon tail almost into the herb-doctor's face, "look you!" "at what?" "at this coon. can you, the fox, catch him?" "if you mean," returned the other, not unselfpossessed, "whether i flatter myself that i can in any way dupe you, or impose upon you, or pass myself off upon you for what i am not, i, as an honest man, answer that i have neither the inclination nor the power to do aught of the kind." "honest man? seems to me you talk more like a craven." "you in vain seek to pick a quarrel with me, or put any affront upon me. the innocence in me heals me." "a healing like your own nostrums. but you are a queer man--a very queer and dubious man; upon the whole, about the most so i ever met." the scrutiny accompanying this seemed unwelcome to the diffidence of the herb-doctor. as if at once to attest the absence of resentment, as well as to change the subject, he threw a kind of familiar cordiality into his air, and said: "so you are going to get some machine made to do your work? philanthropic scruples, doubtless, forbid your going as far as new orleans for slaves?" "slaves?" morose again in a twinkling, "won't have 'em! bad enough to see whites ducking and grinning round for a favor, without having those poor devils of niggers congeeing round for their corn. though, to me, the niggers are the freer of the two. you are an abolitionist, ain't you?" he added, squaring himself with both hands on his rifle, used for a staff, and gazing in the herb-doctor's face with no more reverence than if it were a target. "you are an abolitionist, ain't you?" "as to that, i cannot so readily answer. if by abolitionist you mean a zealot, i am none; but if you mean a man, who, being a man, feels for all men, slaves included, and by any lawful act, opposed to nobody's interest, and therefore, rousing nobody's enmity, would willingly abolish suffering (supposing it, in its degree, to exist) from among mankind, irrespective of color, then am i what you say." "picked and prudent sentiments. you are the moderate man, the invaluable understrapper of the wicked man. you, the moderate man, may be used for wrong, but are useless for right." "from all this," said the herb-doctor, still forgivingly, "i infer, that you, a missourian, though living in a slave-state, are without slave sentiments." "aye, but are you? is not that air of yours, so spiritlessly enduring and yielding, the very air of a slave? who is your master, pray; or are you owned by a company?" "_my_ master?" "aye, for come from maine or georgia, you come from a slave-state, and a slave-pen, where the best breeds are to be bought up at any price from a livelihood to the presidency. abolitionism, ye gods, but expresses the fellow-feeling of slave for slave." "the back-woods would seem to have given you rather eccentric notions," now with polite superiority smiled the herb-doctor, still with manly intrepidity forbearing each unmanly thrust, "but to return; since, for your purpose, you will have neither man nor boy, bond nor free, truly, then some sort of machine for you is all there is left. my desires for your success attend you, sir.--ah!" glancing shoreward, "here is cape girádeau; i must leave you." chapter xxii. in the polite spirit of the tusculan disputations. --"'philosophical intelligence office'--novel idea! but how did you come to dream that i wanted anything in your absurd line, eh?" about twenty minutes after leaving cape girádeau, the above was growled out over his shoulder by the missourian to a chance stranger who had just accosted him; a round-backed, baker-kneed man, in a mean five-dollar suit, wearing, collar-wise by a chain, a small brass plate, inscribed p. i. o., and who, with a sort of canine deprecation, slunk obliquely behind. "how did you come to dream that i wanted anything in your line, eh?" "oh, respected sir," whined the other, crouching a pace nearer, and, in his obsequiousness, seeming to wag his very coat-tails behind him, shabby though they were, "oh, sir, from long experience, one glance tells me the gentleman who is in need of our humble services." "but suppose i did want a boy--what they jocosely call a good boy--how could your absurd office help me?--philosophical intelligence office?" "yes, respected sir, an office founded on strictly philosophical and physio----" "look you--come up here--how, by philosophy or physiology either, make good boys to order? come up here. don't give me a crick in the neck. come up here, come, sir, come," calling as if to his pointer. "tell me, how put the requisite assortment of good qualities into a boy, as the assorted mince into the pie?" "respected sir, our office----" "you talk much of that office. where is it? on board this boat?" "oh no, sir, i just came aboard. our office----" "came aboard at that last landing, eh? pray, do you know a herb-doctor there? smooth scamp in a snuff-colored surtout?" "oh, sir, i was but a sojourner at cape girádeau. though, now that you mention a snuff-colored surtout, i think i met such a man as you speak of stepping ashore as i stepped aboard, and 'pears to me i have seen him somewhere before. looks like a very mild christian sort of person, i should say. do you know him, respected sir?" "not much, but better than you seem to. proceed with your business." with a low, shabby bow, as grateful for the permission, the other began: "our office----" "look you," broke in the bachelor with ire, "have you the spinal complaint? what are you ducking and groveling about? keep still. where's your office?" "the branch one which i represent, is at alton, sir, in the free state we now pass," (pointing somewhat proudly ashore). "free, eh? you a freeman, you flatter yourself? with those coat-tails and that spinal complaint of servility? free? just cast up in your private mind who is your master, will you?" "oh, oh, oh! i don't understand--indeed--indeed. but, respected sir, as before said, our office, founded on principles wholly new----" "to the devil with your principles! bad sign when a man begins to talk of his principles. hold, come back, sir; back here, back, sir, back! i tell you no more boys for me. nay, i'm a mede and persian. in my old home in the woods i'm pestered enough with squirrels, weasels, chipmunks, skunks. i want no more wild vermin to spoil my temper and waste my substance. don't talk of boys; enough of your boys; a plague of your boys; chilblains on your boys! as for intelligence offices, i've lived in the east, and know 'em. swindling concerns kept by low-born cynics, under a fawning exterior wreaking their cynic malice upon mankind. you are a fair specimen of 'em." "oh dear, dear, dear!" "dear? yes, a thrice dear purchase one of your boys would be to me. a rot on your boys!" "but, respected sir, if you will not have boys, might we not, in our small way, accommodate you with a man?" "accommodate? pray, no doubt you could accommodate me with a bosom-friend too, couldn't you? accommodate! obliging word accommodate: there's accommodation notes now, where one accommodates another with a loan, and if he don't pay it pretty quickly, accommodates him, with a chain to his foot. accommodate! god forbid that i should ever be accommodated. no, no. look you, as i told that cousin-german of yours, the herb-doctor, i'm now on the road to get me made some sort of machine to do my work. machines for me. my cider-mill--does that ever steal my cider? my mowing-machine--does that ever lay a-bed mornings? my corn-husker--does that ever give me insolence? no: cider-mill, mowing-machine, corn-husker--all faithfully attend to their business. disinterested, too; no board, no wages; yet doing good all their lives long; shining examples that virtue is its own reward--the only practical christians i know." "oh dear, dear, dear, dear!" "yes, sir:--boys? start my soul-bolts, what a difference, in a moral point of view, between a corn-husker and a boy! sir, a corn-husker, for its patient continuance in well-doing, might not unfitly go to heaven. do you suppose a boy will?" "a corn-husker in heaven! (turning up the whites of his eyes). respected sir, this way of talking as if heaven were a kind of washington patent-office museum--oh, oh, oh!--as if mere machine-work and puppet-work went to heaven--oh, oh, oh! things incapable of free agency, to receive the eternal reward of well-doing--oh, oh, oh!" "you praise-god-barebones you, what are you groaning about? did i say anything of that sort? seems to me, though you talk so good, you are mighty quick at a hint the other way, or else you want to pick a polemic quarrel with me." "it may be so or not, respected sir," was now the demure reply; "but if it be, it is only because as a soldier out of honor is quick in taking affront, so a christian out of religion is quick, sometimes perhaps a little too much so, in spying heresy." "well," after an astonished pause, "for an unaccountable pair, you and the herb-doctor ought to yoke together." so saying, the bachelor was eying him rather sharply, when he with the brass plate recalled him to the discussion by a hint, not unflattering, that he (the man with the brass plate) was all anxiety to hear him further on the subject of servants. "about that matter," exclaimed the impulsive bachelor, going off at the hint like a rocket, "all thinking minds are, now-a-days, coming to the conclusion--one derived from an immense hereditary experience--see what horace and others of the ancients say of servants--coming to the conclusion, i say, that boy or man, the human animal is, for most work-purposes, a losing animal. can't be trusted; less trustworthy than oxen; for conscientiousness a turn-spit dog excels him. hence these thousand new inventions--carding machines, horseshoe machines, tunnel-boring machines, reaping machines, apple-paring machines, boot-blacking machines, sewing machines, shaving machines, run-of-errand machines, dumb-waiter machines, and the lord-only-knows-what machines; all of which announce the era when that refractory animal, the working or serving man, shall be a buried by-gone, a superseded fossil. shortly prior to which glorious time, i doubt not that a price will be put upon their peltries as upon the knavish 'possums,' especially the boys. yes, sir (ringing his rifle down on the deck), i rejoice to think that the day is at hand, when, prompted to it by law, i shall shoulder this gun and go out a boy-shooting." "oh, now! lord, lord, lord!--but _our_ office, respected sir, conducted as i ventured to observe----" "no, sir," bristlingly settling his stubble chin in his coon-skins. "don't try to oil me; the herb-doctor tried that. my experience, carried now through a course--worse than salivation--a course of five and thirty boys, proves to me that boyhood is a natural state of rascality." "save us, save us!" "yes, sir, yes. my name is pitch; i stick to what i say. i speak from fifteen years' experience; five and thirty boys; american, irish, english, german, african, mulatto; not to speak of that china boy sent me by one who well knew my perplexities, from california; and that lascar boy from bombay. thug! i found him sucking the embryo life from my spring eggs. all rascals, sir, every soul of them; caucasian or mongol. amazing the endless variety of rascality in human nature of the juvenile sort. i remember that, having discharged, one after another, twenty-nine boys--each, too, for some wholly unforeseen species of viciousness peculiar to that one peculiar boy--i remember saying to myself: now, then, surely, i have got to the end of the list, wholly exhausted it; i have only now to get me a boy, any boy different from those twenty-nine preceding boys, and he infallibly shall be that virtuous boy i have so long been seeking. but, bless me! this thirtieth boy--by the way, having at the time long forsworn your intelligence offices, i had him sent to me from the commissioners of emigration, all the way from new york, culled out carefully, in fine, at my particular request, from a standing army of eight hundred boys, the flowers of all nations, so they wrote me, temporarily in barracks on an east river island--i say, this thirtieth boy was in person not ungraceful; his deceased mother a lady's maid, or something of that sort; and in manner, why, in a plebeian way, a perfect chesterfield; very intelligent, too--quick as a flash. but, such suavity! 'please sir! please sir!' always bowing and saying, 'please sir.' in the strangest way, too, combining a filial affection with a menial respect. took such warm, singular interest in my affairs. wanted to be considered one of the family--sort of adopted son of mine, i suppose. of a morning, when i would go out to my stable, with what childlike good nature he would trot out my nag, 'please sir, i think he's getting fatter and fatter.' 'but, he don't look very clean, does he?' unwilling to be downright harsh with so affectionate a lad; 'and he seems a little hollow inside the haunch there, don't he? or no, perhaps i don't see plain this morning.' 'oh, please sir, it's just there i think he's gaining so, please.' polite scamp! i soon found he never gave that wretched nag his oats of nights; didn't bed him either. was above that sort of chambermaid work. no end to his willful neglects. but the more he abused my service, the more polite he grew." "oh, sir, some way you mistook him." "not a bit of it. besides, sir, he was a boy who under a chesterfieldian exterior hid strong destructive propensities. he cut up my horse-blanket for the bits of leather, for hinges to his chest. denied it point-blank. after he was gone, found the shreds under his mattress. would slyly break his hoe-handle, too, on purpose to get rid of hoeing. then be so gracefully penitent for his fatal excess of industrious strength. offer to mend all by taking a nice stroll to the nighest settlement--cherry-trees in full bearing all the way--to get the broken thing cobbled. very politely stole my pears, odd pennies, shillings, dollars, and nuts; regular squirrel at it. but i could prove nothing. expressed to him my suspicions. said i, moderately enough, 'a little less politeness, and a little more honesty would suit me better.' he fired up; threatened to sue for libel. i won't say anything about his afterwards, in ohio, being found in the act of gracefully putting a bar across a rail-road track, for the reason that a stoker called him the rogue that he was. but enough: polite boys or saucy boys, white boys or black boys, smart boys or lazy boys, caucasian boys or mongol boys--all are rascals." "shocking, shocking!" nervously tucking his frayed cravat-end out of sight. "surely, respected sir, you labor under a deplorable hallucination. why, pardon again, you seem to have not the slightest confidence in boys, i admit, indeed, that boys, some of them at least, are but too prone to one little foolish foible or other. but, what then, respected sir, when, by natural laws, they finally outgrow such things, and wholly?" having until now vented himself mostly in plaintive dissent of canine whines and groans, the man with the brass-plate seemed beginning to summon courage to a less timid encounter. but, upon his maiden essay, was not very encouragingly handled, since the dialogue immediately continued as follows: "boys outgrow what is amiss in them? from bad boys spring good men? sir, 'the child is father of the man;' hence, as all boys are rascals, so are all men. but, god bless me, you must know these things better than i; keeping an intelligence office as you do; a business which must furnish peculiar facilities for studying mankind. come, come up here, sir; confess you know these things pretty well, after all. do you not know that all men are rascals, and all boys, too?" "sir," replied the other, spite of his shocked feelings seeming to pluck up some spirit, but not to an indiscreet degree, "sir, heaven be praised, i am far, very far from knowing what you say. true," he thoughtfully continued, "with my associates, i keep an intelligence office, and for ten years, come october, have, one way or other, been concerned in that line; for no small period in the great city of cincinnati, too; and though, as you hint, within that long interval, i must have had more or less favorable opportunity for studying mankind--in a business way, scanning not only the faces, but ransacking the lives of several thousands of human beings, male and female, of various nations, both employers and employed, genteel and ungenteel, educated and uneducated; yet--of course, i candidly admit, with some random exceptions, i have, so far as my small observation goes, found that mankind thus domestically viewed, confidentially viewed, i may say; they, upon the whole--making some reasonable allowances for human imperfection--present as pure a moral spectacle as the purest angel could wish. i say it, respected sir, with confidence." "gammon! you don't mean what you say. else you are like a landsman at sea: don't know the ropes, the very things everlastingly pulled before your eyes. serpent-like, they glide about, traveling blocks too subtle for you. in short, the entire ship is a riddle. why, you green ones wouldn't know if she were unseaworthy; but still, with thumbs stuck back into your arm-holes, pace the rotten planks, singing, like a fool, words put into your green mouth by the cunning owner, the man who, heavily insuring it, sends his ship to be wrecked-- 'a wet sheet and a flowing sea!'-- and, sir, now that it occurs to me, your talk, the whole of it, is but a wet sheet and a flowing sea, and an idle wind that follows fast, offering a striking contrast to my own discourse." "sir," exclaimed the man with the brass-plate, his patience now more or less tasked, "permit me with deference to hint that some of your remarks are injudiciously worded. and thus we say to our patrons, when they enter our office full of abuse of us because of some worthy boy we may have sent them--some boy wholly misjudged for the time. yes, sir, permit me to remark that you do not sufficiently consider that, though a small man, i may have my small share of feelings." "well, well, i didn't mean to wound your feelings at all. and that they are small, very small, i take your word for it. sorry, sorry. but truth is like a thrashing-machine; tender sensibilities must keep out of the way. hope you understand me. don't want to hurt you. all i say is, what i said in the first place, only now i swear it, that all boys are rascals." "sir," lowly replied the other, still forbearing like an old lawyer badgered in court, or else like a good-hearted simpleton, the butt of mischievous wags, "sir, since you come back to the point, will you allow me, in my small, quiet way, to submit to you certain small, quiet views of the subject in hand?" "oh, yes!" with insulting indifference, rubbing his chin and looking the other way. "oh, yes; go on." "well, then, respected sir," continued the other, now assuming as genteel an attitude as the irritating set of his pinched five-dollar suit would permit; "well, then, sir, the peculiar principles, the strictly philosophical principles, i may say," guardedly rising in dignity, as he guardedly rose on his toes, "upon which our office is founded, has led me and my associates, in our small, quiet way, to a careful analytical study of man, conducted, too, on a quiet theory, and with an unobtrusive aim wholly our own. that theory i will not now at large set forth. but some of the discoveries resulting from it, i will, by your permission, very briefly mention; such of them, i mean, as refer to the state of boyhood scientifically viewed." "then you have studied the thing? expressly studied boys, eh? why didn't you out with that before?" "sir, in my small business way, i have not conversed with so many masters, gentlemen masters, for nothing. i have been taught that in this world there is a precedence of opinions as well as of persons. you have kindly given me your views, i am now, with modesty, about to give you mine." "stop flunkying--go on." "in the first place, sir, our theory teaches us to proceed by analogy from the physical to the moral. are we right there, sir? now, sir, take a young boy, a young male infant rather, a man-child in short--what sir, i respectfully ask, do you in the first place remark?" "a rascal, sir! present and prospective, a rascal!" "sir, if passion is to invade, surely science must evacuate. may i proceed? well, then, what, in the first place, in a general view, do you remark, respected sir, in that male baby or man-child?" the bachelor privily growled, but this time, upon the whole, better governed himself than before, though not, indeed, to the degree of thinking it prudent to risk an articulate response. "what do you remark? i respectfully repeat." but, as no answer came, only the low, half-suppressed growl, as of bruin in a hollow trunk, the questioner continued: "well, sir, if you will permit me, in my small way, to speak for you, you remark, respected sir, an incipient creation; loose sort of sketchy thing; a little preliminary rag-paper study, or careless cartoon, so to speak, of a man. the idea, you see, respected sir, is there; but, as yet, wants filling out. in a word, respected sir, the man-child is at present but little, every way; i don't pretend to deny it; but, then, he _promises_ well, does he not? yes, promises very well indeed, i may say. (so, too, we say to our patrons in reference to some noble little youngster objected to for being a _dwarf_.) but, to advance one step further," extending his thread-bare leg, as he drew a pace nearer, "we must now drop the figure of the rag-paper cartoon, and borrow one--to use presently, when wanted--from the horticultural kingdom. some bud, lily-bud, if you please. now, such points as the new-born man-child has--as yet not all that could be desired, i am free to confess--still, such as they are, there they are, and palpable as those of an adult. but we stop not here," taking another step. "the man-child not only possesses these present points, small though they are, but, likewise--now our horticultural image comes into play--like the bud of the lily, he contains concealed rudiments of others; that is, points at present invisible, with beauties at present dormant." "come, come, this talk is getting too horticultural and beautiful altogether. cut it short, cut it short!" "respected sir," with a rustily martial sort of gesture, like a decayed corporal's, "when deploying into the field of discourse the vanguard of an important argument, much more in evolving the grand central forces of a new philosophy of boys, as i may say, surely you will kindly allow scope adequate to the movement in hand, small and humble in its way as that movement may be. is it worth my while to go on, respected sir?" "yes, stop flunkying and go on." thus encouraged, again the philosopher with the brass-plate proceeded: "supposing, sir, that worthy gentleman (in such terms, to an applicant for service, we allude to some patron we chance to have in our eye), supposing, respected sir, that worthy gentleman, adam, to have been dropped overnight in eden, as a calf in the pasture; supposing that, sir--then how could even the learned serpent himself have foreknown that such a downy-chinned little innocent would eventually rival the goat in a beard? sir, wise as the serpent was, that eventuality would have been entirely hidden from his wisdom." "i don't know about that. the devil is very sagacious. to judge by the event, he appears to have understood man better even than the being who made him." "for god's sake, don't say that, sir! to the point. can it now with fairness be denied that, in his beard, the man-child prospectively possesses an appendix, not less imposing than patriarchal; and for this goodly beard, should we not by generous anticipation give the man-child, even in his cradle, credit? should we not now, sir? respectfully i put it." "yes, if like pig-weed he mows it down soon as it shoots," porcinely rubbing his stubble-chin against his coon-skins. "i have hinted at the analogy," continued the other, calmly disregardful of the digression; "now to apply it. suppose a boy evince no noble quality. then generously give him credit for his prospective one. don't you see? so we say to our patrons when they would fain return a boy upon us as unworthy: 'madam, or sir, (as the case may be) has this boy a beard?' 'no.' 'has he, we respectfully ask, as yet, evinced any noble quality?' 'no, indeed.' 'then, madam, or sir, take him back, we humbly beseech; and keep him till that same noble quality sprouts; for, have confidence, it, like the beard, is in him.'" "very fine theory," scornfully exclaimed the bachelor, yet in secret, perhaps, not entirely undisturbed by these strange new views of the matter; "but what trust is to be placed in it?" "the trust of perfect confidence, sir. to proceed. once more, if you please, regard the man-child." "hold!" paw-like thrusting put his bearskin arm, "don't intrude that man-child upon me too often. he who loves not bread, dotes not on dough. as little of your man-child as your logical arrangements will admit." "anew regard the man-child," with inspired intrepidity repeated he with the brass-plate, "in the perspective of his developments, i mean. at first the man-child has no teeth, but about the sixth month--am i right, sir?" "don't know anything about it." "to proceed then: though at first deficient in teeth, about the sixth month the man-child begins to put forth in that particular. and sweet those tender little puttings-forth are." "very, but blown out of his mouth directly, worthless enough." "admitted. and, therefore, we say to our patrons returning with a boy alleged not only to be deficient in goodness, but redundant in ill: 'the lad, madam or sir, evinces very corrupt qualities, does he? no end to them.' 'but, have confidence, there will be; for pray, madam, in this lad's early childhood, were not those frail first teeth, then his, followed by his present sound, even, beautiful and permanent set. and the more objectionable those first teeth became, was not that, madam, we respectfully submit, so much the more reason to look for their speedy substitution by the present sound, even, beautiful and permanent ones.' 'true, true, can't deny that.' 'then, madam, take him back, we respectfully beg, and wait till, in the now swift course of nature, dropping those transient moral blemishes you complain of, he replacingly buds forth in the sound, even, beautiful and permanent virtues.'" "very philosophical again," was the contemptuous reply--the outward contempt, perhaps, proportioned to the inward misgiving. "vastly philosophical, indeed, but tell me--to continue your analogy--since the second teeth followed--in fact, came from--the first, is there no chance the blemish may be transmitted?" "not at all." abating in humility as he gained in the argument. "the second teeth follow, but do not come from, the first; successors, not sons. the first teeth are not like the germ blossom of the apple, at once the father of, and incorporated into, the growth it foreruns; but they are thrust from their place by the independent undergrowth of the succeeding set--an illustration, by the way, which shows more for me than i meant, though not more than i wish." "what does it show?" surly-looking as a thundercloud with the inkept unrest of unacknowledged conviction. "it shows this, respected sir, that in the case of any boy, especially an ill one, to apply unconditionally the saying, that the 'child is father of the man', is, besides implying an uncharitable aspersion of the race, affirming a thing very wide of----" "--your analogy," like a snapping turtle. "yes, respected sir." "but is analogy argument? you are a punster." "punster, respected sir?" with a look of being aggrieved. "yes, you pun with ideas as another man may with words." "oh well, sir, whoever talks in that strain, whoever has no confidence in human reason, whoever despises human reason, in vain to reason with him. still, respected sir," altering his air, "permit me to hint that, had not the force of analogy moved you somewhat, you would hardly have offered to contemn it." "talk away," disdainfully; "but pray tell me what has that last analogy of yours to do with your intelligence office business?" "everything to do with it, respected sir. from that analogy we derive the reply made to such a patron as, shortly after being supplied by us with an adult servant, proposes to return him upon our hands; not that, while with the patron, said adult has given any cause of dissatisfaction, but the patron has just chanced to hear something unfavorable concerning him from some gentleman who employed said adult, long before, while a boy. to which too fastidious patron, we, taking said adult by the hand, and graciously reintroducing him to the patron, say: 'far be it from you, madam, or sir, to proceed in your censure against this adult, in anything of the spirit of an ex-post-facto law. madam, or sir, would you visit upon the butterfly the caterpillar? in the natural advance of all creatures, do they not bury themselves over and over again in the endless resurrection of better and better? madam, or sir, take back this adult; he may have been a caterpillar, but is now a butterfly." "pun away; but even accepting your analogical pun, what does it amount to? was the caterpillar one creature, and is the butterfly another? the butterfly is the caterpillar in a gaudy cloak; stripped of which, there lies the impostor's long spindle of a body, pretty much worm-shaped as before." "you reject the analogy. to the facts then. you deny that a youth of one character can be transformed into a man of an opposite character. now then--yes, i have it. there's the founder of la trappe, and ignatius loyola; in boyhood, and someway into manhood, both devil-may-care bloods, and yet, in the end, the wonders of the world for anchoritish self-command. these two examples, by-the-way, we cite to such patrons as would hastily return rakish young waiters upon us. 'madam, or sir--patience; patience,' we say; 'good madam, or sir, would you discharge forth your cask of good wine, because, while working, it riles more or less? then discharge not forth this young waiter; the good in him is working.' 'but he is a sad rake.' 'therein is his promise; the rake being crude material for the saint.'" "ah, you are a talking man--what i call a wordy man. you talk, talk." "and with submission, sir, what is the greatest judge, bishop or prophet, but a talking man? he talks, talks. it is the peculiar vocation of a teacher to talk. what's wisdom itself but table-talk? the best wisdom in this world, and the last spoken by its teacher, did it not literally and truly come in the form of table-talk?" "you, you, you!" rattling down his rifle. "to shift the subject, since we cannot agree. pray, what is your opinion, respected sir, of st. augustine?" "st. augustine? what should i, or you either, know of him? seems to me, for one in such a business, to say nothing of such a coat, that though you don't know a great deal, indeed, yet you know a good deal more than you ought to know, or than you have a right to know, or than it is safe or expedient for you to know, or than, in the fair course of life, you could have honestly come to know. i am of opinion you should be served like a jew in the middle ages with his gold; this knowledge of yours, which you haven't enough knowledge to know how to make a right use of, it should be taken from you. and so i have been thinking all along." "you are merry, sir. but you have a little looked into st. augustine i suppose." "st. augustine on original sin is my text book. but you, i ask again, where do you find time or inclination for these out-of-the-way speculations? in fact, your whole talk, the more i think of it, is altogether unexampled and extraordinary." "respected sir, have i not already informed you that the quite new method, the strictly philosophical one, on which our office is founded, has led me and my associates to an enlarged study of mankind. it was my fault, if i did not, likewise, hint, that these studies directed always to the scientific procuring of good servants of all sorts, boys included, for the kind gentlemen, our patrons--that these studies, i say, have been conducted equally among all books of all libraries, as among all men of all nations. then, you rather like st. augustine, sir?" "excellent genius!" "in some points he was; yet, how comes it that under his own hand, st. augustine confesses that, until his thirtieth year, he was a very sad dog?" "a saint a sad dog?" "not the saint, but the saint's irresponsible little forerunner--the boy." "all boys are rascals, and so are all men," again flying off at his tangent; "my name is pitch; i stick to what i say." "ah, sir, permit me--when i behold you on this mild summer's eve, thus eccentrically clothed in the skins of wild beasts, i cannot but conclude that the equally grim and unsuitable habit of your mind is likewise but an eccentric assumption, having no basis in your genuine soul, no more than in nature herself." "well, really, now--really," fidgeted the bachelor, not unaffected in his conscience by these benign personalities, "really, really, now, i don't know but that i may have been a little bit too hard upon those five and thirty boys of mine." "glad to find you a little softening, sir. who knows now, but that flexile gracefulness, however questionable at the time of that thirtieth boy of yours, might have been the silky husk of the most solid qualities of maturity. it might have been with him as with the ear of the indian corn." "yes, yes, yes," excitedly cried the bachelor, as the light of this new illustration broke in, "yes, yes; and now that i think of it, how often i've sadly watched my indian corn in may, wondering whether such sickly, half-eaten sprouts, could ever thrive up into the stiff, stately spear of august." "a most admirable reflection, sir, and you have only, according to the analogical theory first started by our office, to apply it to that thirtieth boy in question, and see the result. had you but kept that thirtieth boy--been patient with his sickly virtues, cultivated them, hoed round them, why what a glorious guerdon would have been yours, when at last you should have had a st. augustine for an ostler." "really, really--well, i am glad i didn't send him to jail, as at first i intended." "oh that would have been too bad. grant he was vicious. the petty vices of boys are like the innocent kicks of colts, as yet imperfectly broken. some boys know not virtue only for the same reason they know not french; it was never taught them. established upon the basis of parental charity, juvenile asylums exist by law for the benefit of lads convicted of acts which, in adults, would have received other requital. why? because, do what they will, society, like our office, at bottom has a christian confidence in boys. and all this we say to our patrons." "your patrons, sir, seem your marines to whom you may say anything," said the other, relapsing. "why do knowing employers shun youths from asylums, though offered them at the smallest wages? i'll none of your reformado boys." "such a boy, respected sir, i would not get for you, but a boy that never needed reform. do not smile, for as whooping-cough and measles are juvenile diseases, and yet some juveniles never have them, so are there boys equally free from juvenile vices. true, for the best of boys' measles may be contagious, and evil communications corrupt good manners; but a boy with a sound mind in a sound body--such is the boy i would get you. if hitherto, sir, you have struck upon a peculiarly bad vein of boys, so much the more hope now of your hitting a good one." "that sounds a kind of reasonable, as it were--a little so, really. in fact, though you have said a great many foolish things, very foolish and absurd things, yet, upon the whole, your conversation has been such as might almost lead one less distrustful than i to repose a certain conditional confidence in you, i had almost added in your office, also. now, for the humor of it, supposing that even i, i myself, really had this sort of conditional confidence, though but a grain, what sort of a boy, in sober fact, could you send me? and what would be your fee?" "conducted," replied the other somewhat loftily, rising now in eloquence as his proselyte, for all his pretenses, sunk in conviction, "conducted upon principles involving care, learning, and labor, exceeding what is usual in kindred institutions, the philosophical intelligence office is forced to charge somewhat higher than customary. briefly, our fee is three dollars in advance. as for the boy, by a lucky chance, i have a very promising little fellow now in my eye--a very likely little fellow, indeed." "honest?" "as the day is long. might trust him with untold millions. such, at least, were the marginal observations on the phrenological chart of his head, submitted to me by the mother." "how old?" "just fifteen." "tall? stout?" "uncommonly so, for his age, his mother remarked." "industrious?" "the busy bee." the bachelor fell into a troubled reverie. at last, with much hesitancy, he spoke: "do you think now, candidly, that--i say candidly--candidly--could i have some small, limited--some faint, conditional degree of confidence in that boy? candidly, now?" "candidly, you could." "a sound boy? a good boy?" "never knew one more so." the bachelor fell into another irresolute reverie; then said: "well, now, you have suggested some rather new views of boys, and men, too. upon those views in the concrete i at present decline to determine. nevertheless, for the sake purely of a scientific experiment, i will try that boy. i don't think him an angel, mind. no, no. but i'll try him. there are my three dollars, and here is my address. send him along this day two weeks. hold, you will be wanting the money for his passage. there," handing it somewhat reluctantly. "ah, thank you. i had forgotten his passage;" then, altering in manner, and gravely holding the bills, continued: "respected sir, never willingly do i handle money not with perfect willingness, nay, with a certain alacrity, paid. either tell me that you have a perfect and unquestioning confidence in me (never mind the boy now) or permit me respectfully to return these bills." "put 'em up, put 'em-up!" "thank you. confidence is the indispensable basis of all sorts of business transactions. without it, commerce between man and man, as between country and country, would, like a watch, run down and stop. and now, supposing that against present expectation the lad should, after all, evince some little undesirable trait, do not, respected sir, rashly dismiss him. have but patience, have but confidence. those transient vices will, ere long, fall out, and be replaced by the sound, firm, even and permanent virtues. ah," glancing shoreward, towards a grotesquely-shaped bluff, "there's the devil's joke, as they call it: the bell for landing will shortly ring. i must go look up the cook i brought for the innkeeper at cairo." chapter xxiii. in which the powerful effect of natural scenery is evinced in the case of the missourian, who, in view of the region round-about cairo, has a return of his chilly fit. at cairo, the old established firm of fever & ague is still settling up its unfinished business; that creole grave-digger, yellow jack--his hand at the mattock and spade has not lost its cunning; while don saturninus typhus taking his constitutional with death, calvin edson and three undertakers, in the morass, snuffs up the mephitic breeze with zest. in the dank twilight, fanned with mosquitoes, and sparkling with fire-flies, the boat now lies before cairo. she has landed certain passengers, and tarries for the coming of expected ones. leaning over the rail on the inshore side, the missourian eyes through the dubious medium that swampy and squalid domain; and over it audibly mumbles his cynical mind to himself, as apermantus' dog may have mumbled his bone. he bethinks him that the man with the brass-plate was to land on this villainous bank, and for that cause, if no other, begins to suspect him. like one beginning to rouse himself from a dose of chloroform treacherously given, he half divines, too, that he, the philosopher, had unwittingly been betrayed into being an unphilosophical dupe. to what vicissitudes of light and shade is man subject! he ponders the mystery of human subjectivity in general. he thinks he perceives with crossbones, his favorite author, that, as one may wake up well in the morning, very well, indeed, and brisk as a buck, i thank you, but ere bed-time get under the weather, there is no telling how--so one may wake up wise, and slow of assent, very wise and very slow, i assure you, and for all that, before night, by like trick in the atmosphere, be left in the lurch a ninny. health and wisdom equally precious, and equally little as unfluctuating possessions to be relied on. but where was slipped in the entering wedge? philosophy, knowledge, experience--were those trusty knights of the castle recreant? no, but unbeknown to them, the enemy stole on the castle's south side, its genial one, where suspicion, the warder, parleyed. in fine, his too indulgent, too artless and companionable nature betrayed him. admonished by which, he thinks he must be a little splenetic in his intercourse henceforth. he revolves the crafty process of sociable chat, by which, as he fancies, the man with the brass-plate wormed into him, and made such a fool of him as insensibly to persuade him to waive, in his exceptional case, that general law of distrust systematically applied to the race. he revolves, but cannot comprehend, the operation, still less the operator. was the man a trickster, it must be more for the love than the lucre. two or three dirty dollars the motive to so many nice wiles? and yet how full of mean needs his seeming. before his mental vision the person of that threadbare talleyrand, that impoverished machiavelli, that seedy rosicrucian--for something of all these he vaguely deems him--passes now in puzzled review. fain, in his disfavor, would he make out a logical case. the doctrine of analogies recurs. fallacious enough doctrine when wielded against one's prejudices, but in corroboration of cherished suspicions not without likelihood. analogically, he couples the slanting cut of the equivocator's coat-tails with the sinister cast in his eye; he weighs slyboot's sleek speech in the light imparted by the oblique import of the smooth slope of his worn boot-heels; the insinuator's undulating flunkyisms dovetail into those of the flunky beast that windeth his way on his belly. from these uncordial reveries he is roused by a cordial slap on the shoulder, accompanied by a spicy volume of tobacco-smoke, out of which came a voice, sweet as a seraph's: "a penny for your thoughts, my fine fellow." chapter xxiv. a philanthropist undertakes to convert a misanthrope, but does not get beyond confuting him. "hands off!" cried the bachelor, involuntarily covering dejection with moroseness. "hands off? that sort of label won't do in our fair. whoever in our fair has fine feelings loves to feel the nap of fine cloth, especially when a fine fellow wears it." "and who of my fine-fellow species may you be? from the brazils, ain't you? toucan fowl. fine feathers on foul meat." this ungentle mention of the toucan was not improbably suggested by the parti-hued, and rather plumagy aspect of the stranger, no bigot it would seem, but a liberalist, in dress, and whose wardrobe, almost anywhere than on the liberal mississippi, used to all sorts of fantastic informalities, might, even to observers less critical than the bachelor, have looked, if anything, a little out of the common; but not more so perhaps, than, considering the bear and raccoon costume, the bachelor's own appearance. in short, the stranger sported a vesture barred with various hues, that of the cochineal predominating, in style participating of a highland plaid, emir's robe, and french blouse; from its plaited sort of front peeped glimpses of a flowered regatta-shirt, while, for the rest, white trowsers of ample duck flowed over maroon-colored slippers, and a jaunty smoking-cap of regal purple crowned him off at top; king of traveled good-fellows, evidently. grotesque as all was, nothing looked stiff or unused; all showed signs of easy service, the least wonted thing setting like a wonted glove. that genial hand, which had just been laid on the ungenial shoulder, was now carelessly thrust down before him, sailor-fashion, into a sort of indian belt, confining the redundant vesture; the other held, by its long bright cherry-stem, a nuremburgh pipe in blast, its great porcelain bowl painted in miniature with linked crests and arms of interlinked nations--a florid show. as by subtle saturations of its mellowing essence the tobacco had ripened the bowl, so it looked as if something similar of the interior spirit came rosily out on the cheek. but rosy pipe-bowl, or rosy countenance, all was lost on that unrosy man, the bachelor, who, waiting a moment till the commotion, caused by the boat's renewed progress, had a little abated, thus continued: "hark ye," jeeringly eying the cap and belt, "did you ever see signor marzetti in the african pantomime?" "no;--good performer?" "excellent; plays the intelligent ape till he seems it. with such naturalness can a being endowed with an immortal spirit enter into that of a monkey. but where's your tail? in the pantomime, marzetti, no hypocrite in his monkery, prides himself on that." the stranger, now at rest, sideways and genially, on one hip, his right leg cavalierly crossed before the other, the toe of his vertical slipper pointed easily down on the deck, whiffed out a long, leisurely sort of indifferent and charitable puff, betokening him more or less of the mature man of the world, a character which, like its opposite, the sincere christian's, is not always swift to take offense; and then, drawing near, still smoking, again laid his hand, this time with mild impressiveness, on the ursine shoulder, and not unamiably said: "that in your address there is a sufficiency of the _fortiter in re_ few unbiased observers will question; but that this is duly attempered with the _suaviter in modo_ may admit, i think, of an honest doubt. my dear fellow," beaming his eyes full upon him, "what injury have i done you, that you should receive my greeting with a curtailed civility?" "off hands;" once more shaking the friendly member from him. "who in the name of the great chimpanzee, in whose likeness, you, marzetti, and the other chatterers are made, who in thunder are you?" "a cosmopolitan, a catholic man; who, being such, ties himself to no narrow tailor or teacher, but federates, in heart as in costume, something of the various gallantries of men under various suns. oh, one roams not over the gallant globe in vain. bred by it, is a fraternal and fusing feeling. no man is a stranger. you accost anybody. warm and confiding, you wait not for measured advances. and though, indeed, mine, in this instance, have met with no very hilarious encouragement, yet the principle of a true citizen of the world is still to return good for ill.--my dear fellow, tell me how i can serve you." "by dispatching yourself, mr. popinjay-of-the-world, into the heart of the lunar mountains. you are another of them. out of my sight!" "is the sight of humanity so very disagreeable to you then? ah, i may be foolish, but for my part, in all its aspects, i love it. served up à la pole, or à la moor, à la ladrone, or à la yankee, that good dish, man, still delights me; or rather is man a wine i never weary of comparing and sipping; wherefore am i a pledged cosmopolitan, a sort of london-dock-vault connoisseur, going about from teheran to natchitoches, a taster of races; in all his vintages, smacking my lips over this racy creature, man, continually. but as there are teetotal palates which have a distaste even for amontillado, so i suppose there may be teetotal souls which relish not even the very best brands of humanity. excuse me, but it just occurs to me that you, my dear fellow, possibly lead a solitary life." "solitary?" starting as at a touch of divination. "yes: in a solitary life one insensibly contracts oddities,--talking to one's self now." "been eaves-dropping, eh?" "why, a soliloquist in a crowd can hardly but be overheard, and without much reproach to the hearer." "you are an eaves-dropper." "well. be it so." "confess yourself an eaves-dropper?" "i confess that when you were muttering here i, passing by, caught a word or two, and, by like chance, something previous of your chat with the intelligence-office man;--a rather sensible fellow, by the way; much of my style of thinking; would, for his own sake, he were of my style of dress. grief to good minds, to see a man of superior sense forced to hide his light under the bushel of an inferior coat.--well, from what little i heard, i said to myself, here now is one with the unprofitable philosophy of disesteem for man. which disease, in the main, i have observed--excuse me--to spring from a certain lowness, if not sourness, of spirits inseparable from sequestration. trust me, one had better mix in, and do like others. sad business, this holding out against having a good time. life is a pic-nic _en costume_; one must take a part, assume a character, stand ready in a sensible way to play the fool. to come in plain clothes, with a long face, as a wiseacre, only makes one a discomfort to himself, and a blot upon the scene. like your jug of cold water among the wine-flasks, it leaves you unelated among the elated ones. no, no. this austerity won't do. let me tell you too--_en confiance_--that while revelry may not always merge into ebriety, soberness, in too deep potations, may become a sort of sottishness. which sober sottishness, in my way of thinking, is only to be cured by beginning at the other end of the horn, to tipple a little." "pray, what society of vintners and old topers are you hired to lecture for?" "i fear i did not give my meaning clearly. a little story may help. the story of the worthy old woman of goshen, a very moral old woman, who wouldn't let her shoats eat fattening apples in fall, for fear the fruit might ferment upon their brains, and so make them swinish. now, during a green christmas, inauspicious to the old, this worthy old woman fell into a moping decline, took to her bed, no appetite, and refused to see her best friends. in much concern her good man sent for the doctor, who, after seeing the patient and putting a question or two, beckoned the husband out, and said: 'deacon, do you want her cured?' 'indeed i do.' 'go directly, then, and buy a jug of santa cruz.' 'santa cruz? my wife drink santa cruz?' 'either that or die.' 'but how much?' 'as much as she can get down.' 'but she'll get drunk!' 'that's the cure.' wise men, like doctors, must be obeyed. much against the grain, the sober deacon got the unsober medicine, and, equally against her conscience, the poor old woman took it; but, by so doing, ere long recovered health and spirits, famous appetite, and glad again to see her friends; and having by this experience broken the ice of arid abstinence, never afterwards kept herself a cup too low." this story had the effect of surprising the bachelor into interest, though hardly into approval. "if i take your parable right," said he, sinking no little of his former churlishness, "the meaning is, that one cannot enjoy life with gusto unless he renounce the too-sober view of life. but since the too-sober view is, doubtless, nearer true than the too-drunken; i, who rate truth, though cold water, above untruth, though tokay, will stick to my earthen jug." "i see," slowly spirting upward a spiral staircase of lazy smoke, "i see; you go in for the lofty." "how?" "oh, nothing! but if i wasn't afraid of prosing, i might tell another story about an old boot in a pieman's loft, contracting there between sun and oven an unseemly, dry-seasoned curl and warp. you've seen such leathery old garretteers, haven't you? very high, sober, solitary, philosophic, grand, old boots, indeed; but i, for my part, would rather be the pieman's trodden slipper on the ground. talking of piemen, humble-pie before proud-cake for me. this notion of being lone and lofty is a sad mistake. men i hold in this respect to be like roosters; the one that betakes himself to a lone and lofty perch is the hen-pecked one, or the one that has the pip." "you are abusive!" cried the bachelor, evidently touched. "who is abused? you, or the race? you won't stand by and see the human race abused? oh, then, you have some respect for the human race." "i have some respect for _myself_" with a lip not so firm as before. "and what race may _you_ belong to? now don't you see, my dear fellow, in what inconsistencies one involves himself by affecting disesteem for men. to a charm, my little stratagem succeeded. come, come, think better of it, and, as a first step to a new mind, give up solitude. i fear, by the way, you have at some time been reading zimmermann, that old mr. megrims of a zimmermann, whose book on solitude is as vain as hume's on suicide, as bacon's on knowledge; and, like these, will betray him who seeks to steer soul and body by it, like a false religion. all they, be they what boasted ones you please, who, to the yearning of our kind after a founded rule of content, offer aught not in the spirit of fellowly gladness based on due confidence in what is above, away with them for poor dupes, or still poorer impostors." his manner here was so earnest that scarcely any auditor, perhaps, but would have been more or less impressed by it, while, possibly, nervous opponents might have a little quailed under it. thinking within himself a moment, the bachelor replied: "had you experience, you would know that your tippling theory, take it in what sense you will, is poor as any other. and rabelais's pro-wine koran no more trustworthy than mahomet's anti-wine one." "enough," for a finality knocking the ashes from his pipe, "we talk and keep talking, and still stand where we did. what do you say for a walk? my arm, and let's a turn. they are to have dancing on the hurricane-deck to-night. i shall fling them off a scotch jig, while, to save the pieces, you hold my loose change; and following that, i propose that you, my dear fellow, stack your gun, and throw your bearskins in a sailor's hornpipe--i holding your watch. what do you say?" at this proposition the other was himself again, all raccoon. "look you," thumping down his rifle, "are you jeremy diddler no. ?" "jeremy diddler? i have heard of jeremy the prophet, and jeremy taylor the divine, but your other jeremy is a gentleman i am unacquainted with." "you are his confidential clerk, ain't you?" "_whose_, pray? not that i think myself unworthy of being confided in, but i don't understand." "you are another of them. somehow i meet with the most extraordinary metaphysical scamps to-day. sort of visitation of them. and yet that herb-doctor diddler somehow takes off the raw edge of the diddlers that come after him." "herb-doctor? who is he?" "like you--another of them." "_who?_" then drawing near, as if for a good long explanatory chat, his left hand spread, and his pipe-stem coming crosswise down upon it like a ferule, "you think amiss of me. now to undeceive you, i will just enter into a little argument and----" "no you don't. no more little arguments for me. had too many little arguments to-day." "but put a case. can you deny--i dare you to deny--that the man leading a solitary life is peculiarly exposed to the sorriest misconceptions touching strangers?" "yes, i _do_ deny it," again, in his impulsiveness, snapping at the controversial bait, "and i will confute you there in a trice. look, you----" "now, now, now, my dear fellow," thrusting out both vertical palms for double shields, "you crowd me too hard. you don't give one a chance. say what you will, to shun a social proposition like mine, to shun society in any way, evinces a churlish nature--cold, loveless; as, to embrace it, shows one warm and friendly, in fact, sunshiny." here the other, all agog again, in his perverse way, launched forth into the unkindest references to deaf old worldlings keeping in the deafening world; and gouty gluttons limping to their gouty gormandizings; and corseted coquets clasping their corseted cavaliers in the waltz, all for disinterested society's sake; and thousands, bankrupt through lavishness, ruining themselves out of pure love of the sweet company of man--no envies, rivalries, or other unhandsome motive to it. "ah, now," deprecating with his pipe, "irony is so unjust: never could abide irony: something satanic about irony. god defend me from irony, and satire, his bosom friend." "a right knave's prayer, and a right fool's, too," snapping his rifle-lock. "now be frank. own that was a little gratuitous. but, no, no, you didn't mean it; any way, i can make allowances. ah, did you but know it, how much pleasanter to puff at this philanthropic pipe, than still to keep fumbling at that misanthropic rifle. as for your worldling, glutton, and coquette, though, doubtless, being such, they may have their little foibles--as who has not?--yet not one of the three can be reproached with that awful sin of shunning society; awful i call it, for not seldom it presupposes a still darker thing than itself--remorse." "remorse drives man away from man? how came your fellow-creature, cain, after the first murder, to go and build the first city? and why is it that the modern cain dreads nothing so much as solitary confinement? "my dear fellow, you get excited. say what you will, i for one must have my fellow-creatures round me. thick, too--i must have them thick." "the pick-pocket, too, loves to have his fellow-creatures round him. tut, man! no one goes into the crowd but for his end; and the end of too many is the same as the pick-pocket's--a purse." "now, my dear fellow, how can you have the conscience to say that, when it is as much according to natural law that men are social as sheep gregarious. but grant that, in being social, each man has his end, do you, upon the strength of that, do you yourself, i say, mix with man, now, immediately, and be your end a more genial philosophy. come, let's take a turn." again he offered his fraternal arm; but the bachelor once more flung it off, and, raising his rifle in energetic invocation, cried: "now the high-constable catch and confound all knaves in towns and rats in grain-bins, and if in this boat, which is a human grain-bin for the time, any sly, smooth, philandering rat be dodging now, pin him, thou high rat-catcher, against this rail." "a noble burst! shows you at heart a trump. and when a card's that, little matters it whether it be spade or diamond. you are good wine that, to be still better, only needs a shaking up. come, let's agree that we'll to new orleans, and there embark for london--i staying with my friends nigh primrose-hill, and you putting up at the piazza, covent garden--piazza, covent garden; for tell me--since you will not be a disciple to the full--tell me, was not that humor, of diogenes, which led him to live, a merry-andrew, in the flower-market, better than that of the less wise athenian, which made him a skulking scare-crow in pine-barrens? an injudicious gentleman, lord timon." "your hand!" seizing it. "bless me, how cordial a squeeze. it is agreed we shall be brothers, then?" "as much so as a brace of misanthropes can be," with another and terrific squeeze. "i had thought that the moderns had degenerated beneath the capacity of misanthropy. rejoiced, though but in one instance, and that disguised, to be undeceived." the other stared in blank amaze. "won't do. you are diogenes, diogenes in disguise. i say--diogenes masquerading as a cosmopolitan." with ruefully altered mien, the stranger still stood mute awhile. at length, in a pained tone, spoke: "how hard the lot of that pleader who, in his zeal conceding too much, is taken to belong to a side which he but labors, however ineffectually, to convert!" then with another change of air: "to you, an ishmael, disguising in sportiveness my intent, i came ambassador from the human race, charged with the assurance that for your mislike they bore no answering grudge, but sought to conciliate accord between you and them. yet you take me not for the honest envoy, but i know not what sort of unheard-of spy. sir," he less lowly added, "this mistaking of your man should teach you how you may mistake all men. for god's sake," laying both hands upon him, "get you confidence. see how distrust has duped you. i, diogenes? i he who, going a step beyond misanthropy, was less a man-hater than a man-hooter? better were i stark and stiff!" with which the philanthropist moved away less lightsome than he had come, leaving the discomfited misanthrope to the solitude he held so sapient. chapter xxv. the cosmopolitan makes an acquaintance. in the act of retiring, the cosmopolitan was met by a passenger, who with the bluff _abord_ of the west, thus addressed him, though a stranger. "queer 'coon, your friend. had a little skrimmage with him myself. rather entertaining old 'coon, if he wasn't so deuced analytical. reminded me somehow of what i've heard about colonel john moredock, of illinois, only your friend ain't quite so good a fellow at bottom, i should think." it was in the semicircular porch of a cabin, opening a recess from the deck, lit by a zoned lamp swung overhead, and sending its light vertically down, like the sun at noon. beneath the lamp stood the speaker, affording to any one disposed to it no unfavorable chance for scrutiny; but the glance now resting on him betrayed no such rudeness. a man neither tall nor stout, neither short nor gaunt; but with a body fitted, as by measure, to the service of his mind. for the rest, one less favored perhaps in his features than his clothes; and of these the beauty may have been less in the fit than the cut; to say nothing of the fineness of the nap, seeming out of keeping with something the reverse of fine in the skin; and the unsuitableness of a violet vest, sending up sunset hues to a countenance betokening a kind of bilious habit. but, upon the whole, it could not be fairly said that his appearance was unprepossessing; indeed, to the congenial, it would have been doubtless not uncongenial; while to others, it could not fail to be at least curiously interesting, from the warm air of florid cordiality, contrasting itself with one knows not what kind of aguish sallowness of saving discretion lurking behind it. ungracious critics might have thought that the manner flushed the man, something in the same fictitious way that the vest flushed the cheek. and though his teeth were singularly good, those same ungracious ones might have hinted that they were too good to be true; or rather, were not so good as they might be; since the best false teeth are those made with at least two or three blemishes, the more to look like life. but fortunately for better constructions, no such critics had the stranger now in eye; only the cosmopolitan, who, after, in the first place, acknowledging his advances with a mute salute--in which acknowledgment, if there seemed less of spirit than in his way of accosting the missourian, it was probably because of the saddening sequel of that late interview--thus now replied: "colonel john moredock," repeating the words abstractedly; "that surname recalls reminiscences. pray," with enlivened air, "was he anyway connected with the moredocks of moredock hall, northamptonshire, england?" "i know no more of the moredocks of moredock hall than of the burdocks of burdock hut," returned the other, with the air somehow of one whose fortunes had been of his own making; "all i know is, that the late colonel john moredock was a famous one in his time; eye like lochiel's; finger like a trigger; nerve like a catamount's; and with but two little oddities--seldom stirred without his rifle, and hated indians like snakes." "your moredock, then, would seem a moredock of misanthrope hall--the woods. no very sleek creature, the colonel, i fancy." "sleek or not, he was no uncombed one, but silky bearded and curly headed, and to all but indians juicy as a peach. but indians--how the late colonel john moredock, indian-hater of illinois, did hate indians, to be sure!" "never heard of such a thing. hate indians? why should he or anybody else hate indians? _i_ admire indians. indians i have always heard to be one of the finest of the primitive races, possessed of many heroic virtues. some noble women, too. when i think of pocahontas, i am ready to love indians. then there's massasoit, and philip of mount hope, and tecumseh, and red-jacket, and logan--all heroes; and there's the five nations, and araucanians--federations and communities of heroes. god bless me; hate indians? surely the late colonel john moredock must have wandered in his mind." "wandered in the woods considerably, but never wandered elsewhere, that i ever heard." "are you in earnest? was there ever one who so made it his particular mission to hate indians that, to designate him, a special word has been coined--indian-hater?" "even so." "dear me, you take it very calmly.--but really, i would like to know something about this indian-hating, i can hardly believe such a thing to be. could you favor me with a little history of the extraordinary man you mentioned?" "with all my heart," and immediately stepping from the porch, gestured the cosmopolitan to a settee near by, on deck. "there, sir, sit you there, and i will sit here beside you--you desire to hear of colonel john moredock. well, a day in my boyhood is marked with a white stone--the day i saw the colonel's rifle, powder-horn attached, hanging in a cabin on the west bank of the wabash river. i was going westward a long journey through the wilderness with my father. it was nigh noon, and we had stopped at the cabin to unsaddle and bait. the man at the cabin pointed out the rifle, and told whose it was, adding that the colonel was that moment sleeping on wolf-skins in the corn-loft above, so we must not talk very loud, for the colonel had been out all night hunting (indians, mind), and it would be cruel to disturb his sleep. curious to see one so famous, we waited two hours over, in hopes he would come forth; but he did not. so, it being necessary to get to the next cabin before nightfall, we had at last to ride off without the wished-for satisfaction. though, to tell the truth, i, for one, did not go away entirely ungratified, for, while my father was watering the horses, i slipped back into the cabin, and stepping a round or two up the ladder, pushed my head through the trap, and peered about. not much light in the loft; but off, in the further corner, i saw what i took to be the wolf-skins, and on them a bundle of something, like a drift of leaves; and at one end, what seemed a moss-ball; and over it, deer-antlers branched; and close by, a small squirrel sprang out from a maple-bowl of nuts, brushed the moss-ball with his tail, through a hole, and vanished, squeaking. that bit of woodland scene was all i saw. no colonel moredock there, unless that moss-ball was his curly head, seen in the back view. i would have gone clear up, but the man below had warned me, that though, from his camping habits, the colonel could sleep through thunder, he was for the same cause amazing quick to waken at the sound of footsteps, however soft, and especially if human." "excuse me," said the other, softly laying his hand on the narrator's wrist, "but i fear the colonel was of a distrustful nature--little or no confidence. he _was_ a little suspicious-minded, wasn't he?" "not a bit. knew too much. suspected nobody, but was not ignorant of indians. well: though, as you may gather, i never fully saw the man, yet, have i, one way and another, heard about as much of him as any other; in particular, have i heard his history again and again from my father's friend, james hall, the judge, you know. in every company being called upon to give this history, which none could better do, the judge at last fell into a style so methodic, you would have thought he spoke less to mere auditors than to an invisible amanuensis; seemed talking for the press; very impressive way with him indeed. and i, having an equally impressible memory, think that, upon a pinch, i can render you the judge upon the colonel almost word for word." "do so, by all means," said the cosmopolitan, well pleased. "shall i give you the judge's philosophy, and all?" "as to that," rejoined the other gravely, pausing over the pipe-bowl he was filling, "the desirableness, to a man of a certain mind, of having another man's philosophy given, depends considerably upon what school of philosophy that other man belongs to. of what school or system was the judge, pray?" "why, though he knew how to read and write, the judge never had much schooling. but, i should say he belonged, if anything, to the free-school system. yes, a true patriot, the judge went in strong for free-schools." "in philosophy? the man of a certain mind, then, while respecting the judge's patriotism, and not blind to the judge's capacity for narrative, such as he may prove to have, might, perhaps, with prudence, waive an opinion of the judge's probable philosophy. but i am no rigorist; proceed, i beg; his philosophy or not, as you please." "well, i would mostly skip that part, only, to begin, some reconnoitering of the ground in a philosophical way the judge always deemed indispensable with strangers. for you must know that indian-hating was no monopoly of colonel moredock's; but a passion, in one form or other, and to a degree, greater or less, largely shared among the class to which he belonged. and indian-hating still exists; and, no doubt, will continue to exist, so long as indians do. indian-hating, then, shall be my first theme, and colonel moredock, the indian-hater, my next and last." with which the stranger, settling himself in his seat, commenced--the hearer paying marked regard, slowly smoking, his glance, meanwhile, steadfastly abstracted towards the deck, but his right ear so disposed towards the speaker that each word came through as little atmospheric intervention as possible. to intensify the sense of hearing, he seemed to sink the sense of sight. no complaisance of mere speech could have been so flattering, or expressed such striking politeness as this mute eloquence of thoroughly digesting attention. chapter xxvi. containing the metaphysics of indian-hating, according to the views of one evidently not so prepossessed as rousseau in favor of savages. "the judge always began in these words: 'the backwoodsman's hatred of the indian has been a topic for some remark. in the earlier times of the frontier the passion was thought to be readily accounted for. but indian rapine having mostly ceased through regions where it once prevailed, the philanthropist is surprised that indian-hating has not in like degree ceased with it. he wonders why the backwoodsman still regards the red man in much the same spirit that a jury does a murderer, or a trapper a wild cat--a creature, in whose behalf mercy were not wisdom; truce is vain; he must be executed. "'a curious point,' the judge would continue, 'which perhaps not everybody, even upon explanation, may fully understand; while, in order for any one to approach to an understanding, it is necessary for him to learn, or if he already know, to bear in mind, what manner of man the backwoodsman is; as for what manner of man the indian is, many know, either from history or experience. "'the backwoodsman is a lonely man. he is a thoughtful man. he is a man strong and unsophisticated. impulsive, he is what some might call unprincipled. at any rate, he is self-willed; being one who less hearkens to what others may say about things, than looks for himself, to see what are things themselves. if in straits, there are few to help; he must depend upon himself; he must continually look to himself. hence self-reliance, to the degree of standing by his own judgment, though it stand alone. not that he deems himself infallible; too many mistakes in following trails prove the contrary; but he thinks that nature destines such sagacity as she has given him, as she destines it to the 'possum. to these fellow-beings of the wilds their untutored sagacity is their best dependence. if with either it prove faulty, if the 'possum's betray it to the trap, or the backwoodsman's mislead him into ambuscade, there are consequences to be undergone, but no self-blame. as with the 'possum, instincts prevail with the backwoodsman over precepts. like the 'possum, the backwoodsman presents the spectacle of a creature dwelling exclusively among the works of god, yet these, truth must confess, breed little in him of a godly mind. small bowing and scraping is his, further than when with bent knee he points his rifle, or picks its flint. with few companions, solitude by necessity his lengthened lot, he stands the trial--no slight one, since, next to dying, solitude, rightly borne, is perhaps of fortitude the most rigorous test. but not merely is the backwoodsman content to be alone, but in no few cases is anxious to be so. the sight of smoke ten miles off is provocation to one more remove from man, one step deeper into nature. is it that he feels that whatever man may be, man is not the universe? that glory, beauty, kindness, are not all engrossed by him? that as the presence of man frights birds away, so, many bird-like thoughts? be that how it will, the backwoodsman is not without some fineness to his nature. hairy orson as he looks, it may be with him as with the shetland seal--beneath the bristles lurks the fur. "'though held in a sort a barbarian, the backwoodsman would seem to america what alexander was to asia--captain in the vanguard of conquering civilization. whatever the nation's growing opulence or power, does it not lackey his heels? pathfinder, provider of security to those who come after him, for himself he asks nothing but hardship. worthy to be compared with moses in the exodus, or the emperor julian in gaul, who on foot, and bare-browed, at the head of covered or mounted legions, marched so through the elements, day after day. the tide of emigration, let it roll as it will, never overwhelms the backwoodsman into itself; he rides upon advance, as the polynesian upon the comb of the surf. "'thus, though he keep moving on through life, he maintains with respect to nature much the same unaltered relation throughout; with her creatures, too, including panthers and indians. hence, it is not unlikely that, accurate as the theory of the peace congress may be with respect to those two varieties of beings, among others, yet the backwoodsman might be qualified to throw out some practical suggestions. "'as the child born to a backwoodsman must in turn lead his father's life--a life which, as related to humanity, is related mainly to indians--it is thought best not to mince matters, out of delicacy; but to tell the boy pretty plainly what an indian is, and what he must expect from him. for however charitable it may be to view indians as members of the society of friends, yet to affirm them such to one ignorant of indians, whose lonely path lies a long way through their lands, this, in the event, might prove not only injudicious but cruel. at least something of this kind would seem the maxim upon which backwoods' education is based. accordingly, if in youth the backwoodsman incline to knowledge, as is generally the case, he hears little from his schoolmasters, the old chroniclers of the forest, but histories of indian lying, indian theft, indian double-dealing, indian fraud and perfidy, indian want of conscience, indian blood-thirstiness, indian diabolism--histories which, though of wild woods, are almost as full of things unangelic as the newgate calendar or the annals of europe. in these indian narratives and traditions the lad is thoroughly grounded. "as the twig is bent the tree's inclined." the instinct of antipathy against an indian grows in the backwoodsman with the sense of good and bad, right and wrong. in one breath he learns that a brother is to be loved, and an indian to be hated. "'such are the facts,' the judge would say, 'upon which, if one seek to moralize, he must do so with an eye to them. it is terrible that one creature should so regard another, should make it conscience to abhor an entire race. it is terrible; but is it surprising? surprising, that one should hate a race which he believes to be red from a cause akin to that which makes some tribes of garden insects green? a race whose name is upon the frontier a _memento mori_; painted to him in every evil light; now a horse-thief like those in moyamensing; now an assassin like a new york rowdy; now a treaty-breaker like an austrian; now a palmer with poisoned arrows; now a judicial murderer and jeffries, after a fierce farce of trial condemning his victim to bloody death; or a jew with hospitable speeches cozening some fainting stranger into ambuscade, there to burk him, and account it a deed grateful to manitou, his god. "'still, all this is less advanced as truths of the indians than as examples of the backwoodsman's impression of them--in which the charitable may think he does them some injustice. certain it is, the indians themselves think so; quite unanimously, too. the indians, in deed, protest against the backwoodsman's view of them; and some think that one cause of their returning his antipathy so sincerely as they do, is their moral indignation at being so libeled by him, as they really believe and say. but whether, on this or any point, the indians should be permitted to testify for themselves, to the exclusion of other testimony, is a question that may be left to the supreme court. at any rate, it has been observed that when an indian becomes a genuine proselyte to christianity (such cases, however, not being very many; though, indeed, entire tribes are sometimes nominally brought to the true light,) he will not in that case conceal his enlightened conviction, that his race's portion by nature is total depravity; and, in that way, as much as admits that the backwoodsman's worst idea of it is not very far from true; while, on the other hand, those red men who are the greatest sticklers for the theory of indian virtue, and indian loving-kindness, are sometimes the arrantest horse-thieves and tomahawkers among them. so, at least, avers the backwoodsman. and though, knowing the indian nature, as he thinks he does, he fancies he is not ignorant that an indian may in some points deceive himself almost as effectually as in bush-tactics he can another, yet his theory and his practice as above contrasted seem to involve an inconsistency so extreme, that the backwoodsman only accounts for it on the supposition that when a tomahawking red-man advances the notion of the benignity of the red race, it is but part and parcel with that subtle strategy which he finds so useful in war, in hunting, and the general conduct of life.' "in further explanation of that deep abhorrence with which the backwoodsman regards the savage, the judge used to think it might perhaps a little help, to consider what kind of stimulus to it is furnished in those forest histories and traditions before spoken of. in which behalf, he would tell the story of the little colony of wrights and weavers, originally seven cousins from virginia, who, after successive removals with their families, at last established themselves near the southern frontier of the bloody ground, kentucky: 'they were strong, brave men; but, unlike many of the pioneers in those days, theirs was no love of conflict for conflict's sake. step by step they had been lured to their lonely resting-place by the ever-beckoning seductions of a fertile and virgin land, with a singular exemption, during the march, from indian molestation. but clearings made and houses built, the bright shield was soon to turn its other side. after repeated persecutions and eventual hostilities, forced on them by a dwindled tribe in their neighborhood--persecutions resulting in loss of crops and cattle; hostilities in which they lost two of their number, illy to be spared, besides others getting painful wounds--the five remaining cousins made, with some serious concessions, a kind of treaty with mocmohoc, the chief--being to this induced by the harryings of the enemy, leaving them no peace. but they were further prompted, indeed, first incited, by the suddenly changed ways of mocmohoc, who, though hitherto deemed a savage almost perfidious as caesar borgia, yet now put on a seeming the reverse of this, engaging to bury the hatchet, smoke the pipe, and be friends forever; not friends in the mere sense of renouncing enmity, but in the sense of kindliness, active and familiar. "'but what the chief now seemed, did not wholly blind them to what the chief had been; so that, though in no small degree influenced by his change of bearing, they still distrusted him enough to covenant with him, among other articles on their side, that though friendly visits should be exchanged between the wigwams and the cabins, yet the five cousins should never, on any account, be expected to enter the chief's lodge together. the intention was, though they reserved it, that if ever, under the guise of amity, the chief should mean them mischief, and effect it, it should be but partially; so that some of the five might survive, not only for their families' sake, but also for retribution's. nevertheless, mocmohoc did, upon a time, with such fine art and pleasing carriage win their confidence, that he brought them all together to a feast of bear's meat, and there, by stratagem, ended them. years after, over their calcined bones and those of all their families, the chief, reproached for his treachery by a proud hunter whom he had made captive, jeered out, "treachery? pale face! 'twas they who broke their covenant first, in coming all together; they that broke it first, in trusting mocmohoc."' "at this point the judge would pause, and lifting his hand, and rolling his eyes, exclaim in a solemn enough voice, 'circling wiles and bloody lusts. the acuteness and genius of the chief but make him the more atrocious.' "after another pause, he would begin an imaginary kind of dialogue between a backwoodsman and a questioner: "'but are all indians like mocmohoc?--not all have proved such; but in the least harmful may lie his germ. there is an indian nature. "indian blood is in me," is the half-breed's threat.--but are not some indians kind?--yes, but kind indians are mostly lazy, and reputed simple--at all events, are seldom chiefs; chiefs among the red men being taken from the active, and those accounted wise. hence, with small promotion, kind indians have but proportionate influence. and kind indians may be forced to do unkind biddings. so "beware the indian, kind or unkind," said daniel boone, who lost his sons by them.--but, have all you backwoodsmen been some way victimized by indians?--no.--well, and in certain cases may not at least some few of you be favored by them?--yes, but scarce one among us so self-important, or so selfish-minded, as to hold his personal exemption from indian outrage such a set-off against the contrary experience of so many others, as that he must needs, in a general way, think well of indians; or, if he do, an arrow in his flank might suggest a pertinent doubt. "'in short,' according to the judge, 'if we at all credit the backwoodsman, his feeling against indians, to be taken aright, must be considered as being not so much on his own account as on others', or jointly on both accounts. true it is, scarce a family he knows but some member of it, or connection, has been by indians maimed or scalped. what avails, then, that some one indian, or some two or three, treat a backwoodsman friendly-like? he fears me, he thinks. take my rifle from me, give him motive, and what will come? or if not so, how know i what involuntary preparations may be going on in him for things as unbeknown in present time to him as me--a sort of chemical preparation in the soul for malice, as chemical preparation in the body for malady.' "not that the backwoodsman ever used those words, you see, but the judge found him expression for his meaning. and this point he would conclude with saying, that, 'what is called a "friendly indian" is a very rare sort of creature; and well it was so, for no ruthlessness exceeds that of a "friendly indian" turned enemy. a coward friend, he makes a valiant foe. "'but, thus far the passion in question has been viewed in a general way as that of a community. when to his due share of this the backwoodsman adds his private passion, we have then the stock out of which is formed, if formed at all, the indian-hater _par excellence_.' "the indian-hater _par excellence_ the judge defined to be one 'who, having with his mother's milk drank in small love for red men, in youth or early manhood, ere the sensibilities become osseous, receives at their hand some signal outrage, or, which in effect is much the same, some of his kin have, or some friend. now, nature all around him by her solitudes wooing or bidding him muse upon this matter, he accordingly does so, till the thought develops such attraction, that much as straggling vapors troop from all sides to a storm-cloud, so straggling thoughts of other outrages troop to the nucleus thought, assimilate with it, and swell it. at last, taking counsel with the elements, he comes to his resolution. an intenser hannibal, he makes a vow, the hate of which is a vortex from whose suction scarce the remotest chip of the guilty race may reasonably feel secure. next, he declares himself and settles his temporal affairs. with the solemnity of a spaniard turned monk, he takes leave of his kin; or rather, these leave-takings have something of the still more impressive finality of death-bed adieus. last, he commits himself to the forest primeval; there, so long as life shall be his, to act upon a calm, cloistered scheme of strategical, implacable, and lonesome vengeance. ever on the noiseless trail; cool, collected, patient; less seen than felt; snuffing, smelling--a leather-stocking nemesis. in the settlements he will not be seen again; in eyes of old companions tears may start at some chance thing that speaks of him; but they never look for him, nor call; they know he will not come. suns and seasons fleet; the tiger-lily blows and falls; babes are born and leap in their mothers' arms; but, the indian-hater is good as gone to his long home, and "terror" is his epitaph.' "here the judge, not unaffected, would pause again, but presently resume: 'how evident that in strict speech there can be no biography of an indian-hater _par excellence_, any more than one of a sword-fish, or other deep-sea denizen; or, which is still less imaginable, one of a dead man. the career of the indian-hater _par excellence_ has the impenetrability of the fate of a lost steamer. doubtless, events, terrible ones, have happened, must have happened; but the powers that be in nature have taken order that they shall never become news. "'but, luckily for the curious, there is a species of diluted indian-hater, one whose heart proves not so steely as his brain. soft enticements of domestic life too, often draw him from the ascetic trail; a monk who apostatizes to the world at times. like a mariner, too, though much abroad, he may have a wife and family in some green harbor which he does not forget. it is with him as with the papist converts in senegal; fasting and mortification prove hard to bear.' "the judge, with his usual judgment, always thought that the intense solitude to which the indian-hater consigns himself, has, by its overawing influence, no little to do with relaxing his vow. he would relate instances where, after some months' lonely scoutings, the indian-hater is suddenly seized with a sort of calenture; hurries openly towards the first smoke, though he knows it is an indian's, announces himself as a lost hunter, gives the savage his rifle, throws himself upon his charity, embraces him with much affection, imploring the privilege of living a while in his sweet companionship. what is too often the sequel of so distempered a procedure may be best known by those who best know the indian. upon the whole, the judge, by two and thirty good and sufficient reasons, would maintain that there was no known vocation whose consistent following calls for such self-containings as that of the indian-hater _par excellence_. in the highest view, he considered such a soul one peeping out but once an age. "for the diluted indian-hater, although the vacations he permits himself impair the keeping of the character, yet, it should not be overlooked that this is the man who, by his very infirmity, enables us to form surmises, however inadequate, of what indian-hating in its perfection is." "one moment," gently interrupted the cosmopolitan here, "and let me refill my calumet." which being done, the other proceeded:-- chapter xxvii. some account of a man of questionable morality, but who, nevertheless, would seem entitled to the esteem of that eminent english moralist who said he liked a good hater. "coming to mention the man to whose story all thus far said was but the introduction, the judge, who, like you, was a great smoker, would insist upon all the company taking cigars, and then lighting a fresh one himself, rise in his place, and, with the solemnest voice, say--'gentlemen, let us smoke to the memory of colonel john moredock;' when, after several whiffs taken standing in deep silence and deeper reverie, he would resume his seat and his discourse, something in these words: "'though colonel john moredock was not an indian-hater _par excellence_, he yet cherished a kind of sentiment towards the red man, and in that degree, and so acted out his sentiment as sufficiently to merit the tribute just rendered to his memory. "'john moredock was the son of a woman married thrice, and thrice widowed by a tomahawk. the three successive husbands of this woman had been pioneers, and with them she had wandered from wilderness to wilderness, always on the frontier. with nine children, she at last found herself at a little clearing, afterwards vincennes. there she joined a company about to remove to the new country of illinois. on the eastern side of illinois there were then no settlements; but on the west side, the shore of the mississippi, there were, near the mouth of the kaskaskia, some old hamlets of french. to the vicinity of those hamlets, very innocent and pleasant places, a new arcadia, mrs. moredock's party was destined; for thereabouts, among the vines, they meant to settle. they embarked upon the wabash in boats, proposing descending that stream into the ohio, and the ohio into the mississippi, and so, northwards, towards the point to be reached. all went well till they made the rock of the grand tower on the mississippi, where they had to land and drag their boats round a point swept by a strong current. here a party of indians, lying in wait, rushed out and murdered nearly all of them. the widow was among the victims with her children, john excepted, who, some fifty miles distant, was following with a second party. "he was just entering upon manhood, when thus left in nature sole survivor of his race. other youngsters might have turned mourners; he turned avenger. his nerves were electric wires--sensitive, but steel. he was one who, from self-possession, could be made neither to flush nor pale. it is said that when the tidings were brought him, he was ashore sitting beneath a hemlock eating his dinner of venison--and as the tidings were told him, after the first start he kept on eating, but slowly and deliberately, chewing the wild news with the wild meat, as if both together, turned to chyle, together should sinew him to his intent. from that meal he rose an indian-hater. he rose; got his arms, prevailed upon some comrades to join him, and without delay started to discover who were the actual transgressors. they proved to belong to a band of twenty renegades from various tribes, outlaws even among indians, and who had formed themselves into a maurauding crew. no opportunity for action being at the time presented, he dismissed his friends; told them to go on, thanking them, and saying he would ask their aid at some future day. for upwards of a year, alone in the wilds, he watched the crew. once, what he thought a favorable chance having occurred--it being midwinter, and the savages encamped, apparently to remain so--he anew mustered his friends, and marched against them; but, getting wind of his coming, the enemy fled, and in such panic that everything was left behind but their weapons. during the winter, much the same thing happened upon two subsequent occasions. the next year he sought them at the head of a party pledged to serve him for forty days. at last the hour came. it was on the shore of the mississippi. from their covert, moredock and his men dimly descried the gang of cains in the red dusk of evening, paddling over to a jungled island in mid-stream, there the more securely to lodge; for moredock's retributive spirit in the wilderness spoke ever to their trepidations now, like the voice calling through the garden. waiting until dead of night, the whites swam the river, towing after them a raft laden with their arms. on landing, moredock cut the fastenings of the enemy's canoes, and turned them, with his own raft, adrift; resolved that there should be neither escape for the indians, nor safety, except in victory, for the whites. victorious the whites were; but three of the indians saved themselves by taking to the stream. moredock's band lost not a man. "'three of the murderers survived. he knew their names and persons. in the course of three years each successively fell by his own hand. all were now dead. but this did not suffice. he made no avowal, but to kill indians had become his passion. as an athlete, he had few equals; as a shot, none; in single combat, not to be beaten. master of that woodland-cunning enabling the adept to subsist where the tyro would perish, and expert in all those arts by which an enemy is pursued for weeks, perhaps months, without once suspecting it, he kept to the forest. the solitary indian that met him, died. when a murder was descried, he would either secretly pursue their track for some chance to strike at least one blow; or if, while thus engaged, he himself was discovered, he would elude them by superior skill. "'many years he spent thus; and though after a time he was, in a degree, restored to the ordinary life of the region and period, yet it is believed that john moredock never let pass an opportunity of quenching an indian. sins of commission in that kind may have been his, but none of omission. "'it were to err to suppose,' the judge would say, 'that this gentleman was naturally ferocious, or peculiarly possessed of those qualities, which, unhelped by provocation of events, tend to withdraw man from social life. on the contrary, moredock was an example of something apparently self-contradicting, certainly curious, but, at the same time, undeniable: namely, that nearly all indian-haters have at bottom loving hearts; at any rate, hearts, if anything, more generous than the average. certain it is, that, to the degree in which he mingled in the life of the settlements, moredock showed himself not without humane feelings. no cold husband or colder father, he; and, though often and long away from his household, bore its needs in mind, and provided for them. he could be very convivial; told a good story (though never of his more private exploits), and sung a capital song. hospitable, not backward to help a neighbor; by report, benevolent, as retributive, in secret; while, in a general manner, though sometimes grave--as is not unusual with men of his complexion, a sultry and tragical brown--yet with nobody, indians excepted, otherwise than courteous in a manly fashion; a moccasined gentleman, admired and loved. in fact, no one more popular, as an incident to follow may prove. "'his bravery, whether in indian fight or any other, was unquestionable. an officer in the ranging service during the war of , he acquitted himself with more than credit. of his soldierly character, this anecdote is told: not long after hull's dubious surrender at detroit, moredock with some of his rangers rode up at night to a log-house, there to rest till morning. the horses being attended to, supper over, and sleeping-places assigned the troop, the host showed the colonel his best bed, not on the ground like the rest, but a bed that stood on legs. but out of delicacy, the guest declined to monopolize it, or, indeed, to occupy it at all; when, to increase the inducement, as the host thought, he was told that a general officer had once slept in that bed. "who, pray?" asked the colonel. "general hull." "then you must not take offense," said the colonel, buttoning up his coat, "but, really, no coward's bed, for me, however comfortable." accordingly he took up with valor's bed--a cold one on the ground. "'at one time the colonel was a member of the territorial council of illinois, and at the formation of the state government, was pressed to become candidate for governor, but begged to be excused. and, though he declined to give his reasons for declining, yet by those who best knew him the cause was not wholly unsurmised. in his official capacity he might be called upon to enter into friendly treaties with indian tribes, a thing not to be thought of. and even did no such contingecy arise, yet he felt there would be an impropriety in the governor of illinois stealing out now and then, during a recess of the legislative bodies, for a few days' shooting at human beings, within the limits of his paternal chief-magistracy. if the governorship offered large honors, from moredock it demanded larger sacrifices. these were incompatibles. in short, he was not unaware that to be a consistent indian-hater involves the renunciation of ambition, with its objects--the pomps and glories of the world; and since religion, pronouncing such things vanities, accounts it merit to renounce them, therefore, so far as this goes, indian-hating, whatever may be thought of it in other respects, may be regarded as not wholly without the efficacy of a devout sentiment.'" here the narrator paused. then, after his long and irksome sitting, started to his feet, and regulating his disordered shirt-frill, and at the same time adjustingly shaking his legs down in his rumpled pantaloons, concluded: "there, i have done; having given you, not my story, mind, or my thoughts, but another's. and now, for your friend coonskins, i doubt not, that, if the judge were here, he would pronounce him a sort of comprehensive colonel moredock, who, too much spreading his passion, shallows it." chapter xxviii. moot points touching the late colonel john moredock. "charity, charity!" exclaimed the cosmopolitan, "never a sound judgment without charity. when man judges man, charity is less a bounty from our mercy than just allowance for the insensible lee-way of human fallibility. god forbid that my eccentric friend should be what you hint. you do not know him, or but imperfectly. his outside deceived you; at first it came near deceiving even me. but i seized a chance, when, owing to indignation against some wrong, he laid himself a little open; i seized that lucky chance, i say, to inspect his heart, and found it an inviting oyster in a forbidding shell. his outside is but put on. ashamed of his own goodness, he treats mankind as those strange old uncles in romances do their nephews--snapping at them all the time and yet loving them as the apple of their eye." "well, my words with him were few. perhaps he is not what i took him for. yes, for aught i know, you may be right." "glad to hear it. charity, like poetry, should be cultivated, if only for its being graceful. and now, since you have renounced your notion, i should be happy, would you, so to speak, renounce your story, too. that, story strikes me with even more incredulity than wonder. to me some parts don't hang together. if the man of hate, how could john moredock be also the man of love? either his lone campaigns are fabulous as hercules'; or else, those being true, what was thrown in about his geniality is but garnish. in short, if ever there was such a man as moredock, he, in my way of thinking, was either misanthrope or nothing; and his misanthropy the more intense from being focused on one race of men. though, like suicide, man-hatred would seem peculiarly a roman and a grecian passion--that is, pagan; yet, the annals of neither rome nor greece can produce the equal in man-hatred of colonel moredock, as the judge and you have painted him. as for this indian-hating in general, i can only say of it what dr. johnson said of the alleged lisbon earthquake: 'sir, i don't believe it.'" "didn't believe it? why not? clashed with any little prejudice of his?" "doctor johnson had no prejudice; but, like a certain other person," with an ingenuous smile, "he had sensibilities, and those were pained." "dr. johnson was a good christian, wasn't he?" "he was." "suppose he had been something else." "then small incredulity as to the alleged earthquake." "suppose he had been also a misanthrope?" "then small incredulity as to the robberies and murders alleged to have been perpetrated under the pall of smoke and ashes. the infidels of the time were quick to credit those reports and worse. so true is it that, while religion, contrary to the common notion, implies, in certain cases, a spirit of slow reserve as to assent, infidelity, which claims to despise credulity, is sometimes swift to it." "you rather jumble together misanthropy and infidelity." "i do not jumble them; they are coordinates. for misanthropy, springing from the same root with disbelief of religion, is twin with that. it springs from the same root, i say; for, set aside materialism, and what is an atheist, but one who does not, or will not, see in the universe a ruling principle of love; and what a misanthrope, but one who does not, or will not, see in man a ruling principle of kindness? don't you see? in either case the vice consists in a want of confidence." "what sort of a sensation is misanthropy?" "might as well ask me what sort of sensation is hydrophobia. don't know; never had it. but i have often wondered what it can be like. can a misanthrope feel warm, i ask myself; take ease? be companionable with himself? can a misanthrope smoke a cigar and muse? how fares he in solitude? has the misanthrope such a thing as an appetite? shall a peach refresh him? the effervescence of champagne, with what eye does he behold it? is summer good to him? of long winters how much can he sleep? what are his dreams? how feels he, and what does he, when suddenly awakened, alone, at dead of night, by fusilades of thunder?" "like you," said the stranger, "i can't understand the misanthrope. so far as my experience goes, either mankind is worthy one's best love, or else i have been lucky. never has it been my lot to have been wronged, though but in the smallest degree. cheating, backbiting, superciliousness, disdain, hard-heartedness, and all that brood, i know but by report. cold regards tossed over the sinister shoulder of a former friend, ingratitude in a beneficiary, treachery in a confidant--such things may be; but i must take somebody's word for it. now the bridge that has carried me so well over, shall i not praise it?" "ingratitude to the worthy bridge not to do so. man is a noble fellow, and in an age of satirists, i am not displeased to find one who has confidence in him, and bravely stands up for him." "yes, i always speak a good word for man; and what is more, am always ready to do a good deed for him." "you are a man after my own heart," responded the cosmopolitan, with a candor which lost nothing by its calmness. "indeed," he added, "our sentiments agree so, that were they written in a book, whose was whose, few but the nicest critics might determine." "since we are thus joined in mind," said the stranger, "why not be joined in hand?" "my hand is always at the service of virtue," frankly extending it to him as to virtue personified. "and now," said the stranger, cordially retaining his hand, "you know our fashion here at the west. it may be a little low, but it is kind. briefly, we being newly-made friends must drink together. what say you?" "thank you; but indeed, you must excuse me." "why?" "because, to tell the truth, i have to-day met so many old friends, all free-hearted, convivial gentlemen, that really, really, though for the present i succeed in mastering it, i am at bottom almost in the condition of a sailor who, stepping ashore after a long voyage, ere night reels with loving welcomes, his head of less capacity than his heart." at the allusion to old friends, the stranger's countenance a little fell, as a jealous lover's might at hearing from his sweetheart of former ones. but rallying, he said: "no doubt they treated you to something strong; but wine--surely, that gentle creature, wine; come, let us have a little gentle wine at one of these little tables here. come, come." then essaying to roll about like a full pipe in the sea, sang in a voice which had had more of good-fellowship, had there been less of a latent squeak to it: "let us drink of the wine of the vine benign, that sparkles warm in zansovine." the cosmopolitan, with longing eye upon him, stood as sorely tempted and wavering a moment; then, abruptly stepping towards him, with a look of dissolved surrender, said: "when mermaid songs move figure-heads, then may glory, gold, and women try their blandishments on me. but a good fellow, singing a good song, he woos forth my every spike, so that my whole hull, like a ship's, sailing by a magnetic rock, caves in with acquiescence. enough: when one has a heart of a certain sort, it is in vain trying to be resolute." chapter xxix the boon companions. the wine, port, being called for, and the two seated at the little table, a natural pause of convivial expectancy ensued; the stranger's eye turned towards the bar near by, watching the red-cheeked, white-aproned man there, blithely dusting the bottle, and invitingly arranging the salver and glasses; when, with a sudden impulse turning round his head towards his companion, he said, "ours is friendship at first sight, ain't it?" "it is," was the placidly pleased reply: "and the same may be said of friendship at first sight as of love at first sight: it is the only true one, the only noble one. it bespeaks confidence. who would go sounding his way into love or friendship, like a strange ship by night, into an enemy's harbor?" "right. boldly in before the wind. agreeable, how we always agree. by-the-way, though but a formality, friends should know each other's names. what is yours, pray?" "francis goodman. but those who love me, call me frank. and yours?" "charles arnold noble. but do you call me charlie." "i will, charlie; nothing like preserving in manhood the fraternal familiarities of youth. it proves the heart a rosy boy to the last." "my sentiments again. ah!" it was a smiling waiter, with the smiling bottle, the cork drawn; a common quart bottle, but for the occasion fitted at bottom into a little bark basket, braided with porcupine quills, gayly tinted in the indian fashion. this being set before the entertainer, he regarded it with affectionate interest, but seemed not to understand, or else to pretend not to, a handsome red label pasted on the bottle, bearing the capital letters, p. w. "p. w.," said he at last, perplexedly eying the pleasing poser, "now what does p. w. mean?" "shouldn't wonder," said the cosmopolitan gravely, "if it stood for port wine. you called for port wine, didn't you?" "why so it is, so it is!" "i find some little mysteries not very hard to clear up," said the other, quietly crossing his legs. this commonplace seemed to escape the stranger's hearing, for, full of his bottle, he now rubbed his somewhat sallow hands over it, and with a strange kind of cackle, meant to be a chirrup, cried: "good wine, good wine; is it not the peculiar bond of good feeling?" then brimming both glasses, pushed one over, saying, with what seemed intended for an air of fine disdain: "ill betide those gloomy skeptics who maintain that now-a-days pure wine is unpurchasable; that almost every variety on sale is less the vintage of vineyards than laboratories; that most bar-keepers are but a set of male brinvilliarses, with complaisant arts practicing against the lives of their best friends, their customers." a shade passed over the cosmopolitan. after a few minutes' down-cast musing, he lifted his eyes and said: "i have long thought, my dear charlie, that the spirit in which wine is regarded by too many in these days is one of the most painful examples of want of confidence. look at these glasses. he who could mistrust poison in this wine would mistrust consumption in hebe's cheek. while, as for suspicions against the dealers in wine and sellers of it, those who cherish such suspicions can have but limited trust in the human heart. each human heart they must think to be much like each bottle of port, not such port as this, but such port as they hold to. strange traducers, who see good faith in nothing, however sacred. not medicines, not the wine in sacraments, has escaped them. the doctor with his phial, and the priest with his chalice, they deem equally the unconscious dispensers of bogus cordials to the dying." "dreadful!" "dreadful indeed," said the cosmopolitan solemnly. "these distrusters stab at the very soul of confidence. if this wine," impressively holding up his full glass, "if this wine with its bright promise be not true, how shall man be, whose promise can be no brighter? but if wine be false, while men are true, whither shall fly convivial geniality? to think of sincerely-genial souls drinking each other's health at unawares in perfidious and murderous drugs!" "horrible!" "much too much so to be true, charlie. let us forget it. come, you are my entertainer on this occasion, and yet you don't pledge me. i have been waiting for it." "pardon, pardon," half confusedly and half ostentatiously lifting his glass. "i pledge you, frank, with my whole heart, believe me," taking a draught too decorous to be large, but which, small though it was, was followed by a slight involuntary wryness to the mouth. "and i return you the pledge, charlie, heart-warm as it came to me, and honest as this wine i drink it in," reciprocated the cosmopolitan with princely kindliness in his gesture, taking a generous swallow, concluding in a smack, which, though audible, was not so much so as to be unpleasing. "talking of alleged spuriousness of wines," said he, tranquilly setting down his glass, and then sloping back his head and with friendly fixedness eying the wine, "perhaps the strangest part of those allegings is, that there is, as claimed, a kind of man who, while convinced that on this continent most wines are shams, yet still drinks away at them; accounting wine so fine a thing, that even the sham article is better than none at all. and if the temperance people urge that, by this course, he will sooner or later be undermined in health, he answers, 'and do you think i don't know that? but health without cheer i hold a bore; and cheer, even of the spurious sort, has its price, which i am willing to pay.'" "such a man, frank, must have a disposition ungovernably bacchanalian." "yes, if such a man there be, which i don't credit. it is a fable, but a fable from which i once heard a person of less genius than grotesqueness draw a moral even more extravagant than the fable itself. he said that it illustrated, as in a parable, how that a man of a disposition ungovernably good-natured might still familiarly associate with men, though, at the same time, he believed the greater part of men false-hearted--accounting society so sweet a thing that even the spurious sort was better than none at all. and if the rochefoucaultites urge that, by this course, he will sooner or later be undermined in security, he answers, 'and do you think i don't know that? but security without society i hold a bore; and society, even of the spurious sort, has its price, which i am willing to pay.'" "a most singular theory," said the stranger with a slight fidget, eying his companion with some inquisitiveness, "indeed, frank, a most slanderous thought," he exclaimed in sudden heat and with an involuntary look almost of being personally aggrieved. "in one sense it merits all you say, and more," rejoined the other with wonted mildness, "but, for a kind of drollery in it, charity might, perhaps, overlook something of the wickedness. humor is, in fact, so blessed a thing, that even in the least virtuous product of the human mind, if there can be found but nine good jokes, some philosophers are clement enough to affirm that those nine good jokes should redeem all the wicked thoughts, though plenty as the populace of sodom. at any rate, this same humor has something, there is no telling what, of beneficence in it, it is such a catholicon and charm--nearly all men agreeing in relishing it, though they may agree in little else--and in its way it undeniably does such a deal of familiar good in the world, that no wonder it is almost a proverb, that a man of humor, a man capable of a good loud laugh--seem how he may in other things--can hardly be a heartless scamp." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other, pointing to the figure of a pale pauper-boy on the deck below, whose pitiableness was touched, as it were, with ludicrousness by a pair of monstrous boots, apparently some mason's discarded ones, cracked with drouth, half eaten by lime, and curled up about the toe like a bassoon. "look--ha, ha, ha!" "i see," said the other, with what seemed quiet appreciation, but of a kind expressing an eye to the grotesque, without blindness to what in this case accompanied it, "i see; and the way in which it moves you, charlie, comes in very apropos to point the proverb i was speaking of. indeed, had you intended this effect, it could not have been more so. for who that heard that laugh, but would as naturally argue from it a sound heart as sound lungs? true, it is said that a man may smile, and smile, and smile, and be a villain; but it is not said that a man may laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and be one, is it, charlie?" "ha, ha, ha!--no no, no no." "why charlie, your explosions illustrate my remarks almost as aptly as the chemist's imitation volcano did his lectures. but even if experience did not sanction the proverb, that a good laugher cannot be a bad man, i should yet feel bound in confidence to believe it, since it is a saying current among the people, and i doubt not originated among them, and hence _must_ be true; for the voice of the people is the voice of truth. don't you think so?" "of course i do. if truth don't speak through the people, it never speaks at all; so i heard one say." "a true saying. but we stray. the popular notion of humor, considered as index to the heart, would seem curiously confirmed by aristotle--i think, in his 'politics,' (a work, by-the-by, which, however it may be viewed upon the whole, yet, from the tenor of certain sections, should not, without precaution, be placed in the hands of youth)--who remarks that the least lovable men in history seem to have had for humor not only a disrelish, but a hatred; and this, in some cases, along with an extraordinary dry taste for practical punning. i remember it is related of phalaris, the capricious tyrant of sicily, that he once caused a poor fellow to be beheaded on a horse-block, for no other cause than having a horse-laugh." "funny phalaris!" "cruel phalaris!" as after fire-crackers, there was a pause, both looking downward on the table as if mutually struck by the contrast of exclamations, and pondering upon its significance, if any. so, at least, it seemed; but on one side it might have been otherwise: for presently glancing up, the cosmopolitan said: "in the instance of the moral, drolly cynic, drawn from the queer bacchanalian fellow we were speaking of, who had his reasons for still drinking spurious wine, though knowing it to be such--there, i say, we have an example of what is certainly a wicked thought, but conceived in humor. i will now give you one of a wicked thought conceived in wickedness. you shall compare the two, and answer, whether in the one case the sting is not neutralized by the humor, and whether in the other the absence of humor does not leave the sting free play. i once heard a wit, a mere wit, mind, an irreligious parisian wit, say, with regard to the temperance movement, that none, to their personal benefit, joined it sooner than niggards and knaves; because, as he affirmed, the one by it saved money and the other made money, as in ship-owners cutting off the spirit ration without giving its equivalent, and gamblers and all sorts of subtle tricksters sticking to cold water, the better to keep a cool head for business." "a wicked thought, indeed!" cried the stranger, feelingly. "yes," leaning over the table on his elbow and genially gesturing at him with his forefinger: "yes, and, as i said, you don't remark the sting of it?" "i do, indeed. most calumnious thought, frank!" "no humor in it?" "not a bit!" "well now, charlie," eying him with moist regard, "let us drink. it appears to me you don't drink freely." "oh, oh--indeed, indeed--i am not backward there. i protest, a freer drinker than friend charlie you will find nowhere," with feverish zeal snatching his glass, but only in the sequel to dally with it. "by-the-way, frank," said he, perhaps, or perhaps not, to draw attention from himself, "by-the-way, i saw a good thing the other day; capital thing; a panegyric on the press, it pleased me so, i got it by heart at two readings. it is a kind of poetry, but in a form which stands in something the same relation to blank verse which that does to rhyme. a sort of free-and-easy chant with refrains to it. shall i recite it?" "anything in praise of the press i shall be happy to hear," rejoined the cosmopolitan, "the more so," he gravely proceeded, "as of late i have observed in some quarters a disposition to disparage the press." "disparage the press?" "even so; some gloomy souls affirming that it is proving with that great invention as with brandy or eau-de-vie, which, upon its first discovery, was believed by the doctors to be, as its french name implies, a panacea--a notion which experience, it may be thought, has not fully verified." "you surprise me, frank. are there really those who so decry the press? tell me more. their reasons." "reasons they have none, but affirmations they have many; among other things affirming that, while under dynastic despotisms, the press is to the people little but an improvisatore, under popular ones it is too apt to be their jack cade. in fine, these sour sages regard the press in the light of a colt's revolver, pledged to no cause but his in whose chance hands it may be; deeming the one invention an improvement upon the pen, much akin to what the other is upon the pistol; involving, along with the multiplication of the barrel, no consecration of the aim. the term 'freedom of the press' they consider on a par with _freedom of colt's revolver_. hence, for truth and the right, they hold, to indulge hopes from the one is little more sensible than for kossuth and mazzini to indulge hopes from the other. heart-breaking views enough, you think; but their refutation is in every true reformer's contempt. is it not so?" "without doubt. but go on, go on. i like to hear you," flatteringly brimming up his glass for him. "for one," continued the cosmopolitan, grandly swelling his chest, "i hold the press to be neither the people's improvisatore, nor jack cade; neither their paid fool, nor conceited drudge. i think interest never prevails with it over duty. the press still speaks for truth though impaled, in the teeth of lies though intrenched. disdaining for it the poor name of cheap diffuser of news, i claim for it the independent apostleship of advancer of knowledge:--the iron paul! paul, i say; for not only does the press advance knowledge, but righteousness. in the press, as in the sun, resides, my dear charlie, a dedicated principle of beneficent force and light. for the satanic press, by its coappearance with the apostolic, it is no more an aspersion to that, than to the true sun is the coappearance of the mock one. for all the baleful-looking parhelion, god apollo dispenses the day. in a word, charlie, what the sovereign of england is titularly, i hold the press to be actually--defender of the faith!--defender of the faith in the final triumph of truth over error, metaphysics over superstition, theory over falsehood, machinery over nature, and the good man over the bad. such are my views, which, if stated at some length, you, charlie, must pardon, for it is a theme upon which i cannot speak with cold brevity. and now i am impatient for your panegyric, which, i doubt not, will put mine to the blush." "it is rather in the blush-giving vein," smiled the other; "but such as it is, frank, you shall have it." "tell me when you are about to begin," said the cosmopolitan, "for, when at public dinners the press is toasted, i always drink the toast standing, and shall stand while you pronounce the panegyric." "very good, frank; you may stand up now." he accordingly did so, when the stranger likewise rose, and uplifting the ruby wine-flask, began. chapter xxx. opening with a poetical eulogy of the press and continuing with talk inspired by the same. "'praise be unto the press, not faust's, but noah's; let us extol and magnify the press, the true press of noah, from which breaketh the true morning. praise be unto the press, not the black press but the red; let us extol and magnify the press, the red press of noah, from which cometh inspiration. ye pressmen of the rhineland and the rhine, join in with all ye who tread out the glad tidings on isle madeira or mitylene.--who giveth redness of eyes by making men long to tarry at the fine print?--praise be unto the press, the rosy press of noah, which giveth rosiness of hearts, by making men long to tarry at the rosy wine.--who hath babblings and contentions? who, without cause, inflicteth wounds? praise be unto the press, the kindly press of noah, which knitteth friends, which fuseth foes.--who may be bribed?--who may be bound?--praise be unto the press, the free press of noah, which will not lie for tyrants, but make tyrants speak the truth.--then praise be unto the press, the frank old press of noah; then let us extol and magnify the press, the brave old press of noah; then let us with roses garland and enwreath the press, the grand old press of noah, from which flow streams of knowledge which give man a bliss no more unreal than his pain.'" "you deceived me," smiled the cosmopolitan, as both now resumed their seats; "you roguishly took advantage of my simplicity; you archly played upon my enthusiasm. but never mind; the offense, if any, was so charming, i almost wish you would offend again. as for certain poetic left-handers in your panegyric, those i cheerfully concede to the indefinite privileges of the poet. upon the whole, it was quite in the lyric style--a style i always admire on account of that spirit of sibyllic confidence and assurance which is, perhaps, its prime ingredient. but come," glancing at his companion's glass, "for a lyrist, you let the bottle stay with you too long." "the lyre and the vine forever!" cried the other in his rapture, or what seemed such, heedless of the hint, "the vine, the vine! is it not the most graceful and bounteous of all growths? and, by its being such, is not something meant--divinely meant? as i live, a vine, a catawba vine, shall be planted on my grave!" "a genial thought; but your glass there." "oh, oh," taking a moderate sip, "but you, why don't you drink?" "you have forgotten, my dear charlie, what i told you of my previous convivialities to-day." "oh," cried the other, now in manner quite abandoned to the lyric mood, not without contrast to the easy sociability of his companion. "oh, one can't drink too much of good old wine--the genuine, mellow old port. pooh, pooh! drink away." "then keep me company." "of course," with a flourish, taking another sip--"suppose we have cigars. never mind your pipe there; a pipe is best when alone. i say, waiter, bring some cigars--your best." they were brought in a pretty little bit of western pottery, representing some kind of indian utensil, mummy-colored, set down in a mass of tobacco leaves, whose long, green fans, fancifully grouped, formed with peeps of red the sides of the receptacle. accompanying it were two accessories, also bits of pottery, but smaller, both globes; one in guise of an apple flushed with red and gold to the life, and, through a cleft at top, you saw it was hollow. this was for the ashes. the other, gray, with wrinkled surface, in the likeness of a wasp's nest, was the match-box. "there," said the stranger, pushing over the cigar-stand, "help yourself, and i will touch you off," taking a match. "nothing like tobacco," he added, when the fumes of the cigar began to wreathe, glancing from the smoker to the pottery, "i will have a virginia tobacco-plant set over my grave beside the catawba vine." "improvement upon your first idea, which by itself was good--but you don't smoke." "presently, presently--let me fill your glass again. you don't drink." "thank you; but no more just now. fill _your_ glass." "presently, presently; do you drink on. never mind me. now that it strikes me, let me say, that he who, out of superfine gentility or fanatic morality, denies himself tobacco, suffers a more serious abatement in the cheap pleasures of life than the dandy in his iron boot, or the celibate on his iron cot. while for him who would fain revel in tobacco, but cannot, it is a thing at which philanthropists must weep, to see such an one, again and again, madly returning to the cigar, which, for his incompetent stomach, he cannot enjoy, while still, after each shameful repulse, the sweet dream of the impossible good goads him on to his fierce misery once more--poor eunuch!" "i agree with you," said the cosmopolitan, still gravely social, "but you don't smoke." "presently, presently, do you smoke on. as i was saying about----" "but _why_ don't you smoke--come. you don't think that tobacco, when in league with wine, too much enhances the latter's vinous quality--in short, with certain constitutions tends to impair self-possession, do you?" "to think that, were treason to good fellowship," was the warm disclaimer. "no, no. but the fact is, there is an unpropitious flavor in my mouth just now. ate of a diabolical ragout at dinner, so i shan't smoke till i have washed away the lingering memento of it with wine. but smoke away, you, and pray, don't forget to drink. by-the-way, while we sit here so companionably, giving loose to any companionable nothing, your uncompanionable friend, coonskins, is, by pure contrast, brought to recollection. if he were but here now, he would see how much of real heart-joy he denies himself by not hob-a-nobbing with his kind." "why," with loitering emphasis, slowly withdrawing his cigar, "i thought i had undeceived you there. i thought you had come to a better understanding of my eccentric friend." "well, i thought so, too; but first impressions will return, you know. in truth, now that i think of it, i am led to conjecture from chance things which dropped from coonskins, during the little interview i had with him, that he is not a missourian by birth, but years ago came west here, a young misanthrope from the other side of the alleghanies, less to make his fortune, than to flee man. now, since they say trifles sometimes effect great results, i shouldn't wonder, if his history were probed, it would be found that what first indirectly gave his sad bias to coonskins was his disgust at reading in boyhood the advice of polonius to laertes--advice which, in the selfishness it inculcates, is almost on a par with a sort of ballad upon the economies of money-making, to be occasionally seen pasted against the desk of small retail traders in new england." "i do hope now, my dear fellow," said the cosmopolitan with an air of bland protest, "that, in my presence at least, you will throw out nothing to the prejudice of the sons of the puritans." "hey-day and high times indeed," exclaimed the other, nettled, "sons of the puritans forsooth! and who be puritans, that i, an alabamaian, must do them reverence? a set of sourly conceited old malvolios, whom shakespeare laughs his fill at in his comedies." "pray, what were you about to suggest with regard to polonius," observed the cosmopolitan with quiet forbearance, expressive of the patience of a superior mind at the petulance of an inferior one; "how do you characterize his advice to laertes?" "as false, fatal, and calumnious," exclaimed the other, with a degree of ardor befitting one resenting a stigma upon the family escutcheon, "and for a father to give his son--monstrous. the case you see is this: the son is going abroad, and for the first. what does the father? invoke god's blessing upon him? put the blessed bible in his trunk? no. crams him with maxims smacking of my lord chesterfield, with maxims of france, with maxims of italy." "no, no, be charitable, not that. why, does he not among other things say:-- 'the friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel'? is that compatible with maxims of italy?" "yes it is, frank. don't you see? laertes is to take the best of care of his friends--his proved friends, on the same principle that a wine-corker takes the best of care of his proved bottles. when a bottle gets a sharp knock and don't break, he says, 'ah, i'll keep that bottle.' why? because he loves it? no, he has particular use for it." "dear, dear!" appealingly turning in distress, "that--that kind of criticism is--is--in fact--it won't do." "won't truth do, frank? you are so charitable with everybody, do but consider the tone of the speech. now i put it to you, frank; is there anything in it hortatory to high, heroic, disinterested effort? anything like 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor?' and, in other points, what desire seems most in the father's mind, that his son should cherish nobleness for himself, or be on his guard against the contrary thing in others? an irreligious warner, frank--no devout counselor, is polonius. i hate him. nor can i bear to hear your veterans of the world affirm, that he who steers through life by the advice of old polonius will not steer among the breakers." "no, no--i hope nobody affirms that," rejoined the cosmopolitan, with tranquil abandonment; sideways reposing his arm at full length upon the table. "i hope nobody affirms that; because, if polonius' advice be taken in your sense, then the recommendation of it by men of experience would appear to involve more or less of an unhandsome sort of reflection upon human nature. and yet," with a perplexed air, "your suggestions have put things in such a strange light to me as in fact a little to disturb my previous notions of polonius and what he says. to be frank, by your ingenuity you have unsettled me there, to that degree that were it not for our coincidence of opinion in general, i should almost think i was now at length beginning to feel the ill effect of an immature mind, too much consorting with a mature one, except on the ground of first principles in common." "really and truly," cried the other with a kind of tickled modesty and pleased concern, "mine is an understanding too weak to throw out grapnels and hug another to it. i have indeed heard of some great scholars in these days, whose boast is less that they have made disciples than victims. but for me, had i the power to do such things, i have not the heart to desire." "i believe you, my dear charlie. and yet, i repeat, by your commentaries on polonius you have, i know not how, unsettled me; so that now i don't exactly see how shakespeare meant the words he puts in polonius' mouth." "some say that he meant them to open people's eyes; but i don't think so." "open their eyes?" echoed the cosmopolitan, slowly expanding his; "what is there in this world for one to open his eyes to? i mean in the sort of invidious sense you cite?" "well, others say he meant to corrupt people's morals; and still others, that he had no express intention at all, but in effect opens their eyes and corrupts their morals in one operation. all of which i reject." "of course you reject so crude an hypothesis; and yet, to confess, in reading shakespeare in my closet, struck by some passage, i have laid down the volume, and said: 'this shakespeare is a queer man.' at times seeming irresponsible, he does not always seem reliable. there appears to be a certain--what shall i call it?--hidden sun, say, about him, at once enlightening and mystifying. now, i should be afraid to say what i have sometimes thought that hidden sun might be." "do you think it was the true light?" with clandestine geniality again filling the other's glass. "i would prefer to decline answering a categorical question there. shakespeare has got to be a kind of deity. prudent minds, having certain latent thoughts concerning him, will reserve them in a condition of lasting probation. still, as touching avowable speculations, we are permitted a tether. shakespeare himself is to be adored, not arraigned; but, so we do it with humility, we may a little canvass his characters. there's his autolycus now, a fellow that always puzzled me. how is one to take autolycus? a rogue so happy, so lucky, so triumphant, of so almost captivatingly vicious a career that a virtuous man reduced to the poor-house (were such a contingency conceivable), might almost long to change sides with him. and yet, see the words put into his mouth: 'oh,' cries autolycus, as he comes galloping, gay as a buck, upon the stage, 'oh,' he laughs, 'oh what a fool is honesty, and trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman.' think of that. trust, that is, confidence--that is, the thing in this universe the sacredest--is rattlingly pronounced just the simplest. and the scenes in which the rogue figures seem purposely devised for verification of his principles. mind, charlie, i do not say it _is_ so, far from it; but i _do_ say it seems so. yes, autolycus would seem a needy varlet acting upon the persuasion that less is to be got by invoking pockets than picking them, more to be made by an expert knave than a bungling beggar; and for this reason, as he thinks, that the soft heads outnumber the soft hearts. the devil's drilled recruit, autolycus is joyous as if he wore the livery of heaven. when disturbed by the character and career of one thus wicked and thus happy, my sole consolation is in the fact that no such creature ever existed, except in the powerful imagination which evoked him. and yet, a creature, a living creature, he is, though only a poet was his maker. it may be, that in that paper-and-ink investiture of his, autolycus acts more effectively upon mankind than he would in a flesh-and-blood one. can his influence be salutary? true, in autolycus there is humor; but though, according to my principle, humor is in general to be held a saving quality, yet the case of autolycus is an exception; because it is his humor which, so to speak, oils his mischievousness. the bravadoing mischievousness of autolycus is slid into the world on humor, as a pirate schooner, with colors flying, is launched into the sea on greased ways." "i approve of autolycus as little as you," said the stranger, who, during his companion's commonplaces, had seemed less attentive to them than to maturing with in his own mind the original conceptions destined to eclipse them. "but i cannot believe that autolycus, mischievous as he must prove upon the stage, can be near so much so as such a character as polonius." "i don't know about that," bluntly, and yet not impolitely, returned the cosmopolitan; "to be sure, accepting your view of the old courtier, then if between him and autolycus you raise the question of unprepossessingness, i grant you the latter comes off best. for a moist rogue may tickle the midriff, while a dry worldling may but wrinkle the spleen." "but polonius is not dry," said the other excitedly; "he drules. one sees the fly-blown old fop drule and look wise. his vile wisdom is made the viler by his vile rheuminess. the bowing and cringing, time-serving old sinner--is such an one to give manly precepts to youth? the discreet, decorous, old dotard-of-state; senile prudence; fatuous soullessness! the ribanded old dog is paralytic all down one side, and that the side of nobleness. his soul is gone out. only nature's automatonism keeps him on his legs. as with some old trees, the bark survives the pith, and will still stand stiffly up, though but to rim round punk, so the body of old polonius has outlived his soul." "come, come," said the cosmopolitan with serious air, almost displeased; "though i yield to none in admiration of earnestness, yet, i think, even earnestness may have limits. to human minds, strong language is always more or less distressing. besides, polonius is an old man--as i remember him upon the stage--with snowy locks. now charity requires that such a figure--think of it how you will--should at least be treated with civility. moreover, old age is ripeness, and i once heard say, 'better ripe than raw.'" "but not better rotten than raw!" bringing down his hand with energy on the table. "why, bless me," in mild surprise contemplating his heated comrade, "how you fly out against this unfortunate polonius--a being that never was, nor will be. and yet, viewed in a christian light," he added pensively, "i don't know that anger against this man of straw is a whit less wise than anger against a man of flesh, madness, to be mad with anything." "that may be, or may not be," returned the other, a little testily, perhaps; "but i stick to what i said, that it is better to be raw than rotten. and what is to be feared on that head, may be known from this: that it is with the best of hearts as with the best of pears--a dangerous experiment to linger too long upon the scene. this did polonius. thank fortune, frank, i am young, every tooth sound in my head, and if good wine can keep me where i am, long shall i remain so." "true," with a smile. "but wine, to do good, must be drunk. you have talked much and well, charlie; but drunk little and indifferently--fill up." "presently, presently," with a hasty and preoccupied air. "if i remember right, polonius hints as much as that one should, under no circumstances, commit the indiscretion of aiding in a pecuniary way an unfortunate friend. he drules out some stale stuff about 'loan losing both itself and friend,' don't he? but our bottle; is it glued fast? keep it moving, my dear frank. good wine, and upon my soul i begin to feel it, and through me old polonius--yes, this wine, i fear, is what excites me so against that detestable old dog without a tooth." upon this, the cosmopolitan, cigar in mouth, slowly raised the bottle, and brought it slowly to the light, looking at it steadfastly, as one might at a thermometer in august, to see not how low it was, but how high. then whiffing out a puff, set it down, and said: "well, charlie, if what wine you have drunk came out of this bottle, in that case i should say that if--supposing a case--that if one fellow had an object in getting another fellow fuddled, and this fellow to be fuddled was of your capacity, the operation would be comparatively inexpensive. what do you think, charlie?" "why, i think i don't much admire the supposition," said charlie, with a look of resentment; "it ain't safe, depend upon it, frank, to venture upon too jocose suppositions with one's friends." "why, bless you, frank, my supposition wasn't personal, but general. you mustn't be so touchy." "if i am touchy it is the wine. sometimes, when i freely drink, it has a touchy effect on me, i have observed." "freely drink? you haven't drunk the perfect measure of one glass, yet. while for me, this must be my fourth or fifth, thanks to your importunity; not to speak of all i drank this morning, for old acquaintance' sake. drink, drink; you must drink." "oh, i drink while you are talking," laughed the other; "you have not noticed it, but i have drunk my share. have a queer way i learned from a sedate old uncle, who used to tip off his glass-unperceived. do you fill up, and my glass, too. there! now away with that stump, and have a new cigar. good fellowship forever!" again in the lyric mood, "say, frank, are we not men? i say are we not human? tell me, were they not human who engendered us, as before heaven i believe they shall be whom we shall engender? fill up, up, up, my friend. let the ruby tide aspire, and all ruby aspirations with it! up, fill up! be we convivial. and conviviality, what is it? the word, i mean; what expresses it? a living together. but bats live together, and did you ever hear of convivial bats?" "if i ever did," observed the cosmopolitan, "it has quite slipped my recollection." "but _why_ did you never hear of convivial bats, nor anybody else? because bats, though they live together, live not together genially. bats are not genial souls. but men are; and how delightful to think that the word which among men signifies the highest pitch of geniality, implies, as indispensable auxiliary, the cheery benediction of the bottle. yes, frank, to live together in the finest sense, we must drink together. and so, what wonder that he who loves not wine, that sober wretch has a lean heart--a heart like a wrung-out old bluing-bag, and loves not his kind? out upon him, to the rag-house with him, hang him--the ungenial soul!" "oh, now, now, can't you be convivial without being censorious? i like easy, unexcited conviviality. for the sober man, really, though for my part i naturally love a cheerful glass, i will not prescribe my nature as the law to other natures. so don't abuse the sober man. conviviality is one good thing, and sobriety is another good thing. so don't be one-sided." "well, if i am one-sided, it is the wine. indeed, indeed, i have indulged too genially. my excitement upon slight provocation shows it. but yours is a stronger head; drink you. by the way, talking of geniality, it is much on the increase in these days, ain't it?" "it is, and i hail the fact. nothing better attests the advance of the humanitarian spirit. in former and less humanitarian ages--the ages of amphitheatres and gladiators--geniality was mostly confined to the fireside and table. but in our age--the age of joint-stock companies and free-and-easies--it is with this precious quality as with precious gold in old peru, which pizarro found making up the scullion's sauce-pot as the inca's crown. yes, we golden boys, the moderns, have geniality everywhere--a bounty broadcast like noonlight." "true, true; my sentiments again. geniality has invaded each department and profession. we have genial senators, genial authors, genial lecturers, genial doctors, genial clergymen, genial surgeons, and the next thing we shall have genial hangmen." "as to the last-named sort of person," said the cosmopolitan, "i trust that the advancing spirit of geniality will at last enable us to dispense with him. no murderers--no hangmen. and surely, when the whole world shall have been genialized, it will be as out of place to talk of murderers, as in a christianized world to talk of sinners." "to pursue the thought," said the other, "every blessing is attended with some evil, and----" "stay," said the cosmopolitan, "that may be better let pass for a loose saying, than for hopeful doctrine." "well, assuming the saying's truth, it would apply to the future supremacy of the genial spirit, since then it will fare with the hangman as it did with the weaver when the spinning-jenny whizzed into the ascendant. thrown out of employment, what could jack ketch turn his hand to? butchering?" "that he could turn his hand to it seems probable; but that, under the circumstances, it would be appropriate, might in some minds admit of a question. for one, i am inclined to think--and i trust it will not be held fastidiousness--that it would hardly be suitable to the dignity of our nature, that an individual, once employed in attending the last hours of human unfortunates, should, that office being extinct, transfer himself to the business of attending the last hours of unfortunate cattle. i would suggest that the individual turn valet--a vocation to which he would, perhaps, appear not wholly inadapted by his familiar dexterity about the person. in particular, for giving a finishing tie to a gentleman's cravat, i know few who would, in all likelihood, be, from previous occupation, better fitted than the professional person in question." "are you in earnest?" regarding the serene speaker with unaffected curiosity; "are you really in earnest?" "i trust i am never otherwise," was the mildly earnest reply; "but talking of the advance of geniality, i am not without hopes that it will eventually exert its influence even upon so difficult a subject as the misanthrope." "a genial misanthrope! i thought i had stretched the rope pretty hard in talking of genial hangmen. a genial misanthrope is no more conceivable than a surly philanthropist." "true," lightly depositing in an unbroken little cylinder the ashes of his cigar, "true, the two you name are well opposed." "why, you talk as if there _was_ such a being as a surly philanthropist." "i do. my eccentric friend, whom you call coonskins, is an example. does he not, as i explained to you, hide under a surly air a philanthropic heart? now, the genial misanthrope, when, in the process of eras, he shall turn up, will be the converse of this; under an affable air, he will hide a misanthropical heart. in short, the genial misanthrope will be a new kind of monster, but still no small improvement upon the original one, since, instead of making faces and throwing stones at people, like that poor old crazy man, timon, he will take steps, fiddle in hand, and set the tickled world a'dancing. in a word, as the progress of christianization mellows those in manner whom it cannot mend in mind, much the same will it prove with the progress of genialization. and so, thanks to geniality, the misanthrope, reclaimed from his boorish address, will take on refinement and softness--to so genial a degree, indeed, that it may possibly fall out that the misanthrope of the coming century will be almost as popular as, i am sincerely sorry to say, some philanthropists of the present time would seem not to be, as witness my eccentric friend named before." "well," cried the other, a little weary, perhaps, of a speculation so abstract, "well, however it may be with the century to come, certainly in the century which is, whatever else one may be, he must be genial or he is nothing. so fill up, fill up, and be genial!" "i am trying my best," said the cosmopolitan, still calmly companionable. "a moment since, we talked of pizarro, gold, and peru; no doubt, now, you remember that when the spaniard first entered atahalpa's treasure-chamber, and saw such profusion of plate stacked up, right and left, with the wantonness of old barrels in a brewer's yard, the needy fellow felt a twinge of misgiving, of want of confidence, as to the genuineness of an opulence so profuse. he went about rapping the shining vases with his knuckles. but it was all gold, pure gold, good gold, sterling gold, which how cheerfully would have been stamped such at goldsmiths' hall. and just so those needy minds, which, through their own insincerity, having no confidence in mankind, doubt lest the liberal geniality of this age be spurious. they are small pizarros in their way--by the very princeliness of men's geniality stunned into distrust of it." "far be such distrust from you and me, my genial friend," cried the other fervently; "fill up, fill up!" "well, this all along seems a division of labor," smiled the cosmopolitan. "i do about all the drinking, and you do about all--the genial. but yours is a nature competent to do that to a large population. and now, my friend," with a peculiarly grave air, evidently foreshadowing something not unimportant, and very likely of close personal interest; "wine, you know, opens the heart, and----" "opens it!" with exultation, "it thaws it right out. every heart is ice-bound till wine melt it, and reveal the tender grass and sweet herbage budding below, with every dear secret, hidden before like a dropped jewel in a snow-bank, lying there unsuspected through winter till spring." "and just in that way, my dear charlie, is one of my little secrets now to be shown forth." "ah!" eagerly moving round his chair, "what is it?" "be not so impetuous, my dear charlie. let me explain. you see, naturally, i am a man not overgifted with assurance; in general, i am, if anything, diffidently reserved; so, if i shall presently seem otherwise, the reason is, that you, by the geniality you have evinced in all your talk, and especially the noble way in which, while affirming your good opinion of men, you intimated that you never could prove false to any man, but most by your indignation at a particularly illiberal passage in polonius' advice--in short, in short," with extreme embarrassment, "how shall i express what i mean, unless i add that by your whole character you impel me to throw myself upon your nobleness; in one word, put confidence in you, a generous confidence?" "i see, i see," with heightened interest, "something of moment you wish to confide. now, what is it, frank? love affair?" "no, not that." "what, then, my _dear_ frank? speak--depend upon me to the last. out with it." "out it shall come, then," said the cosmopolitan. "i am in want, urgent want, of money." chapter xxxi. a metamorphosis more surprising than any in ovid. "in want of money!" pushing back his chair as from a suddenly-disclosed man-trap or crater. "yes," naïvely assented the cosmopolitan, "and you are going to loan me fifty dollars. i could almost wish i was in need of more, only for your sake. yes, my dear charlie, for your sake; that you might the better prove your noble, kindliness, my dear charlie." "none of your dear charlies," cried the other, springing to his feet, and buttoning up his coat, as if hastily to depart upon a long journey. "why, why, why?" painfully looking up. "none of your why, why, whys!" tossing out a foot, "go to the devil, sir! beggar, impostor!--never so deceived in a man in my life." chapter xxxii. showing that the age of magic and magicians is not yet over. while speaking or rather hissing those words, the boon companion underwent much such a change as one reads of in fairy-books. out of old materials sprang a new creature. cadmus glided into the snake. the cosmopolitan rose, the traces of previous feeling vanished; looked steadfastly at his transformed friend a moment, then, taking ten half-eagles from his pocket, stooped down, and laid them, one by one, in a circle round him; and, retiring a pace, waved his long tasseled pipe with the air of a necromancer, an air heightened by his costume, accompanying each wave with a solemn murmur of cabalistical words. meantime, he within the magic-ring stood suddenly rapt, exhibiting every symptom of a successful charm--a turned cheek, a fixed attitude, a frozen eye; spellbound, not more by the waving wand than by the ten invincible talismans on the floor. "reappear, reappear, reappear, oh, my former friend! replace this hideous apparition with thy blest shape, and be the token of thy return the words, 'my dear frank.'" "my dear frank," now cried the restored friend, cordially stepping out of the ring, with regained self-possession regaining lost identity, "my dear frank, what a funny man you are; full of fun as an egg of meat. how could you tell me that absurd story of your being in need? but i relish a good joke too well to spoil it by letting on. of course, i humored the thing; and, on my side, put on all the cruel airs you would have me. come, this little episode of fictitious estrangement will but enhance the delightful reality. let us sit down again, and finish our bottle." "with all my heart," said the cosmopolitan, dropping the necromancer with the same facility with which he had assumed it. "yes," he added, soberly picking up the gold pieces, and returning them with a chink to his pocket, "yes, i am something of a funny man now and then; while for you, charlie," eying him in tenderness, "what you say about your humoring the thing is true enough; never did man second a joke better than you did just now. you played your part better than i did mine; you played it, charlie, to the life." "you see, i once belonged to an amateur play company; that accounts for it. but come, fill up, and let's talk of something else." "well," acquiesced the cosmopolitan, seating himself, and quietly brimming his glass, "what shall we talk about?" "oh, anything you please," a sort of nervously accommodating. "well, suppose we talk about charlemont?" "charlemont? what's charlemont? who's charlemont?" "you shall hear, my dear charlie," answered the cosmopolitan. "i will tell you the story of charlemont, the gentleman-madman." chapter xxxiii. which may pass for whatever it may prove to be worth. but ere be given the rather grave story of charlemont, a reply must in civility be made to a certain voice which methinks i hear, that, in view of past chapters, and more particularly the last, where certain antics appear, exclaims: how unreal all this is! who did ever dress or act like your cosmopolitan? and who, it might be returned, did ever dress or act like harlequin? strange, that in a work of amusement, this severe fidelity to real life should be exacted by any one, who, by taking up such a work, sufficiently shows that he is not unwilling to drop real life, and turn, for a time, to something different. yes, it is, indeed, strange that any one should clamor for the thing he is weary of; that any one, who, for any cause, finds real life dull, should yet demand of him who is to divert his attention from it, that he should be true to that dullness. there is another class, and with this class we side, who sit down to a work of amusement tolerantly as they sit at a play, and with much the same expectations and feelings. they look that fancy shall evoke scenes different from those of the same old crowd round the custom-house counter, and same old dishes on the boardinghouse table, with characters unlike those of the same old acquaintances they meet in the same old way every day in the same old street. and as, in real life, the proprieties will not allow people to act out themselves with that unreserve permitted to the stage; so, in books of fiction, they look not only for more entertainment, but, at bottom, even for more reality, than real life itself can show. thus, though they want novelty, they want nature, too; but nature unfettered, exhilarated, in effect transformed. in this way of thinking, the people in a fiction, like the people in a play, must dress as nobody exactly dresses, talk as nobody exactly talks, act as nobody exactly acts. it is with fiction as with religion: it should present another world, and yet one to which we feel the tie. if, then, something is to be pardoned to well-meant endeavor, surely a little is to be allowed to that writer who, in all his scenes, does but seek to minister to what, as he understands it, is the implied wish of the more indulgent lovers of entertainment, before whom harlequin can never appear in a coat too parti-colored, or cut capers too fantastic. one word more. though every one knows how bootless it is to be in all cases vindicating one's self, never mind how convinced one may be that he is never in the wrong; yet, so precious to man is the approbation of his kind, that to rest, though but under an imaginary censure applied to but a work of imagination, is no easy thing. the mention of this weakness will explain why such readers as may think they perceive something harmonious between the boisterous hilarity of the cosmopolitan with the bristling cynic, and his restrained good-nature with the boon-companion, are now referred to that chapter where some similar apparent inconsistency in another character is, on general principles, modestly endeavored to-be apologized for. chapter xxxiv. in which the cosmopolitan tells the story of the gentleman madman. "charlemont was a young merchant of french descent, living in st. louis--a man not deficient in mind, and possessed of that sterling and captivating kindliness, seldom in perfection seen but in youthful bachelors, united at times to a remarkable sort of gracefully devil-may-care and witty good-humor. of course, he was admired by everybody, and loved, as only mankind can love, by not a few. but in his twenty-ninth year a change came over him. like one whose hair turns gray in a night, so in a day charlemont turned from affable to morose. his acquaintances were passed without greeting; while, as for his confidential friends, them he pointedly, unscrupulously, and with a kind of fierceness, cut dead. "one, provoked by such conduct, would fain have resented it with words as disdainful; while another, shocked by the change, and, in concern for a friend, magnanimously overlooking affronts, implored to know what sudden, secret grief had distempered him. but from resentment and from tenderness charlemont alike turned away. "ere long, to the general surprise, the merchant charlemont was gazetted, and the same day it was reported that he had withdrawn from town, but not before placing his entire property in the hands of responsible assignees for the benefit of creditors. "whither he had vanished, none could guess. at length, nothing being heard, it was surmised that he must have made away with himself--a surmise, doubtless, originating in the remembrance of the change some months previous to his bankruptcy--a change of a sort only to be ascribed to a mind suddenly thrown from its balance. "years passed. it was spring-time, and lo, one bright morning, charlemont lounged into the st. louis coffee-houses--gay, polite, humane, companionable, and dressed in the height of costly elegance. not only was he alive, but he was himself again. upon meeting with old acquaintances, he made the first advances, and in such a manner that it was impossible not to meet him half-way. upon other old friends, whom he did not chance casually to meet, he either personally called, or left his card and compliments for them; and to several, sent presents of game or hampers of wine. "they say the world is sometimes harshly unforgiving, but it was not so to charlemont. the world feels a return of love for one who returns to it as he did. expressive of its renewed interest was a whisper, an inquiring whisper, how now, exactly, so long after his bankruptcy, it fared with charlemont's purse. rumor, seldom at a loss for answers, replied that he had spent nine years in marseilles in france, and there acquiring a second fortune, had returned with it, a man devoted henceforth to genial friendships. "added years went by, and the restored wanderer still the same; or rather, by his noble qualities, grew up like golden maize in the encouraging sun of good opinions. but still the latent wonder was, what had caused that change in him at a period when, pretty much as now, he was, to all appearance, in the possession of the same fortune, the same friends, the same popularity. but nobody thought it would be the thing to question him here. "at last, at a dinner at his house, when all the guests but one had successively departed; this remaining guest, an old acquaintance, being just enough under the influence of wine to set aside the fear of touching upon a delicate point, ventured, in a way which perhaps spoke more favorably for his heart than his tact, to beg of his host to explain the one enigma of his life. deep melancholy overspread the before cheery face of charlemont; he sat for some moments tremulously silent; then pushing a full decanter towards the guest, in a choked voice, said: 'no, no! when by art, and care, and time, flowers are made to bloom over a grave, who would seek to dig all up again only to know the mystery?--the wine.' when both glasses were filled, charlemont took his, and lifting it, added lowly: 'if ever, in days to come, you shall see ruin at hand, and, thinking you understand mankind, shall tremble for your friendships, and tremble for your pride; and, partly through love for the one and fear for the other, shall resolve to be beforehand with the world, and save it from a sin by prospectively taking that sin to yourself, then will you do as one i now dream of once did, and like him will you suffer; but how fortunate and how grateful should you be, if like him, after all that had happened, you could be a little happy again.' "when the guest went away, it was with the persuasion, that though outwardly restored in mind as in fortune, yet, some taint of charlemont's old malady survived, and that it was not well for friends to touch one dangerous string." chapter xxxv. in which the cosmopolitan strikingly evinces the artlessness of his nature. "well, what do you think of the story of charlemont?" mildly asked he who had told it. "a very strange one," answered the auditor, who had been such not with perfect ease, "but is it true?" "of course not; it is a story which i told with the purpose of every story-teller--to amuse. hence, if it seem strange to you, that strangeness is the romance; it is what contrasts it with real life; it is the invention, in brief, the fiction as opposed to the fact. for do but ask yourself, my dear charlie," lovingly leaning over towards him, "i rest it with your own heart now, whether such a forereaching motive as charlemont hinted he had acted on in his change--whether such a motive, i say, were a sort of one at all justified by the nature of human society? would you, for one, turn the cold shoulder to a friend--a convivial one, say, whose pennilessness should be suddenly revealed to you?" "how can you ask me, my dear frank? you know i would scorn such meanness." but rising somewhat disconcerted--"really, early as it is, i think i must retire; my head," putting up his hand to it, "feels unpleasantly; this confounded elixir of logwood, little as i drank of it, has played the deuce with me." "little as you drank of this elixir of logwood? why, charlie, you are losing your mind. to talk so of the genuine, mellow old port. yes, i think that by all means you had better away, and sleep it off. there--don't apologize--don't explain--go, go--i understand you exactly. i will see you to-morrow." chapter xxxvi. in which the cosmopolitan is accosted by a mystic, whereupon ensues pretty much such talk as might be expected. as, not without some haste, the boon companion withdrew, a stranger advanced, and touching the cosmopolitan, said: "i think i heard you say you would see that man again. be warned; don't you do so." he turned, surveying the speaker; a blue-eyed man, sandy-haired, and saxon-looking; perhaps five and forty; tall, and, but for a certain angularity, well made; little touch of the drawing-room about him, but a look of plain propriety of a puritan sort, with a kind of farmer dignity. his age seemed betokened more by his brow, placidly thoughtful, than by his general aspect, which had that look of youthfulness in maturity, peculiar sometimes to habitual health of body, the original gift of nature, or in part the effect or reward of steady temperance of the passions, kept so, perhaps, by constitution as much as morality. a neat, comely, almost ruddy cheek, coolly fresh, like a red clover-blossom at coolish dawn--the color of warmth preserved by the virtue of chill. toning the whole man, was one-knows-not-what of shrewdness and mythiness, strangely jumbled; in that way, he seemed a kind of cross between a yankee peddler and a tartar priest, though it seemed as if, at a pinch, the first would not in all probability play second fiddle to the last. "sir," said the cosmopolitan, rising and bowing with slow dignity, "if i cannot with unmixed satisfaction hail a hint pointed at one who has just been clinking the social glass with me, on the other hand, i am not disposed to underrate the motive which, in the present case, could alone have prompted such an intimation. my friend, whose seat is still warm, has retired for the night, leaving more or less in his bottle here. pray, sit down in his seat, and partake with me; and then, if you choose to hint aught further unfavorable to the man, the genial warmth of whose person in part passes into yours, and whose genial hospitality meanders through you--be it so." "quite beautiful conceits," said the stranger, now scholastically and artistically eying the picturesque speaker, as if he were a statue in the pitti palace; "very beautiful:" then with the gravest interest, "yours, sir, if i mistake not, must be a beautiful soul--one full of all love and truth; for where beauty is, there must those be." "a pleasing belief," rejoined the cosmopolitan, beginning with an even air, "and to confess, long ago it pleased me. yes, with you and schiller, i am pleased to believe that beauty is at bottom incompatible with ill, and therefore am so eccentric as to have confidence in the latent benignity of that beautiful creature, the rattle-snake, whose lithe neck and burnished maze of tawny gold, as he sleekly curls aloft in the sun, who on the prairie can behold without wonder?" as he breathed these words, he seemed so to enter into their spirit--as some earnest descriptive speakers will--as unconsciously to wreathe his form and sidelong crest his head, till he all but seemed the creature described. meantime, the stranger regarded him with little surprise, apparently, though with much contemplativeness of a mystical sort, and presently said: "when charmed by the beauty of that viper, did it never occur to you to change personalities with him? to feel what it was to be a snake? to glide unsuspected in grass? to sting, to kill at a touch; your whole beautiful body one iridescent scabbard of death? in short, did the wish never occur to you to feel yourself exempt from knowledge, and conscience, and revel for a while in the carefree, joyous life of a perfectly instinctive, unscrupulous, and irresponsible creature?" "such a wish," replied the other, not perceptibly disturbed, "i must confess, never consciously was mine. such a wish, indeed, could hardly occur to ordinary imaginations, and mine i cannot think much above the average." "but now that the idea is suggested," said the stranger, with infantile intellectuality, "does it not raise the desire?" "hardly. for though i do not think i have any uncharitable prejudice against the rattle-snake, still, i should not like to be one. if i were a rattle-snake now, there would be no such thing as being genial with men--men would be afraid of me, and then i should be a very lonesome and miserable rattle-snake." "true, men would be afraid of you. and why? because of your rattle, your hollow rattle--a sound, as i have been told, like the shaking together of small, dry skulls in a tune of the waltz of death. and here we have another beautiful truth. when any creature is by its make inimical to other creatures, nature in effect labels that creature, much as an apothecary does a poison. so that whoever is destroyed by a rattle-snake, or other harmful agent, it is his own fault. he should have respected the label. hence that significant passage in scripture, 'who will pity the charmer that is bitten with a serpent?'" "_i_ would pity him," said the cosmopolitan, a little bluntly, perhaps. "but don't you think," rejoined the other, still maintaining his passionless air, "don't you think, that for a man to pity where nature is pitiless, is a little presuming?" "let casuists decide the casuistry, but the compassion the heart decides for itself. but, sir," deepening in seriousness, "as i now for the first realize, you but a moment since introduced the word irresponsible in a way i am not used to. now, sir, though, out of a tolerant spirit, as i hope, i try my best never to be frightened at any speculation, so long as it is pursued in honesty, yet, for once, i must acknowledge that you do really, in the point cited, cause me uneasiness; because a proper view of the universe, that view which is suited to breed a proper confidence, teaches, if i err not, that since all things are justly presided over, not very many living agents but must be some way accountable." "is a rattle-snake accountable?" asked the stranger with such a preternaturally cold, gemmy glance out of his pellucid blue eye, that he seemed more a metaphysical merman than a feeling man; "is a rattle-snake accountable?" "if i will not affirm that it is," returned the other, with the caution of no inexperienced thinker, "neither will i deny it. but if we suppose it so, i need not say that such accountability is neither to you, nor me, nor the court of common pleas, but to something superior." he was proceeding, when the stranger would have interrupted him; but as reading his argument in his eye, the cosmopolitan, without waiting for it to be put into words, at once spoke to it: "you object to my supposition, for but such it is, that the rattle-snake's accountability is not by nature manifest; but might not much the same thing be urged against man's? a _reductio ad absurdum_, proving the objection vain. but if now," he continued, "you consider what capacity for mischief there is in a rattle-snake (observe, i do not charge it with being mischievous, i but say it has the capacity), could you well avoid admitting that that would be no symmetrical view of the universe which should maintain that, while to man it is forbidden to kill, without judicial cause, his fellow, yet the rattle-snake has an implied permit of unaccountability to murder any creature it takes capricious umbrage at--man included?--but," with a wearied air, "this is no genial talk; at least it is not so to me. zeal at unawares embarked me in it. i regret it. pray, sit down, and take some of this wine." "your suggestions are new to me," said the other, with a kind of condescending appreciativeness, as of one who, out of devotion to knowledge, disdains not to appropriate the least crumb of it, even from a pauper's board; "and, as i am a very athenian in hailing a new thought, i cannot consent to let it drop so abruptly. now, the rattle-snake----" "nothing more about rattle-snakes, i beseech," in distress; "i must positively decline to reenter upon that subject. sit down, sir, i beg, and take some of this wine." "to invite me to sit down with you is hospitable," collectedly acquiescing now in the change of topics; "and hospitality being fabled to be of oriental origin, and forming, as it does, the subject of a pleasing arabian romance, as well as being a very romantic thing in itself--hence i always hear the expressions of hospitality with pleasure. but, as for the wine, my regard for that beverage is so extreme, and i am so fearful of letting it sate me, that i keep my love for it in the lasting condition of an untried abstraction. briefly, i quaff immense draughts of wine from the page of hafiz, but wine from a cup i seldom as much as sip." the cosmopolitan turned a mild glance upon the speaker, who, now occupying the chair opposite him, sat there purely and coldly radiant as a prism. it seemed as if one could almost hear him vitreously chime and ring. that moment a waiter passed, whom, arresting with a sign, the cosmopolitan bid go bring a goblet of ice-water. "ice it well, waiter," said he; "and now," turning to the stranger, "will you, if you please, give me your reason for the warning words you first addressed to me?" "i hope they were not such warnings as most warnings are," said the stranger; "warnings which do not forewarn, but in mockery come after the fact. and yet something in you bids me think now, that whatever latent design your impostor friend might have had upon you, it as yet remains unaccomplished. you read his label." "and what did it say? 'this is a genial soul,' so you see you must either give up your doctrine of labels, or else your prejudice against my friend. but tell me," with renewed earnestness, "what do you take him for? what is he?" "what are you? what am i? nobody knows who anybody is. the data which life furnishes, towards forming a true estimate of any being, are as insufficient to that end as in geometry one side given would be to determine the triangle." "but is not this doctrine of triangles someway inconsistent with your doctrine of labels?" "yes; but what of that? i seldom care to be consistent. in a philosophical view, consistency is a certain level at all times, maintained in all the thoughts of one's mind. but, since nature is nearly all hill and dale, how can one keep naturally advancing in knowledge without submitting to the natural inequalities in the progress? advance into knowledge is just like advance upon the grand erie canal, where, from the character of the country, change of level is inevitable; you are locked up and locked down with perpetual inconsistencies, and yet all the time you get on; while the dullest part of the whole route is what the boatmen call the 'long level'--a consistently-flat surface of sixty miles through stagnant swamps." "in one particular," rejoined the cosmopolitan, "your simile is, perhaps, unfortunate. for, after all these weary lockings-up and lockings-down, upon how much of a higher plain do you finally stand? enough to make it an object? having from youth been taught reverence for knowledge, you must pardon me if, on but this one account, i reject your analogy. but really you someway bewitch me with your tempting discourse, so that i keep straying from my point unawares. you tell me you cannot certainly know who or what my friend is; pray, what do you conjecture him to be?" "i conjecture him to be what, among the ancient egyptians, was called a ----" using some unknown word. "a ----! and what is that?" "a ---- is what proclus, in a little note to his third book on the theology of plato, defines as ---- ----" coming out with a sentence of greek. holding up his glass, and steadily looking through its transparency, the cosmopolitan rejoined: "that, in so defining the thing, proclus set it to modern understandings in the most crystal light it was susceptible of, i will not rashly deny; still, if you could put the definition in words suited to perceptions like mine, i should take it for a favor. "a favor!" slightly lifting his cool eyebrows; "a bridal favor i understand, a knot of white ribands, a very beautiful type of the purity of true marriage; but of other favors i am yet to learn; and still, in a vague way, the word, as you employ it, strikes me as unpleasingly significant in general of some poor, unheroic submission to being done good to." here the goblet of iced-water was brought, and, in compliance with a sign from the cosmopolitan, was placed before the stranger, who, not before expressing acknowledgments, took a draught, apparently refreshing--its very coldness, as with some is the case, proving not entirely uncongenial. at last, setting down the goblet, and gently wiping from his lips the beads of water freshly clinging there as to the valve of a coral-shell upon a reef, he turned upon the cosmopolitan, and, in a manner the most cool, self-possessed, and matter-of-fact possible, said: "i hold to the metempsychosis; and whoever i may be now, i feel that i was once the stoic arrian, and have inklings of having been equally puzzled by a word in the current language of that former time, very probably answering to your word _favor_." "would you favor me by explaining?" said the cosmopolitan, blandly. "sir," responded the stranger, with a very slight degree of severity, "i like lucidity, of all things, and am afraid i shall hardly be able to converse satisfactorily with you, unless you bear it in mind." the cosmopolitan ruminatingly eyed him awhile, then said: "the best way, as i have heard, to get out of a labyrinth, is to retrace one's steps. i will accordingly retrace mine, and beg you will accompany me. in short, once again to return to the point: for what reason did you warn me against my friend?" "briefly, then, and clearly, because, as before said, i conjecture him to be what, among the ancient egyptians----" "pray, now," earnestly deprecated the cosmopolitan, "pray, now, why disturb the repose of those ancient egyptians? what to us are their words or their thoughts? are we pauper arabs, without a house of our own, that, with the mummies, we must turn squatters among the dust of the catacombs?" "pharaoh's poorest brick-maker lies proudlier in his rags than the emperor of all the russias in his hollands," oracularly said the stranger; "for death, though in a worm, is majestic; while life, though in a king, is contemptible. so talk not against mummies. it is a part of my mission to teach mankind a due reverence for mummies." fortunately, to arrest these incoherencies, or rather, to vary them, a haggard, inspired-looking man now approached--a crazy beggar, asking alms under the form of peddling a rhapsodical tract, composed by himself, and setting forth his claims to some rhapsodical apostleship. though ragged and dirty, there was about him no touch of vulgarity; for, by nature, his manner was not unrefined, his frame slender, and appeared the more so from the broad, untanned frontlet of his brow, tangled over with a disheveled mass of raven curls, throwing a still deeper tinge upon a complexion like that of a shriveled berry. nothing could exceed his look of picturesque italian ruin and dethronement, heightened by what seemed just one glimmering peep of reason, insufficient to do him any lasting good, but enough, perhaps, to suggest a torment of latent doubts at times, whether his addled dream of glory were true. accepting the tract offered him, the cosmopolitan glanced over it, and, seeming to see just what it was, closed it, put it in his pocket, eyed the man a moment, then, leaning over and presenting him with a shilling, said to him, in tones kind and considerate: "i am sorry, my friend, that i happen to be engaged just now; but, having purchased your work, i promise myself much satisfaction in its perusal at my earliest leisure." in his tattered, single-breasted frock-coat, buttoned meagerly up to his chin, the shutter-brain made him a bow, which, for courtesy, would not have misbecome a viscount, then turned with silent appeal to the stranger. but the stranger sat more like a cold prism than ever, while an expression of keen yankee cuteness, now replacing his former mystical one, lent added icicles to his aspect. his whole air said: "nothing from me." the repulsed petitioner threw a look full of resentful pride and cracked disdain upon him, and went his way. "come, now," said the cosmopolitan, a little reproachfully, "you ought to have sympathized with that man; tell me, did you feel no fellow-feeling? look at his tract here, quite in the transcendental vein." "excuse me," said the stranger, declining the tract, "i never patronize scoundrels." "scoundrels?" "i detected in him, sir, a damning peep of sense--damning, i say; for sense in a seeming madman is scoundrelism. i take him for a cunning vagabond, who picks up a vagabond living by adroitly playing the madman. did you not remark how he flinched under my eye?' "really?" drawing a long, astonished breath, "i could hardly have divined in you a temper so subtlely distrustful. flinched? to be sure he did, poor fellow; you received him with so lame a welcome. as for his adroitly playing the madman, invidious critics might object the same to some one or two strolling magi of these days. but that is a matter i know nothing about. but, once more, and for the last time, to return to the point: why sir, did you warn me against my friend? i shall rejoice, if, as i think it will prove, your want of confidence in my friend rests upon a basis equally slender with your distrust of the lunatic. come, why did you warn me? put it, i beseech, in few words, and those english." "i warned you against him because he is suspected for what on these boats is known--so they tell me--as a mississippi operator." "an operator, ah? he operates, does he? my friend, then, is something like what the indians call a great medicine, is he? he operates, he purges, he drains off the repletions." "i perceive, sir," said the stranger, constitutionally obtuse to the pleasant drollery, "that your notion, of what is called a great medicine, needs correction. the great medicine among the indians is less a bolus than a man in grave esteem for his politic sagacity." "and is not my friend politic? is not my friend sagacious? by your own definition, is not my friend a great medicine?" "no, he is an operator, a mississippi operator; an equivocal character. that he is such, i little doubt, having had him pointed out to me as such by one desirous of initiating me into any little novelty of this western region, where i never before traveled. and, sir, if i am not mistaken, you also are a stranger here (but, indeed, where in this strange universe is not one a stranger?) and that is a reason why i felt moved to warn you against a companion who could not be otherwise than perilous to one of a free and trustful disposition. but i repeat the hope, that, thus far at least, he has not succeeded with you, and trust that, for the future, he will not." "thank you for your concern; but hardly can i equally thank you for so steadily maintaining the hypothesis of my friend's objectionableness. true, i but made his acquaintance for the first to-day, and know little of his antecedents; but that would seem no just reason why a nature like his should not of itself inspire confidence. and since your own knowledge of the gentleman is not, by your account, so exact as it might be, you will pardon me if i decline to welcome any further suggestions unflattering to him. indeed, sir," with friendly decision, "let us change the subject." chapter xxxvii the mystical master introduces the practical disciple. "both, the subject and the interlocutor," replied the stranger rising, and waiting the return towards him of a promenader, that moment turning at the further end of his walk. "egbert!" said he, calling. egbert, a well-dressed, commercial-looking gentleman of about thirty, responded in a way strikingly deferential, and in a moment stood near, in the attitude less of an equal companion apparently than a confidential follower. "this," said the stranger, taking egbert by the hand and leading him to the cosmopolitan, "this is egbert, a disciple. i wish you to know egbert. egbert was the first among mankind to reduce to practice the principles of mark winsome--principles previously accounted as less adapted to life than the closet. egbert," turning to the disciple, who, with seeming modesty, a little shrank under these compliments, "egbert, this," with a salute towards the cosmopolitan, "is, like all of us, a stranger. i wish you, egbert, to know this brother stranger; be communicative with him. particularly if, by anything hitherto dropped, his curiosity has been roused as to the precise nature of my philosophy, i trust you will not leave such curiosity ungratified. you, egbert, by simply setting forth your practice, can do more to enlighten one as to my theory, than i myself can by mere speech. indeed, it is by you that i myself best understand myself. for to every philosophy are certain rear parts, very important parts, and these, like the rear of one's head, are best seen by reflection. now, as in a glass, you, egbert, in your life, reflect to me the more important part of my system. he, who approves you, approves the philosophy of mark winsome." though portions of this harangue may, perhaps, in the phraseology seem self-complaisant, yet no trace of self-complacency was perceptible in the speaker's manner, which throughout was plain, unassuming, dignified, and manly; the teacher and prophet seemed to lurk more in the idea, so to speak, than in the mere bearing of him who was the vehicle of it. "sir," said the cosmopolitan, who seemed not a little interested in this new aspect of matters, "you speak of a certain philosophy, and a more or less occult one it may be, and hint of its bearing upon practical life; pray, tell me, if the study of this philosophy tends to the same formation of character with the experiences of the world?" "it does; and that is the test of its truth; for any philosophy that, being in operation contradictory to the ways of the world, tends to produce a character at odds with it, such a philosophy must necessarily be but a cheat and a dream." "you a little surprise me," answered the cosmopolitan; "for, from an occasional profundity in you, and also from your allusions to a profound work on the theology of plato, it would seem but natural to surmise that, if you are the originator of any philosophy, it must needs so partake of the abstruse, as to exalt it above the comparatively vile uses of life." "no uncommon mistake with regard to me," rejoined the other. then meekly standing like a raphael: "if still in golden accents old memnon murmurs his riddle, none the less does the balance-sheet of every man's ledger unriddle the profit or loss of life. sir," with calm energy, "man came into this world, not to sit down and muse, not to befog himself with vain subtleties, but to gird up his loins and to work. mystery is in the morning, and mystery in the night, and the beauty of mystery is everywhere; but still the plain truth remains, that mouth and purse must be filled. if, hitherto, you have supposed me a visionary, be undeceived. i am no one-ideaed one, either; no more than the seers before me. was not seneca a usurer? bacon a courtier? and swedenborg, though with one eye on the invisible, did he not keep the other on the main chance? along with whatever else it may be given me to be, i am a man of serviceable knowledge, and a man of the world. know me for such. and as for my disciple here," turning towards him, "if you look to find any soft utopianisms and last year's sunsets in him, i smile to think how he will set you right. the doctrines i have taught him will, i trust, lead him neither to the mad-house nor the poor-house, as so many other doctrines have served credulous sticklers. furthermore," glancing upon him paternally, "egbert is both my disciple and my poet. for poetry is not a thing of ink and rhyme, but of thought and act, and, in the latter way, is by any one to be found anywhere, when in useful action sought. in a word, my disciple here is a thriving young merchant, a practical poet in the west india trade. there," presenting egbert's hand to the cosmopolitan, "i join you, and leave you." with which words, and without bowing, the master withdrew. chapter xxxviii. the disciple unbends, and consents to act a social part. in the master's presence the disciple had stood as one not ignorant of his place; modesty was in his expression, with a sort of reverential depression. but the presence of the superior withdrawn, he seemed lithely to shoot up erect from beneath it, like one of those wire men from a toy snuff-box. he was, as before said, a young man of about thirty. his countenance of that neuter sort, which, in repose, is neither prepossessing nor disagreeable; so that it seemed quite uncertain how he would turn out. his dress was neat, with just enough of the mode to save it from the reproach of originality; in which general respect, though with a readjustment of details, his costume seemed modeled upon his master's. but, upon the whole, he was, to all appearances, the last person in the world that one would take for the disciple of any transcendental philosophy; though, indeed, something about his sharp nose and shaved chin seemed to hint that if mysticism, as a lesson, ever came in his way, he might, with the characteristic knack of a true new-englander, turn even so profitless a thing to some profitable account. "well" said he, now familiarly seating himself in the vacated chair, "what do you think of mark? sublime fellow, ain't he?" "that each member of the human guild is worthy respect my friend," rejoined the cosmopolitan, "is a fact which no admirer of that guild will question; but that, in view of higher natures, the word sublime, so frequently applied to them, can, without confusion, be also applied to man, is a point which man will decide for himself; though, indeed, if he decide it in the affirmative, it is not for me to object. but i am curious to know more of that philosophy of which, at present, i have but inklings. you, its first disciple among men, it seems, are peculiarly qualified to expound it. have you any objections to begin now?" "none at all," squaring himself to the table. "where shall i begin? at first principles?" "you remember that it was in a practical way that you were represented as being fitted for the clear exposition. now, what you call first principles, i have, in some things, found to be more or less vague. permit me, then, in a plain way, to suppose some common case in real life, and that done, i would like you to tell me how you, the practical disciple of the philosophy i wish to know about, would, in that case, conduct." "a business-like view. propose the case." "not only the case, but the persons. the case is this: there are two friends, friends from childhood, bosom-friends; one of whom, for the first time, being in need, for the first time seeks a loan from the other, who, so far as fortune goes, is more than competent to grant it. and the persons are to be you and i: you, the friend from whom the loan is sought--i, the friend who seeks it; you, the disciple of the philosophy in question--i, a common man, with no more philosophy than to know that when i am comfortably warm i don't feel cold, and when i have the ague i shake. mind, now, you must work up your imagination, and, as much as possible, talk and behave just as if the case supposed were a fact. for brevity, you shall call me frank, and i will call you charlie. are you agreed?" "perfectly. you begin." the cosmopolitan paused a moment, then, assuming a serious and care-worn air, suitable to the part to be enacted, addressed his hypothesized friend. chapter xxxix. the hypothetical friends. "charlie, i am going to put confidence in you." "you always have, and with reason. what is it frank?" "charlie, i am in want--urgent want of money." "that's not well." "but it _will_ be well, charlie, if you loan me a hundred dollars. i would not ask this of you, only my need is sore, and you and i have so long shared hearts and minds together, however unequally on my side, that nothing remains to prove our friendship than, with the same inequality on my side, to share purses. you will do me the favor won't you?" "favor? what do you mean by asking me to do you a favor?" "why, charlie, you never used to talk so." "because, frank, you on your side, never used to talk so." "but won't you loan me the money?" "no, frank." "why?" "because my rule forbids. i give away money, but never loan it; and of course the man who calls himself my friend is above receiving alms. the negotiation of a loan is a business transaction. and i will transact no business with a friend. what a friend is, he is socially and intellectually; and i rate social and intellectual friendship too high to degrade it on either side into a pecuniary make-shift. to be sure there are, and i have, what is called business friends; that is, commercial acquaintances, very convenient persons. but i draw a red-ink line between them and my friends in the true sense--my friends social and intellectual. in brief, a true friend has nothing to do with loans; he should have a soul above loans. loans are such unfriendly accommodations as are to be had from the soulless corporation of a bank, by giving the regular security and paying the regular discount." "an _unfriendly_ accommodation? do those words go together handsomely?" "like the poor farmer's team, of an old man and a cow--not handsomely, but to the purpose. look, frank, a loan of money on interest is a sale of money on credit. to sell a thing on credit may be an accommodation, but where is the friendliness? few men in their senses, except operators, borrow money on interest, except upon a necessity akin to starvation. well, now, where is the friendliness of my letting a starving man have, say, the money's worth of a barrel of flour upon the condition that, on a given day, he shall let me have the money's worth of a barrel and a half of flour; especially if i add this further proviso, that if he fail so to do, i shall then, to secure to myself the money's worth of my barrel and his half barrel, put his heart up at public auction, and, as it is cruel to part families, throw in his wife's and children's?" "i understand," with a pathetic shudder; "but even did it come to that, such a step on the creditor's part, let us, for the honor of human nature, hope, were less the intention than the contingency." "but, frank, a contingency not unprovided for in the taking beforehand of due securities." "still, charlie, was not the loan in the first place a friend's act?" "and the auction in the last place an enemy's act. don't you see? the enmity lies couched in the friendship, just as the ruin in the relief." "i must be very stupid to-day, charlie, but really, i can't understand this. excuse me, my dear friend, but it strikes me that in going into the philosophy of the subject, you go somewhat out of your depth." "so said the incautious wader out to the ocean; but the ocean replied: 'it is just the other way, my wet friend,' and drowned him." "that, charlie, is a fable about as unjust to the ocean, as some of Æsop's are to the animals. the ocean is a magnanimous element, and would scorn to assassinate a poor fellow, let alone taunting him in the act. but i don't understand what you say about enmity couched in friendship, and ruin in relief." "i will illustrate, frank, the needy man is a train slipped off the rail. he who loans him money on interest is the one who, by way of accommodation, helps get the train back where it belongs; but then, by way of making all square, and a little more, telegraphs to an agent, thirty miles a-head by a precipice, to throw just there, on his account, a beam across the track. your needy man's principle-and-interest friend is, i say again, a friend with an enmity in reserve. no, no, my dear friend, no interest for me. i scorn interest." "well, charlie, none need you charge. loan me without interest." "that would be alms again." "alms, if the sum borrowed is returned?" "yes: an alms, not of the principle, but the interest." "well, i am in sore need, so i will not decline the alms. seeing that it is you, charlie, gratefully will i accept the alms of the interest. no humiliation between friends." "now, how in the refined view of friendship can you suffer yourself to talk so, my dear frank. it pains me. for though i am not of the sour mind of solomon, that, in the hour of need, a stranger is better than a brother; yet, i entirely agree with my sublime master, who, in his essay on friendship, says so nobly, that if he want a terrestrial convenience, not to his friend celestial (or friend social and intellectual) would he go; no: for his terrestrial convenience, to his friend terrestrial (or humbler business-friend) he goes. very lucidly he adds the reason: because, for the superior nature, which on no account can ever descend to do good, to be annoyed with requests to do it, when the inferior one, which by no instruction can ever rise above that capacity, stands always inclined to it--this is unsuitable." "then i will not consider you as my friend celestial, but as the other." "it racks me to come to that; but, to oblige you, i'll do it. we are business friends; business is business. you want to negotiate a loan. very good. on what paper? will you pay three per cent a month? where is your security?" "surely, you will not exact those formalities from your old schoolmate--him with whom you have so often sauntered down the groves of academe, discoursing of the beauty of virtue, and the grace that is in kindliness--and all for so paltry a sum. security? our being fellow-academics, and friends from childhood up, is security." "pardon me, my dear frank, our being fellow-academics is the worst of securities; while, our having been friends from childhood up is just no security at all. you forget we are now business friends." "and you, on your side, forget, charlie, that as your business friend i can give you no security; my need being so sore that i cannot get an indorser." "no indorser, then, no business loan." "since then, charlie, neither as the one nor the other sort of friend you have defined, can i prevail with you; how if, combining the two, i sue as both?" "are you a centaur?" "when all is said then, what good have i of your friendship, regarded in what light you will?" "the good which is in the philosophy of mark winsome, as reduced to practice by a practical disciple." "and why don't you add, much good may the philosophy of mark winsome do me? ah," turning invokingly, "what is friendship, if it be not the helping hand and the feeling heart, the good samaritan pouring out at need the purse as the vial!" "now, my dear frank, don't be childish. through tears never did man see his way in the dark. i should hold you unworthy that sincere friendship i bear you, could i think that friendship in the ideal is too lofty for you to conceive. and let me tell you, my dear frank, that you would seriously shake the foundations of our love, if ever again you should repeat the present scene. the philosophy, which is mine in the strongest way, teaches plain-dealing. let me, then, now, as at the most suitable time, candidly disclose certain circumstances you seem in ignorance of. though our friendship began in boyhood, think not that, on my side at least, it began injudiciously. boys are little men, it is said. you, i juvenilely picked out for my friend, for your favorable points at the time; not the least of which were your good manners, handsome dress, and your parents' rank and repute of wealth. in short, like any grown man, boy though i was, i went into the market and chose me my mutton, not for its leanness, but its fatness. in other words, there seemed in you, the schoolboy who always had silver in his pocket, a reasonable probability that you would never stand in lean need of fat succor; and if my early impression has not been verified by the event, it is only because of the caprice of fortune producing a fallibility of human expectations, however discreet.'" "oh, that i should listen to this cold-blooded disclosure!" "a little cold blood in your ardent veins, my dear frank, wouldn't do you any harm, let me tell you. cold-blooded? you say that, because my disclosure seems to involve a vile prudence on my side. but not so. my reason for choosing you in part for the points i have mentioned, was solely with a view of preserving inviolate the delicacy of the connection. for--do but think of it--what more distressing to delicate friendship, formed early, than your friend's eventually, in manhood, dropping in of a rainy night for his little loan of five dollars or so? can delicate friendship stand that? and, on the other side, would delicate friendship, so long as it retained its delicacy, do that? would you not instinctively say of your dripping friend in the entry, 'i have been deceived, fraudulently deceived, in this man; he is no true friend that, in platonic love to demand love-rites?'" "and rites, doubly rights, they are, cruel charlie!" "take it how you will, heed well how, by too importunately claiming those rights, as you call them, you shake those foundations i hinted of. for though, as it turns out, i, in my early friendship, built me a fair house on a poor site; yet such pains and cost have i lavished on that house, that, after all, it is dear to me. no, i would not lose the sweet boon of your friendship, frank. but beware." "and of what? of being in need? oh, charlie! you talk not to a god, a being who in himself holds his own estate, but to a man who, being a man, is the sport of fate's wind and wave, and who mounts towards heaven or sinks towards hell, as the billows roll him in trough or on crest." "tut! frank. man is no such poor devil as that comes to--no poor drifting sea-weed of the universe. man has a soul; which, if he will, puts him beyond fortune's finger and the future's spite. don't whine like fortune's whipped dog, frank, or by the heart of a true friend, i will cut ye." "cut me you have already, cruel charlie, and to the quick. call to mind the days we went nutting, the times we walked in the woods, arms wreathed about each other, showing trunks invined like the trees:--oh, charlie!" "pish! we were boys." "then lucky the fate of the first-born of egypt, cold in the grave ere maturity struck them with a sharper frost.--charlie?" "fie! you're a girl." "help, help, charlie, i want help!" "help? to say nothing of the friend, there is something wrong about the man who wants help. there is somewhere a defect, a want, in brief, a need, a crying need, somewhere about that man." "so there is, charlie.--help, help!" "how foolish a cry, when to implore help, is itself the proof of undesert of it." "oh, this, all along, is not you, charlie, but some ventriloquist who usurps your larynx. it is mark winsome that speaks, not charlie." "if so, thank heaven, the voice of mark winsome is not alien but congenial to my larynx. if the philosophy of that illustrious teacher find little response among mankind at large, it is less that they do not possess teachable tempers, than because they are so unfortunate as not to have natures predisposed to accord with him. "welcome, that compliment to humanity," exclaimed frank with energy, "the truer because unintended. and long in this respect may humanity remain what you affirm it. and long it will; since humanity, inwardly feeling how subject it is to straits, and hence how precious is help, will, for selfishness' sake, if no other, long postpone ratifying a philosophy that banishes help from the world. but charlie, charlie! speak as you used to; tell me you will help me. were the case reversed, not less freely would i loan you the money than you would ask me to loan it. "_i_ ask? _i_ ask a loan? frank, by this hand, under no circumstances would i accept a loan, though without asking pressed on me. the experience of china aster might warn me." "and what was that?" "not very unlike the experience of the man that built himself a palace of moon-beams, and when the moon set was surprised that his palace vanished with it. i will tell you about china aster. i wish i could do so in my own words, but unhappily the original story-teller here has so tyrannized over me, that it is quite impossible for me to repeat his incidents without sliding into his style. i forewarn you of this, that you may not think me so maudlin as, in some parts, the story would seem to make its narrator. it is too bad that any intellect, especially in so small a matter, should have such power to impose itself upon another, against its best exerted will, too. however, it is satisfaction to know that the main moral, to which all tends, i fully approve. but, to begin." chapter xl. in which the story of china aster is at second-hand told by one who, while not disapproving the moral, disclaims the spirit of the style. "china aster was a young candle-maker of marietta, at the mouth of the muskingum--one whose trade would seem a kind of subordinate branch of that parent craft and mystery of the hosts of heaven, to be the means, effectively or otherwise, of shedding some light through the darkness of a planet benighted. but he made little money by the business. much ado had poor china aster and his family to live; he could, if he chose, light up from his stores a whole street, but not so easily could he light up with prosperity the hearts of his household. "now, china aster, it so happened, had a friend, orchis, a shoemaker; one whose calling it is to defend the understandings of men from naked contact with the substance of things: a very useful vocation, and which, spite of all the wiseacres may prophesy, will hardly go out of fashion so long as rocks are hard and flints will gall. all at once, by a capital prize in a lottery, this useful shoemaker was raised from a bench to a sofa. a small nabob was the shoemaker now, and the understandings of men, let them shift for themselves. not that orchis was, by prosperity, elated into heartlessness. not at all. because, in his fine apparel, strolling one morning into the candlery, and gayly switching about at the candle-boxes with his gold-headed cane--while poor china aster, with his greasy paper cap and leather apron, was selling one candle for one penny to a poor orange-woman, who, with the patronizing coolness of a liberal customer, required it to be carefully rolled up and tied in a half sheet of paper--lively orchis, the woman being gone, discontinued his gay switchings and said: 'this is poor business for you, friend china aster; your capital is too small. you must drop this vile tallow and hold up pure spermaceti to the world. i tell you what it is, you shall have one thousand dollars to extend with. in fact, you must make money, china aster. i don't like to see your little boy paddling about without shoes, as he does.' "'heaven bless your goodness, friend orchis,' replied the candle-maker, 'but don't take it illy if i call to mind the word of my uncle, the blacksmith, who, when a loan was offered him, declined it, saying: "to ply my own hammer, light though it be, i think best, rather than piece it out heavier by welding to it a bit off a neighbor's hammer, though that may have some weight to spare; otherwise, were the borrowed bit suddenly wanted again, it might not split off at the welding, but too much to one side or the other."' "'nonsense, friend china aster, don't be so honest; your boy is barefoot. besides, a rich man lose by a poor man? or a friend be the worse by a friend? china aster, i am afraid that, in leaning over into your vats here, this, morning, you have spilled out your wisdom. hush! i won't hear any more. where's your desk? oh, here.' with that, orchis dashed off a check on his bank, and off-handedly presenting it, said: 'there, friend china aster, is your one thousand dollars; when you make it ten thousand, as you soon enough will (for experience, the only true knowledge, teaches me that, for every one, good luck is in store), then, china aster, why, then you can return me the money or not, just as you please. but, in any event, give yourself no concern, for i shall never demand payment.' "now, as kind heaven will so have it that to a hungry man bread is a great temptation, and, therefore, he is not too harshly to be blamed, if, when freely offered, he take it, even though it be uncertain whether he shall ever be able to reciprocate; so, to a poor man, proffered money is equally enticing, and the worst that can be said of him, if he accept it, is just what can be said in the other case of the hungry man. in short, the poor candle-maker's scrupulous morality succumbed to his unscrupulous necessity, as is now and then apt to be the case. he took the check, and was about carefully putting it away for the present, when orchis, switching about again with his gold-headed cane, said: 'by-the-way, china aster, it don't mean anything, but suppose you make a little memorandum of this; won't do any harm, you know.' so china aster gave orchis his note for one thousand dollars on demand. orchis took it, and looked at it a moment, 'pooh, i told you, friend china aster, i wasn't going ever to make any _demand_.' then tearing up the note, and switching away again at the candle-boxes, said, carelessly; 'put it at four years.' so china aster gave orchis his note for one thousand dollars at four years. 'you see i'll never trouble you about this,' said orchis, slipping it in his pocket-book, 'give yourself no further thought, friend china aster, than how best to invest your money. and don't forget my hint about spermaceti. go into that, and i'll buy all my light of you,' with which encouraging words, he, with wonted, rattling kindness, took leave. "china aster remained standing just where orchis had left him; when, suddenly, two elderly friends, having nothing better to do, dropped in for a chat. the chat over, china aster, in greasy cap and apron, ran after orchis, and said: 'friend orchis, heaven will reward you for your good intentions, but here is your check, and now give me my note.' "'your honesty is a bore, china aster,' said orchis, not without displeasure. 'i won't take the check from you.' "'then you must take it from the pavement, orchis,' said china aster; and, picking up a stone, he placed the check under it on the walk. "'china aster,' said orchis, inquisitively eying him, after my leaving the candlery just now, what asses dropped in there to advise with you, that now you hurry after me, and act so like a fool? shouldn't wonder if it was those two old asses that the boys nickname old plain talk and old prudence.' "'yes, it was those two, orchis, but don't call them names.' "'a brace of spavined old croakers. old plain talk had a shrew for a wife, and that's made him shrewish; and old prudence, when a boy, broke down in an apple-stall, and that discouraged him for life. no better sport for a knowing spark like me than to hear old plain talk wheeze out his sour old saws, while old prudence stands by, leaning on his staff, wagging his frosty old pow, and chiming in at every clause.' "'how can you speak so, friend orchis, of those who were my father's friends?'" "'save me from my friends, if those old croakers were old honesty's friends. i call your father so, for every one used to. why did they let him go in his old age on the town? why, china aster, i've often heard from my mother, the chronicler, that those two old fellows, with old conscience--as the boys called the crabbed old quaker, that's dead now--they three used to go to the poor-house when your father was there, and get round his bed, and talk to him for all the world as eliphaz, bildad, and zophar did to poor old pauper job. yes, job's comforters were old plain talk, and old prudence, and old conscience, to your poor old father. friends? i should like to know who you call foes? with their everlasting croaking and reproaching they tormented poor old honesty, your father, to death.' "at these words, recalling the sad end of his worthy parent, china aster could not restrain some tears. upon which orchis said: 'why, china aster, you are the dolefulest creature. why don't you, china aster, take a bright view of life? you will never get on in your business or anything else, if you don't take the bright view of life. it's the ruination of a man to take the dismal one.' then, gayly poking at him with his gold-headed cane, 'why don't you, then? why don't you be bright and hopeful, like me? why don't you have confidence, china aster? "i'm sure i don't know, friend orchis,' soberly replied china aster, 'but may be my not having drawn a lottery-prize, like you, may make some difference.' "nonsense! before i knew anything about the prize i was gay as a lark, just as gay as i am now. in fact, it has always been a principle with me to hold to the bright view.' "upon this, china aster looked a little hard at orchis, because the truth was, that until the lucky prize came to him, orchis had gone under the nickname of doleful dumps, he having been beforetimes of a hypochondriac turn, so much so as to save up and put by a few dollars of his scanty earnings against that rainy day he used to groan so much about. "i tell you what it is, now, friend china aster,' said orchis, pointing down to the check under the stone, and then slapping his pocket, 'the check shall lie there if you say so, but your note shan't keep it company. in fact, china aster, i am too sincerely your friend to take advantage of a passing fit of the blues in you. you _shall_ reap the benefit of my friendship.' with which, buttoning up his coat in a jiffy, away he ran, leaving the check behind. "at first, china aster was going to tear it up, but thinking that this ought not to be done except in the presence of the drawer of the check, he mused a while, and picking it up, trudged back to the candlery, fully resolved to call upon orchis soon as his day's work was over, and destroy the check before his eyes. but it so happened that when china aster called, orchis was out, and, having waited for him a weary time in vain, china aster went home, still with the check, but still resolved not to keep it another day. bright and early next morning he would a second time go after orchis, and would, no doubt, make a sure thing of it, by finding him in his bed; for since the lottery-prize came to him, orchis, besides becoming more cheery, had also grown a little lazy. but as destiny would have it, that same night china aster had a dream, in which a being in the guise of a smiling angel, and holding a kind of cornucopia in her hand, hovered over him, pouring down showers of small gold dollars, thick as kernels of corn. 'i am bright future, friend china aster,' said the angel, 'and if you do what friend orchis would have you do, just see what will come of it.' with which bright future, with another swing of her cornucopia, poured such another shower of small gold dollars upon him, that it seemed to bank him up all round, and he waded about in it like a maltster in malt. "now, dreams are wonderful things, as everybody knows--so wonderful, indeed, that some people stop not short of ascribing them directly to heaven; and china aster, who was of a proper turn of mind in everything, thought that in consideration of the dream, it would be but well to wait a little, ere seeking orchis again. during the day, china aster's mind dwelling continually upon the dream, he was so full of it, that when old plain talk dropped in to see him, just before dinnertime, as he often did, out of the interest he took in old honesty's son, china aster told all about his vision, adding that he could not think that so radiant an angel could deceive; and, indeed, talked at such a rate that one would have thought he believed the angel some beautiful human philanthropist. something in this sort old plain talk understood him, and, accordingly, in his plain way, said: 'china aster, you tell me that an angel appeared to you in a dream. now, what does that amount to but this, that you dreamed an angel appeared to you? go right away, china aster, and return the check, as i advised you before. if friend prudence were here, he would say just the same thing.' with which words old plain talk went off to find friend prudence, but not succeeding, was returning to the candlery himself, when, at distance mistaking him for a dun who had long annoyed him, china aster in a panic barred all his doors, and ran to the back part of the candlery, where no knock could be heard. "by this sad mistake, being left with no friend to argue the other side of the question, china aster was so worked upon at last, by musing over his dream, that nothing would do but he must get the check cashed, and lay out the money the very same day in buying a good lot of spermaceti to make into candles, by which operation he counted upon turning a better penny than he ever had before in his life; in fact, this he believed would prove the foundation of that famous fortune which the angel had promised him. "now, in using the money, china aster was resolved punctually to pay the interest every six months till the principal should be returned, howbeit not a word about such a thing had been breathed by orchis; though, indeed, according to custom, as well as law, in such matters, interest would legitimately accrue on the loan, nothing to the contrary having been put in the bond. whether orchis at the time had this in mind or not, there is no sure telling; but, to all appearance, he never so much as cared to think about the matter, one way or other. "though the spermaceti venture rather disappointed china aster's sanguine expectations, yet he made out to pay the first six months' interest, and though his next venture turned out still less prosperously, yet by pinching his family in the matter of fresh meat, and, what pained him still more, his boys' schooling, he contrived to pay the second six months' interest, sincerely grieved that integrity, as well as its opposite, though not in an equal degree, costs something, sometimes. "meanwhile, orchis had gone on a trip to europe by advice of a physician; it so happening that, since the lottery-prize came to him, it had been discovered to orchis that his health was not very firm, though he had never complained of anything before but a slight ailing of the spleen, scarce worth talking about at the time. so orchis, being abroad, could not help china aster's paying his interest as he did, however much he might have been opposed to it; for china aster paid it to orchis's agent, who was of too business-like a turn to decline interest regularly paid in on a loan. "but overmuch to trouble the agent on that score was not again to be the fate of china aster; for, not being of that skeptical spirit which refuses to trust customers, his third venture resulted, through bad debts, in almost a total loss--a bad blow for the candle-maker. neither did old plain talk, and old prudence neglect the opportunity to read him an uncheerful enough lesson upon the consequences of his disregarding their advice in the matter of having nothing to do with borrowed money. 'it's all just as i predicted,' said old plain talk, blowing his old nose with his old bandana. 'yea, indeed is it,' chimed in old prudence, rapping his staff on the floor, and then leaning upon it, looking with solemn forebodings upon china aster. low-spirited enough felt the poor candle-maker; till all at once who should come with a bright face to him but his bright friend, the angel, in another dream. again the cornucopia poured out its treasure, and promised still more. revived by the vision, he resolved not to be down-hearted, but up and at it once more--contrary to the advice of old plain talk, backed as usual by his crony, which was to the effect, that, under present circumstances, the best thing china aster could do, would be to wind up his business, settle, if he could, all his liabilities, and then go to work as a journeyman, by which he could earn good wages, and give up, from that time henceforth, all thoughts of rising above being a paid subordinate to men more able than himself, for china aster's career thus far plainly proved him the legitimate son of old honesty, who, as every one knew, had never shown much business-talent, so little, in fact, that many said of him that he had no business to be in business. and just this plain saying plain talk now plainly applied to china aster, and old prudence never disagreed with him. but the angel in the dream did, and, maugre plain talk, put quite other notions into the candle-maker. "he considered what he should do towards reëstablishing himself. doubtless, had orchis been in the country, he would have aided him in this strait. as it was, he applied to others; and as in the world, much as some may hint to the contrary, an honest man in misfortune still can find friends to stay by him and help him, even so it proved with china aster, who at last succeeded in borrowing from a rich old farmer the sum of six hundred dollars, at the usual interest of money-lenders, upon the security of a secret bond signed by china aster's wife and himself, to the effect that all such right and title to any property that should be left her by a well-to-do childless uncle, an invalid tanner, such property should, in the event of china aster's failing to return the borrowed sum on the given day, be the lawful possession of the money-lender. true, it was just as much as china aster could possibly do to induce his wife, a careful woman, to sign this bond; because she had always regarded her promised share in her uncle's estate as an anchor well to windward of the hard times in which china aster had always been more or less involved, and from which, in her bosom, she never had seen much chance of his freeing himself. some notion may be had of china aster's standing in the heart and head of his wife, by a short sentence commonly used in reply to such persons as happened to sound her on the point. 'china aster,' she would say, 'is a good husband, but a bad business man!' indeed, she was a connection on the maternal side of old plain talk's. but had not china aster taken good care not to let old plain talk and old prudence hear of his dealings with the old farmer, ten to one they would, in some way, have interfered with his success in that quarter. "it has been hinted that the honesty of china aster was what mainly induced the money-lender to befriend him in his misfortune, and this must be apparent; for, had china aster been a different man, the money-lender might have dreaded lest, in the event of his failing to meet his note, he might some way prove slippery--more especially as, in the hour of distress, worked upon by remorse for so jeopardizing his wife's money, his heart might prove a traitor to his bond, not to hint that it was more than doubtful how such a secret security and claim, as in the last resort would be the old farmer's, would stand in a court of law. but though one inference from all this may be, that had china aster been something else than what he was, he would not have been trusted, and, therefore, he would have been effectually shut out from running his own and wife's head into the usurer's noose; yet those who, when everything at last came out, maintained that, in this view and to this extent, the honesty of the candle-maker was no advantage to him, in so saying, such persons said what every good heart must deplore, and no prudent tongue will admit. "it may be mentioned, that the old farmer made china aster take part of his loan in three old dried-up cows and one lame horse, not improved by the glanders. these were thrown in at a pretty high figure, the old money-lender having a singular prejudice in regard to the high value of any sort of stock raised on his farm. with a great deal of difficulty, and at more loss, china aster disposed of his cattle at public auction, no private purchaser being found who could be prevailed upon to invest. and now, raking and scraping in every way, and working early and late, china aster at last started afresh, nor without again largely and confidently extending himself. however, he did not try his hand at the spermaceti again, but, admonished by experience, returned to tallow. but, having bought a good lot of it, by the time he got it into candles, tallow fell so low, and candles with it, that his candles per pound barely sold for what he had paid for the tallow. meantime, a year's unpaid interest had accrued on orchis' loan, but china aster gave himself not so much concern about that as about the interest now due to the old farmer. but he was glad that the principal there had yet some time to run. however, the skinny old fellow gave him some trouble by coming after him every day or two on a scraggy old white horse, furnished with a musty old saddle, and goaded into his shambling old paces with a withered old raw hide. all the neighbors said that surely death himself on the pale horse was after poor china aster now. and something so it proved; for, ere long, china aster found himself involved in troubles mortal enough. at this juncture orchis was heard of. orchis, it seemed had returned from his travels, and clandestinely married, and, in a kind of queer way, was living in pennsylvania among his wife's relations, who, among other things, had induced him to join a church, or rather semi-religious school, of come-outers; and what was still more, orchis, without coming to the spot himself, had sent word to his agent to dispose of some of his property in marietta, and remit him the proceeds. within a year after, china aster received a letter from orchis, commending him for his punctuality in paying the first year's interest, and regretting the necessity that he (orchis) was now under of using all his dividends; so he relied upon china aster's paying the next six months' interest, and of course with the back interest. not more surprised than alarmed, china aster thought of taking steamboat to go and see orchis, but he was saved that expense by the unexpected arrival in marietta of orchis in person, suddenly called there by that strange kind of capriciousness lately characterizing him. no sooner did china aster hear of his old friend's arrival than he hurried to call upon him. he found him curiously rusty in dress, sallow in cheek, and decidedly less gay and cordial in manner, which the more surprised china aster, because, in former days, he had more than once heard orchis, in his light rattling way, declare that all he (orchis) wanted to make him a perfectly happy, hilarious, and benignant man, was a voyage to europe and a wife, with a free development of his inmost nature. "upon china aster's stating his case, his trusted friend was silent for a time; then, in an odd way, said that he would not crowd china aster, but still his (orchis') necessities were urgent. could not china aster mortgage the candlery? he was honest, and must have moneyed friends; and could he not press his sales of candles? could not the market be forced a little in that particular? the profits on candles must be very great. seeing, now, that orchis had the notion that the candle-making business was a very profitable one, and knowing sorely enough what an error was here, china aster tried to undeceive him. but he could not drive the truth into orchis--orchis being very obtuse here, and, at the same time, strange to say, very melancholy. finally, orchis glanced off from so unpleasing a subject into the most unexpected reflections, taken from a religious point of view, upon the unstableness and deceitfulness of the human heart. but having, as he thought, experienced something of that sort of thing, china aster did not take exception to his friend's observations, but still refrained from so doing, almost as much for the sake of sympathetic sociality as anything else. presently, orchis, without much ceremony, rose, and saying he must write a letter to his wife, bade his friend good-bye, but without warmly shaking him by the hand as of old. "in much concern at the change, china aster made earnest inquiries in suitable quarters, as to what things, as yet unheard of, had befallen orchis, to bring about such a revolution; and learned at last that, besides traveling, and getting married, and joining the sect of come-outers, orchis had somehow got a bad dyspepsia, and lost considerable property through a breach of trust on the part of a factor in new york. telling these things to old plain talk, that man of some knowledge of the world shook his old head, and told china aster that, though he hoped it might prove otherwise, yet it seemed to him that all he had communicated about orchis worked together for bad omens as to his future forbearance--especially, he added with a grim sort of smile, in view of his joining the sect of come-outers; for, if some men knew what was their inmost natures, instead of coming out with it, they would try their best to keep it in, which, indeed, was the way with the prudent sort. in all which sour notions old prudence, as usual, chimed in. "when interest-day came again, china aster, by the utmost exertions, could only pay orchis' agent a small part of what was due, and a part of that was made up by his children's gift money (bright tenpenny pieces and new quarters, kept in their little money-boxes), and pawning his best clothes, with those of his wife and children, so that all were subjected to the hardship of staying away from church. and the old usurer, too, now beginning to be obstreperous, china aster paid him his interest and some other pressing debts with money got by, at last, mortgaging the candlery. "when next interest-day came round for orchis, not a penny could be raised. with much grief of heart, china aster so informed orchis' agent. meantime, the note to the old usurer fell due, and nothing from china aster was ready to meet it; yet, as heaven sends its rain on the just and unjust alike, by a coincidence not unfavorable to the old farmer, the well-to-do uncle, the tanner, having died, the usurer entered upon possession of such part of his property left by will to the wife of china aster. when still the next interest-day for orchis came round, it found china aster worse off than ever; for, besides his other troubles, he was now weak with sickness. feebly dragging himself to orchis' agent, he met him in the street, told him just how it was; upon which the agent, with a grave enough face, said that he had instructions from his employer not to crowd him about the interest at present, but to say to him that about the time the note would mature, orchis would have heavy liabilities to meet, and therefore the note must at that time be certainly paid, and, of course, the back interest with it; and not only so, but, as orchis had had to allow the interest for good part of the time, he hoped that, for the back interest, china aster would, in reciprocation, have no objections to allowing interest on the interest annually. to be sure, this was not the law; but, between friends who accommodate each other, it was the custom. "just then, old plain talk with old prudence turned the corner, coming plump upon china aster as the agent left him; and whether it was a sun-stroke, or whether they accidentally ran against him, or whether it was his being so weak, or whether it was everything together, or how it was exactly, there is no telling, but poor china aster fell to the earth, and, striking his head sharply, was picked up senseless. it was a day in july; such a light and heat as only the midsummer banks of the inland ohio know. china aster was taken home on a door; lingered a few days with a wandering mind, and kept wandering on, till at last, at dead of night, when nobody was aware, his spirit wandered away into the other world. "old plain talk and old prudence, neither of whom ever omitted attending any funeral, which, indeed, was their chief exercise--these two were among the sincerest mourners who followed the remains of the son of their ancient friend to the grave. "it is needless to tell of the executions that followed; how that the candlery was sold by the mortgagee; how orchis never got a penny for his loan; and how, in the case of the poor widow, chastisement was tempered with mercy; for, though she was left penniless, she was not left childless. yet, unmindful of the alleviation, a spirit of complaint, at what she impatiently called the bitterness of her lot and the hardness of the world, so preyed upon her, as ere long to hurry her from the obscurity of indigence to the deeper shades of the tomb. "but though the straits in which china aster had left his family had, besides apparently dimming the world's regard, likewise seemed to dim its sense of the probity of its deceased head, and though this, as some thought, did not speak well for the world, yet it happened in this case, as in others, that, though the world may for a time seem insensible to that merit which lies under a cloud, yet, sooner or later, it always renders honor where honor is due; for, upon the death of the widow, the freemen of marietta, as a tribute of respect for china aster, and an expression of their conviction of his high moral worth, passed a resolution, that, until they attained maturity, his children should be considered the town's guests. no mere verbal compliment, like those of some public bodies; for, on the same day, the orphans were officially installed in that hospitable edifice where their worthy grandfather, the town's guest before them, had breathed his last breath. "but sometimes honor maybe paid to the memory of an honest man, and still his mound remain without a monument. not so, however, with the candle-maker. at an early day, plain talk had procured a plain stone, and was digesting in his mind what pithy word or two to place upon it, when there was discovered, in china aster's otherwise empty wallet, an epitaph, written, probably, in one of those disconsolate hours, attended with more or less mental aberration, perhaps, so frequent with him for some months prior to his end. a memorandum on the back expressed the wish that it might be placed over his grave. though with the sentiment of the epitaph plain talk did not disagree, he himself being at times of a hypochondriac turn--at least, so many said--yet the language struck him as too much drawn out; so, after consultation with old prudence, he decided upon making use of the epitaph, yet not without verbal retrenchments. and though, when these were made, the thing still appeared wordy to him, nevertheless, thinking that, since a dead man was to be spoken about, it was but just to let him speak for himself, especially when he spoke sincerely, and when, by so doing, the more salutary lesson would be given, he had the retrenched inscription chiseled as follows upon the stone. 'here lie the remains of china aster the candle-maker, whose career was an example of the truth of scripture, as found in the sober philosophy of solomon the wise; for he was ruined by allowing himself to be persuaded, against his better sense, into the free indulgence of confidence, and an ardently bright view of life, to the exclusion of that counsel which comes by heeding the opposite view.' "this inscription raised some talk in the town, and was rather severely criticised by the capitalist--one of a very cheerful turn--who had secured his loan to china aster by the mortgage; and though it also proved obnoxious to the man who, in town-meeting, had first moved for the compliment to china aster's memory, and, indeed, was deemed by him a sort of slur upon the candle-maker, to that degree that he refused to believe that the candle-maker himself had composed it, charging old plain talk with the authorship, alleging that the internal evidence showed that none but that veteran old croaker could have penned such a jeremiade--yet, for all this, the stone stood. in everything, of course, old plain talk was seconded by old prudence; who, one day going to the grave-yard, in great-coat and over-shoes--for, though it was a sunshiny morning, he thought that, owing to heavy dews, dampness might lurk in the ground--long stood before the stone, sharply leaning over on his staff, spectacles on nose, spelling out the epitaph word by word; and, afterwards meeting old plain talk in the street, gave a great rap with his stick, and said: 'friend, plain talk, that epitaph will do very well. nevertheless, one short sentence is wanting.' upon which, plain talk said it was too late, the chiseled words being so arranged, after the usual manner of such inscriptions, that nothing could be interlined. then,' said old prudence, 'i will put it in the shape of a postscript.' accordingly, with the approbation of old plain talk, he had the following words chiseled at the left-hand corner of the stone, and pretty low down: 'the root of all was a friendly loan.'" chapter xli. ending with a rupture of the hypothesis. "with what heart," cried frank, still in character, "have you told me this story? a story i can no way approve; for its moral, if accepted, would drain me of all reliance upon my last stay, and, therefore, of my last courage in life. for, what was that bright view of china aster but a cheerful trust that, if he but kept up a brave heart, worked hard, and ever hoped for the best, all at last would go well? if your purpose, charlie, in telling me this story, was to pain me, and keenly, you have succeeded; but, if it was to destroy my last confidence, i praise god you have not." "confidence?" cried charlie, who, on his side, seemed with his whole heart to enter into the spirit of the thing, "what has confidence to do with the matter? that moral of the story, which i am for commending to you, is this: the folly, on both sides, of a friend's helping a friend. for was not that loan of orchis to china aster the first step towards their estrangement? and did it not bring about what in effect was the enmity of orchis? i tell you, frank, true friendship, like other precious things, is not rashly to be meddled with. and what more meddlesome between friends than a loan? a regular marplot. for how can you help that the helper must turn out a creditor? and creditor and friend, can they ever be one? no, not in the most lenient case; since, out of lenity to forego one's claim, is less to be a friendly creditor than to cease to be a creditor at all. but it will not do to rely upon this lenity, no, not in the best man; for the best man, as the worst, is subject to all mortal contingencies. he may travel, he may marry, he may join the come-outers, or some equally untoward school or sect, not to speak of other things that more or less tend to new-cast the character. and were there nothing else, who shall answer for his digestion, upon which so much depends?" "but charlie, dear charlie----" "nay, wait.--you have hearkened to my story in vain, if you do not see that, however indulgent and right-minded i may seem to you now, that is no guarantee for the future. and into the power of that uncertain personality which, through the mutability of my humanity, i may hereafter become, should not common sense dissuade you, my dear frank, from putting yourself? consider. would you, in your present need, be willing to accept a loan from a friend, securing him by a mortgage on your homestead, and do so, knowing that you had no reason to feel satisfied that the mortgage might not eventually be transferred into the hands of a foe? yet the difference between this man and that man is not so great as the difference between what the same man be to-day and what he may be in days to come. for there is no bent of heart or turn of thought which any man holds by virtue of an unalterable nature or will. even those feelings and opinions deemed most identical with eternal right and truth, it is not impossible but that, as personal persuasions, they may in reality be but the result of some chance tip of fate's elbow in throwing her dice. for, not to go into the first seeds of things, and passing by the accident of parentage predisposing to this or that habit of mind, descend below these, and tell me, if you change this man's experiences or that man's books, will wisdom go surety for his unchanged convictions? as particular food begets particular dreams, so particular experiences or books particular feelings or beliefs. i will hear nothing of that fine babble about development and its laws; there is no development in opinion and feeling but the developments of time and tide. you may deem all this talk idle, frank; but conscience bids me show you how fundamental the reasons for treating you as i do." "but charlie, dear charlie, what new notions are these? i thought that man was no poor drifting weed of the universe, as you phrased it; that, if so minded, he could have a will, a way, a thought, and a heart of his own? but now you have turned everything upside down again, with an inconsistency that amazes and shocks me." "inconsistency? bah!" "there speaks the ventriloquist again," sighed frank, in bitterness. illy pleased, it may be, by this repetition of an allusion little flattering to his originality, however much so to his docility, the disciple sought to carry it off by exclaiming: "yes, i turn over day and night, with indefatigable pains, the sublime pages of my master, and unfortunately for you, my dear friend, i find nothing _there_ that leads me to think otherwise than i do. but enough: in this matter the experience of china aster teaches a moral more to the point than anything mark winsome can offer, or i either." "i cannot think so, charlie; for neither am i china aster, nor do i stand in his position. the loan to china aster was to extend his business with; the loan i seek is to relieve my necessities." "your dress, my dear frank, is respectable; your cheek is not gaunt. why talk of necessities when nakedness and starvation beget the only real necessities?" "but i need relief, charlie; and so sorely, that i now conjure you to forget that i was ever your friend, while i apply to you only as a fellow-being, whom, surely, you will not turn away." "that i will not. take off your hat, bow over to the ground, and supplicate an alms of me in the way of london streets, and you shall not be a sturdy beggar in vain. but no man drops pennies into the hat of a friend, let me tell you. if you turn beggar, then, for the honor of noble friendship, i turn stranger." "enough," cried the other, rising, and with a toss of his shoulders seeming disdainfully to throw off the character he had assumed. "enough. i have had my fill of the philosophy of mark winsome as put into action. and moonshiny as it in theory may be, yet a very practical philosophy it turns out in effect, as he himself engaged i should find. but, miserable for my race should i be, if i thought he spoke truth when he claimed, for proof of the soundness of his system, that the study of it tended to much the same formation of character with the experiences of the world.--apt disciple! why wrinkle the brow, and waste the oil both of life and the lamp, only to turn out a head kept cool by the under ice of the heart? what your illustrious magian has taught you, any poor, old, broken-down, heart-shrunken dandy might have lisped. pray, leave me, and with you take the last dregs of your inhuman philosophy. and here, take this shilling, and at the first wood-landing buy yourself a few chips to warm the frozen natures of you and your philosopher by." with these words and a grand scorn the cosmopolitan turned on his heel, leaving his companion at a loss to determine where exactly the fictitious character had been dropped, and the real one, if any, resumed. if any, because, with pointed meaning, there occurred to him, as he gazed after the cosmopolitan, these familiar lines: "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, who have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts." chapter xlii. upon the heel of the last scene the cosmopolitan enters the barber's shop, a benediction on his lips. "bless you, barber!" now, owing to the lateness of the hour, the barber had been all alone until within the ten minutes last passed; when, finding himself rather dullish company to himself, he thought he would have a good time with souter john and tam o'shanter, otherwise called somnus and morpheus, two very good fellows, though one was not very bright, and the other an arrant rattlebrain, who, though much listened to by some, no wise man would believe under oath. in short, with back presented to the glare of his lamps, and so to the door, the honest barber was taking what are called cat-naps, and dreaming in his chair; so that, upon suddenly hearing the benediction above, pronounced in tones not unangelic, starting up, half awake, he stared before him, but saw nothing, for the stranger stood behind. what with cat-naps, dreams, and bewilderments, therefore, the voice seemed a sort of spiritual manifestation to him; so that, for the moment, he stood all agape, eyes fixed, and one arm in the air. "why, barber, are you reaching up to catch birds there with salt?" "ah!" turning round disenchanted, "it is only a man, then." "_only_ a man? as if to be but a man were nothing. but don't be too sure what i am. you call me _man_, just as the townsfolk called the angels who, in man's form, came to lot's house; just as the jew rustics called the devils who, in man's form, haunted the tombs. you can conclude nothing absolute from the human form, barber." "but i can conclude something from that sort of talk, with that sort of dress," shrewdly thought the barber, eying him with regained self-possession, and not without some latent touch of apprehension at being alone with him. what was passing in his mind seemed divined by the other, who now, more rationally and gravely, and as if he expected it should be attended to, said: "whatever else you may conclude upon, it is my desire that you conclude to give me a good shave," at the same time loosening his neck-cloth. "are you competent to a good shave, barber?" "no broker more so, sir," answered the barber, whom the business-like proposition instinctively made confine to business-ends his views of the visitor. "broker? what has a broker to do with lather? a broker i have always understood to be a worthy dealer in certain papers and metals." "he, he!" taking him now for some dry sort of joker, whose jokes, he being a customer, it might be as well to appreciate, "he, he! you understand well enough, sir. take this seat, sir," laying his hand on a great stuffed chair, high-backed and high-armed, crimson-covered, and raised on a sort of dais, and which seemed but to lack a canopy and quarterings, to make it in aspect quite a throne, "take this seat, sir." "thank you," sitting down; "and now, pray, explain that about the broker. but look, look--what's this?" suddenly rising, and pointing, with his long pipe, towards a gilt notification swinging among colored fly-papers from the ceiling, like a tavern sign, "_no trust?_" "no trust means distrust; distrust means no confidence. barber," turning upon him excitedly, "what fell suspiciousness prompts this scandalous confession? my life!" stamping his foot, "if but to tell a dog that you have no confidence in him be matter for affront to the dog, what an insult to take that way the whole haughty race of man by the beard! by my heart, sir! but at least you are valiant; backing the spleen of thersites with the pluck of agamemnon." "your sort of talk, sir, is not exactly in my line," said the barber, rather ruefully, being now again hopeless of his customer, and not without return of uneasiness; "not in my line, sir," he emphatically repeated. "but the taking of mankind by the nose is; a habit, barber, which i sadly fear has insensibly bred in you a disrespect for man. for how, indeed, may respectful conceptions of him coexist with the perpetual habit of taking him by the nose? but, tell me, though i, too, clearly see the import of your notification, i do not, as yet, perceive the object. what is it?" "now you speak a little in my line, sir," said the barber, not unrelieved at this return to plain talk; "that notification i find very useful, sparing me much work which would not pay. yes, i lost a good deal, off and on, before putting that up," gratefully glancing towards it. "but what is its object? surely, you don't mean to say, in so many words, that you have no confidence? for instance, now," flinging aside his neck-cloth, throwing back his blouse, and reseating himself on the tonsorial throne, at sight of which proceeding the barber mechanically filled a cup with hot water from a copper vessel over a spirit-lamp, "for instance, now, suppose i say to you, 'barber, my dear barber, unhappily i have no small change by me to-night, but shave me, and depend upon your money to-morrow'--suppose i should say that now, you would put trust in me, wouldn't you? you would have confidence?" "seeing that it is you, sir," with complaisance replied the barber, now mixing the lather, "seeing that it is _you_ sir, i won't answer that question. no need to." "of course, of course--in that view. but, as a supposition--you would have confidence in me, wouldn't you?" "why--yes, yes." "then why that sign?" "ah, sir, all people ain't like you," was the smooth reply, at the same time, as if smoothly to close the debate, beginning smoothly to apply the lather, which operation, however, was, by a motion, protested against by the subject, but only out of a desire to rejoin, which was done in these words: "all people ain't like me. then i must be either better or worse than most people. worse, you could not mean; no, barber, you could not mean that; hardly that. it remains, then, that you think me better than most people. but that i ain't vain enough to believe; though, from vanity, i confess, i could never yet, by my best wrestlings, entirely free myself; nor, indeed, to be frank, am i at bottom over anxious to--this same vanity, barber, being so harmless, so useful, so comfortable, so pleasingly preposterous a passion." "very true, sir; and upon my honor, sir, you talk very well. but the lather is getting a little cold, sir." "better cold lather, barber, than a cold heart. why that cold sign? ah, i don't wonder you try to shirk the confession. you feel in your soul how ungenerous a hint is there. and yet, barber, now that i look into your eyes--which somehow speak to me of the mother that must have so often looked into them before me--i dare say, though you may not think it, that the spirit of that notification is not one with your nature. for look now, setting, business views aside, regarding the thing in an abstract light; in short, supposing a case, barber; supposing, i say, you see a stranger, his face accidentally averted, but his visible part very respectable-looking; what now, barber--i put it to your conscience, to your charity--what would be your impression of that man, in a moral point of view? being in a signal sense a stranger, would you, for that, signally set him down for a knave?" "certainly not, sir; by no means," cried the barber, humanely resentful. "you would upon the face of him----" "hold, sir," said the barber, "nothing about the face; you remember, sir, that is out of sight." "i forgot that. well then, you would, upon the _back_ of him, conclude him to be, not improbably, some worthy sort of person; in short, an honest man: wouldn't you?" "not unlikely i should, sir." "well now--don't be so impatient with your brush, barber--suppose that honest man meet you by night in some dark corner of the boat where his face would still remain unseen, asking you to trust him for a shave--how then?" "wouldn't trust him, sir." "but is not an honest man to be trusted?" "why--why--yes, sir." "there! don't you see, now?" "see what?" asked the disconcerted barber, rather vexedly. "why, you stand self-contradicted, barber; don't you?" "no," doggedly. "barber," gravely, and after a pause of concern, "the enemies of our race have a saying that insincerity is the most universal and inveterate vice of man--the lasting bar to real amelioration, whether of individuals or of the world. don't you now, barber, by your stubbornness on this occasion, give color to such a calumny?" "hity-tity!" cried the barber, losing patience, and with it respect; "stubbornness?" then clattering round the brush in the cup, "will you be shaved, or won't you?" "barber, i will be shaved, and with pleasure; but, pray, don't raise your voice that way. why, now, if you go through life gritting your teeth in that fashion, what a comfortless time you will have." "i take as much comfort in this world as you or any other man," cried the barber, whom the other's sweetness of temper seemed rather to exasperate than soothe. "to resent the imputation of anything like unhappiness i have often observed to be peculiar to certain orders of men," said the other pensively, and half to himself, "just as to be indifferent to that imputation, from holding happiness but for a secondary good and inferior grace, i have observed to be equally peculiar to other kinds of men. pray, barber," innocently looking up, "which think you is the superior creature?" "all this sort of talk," cried the barber, still unmollified, "is, as i told you once before, not in my line. in a few minutes i shall shut up this shop. will you be shaved?" "shave away, barber. what hinders?" turning up his face like a flower. the shaving began, and proceeded in silence, till at length it became necessary to prepare to relather a little--affording an opportunity for resuming the subject, which, on one side, was not let slip. "barber," with a kind of cautious kindliness, feeling his way, "barber, now have a little patience with me; do; trust me, i wish not to offend. i have been thinking over that supposed case of the man with the averted face, and i cannot rid my mind of the impression that, by your opposite replies to my questions at the time, you showed yourself much of a piece with a good many other men--that is, you have confidence, and then again, you have none. now, what i would ask is, do you think it sensible standing for a sensible man, one foot on confidence and the other on suspicion? don't you think, barber, that you ought to elect? don't you think consistency requires that you should either say 'i have confidence in all men,' and take down your notification; or else say, 'i suspect all men,' and keep it up." this dispassionate, if not deferential, way of putting the case, did not fail to impress the barber, and proportionately conciliate him. likewise, from its pointedness, it served to make him thoughtful; for, instead of going to the copper vessel for more water, as he had purposed, he halted half-way towards it, and, after a pause, cup in hand, said: "sir, i hope you would not do me injustice. i don't say, and can't say, and wouldn't say, that i suspect all men; but i _do_ say that strangers are not to be trusted, and so," pointing up to the sign, "no trust." "but look, now, i beg, barber," rejoined the other deprecatingly, not presuming too much upon the barber's changed temper; "look, now; to say that strangers are not to be trusted, does not that imply something like saying that mankind is not to be trusted; for the mass of mankind, are they not necessarily strangers to each individual man? come, come, my friend," winningly, "you are no timon to hold the mass of mankind untrustworthy. take down your notification; it is misanthropical; much the same sign that timon traced with charcoal on the forehead of a skull stuck over his cave. take it down, barber; take it down to-night. trust men. just try the experiment of trusting men for this one little trip. come now, i'm a philanthropist, and will insure you against losing a cent." the barber shook his head dryly, and answered, "sir, you must excuse me. i have a family." chapter xliii very charming. "so you are a philanthropist, sir," added the barber with an illuminated look; "that accounts, then, for all. very odd sort of man the philanthropist. you are the second one, sir, i have seen. very odd sort of man, indeed, the philanthropist. ah, sir," again meditatively stirring in the shaving-cup, "i sadly fear, lest you philanthropists know better what goodness is, than what men are." then, eying him as if he were some strange creature behind cage-bars, "so you are a philanthropist, sir." "i am philanthropos, and love mankind. and, what is more than you do, barber, i trust them." here the barber, casually recalled to his business, would have replenished his shaving-cup, but finding now that on his last visit to the water-vessel he had not replaced it over the lamp, he did so now; and, while waiting for it to heat again, became almost as sociable as if the heating water were meant for whisky-punch; and almost as pleasantly garrulous as the pleasant barbers in romances. "sir," said he, taking a throne beside his customer (for in a row there were three thrones on the dais, as for the three kings of cologne, those patron saints of the barber), "sir, you say you trust men. well, i suppose i might share some of your trust, were it not for this trade, that i follow, too much letting me in behind the scenes." "i think i understand," with a saddened look; "and much the same thing i have heard from persons in pursuits different from yours--from the lawyer, from the congressman, from the editor, not to mention others, each, with a strange kind of melancholy vanity, claiming for his vocation the distinction of affording the surest inlets to the conviction that man is no better than he should be. all of which testimony, if reliable, would, by mutual corroboration, justify some disturbance in a good man's mind. but no, no; it is a mistake--all a mistake." "true, sir, very true," assented the barber. "glad to hear that," brightening up. "not so fast, sir," said the barber; "i agree with you in thinking that the lawyer, and the congressman, and the editor, are in error, but only in so far as each claims peculiar facilities for the sort of knowledge in question; because, you see, sir, the truth is, that every trade or pursuit which brings one into contact with the facts, sir, such trade or pursuit is equally an avenue to those facts." "_how_ exactly is that?" "why, sir, in my opinion--and for the last twenty years i have, at odd times, turned the matter over some in my mind--he who comes to know man, will not remain in ignorance of man. i think i am not rash in saying that; am i, sir?" "barber, you talk like an oracle--obscurely, barber, obscurely." "well, sir," with some self-complacency, "the barber has always been held an oracle, but as for the obscurity, that i don't admit." "but pray, now, by your account, what precisely may be this mysterious knowledge gained in your trade? i grant you, indeed, as before hinted, that your trade, imposing on you the necessity of functionally tweaking the noses of mankind, is, in that respect, unfortunate, very much so; nevertheless, a well-regulated imagination should be proof even to such a provocation to improper conceits. but what i want to learn from you, barber, is, how does the mere handling of the outside of men's heads lead you to distrust the inside of their hearts? "what, sir, to say nothing more, can one be forever dealing in macassar oil, hair dyes, cosmetics, false moustaches, wigs, and toupees, and still believe that men are wholly what they look to be? what think you, sir, are a thoughtful barber's reflections, when, behind a careful curtain, he shaves the thin, dead stubble off a head, and then dismisses it to the world, radiant in curling auburn? to contrast the shamefaced air behind the curtain, the fearful looking forward to being possibly discovered there by a prying acquaintance, with the cheerful assurance and challenging pride with which the same man steps forth again, a gay deception, into the street, while some honest, shock-headed fellow humbly gives him the wall! ah, sir, they may talk of the courage of truth, but my trade teaches me that truth sometimes is sheepish. lies, lies, sir, brave lies are the lions!" "you twist the moral, barber; you sadly twist it. look, now; take it this way: a modest man thrust out naked into the street, would he not be abashed? take him in and clothe him; would not his confidence be restored? and in either case, is any reproach involved? now, what is true of the whole, holds proportionably true of the part. the bald head is a nakedness which the wig is a coat to. to feel uneasy at the possibility of the exposure of one's nakedness at top, and to feel comforted by the consciousness of having it clothed--these feelings, instead of being dishonorable to a bold man, do, in fact, but attest a proper respect for himself and his fellows. and as for the deception, you may as well call the fine roof of a fine chateau a deception, since, like a fine wig, it also is an artificial cover to the head, and equally, in the common eye, decorates the wearer.--i have confuted you, my dear barber; i have confounded you." "pardon," said the barber, "but i do not see that you have. his coat and his roof no man pretends to palm off as a part of himself, but the bald man palms off hair, not his, for his own." "not _his_, barber? if he have fairly purchased his hair, the law will protect him in its ownership, even against the claims of the head on which it grew. but it cannot be that you believe what you say, barber; you talk merely for the humor. i could not think so of you as to suppose that you would contentedly deal in the impostures you condemn." "ah, sir, i must live." "and can't you do that without sinning against your conscience, as you believe? take up some other calling." "wouldn't mend the matter much, sir." "do you think, then, barber, that, in a certain point, all the trades and callings of men are much on a par? fatal, indeed," raising his hand, "inexpressibly dreadful, the trade of the barber, if to such conclusions it necessarily leads. barber," eying him not without emotion, "you appear to me not so much a misbeliever, as a man misled. now, let me set you on the right track; let me restore you to trust in human nature, and by no other means than the very trade that has brought you to suspect it." "you mean, sir, you would have me try the experiment of taking down that notification," again pointing to it with his brush; "but, dear me, while i sit chatting here, the water boils over." with which words, and such a well-pleased, sly, snug, expression, as they say some men have when they think their little stratagem has succeeded, he hurried to the copper vessel, and soon had his cup foaming up with white bubbles, as if it were a mug of new ale. meantime, the other would have fain gone on with the discourse; but the cunning barber lathered him with so generous a brush, so piled up the foam on him, that his face looked like the yeasty crest of a billow, and vain to think of talking under it, as for a drowning priest in the sea to exhort his fellow-sinners on a raft. nothing would do, but he must keep his mouth shut. doubtless, the interval was not, in a meditative way, unimproved; for, upon the traces of the operation being at last removed, the cosmopolitan rose, and, for added refreshment, washed his face and hands; and having generally readjusted himself, began, at last, addressing the barber in a manner different, singularly so, from his previous one. hard to say exactly what the manner was, any more than to hint it was a sort of magical; in a benign way, not wholly unlike the manner, fabled or otherwise, of certain creatures in nature, which have the power of persuasive fascination--the power of holding another creature by the button of the eye, as it were, despite the serious disinclination, and, indeed, earnest protest, of the victim. with this manner the conclusion of the matter was not out of keeping; for, in the end, all argument and expostulation proved vain, the barber being irresistibly persuaded to agree to try, for the remainder of the present trip, the experiment of trusting men, as both phrased it. true, to save his credit as a free agent, he was loud in averring that it was only for the novelty of the thing that he so agreed, and he required the other, as before volunteered, to go security to him against any loss that might ensue; but still the fact remained, that he engaged to trust men, a thing he had before said he would not do, at least not unreservedly. still the more to save his credit, he now insisted upon it, as a last point, that the agreement should be put in black and white, especially the security part. the other made no demur; pen, ink, and paper were provided, and grave as any notary the cosmopolitan sat down, but, ere taking the pen, glanced up at the notification, and said: "first down with that sign, barber--timon's sign, there; down with it." this, being in the agreement, was done--though a little reluctantly--with an eye to the future, the sign being carefully put away in a drawer. "now, then, for the writing," said the cosmopolitan, squaring himself. "ah," with a sigh, "i shall make a poor lawyer, i fear. ain't used, you see, barber, to a business which, ignoring the principle of honor, holds no nail fast till clinched. strange, barber," taking up the blank paper, "that such flimsy stuff as this should make such strong hawsers; vile hawsers, too. barber," starting up, "i won't put it in black and white. it were a reflection upon our joint honor. i will take your word, and you shall take mine." "but your memory may be none of the best, sir. well for you, on your side, to have it in black and white, just for a memorandum like, you know." "that, indeed! yes, and it would help _your_ memory, too, wouldn't it, barber? yours, on your side, being a little weak, too, i dare say. ah, barber! how ingenious we human beings are; and how kindly we reciprocate each other's little delicacies, don't we? what better proof, now, that we are kind, considerate fellows, with responsive fellow-feelings--eh, barber? but to business. let me see. what's your name, barber?" "william cream, sir." pondering a moment, he began to write; and, after some corrections, leaned back, and read aloud the following: "agreement between frank goodman, philanthropist, and citizen of the world, and william cream, barber of the mississippi steamer, fidèle. "the first hereby agrees to make good to the last any loss that may come from his trusting mankind, in the way of his vocation, for the residue of the present trip; provided that william cream keep out of sight, for the given term, his notification of no trust, and by no other mode convey any, the least hint or intimation, tending to discourage men from soliciting trust from him, in the way of his vocation, for the time above specified; but, on the contrary, he do, by all proper and reasonable words, gestures, manners, and looks, evince a perfect confidence in all men, especially strangers; otherwise, this agreement to be void. "done, in good faith, this st day of april --, at a quarter to twelve o'clock, p. m., in the shop of said william cream, on board the said boat, fidèle." "there, barber; will that do?" "that will do," said the barber, "only now put down your name." both signatures being affixed, the question was started by the barber, who should have custody of the instrument; which point, however, he settled for himself, by proposing that both should go together to the captain, and give the document into his hands--the barber hinting that this would be a safe proceeding, because the captain was necessarily a party disinterested, and, what was more, could not, from the nature of the present case, make anything by a breach of trust. all of which was listened to with some surprise and concern. "why, barber," said the cosmopolitan, "this don't show the right spirit; for me, i have confidence in the captain purely because he is a man; but he shall have nothing to do with our affair; for if you have no confidence in me, barber, i have in you. there, keep the paper yourself," handing it magnanimously. "very good," said the barber, "and now nothing remains but for me to receive the cash." though the mention of that word, or any of its singularly numerous equivalents, in serious neighborhood to a requisition upon one's purse, is attended with a more or less noteworthy effect upon the human countenance, producing in many an abrupt fall of it--in others, a writhing and screwing up of the features to a point not undistressing to behold, in some, attended with a blank pallor and fatal consternation--yet no trace of any of these symptoms was visible upon the countenance of the cosmopolitan, notwithstanding nothing could be more sudden and unexpected than the barber's demand. "you speak of cash, barber; pray in what connection?" "in a nearer one, sir," answered the barber, less blandly, "than i thought the man with the sweet voice stood, who wanted me to trust him once for a shave, on the score of being a sort of thirteenth cousin." "indeed, and what did you say to him?" "i said, 'thank you, sir, but i don't see the connection,'" "how could you so unsweetly answer one with a sweet voice?" "because, i recalled what the son of sirach says in the true book: 'an enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips;' and so i did what the son of sirach advises in such cases: 'i believed not his many words.'" "what, barber, do you say that such cynical sort of things are in the true book, by which, of course, you mean the bible?" "yes, and plenty more to the same effect. read the book of proverbs." "that's strange, now, barber; for i never happen to have met with those passages you cite. before i go to bed this night, i'll inspect the bible i saw on the cabin-table, to-day. but mind, you mustn't quote the true book that way to people coming in here; it would be impliedly a violation of the contract. but you don't know how glad i feel that you have for one while signed off all that sort of thing." "no, sir; not unless you down with the cash." "cash again! what do you mean?" "why, in this paper here, you engage, sir, to insure me against a certain loss, and----" "certain? is it so _certain_ you are going to lose?" "why, that way of taking the word may not be amiss, but i didn't mean it so. i meant a _certain_ loss; you understand, a certain loss; that is to say, a certain loss. now then, sir, what use your mere writing and saying you will insure me, unless beforehand you place in my hands a money-pledge, sufficient to that end?" "i see; the material pledge." "yes, and i will put it low; say fifty dollars." "now what sort of a beginning is this? you, barber, for a given time engage to trust man, to put confidence in men, and, for your first step, make a demand implying no confidence in the very man you engage with. but fifty dollars is nothing, and i would let you have it cheerfully, only i unfortunately happen to have but little change with me just now." "but you have money in your trunk, though?" "to be sure. but you see--in fact, barber, you must be consistent. no, i won't let you have the money now; i won't let you violate the inmost spirit of our contract, that way. so good-night, and i will see you again." "stay, sir"--humming and hawing--"you have forgotten something." "handkerchief?--gloves? no, forgotten nothing. good-night." "stay, sir--the--the shaving." "ah, i _did_ forget that. but now that it strikes me, i shan't pay you at present. look at your agreement; you must trust. tut! against loss you hold the guarantee. good-night, my dear barber." with which words he sauntered off, leaving the barber in a maze, staring after. but it holding true in fascination as in natural philosophy, that nothing can act where it is not, so the barber was not long now in being restored to his self-possession and senses; the first evidence of which perhaps was, that, drawing forth his notification from the drawer, he put it back where it belonged; while, as for the agreement, that he tore up; which he felt the more free to do from the impression that in all human probability he would never again see the person who had drawn it. whether that impression proved well-founded or not, does not appear. but in after days, telling the night's adventure to his friends, the worthy barber always spoke of his queer customer as the man-charmer--as certain east indians are called snake-charmers--and all his friends united in thinking him quite an original. chapter xliv. in which the last three words of the last chapter are made the text of discourse, which will be sure of receiving more or less attention from those readers who do not skip it. "quite an original:" a phrase, we fancy, rather oftener used by the young, or the unlearned, or the untraveled, than by the old, or the well-read, or the man who has made the grand tour. certainly, the sense of originality exists at its highest in an infant, and probably at its lowest in him who has completed the circle of the sciences. as for original characters in fiction, a grateful reader will, on meeting with one, keep the anniversary of that day. true, we sometimes hear of an author who, at one creation, produces some two or three score such characters; it may be possible. but they can hardly be original in the sense that hamlet is, or don quixote, or milton's satan. that is to say, they are not, in a thorough sense, original at all. they are novel, or singular, or striking, or captivating, or all four at once. more likely, they are what are called odd characters; but for that, are no more original, than what is called an odd genius, in his way, is. but, if original, whence came they? or where did the novelist pick them up? where does any novelist pick up any character? for the most part, in town, to be sure. every great town is a kind of man-show, where the novelist goes for his stock, just as the agriculturist goes to the cattle-show for his. but in the one fair, new species of quadrupeds are hardly more rare, than in the other are new species of characters--that is, original ones. their rarity may still the more appear from this, that, while characters, merely singular, imply but singular forms so to speak, original ones, truly so, imply original instincts. in short, a due conception of what is to be held for this sort of personage in fiction would make him almost as much of a prodigy there, as in real history is a new law-giver, a revolutionizing philosopher, or the founder of a new religion. in nearly all the original characters, loosely accounted such in works of invention, there is discernible something prevailingly local, or of the age; which circumstance, of itself, would seem to invalidate the claim, judged by the principles here suggested. furthermore, if we consider, what is popularly held to entitle characters in fiction to being deemed original, is but something personal--confined to itself. the character sheds not its characteristic on its surroundings, whereas, the original character, essentially such, is like a revolving drummond light, raying away from itself all round it--everything is lit by it, everything starts up to it (mark how it is with hamlet), so that, in certain minds, there follows upon the adequate conception of such a character, an effect, in its way, akin to that which in genesis attends upon the beginning of things. for much the same reason that there is but one planet to one orbit, so can there be but one such original character to one work of invention. two would conflict to chaos. in this view, to say that there are more than one to a book, is good presumption there is none at all. but for new, singular, striking, odd, eccentric, and all sorts of entertaining and instructive characters, a good fiction may be full of them. to produce such characters, an author, beside other things, must have seen much, and seen through much: to produce but one original character, he must have had much luck. there would seem but one point in common between this sort of phenomenon in fiction and all other sorts: it cannot be born in the author's imagination--it being as true in literature as in zoology, that all life is from the egg. in the endeavor to show, if possible, the impropriety of the phrase, _quite an original_, as applied by the barber's friends, we have, at unawares, been led into a dissertation bordering upon the prosy, perhaps upon the smoky. if so, the best use the smoke can be turned to, will be, by retiring under cover of it, in good trim as may be, to the story. chapter xlv. the cosmopolitan increases in seriousness. in the middle of the gentleman's cabin burned a solar lamp, swung from the ceiling, and whose shade of ground glass was all round fancifully variegated, in transparency, with the image of a horned altar, from which flames rose, alternate with the figure of a robed man, his head encircled by a halo. the light of this lamp, after dazzlingly striking on marble, snow-white and round--the slab of a centre-table beneath--on all sides went rippling off with ever-diminishing distinctness, till, like circles from a stone dropped in water, the rays died dimly away in the furthest nook of the place. here and there, true to their place, but not to their function, swung other lamps, barren planets, which had either gone out from exhaustion, or been extinguished by such occupants of berths as the light annoyed, or who wanted to sleep, not see. by a perverse man, in a berth not remote, the remaining lamp would have been extinguished as well, had not a steward forbade, saying that the commands of the captain required it to be kept burning till the natural light of day should come to relieve it. this steward, who, like many in his vocation, was apt to be a little free-spoken at times, had been provoked by the man's pertinacity to remind him, not only of the sad consequences which might, upon occasion, ensue from the cabin being left in darkness, but, also, of the circumstance that, in a place full of strangers, to show one's self anxious to produce darkness there, such an anxiety was, to say the least, not becoming. so the lamp--last survivor of many--burned on, inwardly blessed by those in some berths, and inwardly execrated by those in others. keeping his lone vigils beneath his lone lamp, which lighted his book on the table, sat a clean, comely, old man, his head snowy as the marble, and a countenance like that which imagination ascribes to good simeon, when, having at last beheld the master of faith, he blessed him and departed in peace. from his hale look of greenness in winter, and his hands ingrained with the tan, less, apparently, of the present summer, than of accumulated ones past, the old man seemed a well-to-do farmer, happily dismissed, after a thrifty life of activity, from the fields to the fireside--one of those who, at three-score-and-ten, are fresh-hearted as at fifteen; to whom seclusion gives a boon more blessed than knowledge, and at last sends them to heaven untainted by the world, because ignorant of it; just as a countryman putting up at a london inn, and never stirring out of it as a sight-seer, will leave london at last without once being lost in its fog, or soiled by its mud. redolent from the barber's shop, as any bridegroom tripping to the bridal chamber might come, and by his look of cheeriness seeming to dispense a sort of morning through the night, in came the cosmopolitan; but marking the old man, and how he was occupied, he toned himself down, and trod softly, and took a seat on the other side of the table, and said nothing. still, there was a kind of waiting expression about him. "sir," said the old man, after looking up puzzled at him a moment, "sir," said he, "one would think this was a coffee-house, and it was war-time, and i had a newspaper here with great news, and the only copy to be had, you sit there looking at me so eager." "and so you _have_ good news there, sir--the very best of good news." "too good to be true," here came from one of the curtained berths. "hark!" said the cosmopolitan. "some one talks in his sleep." "yes," said the old man, "and you--_you_ seem to be talking in a dream. why speak you, sir, of news, and all that, when you must see this is a book i have here--the bible, not a newspaper?" "i know that; and when you are through with it--but not a moment sooner--i will thank you for it. it belongs to the boat, i believe--a present from a society." "oh, take it, take it!" "nay, sir, i did not mean to touch you at all. i simply stated the fact in explanation of my waiting here--nothing more. read on, sir, or you will distress me." this courtesy was not without effect. removing his spectacles, and saying he had about finished his chapter, the old man kindly presented the volume, which was received with thanks equally kind. after reading for some minutes, until his expression merged from attentiveness into seriousness, and from that into a kind of pain, the cosmopolitan slowly laid down the book, and turning to the old man, who thus far had been watching him with benign curiosity, said: "can you, my aged friend, resolve me a doubt--a disturbing doubt?" "there are doubts, sir," replied the old man, with a changed countenance, "there are doubts, sir, which, if man have them, it is not man that can solve them." "true; but look, now, what my doubt is. i am one who thinks well of man. i love man. i have confidence in man. but what was told me not a half-hour since? i was told that i would find it written--'believe not his many words--an enemy speaketh sweetly with his lips'--and also i was told that i would find a good deal more to the same effect, and all in this book. i could not think it; and, coming here to look for myself, what do i read? not only just what was quoted, but also, as was engaged, more to the same purpose, such as this: 'with much communication he will tempt thee; he will smile upon thee, and speak thee fair, and say what wantest thou? if thou be for his profit he will use thee; he will make thee bear, and will not be sorry for it. observe and take good heed. when thou hearest these things, awake in thy sleep.'" "who's that describing the confidence-man?" here came from the berth again. "awake in his sleep, sure enough, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan, again looking off in surprise. "same voice as before, ain't it? strange sort of dreamy man, that. which is his berth, pray?" "never mind _him_, sir," said the old man anxiously, "but tell me truly, did you, indeed, read from the book just now?" "i did," with changed air, "and gall and wormwood it is to me, a truster in man; to me, a philanthropist." "why," moved, "you don't mean to say, that what you repeated is really down there? man and boy, i have read the good book this seventy years, and don't remember seeing anything like that. let me see it," rising earnestly, and going round to him. "there it is; and there--and there"--turning over the leaves, and pointing to the sentences one by one; "there--all down in the 'wisdom of jesus, the son of sirach.'" "ah!" cried the old man, brightening up, "now i know. look," turning the leaves forward and back, till all the old testament lay flat on one side, and all the new testament flat on the other, while in his fingers he supported vertically the portion between, "look, sir, all this to the right is certain truth, and all this to the left is certain truth, but all i hold in my hand here is apocrypha." "apocrypha?" "yes; and there's the word in black and white," pointing to it. "and what says the word? it says as much as 'not warranted;' for what do college men say of anything of that sort? they say it is apocryphal. the word itself, i've heard from the pulpit, implies something of uncertain credit. so if your disturbance be raised from aught in this apocrypha," again taking up the pages, "in that case, think no more of it, for it's apocrypha." "what's that about the apocalypse?" here, a third time, came from the berth. "he's seeing visions now, ain't he?" said the cosmopolitan, once more looking in the direction of the interruption. "but, sir," resuming, "i cannot tell you how thankful i am for your reminding me about the apocrypha here. for the moment, its being such escaped me. fact is, when all is bound up together, it's sometimes confusing. the uncanonical part should be bound distinct. and, now that i think of it, how well did those learned doctors who rejected for us this whole book of sirach. i never read anything so calculated to destroy man's confidence in man. this son of sirach even says--i saw it but just now: 'take heed of thy friends;' not, observe, thy seeming friends, thy hypocritical friends, thy false friends, but thy _friends_, thy real friends--that is to say, not the truest friend in the world is to be implicitly trusted. can rochefoucault equal that? i should not wonder if his view of human nature, like machiavelli's, was taken from this son of sirach. and to call it wisdom--the wisdom of the son of sirach! wisdom, indeed! what an ugly thing wisdom must be! give me the folly that dimples the cheek, say i, rather than the wisdom that curdles the blood. but no, no; it ain't wisdom; it's apocrypha, as you say, sir. for how can that be trustworthy that teaches distrust?" "i tell you what it is," here cried the same voice as before, only more in less of mockery, "if you two don't know enough to sleep, don't be keeping wiser men awake. and if you want to know what wisdom is, go find it under your blankets." "wisdom?" cried another voice with a brogue; "arrah and is't wisdom the two geese are gabbling about all this while? to bed with ye, ye divils, and don't be after burning your fingers with the likes of wisdom." "we must talk lower," said the old man; "i fear we have annoyed these good people." "i should be sorry if wisdom annoyed any one," said the other; "but we will lower our voices, as you say. to resume: taking the thing as i did, can you be surprised at my uneasiness in reading passages so charged with the spirit of distrust?" "no, sir, i am not surprised," said the old man; then added: "from what you say, i see you are something of my way of thinking--you think that to distrust the creature, is a kind of distrusting of the creator. well, my young friend, what is it? this is rather late for you to be about. what do you want of me?" these questions were put to a boy in the fragment of an old linen coat, bedraggled and yellow, who, coming in from the deck barefooted on the soft carpet, had been unheard. all pointed and fluttering, the rags of the little fellow's red-flannel shirt, mixed with those of his yellow coat, flamed about him like the painted flames in the robes of a victim in _auto-da-fe_. his face, too, wore such a polish of seasoned grime, that his sloe-eyes sparkled from out it like lustrous sparks in fresh coal. he was a juvenile peddler, or _marchand_, as the polite french might have called him, of travelers' conveniences; and, having no allotted sleeping-place, had, in his wanderings about the boat, spied, through glass doors, the two in the cabin; and, late though it was, thought it might never be too much so for turning a penny. among other things, he carried a curious affair--a miniature mahogany door, hinged to its frame, and suitably furnished in all respects but one, which will shortly appear. this little door he now meaningly held before the old man, who, after staring at it a while, said: "go thy ways with thy toys, child." "now, may i never get so old and wise as that comes to," laughed the boy through his grime; and, by so doing, disclosing leopard-like teeth, like those of murillo's wild beggar-boy's. "the divils are laughing now, are they?" here came the brogue from the berth. "what do the divils find to laugh about in wisdom, begorrah? to bed with ye, ye divils, and no more of ye." "you see, child, you have disturbed that person," said the old man; "you mustn't laugh any more." "ah, now," said the cosmopolitan, "don't, pray, say that; don't let him think that poor laughter is persecuted for a fool in this world." "well," said the old man to the boy, "you must, at any rate, speak very low." "yes, that wouldn't be amiss, perhaps," said the cosmopolitan; "but, my fine fellow, you were about saying something to my aged friend here; what was it?" "oh," with a lowered voice, coolly opening and shutting his little door, "only this: when i kept a toy-stand at the fair in cincinnati last month, i sold more than one old man a child's rattle." "no doubt of it," said the old man. "i myself often buy such things for my little grandchildren." "but these old men i talk of were old bachelors." the old man stared at him a moment; then, whispering to the cosmopolitan: "strange boy, this; sort of simple, ain't he? don't know much, hey?" "not much," said the boy, "or i wouldn't be so ragged." "why, child, what sharp ears you have!" exclaimed the old man. "if they were duller, i would hear less ill of myself," said the boy. "you seem pretty wise, my lad," said the cosmopolitan; "why don't you sell your wisdom, and buy a coat?" "faith," said the boy, "that's what i did to-day, and this is the coat that the price of my wisdom bought. but won't you trade? see, now, it is not the door i want to sell; i only carry the door round for a specimen, like. look now, sir," standing the thing up on the table, "supposing this little door is your state-room door; well," opening it, "you go in for the night; you close your door behind you--thus. now, is all safe?" "i suppose so, child," said the old man. "of course it is, my fine fellow," said the cosmopolitan. "all safe. well. now, about two o'clock in the morning, say, a soft-handed gentleman comes softly and tries the knob here--thus; in creeps my soft-handed gentleman; and hey, presto! how comes on the soft cash?" "i see, i see, child," said the old man; "your fine gentleman is a fine thief, and there's no lock to your little door to keep him out;" with which words he peered at it more closely than before. "well, now," again showing his white teeth, "well, now, some of you old folks are knowing 'uns, sure enough; but now comes the great invention," producing a small steel contrivance, very simple but ingenious, and which, being clapped on the inside of the little door, secured it as with a bolt. "there now," admiringly holding it off at arm's-length, "there now, let that soft-handed gentleman come now a' softly trying this little knob here, and let him keep a' trying till he finds his head as soft as his hand. buy the traveler's patent lock, sir, only twenty-five cents." "dear me," cried the old man, "this beats printing. yes, child, i will have one, and use it this very night." with the phlegm of an old banker pouching the change, the boy now turned to the other: "sell you one, sir?" "excuse me, my fine fellow, but i never use such blacksmiths' things." "those who give the blacksmith most work seldom do," said the boy, tipping him a wink expressive of a degree of indefinite knowingness, not uninteresting to consider in one of his years. but the wink was not marked by the old man, nor, to all appearances, by him for whom it was intended. "now then," said the boy, again addressing the old man. "with your traveler's lock on your door to-night, you will think yourself all safe, won't you?" "i think i will, child." "but how about the window?" "dear me, the window, child. i never thought of that. i must see to that." "never you mind about the window," said the boy, "nor, to be honor bright, about the traveler's lock either, (though i ain't sorry for selling one), do you just buy one of these little jokers," producing a number of suspender-like objects, which he dangled before the old man; "money-belts, sir; only fifty cents." "money-belt? never heard of such a thing." "a sort of pocket-book," said the boy, "only a safer sort. very good for travelers." "oh, a pocket-book. queer looking pocket-books though, seems to me. ain't they rather long and narrow for pocket-books?" "they go round the waist, sir, inside," said the boy "door open or locked, wide awake on your feet or fast asleep in your chair, impossible to be robbed with a money-belt." "i see, i see. it _would_ be hard to rob one's money-belt. and i was told to-day the mississippi is a bad river for pick-pockets. how much are they?" "only fifty cents, sir." "i'll take one. there!" "thank-ee. and now there's a present for ye," with which, drawing from his breast a batch of little papers, he threw one before the old man, who, looking at it, read "_counterfeit detector_." "very good thing," said the boy, "i give it to all my customers who trade seventy-five cents' worth; best present can be made them. sell you a money-belt, sir?" turning to the cosmopolitan. "excuse me, my fine fellow, but i never use that sort of thing; my money i carry loose." "loose bait ain't bad," said the boy, "look a lie and find the truth; don't care about a counterfeit detector, do ye? or is the wind east, d'ye think?" "child," said the old man in some concern, "you mustn't sit up any longer, it affects your mind; there, go away, go to bed." "if i had some people's brains to lie on. i would," said the boy, "but planks is hard, you know." "go, child--go, go!" "yes, child,--yes, yes," said the boy, with which roguish parody, by way of congé, he scraped back his hard foot on the woven flowers of the carpet, much as a mischievous steer in may scrapes back his horny hoof in the pasture; and then with a flourish of his hat--which, like the rest of his tatters, was, thanks to hard times, a belonging beyond his years, though not beyond his experience, being a grown man's cast-off beaver--turned, and with the air of a young caffre, quitted the place. "that's a strange boy," said the old man, looking after him. "i wonder who's his mother; and whether she knows what late hours he keeps?" "the probability is," observed the other, "that his mother does not know. but if you remember, sir, you were saying something, when the boy interrupted you with his door." "so i was.--let me see," unmindful of his purchases for the moment, "what, now, was it? what was that i was saying? do _you_ remember?" "not perfectly, sir; but, if i am not mistaken, it was something like this: you hoped you did not distrust the creature; for that would imply distrust of the creator." "yes, that was something like it," mechanically and unintelligently letting his eye fall now on his purchases. "pray, will you put your money in your belt to-night?" "it's best, ain't it?" with a slight start. "never too late to be cautious. 'beware of pick-pockets' is all over the boat." "yes, and it must have been the son of sirach, or some other morbid cynic, who put them there. but that's not to the purpose. since you are minded to it, pray, sir, let me help you about the belt. i think that, between us, we can make a secure thing of it." "oh no, no, no!" said the old man, not unperturbed, "no, no, i wouldn't trouble you for the world," then, nervously folding up the belt, "and i won't be so impolite as to do it for myself, before you, either. but, now that i think of it," after a pause, carefully taking a little wad from a remote corner of his vest pocket, "here are two bills they gave me at st. louis, yesterday. no doubt they are all right; but just to pass time, i'll compare them with the detector here. blessed boy to make me such a present. public benefactor, that little boy!" laying the detector square before him on the table, he then, with something of the air of an officer bringing by the collar a brace of culprits to the bar, placed the two bills opposite the detector, upon which, the examination began, lasting some time, prosecuted with no small research and vigilance, the forefinger of the right hand proving of lawyer-like efficacy in tracing out and pointing the evidence, whichever way it might go. after watching him a while, the cosmopolitan said in a formal voice, "well, what say you, mr. foreman; guilty, or not guilty?--not guilty, ain't it?" "i don't know, i don't know," returned the old man, perplexed, "there's so many marks of all sorts to go by, it makes it a kind of uncertain. here, now, is this bill," touching one, "it looks to be a three dollar bill on the vicksburgh trust and insurance banking company. well, the detector says----" "but why, in this case, care what it says? trust and insurance! what more would you have?" "no; but the detector says, among fifty other things, that, if a good bill, it must have, thickened here and there into the substance of the paper, little wavy spots of red; and it says they must have a kind of silky feel, being made by the lint of a red silk handkerchief stirred up in the paper-maker's vat--the paper being made to order for the company." "well, and is----" "stay. but then it adds, that sign is not always to be relied on; for some good bills get so worn, the red marks get rubbed out. and that's the case with my bill here--see how old it is--or else it's a counterfeit, or else--i don't see right--or else--dear, dear me--i don't know what else to think." "what a peck of trouble that detector makes for you now; believe me, the bill is good; don't be so distrustful. proves what i've always thought, that much of the want of confidence, in these days, is owing to these counterfeit detectors you see on every desk and counter. puts people up to suspecting good bills. throw it away, i beg, if only because of the trouble it breeds you." "no; it's troublesome, but i think i'll keep it.--stay, now, here's another sign. it says that, if the bill is good, it must have in one corner, mixed in with the vignette, the figure of a goose, very small, indeed, all but microscopic; and, for added precaution, like the figure of napoleon outlined by the tree, not observable, even if magnified, unless the attention is directed to it. now, pore over it as i will, i can't see this goose." "can't see the goose? why, i can; and a famous goose it is. there" (reaching over and pointing to a spot in the vignette). "i don't see it--dear me--i don't see the goose. is it a real goose?" "a perfect goose; beautiful goose." "dear, dear, i don't see it." "then throw that detector away, i say again; it only makes you purblind; don't you see what a wild-goose chase it has led you? the bill is good. throw the detector away." "no; it ain't so satisfactory as i thought for, but i must examine this other bill." "as you please, but i can't in conscience assist you any more; pray, then, excuse me." so, while the old man with much painstakings resumed his work, the cosmopolitan, to allow him every facility, resumed his reading. at length, seeing that he had given up his undertaking as hopeless, and was at leisure again, the cosmopolitan addressed some gravely interesting remarks to him about the book before him, and, presently, becoming more and more grave, said, as he turned the large volume slowly over on the table, and with much difficulty traced the faded remains of the gilt inscription giving the name of the society who had presented it to the boat, "ah, sir, though every one must be pleased at the thought of the presence in public places of such a book, yet there is something that abates the satisfaction. look at this volume; on the outside, battered as any old valise in the baggage-room; and inside, white and virgin as the hearts of lilies in bud." "so it is, so it is," said the old man sadly, his attention for the first directed to the circumstance. "nor is this the only time," continued the other, "that i have observed these public bibles in boats and hotels. all much like this--old without, and new within. true, this aptly typifies that internal freshness, the best mark of truth, however ancient; but then, it speaks not so well as could be wished for the good book's esteem in the minds of the traveling public. i may err, but it seems to me that if more confidence was put in it by the traveling public, it would hardly be so." with an expression very unlike that with which he had bent over the detector, the old man sat meditating upon his companions remarks a while; and, at last, with a rapt look, said: "and yet, of all people, the traveling public most need to put trust in that guardianship which is made known in this book." "true, true," thoughtfully assented the other. "and one would think they would want to, and be glad to," continued the old man kindling; "for, in all our wanderings through this vale, how pleasant, not less than obligatory, to feel that we need start at no wild alarms, provide for no wild perils; trusting in that power which is alike able and willing to protect us when we cannot ourselves." his manner produced something answering to it in the cosmopolitan, who, leaning over towards him, said sadly: "though this is a theme on which travelers seldom talk to each other, yet, to you, sir, i will say, that i share something of your sense of security. i have moved much about the world, and still keep at it; nevertheless, though in this land, and especially in these parts of it, some stories are told about steamboats and railroads fitted to make one a little apprehensive, yet, i may say that, neither by land nor by water, am i ever seriously disquieted, however, at times, transiently uneasy; since, with you, sir, i believe in a committee of safety, holding silent sessions over all, in an invisible patrol, most alert when we soundest sleep, and whose beat lies as much through forests as towns, along rivers as streets. in short, i never forget that passage of scripture which says, 'jehovah shall be thy confidence.' the traveler who has not this trust, what miserable misgivings must be his; or, what vain, short-sighted care must he take of himself." "even so," said the old man, lowly. "there is a chapter," continued the other, again taking the book, "which, as not amiss, i must read you. but this lamp, solar-lamp as it is, begins to burn dimly." "so it does, so it does," said the old man with changed air, "dear me, it must be very late. i must to bed, to bed! let me see," rising and looking wistfully all round, first on the stools and settees, and then on the carpet, "let me see, let me see;--is there anything i have forgot,--forgot? something i a sort of dimly remember. something, my son--careful man--told me at starting this morning, this very morning. something about seeing to--something before i got into my berth. what could it be? something for safety. oh, my poor old memory!" "let me give a little guess, sir. life-preserver?" "so it was. he told me not to omit seeing i had a life-preserver in my state-room; said the boat supplied them, too. but where are they? i don't see any. what are they like?" "they are something like this, sir, i believe," lifting a brown stool with a curved tin compartment underneath; "yes, this, i think, is a life-preserver, sir; and a very good one, i should say, though i don't pretend to know much about such things, never using them myself." "why, indeed, now! who would have thought it? _that_ a life-preserver? that's the very stool i was sitting on, ain't it?" "it is. and that shows that one's life is looked out for, when he ain't looking out for it himself. in fact, any of these stools here will float you, sir, should the boat hit a snag, and go down in the dark. but, since you want one in your room, pray take this one," handing it to him. "i think i can recommend this one; the tin part," rapping it with his knuckles, "seems so perfect--sounds so very hollow." "sure it's _quite_ perfect, though?" then, anxiously putting on his spectacles, he scrutinized it pretty closely--"well soldered? quite tight?" "i should say so, sir; though, indeed, as i said, i never use this sort of thing, myself. still, i think that in case of a wreck, barring sharp-pointed timbers, you could have confidence in that stool for a special providence." "then, good-night, good-night; and providence have both of us in its good keeping." "be sure it will," eying the old man with sympathy, as for the moment he stood, money-belt in hand, and life-preserver under arm, "be sure it will, sir, since in providence, as in man, you and i equally put trust. but, bless me, we are being left in the dark here. pah! what a smell, too." "ah, my way now," cried the old man, peering before him, "where lies my way to my state-room?" "i have indifferent eyes, and will show you; but, first, for the good of all lungs, let me extinguish this lamp." the next moment, the waning light expired, and with it the waning flames of the horned altar, and the waning halo round the robed man's brow; while in the darkness which ensued, the cosmopolitan kindly led the old man away. something further may follow of this masquerade. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note and errata | | | | the following words were seen in both hyphenated and | | un-hyphenated forms: | | | | |church-yard ( ) |churchyard ( ) | | | |cross-wise ( ) |crosswise ( ) | | | |thread-bare ( ) |threadbare ( ) | | | | | the following typographical errors were corrected: | | | | |error |correction | | | | | | | | |acquantance |acquaintance | | | |prevailent |prevalent | | | |the the |the | | | |tranquillity |tranquility | | | |abox |a box | | | |acommodates |accommodates | | | |have have |have | | | |worldlingg, lutton, |worldling, glutton, | | | |backswoods' |backwoods' | | | |it it |it is | | | |fellew |fellow | | | |principal |principle | | | |it it |it | | | |everwhere |everywhere | | | |suprising |surprising | | | |freind |friend | | | | | one 'oe' ligature was replaced with oe. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ scans kindly provided by the internet archive (www.archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive american libraries. see http://www.archive.org/details/lukewalton alge [frontispiece: "luke rescues mrs. merton."] luke walton by horatio alger, jr. author of "andy gordon," "the telegraph boy," "sam's chance," "bob burton," "frank mason's secret" [insignia] made in u. s. a. m. a. donohue & company chicago :: new york contents i a chicago newsboy ii a letter from the dead iii luke forms a resolution iv an attack in the dark v how luke escaped vi mr. afton's office vii a strange encounter viii a marked man ix stephen webb x stephen webb obtains some information xi a house on prairie avenue xii a plot that failed xiii tom brooks in trouble xiv luke has a cool reception in prairie avenue xv a welcome gift xvi thomas browning at home xvii a strange visitor xviii how jack king fared xix a sensational incident xx ambrose kean's imprudence xxi a friend in need xxii how ambrose kean was saved xxiii stephen webb is puzzled xxiv mrs. merton passes a pleasant evening xxv mrs. tracy's brother xxvi the prodigal's reception xxvii uncle and nephew xxviii harold's temptation xxix harold's theft xxx luke walton is suspected of theft xxxi who stole the money? xxxii harold and felicie make an arrangement xxxiii harold's plot fails xxxiv harold makes a purchase xxxv a skillful invention xxxvi warner powell starts on a journey xxxvii thomas browning's secret xxxviii felicie proves troublesome xxxix luke walton's letter xl face to face with the enemy xli mr. browning comes to terms xlii conclusion luke walton chapter i a chicago newsboy "_news_ and _mail_, one cent each!" half a dozen chicago newsboys, varying in age from ten to sixteen years, with piles of papers in their hands, joined in the chorus. they were standing in front and at the sides of the sherman house, on the corner of clark and randolph streets, one of the noted buildings in the lake city. on the opposite side of randolph street stands a gloomy stone structure, the court house and city hall. in the shadow of these buildings, at the corner, luke walton, one of the largest newsboys, had posted himself. there was something about his bearing and appearance which distinguished him in a noticeable way from his companions. to begin with, he looked out of place. he was well grown, with a frank, handsome face, and was better dressed than the average newsboy. that was one reason, perhaps, why he preferred to be by himself, rather than to engage in the scramble for customers which was the habit of the boys around him. it was half-past five. the numerous cars that passed were full of business men, clerks, and boys, returning to their homes after a busy day. luke had but two papers left, but these two for some unaccountable reason remained on his hands an unusual length of time. but at length a comfortable-looking gentleman of middle age, coming from the direction of la salle street, paused and said, "you may give me a _news_, my boy." "here you are, sir," he said, briskly. the gentleman took the paper, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, began to feel for a penny, but apparently without success. "i declare," he said, smiling, "i believe i am penniless. i have nothing but a five-dollar bill." "never mind, sir! take the paper and pay me to morrow." "but i may not see you." "i am generally here about this time." "and if i shouldn't see you, you will lose the penny." "i will risk it, sir," said luke, smiling. "you appear to have confidence in me." "yes, sir." "then it is only fair that i should have confidence in you." luke looked puzzled, for he didn't quite understand what was in the gentleman's mind. "i will take both of your papers. here is a five-dollar bill. you may bring me the change to-morrow, at my office, no. la salle street. my name is benjamin afton." "but, sir," objected luke, "there is no occasion for this. it is much better that i should trust you for two cents than that you should trust me with five dollars." "probably the two cents are as important to you as five dollars to me. at any rate, it is a matter of confidence, and i am quite willing to trust you." "thank you, sir, but----" "i shall have to leave you, or i shall be home late to dinner." before luke had a chance to protest further, he found himself alone, his stock of papers exhausted, and a five-dollar bill in his hand. while he stood on the corner in some perplexity, a newsboy crossed randolph street, and accosted him. "my eyes, if you ain't in luck, luke walton," he said. "where did you get that bill? is it a one?" "no, it's a five." "where'd you get it?" "a gentleman just bought two papers of me." "and gave you five dollars! you don't expect me to swaller all that, do you?" "i'm to bring him the change to-morrow," continued luke. the other boy nearly doubled up with merriment. "wasn't he jolly green, though?" he ejaculated. "why was he?" asked luke, who by this time felt considerably annoyed. "he'll have to whistle for his money." "why will he?" "cause he will." "he won't do anything of the sort. i shall take him his change to-morrow morning." "what?" ejaculated tom brooks. "i shall carry him his change in the morning--four dollars and ninety-eight cents. can't you understand that?" "you ain't going to be such a fool, luke walton?" "if it's being a fool to be honest, then i'm going to be that kind of a fool. wouldn't you do the same?" "no, i wouldn't. i'd just invite all the boys round the corner to go with me to the theayter. come, luke, be a good feller, and give us all a blow-out. we'll go to the theayter, and afterwards we'll have an oyster stew. i know a bully place on clark street, near monroe." "do you take me for a thief, tom brooks?" exclaimed luke, indignantly. "the gentleman meant you to have the money. of course he knew you wouldn't bring it back. lemme see, there's a good play on to hooley's. six of us will cost a dollar and a half, and the oyster stews will be fifteen cents apiece. that'll only take half the money, and you'll have half left for yourself." "i am ashamed of you, tom brooks. you want me to become a thief, and it is very evident what you would do if you were in my place. what would the gentleman think of me?" "he don't know you. you can go on state street to sell papers, so he won't see you." "suppose he should see me." "you can tell him you lost the money. you ain't smart, luke walton, or you'd know how to manage." "no, i am not smart in that way, i confess. i shan't waste any more time talking to you. i'm going home." "i know what you're going to do. you're goin' to spend all the money on yourself." "don't you believe that i mean to return the change?" "no, i don't." "i ought not to complain of that. you merely credit me with acting as you would act yourself. how many papers have you got left?" "eight." "here, give me half, and i will sell them for you, that is, if i can do it in fifteen minutes." "i'd rather you'd take me to the theayter," grumbled tom. "i've already told you i won't do it." in ten minutes luke had sold his extra supply of papers, and handed the money to tom. tom thanked him in an ungracious sort of way, and luke started for home. it was a long walk, for the poor cannot afford to pick and choose their localities. luke took his way through clark street to the river, and then, turning in a north westerly direction, reached milwaukee avenue. this is not a fashionable locality, and the side streets are tenanted by those who are poor or of limited means. luke paused in front of a three-story frame house in green street. he ascended the steps and opened the door, for this was the newsboy's home. chapter ii a letter from the dead in the entry luke met a girl of fourteen with fiery red hair, which apparently was a stranger to the comb and brush. she was the landlady's daughter, and, though of rather fitful and uncertain temper, always had a smile and pleasant word for luke, who was a favorite of hers. "well, nancy, how's mother?" asked the newsboy, as he began to ascend the front stairs. "she seems rather upset like, luke," answered nancy. "what has happened to upset her?" asked luke, anxiously. "i think it's a letter she got about noon. it was a queer letter, all marked up, as if it had been travelin' round. i took it in myself, and carried it up to your ma. i stayed to see her open it, for i was kind of curious to know who writ it." "well?" "as soon as your ma opened it, she turned as pale as ashes, and i thought she'd faint away. she put her hand on her heart just so," and nancy placed a rather dirty hand of her own, on which glittered a five-cent brass ring, over that portion of her anatomy where she supposed her heart lay. "she didn't faint away, did she?" asked luke. "no, not quite." "did she say who the letter was from?" "no; i asked her, but she said, 'from no one that you ever saw, nancy.' i say, luke, if you find out who's it from, let me know." "i won't promise, nancy. perhaps mother would prefer to keep it a secret." "oh, well, keep your secrets, if you want to." "don't be angry, nancy; i will tell you if i can," and luke hurried upstairs to the third story, which contained the three rooms occupied by his mother, his little brother, and himself. opening the door, he saw his mother sitting in a rocking-chair, apparently in deep thought, for the work had fallen from her hands and lay in her lap. there was an expression of sadness in her face, as if she had been thinking of the happy past, when the little family was prosperous, and undisturbed by poverty or privation. "what's the matter, mother?" asked luke, with solicitude. mrs. walton looked up quickly. "i have been longing to have you come back, luke," she said. "something strange has happened to-day." "you received a letter, did you not?" "who told you, luke?" "nancy. i met her as i came in. she said she brought up the letter, and that you appeared very much agitated when you opened it." "it is true." "from whom was the letter, then, mother?" "from your father." "what!" exclaimed luke, with a start. "is he not dead?" "the letter was written a year ago." "why, then, has it arrived so late?" "your father on his deathbed intrusted it to someone who mislaid it, and has only just discovered and mailed it. on the envelope he explains this, and expresses his regret. it was at first mailed to our old home, and has been forwarded from there. but that is not all, luke. i learn from the letter that we have been cruelly wronged. your father, when he knew he could not live, intrusted to a man in whom he had confidence, ten thousand dollars to be conveyed to us. this wicked man could not resist the temptation, but kept it, thinking we should never know anything about it. you will find it all explained in the letter." "let me read it, mother," said luke, in excitement. mrs. walton opened a drawer of the bureau, and placed in her son's hands an envelope, brown and soiled by contact with tobacco. it was directed to her in a shaky hand. across one end were written these words: this letter was mislaid. i have just discovered it, and mail it, hoping it will reach you without further delay. many apologies and regrets. j. hanshaw. luke did not spend much time upon the envelope, but opened the letter. the sight of his father's familiar handwriting brought the tears to his eyes, this was the letter: gold gulch, california. my dear wife: it is a solemn thought to me that when you receive this letter these trembling fingers will be cold in death. yes, dear mary, i know very well that i am on my deathbed, and shall never more be permitted to see your sweet face, or meet again the gaze of my dear children. last week i contracted a severe cold while mining, partly through imprudent exposure; and have grown steadily worse, till the doctor, whom i summoned from sacramento, informs me that there is no hope, and that my life is not likely to extend beyond two days. this is a sad end to my dreams of future happiness with my little family gathered around me. it is all the harder, because i have been successful in the errand that brought me out here. "i have struck it rich," as they say out here, and have been able to lay by ten thousand dollars. i intended to go home next month, carrying this with me. it would have enabled me to start in some business which would have yielded us a liberal living, and provided a comfortable home for you and the children. but all this is over--for me at least. for you i hope the money will bring what i anticipated. i wish i could live long enough to see it in your hands, but that cannot be. i have intrusted it to a friend who has been connected with me here, thomas butler, of chicago. he has solemnly promised to seek you out, and put the money into your hands. i think he will be true to his trust. indeed i have no doubt on the subject, for i cannot conceive of any man being base enough to belie the confidence placed in him by a dying man, and despoil a widow and her fatherless children. no, i will not permit myself to doubt the integrity of my friend. if i should, it would make my last sickness exceedingly bitter. yet, as something might happen to butler on his way home, though exceedingly improbable, i think it well to describe him to you. he is a man of nearly fifty, i should say, about five feet ten inches in height, with a dark complexion, and dark hair a little tinged with gray. he will weigh about one hundred and sixty pounds. but there is one striking mark about him which will serve to identify him. he has a wart on the upper part of his right cheek--a mark which disfigures him and mortifies him exceedingly. he has consulted a physician about its removal, but has been told that the operation would involve danger, and, moreover, would not be effectual, as the wart is believed to be of a cancerous nature, and would in all probability grow out again. for these reasons he has given up his intention of having it removed, and made up his mind, unwillingly enough, to carry it to the grave with him. i have given you this long description, not because it seemed at all necessary, for i believe thomas butler to be a man of strict honesty, but because for some reason i am impelled to do so. i am very tired, and i feel that i must close. god bless you, dear wife, and guard our children, soon to be fatherless! your loving husband, frederick walton. p.s.--butler has left for the east. this letter i have given to another friend to mail after my death. chapter iii luke forms a resolution as luke read this letter his pleasant face became stern in its expression. they had indeed been cruelly wronged. the large sum of which they had been defrauded would have insured them comfort and saved them from many an anxiety. his mother would not have been obliged to take in sewing, and he himself could have carried out his cherished design of obtaining a college education. this man in whom his father had reposed the utmost confidence had been false to his trust. he had kept in his own hands the money which should have gone to the widow and children of his dying friend. could anything be more base? "mother," said luke, "this man thomas butler must be a villain." yes, luke; he has done us a great wrong." "he thought, no doubt, that we should never hear of this money." "i almost wish i had not, luke. it is very tantalizing to think how it would have improved our condition." "then you are sorry to receive the letter, mother?" "no, luke. it seems like a message from the dead, and shows me how good and thoughtful your poor father was to the last. he meant to leave us comfortable." "but his plans were defeated by a rascal. mother, i should like to meet and punish this thomas butler." "even if you should meet him, luke, you must be prudent. he is probably a rich man." "made so at our expense," added luke, bitterly. "and he would deny having received anything from your father." "mother," said luke, sternly and deliberately, "i feel sure that i shall some day meet this man face to face, and if i do it will go hard if i don't force him to give up this money which he has falsely converted to his own use." the boy spoke with calm and resolute dignity hardly to be expected in one so young, and with a deep conviction that surprised his mother. "luke," she said, "i hardly know you to-night. you don't seem like a boy. you speak like a man." "i feel so. it is the thought of this man triumphant in his crime, that makes me feel older than i am. now, mother, i feel that i have a purpose in life. it is to find this man, and punish him for what he has done, unless he will make reparation." mrs. walton shook her head. it was not from her that luke had inherited his independent spirit. she was a fond mother, of great amiability, but of a timid shrinking disposition, which led her to deprecate any aggressive steps. "promise me not to get yourself into any trouble, luke," she said, "even if you do meet this man." "i can't promise that, mother, for i may not be able to help it. besides, i haven't met him yet, and it isn't necessary to cross a bridge till you get to it. now let us talk of something else." "how much did you make to-day, luke?" asked bennie, his young brother, seven years old. "i didn't make my fortune, bennie. including the morning papers, i only made sixty cents." "that seems a good deal to me, luke," said his mother. "i only made twenty-five. they pay such small prices for making shirts." "i should think they did. and yet you worked harder and more steadily than i did." "i have worked since morning, probably about eight hours." "then you have made only three cents an hour. what a shame!" "if i had a sewing-machine, i could do more, but that is beyond our means." "i hope soon to be able to get you one, mother. i can pay something down and the rest on installments." "that would be quite a relief, luke." "if you had a sewing-machine, perhaps i could help you," suggested bennie. "i should hardly dare to let you try, bennie. suppose you spoiled a shirt. it would take off two days' earnings. but i'll tell you what you can do. you can set the table and wash the dishes, and relieve me in that way." "or you might take in washing," said luke, with a laugh. "that pays better than sewing. just imagine how nice it would look in an advertisement in the daily papers: a boy of seven is prepared to wash and iron for responsible parties. address bennie walton, no. - / green street." "now you are laughing at me, luke," said bennie, pouting. "why don't you let me go out with you and sell papers?" "i hope, bennie," said luke, gravely, "you will never have to go into the street with papers. i know what it is, and how poor boys fare. one night last week, at the corner of monroe and clark streets, i saw a poor little chap, no older than you, selling papers at eleven o'clock. he had a dozen papers which he was likely to have left on his hands, for there are not many who will buy papers at that hour." "did you speak to him, luke?" asked benny, interested. "yes; i told him he ought to go home. but he said that if he went home with all those papers unsold, his stepfather would whip him. there were tears in the poor boy's eyes as he spoke." "what did you do, luke?" "i'll tell you what i did, bennie. i thought of you, and i paid him the cost price on his papers. it wasn't much, for they were all penny papers, but the poor little fellow seemed so relieved." "did you sell them yourself, luke?" "i sold four of them. i went over to madison street, and stood in front of mcvicker's theater just as the people were coming out. it so happened that four persons bought papers, so i was only two cents out, after all. you remember, mother, that was the evening i got home so late." "yes, luke, i felt worried about you. but you did right. i am always glad to have you help those who are worse off than we are. how terribly i should feel if bennie had to be out late in the streets like that!" "there are many newsboys as young, or at any rate not much older. i have sometimes seen gentlemen, handsomely dressed, and evidently with plenty of money, speak roughly to these young boys. it always makes me indignant. why should they have so easy a time, while there are so many who don't know where their next meal is coming from? why, what such a man spends for his meals in a single day would support a poor newsboy in comfort for a week." "my dear luke, this is a problem that has puzzled older and wiser heads than yours. there must always be poor people, but those who are more fortunate ought at least to give them sympathy. it is the least acknowledgment they can make for their own more favored lot." "i am going out a little while this evening, mother." "very well, luke. don't be late." "no, mother, i won't. i want to call on a friend of mine, who is sick." "who it is, luke?" "it is jim norman. the poor boy took cold one day, his shoes were so far gone. he has a bad cough, and i am afraid it will go hard with him. "is he a newsboy, too, luke?" asked bennie walton. "no; he is a bootblack." "i shouldn't like to black boots." "nor i, bennie; but if a boy is lucky there is more money to be made in that business." "where does he live?" asked mrs. walton. "on ohio street, not very far from here. there's another boy i know lives on that street tom brooks; but he isn't a friend of mine. he wanted me to keep five dollars, and treat him and some other boys to an evening at the theater, and a supper afterwards." "i hope you won't associate with him, luke." "not more than i can help." luke took his hat and went downstairs into the street. in the hall he met nancy. she waylaid him with an eager look on her face. "who was the letter from, luke?" she asked. "from a friend of the family, who is now dead," answered luke, gravely. "good gracious! how could he write it after he was dead?" ejaculated nancy. "it was given to a person to mail who forgot all about it, and carried it in his pocket for a year." "my sakes alive! if i got a letter from a dead man it would make me creep all over. no wonder your ma came near faintin'." chapter iv an attack in the dark luke turned into milwaukee avenue, and a few steps took him to west ohio street, where his friend lived. on his way he met tom brooks, who was lounging in front of a cigar store, smoking a cigarette. "good-evening, tom," said luke, politely. "evenin'!" responded tom, briefly. "where you goin'?" "to see jim norman. he's sick." "what's the matter of him?" "he's got a bad cold and is confined to the house?" tom shrugged his shoulders. "i don't go much on jim norman," he said, "he ought to be a girl. he never smoked a cigarette in his life." "didn't he? all the better for him. i don't smoke myself." "you have smoked." "yes, i used to, but it troubled my mother, and i promised her i wouldn't do it again." "so you broke off?" "yes." "i wouldn't be tied to a woman's apron strings." "wouldn't you try to oblige your mother?" "no, i wouldn't. what does a woman know about boys? if i was a gal it would be different." "then we don't agree, that is all." "i say, luke, won't you take me to the theayter?" "i can't afford it." "that's all bosh! haven't you got five dollars? i'd feel rich on five dollars." "perhaps i might if it were mine, but it isn't." "you can use it all the same," said tom, in an insinuating voice. "yes, i can be dishonest if i choose, but i don't choose." "what sunday school do you go to?" asked tom, with a sneer. "none at present." "i thought you did by your talk. it makes me sick!" "then," said luke, good-naturedly, "there is no need to listen to it. i am afraid you are not likely to enjoy my company, so i will walk along." luke kept on his way, leaving tom smoking sullenly. "that feller's a fool!" he muttered, in a disgusted tone. "what feller?" tom turned, and saw his friend and chum, pat o'connor, who had just come up. "what feller? why, luke walton, of course." "what's the matter of him?" "he's got five dollars, and he won't pay me into the theayter." "where did he get such a pile of money?" asked pat, in surprise. "a gentleman gave it to him for a paper, tellin' him to bring the change to-morrer." "is he goin' to do it?" "yes; that's why i call him a fool." "i wish you and i had his chance," said pat, enviously. "we'd paint the town red, i guess." tom nodded. he and pat were quite agreed on that point. "where's luke goin'?" asked pat. "to see jim norman. jim's sick with a cold." "what time's he comin' home?" "i don't know. why?" "do you think he's got the money with him--the five-dollar bill?" "what are you up to?" asked tom, with a quick glance at his companion. "i was thinkin' we might borrer the money," answered pat, with a grin. to tom this was a new suggestion, but it was favorably received. he conferred with pat in a low tone, and then the two sauntered down the street in the direction of jim norman's home. meanwhile we will follow luke. he kept on till he reached a shabby brick house. jim and his mother, with two smaller children, occupied two small rooms on the top floor. luke had been there before, and did not stop to inquire directions, but ascended the stairs till he came to jim's room. the door was partly open, and he walked in. "how's jim, mrs. norman?" he asked. mrs. norman was wearily washing dishes at the sink. "he's right sick, luke," she answered, turning round, and recognizing the visitor. "do you hear him cough?" from a small inner room came the sound of a hard and rasping cough. "how are you feeling, jim?" inquired luke, entering, and taking a chair at the bedside. "i don't feel any better, luke," answered the sick boy, his face lighting up with pleasure as he recognized his friend. "i'm glad you come." "you've got a hard cough." "yes; it hurts my throat when i cough, and i can't get a wink of sleep." "i've brought you a little cough medicine. it was some we had in the house." "thank you, luke. you're a good friend to me. give me some, please." "if your mother'll give me a spoon, i'll pour some out." when the medicine was taken, the boys began to talk. "i ought to be at work," said jim, sighing. "i don't know how we'll get along if i don't get out soon. mother has some washing to do, but it isn't enough to pay all our expenses. i used to bring in seventy-five cents a day, and that, with what mother could earn, kept us along." "i wish i was rich enough to help you, jim, but you know how it is. all i can earn i have to carry home. my mother sews for a house on state street, but sewing doesn't pay as well as washing." "i know you'd help me if you could, luke. you have helped me by bringing in the medicine, and it does me good to have you call." "but i would like to do more. i'll tell you what i will do. i know a rich gentleman, one of my customers. i! am to call upon him to-morrow. i'll tell him about you, and perhaps he will help you." "any help would be acceptable, luke, if you don't mind asking him." "i wouldn't like to ask for myself, but i don't mind asking for you." luke stayed an hour, and left jim much brighter and more cheerful for his visit. when he went out into the street it was quite dark, although the moon now and then peeped out from behind the clouds that a brisk breeze sent scurrying across the sky. having a slight headache, he thought he would walk it off, so he sauntered slowly in the direction of the business portion of the city. walking farther than he intended, he found himself, almost before he was aware, crossing one of the numerous bridges that span the river. he was busy with thoughts of jim, and how he could help him, and did not notice that two boys were following him stealthily. it was a complete surprise to him therefore when they rushed upon him, and, each seizing an arm, rendered him helpless. "hand over what money you've got, and be quick about it!" demanded one of the boys. chapter v how luke escaped the attack was so sudden and unexpected that luke was for the moment incapable of resistance, though in general quite ready to defend himself. it was not till he felt a hand in his pocket that he "pulled himself together," as the english express it, and began to make things lively for his assailants. "what are you after?" he demanded. "do you want to rob me?" "give us the money, and be quick about it." "how do you know i have any money?" asked luke, beginning to suspect in whose hands he was. "never mind how! hand over that five-dollar bill," was the reply in the same hoarse whisper. "i know you now. you're tom brooks," said luke. "you're in bad business." "no, i'm not tom brooks." it was pat who spoke now. "come, we have no time to lose. stephen, give me your knife." the name was a happy invention of pat's to throw luke off the scent. he was not himself acquainted with our hero, and did not fear identification. "one of you two is tom brooks," said luke, firmly. "you'd better give up this attempt at highway robbery. if i summon an officer you're liable to a long term of imprisonment. i'll save you trouble by telling you that i haven't any money with me, except a few pennies." "where's the five-dollar bill?" it was tom who spoke now. "i left it at home with my mother. it's lucky i did, though you would have found it hard to get it from me." "i don't believe it," said tom, in a tone betraying disappointment. "you may search me if you like; but if a policeman comes by you'd better take to your heels." the boys appeared disconcerted. "is he lying?" asked pat. "no," responded tom. "he'd own up if he had the money." "thank you for believing me. it is very evident that one of you knows me. good-night. you'd better find some other way of getting money." "wait a minute! are you going to tell on us? it wouldn't be fair to tom brooks. he ain't here, but you might get him into trouble." "i shan't get you into trouble, tom, but i'm afraid you bring trouble on yourself." apparently satisfied with this promise, the two boys slunk away in the darkness, and luke was left to proceed on his way unmolested. "i wouldn't have believed that of tom," thought luke. "i'm sorry it happened. if it had been anyone but me, and a cop had come by, it would have gone hard with him. it's lucky i left the money with mother, though i don't think they'd have got it at any rate." luke did not acquaint his mother with the attempt that had been made to rob him. he merely told of his visit and of the sad plight of the little bootblack. "i would like to have helped him, mother," luke concluded. "if we hadn't been robbed of that money father sent us----" "we could afford the luxury of doing good," said his mother, finishing the sentence for him. luke's face darkened with justifiable anger. "i know it is wrong to hate anyone, mother," he said; "but i am afraid i hate that man thomas butler, whom i have never seen." "it is sometimes hard to feel like a christian, luke," said his mother. "this man must be one of the meanest of men. suppose you or i should fall sick! what would become of us?" "we won't borrow trouble, luke. let us rather thank god for our present good health. if i should be sick it would not be as serious as if you were to become so, for you earn more than twice as much as i do." "it ought not to be so, mother, for you work harder than i do." "when i get a sewing machine i shall be able to contribute more to the common fund." "i hope that will be soon. has bennie gone to bed?" "yes, he is fast asleep." "i hope fortune will smile on us before he is much older than i. i can't bear the idea of sending him into the street among bad boys." "i have been accustomed to judge of the newsboys by my son. are there many bad boys among them?" "many of them are honest, hard-working boys, but there are some black sheep among them. i know one boy who tried to commit highway robbery, stopping a person whom he had seen with money." "did he get caught?" "no, he failed of his purpose, and no complaint was made of him, though his intended victim knew who his assailant was." "i am glad of that. it would have been hard for his poor mother if he had been convicted and sent to prison." this mrs. walton said without a suspicion that it was luke that the boy had tried to rob. when luke heard his mother's comment he was glad that he had agreed to overlook tom's fault. the next morning luke went as usual to the vicinity of the sherman house, and began to sell papers. he looked in vain for tom brooks, who did not show up. "where is tom brooks?" he asked of one of tom's friends. "tom's goin' to try another place," said the boy. "he says there's too many newsboys round this corner. he thinks he can do better somewheres else." "where is he? do you know?" "i seed him near the corner of dearborn, in front of the 'saratoga.'" "well, i hope he'll make out well," said luke. luke had the five-dollar bill in his pocket, but he knew that it was too early for the offices on la salle street to be open. luke's stock of morning papers included the chicago _tribune_, the _times_, _herald_, and _inter-ocean_. he seldom disposed of his entire stock as early as ten o'clock, but this morning another newsboy in addition to tom was absent, and luke experienced the advantage of diminished competition. as he sold the last paper the clock struck ten. "i think it will do for me to go to mr. afton's office now," thought luke. "if i don't find him in i will wait." la salle street runs parallel with clark. it is a busy thoroughfare, and contains many buildings cut up into offices. this was the case with no. . luke entered the building and scanned the directory on either side of the door. he had no difficulty in finding the name of benjamin afton. he had to go up two flights of stairs, for mr. afton's office was on the third floor. chapter vi mr. afton's office mr. afton's office was of unusual size, and fronted on la salle street. as luke entered he observed that it was furnished better than the ordinary business office. on the floor was a handsome turkey carpet. the desks were of some rich dark wood, and the chairs were as costly as those in his library. in a closed bookcase at one end of the room, surmounted by bronze statuettes, was a full library of reference. at one desk stood a tall man, perhaps thirty-five, with red hair and prominent features. at another desk was a young fellow of eighteen, bearing a marked resemblance to the head bookkeeper. there was besides a young man of perhaps twenty-two, sitting at a table, apparently filing bills. "mr. afton must be a rich man to have such an elegant office," thought luke. the red-haired bookkeeper did not take the trouble to look up to see who had entered the office. "is mr. afton in?" luke asked, in a respectful tone. the bookkeeper raised his eyes for a moment, glanced at luke with a supercilious air, and said curtly, "no!" "do you know when he will be in?" continued the newsboy. "quite indefinite. what is your business, boy?" "my business is with mr. afton," luke answered. "humph! is it of an important nature?" "it is not very important," he answered, "but i wish to see mr. afton personally." "whose office are you in?" "he isn't in any office, uncle nathaniel," put in the red-haired boy. "he is a newsboy. i see him every morning round the sherman house." "ha! is that so? boy, we don't want to buy any papers, nor does mr. afton. you can go." as the bookkeeper spoke he pointed to the door. "i have no papers to sell," said luke, "but i come here on business with mr. afton, and will take the liberty to wait till he comes." "oh, my eyes! ain't he got cheek?" ejaculated the red-haired boy. "i say, boy, do you black boots as well as sell papers?" "no, i don't." "some of the newsboys do. i thought, perhaps, you had got a job to black mr. afton's boots every morning." luke who was a spirited boy, was fast getting angry. "i don't want to interfere with you in any way," he said. "what do you mean?" demanded the red-haired boy, his cheeks rivaling his hair in color. "i thought that might be one of your duties." "why, you impudent young vagabond! uncle nathaniel, did you hear that?" "boy, you had better go," said the bookkeeper. "you can leave your card," added eustis clark, the nephew. a friend of luke's had printed and given him a dozen cards a few days previous, and he had them in his pocket at that moment. "thank you for the suggestion," he said, and walking up to the boy's desk he deposited on it a card bearing this name in neat script: luke walton. "be kind enough to hand that to mr. afton." eustis held up the card, and burst into a guffaw. "well, i never!" he ejaculated. "mr. walton," he concluded, with a ceremonious bow. "the same to you!" said luke, with a smile. "i never saw a newsboy put on such airs before," he said, as luke left the office. "did you, uncle nathaniel? do you think he really had any business with the boss?" "probably he wanted to supply the office with papers. now stop fooling, and go to work." "they didn't seem very glad to see me," thought luke. "i want to see mr. afton this morning, or he may think that i have not kept my word about the money." luke stationed himself in the doorway at the entrance to the building, meaning to intercept mr. afton as he entered from the street. he had to wait less than ten minutes. mr. afton smiled in instant recognition as he saw luke, and seemed glad to see him. "i am glad the boy justified my idea of him," he said to himself. "i would have staked a thousand dollars on his honesty. such a face as that doesn't belong to a rogue." "i am rather late," he said. "have you been here long?" "not very long, sir; i have been up in your office." "why didn't you sit down and wait for me?" "i don't think the red-haired gentleman cared to have me. the boy asked me to leave my card." mr. afton looked amused. "and did you?" he asked. "yes, sir." "do you generally carry visiting cards?" "well, i happened to have some with me this morning." "please show me one. so your name is luke walton?" he added, glancing at the card. "yes, sir; office corner clark and randolph streets." "i will keep the card and bear it in mind." "i have brought your change, sir," said luke. "you can come upstairs and pay it to me in the office. it will be more business-like." luke was glad to accept the invitation, for it would prove to the skeptical office clerks that he really had business with their employer. eustis clark and his uncle could not conceal their surprise when they saw luke follow mr. afton into the office. there was a smaller room inclosed at one corner, which was especially reserved for mr. afton. "come here, luke," said he, pleasantly. luke followed him inside. he drew from his pocket four dollars and ninety-eight cents, and laid it on the table behind which his patron had taken a seat. "won't you please count it and see if it is right?" he asked. "i can see that it is, luke. i am afraid i have put you to more trouble than the profit on the two papers i bought would pay for." "not at all, sir. besides, it's all in the way of business. i thank you for putting confidence in me." "i thought i was not mistaken in you, and the result shows that i was right. my boy, i saw that you had an honest face. i am sure that the thought of keeping back the money never entered your head." "no, sir, it did not, though one of the newsboys advised me to keep it." "it would have been very shortsighted as a matter of policy. i will take this money, but i want to encourage you in the way of well-doing." he drew from his vest pocket a bill, and extended it to luke. "it isn't meant as a reward for honesty, but only as a mark of the interest i have begun to feel in you." "thank you, sir," said luke; and as he took the bill, he started in surprise, for it was ten dollars. "did you mean to give as much as this?" "how much is it?" "ten dollars." "i thought it was five, but i am glad it is more. yes, luke, you are welcome to it. have you anyone dependent upon you?" "my mother. she will be very much pleased." "that's right, my lad. always look out for your mother. you owe her a debt which you can never repay." "that is true, sir. but i would like to use a part of this money for some one else." "for yourself?" "no; for a friend." then he told in simple language of jim norman, and how seriously his family was affected by his sickness and enforced idleness. "jim has no money to buy medicine," he concluded. "if you don't object, mr. afton, i will give jim's mother half this money, after buying some cough medicine out of it." the merchant listened with approval. "i am glad, luke, you feel for others," he said, "but i can better afford to help your friend than you. here is a five-dollar bill. tell the boy it is from a friend, and if he should need more let me know." "thank you, sir," said luke, fairly radiant as he thought of jim's delight. "i won't take up any more of your time, but will bid you good-morning." probably mr. afton wished to give his clerks a lesson, for he followed luke to the door of the outer office, and shook hands cordially with him, saying: "i shall be glad to have you call, when you wish to see me, luke;" adding, "i may possibly have some occasional work for you to do. if so, i know where to find you." "thank you, sir." "what's got into the old man?" thought eustis clark. as mr. afton returned to his sanctum, eustis said with a grin, holding up the card: "mr. walton left his card for you, thinking you might not be in time to see him." "give it to me, if you please," and the rich man took the card without a smile, and put it into his vest pocket, not seeming in the least surprised. "mr. walton called to pay me some money," he said, gravely. "whenever he calls invite him to wait till my return." chapter vii a strange encounter luke went home that evening in high spirits. the gift he had received from mr. afton enabled him to carry out a plan he had long desired to realize. it was to secure a sewing machine for his mother, and thus increase her earnings while diminishing her labors. he stopped at an establishment not far from clark street, and entering the showroom, asked: "what is the price of your sewing machines?" "one in a plain case will cost you twenty-five dollars." "please show me one." "do you want it for your wife?" "she may use it some time. my mother will use it first." the salesman pointed out an instrument with which luke was well pleased. "would you like to see how it works?" "yes, please." "miss morris, please show this young man how to operate the machine." in the course of ten minutes luke got a fair idea of the method of operating. "do you require the whole amount down?" asked luke. "no; we sell on installments, if preferred." "what are your terms?" "five dollars first payment, and then a dollar a week, with interest on the balance till paid." "then i think i will engage one," luke decided. "very well! come up to the desk, and give me your name and address. on payment of five dollars, we will give you a receipt on account, specifying the terms of paying the balance, etc." luke transacted his business, and made arrangements to have the machine delivered any time after six o'clock, when he knew he would be at home. as luke was coming out of the sewing-machine office he saw tom brooks just passing. tom looked a little uneasy, not feeling certain whether luke had recognized him as one of his assailants or not the evening previous. luke felt that he had a right to be angry. indeed, he had it in his power to have tom arrested, and charged with a very serious crime--that of highway robbery. but his good luck made him good-natured. "good-evening, tom," he said. "i didn't see you selling papers to-day." "no; i was on dearborn street." "he doesn't know it was me," thought tom, congratulating himself, and added: "have you been buying a sewing machine?" this was said in a joke. "yes," answered luke, considerably to tom's surprise. "i have bought one." "how much?" "twenty-five dollars." "where did you raise twenty-five dollars? you're foolin'." "i bought it on the installment plan--five dollars down." "oho!" said tom, nodding significantly. "i know where you got that money?" "where did i?" "from the gentleman that bought a couple of papers yesterday." "you hit it right the first time." "i thought you weren't no better than the rest of us--you that pretended to be so extra honest." "what do you mean by that, tom brooks?" "you pretended that you were going to give back the man's change, and spent it, after all. i thought you weren't such a saint as you pretended to be." "i see you keep on judging me by yourself, tom brooks. i took round the money this morning, and he gave it to me." "is that true?" "yes; i generally tell the truth." "then you're lucky. if i'd returned it, he wouldn't have given me a cent." "it's best to be honest on all occasions," said luke, looking significantly at tom, who colored up, for he now saw that he had been recognized the night before. tom sneaked off on some pretext, and luke kept on his way home. "did you do well to-day, luke?" asked bennie. "yes, bennie; very well." "how much did you make?" "i'll tell you by and by. mother, can i help you about the supper?" "you may toast the bread, luke. i am going to have your favorite dish--milk toast." "all right, mother. have you been sewing to-day?" "yes, luke. i sat so long in one position that i got cramped." "i wish you had a sewing machine." "so do i, luke; but i must be patient. a sewing machine costs more money than we can afford." "one can be got for twenty-five dollars, i have heard." "that is a good deal of money for people in our position." "we may as well hope for one. i shouldn't be surprised if we were able to buy a sewing machine very soon." meanwhile luke finished toasting the bread and his mother was dipping it in milk when a step was heard on the stairway, the door was opened, and nancy's red head was thrust into the room. "please, mrs. walton," said nancy, breathlessly, "there's a man downstairs with a sewing machine which he says is for you." "there must be some mistake, nancy. i haven't ordered any sewing machine." "shall i send him off, ma'am?" "no, nancy," said luke; "it's all right. i'll go down stairs and help him bring it up." "how is this, luke?" asked mrs. walton, bewildered. "i'll explain afterwards, mother." up the stairs and into the room came the sewing machine, and was set down near the window. bennie surveyed it with wonder and admiration. when the man who brought it was gone, luke explained to his mother how it had all come about. "you see, mother, you didn't have to wait long," he concluded. "i feel deeply thankful, luke," said mrs. walton. "i can do three times the work i have been accustomed to do, and in much less time. this mr. afton must be a kind and charitable man." "i like him better than his clerks," said luke. "there is a red-headed bookkeeper and a boy there who tried to snub me, and keep me out of the office. i try to think well of red-headed people on account of nancy, but i can't say i admire them." after supper luke gave his mother a lesson in operating the machine. both found that it required a little practice. the next morning as luke was standing at his usual corner, he had a surprise. a gentleman came out of the sherman house and walked slowly up clark street. as he passed luke, he stopped and asked, "boy, have you the _inter-ocean?_" luke looked up in his customer's face. he paused in the greatest excitement. the man was on the shady side of fifty, nearly six feet in height, with a dark complexion, hair tinged with gray, and a wart on the upper part of his right cheek! chapter viii a marked man at last, so luke verily believed, he stood face to face with the man who had deceived his dying father, and defrauded his mother and himself of a sum which would wholly change their positions and prospects. but he wanted to know positively, and he could not think of a way to acquire this knowledge. meanwhile the gentleman noticed the boy's scrutiny, and it did not please him. "well, boy!" he said gruffly, "you seem determined to know me again. you stare hard enough. let me tell you this is not good manners." "excuse me," said luke, "but your face looked familiar to me. i thought i had seen you before." "very likely you have. i come to chicago frequently, and generally stop at the sherman house." "probably that explains it," said luke. "are you not mr. thomas, of st. louis?" the gentleman laughed. "you will have to try again," he said. "i am mr. browning, of milwaukee. thomas is my first name." "browning!" thought luke, disappointed. "evidently i am on the wrong track. and yet he answers father's description exactly." "i don't know anyone in milwaukee," he said aloud. "then it appears we can't claim acquaintance." the gentleman took his paper and turned down randolph street toward state. "strange!" he soliloquized, "that boy's interest in my personal appearance. i wonder if there can be a st. louis man who resembles me. if so, he can't be a very good-looking man. this miserable wart ought to be enough to distinguish me from anyone else." he paused a minute, and then a new thought came into his mind. "there is something familiar in that boy's face. i wonder who he can be. i will buy my evening papers of him, and take that opportunity to inquire." meanwhile luke, to satisfy a doubt in his mind, entered the hotel, and, going up to the office, looked over the list of arrivals. he had to turn back a couple of pages and found this entry: "thomas browning, milwaukee." "his name is browning, and he does come from milwaukee," he said to himself. "i thought, perhaps, he might have given me a false name, though he could have no reason for doing so." luke felt that he must look farther for the man who had betrayed his father's confidence. "i didn't think there could be two men of such a peculiar appearance," he reflected. "surely there can't be three. if i meet another who answers the description i shall be convinced that he is the man i am after." in the afternoon the same man approached luke, as he stood on his accustomed corner. "you may give me the _mail_ and _journal_," he said. "yes, sir; here they are. three cents." "i believe you are the boy who recognized me, or thought you did, this morning." "yes, sir." "if you ever run across this mr. thomas, of st. louis, present him my compliments, will you?" "yes, sir," answered luke, with a smile. "by the way, what is your name?" "luke walton." the gentleman started. "luke walton!" he repeated, slowly, eying the newsboy with a still closer scrutiny. "yes, sir." "it's a new name to me. can't your father find a better business for you than selling papers?" "my father is dead, sir." "dead!" repeated browning, slowly. "that is un fortunate for you. how long has he been dead?" "about two years." "what did he die of?" "i don't know, sir, exactly. he died away from home--in california." there was a strange look, difficult to read, on the gentleman's face. "that is a long way off," he said. "i have always thought i should like to visit california. when my business will permit i will take a trip out that way." here was another difference between mr. browning and the man of whom luke's father had written. the stranger had never been in california. browning handed luke a silver quarter in payment for the papers. "never mind about the change," he said, with a wave of his hand. "thank you, sir. you are very kind." "this must be the son of my old california friend," browning said to himself. "can he have heard of the money intrusted to me? i don't think it possible, for i left walton on the verge of death. that money has made my fortune. i invested it in land which has more than quadrupled in value. old women say that honesty pays," he added, with a sneer; "but it is nonsense. in this case dishonesty has paid me richly. if the boy has heard anything, it is lucky that i changed my name to browning out of deference to my wife's aunt, in return for a beggarly three thousand dollars. i have made it up to ten thousand dollars by judicious investment. my young newsboy acquaintance will find it hard to identify me with the thomas butler who took charge of his father's money." if browning had been possessed of a conscience it might have troubled him when he was brought face to face with one of the sufferers from his crime; but he was a hard, selfish man, to whom his own interests were of supreme importance. but something happened within an hour which gave him a feeling of anxiety. he was just coming out of the chicago post-office, at the corner of adams and clark streets, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. "how are you, butler?" said a tall man, wearing a mexican sombrero. "i haven't set eyes upon you since we were together at gold gulch, in california." browning looked about him apprehensively. fortunately he was some distance from the corner where luke walton was selling papers. "i am well, thank you," he said. "are you living in chicago?" "no; i live in wisconsin." "have you seen anything of the man you used to be with so much--walton?" "no; he died." "did he, indeed? well, i am sorry to hear that. he was a good fellow. did he leave anything?" "i am afraid not." "i thought he struck it rich." "so he did; but he lost all he made." "how was that?" "poor investments, i fancy." "i remember he told me one day that he had scraped together seven or eight thousand dollars." browning shrugged his shoulders. "i think that was a mistake," he said. "walton liked to put his best foot foremost." "you think, then, he misrepresented?" "i think he would have found it hard to find the sum you mention." "you surprise me, butler. i always looked upon walton as a singularly reliable man." "so he was--in most things. but let me correct you on one point. you call me butler?" "isn't that your name?" "it was, but i had a reason--a good, substantial, pecuniary reason--for changing it. i am now thomas browning." "say you so? are you engaged this evening?" "yes, unfortunately." "i was about to invite you to some theater." "another time--thanks." "i must steer clear of that man," thought browning. "i won't meet him again, if i can help it." chapter ix stephen webb the more browning thought of the newsboy in whom he had so strangely recognized the son of the man whom he had so cruelly wronged, the more uneasy he felt. "he has evidently heard of me," he soliloquized. "his father could not have been so near death as i supposed. he must have sent the boy or his mother a message about that money. if it should come to his knowledge that i am the thomas butler to whom his father confided ten thousand dollars which i have failed to hand over to the family, he may make it very disagreeable for me." the fact that so many persons were able to identify him as thomas butler made the danger more imminent. "i must take some steps--but what?" browning asked himself. he kept on walking till he found himself passing the entrance of a low poolroom. he never played pool, nor would it have suited a man of his social position to enter such a place, but that he caught sight of a young man, whose face and figure were familiar to him, in the act of going into it. he quickened his pace, and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. the latter turned quickly, revealing a face bearing the unmistakable marks of dissipation. "uncle thomas!" he exclaimed, apparently ill at ease. "yes, stephen, it is i. where are you going?" the young man hesitated. "you need not answer. i see you are wedded to your old amusements. are you still in the place i got for you?" stephen webb looked uneasy and shamefaced. "i have lost my place," he answered, after a pause. "how does it happen that you lost it?" "i don't know. some one must have prejudiced my employer against me." "it is your own habits that have prejudiced him, i make no doubt." this was true. one morning stephen, whose besetting sin was intemperance, appeared at the office where he was employed in such a state of intoxication that he was summarily discharged. it may be explained that he was a son of mr. browning's only sister. "when were you discharged?" asked his uncle. "last week." "and have you tried to get another situation?" "yes." "what are your prospects of success?" "there seem to be very few openings just now, uncle thomas." "the greater reason why you should have kept the place i obtained for you. were you going to play pool in this low place?" "i was going to look on. a man must have some amusement," said stephen, sullenly. "amusement is all you think of. however, it so happens that i have something that i wish you to do." stephen regarded his uncle in surprise. "are you going to open an office in chicago?" he asked. "no; the service is of a different nature. it is--secret and confidential. it is, i may say, something in the detective line." "then i'm your man," said his nephew, brightening up. "the service is simple, so that you will probably be qualified to do what i require." "i've read lots of detective stories," said stephen, eagerly. "it's just the work i should like." "humph! i don't think much is to be learned from detective stories. you will understand, of course, that you are not to let anyone know you are acting for me." "certainly. you will find that i can keep a secret." "i leave chicago to-morrow morning, and will give you directions before i go. where can we have a private conference?" "here is an oyster house. we shall be quiet here." "very well! we will go in." they entered a small room, with a sanded floor, provided with a few unpainted tables. stephen and his uncle went to the back of the room, and seated themselves at the rear table. "we must order something," suggested stephen. "get what you please," said browning, indifferently. "two stews!" ordered stephen. "we can talk while they are getting them ready." "very well! now, for my instructions. at the corner of clark and randolph streets every morning and evening you will find a newsboy selling papers." "a dozen, you mean." "true, but i am going to describe this boy so that you may know him. he is about fifteen, i should judge, neatly dressed, and would be considered good-looking." "do you know his name?" "yes, it is luke walton." "is he the one i am to watch?" "you are to make his acquaintance, and find out all you can about his circumstances." "do you know where he lives?" "no; that is one of the things you are to find out for me." "what else do you want me to find out?" "find out how many there are in family, also how they live; whether they have anything to live on except what this newsboy earns." "all right, uncle thomas. you seem to have a great deal of interest in this boy." "that is my business," said browning, curtly. "if you wish to work for me, you must not show too much curiosity. never mind what my motives are. do you understand?" "certainly, uncle thomas. it shall be as you say. i suppose i am to be paid?" "yes. how much salary did you receive where you were last employed?" "ten dollars a week." "you shall receive this sum for the present. it is very good pay for the small service required of you." "all right, uncle." the stews were ready by this time. they were brought and set before stephen and his uncle. the latter toyed with his spoon, only taking a taste or two, but stephen showed much more appreciation of the dish, not being accustomed, like his uncle, to dining at first-class hotels. "how am i to let you know what i find out?" asked stephen. "write me at milwaukee. i will send you further instructions from there." "very well, sir." "oh, by the way, you are never to mention me to this luke walton. i have my reasons." "i will do just as you say." "how is your mother, stephen?" "about the same. she isn't a very cheerful party, you know. she is always fretting." "has she any lodgers?" "yes, three, but one is a little irregular with his rent." "of course, i expect that you will hand your mother half the weekly sum i pay you. she has a right to expect that much help from her son." stephen assented, but not with alacrity, and as he had now disposed of the stew, the two rose from their seats and went outside. a few words of final instructions, and they parted. "i wonder why uncle thomas takes such an interest in that newsboy," thought stephen. "i will make it my business to find out." chapter x stephen webb obtains some information luke was at his post the following morning, and had disposed of half his papers when stephen webb strolled by. he walked past luke, and then, as if it was an after thought, turned back, and addressed him. "have you a morning _tribune?_" he asked. luke produced it. "how's business to-day?" asked stephen in an offhand manner. "pretty fair," answered luke, for the first time taking notice of the inquirer, who did not impress him very favorably. "i have often wondered how you newsboys make it pay," said stephen, in a sociable tone. "we don't make our fortunes, as a rule," answered luke, smiling, "so i can't recommend you to go into it." "i don't think it would suit me. i don't mind owning up that i am lazy. but, then, i am not obliged to work for the present, at least." "i should like to be able to live without work," said the newsboy. "but even then i would find something to do. i should not be happy if i were idle." "i am not wholly without work," said stephen. "my uncle, who lives at a distance, occasionally sends to me to do something for him. i have to hold myself subject to his orders. in the meantime i get an income from him. how long have you been a newsboy?" "nearly two years." "do you like it? why don't you get a place in a store or an office?" "i should like to, if i could make enough; but boys get very small salaries." "i was about to offer to look for a place for you. i know some men in business." "thank you! you are very kind, considering that we are strangers." "oh, well, i can judge of you by your looks. i shouldn't be afraid to recommend you." "thank you!" he replied; "but unless you can offer me as much as five dollars a week, i should feel obliged to keep on selling papers. i not only have myself to look out for, but a mother and little brother." stephen nodded to himself complacently. it was the very information of which he was in search. "then your father isn't living?" he said. "no. he died in california." "uncle thomas made his money in california," stephen said to himself. "i wonder if he knew this newsboy's father." "five dollars is little enough for three persons to live upon," he went on, in a sympathetic manner. "mother earns something by sewing," luke answered, unsuspiciously; "but it takes all we can make to support us." "then they can't have any other resources," thought stephen. "i am getting on famously." "well, good-morning, luke!" he said. "i'll see you later." "how do you know my name?" asked luke, in surprise. "i'm an idiot!" thought stephen. "i ought to have appeared ignorant of his name. i have seen you before to-day," he replied, taking a little time to think. "i heard one of the other newsboys calling you by name. i don't pretend to be a magician." this explanation satisfied luke. it appeared very natural. "i have a great memory for names," proceeded stephen. "that reminds me that i have not told you mine--i am stephen webb, at your service." "i will remember it." "have a cigarette, luke?" added stephen, producing a packet from his pocket." "thank you; i don't smoke." "don't smoke, and you a newsboy! i thought all of you smoked." "most of us do, but i promised my mother i wouldn't smoke till i was twenty-one." "then i'm old enough to smoke. i've smoked ever since i was twelve years old--well, good morning!" "that'll do for one day," thought stephen webb. it was three days before stephen webb called again on his new acquaintance. he did not wish luke to suspect anything, he said to himself. really, however, he found other things to take up his attention. at the rate his money was going it seemed very doubtful whether he would be able to give his mother any part of his salary, as suggested by his uncle. "hang it all!" he said to himself, as he noted his rapidly diminishing hoard. "why can't my uncle open his heart and give me more than ten dollars a week? fifteen dollars wouldn't be any too much, and to him it would be nothing--positively nothing." on the second evening luke went home late. it had been a poor day for him, and his receipts were less than usual, though he had been out more hours. when he entered the house, however, he assumed a cheerful look, for he never wished to depress his mother's spirits. "you are late, luke," said mrs. walton; "but i have kept your supper warm." "what makes you so late, luke?" asked bennie. "the papers went slow, bennie. they will, sometimes. there's no very important news just now. i suppose that explains it." after a while luke thought he noticed that his mother looked more serious than usual. "what's the matter, mother?" he asked. "have you a headache?" "no, luke. i am perfectly well, but i am feeling a little anxious." "about what, mother?" "i went around this afternoon to take half a dozen shirts that i had completed, and asked for more. they told me they had no more for me at present, and they didn't know when i could have any more." this was bad news, for luke knew that he alone did not earn enough to support the family. however, he answered cheerfully: "don't be anxious, mother! there are plenty of other establishments in chicago besides the one you have been working for." "that is true, luke; but i don't know whether that will help me. i stopped at two places after leaving gusset & co.'s, and was told that their list was full." "well, mother, don't let us think of it to-night! to morrow we can try again." luke's cheerfulness had its effect on his mother, and the evening was passed socially. the next morning luke went out to work at the usual time. he had all his papers sold out by half-past ten o'clock, and walked over to state street, partly to fill up the time, arid partly in search of some stray job. he was standing in front of the bee hive, a well-known drygoods store on state street, when his attention was called to an old lady, who, in attempting to cross the street, had imprudently placed herself just in the track of a rapidly advancing cable car. becoming sensible of her danger, the old lady uttered a terrified cry, but was too panic-stricken to move. on came the car, with gong sounding out its alarm, and a cry of horror went up from the bystanders. luke alone seemed to have his wits about him. he saw that there was not a moment to lose, and, gathering up his strength, dashed to the old lady's assistance. chapter xi a house on prairie avenue the old lady had just become conscious of her peril when luke reached her. she was too bewildered to move, and would inevitably have been crushed by the approaching car had not luke seized her by the arm and fairly dragged her out of danger. then, as the car passed on, he took off his hat, and said, apologetically: "i hope you will excuse my roughness, madam, but i could see no other way of saving you." "please lead me to the sidewalk," gasped the old lady. luke complied with her request. "i am deeply thankful to you, my boy," she said, as soon as she found voice. "i can see that i was in great danger. i was busily thinking, or i should not have been so careless." "i am glad that i was able to help you," responded luke, as he prepared to leave his new acquaintance. "don't leave me!" said the old lady. "my nerves are so upset that i don't like being left alone." "i am quite at your service, madam," replied luke, politely. "shall i put you on board the cars?" "no, call a carriage, please." this was easily done, for they were in front of the palmer house, where a line of cabs may be found. luke called one, and assisted the old lady inside. "where shall i tell the driver to take you?" he asked. the old lady named a number on prairie avenue, which contains some of the finest residences in chicago. "can i do anything more for you?" asked our hero. "yes," was the unexpected reply. "get in yourself, if you can spare the time." "certainly," assented luke. he took his seat beside the old lady. "i hope you have recovered from your fright," he said, politely. "yes, i begin to feel myself again. probably you wonder why i have asked you to accompany me?" "probably because you may need my services," suggested luke. "not altogether. i shudder as i think of the danger from which you rescued me, but i have another object in view." luke waited for her to explain. "i want to become better acquainted with you." "thank you, madam." "i fully recognize that you have done me a great service. now, if i ask you a fair question about yourself, you won't think it an old woman's curiosity?" "i hope i should not be so ill-bred, madam." "really, you are a very nice boy." "now, tell me where you live?" "on green street." "where is that?" "only a stone's throw from milwaukee avenue." "i don't think i was ever in that part of the city." "it is not a nice part of the city, but we cannot afford to live in a better place." "you say 'we.' does that mean your father and mother?" "my father is dead. our family consists of my mother, my little brother, and myself." "and you are--excuse my saying so--poor?" "we are poor, but thus far we have not wanted for food or shelter." "i suppose you are employed in some way?" "yes; i sell papers." "then you are a newsboy?" "yes, madam." "i suppose you cannot save very much?" "if i make seventy-five cents a day i consider myself quite lucky. it is more than i average." "surely you can't live on that--i mean the three of you?" "mother earns something by making shirts; at least, she has done so; but yesterday she was told that she would not have any more work at present." "and your brother--he is too young to work, i suppose?" "yes, madam." while this conversation was going en, the cab was making rapid progress, and as the last words were spoken the driver reined up in front of a handsome residence. "is this the place, madam?" the old lady looked out of the hack. "yes," she answered. "i had no idea we had got along so far." luke helped her out of the cab. she paid the man his fare, and then signed luke to help her up the steps. "i want you to come into the house with me," she said. "i have not got through talking with you." a maidservant answered the bell. she looked surprised when she saw the old lady's young companion. "is my niece in?" asked the old lady. "no, mrs. merton--master harold is in." "never mind! you may come upstairs with me, young man." luke followed the old lady up the broad, handsome staircase, stealing a curious glance at an elegantly-furnished drawing-room, the door of which opened into the hall. his companion led the way into the front room on the second floor. "remain here until i have taken off my things," she said. luke seated himself in a luxurious armchair. he looked about him and wondered how it would seem to live in such luxury. he had little time for thought, for in less than five minutes mrs. merton made her appearance. "you have not yet told me your name," she said. "luke walton." "that's a good name--i am mrs. merton." "i noticed that the servant called you so," said luke. "yes; i am a widow. my married niece lives here with me. she is also a widow, with one son, harold. i think he might be about your age. her name is tracy. you wonder why i give you all these particulars? i see you do. it is because i mean to keep up our acquaintance." "thank you, mrs. merton." "my experience this morning has shown me that i am hardly fit to go about the city alone. yet i am not willing to remain at home. it has occurred to me that i can make use of your services with advantage both to you and myself. what do you say?" "i shall be glad of anything that will increase my income," said luke, promptly. "please call here to-morrow morning, and inquire for me. i will then tell you what i require." "very well, mrs. merton. you may depend upon me." "and accept a week's pay in advance." she put a sealed envelope into his hand. luke took it, and, with a bow, left the room. chapter xii a plot that failed as the distance was considerable to the business part of the city, luke boarded a car and rode downtown. it did not occur to him to open the envelope till he was half way to the end of his journey. when he did so, he was agreeably surprised. the envelope contained a ten-dollar bill. "ten dollars! hasn't mrs. merton made a mistake?" he said to himself. "she said it was a week's pay. but, of course, she wouldn't pay ten dollars for the little i am to do." luke decided that the extra sum was given him on account of the service he had already been fortunate enough to render the old lady. next to him sat rather a showily dressed woman, with keen, sharp eyes. she took notice of the bank-note which luke drew from the envelope, and prepared to take advantage of the knowledge. no sooner had luke replaced the envelope in his pocket than this woman put her hand in hers, and, after a pretended search, exclaimed, in a loud voice: "there is a pickpocket in this car. i have been robbed!" of course, this statement aroused the attention of all the passengers. "what have you lost, madam?" inquired an old gentleman. "a ten-dollar bill," answered the woman. "was it in your pocketbook?" "no," she replied, glibly. "it was in an envelope. it was handed to me by my sister just before i left home." as soon as luke heard this declaration, he understood that the woman had laid a trap for him, and he realized his imprudence in displaying the money. naturally he looked excited and disturbed. he saw that in all probability the woman's word would be taken in preference to his. he might be arrested, and find it difficult to prove his innocence. "have you any suspicion as to who took it?" asked the old gentleman. "i think this boy took it," said the woman pointing to luke. "it's terrible, and he so young!" said an old lady with a severe cast of countenance, who sat next to the old gentleman. "what is the world coming to?" "what, indeed, ma'am?" echoed the old gentleman. luke felt that it was time for him to say something. "this lady is quite mistaken," he declared, pale but resolute. "i'm no thief." "it can easily be proved," said the woman, with a cunning smile. "let the boy show the contents of his pockets." "yes, that is only fair." luke saw that his difficulties were increasing. "i admit that i have a ten-dollar bill in an envelope," he said. "i told you so!" said the woman, triumphantly. "but it is my own." "graceless boy!" said the old gentleman, severely, "do not add falsehood to theft." "i am speaking the truth, sir." "how the boy brazens it out!" murmured the sour-visaged lady. "return the lady her money, unless you wish to be arrested," said the old gentleman. "i don't intend to give this person"--luke found it hard to say lady--"what she has no claim to." "young man, you will find that you are making a grand mistake. probably if you give up the money the lady will not prosecute you." "no, i will have pity upon his youth," said the woman. "i can tell exactly where i got the money," went on luke, desperately. "where did you get it?" asked the old maid, with a sarcastic smile. "from mrs. merton, of prairie avenue." "what did she give it to you for?" "i am in her employment." "gentlemen," said the woman, shrugging her shoulders, "you can judge whether this is a probable story." "i refer to mrs. merton herself," said luke. "no doubt! you want to gain time. boy, i am getting out of patience. give me my money!" "i have no money of yours, madam," replied luke, provoked; "and you know that as well as i do." "so you are impertinent, as well as a thief," said the old gentleman. "i have no more pity for you. madam, if you will take my advice, you will have the lying rascal arrested." "i would prefer that he should give up the money quietly." "i will take it upon myself to call a policeman when the car stops." "you do me great injustice, sir," said luke. "why do you judge so severely of one whom you do not know?" "because, young man, i have lived too long to be easily deceived. i pride myself upon my judgment of faces, and i can see the guilt in yours." luke looked about him earnestly. "is there no one in this car who believes me innocent?" he asked. "no," said the old gentleman. "we all believe that this very respectable lady charges you justly." "i say amen to that," added the old maid, nodding sharply. next to the old maid sat a man of about thirty-five, in a business suit, who, though he had said nothing, had listened attentively to the charges and counter-charges. in him luke was to find a powerful and effective friend. "speak for yourself, old gentleman," he said. "you certainly are old enough to have learned a lesson of christian charity." "sir," exclaimed the old gentleman, in a lofty tone, "i don't require any instruction from you." "why do you think the boy a thief? did you see him take the money?" "no, but its presence in his pocket is proof enough for me of his guilt." "of course it is!" said the old maid, triumphantly. the young man did not appear in the least disconcerted. "i have seldom encountered more uncharitable people," he said. "you are ready to pronounce the boy guilty without any proof at all." "don't it occur to you that you are insulting the lady who brings the charge?" asked the old gentleman, sternly. the young man laughed. "the woman has brought a false charge," he said. "really, this is outrageous!" cried the old maid. "if i were in her place i would make you suffer for this calumny." "probably i know her better than you do. i am a salesman in marshall field's drygoods store, and this lady is a notorious shoplifter. she is varying her performances to-day. i have a great mind to call a policeman. she deserves arrest." had a bombshell exploded in the car, there would not have been a greater sensation. the woman rose without a word, and signaled to have the car stopped. "now, sir," went on the young man, sternly, "if you are a gentleman, you will apologize to this boy for your unworthy suspicions, and you, too, madam." the old maid tossed her head, but could not find a word to say, while the old gentleman looked the picture of mortification. "we are all liable to be mistaken!" he muttered, in a confused tone. "then be a little more careful next time, both of you! my boy, i congratulate you on your triumphant vindication." "thank you, sir, for it. i should have stood a very poor chance without your help." the tide was turned, and the uncharitable pair found so many unfriendly glances fixed upon them that they were glad to leave the car at the next crossing. chapter xiii tom brooks in trouble "i begin to think i am the favorite of fortune," thought luke. "ten dollars will more than pay a month's rent. mother will feel easy now about her loss of employment." some boys would have felt like taking a holiday for the balance of the day, perhaps, or going to a place of amusement, but luke bought his evening papers as usual. he had but half a dozen left when his new acquaintance, stephen webb, sauntered along. "how's business, luke?" he asked. "very fair, thank you." "give me a _news._" stephen passed over a penny in payment, but did not seem inclined to go away. "i meant to see you before," he said, "but my time got filled up." "have you taken a situation, then?" asked luke. "no, i am still a man of leisure. why don't you hire a small store, and do a general periodical business? it would pay you better." "no doubt it would, but it would take money to open and stock such a store." "i may make a proposition to you some time to go in with me, i furnishing the capital, and you managing the business." "i am always open to a good offer," said luke, smiling. "i suppose i ought to have some business, but i'm a social kind of fellow, and should want a partner, a smart, enterprising, trustworthy person like you." "thank you for the compliment." "never mind that! i am a judge of human nature, and i felt confidence in you at once." somehow luke was not altogether inclined to take stephen webb at his own valuation. his new acquaintance did not impress him as a reliable man of business, but he had no suspicion of anything underhand. by this time luke had disposed of his remaining papers. "i am through for the day," he said, "and shall go home." "do you walk or ride?" "i walk." "if you don't mind, i will walk along with you. i haven't taken much exercise to-day." luke had no reason for declining this proposal, and accepted stephen's companionship. they walked on clark street to the bridge, and crossed the river. presently they reached milwaukee avenue." "isn't the walk too long for you?" asked luke. "oh, no! i can walk any distance when i have company. i shall take a car back." stephen accompanied the newsboy as far as his own door. he would like to have been invited up, but luke did not care to give him an invitation. though stephen seemed very friendly, he was not one whom he cared to cultivate. "well, so long!" said stephen, with his "good-night," "i shall probably see you to-morrow." "i have found out where they live," thought stephen. "i am making a very good detective. i'll drop a line to uncle thomas this evening." meanwhile luke went upstairs two steps at a time. he was the bearer of good tidings, and that always quickens the steps. he found his mother sitting in her rocking-chair with a sober face. "well, mother," he asked, gayly, "how have you passed the day?" "very unprofitably, luke. i went out this afternoon, and visited two places where i thought they might have some sewing for me, but i only met with disappointment. now that i have a sewing machine, it is a great pity that i can't make use of it." "don't be troubled, mother! we can get along well enough." "but we have only your earnings to depend upon." "if i always have as good a day as this, we can depend on those very easily." "did you earn much, luke?" "i earned a lot of money." mrs. walton looked interested, and luke's manner cheered her. "there are always compensations, it seems. i was only thinking of my own bad luck." "what do you say to that, mother?" and luke displayed the ten-dollar bill. "i don't understand how you could have taken in so much money, luke." "then i will explain," and luke told the story of the adventure on state street, and his rescue of the old lady from the danger of being run over. "the best of it is," he concluded, "i think i shall get regular employment for part of my time from mrs. merton. whatever i do for her will be liberally paid for." luke went to a bakery for some cream cakes, of which bennie was particularly fond. at the same time stephen webb was busily engaged in the writing room of the palmer house, inditing a letter to his uncle. dear uncle thomas:--i have devoted my whole time to the task which you assigned me, and have met with very good success. i found the boy uncommunicative, and had to exert all my ingenuity. of the accuracy of this and other statements, the reader will judge for himself. the boy has a mother and a younger brother. they depend for support chiefly upon what he can earn, though the mother does a little sewing, but that doesn't bring in much. they live in green street, near milwaukee avenue. i have been there, and seen the house where they reside. it is a humble place, but as good, i presume, as they can afford. no doubt they are very poor, and have all they can do to make both ends meet. i have learned this much, but have had to work hard to do it. of course, i need not say that i shall spare no pains to meet your expectations. if you should take me into your confidence, and give me an idea of what more you wish to know, i feel sure that i can manage to secure all needed information. your dutiful nephew, stephen webb. thomas browning, in his milwaukee home, read this letter with satisfaction. he wrote briefly to his nephew: "you have done well thus far, and i appreciate your zeal. get the boy to talking about his father, if you can. let me hear anything he may say on this subject. as to my motive, i suspect that mr. walton may have been an early acquaintance of mine. if so, i may feel disposed to do something for the family." on his way to the sherman house, the next morning, luke witnessed rather an exciting scene, in which his old friend, tom brooks, played a prominent part. there was a chinese laundry on milwaukee avenue kept by a couple of chinamen who were peaceably disposed if not interfered with. but several boys, headed by tom brooks, had repeatedly annoyed the laundrymen, and excited their resentment. on this particular morning tom sent a stone crashing through the window of ah king. the latter had been on the watch, and, provoked beyond self-control, rushed out into the street, wild with rage, and pursued tom with a flatiron in his hand. "help! help! murder!" exclaimed tom, panic-stricken, running away as fast as his legs would carry him. but anger, excited by the broken window, lent wings to the chinaman's feet, and he gained rapidly upon the young aggressor. chapter xiv luke has a cool reception in prairie avenue tom brooks had reason to feel alarmed for his chinese pursuer fully intended to strike tom with the flatiron. though this was utterly wrong, some excuse must be made for ah king, who had frequently been annoyed by tom. it was at this critical juncture that luke walton appeared on the scene. he had no reason to like tom, but he instantly prepared to rescue him. fortunately, he knew ah king, whom he had more than once protected from the annoyance of the hoodlums of the neighborhood. luke ran up and seized the chinaman by the arm. "what are you going to do?" he demanded, sternly. "fool boy bleak my window," said ah king. "i bleak his head." "no, you mustn't do that. the police will arrest you." "go way! me killee white boy," cried ah king, impatiently trying to shake off luke's grasp. "he bleak window--cost me a dollee." "i'll see that he pays it, or is arrested," said luke. unwillingly ah king suffered himself to be persuaded, more readily, perhaps, that tom was now at a safe distance. "you plomise me?" said ah king. "yes; if he don't pay, i will. go and get the window mended." luke easily overtook tom, who was looking round the corner to see how matters were going. "has he gone back?" asked tom, rather anxiously. "yes, but if i hadn't come along, he would, perhaps, have killed you." "you only say that to scare me," said tom, uneasily. "no, i don't; i mean it. do you know how i got you off?" "how?" "i told ah king you would pay for the broken window. it will cost a dollar." "i didn't promise," said tom, significantly. "no," said luke, sternly, "but if you don't do it, i will myself have you arrested. i saw you throw the stone at the window." "what concern is it of yours?" asked tom, angrily. "why do you meddle with my business?" "if i hadn't meddled with your business, you might have a fractured skull by this time. it is a contemptibly mean thing to annoy a poor chinaman." "he's only a heathen." "a well-behaved heathen is better than a christian such as you are." "i don't want any lectures," said tom in a sulky tone. "i presume not. i have nothing more to say except that i expect you to hand me that dollar to-night." "i haven't got a dollar." "then you had better get one. i don't believe you got a dollar's worth of sport in breaking the window, and i advise you hereafter to spend your money better." "i don't believe i will pay it," said tom, eying luke closely, to see if he were in earnest. "then i will report your case to the police." "you're a mean fellow," said tom, angrily. "i begin to be sorry i interfered to save you. how ever, take your choice. if necessary, i will pay the dollar myself, for i have promised ah king; but i shall keep my word about having you arrested." it was a bitter pill for tom to swallow, but he managed to raise the money, and handed it to luke that evening. instead of being grateful to the one who had possibly saved his life, he was only the more incensed against him, and longed for an opportunity to do him an injury. "i hate that luke walton," he said to one of his intimate friends. "he wants to boss me, and all of us, but he can't do it. he's only fit to keep company with a heathen chinee." luke spent a couple of hours in selling papers. he had not forgotten his engagement with mrs. merton, and punctually at ten o'clock he pulled the bell of the house in prairie avenue. just at that moment the door was opened, and he faced a boy of his own age, a thin, dark-complexioned youth, of haughty bearing. this, no doubt, he concluded, was harold tracy. "what do you want?" he asked, superciliously. "i should like to see mrs. merton." "humph! what business have you with mrs. merton?" luke was not favorably impressed with harold's manner, and did not propose to treat him with the consideration which he evidently thought his due. "i come here at mrs. merton's request," he said, briefly. "as to what business we have together, i refer you to her." "it strikes me that you are impudent," retorted harold, angrily. "your opinion of me is of no importance to me. if you don't care to let mrs. merton know i am here, i will ring again and ask the servant to do so." here a lady, bearing a strong personal resemblance to harold, made her appearance, entering the hall from the breakfast room in the rear. "what is it, harold?" she asked, in a tone of authority. "here is a boy who says he wants to see aunt eliza." "what can he want with her?" "i asked him, but he won't tell." "i must trouble him to tell me," said mrs. tracy, closing her thin mouth with a snap. "like mother--like son," thought luke. "do you hear?" demanded mrs. tracy, unpleasantly. "i am here by mrs. merton's appointment, mrs. tracy," said luke, firmly. "i shall be glad to have her informed that i have arrived." "and who are you, may i ask?" "perhaps you've got your card about you?" sneered harold. "i have," answered luke, quietly. with a comical twinkle in his eye, he offered one to harold. "luke walton," repeated harold. "yes, that is my name." "i don't think my aunt will care to see you," said mrs. tracy, who was becoming more and more provoked with the "upstart boy," as she mentally termed him. "perhaps it would be better to let her know i am here." "it is quite unnecessary. i will take the responsibility." luke was quite in doubt as to what he ought to do. he could not very well prevent harold's closing the door, in obedience to his mother's directions, but fortunately the matter was taken out of his hands by the old lady herself, who, unobserved by harold and his mother, had been listening to the conversation from the upper landing. when she saw her visitor about to be turned out of the house, she thought it quite time to interfere. "louisa," she called, in a tone of displeasure, "you will oblige me by not meddling with my visitors. luke, come upstairs." luke could not forbear a smile of triumph as he passed harold and mrs. tracy, and noticed the look of discomfiture on their faces. "i didn't know he was your visitor, aunt eliza," said mrs. tracy, trembling with the anger she did not venture to display before her wealthy relative. "didn't he say so?" asked mrs. merton, sharply. "yes, but i was not sure that he was not an impostor." "you had only to refer the matter to me, and i could have settled the question. luke is in my employ----" "in your employ?" repeated mrs. tracy, in surprise. "yes; he will do errands for me, and sometimes accompany me to the city." "why didn't you call on harold? he would be very glad to be of service to you." "harold had other things to occupy him. i prefer the other arrangement. luke, come into my room and i will give you directions." mrs. tracy and harold looked at each other as the old lady and luke disappeared. "this is a new freak of aunt eliza's," said mrs. tracy. "why does she pass over you, and give the preference to this upstart boy?" "i don't mind that, mother," replied harold. "i don't want to be dancing attendance on an old woman." "but she may take a fancy to this boy--she seems to have done so already--and give him part of the money that ought to be yours." "if we find there is any danger of that, i guess we are smart enough to set her against him. let her have the boy for a servant if she wishes." "i don't know but you are right, harold. we must be very discreet, for aunt eliza is worth half a million." "and how old is she, mother?" "seventy-one." "that's pretty old. she can't live many years." "i hope she will live to a good old age," said mrs. tracy, hypocritically, "but when she dies, it is only fair that we should have her money." chapter xv a welcome gift when luke and mrs. merton were alone, the old lady said, with a smile: "you seemed to have some difficulty in getting into the house." "yes," answered luke. "i don't think your nephew likes me." "probably not. both he and his mother are afraid someone will come between me and them. they are selfish, and cannot understand how i can have any other friends or beneficiaries. you are surprised that i speak so openly of such near relatives to such a comparative stranger. however, it is my nature to be outspoken. and now, luke, if you don't think it will be tiresome to escort an old woman, i mean to take you downtown with me." "i look upon you as a kind friend, mrs. merton," responded luke, earnestly. "i want to thank you for the handsome present you made me yesterday. i didn't expect anything like ten dollars." "you will find it acceptable, however, i don't doubt. seriously, luke, i don't think it's too much to pay for saving my life. now, if you will wait here five minutes, i will be ready to go out with you." five minutes later mrs. merton came into the room attired for the street. they went downstairs together, and luke and she got on a street car. they were observed by mrs. tracy and harold as they left the house. "aunt eliza's very easily imposed upon," remarked the latter. "she scarcely knows anything of that boy, and she has taken him out with her. how does she know but he is a thief?" "he looks like one," said harold, in an amiable tone. "if aunt is robbed, i shan't pity her. she will deserve it." "very true; but you must remember that it will be our loss as well as hers. her property will rightfully come to us, and if she is robbed we shall inherit so much the less." "i have been thinking, harold, it may be well for you to find out something of this boy. if you can prove to aunt eliza that he is of bad character, she will send him adrift." "i'll see about it, mother." meanwhile mrs. merton and luke were on their way to the business portion of the city. "i think i will stop at adams street, luke," said the old lady. "i shall have to go to the continental bank. do you know where it is?" "i believe it is on la salle street, corner of adams." "quite right. i shall introduce you to the paying teller as in my employ, as i may have occasion to send you there alone at times to deposit or draw money." "i wish harold was more like you," she said. "his mother's suggestion that i should take him with me as an escort would be just as disagreeable to him as to me." "is he attending school?" asked luke. "yes. he is preparing for college, but he is not fond of study, and i doubt whether he ever enters. i think he must be about your age." "i am nearly sixteen." "then he is probably a little older." they entered the bank, and mrs. merton, going to the window of the paying teller, presented a check for a hundred dollars. "how will you have it, mrs. merton?" asked the teller. "in fives and tens. by the way, mr. northrop, please take notice of this boy with me. i shall occasionally send him by himself to attend to my business. his name is luke walton." "his face looks familiar. i think we have met before." "i have sold you papers more than once, mr. northrop," said luke. "i stand on clark street, near the sherman." "yes, i remember, now. we bank officials are apt to take notice of faces." "here, luke, carry this money for me," said mrs. merton, putting a lady's pocketbook into the hand of her young escort. "you are less likely to be robbed than i." luke was rather pleased at the full confidence his new employer seemed to repose in him. "i am now going up on state street," said mrs. merton, as they emerged into the street. "you know the store of marshall field?" "oh, yes; everybody in chicago knows that," said luke. in a few minutes they stood before the large store, and mrs. merton entered, followed by luke. mrs. merton went to that part of the establishment where woolens are sold, and purchased a dress pattern. to luke's surprise, the salesman was the same one who had come to his assistance in the car the day previous when he was charged with stealing. the recognition was mutual. "i believe we have met before," said the young man, with a smile. "yes, fortunately for me," answered luke, gratefully. "the two parties who were determined to find you guilty looked foolish when they ascertained the real character of your accuser." "what is this, luke? you didn't tell me of it," said mrs. merton. the story was related briefly. "i should like to meet that woman," said mrs. merton, nodding energetically. "i'd give her a piece of my mind. luke, you may hand me ten dollars." the goods were wrapped up and the change returned. "where shall i send the bundle, mrs. merton?" asked the salesman, deferentially. "luke will take it." as they left the store mrs. merton said: "did you think i was buying this dress for myself, luke?" "i thought so," luke answered. "no, i have dresses enough to last me a lifetime, i may almost say. this dress pattern is for your mother." "for my mother?" repeated luke, joyfully. "yes; i hope it will be welcome." "indeed it will. mother hasn't had a new dress for over a year." "then i guessed right. give it to her with my compliments, and tell her i give it to her for your sake. now, i believe i will go home." no present made to luke could have given him so much pleasure as this gift to his mother, for he knew how much she stood in need of it. when they reached the house on prairie avenue, they met mrs. tracy on the steps. she had been out for a short call. "did you have a pleasant morning, aunt eliza?" she asked, quite ignoring luke. "yes, quite so. luke, i won't trouble you to come in. i shall not need you to-morrow. the next day you may call at the same hour." luke turned away, but was called back sharply by mrs. tracy. "boy!" she said, "you are taking away my aunt's bundle. bring it back directly." "louisa," said the old lady, "don't trouble yourself. that bundle is meant for luke's mother." "something you bought for her?" "yes, a dress pattern." "oh!" sniffed mrs. tracy, eying luke with strong disapproval. chapter xvi thomas browning at home in one of the handsomest streets in milwaukee stood a private residence which was quite in harmony with its surroundings. it looked like the home of a man of ample means. it was luxuriously furnished, and at one side was a conservatory. it was apt to attract the attention of strangers, and the question was asked: "who lives there?" and the answer would be: "thomas browning. he will probably be mayor some day." yes, this was the residence of thomas browning, formerly thomas butler, the man to whom the dead father of luke walton had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and children. how he fulfilled his trust, or, rather, did not fulfill it, we already know. but in milwaukee, where mr. browning had become a leading citizen, it was not known. it was entirely inconsistent with what was believed to be his character. for mr. browning was president of one charitable society and treasurer of another. at the annual meetings of these societies he was always called upon to speak, and his allusions to the poverty and privations of those who were cared for by these societies never failed to produce an impression. it was popularly supposed that he gave away large sums in charity. indeed, he admitted the fact, but explained the absence of his name from subscription papers by saying: "all my gifts are anonymous. instead of giving my name, i prefer to put down 'cash,' so much, or 'a friend,' such another sum. i don't wish to influence others, but it jars upon me to have my name ostentatiously paraded in the public prints." now, in all subscriptions there are donations ascribed to "cash" and "a friend," and whenever these occurred, it was generally supposed they represented mr. browning. but, to let the reader into a little secret, this was only a shrewd device of mr. browning's to have the reputation of a philanthropist at little or no expense, for, as a matter of fact, he never contributed at all to the charities in which he seemed to take such an interest! in a pleasant room on the second floor sat the pseudo-philanthropist. the room was furnished as a library. at a writing table, poring over what looked like an account book, he looked the picture of comfort and respectability. a few well-chosen engravings adorned the walls. a pleasant light was diffused about the room from a chandelier suspended over the table. thomas browning leaned back in his chair, and a placid smile overspread his naturally harsh features. he looked about him, and his thoughts somehow ran back to a time when he was very differently situated. "five years ago to-night," he said, "i was well-nigh desperate. i hadn't a cent to bless myself with, nor was the prospect of getting one particularly bright. how i lived, for a considerable time, i hardly know. i did have a notion at one time, when i was particularly down on my luck, of committing suicide, and so ending the struggle once for all. it would have been a great mistake!" he added after a pause. "i didn't foresee at the time the prosperous years that lay before me. frederick walton's money changed my whole life. ten thousand dollars isn't a fortune, but it proved the basis of one. it enabled me to float the excelsior mine. i remember there were a hundred thousand shares at two dollars a share, all based upon a few acres of mining land which i bought for a song. with the ten thousand dollars, i hired an office, printed circulars, distributed glowing accounts of imaginary wealth, etc. it cost considerable for advertising, but i sold seventy thousand shares, and when i had gathered in the money i let the bottom fall out. there was a great fuss, of course, but i figured as the largest loser, being the owner of thirty thousand shares (for which i hadn't paid a cent), and so shared the sympathy extended to losers. it was a nice scheme, and after deducting all expenses, i made a clean seventy-five thousand dollars out of it, which, added to my original capital, made eighty-five thousand. then i came to milwaukee and bought this house. from that time my career has been upward and onward. my friends say some day i shall be mayor of the city. well, stranger things have happened, and who knows but my friends may be right!" at this moment a servant entered the library. "well, mary, what is it?" asked the philanthropist. "please, sir, there's a poor woman at the door, and she would like to see you." "ah, yes, she wants relief from the widows' and orphans' society, probably. well, send her up. i am always at home to the poor." "what a good man he is!" thought mary. "it's strange he gives such low wages to the girls that work for him. he says it's because he gives away so much money in charities." mary ushered in, a moment later, a woman in a faded dress, with a look of care and sorrow on her thin features. "take a seat, madam," said thomas browning, urbanely. "did you wish to see me?" "yes, sir. i am in difficulties, and have ventured to call upon you." "i am glad to see you. i am always ready to see the unfortunate." "yes, sir; i know you have the reputation of being a philanthropist. "no, no," said mr. browning, modestly. "don't mention it. i am fully aware of the flattering estimation which is placed on my poor services, but i really don't deserve it. it is, perhaps, as the president of the widows' and orphans' charitable society that you wish to speak to me." "no, sir. it is as president of the excelsior mining company that i wish to make an appeal to you." "oh!" ejaculated browning, with a perceptible change of countenance. "of course you remember it, sir. i was a widow, with a small property of five thousand dollars left me by my late husband. it was all i had on which to support myself and two children. the banks paid poor interest, and i was in search of a profitable investment. one of your circulars fell into my hands. the shares were two dollars each, and it was stated that they would probably yield fifty per cent dividends. that would support me handsomely. but i didn't decide to invest until i had written a private letter to you." she took it from the pocket of her dress, and offered it to thomas browning, but that gentleman waved it aside. she continued: "you indorsed all that the circular contained. you said that within a year you thought he shares would rise to at least ten dollars. so i invested all the money i had. you know what followed. in six months the shares went down to nothing, and i found myself penniless." "i know it, my good woman," said thomas browning. "i know it, to my cost. i myself had sixty thousand dollars invested in the stock. i lost it all." "but you seem to be a rich man," said the poor woman, looking about her. "i have made it out of other ventures. but the collapse of the mine was a sad blow to me. as the president, i might have had something from the wreck, but i did not. i suffered with the rest. now, may i ask what i can do for you?" "it was on account of your advice that i bought stock. don't you think you ought to make up to me a part of the loss?" "impossible!" said browning, sharply. "didn't i tell you i lost much more heavily than you?" "then you can do nothing for me?" "yes; i can put you on the pension list of the widows' and orphans' society. that will entitle you to receive a dollar a week for three months." "i am not an object of charity, sir. i wish you good-night." "good-night. if you change your mind come to me." "very unreasonable, upon my word," soliloquized thomas browning. at eleven o'clock mr. browning went to his bedchamber. he lit the gas and was preparing to disrobe, when his sharp ear detected the sound of suppressed breathing, and the point from which it proceeded. he walked quickly to the bed, bent over, and looked underneath. in an instant he had caught a man who had been concealed beneath it. the intruder was a wretchedly dressed tramp. browning allowed the man to get upon his feet, and then, facing him, demanded, sternly: "why are you here? did you come to rob me?" chapter xvii a strange visitor "did you come to rob me?" repeated mr. browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed. there was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded--not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. thomas browning misinterpreted it. he thought the man was speechless from alarm. "have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded browning, sternly. the answer considerably surprised him. "why, pard, it's you, is it?" said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain. "what do you mean by your impertinence?" asked the respectable mr. browning, angrily. "well, that's a good one! who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?" "what do you mean? are you crazy, fellow?" "no, i ain't crazy, as i know of, but i'm flabbergasted--that's what i am." "have done with this trifling and tell me why i shouldn't hand you over to the police?" "i guess you won't do that, tom butler!" returned the burglar, coolly. browning stared in surprise and dismay at hearing his old name pronounced by this unsavory specimen of humanity. "who are you?" he demanded, quickly. "don't you know me?" "no, i don't. i never saw you before. i don't associate with men of your class." "hear him now!" chuckled the tramp, in an amazed tone. "why, tom butler, you an' me used to be pards. don't you remember jack king? why, we've bunked together, and hunted for gold together, and almost starved together; but that was in the old days." browning looked the amazement he felt. "are you really jack king?" he ejaculated, sinking back into an easy-chair, and staring hard at his unexpected visitor. "i'm the same old coon, tom, but i'm down at the heel, while you--do you really own this fine house, and these elegant fixin's?" "yes," answered browning, mechanically. "well, you've fared better than i. i've been goin' down, down, till i've got about as far down as i can get." "and you have become a burglar?" "well, a man must live, you know." "you could work." "who would give such a lookin' man as i any work?" "how did you get in?" "that's my secret! you mustn't expect me to give myself away." "and you had no idea whose house you were in?" "i was told it belonged to a mr. browning." "i am mr. browning--thomas browning." "you! what has become of butler?" "i had good substantial reasons for changing my name--there was money in it, you understand." "i'd like to change my own name on them terms. and now, tom butler, what are you going to do for me?" mr. browning's face hardened. he felt no sympathy for the poor wretch with whom he had once been on terms of intimacy. he felt ashamed to think that they had ever been comrades, and he resented the tone of familiarity with which this outcast addressed him--a reputable citizen, a wealthy capitalist, a man whose name had been more than once mentioned in connection with the mayor's office. "i'll tell you what i ought to do," he said, harshly. "well?" "i ought to call a policeman, and give you in charge for entering my house as a burglar." "you'd better not do that," he said without betraying alarm. "why not? why should i not treat you like any other burglar?" "because--but i want to ask you a question." "what did you do with that money walton gave you on his deathbed?" "what do you mean?" he faltered. "just what i say. what did you do with walton's money?" "i am at a loss to understand your meaning." "no, you are not. however, i am ready to explain. on his deathbed walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. did you do it?" "who told you this?" "it is unnecessary for me to say. it is enough that i know it. at the time you were poor enough. you might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. now--it isn't so many years ago--i find you a rich man. of course, i have my own ideas of how this came about." "do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty?" demanded browning, angrily. "i don't accuse you of anything. i am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. i'm not an angel myself, tom butler, and i can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. i wish it had; i wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch i am now." "walton handed me some money," said browning, cautiously--"not ten thousand dollars--and i handed it to his family." "where did they live?" "in a country town," he answered, glibly. "i was thinking i might run across mrs. walton some day," he said, significantly. "she would be glad to see me, as i knew her late husband in california." "she is dead," said browning, hastily. "dead! how long since?" "she died soon after she heard of her husband's death. died of grief, poor woman!" "were there no children?" "yes, there was a girl, but she was adopted by a relative in massachusetts." "i don't believe a word of it!" thought jack king. "he wants to put me off the scent." "humph! and you gave the wife the money?" "of course." "i may meet the girl some time; i might advertise for any of the family." "do you think they would be glad to see you?" "they might help me, and i stand in need of help." "there is no need of that. you are an old comrade in distress. i haven't forgotten the fact, though i pretended to, to try you. here's a five-dollar bill. i'll let you out of the house myself. considering how you entered it, you may count yourself lucky." "that's all right, as far as it goes, tom, but i want to remind you of a little debt you owe me. when you were out of luck at murphy's diggings i lent you twenty-five dollars, which you have never paid back." "i had forgotten it." "i haven't. that money will come mighty convenient just now. it will buy me a better-looking suit, second hand, and make a different man of me. with it i can get a place and set up for a respectable human being." "here's the money," said browning, reluctantly drawing the additional bills from his wallet. "now that we are square, i hope you won't annoy me by further applications. i might have sent you out of the house under very different circumstances." "you were always considerate, tom," said the tramp, stowing away the bills in the pocket of his ragged vest. "may i refer to you if i apply for a situation?" "yes; but remember i am thomas browning. i prefer not to have it known that my name was ever butler." "all right! now, if you'll do me the favor of showing me the door i'll leave you to your slumbers." "it's very awkward, that man's turning up," muttered browning, as he returned from letting out his unsavory visitor. "how could he have heard about walton's money?" chapter xviii how jack king fared jack king left the house with the money browning had unwillingly given him. he sought a cheap lodging and the next morning proceeded to make himself respectable. when he had donned some clean linen, a suit of clothes which he bought cheap at a second-hand store, taken a bath, and called into requisition the services of a barber, it would have been hard to recognize him as the same man who had emerged from under the bed of the well-known philanthropist, a typical tramp and would-be burglar. jack king counted over the balance of his money, and found that he had nine dollars and thirty-seven cents left. "this won't support me forever," he reflected. "i must get something to do." while sauntering along, he fell in with an old acquaintance named stone. "what are you up to, king?" he asked. "looking for a job." "you are my man, then. i am keeping a cigar store at the prairie hotel, but i have some business calling me away from the city for six weeks or two months. will you take my place?" "what are the inducements?" "board and lodging and five dollars a week." "agreed." "come over, then, and i will show you the place." the hotel was a cheap one, not far from the railway station, and though comfortable, was not patronized by fastidious travelers. "when do you want me to take hold?" he asked. "to-morrow." "all right." "come around at ten o'clock. i want to leave milwaukee in the afternoon." king could not help reflecting about the extraordinary prosperity of his old comrade, tom butler, now thomas browning, esq. "what does it mean?" he asked himself. "he seemed very uneasy when i asked him about walton's money. i believe he kept it himself. i wish i knew. if i could prove it, it would be a gold mine for me. i must make inquiries, and, if possible, find out walton's family." "do you know anything of thomas browning?" he asked stone. "the philanthropist? yes. what of him?" "i called on him last evening." jack did not think it best to mention the circumstances of his visit. "indeed! how did you know him?" "in california." "i suppose he laid the foundation of his fortune there." "is he so rich, then?" "yes, probably worth a quarter of a million." this was an exaggeration, but rich men's wealth is generally overstated. "how does he stand in the city?" "first-class. he has been mentioned for mayor. i shouldn't be surprised if he might get the office some day." "he has certainly been very lucky." "i should say so. was he rich in california?" "not when i knew him. at one time there he had to borrow money of me. he paid me back last evening." "he is on the top of the ladder now, at any rate." "his respectability would suffer a little," thought jack king, "if i could prove that he had appropriated walton's money. i must think the matter over, and secure some information if i can." the next sunday evening he called at the house of the philanthropist, and sent in his name. thomas browning went himself to the door. he was afraid king might be wearing the same disreputable suit in which he had made his former visit. but to his relief his visitor looked quite respectable. "do you wish to see me?" he asked. "yes; but only for a social call. i am not acquainted in milwaukee, and it does me good to see an old friend and comrade." "i have not much time to spare, but come in!" they went into the philanthropist's library, formerly described. "have you found anything to do?" asked browning. "yes." "what is it?" king answered the question. "it is not much," he added, "but will do for the present." "at any rate, it is considerably better than entering a house at night and hiding under the bed," said browning, dryly. "so it is," answered king, smiling. "you must make allowance for my destitute condition. i little thought that i was in the house of an old friend. i have been asking about you, tom butler--i beg pardon, mr. browning--and i find that you stand very high in milwaukee." a shade of annoyance showed itself on the philanthropist's face when king referred to him under his former name, but when his high standing was referred to he smiled complacently. "yes," he said, "i have been fortunate enough to win the good opinion of my fellow-citizens." "some one told me that you would probably run for mayor some day." "it may be. i have been sounded on the subject." "the worst of running for office is that if a man has ever done anything discreditable it is sure to be brought out against him." "i hope you don't mean to imply that i have ever done anything discreditable," said browning, sharply. "oh, dear, no! how could i think such a thing? but sometimes false charges are brought. if you had ever betrayed a trust, or kept money belonging to another, of course, it would hurt you." "certainly it would," said the philanthropist, his voice betraying some nervousness, "but i am glad to say that my conscience is clear on that point." "by the way, jack, let me send for a bottle of wine. we'll drink to the memory of old time." "with all my heart, tom. i see you're the right sort. when you are nominated for office i will work for you." browning smiled graciously on his visitor, and the interview closed pleasantly. "he's afraid of me!" thought jack, as he left the house. chapter xix a sensational incident when luke brought home the dress pattern his mother was much pleased. "i have needed a dress for a good while," she said, "but i never felt that i could spare the money to buy even a common one. this material is very nice." "it cost seventy-five cents a yard. i was with mrs. merton when she bought it." "i hope you didn't hint to mrs. merton that i needed one." "no, that isn't like me, mother, but i own that i was very glad when she thought of it." "please tell her how grateful i am." "i will certainly do so. now, mother, i want you to have it made up at once. i can spare the money necessary." "it will cost very little. i will have it cut by a dress maker and make it up myself. i hope you will long retain the friendship of mrs. merton." "it won't by my fault if i don't. but i can't help seeing that her niece, mrs. tracy, and harold, a boy about my age, look upon me with dislike." "why should they? i don't see how anyone can dislike you." "you are my mother and are prejudiced in my favor. but i am sure they have no reason to dislike me. i think, however, they are jealous, and fear the old lady will look upon me with too much favor. she is very rich, i hear, and they expect to inherit all her fortune." "money makes people mean and unjust." "if i can only get hold of some, i'll run the risk of that," said luke. "i should feel a good deal more comfortable if i hadn't two enemies in the house." "do your duty, my son, and leave the rest to god. it isn't well to borrow trouble." "no doubt you are right, mother. i will follow your advice." the next morning luke was at his usual stand near the sherman house when a boy who was passing uttered a slight exclamation of surprise. looking up, luke recognized harold tracy. "so it's you, is it?" said harold, not over politely. "yes," answered luke. "i hope you are well." "i didn't know you were a newsboy." "i spend a part of my time in selling papers." "does mrs. merton know you are a newsboy?" "i think i have told her, but i am not certain." "it must be inconvenient for you to come so far as our house every day?" "of course it takes up some time, but mrs. merton does not allow me to work for nothing." "how much does aunt eliza pay you?" "i would rather you would ask mrs. merton. i am not sure that she would care to have me tell." "you seem to forget that i am her nephew that is, her grandnephew. it is hardly likely she would keep such a thing secret from me." "that may be, but i would rather you would ask her." "does she pay you more than two dollars a week?" "again i must refer you to her." "it is ridiculous to make a secret of such a trifle," said harold, annoyed. "how much do you make selling papers?" he asked. "i averaged about seventy-five cents a day before i began to work for mrs. merton. now i don't make as much." "why don't you black boots, too? many of the newsboys do?" "i never cared to take up that business." "if you should go into it, i would give you a job now and then." "i am not likely to go into that business, but i shall be glad to sell you a paper whenever you need one." "you are not too proud to black boots, are you?" persisted harold. "i don't think it necessary to answer that question. i have always got along without it so far." harold carried the news home to his mother that luke was a newsboy, and mrs. tracy found an opportunity to mention it at the supper table. "harold saw your paragon this morning, aunt eliza," she commenced. "have i a paragon? i really wasn't aware of it," returned the old lady. "your errand boy." "oh, luke. where did you see him, harold?" "he was selling papers near the sherman house." "i hope you bought one of him." "i didn't have any change." "did you know he was a newsboy, aunt eliza?" asked mrs. tracy. "yes; he told me so. you speak of it as if it were something to his discredit." "it is a low business, of course." "why is it a low business?" "oh, well, of course it is only poor street boys who engage in it." "i am aware that luke is poor, and that he has to contribute to the support of his mother and brother. i hope, if you were poor, that harold would be willing to work for you." "i wouldn't sell papers," put in harold. "i don't suppose luke sells papers from choice." "aunt eliza, i don't see why you should so persistently compare harold with that ragged errand boy of yours." "is he ragged? i am glad you noticed it. i must help him to a new suit." this was far from a welcome suggestion to mrs. tracy, and she made haste to add: "i don't think he's ragged. he dresses well enough for his position in life." "still, i think he needs some new clothes, and i thank you for suggesting it, louisa." the next day, luke, to his surprise, was asked to ac company mrs. merton to a ready-made clothing house on clark street, where he was presented with a fine suit, costing twenty dollars. "how kind you are, mrs. merton!" said luke. "i didn't notice that you needed a new suit," returned the old lady, "but my niece, mrs. tracy, spoke of it, and i was glad to take the hint." it was in the afternoon of the same day that luke, having an errand that carried him near the lake shore, strolled to the end of north pier. he was fond of the water, but seldom had an opportunity to go out on it. "how are you, luke?" said a boy in a flat-bottomed boat a few rods away. in the boy who hailed him luke recognized john hagan, an acquaintance of about his own age. "won't you come aboard?" asked john. "i don't mind, if you'll come near enough." in five minutes luke found himself on board the boat, he took the oars and relieved john, who was disposed to rest. they rowed hither and thither, never very far from the pier. not far away was a boat of the same build, occupied by a man of middle size, whose eccentric actions attracted their attention. now he would take the oars and row with feverish haste, nearly fifty strokes to a minute; then he would let his oars trail, and seem wrapped in thought. suddenly the boys were startled to see him spring to his feet and, flinging up his arms, leap head first into the lake. chapter xx ambrose kean's imprudence luke and his companion were startled by the sudden attempt at suicide, and for an instant sat motionless in their boat. luke was the first to regain his self-possession. "quick, let us try to save him," he called to john hagan. they plunged their oars into the water, and the boat bounded over the waves. fortunately they were but half a dozen rods from the place where the would-be suicide was now struggling to keep himself up. for, as frequently happens, when he actually found himself in the water, the instinct of self-preservation impelled the would-be self-destroyer to attempt to save himself. he could swim a very little, but the waters of the lake were in lively motion, his boat had floated away, and he would inevitably have drowned but for the energetic action of luke and john. they swept their boat alongside, and luke thrust his oar in the direction of the struggling man. "take hold of it," he said, "and we will tow you to your own boat." guided and sustained by the oar, the man gripped the side of luke's boat, leaving the oar free. his weight nearly overbalanced the craft, but with considerable difficulty the boys succeeded in reaching the other boat, and, though considerably exhausted, its late occupant managed to get in. as he took his place in the boat he presented a sorry spectacle, for his clothes were wet through and dripping. "you will take your death of cold unless you go on shore at once," said luke. "it wouldn't matter much if i did," said the young man, gloomily. "we will row to shore also," said luke to john hagan. "he may make another attempt to drown himself. i will see what i can do to reason him out of it." they were soon at the pier, and the three landed. "where do you live?" asked luke, taking his position beside the young man. the latter named a number on vine street. it was at a considerable distance, and time was precious, for the young man was trembling from the effects of his immersion. "there is no time to lose. we must take a carriage," said luke. he summoned one, which fortunately had just returned from the pier, to which it had conveyed a passenger, and the two jumped in. luke helped him up to his room, a small one on the third floor, and remained until he had changed his clothes and was reclining on the bed. "you ought to have some hot drink," he said. "can any be got in the house?" "yes; mrs. woods, the landlady, will have some hot water." luke went downstairs and succeeded in enlisting the sympathetic assistance of the kind-hearted woman by representing that her lodger had been upset in the lake and was in danger of a severe cold. when the patient had taken down a cup of hot drink, he turned to luke and said: "how can i thank you?" "there is no need to thank me. i am glad i was at hand when you needed me." "what is your name?" "luke walton." "mine is ambrose kean. you must think i am a fool," "i think," said luke, gently, "that you have some cause of unhappiness." "you are right there. i have been unfortunate, but i am also an offender against the law, and it was the fear of exposure and arrest that made me take the step i did. i thought i was ready to die, but when i found myself in the water life seemed dearer than it had before, and i tried to escape. thanks to you, i am alive, but now i almost wish that i had succeeded. i don't know how to face what is before me." "would you mind telling me what it is?" "no; i need someone to confide in, and you deserve my confidence. let me tell you, then, that i am employed in an office on dearborn street. my pay is small, twelve dollars a week, but it would be enough to support me if i had only myself to look out for. but i have a mother in milwaukee, and i have been in the habit of sending her four dollars a week. that left me only eight dollars, which i found it hard to live on, and there was nothing left for clothes." "i can easily believe that," said luke. "i struggled along, however, as best i might, but last week i received a letter from my mother saying that she was sick. of course her expenses were increased, and she wrote to know if i could send her a little extra money. i have been living so close up to my income that i absolutely had less than a dollar in my pocket. unfortunately, temptation came at a time when i was least prepared to resist it. one of our customers from the country came in when i was alone, and paid me fifty dollars in bills, for which i gave him a receipt. no one saw the payment made. it flashed upon me that this sum would make my mother comfortable even if her sickness lasted a considerable time. without taking time to think, i went to an express office, and forwarded to her a package containing the bills. it started yesterday, and by this time is in my mother's hands. you see the situation i am placed in. the one who paid the money may come to the office at any time and reveal my guilt." "i don't wonder that you were dispirited," returned luke. "but can nothing be done? can you not replace the money in time?" "how can i? i have told you how small my salary is." "have you no friend or friends from whom you could borrow the money?" "i know of none. i have few friends, and such as they are, are, like myself, dependent on small pay. i must tell you, by the way, how we became poor. my mother had a few thousand dollars, which, added to my earnings, would have made us comparatively independent, but in an evil hour she invested them in a california mine, on the strength of the indorsement of a well-known financier of milwaukee, mr. thomas browning----" "who?" asked luke, in surprise. "thomas browning. do you know him?" "i have seen him. he sometimes comes to chicago, and stops at the sherman house." "he recommended the stock so highly--in fact, he was the president of the company that put it on the market--that my poor mother thought it all right, and invested all she had. the stock was two dollars a share. now it would not fetch two cents. this it was that reduced us to such extreme poverty." "do you think mr. browning was honest in his recommendation of the mine?" asked luke, thoughtfully. "i don't know. he claimed to be the principal loser himself. but it is rather remarkable that he is living like a rich man now. hundreds lost their money through this mine. as mr. browning had himself been in california----" "what is that?" asked luke, in excitement. "you say this browning was once in california? can you tell when?" "half a dozen years ago, more or less." "and he looks like the man to whom my poor father confided ten thousand dollars for us," thought luke. "it is very strange. everything tallies but the name. the wretch who swindled us was named butler." "why do you ask when mr. browning was in california?" asked the young man. "because my father died in california," answered luke, evasively, "and i thought it possible that mr. browning might have met him." chapter xxi a friend in need "mr. browning is a man of very peculiar appearance," said kean. "you refer to the wart on the upper part of his right cheek?" "yes, it gives him a repulsive look." "and yet he is popular in milwaukee?" "yes, among those who were not swindled by his mining scheme. he has done more harm than he can ever repair. for instance," added the young man, bitterly, "this crime which i have committed--i will call it by its right name--i was impelled to do by my mother's poverty, brought on by him." "how does it happen that you are not at the office to day?" "i felt sick--sick at heart, rather than sick in body, and i sent word to my employer that i could not be there. i dread entering the office, for at any time exposure may come." "if you could only raise the fifty dollars, you could replace the money before it was inquired for." ambrose kean shook his head. "i can't possibly raise it," he said, despondently. "i would let you have it if i possessed as much money, but, as you may suppose, i am poor." "i am no less grateful to you, luke. you have a good heart, i am sure. you don't despise me?" "no, why should i?" "i have been guilty of a crime." "but you are sorry for it. is there positively no one with whom you are acquainted who is rich enough to help you?" "there is one lady in chicago--a rich lady--who was a schoolmate of my mother. she was older and in better circumstances, but they were good friends." "who is this lady?" "a mrs. merton." "mrs. merton!" exclaimed luke, in excitement. "of prairie avenue?" "yes; i believe she lives there." "why, i know her--i am in her employ," said luke. ambrose kean stared at luke in open amazement. "is this true?" he asked. "yes." "is she a kind lady? do you think she would help me in this trouble of mine?" "she is very kind-hearted, as i know from my own experience. i will go to her at once, and see what i can do." ambrose kean grasped luke's hand with fervor. "you are a friend sent from heaven, i truly believe," he said. "you have given me hope of retrieving myself." "i will leave you for a time," said luke. "there is no time to be lost." "i shall be full of anxiety till i see you again." "be hopeful. i think i shall bring you good news." when luke reached the house on prairie avenue he was about to ring the bell when harold tracy opened the door. "you here again!" he said, in a tone of displeasure. "weren't you here this morning?" "yes." "did aunt eliza ask you to come this afternoon?" "no." "then what brings you?" "business," answered luke, curtly, and he quietly entered the hall, and said to a servant who was passing through, "will you be kind enough to ask mrs. merton if she will see me?" "well, you're cheeky!" ejaculated harold, who had in tended to keep him out. "as long as mrs. merton doesn't think so, i shall not trouble myself," said luke, coldly. "sooner or later aunt eliza will see you in your true colors," said harold, provoked. "i think she does now." at this moment the servant returned. "you are to go upstairs," she said. "mrs. merton will see you." the old lady was sitting back in an easy-chair when luke entered. she smiled pleasantly. "this is an unexpected pleasure," she said, "this after-noon call." "i will tell you at once what brought me, mrs. merton." "it isn't sickness at home, i hope?" "no, i came for a comparative stranger." then luke told the story of ambrose kean, his sudden yielding to temptation, his repentance and remorse. "i am interested in your friend," said mrs. merton. "you say he appropriated fifty dollars?" "yes, but it was to help his mother." "true, but it was a dangerous step to take. it won't be considered a valid excuse." "he realizes all that. his employer is a just but strict man, and if the theft is discovered kean will be arrested, and, of course, convicted." "and you think i will help him? is that why you have come to me with this story?" "i don't think i would have done so if he had not mentioned you as an old friend and schoolmate of his mother." "what's that?" added mrs. merton, quickly. "his mother an old schoolmate of mine?" "that is what he says." "what was her name before marriage?" "mary robinson." "you don't say so!" mrs. merton exclaimed with vivacity. "why, mary was my favorite at school. and this young man is her son? "i would have helped him without knowing this, but now i won't hesitate a moment. mary's boy! you must bring him here. i want to question him about her." "i can tell you something about her. she lost her money by investing in a california mine--i think it was the excelsior mine." "she, too?" luke looked surprised. he did not understand the meaning of this exclamation. "i have a thousand shares of that worthless stock myself," continued the old lady. "it cost me two thousand dollars, and now it is worth nothing." "the one who introduced the stock was a mr. browning, of milwaukee." "i know. he was an unscrupulous knave, i have no doubt. i could afford the loss, but hundreds invested, like poor mary, who were ruined. is the man living, do you know?" "yes, he is living in milwaukee. he is rich, and is prominently spoken of as a candidate for mayor." "if he is ever a candidate i will take care that his connection with this swindling transaction is made known. a man who builds up a fortune on the losses of the poor is a contemptible wretch, in my opinion." "and mine, too," said luke. "it is very strange that he answers the description of a man who cheated our family out of ten thousand dollars." "indeed! how was that?" luke told the story, and mrs. merton listened with great interest. "so all corresponds except the name?" "yes." "he may have changed his name." "i have thought of that. i mean to find out some time." "i won't keep you any longer. your friend is, no doubt, in great anxiety. i have the money here in bills. i will give them to you for him." mrs. merton was in the act of handing a roll of bills to luke when the door opened suddenly, and mrs. tracy entered. she frowned in surprise and displeasure when she saw her aunt giving money to "that boy," as she contemptuously called him. chapter xxii how ambrose kean was saved "i didn't know you were occupied, aunt eliza," said mrs. tracy, in a significant tone, as she paused at the door. "my business is not private," returned the old lady. "come in, louisa." mrs. tracy did come in, but she regarded luke with a hostile and suspicious glance. "that is all, luke," said his patroness. "you may go. you can report to me to-morrow." "all right, ma'am." when luke had left the room, mrs. tracy said: "you appear to repose a great deal of confidence in that boy." "yes; i think he deserves it." mrs. tracy coughed. "you seem to trust him with a great deal of money." "yes." "of course, i don't want to interfere, but i think you will need to be on your guard. he is evidently bent on getting all he can out of you." "that is your judgment, is it, louisa?" "yes. aunt eliza, since you ask me." "he has done me a service this morning. he has brought to my notice a son of one of my old school mates who is in a strait, and i have just sent him fifty dollars." "by that boy?" "yes. why not?" "are you sure the person to whom you sent the money will ever get it?" "please speak out what you mean. don't hint. i hate hints." "in plain terms, then, i think the boy will keep the money himself, or, at any rate, a part of it." "i don't fear it." "have you any more to say?" "nothing, except to warn you against that designing boy." "you are very kind, louisa, but i am not quite a simpleton. i have seen something of the world, and i don't think i am easily taken in." mrs. tracy left the room, not very well satisfied. she really thought luke had designs upon the old lady's money, and was averse even to his receiving a legacy, since it would take so much from harold and herself. "harold, when i entered your aunt's room, what do you think i saw?" this she said to harold, who was waiting below. "i don't know." "aunt eliza was giving money to that boy." "do you know how much?" "fifty dollars." "whew! was it for himself?" "he came to her with a trumped-up story of an old schoolmate of aunt's who was in need of money." "do you think he will keep it himself?" "i am afraid so." "what a cheeky young rascal he is, to be sure! i have no doubt you are right." "yes; there is too much reason to think he is an unscrupulous adventurer, young as he is." "why don't you tell aunt so?" "i have." "and what does she say?" "it doesn't make the least impression upon her." "what do you think the boy will do?" "get her to make a will in his favor, or at least to leave him a large legacy." harold turned pale. "that would be robbing us," he said. "of course it would. he wouldn't mind that, you know." "he was very impertinent to me this morning." "i presume so. he depends upon his favor with aunt." "isn't there anything we can do, mother?" "i must consider." meanwhile luke returned at once to the room of ambrose kean. he found the young man awaiting him with great anxiety. "what success?" he asked, quickly. "i have got the fifty dollars," answered luke. "thank god! i am saved!" ejaculated the young man. "would you mind taking it round to the office with a note from me?" asked kean. "i will do so cheerfully." "then i shall feel at ease." "mrs. merton would like to have you call on her. she remembered your mother at once." "i shall be glad to do so, but shall be ashamed to meet her now that she knows of my yielding to temptation." "you need not mind that. she also suffered from the rascality of thomas browning, and she will make allowances for you." "then i will go some day with you." "you had better give me a letter to take to your employer with the money." "i will." ambrose kean wrote the following note: james cooper: dear sir:--hiram crossley called at the office yesterday and paid in fifty dollars due to you. being busy, i thrust it into my pocket, and inadvertently took it with me. i think i shall be able to be at the office to-morrow, but think it best to send the money by a young friend. i gave mr. crossley a receipt. yours respectfully, ambrose kean. when luke reached the office, mr. cooper was conversing with a stout, broad-shouldered man, of middle age, and luke could not help hearing some of their conversation. "you say you paid fifty dollars to my clerk, mr. crossley?" asked the merchant. "yes." "have you his receipt?" "here it is." mr. cooper examined it. "yes, that is his signature." "isn't he here to-day?" "no; he sent word that he had a headache." "and you don't find the money?" "no." "that is singular." and the two men exchanged glances of suspicion. "what sort of a young man is he?" "i never had any cause to suspect him." "i hope it is all right." "if it isn't, i will discharge him," said cooper, nodding emphatically. "he probably didn't think i would be here so soon. i didn't expect to be, but a telegram summoned me to the city on other business." of course luke understood that the conversation related to kean, and that he had arrived none too soon. he came forward. "i have a letter for you from mr. kean," he said. "ha! give it to me!" mr. cooper tore open the envelope, saw the bank bills, and read the letter. "it's all right, mr. crossley," he said, his brow clearing. "read that letter." "i am really glad," said crossley. "how is mr. kean?" asked cooper, in a friendly tone. "he had a severe headache, but he is better, and hopes to be at the office to-morrow." "tell him i shall be glad to see him, but don't want him to come unless he is really able." "thank you, sir. i will do so." and luke left the office. he went back to ambrose kean, and told him what had happened at the office. "i have escaped better than i deserved," he said. "it will be a lesson to me. please tell mrs. merton that her timely aid has saved my reputation and rescued my poor mother from sorrow and destitution." "i will, and i am sure she will consider the money well spent." the next morning, as luke stood at his usual post, he saw thomas browning, of milwaukee, come out of the sherman house. he knew him at once by the wart on the upper part of his right cheek, which gave him a remarkable appearance. "can there be two persons answering this description?" luke asked himself. thomas browning came across the street, and paused in front of luke. chapter xxiii stephen webb is puzzled "will you have a morning paper?" asked luke. he wanted to have a few words with mr. browning, even upon an indifferent subject, as he now thought it probable that this was the man who had defrauded his mother and himself. browning, too, on his part, wished for an opportunity to speak with the son of the man he had so shamefully swindled. "yes," he said, abruptly, "you may give me the _times._" when the paper had been paid for, he said: "do you make a good living at selling papers?" "it gives me about seventy-five cents a day," answered luke. "you can live on that, i suppose?" "i have a mother to support." "that makes a difference. why do you stay in chicago? you could make a better living farther west." "in california?" asked luke, looking intently at browning. thomas browning started. "what put california into your head?" he asked. "my father died in california." "a good reason for your not going there." "i thought you might be able to tell me something about california," continued luke. "why should i?" "i thought perhaps you had been there." "you are right," said browning, after a pause. "i made a brief trip to san francisco at one time. it was on a slight matter of business. but i don't know much about the interior and can't give you advice." "i wonder if this is true," thought luke. "he admits having been to california, but says he has never been in the interior. if that is the case, he can't have met my father." "i may at some time have it in my power to find you a place farther west, but not in california," resumed browning. "i will take it into consideration. i frequently come to chicago, and i presume you are to be found here." "yes, sir." thomas browning waved his hand by way of good-by, and continued on his way. "the boy seems sharp," he said to himself. "if he had the slightest hint of my connection with his father's money, he looks as if he would follow it up. luckily there is no witness and no evidence. no one can prove that i received the money." at the corner of adams street mr. browning encountered his nephew, stephen webb, who was gazing in at a window with a cigar in his mouth, looking the very image of independent leisure. "you are profitably employed," said browning, dryly. stephen webb wheeled round quickly. "glad to see you, uncle thomas," he said, effusively. "i suppose you received my letter?" "yes." "i hope you are satisfied. i had hard work to find out about the boy." "humph! i don't see how there could be anything difficult about it. i hope you didn't mention my name?" "no. i suppose you are interested in the boy," said stephen, with a look of curious inquiry. "yes; i always feel interested in the poor, and those who require assistance." "i am glad of that, uncle, for you have a poor nephew." "and a lazy one," said browning, sharply. "where would i be if i had been as indolent as you?" "i am sure i am willing to do whatever you require, uncle thomas. have you any instructions?" "well, not just now, except to let me know all you can learn about the newsboy. has he any other source of income except selling papers?" "i believe he does a few odd jobs now and then, but i don't suppose he earns much outside." "i was talking with him this morning." "you were!" ejaculated stephen in a tone of curiosity. "did you tell him you felt an interest in him?" "no, and i don't want you to tell him so. i suggested that he could make a better income by leaving chicago, and going farther west." "i think i might like to do that, uncle thomas." "then why don't you?" "i can't go without money." "you could take up a quarter-section of land and start in as a farmer. i could give you a lift that way if i thought you were in earnest." "i don't think i should succeed as a farmer," said stephen, with a grimace. "too hard work, eh?" "i am willing to work hard, but that isn't in my line." "well, let that go. you asked if i had any instructions. find opportunities of talking with the boy, and speak in favor of going west." "i will. is there anything more?" "no. i believe not." "you couldn't let me have a couple of dollars extra, could you, uncle?" "why should i?" "i--i felt sick last week, and had to call in a doctor, and then get some medicine." "there's one dollar! don't ask me for any more extras." "he's awfully close-fisted," grumbled stephen. "i am afraid king might visit chicago, and find out the boy," said browning to himself as he continued his walk. "that would never do, for he is a sharp fellow, and would put the boy on my track if he saw any money in it. my best course is to get this luke out of chicago, if i can." stephen webb made it in his way to fall in with luke when he was selling afternoon papers. "this is rather a slow way of making a fortune, isn't it, luke?" he asked. "yes; i have no thoughts of making a fortune at the newspaper business." "do you always expect to remain in it?" continued webb. "well, no," answered luke, with a smile. "if i live to be fifty or sixty i think i should find it rather tiresome." "you are right there." "but i don't see any way of getting out of it just yet. there may be an opening for me by and by." "the chances for a young fellow in chicago are not very good. here am i twenty-five years old and with no prospects to speak of." "a good many people seem to make good livings, and many grow rich, in chicago." "yes, if you've got money you can make money. did you ever think of going west?" luke looked a little surprised. "a gentleman was speaking to me on that subject this morning," he said. "what did he say to you?" asked stephen, curiously. "he recommended me to go west, but did not seem to approve of california." "why not. had he ever been there?" "he said he had visited san francisco, but had never been in the interior." "what a whopper that was!" thought stephen webb. "why should uncle thomas say that?" "what sort of a looking man was he? had you ever seen him before?" he inquired. "he is a peculiar-looking man--has a wart on his right cheek." "did he mention the particular part of the west?" "no; he said he would look out for a chance for me." "it is curious uncle thomas feels such an interest in that boy," webb said to himself, meditatively. chapter xxiv mrs. merton passes a pleasant evening ambrose kean called with luke an evening or two later to thank mrs. merton in person for her kindness. they arrived ten minutes after mrs. tracy and harold had started for hooley's theater, and thus were saved an embarrassing meeting with two persons who would have treated them frigidly. they were conducted upstairs by the servant, and were ushered into mrs. merton's room. ambrose kean was naturally ill at ease, knowing that mrs. merton was acquainted with the error he had committed. but the old lady received him cordially. "i am glad to meet the son of my old schoolmate, mary robinson," she said. "in spite of his unworthiness?" returned ambrose, his cheek flushing with shame. "i don't know whether he is unworthy. that remains to be seen." "you know i yielded to temptation and committed a theft." "yes; but it was to help your mother." "it was, but that does not relieve me from guilt." "you are right; still it greatly mitigates it. take my advice; forget it, and never again yield to a similar temptation." "i will not, indeed, mrs. merton," said the young many earnestly. "i feel that i have been very fortunate in escaping the consequences of my folly, and in enlisting your sympathy." "that is well! let us forget this disagreeable circumstance, and look forward to the future. how is mary your mother?" "she is an invalid." "and poor. there is a remedy for poverty. let us also hope there is a remedy for her ill-health. but tell me, why did you not come to see me before? you have been some time in chicago." "true, but i knew you were a rich lady. i didn't think you would remember or care to hear from one so poor and obscure as my mother." "come, i consider that far from a compliment," said the old lady. "you really thought as badly of me as that?" "i know you better now," said ambrose, gratefully. "it is well you do. you have no idea how intimate your mother and i used to be. she is five years my junior, i think, so that i regarded her as a younger sister. it is many years since we met. and how is she looking?" "she shows the effects of bad health, but i don't think she looks older than her years." "we have both changed greatly, no doubt. it is to be expected. but you can tell her that i have not forgotten the favorite companion of my school days." "i will do so, for i know it will warm her heart and brighten her up." "when we were girls together our worldly circumstances did not greatly differ. but i married, and my husband was very successful in business." "while she married and lost all she had." "it is often so. it might have been the other way. your mother might have been rich, and i poor; but i don't think she would have been spoiled by prosperity any more than i have been. now tell me how you are situated." "i am a clerk, earning twelve dollars a week." "and your employer--is he kind and considerate?" "he is just, but he has strict notions. had he learned my slip the other day he would have discharged me, perhaps had me arrested. now, thanks to your prompt kindness, he knows and will know nothing of it." "is he likely to increase your salary?" "he will probably raise me to fifteen dollars a week next january. then i can get along very well. at present it is difficult for me, after sending my mother four dollars a week, to live on the balance of my salary." "i should think it would be." "still, i would have made it do, but for mother's falling sick, and so needing a larger allowance." "i hope she is not seriously ill," said mrs. merton, with solicitude. "no, fortunately not. i think she will be as well as usual in a few weeks." "tell her i inquired particularly for her, and that i send her my love and remembrance." "i shall be only too glad to do so." the time slipped away so rapidly that luke was surprised when, looking at the french clock on the mantel, he saw that it lacked but a quarter of ten o'clock. "mr. kean," he said, glancing at the clock, "it is getting late." "so it is," said ambrose, rising. "i am afraid we have been trespassing upon your kindness, mrs. merton." "not at all!" said mrs. merton, promptly. "i have enjoyed the evening, i can assure you. mr. kean, you must call again." "i shall be glad to do so, if you will permit me." "i wish you to do so. luke will come with you. i shall want to hear more of your mother, and how she gets along." as they were leaving, mrs. merton slipped into the hand of ambrose kean an envelope. "the contents is for your mother," she said. "i have made the check payable to you." "thank you. it is another mark of your kindness." when ambrose kean examined the check, he ascertained to his joy that it was for a hundred dollars. "what a splendid old lady she is, luke!" he said, enthusiastically. "she is always kind, mr. kean. i have much to be grateful to her for. i wish i could say the same of other members of the family." "what other members of the family are there?" "a niece, mrs. tracy, and her son, harold." "why didn't we see them to-night?" "i don't know. i suppose they were out." the next day ambrose handed the check to his employer and asked if he would indorse it, and so enable him to draw the money. james cooper took the check and examined the signature. "eliza merton," said he. "is it the rich mrs. merton who lives on prairie avenue?" "yes, sir." "indeed; i did not know that you were acquainted with her." "she and my mother were schoolmates." "and so you keep up the acquaintance?" "i spent last evening at her house. this check is a gift from her to my mother." ambrose kean rose greatly in the estimation of his employer when the latter learned that kean had such an aristocratic friend, and he was treated with more respect and consideration than before. meanwhile harold and his mother had enjoyed themselves at the theater. "i suppose aunt eliza went to bed early, harold," said mrs. tracy, as they were on their way home. "went to roost with the hens," suggested harold, laughing at what he thought to be a good joke. "probably it is as well for her," said his mother. "it isn't good for old people to sit up late." it was about half-past eleven when they were admitted by the drowsy servant. "i suppose mrs. merton went to bed long ago, laura," said mrs. tracy. "no, ma'am, she set up later than usual." "that is odd. i thought she would feel lonely." "oh, she had company, ma'am." "company! who?" "master luke was here all the evenin', and a young man with him." mrs. tracy frowned ominously. "the sly young artful!" she said to harold when they were alone. "he is trying all he can to get on aunt's weak side. something will have to be done, or we shall be left out in the cold." chapter xxv mrs. tracy's brother a day or two later, while mrs. merton was in the city shopping, accompanied by luke, a man of thirty years of age ascended the steps of the house on prairie avenue and rang the bell. "is mrs. tracy at home?" he asked of the servant who answered the bell. "yes, sir; what name shall i give?" "never mind about the name. say it is an old friend." "won't you come in, sir?" "yes, i believe i will." mrs. tracy received the message with surprise mingled with curiosity. "who can it be?" she asked herself. she came downstairs without delay. the stranger, who had taken a seat in the hall, rose and faced her. "don't you know me, louisa?" he asked. "is it you, warner?" she exclaimed, surprised and! startled. "yes," he answered, laughing. "it's a good while since we met." "five years. and have you----" "what--reformed?" "yes." "well, i can't say as to that. i can only tell you that i am not wanted by the police at present. is the old lady still alive?" "aunt eliza?" "of course." "yes, she is alive and well." "i thought perhaps she might have died, and left you in possession of her property." "not yet. i don't think she has any intention of dying for a considerable number of years." "that is awkward. has she done nothing for you?" "we have a free home here, and she makes me a moderate allowance, but she is not disposed to part with much money while she lives." "i am sorry for that. i thought you might be able to help me to some money. i am terribly hard up." "you always were, no matter how much money you had." "i never had much. the next thing is, how does the old lady feel toward me?" "i don't think she feels very friendly, though nothing has passed between us respecting you for a long time. she has very strict notions about honesty, and when you embezzled your employer's money you got into her black books." "that was a youthful indiscretion," said warner, smiling. "can't you convince her of that?" "i doubt if i can lead her to think of it in that light." "i know what that means, louisa. you want to get the whole of the old lady's property for yourself and that boy of yours. you always were selfish." "no, warner, though i think i am entitled to the larger part of aunt's money, i don't care to have you left out in the cold. i will do what i can to reconcile her to you." "come, that's fair and square. you're a trump, louisa. you have not forgotten that i am your brother." "no, i am not so selfish as you think. if i don't succeed in restoring you to aunt eliza's good graces, and she chooses to leave me all her property, i promise to take care of you and allow you a fair income." "that's all right, but i would rather the old lady would provide for me herself." "do you doubt my word?" "no, but your idea of what would be a fair income might differ from mine. how much do you think the old lady's worth?" "quarter of a million, i should think," replied mrs. tracy, guardedly. "yes, and considerably more, too." "perhaps so. i have no means of judging." "supposing it to be the figure you name, how much would you be willing to give me, if she leaves me out in the cold?" "i am not prepared to say, warner. i would see that you had no good reason to complain." "i should prefer to have you name a figure, so that i might know what to depend upon." but this mrs. tracy declined to do, though her brother continued to urge her. "where have you been for a few years past, warner?" she asked. "floating about. at first i didn't dare to come back. it was a year at least before i heard that aunt had paid up the sum i got away with. when i did hear it i was in australia." "what did you do there?" "i was a bookkeeper in melbourne for a time. then i went into the country. from australia i came to california, and went to the mines. in fact, i have only just come from there." "didn't you manage to make money anywhere?" "yes, but it didn't stick by me. how much money do you think i have about me now?" "i can't guess," said mrs. tracy, uneasily. "five dollars and a few cents. however, i am sure you will help me," he continued. "really, warner, you mustn't hope for too much from me. i have but a small allowance from aunt eliza--hardly enough to buy necessary articles for harold and myself." "then you can speak to aunt in my behalf." "yes, i can do that." "where is she?" "she has gone out shopping this morning." "alone, or is harold with her?" "neither," answered mrs. tracy, her brow darkening. "she has picked up a boy from the street, and installed him as a first favorite." "that's queer, isn't it?" "yes; but aunt eliza was always queer." "what's the boy's name?" "luke walton." "what's his character?" "sly--artful. he is scheming to have aunt leave him something in her will." "if she leaves him a few hundred dollars it won't hurt us much." "you don't know the boy. he won't be satisfied with that." "you don't mean to say that his influence over aunt is dangerous?" "yes, i do." "can't you get her to bounce him?" "i have done what i could, but she seems to be infatuated. if he were a gentleman's son i shouldn't mind so much, but harold saw him the other day selling papers near the sherman house." "do you think aunt's mind is failing?" "she seems rational enough on all other subjects. she was always shrewd and sharp, you know." "well, that's rather an interesting state of things. i haven't returned to chicago any too soon." "why do you say that?" "because it will be my duty to spoil the chances of this presuming young man." "that is easier said than done. you forget that aunt eliza thinks a great deal more of him than she does of you." "i haven't a doubt that you are right." "then what can you do?" "convince her that he is a scapegrace. get him into a scrape, in other words." "but he is too smart to be dishonest, if that is what you mean." "it is not necessary for him to be dishonest. it is only necessary for her to think he is dishonest." there was some further conversation. as warner powell was leaving the house, after promising to call in the evening, he met on the steps mrs. merton, under the escort of luke walton. the old lady eyed him sharply. chapter xxvi the prodigal's reception "don't you know me, aunt eliza?" asked warner powell casting down his eyes under the sharp glance of the old lady. "so it is you, is it?" responded mrs. merton, in a tone which could not be considered cordial. "yes, it is i. i hope you are not sorry to see me?" "humph! it depends on whether you have improved or not." luke walton listened with natural interest and curiosity. this did not suit mrs. tracy, who did not care to have a stranger made acquainted with her brother's peccadilloes. "warner," she said, "i think aunt eliza will do you the justice to listen to your explanation. i imagine, young man, mrs. merton will not require your services any longer to-day." the last words were addressed to luke. "yes, luke; you can go," said the old lady, in a very different tone. luke bowed and left the house. "louisa," said mrs. merton, "in five minutes you may bring your brother up to my room." "thank you, aunt." when they entered the apartment they found the old lady seated in a rocking-chair awaiting them. "so you have reformed, have you?" she asked, abruptly. "i hope so, aunt eliza." "i hope so, too. it is full time. where have you been?" "to australia, california, and elsewhere." "a rolling stone gathers no moss." "in this case it applies," said warner. "i have earned more or less money, but i have none now." "how old are you?" "thirty." "a young man ought not to be penniless at that age. if you had remained in your place at mr. afton's, and behaved yourself, you would be able to tell a different story." "i know it, aunt." "don't be too hard upon him, aunt eliza," put in mrs. tracy. "he is trying to do well now." "i am very glad to hear it." "would you mind my inviting him to stay here for a time? the house is large, you know." mrs. merton paused. she didn't like the arrangement, but she was a just and merciful woman, and it was possible that warner had reformed, though she was not fully satisfied on that point. "for a time," she answered, "till he can find employment." "thank you, aunt eliza," said the young man, relieved, for he had been uncertain how his aunt would treat him. "i hope to show that your kindness is appreciated." "i am rather tired now," responded mrs. merton, as an indication that the interview was over. "we'd better go and let aunt rest," said warner, with alacrity. he did not feel altogether comfortable in the society of the old lady. when they were alone mrs. tracy turned to her brother with a smile of satisfaction. "you have reason to congratulate yourself on your reception," she said. "i don't know about that. the old woman wasn't very complimentary." "be careful how you speak of her. she might hear you, or the servants might, and report." "well, she is an old woman, isn't she?" "it is much better to refer to her as the old lady--better still to speak of her as aunt eliza." "i hope she will make up her mind to do something for me." "she has; she gives you a home in this house." "i would a good deal rather have her pay my board outside, where i would feel more independent." "i have been thinking, warner, you might become her secretary and man of business. in that case she would dispense with this boy, whose presence bodes danger to us all." "i wouldn't mind being her man of business, to take charge of her money, but as to trotting round town with her like a tame poodle, please excuse me." "warner," said his sister, rather sharply, "just remember, if you please, that beggars can't be choosers." "perhaps not, but this plan of yours would be foolish. she wouldn't like it, nor would i. why don't you put harold up to offering his services? he's as large as this boy, isn't he?" "he is about the same size." "then it would be a capital plan. you would get rid of the boy that way." "you forget that harold has not finished his education. he is now attending a commercial school. i should like to have him go to college, but he doesn't seem to care about it." "so, after all, the boy seems to be a necessity." "i would prefer a different boy--less artful and designing." "how much does the old woman--beg pardon, the old lady--pay him?" "i don't know. harold asked luke, but he wouldn't tell. i have no doubt he manages to secure twice as much as his services are worth. he's got on aunt eliza's blind side." "just what i would like to do, but i have never been able to discover that she had any." "did you take notice of the boy?" "yes; he's rather a good-looking youngster, it seems to me." "how can you say so?" demanded mrs. tracy, sharply. "there's a very common look about him, i think. he isn't nearly as good-looking as harold." "harold used to look like you," said warner, with a smile. "natural you should think him good-looking. but don't it show a little self-conceit, louisa?" "that's a poor joke," answered his sister, coldly. "what are you going to do?" "going out to see if i can find any of my old acquaintances." "you had much better look out for a position, as aunt eliza hinted." "don't be in such a hurry, louisa. please bear in mind that i have only just arrived in chicago after an absence of five years." "dinner will be ready in half an hour." "thank you. i don't think i should like a second interview with aunt eliza quite so soon. i will lunch outside." "a lunch outside costs money, and you are not very well provided in that way." "don't trouble yourself about that, louisa. i intend to be very economical. "my estimable sister is about as mean as anyone i know," said warner to himself, as he left the house. "between her and the old woman, i don't think i shall find it very agreeable living here. a cheap boarding house would be infinitely preferable." on state street warner powell fell in with stephen webb, an old acquaintance. "is it you, warner?" asked webb, in surprise. "it's an age since i saw you." "so it is. i haven't been in chicago for five years." "i remember. a little trouble, wasn't there?" "yes; but i'm all right now, except that i haven't any money to speak of." "that's my situation exactly." "however, i've got an old aunt worth a million, more or less, only she doesn't fully appreciate her nephew." "and i have an uncle, pretty well to do, who isn't so deeply impressed with my merits as i wish he were." "i am staying with my aunt just at present, but hope to have independent quarters soon. one trouble is, she takes a fancy to a boy named luke walton." "luke walton!" repeated stephen in amazement. "do you know him?" "yes, my uncle has set me to spy on him--why, i haven't been able to find out. so he is in favor with your aunt?" "yes, he calls at the house every day, and is in her employ. sometimes she goes out shopping with him." "that's strange. let us drop into the saratoga and compare notes." they turned into dearborn street, and sat down to lunch in the saratoga. chapter xxvii uncle and nephew "so this boy is an object of interest to your uncle?" resumed warner powell. "yes." "does he give any reason for his interest?" "no, except that he is inclined to help him when there is an opportunity." "does the boy know him?" "no." "has he met your uncle?" "yes; uncle thomas frequently visits chicago--he lives in milwaukee--and stays at the sherman when he is here. he has stopped and bought a paper of luke once or twice." "i remember my sister told me this boy luke was a newsboy." "how did he get in with your aunt?" "i don't know. i presume it was a chance acquaintance. however that may be, the young rascal seems to have got on her blind side, and to be installed first favorite." "your sister doesn't like it?" "not much. between you and me, louisa--mrs. tracy--means to inherit all the old lady's property, and doesn't like to have anyone come in, even for a trifle. she'll have me left out in the cold if she can, but i mean to have something to say to that. in such matters you can't trust even your own sister." "i agree with you, warner." the two young men ate a hearty dinner, and then adjourned to a billiard room, where they spent the afternoon over the game. warner reached home in time for supper. "where have you been, warner?" asked mrs. tracy. "looking for work," was the answer. "what success did you meet with?" "not much as yet. i fell in with an old acquaintance, who may assist me in that direction." "i am glad you have lost no time in seeking employment. it will please aunt." warner powell suppressed a smile. he wondered what mrs. merton would have thought could she have seen in what manner he prosecuted his search for employment. "this is harold," said mrs. tracy, proudly, as her son came in. "harold, this is your uncle warner." "so you are harold," said his uncle. "i remember you in short pants. you have changed considerably in five years." "yes, i suppose so," answered harold, curtly. "where have you been?" "in australia, california, and so on." "how long are you going to stay in chicago?" "that depends on whether i can find employment. if you hear of a place let me know." "i don't know of any unless aunt eliza will take you into her employ in place of that newsboy, luke walton." "she can have me if she will pay me enough salary. how much does luke get?" "i don't know. he won't tell." "do you like him?" "i don't consider him a fit associate for me. he is a common newsboy." "does aunt eliza know that?" "yes; it makes no difference to her. she's infatuated with him." "i wish she were infatuated with me. i shall have to ask luke his secret. aunt eliza doesn't prefer him to you, does she?" "i have no doubt she does. she's very queer about some things." "harold," said his mother, solicitously, "i don't think you pay aunt eliza enough attention. old persons, you know, like to receive courtesies." "i treat her politely, don't i?" asked harold, aggressively. "i can't be dancing attendance upon her and flattering her all the time." "from what i have seen of luke walton," thought warner powell, "i should decidedly prefer him to this nephew of mine. he seems conceited and disagreeable. of course, it won't do to tell louisa that, for she evidently admires her graceless cub, because he is hers." "are you intimate with this luke?" asked warner, mischievously. "what do you take me for?" demanded harold, of fended. "i am not in the habit of getting intimate with street boys." warner powell laughed. "i am not so proud as you, nephew harold," he said. "travelers pick up strange companions. in san francisco i became intimate with a chinaman." "you don't mean it?" exclaimed harold, in incredulity and disgust." "yes, i do." "you weren't in the laundry business with him, were you?" went on harold, with a sneer. "no," he answered aloud. "the laundry business may be a very good one--i should like the income it produces even now--but i don't think i have the necessary talent for it. my chinese friend was a commission merchant worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. i wasn't above borrowing money from him sometimes." "of course, that makes a difference," said mrs. tracy, desiring to make peace between her brother and son. "he must have been a superior man. harold thought you meant a common chinaman, such as we have in chicago." the reunited family sat down to supper together. after supper warner made an excuse for going out. "i have an engagement with a friend who knows of a position he thinks i can secure," he said. "i hope you won't be late," said mrs. tracy. "no, i presume not, but you had better give me a pass key." mrs. tracy did so reluctantly. she was afraid harold might want to join his uncle; but the nephew was not taken with his new relative, and made no such proposal. in reality, warner powell had made an engagement to go to mcvicker's theater with his friend stephen webb, who had arranged to meet him at the sherman house. while waiting, warner, who had an excellent memory for faces, recognized luke, who was selling papers at his usual post. there was some startling news in the evening papers--a collision on lake michigan--and luke had ordered an unusual supply, which occupied him later than his ordinary hour. he had taken a hasty supper at brockway & milan's, foreseeing that he would not be home till late. "aunt eliza's boy!" thought warner. "i may as well take this opportunity to cultivate his acquaintance." he went up to luke and asked for a paper. "you don't remember me?" he said, with a smile. "no," answered luke, looking puzzled. "i saw you on prairie avenue this morning. mrs. merton is my aunt." "i remember you now. are you mrs. tracy's brother?" "yes, and the uncle of harold. how do you and harold get along?" "not at all. he takes very little notice of me." "he is a snob. being his uncle, i take the liberty to say it." "there is no love lost between us," luke said. "i would like to be more friendly, but he treats me like an enemy." "he is jealous of your favor with my aunt." "there is no occasion for it. he is a relative, and i am only in her employ." "she thinks a good deal of you, doesn't she?" "she treats me very kindly." "harold suggested to me this evening at supper that i should take your place. you needn't feel anxious. i have no idea of doing so, and she wouldn't have me if i had." "i think a man like you could do better." "i am willing to. but here comes my friend, who is going to the theater with me." looking up, luke was surprised to see stephen webb. chapter xxviii harold's temptation mrs. merton was rather astonished when her grand-nephew harold walked into her room one day and inquired for her health. (she had been absent from the dinner table on account of a headache.) "thank you, harold," she said. "i am feeling a little better." "have you any errand you would like to have me do for you?" mrs. merton was still more surprised, for offers of services were rare with harold. "thank you, again," she said, "but luke was here this morning, and i gave him two or three commissions." "perhaps you would like me to read to you, aunt eliza." "thank you, but i am a little afraid it wouldn't be a good thing for my head. how are you getting on at school, harold?" "pretty well." "you don't want to go to college?" "no. i think i would rather be a business man." "well, you know your own tastes best." "aunt eliza," said harold, after a pause, "i want to ask a favor of you." "speak out, harold." "won't you be kind enough to give me ten dollars?" "ten dollars," repeated the old lady, eying harold closely. "why do you want ten dollars?" "you see, mother keeps me very close. all the fellows have more money to spend than i." "how much does your mother give you as an allowance?" "two dollars a week." "it seems to me that is liberal, considering that you don't have to pay for your board or clothes." "a boy in my position is expected to spend money." "who expects it?" "why, everybody." "by the way, what is your position?" asked the old lady, pointedly. "why," said harold, uneasily, "i am supposed to be rich, as i live in a nice neighborhood on a fashionable street." "that doesn't make you rich, does it?" "no," answered harold, with hesitation. "you don't feel absolutely obliged to spend more than your allowance, do you?" "well, you see, the fellows think i am mean if i don't. there's ben clark has an allowance of five dollars a week, and he is three months younger than i am." "then i think his parents or guardians are very unwise. how does he spend his liberal allowance?" "oh, he has a good time." "i am afraid it isn't the sort of good time i would approve." "luke has more money than i have, and he is only a newsboy," grumbled harold. "how do you know?" "i notice he always has money." "i doubt whether he spends half a dollar a week on his own amusement. he has a mother and young brother to support." "he says so!" "so you doubt it?" "it may be true." "if you find it isn't true you can let me know." "i am sorry that you think so much more of luke than of me," complained harold. "how do you know i do?" "mother thinks so as well as i." "suppose we leave luke out of consideration. i shall think as much of you as you deserve." harold rose from his seat. "as you have no errand for me, aunt eliza, i will go," he said. mrs. merton unlocked a drawer in a work table, took out a pocketbook, and extracted therefrom a ten-dollar-bill. "you have asked me a favor, and i will grant it--for once," she said. "here are ten dollars." "thank you," said harold, joyfully. "i won't even ask how you propose to spend it. i thought of doing so, but it would imply distrust, and for this occasion i won't show any." "you are very kind, aunt eliza." "i am glad you think so. you are welcome to the money." harold left the room in high spirits. he decided not to let his mother know that he had received so large a sum, as she might inquire to what use he intended to put it; and some of his expenditures, he felt pretty sure, would not be approved by her. he left the house, and going downtown, joined a couple of friends of his own stamp. they adjourned to a billiard saloon, and between billiards, bets upon the game, and drinks, harold managed to spend three dollars before suppertime. three days later the entire sum given him by his aunt was gone. when harold made the discovery, he sighed. his dream was over. it had been pleasant as long as it lasted, but it was over too soon. "now i must go back to my mean allowance," he said to himself, in a discontented tone. "aunt eliza might give me ten dollars every week just as well as not. she is positively rolling in wealth, while i have to grub along like a newsboy. why, that fellow luke has a great deal more money than i." a little conversation which he had with his uncle warner made his discontent more intense. "hello, harold, what makes you look so blue?" he asked one day. "because i haven't got any money," answered harold. "doesn't your mother or aunt eliza give you any?" "i get a little, but it isn't as much as the other fellows get." "how much?" "two dollars a week." "it is more than i had when i was of your age." "that doesn't make it any better." "aunt eliza isn't exactly lavish; still, she pays luke walton generously." "do you know how much he gets a week?" asked harold, eagerly. "ten dollars." "ten dollars!" ejaculated harold. "you don't really mean it." "yes, i do. i saw her pay him that sum yesterday. i asked her if it wasn't liberal. she admitted it, but said he had a mother and brother to support." "it's a shame!" cried harold, passionately. "why is it? the money is her own, isn't it?" "she ought not to treat a stranger better than her own nephew." "that means me, i judge," said warner, smiling. "well, there isn't anything we can do about it, is there?" "no, i don't know as there is," replied harold, slowly. but he thought over what his uncle had told him, and it made him very bitter. he brooded over it till it seemed to him as if it were a great outrage. he felt that he was treated with the greatest injustice. he was incensed with his aunt, but still more so with luke walton, whom he looked upon as an artful adventurer. it was while he was cherishing these feelings that a great temptation came to him. he found, one day in the street, a bunch of keys of various sizes attached to a small steel ring. he picked it up, and quick as a flash there came to him the thought of the drawer in his aunt's work table, from which he had seen her take out the morocco pocketbook. he had observed that the ten-dollar bill she gave him was only one out of a large roll, and his cupidity was aroused. he rapidly concocted a scheme by which he would be enabled to provide himself with money, and throw suspicion upon luke. chapter xxix harold's theft the next morning, mrs. merton, escorted by luke, went to make some purchases in the city. mrs. tracy went out, also, having an engagement with one of her friends living on cottage grove avenue. harold went out directly after breakfast, but returned at half-past ten. he went upstairs and satisfied himself that except the servants, he was alone in the house. "the coast is clear," he said, joyfully. "now if the key only fits." he went to his aunt's sitting room, and, not anticipating any interruption, directed his steps a once to the small table, from a drawer in which he had seen mrs. merton take the morocco pocketbook. he tried one key after another, and finally succeeded in opening the drawer. he drew it out with nervous anxiety, fearing that the pocket-book might have been removed, in which case all his work would have been thrown away. but no! fortune favored him this time, if it can be called a favor. there, in plain sight, was the morocco pocketbook. harold, pale with excitement, seized and opened it. his eyes glistened as he saw that it was well filled. he took out the roll of bills, and counted them. there were five ten-dollar bills and three fives--sixty-five dollars in all. there would have been more, but mrs. merton, before going out, had taken four fives, which she intended to use. it was harold's first theft, and he trembled with agitation as he thrust the pocketbook into his pocket. he would have trembled still more if he had known that his mother's confidential maid and seamstress, felicie lacouvreur, had seen everything through the crevice formed by the half-open door. felicie smiled to herself as she moved noiselessly away from her post of concealment. "master harold is trying a dangerous experiment," she said to herself. "now he is in my power. he has been insolent to me more than once, as if he were made of superior clay, but felicie, though only a poor servant, is not, thank heaven, a thief, as he is. it is a very interesting drama. i shall wait patiently till it is quite played out." in his hurry, harold came near leaving the room with the table drawer open. but he bethought himself in time, went back, and locked it securely. it was like shutting the stable door after the horse was stolen. then, with the stolen money in his possession, he left the house. he did not wish to be found at home when his aunt returned. harold had sixty-five dollars in his pocket--an amount quite beyond what he had ever before had at his disposal--but it must be admitted that he did not feel as happy as he had expected. if he had come by it honestly--if, for instance, it had been given him--his heart would have beat high with exultation, but as it was, he walked along with clouded brow. presently he ran across one of his friends, who noticed his discomposure. "what's the matter, harold?" he asked. "you are in the dumps." "oh, no," answered harold, forcing himself to assume a more cheerful aspect. "i have no reason to feel blue." "you are only acting, then? i must congratulate you on your success. you look for all the world like the knight of the sorrowful countenance." "who is he?" asked harold, who was not literary. "don quixote. did you never hear of him?" "no." "then your education has been neglected. what are you going to do to-day?" "i don't know." "suppose we visit a dime museum?" "all right." "that is, if you have any money. i am high and dry." "yes, i have some money." they went to a dime museum on clark street. harold surprised his companion by paying for the two tickets out of a five-dollar bill. "you're flush, harold," said his friend. "has anybody left you a fortune?" "no," answered harold, uneasily. "i've been saving up money lately." "you have? why, i've heard of your being at theaters, playing billiards, and so on." "look here, robert greve, i don't see why you need trouble yourself so much about where i get my money." "don't be cranky, harold," said robert, good-humoredly, "i won't say another word. only i am glad to find my friends in a healthy financial condition. i only wish i could say the same of myself." there happened to be a matinee at the grand opera house, and harold proposed going. first, however, they took a nice lunch at brockway & milan's, a mammoth restaurant on clark street, harold paying the bill. as they came out of the theater, luke walton chanced to pass. "good-afternoon, harold," he said. harold tossed his head, but did not reply. "who is that boy--one of your acquaintances?" asked robert greve. "he works for my aunt," answered harold. "it is like his impudence to speak to me." "why shouldn't he speak to you, if you know him?" said robert greve, who did not share harold's foolish pride. "he appears to think he is my equal," continued harold. "he seems a nice boy." "you don't know him as i do. he is a common newsboy." "suppose he is; that doesn't hurt him, does it?" "you don't know what i mean. you don't think a common newsboy fit to associate with on equal terms, do you?" robert greve laughed. "you are too high-toned, harold," he said. "if he is a nice boy, i don't care what sort of business a friend of mine follows." "well, i do," snapped harold, "and so does my mother. i don't believe in being friends with the ragtag and bobtail of society." luke walton did not allow his feelings to be hurt by the decided rebuff he had received from harold. "i owe it to myself to act like a gentleman," he reflected. "if harold doesn't choose to be polite, it is his lookout, not mine. he looks down upon me because i am a working boy. i don't mean always to be a newsboy or an errand boy. i shall work my way upwards as fast as i can, and, in time, i may come to fill a good place in society." it will be seen that luke was ambitious. he looked above and beyond the present, and determined to improve his social condition. it was six o'clock when harold ascended the steps of the mansion on prairie avenue. he had devoted the day to amusement, but had derived very little pleasure from the money he had expended. he had very little left of the five-dollar bill which he had first changed at the dime museum. it was not easy to say where his money had gone, but it had melted away, in one shape or another. "i wonder whether aunt eliza has discovered her loss," thought harold. "i hope i shan't show any signs of nervousness when i meet her. i don't see how she can possibly suspect me. if anything is said about the lost pocketbook, i will try to throw suspicion on luke walton." harold did not stop to think how mean this would be. self-preservation, it has been said, is the first law of nature, and self-preservation required that he should avert suspicion from himself by any means in his power. he went into the house whistling, as if to show that his mind was quite free from care. in the hall he met felicie. "what do you think has happened, master harold?" asked the french maid. "i don't know, i'm sure." "your aunt has been robbed. some money has been taken from her room." chapter xxx luke walton is suspected of theft harold was prepared for the announcement, as he felt confident his aunt would soon discover her loss, but he felt a little nervous, nevertheless. "you don't mean it?" he ejaculated, in well-counterfeited, surprise. "it's a fact." "when did aunt eliza discover her loss, felicie?" "as soon as she got home. she went to her drawer to put back some money she had on hand, and found the pocketbook gone." "was there much money in it?" "she doesn't say how much." "well," said harold, thinking it time to carry on the programme he had determined upon, "i can't say i am surprised." "you are not surprised!" repeated felicie, slowly. "why? do you know anything about it?" "do i know anything about it?" said harold, coloring. "what do you mean by that?" "because you say you are not surprised. i was surprised, and so was the old lady and your mother." "you must be very stupid not to understand what i mean," said harold, annoyed. "then i am very stupid, for i do not know at all why you are not surprised." "i mean that the boy aunt eliza employs--that boy luke has taken the money." "oh, you think the boy, luke, has taken the money." "certainly! why shouldn't he? he is a poor newsboy. it would be a great temptation to him. you know he is always shown into aunt eliza's sitting room, and is often there alone." "that is true." "and, of course, nothing is more natural than that he should take the money." "but the drawer was locked." "he had some keys in his pocket, very likely. most boys have keys." "oh, most boys have keys. have you, perhaps, keys, master harold?" "it seems to me you are asking very foolish questions, felicie. i have the key of my trunk." "but do newsboys have trunks? why should this boy, luke, have keys? i do not see." "well, i'll go upstairs," said harold, who was getting tired of the interview, and rather uneasy at felicie's remarks and questions. as felicie had said, mrs. merton discovered her loss almost as soon as she came home. she had used but a small part of the money he took with her, and, not caring to carry it about with her, opened the drawer to replace it in the pocketbook. to her surprise the pocketbook had disappeared. now, the contents of the pocketbook, though a very respectable sum, were not sufficient to put mrs. merton to any inconvenience. still, no one likes to lose money, especially if there is reason to believe that it has been stolen, and mrs. merton felt annoyed. she drew out the drawer to its full extent, and examined it carefully in every part, but there was no trace of the morocco pocketbook. she locked the door and went downstairs to her niece. "what's the matter, aunt eliza?" asked mrs. tracy, seeing, at a glance, from her aunt's expression, that some thing had happened. "there is a thief in the house!" said the old lady, abruptly. "what!" "there is a thief in the house!" "what makes you think so?" "you remember my small work table?" "yes." "i have been in the habit of keeping a supply of money in a pocketbook in one of the drawers. i just opened the drawer, and the money is gone!" "was there much money in the pocketbook?" "i happen to know just how much. there were sixty-five dollars." "and you can find nothing of the pocketbook?" "no; that and the money are both gone." "i am sorry for your loss, aunt eliza." "i don't care for the money. i shall not miss it. i am amply provided with funds, thanks to providence. but it is the mystery that puzzles me. who can have robbed me?" mrs. tracy nodded her head significantly. "i don't think there need be any mystery about that," she said, pointedly. "why not?" "i can guess who robbed you." "then i should be glad to have you enlighten me, for i am quite at a loss to fix upon the thief." "it's that boy of yours, i haven't a doubt of it." "you mean luke walton?" "yes, the newsboy, whom you have so imprudently trusted." "what are your reasons for thinking he is a thief?" asked the old lady calmly. "he is often alone in the room where the work table stands, is he not?" "yes; he waits for me there." "what could be easier than for him to open the drawer and abstract the pocketbook?" "it would be possible, but he would have to unlock the drawer." "probably he took an impression of the lock some day, and had a key made." "you are giving him credit for an unusual amount of cunning." "i always supposed he was sly." "i am aware, louisa, that you never liked the boy." "i admit that. what has happened seems to show that i was right." "now you are jumping to conclusions. you decide, without any proof, or even investigation, that luke took the money." "i feel convinced of it." "it appears to me that you are not treating the boy fairly." "my instinct tells me that it is he who has robbed you." "instinct would have no weight in law." "if he didn't take it, who did?" asked mrs. tracy, triumphantly. "that question is not easy to answer, louisa." "i am glad you admit so much, aunt eliza." "i admit nothing; but i will think over the matter carefully, and investigate." "do so, aunt eliza! in the end you will agree with me." "in the meanwhile, louisa, there is one thing i must insist upon." "what is that?" "that you leave the matter wholly in my hands." "certainly, if you wish it." "there are some circumstances connected with the robbery, which i have not mentioned." "what are they?" asked mrs. tracy, her face expressing curiosity. "i shall keep them to myself for the present." mrs. tracy looked disappointed. "if you mention them to me, i may think of something that would help you." "if i need help in that way, i will come to you." "meanwhile, shall you continue to employ the boy?" "yes; why not?" "he might steal something more." "i will risk it." mrs. merton returned to her room, and presently harold entered his mother's presence. "what is this i hear about aunt eliza having some money stolen?" he asked. "it is true. she has lost sixty-five dollars." "felicie told me something about it--that it was taken out of her drawer." mrs. tracy went into particulars, unconscious that her son was better informed than herself. "does aunt suspect anyone?" asked harold, uneasily. "she doesn't, but i do." "who is it?" "that boy, luke walton." "the very one i thought of," said harold, eagerly. "did you mention him to aunt eliza?" "yes; but she is so infatuated with him that she didn't take the suggestion kindly. she has promised to investigate, however, and meanwhile doesn't want us to interfere." "things are working round as i want them," thought harold. chapter xxxi who stole the money? did mrs. merton suspect anyone of the theft? this is the question which will naturally suggest itself to the reader. no thought of the real thief entered her mind. though she was fully sensible of harold's faults, though she knew him to be selfish, bad-tempered, and envious, she did not suppose him capable of theft. the one who occurred to her as most likely to have robbed her was her recently returned nephew, warner powell, who had been compelled to leave chicago years before on account of having yielded to a similar temptation. she knew that he was hard up for money, and it was possible that he had opened the table drawer and abstracted the pocketbook. as to luke walton, she was not at all affected by the insinuations of her niece. she knew that mrs. tracy and harold had a prejudice against luke, and that this would make them ready to believe anything against him. she was curious, however, to hear what warner had to say about the robbery. would he, too, try to throw suspicion upon luke in order to screen himself, if he were the real thief? this remained to be proved. warner powell did not return to the house till five o'clock in the afternoon. his sister and harold hastened to inform him of what had happened, and to communicate their conviction that luke was the thief. warner said little, but his own suspicions were different. he went up stairs, and made his aunt a call. "well, aunt," he said, "i hear that you have been robbed." "yes, warner, i have lost some money," answered the old lady, composedly. "louisa told me." "yes; she suspects luke of being the thief. do you agree with her?" "no, i don't," answered warner. mrs. merton's face brightened, and she looked kindly at warner. "then you don't share louisa's prejudice against luke?" she said. "no; i like the boy. i would sooner suspect myself of stealing the money, for, you know, aunt eliza, that my record is not a good one, and i am sure luke is an honest boy." mrs. merton's face fairly beamed with delight. she understood very well the low and unworthy motives which influenced her niece and harold, and it was a gratifying surprise to find that her nephew was free from envy and jealousy. "warner," she said, "what you say does you credit. in this particular case i happen to know that luke is innocent." "you don't, know the real thief?" asked warner. "no; but my reason for knowing that luke is innocent i will tell you. the money was safe in my drawer when i went out this morning. it was taken during my absence from the house. luke was with me during this whole time. of course, it is impossible that he should be the thief." "i see. did you tell louisa this?" "no; i am biding my time. besides, i am more likely to find the real thief if it is supposed that luke is under suspicion." "tell me truly, aunt eliza, didn't you suspect me?" "since you ask me, warner, i will tell you frankly that it occurred to me as possible that you might have yielded to temptation." "it would have been a temptation, for i have but twenty-five cents. but even if i had known where you kept your money (which i didn't), i would have risked applying to you for a loan, or gift, as it would have turned out to be, rather than fall back into my old disreputable ways." "i am very much encouraged by what you say, warner. here are ten dollars. use it judiciously; try to obtain employment, and when it is gone, you may let me know." "aunt eliza, you are kinder to me than i deserve. i will make a real effort to secure employment, and will not abuse your confidence." "keep that promise, warner, and i will be your friend. one thing more: don't tell louisa what has passed between us. i can, at any time, clear luke, but for the present i will let her think i am uncertain on that point. i shall not forget that you took the boy's part where your sister condemned him." "louisa and harold can see no good in the boy; but i have observed him carefully, and formed my own opinion." warner could have done nothing better calculated to win his aunt's favor than to express a favorable opinion of luke. it must be said, however, in justice to him, that this had not entered into his calculations. he really felt kindly towards the boy whom his sister denounced as "sly and artful," and liked him much better than his own nephew, harold, who, looking upon warner as a poor relation, had not thought it necessary to treat him with much respect or attention. he had a better heart and a better disposition than mrs. tracy or harold, notwithstanding his early shortcomings. "who could have been the thief?" warner asked himself, as he left his aunt's sitting room. "could it have been harold?" he resolved to watch his nephew carefully and seek some clew that would lead to a solution of the mystery. "i hope it isn't my nephew," he said to himself. "i don't want him to follow in the steps of his scapegrace uncle. but i would sooner suspect him than luke walton. they say blood is thicker than water, but i confess that i like the newsboy better than i do my high-toned nephew." "have you made any discovery of the thief, aunt eliza?" asked mrs. tracy, as her aunt seated herself at the evening repast. "nothing positive," answered the old lady, significantly. "have you discovered anything at all?" "i have discovered who is not the thief," said mrs. merton. "then you had suspicions?" "no definite suspicions." "wouldn't it be well to talk the matter freely over with me? something might be suggested." "i beg your pardon, louisa, but i think it would be well to banish this disagreeable matter from our table talk. if i should stand in need of advice, i will consult you." "i don't want to obtrude my advice, but i will venture to suggest that you call in a private detective." harold looked alarmed. "i wouldn't bother with a detective," he said. "they don't know half as much as they pretend." "i am inclined to agree with harold," said mrs. merton. "i will act as my own detective." save for the compliment to harold, mrs. tracy was not pleased with this speech of her aunt. "at any rate," she said, "you would do well to keep a strict watch over that boy, luke walton." "i shall," answered the old lady, simply. mrs. tracy looked triumphant. warner kept silent, but a transient smile passed over his face as he saw how neatly aunt eliza had deceived his astute sister. "what do you think, warner?" asked mrs. tracy, desirous of additional support. "i think aunt eliza will get at the truth sooner or later. of course i will do anything to help her, but i don't want to interfere." "don't you think she ought to discharge luke?" "if she did, she would have no chance of finding out whether he was guilty or not." "that is true. i did not think of that." "warner is more sensible than any of you," said mrs. merton. "i am glad you have changed your opinion of him," said mrs. tracy, sharply. she was now beginning to be jealous of her scapegrace brother. "so am i," said warner, smiling. "at the same time i don't blame aunt for her former opinion." the next morning harold was about leaving the house, when felicie, the french maid, came up softly, and said: "master harold, may i have a word with you?" "i am in a hurry," said harold, impatiently. "it is about the stolen money," continued felicie, in her soft voice. "you had better listen to what i have to say. i have found out who took it." harold's heart gave a sudden thump, and his face indicated dismay. chapter xxxii harold and felicie make an arrangement "you have found out who took the money?" stammered harold. "yes." "i didn't think it would be found out so soon," said harold, trying to recover his equanimity. "of course it was taken by luke walton." "you are quite mistaken," said felicie. "luke walton did not take it." harold's heart gave another thump. he scented danger, but remained silent. "you don't ask me who took the money?" said felicie, after a pause. "because i don't believe you know," returned harold, "you've probably got some suspicion?" "i have more than that. the person who took the money was seen at his work." harold turned pale. "there is no use in mincing matters," continued felicie. "you took the money." "what do you mean by such impertinence?" gasped harold. "it is no impertinence. if you doubt my knowledge, i'll tell you the particulars. you opened the drawer with one of a bunch of keys which you took from your pocket, took out a morocco pocketbook, opened it and counted the roll of bills which it contained, then put the pocketbook into your pocket, locked the drawer and left the room." "that's a fine story," said harold, forcing himself to speak. "i dare say all this happened, only you were the one who opened the drawer." "i saw it all through a crack in the half-open door," continued felicie, not taking the trouble to answer his accusation. "if you want further proof, suppose you feel in your pocket. i presume the pocketbook is there at this moment." instinctively harold put his hand into his pocket, then suddenly withdrew it, as if his fingers were burned, for the pocketbook was there as felicie had said. "there is one thing more," said felicie, as she drew from her pocket a bunch of keys. "i found this bunch of keys in your room this morning." "they are not mine," answered harold, hastily. "i don't know anything about that. they are the ones you had in your hand when you opened the drawer. i think this is the key you used." "the keys belong to you!" asserted harold, desperately. "thank you for giving them to me, but i shall have no use for them," said felicie, coolly. "and now, master harold, do you want to know why i have told you this little story?" "yes," answered harold, feebly. "because i think it will be for our mutual advantage to come to an understanding. i don't want to inform your aunt of what i have seen unless you compel me to do so." "how should i compel you to do so?" stammered harold, uneasily. "step into the parlor, where we can talk comfortably. your aunt is upstairs, and your mother is out, so that no one will hear us." harold felt that he was in the power of the cunning felicie, and he followed her unresistingly. "sit down on the sofa, and we will talk at our ease. i will keep silent about this matter, and no one else knows a word about it, if----" "well?" "if you will give me half the money." "but," said harold, who now gave up the pretense of denial, "i have spent part of it." "you have more than half of it left?" "yes." "give me thirty dollars and i will be content. i saw you count it. there were sixty-five dollars." "i don't see what claim you have to it," said harold, angrily. "i have as much as you," answered felicie, coolly. "still, if you prefer to go to your aunt, own up that you took it, and take the consequences, i will agree not to interfere. but if i am to keep the secret, i want to be paid for it." harold thought it over; he hated to give up so large a part of his plunder, for he had appropriated it in his own mind to certain articles which he wished to purchase. "i'll give you twenty dollars," he said. "no, i will take thirty dollars, or go to your aunt and tell her all i know." there was no help for it. poor harold took out three ten-dollar bills, reluctantly enough, and gave them to felicie. "all right, master harold! you've done wisely. i thought you would see matters in the right light. think how shocked your mother and aunt eliza would be if they had discovered that you were the thief." "don't use such language, felicie!" said harold, wincing. "there is no need to refer to it again." "as you say, master harold. i won't detain you any longer from your walk," and felicie, with a smile, rose from the sofa and left the room, harold following. "don't disturb yourself any more," she said, as she opened the door for harold. "it will never be known. besides, your aunt can well afford to lose this little sum. she is actually rolling in wealth. she ought to be more liberal to you." "so she ought, felicie. if she had, this would not have happened." "very true. at the same time, i don't suppose a jury would accept this as an excuse." "why do you say such things, felicie? what has a jury got to do with me?" "nothing, i hope. still, if it were a poor boy that had taken the money, luke walton, for instance, he might have been arrested. excuse me, i see this annoys you. let me give you one piece of advice, master harold." "what is it?" "get rid of that morocco pocketbook as soon as you can. if it were found on you, or you should be careless, and leave it anywhere, you would give yourself away, my friend." "you are right, felicie," said harold, hurriedly. "good-morning!" "good-morning, and a pleasant walk, my friend," said felicie, mockingly. when harold was fairly out in the street, he groaned in spirit. he had lost half the fruits of his theft, and his secret had become known. felicie had proved too much for him, and he felt that he hated her. "i wish i could get mother to discharge her, with out her knowing that it was i who had brought it about. i shall not feel safe as long as she is in the house. why didn't i have the sense to shut and lock the door? then she wouldn't have seen me." then the thought of the morocco pocketbook occurred to him. he felt that felicie was right--that it was imprudent to carry it around. he must get rid of it in some way. he took the money out and put it in another pocket. the pocketbook he replaced till he should have an opportunity of disposing of it. hardly had he made these preparations when he met luke walton, who had started unusually early, and was walking towards the house. an idea came to harold. "good-morning, luke!" he said, in an unusually friendly tone. "good-morning, harold!" answered luke, agreeably surprised by the other's cordiality. "are you going out with aunt eliza this morning?" "i am not sure whether she will want to go out. i shall call and inquire." "you seem to be quite a favorite of hers." "i hope i am. she always treats me kindly." "i really believe she thinks more of you than she does of me." "you mustn't think that," said luke, modestly. "you are a relation, and i am only in her employ." "oh, it doesn't trouble me. i am bound for the city. i think i shall take the next car, good-day!" "good-day, harold!" luke walked on, quite unconscious that harold, as he passed by his side, had managed to slip the morocco wallet into the pocket of his sack coat. chapter xxxiii harold's plot fails luke wore a sack coat with side pockets. it was this circumstance that had made it easy for harold to transfer the wallet unsuspected to his pocket. quite ignorant of what had taken place, luke kept on his way to mrs. merton's house. he rang the bell, and on being admitted, went up, as usual, to the room of his patroness. "good morning, luke," said mrs. merton, pleasantly. "good-morning," responded luke. "i don't think i shall go out this morning, and i don't think of any commission, so you will have a vacation." "i am afraid i am not earning my money, mrs. merton. you make it very easy for me." "at any rate, luke, the money is cheerfully given, and i have no doubt you find it useful. how are you getting along?" "very well, indeed! i have just made the last payment on mother's machine, and now we owe nothing, except, perhaps, for the rent, and only a week has gone by on the new month." "you seem to be a good manager, luke. you succeed in keeping your money, while i have not always found it easy. yesterday, for instance, i lost sixty-five dollars." "how was that?" inquired luke, with interest. "the drawer in which i keep a pocketbook was unlocked, and this, with its contents, was stolen." "don't you suspect anyone?" "i did, but he has cleared himself, in my opinion. it is possible it was one of the servants." at this moment luke pulled his handkerchief from his side pocket and with it came the morocco pocketbook, which fell on the carpet. mrs. merton uttered an exclamation of surprise. "why, that is the very pocketbook!" she said. luke stooped and picked it up, with an expression of bewilderment on his face. "i don't understand it," he said. "i never saw that pocketbook before in my life." "please hand it to me." luke did so. "yes, that is the identical pocketbook," said the old lady. "and it came from my pocket?" yes." "is there any money in it, mrs. merton." mrs. merton opened it, and shook her head. that has been taken out," she answered. "i hope you won't think i took the money," said luke, with a troubled look. "i know you did not. it was taken while we were out together yesterday. the last thing before i left the house i locked the drawer, and the pocketbook with the money inside was there. when i returned it was gone." "that is very mysterious. i don't understand how the pocketbook came in my pocket." "someone must have put it there who wished you to be suspected of the theft." "yes," said luke, eagerly. "i see." then he stopped suddenly, for what he was about to say would throw suspicion upon harold. "well, go on!" "i don't know that i ought to speak. it might throw suspicion on an innocent person." "speak! it is due to me. i will judge on that point. who has had the chance of putting the wallet into your pocket?" "i will speak if you insist upon it, mrs. merton," said luke, reluctantly. "a few minutes since i met harold on the street. we were bound in opposite directions. he surprised me by stopping me, and addressing me quite cordially. we stood talking together two or three minutes." "did he have an opportunity of putting the wallet in your pocket?" "he might have done so, but i was not conscious of it." "let me think!" said the old lady, slowly. "harold knew where i kept my money, for i opened the drawer in his presence the other day, and he saw me take a bill from the pocketbook. i did not think him capable of robbing me." "perhaps he did not," said luke. "it may be explained in some other way." "can you think of any other way?" asked the old lady. "suppose a servant had taken the money, and left the pocketbook somewhere where harold found it----" "even in that case, why should he put it in your pocket?" "he does not like me. he might wish to throw suspicion upon me." "that would be very mean." "i think it would, but still he might not be a thief." "i would sooner excuse a thief. it is certainly disreputable to steal, but it is not necessarily mean or contemptible. trying to throw suspicion on an innocent person would be both." luke remained silent, for nothing occurred to him to say. he did not wish to add to mrs. merton's resentment against harold. after a moment's thought the old lady continued: "leave the pocketbook with me, and say nothing about what has happened till i give you leave." "very well." mrs. merton took the pocketbook, replaced it in the drawer, and carefully locked it. "someone must have a key that will open this drawer," she said. "i should like to know who it is." "do you think anyone will open it again?" asked luke. "no; it will be supposed that i will no longer keep money there. i think, however, i will sooner or later find out who opened it." "i hope it won't prove to be harold." "i hope so, too. i would not like to think so near a relative a thief. well, luke, i won't detain you here any longer. you may come to-morrow, as usual." "it is lucky mrs. merton has confidence in me," thought luke. "otherwise she might have supposed me to be the thief. what a mean fellow harold tracy is, to try to have an innocent boy suspected of such a crime." as he was going out of the front door, mrs. tracy entered. she cast a withering glance at luke. "have you seen my aunt this morning?" she asked. "yes, madam." "i wonder you had the face to stand in her presence." it must be said, in justification of mrs. tracy, that she really believed that luke had stolen mrs. merton's money. "i know of no reason why i should not," said luke, calmly. "will you be kind enough to explain what you mean?" "you know well enough," retorted mrs. tracy, nodding her head venomously. "mrs. merton appears to be well satisfied with me," said luke, quietly. "when she is not, she will tell me so, and i shall never come again." "you are the most brazen boy i know of. why it is that my aunt is so infatuated with you, i can't for my part, pretend to understand." "if you will allow me, i will bid you good-morning," said luke, with quiet dignity. mrs. tracy did not reply, and luke left the house. "if i ever hated and despised a boy, it is that one!" said mrs. tracy to herself as she went upstairs to remove her street dress. "i wish i could strip the mask from him, and get aunt to see him in his real character. he is a sly, artful young adventurer. ah, felicie, come and assist me. by the way, i want you to watch that boy who has just gone out?" "luke walton?" "yes; of course you have heard of my aunt's loss. i suspect that this luke walton is the thief." "is it possible, madam? have you any evidence?" "no; but we may find some. what do you think?" "i haven't thought much about the matter. it seems to me very mysterious." when felicie left the presence of her mistress she smiled curiously. "what would madam tracy say if she knew it was her own son?" she soliloquized. "he is a young cur, but she thinks him an angel." chapter xxxiv harold makes a purchase harold had been compelled to give up half his money, but he still had thirty dollars left. how should he invest it? that was the problem that occupied his thoughts. thus far he had not derived so much satisfaction from the possession of the money as he had anticipated. one thing, at any rate, he resolved. he would not spend it upon others, but wholly upon himself. he stepped into a billiard saloon to enjoy his favorite pastime. in the absence of any companion he played a game with a man employed in the establishment, and, naturally, got beaten, though he was given odds. at the end of an hour he owed sixty cents, and decided not to continue. "you play too well for me," he said, in a tone of disappointment. "you had bad luck," answered his opponent, soothingly. "however, i can more than make it up to you." "how?" inquired harold, becoming interested. "a friend of mine has pawned his watch for fifteen dollars. it is a valuable gold watch--cost seventy-five. he could have got more on it, but expected to redeem it. he has been in bad luck, and finds it no use. he has put the ticket in my hands, and is willing to sell it for ten dollars. that will only make the watch cost twenty-five. it's a big bargain for somebody." harold was much interested. he had always wanted a gold watch, and had dropped more than one hint to that effect within the hearing of aunt eliza, but the old lady had always said: "when you are eighteen, it will be time enough to think of a gold watch. till then, your silver watch will do." harold took a different view of the matter, and his desire for a gold watch had greatly increased since a school friend about his own age had one. for this reason he was considerably excited by the chance that seems to present itself. "you are sure the watch is a valuable one?" he asked. "yes; i have seen it myself." "then why don't you buy the ticket yourself?" "i haven't the money. if i had, i wouldn't let anybody else have it." "let me see the ticket." the other produced it from his vest pocket, but, of course, this threw no light upon the quality of the watch. "i can secure the watch, and have nearly five dollars left," thought harold. "it is surely worth double the price it will cost me, and then i shall have something to show for my money." on the other hand, his possession of the watch would excite surprise at home, and he would be called upon to explain how he obtained it. this, however, did not trouble harold. "i've a great mind to take it," he said, slowly. "you can't do any better. to tell the truth, i hate to let it go, but i don't see any prospect of my being able to get it out myself, and my friend needs the money." harold hesitated a moment, then yielded to the inducement offered. "give me the ticket," he said. "here is the money." as he spoke, he produced a ten-dollar bill. in return, the ticket was handed to him. the pawnbroker, whose name was found on the ticket, was located less than fifteen minutes walk from the billiard saloon. harold, eager to secure the watch, went directly there. "well, young man, what can i do for you?" asked a small man, with wrinkled face and blinking eyes. "i want to redeem my watch. here is the ticket." the old man glanced at the ticket, then went to a safe, and took out the watch. here were kept the articles of small bulk and large value. harold took out fifteen dollars which he had put in his vest pocket for the purpose, and tendered them to the pawnbroker. "i want a dollar and a half more," said the old man. "what for?" asked harold, in surprise. "one month's interest. you don't think i do business for nothing, do you?" "isn't that high?" asked harold, and not without reason. "it's our regular charge, young man. ten per cent a month--that's what we all charge." this statement was correct. though the new york pawnbroker is allowed to charge but three per cent a month, his chicago associate charges more than three times as much. there was nothing for it but to comply with the terms demanded, and harold reluctantly handed out the extra sum. "you ought to have a watch chain, my friend," said the pawnbroker. "i should like one, but i cannot afford it." "i can give you a superior article--rolled gold--for a dollar." "let me see it!" the chain was displayed. it looked very well; and certainly set off the watch to better advantage. harold paid down the dollar, and went out of the pawn broker's with a gold watch, and chain of the same color, with only two dollars left of his ill-gotten money. this was somewhat inconvenient, but he rejoiced in the possession of the watch and chain. "now ralph kennedy can't crow over me," he soliloquized. "i've got a gold watch as well as he." as he left the pawnbroker's, he did not observe a familiar face and figure on the opposite side of the street. it was warner powell, his mother's brother, who recognized, with no little surprise, his nephew, coming from such a place. "what on earth has carried harold to a pawn broker's?" he asked himself. then he caught sight of the watch chain, and got a view of the watch, as harold drew it out ostentatiously to view his new acquisition. "there is some mystery here," he said to himself. "i must investigate." he waited till harold was at a safe distance, then crossed the street, and entered the pawnbroker's. "there was a boy just went out of here," he said to the old man. "suppose there was," returned the pawnbroker, suspiciously. "what was he doing here?" "is that any of your business?" "my friend, i have nothing to do with you, and no complaint to make against you, but the boy is my nephew, and i want to know whether he got a watch and chain here." "yes; he presented a ticket, and i gave him the watch." "is it one he pawned himself?" "i don't know. he had the ticket. i can't remember everybody that deals with me." "can you tell me how much the watch and chain were pawned for?" "the watch was pawned for fifteen dollars. i sold him the chain for a dollar." "all right. thank you." "it's all right?" "yes, so far as you are concerned. how long had the watch been in?" "for three weeks." warner powell left the shop, after obtaining all the information he required. "it is harold who robbed aunt eliza," he said to himself. "i begin to think my precious nephew is a rogue." meanwhile, harold, eager to ascertain the value of his watch, stepped into a jeweler's. "can you tell me the value of this watch?" he inquired. the jeweler opened it, and after a brief examination, said: "when new it probably cost thirty-five dollars." harold's countenance fell. "i was told that it was a seventy-five dollar watch," he said. "then you were cheated." "but how can such a large watch be afforded for thirty-five dollars?" "it is low-grade gold, not over ten carats, and the works are cheap. yet, it'll keep fair time." harold was very much disappointed. chapter xxxv a skillful invention when he came to think it over, harold gradually recovered his complacence. it was a gold watch, after all, and no one would know that the gold was low grade. he met one or two acquaintances, who immediately took notice of the chain and asked to see the watch. they complimented him on it, and this gave him satisfaction. when he reached home, he went directly upstairs to his room, and only came down when he heard the supper bell. as he entered the dining room his mother was the first to notice the watch chain. "have you been buying a watch chain, harold?" she asked. "i have something besides," said harold, and he produced the watch. mrs. tracy uttered an exclamation of surprise, and mrs. merton and warner exchanged significant glances. "how came you by the watch and chain?" asked mrs. tracy, uneasily. "they were given to me," answered harold. "but that is very strange. aunt eliza, you have not given harold a watch, have you?" "no, louisa. i think a silver watch is good enough for a boy of his age." "why don't you ask me, louisa?" said warner, smiling. "i don't imagine your circumstances will admit of such a gift." "you are right. i wish they did. harold, we are all anxious to know the name of the benevolent individual who has made you such a handsome present. if you think he has any more to spare, i should be glad if you would introduce me." "i will explain," said harold, glibly. "i was walking along dearborn street about two o'clock, when i saw a gentleman a little in advance of me. he had come from the commercial bank, i judge, for it was not far from there i came across him. by some carelessness he twitched a wallet stuffed with notes from his pocket. a rough-looking fellow sprang to get it, but i was too quick for him. i picked it up, and hurrying forward, handed it to the gentleman. he seemed surprised and pleased. "'my boy,' he said, 'you have done me a great service. that wallet contained fifteen hundred dollars. i should have lost it but for you. accept this watch and chain as a mark of my deep gratitude.' "with that, he took the watch from his pocket, and handed it to me. i was not sure whether i ought to take it, but i have long wanted a gold watch, and he seemed well able to afford the gift, so i took it." mrs. tracy never thought of doubting this plausible story. "harold," she said, "i am proud of you. i think there was no objection to accepting the watch. what do you say, aunt eliza?" "let me look at the watch, harold," said the old lady, not replying to her niece's question. harold passed it over complacently. he rather plumed himself on the ingenious story he had invented. "what do you think of it, warner?" asked mrs. merton, passing it to her nephew. "it is rather a cheap watch for a rich man to carry," answered warner, taking it in his hand and opening it. "i am sure it is quite a handsome watch," said mrs. tracy. "yes, it is large and showy, but it is low-grade gold." "of course, i don't know anything about that," said harold. "at any rate, it is gold and good enough for me." "no doubt of that," said the old lady, dryly. "rich men don't always carry expensive watches," said mrs. tracy. "they are often plain in their tastes." "this watch is rather showy," said warner. "it can't be called plain." "at any rate, harold has reason to be satisfied. i am glad he obtained the watch in so creditable a manner. if it had been your protege, aunt eliza, i suspect he would have kept the money," "i don't think so, louisa," said mrs. merton, quietly. "i have perfect confidence in luke's honesty." "in spite of your lost pocketbook?" "yes; there is nothing to connect luke with that." harold thought he ought to get the advantage of the trick played upon luke in the morning. "i don't know as i ought to say anything," he said, hesitating, "but i met luke this morning, and if i am not very much mistaken, i saw in his pocket a wallet that looked very much like aunt's. you know he wears a sack coat, and has a pocket on each side." again mrs. merton and warner exchanged glances. "this is important!" said mrs. tracy, in excitement. "did you speak to him on the subject?" "no." "why not?" "i thought he might be innocent, and i didn't want to bring a false charge against him." "you are very considerate," said mrs. merton. "that seems quite conclusive, aunt eliza," said mrs. tracy, triumphantly. "i am sure warner will agree with me." "as to that, louisa," said her brother, "harold is not certain it was aunt's lost pocketbook." "but he thinks it was----" "yes, i think it was" "for my own part, i have no doubt on the subject," said mrs. tracy, in a positive tone. "he is the person most likely to take the money, and this makes less proof needful." "but, suppose, after all, he is innocent," suggested warner. "you seem to take the boy's side, warner. i am surprised at you." "i want him to have a fair chance, that is all. i must say that i have been favorably impressed by what i have seen of the boy." "at any rate, i think aunt eliza ought to question him sternly, not accepting any evasion or equivocation. he has been guilty of base ingratitude." "supposing him to be guilty?" "yes, of course." "i intend to investigate the matter," said the old lady. "what do you think, harold? do you think it probable that luke opened my drawer, and took out the pocket-book?" "it looks very much like it," said harold. "certainly it does," said mrs. tracy, with emphasis. "suppose we drop the conversation for the time being," suggested the old lady. "harold has not wholly gratified our curiosity as to the watch and chain. do you know, harold, who the gentleman is to whom you rendered such an important service?" "no, aunt eliza, i did not learn his name." "what was his appearance? describe him." "he was a tall man," answered harold, in a tone of hesitation. "was he an old or a young man?" "he was an old man with gray hair. he walked very erect." "should you know him again, if you saw him?" "yes, i think so." "then, perhaps, we may have an opportunity of ascertaining who he was. my broker will probably know him from your description." "why do you want to find out who he is?" asked harold, uneasily. "don't you think i ought to keep the watch?" "i have a feeling of curiosity on the subject. as to keeping it, i don't think the gentleman will be likely to reclaim it." "of course not. why should he?" said mrs. tracy. "he gave it freely, and it would be very strange if he wished it back." here the conversation dropped, much to harold's relief. warner accompanied his aunt from the room. "what do you think of harold's story, warner?" asked the old lady. "it is very ingenious." "but not true?" "no; he got the watch and chain from a pawnbroker. i saw him come out of the shop, and going in, questioned the pawnbroker. he must have got the ticket somewhere." "then it seems that harold is not only a thief, but a liar." "my dear aunt, let us not be too hard upon him. this is probably his first offense: i feel like being charitable, for i have been in the same scrape." "i can overlook theft more easily than his attempt to blacken the reputation of luke," said mrs. merton, sternly. chapter xxxvi warner powell starts on a journey thanks to the liberal compensation received from mrs. merton, luke was enabled to supply his mother and bennie with all the comforts they required, and even to put by two dollars a week. this he did as a measure of precaution, for he did not know how long the engagement at the house on prairie avenue would last. if he were forced to fall back on his earnings as a newsboy, the family would fare badly. this might happen, for he found himself no nearer securing the favor of harold and his mother. the manner of the latter was particularly unpleasant when they met, and harold scarcely deigned to speak to him. on the other hand, warner powell showed himself very friendly. he often took the opportunity to join luke when he was leaving the house, and chat pleasantly with him. luke enjoyed his companionship, because warner was able to tell him about australia and california, with both of which countries mrs. tracy's brother was familiar. "mother," said harold, one day, "uncle warner seems very thick with that newsboy. i have several times seen them walking together." mrs. tracy frowned, for the news displeased her. "i am certainly very much surprised. i should think my brother might find a more congenial and suitable companion than aunt eliza's hired boy. i will speak to him about it." she accordingly broached the subject to warner powell, expressing herself with emphasis. "listen, louisa," said warner, "don't you think i am old enough to choose my own company?" "it doesn't seem so," retorted mrs. tracy, with a smile. "at any rate, i don't need any instructions on that point." "as my guest, you certainly ought to treat me with respect." "so i do. but i don't feel bound to let you regulate my conduct." "you know what cause i have--we both have--to dislike this boy." "i don't dislike him." "then you ought to." "he is in aunt eliza's employment. while he remains so, i shall treat him with cordiality." "you are blind as a mole!" said mrs. tracy, passionately. "you can't see that he is trying to work his way into aunt's affections." "i think he has done so already. she thinks a great deal of him." "when you find her remembering him in her will, you may come over to my opinion." "she is quite at liberty to remember him in her will, so far as i am concerned. there will be enough for us, even if she does leave luke a legacy." "i see you are incorrigible. i am sorry i invited you to remain in my house. "i was under the impression that it was aunt eliza's house. you are claiming too much, louisa." mrs. tracy bit her lip, and was compelled to give up her attempt to secure her brother's allegiance. she contented herself with treating him with formal politeness, abstaining from all show of cordiality. this was carried on so far that it attracted the attention of mrs. merton. "what is the trouble between you and louisa?" she asked one day. warner laughed. "she thinks i am too intimate with your boy, luke." "i don't understand." "i often walk with luke either on his way to or from the house. harold has reported this to his mother, and the result is a lecture as to the choice of proper companions from my dignified sister." mrs. merton smiled kindly on her nephew. "then you don't propose to give up luke?" she said. "no; i like the boy. he is worth a dozen harolds. perhaps i ought not to say this, for harold is my nephew and they say blood is thicker than water. however, it is a fact, nevertheless, that i like luke the better of the two." "i shall not blame you for saying that, warner," returned the old lady. "i am glad that one of the family, at least, is free from prejudice. to what do you attribute louisa's dislike of luke?" "i think, aunt, you are shrewd enough to guess the reason without appealing to me." "still, i would like to hear it from your lips." "in plain words, then, louisa is afraid you will remember luke in your will." "she doesn't think i would leave everything to him, does she?" "she objects to your leaving anything. if it were only five hundred dollars she would grudge it." "louisa was always selfish," said mrs. merton, quietly. "i have always known that. she is not wise, however. she does not understand that i am a very obstinate old woman, and am more likely to take my own way if opposed." "that's right, aunt! you are entitled to have your own way, and i for one am the last to wish to interfere with you." "you will not fare any the worse for that! and now, warner, tell me what are your chances of employment?" "i wished to speak to you about that, aunt. there is a gentleman in milwaukee who has a branch office in chicago, and i understand that he wants someone to represent him here. his present agent is about to resign his position, and i think i have some chance of obtaining the place. it will be necessary for me, however, to go to milwaukee to see him in person." "go, then, by all means," said mrs. merton. "i will defray your expenses." "thank you very much, aunt. you know that i have little money of my own. but there is another thing indispensable, and that i am afraid you would not be willing to do for me." "what is it, warner?" "i shall have charge of considerable money belonging to my employer, and i learn from the present agent that i shall have to get someone to give bonds for me in the sum of ten thousand dollars." "very well! i am willing to stand your security." warner looked surprised and gratified. "knowing how dishonestly i have acted in the past?" he said. "the past is past. you are a different man, i hope and believe." "aunt eliza, you shall never regret the generous confidence you are willing to repose in me. it is likely to open for me a new career, and to make a new man of me." "that is my desire, warner. let me add that i am only following your own example. you have refused to believe evil of luke, unlike your sister, and have not been troubled by the kindness i have shown him. this is something i remember to your credit." "thank you, aunt. if you have been able to discover anything creditable in me, i am all the more pleased." "how much will this position pay you, supposing you get it?" "two thousand dollars a year. to me that will be a competence. i shall be able to save one-half, for i have given up my former expensive tastes, and am eager to settle down to a steady and methodical business life." "when do you want to go to milwaukee, warner?" "i should like to go at once." "here is some money to defray your expenses." mrs. merton opened her table drawer, and took out a roll of bills amounting to fifty dollars. "i wish you good luck!" she said. "thank you, aunt! i shall take the afternoon train to milwaukee, and sleep there to-night." warner powell hastened to catch the train, and, at six o'clock in the evening, landed, with a large number of fellow passengers, in the metropolis of wisconsin. chapter xxxvii thomas browning's secret warner powell had learned wisdom and prudence with his increasing years, and, instead of inquiring for the best hotel, was content to put up at a humbler hostelry, where he would be comfortable. he made the acquaintance on the cars of a new york drummer, with whom he became quite sociable. "i suppose you have been in milwaukee often," said warner. "i go there once a year--sometimes twice." "where do you stay?" "at the prairie hotel. it is a comfortable house--two dollars a day." "just what i want. i will go there." so, at quarter-past six. warner powell found himself in the office of the hotel. he was assigned a room on the third floor. after making his toilet, he went down to supper. at the table with him were two gentlemen who, from their conversation, appeared to be residents of the city. they were discussing the coming municipal election. "i tell you, browning will be our mayor," said one. "his reputation as a philanthropist will elect him." "i never took much stock in his claims on that score." "he belongs to all the charitable societies, and is generally an officer." "that may be; how much does he give himself?" "i don't know. i suppose he is a liberal subscriber." "he wants to give that impression, but the man is as selfish as the average. he is said to be a hard landlord, and his tenants get very few favors." "i am surprised to hear that." "he is trading on his philanthropy. it would be interesting to learn where his wealth came from. i should not be surprised if he were more smart than honest." warner powell found himself getting interested in this browning. was he really a good man, who was unjustly criticised, or was he a sham philanthropist, as charged? "after all, it doesn't concern me," he said to himself. "the good people of milwaukee may choose whom they please for mayor so far as i am concerned." after supper warner stepped up to the cigar stand to buy a cigar. this, as the reader will remember, was kept by jack king, an old california acquaintance of thomas browning, whose first appearance in our story was in the character of a tramp and would-be burglar. "is business good?" asked warner, pleasantly. "it is fair; but it seems slow to a man like myself, who has made a hundred dollars a day at the mines in california." "i have been in california myself," said powell, "but it was recently, and no such sums were to be made in my time." "that is true. it didn't last with me. i have noticed that even in the flush times few brought much money away with them, no matter how lucky they were." "there must become exceptions, however." "there were. we have a notable example in milwaukee." "to whom do you refer?" "to thomas browning, the man who is up for mayor." jack king laughed. "i've heard a lot of talk about that man. he's very honest and very worthy, i hear." "they call him so," he answered. "i am afraid you are jealous of that good man," said warner, smiling. "i may be jealous of his success, but not of his reputation or his moral qualities." "then you don't admire him as much as the public generally?" "no, i know him too well." "he is really rich, is he not?" "yes, that is, he is worth, perhaps, two hundred thousand dollars." "that would satisfy me." "or me. but i doubt whether the money was creditably gained." "do you know anything about it? were you an acquaintance of his?" "yes; i can remember him when he was only a rough miner. i never heard that he was very lucky, but he managed to take considerable money east with him." warner eyed jack king attentively. "you suspect something," he said, shrewdly. "i do. there was one of our acquaintances who had struck it rich, and accumulated about ten thousand dollars. browning was thick with him, and i always suspected that when he found himself on his deathbed, he intrusted all his savings to butler----" "i thought you were speaking of browning?" "his name was butler then. he has changed it since. but, as i was saying, i think he intrusted his money to browning to take home to his family." "well?" "the question is, did browning fulfill his trust, or keep the money himself?" "that would come out, wouldn't it? the family would make inquiries." "they did not know that the dying man had money. he kept it to himself, for he wanted to go home and give them an agreeable surprise. butler knew this, and, i think, he took advantage of it." "that was contemptible. but can't it be ascertained? is it known where the family lives? what is the name?" "walton." "walton!" repeated warner powell, in surprise. "yes; do you know any family of that name?" "i know a boy in chicago named luke walton. he is in the employ of my aunt. a part of his time he spends in selling papers." "mr. browning told me that walton only left a daughter, and that the family had gone to the eastern states." "would he be likely to tell you the truth--supposing he had really kept the money?" "perhaps not. what more can you tell me about this boy?" powell's face lighted up. "i remember now, he told me that his father died in california." "is it possible?" said jack king, excited. "i begin to think i am on the right track. i begin to think, too, that i can tell where tom butler got his first start." "and now he poses as a philanthropist?" "yes." "and is nominated for mayor?" "yes, also." "how are your relations with him?" "they should be friendly, for he and i were comrades in earlier days, and once i lent him money when he needed it, but he has been puffed up by his prosperity, and takes very little notice of me. he had to do something for me when i first came to milwaukee, but it was because he was afraid not to." meanwhile warner powell was searching his memory. where and how had he become familiar with the name of thomas browning? at last it came to him. "eureka!" he exclaimed, in excitement. "what does that mean? i don't understand french." warner smiled. "it isn't french," he said; "but greek, all the greek i know. it means 'i have discovered'--the mystery of your old acquaintance." "explain, please!" said jack king, his interest be coming intense. "i have a friend in chicago--stephen webb, a nephew of your philanthropist--who has been commissioned by his uncle to find out all he can about this newsboy, luke walton. he was speculating with me why his uncle should be so interested in an obscure boy." "had his uncle told him nothing?" "no, except that he dropped a hint about knowing luke's father." "this luke and his family are poor, you say?" "yes, you can judge that from his employment. he is an honest, manly boy, however, and i have taken a fancy to him. i hope it will turn out as you say. but nothing can be proved. this browning will probably deny that he received money in trust from the dead father." jack king's countenance fell. "when you go back to chicago talk with the boy, and find out whether the family have any evidence that will support their claim. then send the boy on to me, and we will see what can be done." "i accept the suggestion with pleasure. but i will offer an amendment. let us write the boy to come on at once, and have a joint consultation in his interest." chapter xxxviii felicie proves troublesome we must return to chicago for a short time before recording the incidents of luke's visit to milwaukee. though harold had lost nearly half of his money through being compelled to divide with felicie, he was, upon the whole, well satisfied with the way in which he had escaped from suspicion. he had his gold watch, and, as far as he knew, the story which he had told about it had not been doubted. but something happened that annoyed and alarmed him. one day, when there was no one else in the house, except the servants, felicie intercepted him as he was going out. "i want a word with you, master harold," she said. "i am in a hurry, felicie," replied harold, who had conceived a dislike for the french maid. "still, i think you can spare a few minutes," went on felicie, smiling in an unpleasant manner. "well, be quick about it," said harold, impatiently. "i have a sister who is very sick. she is a widow with two children, and her means are very small." "goodness, felicie! what is all this to me? of course, i'm sorry for her, but i don't know her." "she looks to me to help her," continued felicie. "well, that's all right! i suppose you are going to help her." "there is the trouble, master harold. i have no money on hand." "well, i'm sure that is unlucky, but why do you speak to me about it?" "because," and here felicie's eyes glistened, "i know you obtained some money recently from your aunt." "hush!" said harold, apprehensively. "but it's true." "and it's true that you made me give you half of it." "it all went to my poor sister," said felicie theatrically. "i don't see what i have to do with that," said harold, not without reason. "so that i kept none for myself. now i am sure you will open your heart, and give me five dollars more." "i never heard such cheek!" exclaimed harold, indignantly. "you've got half, and are not satisfied with that." "but think of my poor sister!" said felicie, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, in which there were no tears. "think of me!" exclaimed harold, angrily. "then you won't give me the trifle i ask?" "trifle? i haven't got it." "where is it gone?" "gone to buy this watch. that took nearly the whole of it." "it is indeed so? i thought you received it as a reward for picking up a pocketbook." "i had to tell my aunt something. otherwise they would ask me embarrassing questions." "ah, _quelle invention!_" exclaimed felicie, playfully. "and you really have none of the money left?" "no." "then there is only one way." "what is that?" "to open the drawer again." "are you mad, felicie? i should surely be discovered. it won't do to try it a second time when my aunt is on her guard. besides, very likely she don't keep her money there now." "oh, yes, she does." "how do you know?" "i was in the room yesterday when she opened the drawer to take out money to pay a bill." "she must be foolish, then." "ah," said felicie, coolly, "she thinks lightning won't strike twice in the same place." "well, it won't." "there must have been fifty dollars in bills in the drawer," continued felicie, insinuatingly. "it may stay there for all me. i won't go to the drawer again." "i must have some money," said felicie, significantly. "then go and tell aunt eliza, and she may give you some." "i don't think your aunt eliza likes me," said felicie, frankly. "very likely not," said harold, with equal candor. "you can raise some money on your watch, master harold," suggested felicie. "how?" "at the pawnbroker's." "well, i don't mean to." "no?" "no!" returned harold, emphatically. "suppose i go and tell mrs. merton who took her money?" "you would only expose yourself." "i did not take it." "you made me divide with you." "i shall deny all that. besides, i shall tell all that i saw--on that day." harold felt troubled. felicie might, as he knew, make trouble for him, and though he could in time inform against her, that would not make matters much better for him. probably the whole story would come out, and he felt sure that the french maid would not spare him. a lucky thought came to him. "felicie," he said, "i think i can suggest something that will help you." "well, what is it?" "go to my aunt's drawer yourself. you have plenty of chance, and you can keep all the money you find. i won't ask you for any of it." felicie eyed him sharply. she was not sure but he meant to trap her. "i have no keys," she said. "you can use the same bunch i have. here they are!" felicie paused a moment, then took the proffered keys. after all, why should she not make use of the suggestion? it would be thought that the second thief was the same as the first. "can i rely on your discretion, master harold?" she asked. "yes, certainly. i am not very likely to say anything about the matter." "true! it might not be for your interest. good-morning, master harold, i won't detain you any longer." harold left the house with a feeling of relief. "i hope felicie will be caught!" he said to himself. "i have a great mind to give aunt eliza a hint." it looked as if the generally astute felicie had made a mistake. chapter xxxix luke walton's letter "here is a letter for you, luke!" said mrs. walton. luke took it in his hand, and regarded it curiously. he was not in the habit of receiving letters. "it is postmarked milwaukee," he said. "do you know anyone in milwaukee?" asked his mother. "no; or stay, it must be from mr. powell, a brother of mrs. tracy." "probably he sends a message to his sister." by this time luke had opened the following letter, which he read with great surprise and excitement: dear luke:--come to milwaukee as soon as you can, and join me at the prairie hotel. i write in your own interest. there is a large sum due to your father, which i may be able to put you in the way of collecting. you had better see aunt eliza, and ask leave of absence for a day or two. if you haven't money enough to come on, let her know, and i am sure she will advance it to you. your friend, warner powell. "what can it mean?" asked mrs. walton, to whom luke read the letter. "it must refer to the ten thousand dollars which father sent to us on his dying bed." "if it were only so!" said the widow, clasping her hands. "at any rate, i shall soon find out, mother. i had better take the letter which was sent us, giving us the first information of the legacy." "very well, luke! i don't know anything about business. i must leave the matter entirely in your hands. "i will go at once to mrs. merton and ask if it will inconvenience her if i go away for a couple of days." "do so, luke! she is a kind friend, and you should do nothing without her permission." luke took the cars for prairie avenue, though it was afternoon, and he had been there once already. he was shown immediately into the old lady's presence. mrs. merton saw him enter with surprise. "has anything happened, luke?" she asked. "i have received a letter from your nephew, summoning me to milwaukee." "i hope he is not in any scrape." "no; it is a very friendly letter, written in my interest. may i read it to you?" "i shall be glad to hear it." mrs. merton settled herself back in her rocking-chair, and listened to the reading of the letter. "do you know what this refers to, luke?" she asked. "yes; my father on his deathbed in california intrusted a stranger with ten thousand dollars to bring to my mother. he kept it for his own use, and it was only by an accident that we heard about the matter." "you interest me, luke. what was the accident?" luke explained. "it must be this that mr. powell refers to," he added. "but i don't see how my nephew should have anything to do with it." "there is a man in milwaukee who answers the description of the stranger to whom my poor father intrusted his money. i have seen him, for he often comes to chicago. i have even spoken to him." "have you ever taxed him with this breach of trust?" "no, for he bears a different name. he is thomas browning, while the letter mentions thomas butler." "he may have changed his name." "i was stupid not to think of that before. there can hardly be two men so singularly alike. i have come to ask you, mrs. merton, if you can spare me for two or three days." "for as long as you like, luke," said the old lady, promptly. "have you any money for your traveling expenses?" "yes, thank you." "no matter. here are twenty dollars. money never comes amiss." "you are always kind to me, mrs. merton," said luke, gratefully. "it is easy to be kind if one is rich. i want to see that man punished. let me give you one piece of advice. be on your guard with this man! he is not to be trusted." "thank you! i am sure your advice is good." "i wish you good luck, luke. however things may turn out, there is one thing that gratifies me. warner is showing himself your friend. i have looked upon him till recently as a black sheep, but he is redeeming himself rapidly in my eyes. i shall not forget his kindness to you." as luke went downstairs he met mrs. tracy. "here again!" said she, coldly. "did my aunt send for you this afternoon?" "no, madam." "then you should not have intruded. you are young, but you are very artful. i see through your schemes, you may rest assured." "i wished to show mrs. merton a letter from your brother, now in milwaukee," said luke. "oh, that's it, is it? let me see the letter." "i must refer you to mrs. merton." "he has probably sent to aunt eliza for some money," thought mrs. tracy. "he and the boy are well matched." chapter xl face to face with the enemy thomas browning sat in his handsome study, in a complacent frame of mind. the caucus was to be held in the evening, and he confidently expected the nomination for mayor. it was the post he had coveted for a long time. there were other honors that were greater, but the mayoralty would perhaps prove a stepping-stone to them. he must not be impatient. he was only in middle life, and there was plenty of time. "i didn't dream this when i was a penniless miner in california," he reflected, gleefully. "fortune was hard upon me then, but now i am at the top of the heap. all my own good management, too. tom butler--no, browning--is no fool, if i do say it myself." "someone to see you, mr. browning," said the servant. "show him in!" replied the philanthropist. a poorly dressed man followed the maid into the room. mr. browning frowned. he had thought it might be some influential member of his party. "what do you want?" he asked, roughly. the poor man stood humbly before him, nervously pressing the hat between his hands. "i am one of your tenants, mr. browning. i am behindhand with my rent, owing to sickness in the family, and i have been ordered out." "and very properly, too!" said browning. "you can't expect me to let you stay gratis." "but sir, you have the reputation of being a philanthropist. it hardly seems the character----" "i do not call myself a philanthropist--others call me so--and perhaps they are right. i help the poor to the extent of my means, but even a philanthropist expects his honest dues." "then you can do nothing for me, sir?" "no; i do not feel called upon to interfere in your case." the poor man went out sorrowfully, leaving the philanthropist in an irritable mood. five minutes later a second visitor was announced. "who is it?" asked browning, fearing it might be an other tenant. "it is a boy, sir." "with a message, probably. show him up." but thomas browning was destined to be surprised, when in the manly-looking youth who entered he recognized the chicago newsboy who had already excited his uneasiness. "what brings you here?" he demanded, in a startled tone. "i don't know if you remember me, mr. browning," said luke, quietly. "luke walton is my name, sir, and i have sold you papers near the sherman house, in chicago." "i thought your face looked familiar," said browning, assuming an indifferent tone. "you have made a mistake in coming to milwaukee. you cannot do as well here as in chicago." "i have not come in search of a place. i have a good one at home." "i suppose you have some object in coming to this city?" "yes; i came to see you." "upon my word, i ought to feel flattered, but i can't do anything for you. i have some reputation in charitable circles, but i have my hands full here." "i have not come to ask you a favor, mr. browning. if you will allow me, i will ask your advice in a matter of importance to me." browning brightened up. he was always ready to give advice. "go on!" he said. "when i was a young boy my father went to california. he left my mother, my brother, and myself very poorly provided for, but he hoped to earn money at the mines. a year passed, and we heard of his death." "a good many men die in california," said browning, phlegmatically. "we could not learn that father left anything, and we were compelled to get long as we could. mother obtained sewing to do at low prices, and i sold papers." "a common experience!" said browning, coldly. "about three months ago," continued luke, "we were surprised by receiving in a letter from a stranger, a message from my father's deathbed." thomas browning started and turned pale, as he gazed intently in the boy's face. "how much does he know?" he asked himself, apprehensively. "go on!" he said, slowly. "in this letter we learned for the first time that father had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to an acquaintance to be brought to my mother. this man proved false and kept the money." "this story may or may not be true," said browning, with an effort. "was the man's name given?" "yes; his name was thomas butler." "indeed! have you ever met him?" "i think so," answered luke, slowly. "i will read his description from the letter: he has a wart on the upper part of his right cheek--a mark which disfigures and mortifies him exceedingly. he is about five feet ten inches in height, with a dark complexion and dark hair, a little tinged with gray. "let me see the letter," said browning, hoarsely. he took the letter in his hand, and, moving near the grate fire, began to read it. suddenly the paper as if accidentally, slipped from his fingers, and fell upon the glowing coals--where it was instantly consumed. "how careless i am!" ejaculated browning, but there was exultation in the glance. chapter xli mr. browning comes to terms the destruction of the letter, and the open exultation of the man who had in intention at least doubly wronged him, did not appear to dismay luke walton. he sat quite cool and collected, facing mr. browning. "really, i don't see how this letter happened to slip from my hand," continued the philanthropist. "i am afraid you consider it important." "i should if it had been the genuine letter," said luke. "what!" gasped browning. "it was only a copy, as you will be glad to hear." "boy, i think you are deceiving me," said browning, sharply. "not at all! i left the genuine letter in the hands of my lawyer." "your lawyer?" "yes. i have put this matter in the hands of mr. jordan, of this city." mr. browning looked very much disturbed. mr. jordan was a well-known and eminent attorney. moreover, he was opposed in politics to the would-be mayor. if his opponent should get hold of this discreditable chapter in his past history, his political aspirations might as well be given up. again he asked himself, "how much of the story does this boy know?" "if you are employing a lawyer," he said, after a pause, "i don't understand why you came to me for advice." "i thought you might be interested in the matter," said luke, significantly. "why should i be interested in your affairs? i have so many things to think of that really i can't take hold of anything new." "i will tell you, sir. you are the man who received money in trust from my dying father. i look to you to restore it with interest." "how dare you insinuate any such thing?" demanded browning, furiously. "do you mean to extort money by threats?" "no, sir, i only ask for justice." "there is nothing to connect me with the matter. according to your letter it was a thomas butler who received the money you refer to." "true, and your name at that time was thomas butler." mr. browning turned livid. the net seemed to be closing about him. "what proof have you of this ridiculous assertion?" he demanded. "the testimony of one who knew you then and now--mr. king, who keeps a cigar stand at the prairie hotel." "ha! traitor!" ejaculated browning, apostrophizing the absent king. "this is a conspiracy!" he said. "king has put you up to this. he is a discreditable tramp whom i befriended when in dire need. this is my reward for it." "i have nothing to do with that, mr. browning. mr. king is ready to help me with his testimony. my lawyer has advised me to call upon you, and to say this: if you will pay over the ten thousand dollars with interest i will engage in my mother's name to keep the matter from getting before the public." "and if i don't agree to this?" "mr. jordan is instructed to bring suit against you." drops of perspiration gathered on the brow of mr. browning. this would never do. the suit, even if unsuccessful, would blast his reputation as a philanthropist, and his prospects as a politician. "i will see mr. jordan," he said. "very well, sir. then i wish you good-morning." within two days thomas browning had paid over to the lawyer for his young client the full sum demanded, and luke left milwaukee with the happy consciousness that his mother was now beyond the reach of poverty. chapter xlii conclusion felicie reflected over harold's dishonest suggestion, and concluded to adopt it. she meant to charge harold with the second robbery, and to brazen it out if necessary. accordingly, one day she stole into mrs. merton's sitting room, and with the keys supplied by harold succeeded in opening the drawer. inside, greatly to her surprise, she saw the identical pocketbook which it had been understood was taken at the time of the first robbery. she was holding it in her hand, when a slight noise led her to look up swiftly. to her dismay she saw the old lady, whom she had supposed out of the house, regarding her sternly. "what does this mean, felicie?" demanded mrs. merton. "i--i found these keys and was trying them to see if any of them had been used at the time your money was stolen." "do you know who took my money on that occasion?" continued the old lady. "yes, i do," answered felicie, swiftly deciding to tell the truth. "who was it?" "your nephew harold," answered felicie, glibly. "you know this?" "i saw him open the drawer. i was looking through a crack of the door." "and you never told me of this?" "i didn't want to expose him. he begged me not to do so." "that is singular. he warned me yesterday that he suspected you of being the thief, and that he had reason to think you were planning a second robbery." "he did?" said felicie, with flashing eyes. "yes; what have you to say to it?" "that he put me up to it, and gave me these keys to help me in doing it. of course, he expected to share the money." this last statement was untrue, but felicie was determined to be revenged upon her treacherous ally. "and you accepted?" "yes," said felicie, seeing no way of escape. "i am poor, and thought you wouldn't miss the money." "my nephew accused luke walton of being the thief." "it is untrue. he wanted to divert suspicion from himself. besides, he hates luke." "do you?" "no; i think him much better than harold." "so do i. where did my nephew get his gold watch?" "it was bought with the money he stole from the drawer." "so i supposed. well, felicie, you can go, but i think you had better hand me that bunch of keys." "shall you report me to mrs. tracy?" "i have not decided. for the present we will both keep this matter secret." luke's absence was, of course, noticed by mrs. tracy. "have you discharged luke walton?" she asked, hopefully. "i observe he has not come here for the last two or three days." "he has gone out of the city--on business." "i am surprised that you should trust that boy to such an extent." at this moment a telegraph messenger rang the bell, and a telegram was brought up to mrs. merton. it ran thus: to mrs. merton, ---- prairie avenue, chicago: i have recovered all my mother's money with interest. mr. powell is also successful. will return this evening. luke walton, "read it if you like, louisa," said the old lady, smiling with satisfaction. "what does it mean?" "that luke has recovered over ten thousand dollars, of which his mother had been defrauded. it was warner who put him on the track of the man who wrongfully held the money." "indeed!" said mrs. tracy, spitefully. "then the least he can do is to return the money he took from you." "he never took any, louisa." "who did, then?" "your son, harold." "who has been telling lies about my poor boy?" exclaimed mrs. tracy, angrily. "a person who saw him unlocking the drawer." "has luke walton been telling falsehoods about my son?" "no; it was quite another person. i have other proof also, and have known for some time who the real thief was. if harold claims that i have done him injustice, send him to me." after an interview with harold, mrs. tracy was obliged to believe, much against her will, that he was the guilty one and not the boy she so much detested. this did not prepossess her any more in favor of luke walton, whom she regarded as the rival and enemy of her son. it was a joyful coming home for luke. he removed at once to a nice neighborhood, and ceased to be a chicago newsboy. he did not lose the friendship of mrs. merton, who is understood to have put him down for a large legacy in her will, and still employs him to transact much of her business. next year she proposes to establish her nephew, warner powell, and luke in a commission business, under the style of powell & walton she furnishing the capital. the house on prairie avenue is closed. mrs. tracy is married again, to a man whose intemperate habits promise her little happiness. harold seems unwilling to settle down to business, but has developed a taste for dress and the amusements of a young man about town. he thinks he will eventually be provided for by mrs. merton, but in this he will be mistaken, as she has decided to leave much the larger part of her wealth to charitable institutions after remembering her nephew, warner powell, handsomely. ambrose kean never repeated the mistake he had made. still more, by diligent economy he saved up the sum advanced him by mrs. merton, and he offered it to her. she accepted it, but returned it many times over to his mother. her patronage brought him another advantage; it led his employer to increase his salary, which is now double that which he formerly received. felicie lost her position, but speedily secured another, where it is to be hoped she will be more circumspect in her conduct. thomas browning, after all, lost the nomination which he craved--and much of his wealth is gone. he dabbled in foolish speculation, and is now comparatively a poor man. through the agency of jack king, the story of his breach of trust was whispered about, and the sham philanthropist is better understood and less respected by his fellow-citizens. his nephew, stephen webb, has been obliged to buckle down to hard work at ten dollars a week, and feels that his path is indeed thorny. luke walton is not puffed up by his unexpected and remarkable success. he never fails to recognize kindly, and help, if there is need, the old associates of his humbler days, and never tries to conceal the fact that he was once a chicago newsboy. the end. [graphic decoration: cherub with tethered birds (upside down)] white house incidents. trying the "greens" on jake. a deputation of bankers were one day introduced to the president by the secretary of the treasury. one of the party, mr. p---- of chelsea, mass., took occasion to refer to the severity of the tax laid by congress upon state banks. "now," said mr. lincoln, "that reminds me of a circumstance that took place in a neighborhood where i lived when i was a boy. in the spring of the year the farmers were very fond of a dish which they called greens, though the fashionable name for it now-a-days is spinach, i believe. one day after dinner, a large family were taken very ill. the doctor was called in, who attributed it to the greens, of which all had frequently partaken. living in the family was a half-witted boy named jake. on a subsequent occasion, when greens had been gathered for dinner, the head of the house said: "'now, boys, before running any further risk in this thing, we will first try them on jake, if he stands it, we are all right.' "and just so, i suppose," said mr. lincoln, "congress thought it would try this tax on state banks!" a story which lincoln told the preachers. a year or more before mr. lincoln's death, a delegation of clergymen waited upon him in reference to the appointment of the army chaplains the delegation consisted of a presbyterian, a baptist, and an episcopal clergyman. they stated that the character of many of the chaplains was notoriously bad, and they had come to urge upon the president the necessity of more discretion in these appointments. "but, gentlemen," said the president, "that is a matter which the government has nothing to do with; the chaplains are chosen by the regiments." not satisfied with this, the clergymen pressed, in turn, a change in the system. mr. lincoln heard them through without remark, and then said, "without any disrespect, gentlemen, i will tell you a 'little story.' "once, in springfield, i was going off on a short journey, and reached the depot a little ahead of time. leaning against the fence just outside the depot was a little darkey boy, whom i knew, named 'dick,' busily digging with his toe in a mud-puddle. as i came up, i said, 'dick, what are you about?' "'making a church,' said he. "'a church,' said i; 'what do you mean?' "'why, yes,' said dick, pointing with his toe, 'don't you see there is the shape of it; there's the steps and front door--here the pews, where the folks set--and there's the pulpit. "yes, i see,' said i; 'but why don't you make a minister? "'laws,' answered dick, with a grin, 'i hain't got mud enough.'" how lincoln stood up for the word "sugar-coated." mr. defrees, the government printer, states, that, when one of the president's message was being printed, he was a good deal disturbed by the use of the term "sugar-coated," and finally went to mr. lincoln about it. their relations to each other being of the most intimate character, he told the president frankly, that he ought to remember that a message to congress was a different affair from a speech at a mass meeting in illinois; that the messages became a part of history, and should be written accordingly. "what is the matter now?" inquired the president. "why," said mr. defrees, "you have used an undignified expression in the message;" and then, reading the paragraph aloud, he added, i would alter the structure of that if i were you." "defrees," replied mr. lincoln, "that word expresses exactly my idea, and i am not going to change it. the time will never come in this country when the people won't know exactly what 'sugar-coated' means." on a subsequent occasion, mr. defrees states that a certain sentence of another message was very awkwardly constructed. calling the president's attention to it in the proof-copy, the latter acknowledged the force of the objection raised, and said, "go home, defrees, and see if you can better it." the next day mr. defrees took into him his amendment. mr. lincoln met him by saying: "seward found the same fault that you did, and he has been rewriting the paragraph, also." then, reading mr. defrees' version, he said, "i believe you have beaten seward; but, 'i jings,' i think i can beat you both." then, taking up his pen, he wrote the sentence as it was finally printed. lincoln's advice to a prominent bachelor. upon the betrothal of the prince of wales to the princess alexandra, queen victoria sent a letter to each of the european sovereigns, and also to president lincoln, announcing the fact. lord lyons, her ambassador at washington,--a "bachelor," by the way,--requested an audience of mr. lincoln, that he might present this important document in person. at the time appointed he was received at the white house, in company with mr. seward. "may it please your excellency," said lord lyons, "i hold in my hand an autograph letter from my royal mistress, queen victoria, which i have been commanded to present to your excellency. in it she informs your excellency that her son, his royal highness the prince of wales, is about to contract a matrimonial alliance with her royal highness the princess alexandra of denmark." after continuing in this strain for a few minutes, lord lyons tendered the letter to the president and awaited his reply. it was short, simple, and expressive, and consisted simply of the words: "lord lyons, go thou and do likewise." it is doubtful if an english ambassador was ever addressed in this manner before, and it would be interesting to learn what success he met with in putting the reply in diplomatic language when he reported it to her majesty. [illustration of carriage on forested road.] mr. lincoln and the bashful boys. the president and a friend were standing upon the threshold of the door under the portico of the white house, awaiting the coachman, when a letter was put into his hand. while he was reading this, people were passing, as is customary, up and down the promenade, which leads through the grounds of the war department, crossing, of course, the portico. attention was attracted to an approaching party, apparently a countryman, plainly dressed, with his wife and two little boys, who had evidently been straying about, looking at the places of public interest in the city. as they reached the portico the father, who was in advance, caught sight of the tall figure of mr. lincoln, absorbed in his letter. his wife and the little boys were ascending the steps. the man stopped suddenly, put out his hand with a "hush" to his family, and, after a moment's gaze, he bent down and whispered to them, "there is the president!" then leaving them, he slowly made a circuit around mr. lincoln, watching him intently all the while. at this point, having finished his letter, the president turned and said: "well, we will not wait any longer for the carriage; it won't hurt you and me to walk down." the countryman here approached very diffidently, and asked if he might be allowed to take the president by the hand; after which, "would he extend the same privilege to his wife and little boys?" mr. lincoln, good-naturedly, approached the latter, who had remained where they were stopped, and, reaching down, said a kind word to the bashful little fellows, who shrank close up to their mother, and did not reply. this simple act filled the father's cup full. "the lord is with you, mr. president," he said, reverently; and then, hesitating a moment, he added, with strong emphasis, "and the people, too, sir; and the people, too!" a few moments later mr. lincoln remarked to his friend: "great men have various estimates. when daniel webster made his tour through the west years ago, he visited springfield among other places, where great preparations had been made to receive him. as the procession was going through the town, a barefooted little darkey boy pulled the sleeve of a man named t., and asked: "'what the folks were all doing down the street?' "'why, jack,' was the reply, 'the biggest man in the world is coming.' "now, there lived in springfield a man by the name of g----, a very corpulent man. jack darted off down the street, but presently returned, with a very disappointed air. "'well, did you see him?' inquired t. "'yees,' returned jack; 'but laws, he ain't half as big as old g.'." an irish soldier who wanted something stronger than soda water. upon mr. lincoln's return to washington, after the capture of richmond, a member of the cabinet asked him if it would be proper to permit jacob thompson to slip through maine in disguise, and embark from portland. the president, as usual, was disposed to be merciful, and to permit the arch-rebel to pass unmolested, but the secretary urged that he should be arrested as a traitor. "by permitting him to escape the penalties of treason," persistently remarked the secretary, "you sanction it." "well," replied mr. lincoln, "let me tell you a story. "there was an irish soldier here last summer, who wanted something to drink stronger than water, and stopped at a drug-shop, where he espied a soda-fountain. "'mr. doctor' said he, 'give me, plase, a glass of soda wather, an' if yees can put in a few drops of whisky unbeknown to any one, i'll be obleeged.' "now," said mr. lincoln, "if jake thompson is permitted to go through maine unbeknown to any one, what's the harm? so don't have him arrested." looking out for breakers. in a time of despondency, some visitors were telling the president of the "breakers" so often seen ahead--"this time surely coming." "that," said he, "suggests the story of the school-boy, who never could pronounce the names 'shadrach,' 'meshach,' and 'abednego.' he had been repeatedly whipped for it without effect. some times afterwards he saw the names of the regular lesson for the day. putting his finger upon the place, he turned to his next neighbor, an older boy, and whispered, 'here comes those "tormented hebrews" again!'" a story about jack chase. a farmer from one of the border counties went to the president on a certain occasion with the complaint that the union soldiers in passing his farm had helped themselves not only to hay but to his horse; and he hoped the proper officer would be required to consider his claim immediately. "why, my good sir," replied mr. lincoln, "if i should attempt to consider every such individual case, i should find work enough for twenty presidents! "in my early days i knew one jack chase who was a lumberman on the illinois, and when steady and sober the best raftsman on the river. it was quite a trick twenty-five years ago to take the logs over the rapids, but he was skillful with a raft, and always kept her straight in the channel. finally a steamer was put on, and jack--he's dead now, poor fellow!--was made captain of her. he always used to take the wheel going through the rapids. one day when the boat was plunging and wallowing along the boiling current, and jack's utmost vigilance was being exercised to keep her in the narrow channel, a boy pulled his coat-tail and hailed him with: say, mister captain! i wish you would just stop your boat a minute--i've lost an apple overboard!" stories illustrating lincoln's memory. mr. lincoln's memory was very remarkable. at one of the afternoon receptions at the white house a stranger shook hands with him, and as he did so remarked, casually, that he was elected to congress about the time mr. lincoln's term as representative expired, which happened many years before. "yes," said the president, "you are from," mentioning the state. "i remember reading of your election in a newspaper one morning on a steamboat going down to mount vernon." at another time a gentleman addressed him, saying, "i presume, mr. president, you have forgotten me?" "no," was the prompt reply; "your name is flood. i saw you last, twelve years ago at ----," naming the place and the occasion. "i am glad to see," he continued, "that the flood flows on," subsequent to his re-election a deputation of bankers from various sections were introduced one day by the secretary of the treasury. after a few moments of general conversation, mr. lincoln turned to one of them and said: "your district did not give me so strong a vote at the last election as it did in ." "i think, sir, that you must be mistaken," replied the banker. "i have the impression that your majority was considerably increased at the last election," "no," rejoined the president, "you fell off about six hundred votes." then taking down from the bookcase the official canvass of and he referred to the vote or the district named and proved to be quite right in his assertion. philosophy of canes. a gentleman calling at the white house one evening carried a cane which in the course of conversation attracted the president's attention. taking it in his hand he said: "i always used a cane when i was a boy. it was a freak of mine. my favorite one was a knotted beech stick, and i carved the head myself. there's a mighty amount of character in sticks. don't you think so? you have seen these fishing-polls that fit into a cane? well, that was an old idea of mine. dogwood clubs were favorite ones with the boys. i suppose they use them yet. hickory is too heavy, unless you get it from a young sapling. have you ever noticed how a stick in one's hand will change his appearance? old women and witches wouldn't look so without sticks. meg merrilies understands that." common sense. the hon. mr. hubbard, of connecticut, once called upon the president in reference to a newly invented gun, concerning which a committee had been appointed to make a report. the "report" was sent for, and when it came in was found to be of the most voluminous description. mr. lincoln glanced at it and said: "i should want a new lease of life to read this through!" throwing it down upon the table he added: "why can't a committee of this kind occasionally exhibit a grain of common sense? if i send a man to buy a horse for me, i expect him to tell me his points--not how many hairs there are in his tail." lincoln's confab with a committee on "grant's whisky." just previous to the fall of vicksburg a self-constituted committee, solicitous for the _morale_ of our armies, took it upon themselves to visit the president and urge the removal of general grant. in some surprise mr. lincoln inquired, "for what reason?" "why," replied the spokesman, "he drinks too much whisky." "ah!" rejoined mr. lincoln, dropping his lower lip. "by the way, gentlemen, can either of you tell me where general grant procures his whisky? because, if i can find out, i will send every general in the field a barrel of it!" a "pretty tolerable respectable sort of a clergyman." some one was discussing in the presence of mr. lincoln the character of a time-serving washington clergyman. said mr. lincoln to his visitor: "i think you are rather hard upon mr. ----. he reminds me of a man in illinois, who was tried for passing a counterfeit bill. it was in evidence that before passing it he had taken it to the cashier of a bank and asked his opinion of the bill, and he received a very prompt reply that it was a counterfeit. his lawyer, who had heard the evidence to be brought against his client, asked him just before going into court, 'did you take the bill to the cashier of the bank and ask him if it was good?' "'i did,' was the reply, "'well, what was the reply of the cashier?' "the rascal was in a corner, but he got out of it in this fashion: 'he said it was a pretty tolerable, respectable sort of a bill.'" mr. lincoln thought the clergyman was "a pretty tolerable, respectable sort of a clergyman." opened his eyes. mr. lincoln sometimes had a very effective way of dealing with men who troubled him with questions. a visitor once asked him how many men the rebels had in the field. the president replied, very seriously, "_twelve hundred thousand, according to the best authority._" the interrogator blanched in the face, and ejaculated, "_good heavens!_" "yes, sir, twelve hundred thousand--no doubt of it. you see, all of our generals, when they get whipped, say the enemy outnumbers them from three or five to one, and i must believe them. we have four hundred thousand men in the field, and three times four makes twelve. don't you see it?" minnehaha and minneboohoo! some gentlemen fresh from a western tour, during a call at the white house, referred in the course of conversation to a body of water in nebraska, which bore an indian name signifying "weeping water." mr. lincoln instantly responded: "as 'laughing water,' according to mr. longfellow, is 'minnehaha,' this evidently should be 'minneboohoo.'" lincoln and the artist. f. b. carpenter, the celebrated artist and author of the well-known painting of lincoln and his cabinet issuing the emancipation proclamation, describes his first meeting with the president, as follows: "two o'clock found me one of the throng pressing toward the center of attraction, the blue room. from the threshold of the crimson parlor as i passed, i had a glimpse of the gaunt figure of mr. lincoln in the distance, haggard-looking, dressed in black, relieved only by the prescribed white gloves; standing, it seemed to me, solitary and alone, though surrounded by the crowd, bending low now and then in the process of hand-shaking, and responding half abstractedly to the well-meant greetings of the miscellaneous assemblage. "never shall i forget the electric thrill which went through my whole being at this instant. i seemed to see lines radiating from every part of the globe, converging to a focus where that plain, awkward-looking man stood, and to hear in spirit a million prayers, 'as the sound of many waters,' ascending in his behalf. "mingled with supplication i could discern a clear symphony of triumph and blessing, swelled with an ever-increasing volume. it was the voice of those who had been bondmen and bondwomen, and the grand diapason swept up from the coming ages. "it was soon my privilege in the regular succession, to take that honored hand. accompanying the act, my name and profession were announced to him in a low tone by one of the assistant secretaries, who stood by his side. "retaining my hand, he looked at me inquiringly for an instant, and said, oh, yes; i know; this is the painter. then straightening himself to his full height, with a twinkle of the eye, he added, playfully, 'do you think, mr. c----, that you could make a handsome picture of _me?_' emphasizing strongly the last word. "somewhat confused at this point-blank shot, uttered in a voice so loud as to attract the attention of those in immediate proximity, i made a random reply, and took the occasion to ask if i could see him in his study at the close of the reception. "to this he replied in the peculiar vernacular of the west, 'i reckon,' resuming meanwhile the mechanical and traditional exercise of the hand which no president has ever yet been able to avoid, and which, severe as is the ordeal, is likely to attach to the position so long as the republic endures." the american boy's sports series by mark overton mo cloth. illustrated. price c each. these stories touch upon nearly every sport in which the active boy is interested. baseball, rowing, football, hockey, skating, ice-boating, sailing, camping and fishing all serve to lend interest to an unusual series of books. there are the following four titles: . jack winters' baseball team; or, the mystery of the diamond. . jack winters' campmates; or, vacation days in the woods. . jack winters' gridiron chums; or, when the half-back saved the day. . jack winters' iceboat wonder; or, leading the hockey team to victory. the aeroplane series by john luther langworthy . the aeroplane boys; or, the young pilots first air voyage . the aeroplane boys on the wing; or, aeroplane chums in the tropics . the aeroplane boys among the clouds; or, young aviators in a wreck . the aeroplane boys flights; or. a hydroplane round-up . the aeroplane boys on a cattle ranch the girl aviator series by margaret burnham just the type of books that delight and fascinate the wide awake girls of the present day who are between the ages of eight and fourteen years. the great author of these books regards them as the best products of her pen. printed from large clear type on a superior quality of paper; attractive multi-color jacket wrapper around each book. bound in cloth. . the girl aviators and the phantom airship . the girl aviators on golden wings . the girl aviators' sky cruise . the girl aviators' motor butterfly. for sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of c. m. a. donohue & company - s. dearborn street :: chicago kindly provided by the internet archive (www.archive.org.) if this is borrowed by a friend right welcome shall he be to read, to study, not to lend but to return to me. not that imparted knowledge doth diminish learning's store but books i find if often lent return to me no more. the erie train boy horatio alger, jr. copyright, , united states book company (all rights reserved) the erie train boy contents. chapter. page. i. on the erie road ii. a fair exchange iii. fred's rich relation iv. zebulon mack v. an adventure on the train vi. mr. bascomb's peril vii. ferdinand morris viii. mr. bascomb's sad plight ix. a long trip x. what took place in no. xi. fred falls under a terrible suspicion xii. fred is a prisoner xiii. the hotel clerk's mistake xiv. the missing valise xv. mr. palmer walks into a trap xvi. palmer's malice xvii. two young lady passengers at odds xviii. unsatisfactory relations xix. ruth patton calls on mr. ferguson xx. a friend in need xxi. luella's painful discovery xxii. miss ferguson writes a note xxiii. another railroad adventure xxiv. fred's good luck xxv. rose wainwright's party xxvi. fred becomes a newspaper hero xxvii. a confidential mission xxviii. st. victor xxix. fred takes the first step xxx. a hunting excursion xxxi. fred has an understanding with sinclair xxxii. finding a clue xxxiii. success xxxiv. bowman's panic xxxv. fred's reward xxxvi. a letter from tom sloan xxxvii. cousin ferguson xxxviii. conclusion the erie train boy chapter i. on the erie road. "papers, magazines, all the popular novels! can't i sell you something this morning?" joshua bascom turned as the train boy addressed him, and revealed an honest, sunburned face, lighted up with pleasurable excitement, for he was a farmer's son and was making his first visit to the city of new york. "i ain't much on story readin'," he said, "i tried to read a story book once, but i couldn't seem to get interested in it." "what was the name of it?" asked fred, the train boy, smiling. "it was the 'pilgrim's progress,' or some such name. it had pictures into it. aunt nancy give it to dad for a birthday present once." "i have heard of it." "it was a mighty queer book. i couldn't make head nor tail on't." "all books are not like that." "i don't feel like readin'. it's a nuff sight more interestin' lookin' out of the winder at the sights. "i'm going to york to spend a week," added joshua, with an air of importance. "that's where i live," said the train boy. "do you? then you might tell me where to put up. i've got ten dollars. i reckon that ought to keep me a week." fred smiled. "that is more than enough to keep me," he said, "but it costs a stranger considerable to go around. but i shall have to go my rounds." it was a train on the erie road, and the car had just passed middletown. joshua was sitting by the window, and the seat beside him was vacant. the train boy had scarcely left the car when a stylishly dressed young man, who had been sitting behind, came forward and accosted joshua. "is this seat engaged?" he asked. "not as i know of," answered the young farmer. "then with your permission i will take it," said the stranger. "why of course; i hain't no objection. he's dreadful polite!" thought joshua. "you are from the country, i presume?" said the newcomer as he sank into the seat. "yes, i be. i live up elmira way--town of barton. was you ever in barton?" "i have passed through it. i suppose you are engaged in agricultural pursuits?" "hey?" "you are a farmer, i take it." "yes; i work on dad's farm. he owns a hundred and seventy-five acres, and me and a hired man help him to carry it on. i tell you we have to work." "just so! and now you are taking a vacation?" "yes. i've come to see the sights of york." "i think you will enjoy your visit. ahem! the mayor of new york is my uncle." "you don't say?" ejaculated joshua, awestruck. "yes! my name is ferdinand morris." "glad to know you, mr. morris. my name is joshua bascom." "indeed! an aunt of mine married a bascom. perhaps we are related." joshua was quite elated at the thought that he might in some way be related to the mayor of new york without knowing it, and he resolved to expatiate on that subject when he went back to barton. he decided that his new acquaintance must be rich, for he was dressed in showy style and had a violet in his buttonhole. "be you in business, mr morris?" he asked. "well, ahem! i am afraid that i am rather an idler. my father left me a quarter of a million, and so i don't feel the need of working." "quarter of a million!" ejaculated joshua. "why, that's two hundred and fifty thousand dollars." "just so," said morris, smiling. "that's an awful pile of money! why, dad's been workin' all his life, and he isn't wuth more'n three thousand dollars at the outside." "i am afraid three thousand dollars wouldn't last me a very long time," said morris, with an amused smile. "gosh! where can anybody get such a pile of money? that's what beats me!" "business, my young friend, business! why i've made that amount of money in one day." "you don't say!" "yes, by speculating in wall street." "you must be smart!" "my teachers didn't seem to think so. but life in the city is very different from life in the country." "i wish i could make some money." "a man must have money to make money. if now you had a little money----" "i've got ten dollars to pay my expenses." "is that all?" "no; i've got fifteen dollars to buy a shawl and dress for marm, and some shirts for dad. he thought he'd like some boughten shirts. the last marm made for him didn't fit very well." "you must take good care of your money, mr. bascom. i regret to say that we have a great many pickpockets in new york." "so i've heerd. that's what jim duffy told me. he went to york last spring. but i guess jim was keerless or he wouldn't have been robbed. it would take a smart pickpocket to rob me." "then you keep your money in a safe place?" "yes, i keep my wallet in my breeches pocket;" and joshua slapped the right leg of his trousers in a well satisfied way. "you are right! i see you are a man of the world. you are a sharp one." joshua laughed gleefully. he felt pleased at the compliment. "yes," he chuckled, "i ain't easy taken in, i tell you, ef i was born in the woods." "it is easy to see that. you can take care of yourself." "so i can." "that comes of being a bascom. i am glad to know that we are related. you must call on me in new york." "where do you live?" "at the fifth avenue hotel. just ask for ferdinand morris. they all know me there." "is that a good place to stop?" "yes, if you've got money enough. i pay five dollars a day for my board, and some extras carry it up to fifty dollars a week." "gosh all hemlock!" ejaculated joshua, "i don't want to pay no more'n five dollars a week." "you can perhaps find a cheap boarding-house for that sum--with plain board, of course." "that's what i'm used to. i'm willin' to get along without pie." "you like pie, then?" "we ginerally have it on the table at every meal, but i can wait till i get home." "i will see what i can do for you. in fact, all you've got to do is to buy a morning paper, and pick out a boarding-house where the price will suit you. you must come and dine with me some day at the fifth avenue hotel." "thank you! you're awful kind, but i'm afraid i ain't dressed up enough for such a stylish place." "well, perhaps not, but i might lend you a suit to go to the table in. we are about the same build." "if you've got an extra suit----" "an extra suit? mr. bascom, i have at least twenty extra suits." "gee-whillikens! what do you want with so many clothes?" "i never wear the same suit two days in succession. but i must bid you good morning, mr. bascom. i have a friend in the next car." morris rose, and joshua, feeling much flattered with his polite attentions, resumed his glances out of the window. "apples, oranges, bananas!" called the train boy, entering the car with a basket of fruit. "how much do you charge?" asked joshua. "i feel kind of hungry, and i haven't ate an orange for an age. last time i bought one was at the grocery up to hum." "the large oranges are five cents apiece," said fred. "i can give you two small ones for the same price." "i'll take two small ones. it seems a great deal of money, but i'm traveling and that makes a difference." "here are two good ones!" said fred, picking out a couple. "all right! i'll take 'em!" joshua bascom thrust his hand into his pocket, and then a wild spasm contracted his features. he explored it with growing excitement, and a sickly pallor overspread his face. "what's the matter?" asked fred. "i've been robbed. my wallet's gone!" groaned joshua in a husky voice. chapter ii. a fair exchange. "who can have robbed you?" asked the train boy, sympathetically. "i dunno," answered joshua sadly. "how much have you lost?" "twenty-five dollars. no," continued mr. bascom with a shade of relief. "i put dad's fifteen dollars in my inside vest pocket." "that is lucky. so you've only lost ten." "it was all i had to spend in york. i guess i'll have to turn round and go back." "but who could have taken it? who has been with you?" "only mr. morris, a rich young man. he is nephew to the mayor of new york." "who said so?" "he told me so himself." "how was he dressed?" asked fred, whose suspicions were aroused. "did he wear a white hat?" "yes." "and looked like a swell?" "yes." "he got off at the last station. it is he that robbed you." "but it can't be," said joshua earnestly. "he told me he was worth quarter of a million dollars, and boarded at the fifth avenue hotel." "and was nephew of the mayor?" "yes." fred laughed. "he is no more the mayor's nephew than i am," he said. "he is a confidence man." "how do you know?' asked joshua, perplexed. "that is the way they all act. he saw you were a countryman, and made up his mind to rob you. did you tell him where you kept your money?" "yes, i did. he told me there was lots of pickpockets in new york, and said i ought to be keerful." "he ought to know." "can't i get my money back?" asked mr. bascom anxiously. "i don't think there's much chance. even if you should see him some time, you couldn't prove that he robbed you." "i'd like to see him--for five minutes," said the young farmer, with a vengeful light in his eyes. "what would you do?" "i'd give him an all-fired shakin' up, that's what i'd do." looking at mr. bascom's broad shoulders and muscular arms, fred felt that he would be likely to keep his word in a most effectual manner. "i don't know what to do," groaned joshua, relapsing into gloom. as he spoke he slid his hand into his pocket once more, and quickly drew it out with an expression of surprise. he held between two fingers a handsome gold ring set with a neat stone. "where did that come from?" he asked. "didn't you ever see it before?" inquired the train boy. "never set eyes on it in my life." "that's a joke!" exclaimed fred with a laugh. "what's a joke? "why, the thief in drawing your wallet from your pocket dropped his ring. you've made an exchange, that is all." "what is it worth?" asked joshua, eagerly. "permit me, my friend," said a gentleman sitting just behind, as he extended his hand for the ring. "i am a jeweler and can probably give you an idea of the value of the ring." joshua handed it over readily. the jeweler eyed it carefully, and after a pause, handed it back. "my friend," he said, "that ring is worth fifty dollars!" "fifty dollars!" ejaculated joshua, his eyes distended with surprise. "i can't understand it. cousin sue has got a gold ring as big as this that only cost three dollars and a half." "very likely, but the stone of this is valuable. you've made money out of your pickpocket, if he only took ten dollars from you." "but he'll come back for it." the jeweler laughed. "if he does, tell him where you found it, and ask how it came in your pocket. he won't dare to call for it." "i'd rather have the ten dollars than the ring." "i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll advance you twenty-five dollars on the ring, and agree to give it back to you any time within a year on payment of that sum, and suitable interest." "you can have it, mister," said joshua promptly. as he pocketed the roll of bills given him in exchange, his face glowed with returning sunshine. "by gosh!" he said, "i've made fifteen dollars." "that' isn't a bad day's work!" said fred. "it's more'n i ever earned in a month before," said the young farmer. "i declare it's paid me to come to the city." "you are lucky! look out for pickpockets, as they don't always give anything in exchange. now you can afford to buy some oranges." "give me two five-cent oranges and a banana," said mr. bascom with reckless extravagance. "i guess i can afford it, now i've made fifteen dollars." "i wish that pickpocket would rob me," said fred smiling. "fifteen dollars would come in handy just now," and his smile was succeeded by a grave look, for money was scarce with the little household of which he was a member. it is time to speak more particularly of fred, who is the hero of this story. he was a pleasant-looking, but resolute and manly boy of seventeen, who had now been for some months employed on the erie road. he had lost a place which he formerly occupied in a store, on account of the failure of the man whom he served, and after some weeks of enforced leisure had obtained his present position. train boys are required to deposit with the company ten dollars to protect their employer from possible loss, this sum to be returned at the end of their term of service. they are, besides, obliged to buy an official cap, such as those of my readers who have traveled on any line of railroad are familiar with. fred had been prevented for some weeks from taking the place because he had not the money required as a deposit. at length a gentleman who had confidence in him went with him to the superintendent and supplied the sum, and this removing the last obstacle, fred fenton began his daily runs. he was paid by a twenty per cent, commission on sales. it was necessary, therefore, for him to take in five dollars in order to make one for himself. he had thus far managed to average about a dollar a day, and this, though small, was an essential help to his widowed mother with whom he lived. just before reaching jersey city, joshua bascom appealed to fred. "could you tell me where to stop in york?" he asked. "some nice cheap place?" "i know a plain boarding-house kept by a policeman's wife, who lives near us," said fred. "she would probably board you for five dollars a week." "by hokey, that's just the place." said joshua. "if you do it, i'll make it right with you." "never mind about that!" said fred. "all you've got to do is to come with me. it will be no trouble." chapter iii. fred's rich relation. it was seven o'clock when fred reached home. he and his mother occupied three rooms in a tenement house, at a rental of ten dollars a month. it was a small sum for the city, but as fred was the chief contributor to the family funds, rent day was always one of anxiety. it so happened that this very day rent was due, and fred felt anxious, for his mother, when he left home, had but seven dollars towards it. he opened the door of their humble home, and received a welcoming smile from mrs. fenton, a pleasant-looking woman of middle age. "i am glad to see you back, fred," she said. "the days seem long without you." "have you brought me a picture book, fred?" asked his little brother. "no, bertie, i can't bring you picture books every day. i wish i could." "albert has been drawing from his last book," said mrs. fenton. "he really has quite a taste for it." "we must send him to the cooper institute drawing school when he gets older. did the landlord come, mother?" "yes," answered mrs. fenton, a shade passing over her face. "what did he say? did he make any fuss?" "he was rough and unpleasant. he said he mast have his money promptly or we must vacate the rooms." "did he take the seven dollars?" "yes, he took it and gave me a receipt on account. he said he must have the balance to-morrow." "i don't see how we can pay it. the company owes me more, but i shan't get paid till saturday night." "don't they advance it to you?" "it is against the rule. besides i couldn't get it in time." "there is a lady in lexington avenue owing me four dollars for sewing, but when i went there today i heard that she was out of town." "it is very provoking to be kept out of your money when you need it so much. if we only had a little money ahead, we could get along well. something must be done, but i don't know what." "you might go round to cousin ferguson." "i hate to ask a favor of that man, mother." "you remember that your poor father owned a small tract of land in colorado. when robert ferguson went out three months since i asked him to look after it, and ascertain whether it was of any value. as i have heard nothing from him, i am afraid it is worthless." "i will go and ask him, mother. that is a matter of business, and i don't mind speaking to him on that subject. i will go at once." "perhaps he may be willing to advance a few dollars on it." "at any rate i will go." robert ferguson lived in a plain brick house on east thirty-ninth street. he was a down-town merchant, and in possession of a snug competence. mrs. fenton was his own cousin, but he had never offered to help her in any way, though he was quite aware of the fact that she was struggling hard to support her little family. he had a son raymond who was by no means as plain in his tastes as his father, but had developed a tendency to extravagance which augured ill for his future. he had never cared to cultivate the acquaintance of his poor cousins, and whenever he met fred treated him with ill-concealed contempt. it so happened that he was just leaving the house as fred ascended the steps. "good morning, raymond," said fred politely. "oh, it's you, is it?" "yes," answered fred briefly, for he did not like the style in which his cousin addressed him. "what do you want round here?" "i want to see your father." "i guess he's busy." "i want to see him on business," said fred, pulling the bell. "if you want to borrow any money it's no use. i struck him for ten dollars just now, and he only gave me two." "did i say i wanted to borrow any money?" "no, you didn't say so, but i couldn't think of any other business you could have." fred did not have occasion to answer, for here the door opened, and the servant stood on the threshold. "is mr. ferguson at home?" he asked. "yes; will you come in?" fred followed the girl into the back parlor where robert ferguson sat reading the evening paper. he looked up as fred entered. "good evening, mr. ferguson," he said. "good evening, frederick," said his relative coldly. "my mother asked me to call and inquire whether you heard anything of father's land in colorado." "ahem!" coughed mr. ferguson. "i hope she built no day dreams on its possible value." "no sir; but she hoped it might be worth something--even a small sum would be of value to us." "the fact is, these western lands are worth little or nothing." "father used to say that some time or other the land would be worth a good sum." "then i don't think much of your father's judgment. why, i don't believe you could give it away. let me see, how much was there?" "a hundred and twenty-five acres." "how did you father get possession of it?" "there was a man he took care of in his sickness, who gave it to him out of gratitude." robert ferguson shrugged his shoulders. "it would have been better if he had given him the same number of dollars," he said. "then you don't think it worth as much as that?" "no, i don't." fred looked disappointed. in their darkest days, he and his mother had always thought of this land as likely some time to bring them handsomely out of their troubles, and make a modest provision for their comfort. now there seemed to be an end to this hope. "i would have sent your mother word before," said robert ferguson, "but as the news was bad i thought it would keep. i don't see what possessed your father to go out to colorado." "he was doing poorly here, and some one recommended him to try his chances at the west." "well, he did a foolish thing. if a man improves his opportunities here he needn't wander away from home to earn a living. that's my view." "then," said fred slowly, "you don't think the land of any value?" "no, i don't. of course i am sorry for your disappointment, and i am going to show it. let your mother make over to me all claim to this land, and i will give her twenty-five dollars." "that isn't much," said fred soberly. "no, it isn't much, but it's better than nothing, and i shall lose by my bargain." fred sat in silence thinking over this proposal. the land was the only property his poor father had left, and to sell it for twenty-five dollars seemed like parting with a birthright for a mess of pottage. on the other hand twenty-five dollars would be of great service to them under present circumstances. "i don't know what to say," he answered slowly. "oh, well, it is your lookout. i only made the offer as a personal favor." mr. ferguson resumed the perusal of his paper, and thus implied that the interview was over. "cousin ferguson," said fred, with an effort, "our rent is due to-day, and we are a little short of the money to meet it. could you lend me three dollars till saturday night?" "no," answered robert ferguson coldly. "i don't approve of borrowing money. as a matter of principle i decline to lend. but if your mother agrees to sell the land she shall have twenty-five dollars at once." fred rose with a heavy heart. "i will tell mother what you propose," he said. "good evening!" "good evening!" rejoined mr. ferguson without raising his eyes from the paper. "twenty-five dollars would be very acceptable just now," said mrs. fenton thoughtfully, when fred reported the offer of his rich relative. "but it wouldn't last long, mother." "it would do us good while it lasted." "you are right there, mother, but i have no doubt the land is worth a good deal more." "what makes you think so? cousin ferguson----" "wouldn't have made the offer he did if he hadn't thought so, too." "he might have done it to help us." "he isn't that kind of a man. no, mother, it is for our interest to hold on to the land till we know more about it." "how shall we manage about the rent?" fred looked troubled. "something may turn up to-morrow. when the landlord comes, ask him to come again at eight o'clock, when i shall be home." "very well, fred." mrs. fenton was so much in the habit of trusting to her son that she dismissed the matter with less anxiety than fred felt. he knew very well that trusting for something to turn up is a precarious dependence, but there seemed nothing better to do. chapter iv. zebulon mack. at twelve that day the landlord, zebulon mack, presented himself promptly at the door of mrs. fenton's room. he was a small, thin, wrinkled man, whose suit would have been refused as a gift by the average tramp, yet he had an income of four thousand dollars a year from rents. he was now sixty years of age. at twenty-one he was working for eight dollars a week, and saving three-fifths of that. by slow degrees he had made himself rich, but in so doing he had denied himself all but the barest necessaries. what he expected to do with his money, as he was a bachelor with no near relatives, was a mystery, and he had probably formed no definite ideas himself. but it was his great enjoyment to see his hoards annually increasing, and he had no mercy for needy or unfortunate tenants who found themselves unable to pay their rent promptly. mrs. fenton opened the door with a troubled look. "i've come for that other three dollars, ma'am," said zebulon mack, standing on the threshold. "i'm very sorry, sir----" began the widow. "what! haven't you got the money?" snarled mack, screwing up his features into a frown that made him look even more unprepossessing. "my son fred will be paid on saturday night, and then----" "saturday night won't do. didn't you promise it to-day?" "yes; and fred tried to get an advance, but could not." "where is he working?" "on the erie road." "most likely he spends all his money for beer and cigarettes. i know him. he looks like it." "you are very much mistaken, sir," said mrs. fenton, indignantly. "oh, you think so, of course," sneered the landlord. "mothers don't know much about their boys, nor fathers either. i am glad i haven't a son." "i wouldn't be your son for a million dollars," said little albert, who resented the allusion to his big brother. "hey?" snarled mack, opening his mouth and showing his tobacco-stained tusks. "what business has a whipper-snapper like you to put in your oar?" "i ain't a whipper-snapper!" retorted albert, who did not know the meaning of the word, but concluded that it was not complimentary. "well, ma'am, what are you going to do? i can't stay here all day." "fred thought he would have the money by to-night. he asked if you would call round after he got home." "when is that?" "he generally gets home at seven o'clock." "then i'll be here at seven, but if you haven't the money, then out you go! do you hear?" "yes, sir." "then mind you remember it. with so many swindling tenants a landlord has a hard time." he shambled off, and mrs. fenton breathed a sigh of temporary relief. all the afternoon she felt troubled and anxious, and her anxiety increased as the hours wore away. "if fred should be late as he sometimes is," she said to bertie about six o'clock, "i am afraid mr. mack will carry out his threat and turn us out on the street." "i won't let him," said albert manfully. "we can't help it," said mrs. fenton. "do you think you could find your way to the depot to meet fred and hurry him home?" "oh, yes," answered the little boy. "i went there with fred last week." "you are sure you won't get lost?" "what do you take me for, mother? i'd be ashamed to get lost anywhere round the city." "then go, and tell fred to hurry up. mr. mack is so strict and severe that i am sure he won't wait a minute." at seven o'clock precisely mr. mack returned and, looking at his watch, said, "time's up, ma'am." "wait just a few minutes!" pleaded mrs. fenton. "i expect fred home every minute." "my time's valuable, ma'am. it is not likely the boy will have the money any way. "won't you wait, then? "do you take me for a fool, ma'am? here, finnegan." he had brought with him a man in his employ who for starvation wages helped him move out tenants, and made himself useful in a general way. "here i am, mr. mack," said finnegan. "just give me a hand with this bureau. we'll take that first." "oh, sir," pleaded mrs. fenton, "how can you be so merciless? in a few minutes fred will be here." "i'm not a fool, ma'am. i told you i'd move you at seven o'clock, and i'm a man of my word." "wait a minute and i'll see if i can borrow the money of mrs. sheehan." "you ought to have thought of that before. i'll give you two minutes." mrs. fenton sped down lo the rooms of mrs. sheehan on the next lower floor. "can you lend me three dollars, mrs. sheehan?" asked mrs. fenton, breathless. "mr. mack threatens to turn us out on the sidewalk." "i wish i could, mrs. fenton," said mrs. sheehan heartily, "but i bought my john a suit yesterday, and it's taken all my money except seventy-five cents. i'd be glad to oblige you, indeed i would." "i've no doubt of it," sighed the widow, for it was her last hope. "well, have you got the money?" asked zebulon mack, as she reappeared. "no, sir." "just what i thought. go ahead, finnegan." they took up the bureau and slowly moved to the door, and down the staircase with it. "it's a shame!" said mrs. sheehan, standing at her door. "you'd better look out, ma'am! it may be your turn next," said the landlord with a scowl. "if it is i won't wait for you a minute." "it's a hard man, you are, mr. mack." "i need to be," said zebulon mack grimly. "if i wasn't it's precious little rent i'd get in." the outlook for the fentons was dark indeed. chapter v. an adventure on the train. fred was on board his regular train that same morning at the usual hour, and started on his round of duty. he sold four morning papers, but trade seemed rather dull. about eleven o'clock he went through the first car distributing some packages of candy to the various passengers. on reaching the end of the car he returned, collecting the money for those purchased, and reclaiming those not wanted. about midway of the car was a man of middle age, with small, insignificant features, and a mean look. he seemed very much absorbed in reading a penny paper when the train boy came up. "will you buy the package of candy?" asked fred. "what package?" asked the passenger, looking up. "the one i left with you when i passed through the car." "i don't know what you mean. you left no package with me." "i remember distinctly leaving you a package." "you are thinking of some other man." "no, i am not." "you are mistaken!" said the passenger, frowning. "will you be kind enough to get up and let me see if it is on the seat, or has fallen underneath?" "no, i won't." fred was convinced that the passenger had secreted the package, and was scheming to cheat him out of the dime. he was a boy of spirit, and he did not propose to be swindled. "sir," he said in a louder tone, "i am a poor boy trying to earn an honest living. if you don't pay for this package i shall have to." "that is none of my business. i shall not pay for what i haven't got. boy, you are very impertinent. i shall report you to the president of the road." "you may do so if you want to. i can't afford to give away my stock in trade." "boy," interposed a pompous gentleman sitting opposite, "i quite agree with this gentleman. you are not employed to insult passengers." "or to be cheated by them," said fred hotly. "if you treated me in this way, i would make it my business to have you discharged." "even if i was right?" "of course you are not right. this gentleman's word outweighs yours." "why should it?" "he is a respectable gentleman, and you are only a poor train boy." "that may be, sir, but i always tell the truth." "like george washington," sneered the stout gentleman. fred felt that he was losing his case, and the mean passenger smiled with satisfaction. but his triumph was short-lived. the train boy found an unexpected defender. "the boy is right," said a young lady sitting directly behind the passenger with whom fred had his difficulty. "i saw this man take the package and put it in his pocket. i have waited with some curiosity to see whether he would persist in his attempt to cheat the boy out of his money." there was an instant revulsion of feeling. the attempted swindler looked as if a bombshell had exploded at his feet. "there is some error," he stammered. "the young lady is mistaken." "i am not mistaken," said the young lady positively "if this man will allow his pockets to be examined, the package will be found." the man rose from his seat and prepared to leave the car. "i ain't used to being insulted," he said. "gentlemen," said the young lady, "you have only to look at this man's side-pocket to see that it contains the package." the passenger wore a sack coat, and it was plain to all that the young lady was right. "i will pay for the package if the passenger is not honest enough to do it himself." "no, miss," said a rough-looking man who looked like a western miner. "this man must pay, or i'll pitch him out of the car myself." "i think you had better pay, sir," said the pompous looking man with an air of disgust. "i took your part, because i supposed you were a gentleman." the other, without a word, drew out a dime from his pocket and handed it to fred. then, looking very ill at ease, he left the car hurriedly, and went as far forward as possible. "do you have many experiences like this?" asked the young lady, with a smile. "yes, miss, quite frequently," aid fred, "and it isn't the poor passengers that try to cheat me. sometimes i travel on emigrant trains, but i never lost a cent by an emigrant. it is those who are able to pay, like this man, who try to take advantage of me." "do you make good pay?" "i average about a dollar a day." "i suppose that is fair pay for a boy of your age." "yes, it is; but i need it all. i have a mother and brother to support." "have you, indeed?" said the young lady sympathetically. "you can't all three live on six dollars a week." "mother earns a little by sewing, but that isn't paid very well." "very true. so you sometimes get into difficulties?" "we are in difficulties now. the rent is due, and we lack three dollars to make it up." "that is easily remedied," said the young lady. "it is my birthday to-day, and i shall allow myself the luxury of doing good. here are five dollars which you will use to pay the landlord." "thank you, miss," said fred gladly. "you have lifted a weight from my mind. our landlord is a strict man, and i was afraid we would be turned out on the street." "miss, will you let me shake hands with you? you're a trump!" it was the western miner who spoke, and he had come forward impulsively from his seat, and was extending a rough, sunburned hand to the young lady. she did not hesitate a moment, but with a pleasant smile placed her hand in his. "i wish all high-toned gals was like you, miss," said the miner, as he shook her hand heartily. "i am sure you would do the same, sir," said isabel archer. "yes, i would, and i meant to if you hadn't got the start of me. you'll excuse the liberty i took," said the miner. "oh, yes, certainly." "i'm a rough miner, but----" "you are a kind-hearted man. you may hereafter have it in your power to help the boy." "so i can," and the miner retreated to his seat. arrived at the erie depot, fred found his little brother waiting for him. "oh, fred," he said, "i hope you've got money for the rent. the landlord said he would turn us out at seven o'clock if we didn't pay." "and i am a little late," said fred, anxiously. "let me go with you!" said the miner, "i want to see what sort of a critter your landlord is. the mean scoundrel! it would do me good to shake him out of his boots." zebulon mack and his assistant had just succeeded in placing the bureau on the sidewalk when fred and his mining friend turned the corner of the street. "there's mother's bureau!" exclaimed fred in excitement. "he's begun to move us out." "he has, hey?" said sloan the miner. "we'll soon stop that." "what are you doing here?" demanded fred, hurrying up. zebulon mack turned round, and eyed the boy with an ugly frown. "i told your mother i'd move her out, and i've done it." "why didn't you wait for me? i've got the money." "you have?" "yes, i have." "pay it over, then." fred was about to do so when the miner interposed. "don't pay him till he carries back the bureau!" said sloan. "you and your friend can do that!" said the landlord. "if you don't catch hold of that bureau and take it back i'll wring your neck, you mean scoundrel!" said the miner sternly. zebulon mack looked into the miner's face and thought it wisest to obey. "here, finnegan!" he said sullenly. "take hold, and don't be all night about it." when the bureau was in place, fred, who had changed the five-dollar bill, handed mr. mack the three dollars. "now, my friend," said the miner, "you can reckon up how much you made by your meanness. you and that understrapper of yours must enjoy moving bureaus. i only wish you'd got down the rest of the furniture, so that i might have the satisfaction of seeing you carry it back." the landlord glared at tom sloan as if he would like to tear him to pieces. but he took it out in looks. "good night, sir," said the miner, "we don't care to have the pleasure of your company any longer." "i'll be even with you for all this," growled mack. "don't feel bad, squire. you've got your money." "mother," said fred, "this is my friend, mr. sloan." "i am glad to see any friend of my boy," said mrs. fenton. "won't you stay and take supper with fred?" "i'd like to, ma'am, if it won't be intruding." "not at all," said fred cordially. "i've had luck to-day, mother. a beautiful young lady gave me five dollars." "god bless her!" said mrs. fenton. "she couldn't have given it at a better time." chapter vi. mr. bascom's peril. tom sloan made himself very much at home with the fentons. the widow sent out for a steak, and this, with a cup of tea and some fresh rolls, furnished a plain but excellent repast. "i haven't eaten so good a supper for a long time," said the miner. "it seems just like the suppers i used to get at home in vermont." "it was very plain," said mrs. fenton, "but probably you had a good appetite." "you are right there, ma'am." mr. sloan remained chatting for a couple of hours. he told his new friends that he had been away two years, spending the time in nevada and california. "i hope you have had good luck, mr. sloan," said fred. "yes, i've made a few thousand dollars, but i'm going back again next month." "to california?" "no, to colorado." fred and his mother exchanged looks. "my father left us some land in colorado," said the train boy--"a hundred and twenty-five acres--but we can't find out whether it has any value or not." "let me know where it is," said the miner, "and i'll find out and send you word." "thank you! it will be a great favor," said mrs. fenton warmly. "a cousin of my husband went out there three months since, and visited the land. he reports that it is of no value, but offers to buy it for twenty-five dollars. fred thinks he wouldn't make the offer if it was not worth a good deal more." "that's where fred's head is level. depend upon it your cousin is foxy and wants to take you in. i'll tell you just how the matter stands." mrs. fenton produced her husband's papers, and mr. sloan made an entry of the location in a small note-book which he carried. "don't worry about it any more, ma'am,'" he said. "i'll do all i can for you, and i hope for your sake there's a gold mine on the land." mrs. fenton smiled. "i shall be satisfied with less than that," she answered. "how long are you going to stay in new york?" asked fred. "i am going to vermont to-morrow, and, likely as not i shan't come back this way, but go west from boston. anyway you'll hear from me occasionally. i ain't much of a writer, but i guess you can make out my pot-hooks." "i'll take the risk, mr. sloan," said fred, "i am no writing master myself, but my little brother albert can draw nicely, and writes a handsome hand. bertie, bring your last writing-book." the little boy did so, and exhibited it to the miner. "why, the kid beats my old teacher all hollow," said sloan. "i've a great mind to take him with me to vermont, and have him start a writing school." "i'm afraid albert couldn't keep order among the big boys." "well, there might be some trouble that way. how much do you weigh, kid?" "ninety pounds," answered albert. "well, that isn't exactly a heavy weight. but, fred, i must be going out and finding a room somewhere. do you know of any good place?" "there's a hotel close by. i'll go with you." "good evening, ma'am," said the miner, as he rose to go. "i may not see you again just at present, but i'll look after that business of yourn. come here, kid, you ought to get a prize for your writing. here's something for you," and he handed the delighted boy a five-dollar gold piece. "oh, ma, now may i have a new suit?" asked albert. "if you want a new suit," said the miner, "i haven't given you enough. here's another five to help along." "you are very kind, sir," said mrs. fenton. "albert is really in need of clothes, and this will buy him something more than a suit." "all the better, ma'am. i'm glad to have the chance of doing a little good with my money." "i wish all who have money were like you. i wish you health and good fortune, and a safe return to your friends." "those are three good things, ma'am. if i get there i won't kick." "do you ever kick?" asked albert, puzzled. "i see you don't understand me, kid. it's a slang term we miners use. i won't complain. that's a little better english, isn't it?" fred conducted mr. sloan to the hotel nearby and saw him secure a good room. then he was about to retire. "hold on a minute!" said the miner. "come up to my room. i want to talk a little to you on business." "certainly, mr. sloan." reaching the chamber, the miner unbuckled a belt that spanned his waist, and drew therefrom a large sum in gold pieces. he counted out five double eagles--a hundred dollars--and turning to fred, said: "i want you to keep that money for me till i come back." "but, mr. sloan," said fred surprised, "why not leave it with your other money? i might lose it." "i want you to put it in some savings bank in your own name, and, if you need it, to draw out any part of it. i don't want that mean scamp, the landlord, to get a chance to turn you out into the street." "but i might not be able to pay it back, mr. sloan." "i'll take the risk. i lend it to you without interest for a year, and if you have to use any of it i won't sue you." "you are very kind! it will make me feel much more easy in mind. i wouldn't mind being turned into the street on my own account, but mother couldn't stand it." "just so, fred. you've got a good mother, and you must look out for her." "i don't often meet a good friend like you, mr. sloan." "oh, pshaw! you mustn't make too much of a little thing," said the miner modestly. "i'm only giving you the interest on a hundred dollars." fred walked slowly homeward, feeling very cheerful. he hoped he should not need to use any of mr. sloan's kind loan, but it gave him a feeling of relief to know that he had a fund to draw from in case of need. on his way home, in passing a drinking saloon, fred's attention was drawn to two men who came out, arm in arm, both of whom appeared to be under the influence of liquor. something in the dress and figure of one looked familiar. coming closer fred recognized his country friend, joshua bascom. "what, mr. bascom! is this you?" "why, it's fred!" said bascom stopping short and trying to stand erect. "oh, come along!" said his companion impatiently. "no, i want to see the train boy. good night, old fellow!" the other angrily protested against being shaken off, but joshua dropped his arm, and took fred's instead. "how came you with that man?" asked fred. "he's a jolly, sociable chap. wanted to take me to a little card party, but i guess it's too late." "did he meet you in the saloon?" "no; he took me in there, and treated me to three glasses of milk punch. i guess it's got into my head. do you think i am--intoxicated, fred?" "it looks very much like it, mr. bascom." "i hope they won't hear of it at home. dad would get the minister to come and give me a talkin' to." "i hope this stranger didn't get any of your money?" "no; he wouldn't let me pay for a thing." "he meant to get the money back. he was carrying you to some gambling house, where he would have won all your money." "you don't say!" exclaimed joshua, panic-stricken. "i thought he was a nice fellow." "be careful how you trust strangers, and don't go to any more drinking saloons!" "i won't," said mr. bascom, fervently. "i will take you to your room, and you had better take a good long sleep. if you want to go round, i'll call to-morrow evening, and go to some place of amusement with you." "i think mr. bascom had better go back to his farm soon," thought fred, as he returned from piloting joshua home. "if he doesn't he is likely to get into trouble." chapter vii. ferdinand morris. when ferdinand morris left the train after robbing joshua bascom, as described in the first chapter, he was in excellent spirits. he had effected his purpose, and got off scot free. he walked briskly away from the station at which he got out, and didn't stop to examine the wallet till he had got half a mile away. when he discovered that it contained only ten dollars, he was filled with disgust. "what could the fellow mean by coming to the city with only ten dollars in his pocketbook?" he muttered. "it's a regular imposition. it wasn't worth taking. here i am, stranded in the country, and my ticket of no value, for only ten dollars! i should like to see my rural friend's wo-begone look when he discovers the loss of his wallet, though." this thought helped to reconcile morris to the situation. the picture which he had conjured up tickled his fancy, and he laughed heartily. but his merriment was short-lived. incidentally he noticed the loss of the ring, and his countenance changed. "my ring gone!" he exclaimed. "what can have become of it? it was worth fifty dollars at least. i must have dropped it into that fellow's pocket when i took his wallet. that's a pretty bad exchange. what an unlucky chap i am! i am about forty dollars out of pocket." the satisfaction of mr. morris was quite destroyed. there seemed little hope of his recovering the ring, for he could not make known its loss without betraying himself. "i may as well be going back to new york," he said moodily. "if i meet that fellow again, i must get up some scheme for recovering the ring from him. he is a countryman and i can frighten him into giving it to me. the worst of it is, the ring is not mine, and the owner will make a fuss about it. she is inclined to be suspicious, and i shall find it hard work to explain." in a house on lexington avenue lived a maiden lady, close upon forty years of age, though she called herself thirty-one. miss josephine harden had been left independent through the will of an aunt who had left her the sum of thirty-five thousand dollars. she had been for eight years an humble attendant, subject to the numerous whims and caprices of her relative, but two years since had been repaid by a legacy. ever since miss marden had been looking about for a suitable matrimonial partner. there were some difficulties in the way, for she was thin, long-nosed, and with a yellow complexion. three impecunious bachelors, lured by her money, had paid her some attentions, but their courage failed at last, and they silently slunk away. at length, however, ferdinand morris met miss harden, and conceived the idea of marrying her for her money. when he had once got possession of her fortune, he proposed to leave her in the lurch. morris was a stylish-looking man, and the spinster received his attentions very favorably. she knew very little about him except that he was in some mysterious business about which he did not speak definitely, except that it required him to travel constantly. matters progressed until they became engaged. at this point, rather reversing the usual order of things, miss marden gave her suitor the ring which he had now lost. "if we don't marry," she said cautiously, "i shall expect you to give it back." "certainly, my dear josephine," said morris, "but i shall hold you to your promise." "you might see some girl younger and fair," said hiss marden coyly. "how could that be?" said morris with mock ardor, as he bent over her hand and kissed it with secret facial contortions. "do you doubt my love?" "i try not to, ferdinand, but i am no longer in my first youth. i shudder to say it i am twenty nine." "you were two years older last week," thought morris. "i--i don't feel so old," said the spinster, "but i am afraid it is a fact." "i don't believe you will ever be forty again," thought morris. "by the way, josephine, have you thought of that investment i spoke to you about? i can get a hundred shares of mining stock for you, at five dollars a share--the inside price--while to the general public it is only sold at ten." "it may be as you say, ferdinand, but my aunt lost money in mining stocks, and i shall hardly dare to venture." "confound your aunt!" said morris to himself. "i assure you, josephine, this is a chance to double your money in three months." "have you invested in it yourself, ferdinand?" "oh, yes," answered morris, glibly, "i have a hundred and fifty shares." suspicious as she was, miss morris believed her suitor to be a man of means, and did not doubt his statement. "then i hope for your sake it will prove a good investment." "confound her!" thought morris, "there seems no chance to make her open her purse strings. she has got to come down liberally, or i won't marry her." it was at miss marden's door that ferdinand morris rang on the evening after the loss of the ring. he would have kept away, but he had promised to call, and miss morris was very strict in requiring him to keep his engagements. he had hardly entered the room when she discovered the loss of the ring. "what has become of the ring, ferdinand?" she asked quickly. "i thought you would miss it," he replied in some confusion. "where is it?" i asked miss harden peremptorily. "plague take the old cat," thought morris. "i suppose i may as well tell the truth." "the fact is," he stammered, "it was stolen from me on an erie train to-day by a pickpocket." "and you let him do it? what could you be thinking of, ferdinand?" "you have no idea how expert these fellows are, josephine," said morris, who certainly ought to know. "i think a man must be inexcusably careless or simple," returned the spinster, "to allow a man to steal a ring from his finger. do you suspect anybody?" "yes; i sat beside a young man dressed up as a countryman. he was such a good imitation, that i was positively taken in. he looked as if he had been driving the plow all his life." "and he stole the ring?" "he must have done it. there was no one else near who had the chance." "but how could he slip it off your finger without your knowing it?" "the fact is, i fell into a doze, and when i was half asleep the ring was taken. after he had got it he got out at some station, and i am afraid i never shall see him again." "i am not satisfied with your explanation, ferdinand." "you don't mean to say you doubt my word, josephine?" "i paid fifty dollars for that ring at a jeweler's on sixth avenue, and i don't feel like losing so much money." "but it is my loss, as you gave it to me." "you forget that in case our engagement was broken, it was to be returned." "but you really don't think of breaking the engagement? you don't want to drive me to despair?" "do you really love me so much, ferdinand?" said the spinster, smiling complacently. "can you doubt it? it makes me very unhappy to have you find fault with me." "but you must admit that you were very careless." "i confess it, but the man looked so innocent." "do you think you shall ever meet him again?" "i think so. he may be in another disguise." "i will give you four weeks to do so, ferdinand. if you don't succeed i shall require you to buy another in its place." "i will do my best," said morris. "i really thought you were sharper, ferdinand. no pickpocket could rob me." "i may try it some time," thought morris. "it would be rather a satisfaction to do it too." "i wonder if i shall meet that country fellow again," thought morris as he left the house. "if i do i'll see if i can't frighten him into returning my ring." the very next evening, in passing the standard theater, near the corner of thirty-third street morris saw and instantly recognized the tall, rustic figure and slouching walk of joshua bascom. he paused a moment in indecision, then summoning up all his native bravado, he stepped forward, and laid his hand on joshua's shoulder. "look here, my friend," he said in tone of authority, "i have some business with you." chapter viii. mr. bascom's sad plight. joshua turned in alarm, fearing that he was in the hands of a policeman. "what have i done?" he began. then recognizing morris, he said, "why, it's the man who stole my wallet." "you must be crazy," rejoined morris. "i charge you with theft." "well, that beats all!" ejaculated joshua. "just give me back my ten dollars." "i admire your cheek, my friend," said morris, "but it won't go down. where is that ring you stole from my finger?" "you left it in my pocket when you put in your hand and stole my wallet." "ha, you confess that you have got it. where is it?" "give me back my wallet and i may tell you." "my rural friend, you are in great danger. do you see that policeman coming up the street? well, i propose to give you in charge unless you give me back my ring." "i haven't got it," said joshua, beginning to feel uneasy. "then give me fifty dollars, the sum i paid for it." "gosh all hemlock!" exclaimed joshua impatiently. "you talk as if i was a thief instead of you." "so you are." "it's a lie." "of course you say so. if you haven't fifty dollars, give me all you have, and i'll let you off." "i won't do it." "then you must take the consequences. here, policeman, i give this man in charge for stealing a valuable ring from me." "when did he do it--just now?" "yes," answered morris, with unexpected audacity. "he looks like a countryman but he is a crook in disguise." "come along, my man!" said the policeman, taking joshua in tow. "you must come with me." "i hain't done nothing," said joshua. "please let me go, mr. policeman." "that's what they all say," remarked morris, shrugging his shoulders. "i see, he's an old offender," said the intelligent policeman, who had only been on the force three months. "he's one of the most artful crooks i ever met," said morris. "you'd swear he was a countryman." "so i be," insisted joshua. "i came from barton, up elmira way, and i've never been in the city before." "hear him!" said morris, laughing heartily. "ask him his name." "my name's joshua bascom, and i go to the baptist church reg'lar--just write and ask parson peabody, and he'll tell you i'm perfectly respectable." "my friend," said morris, "you can't fool an experienced officer by any such rigmarole. he can read you like a book." "of course i can," said the policeman, who felt the more flattered by this tribute because he was really a novice. "as this gentleman says, i knew you to be a crook the moment i set eyes on you." they turned the corner of thirtieth street on their way to the station house. poor joshua felt keenly the humiliation and disgrace of his position. it would be in all the papers, he had no doubt, for all such items got into the home papers, and he would not dare show his face in barton again. "am i going to jail?" he asked with keen anguish. "you'll land there shortly," said morris. "but i hain't done a thing." "is it necessary for me to go in?" asked ferdinand morris, with considerable uneasiness, for he feared to be recognized by some older member of the force. "certainly." replied the policeman, "you must enter a complaint against this man." morris peered into the station house, but saw no officer likely to remember him, so he summoned up all his audacity and followed the policeman and his prisoner inside. there happened to be no other case ahead, so joshua was brought forward. "what has this man done?" asked the sergeant. "stolen a ring from this gentleman here," answered the policeman. "was the ring found on his person?" "no, sergeant. he has not been searched." "search me if you want to. you won't find anything," said joshua. "he has probably thrown it away," said ferdinand morris, _sotto voce._ "no, i hain't." "what is your name, sir?" asked the sergeant, addressing morris. "my name is clarence hale," answered morris, boldly, taking the name of a young man of respectable family whom he had met casually. "where do you live?" "on fourth avenue, sir, near eleventh street." "do you swear that this man stole your ring?" "yes, sir." "where?" "in front of the standard theater." "how could he do it?" continued the sergeant. "he could not take it from your hand?" "it was in my pocket. i found him with his hand in my pocket," answered morris, glibly. "by gracious!" ejaculated joshua, his eyes distended with amazement, "i never heard a fellow lie so slick before, in all my life." "silence!" said the sergeant. "mr. hale, will you appear to-morrow morning at jefferson market, and testify against this man?" "yes, sir." "officer, have you ever arrested this man before?" went on the sergeant. "i'm not quite sure, sir. you see he's in disguise now. i think he's _wan_ of the gang." things began to look bad for poor joshua, who was in a fair way to be railroaded to the penitentiary, as no doubt more than one innocent man has been before now, through an unfortunate complication. "i wish i had some friend to speak up for me," he said, almost sobbing. "this is awful!" "so you have!" said an unexpected voice. joshua turned, and to his inexpressible relief saw fred standing on the threshold. "it's the train boy!" he exclaimed joyfully. fred had set out to call upon joshua that evening, and had chanced to see him going into the station house with the confidence man. he had followed to find out what it meant. there was one who was not so well pleased to see him. ferdinand morris turned pale, and tried to make his escape. "excuse me," he said. "i am faint, and must get out into the air." but fred stood in his way. "not so fast, mr. ferdinand morris," he said. "what trick are you up to now?" "do you know this man, fred?" asked the sergeant, who had known the train boy for three years, for he lived only one block away on the same street. "yes, sir, he stole the wallet of this young man on my train on the erie less than a week since." "but he said the prisoner stole his ring." "he left the ring in mr. bascom's pocket, when he was feeling for the wallet." "this is a great mistake," said morris, hurriedly. "i never saw this train boy before, and haven't traveled on the erie road for a year." "this man is telling a falsehood," said fred. "will you swear that he was on your train and robbed this countryman?" asked the sergeant. "yes, sir." "is there any officer who recognizes him?" the sergeant inquired, looking round the room. "i do," answered a stout policeman, who just then entered the station house. "i arrested him six months since, but he managed to slip away." "the prisoner is discharged," said the sergeant. "hold the complainant instead." to his great joy joshua was set free, and mr. morris, alias hale, was collared by a policeman, though he made a desperate struggle to escape. "i'll get even with you, boy!" said morris savagely, addressing fred. "come along, mr. bascom," said fred. "i presume you don't care to stay here any longer." "not if i know it," said joshua, fervently. "if i live till to-morrow morning, i'll start back to barton. i've seen all i want to of york. i won't feel safe till i get home, in sight of the old meetin' house. i wouldn't have dad know i'd been arrested for a load of pumpkins." chapter ix. a long trip. fred appeared at the depot the next morning the superintendent said to him, "i shall have to change your train to-day. you will wait for the nine o'clock train for suspension bridge." "when shall i get there?" the superintendent, referring to his schedule of trains, answered, "at . to-night. the boy who usually goes on this train is sick." "when shall i return?" "let me see, it is saturday. if you would like to stay over a day and see niagara falls, you can do so, and start on your return monday morning at . . how do you like the arrangement?" "very much. i was only thinking how i could get word to my mother. she will feel anxious if i am not back at the usual time." "you might send her a note by a telegraph messenger." at this moment fred espied a boy of his acquaintance in the street outside. "here, charlie schaeffer," he called, "do you want to earn a quarter?" "yes," answered the boy quickly. "what do you want me to do?" "take a note to my mother." "it'll cost me almost a quarter for expenses." "i will pay that besides." "all right! give me the letter." fred scribbled these few lines: dear mother, i am sent to suspension bridge and shall not probably be back till late monday evening, or perhaps tuesday morning. don't worry. fred. charlie schaeffer, a stout german boy, who was temporarily out of work, was glad of the chance of earning a quarter for himself, and started at once on his errand. fred, quite elated at the prospect of seeing niagara falls, prepared for his trip. he had to carry a larger supply of stock on account of the length of the journey, and was instructed to lay in a fresh supply at buffalo for the home trip. he was about to enter the car at ten minutes of nine when joshua bascom appeared on the platform with a well-worn carpet-bag in his hand. "are you going back, mr. bascom?" asked the train boy. "yes," answered joshua. "i don't want to go to no more station houses. i shan't rest easy til i'm back in barton. you hain't seen any policeman lookin' for me, have you?" "no; you haven't done anything wrong, have you?" "not as i know of, but them cops is very meddlesome. i thought that pickpocket might have set 'em on my track." "you are safe here. this is new jersey, and a new york policeman can't arrest you here." "that's good," said joshua with an air of relief. "where are you going to-day?" "i'm going all the way with you." "you ain't goin' as far as barton?" "yes, i am, and farther too. i'm going to niagara." "you don't say? and you don't have to pay a cent either?" "no, i get paid for going." "i wish i was goin' to niagara with you. by hokey, wouldn't the folks stare if i was to come home and tell 'em i'd seen the falls!" "can't you go?" "no, i've spent all the money i can afford. i must wait till next year." "did you spend all of your money, mr. bascom?" "no," chuckled joshua. "i've only spent the fifteen dollars i got for that ring, and shall carry home the ten dollars." "you are an able financier, mr. bascom. you've made your expenses, and can afford to go again. you must tell your father how you got the best of a pickpocket." "so i will. i guess he'll think i'm smarter than he reckoned for." at about half-past four in the afternoon, fred was called upon to bid his country friend good-by. looking from the door of the car, he saw joshua climb into a hay wagon driven by an elderly man whose appearance led him to conclude that he was the "dad" to whom joshua had frequently referred. the sun sank, the darkness came on, but still the train sped swiftly over its iron pathway. the passengers settled back in their seats, some fell asleep, and the hum of conversation ceased. fred too gave up his trips through the cars, and stretching himself out on a seat, closed his eyes. presently the train came to a stop, and the conductor, putting in his head at the door, called out "niagara falls." fred rose hastily, for he had made up his mind to get out at this point. he descended from the train, and found himself on the platform of the station. he had already selected the hotel, a small one where the rate was very moderate, and as there was no carriage representing it at the train he set out to walk. it was a small, plain-looking inn, of perhaps thirty rooms, named after the proprietor: the lynch house. on the road thither he was overtaken by a stranger, whom he remembered as one of the passengers on the second car. he appeared to be about forty years of age, and though it was a warm summer evening he was muffled up about the neck. "are you going to stop here over night?" he asked. "yes, sir." "you are the train boy, are you not?" "yes, sir." "what hotel shall you put up at?" "one recommended to me by the conductor--the lynch house." "i think i will stop there too." "you may not like it. it is a small, cheap house." "it doesn't matter. i am well provided with money, but i don't care for style or fashion. i am an invalid, and i prefer the quiet of a small hotel. there will be less noise and confusion." "very well, sir. i think that is the hotel yonder." such proved to be the case. it was large on the ground, but only three stories in height. over the portico was a sign, bearing the name. it was by no means fashionable in its appearance, but looked comfortable. fred and the stranger entered. a sleepy-looking clerk sat behind the desk. he opened his eyes, and surveyed the late comers. "can you give me a room?" asked fred. "i would like one too," said the other. "we've only got one room left," said the clerk. "that's a back room on the second story. are you gentlemen in company?" "no," answered fred. "we are strangers to each other." "then i can't give but one of you a room. if you don't mind rooming together, you can both be accommodated." "are there two beds in a room?" asked the stranger. "yes." "then i don't object to occupying it with this young man. he is a stranger to me, but i watched him on board the train, and i am sure he is all right." "thank you, sir," said fred. "well," said the clerk, "what does the boy say?" fred looked curiously at his companion. he was so muffled up that he could only see a pair of black eyes, a long sallow nose, and cheeks covered with dark whiskers. the train boy did not fancy his looks much, but could think of no good reason for declining him as a room companion. he felt that the gentleman had paid him a compliment in offering to room with him, particularly when, as he stated, he had a considerable amount of money about him. he paused a moment only, before he said, "perhaps we may as well room together, then." "all right! i will go up with you, as the hall boy has gone to bed. i hardly expected any guests by this late train." the clerk took the stranger's valise--fred had only a small paper parcel in his hand, containing a clean shirt and a collar which he had bought in jersey city before taking passage on the train. up one flight of stairs the clerk preceded them and paused in front of no. , the back room referred to. he unlocked the door, and entering, lighted the gas. it was a room about twelve feet wide by twenty in depth. at each end was a single bedstead. "i think you will be comfortable," said the clerk. "is there anything you want before retiring?" "no," answered both. chapter x. what took place in no. . the clerk closed the door, leaving fred alone with the stranger. the latter sat down in one of the two chairs with which the room was provided. "i am not sleepy," he said. "are you?" "yes," answered fred, gaping. "i am not used to late hours. besides, i was up early this morning." "that makes a difference. i didn't get up till eleven. i was about to propose a game of cards." "i don't care for playing cards," said fred. "besides, i am sleepy." "all right! you won't object to my sitting up awhile and reading?" fred would have preferred to have his companion go to bed, as he was not used to sleep with a light burning. he did not wish to be disobliging, however, and answered that he didn't mind. the stranger took from his hand-bag a paper-covered novel, and seating himself near the gas jet, began to read. fred undressed himself and lay down. he remembered with a little uneasiness that he had with him the hundred dollars in gold which had been intrusted to him by the miner. he had had no opportunity as yet to deposit it in the union dime savings bank, as he had decided to do, and had not thought to leave it with his mother. he wished now that he had done so, for he was about to pass several hours in the company of a man whom he knew nothing about. still, the man had plenty of money of his own, or at least he had said so, and was not likely therefore to be tempted to steal. fred took his place in bed, and looked over toward the stranger with some uneasiness. "are you a good sleeper?" asked his companion carelessly. "yes," answered fred. "so am i. i don't feel sleepy just at present, but presume i shall within twenty minutes. i hope i don't inconvenience you by sitting up." "no," answered fred slowly. "i've got my book nearly finished--i began to read it on the train. when do you expect to go back?" "monday morning," fred answered. "that's good! we will go and see the falls together to-morrow. ever seen them?" "no, sir; this is my first visit to niagara." "i have been here several times, so i know the ropes. i shall be glad to show you just where to go. but pardon me. i see you are sleepy. i won't say another word. good night, and pleasant dreams!" "good night." the stranger continued to read for twenty minutes. at any rate he appeared to do so. occasionally he glanced over toward fred's bed. the train boy meant to keep awake till his companion got ready to go to bed, but he was naturally a good sleeper, and his eyes would close in spite of him; and finally he gave up all hope of resistance, and yielded to the inevitable. soon his deep, regular breathing showed that he was unconscious of what was passing around him. the stranger rose, walked cautiously to the bed, and surveyed the sleeping boy. "how peacefully he sleeps!" he said. "he has nothing on his conscience. at his age it was the same with me. i started right, but--circumstances have been too much for me. there won't be much sleep for me to-night, for the detectives are doubtless on my track. i must get rid of one damaging piece of evidence." he opened his valise, and, after searching a little, drew therefrom a massive gold watch rather old-fashioned in appearance, attached to a solid gold chain. neither was new, and both had evidently been used for a considerable number of years. "i was a fool to take these," said the stranger. "they are more likely to fasten suspicion on me than anything else. however, i have a good chance now to get rid of them." fred had laid his newspaper parcel on a small table near his bed. the other carefully untied the twine with which he had fastened it, and, putting the watch and chain inside the shirt, he carefully wrapped it up again, and tied it with the same cord. "the boy will be considerably surprised he opens his bundle and discovers these," he reflected, with a smile. "he will be a little puzzled to know how they came there. well, that is none of my business. self-preservation is the first law of nature, and it is important i should get rid of such tell-tale clews." this piece of business over, the stranger stretched himself and took off his coat. he was proceeding to undress when a sudden thought deterred him. "on the whole," he said to himself, "i will go to bed as i am. i may have occasion for a sudden start. it is best to be on the safe side." he laid his coat on the back of a chair, and putting out the gas, stretched himself on the bed. he had not thought himself sleepy, but a recumbent position brought on a drowsy feeling, and before he was well aware of it he had sunk to sleep. but his slumber was not as sound or restful as the train boy's. from time to time he uttered ejaculations, as if he were terror-stricken, and once he waked up with a cold perspiration on his brow. it took a minute for him to realize his position. "what a fool i am!" he muttered in disgust. "i thought the police had nabbed me, but all's safe so far. if i could only get a little more sleep--as sound and peaceful as that boy is enjoying--i should wake revived in the morning. there is no reason why i shouldn't. they can't have got on my track so soon." he closed his eyes, and succeeded in dispelling the uneasy feeling which sprang from the consciousness of having exposed himself to the danger of arrest. it was now three o'clock. in fifteen minutes he was sleeping again, and this time his slumbers were less disturbed and uneasy. he awoke suddenly to find the sun streaming into the room. "it must be late!" he thought, a little nervously. but on examining his watch he found that it was only six o'clock. "i may as well get up," he said to himself. "i shall be safer on the canada side. i don't want to wake the boy, for he might be tempted to get up with me. besides, if he opened his bundle, the sight of the watch might arouse his suspicions, and get me into trouble. fortunately i did not undress, and can be up and away in two minutes." he put on his coat, and descended to the office. "you are down early," said the clerk in some surprise. "yes. i want to see the falls and take an early train west. how much is my bill?" he was told, and laid the money on the desk. "the boy with you remains?" "yes, i suppose so. the boy is no acquaintance of mine. i only met him on the train. there is something about that boy that excites my curiosity," he added thoughtfully. "such as what?" asked the clerk, his curiosity aroused. "he seems to have something on his mind. his sleep was very much disturbed. he moved about a good deal, and muttered frequently, but i could not make out any words." "perhaps he has run away from home," suggested the clerk. the stranger shrugged his shoulders. "he may have had good reasons for running away," he said. "however, that is none of my business. i suppose you missed nothing during the night." "no. good morning." the stranger went out, directing his steps toward the falls. an hour later a quiet-looking man entered the office. "good morning, mr. ferguson," said the clerk. "what brings you here so early?" "business," answered the other briefly. "did you have any late arrivals last evening?" "yes; two." "who were they?" "a man and boy." "are they here still?" "the boy is up-stairs. the man left at six o'clock. he wanted to see the falls before taking an early train. he said the boy seemed very nervous, and had a troubled sleep." the detective nodded. "i think he must be the party i want." "why, what has happened?" "the house of a wealthy old gentleman in elmira was entered yesterday afternoon, and articles of value taken. i received a telegram this morning which should have reached me last night, asking me to be on the watch for any suspicious parties." "and you think the boy committed the burglary?" asked the clerk in excitement. "it looks like it. with your permission i will go up-stairs and take a look at him." chapter xi. fred falls under a terrible suspicion. about ten minutes before the arrival of the detective fred woke up. he generally awoke earlier, but his long ride of the day before had fatigued him more than usual. it was natural for him to glance over to the opposite bed, occupied by his traveling companion. he was surprised to find it empty. "he must have got up early," thought fred. "i wonder if he has gone for good." this seemed likely, for the stranger's valise had disappeared also. "i wonder he didn't wake me up and bid me good-by," thought the train boy. then a momentary suspicion led him to search for the hundred dollars in gold which he had carefully concealed in his inside vest pocket. if that were taken, he would be in a quandary, for there would be little chance of his being able to make up the loss to his friend, the western miner. he found, to his relief, that the gold had not been touched, and he reproached himself for the injustice he had in his thoughts, done his late room-mate. "well," soliloquized fred, as he lazily got out of bed and drew on his clothes, "i am not sorry to have the room alone. if i could have a friend from home with me i should like it, but i don't care for the company of a stranger." fred reflected that he had all the day to himself. he could hear the roar of the famous cataract, which he had not yet seen on account of his late arrival the night before, and he determined to go there immediately after breakfast, or even before breakfast if he found that it was quite near. he went to the window and looked out, but it was not in sight. "i may as well put on a clean shirt," thought fred, and he went to the table to open the bundle which he had brought from jersey city. he had just unfastened the string when a quick, imperative knock was heard at the door of his room. "come in!" said fred, with some surprise. he turned his face to the door, and his wonder increased as it opened and he saw the clerk and a stranger standing on the threshold. they entered the room and closed the door behind them. "what is the matter?" asked the train boy. "has anything happened?" "when did your room-mate leave?" asked the detective, not answering his question. "i don't know; i only just woke up." "did you rest well?" "that's a very queer question to ask me," thought fred. "yes," he answered, "i rested very well." the detective and the clerk exchanged glances. this statement did not accord with what fred's room-mate had said down-stairs. "the bed was very comfortable," added fred by way of compliment to the house. "i am glad you found it so," said the detective dryly. "did you come upstairs to ask how i rested?' asked fred, with a smile. "you are sharp, my young friend," said the detective, "and i think i may say wonderfully cool under the circumstances." "under what circumstances?" asked fred, his attention drawn to the last part of the detective's speech. "there was a burglary committed yesterday afternoon in elmira," said the detective, fastening his eyes keenly on the face of the train boy. "was there?" asked fred, not seeing in what way this information was likely to affect him. "i thought most burglaries were committed in the night." "they are, generally, but this was an exception. there was no one in the house except old mr. carver, who is quite hard of hearing. the burglary probably took place about five o'clock, and the burglar is supposed to have taken the : train from elmira." "why, that is the train i was on," said fred in surprise. "by a curious coincidence," said the detective with a queer smile, "it was by your train that the burglar probably traveled." his tone was so significant that fred asked quickly, "what do you mean?" "i mean, my young friend," said the detective, "that you are suspected to know something of this affair." "if you are a detective," retorted fred, "i don think much of your sharpness. i have never been in elmira in my life." "probably not," said ferguson, the detective, with a provoking smile. "i passed through there yesterday on my way from new york. with that exception, i never saw the place." "that may be true," said the detective cautiously, "or it may not. i will take the liberty of examining your luggage to see if i can find any of the stolen articles." "you are welcome to do it," said fred. "bring it out then. where have you put it--under the bed?" "all the luggage i have is in this bundle," said the train boy. "you can open that if you think it will do you any good." "you are sure you have no valise?" ferguson, who, like most of his class, was suspicious, peeped under each bed, but found nothing to reward his search. somewhat disappointed, he went to the table and opened the newspaper bundle. he did so listlessly, not really expecting to find anything, but as he unrolled fred's shirt there was a triumphant look in his eyes when he uncovered the gold watch and chain. "just as i thought," he said, with a nod to the clerk. "what is that?' gasped fred. "it appears to be a watch and chain," answered ferguson coolly. "possibly you can tell me how it came there." "i know nothing about it," said fred in dire amazement. "you do not claim it as yours, then?" "certainly not. i never saw it before in my life." "is this shirt yours?" "yes." "you brought it with you?" "yes." "let me open the watch. do you see this inscription?" fred and the clerk approached, and on the inside of the case read the name, "philo carver, elmira, ." "you see? this is one of the articles stolen from mr. carver's house yesterday afternoon. it is a little odd that this young man in whose bundle i find it cannot explain its presence." "you may believe me or not," said fred desperately, "but it is true all the same. i know nothing of this watch or chain, and i never saw either before. can you tell me what other articles were taken by the burglar?" "some government bonds, and a small sum of bank bills." "then you had better search for them also here: i will help you all i can." "well, you are a cool hand." "no; i am innocent, that is all." "it is pretty clear you have nothing else with you, or you wouldn't be so willing. however, i consider it my duty to do as you suggest." he hunted under the mattresses, and finally examined fred's pockets. at last he felt in the inside vest pocket and drew out the gold coins. "ha, we have something here!" he exclaimed. "yes," answered fred, "but those happen to belong to me." "where did you get them?" "from a friend in new york. he intrusted them to me to use if i needed. meanwhile i was to put them in the savings bank." "not a very likely story," said the detective suspiciously. "likely or not, it is a true story. does this man carver claim to have lost any gold coins?" "no." "i thought not." "however, we come back to the inquiry--where did you get the watch?" "the man who slept in the room with me must have left it here to throw suspicion on me," said fred, with sudden inspiration. "that is possible," said the clerk, who was favorably impressed by fred's manner. "we must not jump at conclusions," said the detective warily. "i shall feel justified in detaining the boy after what i have found." "you won't take me to the station house?" said fred nervously. "no; it will answer the purpose if you are locked up in this room--for the present." "then," said fred, turning to the clerk, "i shall be much obliged if you will send me up some breakfast." "it shall be done." within half an hour fred was discussing a beefsteak and fried potatoes with hearty enjoyment. it takes a good deal to spoil the appetite of a healthy boy of seventeen. chapter xii. fred as a prisoner. after breakfast fred became restless. it was tantalizing to be so near the falls, and yet to be locked up, and prevented from seeing them. of course it would all come right in time, but it was hard to bear the suspense and confinement. hunting round the room he found a juvenile book, and sitting down at the window read it. it helped to while away the time till twelve o'clock. he had scarcely read the last page when he heard the key turning in the lock outside. the door opened and two persons appeared at the entrance. one was the clerk the other a boy, rather short, with a bright, attractive face. "i thought you might like company," said the clerk in a friendly manner. "this is my young cousin, frank hamblin, who will remain with yon for a while." "i am glad to see you, frank," said fred offering his hand. "you are very kind to come and see a bold, bad burglar." "you don't look much like it," said frank, laughing. "still appearances are deceitful." "i don't think i look wicked," said fred meditatively, as he glanced at his reflection in a small mirror that hung over the washstand. "yet it appears that i have broken into a gentleman's house in elmira, and stolen a gold watch and chain and some government bonds." "how could you do it?" asked frank with much seriousness. "so young and yet so wicked!" "that's the question that puzzles me," said fred. "how could i do it when at the time the burglary was committed i was speeding over the erie road at the rate of thirty miles an hour?" "can you prove this?" asked frank eagerly. "certainly i could, if the conductor or brakeman of my car were here." "where are they?" "probably on their way back to new york." "do you live there?" "yes." "i have always wanted to see the city of new york. it must be a gay place." "you are right there, frank. whenever you do come, just inquire for fred fenton, and i will show you round. there is my address." "thank you! i should like it ever so much. have you ever been here before?" "no. i wanted very much to see the falls, but here i am locked up in a hotel chamber. i wish the falls were visible from the window." "they are on the other side of the house." "do you know this detective--the one that searched me?" "yes, i have seen him. i heard him tell my cousin that he did not believe you guilty, but that finding the watch and chain in your bundle was a suspicious circumstance." "i suppose it is. now i can understand how innocent people get into trouble. do you live here?" "no, i am only visiting some friends here. i live in auburn." "that's where the state's prison is, isn't it?" "yes." "then i hope i shan't go to auburn to live. have you any idea how long i shall have to stay here?" "till evening, i suppose. you will probably be brought before a justice in the morning," was frank's reply. fred sighed. "how differently things have turned out from what i anticipated," he said. "i expected to be walking round, and looking at the falls to-day." "hold on a minute!" said frank. "mr. ferguson boards here, and he may be down-stairs now. i'll ask him if you can't go out under my charge if you'll promise not to run away. "i'll promise that fast enough. you can knock me down if i attempt to escape." "i am afraid i might find that difficult, as you are at least two inches taller than i." "i will be very gentle and submissive. i wouldn't be willing to run away with such a suspicion hanging over me." "excuse me a minute! i'll do what i can for you." frank went to the door and attempted to open it, but it was locked on the outside and resisted his efforts. "i forgot," he said, laughing, "that i am a prisoner too. really it makes a fellow feel queer to be locked up." "that's the way i feel. you can ring the bell, can't you?" "a good thought!" frank rang the bell, and presently a hall boy opened the door about an inch, and looked in. "is anything wanted?" he asked. "is mr. ferguson down-stairs?" said frank. "he has just come in." "won't you ask him to step up here a minute?" "all right, sir." the door was relocked, but two minutes later it was opened and the detective walked in. "ha!" he said. "so we have two burglars instead of one." "i am just as much a burglar as fred is," said frank. "then," said the detective with a smile, "i may feel it my duty to search you. you do have rather a hardened expression." "do you think i have?" asked fred smiling. "well, no. i wouldn't pick you out for a professional criminal, and to be honest with you, i doubt whether you know anything of the burglary." "thank you! i am glad you have a better opinion of me than that." "but what is it you want of me, frank?" "i want fred to have a chance to see the falls. he has never been here before, and it will be a great disappointment to him if he has to go away without seeing them." "to be sure, to be sure!" said the detective thoughtfully. "i thought you might let him go out under my escort." mr. ferguson smiled. "what could you do if he took it into his head to escape?" "you couldn't lend me a club, could you?" "i don't carry any. that is for policemen, and i have never acted in that capacity." "but he won't run away, will you, fred?" "no, i prefer to stay here till i am cleared of suspicion." "you see, mr. ferguson," said frank, eagerly, "there will be no risk about it. he can give you his _parole_--that's the word, isn't it?" "yes; but this privilege is never accorded to those who are arrested for burglary." "it is certainly inconvenient to be a burglar," said fred, smiling in spite of his secret anxiety. "then you can't let him go?" questioned frank, regretfully. "well, there is one way. i should not consider it safe to let him go with you, but i might accompany you." "that will be capital! you will, won't you?" "yes, i will," said ferguson, after a momentary pause. "i have a boy of my own about the age of--the young burglar--and that perhaps inclines me to be more indulgent. but you must wait till after dinner." "will dinner be sent up here?" asked frank. "yes, for him; but you are not staying at the house." "i forgot; and i haven't got money enough to pay for a hotel dinner." "that's all right, frank," said fred. "i invite you to dine with me, and it shall be charged on my bill. i shall enjoy dinner better if i have company." "thank you. i accept the invitation, but i don't like to be an expense to you." "never mind." dinner was sent up in the course of half an hour, and the two boys enjoyed it. "are you still attending school, frank?" asked fred. "yes." "i should like to, but poor boys like me have to work for a living." "if you won't tell i will let you into a secret." "what is it?" "i am writing a long story. i want to be an author some time. i've written twenty chapters already." "you must be smart," said fred in surprise. "why, i couldn't write as much in a whole year." "of course i can't tell whether it is good for anything, but some time i mean to write well." "well, frank, i wish you success, i am sure. some day i may be proud to know you." "now i might write a story about you, and call it 'the boy burglar.'" "don't! i have no wish to figure in that character." half an hour later the door opened, and the detective entered, dressed for a walk. "now, if you two burglars are ready," he said, "we will take a stroll." chapter xiii. the hotel clerk's mistake. "what was the name of your room-mate, fred?" asked frank hamblin, as they went down-stairs. "i didn't notice. he registered before me." "suppose we look and see. it may be well to know." they opened the hotel register, and saw written in a bold, free hand: "f. grant palmer, chicago." "it may be another fred," suggested frank. "or frank. either name would do for a burglar," said mr. ferguson, smiling. "but it is hardly consistent with professional etiquette to joke on such a subject. i will endeavor to forget while we are walking together that one of the party is an offender against the laws, or under suspicion as such." "i want to forget it myself," said fred, "or it will spoil my enjoyment of niagara." "i wonder where mr. f. grant palmer is now," said frank. "i feel sure he is the real burglar." "then he has probably gone over into canada," returned fred. "it is unlucky for me that he left the watch and chain, but lucky for mr. carver, who will now recover them." meanwhile let us follow mr. palmer, whose movements are of interest to us in connection with the suspicion he has managed to throw on fred. when he left the lynch house he proposed, as a measure of safety, to go over to the canada side, and indeed he did so. he made his way to the clifton house, and registered there, depositing his valise at the office while he went in to breakfast. "we have no room at present," said the clerk, politely, "but by the middle of the forenoon we shall undoubtedly have a few vacancies. will that answer?" "oh, yes," said palmer easily. "i am in no special hurry for a room, but will take breakfast and go out for a walk." it did occur to mr. palmer that the valise, containing as it did the bonds stolen from mr. carver in elmira, should be carefully guarded. however, it would surely be as safe in the care of the hotel clerk of the clifton as in any hotel room, and probably even safer. so he ate breakfast with an easy mind, and then, purchasing a cigar, took a walk along the road which presents the best views of the falls. mr. palmer felt very complacent. "it is a blessing to gentlemen in my profession," he soliloquized, "that canada is so conveniently near. here the minions of the law cannot touch us for any little indiscretion committed under the stars and stripes. i hear people talking of annexing canada to the states, but to that i am unalterably opposed. i should have to retire from business, and i am not able to do that at present." he was standing at a convenient point surveying the falls, when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. such was the force of habit that mr. palmer started violently, and turned round nervously. it was a stout man with a smiling face that confronted him. "ha, palmer!" said the new arrival. "did you mistake me for----" "how are you, wellington? i am glad to see you." "instead of----" "oh, pshaw! a man naturally starts when he is tapped on the shoulder unexpectedly." "i see. you were admiring the falls." "yes." "there is a good deal of romance in your composition, my dear palmer," said his friend banteringly. "anything new?" "well, yes," said palmer, glancing around him cautiously. "made a strike, eh?" "well, something of the sort." "what is it?" "i managed to have a stroke of luck at elmira, yesterday afternoon." "how much did you get away with?" "hush! don't speak so plainly. suppose any one should hear you?" "my dear fellow, there is no one within two hundred yards." "well, there must be five thousand dollars in bonds and money." "very neat, upon my word! you are in luck!" "how about you?" "i made a small raise at buffalo--a paltry three hundred dollars' worth. it was hardly worth the trouble of taking. still, a man must live." "to be sure!" "now with what you picked up you can live a year or two in comfort. upon my soul, i envy you. are you suspected?" "i have managed to divert suspicion, i think;" and palmer told his friend the story of his secreting the gold watch and chain in fred's luggage. "very shrewd!" said his friend approvingly. "palmer, you are a credit to our profession. i shall be content to take lessons of you." "oh, you are only joking," said palmer, his expression showing, however, that he felt proud of the compliment. they took a long and leisurely walk together, talking over their mutual experiences. they had known each other for ten years, having been fellow boarders together as far back as that at sing sing, since then neither had been caught, though both had been engaged in violating the laws. their similar professions had given them a common bond of sympathy, and they found so much satisfaction in each other's company that the time slipped by insensibly, and it was half-past twelve before they found their way back to the clifton. mr. palmer stepped up to the desk. "have you a room for me yet?" he inquired. "yes, sir; i can give you no. . here, front!" a hall boy answered the summons. "take the gentleman up to ," said the clerk. "any luggage, sir?" "you may hand me my valise, if you please." "beg pardon; here it is." "come up with me, wellington. we'll continue our talk up stairs." palmer merely glanced at the valise, and continued talking with his friend. the hall boy unlocked the door of no. and led the way inside. it was a pleasant room, and palmer looked about him approvingly. "i shall be very comfortable here," he said. "is everything right?" asked the hall boy, lingering. palmer smiled, drew a quarter from his pocket and put it into the ready hand of the young man. "you take american coins, don't you?" he asked with a smile. "oh, dear, yes, sir. thank you!" "that is all for the present. if i want anything i will ring." wellington scanned the valise with an eye of interest. "so that holds the swag, does it?" he asked. "my dear friend, don't use such vulgar terms!" said palmer reproachfully. "it's not only inelegant, but it's imprudent. suppose anybody heard you?" "your reproof is just, palmer. i am rather a blunderer, i admit. i see you are traveling under a false name." "what do you mean?" wellington pointed to a small card attached to the valise. it bore the name of edmund lawrence. when palmer's glance fell on this card, a quick glance of dismay swept over his face. "that isn't my valise!" he said. "not your valise!" "no. the clerk has made a mistake. i must see him at once!" continued palmer, in an agitated voice. "he may have given my valise to this man lawrence, and in that case i am ruined. stay here till i return." palmer seized the satchel, opened the door, and descended to the office in breathless haste. as he dashed up to the desk the clerk eyed him in mild surprise. "what is the matter?" he asked. "matter enough! you have given me the wrong valise." "is it possible?" "see here; this belongs to a party named lawrence--edmund lawrence. give me mine at once." the clerk looked troubled. "i am afraid i can't," he faltered apologetically. "i gave mr. lawrence your valise--you will observe that they are very much alike--and he carried it away two hours since." palmer felt ready to drop. to think that after all his careful planning everything should be jeopardized by a hotel clerk's error. "do you know what you have done?" he said, in a hollow voice. "my valise contained two thousand dollars' worth of securities." "i am terribly sorry, mr. palmer, but i don't think you will suffer any loss. this mr. lawrence looks like a high-toned gentleman. you can see him within an hour. he went from here to the international hotel on the american side of the falls. i advise you to go over at once, take his bag with you, and exchange." chapter xiv. the missing valise. that he was imprudent in trusting himself on the american side mr. grant palmer was well aware, but he felt that he was in danger of losing the entire proceeds of his skilful burglary, and to this he could not make up his mind. besides the danger was not very great. why should any one suppose that an ordinary valise contained stolen property? there was nothing remarkable about the appearance of his hand-bag. hundreds of them are carried every day. if it were opened by a dishonest person, of course it would be doubtful if he ever got it back, but the clerk at the clifton had said that this mr. lawrence seemed like a high-toned gentleman, who would of course scorn to avail himself of property not his own. "risk or no risk!" decided palmer, "i must go over and reclaim my property." leaving him to cross to the american side, we will follow mr. lawrence, who, not at all suspecting that the valise he had received from the clerk was not his own, repaired to the international hotel and engaged one of the best rooms in the house, for he was a man of ample means. he laid his valise on the bed and went down-stairs. later in the day he went out to take his customary walk. meanwhile fred and his two companions walked about in a leisurely manner, surveying the falls from different points, and finally went to goat island. here they sat down on a bench and surrendered themselves to the fascinations of the scene. "well, what do you think of niagara, fred?" asked frank. "it is even finer than i had supposed," replied the train boy. "some people are disappointed," said mr. ferguson, "because they expect too much. the falls of montmorency are considerably higher but not nearly as wide. there are some cascades in the yosemite valley of over a thousand feet descent, but they are only a few feet wide. for grandeur niagara excels them all." "i shouldn't like to be swept over the falls," said fred. "it must be terrible!" said frank, with a shudder. "the reality is worse than any picture drawn by the imagination. ten years since it happened to me to see a poor wretch drawn down to destruction over the cataract." the boys looked eager for the story, and he proceeded. "i may state," continued the detective, "that i was indirectly the cause of the tragedy. a defaulting bank cashier had got as far as this point on his way to canada, which as now was a haven of refuge to gentlemen of his character. i was close upon his track, and he was in imminent danger of capture. there seemed to be only one way of escape--crossing the river above the falls. by some means he obtained a row-boat, and being a fair rower set out on his dangerous trip, exulting in having outwitted me and made his escape. i remember very well how he stood up in the boat, and with a smile on his face waved me a mock adieu, as he impelled the little craft out toward the middle of the river. "he was a strong, sturdy rower, but he had no conception of the strength and rapidity of the current. he battled manfully, but the boat immediately began to tend towards the cataract with continually increasing rapidity. at length he came to realize the fate that certainly awaited him. his smile was succeeded by a look of despair. i can see even now the expression of terror and desperation, formed upon the poor fellow's face when he saw that, struggle as he might, there was no help or deliverance, i am sure at that time he would have welcomed me as a friend and savior, and gone with me willingly to prison, if only he could have been rescued from the impending doom. still, however, he plied the oars with desperate vigor and would not resign himself to his fate. i was painfully excited, and in the poor fellow's peril quite forgot that he was a criminal of whom i was in pursuit. the end came speedily. when six feet from the edge of the cataract, he dropped his oars, threw up his hands, and an instant later boat and man were swept down into the gulf below." "was his body ever found?" asked fred. "yes, but it was so mangled as to be almost beyond recognition. many a time when looking at the falls i have pictured to myself the unhappy victim of that day's tragedy." "i suppose," said frank, "it is impossible to go over the cataract and live." "not if all stories are to be believed. there is a boy in the village here who is said to have gone over the falls, and yet he does not seem to have suffered any injury. the same story is told of a cat, but cats are noted for having nine lives, and therefore the story is not so surprising." after a little more chat the three left the island and returned to the mainland. they had hardly reached it when a telegraph boy approached mr. ferguson and handed him a despatch. he opened it and read as follows: elmira, sunday. my nephew, edmund lawrence, is at niagara. communicate with him. philo carver. "this is your business," said the detective, handing the telegram to fred. "let us try to find mr. lawrence," said fred, after reading it. "it will be the best way. mr. carver does not mention at what hotel his nephew is staying." "probably he does not know." "undoubtedly you are right." "what will you do?" "there is only one thing to do to call at the principal hotels, and look over the registers. we will go first to the international." "very well, sir." ferguson scanned fred with a smile. "you certainly don't act like one under suspicion," he said. fred smiled in return. "i find it hard to realize that i am a suspected burglar," he responded. "so do i. let us hope that you will very soon be cleared from suspicion." the detective and the two boys turned their steps towards the spacious and attractive international. "it seems a little ahead of the lynch house," said fred, "but probably the prices at the latter suit my pocketbook better." they stepped on the piazza, and went into the office. mr. ferguson opened the hotel register, and among the recent entries found the name of edmund lawrence. "is mr. lawrence in?" he asked the clerk. "yes, sir; he came in from a walk five minutes since." "i will send up my card." the detective wrote on a blank card: oscar ferguson, detective. important. this was handed to a hall boy, who took it up to mr. lawrence's room, and returned with a message that the gentleman was to come up at once. "i think you will have to go with me," said ferguson to fred. "it won't do for me to give you a chance to escape." "that is the last thing i have in mind," said the train-boy; "but i shall be glad to see mr. lawrence." edmund lawrence, a pleasant-looking man of middle age, looked somewhat surprised when turning his eyes toward the door, he saw ferguson enter, followed by two boys. "you wish to see me on important business?" he said interrogatively. "yes, sir." "and you are a detective?" "yes, sir." "i hope that i have not fallen under any suspicion." "not at all. have you heard that your uncle--philo carver, of elmira--has been the victim of a burglary?" "no! tell me about it." the detective told the story, and mr. lawrence listened with great interest. "is any one suspected?" he asked. "a party has been arrested on suspicion," answered the detective. "indeed! who is it?" "this boy!" answered ferguson, pointing to fred. "impossible!" ejaculated lawrence, eying fred with incredulous amazement. chapter xv. mr. palmer walks into a trap. "nevertheless it is true. i arrested him at the lynch house this morning," affirmed the detective. "do you believe him guilty?" asked mr. lawrence, noting with perplexity fred's open countenance and tranquil manner. "no. still, circumstances are against him." "please explain." "i found your uncle's gold watch and chain in his bundle?" "is it possible?" "it is quite true, mr. lawrence," said fred calmly. "mr. ferguson will allow me to say that i was as much surprised as he to find them. the bundle was a small one and only contained a shirt and collar which i bought at jersey city yesterday morning. i can only say that the watch was not in the bundle then." "perhaps," said lawrence, who was favorably impressed by fred's openness, "you have some theory as to the manner in which the watch got into your bag." "yes, sir, i have. i had for a room-mate a stranger--a man whom i only met last evening after the train arrived. we fell in with each other the way to the hotel. we were obliged to room together on account of there being but one room vacant at the hotel." "what was the man's appearance?" "he was rather tall, thin, and dark complexioned. though it was late he did not go to bed at once, but sat up for a while finishing a book in which he was interested. when i awoke in the morning he was gone." "you think he was the real burglar?" "yes, sir." "what is your reason?" "because it must have been he that put the watch and chain in my bundle." "with a view of diverting suspicion from himself?" "yes, sir." "one question more. when were you in elmira, last?" "i was never in elmira at all," said fred promptly. "i have never been so far west before." "what was your object in making your present journey?" "i came to make money," answered fred, smiling. "that answer may go against you," said the detective. "not when i explain that i am the train boy. i have usually made short runs, but yesterday morning the superintendent told me i was to go to niagara, and gave me permission to stay over sunday to have a chance to see the falls. i began to think i would not see them, after all, but mr. ferguson was kind enough to walk out with me, and let me have a view of them." "is this boy also a train boy?" asked lawrence, indicating frank hamblin. "no; he is related to the clerk of the lynch house, and was kind enough to come up to my room and keep me company." "who has the watch?" asked lawrence, after a pause. "i have," answered the detective, producing it. lawrence took it from his hand. "it is my uncle's watch, sure enough," he said. "i remember it a dozen years since. he sent to europe for it." "his name is in it," said ferguson. "but for that i might not have recognized it as one of the articles lost." "do you know what was taken besides?" "money and securities, i am informed, but to what value i have not learned." "you think the boy's room-mate has them in his possession?" "there seems to be little doubt of it." "where do you think he is?" "on the canada side, no doubt." "he went there this morning?" "yes." "i was myself at the clifton house this morning, and i now remember the arrival of a man presenting the appearance of this young fellow's room-mate. he is probably still at the clifton house." "then he is beyond my jurisdiction," said ferguson. "do you remember what luggage he had?" asked lawrence, turning to fred. "he had a small valise, about the size of this," said fred, his eyes resting on the satchel which lawrence had brought from the clifton, and thrown down carelessly. "why," continued fred, in excitement, "this is his valise. i recognize it by a dark spot on the side." "what do you mean?" said lawrence sharply. "this is my valise." he took it in his hand, and uttered an ejaculation. "the boy is right! this is not my valise." "do you mean to say this valise belongs to the man who roomed with you last night?" demanded die detective. "yes, i feel sure of it." "then--good heavens!--it no doubt contains the property stolen from my uncle. mr. ferguson, shall we be justified in opening it?" "i will take the responsibility," said the detective. he took from his pocket a bent wire, and dexterously inserting it in the lock opened the valise. all gathered eagerly about it, anxious to ascertain whether their suspicions were correct. there were a few articles of underwear, which the detective took out hastily and laid upon the bed. "ha, here we have it!" he exclaimed triumphantly as he drew out two long envelopes, such as are employed for bonds and securities. "i will take the liberty to open them." one envelope proved to contain two one thousand dollar railroad bonds. the other contained two u. s. government bonds of five hundred dollars each, and miscellaneous securities all together amounting to three thousand dollars more. "a very clever capture on my word!" said ferguson. "really, mr. lawrence, you have beaten me in my own line." "i am entitled to no credit. it belongs to the boy who identified the valise. i assure you the wrong bag was given me at the clifton most fortunately. i am content to lose the few articles which my own contained for the sake of recovering my uncle's property. it really seems like an interposition of providence." "i suspect the thief will feel very ill-satisfied with the exchange. i wonder what he will do about it." there was little chance for speculation on this point. there was a knock at the door, and a hall boy put in his head. "there is a gentleman below who wishes to see you, mr. lawrence," he said. "here is his card." mr. lawrence took from his hand a card on which had been written the name f. grant palmer. "that is the man, mr. lawrence," exclaimed fred in excitement. "he has come for his valise." "bring mr. palmer up in about five minutes," said lawrence; "not sooner." "all right, sir!" "now let us repack the valise," said the detective. "i always carry a large bunch of keys with me, and shall probably find one that will relock it." the shirts, socks, and other articles which had been taken from the bag were carefully replaced, and ferguson, as he had thought probable, found a key which fitted the lock. then the valise was laid carefully on the sofa. "mr. palmer must not see us, and particularly the train-boy," said the detective, "or he will think something is up. where can you conceal us?" "there is a bedroom attached to the apartment," said lawrence. "go in there, all of you, and remain till i call you. you can leave the door ajar, as you will probably be curious to hear what goes on between us." "capital! couldn't be better!" ferguson, followed by the two boys, entered the smaller room, and waited impatiently for the entrance of palmer. a knock was heard. "come in!" lawrence called out lazily. the door opened, and f. grant palmer entered, carrying in his hand a valise which seemed to be a fac-simile of the one lying on the sofa. palmer's quick eye caught sight of it as he entered the room. "pardon me for my intrusion!" he said suavely, "but i believe we exchanged valises--at the clifton--this morning." chapter xvi. palmer's malice. "indeed!" said lawrence, in assumed surprise. "yes, mine was left with the clerk." "and mine also." "and he doubtless made a mistake in delivering them. upon my word i am not surprised, as they certainly are very much alike." "so they are!" said lawrence, taking the valise from palmer's hand. "and here is your name too." "it is quite a joke, ha, ha!" laughed palmer, his spirits rising as he saw that there would be no difficulty in effecting the exchange. "i suppose i may take mine?" "you are quite sure it is yours? pardon my asking, but you are a stranger to me." "oh, it's all right! you see this spot on my valise. outside of that, there is really no difference." "you are willing to swear that valise i brought over from the clifton is yours?" "why, of course!" returned palmer in surprise. "how can there be a doubt after what i have said?" "you will pardon my caution. it certainly does seem like it, but i don't want to run any risk of giving it to the wrong party." "oh, that's all right!" said palmer impatiently, setting down lawrence in his own mind as a crank. "probably you have the key that opens it." "certainly." "then do you mind opening it, and satisfying yourself and me that it really belongs to you?" "surely not," said palmer, really glad of an opportunity of satisfying himself that the bonds were safe. he drew from his pocket a bunch of keys, and carefully selecting one inserted it in the lock of the valise. it opened at once, and palmer eagerly scanned the contents. the under-clothing had been carefully replaced, and he did not discover that it had been disturbed, but when he lifted it to look for the envelopes containing the bonds, his face underwent a change. "what is the matter?" inquired lawrence, calmly. "that valise has been opened," said palmer, angrily. "what makes you think so?" "the most valuable contents have been removed. i hold you accountable for this, mr. lawrence," continued palmer, fiercely. "please be a little more explicit. what is it that you miss?" "two envelopes, containing valuable bonds." "this is a serious charge. are you sure they were in the valise?" "of course i am. i put them there myself, and when i opened the valise this morning they were there." "wasn't it rash in you to leave articles of such value in your valise? can you name any of the bonds?" "yes; there were two erie mortgage bonds of a thousand dollars each, two government bonds of five hundred dollars each, some bank bills, and miscellaneous securities." "you don't mean it? and you placed them there?" "i did, and i am willing to swear to the statement. i demand of you, sir, where they are." mr. lawrence rose from his seat, and on pretense of examining the contents of the open valise, managed to get in between palmer and the door. "a man in my employ had charge of the valise for a short time," he said. "he may have opened it." "where is he? he must be arrested before he can get away," said palmer in excitement. "ferguson!" called mr. lawrence. the detective, who had of course heard all that had passed, stepped out from the inner room. he assumed the tone of a servant. "did you call, sir?" he asked. "yes." "i am at your service." "this gentleman here claims the valise as his property. he says that some bonds have been abstracted from it. am i right?" "yes," assented palmer, with a fierce glance at the detective. "he charges me with having opened the valise, and taken them." "what does he say to that?" demanded palmer in excitement. "it is true," said ferguson, calmly. "you hear?" said palmer. "give me back those bonds, you scoundrel, and i may let you go free. otherwise i will have you arrested, and you can guess what will follow. don't let the fellow escape!" he added quickly, as the detective edged towards the door. lawrence upon this went to the door and locked it. "what have you to say for yourself?" he demanded, turning to ferguson. "only that i am a detective, and that i am specially deputed to search for and recover the bonds stolen from philo carver of elmira, yesterday afternoon. i have reason to think i have found them." "duped!" exclaimed palmer, sinking into a chair in dismay. "yes, mr. palmer, it looks like it. there is one article missing, a gold watch and chain." "i don't know anything about them." "we may find some one who does. fred!" at the summons the train boy stepped out from the inner room, followed by frank hamblin. at sight of his late room-mate palmer first showed surprise, and then anger. "did you put up this job on me?" he asked fiercely. "it seems that you put up a job on me," said fred, quietly. "the watch was found in my bundle." "yes, that was to be your share," answered palmer maliciously. "gentlemen, i suppose i shall have to surrender at discretion, but i am not the only guilty party. that boy is my confederate!" "it is an outrageous falsehood!" burst out fred indignantly. "it is of no use your denying it. i am convinced that you have betrayed me, and i will have no mercy on you. gentlemen, arrest me if you think best, but arrest him too. he is just as guilty as i am." "you assert that he is your confederate?" said lawrence. "yes." "how long have you known him?" "ever since he was born. his mother was a cousin of mine," palmer asserted unblushingly. "do you believe this, mr. ferguson?" asked fred, quite overwhelmed. "i never saw this man till last evening." "if he is your cousin, what is his name?" asked the detective, not answering fred's appeal. "fred fenton," said palmer coolly. "he has got my name right, but he saw it in the hotel register," said fred. "i presume you are right," said ferguson. "you seem interested in my young cousin," said palmer with a malicious sneer. "do you mean to say that he was with you in elmira?" asked lawrence. "yes; he stood outside to warn me if any one came along, who was likely to interfere with me." "and you both took the train for niagara after the burglary was effected?" "exactly." lawrence was staggered by the positive assertions of the culprit. it must be considered that he was not acquainted with fred, who, so far as he knew, might be an artful young adventurer. "why didn't you take the boy over to the canada side with you?" "it was understood that he was to come over later in the day. we passed for strangers at the lynch house, and i thought it might excite suspicion if we both went away together at so early an hour in the morning." "mr. palmer," said fred warmly, "you know perfectly well that all these statements are false, and that i never met you or had anything to do with you till last evening." "it won't do, fred!" said the burglar. "you and i are in the same boat. you are a boy, and will probably get a lighter sentence than i. but you shouldn't go back on your old pal like this." "do you believe that man, mr. ferguson?" asked fred with a troubled look. "no, but i shall be obliged to hold you till i produce him in court to-morrow." chapter xvii. two young lady passengers at odds. ferguson produced a pair of handcuffs and pinioned the wrists of his captive. palmer protested against the humiliation, but ferguson said quietly: "you are too important a prisoner for me to run any risk." "are you going to handcuff _him?_" asked the burglar, indicating fred. "no." "why not? why should you treat him better than me?" "i don't think he is guilty; but even if he is i am not afraid of his running away." "you are deceived in him. he looks innocent enough, but he has been concerned in a dozen burglaries." "i hear considerable news about myself," said fred, "but the truth will come out at last." as the party passed through the streets they naturally attracted considerable attention. though a criminal, palmer had for years evaded arrest, and he felt mortified at the position in which he was placed. he reflected bitterly that but for the mistake of the hotel clerk, he might be at ease with his booty on the canada side. as it was, things seemed to have worked steadily against him, notwithstanding his clever schemes. a long term of imprisonment stared him in the face, instead of a couple of years of luxury on which he had counted. if he could only involve fred in his own misfortune it would be partial satisfaction. to effect this he was prepared to swear to anything and everything. fred, though only nominally a prisoner, felt very uncomfortable. he was saved from the disgrace of being handcuffed, and was consoled by knowing that not even the detective believed him guilty of any connection with the burglary. still he was not his own master, to come and go as he pleased, and it was not certain that he would be able to go back to new york the next day as he had planned. circumstances thus far had worked against him, but there was to be a turn in the tide. as they walked through the streets on the way to the station house, where palmer was to be locked up for safekeeping, they met a man whose dress showed him to be an employee of the erie road. "mr. ferguson," said fred eagerly, "that is the conductor of one of my trains. he will tell you that i am the train-boy." the conductor had just discovered and recognized fred. "you are staying over, like me," he said. "yes, i have permission." "and so have i. i have a brother living here, and got two days off. where are you stopping?" "at the lynch house. will you tell this gentleman that i am an erie train boy?" "certainly; but why is that necessary?" asked the conductor in surprise. "i will tell you later. mr. ferguson, have you any questions to ask?" "was this boy on your train yesterday?" "yes." "did he get on at elmira?" "certainly not. he came all the way from new york." "it is false!" said palmer. "what does he mean, fred?" asked the conductor. "he committed a burglary at elmira yesterday afternoon, and is trying to make out that i was connected with it." "there he tells a falsehood," said the conductor bluntly. "i saw you on the train through the entire journey." "a very good alibi, fred," said the detective. "mr. lawrence, after this testimony it is hardly necessary for me to hold the boy. are you satisfied that i should let him go free?" "entirely so. i felt from the first that he was innocent." "then, fred, you may consider yourself at liberty to go where you please. i am as glad as you are that you are freed from suspicion." "thank you, sir. i will go with you as far as the lock-up." palmer scowled at him, but saw that it was useless to persist in his charges against the boy, and walked on with head bent, reflecting bitterly that he had not only lost the proceeds of the burglary, but his freedom besides. he could see now that but for his secreting the stolen watch and chain in fred's bundle, he would probably have escaped scot free. as for the present, at least, we shall have nothing more to do with f. grant palmer, it may be briefly set down that after a speedy trial he was found guilty by the jury without leaving their seats. he was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment, and is now serving out his term at auburn. daring the remainder of his stay at niagara, fred used his time to advantage, and it was with a thankful heart that he took his place on the through train to new york the next morning. just before starting, mr. lawrence appeared on the platform, and handed him a small package covered with brown paper. "have you a pocket where this will be safe?" he asked. "yes, sir." "then put it away, and open it when you arrive home." "thank you, sir." fred's attention was taken up by his duties as train boy, and he gave no thought to the package, though he wondered at the moment what it contained. the train left at : , and was not due in jersey city till : p.m. at port jervis a young lady came on board dressed in a very plain and quiet manner. in his rounds through the train fred stopped at her seat with a pile of recent novels under his arm and asked her to buy. "no, thank you," she answered courteously, and fred observed that her face was very sad. if she had been dressed in mourning, he would have supposed that she had lost a near relative, but there was nothing in her dress to justify such a supposition. being naturally sympathetic, fred from time to time glanced at the young lady passenger, wishing it were in his power to lighten her sorrow, whatever it might be. sitting next to her was a young lady, handsomely dressed, who was evidently annoyed at the near neighborhood of one whom she considered her social inferior. it chanced to be the only seat unoccupied when the train reached port jervis, and the young lady was compelled to avail herself of it. but when she reached the seat she found it occupied by a fat poodle of uncertain temper, belonging to the fashionable young lady. "may i take this seat?" asked the new arrival. "don't you see that it is occupied?" snapped the dog's owner. "there is no other seat vacant," said the new passenger deprecatingly. "then you had better go into the next car." as the young girl stood in the aisle, undecided, fred, who had heard the entire colloquy, and was naturally indignant, made up his mind to interfere. "these seats were meant for passengers--not for dogs," he said. "boy, you are impertinent!" said the fashionable young lady haughtily. "where is the impertinence?" asked fred composedly. "do you wish this young lady to stand up in order that your dog may have a seat?" "i will report you to the railroad company for insolence." "just as you like, but i will remove the dog in order to give this young lady a seat." "oh, i don't want to make any trouble," said the new arrival. "touch my dog if you dare, boy," said the young lady with a flush of anger on her face. just then the conductor entered the car, and fred called him. "mr. collins," he said, "this young lady refuses to remove her dog from the seat to make room for a passenger." "is this true, madam?" asked the conductor. "she can go into the next car." "are you paying for two seats?" "no," snapped the lady. "i must take your dog into the baggage car. it is against our rules to have them in the regular cars, and they certainly cannot be allowed to keep our passengers from occupying seats." "don't you dare to touch my dog!" "do you go to jersey city?" "yes." "then you can call for the dog there," and in spite of the remonstrance of the dog's owner, and the growling of the poodle, the conductor removed the animal to the baggage car, much to the secret satisfaction of the passengers, who had observed with disgust the selfishness of its owner. "i am indebted to you for this," said the young lady, with a furious glance at the train boy. fred did not think himself called upon to make any answer. the young lady scornfully drew aside her dress to avoid contact with her unwelcome companion, saying audibly, "it is only in america that servant girls are allowed to thrust themselves in the company of their betters." "i am not a servant girl," said the new passenger, "but even if i were i have paid my fare, and am entitled to a seat." "do not address me, girl!" said her seat-mate haughtily. "i thought your remark was addressed to me." "i am forced to sit beside you, but i don't care to converse with you." the other took the hint, and left her undemocratic neighbor to herself. fred was naturally a little curious to ascertain the name of the young lady who had made herself so disagreeable. the mystery was solved in a way to surprise him. on reaching the depot at jersey city all the passengers left the cars. the young lady looked about her evidently in search of some one whom she expected to meet her. greatly to fred's surprise, his cousin raymond ferguson turned out to be the party expected. "here you are, sis," he said. "come right along. it is late." "i can't go yet. my poor little fido is in the baggage car. they wouldn't let me have him in the car with me. go and get him, and i will stay here." "gracious!" thought fred, "that must be cousin ferguson's daughter luella. well, i can't say i am proud of the relationship." chapter xviii. unsatisfactory relations. miss ferguson waited till her brother returned with the dog, who seemed to be in a bad humor. "my precious fido!" exclaimed the young lady, as she embraced the little animal. "did they put him in the dirty baggage car?" then, turning to fred, who stood by, she said spitefully: "it was all your work, you impertinent boy. i have a great mind to report you to the president of the road." raymond's attention was directed to fred by his sister's attack. "fred fenton!" he exclaimed in surprise. "yes," answered fred, amused. "i was not aware that it was your sister and a relative of mine when i took sides against her." "what does the boy mean?" demanded miss ferguson haughtily. "it is fred fenton," explained raymond deprecatingly. "does he claim relationship with me?" asked the young lady, looking disgusted. "no, miss ferguson, i don't claim it, though i believe it exists," said fred. "a common train boy!" ejaculated the young lady. "this is altogether too much. raymond, let us go!" as they left the station the other young lady passenger who had listened eagerly to the conversation asked in a tone of almost painful excitement, "is that the daughter of robert ferguson?" "yes, do you know him?" asked fred in surprise. "to my sorrow. when my poor father died mr. ferguson was appointed executor and trustee of his estate. it was not large, but we supposed it would amount to ten thousand dollars, and perhaps more. last week my mother received a letter from him stating that he had satisfied all claims against the estate, and that only seventy-five dollars was left. this leaves us well-nigh penniless." "is it possible? do you suspect that any fraud has been practised upon you?" "my mother feels sure of it, but what can we do? we are poor, and the poor are always friendless," continued the girl bitterly. "have you come to new york to see mr. ferguson?" "yes; my mother wishes me to ask full particulars, and to appeal to him to do us justice. i fear it will be of no avail, but it is the only thing that we can do." "pardon me," said fred, "but we had better be getting on board the ferry-boat, or we shall have to wait till the next." "thank you! i hardly know what i am doing." fred accompanied the young lady to the ladies' cabin and sat down beside her. "can i be of any service to you?" asked the train boy. "it is late for a young lady to arrive in new york." "i supposed we should reach the city at nine. that is what a neighbor told me. i hardly know where to go," she added timidly. "can you recommend a cheap hotel or boarding-house?" "there would be a difficulty about obtaining admission to either this evening." "then what shall i do?" asked the girl, looking distressed. "i think you had better come home with me for to-night. our home is a very humble one but mother will take good care of you. to-morrow you can make other arrangements if you desire." "oh, how kind you are! i should like nothing better, if you really think your mother would not be annoyed." fred smiled. "she is too kind-hearted for that," he said. "just wait till you see her, and you won't feel any doubt." "how fortunate i am to fall in with such a friend! i now see how unwise it was for me to take such a late train." they walked to the cortlandt street station of the sixth avenue elevated road, and ascended the steps. in spite of her anxieties the young lady felt interested in the novel means of locomotion, and asked a variety of questions of the train boy. at thirty-third street they descended, and walking a short distance up broadway turned down a side street, and were soon at the door of fred's modest home. mrs. fenton was sitting up, and had come to feel anxious. "how long you have been away, fred!" she said. "not quite three days, mother." "but you were never away before. bertie and i have missed you very much." "mother," said fred, "you don't see that i have company." then, for the first time, the widow observed the young lady. "who is it, fred?" she asked, as a wild and improbable suspicion entered her mind. could it be that fred, who was only a boy in years, had contracted a marriage and brought his wife home? "i shall have to ask the young lady to introduce herself," said fred. "my name is ruth patton," said the girl timidly. "i hope you will not be angry with your son for bringing me here. i am a stranger in the city, and indeed i did not know that the train arrived so late. your son told me that it would be difficult to get into any hotel or boarding-house at this hour, and i have ventured to throw myself on your hospitality for to-night." "you are heartily welcome," said mrs. fenton, ready to smile at her first wild suspicion. "remove your wraps, and in ten minutes i can offer you a cup of tea and some eggs and toast. you will sleep the better for a little supper." "you are a wise woman, mother," said fred. "you have guessed what i was longing for." "let me help you, mrs. fenton," said ruth, already looking more cheerful. "then you may toast the bread," said mrs. fenton. "i don't dare to trust fred. i did once to my sorrow, and the toast turned out to be as black as my shoe." "i can promise to do better than that. i have plenty of experience." she set herself to the task, as if she felt quite at home, and soon they were able to sit down to a plain but welcome supper. "do you know, mother," said fred, between mouthfuls, "luella ferguson was on the train." "how did you recognize her? did she speak to you?" fred smiled roguishly. "she did. shall i tell you what she said?" "i should be glad to hear it." "she said: 'boy, i will report you to the railroad company for insolence.' she's a sweet girl, cousin luella!" "but you were not really insolent?" thereupon fred told the whole story, and his mother agreed with him that miss ferguson's conduct was very selfish and unladylike. "what's more, mother, miss patton tells me that cousin ferguson has cheated her mother and herself out of ten thousand dollars. i'll tell you about it to-morrow. it is just striking twelve, and i can hardly keep my eyes open." chapter xix. ruth patton calls on mr. ferguson. the next day ruth patton confided her story to mrs. fenton. "my mother and i," she said, "in our grief for father's death, never dreamed that it would bring us destitution. though he never furnished us particulars of his pecuniary condition, he gave us to understand that he would be comfortably provided for. robert ferguson we knew to have been a life-long friend, or perhaps i should rather say acquaintance, and we felt that as a trustee he would consider our interests. we were thunderstruck when a letter was received from him last week, stating that, in place of the ten thousand dollars on which we fully counted, a pitiful balance of seventy-five dollars alone remained to us." "it was shameful!" said mrs. fenton indignantly. "nearly all of this sum will be swallowed up by small debts due in port jervis. you will understand now why i have come to lay our case before mr. ferguson, and see if he cannot give us more, or at any rate find me employment, for on me now rests the duty of providing for my poor mother." "i wish i could encourage you, miss patton----" "don't call me miss patton. i look upon yon as a kind friend, and hope you will call me ruth." "so indeed i will, for i feel a strong interest in you, ruth." "and i will look to you for advice." "then i advise you to call this evening on mr. ferguson, and find out the worst." "meanwhile perhaps you can direct me to a cheap boarding-house." "you will stay here till you have had time to form your plans." "i will gladly do so if you will let me pay you." "all in good time, ruth. to-day you can help me if you will, and it will be time to pay board when you are earning something." it was not till he sat down to an early breakfast that fred thought of the package handed him by mr. lawrence at the niagara falls station. he opened it in some curiosity, and to his surprise discovered a roll of bills, accompanied by this note: to fred fenton, my young friend:--though i have not yet had a chance to communicate with my uncle in elmira, i feel authorized to act as his representative, and in his name ask you to accept the inclosed sum as an acknowledgment of your valuable assistance in bringing about the recovery of the securities stolen from his house, and incidentally as a recompense for the annoyance you experienced in being yourself suspected. your conduct has been very creditable, and i feel that to you we are largely indebted for the recovery of the property and the conviction of the burglar. i infer that you are mainly dependent, on your earnings, which are probably limited, and i therefore take pleasure in handing you a substantial reward which i hope will be of service to you. yours sincerely, edmund lawrence. fred counted the bills, and alike to his surprise and gratification found that they amounted to two hundred dollars. "where did you get so much money, fred?" asked his mother, entering the room as he completed his count. "that letter will explain, mother," answered fred radiant with delight. "we are indeed rich!" said mrs. fenton joyfully. "this removes all anxiety for a long time to come." "yes, we can afford to snap our fingers at the landlord." "i hope you are not going to carry all this money round with you, fred. you might get robbed." "i shall deposit it in the dime savings bank this forenoon." "but you will leave before the bank opens." "no, i am to take a midday train." at ten o'clock fred went to the union dime savings bank fronting on thirty-second street, and deposited the hundred dollars in gold left him by his mining friend, and one hundred and seventy-five dollars besides from his recent gift. the other twenty-five he handed to his mother. "mother," he said, "you need a new dress, and albert needs a new suit. take this money, and buy what you think best." "i can go a little longer without a dress, fred." "but i don't want you to. we can spare the money well enough, and there is no better way to spend it." mrs. fenton made no further opposition, but during the day asked ruth patton to accompany her to one of the large stores on sixth avenue, where the necessary purchases were made. in the evening ruth set out for her call upon mr. robert ferguson. she ascended the steps in a state of nervous agitation, for she felt that the interview was of momentous importance to her, and in a low voice asked the servant who answered the bell if she could see mr. ferguson. "i will ask, miss," said the servant, surveying her plain dress with some disdain. "a young lady to see me?" said robert ferguson in surprise. "are you sure it is not my daughter she wishes to see?" "no, sir; she expressly asked to see you." mr. ferguson was a widower, and rather vain of his personal attractions. perhaps the young lady might have been struck by his appearance. "you can show her up," he said amiably, and turned to catch a further glance in a mirror just opposite. he straightened his necktie, and passed his hand softly over his hair to make sure that it was smooth, and then turned to the door to catch the first glimpse of his visitor. nothing thus far has been said of the outward appearance of ruth patton. notwithstanding her anxious face she was unusually pretty, and her manners were refined and ladylike. "mr. ferguson?" she said inquiringly, pausing at the door. "come in, my dear young lady!" said robert ferguson graciously. "i am pleased to see you." "thank you, sir." "pray sit down." "he is much kinder than i supposed," thought ruth. "i must have misjudged him." "i wrote to you a few days since," she began. "indeed! i don't think i can have received your letter." "but you answered it, sir." "i answered a letter from you? what then is your name?" "ruth patton." "oh!" returned ferguson, his face darkening. he no longer felt inclined to be gracious, for he had a premonition that the interview would not be agreeable to him. "my mother and i were quite overwhelmed by the news you sent us. we had no idea that my father left so little, and she wished me to come on and ask for some particulars." "i have very little to tell you beyond what i wrote," said mr. ferguson coldly. "my father led us to think that we should be comfortably provided for." "many men have very vague ideas of how they stand. your father did wrong in not insuring his life." "he did not think it would be necessary. he thought we should be sufficiently provided for without that." "he had no right to think so," said ferguson irritably. "you see how things have turned out." "but what can have become of all the money?" "i hope, miss patton, you don't think i have spirited it away?" "no, sir. don't be offended, but it seems so strange," faltered ruth. "the money was unwisely invested. a large part of it was in wild-cat mining stocks, which were not worth the paper they were written on." "father never spoke to us about any such investments." "i presume not. most men keep such matters to themselves. well, the upshot is that but seventy-five dollars are left. i presume your mother received my check for this amount." "yes, sir." "then that is all i can do for you. i will in time forward a bill of particulars. a present i am busy." at this moment luella ferguson entered the room. she recognized ruth at once. "you here?" she said in haughty surprise. "yes, i came on business." "we do not want any servants. papa, this girl was very insolent to me on the train yesterday. i hope you will send her away." "i am going, miss ferguson," said ruth with spirit. "your father was the trustee of my poor father's property, and it was to ask about it that i came here. good evening." she left the house with faltering steps, for her last hope had been destroyed, and she felt keenly the cruel slight of luella ferguson. as she set foot on the sidewalk her brain reeled, and she would have fallen had not a young man who was about to ascend the steps sprung forward and supported her. chapter xx. a friend in need. ruth patton recovered herself by a great effort. "i won't trouble you any longer, sir," she faltered. "i think i can do without further assistance." "excuse me for doubting it. you look very weak. take my arm. there is a drug store not far away where i can procure you a strengthening draught." "i am sorry to trouble you so much," she murmured apologetically. "it is no trouble, i assure you. i count myself fortunate in being on hand so opportunely." ruth for the first time, encouraged by his kind words, stole a glance at the stranger. he was a well made and unusually handsome young man of perhaps twenty-seven. his careful dress and something in his manner seemed to indicate high social position. the indication corresponded with the fact. alfred lindsay belonged to an old and distinguished new york family. though his means were ample he was not content to be an idler, but after careful preparation at columbia college and law school, he had opened a law office in the mills building, and was already beginning to be known as a young man with a future. his wealth and high social standing led him to be considered a "catch," in the matrimonial market. it is safe to say that at least half a dozen young ladies had set their caps for him. among these was luella ferguson, and there were those who considered her chance of landing the prize the best. at any rate mr. lindsay, who had been employed by the elder ferguson in some legal matter, became a frequent caller, to the great satisfaction of luella ferguson. it may not be considered a mark of taste on the part of the young man to have fallen a victim to the young lady's arts, but in his presence she was all that was amiable. she was not without a certain attractiveness of face, which, had it been joined to an equally agreeable disposition, might have proved a good excuse to any young man for succumbing to her fascinations. never for a moment had he cause to suspect that she was otherwise than she seemed. kind and sympathetic himself, the absence of these qualities, if known to him, would have rendered her repulsive to him. he conducted ruth to a drug store, and the druggist administered restoratives that soon brought back her strength and color, but not her cheerfulness. "i am strong enough now to go on my way," she said rising. "how can i thank you, sir, for your kindness?" "by allowing me to see you to your own door," and this he insisted on despite ruth's protest. "would it be indiscreet," he asked, when they had set out on their way, "to ask if you can account for your sudden illness?" "i had a shock," she answered. "of what sort? are you willing to make me your confidant? i do not ask out of curiosity, but because it may be in my power to serve you." "i have so few friends that i will not decline your kind offer." "you were coming from the house of mr. robert ferguson?" "yes, sir; do you know him?" "quite well. i was myself going there." "is he considered--an honorable man?" "why, surely. what can lead you to doubt it?" in answer ruth told her story. the young lawyer listened in pained surprise. strictly honorable himself, he found it hard to believe that a man whom he knew so well could be guilty of the meanness of defrauding two women whose interests had been confided to him. yet the story seemed probable. moreover, even had matters been as mr. ferguson represented, his want of feeling seemed almost as bad as absolute dishonesty. he asked ruth several questions in order that he might become fully possessed of all particulars. "this, then, was the cause of your agitation?" he said at length. "not wholly. it was the treatment i received from miss ferguson that affected me most." "miss ferguson! do you know miss ferguson?" lindsay asked quickly. "i met her for the first time yesterday afternoon." "where--may i ask?" "in the erie train. i entered the cars at port jervis. she was already on board, but i do not know from what point she had come." "i think i know. she had been visiting a school friend at binghamton." "you know her, then?" "yes. i met her at a party about a year since." "if she is a friend of yours i will not say anything to her disadvantage." "but i want you to tell me all there is to tell. i have a special reason for learning all i can about her. you say she treated you ill?" "she treated me cruelly. she took offense in the cars because the conductor removed her dog from a seat in order to make room for me." "was there no other seat in the car?" "none, or i would not have disturbed her. i did not like to stand all the way from port jervis to new york." "of course not. please favor me with the particulars." the young man listened attentively while ruth in simple language--not exaggerating in any respect--told her story. young lindsay's brow contracted, for he felt indignant at the cold selfishness shown by the young lady who had hitherto attracted him. he felt that, if it were all true, he could never again look upon her even with ordinary friendship. "she feigned to look upon me as a servant," ruth concluded, "and sharply rebuked me for thrusting myself upon her. i would gladly have taken another seat had any been unoccupied, but the car was full. i heard from the train boy that it was on account of an excursion to shohola glen." "i confess, miss patton" (ruth had told her name), "i am surprised and pained by what you have told me. i never knew that luella--miss ferguson--had such unlovely traits. to me she has always seemed kind and considerate." looking in the young man's expressive face, ruth patton felt that she understood better than he why miss ferguson had assumed to be what she was not. she was not surprised that luella should desire to make a favorable impression upon one who seemed to her the most attractive young man she had ever met. but of course she could not give utterance to the thought that was in her mind, and remained silent. "to change the subject," said lindsay, after a pause, "may i ask what are your plans if you have any?" "i must try to earn some money. if--if you would advise me." "with pleasure. let me ask, first, what you can do." "i used to do some copying for a lawyer at port jervis." "you are used, then, to copying legal documents?" "i have done considerable of it." "you do not use the typewriter?" "no, i have never learned." alfred lindsay paused, and his expressive face showed that he was busy thinking. "i am a lawyer," he said at length, "and i have copying to do, of course. would you mind calling upon me at my office to-morrow morning?" "i shall be very glad to do so," answered ruth, her eyes lighting up with new-born hopes. "i think i can promise you something to do." "oh, sir, you don't know how your words cheer me. this is where i live. thank you very much for your kind escort." "don't mention it. i will expect you to-morrow," and the young man took off his hat as respectfully as if ruth, instead of being a poor girl in search of work, were a lady in his own set. chapter xxi. luella's painful discovery. "what business had that girl with you, papa?" asked luella ferguson, when, stung by her insolence, ruth had left the house. "she told you," answered the father evasively. "is it true that you were trustee of any property belonging to her?" "well, there is some truth in it. her father was an old schoolmate of mine, though we were never intimate, and when he died, considerably to my surprise, he asked me to settle his estate." "how much did it amount to?" "after paying all bills, including funeral expenses, there was seventy-five dollars left." "a fine estate, upon my word!" said luella with a scornful laugh. "really, the girl is a great heiress." "she thought she ought to have been. what do you think she and her mother expected?" "something amusing, no doubt." "they thought that they would realize ten thousand dollars, and be completely provided for." "they must be fools!" "we won't use so harsh an expression. women know very little about business." "some women, papa. you will please make an exception in my case." "well, i admit, luella," said her father complacently, "you do seem to have a sharp eye to your own interests." "why shouldn't i? i come honestly by it, papa, don't i?" "well, perhaps----" "you have been pretty sharp yourself, eh, papa? i fancy you have a pretty good sum of money salted down--that's the term, isn't it?" "well, i have something, but i don't care to make a boast of it. there would be plenty who would want a share--for instance, mrs. fenton." "that reminds me; her son is a train-boy on the erie road." "did you see him?" "yes, he made himself very obnoxious by his impertinent intermeddling. he insisted upon my removing my poor fido, in order to give that girl a seat." "what concern was it of his?" "none at all, but he made such a fuss that i had to do it." "you need not have done so. the train boy has no authority in such matters." "he called the conductor, and he took my poor darling into the baggage car. papa, can't you get him discharged?" "i have no influence with the erie officials, my dear. besides, if i deprive him of his chance to make a living, he and his mother will be importuning me for money. better leave well enough alone!" this was the sort of argument that weighed with luella ferguson. she was meanness personified, and would rather save money than be revenged upon fred. "do you think you will have any more trouble with this girl who called to-night?" "i should not be surprised if she called again to ask me to help her to employment." "if she does, advise her to go out to service. she could get a position as chambermaid without difficulty." "remember, luella, that in her own town she has held a good social position. she may have too much pride." "then let her starve!" said luella, harshly. "it is preposterous for a pauper to be proud." "she is not exactly a pauper," said mr. ferguson, who was not quite so venomous in his hatred as his daughter. "i forgot--she has a fortune of seventy-five dollars. will you do me a favor?" "what is it?" "if the girl comes again, turn her over to me." "very well, my dear. i shall be glad to do so. it will relieve me from embarrassment." "i shall feel no embarrassment. i shall rather enjoy it." "by the way, luella, how are you getting on with young lindsay?" luella flushed a little, and a softer light shone in her eyes. she had very little heart, but such as she had was given to alfred lindsay. at first attracted by his wealth and social position--for on his mother's side he belonged to one of the knickerbocker families--she had ended by really falling in love with him. in his company she appeared at her best. her amiable and attractive manners were not wholly assumed, for the potent spell of love softened her and transformed her from a hard, cynical, selfish girl to a woman seeking to charm one who had touched her heart. "he comes to see me very often, papa," she answered, coyly. "and he seems impressed?" "i think so," said luella, lowering her eyes, while a gratified smile lighted up her face. "he has never actually proposed?" asked ferguson eagerly. "well, not exactly, but from his manner i think he will soon." "i hope so, luella. there is no one whom i would more prefer for a son-in-law." "i shall not say him nay, papa." "of course not. he is rich and of distinguished family. he will make a very suitable mate for you." "yes, papa, i appreciate that, but you too are rich and of high social position." "well, daughter, i stand fairly, but as to family, i can't boast much. my father--your grandfather--was a village blacksmith. i have never told you that before." "horrors, papa!" exclaimed luella. "you cannot mean this?" "it is a sober fact. i have never told you, for i knew it would shock you." "does any one know it in our circle?" "no. indeed, the only one who is likely to have any knowledge of it is mrs. fenton and her son." "the train boy!" "yes." "if it should get out i should die of mortification." "neither you nor i are likely to mention it. i only referred to it to show the advantages of marrying a man of high lineage like alfred lindsay. i have money, but i have never been able to get into the inner circle to which the lindsays belong. money will buy much, but it won't buy that. i hope yon will do your best to bring the young mail to the point." "i will manage it, papa," said luella complacently. "do you know i have made up my mind to go to europe on a wedding trip?" "if lindsay consents." "he will do whatever i wish. i expect him to call this evening." "do you?" "yes, and--papa, something might happen," added luella playfully. "i hope so sincerely, my dear." "mind, if he comes to you, not a word about the blacksmith! i wish you hadn't told me." "forget it then, luella. we will keep it a profound secret." luella left her father's presence with a smile upon her face. it was already eight o'clock. half an hour passed, and she became anxious. fifteen minutes more clipped by, and still the welcome ring at the bell was not heard. she was ready to cry with vexation, for she had made up her mind to lead the young man to a declaration that very evening if it were a possible thing. she summoned a servant. "jane," she said, "mr. lindsay has not called this evening, has he?" "no miss. if he had of course i would tell you." "i thought perhaps there might have been some mistake. if he should come--and it isn't very late yet--let me know at once." "surely i will, miss luella." "she's dead gone on that man," said jane to herself. "well, i don't wonder, for he is awfully handsome, that's a fact. but my! if he could only see her in some of her tantrums, he'd open his eyes. he thinks she's an angel, but i know her better." several days passed and still alfred lindsay did not call. luella became alarmed. was she losing her hold upon him? she was considering whether it would be proper to write a letter to the young lawyer at his office, when she chanced to make a very painful discovery. about five o'clock on saturday afternoon she was coming out of lord & taylor's up-town store when in a plainly dressed girl who was just passing she recognized ruth patton. curiosity led her to address ruth. "so you are still in the city?" she said abruptly. "yes, miss ferguson," answered ruth calmly. "of course you are very poor. i think i can get you a place as chambermaid in the family of one of my friends." "thank you, but i have a position i like better." "what sort of a position?" "i am in a lawyer's office, copying legal papers." "indeed! i suppose you are poorly paid." "i receive ten dollars a week." "that is ridiculously high pay. of course you don't earn it." "mr. lindsay fixed the salary--i did not." "lindsay!" gasped luella, "what lindsay?" "alfred lindsay. he has his office in the mills building." ruth patton passed on, having unconsciously given poignant anguish to the haughty miss ferguson. "where could she have met alfred?" luella asked herself with contracted brow. "i must get him to discharge her. i had no idea she was such an artful minx." chapter xxii. miss ferguson writes a note. it was indeed true that ruth patton had found employment at ten dollars a week. her services were scarcely worth that sum to her employer, but alfred lindsay was not only rich but generous, and was glad to believe ruth's anxiety by insuring her a comfortable income. she was still at mrs. fenton's rooms, being now able to contribute her share of the expense incurred. the widow was willing to accept only three dollars per week, so that ruth had the satisfaction of sending a weekly remittance to her mother. she was very grateful for the change in her circumstances, and, notwithstanding the disappointment about her father's estate, felt that there was reason to hope. two days later alfred lindsay found a letter upon his desk addressed in a delicate female hand which he did not recognize. "a lady client!" he thought. "what does she want--a divorce?" when he opened the envelope he read the following note, written on a highly perfumed sheet: my dear mr. lindsay: pray don't be shocked at my boldness in writing you, but it _is so long_ since you have called that papa suggests sickness as a possible cause. i do hope that this is not what has kept you away. i confess that i have missed you very much. i have so enjoyed our conversations. you are not like the fashionable butterflies of whom we meet so many in society. one must tolerate them, of course but it is a comfort to meet a man who can talk intelligently about books and art. apropos, i have a new collection of etchings that i want to show you. won't you name an evening when you will call, as i want to be certain to be at home when you really do come. i should be desolated, as the french say, to be absent. now don't fail to answer this screed. otherwise i shall certainly manage to have some law business that will give me an excuse for calling at your office. very sincerely yours, luella ferguson. alfred lindsay read this note slowly, and there was a smile upon his face, for he fully appreciated luella's motive in writing it. a fortnight since he would have been charmed, but his feelings with respect to miss ferguson had undergone a change. the revelation of her real character had shocked him, and served effectually to kill his growing attachment. beauty of face could not make up for deformity of character. on the other hand, he was beginning to be attracted by ruth. she lacked luella's regular features and cold, classic beauty, but her sweet face revealed a disposition warm, kindly, and sympathetic; and when her deep, serious eyes rested upon him, he felt that she was far more attractive than her showy rival. "what shall i do?" he asked himself as his eyes fell upon the note. he must of course answer it, but should he accept the invitation? upon the whole he decided to do so. there was no reason which he could allege for declining, and, though it would be to sacrifice an evening, he would go armed against luella's fascinations by the knowledge he had acquired. he drew out a sheet of paper from a drawer in his desk, and wrote as follows: my dear miss ferguson: as i am writing in my office, you will understand and excuse the unfashionable business paper which i am using. i am flattered to find that you miss me, and still more at the reason you assign for preferring my company to that of the gilded young men who worship at your shrine. i am but "a plain, blunt man," as shakspeare has it, and cannot vie with them in compliment. i shall no doubt find pleasure in examining the etchings which you hold out as an inducement to call. i will name thursday evening, but should you have a previous engagement, don't scruple to notify me, as i can easily postpone my visit to another date. yours sincerely, alfred lindsay. luella ferguson read this note with mingled pleasure and disappointment. "it is very cold," she murmured, "almost as if i were an ordinary acquaintance. i suppose men feel hampered when they try to express themselves upon paper. i will not believe that he is less friendly, or admires me less than he used to do. at any rate he is coming, and i must make myself as fascinating as possible. i have a chance to win him, and i mean to do it." "papa," said luella on thursday morning, "mr. lindsay will call here this evening." "i am glad to hear it, luella. i hope he is coming--on business." "i don't know," she answered demurely. "you know my wishes on the subject?" "they accord with mine, papa." when alfred lindsay was announced, he found luella resplendent in a new dress, and bedecked with jewels. she intentionally made herself as attractive as possible. "really. miss ferguson, you are radiant tonight," he said. "do you think so?" she asked. "there is no doubt of it. are you expecting other company?" "only yourself." "then i am to consider it a special compliment to me." "if you like." "then i must express my acknowledgments." yet as he spoke, his thoughts reverted to ruth patton, with her lack of ornament and severe simplicity, and he felt that her image was to him the more attractive of the two. it was fortunate for miss ferguson's peace of mind that she could not read his thoughts. "now, you bad boy," she said playfully, "you must tell me why you have stayed away so long." "perhaps to see if you would miss me." "i have missed you so much." "that is certainly a compliment to me as a conversationalist, as you wrote in your note you appreciate my sensible conversation i am afraid you overestimate me. i have a friend who is really brilliant, and can converse eloquently upon any subject. may i bring him with me?" "who is he?" asked luella hesitatingly. "professor grimes." "what, the lecturer?" "yes." "why. he is grotesque in appearance. i heard him lecture once, and thought he wore a mask, so ugly was his face." "you admit his eloquence, however?" "yes; but from such a mouth even pearls cease to attract. pray don't bring him! he positively makes me shudder, i assure you." luella did not like the turn the conversation had taken. there seemed no chance for sentiment, and she wanted to bring all her fascinations to bear. "you have some etchings to show me; miss ferguson?" said lindsay, after a pause. "yes; but i want to show them to you myself. you will have to come and sit beside me." "willingly," answered alfred, but his tone was conventional, and lacked the warmth it had formerly shown. together they looked over the collection. luella saw, however, to her mortification, that lindsay was calm and cold. it seemed clear that she had lost her power over him. what could be the reason? "can it be that girl, ruth patton?" she asked herself. "is it she who is drawing alfred lindsay away from me? i must warn him against her." "by the way, haven't you a copyist in your office named ruth patton?" "how did you know?" asked lindsay. "i met her the other day on broadway. perhaps you don't know, but she is an humble protegee of my father's." "a protegee?" "yes; papa has been very kind to the family. he took charge of their affairs on the death of her father, and, though there was not enough property to pay the debts, he paid them all, and sent a check to mrs. patton besides." "that was certainly considerate!" said lindsay; but from his tone it could not be discovered if he were speaking in earnest or ironically. "as you say, it was considerate, but this ruth is very ungrateful. she was actually ridiculous enough to think they ought to have had a fortune, and i believe blames papa for the way things have come out." alfred lindsay listened politely, but did not express an opinion. "she is a very good copyist," he said. "i am glad she is earning a living, though i think it would have been better for her to remain in the country, don't you?" "really, i can't judge for others, not knowing all the circumstances." "the girl is ill bred, i am sorry to say. she treated me rudely in the cars." "she gives me no cause of complaint," said lindsay shortly. he understood and despised luella's attempts to prejudice him against the copyist. when he rose to go, luella was disappointed. she felt that she had brought him no nearer, and had not strengthened her hold upon him. as the young lawyer descended the steps he met a man coming up whom he recognized as a dealer in worthless mining stock, who was looked upon by reputable business men with doubt and suspicion. "what business can orlando jenkins have with mr. ferguson?" he asked himself. chapter xxiii. another railroad adventure. six months have passed and brought with them some changes. at the end of two months ruth patton sent for her mother, who was feeling very lonely at port jervis, and engaged a suite of three rooms over those occupied by mrs. fenton and fred. though she was away during the day, the two ladies, living so near together, were company for each other. ruth had now become advanced to twelve dollars a week, not out of charity, but because alfred lindsay's business had considerably increased and gave his copyist more to do. fred was still on the erie road, but it was now winter, and the travel had so much diminished that where he had formerly earned seven or eight dollars a week he now averaged no more than four. he began to be dissatisfied, for his income now was inadequate to meet his expenses, and he had been obliged to spend twenty dollars out of the two hundred which he had received from mr. lawrence at niagara falls. he was now seventeen, and he felt that it was high time he had entered upon some business in which he could advance by successive steps. on the road, if he remained till he was thirty years of age, he could earn no more than at present. he answered several advertisements, but secured nothing likely to be an improvement upon his present place. one evening toward the end of december he was about to leave the cars, when his attention was drawn to an old gentleman with hair nearly white, who did not rise with the rest of the passengers, but remained in his seat with his head leaned back and his eyes closed. the train boy, concluding that he had fallen asleep, went up to him and touched him gently. "we have reached jersey city," he said. the old man opened his eyes slightly and gazed at him bewildered. "i--i don't know where i am," he murmured vaguely. "you are in jersey city, sir." "i want to go to new york." "you have only to cross the ferry." "excuse me; i am a stranger here. i am from ohio. where is the ferry?" "let me lead you to the boat, sir." the old man rose feebly and put his hand to his head. "i don't know what is the matter with me," he said. "i feel sick." "perhaps you are upset by your journey. come with me, and i will take care of you." "you are a very good boy, and i will accept your offer." he rose and left the car, leaning heavily on fred's arm. "how long have you felt unwell?" asked the train boy sympathetically. "ever since we left elmira. my head troubles me." "it is the motion of the cars, no doubt. here we are!" they were just in time to reach the boat. they entered the ladies' cabin, as fred thought the tobacco smoke which always pervaded the cabin devoted to men would increase the old gentleman's head trouble. "where do you wish to go when we have reached the new york side?" asked fred, when they were nearly across the river. "i have a nephew living on madison avenue. do you know that street?" "oh, yes, sir, very well. i will go up with you if you will let me know your nephew's name." the name was mentioned, and to fred's surprise was that of a wealthy and influential wall street broker. it was clear that the old gentleman, though plainly dressed, would not need to economize. "i think, sir," said fred, noticing that the old man seemed to be getting more and more feeble, "that it will be well for you to take a cab, in order to avoid any walking. you seem very much fatigued." "you are right. will you call one? i don't feel able." "with pleasure, sir." fred passed through the gate and beckoned a hackman, who drove up with alacrity. "where to, sir?" he asked. fred gave the number on madison avenue. "mr. john wainwrignt lives there," said the hackman. "i sometimes drive him up from wall street." "that is the place. this is his uncle." the hackman touched his hat respectfully to the old gentleman, whom he had at first mentally styled a rusty old codger. his relationship to the wealthy broker gave him dignity in the eyes of the driver. "won't you get in too?" asked the old gentleman who had come to rely upon fred as his guardian. "certainly, sir." "i shall feel safer. i am a perfect stranger to the city." he leaned back in the seat and partially closed his eyes. the hack rattled through the streets and in due time reached its destination. the hackman opened the door of the cab and fred assisted the old gentleman to alight. "take my pocketbook and pay him," said the old man. the hackman did not venture to ask more than his rightful fare, as it would have come to the knowledge of the broker, whom he did not care to offend. the driver paid, fred ascended the steps and rang the bell. a man servant opened the door. "is mr. wainwright at home?" asked fred. the servant, seeing an old man in rather a rusty dress, was inclined to think that he was an applicant for charity, and answered rather superciliously: "yes, he's at 'ome, but i ain't sure as he'll see you." "tell him," said fred sharply, "that his uncle has arrived." "his uncle!" repeated the astounded flunkey. "o yes, sir, certainly, sir. i think he _is_ at 'ome. won't you step in, sir?" fred would have gone away, but the old gentleman still seemed to require his assistance, and he stepped in with him and led him into the drawing-room. the servant promptly reported the arrival to mr. wainwright, who descended the staircase quickly and greeted his uncle. "you are heartily welcome, uncle silas," he said. "i did not expect you till to-morrow, or i would have sent the carriage for you." "i changed my mind, john, and decided to push through." "who is this young man with you?" "he is a kind friend, john. i was taken sick--the effect of the journey, i think--and i shouldn't have been able to get up here but for him." the broker smiled pleasantly and held out his hand to fred. "you are the train boy, are you not?" he asked, glancing at fred's cap. "yes, sir." "i hope you find it pays you well." "not at this season, sir." "how long have you been in service?" "over a year." "thank you for your kindness to my uncle. he seems ill and requires my attention now. can you make it convenient to call here to-morrow evening at eight o'clock?" "yes, sir. i will call with pleasure." "good night, then, and don't forget to call." the broker shook hands with fred again, and the train-boy left the house quite won by the pleasant and affable manner of the great broker. "i never expected to know such a man as that," thought fred. "i wish he would give me a position in his office. that would be much better worth having than my present place." "why are you so late, fred?" asked his mother, when he reached home. "i had to make a call on mr. wainwright, the broker," answered fred. "i guess you are only funning," said albert. "no, i am not. i am invited to call again to-morrow evening." "what for?" "perhaps he's going to take me into partnership," said fred in joke. chapter xxiv. fred's good luck. fred made a short trip the next day, and returned home at four o'clock. he was glad to be back so early, as it gave him time to prepare for his evening visit. naturally his mind had dwelt upon it more or less during the day, and he looked forward to the occasion with pleasant anticipations. the broker's gracious manners led fred to think of him as a friend. "i would like to be in the employ of such a man," he reflected. he started from home in good season, and found himself on the broker's steps on the stroke of eight. the door was opened by the same servant as on the evening previous, but he treated fred more respectfully, having overheard mr. wainwright speak of him cordially. so when fred asked, "is mr. wainwright at home?" he answered "yes, sir; come right in. i believe as you are expected." the old man was descending the stairs as fred entered, and immediately recognized him. "ha, my young friend!" he said. "i am glad to see you," and he held out his hand. "i hope you are feeling better, sir," said fred respectfully. "oh, yes, thank you. i feel quite myself to-day. it was the length of the journey that upset and fatigued me. i couldn't travel every day, as you do." "no, sir, i suppose not now; but when you were of my age it would have been different." "how old are you?" "seventeen." "and i am seventy-one, the same figures, but reversed. that makes a great difference. come in here; my nephew will be down at once." the train boy followed the old gentleman into the handsome drawing-room, and sat down on a sofa feeling, it must be owned, not quite as much at home as he would have done in a plainer house. "did you make much to-day?" asked silas corwin (that was his name) in a tone of interest. "no, sir, it was a poor day. i only sold three dollars' worth." "and how much did that yield you?" "sixty cents. i have a commission of twenty per cent." "what was the most you ever made in a day?" "i took in thirteen dollars once--it was on a holiday." "that would give you two dollars and sixty cents." "yes, sir." "very good indeed!" "if i could keep that up i should feel like a millionaire." "perhaps happier than a millionaire. i have known millionaires who were weighed down by cares, and were far from happy." fred listened respectfully, but like most boys of his age found it impossible to understand how a very rich man could be otherwise than happy. at this point mr. john wainwright entered the room. "good evening, my boy!" he said cordially. "i won't apologize for being late, as my uncle has no doubt entertained you." "yes, sir; he was just telling me that millionaires are sometimes unhappy." "and you did not believe him?" "i think i should be happy if i were worth a million." "you might feel poorer than you do now. i knew a millionaire once--a bachelor--who did not venture to drink but one cup of coffee at his breakfast (he took it at a cheap restaurant) because it would involve an added expenditure of five cents." "was he in his right mind, sir?" "i don't wonder you ask. i don't think a man who carries economy so far is quite in his right mind. however, he was shrewd enough in his business transactions. but now tell me something about yourself. are you alone in the world?" "no, sir; i have a mother and little brother." "are they partly dependent upon you?" "yes, sir." "can you make enough to support them comfortably?" "i can in the summer, sir, but in the winter my earnings are small." "how small?" "not over four dollars a week." "that is certainly small. do you like your present employment?" "i am getting tired of it," answered fred. "i should be glad to find a place where i can have a chance to rise, even if the pay is small." "what do you think of going into a broker's office?" fred's heart gave a bound. "i should like it very much," he said. "then i think i can offer you a place in mine. come down on saturday, and i will introduce you to the office employees, and on monday you can begin work." "i am very much obliged to you, mr. wainwright." "before you know how much pay you are to receive?" asked the broker, smiling. "i can safely trust that to you, sir." "then we will say eight dollars to begin with." "my mother will be pleased with my good luck. i hope i shall prove satisfactory." "we generally ask references from those about to enter our employment, but my uncle here insists that it is unnecessary in your case." "i'll go security for the boy, john," said silas corwin. "thank you, sir," said fred. "i will see that you don't run any risk." at this moment a young girl of fourteen entered the room. she was the picture of rosy health, and fred looked at her admiringly. she, too, glanced at him curiously. "fred, this is my daughter, rose," said mr. wainwright. "is this the boy who came home with uncle silas?" asked the young lady. "yes, rose." "he looks like a nice boy." fred blushed at the compliment, but coming from such lips he found it very agreeable. "thank you," he said. "how old are you?" continued rose. "i'm fourteen." "i am three years older." "when i am three years older i shall be a young lady." "i don't think i shall ever be a young lady," said fred demurely. "why, of course you won't, you foolish boy," said rose, with a merry laugh. "papa, may i invite fred to my new year's party?" "yes, if you like." "you'll come, won't you?" asked rose. "if your father approves," answered fred, hesitating. "of course he does. didn't he say so? if you'll tell me where you live, i'll send you a card. do you dance?" "not much; but i will practise beforehand." "that's right. you must dance with me, you know." "rose," said her father gravely, "are you under the impression that this is leap year? you seem to be very attentive to this young man." rose was the pride of her father's heart, as she might well be, for she was an unusually attractive child, and had been a good deal indulged, but by no means spoiled. mr. wainwright had no foolish ideas about exclusiveness, and was not disturbed by his daughter's cordiality to fred. "do you play backgammon, fred?" asked rose, after some further conversation. "yes, a little." "then i'll get the backgammon board, and we'll have a game." fred was not a skilful player, and the young lady beat him three games in succession, which put her in high spirits. her favorable opinion of fred was confirmed, and when he rose to go she pressed him to come again. "thank you," said fred, "i shall be very glad indeed to come." "rose," said her father, after fred's departure, "it seems to me you have been flirting with fred." "he's a nice boy, don't you think so, papa?" "i hope he will prove so, for i am going to take him into my office." "that's good. then i shall see him often." "really, rose, i was a little alarmed lest you should make him an offer this evening." "you needn't be afraid, papa. i will wait till i am a little bit older." "and then shall you offer yourself to fred?" "perhaps i shall if i don't see any one i like better." "you must remember he is poor." "that doesn't make any difference. you can give us all the money we want." "a very satisfactory arrangement, upon my word! i am glad you don't insist upon getting married at once, but give me a few hours to get reconciled to the thought." chapter xxv. rose wainwright's party. as fred would make his debut in fashionable society at rose wainwright's party, he was naturally solicitous to make a favorable impression. he had for some time been intending to procure a new suit, but hesitated on account of the expense. now with a new position in prospect, and a liberal salary he no longer delayed, but purchased a neat black suit--a misfit--for seventeen dollars, and a few small articles of which he stood in need. the next thing required was to obtain some knowledge of dancing. fortunately he was acquainted with a gentleman who gave private as well as class lessons, and was a very successful teacher. he called upon professor saville, and asked him if he could qualify him to make a creditable appearance at the party. "how much time have you?" asked the professor. "ten days." "then come to me every evening, and i will guarantee to make you more than an average dancer in that time." "and your terms?" "to you will be half price. i know very well, fred, that you are not a millionaire, and will adapt my terms to your circumstances." professor saville kept his word, and when the eventful day arrived fred felt a degree of confidence in his newly-acquired skill. when he was dressed for the party in his new suit, with a white silk tie and a pair of patent leather shoes, it would have been hard to recognize him as a poor train boy. "you look nice, fred," said albert. "do i? i must give you a dime for that compliment. now don't go and spend it for whisky." "i never drink whisky," said albert, indignantly. "i was only joking, bertie. well, mother, i will bid you good-evening." "i wish you a pleasant time, fred. shall you be out late?" "i can't tell, mother. it is so long since i have been to a fashionable party that i have forgotten when they do close." some of the boys who attended miss wainwright's party engaged cabs, but fred would have thought this a foolish expenditure. it was a dry crisp day, with no snow on the ground, and he felt that it would do him no harm to walk. he did not expect to meet any one he knew, but on turning into madison avenue, he nearly ran into raymond ferguson. raymond did not at first recognize him. when he did, he surveyed him in his party dress in unconcealed amazement. "where did you get that rig?" he inquired, with more abruptness than ceremony. fred was glad to meet raymond, and enjoyed his surprise. "i bought it," he answered briefly. "but why did you buy it? i don't see where you found the money. you'd better have saved it for food and rent." "i'll think over your advice, cousin raymond," said fred with a twinkle of fun in his eyes. "were you going to call at our house?" asked raymond. "not this evening." "i don't care to have you call me cousin raymond." "i won't, then. i am just as much ashamed of the relationship as you are." "if that's a joke it's a very poor one," said raymond, provoked. "it's no joke, i assure you." fred seemed so cool and composed that his cousin was nonplussed. he started as if to go on, but curiosity got the better of him. "you haven't told me where you were going in that absurd dress," he said. "i don't see anything absurd in it. i am going to a party." "to a party? what party?" "miss rose wainwright's." "what, the daughter of mr. wainwright, the broker?" asked raymond, incredulously. "yes." now it happened that raymond had been particularly anxious to get an invitation to this party. some of his friends at the columbia grammar school were going and he had intrigued, but unsuccessfully, to get a card of invitation. the idea that his cousin--an obscure train boy--had succeeded where he had failed seemed absurd and preposterous. it intensified his disappointment, and made him foolishly jealous of fred. "there must be some mistake about this," he said harshly. "you only imagine that you are invited." "i am not quite a fool, cousin raymond--excuse me, mr. ferguson. what do you say to this?" he drew from his pocket a note of invitation requesting the favor of mr. fred fenton's company at miss rose wainwright's new year's party. "how did she happen to send you this card?" asked raymond, his surprise increasing. "you don't mean to say you know rose wainwright?" "yes, i know her. i spent an evening at the house nearly two weeks ago, and played backgammon with her." "i never heard the like. have any bootblacks been invited?" "i don't know. the young lady didn't tell me who were coming." "take my advice and don't go." "why not?" "you will be about as much at home at a fashionable party as a cat would be at the opera." "but i have accepted the invitation." "that won't matter. you can write a note tomorrow saying that you thought it wiser to stay away." "besides there is another objection." "what is that?" "rose expects me to dance with her." "you dance!" "certainly, why not?" "i begin to think you are crazy, fred fenton." "i don't see why." "of course you can't dance." "of course i can. i am a pupil of professor saville. but i must bid you good evening, as it is time i was at the party." raymond gazed after fred as he walked toward the scene of the evening's enjoyment with corrugated brows. "i never heard of anything more ridiculous," he muttered. "it's like a beggar on horseback. think of a poor boy like fred figuring at rose wainwright's party. it is disgusting." fred would not have had his share of human nature if he had not enjoyed the discomfiture of his haughty cousin. "he thinks this world was made for him," he said to himself. "there would be no place for me in it if he had his will." the broker's house was blazing with light, and already many of the young guests had arrived. plants and flowers were to be seen in profusion, and the mansion wore a holiday look. fred was dazzled, but did not allow himself to appear ill at ease. "second floor back," said the servant who admitted him. fred went up-stairs and arranged his toilet in the room appropriated to gentlemen. three or four other boys were present, but he knew no one. with one of these, an attractive boy of his own age, fred stumbled into acquaintance, and they went downstairs together. "come with me." said the other boy, "we will pay our respects to rose together." fred was glad to have some one take him in tow, and said so, adding, "won't you tell me your name?" "my name is george swain. i am a columbia schoolboy." "and mine, fred fenton. i am in mr. wainwright's office." rose greeted both boys cordially. she glanced approvingly at fred's dress. she had been a little uncertain whether he would be able to appear in suitable costume. "you won't forget our dance?" she said, smiling. "oh, no; i am counting upon it." "then put down your name here," and she presented a card containing the order of dances. "may i put down my name, too?" asked george "certainly. i shall be pleased to dance with you." when his turn came fred acquitted himself very creditably, thanks to his skilful instructor, professor saville. at ten o'clock a series of tableaux was announced. at one end of the dining-room a miniature stage had been erected, and there was a circular row of footlights. in the third tableau, rose took part. she incautiously drew too near the footlights, and in an instant her dress caught fire. there was a wild scene of excitement. all seemed to have lost their presence of mind except fred. occupying a front seat, he jumped to his feet in an instant, stripped off his coat, and jumping on the stage wrapped it round the terrified rose. chapter xxvi. fred becomes a newspaper hero. "lie down instantly! don't be alarmed! i will save you," said fred rapidly, as he reached the girl. he spoke in a tone of authority required by the emergency, and rose obeyed without question. her terror gave place to confidence in fred. her prompt obedience saved her life. a minute's delay, and it would have been too late. there was a wild rush to the stage. first among those to reach fred and the little girl was mr. wainwright. he had seen his daughter's peril, and for a moment he had been spellbound, his limbs refusing to act. had fred been affected in the same way, the life of rose would have been sacrificed. "are you much hurt, my darling?" he asked, sick with apprehension. "just a little, papa," answered rose, cheerfully. "if it hadn't been for fred, i don't know what would have happened." the coat was carefully removed, and it was found that the chief damage had been to the white dress. the little girl's injuries were of small account. fortunately there was a physician present, who took rose in hand, and did what was needed to relieve her. "it is a miracle that she was saved, mr. wainwright," he said. "but for this brave boy----" "hush, doctor, i cannot bear to think of it," said mr. wainwright with a shudder. "i can never forget what you have done for me and mine," he added, turning to fred, and wringing his hand. "i won't speak of it now, but i shall always remember it." fred blushed and tried to escape notice, but the guests surrounded him and overwhelmed him with congratulations. one little girl, the intimate friend of rose, even threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, which caused fred to blush more furiously then ever. but upon the whole he bore himself so modestly that he won golden opinions from all. the incident put an end to the party. as soon as it was understood that rose was in no danger, the guests began to take their leave. george swain and fred went out together. "fred, you have shown yourself a hero," said his friend warmly. "you would have done the same thing," said fred. "perhaps i should, but i should not have acted so promptly. that was the important point. you had your wits about you. i was sitting beside you, but before i had time to collect my thoughts you had saved rose." "i acted on the impulse of the moment." "how did you know just what to do--making her lie down, you know?" "i read an account of a similar case some months since. it came to me in a moment, and i acted upon it." "if i ever catch fire, i hope you'll be on hand to put me out." "oh, yes," laughed fred. "i'll stand you on your head directly." "thank you! it's a good thing to have a considerate friend." "did you have a pleasant evening, fred?" asked mrs. fenton. "are you not home earlier than you expected?" "yes, mother. there was as an accident that broke up the party." he described the affair, but said nothing of his own part in it. the next morning, after fred had taken breakfast and gone to business, a neighbor came in. "i congratulate you, mrs. fenton," she said. "you have a right to be proud of fred." "thank you," said the widow, puzzled. "i'm glad you think well of him." "there's few boys that would have done what he did." "what has he done?" asked mrs. fenton, stopping short on her way to the pantry. "you don't mean to say you don't know? why, it's in all the papers." "i am sure i don't know what you are talking about." "didn't i tell you how he saved the little girl from burning to death?" "was it fred who saved her? he didn't tell me that." "of course it was. read that, now!" she put in the hand of the widow a copy of the _sun_ in which the whole scene was vividly described. "what do you say now, mrs. fenton?" "that i am all the more proud of fred because he did not boast of what he did," and a look of pride shone in the widow's eyes. that morning, when raymond ferguson entered the breakfast-room rather later than usual, he found his father reading a paragraph in the sun with every appearance of surprise. "what is it, papa?" asked raymond. "read that!" raymond took the paper, and his eye was drawn to some conspicuous headlines. a narrow escape from a terrible death! a broker's daughter in flames! saved by a boy's heroism! a tragic scene at a new year's party! "why, it's rose wainwright!" said raymond excitedly. "whom do you think i saw on his way to the party last evening?" "fred fenton." "how did you hear it?" asked raymond in surprise. "read the account and you will understand." this is what raymond read: last evening a terrible tragedy came near being enacted at the house of the well-known broker, john wainwright. the occasion was a juvenile party given by his little daughter rose, eleven years of age. one part of the entertainment provided was a series of tableaux upon a miniature stage at one end of the dining-room. all went well till the third tableau, in which the young hostess took part, she incautiously approached too near the footlights, when her white dress caught fire and instantly blazed up. all present were spellbound, and it seemed as if the little girl's fate was sealed. luckily one of the young guests, fred fenton, retained his coolness and presence of mind. without an instant's delay he sprang upon the stage, directed the little girl to lie down, and wrapped his coat around her. thanks to his promptitude, she escaped with slight injuries. by the time the rest of those present recovered from the spell of terror, rose was saved. we understand that the brave boy who displayed such heroic qualities was formerly a train boy on the erie railroad, but is now employed in the office of mr. wainwright. raymond read this account with lowering brow. he felt sick with jealousy. why had he not been lucky enough to receive an invitation to the party, and enact the part of a deliverer? he did not ask himself whether, if the opportunity had been afforded, he would have availed himself of it. it is fortunate for rose that she had fred to depend upon in her terrible emergency, and not raymond ferguson. there was little that was heroic about him. a hero must be unselfish, and raymond was the incarnation of selfishness. "your cousin seems to have become quite a hero," said mr. ferguson, as raymond looked up from the paper. "don't call him my cousin! i don't care to own him." "i don't know," said his father, who was quite as selfish, but not as malicious as raymond. "i am not sure but it will be considered a credit to us to have such a relative." "anybody could have done as much as he did," said raymond in a tone of discontent. "here's some news of your train-boy, luella," he continued, as his sister entered the room. "has he been arrested?" asked luella listlessly. "not at all! he turns out to be a hero," said her father. "i suppose that is a joke." "read the paper and see." the young lady read the account with as little pleasure as raymond. "how on earth came a boy like that at the wainwrights' house?" she said with a curl of the lip. "really, society is getting very much mixed." "perhaps," said her father, "it was his relationship to the future countess cattelli." luella smiled complacently. she had fallen in with an italian count, an insignificant looking man, very dark and with jet black hair and mustache, of whom she knew very little except that he claimed to be a count. she felt that he would propose soon, and she had decided to accept him. she did not pretend to love him, but it would be such a triumph to be addressed as the countess cattelli. she would let alfred lindsay see that she could do without him. chapter xxvii. a confidential mission. when fred met mr. wainwright at the office the next morning his employer greeted him with a pleasant smile, but did not stop to speak. fred felt relieved, for it embarrassed him to be thanked, and since the evening previous no one had met him without speaking of his heroism. now fred was inclined to be modest, and he could not possibly feel that he had done anything heroic, though he was quite aware that he had saved the life of rose wainwright. he looked upon it rather as a fortunate opportunity for rendering his employer a valuable service. at one o'clock fred took his hat, intending to go to lunch. he lunched at a quiet place in nassau street, and never spent over twenty-five cents for this meal, feeling that he must give the bulk of his salary to his mother. he was just going out when he heard his name called. looking back, he saw that it was the broker himself who was speaking to him. mr. wainwright had his hat on, and seemed about going out, too. "you must go to lunch with me to-day, fred." "thank you, sir," answered fred respectfully. they walked through wall street together, the broker chatting pleasantly. on the way fred met raymond, who stared in surprise and disgust as he saw the intimate terms on which fred appeared to be with his wealthy employer. mr. wainwright led the way into an expensive restaurant of a very select character, and motioned fred to sit down at a table with him. after the orders were given, he said: "i have invited you to lunch with me, as i could not speak at the office without being overheard. of course the great service which you rendered me and mine last evening, i can never forget. i do not propose to pay you for it." "i am glad of that, sir," said fred earnestly. "i feel that money is entirely inadequate to express my gratitude, but i shall lose no opportunity of advancing your interests and pushing you on in business." "thank you, sir." "indeed, it so happens that i have an opportunity even now of showing my confidence in you." fred listened with increased attention. "some months since," continued the broker, "a confidential clerk who had been employed in my office for years suddenly disappeared, and with him about fifteen thousand dollars in money and securities. as they were my property, and no one else was involved, i did not make the loss public, thinking that i might stand a better chance of getting them back." "but, sir, i should think the securities would be sold, and the amount realized spent." "well thought of, but there was one hindrance. they were not negotiable without the indorsement of the owner in whose name they stood." "yes, sir, i see." "sooner or later, i expected to hear from them, and i have done so. yesterday this letter came to me from my defaulting clerk." he placed a letter, with a canadian postmark in fred's hand. "shall i read it?'" asked fred. "yes, do so." this was the letter: mr. wainwright, dear sir--i am ashamed to address you after the manner in which i have betrayed your confidence and robbed you, but i do it in the hope of repairing to some extent the wrong i have committed, and of restoring to you a large part of the stolen bonds. if it depended on myself alone i should have little difficulty, but i had a partner in my crime. i may say indeed that i never should have robbed you had i not been instigated to it by another, this man, who calls himself paul bowman, i made acquaintance with at a billiard saloon in new york. he insinuated himself into my confidence, inquired my salary, denounced it as inadequate, and finally induced me to take advantage of the confidence reposed in me to abstract the securities which you lost. he had made all arrangements for my safe flight, accompanying me, of course. we went to montreal first, but this is so apt to be the refuge of defaulters that we finally came to the small village from which i address these lines. there was a considerable sum of money which we spent, also five hundred dollars in government bonds on which we realized. the other securities we have not as yet been able to negotiate. i have proposed to bowman to restore them to you by express, and trust to your kindness to spare us a criminal prosecution, and enable us to return to the states, for which i have a homesick longing. but he laughs the idea to scorn, and has managed to spirit away the bonds and conceal them in some place unknown to me. of course this makes me entirely dependent upon him. to make matters worse, i have fallen sick with rheumatism, and am physically helpless. if you could send here a confidential messenger who could ascertain the hiding-place of the bonds, i would thankfully consent to his taking them back to you, and i would make no conditions with you. if you felt that you could repose confidence in me once more. i would willingly return to your employment, and make arrangements to pay you by degrees the value of the money thus far expended by bowman and myself. there are still thirteen thousand five hundred dollars' worth of securities left untouched in their original packages. we are living in a small village called st. victor, thirty miles from the american line. we occupy a small cottage rather out of the village, and go by our own names. do not write to me, for the letter would be seen by paul bowman, and defeat my plans, but instruct your messenger to seek a private interview with me. i am detained at home by sickness at present, but bowman is away most of the day. he is fond of hunting, and spends considerable of the day in the woods, while his evenings are spent at the inn, where there is a pool table. i have managed to send this to the post office by a small girl who comes here in the morning to make the bed and sweep. hoping earnestly that this communication may reach you, i sign myself your repentant clerk, james sinclair. fred read this letter with great interest. "he seems to write in good faith," he said, as he handed it back. "yes; sinclair is not so wicked as weak. i quite believe him when he says that it was bowman who instigated him to the deed." "do you think there is any chance of recovering the securities?" asked fred. "that depends upon whether i can secure a discreet and trustworthy messenger." "yes, sir; i suppose that is important." "perhaps you can suggest some one?" said the broker, eying fred attentively. fred shook his head. "i have too few acquaintances to think of anyone who would be fit," he answered. "would you undertake it yourself?" asked mr. wainwright. "i?" stammered fred in genuine surprise. "yes." "but don't you think i am too young?" "perhaps your youth may be a recommendation." "i don't see how, sir." "by drawing away suspicion from you. should i send a man, the appearance of a stranger in a small place like st. victor--i think it has little more than a thousand inhabitants--would very likely excite the suspicions of this bowman, and so defeat the chances of success." "yes, sir, i see that." "of course your youth presents this objection--that you may not have the requisite judgment and knowledge of the world for so delicate a mission." "that is what i am afraid of, sir." "still, i have observed you closely, and have found you prompt, self-reliant, and possessed of unusual good sense. so, upon the whole, having no other person in my mind, i have decided to send you to st. victor if you will consent to go." "i will certainly go, sir, if you desire it, and will do my best to succeed." "that is all that any one could do, whatever might be his age and experience. when will you be ready?" "to-morrow, if you wish it, sir." "the sooner the better. i shall provide you with ample funds to defray your expenses. as to instructions, i have none to give. you must be guided by circumstances, and fall back in times of perplexity upon your natural shrewdness. now let us address ourselves to the dinner." chapter xxviii. st. victor. "so this is st. victor," said fred, as he got out of the train on the grand trunk railroad, and looked about him curiously. it was a small, unpretending village, composed entirely of frame houses, of modest size, and a few small stores kept, as the signs indicated, by frenchmen. on a little elevation stood a wooden catholic church, surmounted by a cross. "it seems a quiet place," thought fred. "i shall find it dull enough, but if i accomplish my purpose i won't complain of that." he scarcely needed to inquire for the village inn, for it was in plain sight, not a hundred yards from the station. as the town seemed to be peopled chiefly by french residents it would have been natural to conclude that the hotel also would be french. this, however, was not the case, for the lion inn (there was a swinging signboard adorned by the figure of a lion, the work of a fourth-rate sign painter) was kept by a short, stout, red-faced englishman, who stood in the doorway as fred came up, valise in hand. "is this the hotel?" asked fred. "yes, sir," was the reply. "i should like to stay with you for a while." "all right, sir. come right in, and we'll accommodate you with a room. have you had supper?" "no. i should like some, for i am very hungry." "it shall be ready for you, sir, in a jiffy. will 'am and heggs suit you, sir?" "yes, i shall relish them." "james, take the young gentleman's bag up to no. ." "i should like water and towels, as i have had a long and dusty ride." fred was ushered into a small bedroom on the second floor, very plainly furnished, but the train boy was not accustomed to luxurious accommodations, and found it satisfactory. he indulged himself in a thorough ablution, then sat down at the window, which was in the front of the house. soon there was a knock at the door, and the boy james made his appearance. "please, sir, your supper's ready," he said. "and so am i," returned fred with alacrity. he descended to a small dining-room, adjoining the bar. it was not more than twelve feet square, and from its size it might be inferred that the lion inn was seldom overrun with guests. fred sat down at the table alone, but presently a man of thirty-five or thereabouts entered and took a seat opposite him. "good evening, young man," he said. "where do you come from?" "good evening," answered fred, civilly. "i come from new york." the other arched his brows. "so do i," he said. "what sent you here to this out-of-the-way place?" "there's good hunting hereabouts, isn't there?" "yes, are you fond of hunting?" "i like it pretty well. i've just had a present of a handsome rifle." it should be mentioned here that before fred left new york mr. wainwright had given him a gun which would serve him as an excuse for his journey. "we'll go out together to-morrow. my name's bowman." fred heard the name with a thrill of excitement. why, this must be the man referred to in sinclair's letter as having instigated him to the crime. he surveyed bowman with attention, taking stock of him, so to speak. he found him to be a man of middle height, rather spare than stout, with dark, shifty eyes and a sallow complexion. he wore a mustache, but no whiskers. "i may find it worth while to get well acquainted with him," thought fred. "i shall be glad to go out with you," he said aloud. "that's all right! but how does a boy like you happen to be traveling so far from home?" "i have a vacation," said fred. "i have never been in canada, and thought it would be something new to come here." "i'm pretty tired of it, i can tell you." "then why do you stay?" asked fred innocently. "my partner's taken down with rheumatism, and i can't leave him," answered bowman in a tone of hesitation. "when he gets well i may go back to new york." "i doubt if you will," thought fred. "were you in a business position in new york?" asked bowman. "i have been for some time train boy on the erie railroad," answered fred, feeling that it would never do to mention his connection with mr. wainwright. "train boys don't usually have money to spend on vacation trips," said bowman shrewdly. "that's true," laughed fred. "if i had depended on my savings, i shouldn't have been able to go farther than hoboken, or coney island, but a rich friend supplied me with a moderate sum for expenses." "then you were in luck." fred was a little afraid that bowman would inquire the name of the rich friend, and made up his mind that he would evade answering. however, his companion showed no curiosity on the subject. "will you take a glass of ale with me?" asked bowman, as he filled his own glass from a bottle beside his plate. "no, thank you. i have no taste for it." "i didn't like it myself at first but i've come to like it." "does your partner board with you at the hotel?" asked fred. "no," was the careless reply. "we have a small cottage just out of the village." "i wonder how he gets along for meals," thought fred. however that might be, paul bowman didn't permit anxiety to interfere with his own appetite. he did ample justice to the supper, and so indeed did fred. fortunately the ham and eggs were well cooked, and the loaf of bread was fresh. in place of ale fred contented himself with tea. at length they rose from the table. "this is a beastly hole--st. victor, i mean," said bowman, as he led the way to the reading-room, "but the eating is fair. an englishman keeps the inn, and though he has no french kickshaws on his table, he gives you solid food and enough of it. do you smoke? i believe i have a cigar somewhere, but i smoke a pipe myself." "thank you," answered fred, "but i don't smoke. i used to smoke cigarettes, but a young man--an acquaintance of mine--died of cigarette-smoking, so the doctor said, and i gave it up." "smoking never hurt me that i know of," said bowman. "even if it did, what's a man to do in this dull hole? shall you stay here long?" "i don't know how long. it's a cheap place to stay in, isn't it?" "yes, it has that recommendation." "then i may stay a week possibly," said fred in an off-hand way. "i've been here six weeks," said bowman. "then you have had a chance to get well acquainted with st. victor." "a good deal better than i want to be. i was just getting ready to leave, when my partner had a sharp attack of rheumatism." "is he from new york too?" "no, from philadelphia," answered bowman cautiously, though he had no suspicion that fred was other than he represented himself. "i have never been in philadelphia," said fred indifferently. "what is your partner's name?" "james sinclair," answered bowman after a moment's hesitation. "have you ever heard that name before?" "yes." "where?" i asked bowman quickly. "i had a schoolmate of that name." "oh! yes, i suppose the name is not an uncommon one. do you play billiards?" "i have seen it played." "there is a poor table in the house. such as it is, it may afford us a little recreation. will you try a game?" "yes, if you will teach me." fred felt that it was his policy to cultivate the acquaintance of mr. bowman, as it might afford him an opportunity to obtain the information he desired. he had never played a game of billiards, but he was willing to try it. "come in, then," said bowman. he led the way into a room opposite the office, where stood a venerable-looking billiard table, probably twenty years old. it had been given to the landlord some years before by a gentleman, and it had seen hard service since then. they played one game, and were about to commence another when a small girl with black hair cut short entered the room. "monsieur bowman," she said, "your friend would like to see you. he feels quite bad." "plague take it!" said bowman pettishly. "i can do him no good, but i suppose i shall have to go." "is it your partner?" asked fred. "yes." "if you don't mind i will walk over with you." "glad of your company. claudine, tell mr. sinclair that i will be with him directly." "_oui, monsieur,_" and the little girl vanished. "i wish sinclair would get well or something," grumbled bowman, as they walked to the lower end of the main street of the village. "it's hard luck for me to be tied to a sick man." "still he has the worst of it," suggested fred, who was not altogether pleased with the cold selfishness of his companion. "yes, i suppose so; but it isn't right that i should suffer for his misfortune." "do you employ a doctor?" "yes; i called in a doctor once--a frenchman--dr. st. hilaire. he left some medicines, and sinclair takes them." "he doesn't seem to get better, then?" "at any rate he is very slow about it," said bowman, who spoke as if his unfortunate friend were in fault. at last they reached the cottage. it was very small, containing three rooms and an attic. bowman opened the door, and entered what might perhaps be designated as the sitting-room, though it contained a bed, on which, propped up by pillows, lay james sinclair. "what's amiss with you, sinclair?" grumbled bowman. "everything is amiss. you have left me alone all day." "what good could i do you if i were here? it would only mope me to death." "i have had nothing to eat since morning, except a boiled egg." "why not? couldn't you send claudine after food?" "of what use would that be, when i had no money to give her? i warrant you have had your regular meals." "i took my meals at the hotel--it was more convenient." "i warrant me you took care to provide for yourself. at least give me some money so that i may not quite starve." "money, money, all the time! do you know, sinclair, our stock is running very low?" "i demand my share of it as long as it lasts. you take advantage of my helplessness----" "there's a dollar! mind you make it last as long as possible," said bowman. "it will be well to put off your complaints till another time, for i have brought company." he signaled to fred, who had remained outside, to enter, and the boy did so. he regarded the sick man with interest and sympathy, not alone because he seemed in sorry plight, and ill treated by his companion in crime, but also because he was clearly the less guilty of the two, and seemed disposed to make amends to the man whom he had wronged. james sinclair, unprepared for the advent of a boy, regarded him with surprise. "who is this?" he asked. "my name is fred fenton," answered the train boy, remembering that bowman was as yet ignorant of his name. "he is a guest at the inn," explained bowman carelessly. "he arrived to-night. he will be some company for me in this dull hole. we were playing a game of billiards when claudine broke in and told me you wanted to see me. i expected to find you at the point of death," he finished impatiently. "that may come sooner than you think," said sinclair. "may i ask where you come from, young man?" he added, in a tone of suppressed eagerness which fred well understood. "i come from new york," answered the boy, trying to throw a degree of significance into this brief answer. "from new york!" said sinclair, in some excitement, and trying to read in fred's face whether he was the expected messenger. "you have come for your health, i suppose?" "not exactly for that, for my health is always good, but i thought it might be a pleasant place to spend an unexpected holiday that has been granted me." "pleasant!" repeated bowman scornfully. "if you can find anything pleasant at st. victor, you will have greater luck than i." "is claudine in the kitchen?" asked the sick man. "claudine!" he called, raising his voice. "yes, monsieur," answered the little handmaid, appearing at the door. "go to the baker's and buy a loaf of bread. here is money. is there any tea left?" "yes, monsieur." "then buy a cupful of milk and half a pound of sugar. i am almost famished. a cup of tea and some toast will put new life into me." claudine departed on her errand, and sinclair once more fixed his eyes on fred. there was a question he very much wished to ask, but in bowman's presence he could not do it safely. chapter xxix. fred takes the first step. "and so you come from new york?" sinclair repeated, for the want of something better to say. "when did you leave the city, may i ask?" "on tuesday." "then you came directly here?" "yes, i came directly here." "you must then have heard of st. victor before starting." "yes." "yet i fancy it is so obscure that its existence can be known to very few in the great city." "i presume you are right. i was recommended to come here by a friend." "ah!" commented james sinclair, beginning to think he was right, though it seemed to him very strange that mr. wainwright should have selected so young a messenger. "i should like to see new york once more." "who wouldn't?" interposed bowman impatiently. "in new york you can _live._ here in st. victor one can only vegetate." "don't you expect to go back to new york some day, mr. sinclair?" asked fred. "i don't know; i hope so." "when our business in canada is completed," said bowman, "we shall probably both go back." "are you going to sleep here to-night, bowman?" asked sinclair. "no, i think not. i have taken a room in the hotel." "you must do as you like, of course, but it is lonely for me. besides i might need assistance." "let the girl stay here, then. i should make a miserable sick nurse. i will ask young fenton, here, if it is reasonable to expect me to bury myself in such a cheerless place when it will do no good." fred was disgusted with the man's selfishness. "if i had a friend sick," he said, "i think i would be quite willing to keep him company." "you say so now, but wait till the time comes." "your words, mr. fenton," said sinclair, "embolden me to ask you a favor." "name it," said fred, in a tone of kindly encouragement. "i spend all my time alone, except when claudine is ministering to my wants. your time is hardly likely to be very much occupied in this dull place. can't you spare me an hour or two at your convenience during the day?" "you have promised to go hunting with me tomorrow," interrupted bowman. "that is true. i will go with you in the forenoon, and in the afternoon i will call on mr. sinclair." bowman shrugged his shoulders. "it is a rash promise. you will be sorry for having made it." "i will risk that," answered fred. sinclair gave him a grateful glance. the promise cheered him, and kindled hopes in his breast. now he would have a chance of learning, when alone with fred, whether he came as a messenger from mr. wainwright. if so, and through his means he could make restitution and regain his place and lost character, he would still have something to live for. he execrated his folly in weakly submitting to the guidance of paul bowman, and for having taken that first step in crime, which is so difficult to retrace. "don't forget your promise," he said earnestly as fred rose to go. "i won't fail you," replied fred quietly. "you're in for it now," remarked bowman, as they started to walk home. "you might as well turn sick nurse at once as give up your time to sinclair." "i might be sick sometime myself," said fred, "and in that case i should be sorry to be left alone." "oh, well, suit yourself," said bowman carelessly. "i'd rather it would be you than me, for that matter. i shall expect you to go out to the woods with me in the forenoon." "all right!" "well," thought fred, as he slipped into bed at ten o'clock, "i've made a beginning. i have formed the acquaintance of both parties to the robbery. the next step will be more difficult." chapter xxx. a hunting excursion. fred did not rise till eight o'clock the next morning. he was fatigued by his long journey, and slept late. when he descended, he found bowman seated at the breakfast-table. "i got ahead of you," said bowman. "how long have you been down-stairs?" "about ten minutes." "are we likely to have a good day for hunting?" "good enough," answered bowman, indifferently. "i am not an enthusiastic sportsman. i only take to it to fill up a part of my time. it is about the only thing i can do in this dull hole." "you might read. i brought two or three novels in my valise, and will lend yon one if you care for it." "i don't care for reading. stories tire me. i used to read the daily papers in new york, but can't get hold of any here new york dailies, i mean. i don't care for canadian papers unless they contain news from new york." "i have with me the _tribune, world,_ and _sun,_ of day before yesterday." "i should like to see them," said bowman, eagerly. "if you will bring them down, i will look over them in the woods." "all right! i am glad i saved them. i had a mind to throw them away, or leave them in the car." the breakfast was plain, but fred and bowman, who were the only guests, were not difficult to suit. ten minutes later they were on their way to the woods. they went across the fields, taking a footpath trodden in the snow, which materially shortened the distance. but even tramping this far tired bowman, and when they reached a small rock that cropped out from the expanse of white, he declared that he must rest awhile. he took a seat on the bowlder and began to read one of the papers he had brought with him. five minutes later he uttered an exclamation of surprise. fred looked at him inquiringly. "do you find news of any of your friends?" he asked. "yes, teddy donovan has escaped from sing sing." "that's the bank burglar, isn't it?" "yes, and one of the smartest men in the profession." "you know him, then?" "yes," answered bowman. "i got acquainted with him some years ago. of course," he added, feeling some explanation necessary, "i didn't know that he was a burglar till later. poor fellow, it is his only fault." fred was privately of opinion that it was rather a serious fault. "he's a smart fellow," bowman continued, "and he led the police a long chase before they nabbed him. i've often urged him to turn over a new leaf and lead an honest life or he'd fetch up in prison, but he only laughed, and that was all the good it did. i wish teddy would find his way up here." "do you think he will be able to elude recapture?" "well, he's sharp enough for almost anything." "i suppose there are a good many men of his kind in canada," said fred innocently. "yes," replied bowman, adding in a jocular tone. "i didn't know but that might have brought you here." "oh, no!" laughed fred. "i'm as straight and honorable as you are." "good joke!" exclaimed bowman, slapping his thigh. "shake!" bowman extended his hand, and fred shook it, though it was not clear to him what the joke was or why he should shake hands with his companion because they both happened to be straight and honorable. the hunt was now begun, for fred caught sight of a jack rabbit skimming across the snow. he lifted his gun, and was fortunate enough to bring his game down. this fired bowman with the spirit of emulation, and putting the papers back in his pocket, he started off in search of a companion trophy to that of his young friend. he did not find it until the ex-train boy had knocked over two more "bunnies" and as fred continued to keep ahead of him in the amount of game bagged, mr. paul bowman soon became disgusted and proposed a return to the hotel, where he would have an opportunity to finish his perusal of the new york papers by the reading-room stove. as fred's nose was being nipped by the frost, and he felt that he had wrought sufficient destruction among the rabbit tribe, he readily fell in with the suggestion. half an hour later he was thawing himself out when bowman suddenly looked up from the _world_ and asked abruptly: "did you ever hear of john wainwright, the broker and banker?" fred was on his guard and answered cautiously: "yes, i believe i have heard of him. he has an office on broadway, hasn't he?" "no, on wall street." "did you ever work for him?" "no; but an acquaintance of mine did," said bowman carelessly. "he's got a pile of money, i expect." "very likely. most bankers have, haven't they?" "i suppose so, but they're not in my line. i used to be a dry goods clerk." "in new york?" "no, in baltimore." "i don't know anything about baltimore." if bowman at any time entertained any suspicions about fred they were dissipated by his next remark. "i might like to go to baltimore to work. would you recommend me to the firm you used to work for?" "i believe they have gone out of business, but you'd better stick to new york, youngster. there's better chances there than in baltimore." the gong for dinner now sounded, and as their tramp through the snow had given them both good appetites, they lost no time in answering its summons. when dinner was over bowman asked: "what are you going to do with yourself this afternoon?" "i promised to call on your friend in the cottage. will you go with me?" "not i. i can fill up my time more agreeably. you will find it awfully stupid." "very likely; but i like to keep my promises." "the landlord's going to ride to hyacinth, about ten miles away, on business. he's invited me to ride with him. i wish there were room in the sleigh for you." "i can put that off till another time. i hope you will have a pleasant ride." "it will fill up the time, anyway." "have you any message to your partner?" asked fred, as he stood ready to start on his walk. "no. tell him to get well as fast as he can, so that we can get away from this beastly place. that's all." james sinclair was lying on the bed with a look of weariness on his face when fred pushed open the outer door and entered. sinclair's face brightened up. "you didn't forget your promise, mr. fenton?" lie said. "no, i always keep my promises when i can." "you are very kind to a poor sick man. you have no idea how long the hours seem in this quiet cottage with no one to look at or speak to but claudine." "i can imagine it." "and claudine understands very little english. most of the people in st. victor, as i suppose you know, are french." "i judged this from the signs over the shops." "very few english-speaking people find their way here. it is for this reason that i was somewhat surprised to see you here." "i should not have come here," returned fred pointedly, "if you had not been here." "you came here to see me?" ejaculated sinclair in excitement. "yes." "then you must come from mr. wainwright." "yes, i come from him in response to the letter which he received from you." "thank god!" said sinclair, fervently. chapter xxxi. fred has an understanding with sinclair. "mr. wainwright showed me the letter you wrote to him," went on fred. "excuse me," said sinclair, looking puzzled, "but you seem very young to be taken into mr. wainwright's confidence." "i am only seventeen." "i don't understand it." "nor do i," answered fred, smiling, "but mr. wainwright is right in supposing that i will do my best for him." "does he give you full powers in this matter?" "read this letter and you can judge for yourself." the sick man eagerly held out his hand, and read carefully the letter which fred placed in it. it ran thus: james sinclair: the bearer of this letter has full powers to treat with you. i am glad you realize the wrong you have done me, and am prepared to consider your case in a generous spirit. the theft is known only to those who committed it, my young messenger and myself. on the return of the bonds i will take you back into my employment. john wainwright. tears came to the eyes of sinclair. "how kind and considerate mr. wainwright is!" he said in a tone of emotion. "read this letter." "you are right, but i would do the same." sinclair extended his hand which fred shook cordially. "i am not as bad as you may suppose. it was bowman who, by his artful hints and allurements, induced me to rob my employer. i have never ceased to repent it." "are you prepared to restore the bonds? that will set you right." "when i wrote the letter i was prepared, but now i must depend on you to find them." "you don't know where they are?" asked fred in dismay. "no. you see that trunk at the other end of the room?" "yes." "they were there until three days ago. then bowman, who kept the key, opened the trunk in my presence, and took out the package of bonds, locking the trunk after him." "'what are you doing?' i asked. "'going to put these bonds into a place of security,' he answered. "'are they not safe in the trunk?' i asked. "'no;' he replied, 'suppose, during my absence, a thief should enter the house? you are confined to the bed by rheumatism. what resistance could you make?' "'but that is very improbable,' i persisted. "'i don't know about that. this is a lonely cottage, and might be entered at any time,' he rejoined. "'where are you going to put the bonds?' i asked uneasily, "he evaded a reply, but promised to tell me when i recovered my health. i protested, for we were jointly concerned in the robbery, and half the proceeds belonged to me. at any rate, i had as much title to them as he. but the contest was not an equal one. had i been a well man i would have forcibly prevented his carrying out his purpose, but what could i do, racked with pain as i was, and unable to sit up in bed? i was worse off then than i am now." "so he carried off the bonds?" "yes, and i don't know where he carried them. you see, that complicates matters." "i do see," answered fred, perplexed, "and i don't see the way out of the difficulty. have you any idea where he can have concealed the securities?" "no." "do you think he would keep them in his room at the hotel? it is just across the hall from mine, on the second floor." "no, i don't. a hotel room would be a much less secure place than this cottage, and bowman is a shrewd man." "that is true." "he has probably found some outside place of concealment. where, of course, i can give you no hint. but i would advise you to follow him, watch his movements, and learn what you can. he will be sure to visit the place where the bonds are hidden from time to time, if only to make sure that they are still safe." "then i shall have to do some detective work?" "precisely." "i have read a good many detective stories, but i don't know that any of them will help me in this matter. there is one thing i am afraid of." "what is that?" "you say bowman is a shrewd man. he will be likely to find out that i am following him and become suspicions." "he would if you were a man, but as you are a boy he won't be likely to think that you are interested in the matter." "mr. wainwright was of opinion that i should be less likely to excite suspicion than a grown man." "the old man is smarter than i gave him credit for." "i see no other way than to follow your directions. are you in much pain to-day?" "no, less than for some time. i think it is my mental trouble that aggravates my physical malady. now that you are here, and something is to be done to right the wrong i have committed. i am sure i shall rapidly recover. were you with bowman this morning?" "yes, we went out in the woods together. i had a few new york papers which he read with interest." "have you them with you?" asked sinclair eagerly. "you don't know how i hunger for home news." "yes, i brought them along, as i thought you might like to read them." "i will read them after you are gone. now we will converse." "have you a family?" asked fred. "i am not a married man but i have a mother," answered sinclair, his eyes filling. "does she know----" "of my disgrace? no, i was obliged to tell a falsehood and represent that i was going to canada on business. i have been in constant dread that my crime would get into the papers and she would hear it. poor mother! i believe that it would kill her!" "you didn't think of that when you took the bonds?" "i thought of nothing. bowman gave me no time to think. what i did was done on the impulse of the moment without consideration. oh, if i had only stopped to think!" he concluded with a sigh. for fred it was a great moral lesson. he was honest by nature, but there is no one who cannot be strengthened against temptation. the sum taken by sinclair was large, but it had not made him happy. probably he had never been more miserable than in the interval that had elapsed since his theft. judging between him and bowman. fred felt sure that it was sinclair who had been weak, and bowman who had been wicked. now his only hope was to recover his lost position, to get back to where he stood when he yielded to temptation and robbed a kind and considerate employer. "where is bowman this afternoon?" asked sinclair. "he told me he was going to ride to hyacinth with the landlord. he seems to find time hanging heavy on his hands." "he is much better off than i am. it is bad enough to be sick but when to this is added a burden of remorse, you can imagine that my position is not enviable." at five o'clock fred rose from his chair and took his hat. "i must be going," he said. "we have supper at the hotel at six, and i may as well be punctual." "will you call again?" asked sinclair, eagerly. "yes, but perhaps i had better not spend too much time with you. it may give rise to suspicions on the part of your partner." "don't call him my partner! i don't want to admit any connection between us. there has been a connection, it is true, but as soon as i can bring it about it will be closed, and then i hope never to see or hear of paul bowman as long as i live." "i shall get to work to-morrow," said fred. "i think it will be best for me not to call here till the day after. we must not appear to be too intimate." when fred returned to the hotel he found bowman just arrived. "where have you been all the afternoon?" asked bowman. "part of the time i spent with your friend, mr. sinclair." "what did he find to talk about?" asked bowman, eying fred sharply. "chiefly about new york and his health. he doesn't seem contented here." "no wonder. it's the dullest hole i was ever in. is he any better?" "he thinks so." "i wish he'd get well quick. i want to go to some larger place." "i suppose montreal is a more interesting town." "yes, there is something going on there. we were fools to leave it." after supper fred played a few games of billiards with bowman. evidently he was not suspected as yet. chapter xxxii. finding a clew. the object which fred had in view now, was to ascertain where bowman had hidden the securities taken from the trunk in sinclair's cottage. precisely how to set about it he did not know. he had never had any experience in detective work, and had only his native shrewdness to depend upon. it occurred to him, however, that bowman would be likely from time to time to visit the place where he had secreted the bonds in order to make sure that they were safe. this he was hardly likely to do when in fred's company, but only when alone. when, therefore, he should see bowman starting off on a solitary expedition he decided if possible to follow him. "do you feel like going out on the river this morning?" asked bowman, as they rose from breakfast. "i don't mind. it will help to fill up the time." for many years such an open winter had not been known. the unusual warmth had left the lake as free from ice as in the early fall. but for a slight covering of snow there would have been nothing to indicate that it was winter. "your vacation is likely to be a slow one here," suggested bowman. "yes; st. victor isn't a very lively place." "i wonder you are willing to stay here," said bowman, with momentary suspicion. "i have so much excitement in new york and in my daily rides on the erie road, that i don't mind the dulness as much as many would. still if you and mr. sinclair were not here, i should cut short my visit at once." bowman did not understand the hidden meaning of this speech, and naturally interpreted it in a sense complimentary to himself. "sinclair isn't much company," he said. "he is down in the dumps on account of his rheumatism. i suppose he thinks i ought to stay in the cottage with him, but i couldn't stand it." "i suppose you are in business together," observed fred, innocently. "did he say so?" "not exactly, but i inferred from what he did say that you had some business connection." "yes," answered bowman, hesitatingly. "we have a joint investment. i don't think, however, that we shall remain connected long. he doesn't suit me. he is too slow and cautious." fred did not think it necessary to comment on this statement. they went down to the lake, and were soon rowing to the middle of it. here they tried fishing, but did not meet with much success. they gave it up and rowed across to the opposite side. "will you take charge of the boat for half an hour?" asked bowman, turning to fred. "i am going on shore." "certainly, if you wish it." "i have a fancy for exploring these woods. i would invite you to go with me, but the boat might be taken, and that would subject us to some inconvenience." "i would just as soon stay here," said fred carelessly. "then it's all right." fred watched bowman as he made his way in among the trees, and it struck him at once that ha had secreted the bonds somewhere in the neighborhood and was about to visit the hiding-place. "if i could only leave the boat and follow him," he said to himself eagerly. but he decided at once that this would never do. it would inevitably excite bowman's suspicion, and then his chance of success would be wholly gone. he must be cautious at all hazards. he did not return to the middle of the lake, but rowed lazily along the shore, from time to time directing a glance toward the woods. "to-morrow i will make an excuse for not going with bowman, and will come out here and do a little exploring myself," he resolved. at one point his attention was drawn to a boy who was sitting under a tree near the edge of the water. "may i get into your boat?" he asked. "for a short time. a gentleman is with me who has gone on shore for a little while." "i know. i've seen him here often." "have you?" asked fred with interest. "so he comes here a good deal, does he?" "yes, he comes here mostly alone, and goes into the woods. once me and another boy got into the boat and rowed while he was gone." "i suppose he enjoys walking in the woods." "it ain't that," said the boy significantly. "what is it, then?" asked fred, trying to repress his excitement. "i think he's got business in the woods." "what business can he have there?" "i think he's got something hidden there." "what makes you think so?" "you won't tell him what i say, will you?" "i saw him when he first came here. he had a bundle done up in paper. he left the boat and went into the woods, and when he came back he didn't have the paper." "he may have had it in his pocket." "no, he didn't. it was a big package, and if it had been in his pocket it would have made it bulge out." "i see you are quite an observing boy. i dare say you are right. what do you think there was in the package?" "i guess it was money. if i had a lot of money i wouldn't hide it in the woods." "nor i," answered fred, laughing. "i'd buy a trunk and keep it inside." "somebody might open the trunk." "any way it would be safer than hiding it in the woods." "i don't know but you are right. i hope the time will come when you and i will have a lot of money to conceal." "is the man a friend of yours?" asked the boy. "we are boarding at the same hotel. i have only known mr. bowman two days." "is he from the states?" "yes. i believe he came from new york." "where do you come from?" "i live in new york too." "i'd like to see new york. i'd go there if my father would let me." "i am not sure but you are better off here. some boys have a hard time making a living in new york." "i thought everybody in new york was rich." "if you ever come to new york you'll find out your mistake," rejoined fred, laughing. "if you ain't a friend of mr. bowman, as you call him," said the boy, lowering his vice, "i'll tell you something." "i wish you would. mr. bowman is not a friend of mine, but there is no one else to keep company with, so i go round with him." "i know where he has hidden his money." "is this true?" asked fred in excitement. "yes." "but how did you find out?" "one day i followed him. i dodged behind trees and kept out of sight. once he came near seeing me when he looked back, but i was just in time. by and by he came to the place." "what sort of a place?" "did i say i would tell you?" asked the boy shrewdly. "no, but i will make it worth your while." the boy eyed fred with suspicion, and his manner became cold. "do you want to rob him?" he asked. "no." "then why do you want to know where he has hid his money?" fred deliberated hurriedly. there was no way except to take the boy into his confidence. "i see you are an honest boy," he said, "and i like you better for it." "that's all right, but why do you want me to tell you where mr. bowman has hidden his money?" "can you keep a secret?" "is there a secret?" "yes; the package which this man has hidden contains bonds which he stole from a new york banker." "how do you know that?" "because i am sent to get them back, if possible. that is why i have come to st. victor, and that is why i have formed the acquaintance of mr. bowman." "is this true?" asked the boy, not wholly without suspicion. "listen and i will tell you the story. i must be quick, for mr. bowman may be back any minute." "there he is now." "meet me to-morrow at ten in the morning just back of the place where you were sitting when i took you on board the boat, and i will tell you all. in the name of mr. wainwright i will agree to pay you a hundred dollars, if by your help i recover the bonds." "it's a bargain!" said the boy, his eyes sparkling. chapter xxxiii. success! "who is that boy?" asked bowman carelessly, as he re-entered the boat. "i don't know. he asked me to take him for a little row, and i was glad to have him for company." "i have been taking a stroll through the woods. in fact, i was brought up in the woods," said bowman with a laugh. fred understood that he was trying to give a plausible explanation of his absence. "i like the woods myself," he rejoined. "do they extend far?" "not very far. i enjoyed my stroll in among the trees, even barren as they are now of leaves, very much. it brought back to my mind my schoolboy days." bowman seemed in quite good spirits. evidently he had found that his secret hiding-place had not been discovered. "how much longer are you going to stay in st. victor?" he asked after a pause. "i don't know," answered fred slowly. "i may take a fancy to go away any day." "i wish i could go too. i am tired of this place." "i suppose you are waiting for mr. sinclair to recover." "yes," answered bowman, but there was hesitation in his tone. a sudden suspicion entered fred's mind. was bowman meditating giving his confederate the slip, and deserting him, taking the bonds with him? had he perhaps taken the package from its hiding-place and got it concealed about his person? a careful scrutiny satisfied fred that this was not the case. but it was quite possible that he would make another visit the next day, and remove the bonds then. "i must lose no time," he thought, "or i shall lose my opportunity." they reached the hotel in time for dinner. "what are you going to do this afternoon?" asked bowman. "i haven't thought particularly," answered fred indifferently. "suppose we play poker? the landlord has a pack of cards." "i don't know the game." "it won't take long to learn. i will show you how it is played." "i don't care for cards. i may call on mr. sinclair." bowman shrugged his shoulders. "you must enjoy his society," he said. "i don't go there for enjoyment. my visit may cheer the poor man." "all right! i'll see if the landlord isn't going to drive somewhere." "i hope he is," thought fred. "it will get bowman out of the way." about half-past two bowman entered the public room where fred was reading. "i'm going for a drive," he announced. "i'll see you at supper." "very well!" fred waited till bowman drove out of the yard, and then, taking his gun, went off himself. but he did not turn his steps in the direction of sinclair's cottage. he had ascertained that there was a way of going by land to that part of the woods where he had met his young companion of the morning. he had made up his mind to repair to the spot now on the chance of finding the boy, and securing the bonds that very afternoon. he felt that there was no time to be lost. it would have been easier and shorter to take the boat, and the landlord would have made no objection. but some one might see him out on the lake, and this would excite bowman's suspicions, especially when he discovered that the bonds were missing. so fred chose the land route as the wiser one to take under the circumstances. the distance was quite two miles, but fred did not mind that. the prize for which he was striving was too great for him to shrink from such a trifle as that. he reached the other side of the pond, but no one was in sight. he walked about anxiously looking here and there. "i hope i shall not have my walk for nothing," he said to himself. but luck was in his favor. walking at random he all at once heard a boy's whistle. he quickened his steps, and almost directly, to his great delight, he recognized, sauntering along, the very lad he had taken out in the boat in the morning. "hallo, there!" he cried. the boy turned quickly. "oh, it's you, is it?" "yes." "i thought you were to meet me to-morrow morning." "so i was, but i did not dare to wait. i think bowman will get the bonds to-morrow, and make a bolt of it." "then what do you propose to do?" "i want you to get the package for me to-day." "do you think i will get into any trouble?" asked the boy cautiously. "it won't be stealing, will it?" "it would be if the bonds were bowman's, but they are not. they belong to a rich banker in new york, as i have already told you, and in showing me where they are you are aiding justice." "will i get the hundred dollars, sure?" "yes, i will guarantee that. what is your name?" "john parton." "i will take it down. as soon as i get back to new york i will see that the money is sent you." "i'll chance it," said the boy. "you look honest, and i believe you." "go on, then, and i will follow you." john led the way into the thickest part of the wood. he paused in front of a large tree, partly gone to decay. the trunk was hollow, containing a large cavity. "the package is there," he said. "get it for me," returned fred, "and there your task will end. i will undertake the rest." in less than five minutes the package was placed in fred's hands. he opened his vest and placed it inside, carefully pinning it to the waistcoat, so that it might not slip down. "it will be awkward to carry," he said, "on account of its size. i wish it were safe in mr. wainwright's possession." then a new idea came to him. "is there any express office near here?" he asked. "the nearest is at hyacinth, five or six miles away." "i should like to go there. do you know where i can hire a team?" "we are not using ours to-day," said john. "then," said fred promptly, "i will hire it, paying any price your father considers satisfactory, and i will engage you to drive me over. you know the way?" "i've been there hundreds of times." "then it is all right. do you think we can have the team? i'll pay two dollars for that, and a dollar for your services as driver." "it's a go! come right along! our house is less than half a mile away." then the two boys emerged from the woods, and made their way to a comfortable farmhouse, situated in the midst of fertile fields. john went into the house, and presently came out with his mother. "are you the young man that wants to go to hyacinth?" she asked. "yes, ma'am." "well, i don't know of any objection. don't stay too long." "i'll be back in time for supper, mother." "did your mother ask you what i was going for?" asked fred. "no; i told her you wanted to take a ride." "that will answer. i wish there was enough snow left for sleighing." the horse was quickly harnessed to an open buggy, and the two boys got in. john took the reins, and turned out of the yard. soon they were speeding over the road that led to hyacinth. it was a pleasant drive, but fred was too much occupied by thoughts of what he carried to pay much attention to the scenery. at length they turned into the principal street of hyacinth. the express office was just across the way from the railway depot. fred entered and inquired, "how soon will a package start for new york?" "in about an hour." "as it is valuable, i will get you to put it up securely, and seal it." "very well." the agent wrapped it up in some thick brown paper, gave it to fred to direct, and then laid it carefully away. "do you wish to insure it?" he asked. "what is the value?" "i will insure it for five hundred dollars." fred knew that this would secure extra care, and he did not care to name the real worth lest it might tempt some employee to dishonesty. "now," he said, as they left the office, "i feel easy in my mind." but when the boys were half way home, they overtook another buggy, containing two occupants. one of them was the landlord of the lion inn, the other was paul bowman. chapter xxxiv. bowman's panic. paul bowman, who was driving, the landlord having given up the reins to him, checked the horse and hailed fred in evident surprise. "where have you been?" he inquired abruptly. "i have been to ride," answered fred, with an appearance of unconcern. "i thought you were going to call on sinclair." "so i was, but after you left i decided to take a walk in another direction. i met john, and engaged him to take me to drive." "are you going home now?" "yes, i think so. can you take me to the hotel, john?" "yes," answered his companion readily. "then we will follow along behind mr. bowman." of course there could be no private conversation, so john and he spoke on indifferent topics. when they reached the hotel fred jumped from the buggy. "good-by, john," he said. "you will hear from me soon," he added in a significant tone. then he joined bowman, who was wholly unsuspicious of the disaster that had befallen him. "i should like to go over to sinclair's," thought fred, "but i suppose bowman will expect me to keep him company." but in this he was agreeably disappointed. at seven o'clock the landlord drove round, and bowman sprang into the buggy. "sorry to leave you, fred," he said, "but we are going to vaudry on a little business. hope you won't be lonely." "never mind me, mr. bowman. i think i will go over to see mr. sinclair. he will probably expect me. have you any message?" bowman looked significantly at the landlord. "tell him i will call to-morrow or next day," he said. "at present i am very busy." the two drove away, leaving fred and a stable boy named jack looking after them. "he's going to skip to-morrow," said jack confidentially. "who?" "mr. bowman." "how do you know?" asked fred in excitement. "i heard him say so to the boss. he doesn't want you to know it." "why not?" "he is afraid you will tell his partner, the sick man." fred whistled. "that is news," he said. "i suspected it might be so, but didn't know for sure." "shall you tell mr. sinclair?" "yes, i think i ought to do so." "that's so! he's a nicer man than old bowman." fred, immersed in thought, walked over to the cottage. james sinclair received him with evident joy. "i expected you this afternoon," he said. "the hours seemed very long." "i was employed on very important business," said fred significantly. "you don't mean----" "i mean," said fred, bending over and whispering in the sick man's ear, "that i have found the bonds." "where are they?" "on the way to new york, by express." "what a burden off my heart!" ejaculated sinclair fervently. "tell me about it," he added, after a pause. fred did so. "now," he added, "there will be nothing to prevent your coming to new york and taking your old place." "i think i shall recover now," responded sinclair. "your news makes me feel fifty per cent. better." "i have more news for you." "what is it?" "bowman is planning to leave st. victor to-morrow, without a word to you. he means to leave you in the lurch." "he can go now. i shall be glad to part with him--and forever." "that is his intention, but when he finds the bonds have disappeared, i don't know what he may decide to do." "when do you mean to start for new york?" "i would start to-night if i could." "you can. there is a train which passes through st. victor at ten o'clock this evening. but, no, on second thought it goes to ottawa." "i don't care where it goes. i don't wish to remain in st. victor any longer than is absolutely necessary. besides, if bowman suspects and follows me he will be likely to think i have gone in a different direction." "i am sorry to have you go, mr. fenton." "we shall meet again soon, i hope in new york." fred reached the inn at nine o'clock, left the amount of his bill in an envelope with the boy jack, and walked over to the station, where he purchased a ticket for ottawa. while he was in the depot building bowman and the landlord drove by. before they had reached the inn the train came up and fred entered the rear car. he breathed a sigh of relief as the cars quickened their speed and st. victor faded in the distance. meanwhile bowman and the landlord reached the hotel. jack, the stable-boy, came forward and took charge of the team. "here is a letter for you, mr. bluff," he said. "a letter!" repeated the landlord, with a look of wonder. he opened it and uttered a cry of surprise. "the boy's gone!" he ejaculated. "what boy?" asked bowman, not suspecting the truth. "young fenton." "gone away! what do you mean?" "read that." he passed the note to bowman, who read as follows: dear sir:--i am called away on business. i enclose the amount due you. if it is not right i will communicate with you as soon as i have reached new york. remember me to mr. bowman. fred fenton. "called away on business!" repeated bowman suspiciously. "that is queer. what did the boy say?" he asked of jack. "when did he first speak of going away?" "i think he made up his mind sudden, sir." "did he say where he was going?" "he said he was goin' back to new york." "received a summons from his employer, i suppose." "very likely, sir." "do you know if he went to see mr. sinclair?" "yes, sir. he went fust part of the evenin'." "then sinclair can tell me about it." "very likely, sir." not daring to take jack too deeply into his confidence, fred had told him that he was going to new york, which was true, or would be very shortly. "if he had waited till to-morrow we might have gone together," thought bowman, "at least a part of the way. it will be some time before i shall dare to set foot in new york." bowman went to bed with a vague feeling of uneasiness for which he could not account. he felt that it would be impossible for him to remain in the dull little village any longer. should he, or should he not, go to see sinclair before he went away? on the whole he resolved to secure the bonds first, and then decide. the next day after breakfast he strolled down to the lake, got out the boat, and rowed rapidly toward the farther shore. there was no time to waste now. he tied the boat to a sapling growing close to the bank, and struck into the woods. he made his way at once to the tree which he had used as a safe deposit vault, and with perfect confidence thrust in his hand. but the package which his fingers sought for seemed to have slipped out of reach. he continued his search anxiously, with increasing alarm, but in vain. a terrible fear assailed him. he peered in through the cavity, but neither sight nor touch availed. gradually the terrible thought was confirmed--the parcel had been stolen! thirteen thousand five hundred dollars, nearly the entire proceeds of his crime, had vanished--but where? he staggered to a stump close by, and sitting down, buried his face in his hands. what was he to do? he had but twenty-five dollars left. "who can have taken it?" he asked himself with feverish agitation. he rose and made his way mechanically back to the boat. an hour later he staggered into the little cottage occupied by his sick partner. his hair was disheveled, his manner wild. "what is the matter, bowman?" asked sinclair. "we are ruined!" said bowman in a hollow voice. "the bonds are gone!" "when did you miss them?" asked sinclair quickly. "to-day. they were safe yesterday. do you think it was the boy?" "what could he know of the bonds? did you ever speak to him about them?" "of course not. what shall i do?" "inquire whether any one has been seen near the place where you hid them. do your best to recover them." this advice struck bowman favorably. he devoted the remainder of the day to the inquiry, but learned nothing. there was no further occasion to remain in st. victor. he left the inn in the evening, forgetting to pay his reckoning. chapter xxxv. fred's reward. john wainwright, the wealthy banker, sat in his office looking over the letters that had come by the morning mail. some of them he turned over to his confidential clerk to answer. others, more important, he reserved to reply to with his own hand. "busy, wainwright?" asked a gentleman, arthur henderson, entering without ceremony. "i always have something in hand, but i have time enough for an old friend." "by the way, have you heard anything of the bonds you lost some time since?" "i know where they are." "you do?" "yes, they are in canada." henderson laughed. "that means that you will never get them back." "i don't know. i have sent a messenger to recover them." "who is it?" "my office boy." henderson stared. "i suppose that is a joke." "by no means." "what is the age of your office boy?" "i should judge from his appearance that he is sixteen." "do you mean to say that you have intrusted a boy of sixteen with so important a commission?" "i do." "really, wainwright, i don't like to criticise, but it appears to me that you have taken leave of your senses." the banker laughed good-humoredly. "perhaps i ought not to be surprised at that." "then you acknowledge your lack of wisdom?" "by no means. what i have done i would do again." "couldn't you find a more suitable messenger?" "not readily." "it would have been worth while to go yourself, as the amount is considerable." "that would never have answered. i should be recognized, and excite suspicion." "do you really expect that boy to recover the bonds?" "i think it possible, at any rate." "suppose he does, what is to hinder his keeping them himself?" "his honesty." "pardon me, wainwright, but i have had a pretty extensive experience, and i would be willing to wager ten to one that you will never see your bonds again." "i never bet, and hold that betting is no argument. but i too have had some experience of men and consider my chance of recovering the stolen property fairly good." "how long since your messenger started on his expedition?" "about two weeks." "have you heard from him?" "yes, once. there are reasons why it is imprudent for him to write too often." henderson smiled significantly. "i dare say he is having a good time at your expense. what was the amount of your loss?" "about fifteen thousand dollars." "since you won't bet, i will make you a proposal. if the boy recovers your bonds and restores them to you i will offer him a place in my own counting-room at twenty dollars a week." "i don't think in that case i should be willing to lose his services. i would pay him as much as he could get elsewhere." "there is very little chance of my being called upon to redeem my promise." at that moment an express messenger entered the office. "here is a parcel for you, sir," he said. it was a small package wrapped in brown paper, carefully tied and sealed. john wainwright paid the express charges, receipted for the package, and then eagerly opened it. it was the same package which fred had expressed from hyacinth. the banker's eyes were full of triumph. "what do you say to that, my friend?" he asked. "what is it?" "the missing bonds. nothing could have happened more apropos." "you don't mean to say--" "listen. let me read you this letter from the messenger you thought me foolish in sending to canada." here is a copy of fred's letter. john wainwright, esq. my dear sir: i have at length recovered the bonds which were stolen from you, and send them by express herewith. i have not time to go into details, but will only say that i found them in a hollow tree. i secured them in the nick of time, for i have reason to think that to-morrow they would have been removed by bowman, who has got tired of st. victor, and will probably leave the neighborhood to-morrow. i do not dare to keep the bonds in my possession, as i may be followed, but consider it safer to express them to you at once. i shall go back to new york by a roundabout way, but shall probably arrive very nearly as soon as the package. yours respectfully, fred fenton. p. s. the money and u. s. bonds have been used, but you will find $ , in other securities in this package. they would have been spent too, but the holder found it impossible to negotiate them. "there, henderson, what do you think of that?" asked mr. wainwright, in a quiet tone of triumph. "i was a fool, was i, to trust this boy?" "i don't know what to say, but my offer holds good. if you will release the boy i will take him into my employment at twenty dollars a week." "i will give him as much as he can get elsewhere," repeated the banker. there was a quick step heard outside, and fred fenton entered the office. "good morning, mr. wainwright," he said. "did you receive the package?" "it just reached me, fred. shake hands, my boy. you have justified my confidence in you." "i did my best, sir." "tell me all about it. my curiosity is excited." fred gave a rapid account of his adventures in search of the missing bonds. it was listened to with equal interest by the banker and his friend. "wainwright, introduce me," said henderson abruptly. "fred," said the banker smiling, "let me make you acquainted with my friend, arthur henderson. he is a commission merchant. he may have a proposal to make to you." "young man, if you will enter my employment i will pay you twenty dollars a week," said merchant. fred looked amazed. "that is a great deal more than i am worth," said. "then you accept?" fred looked wistfully at mr. wainwright. "i should not like to leave mr. wainwright," he said. "especially as he has raised your pay to twenty-five dollars a week," said the banker smiling. "you can't be in earnest, sir?" "when you get your first week's salary on saturday, you will see that i am in earnest." "i see, then, that i must do without you," said the merchant. "wainwright, i take back all i said. i advise you to keep fred by all means as long as he will stay with you." the banker had opened his check book and was writing out a check. he tore it from the book and handed it to fred. it ran thus: no. , park national bank. pay to the order of fred fenton one thousand dollars. $ . john wainwright. "is this for me?" asked fred in amazement. "yes. i ought perhaps to make it more, for it is less than ten per cent. of the value of the bonds." "how can i thank you, sir?" ejaculated fred, feeling uncertain whether he was awake or dreaming. "i feel like a millionaire." "have you been home yet, fred?" "no, sir; i came here at once." "go home, then, and spend the rest of the day with your mother. do you want to cash the check this morning?" "no, sir." "indorse it, then, and i will hand you the money in bills to-morrow." fred, his face radiant with joy, left the office, and going to the nearest station on the sixth avenue elevated road bought a ticket and rode up town. there a surprise awaited him. chapter xxxvi. a letter from tom sloan. when fred presented himself at home, after a fortnight's absence, his mother and little brother were overjoyed. "it's been awfully lonely since you went away, fred," said albert. "i have felt like albert," said mrs. fenton. "but it was not that that worried me most. i was afraid you might meet with some accident." "i've come home safe and sound, mother, as you see. but you don't ask me whether i succeeded in my mission." "i don't know what your mission was." "no; it was a secret of mr. wainwright's, and i was bound to keep it secret. i can tell you now. i was sent to canada to recover over ten thousand dollars' worth of stolen bonds." mrs. fenton looked amazed. "a boy like you!" she said. "i don't wonder you are surprised. i was surprised myself." "but who had the bonds, and how did you recover them?" "two men were in the conspiracy. one of them was sorry for the theft, and ready to help me. the other meant to keep them. he had taken them away from his partner and hidden them in the forest." "and you found them?" "yes; sit down and i will tell you the story." fred did so, and when it was finished he added: "how much do you think mr. wainwright paid me for my trouble?" "he ought to pay you handsomely." "what would you consider paying me handsomely?" "fifty dollars," answered his mother. "he gave me a thousand dollars!" "a thousand!" ejaculated mrs. fenton, incredulous. "yes." "where's the money?" asked albert. "he gave it to me in a check. i shall collect it to-morrow, and invest it in some safe way." "i can't realize it, fred," said mrs. fenton. "why, it will make us rich." "but that isn't all. my salary is raised to twenty-five dollars a week." "i never heard of such wages being given to a boy like you." "it was my second offer this morning. a merchant, a friend of mr. wainwright, offered me twenty dollars to go into his office." "that is better than being a train boy, fred." "yes; but i was glad to work on the trains when i had nothing better to do." just then the peculiar whistle of the postman was heard. "run down-stairs, albert, and see if there are any letters for us," said fred. the little boy returned in a moment with an envelope directed to fred fenton, and postmarked central city, colorado. he opened it hastily, and exclaimed: "this is from mr. sloan, who visited us a few months since." "read it, fred." the letter was written in rather an illegible hand, and the spelling was rather eccentric, for mr. sloan was not a scholar. as corrected it ran thus: friend fred--i suppose you haven't forgotten your old friend tom sloan. i have often thought of how i enjoyed myself at your home, and wished i could call in and take a cup of tea with you and your mother. about that land you asked me to see, i've got good news for you. there's a town built around it, and the price has gone up to fancy figures. there's a party here that wants to buy it for five thousand dollars, but i think i can get a little more. if your mother will send me a power of attorney, i will sell it, and send you on the money. i'll do my best for you. no wonder that old skinflint, your uncle, wanted to buy it. he'd have made a big thing out of it. he was a fool not to take it at your own figures. i hope you are all well, and i shouldn't wonder if i might see you pretty soon. i've been lucky myself, and made a respectable pile. old tom sloan doesn't get left if he can help it. well, good-by. send on the power of attorney by return of mail. yours till death, tom sloan. "five thousand dollars!" ejaculated mrs. fenton. "i can't believe it." "you will, mother, when you get the money. there's no time to be lost. i'll go out at once and get the power of attorney, and we'll write at once, telling mr. sloan to do whatever he thinks best. do you agree to that, mother?" "yes, fred. he is a good man and i trust him entirely." chapter xxxvii. cousin ferguson. in a fortnight fred received from colorado an order on a new york banker for six thousand five hundred dollars, being the purchase money on the colorado lands. he at once carried it to mr. wainwright, and invested it in securities recommended by that gentleman. "i congratulate you heartily, fred," said the banker. "i didn't know that i was taking into my employ a young man of fortune." "it has come upon me so suddenly that i can't realize it myself." "i consider you worthy of your good luck, my boy. you ought to save up money out of your wages." "i intend to sir, but i am going to give my mother a better home now that i can afford it, and will see that my little brother has a better education than i have had." "it is not too late to supply the deficiency in your own case. you cannot do better than join the evening classes of the young men's christian association, and do what you can to improve yourself." "i will follow your advice, mr. wainwright. now that i am no longer anxious about money matters, i want to qualify myself for a better social position." only two days after the receipt of the money from colorado, another letter, as unexpected as mr. sloan's, reached mrs. fenton. the substance of it was comprised in the closing paragraph "send your son round to my house this evening i am prepared to make you a better offer for the colorado laud. it's of little value, but some day may be worth more than at present. as you are straitened in means i can better afford to wait than you, and i shall feel satisfaction in relieving your necessities." fred read this letter attentively. "i hate a hypocrite," he said. "mr. ferguson pretends that he wants to help us, while he is scheming to cheat us out of a large sum, relying upon our ignorance of the increased value of the land." "shall i write and tell him that we have sold the land?" asked mrs. fenton. "no, i will call and see him this evening, as he requests." "but it will do no good." "i want to find out how much he is willing to give. i shan't let him know that the land is sold till he has made an offer." "don't say anything to provoke cousin ferguson, fred." "don't worry, mother. i will be perfectly respectful." about half-past seven fred rang the bell at the door of the house on east thirty-ninth street. evidently he was expected, for, on his inquiring for mr. ferguson, he was shown at once into the presence of his rich relation. "good evening, frederick," said mr. ferguson, with unusual graciousness. "how is your mother?" "very well, thank you, sir." "i hope you are getting along comfortably." "yes, sir; we have no right to complain." "that is well," said mr. ferguson condescendingly. "i presume the boy is making five dollars a week or some such matter," he soliloquized. "that is very well for a boy like him." "i made you an offer for your father's land in colorado a few months ago," he went on carelessly. "yes, sir." "you thought my offer too small." "yes, sir. twenty-five dollars would be of very little value to us." "there i disagree with you. twenty-five dollars to a family situated as yours is, is no trifle." a faint smile flickered over fred's face. he wondered what mr. ferguson would say if he knew precisely how they were situated. "still," resumed the merchant, "you did right to refuse. i am inclined to think the land is a little more valuable than i supposed." fred was rather surprised. was cousin ferguson going to act a liberal part, and offer anything like a fair price for the land? he waited curiously to hear what he would say next. "yes," continued mr. ferguson magnanimously, "i admit that i offered you too little for your land." "so i thought at the time, sir," fred said quietly. "and i am now prepared to rectify my mistake. you may tell your mother that i will give her a hundred dollars for it." "a hundred dollars?" "yes; that is probably more than it is worth at present, but i can afford to wait until it increases in value." mr. ferguson sat back in his armchair and fixed his eyes on fred with the air of one who has made a most generous offer. "did your mother authorize you to make a bargain?" he inquired. "no, sir." "she wished you to report to her, i suppose. this offer will hold good for twenty-four hours. you can come around to-morrow evening, and the matter can be settled at once. it may be well for your mother to come round also, as her signature will be required to the bill of sale." "i am sorry to disappoint you, mr. ferguson, but i don't think we will sell." "young man," said ferguson severely, "if you advise your mother to reject this offer, you will take upon yourself a great responsibility." "mr. ferguson," rejoined fred, fixing his eyes on the merchant, "do you advise my mother, as a friend, to accept this offer?" "of course, of course. it is the best thing she can do." "i have no right to doubt your sincerity, but i think the land is worth more than you offer." "what can you know about it?" demanded ferguson impatiently. "a gentleman who had traveled in colorado called on us a while ago. he seems to think the land is quite valuable." "stuff and nonsense! the man was humbugging you." "he was a miner," continued fred placidly. "he promised to look up the matter for us." "you were very rash to trust a stranger. the best thing you can do is to disregard any advice he may have given you, and accept my offer." "there is one difficulty in the way," said fred. "what is that?" "_we have sold the land!_" chapter xxxviii. conclusion. "you have sold the land?" repeated mr. ferguson in dismay. "yes, sir." "then permit me to say that you and your mother have acted like fools!" said ferguson harshly. "in a matter like this you should have consulted me. what do you or your mother know about business?" "i think we did pretty well," said fred placidly. "what did you sell for?" asked ferguson abruptly. "six thousand five hundred dollars!" answered the ex-train boy. robert ferguson stared at fred in amazement and incredulity. "don't play any of your practical jokes on me!" he said sternly. "i don't intend to, sir. we gave mr. sloan a power of attorney, and he sold it for us." "he _says_ he did!" sneered ferguson. "you will never get the money." "excuse me, mr. ferguson. we have received the money already." "when?" gasped the merchant. "two days ago." the face of robert ferguson was a study. disappointed cupidity succeeded his first incredulity. he began to consider that he must convince fred that he had acted in good faith. with an effort he smoothed down his face and conjured up a smile. "you quite take my breath away," he said. "i can hardly believe that the land which i thought worthless should have realized such a sum. have any mines been discovered on them?" "no, sir; but a village has sprung up in the immediate neighborhood." "i am heartily glad of it. tell your mother so. how could i have been so deceived? by the way, it will be best for you to put the money in the hands of some responsible person to take care of for you. as a near relative i shall be glad to invest the amount for you safely along with my own." "thank you, sir, but we have already invested it." mr. ferguson frowned. "i predict that you will lose half of it," he said. "i don't think so. i had advice in the investment." "who advised you?" "john wainwright, the banker." "do you know him?" "yes; he is my employer." "i believe i remember that raymond told me so. of course he is a good adviser. how much does he pay you?" "twenty-five dollars a week." "do you take me for a fool?" demanded ferguson angrily. "no, sir; and you have no right to take me for a liar," answered fred, firmly. "but such a salary for a boy of sixteen is ridiculous!" "it does seem so; but mr. wainwright sent me to canada to recover over ten thousand dollars' worth of stolen bonds, and i succeeded in bringing them back." slowly it dawned upon mr. ferguson that the youth before him was not only a favorite of fortune, out a remarkably smart boy. he was evidently on the rise. would it not be politic to take notice of him? "fred," he said with sudden friendliness, "i am pleased to hear of your good fortune. you have done credit to the family. we ought to be more intimate. in proof of my desire for closer relations i shall send cards to you and your mother for my daughter luella's wedding. she is to be married next thursday evening to an italian count. probably you have suitable attire, or, if not, you can easily obtain it. give me your address." "thank you, sir. i am not sure whether my mother will attend, but i shall be happy to do so." the door opened, and raymond ferguson entered. "good evening, raymond," said fred pleasantly. "good evening," answered raymond, coldly. "your cousin frederick has been very fortunate," said the elder ferguson genially. "he and his mother have come into some thousands of dollars, and he is receiving a handsome salary from mr. wainwright, the banker. i shall be glad to see you two intimate." "is that so?" asked raymond, thawing. "i am glad to say it is," answered fred. "would you like to invite your cousin to attend the theater, raymond?" "just what i was going to ask. there is a good play on at wallack's." "very well! here is a five-dollar bill." "come along, fred," said raymond, who had made up his mind it would be wise to cultivate the acquaintance of his once despised relative. before they parted for the evening, raymond borrowed five dollars of fred, and struck up a close friendship with him. while fred understood perfectly well what had produced this remarkable change in his cousin he was philosophical enough to take the world as he found it, and accepted raymond's advances. the next day wedding cards, elaborately engraved were received at fred's modest home, requesting mrs. fenton and her son's presence at the marriage ceremony of luella ferguson and count vincento cattelli. but an unexpected circumstance prevented the nuptials from being celebrated. one evening the count and miss ferguson were sitting at supper at delmonico's. at a table near by sat a gentleman, who watched the young couple with curious attention. he rose finally and approached them. "miss ferguson, i believe," he said. "yes, sir." "i don't know if you remember me, but i dined at your father's house one evening in february. my name is stanwood." "i remember you now, mr. stanwood. let me make you acquainted with count cattelli." "i am honored," said stanwood with a curious smile. "this lady is my affianced bride," said the count, "indeed! i congratulate you. by the way, haven't i met you before?" "if you have been in italy, sare. i am count cattelli of milan." stanwood smiled slightly, and returned to his own table. the next day miss ferguson received the following note: my dear miss ferguson: what i am about to write will pain you, but i cannot permit you to be grossly deceived. the gentleman whom you introduced to me as count cattelli at delmonico's last evening shaved me last march in a barber-shop in chicago. he may be a count, but i advise you to speak to your father on the subject. your well wisher, charles stanwood. miss ferguson went into a fit of hysterics, but followed the advice of her correspondent. the count, on being taxed with his deception, first indulged in bravado, but finally acknowledged that he had served as a barber, but still claimed to be a count. mr. ferguson, intensely mortified, agreed to give him two hundred dollars if he would leave the city at once. notices that the wedding had been indefinitely postponed were sent to all who had received cards, and luella disappeared for a time. there were numerous reports as to the cause of the marriage being postponed, but the secret was well kept. luella is still unmarried, and is likely to remain so, unless some one marries her for her money. ruth patton is now the wife of alfred lindsay. the young lawyer made a private call on mr. ferguson, which resulted in the latter disgorging the ten thousand dollars of which he had defrauded ruth's mother, so that she did not come to her husband portionless. all goes well with fred fenton. he is still in the employ of john wainwright, on a largely increased salary, and is always a welcome guest at the home of the banker. rose is as partial to him as ever, and it would not be surprising if she should some day marry the ex-erie train-boy. fred and his mother live in a handsome flat up town, and albert, his younger brother, is making rapid progress as a designer. it looks as if the clouds had passed away, succeeded by the sunshine of permanent prosperity. the end. memoirs of extraordinary popular delusions volume iii by charles mackay author of the "thames and its tributaries," "the hope of the world," etc. "il est bon de connaitre les delires de l'esprit humain. chaque peuple a ses folies plus ou moins grossieres." millot detailed contents of the third volume. book i. introduction the alchymists; or, searchers for the philosopher's stone and the water of life part i.--history of alchymy from the earliest periods to the fifteenth century.--pretended antiquity of the art.--geber.--alfarabi.--avicenna.--albertus magnus.--thomas aquinas.--artephius.--alain de lisle.--arnold de villeneuve.--pietro d'apone.--raymond lulli.--roger bacon.--pope john xxii.--jean de meung.--nicholas flamel.--george ripley.--basil valentine.--bernard of treves.--trithemius.--the marechal de rays.--jacques coeur.--inferior adepts. part ii.--progress of the infatuation during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.--augurello.--cornelius agrippa.--paracelsus.--george agricola.--denys zachaire.--dr. dee and edward kelly.--the cosmopolite.--sendivogius.--the rosicrucians.--michael mayer.--robert fludd.--jacob bohmen.--john heydn.--joseph francis borri.--alchymical writers of the seventeenth century.--de lisle.--albert aluys.--count de st. germains.--cagliostro.--present state of the science. book ii. fortune telling book iii. the magnetisers philosophical delusions. dissatisfaction with his lot seems to be the characteristic of man in all ages and climates. so far, however, from being an evil, as at first might be supposed, it has been the great civiliser of our race; and has tended, more than anything else, to raise us above the condition of the brutes. but the same discontent which has been the source of all improvement, has been the parent of no small progeny of follies and absurdities; to trace these latter is the object of the present volume. vast as the subject appears, it is easily reducible within such limits as will make it comprehensive without being wearisome, and render its study both instructive and amusing. three causes especially have excited our discontent; and, by impelling us to seek for remedies for the irremediable, have bewildered us in a maze of madness and error. these are death, toil, and ignorance of the future--the doom of man upon this sphere, and for which he shows his antipathy by his love of life, his longing for abundance, and his craving curiosity to pierce the secrets of the days to come. the first has led many to imagine that they might find means to avoid death, or, failing in this, that they might, nevertheless, so prolong existence as to reckon it by centuries instead of units. from this sprang the search, so long continued and still pursued, for the elixir vitae, or water of life, which has led thousands to pretend to it and millions to believe in it. from the second sprang the absurd search for the philosopher's stone, which was to create plenty by changing all metals into gold; and from the third, the false sciences of astrology, divination, and their divisions of necromancy, chiromancy, augury, with all their train of signs, portents, and omens. in tracing the career of the erring philosophers, or the wilful cheats, who have encouraged or preyed upon the credulity of mankind, it will simplify and elucidate the subject, if we divide it into three classes:--the first comprising alchymists, or those in general who have devoted themselves to the discovering of the philosopher's stone and the water of life; the second comprising astrologers, necromancers, sorcerers, geomancers, and all those who pretended to discover futurity; and the third consisting of the dealers in charms, amulets, philters, universal-panacea mongers, touchers for the evil, seventh sons of a seventh son, sympathetic powder compounders, homeopathists, animal magnetizers, and all the motley tribe of quacks, empirics, and charlatans. but, in narrating the career of such men, it will be found that many of them united several or all of the functions just mentioned; that the alchymist was a fortune-teller, or a necromancer--that he pretended to cure all maladies by touch or charm, and to work miracles of every kind. in the dark and early ages of european history, this is more especially the case. even as we advance to more recent periods, we shall find great difficulty in separating the characters. the alchymist seldom confined himself strictly to his pretended science--the sorcerer and necromancer to theirs, or the medical charlatan to his. beginning with alchymy, some confusion of these classes is unavoidable; but the ground will clear for us as we advance. let us not, in the pride of our superior knowledge, turn with contempt from the follies of our predecessors. the study of the errors into which great minds have fallen in the pursuit of truth can never be uninstructive. as the man looks back to the days of his childhood and his youth, and recalls to his mind the strange notions and false opinions that swayed his actions at that time, that he may wonder at them, so should society, for its edification, look back to the opinions which governed the ages fled. he is but a superficial thinker who would despise and refuse to hear of them merely because they are absurd. no man is so wise but that he may learn some wisdom from his past errors, either of thought or action, and no society has made such advances as to be capable of no improvement from the retrospect of its past folly and credulity. and not only is such a study instructive: he who reads for amusement only, will find no chapter in the annals of the human mind more amusing than this. it opens out the whole realm of fiction--the wild, the fantastic, and the wonderful, and all the immense variety of things "that are not, and cannot be; but that have been imagined and believed." book i.--the alchymists or, searchers for the philosopher's stone and the water of life. "mercury (loquitur).--the mischief a secret any of them know, above the consuming of coals and drawing of usquebaugh! howsoever they may pretend, under the specious names of geber, arnold, lulli, or bombast of hohenheim, to commit miracles in art, and treason against nature! as if the title of philosopher, that creature of glory, were to be fetched out of a furnace! i am their crude, and their sublimate, their precipitate, and their unctions; their male and their female, sometimes their hermaphrodite--what they list to style me! they will calcine you a grave matron, as it might be a mother of the maids, and spring up a young virgin out of her ashes, as fresh as a phoenix; lay you an old courtier on the coals, like a sausage or a bloat-herring, and, after they have broiled him enough, blow a soul into him, with a pair of bellows! see! they begin to muster again, and draw their forces out against me! the genius of the place defend me!"--ben jonson's masque "mercury vindicated from the alchymists." the alchymists. part i.--history of alchymy from the earliest periods to the fifteenth century. pretended antiquity of the art.--geber.--alfarabi.--avicenna.--albertus magnus.--thomas aquinas.--artephius.--alain de lisle.--arnold de villeneuve.--pietro d'apone.--raymond lulli.--roger bacon.--pope john xxii.--jean de meung.--nicholas flamel.--george ripley.--basil valentine.--bernard of treves.--trithemius.--the marechal de rays.--jacques coeur.--inferior adepts. for more than a thousand years the art of alchymy captivated many noble spirits, and was believed in by millions. its origin is involved in obscurity. some of its devotees have claimed for it an antiquity coeval with the creation of man himself; others, again, would trace it no further back than the time of noah. vincent de beauvais argues, indeed, that all the antediluvians must have possessed a knowledge of alchymy; and particularly cites noah as having been acquainted with the elixir vitae, or he could not have lived to so prodigious an age, and have begotten children when upwards of five hundred. lenglet du fresnoy, in his "history of the hermetic philosophy," says, "most of them pretended that shem, or chem, the son of noah, was an adept in the art, and thought it highly probable that the words chemistry and alchymy were both derived from his name." others say, the art was derived from the egyptians, amongst whom it was first founded by hermes trismegistus. moses, who is looked upon as a first-rate alchymist, gained his knowledge in egypt; but he kept it all to himself, and would not instruct the children of israel in its mysteries. all the writers upon alchymy triumphantly cite the story of the golden calf, in the nd chapter of exodus, to prove that this great lawgiver was an adept, and could make or unmake gold at his pleasure. it is recorded, that moses was so wroth with the israelites for their idolatry, "that he took the calf which they had made, and burned it in the fire, and ground it to powder, and strewed it upon the water, and made the children of israel drink of it." this, say the alchymists, he never could have done, had he not been in possession of the philosopher's stone; by no other means could he have made the powder of gold float upon the water. but we must leave this knotty point for the consideration of the adepts in the art, if any such there be, and come to more modern periods of its history. the jesuit, father martini, in his "historia sinica," says, it was practised by the chinese two thousand five hundred years before the birth of christ; but his assertion, being unsupported, is worth nothing. it would appear, however, that pretenders to the art of making gold and silver existed in rome in the first centuries after the christian era, and that, when discovered, they were liable to punishment as knaves and impostors. at constantinople, in the fourth century, the transmutation of metals was very generally believed in, and many of the greek ecclesiastics wrote treatises upon the subject. their names are preserved, and some notice of their works given, in the third volume of lenglet du fresnoy's "history of the hermetic philosophy." their notion appears to have been, that all metals were composed of two substances; the one, metallic earth; and the other, a red inflammable matter, which they called sulphur. the pure union of these substances formed gold; but other metals were mixed with and contaminated by various foreign ingredients. the object of the philosopher's stone was to dissolve or neutralize all these ingredients, by which iron, lead, copper, and all metals would be transmuted into the original gold. many learned and clever men wasted their time, their health, and their energies, in this vain pursuit; but for several centuries it took no great hold upon the imagination of the people. the history of the delusion appears, in a manner, lost from this time till the eighth century, when it appeared amongst the arabians. from this period it becomes easier to trace its progress. a master then appeared, who was long looked upon as the father of the science, and whose name is indissolubly connected with it. geber. of this philosopher, who devoted his life to the study of alchymy, but few particulars are known. he is thought to have lived in the year . his true name was abou moussah djafar, to which was added al soft, or "the wise," and he was born at hauran, in mesopotamia. ["biographie universelle."] some have thought he was a greek, others a spaniard, and others, a prince of hindostan: but, of all the mistakes which have been made respecting him, the most ludicrous was that made by the french translator of sprenger's "history of medicine," who thought, from the sound of his name, that he was a german, and rendered it as the "donnateur," or giver. no details of his life are known; but it is asserted, that he wrote more than five hundred works upon the philosopher's stone and the water of life. he was a great enthusiast in his art, and compared the incredulous to little children shut up in a narrow room, without windows or aperture, who, because they saw nothing beyond, denied the existence of the great globe itself. he thought that a preparation of gold would cure all maladies, not only in man, but in the inferior animals and plants. he also imagined that all the metals laboured under disease, with the exception of gold, which was the only one in perfect health. he affirmed, that the secret of the philosopher's stone had been more than once discovered; but that the ancient and wise men who had hit upon it, would never, by word or writing, communicate it to men, because of their unworthiness and incredulity. [his "sum of perfection," or instructions to students to aid them in the laborious search for the stone and elixir, has been translated into most of the languages of europe. an english translation, by a great enthusiast in alchymy, one richard russell, was published in london in . the preface is dated eight years previously, from the house of the alchymist, "at the star, in newmarket, in wapping, near the dock." his design in undertaking the translation was, as he informs us, to expose the false pretences of the many ignorant pretenders to the science who abounded in his day.] but the life of geber, though spent in the pursuit of this vain chimera, was not altogether useless. he stumbled upon discoveries which he did not seek, and science is indebted to him for the first mention of corrosive sublimate, the red oxide of mercury, nitric acid, and the nitrate of silver. [article, geber, "biographie universelle."] for more than two hundred years after the death of geber, the arabian philosophers devoted themselves to the study of alchymy, joining with it that of astrology. of these the most celebrated was alfarabi. alfarabi flourished at the commencement of the tenth century, and enjoyed the reputation of being one of the most learned men of his age. he spent his life in travelling from country to country, that he might gather the opinions of philosophers upon the great secrets of nature. no danger dismayed him; no toil wearied him of the pursuit. many sovereigns endeavoured to retain him at their courts; but he refused to rest until he had discovered the great object of his life--the art of preserving it for centuries, and of making gold as much as he needed. this wandering mode of life at last proved fatal to him. he had been on a visit to mecca, not so much for religious as for philosophical purposes, when, returning through syria, he stopped at the court of the sultan seifeddoulet, who was renowned as the patron of learning. he presented himself in his travelling attire, in the presence of that monarch and his courtiers; and, without invitation, coolly sat himself down upon the sofa, beside the prince. the courtiers and wise men were indignant; and the sultan, who did not know the intruder, was at first inclined to follow their example. he turned to one of his officers, and ordered him to eject the presumptuous stranger from the room; but alfarabi, without moving, dared them to lay hands upon him; and, turning himself calmly to the prince, remarked, that he did not know who was his guest, or he would treat him with honour, not with violence. the sultan, instead of being still further incensed, as many potentates would have been, admired his coolness; and, requesting him to sit still closer to him on the sofa, entered into a long conversation with him upon science and divine philosophy. all the court were charmed with the stranger. questions for discussion were propounded, on all of which he showed superior knowledge. he convinced every one that ventured to dispute with him; and spoke so eloquently upon the science of alchymy, that he was at once recognised as only second to the great geber himself. one of the doctors present inquired whether a man who knew so many sciences was acquainted with music? alfarabi made no reply, but merely requested that a lute should be brought him. the lute was brought; and he played such ravishing and tender melodies, that all the court were melted into tears. he then changed his theme, and played airs so sprightly, that he set the grave philosophers, sultan and all, dancing as fast as their legs could carry them. he then sobered them again by a mournful strain, and made them sob and sigh as if broken-hearted. the sultan, highly delighted with his powers, entreated him to stay, offering him every inducement that wealth, power, and dignity could supply; but the alchymist resolutely refused, it being decreed, he said, that he should never repose till he had discovered the philosopher's stone. he set out accordingly the same evening, and was murdered by some thieves in the deserts of syria. his biographers give no further particulars of his life beyond mentioning, that he wrote several valuable treatises on his art, all of which, however, have been lost. his death happened in the year . avicenna. avicenna, whose real name was ebn cinna, another great alchymist, was born at bokhara, in . his reputation as a physician and a man skilled in all sciences was so great, that the sultan magdal douleth resolved to try his powers in the great science of government. he was accordingly made grand vizier of that prince, and ruled the state with some advantage: but, in a science still more difficult, he failed completely. he could not rule his own passions, but gave himself up to wine and women, and led a life of shameless debauchery. amid the multifarious pursuits of business and pleasure, he nevertheless found time to write seven treatises upon the philosopher's stone, which were for many ages looked upon as of great value by pretenders to the art. it is rare that an eminent physician, as avicenna appears to have been, abandons himself to sensual gratification; but so completely did he become enthralled in the course of a few years, that he was dismissed from his high office, and died shortly afterwards, of premature old age and a complication of maladies, brought on by debauchery. his death took place in the year . after his time, few philosophers of any note in arabia are heard of as devoting themselves to the study of alchymy; but it began shortly afterwards to attract greater attention in europe. learned men in france, england, spain, and italy expressed their belief in the science, and many devoted their whole energies to it. in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries especially, it was extensively pursued, and some of the brightest names of that age are connected with it. among the most eminent of them are albertus magnus and thomas aquina. the first of these philosophers was born in the year , of a noble family at lawingen, in the duchy of neuburg, on the danube. for the first thirty years of his life, he appeared remarkably dull and stupid, and it was feared by every one that no good could come of him. he entered a dominican monastery at an early age; but made so little progress in his studies, that he was more than once upon the point of abandoning them in despair; but he was endowed with extraordinary perseverance. as he advanced to middle age, his mind expanded, and he learned whatever he applied himself to with extreme facility. so remarkable a change was not, in that age, to be accounted for but by a miracle. it was asserted and believed that the holy virgin, touched with his great desire to become learned and famous, took pity upon his incapacity, and appeared to him in the cloister where he sat, almost despairing, and asked him whether he wished to excel in philosophy or divinity. he chose philosophy, to the chagrin of the virgin, who reproached him in mild and sorrowful accents that he had not made a better choice. she, however, granted his request that he should become the most excellent philosopher of the age; but set this drawback to his pleasure, that he should relapse, when at the height of his fame, into his former incapacity and stupidity. albertus never took the trouble to contradict the story, but prosecuted his studies with such unremitting zeal that his reputation speedily spread over all europe. in the year , the celebrated thomas aquinas placed himself under his tuition. many extraordinary stories are told of the master and his pupil. while they paid all due attention to other branches of science, they never neglected the pursuit of the philosopher's stone and the elixir vitae. although they discovered neither, it was believed that albert had seized some portion of the secret of life, and found means to animate a brazen statue, upon the formation of which, under proper conjunctions of the planets, he had been occupied many years of his life. he and thomas aquinas completed it together, endowed it with the faculty of speech, and made it perform the functions of a domestic servant. in this capacity it was exceedingly useful; but, through some defect in the machinery, it chattered much more than was agreeable to either philosopher. various remedies were tried to cure it of its garrulity, but in vain; and one day thomas aquinas was so enraged at the noise it made, when he was in the midst of a mathematical problem, that he seized a ponderous hammer and smashed it to pieces. [naude, "apologie des grands hommes accuses de magie;" chap. xviii.] he was sorry afterwards for what he had done, and was reproved by his master for giving way to his anger, so unbecoming in a philosopher. they made no attempt to re-animate the statue. such stories as these show the spirit of the age. every great man who attempted to study the secrets of nature was thought a magician; and it is not to be wondered at that, when philosophers themselves pretended to discover an elixir for conferring immortality, or a red stone which was to create boundless wealth, that popular opinion should have enhanced upon their pretensions, and have endowed them with powers still more miraculous. it was believed of albertus magnus that he could even change the course of the seasons; a feat which the many thought less difficult than the discovery of the grand elixir. albertus was desirous of obtaining a piece of ground on which to build a monastery, in the neighbourhood of cologne. the ground belonged to william, count of holland and king of the romans, who, for some reason or other, did not wish to part with it. albertus is reported to have gained it by the following extraordinary method:--he invited the prince, as he was passing through cologne, to a magnificent entertainment prepared for him and all his court. the prince accepted it, and repaired with a lordly retinue to the residence of the sage. it was in the midst of winter; the rhine was frozen over, and the cold was so bitter that the knights could not sit on horseback without running the risk of losing their toes by the frost. great, therefore, was their surprise, on arriving at albert's house, to find that the repast was spread in his garden, in which the snow had drifted to the depth of several feet. the earl, in high dudgeon, remounted his steed; but albert at last prevailed upon him to take his seat at the table. he had no sooner done so, than the dark clouds rolled away from the sky--a warm sun shone forth--the cold north wind veered suddenly round, and blew a mild breeze from the south--the snows melted away--the ice was unbound upon the streams, and the trees put forth their green leaves and their fruit--flowers sprang up beneath their feet, while larks, nightingales, blackbirds, cuckoos, thrushes, and every sweet song-bird, sang hymns from every tree. the earl and his attendants wondered greatly; but they ate their dinner, and in recompence for it, albert got his piece of ground to build a convent on. he had not, however, shown them all his power. immediately that the repast was over, he gave the word, and dark clouds obscured the sun--the snow fell in large flakes--the singing-birds fell dead--the leaves dropped from the trees, and the winds blew so cold, and howled so mournfully, that the guests wrapped themselves up in their thick cloaks, and retreated into the house to warm themselves at the blazing fire in albert's kitchen. [lenglet, "histoire de la philosophie hermetique." see also, godwin's "lives of the necromancers."] thomas aquinas also could work wonders as well as his master. it is related of him, that he lodged in a street at cologne, where he was much annoyed by the incessant clatter made by the horses' hoofs, as they were led through it daily to exercise by their grooms. he had entreated the latter to select some other spot where they might not disturb a philosopher, but the grooms turned a deaf ear to all his solicitations. in this emergency he had recourse to the aid of magic. he constructed a small horse of bronze, upon which he inscribed certain cabalistic characters, and buried it at midnight in the midst of the highway. the next morning, a troop of grooms came riding along as usual; but the horses, as they arrived at the spot where the magic horse was buried, reared and plunged violently--their nostrils distended with terror--their manes grew erect, and the perspiration ran down their sides in streams. in vain the riders applied the spur--in vain they coaxed or threatened, the animals would not pass the spot. on the following day, their success was no better. they were at length compelled to seek another spot for their exercise, and thomas aquinas was left in peace. [naude, "apologie des grands hommes accuses de magie;" chap. xvii.] albertus magnus was made bishop of ratisbon in ; but he occupied the see only four years, when he resigned, on the ground that its duties occupied too much of the time which he was anxious to devote to philosophy. he died in cologne in , at the advanced age of eighty-seven. the dominican writers deny that he ever sought the philosopher's stone, but his treatise upon minerals sufficiently proves that he did. artephius. artephius, a name noted in the annals of alchymy, was born in the early part of the twelfth century. he wrote two famous treatises; the one upon the philosopher's stone, and the other on the art of prolonging human life. in the latter he vaunts his great qualifications for instructing mankind on such a matter, as he was at that time in the thousand and twenty-fifth year of his age! he had many disciples who believed in his extreme age, and who attempted to prove that he was apollonius of tyana, who lived soon after the advent of jesus christ, and the particulars of whose life and pretended miracles have been so fully described by philostratus. he took good care never to contradict a story, which so much increased the power he was desirous of wielding over his fellow-mortals. on all convenient occasions, he boasted of it; and having an excellent memory, a fertile imagination, and a thorough knowledge of all existing history, he was never at a loss for an answer when questioned as to the personal appearance, the manners, or the character of the great men of antiquity. he also pretended to have found the philosopher's stone; and said that, in search of it, he had descended to hell, and seen the devil sitting on a throne of gold, with a legion of imps and fiends around him. his works on alchymy have been translated into french, and were published in paris in or . alain de lisle. contemporary with albertus magnus was alain de lisle, of flanders, who was named, from his great learning, the "universal doctor." he was thought to possess a knowledge of all the sciences, and, like artephius, to have discovered the elixir vitae. he became one of the friars of the abbey of citeaux, and died in , aged about one hundred and ten years. it was said of him, that he was at the point of death when in his fiftieth year; but that the fortunate discovery of the elixir enabled him to add sixty years to his existence. he wrote a commentary on the prophecies of merlin. arnold de villeneuve. this philosopher has left a much greater reputation. he was born in the year , and studied medicine with great success in the university of paris. he afterwards travelled for twenty years in italy and germany, where he made acquaintance with pietro d'apone; a man of a character akin to his own, and addicted to the same pursuits. as a physician, he was thought, in his own lifetime, to be the most able the world had ever seen. like all the learned men of that day, he dabbled in astrology and alchymy, and was thought to have made immense quantities of gold from lead and copper. when pietro d'apone was arrested in italy, and brought to trial as a sorcerer, a similar accusation was made against arnold; but he managed to leave the country in time and escape the fate of his unfortunate friend. he lost some credit by predicting the end of the world, but afterwards regained it. the time of his death is not exactly known; but it must have been prior to the year , when pope clement v. wrote a circular letter to all the clergy of europe who lived under his obedience, praying them to use their utmost efforts to discover the famous treatise of arnold on "the practice of medicine." the author had promised, during his lifetime, to make a present of the work to the holy see, but died without fulfilling it. in a very curious work by monsieur longeville harcouet, entitled "the history of the persons who have lived several centuries, and then grown young again," there is a receipt, said to have been given by arnold de villeneuve, by means of which any one might prolong his life for a few hundred years or so. in the first place, say arnold and monsieur harcouet, "the person intending so to prolong his life must rub himself well, two or three times a week, with the juice or marrow of cassia (moelle de la casse). every night, upon going to bed, he must put upon his heart a plaster, composed of a certain quantity of oriental saffron, red rose-leaves, sandal-wood, aloes, and amber, liquified in oil of roses and the best white wax. in the morning, he must take it off, and enclose it carefully in a leaden box till the next night, when it must be again applied. if he be of a sanguine temperament, he shall take sixteen chickens--if phlegmatic, twenty-five--and if melancholy, thirty, which he shall put into a yard where the air and the water are pure. upon these he is to feed, eating one a day; but previously the chickens are to be fattened by a peculiar method, which will impregnate their flesh with the qualities that are to produce longevity in the eater. being deprived of all other nourishment till they are almost dying of hunger, they are to be fed upon broth made of serpents and vinegar, which broth is to be thickened with wheat and bran." various ceremonies are to be performed in the cooking of this mess, which those may see in the book of m. harcouet, who are at all interested in the matter; and the chickens are to be fed upon it for two months. they are then fit for table, and are to be washed down with moderate quantities of good white wine or claret. this regimen is to be followed regularly every seven years, and any one may live to be as old as methuselah! it is right to state, that m. harcouet has but little authority for attributing this precious composition to arnold of villeneuve. it is not to be found in the collected works of that philosopher; but was first brought to light by a m. poirier, at the commencement of the sixteenth century, who asserted that he had discovered it in ms. in the undoubted writing of arnold. pietro d'apone. this unlucky sage was born at apone, near padua, in the year . like his friend arnold de villeneuve, he was an eminent physician, and a pretender to the arts of astrology and alchymy. he practised for many years in paris, and made great wealth by killing and curing, and telling fortunes. in an evil day for him, he returned to his own country, with the reputation of being a magician of the first order. it was universally believed that he had drawn seven evil spirits from the infernal regions, whom he kept enclosed in seven crystal vases, until he required their services, when he sent them forth to the ends of the earth to execute his pleasure. one spirit excelled in philosophy; a second, in alchymy; a third, in astrology; a fourth, in physic; a fifth, in poetry; a sixth, in music; and the seventh, in painting: and whenever pietro wished for information or instruction in any of these arts, he had only to go to his crystal vase, and liberate the presiding spirit. immediately, all the secrets of the art were revealed to him; and he might, if it pleased him, excel homer in poetry, apelles in painting, or pythagoras himself in philosophy. although he could make gold out of brass, it was said of him, that he was very sparing of his powers in that respect, and kept himself constantly supplied with money by other and less creditable means. whenever he disbursed gold, he muttered a certain charm, known only to himself; and next morning the gold was safe again in his own possession. the trader to whom he gave it, might lock it in his strong box, and have it guarded by a troop of soldiers; but the charmed metal flew back to its old master. even if it were buried in the earth, or thrown into the sea, the dawn of the next morning would behold it in the pockets of pietro. few people, in consequence, liked to have dealings with such a personage, especially for gold. some, bolder than the rest, thought that his power did not extend over silver; but, when they made the experiment, they found themselves mistaken. bolts and bars could not restrain it, and it sometimes became invisible in their very hands, and was whisked through the air to the purse of the magician. he necessarily acquired a very bad character; and, having given utterance to some sentiments regarding religion which were the very reverse of orthodox, he was summoned before the tribunals of the inquisition to answer for his crimes as a heretic and a sorcerer. he loudly protested his innocence, even upon the rack, where he suffered more torture than nature could support. he died in prison ere his trial was concluded, but was afterwards found guilty. his bones were ordered to be dug up, and publicly burned. he was also burned in effigy in the streets of padua. raymond lulli. while arnold de villeneuve and pietro d'apone flourished in france and italy, a more celebrated adept than either appeared in spain. this was raymond lulli, a name which stands in the first rank among the alchymists. unlike many of his predecessors, he made no pretensions to astrology or necromancy; but, taking geber for his model, studied intently the nature and composition of metals, without reference to charms, incantations, or any foolish ceremonies. it was not, however, till late in life that he commenced his study of the art. his early and middle age were spent in a different manner, and his whole history is romantic in the extreme. he was born of an illustrious family, in majorca, in the year . when that island was taken from the saracens by james i, king of aragon, in , the father of raymond, who was originally of catalonia, settled there, and received a considerable appointment from the crown. raymond married at an early age; and, being fond of pleasure, he left the solitudes of his native isle, and passed over with his bride into spain. he was made grand seneschal at the court of king james, and led a gay life for several years. faithless to his wife, he was always in the pursuit of some new beauty, till his heart was fixed at last by the lovely, but unkind ambrosia de castello. this lady, like her admirer, was married; but, unlike him, was faithful to her vows, and treated all his solicitations with disdain. raymond was so enamoured, that repulse only increased his flame; he lingered all night under her windows, wrote passionate verses in her praise, neglected his affairs, and made himself the butt of all the courtiers. one day, while watching under her lattice, he by chance caught sight of her bosom, as her neckerchief was blown aside by the wind. the fit of inspiration came over him, and he sat down and composed some tender stanzas upon the subject, and sent them to the lady. the fair ambrosia had never before condescended to answer his letters; but she replied to this. she told him, that she could never listen to his suit; that it was unbecoming in a wise man to fix his thoughts, as he had done, on any other than his god; and entreated him to devote himself to a religious life, and conquer the unworthy passion which he had suffered to consume him. she, however, offered, if he wished it, to show him the fair bosom which had so captivated him. raymond was delighted. he thought the latter part of this epistle but ill corresponded with the former, and that ambrosia, in spite of the good advice she gave him, had, at last, relented, and would make him as happy as he desired. he followed her about from place to place, entreating her to fulfil her promise: but still ambrosia was cold, and implored him with tears to importune her no longer; for that she never could be his, and never would, if she were free to-morrow. "what means your letter, then?" said the despairing lover. "i will show you!" replied ambrosia, who immediately uncovered her bosom, and exposed to the eyes of her horror-stricken admirer, a large cancer, which had extended to both breasts. she saw that he was shocked; and, extending her hand to him, she prayed him once more to lead a religious life, and set his heart upon the creator, and not upon the creature. he went home an altered man. he threw up, on the morrow, his valuable appointment at the court, separated from his wife, and took a farewell of his children, after dividing one-half of his ample fortune among them. the other half he shared among the poor. he then threw himself at the foot of a crucifix, and devoted himself to the service of god, vowing, as the most acceptable atonement for his errors, that he would employ the remainder of his days in the task of converting the mussulmans to the christian religion. in his dreams he saw jesus christ, who said to him, "raymond! raymond! follow me!" the vision was three times repeated, and raymond was convinced that it was an intimation direct from heaven. having put his affairs in order, he set out on a pilgrimage to the shrine of st. james of compostello, and afterwards lived for ten years in solitude amid the mountains of aranda. here he learned the arabic, to qualify himself for his mission of converting the mahometans. he also studied various sciences, as taught in the works of the learned men of the east, and first made acquaintance with the writings of geber, which were destined to exercise so much influence over his future life. at the end of this probation, and when he had entered his fortieth year, he emerged from his solitude into more active life. with some remains of his fortune, which had accumulated during his retirement, he founded a college for the study of arabic, which was approved of by the pope, with many commendations upon his zeal and piety. at this time he narrowly escaped assassination from an arabian youth whom he had taken into his service. raymond had prayed to god, in some of his accesses of fanaticism, that he might suffer martyrdom in his holy cause. his servant had overheard him; and, being as great a fanatic as his master, he resolved to gratify his wish, and punish him, at the same time, for the curses which he incessantly launched against mahomet and all who believed in him, by stabbing him to the heart. he, therefore, aimed a blow at his master, as he sat one day at table; but the instinct of self-preservation being stronger than the desire of martyrdom, raymond grappled with his antagonist, and overthrew him. he scorned to take his life himself; but handed him over to the authorities of the town, by whom he was afterwards found dead in his prison. after this adventure raymond travelled to paris, where he resided for some time, and made the acquaintance of arnold de villeneuve. from him he probably received some encouragement to search for the philosopher's stone, as he began from that time forth to devote less of his attention to religious matters, and more to the study of alchymy. still he never lost sight of the great object for which he lived--the conversion of the mahometans--and proceeded to rome, to communicate personally with pope john xxi, on the best measures to be adopted for that end. the pope gave him encouragement in words, but failed to associate any other persons with him in the enterprise which he meditated. raymond, therefore, set out for tunis alone, and was kindly received by many arabian philosophers, who had heard of his fame as a professor of alchymy. if he had stuck to alchymy while in their country, it would have been well for him; but he began cursing mahomet, and got himself into trouble. while preaching the doctrines of christianity in the great bazaar of tunis, he was arrested and thrown into prison. he was shortly afterwards brought to trial, and sentenced to death. some of his philosophic friends interceded hard for him, and he was pardoned, upon condition that he left africa immediately, and never again set foot in it. if he was found there again, no matter what his object might be, or whatever length of time might intervene, his original sentence would be carried into execution. raymond was not at all solicitous of martyrdom when it came to the point, whatever he might have been when there was no danger, and he gladly accepted his life upon these conditions, and left tunis with the intention of proceeding to rome. he afterwards changed his plan, and established himself at milan, where, for a length of time, he practised alchymy, and some say astrology, with great success. most writers who believed in the secrets of alchymy, and who have noticed the life of raymond lulli, assert, that while in milan, he received letters from edward king of england, inviting him to settle in his states. they add, that lulli gladly accepted the invitation, and had apartments assigned for his use in the tower of london, where he refined much gold; superintended the coinage of "rose-nobles;" and made gold out of iron, quicksilver, lead, and pewter, to the amount of six millions. the writers in the "biographie universelle," an excellent authority in general, deny that raymond was ever in england, and say, that in all these stories of his wondrous powers as an alchymist, he has been mistaken for another raymond, a jew, of tarragona. naude, in his "apologie," says, simply, "that six millions were given by raymond lulli to king edward, to make war against the turks and other infidels:" not that he transmuted so much metal into gold; but, as he afterwards adds, that he advised edward to lay a tax upon wool, which produced that amount. to show that raymond went to england, his admirers quote a work attributed to him, "de transmutatione animae metallorum," in which he expressly says, that he was in england at the intercession of the king. [vidimus omnia ista dum ad angliam transiimus, propter intercessionem domini regis edoardi illustrissimi.] the hermetic writers are not agreed whether it was edward i, or edward ii, who invited him over; but, by fixing the date of his journey in , they make it appear that it was edward ii. edmond dickenson, in his work on the "quintessences of the philosophers," says, that raymond worked in westminster abbey, where, a long time after his departure, there was found in the cell which he had occupied, a great quantity of golden dust, of which the architects made a great profit. in the biographical sketch of john cremer, abbot of westminster, given by lenglet, it is said, that it was chiefly through his instrumentality that raymond came to england. cremer had been himself for thirty years occupied in the vain search for the philosopher's stone, when he accidentally met raymond in italy, and endeavoured to induce him to communicate his grand secret. raymond told him that he must find it for himself, as all great alchymists had done before him. cremer, on his return to england, spoke to king edward in high terms of the wonderful attainments of the philosopher, and a letter of invitation was forthwith sent him. robert constantinus, in the "nomenclatore scriptorum medicorum," published in , says, that after a great deal of research, be found that raymond lulli resided for some time in london, and that he actually made gold, by means of the philosopher's stone, in the tower; that he had seen the golden pieces of his coinage, which were still named in england the nobles of raymond, or rose-nobles. lulli himself appears to have boasted that he made gold; for, in his well-known "testamentum," he states, that he converted no less than fifty thousand pounds weight of quicksilver, lead, and pewter into that metal. [converti una vice in aurum ad l millia pondo argenti vivi, plumbi, et stanni.--lullii testamentum.] it seems highly probable that the english king, believing in the extraordinary powers of the alchymist, invited him to england to make test of them, and that he was employed in refining gold and in coining. camden, who is not credulous in matters like these, affords his countenance to the story of his coinage of nobles; and there is nothing at all wonderful in the fact of a man famous for his knowledge of metals being employed in such a capacity. raymond was, at this time, an old man, in his seventy-seventh year, and somewhat in his dotage. he was willing enough to have it believed that he had discovered the grand secret, and supported the rumour rather than contradicted it. he did not long remain in england; but returned to rome, to carry out the projects which were nearer to his heart than the profession of alchymy. he had proposed them to several successive popes with little or no success. the first was a plan for the introduction of the oriental languages into all the monasteries of europe; the second, for the reduction into one of all the military orders, that, being united, they might move more efficaciously against the saracens; and, the third, that the sovereign pontiff should forbid the works of averroes to be read in the schools, as being more favourable to mahometanism than to christianity. the pope did not receive the old man with much cordiality; and, after remaining for about two years in rome, he proceeded once more to africa, alone and unprotected, to preach the gospel of jesus. he landed at bona in ; and so irritated the mahometans by cursing their prophet, that they stoned him, and left him for dead on the sea-shore. he was found some hours afterwards by a party of genoese merchants, who conveyed him on board their vessel, and sailed towards majorca. the unfortunate man still breathed, but could not articulate. he lingered in this state for some days, and expired just as the vessel arrived within sight of his native shores. his body was conveyed with great pomp to the church of st. eulalia, at palma, where a public funeral was instituted in his honour. miracles were afterwards said to have been worked at his tomb. thus ended the career of raymond lulli, one of the most extraordinary men of his age; and, with the exception of his last boast about the six millions of gold, the least inclined to quackery of any of the professors of alchymy. his writings were very numerous, and include nearly five hundred volumes, upon grammar, rhetoric, morals, theology, politics, civil and canon law, physics, metaphysics, astronomy, medicine, and chemistry. roger bacon. the powerful delusion of alchymy seized upon a mind still greater than that of raymond lulli. roger bacon firmly believed in the philosopher's stone, and spent much of his time in search of it. his example helped to render all the learned men of the time more convinced of its practicability, and more eager in the pursuit. he was born at ilchester, in the county of somerset, in the year . he studied for some time in the university of oxford, and afterwards in that of paris, in which he received the degree of doctor of divinity. returning to england in , he became a monk of the order of st. francis. he was by far the most learned man of his age; and his acquirements were so much above the comprehension of his contemporaries, that they could only account for them by supposing that he was indebted for them to the devil. voltaire has not inaptly designated him "de l'or encroute de toutes les ordures de son siecle;" but the crust of superstition that enveloped his powerful mind, though it may have dimmed, could not obscure the brightness of his genius. to him, and apparently to him only, among all the inquiring spirits of the time, were known the properties of the concave and convex lens. he also invented the magic-lantern; that pretty plaything of modern days, which acquired for him a reputation that embittered his life. in a history of alchymy, the name of this great man cannot be omitted, although, unlike many others of whom we shall have occasion to speak, he only made it secondary to other pursuits. the love of universal knowledge that filled his mind, would not allow him to neglect one branch of science, of which neither he nor the world could yet see the absurdity. he made ample amends for his time lost in this pursuit by his knowledge in physics and his acquaintance with astronomy. the telescope, burning-glasses, and gunpowder, are discoveries which may well carry his fame to the remotest time, and make the world blind to the one spot of folly--the diagnosis of the age in which he lived, and the circumstances by which he was surrounded. his treatise on the "admirable power of art and nature in the production of the philosopher's stone" was translated into french by girard de tormes, and published at lyons in . his "mirror of alchymy" was also published in french in the same year, and in paris in , with some additions from the works of raymond lulli. a complete list of all the published treatises upon the subject may be seen in lenglet du fresnoy. pope john xxii. this prelate is said to have been the friend and pupil of arnold de villeneuve, by whom he was instructed in all the secrets of alchymy. tradition asserts of him, that he made great quantities of gold, and died as rich as croesus. he was born at cahors, in the province of guienne, in the year . he was a very eloquent preacher, and soon reached high dignity in the church. he wrote a work on the transmutation of metals, and had a famous laboratory at avignon. he issued two bulls against the numerous pretenders to the art, who had sprung up in every part of christendom; from which it might be inferred that he was himself free from the delusion. the alchymists claim him, however, as one of the most distinguished and successful professors of their art, and say that his bulls were not directed against the real adepts, but the false pretenders. they lay particular stress upon these words in his bull, "spondent, quas non exhibent, divitias, pauperes alchymistae." these, it is clear, they say, relate only to poor alchymists, and therefore false ones. he died in the year , leaving in his coffers a sum of eighteen millions of florins. popular belief alleged that he had made, and not amassed, this treasure; and alchymists complacently cite this as a proof that the philosopher's stone was not such a chimera as the incredulous pretended. they take it for granted that john really left this money, and ask by what possible means he could have accumulated it. replying to their own question, they say triumphantly, "his book shows it was by alchymy, the secrets of which he learned from arnold de villeneuve and raymond lulli. but he was as prudent as all other hermetic philosophers. whoever would read his book to find out his secret, would employ all his labour in vain; the pope took good care not to divulge it." unluckily for their own credit, all these gold-makers are in the same predicament; their great secret loses its worth most wonderfully in the telling, and therefore they keep it snugly to themselves. perhaps they thought that, if everybody could transmute metals, gold would be so plentiful that it would be no longer valuable, and that some new art would be requisite to transmute it back again into steel and iron. if so, society is much indebted to them for their forbearance. jean de meung all classes of men dabbled in the art at this time; the last mentioned was a pope, the one of whom we now speak was a poet. jean de meung, the celebrated author of the "roman de la rose," was born in the year or , and was a great personage at the courts of louis x, philip the long, charles iv, and philip de valois. his famous poem of the "roman de la rose," which treats of every subject in vogue at that day, necessarily makes great mention of alchymy. jean was a firm believer in the art, and wrote, besides his, "roman," two shorter poems, the one entitled, "the remonstrance of nature to the wandering alchymist," and "the reply of the alchymist to nature." poetry and alchymy were his delight, and priests and women were his abomination. a pleasant story is related of him and the ladies of the court of charles iv. he had written the following libellous couplet upon the fair sex:-- "toutes etes, serez, ou futes de fait ou de volonte, putains, et qui, tres bien vous chercherait toutes putains, vous trouverait." [these verses are but a coarser expression of the slanderous line of pope, that "every woman is at heart a rake."] this naturally gave great offence; and being perceived one day, in the king's antechamber, by some ladies who were waiting for an audience, they resolved to punish him. to the number of ten or twelve, they armed themselves with canes and rods; and surrounding the unlucky poet, called upon the gentlemen present to strip him naked, that they might wreak just vengeance upon him, and lash him through the streets of the town. some of the lords present were in no wise loth, and promised themselves great sport from his punishment. but jean de meung was unmoved by their threats, and stood up calmly in the midst of them, begging them to hear him first, and then, if not satisfied, they might do as they liked with him. silence being restored, he stood upon a chair, and entered on his defence. he acknowledged that he was the author of the obnoxious verses, but denied that they bore reference to all womankind. he only meant to speak of the vicious and abandoned, whereas those whom he saw around him, were patterns of virtue, loveliness, and modesty. if, however, any lady present thought herself aggrieved, he would consent to be stripped, and she might lash him till her arms were wearied. it is added, that by this means jean escaped his flogging, and that the wrath of the fair ones immediately subsided. the gentlemen present were, however, of opinion, that if every lady in the room, whose character corresponded with the verses, had taken him at his word, the poet would, in all probability, have been beaten to death. all his life long he evinced a great animosity towards the priesthood, and his famous poem abounds with passages reflecting upon their avarice, cruelty, and immorality. at his death he left a large box, filled with some weighty material, which he bequeathed to the cordeliers, as a peace-offering, for the abuse he had lavished upon them. as his practice of alchymy was well-known, it was thought the box was filled with gold and silver, and the cordeliers congratulated each other on their rich acquisition. when it came to be opened, they found to their horror that it was filled only with slates, scratched with hieroglyphic and cabalistic characters. indignant at the insult, they determined to refuse him christian burial, on pretence that he was a sorcerer. he was, however, honourably buried in paris, the whole court attending his funeral. nicholas flamel. the story of this alchymist, as handed down by tradition, and enshrined in the pages of lenglet du fresnoy, is not a little marvellous. he was born at pontoise of a poor but respectable family, at the end of the thirteenth, or beginning of the fourteenth, century. having no patrimony, he set out for paris at an early age, to try his fortune as a public scribe. he had received a good education, was well skilled in the learned languages, and was an excellent penman. he soon procured occupation as a letter-writer and copyist, and used to sit at the corner of the rue de marivaux, and practise his calling: but he hardly made profits enough to keep body and soul together. to mend his fortunes he tried poetry; but this was a more wretched occupation still. as a transcriber he had at least gained bread and cheese; but his rhymes were not worth a crust. he then tried painting with as little success; and as a last resource, began to search for the philosopher's stone, and tell fortunes. this was a happier idea; he soon increased in substance, and had wherewithal to live comfortably. he, therefore, took unto himself his wife petronella, and began to save money; but continued to all outward appearance as poor and miserable as before. in the course of a few years, he became desperately addicted to the study of alchymy, and thought of nothing but the philosopher's stone, the elixir of life, and the universal alkahest. in the year , he bought by chance an old book for two florins, which soon became the sole study and object of his life. it was written with a steel instrument upon the bark of trees, and contained twenty-one, or as he himself always expressed it, three times seven, leaves. the writing was very elegant and in the latin language. each seventh leaf contained a picture and no writing. on the first of these was a serpent swallowing rods; on the second, a cross with a serpent crucified; and on the third, the representation of a desert, in the midst of which was a fountain with serpents crawling from side to side. it purported to be written by no less a personage than "abraham, patriarch, jew, prince, philosopher, priest, levite, and astrologer;" and invoked curses upon any one who should cast eyes upon it, without being a sacrificer or a scribe. nicholas flamel never thought it extraordinary that abraham should have known latin, and was convinced that the characters on his book had been traced by the hands of that great patriarch himself. he was at first afraid to read it, after he became aware of the curse it contained; but he got over that difficulty by recollecting that, although he was not a sacrificer, he had practised as a scribe. as he read he was filled with admiration, and found that it was a perfect treatise upon the transmutation of metals. all the process was clearly explained; the vessels, the retorts, the mixtures, and the proper times and seasons for the experiment. but as ill-luck would have it, the possession of the philosopher's stone or prime agent in the work was presupposed. this was a difficulty which was not to be got over. it was like telling a starving man how to cook a beefsteak, instead of giving him the money to buy one. but nicholas did not despair; and set about studying the hieroglyphics and allegorical representations with which the book abounded. he soon convinced himself that it had been one of the sacred books of the jews, and that it was taken from the temple of jerusalem on its destruction by titus. the process of reasoning by which he arrived at this conclusion is not stated. from some expression in the treatise, he learned that the allegorical drawings on the fourth and fifth leaves, enshrined the secret of the philosopher's stone, without which all the fine latin of the directions was utterly unavailing. he invited all the alchymists and learned men of paris to come and examine them, but they all departed as wise as they came. nobody could make anything either of nicholas or his pictures; and some even went so far as to say that his invaluable book was not worth a farthing. this was not to be borne; and nicholas resolved to discover the great secret by himself, without troubling the philosophers. he found on the first page, of the fourth leaf, the picture of mercury, attacked by an old man resembling saturn or time. the latter had an hourglass on his head, and in his hand a scythe, with which he aimed a blow at mercury's feet. the reverse of the leaf represented a flower growing on a mountain top, shaken rudely by the wind, with a blue stalk, red and white blossoms, and leaves of pure gold. around it were a great number of dragons and griffins. on the first page of the fifth leaf was a fine garden, in the midst of which was a rose tree in full bloom, supported against the trunk of a gigantic oak. at the foot of this there bubbled up a fountain of milk-white water, which forming a small stream, flowed through the garden, and was afterwards lost in the sands. on the second page was a king, with a sword in his hand, superintending a number of soldiers, who, in execution of his orders, were killing a great multitude of young children, spurning the prayers and tears of their mothers, who tried to save them from destruction. the blood of the children was carefully collected by another party of soldiers, and put into a large vessel, in which two allegorical figures of the sun and moon were bathing themselves. for twenty-one years poor nicholas wearied himself with the study of these pictures, but still he could make nothing of them. his wife petronella at last persuaded him to find out some learned rabbi; but there was no rabbi in paris learned enough to be of any service to him. the jews met but small encouragement to fix their abode in france, and all the chiefs of that people were located in spain. to spain accordingly nicholas flamel repaired. he left his book in paris for fear, perhaps, that he might be robbed of it on the road; and telling his neighbours that he was going on a pilgrimage to the shrine of st. james of compostello, he trudged on foot towards madrid in search of a rabbi. he was absent two years in that country, and made himself known to a great number of jews, descendants of those who had been expelled from france in the reign of philip augustus. the believers in the philosopher's stone give the following account of his adventures:--they say that at leon he made the acquaintance of a converted jew, named cauches, a very learned physician, to whom he explained the title and the nature of his little book. the doctor was transported with joy as soon as he heard it named, and immediately resolved to accompany nicholas to paris, that he might have a sight of it. the two set out together; the doctor on the way entertaining his companion with the history of his book, which, if the genuine book he thought it to be, from the description he had heard of it, was in the handwriting of abraham himself, and had been in the possession of personages no less distinguished than moses, joshua, solomon, and esdras. it contained all the secrets of alchymy and of many other sciences, and was the most valuable book that had ever existed in this world. the doctor was himself no mean adept, and nicholas profited greatly by his discourse, as in the garb of poor pilgrims they wended their way to paris, convinced of their power to turn every old shovel in that capital into pure gold. but, unfortunately, when they reached orleans, the doctor was taken dangerously ill. nicholas watched by his bedside, and acted the double part of a physician and nurse to him; but he died after a few days, lamenting with his last breath that he had not lived long enough to see the precious volume. nicholas rendered the last honours to his body; and with a sorrowful heart, and not one sous in his pocket, proceeded home to his wife petronella. he immediately recommenced the study of his pictures; but for two whole years he was as far from understanding them as ever. at last, in the third year, a glimmer of light stole over his understanding. he recalled some expression of his friend, the doctor, which had hitherto escaped his memory, and he found that all his previous experiments had been conducted on a wrong basis. he recommenced them now with renewed energy, and at the end of the year had the satisfaction to see all his toils rewarded. on the th january , says lenglet, he made a projection on mercury, and had some very excellent silver. on the th april following, he converted a large quantity of mercury into gold, and the great secret was his. nicholas was now about eighty years of age, and still a hale and stout old man. his friends say that, by the simultaneous discovery of the elixir of life, he found means to keep death at a distance for another quarter of a century; and that he died in , at the age of . in this interval he had made immense quantities of gold, though to all outward appearance he was as poor as a mouse. at an early period of his changed fortune, he had, like a worthy man, taken counsel with his old wife petronella, as to the best use he could make of his wealth. petronella replied, that as unfortunately they had no children, the best thing he could do, was to build hospitals and endow churches. nicholas thought so too, especially when he began to find that his elixir could not keep off death, and that the grim foe was making rapid advances upon him. he richly endowed the church of st. jacques de la boucherie, near the rue de marivaux, where he had all his life resided, besides seven others in different parts of the kingdom. he also endowed fourteen hospitals, and built three chapels. the fame of his great wealth and his munificent benefactions soon spread over all the country, and he was visited, among others, by the celebrated doctors of that day, jean gerson, jean de courtecuisse, and pierre d'ailli. they found him in his humble apartment, meanly clad, and eating porridge out of an earthen vessel; and with regard to his secret, as impenetrable as all his predecessors in alchymy. his fame reached the ears of the king, charles vi, who sent m. de cramoisi, the master of requests, to find out whether nicholas had indeed discovered the philosopher's stone. but m. de cramoisi took nothing by his visit; all his attempts to sound the alchymist were unavailing, and he returned to his royal master no wiser than he came. it was in this year, , that he lost his faithful petronella. he did not long survive her; but died in the following year, and was buried with great pomp by the grateful priests of st. jacques de la boucherie. the great wealth of nicholas flamel is undoubted, as the records of several churches and hospitals in france can testify. that he practised alchymy is equally certain, as he left behind several works upon the subject. those who knew him well, and who were incredulous about the philosopher's stone, give a very satisfactory solution of the secret of his wealth. they say that he was always a miser and a usurer; that his journey to spain was undertaken with very different motives from those pretended by the alchymists; that, in fact, he went to collect debts due from jews in that country to their brethren in paris, and that he charged a commission of fully cent. per cent. in consideration of the difficulty of collecting and the dangers of the road; that when he possessed thousands, he lived upon almost nothing; and was the general money-lender, at enormous profits, of all the dissipated young men at the french court. among the works written by nicholas flamel on the subject of alchymy, is "the philosophic summary," a poem, reprinted in , as an appendix to the third volume of the "roman de la rose." he also wrote three treatises upon natural philosophy, and an alchymic allegory, entitled "le desir desire." specimens of his writing, and a fac-simile of the drawings in his book of abraham, may be seen in salmon's "bibliotheque des philosophes chimiques." the writer of the article, "flamel," in the "biographie universelle," says that, for a hundred years after the death of flamel, many of the adepts believed that he was still alive, and that he would live for upwards of six hundred years. the house he formerly occupied, at the corner of the rue de marivaux, has been often taken by credulous speculators, and ransacked from top to bottom, in the hopes that gold might be found. a report was current in paris, not long previous to the year , that some lodgers had found in the cellars several jars filled with a dark-coloured ponderous matter. upon the strength of the rumour, a believer in all the wondrous tales told of nicholas flamel bought the house, and nearly pulled it to pieces in ransacking the walls and wainscotting for hidden gold. he got nothing for his pains, however, and had a heavy bill to pay to restore his dilapidations. george ripley. while alchymy was thus cultivated on the continent of europe, it was not neglected in the isles of britain. since the time of roger bacon, it had fascinated the imagination of many ardent men in england. in the year , an act of parliament was passed, declaring the making of gold and silver to be felony. great alarm was felt at that time lest any alchymist should succeed in his projects, and perhaps bring ruin upon the state, by furnishing boundless wealth to some designing tyrant, who would make use of it to enslave his country. this alarm appears to have soon subsided; for, in the year , king henry vi, by advice of his council and parliament, granted four successive patents and commissions to several knights, citizens of london, chemists, monks, mass-priests, and others, to find out the philosopher's stone and elixir, "to the great benefit," said the patent, "of the realm, and the enabling of the king to pay all the debts of the crown in real gold and silver." prinn, in his "aurum reginae," observes, as a note to this passage, that the king's reason for granting this patent to ecclesiastics was, that they were such good artists in transubstantiating bread and wine in the eucharist, and therefore the more likely to be able to effect the transmutation of baser metals into better. no gold, of course, was ever made; and, next year, the king, doubting very much of the practicability of the thing, took further advice, and appointed a commission of ten learned men, and persons of eminence, to judge and certify to him whether the transmutation of metals were a thing practicable or no. it does not appear whether the commission ever made any report upon the subject. in the succeeding reign, an alchymist appeared who pretended to have discovered the secret. this was george ripley, the canon of bridlington, in yorkshire. he studied for twenty years in the universities of italy, and was a great favourite with pope innocent viii, who made him one of his domestic chaplains, and master of the ceremonies in his household. returning to england in , he dedicated to king edward iv. his famous work, "the compound of alchymy; or, the twelve gates leading to the discovery of the philosopher's stone." these gates he described to be calcination, solution, separation, conjunction, putrefaction, congelation, cibation, sublimation, fermentation, exaltation, multiplication, and projection! to which he might have added botheration, the most important process of all. he was very rich, and allowed it to be believed that he could make gold out of iron. fuller, in his "worthies of england," says that an english gentleman of good credit reported that, in his travels abroad, he saw a record in the island of malta, which declared that ripley gave yearly to the knights of that island, and of rhodes, the enormous sum of one hundred thousand pounds sterling, to enable them to carry on the war against the turks. in his old age, he became an anchorite near boston, and wrote twenty-five volumes upon the subject of alchymy, the most important of which is the "duodecim portarum," already mentioned. before he died, he seems to have acknowledged that he had misspent his life in this vain study, and requested that all men, when they met with any of his books, would burn them, or afford them no credit, as they had been written merely from his opinion, and not from proof; and that subsequent trial had made manifest to him that they were false and vain. [fuller's "worthies of england."] basil valentine. germany also produced many famous alchymists in the fifteenth century, the chief of whom are basil valentine, bernard of treves, and the abbot trithemius. basil valentine was born at mayence, and was made prior of st. peter's, at erfurt, about the year . it was known, during his life, that he diligently sought the philosopher's stone, and that he had written some works upon the process of transmutation. they were thought, for many years, to be lost; but were, after his death, discovered enclosed in the stone work of one of the pillars in the abbey. they were twenty-one in number, and are fully set forth in the third volume of lenglet's "history of the hermetic philosophy." the alchymists asserted, that heaven itself conspired to bring to light these extraordinary works; and that the pillar in which they were enclosed was miraculously shattered by a thunderbolt; and that, as soon as the manuscripts were liberated, the pillar closed up again of its own accord! bernard of treves. the life of this philosopher is a remarkable instance of talent and perseverance misapplied. in the search of his chimera nothing could daunt him. repeated disappointment never diminished his hopes; and, from the age of fourteen to that of eighty-five, he was incessantly employed among the drugs and furnaces of his laboratory, wasting his life with the view of prolonging it, and reducing himself to beggary in the hopes of growing rich. he was born at either treves or padua, in the year . his father is said by some to have been a physician in the latter city; and by others, to have been count of the marches of treves, and one of the most wealthy nobles of his country. at all events, whether noble or physician, he was a rich man, and left his son a magnificent estate. at the age of fourteen he first became enamoured of the science of alchymy, and read the arabian authors in their own language. he himself has left a most interesting record of his labours and wanderings, from which the following particulars are chiefly extracted:--the first book which fell into his hands, was that of the arabian philosopher, rhazes, from the reading of which he imagined that he had discovered the means of augmenting gold a hundred fold. for four years he worked in his laboratory, with the book of rhazes continually before him. at the end of that time, he found that he had spent no less than eight hundred crowns upon his experiment, and had got nothing but fire and smoke for his pains. he now began to lose confidence in rhazes, and turned to the works of geber. he studied him assiduously for two years; and, being young, rich, and credulous, was beset by all the chymists of the town, who kindly assisted him in spending his money. he did not lose his faith in geber, or patience with his hungry assistants, until he had lost two thousand crowns--a very considerable sum in those days. among all the crowd of pretended men of science who surrounded him, there was but one as enthusiastic and as disinterested as himself. with this man, who was a monk of the order of st. francis, he contracted an intimate friendship, and spent nearly all his time. some obscure treatises of rupecissa and sacrobosco having fallen into their hands, they were persuaded, from reading them, that highly rectified spirits of wine was the universal alkahest, or dissolvent, which would aid them greatly in the process of transmutation. they rectified the alcohol thirty times, till they made it so strong as to burst the vessels which contained it. after they had worked three years, and spent three hundred crowns in the liquor, they discovered that they were on the wrong track. they next tried alum and copperas; but the great secret still escaped them. they afterwards imagined that there was a marvellous virtue in all excrement, especially the human, and actually employed more than two years in experimentalizing upon it, with mercury, salt, and molten lead! again the adepts flocked around him from far and near, to aid him with their counsels. he received them all hospitably, and divided his wealth among them so generously and unhesitatingly, that they gave him the name of the "good trevisan," by which he is still often mentioned in works that treat on alchymy. for twelve years he led this life, making experiments every day upon some new substance, and praying to god night and morning that he might discover the secret of transmutation. in this interval he lost his friend the monk, and was joined by a magistrate of the city of treves, as ardent as himself in the search. his new acquaintance imagined that the ocean was the mother of gold, and that sea-salt would change lead or iron into the precious metals. bernard resolved to try; and, transporting his laboratory to a house on the coast of the baltic, he worked upon salt for more than a year, melting it, sublimating it, crystalizing it, and occasionally drinking it, for the sake of other experiments. still the strange enthusiast was not wholly discouraged, and his failure in one trial only made him the more anxious to attempt another. he was now approaching the age of fifty, and had as yet seen nothing of the world. he, therefore, determined to travel through germany, italy, france, and spain. wherever he stopped he made inquiries whether there were any alchymists in the neighbourhood. he invariably sought them out; and, if they were poor, relieved, and, if affluent, encouraged them. at citeaux he became acquainted with one geoffrey leuvier, a monk of that place, who persuaded him that the essence of egg-shells was a valuable ingredient. he tried, therefore, what could be done; and was only prevented from wasting a year or two on the experiment by the opinions of an attorney, at berghem, in flanders, who said that the great secret resided in vinegar and copperas. he was not convinced of the absurdity of this idea until he had nearly poisoned himself. he resided in france for about five years, when, hearing accidentally that one master henry, confessor to the emperor frederic iii, had discovered the philosopher's stone, he set out for germany to pay him a visit. he had, as usual, surrounded himself with a set of hungry dependants, several of whom determined to accompany him. he had not heart to refuse them, and he arrived at vienna with five of them. bernard sent a polite invitation to the confessor, and gave him a sumptuous entertainment, at which were present nearly all the alchymists of vienna. master henry frankly confessed that he had not discovered the philosopher's stone, but that he had all his life been employed in searching for it, and would so continue, till he found it;--or died. this was a man after bernard's own heart, and they vowed with each other an eternal friendship. it was resolved, at supper, that each alchymist present should contribute a certain sum towards raising forty-two marks of gold, which, in five days, it was confidently asserted by master henry, would increase, in his furnace, five fold. bernard, being the richest man, contributed the lion's share, ten marks of gold, master henry five, and the others one or two a piece, except the dependants of bernard, who were obliged to borrow their quota from their patron. the grand experiment was duly made; the golden marks were put into a crucible, with a quantity of salt, copperas, aquafortis, egg-shells, mercury, lead, and dung. the alchymists watched this precious mess with intense interest, expecting that it would agglomerate into one lump of pure gold. at the end of three weeks they gave up the trial, upon some excuse that the crucible was not strong enough, or that some necessary ingredient was wanting. whether any thief had put his hands into the crucible is not known, but it is certain that the gold found therein at the close of the experiment was worth only sixteen marks, instead of the forty-two, which were put there at the beginning. bernard, though he made no gold at vienna, made away with a very considerable quantity. he felt the loss so acutely, that he vowed to think no more of the philosopher's stone. this wise resolution he kept for two months; but he was miserable. he was in the condition of the gambler, who cannot resist the fascination of the game while he has a coin remaining, but plays on with the hope of retrieving former losses, till hope forsakes him, and he can live no longer. he returned once more to his beloved crucibles, and resolved to prosecute his journey in search of a philosopher who had discovered the secret, and would communicate it to so zealous and persevering an adept as himself. from vienna he travelled to rome, and from rome to madrid. taking ship at gibraltar, he proceeded to messina; from messina to cyprus; from cyprus to greece; from greece to constantinople; and thence into egypt, palestine, and persia. these wanderings occupied him about eight years. from persia he made his way back to messina, and from thence into france. he afterwards passed over into england, still in search of his great chimera; and this occupied four years more of his life. he was now growing both old and poor; for he was sixty-two years of age, and had been obliged to sell a great portion of his patrimony to provide for his expenses. his journey to persia had cost upwards of thirteen thousand crowns, about one-half of which had been fairly melted in his all-devouring furnaces: the other half was lavished upon the sycophants that he made it his business to search out in every town he stopped at. on his return to treves he found, to his sorrow, that, if not an actual beggar, he was not much better. his relatives looked upon him as a madman, and refused even to see him. too proud to ask for favours from any one, and still confident that, some day or other, he would be the possessor of unbounded wealth, he made up his mind to retire to the island of rhodes, where he might, in the mean time, hide his poverty from the eyes of all the world. here he might have lived unknown and happy; but, as ill luck would have it, he fell in with a monk as mad as himself upon the subject of transmutation. they were, however, both so poor that they could not afford to buy the proper materials to work with. they kept up each other's spirits by learned discourses on the hermetic philosophy, and in the reading of all the great authors who had written upon the subject. thus did they nurse their folly, as the good wife of tam o'shanter did her wrath, "to keep it warm." after bernard had resided about a year in rhodes, a merchant, who knew his family, advanced him the sum of eight thousand florins, upon the security of the last-remaining acres of his formerly large estate. once more provided with funds, he recommenced his labours with all the zeal and enthusiasm of a young man. for three years he hardly stepped out of his laboratory: he ate there, and slept there, and did not even give himself time to wash his hands and clean his beard, so intense was his application. it is melancholy to think that such wonderful perseverance should have been wasted in so vain a pursuit, and that energies so unconquerable should have had no worthier field to strive in. even when he had fumed away his last coin, and had nothing left in prospective to keep his old age from starvation, hope never forsook him. he still dreamed of ultimate success, and sat down a greyheaded man of eighty, to read over all the authors on the hermetic mysteries, from geber to his own day, lest he should have misunderstood some process, which it was not yet too late to recommence. the alchymists say, that he succeeded at last, and discovered the secret of transmutation in his eighty-second year. they add, that he lived three years afterwards to enjoy his wealth. he lived, it is true, to this great age, and made a valuable discovery--more valuable than gold or gems. he learned, as he himself informs us, just before he had attained his eighty-third year, that the great secret of philosophy was contentment with our lot. happy would it have been for him if he had discovered it sooner, and before he became decrepit, a beggar, and an exile! he died at rhodes, in the year , and all the alchymists of europe sang elegies over him, and sounded his praise as the "good trevisan." he wrote several treatises upon his chimera, the chief of which are, the "book of chemistry," the "verbum dimissum," and an essay "de natura ovi." trithemius. the name of this eminent man has become famous in the annals of alchymy, although he did but little to gain so questionable an honour. he was born in the year , at the village of trittheim, in the electorate of treves. his father was john heidenberg, a vine-grower, in easy circumstances, who, dying when his son was but seven years old, left him to the care of his mother. the latter married again very shortly afterwards, and neglected the poor boy, the offspring of her first marriage. at the age of fifteen he did not even know his letters, and was, besides, half starved, and otherwise ill-treated by his step-father; but the love of knowledge germinated in the breast of the unfortunate youth, and he learned to read at the house of a neighbour. his father-in-law set him to work in the vineyards, and thus occupied all his days; but the nights were his own. he often stole out unheeded, when all the household were fast asleep, poring over his studies in the fields, by the light of the moon; and thus taught himself latin and the rudiments of greek. he was subjected to so much ill-usage at home, in consequence of this love of study, that he determined to leave it. demanding the patrimony which his father had left him, he proceeded to treves; and, assuming the name of trithemius, from that of his native village of trittheim, lived there for some months, under the tuition of eminent masters, by whom he was prepared for the university. at the age of twenty, he took it into his head that he should like to see his mother once more; and he set out on foot from the distant university for that purpose. on his arrival near spannheim, late in the evening of a gloomy winter's day, it came on to snow so thickly, that he could not proceed onwards to the town. he, therefore, took refuge for the night in a neighbouring monastery; but the storm continued several days, the roads became impassable, and the hospitable monks would not hear of his departure. he was so pleased with them and their manner of life, that he suddenly resolved to fix his abode among them, and renounce the world. they were no less pleased with him, and gladly received him as a brother. in the course of two years, although still so young, he was unanimously elected their abbot. the financial affairs of the establishment had been greatly neglected, the walls of the building were falling into ruin, and everything was in disorder. trithemius, by his good management and regularity, introduced a reform in every branch of expenditure. the monastery was repaired, and a yearly surplus, instead of a deficiency, rewarded him for his pains. he did not like to see the monks idle, or occupied solely between prayers for their business, and chess for their relaxation. he, therefore, set them to work to copy the writings of eminent authors. they laboured so assiduously, that, in the course of a few years, their library, which had contained only about forty volumes, was enriched with several hundred valuable manuscripts, comprising many of the classical latin authors, besides the works of the early fathers, and the principal historians and philosophers of more modern date. he retained the dignity of abbot of spannheim for twenty-one years, when the monks, tired of the severe discipline he maintained, revolted against him, and chose another abbot in his place. he was afterwards made abbot of st. james, in wurtzburg, where he died in . during his learned leisure at spannheim, he wrote several works upon the occult sciences, the chief of which are an essay on geomancy, or divination by means of lines and circles on the ground; another upon sorcery; a third upon alchymy; and a fourth upon the government of the world by its presiding angels, which was translated into english, and published by the famous william lilly in . it has been alleged by the believers in the possibility of transmutation, that the prosperity of the abbey of spannheim, while under his superintendence, was owing more to the philosopher's stone than to wise economy. trithemius, in common with many other learned men, has been accused of magic; and a marvellous story is told of his having raised from the grave the form of mary of burgundy, at the intercession of her widowed husband, the emperor maximilian. his work on steganographia, or cabalistic writing, was denounced to the count palatine, frederic ii, as magical and devilish; and it was by him taken from the shelves of his library and thrown into the fire. trithemius is said to be the first writer who makes mention of the wonderful story of the devil and dr. faustus, the truth of which he firmly believed. he also recounts the freaks of a spirit, named hudekin, by whom he was at times tormented. [biographie universelle] the marechal de rays. one of the greatest encouragers of alchymy in the fifteenth century was gilles de laval, lord of rays and a marshal of france. his name and deeds are little known; but in the annals of crime and folly, they might claim the highest and worst pro-eminence. fiction has never invented anything wilder or more horrible than his career; and were not the details but too well authenticated by legal and other documents which admit no doubt, the lover of romance might easily imagine they were drawn to please him from the stores of the prolific brain, and not from the page of history. he was born about the year , of one of the noblest families of brittany. his father dying when gilles had attained his twentieth year, he came into uncontrolled possession, at that early age, of a fortune which the monarchs of france might have envied him. he was a near kinsman of the montmorencys, the roncys, and the craons; possessed fifteen princely domains, and had an annual revenue of about three hundred thousand livres. besides this, he was handsome, learned, and brave. he distinguished himself greatly in the wars of charles vii, and was rewarded by that monarch with the dignity of a marshal of france. but he was extravagant and magnificent in his style of living, and accustomed from his earliest years to the gratification of every wish and passion; and this, at last, led him from vice to vice, and from crime to crime, till a blacker name than his is not to be found in any record of human iniquity. in his castle of champtoce, he lived with all the splendour of an eastern caliph. he kept up a troop of two hundred horsemen to accompany him wherever he went; and his excursions for the purposes of hawking and hunting were the wonder of all the country around, so magnificent were the caparisons of his steeds and the dresses of his retainers. day and night, his castle was open all the year round to comers of every degree. he made it a rule to regale even the poorest beggar with wine and hippocrass. every day an ox was roasted whole in his spacious kitchens, besides sheep, pigs, and poultry sufficient to feed five hundred persons. he was equally magnificent in his devotions. his private chapel at champtoce was the most beautiful in france, and far surpassed any of those in the richly-endowed cathedrals of notre dame in paris, of amiens, of beauvais, or of rouen. it was hung with cloth of gold and rich velvet. all the chandeliers were of pure gold, curiously inlaid with silver. the great crucifix over the altar was of solid silver, and the chalices and incense-burners were of pure gold. he had, besides, a fine organ, which he caused to be carried from one castle to another, on the shoulders of six men, whenever he changed his residence. he kept up a choir of twenty-five young children of both sexes, who were instructed in singing by the first musicians of the day. the master of his chapel he called a bishop, who had under him his deans, archdeacons, and vicars, each receiving great salaries; the bishop four hundred crowns a year, and the rest in proportion. he also maintained a whole troop of players, including ten dancing-girls and as many ballad-singers, besides morris-dancers, jugglers, and mountebanks of every description. the theatre on which they performed was fitted up without any regard to expense; and they played mysteries, or danced the morris-dance, every evening, for the amusement of himself and household, and such strangers as were sharing his prodigal hospitality. at the age of twenty-three, he married catherine, the wealthy heiress of the house of touars, for whom he refurnished his castle at an expense of a hundred thousand crowns. his marriage was the signal for new extravagance, and he launched out more madly than ever he had done before; sending for fine singers or celebrated dancers from foreign countries to amuse him and his spouse, and instituting tilts and tournaments in his great court-yard almost every week for all the knights and nobles of the province of brittany. the duke of brittany's court was not half so splendid as that of the marechal de rays. his utter disregard of wealth was so well known that he was made to pay three times its value for everything he purchased. his castle was filled with needy parasites and panderers to his pleasures, amongst whom he lavished rewards with an unsparing hand. but the ordinary round of sensual gratification ceased at last to afford him delight: he was observed to be more abstemious in the pleasures of the table, and to neglect the beauteous dancing-girls who used formerly to occupy so much of his attention. he was sometimes gloomy and reserved; and there was an unnatural wildness in his eye which gave indications of incipient madness. still, his discourse was as reasonable as ever; his urbanity to the guests that flocked from far and near to champtoce suffered no diminution; and learned priests, when they conversed with him, thought to themselves that few of the nobles of france were so well-informed as gilles de laval. but dark rumours spread gradually over the country; murder, and, if possible, still more atrocious deeds were hinted at; and it was remarked that many young children, of both sexes, suddenly disappeared, and were never afterwards heard of. one or two had been traced to the castle of champtoce, and had never been seen to leave it; but no one dared to accuse openly so powerful a man as the marechal de rays. whenever the subject of the lost children was mentioned in his presence, he manifested the greatest astonishment at the mystery which involved their fate, and indignation against those who might be guilty of kidnapping them. still the world was not wholly deceived; his name became as formidable to young children as that of the devouring ogre in fairy tales; and they were taught to go miles round, rather than pass under the turrets of champtoce. in the course of a very few years, the reckless extravagance of the marshal drained him of all his funds, and he was obliged to put up some of his estates for sale. the duke of brittany entered into a treaty with him for the valuable seignory of ingrande; but the heirs of gilles implored the interference of charles vii. to stay the sale. charles immediately issued an edict, which was confirmed by the provincial parliament of brittany, forbidding him to alienate his paternal estates. gilles had no alternative but to submit. he had nothing to support his extravagance but his allowance as a marshal of france, which did not cover the one-tenth of his expenses. a man of his habits and character could not retrench his wasteful expenditure and live reasonably; he could not dismiss without a pang his horsemen, his jesters, his morris-dancers, his choristers, and his parasites, or confine his hospitality to those who really needed it. notwithstanding his diminished resources, he resolved to live as he had lived before, and turn alchymist, that he might make gold out of iron, and be still the wealthiest and most magnificent among the nobles of brittany. in pursuance of this determination he sent to paris, italy, germany, and spain, inviting all the adepts in the science to visit him at champtoce. the messengers he despatched on this mission were two of his most needy and unprincipled dependants, gilles de sille and roger de bricqueville. the latter, the obsequious panderer to his most secret and abominable pleasures, he had intrusted with the education of his motherless daughter, a child but five years of age, with permission, that he might marry her at the proper time to any person he chose, or to himself if he liked it better. this man entered into the new plans of his master with great zeal, and introduced to him one prelati, an alchymist of padua, and a physician of poitou, who was addicted to the same pursuits. the marshal caused a splendid laboratory to be fitted up for them, and the three commenced the search for the philosopher's stone. they were soon afterwards joined by another pretended philosopher, named anthony of palermo, who aided in their operations for upwards of a year. they all fared sumptuously at the marshal's expense, draining him of the ready money he possessed, and leading him on from day to day with the hope that they would succeed in the object of their search. from time to time new aspirants from the remotest parts of europe arrived at his castle, and for months he had upwards of twenty alchymists at work--trying to transmute copper into gold, and wasting the gold, which was still his own, in drugs and elixirs. but the lord of rays was not a man to abide patiently their lingering processes. pleased with their comfortable quarters, they jogged on from day to day, and would have done so for years, had they been permitted. but he suddenly dismissed them all, with the exception of the italian prelati, and the physician of poitou. these he retained to aid him to discover the secret of the philosopher's stone by a bolder method. the poitousan had persuaded him that the devil was the great depositary of that and all other secrets, and that he would raise him before gilles, who might enter into any contract he pleased with him. gilles expressed his readiness, and promised to give the devil anything but his soul, or do any deed that the arch-enemy might impose upon him. attended solely by the physician, he proceeded at midnight to a wild-looking place in a neighbouring forest; the physician drew a magic circle around them on the sward, and muttered for half an hour an invocation to the evil spirit to arise at his bidding, and disclose the secrets of alchymy. gilles looked on with intense interest, and expected every moment to see the earth open, and deliver to his gaze the great enemy of mankind. at last the eyes of the physician became fixed, his hair stood on end, and he spoke, as if addressing the fiend. but gilles saw nothing except his companion. at last the physician fell down on the sward as if insensible. gilles looked calmly on to see the end. after a few minutes the physician arose, and asked him if he had not seen how angry the devil looked? gilles replied, that he had seen nothing; upon which his companion informed him that beelzebub had appeared in the form of a wild leopard, growled at him savagely, and said nothing; and that the reason why the marshal had neither seen nor heard him, was that he hesitated in his own mind as to devoting himself entirely to the service. de rays owned that he had indeed misgivings, and inquired what was to be done to make the devil speak out, and unfold his secret? the physician replied, that some person must go to spain and africa to collect certain herbs which only grew in those countries, and offered to go himself, if de rays would provide the necessary funds. de rays at once consented; and the physician set out on the following day with all the gold that his dupe could spare him. the marshal never saw his face again. but the eager lord of champtoce could not rest. gold was necessary for his pleasures; and unless, by supernatural aid, he had no means of procuring many further supplies. the physician was hardly twenty leagues on his journey, before gilles resolved to make another effort to force the devil to divulge the art of gold making. he went out alone for that purpose, but all his conjurations were of no effect. beelzebub was obstinate, and would not appear. determined to conquer him if he could, he unbosomed himself to the italian alchymist, prelati. the latter offered to undertake the business, upon condition that de rays did not interfere in the conjurations, and consented besides to furnish him with all the charms and talismans that might be required. he was further to open a vein in his arm, and sign with his blood a contract that he would work the devil's will in all things, and offer up to him a sacrifice of the heart, lungs, hands, eyes, and blood of a young child. the grasping monomaniac made no hesitation; but agreed at once to the disgusting terms proposed to him. on the following night, prelati went out alone; and after having been absent for three or four hours, returned to gilles, who sat anxiously awaiting him. prelati then informed him that he had seen the devil in the shape of a handsome youth of twenty. he further said, that the devil desired to be called barron in all future invocations; and had shown him a great number of ingots of pure gold, buried under a large oak in the neighbouring forest, all of which, and as many more as he desired, should become the property of the marechal de rays if he remained firm, and broke no condition of the contract. prelati further showed him a small casket of black dust, which would turn iron into gold; but as the process was very troublesome, he advised that they should be contented with the ingots they found under the oak tree, and which would more than supply all the wants that the most extravagant imagination could desire. they were not, however, to attempt to look for the gold till a period of seven times seven weeks, or they would find nothing but slates and stones for their pains. gilles expressed the utmost chagrin and disappointment, and at once said that he could not wait for so long a period; if the devil were not more prompt, prelati might tell him, that the marechal de rays was not to be trifled with, and would decline all further communication with him. prelati at last persuaded him to wait seven times seven days. they then went at midnight with picks and shovels to dig up the ground under the oak, where they found nothing to reward them but a great quantity of slates, marked with hieroglyphics. it was now prelati's turn to be angry; and he loudly swore that the devil was nothing but a liar and a cheat. the marshal joined cordially in the opinion, but was easily persuaded by the cunning italian to make one more trial. he promised at the same time that he would endeavour, on the following night, to discover the reason why the devil had broken his word. he went out alone accordingly, and on his return informed his patron that he had seen barron, who was exceedingly angry that they had not waited the proper time ere they looked for the ingots. barron had also said, that the marechal de rays could hardly expect any favours from him, at a time when he must know that he had been meditating a pilgrimage to the holy land, to make atonement for his sins. the italian had doubtless surmised this, from some incautious expression of his patron, for de rays frankly confessed that there were times when, sick of the world and all its pomps and vanities, he thought of devoting himself to the service of god. in this manner the italian lured on from month to month his credulous and guilty patron, extracting from him all the valuables he possessed, and only waiting a favourable opportunity to decamp with his plunder. but the day of retribution was at hand for both. young girls and boys continued to disappear in the most mysterious manner; and the rumours against the owner of champtoce grew so loud and distinct, that the church was compelled to interfere. representations were made by the bishop of nantes to the duke of brittany, that it would be a public scandal if the accusations against the marechal de rays were not inquired into. he was arrested accordingly in his own castle, along with his accomplice prelati, and thrown into a dungeon at nantes to await his trial. the judges appointed to try him were the bishop of nantes chancellor of brittany, the vicar of the inquisition in france, and the celebrated pierre l'hopital, the president of the provincial parliament. the offences laid to his charge were sorcery, sodomy, and murder. gilles, on the first day of his trial, conducted himself with the utmost insolence. he braved the judges on the judgment seat, calling them simoniacs and persons of impure life, and said he would rather be hanged by the neck like a dog without trial, than plead either guilty or not guilty to such contemptible miscreants. but his confidence forsook him as the trial proceeded, and he was found guilty on the clearest evidence of all the crimes laid to his charge. it was proved that he took insane pleasure in stabbing the victims of his lust, and in observing the quivering of their flesh, and the fading lustre of their eyes as they expired. the confession of prelati first made the judges acquainted with this horrid madness, and gilles himself confirmed it before his death. nearly a hundred children of the villagers around his two castles of champtoce and machecoue, had been missed within three years the greater part, if not all, of whom were immolated to the lust or the cupidity of this monster. he imagined that he thus made the devil his friend, and that his recompence would be the secret of the philosopher's stone. gilles and prelati were both condemned to be burned alive. at the place of execution they assumed the air of penitence and religion. gilles tenderly embraced prelati, saying, "farewell, friend francis! in this world we shall never meet again; but let us place our hopes in god; we shall see each other in paradise." out of consideration for his high rank and connections, the punishment of the marshal was so far mitigated, that he was not burned alive like prelati. he was first strangled, and then thrown into the flames: his body, when half consumed, was given over to his relatives for interment; while that of the italian was burned to ashes, and then scattered in the winds. [for full details of this extraordinary trial, see "lobineau's nouvelle histoire de bretagne;" and d'argentre's work on the same subject.] jacques coeur. this remarkable pretender to the secret of the philosopher's stone, was contemporary with the last mentioned. he was a great personage at the court of charles vii, and in the events of his reign played a prominent part. from a very humble origin he rose to the highest honours of the state, and amassed enormous wealth, by peculation and the plunder of the country which he should have served. it was to hide his delinquencies in this respect, and to divert attention from the real source of his riches, that he boasted of having discovered the art of transmuting the inferior metals into gold and silver. his father was a goldsmith in the city of bourges; but so reduced in circumstances towards the latter years of his life, that he was unable to pay the necessary fees to procure his son's admission into the guild. young jacques became, however, a workman in the royal mint of bourges, in , and behaved himself so well, and showed so much knowledge of metallurgy, that he attained rapid promotion in that establishment. he had also the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the fair agnes sorel, by whom he was patronized and much esteemed. jacques had now three things in his favour--ability, perseverance, and the countenance of the king's mistress. many a man succeeds with but one of these to help him forward: and it would have been strange indeed, if jacques coeur, who had them all, should have languished in obscurity. while still a young man he was made master of the mint, in which he had been a journeyman, and installed at the same time into the vacant office of grand treasurer of the royal household. he possessed an extensive knowledge of finance, and turned it wonderfully to his own advantage as soon as he became intrusted with extensive funds. he speculated in articles of the first necessity, and made himself very unpopular by buying up grain, honey, wines, and other produce, till there was a scarcity, when he sold it again at enormous profit. strong in the royal favour, he did not hesitate to oppress the poor by continual acts of forestalling and monopoly. as there is no enemy so bitter as the estranged friend, so of all the tyrants and tramplers upon the poor, there is none so fierce and reckless as the upstart that sprang from their ranks. the offensive pride of jacques coeur to his inferiors was the theme of indignant reproach in his own city, and his cringing humility to those above him was as much an object of contempt to the aristocrats into whose society he thrust himself. but jacques did not care for the former, and to the latter he was blind. he continued his career till he became the richest man in france, and so useful to the king that no important enterprise was set on foot until he had been consulted. he was sent in on an embassy to genoa, and in the following year to pope nicholas v. in both these missions he acquitted himself to the satisfaction of his sovereign, and was rewarded with a lucrative appointment, in addition to those which he already held. in the year , the english in normandy, deprived of their great general, the duke of bedford, broke the truce with the french king, and took possession of a small town belonging to the duke of brittany. this was the signal for the recommencemerit of a war, in which the french regained possession of nearly the whole province. the money for this war was advanced, for the most part, by jacques coeur. when rouen yielded to the french, and charles made his triumphal entry into that city, accompanied by dunois and his most famous generals, jacques was among the most brilliant of his cortege. his chariot and horses vied with those of the king in the magnificence of their trappings; and his enemies said of him that he publicly boasted that he alone had driven out the english, and that the valour of the troops would would have been nothing without his gold. dunois appears, also, to have been partly of the same opinion. without disparaging the courage of the army, he acknowledged the utility of the able financier, by whose means they had been fed and paid, and constantly afforded him his powerful protection. when peace returned, jacques again devoted himself to commerce, and fitted up several galleys to trade with the genoese. he also bought large estates in various parts of france; the chief of which were the baronies of st. fargeau, meneton, salone, maubranche, meaune, st. gerant de vaux, and st. aon de boissy; the earldoms or counties of la palisse, champignelle, beaumont, and villeneuve la genet, and the marquisate of toucy. he also procured for his son, jean coeur, who had chosen the church for his profession, a post no less distinguished than that of archbishop of bourges. everybody said that so much wealth could not have been honestly acquired; and both rich and poor longed for the day that should humble the pride of the man, whom the one class regarded as an upstart and the other as an oppressor. jacques was somewhat alarmed at the rumours that were afloat respecting him, and of dark hints that he had debased the coin of the realm and forged the king's seal to an important document, by which he had defrauded the state of very considerable sums. to silence these rumours, he invited many alchymists from foreign countries to reside with him, and circulated a counter-rumour, that he had discovered the secret of the philosopher's stone. he also built a magnificent house in his native city, over the entrance of which he caused to be sculptured the emblems of that science. some time afterwards, he built another, no less splendid, at montpellier, which he inscribed in a similar manner. he also wrote a treatise upon the hermetic philosophy, in which he pretended that he knew the secret of transmuting metals. but all these attempts to disguise his numerous acts of peculation proved unavailing; and he was arrested in , and brought to trial on several charges. upon one only, which the malice of his enemies invented to ruin him, was he acquitted; which was, that he had been accessory to the death, by poison, of his kind patroness, agnes sorel. upon the others, he was found guilty; and sentenced to be banished the kingdom, and to pay the enormous fine of four hundred thousand crowns. it was proved that he had forged the king's seal; that, in his capacity of master of the mint of bourges, he had debased, to a very great extent, the gold and silver coin of the realm; and that he had not hesitated to supply the turks with arms and money to enable them to carry on war against their christian neighbours, for which service he had received the most munificent recompences. charles vii. was deeply grieved at his condemnation, and believed to the last that he was innocent. by his means the fine was reduced within a sum which jacques coeur could pay. after remaining for some time in prison, he was liberated, and left france with a large sum of money, part of which, it was alleged, was secretly paid him by charles out of the produce of his confiscated estates. he retired to cyprus, where he died about , the richest and most conspicuous personage of the island. the writers upon alchymy all claim jacques coeur as a member of their fraternity, and treat as false and libellous the more rational explanation of his wealth which the records of his trial afford. pierre borel, in his "antiquites gauloises," maintains the opinion that jacques was an honest man, and that he made his gold out of lead and copper by means of the philosopher's stone. the alchymic adepts in general were of the same opinion; but they found it difficult to persuade even his contemporaries of the fact. posterity is still less likely to believe it. inferior adepts of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. many other pretenders to the secrets of the philosopher's stone appeared in every country in europe, during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. the possibility of transmutation was so generally admitted, that every chemist was more or less an alchymist. germany, holland, italy, spain, poland, france, and england produced thousands of obscure adepts, who supported themselves, in the pursuit of their chimera, by the more profitable resources of astrology and divination. the monarchs of europe were no less persuaded than their subjects of the possibility of discovering the philosopher's stone. henry vi. and edward iv. of england encouraged alchymy. in germany, the emperors maximilian, rodolph, and frederic ii. devoted much of their attention to it; and every inferior potentate within their dominions imitated their example. it was a common practice in germany, among the nobles and petty sovereigns, to invite an alchymist to take up his residence among them, that they might confine him in a dungeon till he made gold enough to pay millions for his ransom. many poor wretches suffered perpetual imprisonment in consequence. a similar fate appears to have been intended by edward ii. for raymond lulli, who, upon the pretence that he was thereby honoured, was accommodated with apartments in the tower of london. he found out in time the trick that was about to be played him, and managed to make his escape, some of his biographers say, by jumping into the thames, and swimming to a vessel that lay waiting to receive him. in the sixteenth century, the same system was pursued, as will be shown more fully in the life of seton the cosmopolite, in the succeeding chapter. the following is a catalogue of the chief authors upon alchymy, who flourished during this epoch, and whose lives and adventures are either unknown or are unworthy of more detailed notice. john dowston, an englishman, lived in , and wrote two treatises on the philosopher's stone. richard, or, as some call him, robert, also an englishman, lived in , and wrote a work entitled "correctorium alchymiae," which was much esteemed till the time of paracelsus. in the same year lived peter of lombardy, who wrote what he called a "complete treatise upon the hermetic science," an abridgement of which was afterwards published by lacini, a monk of calabria. in the most famous alchymist of paris was one odomare, whose work "de practica magistri" was, for a long time, a hand-book among the brethren of the science. john de rupecissa, a french monk of the order of st. francis, flourished in , and pretended to be a prophet as well as an alchymist. some of his prophecies were so disagreeable to pope innocent vi, that the pontiff determined to put a stop to them, by locking up the prophet in the dungeons of the vatican. it is generally believed that he died there, though there is no evidence of the fact. his chief works are the "book of light," the "five essences," the "heaven of philosophers," and his grand work "de confectione lapidis." he was not thought a shining light among the adepts. ortholani was another pretender, of whom nothing is known, but that he exercised the arts of alchymy and astrology at paris, shortly before the time of nicholas flamel. his work on the practice of alchymy was written in that city in . isaac of holland wrote, it is supposed, about this time; and his son also devoted himself to the science. nothing worth repeating is known of their lives. boerhaave speaks with commendation of many passages in their works, and paracelsus esteemed them highly: the chief are "de triplici ordine elixiris et lapidis theoria," printed at berne in ; and "mineralia opera, seu de lapide philosophico," printed at middleburg in . they also wrote eight other works upon the same subject. koffstky, a pole, wrote an alchymical treatise, entitled "the tincture of minerals," about the year . in this list of authors a royal name must not be forgotten. charles vi. of france, one of the most credulous princes of the day, whose court absolutely swarmed with alchymists, conjurers, astrologers, and quacks of every description, made several attempts to discover the philosopher's stone, and thought he knew so much about it, that he determined to enlighten the world with a treatise. it is called the "royal work of charles vi. of france, and the treasure of philosophy." it is said to be the original from which nicholas flamel took the idea of his "desir desire." lenglet du fresnoy says it is very allegorical, and utterly incomprehensible. for a more complete list of the hermetic philosophers of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the reader is referred to the third volume of lenglet's history already quoted. part ii.--progress of the infatuation during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. augurello.--cornelius agrippa.--paracelsus.--george agricola.--denys zachaire.--dr. dee and edward kelly.--the cosmopolite.--sendivogius.--the rosicrucians.--michael mayer.--robert fludd.--jacob bohmen.--john heydn.--joseph francis borri.--alchymical writers of the seventeenth century.--de lisle.--albert aluys.--count de st. germains.--cagliostro.--present state of the science. during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the search for the philosopher's stone was continued by thousands of the enthusiastic and the credulous; but a great change was introduced during this period. the eminent men who devoted themselves to the study, totally changed its aspect, and referred to the possession of their wondrous stone and elixir, not only the conversion of the base into the precious metals, but the solution of all the difficulties of other sciences. they pretended that by its means man would be brought into closer communion with his maker; that disease and sorrow would be banished from the world; and that "the millions of spiritual beings who walk the earth unseen" would be rendered visible, and become the friends, companions, and instructors of mankind. in the seventeenth century more especially, these poetical and fantastic doctrines excited the notice of europe; and from germany, where they had been first disseminated by rosencreutz, spread into france and england, and ran away with the sound judgment of many clever, but too enthusiastic, searchers for the truth. paracelsus, dee, and many others of less note, were captivated by the grace and beauty of the new mythology, which was arising to adorn the literature of europe. most of the alchymists of the sixteenth century, although ignorant of the rosicrucians as a sect, were, in some degree, tinctured with their fanciful tenets: but before we speak more fully of these poetical visionaries, it will be necessary to resume the history of the hermetic folly where we left off in the former chapter, and trace the gradual change that stole over the dreams of the adepts. it will be seen that the infatuation increased rather than diminished as the world grew older. augurello. among the alchymists who were born in the fifteenth, and distinguished themselves in the sixteenth century, the first, in point of date, is john aurelio augurello. he was born at rimini in , and became professor of the belles lettres at venice and trevisa. he was early convinced of the truth of the hermetic science, and used to pray to god that he might be happy enough to discover the philosopher's stone. he was continually surrounded by the paraphernalia of chemistry, and expended all his wealth in the purchase of drugs and metals. he was also a poet, but of less merit than pretensions. his "chrysopeia," in which lie pretended to teach the art of making gold, he dedicated to pope leo x, in the hope that the pontiff would reward him handsomely for the compliment; but the pope was too good a judge of poetry to be pleased with the worse than mediocrity of his poem, and too good a philosopher to approve of the strange doctrines which it inculcated: he was, therefore, far from gratified at the dedication. it is said, that when augurello applied to him for a reward, the pope, with great ceremony and much apparent kindness and cordiality, drew an empty purse from his pocket, and presented it to the alchymist, saying, that since he was able to make gold, the most appropriate present that could be made him, was a purse to put it in. this scurvy reward was all that the poor alchymist ever got either for his poetry or his alchymy. he died in a state of extreme poverty, in the eighty-third year of his age. cornelius agrippa. this alchymist has left a more distinguished reputation. the most extraordinary tales were told and believed of his powers. he could turn iron into gold by his mere word. all the spirits of the air, and demons of the earth, were under his command, and bound to obey him in everything. he could raise from the dead the forms of the great men of other days, and make them appear "in their habit as they lived," to the gaze of the curious who had courage enough to abide their presence. he was born at cologne in , and began, at an early age, the study of chemistry and philosophy. by some means or other which have never been very clearly explained, he managed to impress his contemporaries with a great idea of his wonderful attainments. at the early age of twenty, so great was his reputation as an alchymist, that the principal adepts of paris wrote to cologne, inviting him to settle in france, and aid them with his experience in discovering the philosopher's stone. honours poured upon him in thick succession; and he was highly esteemed by all the learned men of his time. melancthon speaks of him with respect and commendation. erasmus also bears testimony in his favour; and the general voice of his age proclaimed him a light of literature and an ornament to philosophy. some men, by dint of excessive egotism, manage to persuade their contemporaries that they are very great men indeed: they publish their acquirements so loudly in people's ears, and keep up their own praises so incessantly, that the world's applause is actually taken by storm. such seems to have been the case with agrippa. he called himself a sublime theologian, an excellent jurisconsult, an able physician, a great philosopher, and a successful alchymist. the world, at last, took him at his word; and thought that a man who talked so big, must have some merit to recommend him--that it was, indeed, a great trumpet which sounded so obstreperous a blast. he was made secretary to the emperor maximilian, who conferred upon him the title of chevalier, and gave him the honorary command of a regiment. he afterwards became professor of hebrew and the belles lettres, at the university of dole, in france; but quarrelling with the franciscan monks upon some knotty point of divinity, he was obliged to quit the town. he took refuge in london, where he taught hebrew and cast nativities, for about a year. from london he proceeded to pavia, and gave lectures upon the writings, real or supposed, of hermes trismegistus; and might have lived there in peace and honour, had he not again quarrelled with the clergy. by their means his position became so disagreeable, that he was glad to accept an offer made him by the magistracy of metz, to become their syndic and advocate-general. here, again, his love of disputation made him enemies: the theological wiseacres of that city asserted, that st. anne had three husbands, in which opinion they were confirmed by the popular belief of the day. agrippa needlessly ran foul of this opinion, or prejudice as he called it, and thereby lost much of his influence. another dispute, more creditable to his character, occurred soon after, and sank him for ever in the estimation of the metzians. humanely taking the part of a young girl who was accused of witchcraft, his enemies asserted, that he was himself a sorcerer, and raised such a storm over his head, that he was forced to fly the city. after this, he became physician to louisa de savoy, mother of king francis i. this lady was curious to know the future, and required her physician to cast her nativity. agrippa replied, that he would not encourage such idle curiosity. the result was, he lost her confidence, and was forthwith dismissed. if it had been through his belief in the worthlessness of astrology, that he had made his answer, we might admire his honest and fearless independence; but, when it is known that, at the very same time, he was in the constant habit of divination and fortunetelling; and that he was predicting splendid success, in all his undertakings, to the constable of bourbon, we can only wonder at his thus estranging a powerful friend through mere petulance and perversity. he was, about this time, invited both by henry viii. of england, and margaret of austria, governess of the low countries, to fix his residence in their dominions. he chose the service of the latter, by whose influence he was made historiographer to the emperor charles v. unfortunately for agrippa, he never had stability enough to remain long in one position, and offended his patrons by his restlessness and presumption. after the death of margaret, he was imprisoned at brussels, on a charge of sorcery. he was released after a year; and, quitting the country, experienced many vicissitudes. he died in great poverty in , aged forty-eight years. while in the service of margaret of austria, he resided principally at louvain, in which city he wrote his famous work on the vanity and nothingness of human knowledge. he also wrote, to please his royal mistress, a treatise upon the superiority of the female sex, which he dedicated to her, in token of his gratitude for the favours she had heaped upon him. the reputation he left behind him in these provinces was anything but favourable. a great number of the marvellous tales that are told of him, relate to this period of his life. it was said, that the gold which he paid to the traders with whom he dealt, always looked remarkably bright, but invariably turned into pieces of slate and stone in the course of four-and-twenty hours. of this spurious gold he was believed to have made large quantities by the aid of the devil, who, it would appear from this, had but a very superficial knowledge of alchymy, and much less than the marechal de rays gave him credit for. the jesuit delrio, in his book on magic and sorcery, relates a still more extraordinary story of him. one day, agrippa left his house, at louvain; and, intending to be absent for some time, gave the key of his study to his wife, with strict orders that no one should enter it during his absence. the lady herself, strange as it may appear, had no curiosity to pry into her husband's secrets, and never once thought of entering the forbidden room: but a young student, who had been accommodated with an attic in the philosopher's house, burned with a fierce desire to examine the study; hoping, perchance, that he might purloin some book or implement which would instruct him in the art of transmuting metals. the youth, being handsome, eloquent, and, above all, highly complimentary to the charms of the lady, she was persuaded, without much difficulty, to lend him the key, but gave him strict orders not to remove anything. the student promised implicit obedience, and entered agrippa's study. the first object that caught his attention, was a large grimoire, or book of spells, which lay open on the philosopher's desk. he sat himself down immediately, and began to read. at the first word he uttered, he fancied he heard a knock at the door. he listened; but all was silent. thinking that his imagination had deceived him, he read on, when immediately a louder knock was heard, which so terrified him, that he started to his feet. he tried to say, "come in;" but his tongue refused its office, and he could not articulate a sound. he fixed his eyes upon the door, which, slowly opening, disclosed a stranger of majestic form, but scowling features, who demanded sternly, why he was summoned? "i did not summon you," said the trembling student. "you did!" said the stranger, advancing, angrily; "and the demons are not to be invoked in vain." the student could make no reply; and the demon, enraged that one of the uninitiated should have summoned him out of mere presumption, seized him by the throat and strangled him. when agrippa returned, a few days afterwards, he found his house beset with devils. some of them were sitting on the chimneypots, kicking up their legs in the air; while others were playing at leapfrog, on the very edge of the parapet. his study was so filled with them that he found it difficult to make his way to his desk. when, at last, he had elbowed his way through them, he found his book open, and the student lying dead upon the floor. he saw immediately how the mischief had been done; and, dismissing all the inferior imps, asked the principal demon how he could have been so rash as to kill the young man. the demon replied, that he had been needlessly invoked by an insulting youth, and could do no less than kill him for his presumption. agrippa reprimanded him severely, and ordered him immediately to reanimate the dead body, and walk about with it in the market-place for the whole of the afternoon. the demon did so: the student revived; and, putting his arm through that of his unearthly murderer, walked very lovingly with him, in sight of all the people. at sunset, the body fell down again, cold and lifeless as before, and was carried by the crowd to the hospital, it being the general opinion that he had expired in a fit of apoplexy. his conductor immediately disappeared. when the body was examined, marks of strangulation were found on the neck, and prints of the long claws of the demon on various parts of it. these appearances, together with a story, which soon obtained currency, that the companion of the young man had vanished in a cloud of flame and smoke, opened people's eyes to the truth. the magistrates of louvain instituted inquiries; and the result was, that agrippa was obliged to quit the town. other authors besides delrio relate similar stories of this philosopher. the world in those days was always willing enough to believe in tales of magic and sorcery; and when, as in agrippa's case, the alleged magician gave himself out for such, and claimed credit for the wonders he worked, it is not surprising that the age should have allowed his pretensions. it was dangerous boasting, which sometimes led to the stake or the gallows, and therefore was thought to be not without foundation. paulus jovius, in his "eulogia doctorum virorum," says, that the devil, in the shape of a large black dog, attended agrippa wherever he went. thomas nash, in his adventures of jack wilton, relates, that at the request of lord surrey, erasmus, and some other learned men, agrippa called up from the grave many of the great philosophers of antiquity; among others, tully, whom he caused to re-deliver his celebrated oration for roscius. he also showed lord surrey, when in germany, an exact resemblance in a glass of his mistress the fair geraldine. she was represented on her couch weeping for the absence of her lover. lord surrey made a note of the exact time at which he saw this vision, and ascertained afterwards that his mistress was actually so employed at the very minute. to thomas lord cromwell, agrippa represented king henry viii. hunting in windsor park, with the principal lords of his court; and to please the emperor charles v. he summoned king david and king solomon from the tomb. naude, in his "apology for the great men who have been falsely suspected of magic," takes a great deal of pains to clear agrippa from the imputations cast upon him by delrio, paulus jovius, and other such ignorant and prejudiced scribblers. such stories demanded refutation in the days of naude, but they may now be safely left to decay in their own absurdity. that they should have attached, however, to the memory of a man, who claimed the power of making iron obey him when he told it to become gold, and who wrote such a work as that upon magic, which goes by his name, is not at all surprising. paracelsus. this philosopher, called by naude, "the zenith and rising sun of all the alchymists," was born at einsiedeln, near zurich, in the year . his true name was hohenheim; to which, as he himself informs us, were prefixed the baptismal names of aureolus theophrastus bombastes paracelsus. the last of these he chose for his common designation while he was yet a boy; and rendered it, before he died, one of the most famous in the annals of his time. his father, who was a physician, educated his son for the same pursuit. the latter was an apt scholar, and made great progress. by chance the work of isaac hollandus fell into his hands, and from that time he became smitten with the mania of the philosopher's stone. all his thoughts henceforth were devoted to metallurgy; and he travelled into sweden that he might visit the mines of that country, and examine the ores while they yet lay in the bowels of the earth. he also visited trithemius at the monastery of spannheim, and obtained instructions from him in the science of alchymy. continuing his travels, he proceeded through prussia and austria into turkey, egypt, and tatary, and thence returning to constantinople, learned, as he boasted, the art of transmutation, and became possessed of the elixir vitae. he then established himself as a physician in his native switzerland at zurich, and commenced writing works upon alchymy and medicine, which immediately fixed the attention of europe. their great obscurity was no impediment to their fame; for the less the author was understood, the more the demonologists, fanatics, and philosopher's-stone-hunters seemed to appreciate him. his fame as a physician kept pace with that which he enjoyed as an alchymist, owing to his having effected some happy cures by means of mercury and opium; drugs unceremoniously condemned by his professional brethren. in the year , he was chosen professor of physics and natural philosophy in the university of basle, where his lectures attracted vast numbers of students. he denounced the writings of all former physicians as tending to mislead; and publicly burned the works of galen and avicenna, as quacks and impostors. he exclaimed, in presence of the admiring and half-bewildered crowd, who assembled to witness the ceremony, that there was more knowledge in his shoestrings than in the writings of these physicians. continuing in the same strain, he said all the universities in the world were full of ignorant quacks; but that he, paracelsus, over flowed with wisdom. "you will all follow my new system," said he, with furious gesticulations, "avicenna, galen, rhazis, montagnana, meme--you will all follow me, ye professors of paris, montpellier, germany, cologne, and vienna! and all ye that dwell on the rhine and the danube--ye that inhabit the isles of the sea; and ye also, italians, dalmatians, athenians, arabians, jews--ye will all follow my doctrines, for i am the monarch of medicine!" but he did not long enjoy the esteem of the good citizens of basle. it is said that he indulged in wine so freely, as not unfrequently to be seen in the streets in a state of intoxication. this was ruinous for a physician, and his good fame decreased rapidly. his ill fame increased in still greater proportion, especially when he assumed the airs of a sorcerer. he boasted of the legions of spirits at his command; and of one especially, which he kept imprisoned in the hilt of his sword. wetterus, who lived twenty-seven months in his service, relates that he often threatened to invoke a whole army of demons, and show him the great authority which he could exercise over them. he let it be believed, that the spirit in his sword had custody of the elixir of life, by means of which he could make any one live to be as old as the antediluvians. he also boasted that he had a spirit at his command, called "azoth," whom he kept imprisoned in a jewel; and in many of the old portraits he is represented with a jewel, inscribed with the word "azoth," in his hand. if a sober prophet has little honour in his own country, a drunken one has still less. paracelsus found it at last convenient to quit basle, and establish himself at strasbourg. the immediate cause of this change of residence was as follows:--a citizen lay at the point of death, and was given over by all the physicians of the town. as a last resource paracelsus was called in, to whom the sick man promised a magnificent recompence, if by his means he were cured. paracelsus gave him two small pills, which the man took and rapidly recovered. when he was quite well, paracelsus sent for his fee; but the citizen had no great opinion of the value of a cure which had been so speedily effected. he had no notion of paying a handful of gold for two pills, although they had saved his life, and he refused to pay more than the usual fee for a single visit. paracelsus brought an action against him, and lost it. this result so exasperated him, that he left basle in high dudgeon. he resumed his wandering life, and travelled in germany and hungary, supporting himself as he went on the credulity and infatuation of all classes of society. he cast nativities--told fortunes--aided those who had money to throw away upon the experiment, to find the philosopher's stone--prescribed remedies for cows and pigs, and aided in the recovery of stolen goods. after residing successively at nuremburg, augsburg, vienna, and mindelheim, he retired in the year to saltzbourg, and died in a state of abject poverty in the hospital of that town. if this strange charlatan found hundreds of admirers during his life, he found thousands after his death. a sect of paracelsists sprang up in france and germany, to perpetuate the extravagant doctrines of their founder upon all the sciences, and upon alchymy in particular. the chief leaders were bodenstein and dorneus. the following is a summary of his doctrine, founded upon supposed existence of the philosopher's stone; it is worth preserving from its very absurdity, and altogether unparalleled in the history of philosophy:-- first of all, he maintained that the contemplation of the perfection of the deity sufficed to procure all wisdom and knowledge; that the bible was the key to the theory of all diseases, and that it was necessary to search into the apocalypse to know the signification of magic medicine. the man who blindly obeyed the will of god, and who succeeded in identifying himself with the celestial intelligences, possessed the philosopher's stone--he could cure all diseases, and prolong life to as many centuries as he pleased; it being by the very same means that adam and the antediluvian patriarchs prolonged theirs. life was an emanation from the stars--the sun governed the heart, and the moon the brain. jupiter governed the liver, saturn the gall, mercury the lungs, mars the bile, and venus the loins. in the stomach of every human being there dwelt a demon, or intelligence, that was a sort of alchymist in his way, and mixed, in their due proportions, in his crucible, the various aliments that were sent into that grand laboratory the belly.[see the article "paracelsus," by the learned renaudin, in the "biographie universelle."] he was proud of the title of magician, and boasted that he kept up a regular correspondence with galen from hell; and that he often summoned avicenna from the same regions to dispute with him on the false notions he had promulgated respecting alchymy, and especially regarding potable gold and the elixir of life. he imagined that gold could cure ossification of the heart, and, in fact, all diseases, if it were gold which had been transmuted from an inferior metal by means of the philosopher's stone, and if it were applied under certain conjunctions of the planets. the mere list of the works in which he advances these frantic imaginings, which he called a doctrine, would occupy several pages. george agricola. this alchymist was born in the province of misnia, in . his real name was bauer, meaning a husbandman, which, in accordance with the common fashion of his age, he latinized into agricola. from his early youth, he delighted in the visions of the hermetic science. ere he was sixteen, he longed for the great elixir which was to make him live for seven hundred years, and for the stone which was to procure him wealth to cheer him in his multiplicity of days. he published a small treatise upon the subject at cologne, in , which obtained him the patronage of the celebrated maurice, duke of saxony. after practising for some years as a physician at joachimsthal, in bohemia, he was employed by maurice as superintendent of the silver mines of chemnitz. he led a happy life among the miners, making various experiments in alchymy while deep in the bowels of the earth. he acquired a great knowledge of metals, and gradually got rid of his extravagant notions about the philosopher's stone. the miners had no faith in alchymy; and they converted him to their way of thinking, not only in that but in other respects. from their legends, he became firmly convinced that the bowels of the earth were inhabited by good and evil spirits, and that firedamp and other explosions sprang from no other causes than the mischievous propensities of the latter. he died in the year , leaving behind him the reputation of a very able and intelligent man. denis zachaire. autobiography, written by a wise man who was once a fool, is not only the most instructive, but the most delightful of reading. denis zachaire, an alchymist of the sixteenth century, has performed this task, and left a record of his folly and infatuation in pursuit of the philosopher's stone, which well repays perusal. he was born in the year , of an ancient family in guienne, and was early sent to the university of bordeaux, under the care of a tutor to direct his studies. unfortunately, his tutor was a searcher for the grand elixir, and soon rendered his pupil as mad as himself upon the subject. with this introduction, we will allow denis zachaire to speak for himself, and continue his narrative in his own words:-- "i received from home," says he, "the sum of two hundred crowns for the expenses of myself and master; but before the end of the year, all our money went away in the smoke of our furnaces. my master, at the same time, died of a fever, brought on by the parching heat of our laboratory, from which he seldom or never stirred, and which was scarcely less hot than the arsenal of venice. his death was the more unfortunate for me, as my parents took the opportunity of reducing my allowance, and sending me only sufficient for my board and lodging, instead of the sum i required to continue my operations in alchymy. "to meet this difficulty and get out of leading-strings, i returned home at the age of twenty-five, and mortgaged part of my property for four hundred crowns. this sum was necessary to perform an operation of the science, which had been communicated to me by an italian at toulouse, and who, as he said, had proved its efficacy. i retained this man in my service, that we might see the end of the experiment. i then, by means of strong distillations, tried to calcinate gold and silver; but all my labour was in vain. the weight of the gold i drew out of my furnace was diminished by one-half since i put it in, and my four hundred crowns were very soon reduced to two hundred and thirty. i gave twenty of these to my italian, in order that he might travel to milan, where the author of the receipt resided, and ask him the explanation of some passages which we thought obscure. i remained at toulouse all the winter, in the hope of his return; but i might have remained there till this day if i had waited for him, for i never saw his face again. "in the succeeding summer there was a great plague, which forced me to quit the town. i did not, however, lose sight of my work. i went to cahors, where i remained six months, and made the acquaintance of an old man, who was commonly known to the people as 'the philosopher;' a name which, in country places, is often bestowed upon people whose only merit is, that they are less ignorant than their neighbours. i showed him my collection of alchymical receipts, and asked his opinion upon them. he picked out ten or twelve of them, merely saying that they were better than the others. when the plague ceased, i returned to toulouse, and recommenced my experiments in search of the stone. i worked to such effect that my four hundred crowns were reduced to one hundred and seventy. "that i might continue my work on a safer method, i made acquaintance, in , with a certain abbe, who resided in the neighbourhood. he was smitten with the same mania as myself, and told me that one of his friends, who had followed to rome in the retinue of the cardinal d'armagnac, had sent him from that city a new receipt, which could not fail to transmute iron and copper, but which would cost two hundred crowns. i provided half this money, and the abbe the rest; and we began to operate at our joint expense. as we required spirits of wine for our experiment, i bought a tun of excellent vin de gaillac. i extracted the spirit, and rectified it several times. we took a quantity of this, into which we put four marks of silver, and one of gold, that had been undergoing the process of calcination for a month. we put this mixture cleverly into a sort of horn-shaped vessel, with another to serve as a retort; and placed the whole apparatus upon our furnace, to produce congelation. this experiment lasted a year; but, not to remain idle, we amused ourselves with many other less important operations. we drew quite as much profit from these as from our great work. "the whole of the year passed over without producing any change whatever: in fact, we might have waited till doomsday for the congelation of our spirits of wine. however, we made a projection with it upon some heated quicksilver; but all was in vain. judge of our chagrin, especially of that of the abbe, who had already boasted to all the monks of his monastery, that they had only to bring the large pump which stood in a corner of the cloister, and he would convert it into gold; but this ill luck did not prevent us from persevering. i once more mortgaged my paternal lands for four hundred crowns, the whole of which i determined to devote to a renewal of my search for the great secret. the abbe contributed the same sum; and, with these eight hundred crowns, i proceeded to paris, a city more abounding with alchymists than any other in the world, resolved never to leave it until i had either found the philosopher's stone, or spent all my money. this journey gave the greatest offence to all my relations and friends, who, imagining that i was fitted to be a great lawyer, were anxious that i should establish myself in that profession. for the sake of quietness, i pretended, at last, that such was my object. "after travelling for fifteen days, i arrived in paris, on the th of january . i remained for a month, almost unknown; but i had no sooner begun to frequent the amateurs of the science, and visited the shops of the furnace-makers, than i had the acquaintance of more than a hundred operative alchymists, each of whom had a different theory and a different mode of working. some of them preferred cementation; others sought the universal alkahest, or dissolvent; and some of them boasted the great efficacy of the essence of emery. some of them endeavoured to extract mercury from other metals to fix it afterwards; and, in order that each of us should be thoroughly acquainted with the proceedings of the others, we agreed to meet somewhere every night, and report progress. we met sometimes at the house of one, and sometimes in the garret of another; not only on week days, but on sundays, and the great festivals of the church. 'ah!' one used to say, 'if i had the means of recommencing this experiment, i should do something.' 'yes,' said another, 'if my crucible had not cracked, i should have succeeded before now:' while a third exclaimed, with a sigh, 'if i had but had a round copper vessel of sufficient strength, i would have fixed mercury with silver.' there was not one among them who had not some excuse for his failure; but i was deaf to all their speeches. i did not want to part with my money to any of them, remembering how often i had been the dupe of such promises. "a greek at last presented himself; and with him i worked a long time uselessly upon nails, made of cinabar, or vermilion. i was also acquainted with a foreign gentleman newly arrived in paris, and often accompanied him to the shops of the goldsmiths, to sell pieces of gold and silver, the produce, as he said, of his experiments. i stuck closely to him for a long time, in the hope that he would impart his secret. he refused for a long time, but acceded, at last, on my earnest entreaty, and i found that it was nothing more than an ingenious trick. i did not fail to inform my friend, the abbe, whom i had left at toulouse, of all my adventures; and sent him, among other matters, a relation of the trick by which this gentleman pretended to turn lead into gold. the abbe still imagined that i should succeed at last, and advised me to remain another year in paris, where i had made so good a beginning. i remained there three years; but, notwithstanding all my efforts, i had no more success than i had had elsewhere. "i had just got to the end of my money, when i received a letter from the abbe, telling me to leave everything, and join him immediately at toulouse. i went accordingly, and found that he had received letters from the king of navarre (grandfather of henry iv). this prince was a great lover of philosophy, full of curiosity, and had written to the abbe, that i should visit him at pau; and that he would give me three or four thousand crowns, if i would communicate the secret i had learned from the foreign gentleman. the abbe's ears were so tickled with the four thousand crowns, that he let me have no peace, night or day, until he had fairly seen me on the road to pau. i arrived at that place in the month of may . i worked away, and succeeded, according to the receipt i had obtained. when i had finished, to the satisfaction of the king, he gave me the reward that i expected. although he was willing enough to do me further service, he was dissuaded from it by the lords of his court; even by many of those who had been most anxious that i should come. he sent me then about my business, with many thanks; saying, that if there was anything in his kingdom which he could give me--such as the produce of confiscations, or the like--he should be most happy. i thought i might stay long enough for these prospective confiscations, and never get them at last; and i therefore determined to go back to my friend, the abbe. "i learned, that on the road between pau and toulouse, there resided a monk, who was very skilful in all matters of natural philosophy. on my return, i paid him a visit. he pitied me very much, and advised me, with much warmth and kindness of expression, not to amuse myself any longer with such experiments as these, which were all false and sophistical; but that i should read the good books of the old philosophers, where i might not only find the true matter of the science of alchymy, but learn also the exact order of operations which ought to be followed. i very much approved of this wise advice; but, before i acted upon it, i went back to my abbe, of toulouse, to give him an account of the eight hundred crowns, which we had had in common; and, at the same time, share with him such reward as i had received from the king of navarre. if he was little satisfied with the relation of my adventures since our first separation, he appeared still less satisfied when i told him i had formed a resolution to renounce the search for the philosopher's stone. the reason was, that he thought me a good artist. of our eight hundred crowns, there remained but one hundred and seventy-six. when i quitted the abbe, i went to my own house, with the intention of remaining there, till i had read all the old philosophers, and of then proceeding to paris. "i arrived in paris on the day after all saints, of the year , and devoted another year to the assiduous study of great authors. among others, the 'turba philosophorum' of the 'good trevisan,' 'the remonstance of nature to the wandering alchymist,' by jean de meung; and several others of the best books: but, as i had no right' principles, i did not well know what course to follow. "at last i left my solitude; not to see my former acquaintances, the adepts and operators, but to frequent the society of true philosophers. among them i fell into still greater uncertainties; being, in fact, completely bewildered by the variety of operations which they showed me. spurred on, nevertheless, by a sort of frenzy or inspiration, i threw myself into the works of raymond lulli and of arnold de villeneuve. the reading of these, and the reflections i made upon them, occupied me for another year, when i finally determined on the course i should adopt. i was obliged to wait, however, until i had mortgaged another very considerable portion of my patrimony. this business was not settled until the beginning of lent, , when i commenced my operations. i laid in a stock of all that was necessary, and began to work the day after easter. it was not, however, without some disquietude and opposition from my friends who came about me; one asking me what i was going to do, and whether i had not already spent money enough upon such follies. another assured me that, if i bought so much charcoal, i should strengthen the suspicion already existing, that i was a coiner of base money. another advised me to purchase some place in the magistracy, as i was already a doctor of laws. my relations spoke in terms still more annoying to me, and even threatened that, if i continued to make such a fool of myself, they would send a posse of police-officers into my house, and break all my furnaces and crucibles into atoms. i was wearied almost to death by this continued persecution; but i found comfort in my work and in the progress of my experiment, to which i was very attentive, and which went on bravely from day to day. about this time, there was a dreadful plague in paris, which interrupted all intercourse between man and man, and left me as much to myself as i could desire. i soon had the satisfaction to remark the progress and succession of the three colours which, according to the philosophers, always prognosticate the approaching perfection of the work. i observed them distinctly, one after the other; and next year, being easter sunday, , i made the great trial. some common quicksilver, which i put into a small crucible on the fire, was, in less than an hour, converted into very good gold. you may judge how great was my joy, but i took care not to boast of it. i returned thanks to god for the favour he had shown me, and prayed that i might only be permitted to make such use of it as would redound to his glory. "on the following day, i went towards toulouse to find the abbe, in accordance with a mutual promise that we should communicate our discoveries to each other. on my way, i called in to see the sage monk who had assisted me with his counsels; but i had the sorrow to learn that they were both dead. after this, i would not return to my own home, but retired to another place, to await one of my relations whom i had left in charge of my estate. i gave him orders to sell all that belonged to me, as well movable as immovable--to pay my debts with the proceeds, and divide all the rest among those in any way related to me who might stand in need of it, in order that they might enjoy some share of the good fortune which had befallen me. there was a great deal of talk in the neighbourhood about my precipitate retreat; the wisest of my acquaintance imagining that, broken down and ruined by my mad expenses, i sold my little remaining property that i might go and hide my shame in distant countries. "my relative already spoken of rejoined me on the st of july, after having performed all the business i had intrusted him with. we took our departure together, to seek a land of liberty. we first retired to lausanne, in switzerland, when, after remaining there for some time, we resolved to pass the remainder of our days in some of the most celebrated cities of germany, living quietly and without splendour." thus ends the story of denis zachaire, as written by himself. he has not been so candid at its conclusion as at its commencement, and has left the world in doubt as to his real motives for pretending that he had discovered the philosopher's stone. it seems probable that the sentence he puts into the months of his wisest acquaintances was the true reason of his retreat; that he was, in fact, reduced to poverty, and hid his shame in foreign countries. nothing further is known of his life, and his real name has never yet been discovered. he wrote a work on alchymy, entitled "the true natural philosophy of metals." dr. dee and edward kelly. john dee and edward kelly claim to be mentioned together, having been so long associated in the same pursuits, and undergone so many strange vicissitudes in each other's society. dee was altogether a wonderful man, and had he lived in an age when folly and superstition were less rife, he would, with the same powers which he enjoyed, have left behind him a bright and enduring reputation. he was born in london, in the year , and very early manifested a love for study. at the age of fifteen he was sent to cambridge, and delighted so much in his books, that he passed regularly eighteen hours every day among them. of the other six, he devoted four to sleep and two for refreshment. such intense application did not injure his health, and could not fail to make him one of the first scholars of his time. unfortunately, however, he quitted the mathematics and the pursuits of true philosophy to indulge in the unprofitable reveries of the occult sciences. he studied alchymy, astrology, and magic, and thereby rendered himself obnoxious to the authorities at cambridge. to avoid persecution, he was at last obliged to retire to the university of louvain; the rumours of sorcery that were current respecting him rendering his longer stay in england not altogether without danger. he found at louvain many kindred spirits who had known cornelius agrippa while he resided among them, and by whom he was constantly entertained with the wondrous deeds of that great master of the hermetic mysteries. from their conversation he received much encouragement to continue the search for the philosopher's stone, which soon began to occupy nearly all his thoughts. he did not long remain on the continent, but returned to england in , being at that time in the twenty-fourth year of his age. by the influence of his friend, sir john cheek, he was kindly received at the court of king edward vi, and rewarded (it is difficult to say for what) with a pension of one hundred crowns. he continued for several years to practise in london as an astrologer; casting nativities, telling fortunes, and pointing out lucky and unlucky days. during the reign of queen mary he got into trouble, being suspected of heresy, and charged with attempting mary's life by means of enchantments. he was tried for the latter offence, and acquitted; but was retained in prison on the former charge, and left to the tender mercies of bishop bonner. he had a very narrow escape from being burned in smithfield, but he, somehow or other, contrived to persuade that fierce bigot that his orthodoxy was unimpeachable, and was set at liberty in . on the accession of elizabeth, a brighter day dawned upon him. during her retirement at woodstock, her servants appear to have consulted him as to the time of mary's death, which circumstance, no doubt, first gave rise to the serious charge for which he was brought to trial. they now came to consult him more openly as to the fortunes of their mistress; and robert dudley, the celebrated earl of leicester, was sent by command of the queen herself to know the most auspicious day for her coronation. so great was the favour he enjoyed that, some years afterwards, elizabeth condescended to pay him a visit at his house in mortlake, to view his museum of curiosities, and, when he was ill, sent her own physician to attend upon him. astrology was the means whereby he lived, and he continued to practise it with great assiduity; but his heart was in alchymy. the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life haunted his daily thoughts and his nightly dreams. the talmudic mysteries, which he had also deeply studied, impressed him with the belief, that he might hold converse with spirits and angels, and learn from them all the mysteries of the universe. holding the same idea as the then obscure sect of the rosicrucians, some of whom he had perhaps encountered in his travels in germany, he imagined that, by means of the philosopher's stone, he could summon these kindly spirits at his will. by dint of continually brooding upon the subject, his imagination became so diseased, that he at last persuaded himself that an angel appeared to him, and promised to be his friend and companion as long as he lived. he relates that, one day, in november , while he was engaged in fervent prayer, the window of his museum looking towards the west suddenly glowed with a dazzling light, in the midst of which, in all his glory, stood the great angel uriel. awe and wonder rendered him speechless; but the angel smiling graciously upon him, gave him a crystal, of a convex form, and told him that, whenever he wished to hold converse with the beings of another sphere, he had only to gaze intently upon it, and they would appear in the crystal and unveil to him all the secrets of futurity. [the "crystal" alluded to appears to have been a black stone, or piece of polished coal. the following account of it is given in the supplement to granger's "biographical history."--"the black stone into which dee used to call his spirits was in the collection of the earls of peterborough, from whence it came to lady elizabeth germaine. it was next the property of the late duke of argyle, and is now mr. walpole's. it appears upon examination to be nothing more than a polished piece of cannel coal; but this is what butler means when he says, 'kelly did all his feats upon the devil's looking-glass--a stone.'"] this saying, the angel disappeared. dee found from experience of the crystal that it was necessary that all the faculties of the soul should be concentrated upon it, otherwise the spirits did not appear. he also found that he could never recollect the conversations he had with the angels. he therefore determined to communicate the secret to another person, who might converse with the spirits while he (dee) sat in another part of the room, and took down in writing the revelations which they made. he had at this time in his service, as his assistant, one edward kelly, who, like himself, was crazy upon the subject of the philosopher's stone. there was this difference, however, between them, that, while dee was more of an enthusiast than an impostor, kelly was more of an impostor than an enthusiast. in early life he was a notary, and had the misfortune to lose both his ears for forgery. this mutilation, degrading enough in any man, was destructive to a philosopher; kelly, therefore, lest his wisdom should suffer in the world's opinion, wore a black skull-cap, which, fitting close to his head, and descending over both his cheeks, not only concealed his loss, but gave him a very solemn and oracular appearance. so well did he keep his secret, that even dee, with whom he lived so many years, appears never to have discovered it. kelly, with this character, was just the man to carry on any piece of roguery for his own advantage, or to nurture the delusions of his master for the same purpose. no sooner did dee inform him of the visit he had received from the glorious uriel, than kelly expressed such a fervour of belief that dee's heart glowed with delight. he set about consulting his crystal forthwith, and on the nd of december , the spirits appeared, and held a very extraordinary discourse with kelly, which dee took down in writing. the curious reader may see this farrago of nonsense among the harleian mss. in the british museum. the later consultations were published in a folio volume, in , by dr. meric casaubon, under the title of "a true and faithful relation of what passed between dr. john dee and some spirits; tending, had it succeeded, to a general alteration of most states and kingdoms in the world." [lilly, the astrologer, in his life written by himself, frequently tells of prophecies delivered by the angels in a manner similar to the angels of dr. dee. he says, "the prophecies were not given vocally by the angels, but by inspection of the crystal in types and figures, or by apparition the circular way; where, at some distance, the angels appear, representing by forms, shapes, and creatures what is demanded. it is very rare, yea, even in our days," quoth that wiseacre, "for any operator or master to hear the angels speak articulately: when they do speak, it is like the irish, much in the throat!"] the fame of these wondrous colloquies soon spread over the country, and even reached the continent. dee, at the same time, pretended to be in possession of the elixir vitae, which he stated he had found among the ruins of glastonbury abbey, in somersetshire. people flocked from far and near to his house at mortlake to have their nativities cast, in preference to visiting astrologers of less renown. they also longed to see a man who, according to his own account, would never die. altogether, he carried on a very profitable trade, but spent so much in drugs and metals to work out some peculiar process of transmutation, that he never became rich. about this time there came into england a wealthy polish nobleman, named albert laski, count palatine of siradz. his object was principally, he said, to visit the court of queen elizabeth, the fame of whose glory and magnificence had reached him in distant poland. elizabeth received this flattering stranger with the most splendid hospitality, and appointed her favourite leicester to show him all that was worth seeing in england. he visited all the curiosities of london and westminster, and from thence proceeded to oxford and cambridge, that he might converse with some of the great scholars whose writings shed lustre upon the land of their birth. he was very much disappointed at not finding dr. dee among them, and told the earl of leicester that he would not have gone to oxford if he had known that dee was not there. the earl promised to introduce him to the great alchymist on their return to london, and the pole was satisfied. a few days afterwards, the earl and laski being in the antechamber of the queen, awaiting an audience of her majesty, dr. dee arrived on the same errand, and was introduced to the pole. [albert laski, son of jaroslav, was palatine of siradz, and afterwards of sendomir, and chiefly contributed to the election of henry of valois, the third of france, to the throne of poland, and was one of the delegates who went to france in order to announce to the new monarch his elevation to the sovereignty of poland. after the deposition of henry, albert laski voted for maximilian of austria. in he visited england, when queen elizabeth received him with great distinction. the honours which were shown him during his visit to oxford, by the especial command of the queen, were equal to those rendered to sovereign princes. his extraordinary prodigality rendered his enormous wealth insufficient to defray his expenses, and he therefore became a zealous adept in alchymy, and took from england to poland with him two known alchymists.--count valerian krasinski's "historical sketch of the reformation in poland."] an interesting conversation ensued, which ended by the stranger inviting himself to dine with the astrologer at his house at mortlake. dee returned home in some tribulation, for he found he had not money enough, without pawning his plate, to entertain count laski and his retinue in a manner becoming their dignity. in this emergency he sent off an express to the earl of leicester, stating frankly the embarrassment he laboured under, and praying his good offices in representing the matter to her majesty. elizabeth immediately sent him a present of twenty pounds. on the appointed day, count laski came, attended by a numerous retinue, and expressed such open and warm admiration of the wonderful attainments of his host, that dee turned over, in his own mind, how he could bind irretrievably to his interests a man who seemed so well inclined to become his friend. long acquaintance with kelly had imbued him with all the roguery of that personage; and he resolved to make the pole pay dearly for his dinner. he found out, before many days, that he possessed great estates in his own country, as well as great influence; but that an extravagant disposition had reduced him to temporary embarrassment. he also discovered, that he was a firm believer in the philosopher's stone and the water of life. he was, therefore, just the man upon whom an adventurer might fasten himself. kelly thought so too; and both of them set to work, to weave a web, in the meshes of which they might firmly entangle the rich and credulous stranger. they went very cautiously about it; first throwing out obscure hints of the stone and the elixir; and, finally, of the spirits, by means of whom they could turn over the pages of the book of futurity, and read the awful secrets inscribed therein. laski eagerly implored that he might be admitted to one of their mysterious interviews with uriel and the angels; but they knew human nature too well to accede at once to the request. to the count's entreaties they only replied by hints of the difficulty or impropriety of summoning the spirits in the presence of a stranger; or of one who might, perchance, have no other motive than the gratification of a vain curiosity: but they only meant to whet the edge of his appetite by this delay, and would have been sorry indeed if the count had been discouraged. to show how exclusively the thoughts both of dee and kelly were fixed upon their dupe, at this time, it is only necessary to read the introduction to their first interview with the spirits, related in the volume of dr. casaubon. the entry made by dee, under the date of the th of may , says, that when the spirit appeared to them, "i, [john dee], and e. k. [edward kelly], sat together, conversing of that noble polonian albertus laski, his great honour here with us obtained, and of his great liking among all sorts of the people." no doubt they were discussing how they might make the most of the "noble polonian," and concocting the fine story with which they afterwards excited his curiosity, and drew him firmly within their toils. "suddenly," says dee, as they were thus employed, "there seemed to come out of the oratory, a spiritual creature, like a pretty girl, of seven or nine years of age, attired on her head, with her hair rolled up before, and hanging down behind; with a gown of silk, of changeable red and green, and with a train. she seemed to play up and down, and seemed to go in and out behind the books; and, as she seemed to go between them, the books displaced themselves, and made way for her." with such tales as these they lured on the pole from day to day; and at last persuaded him to be a witness of their mysteries. whether they played off any optical delusions upon him; or whether, by the force of a strong imagination, he deluded himself, does not appear; but certain it is, that he became a complete tool in their hands, and consented to do whatever they wished him. kelly, at these interviews, placed himself at a certain distance from the wondrous crystal, and gazed intently upon it; while dee took his place in corner, ready to set down the prophecies as they were uttered by the spirits. in this manner they prophesied to the pole, that he should become the fortunate possessor of the philosopher's stone; that he should live for centuries, and be chosen king of poland; in which capacity he should gain many great victories over the saracens, and make his name illustrious over all the earth. for this pose it was necessary, however, that laski should leave england, and take them with him, together with their wives and families; that he should treat them all sumptuously, and allow them to want for nothing. laski at once consented; and very shortly afterwards they were all on the road to poland. it took them upwards of four months to reach the count's estates, in the neighbourhood of cracow. in the mean time, they led a pleasant life, and spent money with an unsparing hand. when once established in the count's palace, they commenced the great hermetic operation of transmuting iron into gold. laski provided them with all necessary materials, and aided them himself with his knowledge of alchymy: but, somehow or other, the experiment always failed at the very moment that it ought to have succeeded; and they were obliged to recommence operations on a grander scale. but the hopes of laski were not easily extinguished. already, in idea, the possessor of countless millions, he was not to be cast down for fear of present expenses. he thus continued from day to day, and from month to month, till he was, at last, obliged to sell a portion of his deeply-mortgaged estates, to find aliment for the hungry crucibles of dee and kelly, and the no less hungry stomachs of their wives and families. it was not till ruin stared him in the face, that he awoke from his dream of infatuation--too happy, even then, to find that he had escaped utter beggary. thus restored to his senses, his first thought was how to rid himself of his expensive visiters. not wishing to quarrel with them, he proposed that they should proceed to prague, well furnished with letters of recommendation to the emperor rudolph. our alchymists too plainly saw that nothing more was to be made of the almost destitute count laski. without hesitation, therefore, they accepted the proposal, and set out forthwith to the imperial residence. they had no difficulty, on their arrival at prague, in obtaining an audience of the emperor. they found him willing enough to believe that such a thing as the philosopher's stone existed, and flattered themselves that they had made a favourable impression upon him; but, from some cause or other--perhaps the look of low cunning and quackery upon the face of kelly--the emperor conceived no very high opinion of their abilities. he allowed them, however, to remain for some months at prague, feeding themselves upon the hope that he would employ them: but the more he saw of them, the less he liked them; and, when the pope's nuncio represented to him, that he ought not to countenance such heretic magicians, he gave orders that they should quit his dominions within four-and-twenty hours. it was fortunate for them that so little time was given them; for, had they remained six hours longer, the nuncio had received orders to procure a perpetual dungeon, or the stake, for them. not knowing well where to direct their steps, they resolved to return to cracow, where they had still a few friends; but, by this time, the funds they had drawn from laski were almost exhausted; and they were many days obliged to go dinnerless and supperless. they had great difficulty to keep their poverty a secret from the world; but they managed to bear privation without murmuring, from a conviction that if the fact were known, it would militate very much against their pretensions. nobody would believe that they were possessors of the philosopher's stone, if it were once suspected that they did not know how to procure bread for their subsistence. they still gained a little by casting nativities, and kept starvation at arm's length, till a new dupe, rich enough for their purposes, dropped into their toils, in the shape of a royal personage. having procured an introduction to stephen, king of poland, they predicted to him, that the emperor rudolph would shortly be assassinated, and that the germans would look to poland for his successor. as this prediction was not precise enough to satisfy the king, they tried their crystal again; and a spirit appeared, who told them that the new sovereign of germany would be stephen of poland. stephen was credulous enough to believe them, and was once present when kelly held his mystic conversations with the shadows of his crystal. he also appears to have furnished them with money to carry on their experiments in alchymy: but he grew tired, at last, of their broken promises, and their constant drains upon his pocket; and was on the point of discarding them with disgrace, when they met with another dupe, to whom they eagerly transferred their services. this was count rosenberg, a nobleman of large estates, at trebona, in bohemia. so comfortable did they find themselves in the palace of this munificent patron, that they remained nearly four years with him, faring sumptuously, and having an almost unlimited command of his money. the count was more ambitious than avaricious: he had wealth enough, and did not care for the philosopher's stone on account of the gold, but of the length of days it would bring him. they had their predictions, accordingly, all ready framed to suit his character. they prophesied that he should be chosen king of poland; and promised, moreover, that he should live for five hundred years to enjoy his dignity; provided always, that he found them sufficient money to carry on their experiments. but now, while fortune smiled upon them; while they revelled in the rewards of successful villany, retributive justice came upon them in a shape they had not anticipated. jealousy and mistrust sprang up between the two confederates, and led to such violent and frequent quarrels, that dee was in constant fear of exposure. kelly imagined himself a much greater personage than dee; measuring, most likely, by the standard of impudent roguery; and was displeased that on all occasions, and from all persons, dee received the greater share of honour and consideration. he often threatened to leave dee to shift for himself; and the latter, who had degenerated into the mere tool of his more daring associate, was distressed beyond measure at the prospect of his desertion. his mind was so deeply imbued with superstition, that he believed the rhapsodies of kelly to be, in a great measure, derived from his intercourse with angels; and he knew not where, in the whole world, to look for a man of depth and wisdom enough to succeed him. as their quarrels every day became more and more frequent, dee wrote letters to queen elizabeth, to secure a favourable reception on his return to england; whither he intended to proceed, if kelly forsook him. he also sent her a round piece of silver, which he pretended he had made of a portion of brass cut out of a warming-pan. he afterwards sent her the warming-pan also, that she might convince herself that the piece of silver corresponded exactly with the hole which was cut into the brass. while thus preparing for the worst, his chief desire was to remain in bohemia with count rosenberg, who treated him well, and reposed much confidence in him. neither had kelly any great objection to remain; but a new passion had taken possession of his breast, and he was laying deep schemes to gratify it. his own wife was ill-favoured and ill-natured; dee's was comely and agreeable: and he longed to make an exchange of partners, without exciting the jealousy or shocking the morality of dee. this was a difficult matter; but, to a man like kelly, who was as deficient in rectitude and right feeling as he was full of impudence and ingenuity, the difficulty was not insurmountable. he had also deeply studied the character and the foibles of dee; and he took his measures accordingly. the next time they consulted the spirits, kelly pretended to be shocked at their language, and refused to tell dee what they had said. dee insisted, and was informed that they were henceforth to have their wives in common. dee, a little startled, inquired whether the spirits might not mean that they were to live in common harmony and good-will? kelly tried again, with apparent reluctance, and said the spirits insisted upon the literal interpretation. the poor fanatic, dee, resigned himself to their will; but it suited kelly's purpose to appear coy a little longer. he declared that the spirits must be spirits, not of good, but of evil; and refused to consult them any more. he thereupon took his departure, saying that he would never return. dee, thus left to himself, was in sore trouble and distress of mind. he knew not on whom to fix as the successor to kelly for consulting the spirits; but at last chose his son arthur, a boy of eight years of age. he consecrated him to this service with great ceremony, and impressed upon the child's mind the dignified and awful nature of the duties he was called upon to perform; but the poor boy had neither the imagination, the faith, nor the artifice of kelly. he looked intently upon the crystal, as he was told; but could see nothing and hear nothing. at last, when his eyes ached, he said he could see a vague indistinct shadow; but nothing more. dee was in despair. the deception had been carried on so long, that he was never so happy as when he fancied he was holding converse with superior beings; and he cursed the day that had put estrangement between him and his dear friend kelly. this was exactly what kelly had foreseen; and, when he thought the doctor had grieved sufficiently for his absence, he returned unexpectedly, and entered the room where the little arthur was in vain endeavouring to distinguish something in the crystal. dee, in entering this circumstance in his journal, ascribes this sudden return to a "miraculous fortune," and a "divine fate;" and goes on to record that kelly immediately saw the spirits, which had remained invisible to little arthur. one of these spirits reiterated the previous command, that they should have their wives in common. kelly bowed his head, and submitted; and dee, in all humility, consented to the arrangement. this was the extreme depth of the wretched man's degradation. in this manner they continued to live for three or four months, when, new quarrels breaking out, they separated once more. this time their separation was final. kelly, taking the elixir which he had found in glastonbury abbey, proceeded to prague, forgetful of the abrupt mode in which he had previously been expelled from that city. almost immediately after his arrival, he was seized by order of the emperor rudolph, and thrown into prison. he was released after some months' confinement, and continued for five years to lead a vagabond life in germany, telling fortunes at one place, and pretending to make gold at another. he was a second time thrown into prison, on a charge of heresy and sorcery; and he then resolved, if ever he obtained his liberty, to return to england. he soon discovered that there was no prospect of this, and that his imprisonment was likely to be for life. he twisted his bed-clothes into a rope, one stormy night in february , and let himself down from the window of his dungeon, situated at the top of a very high tower. being a corpulent man, the rope gave way, and he was precipitated to the ground. he broke two of his ribs, and both his legs; and was otherwise so much injured, that he expired a few days afterwards. dee, for a while, had more prosperous fortune. the warming-pan he had sent to queen elizabeth was not without effect. he was rewarded, soon after kelly had left him, with an invitation to return to england. his pride, which had been sorely humbled, sprang up again to its pristine dimensions; and he set out for bohemia with a train of attendants becoming an ambassador. how he procured the money does not appear, unless from the liberality of the rich bohemian rosenberg, or perhaps from his plunder. he travelled with three coaches for himself and family, and three waggons to carry his baggage. each coach had four horses, and the whole train was protected by a guard of four and twenty soldiers. this statement may be doubted; but it is on the authority of dee himself, who made it on oath before the commissioners appointed by elizabeth to inquire into his circumstances. on his arrival in england he had an audience of the queen, who received him kindly as far as words went, and gave orders that he should not be molested in his pursuits of chemistry and philosophy. a man who boasted of the power to turn baser metals into gold, could not, thought elizabeth, be in want of money; and she, therefore, gave him no more substantial marks of her approbation than her countenance and protection. thrown thus unexpectedly upon his own resources, dee began in earnest the search for the philosopher's stone. he worked incessantly among his furnaces, retorts, and crucibles, and almost poisoned himself with deleterious fumes. he also consulted his miraculous crystal; but the spirits appeared not to him. he tried one bartholomew to supply the place of the invaluable kelly; but he being a man of some little probity, and of no imagination at all, the spirits would not hold any communication with him. dee then tried another pretender to philosophy, of the name of hickman; but had no better fortune. the crystal had lost its power since the departure of its great high-priest. from this quarter then dee could get no information on the stone or elixir of the alchymists, and all his efforts to discover them by other means were not only fruitless but expensive. he was soon reduced to great distress, and wrote piteous letters to the queen, praying relief. he represented that, after he left england with count laski, the mob had pillaged his house at mortlake, accusing him of being a necromancer and a wizard; and had broken all his furniture, burned his library, consisting of four thousand rare volumes, and destroyed all the philosophical instruments and curiosities in his museum. for this damage he claimed compensation; and furthermore stated, that, as he had come to england by the queen's command, she ought to pay the expenses of his journey. elizabeth sent him small sums of money at various times; but, dee still continuing his complaints, a commission was appointed to inquire into his circumstances. he finally obtained a small appointment as chancellor of st. paul's cathedral, which he exchanged, in , for the wardenship of the college at manchester. he remained in this capacity till or , when, his strength and intellect beginning to fail him, he was compelled to resign. he retired to his old dwelling at mortlake, in a state not far removed from actual want, supporting himself as a common fortune-teller, and being often obliged to sell or pawn his books to procure a dinner. james i. was often applied to on his behalf, but he refused to do anything for him. it may be said to the discredit of this king, that the only reward he would grant the indefatigable stowe, in his days of old age and want, was the royal permission to beg; but no one will blame him for neglecting such a quack as john dee. he died in , in the eighty-first year of his age, and was buried at mortlake. the cosmopolite. many disputes have arisen as to the real name of the alchymist who wrote several works under the above designation. the general opinion is that he was a scotsman, named seton; and that by a fate very common to alchymists, who boasted too loudly of their powers of transmutation, he ended his days miserably in a dungeon, into which he was thrown by a german potentate until he made a million of gold to pay his ransom. by some he has been confounded with michael sendivog, or sendivogius, a pole, a professor of the same art, who made a great noise in europe at the commencement of the seventeenth century. lenglet du fresnoy, who is in general well-informed with respect to the alchymists, inclines to the belief that these personages were distinct; and gives the following particulars of the cosmopolite, extracted from george morhoff, in his "epistola ad langelottum," and other writers. about the year , one jacob haussen, a dutch pilot, was shipwrecked on the coast of scotland. a gentleman, named alexander seton, put off in a boat, and saved him from drowning, and afterwards entertained him hospitably for many weeks at his house on the shore. haussen saw that he was addicted to the pursuits of chemistry, but no conversation on the subject passed between them at the time. about a year and a half afterwards, haussen being then at home at enkhuysen, in holland, received a visit from his former host. he endeavoured to repay the kindness that had been shown him; and so great a friendship arose between them, that seton, on his departure, offered to make him acquainted with the great secret of the philosopher's stone. in his presence the scotsman transmuted a great quantity of base metal into pure gold, and gave it him as a mark of his esteem. seton then took leave of his friend, and travelled into germany. at dresden he made no secret of his wonderful powers; having, it is said, performed transmutation successfully before a great assemblage of the learned men of that city. the circumstance coming to the ears of the duke or elector of saxony, he gave orders for the arrest of the alchymist. he caused him to be imprisoned in a high tower, and set a guard of forty men to watch that he did not escape, and that no strangers were admitted to his presence. the unfortunate seton received several visits from the elector, who used every art of persuasion to make him divulge his secret. seton obstinately refused either to communicate his secret, or to make any gold for the tyrant; on which he was stretched upon the rack, to see if the argument of torture would render him more tractable. the result was still the same,--neither hope of reward nor fear of anguish could shake him. for several months he remained in prison, subjected alternately to a sedative and a violent regimen, till his health broke, and he wasted away almost to a skeleton. there happened at that time to be in dresden a learned pole, named michael sendivogius, who had wasted a good deal of his time and substance in the unprofitable pursuits of alchymy. he was touched with pity for the hard fate, and admiration for the intrepidity of seton; and determined, if possible, to aid him in escaping from the clutch of his oppressor. he requested the elector's permission to see the alchymist, and obtained it with some difficulty. he found him in a state of great wretchedness,--shut up from the light of day in a noisome dungeon, and with no better couch or fare than those allotted to the worst of criminals. seton listened eagerly to the proposal of escape, and promised the generous pole that he would make him richer than an eastern monarch if by his means he were liberated. sendivogius immediately commenced operations. he sold some property which he possessed near cracow, and with the proceeds led a merry life at dresden. he gave the most elegant suppers, to which he regularly invited the officers of the guard, and especially those who did duty at the prison of the alchymist. he insinuated himself at last into their confidence, and obtained free ingress to his friend as often as he pleased; pretending that he was using his utmost endeavours to conquer his obstinacy and worm his secret out of him. when their project was ripe, a day was fixed upon for the grand attempt; and sendivogius was ready with a postchariot to convey him with all speed into poland. by drugging some wine which he presented to the guards of the prison, he rendered them so drowsy that he easily found means to scale a wall unobserved, with seton, and effect his escape. seton's wife was in the chariot awaiting him, having safely in her possession a small packet of a black powder, which was, in fact, the philosopher's stone, or ingredient for the transmutation of iron and copper into gold. they all arrived in safety at cracow; but the frame of seton was so wasted by torture of body and starvation, to say nothing of the anguish of mind he had endured, that he did not long survive. he died in cracow in or , and was buried under the cathedral church of that city. such is the story related of the author of the various works which bear the name of the cosmopolite. a list of them may be found in the third volume of the "history of the hermetic philosophy." sendivogius. on the death of seton, sendivogius married his widow, hoping to learn from her some of the secrets of her deceased lord in the art of transmutation. the ounce of black powder stood him, however, in better service; for the alchymists say that, by its means, he converted great quantities of quicksilver into the purest gold. it is also said that he performed this experiment successfully before the emperor rudolph ii, at prague; and that the emperor, to commemorate the circumstance, caused a marble tablet to be affixed to the wall of the room in which it was performed, bearing this inscription, "faciat hoc quispiam alius, quod fecit sendivogius polonus." m. desnoyers, secretary to the princess mary of gonzaga, queen of poland, writing from warsaw in , says that he saw this tablet, which existed at that time, and was often visited by the curious. the after-life of sendivogius is related in a latin memoir of him by one brodowski, his steward; and is inserted by pierre borel in his "treasure of gaulish antiquities." the emperor rudolph, according to this authority, was so well pleased with his success, that he made him one of his counsellors of state, and invited him to fill a station in the royal household and inhabit the palace. but sendivogius loved his liberty, and refused to become a courtier. he preferred to reside on his own patrimonial estate of gravarna, where, for many years, he exercised a princely hospitality. his philosophic powder, which, his steward says, was red, and not black, he kept in a little box of gold; and with one grain of it he could make five hundred ducats, or a thousand rix-dollars. he generally made his projection upon quicksilver. when he travelled, he gave this box to his steward, who hung it round his neck by a gold chain next his skin. but the greatest part of the powder he used to hide in a secret place cut into the step of his chariot. he thought that, if attacked at any time by robbers, they would not search such a place as that. when he anticipated any danger, he would dress himself in his valet's clothes, and, mounting the coach-box, put the valet inside. he was induced to take these precautions, because it was no secret that he possessed the philosopher's stone; and many unprincipled adventurers were on the watch for an opportunity to plunder him. a german prince, whose name brodowski has not thought fit to chronicle, served him a scurvy trick, which ever afterwards put him on his guard. this prince went on his knees to sendivogius, and entreated him in the most pressing terms to satisfy his curiosity by converting some quicksilver into gold before him. sendivogius, wearied by his importunity, consented, upon a promise of inviolable secrecy. after his departure, the prince called a german alchymist, named muhlenfels, who resided in his house, and told him all that had been done. muhlenfels entreated that he might have a dozen mounted horsemen at his command, that he might instantly ride after the philosopher, and either rob him of all his powder or force from him the secret of making it. the prince desired nothing better; and muhlenfels, being provided with twelve men well mounted and armed, pursued sendivogius in hot haste. he came up with him at a lonely inn by the road-side, just as he was sitting down to dinner. he at first endeavoured to persuade him to divulge the secret; but, finding this of no avail, he caused his accomplices to strip the unfortunate sendivogius and tie him naked to one of the pillars of the house. he then took from him his golden box, containing a small quantity of the powder; a manuscript book on the philosopher's stone; a golden medal with its chain, presented to him by the emperor rudolph; and a rich cap ornamented with diamonds, of the value of one hundred thousand rix-dollars. with this booty he decamped, leaving sendivogius still naked and firmly bound to the pillar. his servants had been treated in a similar manner; but the people of the inn released them all as soon as the robbers were out of sight. sendivogius proceeded to prague, and made his complaint to the emperor. an express was instantly sent off to the prince, with orders that he should deliver up muhlenfels and all his plunder. the prince, fearful of the emperor's wrath, caused three large gallows to be erected in his court-yard; on the highest of which he hanged muhlenfels, with another thief on each side of him. he thus propitiated the emperor, and got rid of an ugly witness against himself. he sent back, at the same time, the bejewelled hat, the medal and chain, and the treatise upon the philosopher's stone, which had been stolen from sendivogius. as regarded the powder, he said he had not seen it, and knew nothing about it. this adventure made sendivogius more prudent; he would no longer perform the process of transmutation before any strangers, however highly recommended. he pretended, also, to be very poor; and sometimes lay in bed for weeks together, that people might believe he was suffering from some dangerous malady, and could not therefore by any possibility be the owner of the philosopher's stone. he would occasionally coin false money, and pass it off as gold; preferring to be esteemed a cheat rather than a successful alchymist. many other extraordinary tales are told of this personage by his steward brodowski, but they are not worth repeating. he died in , aged upwards of eighty, and was buried in his own chapel at gravarna. several works upon alchymy have been published under his name. the rosicrucians. it was during the time of the last-mentioned author that the sect of the rosicrucians first began to create a sensation in europe. the influence which they exercised upon opinion during their brief career, and the permanent impression which they have left upon european literature, claim for them especial notice. before their time, alchymy was but a grovelling delusion; and theirs is the merit of having spiritualised and refined it. they also enlarged its sphere, and supposed the possession of the philosopher's stone to be, not only the means of wealth, but of health and happiness; and the instrument by which man could command the services of superior beings, control the elements to his will, defy the obstructions of time and space, and acquire the most intimate knowledge of all the secrets of the universe. wild and visionary as they were, they were not without their uses; if it were only for having purged the superstitions of europe of the dark and disgusting forms with which the monks had peopled it, and substituted, in their stead, a race of mild, graceful, and beneficent beings. they are said to have derived their name from christian rosencreutz, or "rose-cross," a german philosopher, who travelled in the holy land towards the close of the fourteenth century. while dangerously ill at a place called damcar, he was visited by some learned arabs, who claimed him as their brother in science, and unfolded to him, by inspiration, all the secrets of his past life, both of thought and of action. they restored him to health by means of the philosopher's stone, and afterwards instructed him in all their mysteries. he returned to europe in , being then only twenty-three years of age; and drew a chosen number of his friends around him, whom he initiated into the new science, and bound by solemn oaths to keep it secret for a century. he is said to have lived eighty-three years after this period, and to have died in . many have denied the existence of such a personage as rosencreutz, and have fixed the origin of this sect at a much later epoch. the first dawning of it, they say, is to be found in the theories of paracelsus, and the dreams of dr. dee, who, without intending it, became the actual, though never the recognised founders of the rosicrucian philosophy. it is now difficult, and indeed impossible, to determine whether dee and paracelsus obtained their ideas from the then obscure and unknown rosicrucians, or whether the rosicrucians did but follow and improve upon them. certain it is, that their existence was never suspected till the year , when they began to excite attention in germany. no sooner were their doctrines promulgated, than all the visionaries, paracelsists, and alchymists, flocked around their standard, and vaunted rosencreutz as the new regenerator of the human race. michael mayer, a celebrated physician of that day, and who had impaired his health and wasted his fortune in searching for the philosopher's stone, drew up a report of the tenets and ordinances of the new fraternity, which was published at cologne, in the year . they asserted, in the first place, "that the meditations of their founders surpassed everything that had ever been imagined since the creation of the world, without even excepting the revelations of the deity; that they were destined to accomplish the general peace and regeneration of man before the end of the world arrived; that they possessed all wisdom and piety in a supreme degree; that they possessed all the graces of nature, and could distribute them among the rest of mankind according to their pleasure; that they were subject to neither hunger, nor thirst, nor disease, nor old age, nor to any other inconvenience of nature; that they knew by inspiration, and at the first glance, every one who was worthy to be admitted into their society; that they had the same knowledge then which they would have possessed if they had lived from the beginning of the world, and had been always acquiring it; that they had a volume in which they could read all that ever was or ever would be written in other books till the end of time; that they could force to, and retain in their service the most powerful spirits and demons; that, by the virtue of their songs, they could attract pearls and precious stones from the depths of the sea or the bowels of the earth; that god had covered them with a thick cloud, by means of which they could shelter themselves from the malignity of their enemies, and that they could thus render themselves invisible from all eyes; that the eight first brethren of the "rose-cross had power to cure all maladies; that, by means of the fraternity, the triple diadem of the pope would be reduced into dust; that they only admitted two sacraments, with the ceremonies of the primitive church, renewed by them; that they recognised the fourth monarchy and the emperor of the romans as their chief and the chief of all christians; that they would provide him with more gold, their treasures being inexhaustible, than the king of spain had ever drawn from the golden regions of eastern and western ind." this was their confession of faith. their rules of conduct were six in number, and as follow:-- first. that, in their travels, they should gratuitously cure all diseases. secondly. that they should always dress in conformity to the fashion of the country in which they resided. thirdly. that they should, once every year, meet together in the place appointed by the fraternity, or send in writing an available excuse. fourthly. that every brother, whenever he felt inclined to die, should choose a person worthy to succeed him. fifthly. that the words "rose-cross" should be the marks by which they should recognise each other. sixthly. that their fraternity should be kept secret for six times twenty years. they asserted that these laws had been found inscribed in a golden book in the tomb of rosencreutz, and that the six times twenty years from his death expired in . they were consequently called upon, from that time forth, to promulgate their doctrine for the welfare of mankind. [the following legend of the tomb of rosencreutz, written by eustace budgell, appears in no. of the spectator:--"a certain person, having occasion to dig somewhat deep in the ground where this philosopher lay interred, met with a small door, having a wall on each side of it. his curiosity, and the hope of finding some hidden treasure, soon prompted him to force open the door. he was immediately surprised by a sudden blaze of light, and discovered a very fair vault. at the upper end of it was a statue of a man in armour, sitting by a table, and leaning on his left arm. he held a truncheon in his right hand, and had a lamp burning before him. the man had no sooner set one foot within the vault, than the statue, erecting itself from its leaning posture, stood bolt upright; and, upon the fellow's advancing another step, lifted up the truncheon in his right hand. the man still ventured a third step; when the statue, with a furious blow, broke the lamp into a thousand pieces, and left his guest in sudden darkness. upon the report of this adventure, the country people came with lights to the sepulchre, and discovered that the statue, which was made of brass, was nothing more than a piece of clock-work; that the floor of the vault was all loose, and underlaid with several springs, which, upon any man's entering, naturally produced that which had happened. rosicreucius, say his disciples, made use of this method to show the world that he had re-invented the ever-burning lamps of the ancients, though he was resolved no one should reap any advantage from the discovery."] for eight years these enthusiasts made converts in germany; but they excited little or no attention in other parts of europe. at last they made their appearance in paris, and threw all the learned, all the credulous, and all the lovers of the marvellous into commotion. in the beginning of march , the good folks of that city, when they arose one morning, were surprised to find all their walls placarded with the following singular manifesto:-- "we, the deputies of the principal college of the brethren of the rose-cross, have taken up our abode, visible and invisible, in this city, by the grace of the most high, towards whom are turned the hearts of the just. we show and teach without books or signs, and speak all sorts of languages in the countries where we dwell, to draw mankind, our fellows, from error and from death." for a long time this strange placard was the sole topic of conversation in all public places. some few wondered; but the greater number only laughed at it. in the course of a few weeks two books were published, which raised the first alarm respecting this mysterious society, whose dwelling-place no one knew, and no members of which had ever been seen. the first was called a history of "the frightful compacts entered into between the devil and the pretended 'invisibles;' with their damnable instructions, the deplorable ruin of their disciples, and their miserable end." the other was called an "examination of the new and unknown cabala of the brethren of the rose-cross, who have lately inhabited the city of paris; with the history of their manners, the wonders worked by them, and many other particulars." these books sold rapidly. every one was anxious to know something of this dreadful and secret brotherhood. the badauds of paris were so alarmed that they daily expected to see the arch-enemy walking in propria persona among them. it was said in these volumes, that the rosicrucian society consisted of six-and-thirty persons in all, who had renounced their baptism and hope of resurrection. that it was not by means of good angels, as they pretended, that they worked their prodigies; but that it was the devil who gave them power to transport themselves from one end of the world to the other with the rapidity of thought; to speak all languages; to have their purses always full of money, however much they might spend; to be invisible, and penetrate into the most secret places, in spite of fastenings of bolts and bars; and to be able to tell the past and future. these thirty-six brethren were divided into bands or companies:-- six of them only had been sent on the mission to paris, six to italy, six to spain, six to germany, four to sweden, and two into switzerland; two into flanders, two into lorraine, and two into franche comte. it was generally believed that the missionaries to france resided somewhere in the marais du temple. that quarter of paris soon acquired a bad name; and people were afraid to take houses in it, lest they should be turned out by the six invisibles of the rose-cross. it was believed by the populace, and by many others whose education should have taught them better, that persons of a mysterious aspect used to visit the inns and hotels of paris, and eat of the best meats and drink of the best wines, and then suddenly melt away into thin air when the landlord came with the reckoning. that gentle maidens, who went to bed alone, often awoke in the night and found men in bed with them, of shape more beautiful than the grecian apollo, who immediately became invisible when an alarm was raised. it was also said that many persons found large heaps of pure gold in their houses, without knowing from whence they came. all paris was in alarm. no man thought himself secure of his goods, no maiden of her virginity, or wife of her chastity, while these rosicrucians were abroad. in the midst of the commotion, a second placard was issued to the following effect:--"if any one desires to see the brethren of the rose-cross from curiosity only, he will never communicate with us. but if his will really induces him to inscribe his name in the register of our brotherhood, we, who can judge of the thoughts of all men, will convince him of the truth of our promises. for this reason we do not publish to the world the place of our abode. thought alone, in unison with the sincere will of those who desire to know us, is sufficient to make us known to them, and them to us." though the existence of such a society as that of the rose-cross was problematical, it was quite evident that somebody or other was concerned in the promulgation of these placards, which were stuck up on every wall in paris. the police endeavoured in vain to find out the offenders, and their want of success only served to increase the perplexity of the public. the church very soon took up the question; and the abbe gaultier, a jesuit, wrote a book to prove that, by their enmity to the pope, they could be no other than disciples of luther, sent to promulgate his heresy. their very name, he added, proved that they were heretics; a cross surmounted by a rose being the heraldic device of the arch-heretic luther. one garasse said they were a confraternity of drunken impostors; and that their name was derived from the garland of roses, in the form of a cross, hung over the tables of taverns in germany as the emblem of secrecy, and from whence was derived the common saying, when one man communicated a secret to another, that it was said "under the rose." others interpreted the letters f. r. c. to mean, not brethren of the rose-cross, but fratres roris cocti, or brothers of boiled dew; and explained this appellation by alleging that they collected large quantities of morning dew, and boiled it, in order to extract a very valuable ingredient in the composition of the philosopher's stone and the water of life. the fraternity thus attacked defended themselves as well as they were able. they denied that they used magic of any kind, or that they consulted the devil. they said they were all happy; that they had lived more than a century, and expected to live many centuries more; and that the intimate knowledge which they possessed of all nature was communicated to them by god himself as a reward for their piety and utter devotion to his service. those were in error who derived their name from a cross of roses, or called them drunkards. to set the world right on the first point, they reiterated that they derived their name from christian rosencreutz, their founder; and, to answer the latter charge, they repeated that they knew not what thirst was, and had higher pleasures than those of the palate. they did not desire to meddle with the politics or religion of any man or set of men, although they could not help denying the supremacy of the pope, and looking upon him as a tyrant. many slanders, they said, had been repeated respecting them; the most unjust of which was, that they indulged in carnal appetites, and, under the cloak of their invisibility, crept into the chambers of beautiful maidens. they asserted, on the contrary, that the first vow they took on entering the society was a vow of chastity; and that any one among them who transgressed in that particular would immediately lose all the advantages he enjoyed, and be exposed once more to hunger, woe, disease, and death, like other men. so strongly did they feel on the subject of chastity, that they attributed the fall of adam solely to his want of this virtue. besides defending themselves in this manner, they entered into a further confession of their faith. they discarded for ever all the old tales of sorcery and witchcraft, and communion with the devil. they said there were no such horrid, unnatural, and disgusting beings as the incubi and succubi, and the innumerable grotesque imps that men had believed in for so many ages. man was not surrounded with enemies like these, but with myriads of beautiful and beneficent beings, all anxious to do him service. the air was peopled with sylphs, the water with undines or naiads, the bowels of the earth with gnomes, and the fire with salamanders. all these beings were the friends of man, and desired nothing so much as that men should purge themselves of all uncleanness, and thus be enabled to see and converse with them. they possessed great power, and were unrestrained by the barriers of space or the obstructions of matter. but man was in one particular their superior. he had an immortal soul, and they had not. they might, however, become sharers in man's immortality, if they could inspire one of that race with the passion of love towards them. hence it was the constant endeavour of the female spirits to captivate the admiration of men; and of the male gnomes, sylphs, salamanders, and undines, to be beloved by a woman. the object of this passion, in returning their love, imparted a portion of that celestial fire the soul; and from that time forth the beloved became equal to the lover, and both, when their allotted course was run, entered together into the mansions of felicity. these spirits, they said, watched constantly over mankind by night and day. dreams, omens, and presentiments were all their works, and the means by which they gave warning of the approach of danger. but, though so well inclined to befriend man for their own sakes, the want of a soul rendered them at times capricious and revengeful: they took offence on slight causes, and heaped injuries instead of benefits on the heads of those who extinguished the light of reason that was in them, by gluttony, debauchery, and other appetites of the body. the excitement produced in paris by the placards of the brotherhood, and the attacks of the clergy, wore itself away after a few months. the stories circulated about them became at last too absurd even for that age of absurdity, and men began to laugh once more at those invisible gentlemen and their fantastic doctrines. gabriel naude at that conjuncture brought out his "avis a la france sur les freres de la rose-croix," in which he very successfully exposed the folly of the new sect. this work, though not well written, was well timed. it quite extinguished the rosicrucians of france; and, after that year, little more was heard of them. swindlers, in different parts of the country, assumed the name at times to cloak their depredations; and now and then one of them was caught, and hanged for his too great ingenuity in enticing pearls and precious stones from the pockets of other people into his own, or for passing off lumps of gilded brass for pure gold, made by the agency of the philosopher's stone. with these exceptions, oblivion shrouded them. the doctrine was not confined to a sphere so narrow as france alone; it still flourished in germany, and drew many converts in england. the latter countries produced two great masters, in the persons of jacob bohmen and robert fludd; pretended philosophers, of whom it is difficult to say which was the more absurd and extravagant. it would appear that the sect was divided into two classes,--the brothers roseae crucis, who devoted themselves to the wonders of this sublunary sphere; and the brothers aureae crucis, who were wholly occupied in the contemplation of things divine. fludd belonged to the first class, and bohmen to the second. fludd may be called the father of the english rosicrucians, and as such merits a conspicuous niche in the temple of folly. he was born in the year , at milgate, in kent; and was the son of sir thomas fludd, treasurer of war to queen elizabeth. he was originally intended for the army; but he was too fond of study, and of a disposition too quiet and retiring to shine in that sphere. his father would not, therefore, press him to adopt a course of life for which he was unsuited, and encouraged him in the study of medicine, for which he early manifested a partiality. at the age of twenty-five he proceeded to the continent; and being fond of the abstruse, the marvellous, and the incomprehensible, he became an ardent disciple of the school of paracelsus, whom he looked upon as the regenerator, not only of medicine, but of philosophy. he remained six years in italy, france, and germany; storing his mind with fantastic notions, and seeking the society of enthusiasts and visionaries. on his return to england, in , he received the degree of doctor of medicine from the university of oxford, and began to practice as a physician in london. he soon made himself conspicuous. he latinized his name from robert fludd into robertus a fluctibus, and began the promulgation of many strange doctrines. he avowed his belief in the philosopher's stone, the water of life, and the universal alkahest; and maintained that there were but two principles of all things,--which were, condensation, the boreal or northern virtue; and rarefaction, the southern or austral virtue. a number of demons, he said, ruled over the human frame, whom he arranged in their places in a rhomboid. every disease had its peculiar demon who produced it, which demon could only be combated by the aid of the demon whose place was directly opposite to his in the rhomboidal figure. of his medical notions we shall have further occasion to speak in another part of this book, when we consider him in his character as one of the first founders of the magnetic delusion, and its offshoot, animal magnetism, which has created so much sensation in our own day. as if the doctrines already mentioned were not wild enough, he joined the rosicrucians as soon as they began to make a sensation in europe, and succeeded in raising himself to high consideration among them. the fraternity having been violently attacked by several german authors, and among others by libavius, fludd volunteered a reply, and published, in , his defence of the rosicrucian philosophy, under the title of the "apologia, compendiaria, fraternitatem de rosea-cruce, suspicionis et infamiae maculis aspersam, abluens." this work immediately procured him great renown upon the continent, and he was henceforth looked upon as one of the high-priests of the sect. of so much importance was he considered, that keppler and gassendi thought it necessary to refute him; and the latter wrote a complete examination of his doctrine. mersenne also, the friend of descartes, and who had defended that philosopher when accused of having joined the rosicrucians, attacked dr. a fluctibus, as he preferred to be called, and showed the absurdity of the brothers of the rose-cross in general, and of dr. a fluctibus in particular. fluctibus wrote a long reply, in which he called mersenne an ignorant calumniator, and reiterated that alchymy was a profitable science, and the rosicrucians worthy to be the regenerators of the world. this book was published at frankfort, and was entitled "summum bonum, quod est magiae, cabalae, alchimiae, fratrum roseae-crucis verorum, et adversus mersenium calumniatorem." besides this, he wrote several other works upon alchymy, a second answer to libavius upon the rosicrucians, and many medical works. he died in london in . after his time there was some diminution of the sect in england. they excited but little attention, and made no effort to bring themselves into notice. occasionally, some obscure and almost incomprehensible work made its appearance, to show the world that the folly was not extinguished. eugenius philalethes, a noted alchymist, who has veiled his real name under this assumed one, translated "the fame and confession of the brethren of the rosie cross," which was published in london in . a few years afterwards, another enthusiast, named john heydon, wrote two works on the subject: the one entitled "the wise man's crown, or the glory of the rosie cross;" and the other, "the holy guide, leading the way to unite art and nature, with the rosie crosse uncovered." neither of these attracted much notice. a third book was somewhat more successful: it was called "a new method of rosicrucian physic; by john heydon, the servant of god and the secretary of nature." a few extracts will show the ideas of the english rosicrucians about this period. its author was an attorney, "practising (to use his own words) at westminster hall all term times as long as he lived, and in the vacations devoting himself to alchymical and rosicrucian meditation." in his preface, called by him an apologue for an epilogue, he enlightens the public upon the true history and tenets of his sect. moses, elias, and ezekiel were, he says, the most ancient masters of the rosicrucian philosophy. those few then existing in england and the rest of europe, were as the eyes and ears of the great king of the universe, seeing and hearing all things; seraphically illuminated; companions of the holy company of unbodied souls and immortal angels; turning themselves, proteus-like, into any shape, and having the power of working miracles. the most pious and abstracted brethren could slack the plague in cities, silence the violent winds and tempests, calm the rage of the sea and rivers, walk in the air, frustrate the malicious aspect of witches, cure all diseases, and turn all metals into gold. he had known in his time two famous brethren of the rosie cross, named walfourd and williams, who had worked miracles in his sight, and taught him many excellent predictions of astrology and earthquakes. "i desired one of these to tell me," says he, "whether my complexion were capable of the society of my good genius. 'when i see you again,' said he, (which was when he pleased to come to me, for i knew not where to go to him,) 'i will tell you.' when i saw him afterwards, he said, 'you should pray to god; for a good and holy man can offer no greater or more acceptable service to god than the oblation of himself--his soul.' he said, also, that the good genii were the benign eyes of god, running to and fro in the world, and with love and pity beholding the innocent endeavours of harmless and single-hearted men, ever ready to do them good and to help them." heydon held devoutly true that dogma of the rosicrucians which said that neither eating nor drinking was necessary to men. he maintained that any one might exist in the same manner as that singular people dwelling near the source of the ganges, of whom mention was made in the travels of his namesake, sir christopher heydon, who had no mouths, and therefore could not eat, but lived by the breath of their nostrils; except when they took a far journey, and then they mended their diet with the smell of flowers. he said that in really pure air "there was a fine foreign fatness," with which it was sprinkled by the sunbeams, and which was quite sufficient for the nourishment of the generality of mankind. those who had enormous appetites he had no objection to see take animal food, since they could not do without it; but he obstinately insisted that there was no necessity why they should eat it. if they put a plaster of nicely-cooked meat upon their epigastrium, it would be sufficient for the wants of the most robust and voracious! they would by that means let in no diseases, as they did at the broad and common gate, the mouth, as any one might see by example of drink; for, all the while a man sat in water, he was never athirst. he had known, he said, many rosicrucians, who, by applying wine in this manner, had fasted for years together. in fact, quoth heydon, we may easily fast all our life, though it be three hundred years, without any kind of meat, and so cut off all danger of disease. this "sage philosopher" further informed his wondering contemporaries that the chiefs of the doctrine always carried about with them to their place of meeting their symbol, called the r.c. which was an ebony cross, flourished and decked with roses of gold; the cross typifying christ's sufferings upon the cross for our sins, and the roses of gold the glory and beauty of his resurrection. this symbol was carried alternately to mecca, mount calvary, mount sinai, haran, and to three other places, which must have been in mid-air, called cascle, apamia, and chaulateau virissa caunuch, where the rosicrucian brethren met when they pleased, and made resolution of all their actions. they always took their pleasures in one of these places, where they resolved all questions of whatsoever had been done, was done, or should be done, in the world, from the beginning to the end thereof. "and these," he concludes, "are the men called rosicrucians." towards the end of the seventeenth century, more rational ideas took possession of the sect, which still continued to boast of a few members. they appear to have considered that contentment was the true philosopher's stone, and to have abandoned the insane search for a mere phantom of the imagination. addison, in "the spectator," [no. . friday, july th, .] gives an account of his conversation with a rosicrucian; from which it may be inferred that the sect had grown wiser in their deeds, though in their talk they were as foolish as ever. "i was once," says he, "engaged in discourse with a rosicrucian about the great secret. he talked of the secret as of a spirit which lived within an emerald, and converted everything that was near it to the highest perfection that it was capable of. 'it gives a lustre,' says he, 'to the sun, and water to the diamond. it irradiates every metal, and enriches lead with all the properties of gold. it heightens smoke into flame, flame into light, and light into glory.' he further added 'that a single ray of it dissipates pain, and care, and melancholy from the person on whom it falls. in short,' says he, 'its presence naturally changes every place into a kind of heaven.' after he had gone on for some time in this unintelligible cant, i found that he jumbled natural and moral ideas together into the same discourse, and that his great secret was nothing else but content." jacob bohmen. it is now time to speak of jacob bohmen, who thought he could discover the secret of the transmutation of metals in the bible, and who invented a strange heterogeneous doctrine of mingled alchymy and religion, and founded upon it the sect of the aurea-crucians. he was born at gorlitz, in upper lusatia, in ; and followed, till his thirtieth year, the occupation of a shoemaker. in this obscurity he remained, with the character of a visionary and a man of unsettled mind, until the promulgation of the rosicrucian philosophy in his part of germany, toward the year or . from that time he began to neglect his leather, and buried his brain under the rubbish of metaphysics. the works of paracelsus fell into his hands; and these, with the reveries of the rosicrucians, so completely engrossed his attention that be abandoned his trade altogether, sinking, at the same time, from a state of comparative independence into poverty and destitution. but he was nothing daunted by the miseries and privations of the flesh; his mind was fixed upon the beings of another sphere, and in thought he was already the new apostle of the human race. in the year , after a meditation of four years, he published his first work, entitled "aurora; or, the rising of the sun;" embodying the ridiculous notions of paracelsus, and worse confounding the confusion of that writer. the philosopher's stone might, he contended, be discovered by a diligent search of the old and new testaments, and more especially of the apocalypse, which alone contained all the secrets of alchymy. he contended that the divine grace operated by the same rules, and followed the same methods, that the divine providence observed in the natural world; and that the minds of men were purged from their vices and corruptions in the very same manner that metals were purified from their dross, namely, by fire. besides the sylphs, gnomes, undines, and salamanders, he acknowledged various ranks and orders of demons. he pretended to invisibility and absolute chastity. he also said that, if it pleased him, he could abstain for years from meat and drink, and all the necessities of the body. it is needless, however, to pursue his follies any further. he was reprimanded for writing this work by the magistrates of gorlitz, and commanded to leave the pen alone and stick to his wax, that his family might not become chargeable to the parish. he neglected this good advice, and continued his studies; burning minerals and purifying metals one day, and mystifying the word of god on the next. he afterwards wrote three other works, as sublimely ridiculous as the first. the one was entitled "metallurgia," and has the slight merit of being the least obscure of his compositions. another was called "the temporal mirror of eternity;" and the last his "theosophy revealed," full of allegories and metaphors, "all strange and geason, devoid of sense and ordinary reason." bohmen died in , leaving behind him a considerable number of admiring disciples. many of them became, during the seventeenth century, as distinguished for absurdity as their master; amongst whom may be mentioned gifftheil, wendenhagen, john jacob zimmermann, and abraham frankenberg. their heresy rendered them obnoxious to the church of rome; and many of them suffered long imprisonment and torture for their faith. one, named kuhlmann, was burned alive at moscow, in , on a charge of sorcery. bohmen's works were translated into english, and published, many years afterwards by an enthusiast, named william law. mormius. peter mormius, a notorious alchymist, and contemporary of bohmen, endeavoured, in , to introduce the rosicrucian philosophy into holland. he applied to the states-general to grant him a public audience, that he might explain the tenets of the sect, and disclose a plan for rendering holland the happiest and richest country on the earth, by means of the philosopher's' stone and the service of the elementary spirits. the states-general wisely resolved to have nothing to do with him. he thereupon determined to shame them by printing his book, which he did at leyden the same year. it was entitled "the book of the most hidden secrets of nature," and was divided into three parts; the first treating of "perpetual motion," the second of the "transmutation of metals," and the third of the "universal medicine." he also published some german works upon the rosicrucian philosophy, at frankfort, in . poetry and romance are deeply indebted to the rosicrucians for many a graceful creation. the literature of england, france, and germany contains hundreds of sweet fictions, whose machinery has been borrowed from their day-dreams. the "delicate ariel" of shakspeare stands pre-eminent among the number. from the same source pope drew the airy tenants of belinda's dressing-room, in his charming "rape of the lock;" and la motte fouque, the beautiful and capricious water-nymph, undine, around whom he has thrown more grace and loveliness, and for whose imaginary woes he has excited more sympathy, than ever were bestowed on a supernatural being. sir walter scott also endowed the white lady of avenel with many of the attributes of the undines, or water-sprites. german romance and lyrical poetry teem with allusions to sylphs, gnomes, undines, and salamanders; and the french have not been behind in substituting them, in works of fiction, for the more cumbrous mythology of greece and rome. the sylphs, more especially, have been the favourites of the bards, and have become so familiar to the popular mind as to be, in a manner, confounded with that other race of ideal beings, the fairies, who can boast of an antiquity much more venerable in the annals of superstition. having these obligations to the rosicrucians, no lover of poetry can wish, however absurd they were, that such a sect of philosophers had never existed. borri. just at the time that michael mayer was making known to the world the existence of such a body as the rosicrucians, there was born in italy a man who was afterwards destined to become the most conspicuous member of the fraternity. the alchymic mania never called forth the ingenuity of a more consummate or more successful impostor than joseph francis borri. he was born in according to some authorities, and in according to others, at milan; where his father, the signor branda borri, practised as a physician. at the age of sixteen, joseph was sent to finish his education at the jesuits' college in rome, where he distinguished himself by his extraordinary memory. he learned everything to which he applied himself with the utmost ease. in the most voluminous works no fact was too minute for his retention, and no study was so abstruse but that he could master it; but any advantages he might have derived from this facility, were neutralized by his ungovernable passions and his love of turmoil and debauchery. he was involved in continual difficulty, as well with the heads of the college as with the police of rome, and acquired so bad a character that years could not remove it. by the aid of his friends he established himself as a physician in rome, and also obtained some situation in the pope's household. in one of his fits of studiousness he grew enamoured of alchymy, and determined to devote his energies to the discovery of the philosopher's stone. of unfortunate propensities he had quite sufficient, besides this, to bring him to poverty. his pleasures were as expensive as his studies, and both were of a nature to destroy his health and ruin his fair fame. at the age of thirty-seven he found that he could not live by the practice of medicine, and began to look about for some other employment. he became, in , private secretary to the marquis di mirogli, the minister of the archduke of innspruk at the court of rome. he continued in this capacity for two years; leading, however, the same abandoned life as heretofore, frequenting the society of gamesters, debauchees, and loose women, involving himself in disgraceful street quarrels, and alienating the patrons who were desirous to befriend him. all at once a sudden change was observed in his conduct. the abandoned rake put on the outward sedateness of a philosopher; the scoffing sinner proclaimed that he had forsaken his evil ways, and would live thenceforth a model of virtue. to his friends this reformation was as pleasing as it was unexpected; and borri gave obscure hints that it had been brought about by some miraculous manifestation of a superior power. he pretended that he held converse with beneficent spirits; that the secrets of god and nature were revealed to him; and that he had obtained possession of the philosopher's stone. like his predecessor, jacob bohmen, he mixed up religious questions with his philosophical jargon, and took measures for declaring himself the founder of a new sect. this, at rome itself, and in the very palace of the pope, was a hazardous proceeding; and borri just awoke to a sense of it in time to save himself from the dungeons of the castle of st. angelo. he fled to innspruck, where he remained about a year, and then returned to his native city of milan. the reputation of his great sanctity had gone before him; and he found many persons ready to attach themselves to his fortunes. all who were desirous of entering into the new communion took an oath of poverty, and relinquished their possessions for the general good of the fraternity. borri told them that he had received from the archangel michael a heavenly sword, upon the hilt of which were engraven the names of the seven celestial intelligences. "whoever shall refuse," said he, "to enter into my new sheepfold, shall be destroyed by the papal armies, of whom god has predestined me to be the chief. to those who follow me, all joy shall be granted. i shall soon bring my chemical studies to a happy conclusion by the discovery of the philosopher's stone, and by this means we shall all have as much gold as we desire. i am assured of the aid of the angelic hosts, and more especially of the archangel michael's. when i began to walk in the way of the spirit, i had a vision of the night, and was assured by an angelic voice that i should become a prophet. in sign of it i saw a palm-tree, surrounded with all the glory of paradise. the angels come to me whenever i call, and reveal to me all the secrets of the universe. the sylphs and elementary spirits obey me, and fly to the uttermost ends of the world to serve me, and those whom i delight to honour." by force of continually repeating such stories as these, borri soon found himself at the head of a very considerable number of adherents. as he figures in these pages as an alchymist, and not as a religious sectarian, it will be unnecessary to repeat the doctrines which he taught with regard to some of the dogmas of the church of rome, and which exposed him to the fierce resentment of the papal authority. they were to the full as ridiculous as his philosophical pretensions. as the number of his followers increased, he appears to have cherished the idea of becoming one day a new mahomet, and of founding, in his native city of milan, a monarchy and religion of which he should be the king and the prophet. he had taken measures, in the year , for seizing the guards at all the gates of that city, and formally declaring himself the monarch of the milanese. just as he thought the plan ripe for execution, it was discovered. twenty of his followers were arrested, and he himself managed, with the utmost difficulty, to escape to the neutral territory of switzerland, where the papal displeasure could not reach him. the trial of his followers commenced forthwith, and the whole of them were sentenced to various terms of imprisonment. borri's trial proceeded in his absence, and lasted for upwards of two years. he was condemned to death as a heretic and sorcerer in , and was burned in effigy in rome by the common hangman. borri, in the mean time, lived quietly in switzerland, indulging himself in railing at the inquisition and its proceedings. he afterwards went to strasbourg, intending to fix his residence in that town. he was received with great cordiality, as a man persecuted for his religious opinions, and withal a great alchymist. he found that sphere too narrow for his aspiring genius, and retired in the same year to the more wealthy city of amsterdam. he there hired a magnificent house, established an equipage which eclipsed in brilliancy those of the richest merchants, and assumed the title of excellency. where he got the money to live in this expensive style was long a secret: the adepts in alchymy easily explained it, after their fashion. sensible people were of opinion that he had come by it in a less wonderful manner; for it was remembered that, among his unfortunate disciples in milan, there were many rich men, who, in conformity with one of the fundamental rules of the sect, had given up all their earthly wealth into the hands of their founder. in whatever manner the money was obtained, borri spent it in holland with an unsparing hand, and was looked up to by the people with no little respect and veneration. he performed several able cures, and increased his reputation so much that he was vaunted as a prodigy. he continued diligently the operations of alchymy, and was in daily expectation that he should succeed in turning the inferior metals into gold. this hope never abandoned him, even in the worst extremity of his fortunes; and in his prosperity it led him into the most foolish expenses: but he could not long continue to live so magnificently upon the funds he had brought from italy; and the philosopher's stone, though it promised all for the wants of the morrow, never brought anything for the necessities of to-day. he was obliged in a few months to retrench, by giving up his large house, his gilded coach, and valuable blood-horses, his liveried domestics, and his luxurious entertainments. with this diminution of splendour came a diminution of renown. his cures did not appear so miraculous, when he went out on foot to perform them, as they had seemed when "his excellency" had driven to a poor man's door in his carriage with six horses. he sank from a prodigy into an ordinary man. his great friends showed him the cold shoulder, and his humble flatterers carried their incense to some other shrine. borri now thought it high time to change his quarters. with this view he borrowed money wherever he could get it, and succeeded in obtaining two hundred thousand florins from a merchant, named de meer, to aid, as he said, in discovering the water of life. he also obtained six diamonds, of great value, on pretence that he could remove the flaws from them without diminishing their weight. with this booty he stole away secretly by night, and proceeded to hamburgh. on his arrival in that city, he found the celebrated christina, the ex-queen of sweden. he procured an introduction to her, and requested her patronage in his endeavour to discover the philosopher's stone. she gave him some encouragement; but borri, fearing that the merchants of amsterdam, who had connexions in hamburgh, might expose his delinquencies if he remained in the latter city, passed over to copenhagen, and sought the protection of frederic iii, the king of denmark. this prince was a firm believer in the transmutation of metals. being in want of money, he readily listened to the plans of an adventurer who had both eloquence and ability to recommend him. he provided borri with the means to make experiments, and took a great interest in the progress of his operations. he expected every month to possess riches that would buy peru; and, when he was disappointed, accepted patiently the excuses of borri who, upon every failure, was always ready with some plausible explanation. he became, in time, much attached to him; and defended him from the jealous attacks of his courtiers, and the indignation of those who were grieved to see their monarch the easy dupe of a charlatan. borri endeavoured, by every means in his power, to find aliment for this good opinion. his knowledge of medicine was useful to him in this respect, and often stood between him and disgrace. he lived six years in this manner at the court of frederic; but that monarch dying in , he was left without a protector. as he had made more enemies than friends in copenhagen, and had nothing to hope from the succeeding sovereign, he sought an asylum in another country. he went first to saxony; but met so little encouragement, and encountered so much danger from the emissaries of the inquisition, that he did not remain there many months. anticipating nothing but persecution in every country that acknowledged the spiritual authority of the pope, he appears to have taken the resolution to dwell in turkey, and turn mussulman. on his arrival at the hungarian frontier, on his way to constantinople, he was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the conspiracy of the counts nadasdi and frangipani, which had just been discovered. in vain he protested his innocence, and divulged his real name and profession. he was detained in prison, and a letter despatched to the emperor leopold to know what should be done with him. the star of his fortunes was on the decline. the letter reached leopold at an unlucky moment. the pope's nuncio was closeted with his majesty; and he no sooner heard the name of joseph francis borri, than he demanded him as a prisoner of the holy see. the request was complied with; and borri, closely manacled, was sent under an escort of soldiers to the prison of the inquisition at rome. he was too much of an impostor to be deeply tinged with fanaticism, and was not unwilling to make a public recantation of his heresies if he could thereby save his life. when the proposition was made to him, he accepted it with eagerness. his punishment was to be commuted into the hardly less severe one of perpetual imprisonment; but he was too happy to escape the clutch of the executioner at any price, and he made the amende honorable in face of the assembled multitudes of rome on the th of october . he was then transferred to the prisons of the castle of st. angelo, where he remained till his death, twenty-three years afterwards. it is said that, towards the close of his life, considerable indulgence was granted him; that he was allowed to have a laboratory, and to cheer the solitude of his dungeon by searching for the philosopher's stone. queen christina, during her residence at rome, frequently visited the old man, to converse with him upon chemistry and the doctrines of the rosicrucians. she even obtained permission that he should leave his prison occasionally for a day or two, and reside in her palace, she being responsible for his return to captivity. she encouraged him to search for the great secret of the alchymists, and provided him with money for the purpose. it may well be supposed that borri benefited most by this acquaintance, and that christina got nothing but experience. it is not sure that she gained even that; for, until her dying day, she was convinced of the possibility of finding the philosopher's stone, and ready to assist any adventurer either zealous or impudent enough to pretend to it. after borri had been about eleven years in confinement, a small volume was published at cologne, entitled "the key of the cabinet of the chevalier joseph francis borri; in which are contained many curious letters upon chemistry and other sciences, written by him; together with a memoir of his life." this book contained a complete exposition of the rosicrucian philosophy, and afforded materials to the abbe de villars for his interesting "count de gabalis," which excited so much attention at the close of the seventeenth century. borri lingered in the prison of st. angelo till , when he died in his eightieth year. besides "the key of the cabinet," written originally in copenhagen, in , for the edification of king frederic iii, he published a work upon alchymy and the secret sciences, under the title of "the mission of romulus to the romans." inferior alchymists of the seventeenth century. besides the pretenders to the philosopher's stone whose lives have been already narrated, this and the preceding century produced a great number of writers, who inundated literature with their books upon the subject. in fact, most of the learned men of that age had some faith in it. van helmont, borrichius, kirchen, boerhaave, and a score of others, though not professed alchymists, were fond of the science, and countenanced its professors. helvetius, the grandfather of the celebrated philosopher of the same name, asserts that he saw an inferior metal turned into gold by a stranger, at the hague, in . he says that, sitting one day in his study, a man, who was dressed as a respectable burgher of north holland, and very modest and simple in his appearance, called upon him, with the intention of dispelling his doubts relative to the philosopher's stone. he asked helvetius if he thought he should know that rare gem if he saw it. to which helvetius replied, that he certainly should not. the burgher immediately drew from his pocket a small ivory box, containing three pieces of metal, of the colour of brimstone, and extremely heavy; and assured helvetius, that of them he could make as much as twenty tons of gold. helvetius informs us, that he examined them very attentively; and seeing that they were very brittle, he took the opportunity to scrape off a very small portion with his thumb-nail. he then returned them to the stranger, with an entreaty that he would perform the process of transmutation before him. the stranger replied, that he was not allowed to do so, and went away. after his departure, helvetius procured a crucible and a portion of lead, into which, when in a state of fusion, he threw the stolen grain from the philosopher's stone. he was disappointed to find that the grain evaporated altogether, leaving the lead in its original state. some weeks afterwards, when he had almost forgotten the subject, he received another visit from the stranger. he again entreated him to explain the processes by which he pretended to transmute lead. the stranger at last consented, and informed him, that one grain was sufficient; but that it was necessary to envelope it in a ball of wax before throwing it on the molten metal; otherwise its extreme volatility would cause it to go off in vapour. they tried the experiment, and succeeded to their heart's content. helvetius repeated the experiment alone, and converted six ounces of lead into very pure gold. the fame of this event spread all over the hague, and all the notable persons of the town flocked to the study of helvetius to convince themselves of the fact. helvetius performed the experiment again, in the presence of the prince of orange, and several times afterwards, until he exhausted the whole of the powder he had received from the stranger, from whom, it is necessary to state, he never received another visit; nor did he ever discover his name or condition. in the following year helvetius published his "golden calf," ["vitulus aureus quem mundus adorat et orat, in quo tractatur de naturae miraculo transmutandi metalla."--hagae, .] in which he detailed the above circumstances. about the same time, the celebrated father kircher published his "subterranean world," in which he called the alchymists a congregation of knaves and impostors, and their science a delusion. he admitted that he had himself been a diligent labourer in the field, and had only come to this conclusion after mature consideration and repeated fruitless experiments. all the alchymists were in arms immediately, to refute this formidable antagonist. one solomon de blauenstein was the first to grapple with him, and attempted to convict him of wilful misrepresentation, by recalling to his memory the transmutations by sendivogius, before the emperor frederic iii. and the elector of mayence; all performed within a recent period. zwelfer and glauber also entered into the dispute, and attributed the enmity of father kircher to spite and jealousy against adepts who had been more successful than himself. it was also pretended that gustavus adolphus transmuted a quantity of quicksilver into pure gold. the learned borrichius relates, that he saw coins which had been struck of this gold; and lenglet du fresnoy deposes to the same circumstance. in the travels of monconis the story is told in the following manner:--"a merchant of lubeck, who carried on but little trade, but who knew how to change lead into very good gold, gave the king of sweden a lingot which he had made, weighing, at least, one hundred pounds. the king immediately caused it to be coined into ducats; and because he knew positively that its origin was such as had been stated to him, he had his own arms graven upon the one side, and emblematical figures of mercury and venus on the other." "i," continued monconis, "have one of these ducats in my possession; and was credibly informed, that, after the death of the lubeck merchant, who had never appeared very rich, a sum of no less than one million seven hundred thousand crowns was found in his coffers." [voyages de monconis, tome ii. p. .] such stories as these, confidently related by men high in station, tended to keep up the infatuation of the alchymists in every country of europe. it is astonishing to see the number of works which were written upon the subject during the seventeenth century alone, and the number of clever men who sacrificed themselves to the delusion. gabriel de castaigne, a monk of the order of st. francis, attracted so much notice in the reign of louis xiii, that that monarch secured him in his household, and made him his grand almoner. he pretended to find the elixir of life; and louis expected, by his means, to have enjoyed the crown for a century. van helmont also pretended to have once performed with success the process of transmuting quicksilver; and was, in consequence, invited by the emperor rudolph ii. to fix his residence at the court of vienna. glauber, the inventor of the salts which still bear his name, and who practised as a physician at amsterdam about the middle of the seventeenth century, established a public school in that city for the study of alchymy, and gave lectures himself upon the science. john joachim becher, of spire, acquired great reputation at the same period; and was convinced that much gold might be made out of flint stones by a peculiar process, and the aid of that grand and incomprehensible substance, the philosopher's stone. he made a proposition to the emperor leopold of austria, to aid him in these experiments; but the hope of success was too remote, and the present expense too great to tempt that monarch; and he therefore gave becher much of his praise, but none of his money. becher afterwards tried the states-general of holland, with no better success. with regard to the innumerable tricks by which impostors persuaded the world that they had succeeded in making gold, and of which so many stories were current about this period, a very satisfactory report was read by m. geoffroy, the elder, at the sitting of the royal academy of sciences, at paris, on the th of april, . as it relates principally to the alchymic cheats of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the following abridgment of it may not be out of place in this portion of our history:--the instances of successful transmutation were so numerous, and apparently so well authenticated, that nothing short of so able an exposure as that of m. geoffroy could disabuse the public mind. the trick to which they oftenest had recourse, was to use a double-bottomed crucible, the under surface being of iron or copper, and the upper one of wax, painted to resemble the same metal. between the two they placed as much gold or silver dust as was necessary for their purpose. they then put in their lead, quicksilver, or other ingredients, and placed their pot upon the fire. of course, when the experiment was concluded, they never failed to find a lump of gold at the bottom. the same result was produced in many other ways. some of them used a hollow wand, filled with gold or silver dust, and stopped at the ends with wax or butter. with this they stirred the boiling metal in their crucibles, taking care to accompany the operation with many ceremonies, to divert attention from the real purpose of the manoeuvre. they also drilled holes in lumps of lead, into which they poured molten gold, and carefully closed the aperture with the original metal. sometimes they washed a piece of gold with quicksilver. when in this state they found no difficulty in palming it off upon the uninitiated as an inferior metal, and very easily transmuted it into fine sonorous gold again, with the aid of a little aquafortis. others imposed by means of nails, half iron and half gold or silver. they pretended that they really transmuted the precious half from iron, by dipping it in a strong alcohol. m. geoffroy produced several of these nails to the academy of sciences, and showed how nicely the two parts were soldered together. the golden or silver half was painted black to resemble iron, and the colour immediately disappeared when the nail was dipped into aquafortis. a nail of this description was, for a long time, in the cabinet of the grand duke of tuscany. such also, said m. geoffroy, was the knife presented by a monk to queen elizabeth of england; the blade of which was half gold and half steel. nothing at one time was more common than to see coins, half gold and half silver, which had been operated upon by alchymists, for the same purposes of trickery. in fact, says m. geoffroy, in concluding his long report, there is every reason to believe that all the famous histories which have been handed down to us, about the transmutation of metals into gold or silver, by means of the powder of projection, or philosophical elixirs, are founded upon some successful deception of the kind above narrated. these pretended philosophers invariably disappeared after the first or second experiment, or their powders or elixirs have failed to produce their effect, either because attention being excited they have found no opportunity to renew the trick without being discovered, or because they have not had sufficient gold dust for more than one trial. the disinterestedness of these would-be philosopher looked, at first sight, extremely imposing. instances were not rare, in which they generously abandoned all the profits of their transmutations--even the honour of the discovery! but this apparent disinterestedness was one of the most cunning of their manoeuvres. it served to keep up the popular expectation; it showed the possibility of discovering the philosopher's stone, and provided the means of future advantages, which they were never slow to lay hold of--such as entrances into royal households, maintenance at the public expense, and gifts from ambitious potentates, too greedy after the gold they so easily promised. it now only remains to trace the progress of the delusion from the commencement of the eighteenth century until the present day. it will be seen, that until a very recent period, there were but slight signs of a return to reason. jean delisle. in the year , there was much talk in france of a blacksmith, named delisle, who had discovered the philosopher's stone, and who went about the country turning lead into gold. he was a native of provence, from which place his fame soon spread to the capital. his early life is involved in obscurity; but longlet du fresnoy has industriously collected some particulars of his later career, which possess considerable interest. he was a man without any education, and had been servant in his youth to an alchymist, from whom he learned many of the tricks of the fraternity. the name of his master has never been discovered; but it is pretended that he rendered himself in some manner obnoxious to the government of louis xiv, and was obliged, in consequence, to take refuge in switzerland. delisle accompanied him as far as savoy, and there, it is said, set upon him in a solitary mountain-pass, and murdered and robbed him. he then disguised himself as a pilgrim, and returned to france. at a lonely inn, by the road-side, where he stopped for the night, he became acquainted with a woman, named aluys; and so sudden a passion was enkindled betwixt them, that she consented to leave all, follow him, and share his good or evil fortune wherever he went. they lived together for five or six years in provence, without exciting any attention, apparently possessed of a decent independence. at last, in , it was given out that he was the possessor of the philosopher's stone; and people, from far and near, came flocking to his residence, at the chateau de la palu, at sylanez, near barjaumont, to witness the wealth he could make out of pumps and fire shovels. the following account of his operations is given in a letter addressed by m. de cerisy, the prior of chateauneuf, in the diocese of riez, in provence, to the vicar of st. jacques du hautpas, at paris, and dated the th of november :-- "i have something to relate to you, my dear cousin, which will be interesting to you and your friends. the philosopher's stone, which so many persons have looked upon as a chimera, is at last found. it is a man named delisle, of the parish of sylanez, and residing within a quarter of a league of me, that has discovered this great secret. he turns lead into gold, and iron into silver, by merely heating these metals red hot, and pouring upon them, in that state, some oil and powder he is possessed of; so that it would not be impossible for any man to make a million a day, if he had sufficient of this wondrous mixture. some of the pale gold which he had made in this manner, he sent to the jewellers of lyons, to have their opinion on its quality. he also sold twenty pounds weight of it to a merchant of digne, named taxis. all the jewellers say they never saw such fine gold in their lives. he makes nails, part gold, part iron, and part silver. he promised to give me one of them, in a long conversation which i had with him the other day, by order of the bishop of sends, who saw his operations with his own eyes, and detailed all the circumstances to me. "the baron and baroness de rheinwald showed me a lingot of gold made out of pewter before their eyes by m. delisle. my brother-in-law sauveur, who has wasted fifty years of his life in this great study, brought me the other day a nail which he had seen changed into gold by delisle, and fully convinced me that all his previous experiments were founded on an erroneous principle. this excellent workman received, a short time ago, a very kind letter from the superintendent of the royal household, which i read. he offered to use all his influence with the ministers to prevent any attempts upon his liberty, which has twice been attacked by the agents of government. it is believed that the oil he makes use of, is gold or silver reduced to that state. he leaves it for a long time exposed to the rays of the sun. he told me that it generally took him six months to make all his preparations. i told him that, apparently, the king wanted to see him. he replied that he could not exercise his art in every place, as a certain climate and temperature were absolutely necessary to his success. the truth is, that this man appears to have no ambition. he only keeps two horses and two men-servants. besides, he loves his liberty, has no politeness, and speaks very bad french; but his judgment seems to be solid. he was formerly no more than a blacksmith, but excelled in that trade without having been taught it. all the great lords and seigneurs from far and near come to visit him, and pay such court to him, that it seems more like idolatry than anything else. happy would france be if this man would discover his secret to the king, to whom the superintendent has already sent some lingots! but the happiness is too great to be hoped for; for i fear that the workman and his secret will expire together. there is no doubt that this discovery will make a great noise in the kingdom, unless the character of the man, which i have just depicted to you, prevent it. at all events, posterity will hear of him." in another letter to the same person, dated the th of january , m. de cerisy says, "my dear cousin, i spoke to you in my last letter of the famous alchymist of provence, m. delisle. a good deal of that was only hearsay, but now i am enabled to speak from my own experience. i have in my possession a nail, half iron and half silver, which i made myself. that great and admirable workman also bestowed a still greater privilege upon me--he allowed me to turn a piece of lead which i had brought with me into pure gold, by means of his wonderful oil and powder. all the country have their eyes upon this gentleman: some deny loudly, others are incredulous; but those who have seen acknowledge the truth. i have read the passport that has been sent to him from court, with orders that he should present himself at paris early in the spring. he told me that he would go willingly, and that it was himself who fixed the spring for his departure; as he wanted to collect his materials, in order that, immediately on his introduction to the king, he might make an experiment worthy of his majesty, by converting a large quantity of lead into the finest gold. i sincerely hope that he will not allow his secret to die with him, but that he will communicate it to the king. as i had the honour to dine with him on thursday last, the th of this month, being seated at his side, i told him in a whisper that he could, if he liked, humble all the enemies of france. he did not deny it, but began to smile. in fact, this man is the miracle of art. sometimes he employs the oil and powder mixed, sometimes the powder only, but in so small a quantity that, when the lingot which i made was rubbed all over with it, it did not show at all." this soft-headed priest was by no means the only person in the neighbourhood who lost his wits in hopes of the boundless wealth held out by this clever impostor. another priest, named de lions, a chanter in the cathedral of grenoble, writing on the th january , says,--"m. mesnard, the curate of montier, has written to me, stating that there is a man, about thirty-five years of age, named delisle, who turns lead and iron into gold and silver; and that this transmutation is so veritable and so true, that the goldsmiths affirm that his gold and silver are the purest and finest they ever saw. for five years, this man was looked upon as a madman or a cheat; but the public mind is now disabused with respect to him. he now resides with m. de la palu, at the chateau of the same name. m. de la palu is not very easy in his circumstances, and wants money to portion his daughters, who have remained single till middle age, no man being willing to take them without a dowry. m. delisle has promised to make them the richest girls in the province before he goes to court, having been sent for by the king. he has asked for a little time before his departure, in order that he may collect powder enough to make several quintals of gold before the eyes of his majesty, to whom he intends to present them. the principal matter of his wonderful powder is composed of simples, principally the herbs lunaria major and minor. there is a good deal of the first planted by him in the gardens of la palu; and he gets the other from the mountains, that stretch about two leagues from montier. what i tell you now is not a mere story invented for your diversion: m. mesnard can bring forward many witnesses to its truth; among others, the bishop of senes, who saw these surprising operations performed; and m. de cerisy, whom you know well. delisle transmutes his metals in public. he rubs the lead or iron with his powder, and puts it over burning charcoal. in a short time it changes colour; the lead becomes yellow, and is found to be converted into excellent gold: the iron becomes white, and is found to be pure silver. delisle is altogether an illiterate person. m. de st. auban endeavoured to teach him to read and write, but he profited very little by his lessons. he is unpolite, fantastic, and a dreamer, and acts by fits and starts." delisle, it would appear, was afraid of venturing to paris. he knew that his sleight of hand would be too narrowly watched in the royal presence; and upon some pretence or other, he delayed the journey for more than two years. desmarets, the minister of finance to louis xiv, thinking the "philosopher" dreaded foul play, twice sent him a safe conduct under the king's seal; but delisle still refused. upon this, desmarets wrote to the bishop of sends for his real opinion as to these famous transmutations. the following was the answer of that prelate:-- "copy of a report addressed to m. desmarets, comptroller-general of the finances to his majesty louis xiv, by the bishop of senes, dated march . "sir, "a twelvemonth ago, or a little more, i expressed to you my joy at hearing of your elevation to the ministry; i have now the honour to write you my opinion of the sieur delisle, who has been working at the transmutation of metals in my diocese. i have, during the last two years, spoken of him several times to the count de pontchartrain, because he asked me; but i have not written to you, sir, or to m. de chamillart, because you neither of you requested my opinion upon the subject. now, however, that you have given me to understand that you wish to know my sentiments on the matter, i will unfold myself to you in all sincerity, for the interests of the king and the glory of your ministry. "there are two things about the sieur delisle which, in my opinion, should be examined without prejudice: the one relates to his secret; the other, to his person; that is to say, whether his transmutations are real, and whether his conduct has been regular. as regards the secret of the philosopher's stone, i deemed it impossible, for a long time; and for more than three years, i was more mistrustful of the pretensions of this sieur delisle than of any other person. during this period i afforded him no countenance; i even aided a person, who was highly recommended to me by an influential family of this province, to prosecute delisle for some offence or other which it was alleged he had committed. but this person, in his anger against him, having told me that he had himself been several times the bearer of gold and silver to the goldsmiths of nice, aix, and avignon, which had been transmuted by delisle from lead and iron, i began to waver a little in my opinions respecting him. i afterwards met delisle at the house of one of my friends. to please me, the family asked delisle to operate before me, to which he immediately consented. i offered him some iron nails, which he changed into silver in the chimney-place before six or seven credible witnesses. i took the nails thus transmuted, and sent them by my almoner to irabert, the jeweller of aix, who, having subjected them to the necessary trial, returned them to me, saying they were very good silver. still, however, i was not quite satisfied. m. de pontchartrain having hinted to me, two years previously, that i should do a thing agreeable to his majesty if i examined into this business of delisle, i resolved to do so now. i therefore summoned the alchymist to come to me at castellane. he came; and i had him escorted by eight or ten vigilant men, to whom i had given notice to watch his hands strictly. before all of us he changed two pieces of lead into gold and silver. i sent them both to m. de pontchartrain; and he afterwards informed me by a letter, now lying before me, that he had shown them to the most experienced goldsmiths of paris, who unanimously pronounced them to be gold and silver of the very purest quality, and without alloy. my former bad opinion of delisle was now indeed shaken. it was much more so when he performed transmutation five or six times before me at senes, and made me perform it myself before him without his putting his hand to anything. you have seen, sir, the letter of my nephew, the pere berard, of the oratoire at paris, on the experiment that he performed at castellane, and the truth of which i hereby attest. another nephew of mine, the sieur bourget, who was here three weeks ago, performed the same experiment in my presence, and will detail all the circumstances to you personally at paris. a hundred persons in my diocese have been witnesses of these things. i confess to you, sir, that, after the testimony of so many spectators and so many goldsmiths, and after the repeatedly successful experiments that i saw performed, all my prejudices vanished. my reason was convinced by my eyes; and the phantoms of impossibility which i had conjured up were dissipated by the work of my own hands. "it now only remains for me to speak to you on the subject of his person and conduct. three suspicions have been excited against him: the first, that he was implicated in some criminal proceeding at cisteron, and that he falsified the coin of the realm; the second, that the king sent him two safe-conducts without effect; and the third, that he still delays going to court to operate before the king. you may see, sir, that i do not hide or avoid anything. as regards the business at cisteron, the sieur delisle has repeatedly assured me that there was nothing against him which could reasonably draw him within the pale of justice, and that he had never carried on any calling injurious to the king's service. it was true that, six or seven years ago, he had been to cisteron to gather herbs necessary for his powder, and that he had lodged at the house of one pelouse, whom he thought an honest man. pelouse was accused of clipping louis d'ors; and as he had lodged with him, he was suspected of being his accomplice. this mere suspicion, without any proof whatever, had caused him to be condemned for contumacy; a common case enough with judges, who always proceed with much rigour against those who are absent. during my own sojourn at aix, it was well known that a man, named andre aluys, had spread about reports injurious to the character of delisle, because he hoped thereby to avoid paying him a sum of forty louis that he owed him. but permit me, sir, to go further, and to add that, even if there were well-founded suspicions against delisle, we should look with some little indulgence on the faults of a man who possesses a secret so useful to the state. as regards the two safe-conducts sent him by the king, i think i can answer certainly that it was through no fault of his that he paid so little attention to them. his year, strictly speaking, consists only of the four summer months; and when by any means he is prevented from making the proper use of them, he loses a whole year. thus the first safe-conduct became useless by the irruption of the duke of savoy in ; and the second had hardly been obtained, at the end of june , when the said delisle was insulted by a party of armed men, pretending to act under the authority of the count de grignan, to whom he wrote several letters of complaint, without receiving any answer, or promise that his safety would be attended to. what i have now told you, sir, removes the third objection, and is the reason why, at the present time, he cannot go to paris to the king, in fulfilment of his promises made two years ago. two, or even three, summers have been lost to him, owing to the continual inquietude he has laboured under. he has, in consequence, been unable to work, and has not collected a sufficient quantity of his oil and powder, or brought what he has got to the necessary degree of perfection. for this reason also he could not give the sieur de bourget the portion he promised him for your inspection. if the other day he changed some lead into gold with a few grains of his powder, they were assuredly all he had; for he told me that such was the fact long before he knew my nephew was coming. even if he had preserved this small quantity to operate before the king, i am sure that, on second thoughts, he would never have adventured with so little; because the slightest obstacles in the metals (their being too hard or too soft, which is only discovered in operating) would have caused him to be looked upon as an impostor, if, in case his first powder had proved ineffectual, he had not been possessed of more to renew the experiment and surmount the difficulty. "permit me, sir, in conclusion, to repeat that such an artist as this should not be driven to the last extremity, nor forced to seek an asylum offered to him in other countries, but which he has despised, as much from his own inclinations as from the advice i have given him. you risk nothing in giving him a little time, and in hurrying him you may lose a great deal. the genuineness of his gold can no longer be doubted, after the testimony of so many jewellers of aix, lyons, and paris in its favour. as it is not his fault that the previous safe-conducts sent to him have been of no service, it will be necessary to send him another; for the success of which i will be answerable, if you will confide the matter to me, and trust to my zeal for the service of his majesty, to whom i pray you to communicate this letter, that i may be spared the just reproaches he might one day heap upon me if he remained ignorant of the facts i have now written to you. assure him, if you please, that, if you send me such a safe-conduct, i will oblige the sieur delisle to depose with me such precious pledges of his fidelity, as shall enable me to be responsible myself to the king. these are my sentiments, and i submit them to your superior knowledge; and have the honour to remain, with much respect, &c. "john, bishop of senes." "to m. desmarets, minister of state, and "comptroller-general of the finances, at paris." that delisle was no ordinary impostor, but a man of consummate cunning and address, is very evident from this letter. the bishop was fairly taken in by his clever legerdemain, and when once his first distrust was conquered, appeared as anxious to deceive himself as even delisle could have wished. his faith was so abundant that he made the case of his protege his own, and would not suffer the breath of suspicion to be directed against him. both louis and his minister appear to have been dazzled by the brilliant hopes he had excited, and a third pass, or safe-conduct, was immediately sent to the alchymist, with a command from the king that he should forthwith present himself at versailles, and make public trial of his oil and powder. but this did not suit the plans of delisle: in the provinces he was regarded as a man of no small importance; the servile flattery that awaited him wherever he went was so grateful to his mind that he could not willingly relinquish it and run upon certain detection at the court of the monarch. upon one pretext or another he delayed his journey, notwithstanding the earnest solicitations of his good friend the bishop. the latter had given his word to the minister, and pledged his honour that he would induce delisle to go, and he began to be alarmed when he found he could not subdue the obstinacy of that individual. for more than two years he continued to remonstrate with him, and was always met by some excuse, that there was not sufficient powder, or that it had not been long enough exposed to the rays of the sun. at last his patience was exhausted; and fearful that he might suffer in the royal estimation by longer delay, he wrote to the king for a lettre de cachet, in virtue of which the alchymist was seized at the castle of la palu, in the month of june , and carried off to be imprisoned in the bastille. the gendarmes were aware that their prisoner was supposed to be the lucky possessor of the philosopher's stone, and on the road they conspired to rob and murder him. one of them pretended to be touched with pity for the misfortunes of the philosopher, and offered to give him an opportunity of escape whenever he could divert the attention of his companions. delisle was profuse in his thanks, little dreaming of the snare that was laid for him. his treacherous friend gave notice of the success of the stratagem so far; and it was agreed that delisle should be allowed to struggle with and overthrow one of them while the rest were at some distance. they were then to pursue him and shoot him through the heart; and after robbing the corpse of the philosopher's stone, convey it to paris on a cart, and tell m. desmarets that the prisoner had attempted to escape, and would have succeeded, if they had not fired after him and shot him through the body. at a convenient place the scheme was executed. at a given signal from the friendly gendarme delisle fled, while another gendarme took aim and shot him through the thigh. some peasants arriving at the instant, they were prevented from killing him as they intended; and he was transported to paris, maimed and bleeding. he was thrown into a dungeon in the bastille, and obstinately tore away the bandages which the surgeons applied to his wound. he never afterwards rose from his bed. the bishop of senes visited him in prison, and promised him his liberty if he would transmute a certain quantity of lead into gold before the king. the unhappy man had no longer the means of carrying on the deception; he had no gold, and no double-bottomed crucible or hollow wand to conceal it in, even if he had. he would not, however, confess that he was an impostor; but merely said he did not know how to make the powder of projection, but had received a quantity from an italian philosopher, and had used it all in his various transmutations in provence. he lingered for seven or eight months in the bastille, and died from the effects of his wound, in the forty-first year of his age. albert aluys. this pretender to the philosopher's stone, was the son, by a former husband, of the woman aluys, with whom delisle became acquainted at the commencement of his career, in the cabaret by the road side, and whom he afterwards married. delisle performed the part of a father towards him, and thought he could show no stronger proof of his regard, than by giving him the necessary instructions to carry on the deception which had raised himself to such a pitch of greatness. the young aluys was an apt scholar, and soon mastered all the jargon of the alchymists. he discoursed learnedly upon projections, cimentations, sublimations, the elixir of life, and the universal alkahest; and on the death of delisle gave out that the secret of that great adept had been communicated to him, and to him only. his mother aided in the fraud, with the hope they might both fasten themselves, in the true alchymical fashion, upon some rich dupe, who would entertain them magnificently while the operation was in progress. the fate of delisle was no inducement for them to stop in france. the provencals, it is true, entertained as high an opinion as ever of his skill, and were well inclined to believe the tales of the young adept on whom his mantle had fallen; but the dungeons of the bastille were yawning for their prey, and aluys and his mother decamped with all convenient expedition. they travelled about the continent for several years, sponging upon credulous rich men, and now and then performing successful transmutations by the aid of double-bottomed crucibles and the like. in the year , aluys, without his mother, who appears to have died in the interval, was at vienna, where he introduced himself to the duke de richelieu, at that time ambassador from the court of france. he completely deceived this nobleman; he turned lead into gold (apparently) on several occasions, and even made the ambassador himself turn an iron nail into a silver one. the duke afterwards boasted to lenglet du fresnoy of his achievements as an alchymist, and regretted that he had not been able to discover the secret of the precious powder by which he performed them. aluys soon found that, although he might make a dupe of the duke de richelieu, he could not get any money from him. on the contrary, the duke expected all his pokers and fire shovels to be made silver, and all his pewter utensils gold; and thought the honour of his acquaintance was reward sufficient for a roturier, who could not want wealth since he possessed so invaluable a secret. aluys seeing that so much was expected of him, bade adieu to his excellency, and proceeded to bohemia, accompanied by a pupil, and by a young girl who had fallen in love with him in vienna. some noblemen in bohemia received him kindly, and entertained him at their houses for months at a time. it was his usual practice to pretend that he possessed only a few grains of his powder, with which he would operate in any house where he intended to fix his quarters for the season. he would make the proprietor a present of the piece of gold thus transmuted, and promise him millions, if he could only be provided with leisure to gather his lunaria major and minor on their mountain tops, and board, lodging, and loose cash for himself, his wife, and his pupil in the interval. he exhausted in this manner the patience of some dozen of people, when, thinking that there was less danger for him in france, under the young king louis xv, than under his old and morose predecessor, he returned to provence. on his arrival at aix, he presented himself before m. le bret, the president of the province, a gentleman who was much attached to the pursuits of alchymy, and had great hopes of being himself able to find the philosopher's stone. m. le bret, contrary to his expectation, received him very coolly, in consequence of some rumours that were spread abroad respecting him; and told him to call upon him on the morrow. aluys did not like the tone of the voice, or the expression of the eye of the learned president, as that functionary looked down upon him. suspecting that all was not right, he left aix secretly the same evening, and proceeded to marseilles. but the police were on the watch for him; and he had not been there four-and-twenty hours, before he was arrested on a charge of coining, and thrown into prison. as the proofs against him were too convincing to leave him much hope of an acquittal, he planned an escape from durance. it so happened that the gaoler had a pretty daughter, and aluys soon discovered that she was tender-hearted. he endeavoured to gain her in his favour, and succeeded. the damsel, unaware that he was a married man, conceived and encouraged a passion for him, and generously provided him with the means of escape. after he had been nearly a year in prison he succeeded in getting free, leaving the poor girl behind, to learn that he was already married, and to lament in solitude that she had given her heart to an ungrateful vagabond. when he left marseilles, he had not a shoe to his foot, or a decent garment to his back, but was provided with some money and clothes by his wife in a neighbouring town. they then found their way to brussels, and by dint of excessive impudence, brought themselves into notice. he took a house, fitted up a splendid laboratory, and gave out that he knew the secret of transmutation. in vain did m. percel, the brother-in-law of lenglet du fresnoy, who resided in that city, expose his pretensions, and hold him up to contempt as an ignorant impostor: the world believed him not. they took the alchymist at his word, and besieged his doors, to see and wonder at the clever legerdemain by which he turned iron nails into gold and silver. a rich greffier paid him a large sum of money that he might be instructed in the art, and aluys gave him several lessons on the most common principles of chemistry. the greffier studied hard for a twelvemonth, and then discovered that his master was a quack. he demanded his money back again; but aluys was not inclined to give it him, and the affair was brought before the civil tribunal of the province. in the mean time, however, the greffier died suddenly; poisoned, according to the popular rumour, by his debtor, to avoid repayment. so great an outcry arose in the city, that aluys, who may have been innocent of the crime, was nevertheless afraid to remain and brave it. he withdrew secretly in the night, and retired to paris. here all trace of him is lost. he was never heard of again; but lenglet du fresnoy conjectures, that he ended his days in some obscure dungeon, into which he was cast for coining, or other malpractices. the count de st. germain this adventurer was of a higher grade than the last, and played a distinguished part at the court of louis xv. he pretended to have discovered the elixir of life, by means of which he could make any one live for centuries; and allowed it to be believed that his own age was upwards of two thousand years. he entertained many of the opinions of the rosicrucians; boasted of his intercourse with sylphs and salamanders; and of his power of drawing diamonds from the earth, and pearls from the sea, by the force of his incantations. he did not lay claim to the merit of having discovered the philosopher's stone; but devoted so much of his time to the operations of alchymy, that it was very generally believed, that, if such a thing as the philosopher's stone had ever existed, or could be called into existence, he was the man to succeed in finding it. it has never yet been discovered what was his real name, or in what country he was born. some believed, from the jewish cast of his handsome countenance, that he was the "wandering jew;" others asserted, that he was the issue of an arabian princess, and that his father was a salamander; while others, more reasonable, affirmed him to be the son of a portuguese jew, established at bourdeaux. he first carried on his imposture in germany, where he made considerable sums by selling an elixir to arrest the progress of old age. the marechal de belle-isle purchased a dose of it; and was so captivated with the wit, learning, and good manners of the charlatan, and so convinced of the justice of his most preposterous pretensions, that he induced him to fix his residence in paris. under the marshal's patronage, he first appeared in the gay circles of that capital. every one was delighted with the mysterious stranger; who, at this period of his life, appears to have been about seventy years of age, but did not look more than forty-five. his easy assurance imposed upon most people. his reading was extensive, and his memory extraordinarily tenacious of the slightest circumstances. his pretension to have lived for so many centuries naturally exposed him to some puzzling questions, as to the appearance, life, and conversation of the great men of former days; but he was never at a loss for an answer. many who questioned him for the purpose of scoffing at him, refrained in perplexity, quite bewildered by his presence of mind, his ready replies, and his astonishing accuracy on every point mentioned in history. to increase the mystery by which he was surrounded, he permitted no person to know how he lived. he dressed in a style of the greatest magnificence; sported valuable diamonds in his hat, on his fingers, and in his shoe-buckles; and sometimes made the most costly presents to the ladies of the court. it was suspected by many that he was a spy, in the pay of the english ministry; but there never was a tittle of evidence to support the charge. the king looked upon him with marked favour, was often closeted with him for hours together, and would not suffer anybody to speak disparagingly of him. voltaire constantly turned him into ridicule; and, in one of his letters to the king of prussia, mentions him as "un comte pour fire;" and states, that he pretended to have dined with the holy fathers, at the council of trent! in the "memoirs of madame du hausset," chamber-woman to madame du pompadour, there are some amusing anecdotes of this personage. very soon after his arrival in paris, he had the entree of her dressing-room; a favour only granted to the most powerful lords at the court of her royal lover. madame was fond of conversing with him; and, in her presence, he thought fit to lower his pretensions very considerably: but he often allowed her to believe that he had lived two or three hundred years, at least. "one day," says madame du hausset, "madame said to him, in my presence, 'what was the personal appearance of francis i? he was a king i should have liked.' 'he was, indeed, very captivating,' replied st. germain; and he proceeded to describe his face and person, as that of a man whom he had accurately observed. 'it is a pity he was too ardent. i could have given him some good advice, which would have saved him from all his misfortunes: but he would not have followed it; for it seems as if a fatality attended princes, forcing them to shut their ears to the wisest counsel.' 'was his court very brilliant?' inquired madame du pompadour. 'very,' replied the count; 'but those of his grandsons surpassed it. in the time of mary stuart and margaret of valois, it was a land of enchantment--a temple sacred to pleasures of every kind.' madame said, laughing, 'you seem to have seen all this.' 'i have an excellent memory,' said he, 'and have read the history of france with great care. i sometimes amuse myself, not by making, but by letting, it be believed that i lived in old times.' "'but you do not tell us your age,' said madame du pompadour to him on another occasion; 'and yet you pretend you are very old. the countess de gergy, who was, i believe, ambassadress at vienna some fifty years ago, says she saw you there, exactly the same as you now appear.' "'it is true, madam,' replied st. germain; 'i knew madame de gergy many years ago.' "'but, according to her account, you must be more than a hundred years old?' "'that is not impossible,' said he, laughing; 'but it is much more possible that the good lady is in her dotage.' "'you gave her an elixir, surprising for the effects it produced; for she says, that during a length of time, she only appeared to be eighty-four; the age at which she took it. why don't you give it to the king?' "'o madam!' he exclaimed, 'the physicians would have me broken on the wheel, were i to think of drugging his majesty.'" when the world begins to believe extraordinary things of an individual, there is no telling where its extravagance will stop. people, when once they have taken the start, vie with each other who shall believe most. at this period all paris resounded with the wonderful adventures of the count de st. germain; and a company of waggish young men tried the following experiment upon its credulity:-a clever mimic, who, on account of the amusement he afforded, was admitted into good society, was taken by them, dressed as the count de st. germain, into several houses in the rue du marais. he imitated the count's peculiarities admirably, and found his auditors open-mouthed to believe any absurdity he chose to utter. no fiction was too monstrous for their all-devouring credulity. he spoke of the saviour of the world in terms of the greatest familiarity; said he had supped with him at the marriage in canaan of galilee, where the water was miraculously turned into wine. in fact, he said he was an intimate friend of his, and had often warned him to be less romantic and imprudent, or he would finish his career miserably. this infamous blasphemy, strange to say, found believers; and, ere three days had elapsed, it was currently reported that st. germain was born soon after the deluge, and that he would never die! st. germain himself was too much a man of the world to assert anything so monstrous; but he took no pains to contradict the story. in all his conversations with persons of rank and education, he advanced his claims modestly, and as if by mere inadvertency; and seldom pretended to a longevity beyond three hundred years; except when he found he was in company with persons who would believe anything. he often spoke of henry viii, as if he had known him intimately; and of the emperor charles v, as if that monarch had delighted in his society. he would describe conversations which took place with such an apparent truthfulness, and be so exceedingly minute and particular as to the dress and appearance of the individuals, and even the weather at the time, and the furniture of the room, that three persons out of four were generally inclined to credit him. he had constant applications from rich old women for an elixir to make them young again; and, it would appear, gained large sums in this manner. to those whom he was pleased to call his friends, he said, his mode of living and plan of diet were far superior to any elixir; and that anybody might attain a patriarchal age, by refraining from drinking at meals, and very sparingly at any other time. the baron de gleichen followed this system, and took great quantities of senna leaves, expecting to live for two hundred years. he died, however, at seventy-three. the duchess de choiseul was desirous of following the same system; but the duke her husband, in much wrath, forbade her to follow any system prescribed by a man who had so equivocal a reputation as m. de st. germain. madame du hausset says, she saw st. germain, and conversed with him several times. he appeared to her to be about fifty years of age, was of the middle size, and had fine expressive features. his dress was always simple, but displayed much taste. he usually wore diamond rings of great value; and his watch and snuff-box were ornamented with a profusion of precious stones. one day, at madame du pompadour's apartments, where the principal courtiers were assembled, st. germain made his appearance in diamond knee and shoe buckles, of so fine a water, that madame said, she did not think the king had any equal to them. he was entreated to pass into the antechamber, and undo them; which he did, and brought them to madame, for closer inspection. m. de gontant, who was present, said their value could not be less than two hundred thousand livres, or upwards of eight thousand pounds sterling. the baron de gleichen, in his "memoirs," relates, that the count one day showed him so many diamonds, that he thought he saw before him all the treasures of aladdin's lamp; and adds, that he had had great experience in precious stones, and was convinced that all those possessed by the count were genuine. on another occasion, st. germain showed madame du pompadour a small box, containing topazes, emeralds, and diamonds, worth half a million of livres. he affected to despise all this wealth, to make the world more easily believe that he could, like the rosicrucians, draw precious stones out of the earth by the magic of his song. he gave away a great number of these jewels to the ladies of the court; and madame du pompadour was so charmed with his generosity, that she gave him a richly-enamelled snuff-box, as a token of her regard; on the lid of which was beautifully painted a portrait of socrates, or some other greek sage, to whom she compared him. he was not only lavish to the mistresses, but to the maids. madame du hausset says,--"the count came to see madame du pompadour, who was very ill, and lay on the sofa. he showed her diamonds enough to furnish a king's treasury. madame sent for me to see all those beautiful things. i looked at them with an air of the utmost astonishment; but i made signs to her, that i thought them all false. the count felt for something in a pocket-book about twice as large as a spectacle-case; and, at length, drew out two or three little paper packets, which he unfolded, and exhibited a superb ruby. he threw on the table, with a contumptuous air, a little cross of green and white stones. i looked at it, and said it was not to be despised. i then put it on, and admired it greatly. the count begged me to accept it. i refused. he urged me to take it. at length, he pressed so warmly, that madame, seeing it could not be worth more than a thousand livres, made me a sign to accept it. i took the cross, much pleased with the count's politeness." how the adventurer obtained his wealth remains a secret. he could not have made it all by the sale of his elixir vitae in germany; though, no doubt, some portion of it was derived from that source. voltaire positively says, he was in the pay of foreign governments; and in his letter to the king of prussia, dated the th of april , says, that he was initiated in all the secrets of choiseul, kaunitz, and pitt. of what use he could be to any of those ministers, and to choiseul especially, is a mystery of mysteries. there appears no doubt that he possessed the secret of removing spots from diamonds; and, in all probability, he gained considerable sums by buying, at inferior prices, such as had flaws in them, and afterwards disposing of them at a profit of cent. per cent. madame du hausset relates the following anecdote on this particular:--"the king," says she, "ordered a middling-sized diamond, which had a flaw in it, to be brought to him. after having it weighed, his majesty said to the count, 'the value of this diamond, as it is, and with the flaw in it, is six thousand livres; without the flaw, it would be worth, at least, ten thousand. will you undertake to make me a gainer of four thousand livres?' st. germain examined it very attentively, and said, 'it is possible; it may be done. i will bring it you again in a month.' at the time appointed, the count brought back the diamond, without a spot, and gave it to the king. it was wrapped in a cloth of amianthos, which he took off. the king had it weighed immediately, and found it very little diminished. his majesty then sent it to his jeweller, by m. de gonrant, without telling him of anything that had passed. the jeweller gave nine thousand six hundred livres for it. the king, however, sent for the diamond back again, and said he would keep it as a curiosity. he could not overcome his surprise; and said m. de st. germain must be worth millions; especially if he possessed the secret of making large diamonds out of small ones. the count neither said that he could, or could not; but positively asserted, that he knew how to make pearls grow, and give them the finest water. the king paid him great attention, and so did madame du pompadour. m. du quesnoy once said, that st. germain was a quack; but the king reprimanded him. in fact, his majesty appears infatuated by him; and sometimes talks of him as if his descent were illustrious." st. germain had a most amusing vagabond for a servant, to whom he would often appeal for corroboration, when relating some wonderful event that happened centuries before. the fellow, who was not without ability, generally corroborated him in a most satisfactory manner. upon one occasion, his master was telling a party of ladies and gentlemen, at dinner, some conversation he had had in palestine, with king richard i. of england, whom he described as a very particular friend of his. signs of astonishment and incredulity were visible on the faces of the company; upon which st. germain very coolly turned to his servant, who stood behind his chair, and asked him if he had not spoken truth? "i really cannot say," replied the man, without moving a muscle; "you forget, sir, i have only been five hundred years in your service!" "ah! true," said his master; "i remember now; it was a little before your time!" occasionally, when with men whom he could not so easily dupe, he gave utterance to the contempt with which he could scarcely avoid regarding such gaping credulity. "these fools of parisians," said he, to the baron de gleichen, "believe me to be more than five hundred years old; and, since they will have it so, i confirm them in their idea. not but that i really am much older than i appear." many other stories are related of this strange impostor; but enough have been quoted to show his character and pretensions. it appears that he endeavoured to find the philosopher's stone; but never boasted of possessing it. the prince of hesse cassel, whom he had known years before, in germany, wrote urgent letters to him, entreating him to quit paris, and reside with him. st. germain at last consented. nothing further is known of his career. there were no gossipping memoir-writers at the court of hesse cassel to chronicle his sayings and doings. he died at sleswig, under the roof of his friend the prince, in the year . cagliostro, this famous charlatan, the friend and successor of st. germain, ran a career still more extraordinary. he was the arch-quack of his age, the last of the great pretenders to the philosopher's stone and the water of life, and during his brief season of prosperity one of the most conspicuous characters of europe. his real name was joseph balsamo. he was born at palermo about the year , of humble parentage. he had the misfortune to lose his father during his infancy, and his education was left in consequence to some relatives of his mother, the latter being too poor to afford him any instruction beyond mere reading and writing. he was sent in his fifteenth year to a monastery, to be taught the elements of chemistry and physic; but his temper was so impetuous, his indolence so invincible, and his vicious habits so deeply rooted, that he made no progress. after remaining some years, he left it with the character of an uninformed and dissipated young man, with good natural talents but a bad disposition. when he became of age, he abandoned himself to a life of riot and debauchery, and entered himself, in fact, into that celebrated fraternity, known in france and italy as the "knights of industry," and in england as the "swell mob." he was far from being an idle or unwilling member of the corps. the first way in which he distinguished himself was by forging orders of admission to the theatres. he afterwards robbed his uncle, and counterfeited a will. for acts like these, he paid frequent compulsory visits to the prisons of palermo. somehow or other he acquired the character of a sorcerer--of a man who had failed in discovering the secrets of alchymy, and had sold his soul to the devil for the gold which he was not able to make by means of transmutation. he took no pains to disabuse the popular mind on this particular, but rather encouraged the belief than otherwise. he at last made use of it to cheat a silversmith, named marano, of about sixty ounces of gold, and was in consequence obliged to leave palermo. he persuaded this man that he could show him a treasure hidden in a cave, for which service he was to receive the sixty ounces of gold, while the silversmith was to have all the treasure for the mere trouble of digging it up. they went together at midnight to an excavation in the vicinity of palermo, where balsamo drew a magic circle, and invoked the devil to show his treasures. suddenly there appeared half a dozen fellows, the accomplices of the swindler, dressed to represent devils, with horns on their heads, claws to their fingers, and vomiting apparently red and blue flame. they were armed with pitchforks, with which they belaboured poor marano till he was almost dead, and robbed him of his sixty ounces of gold and all the valuables he carried about his person. they then made off, accompanied by balsamo, leaving the unlucky silversmith to recover or die at his leisure. nature chose the former course; and soon after daylight he was restored to his senses, smarting in body from his blows and in spirit for the deception of which he had been the victim. his first impulse was to denounce balsamo to the magistrates of the town; but on further reflection he was afraid of the ridicule that a full exposure of all the circumstances would draw upon him: he therefore took the truly italian resolution of being revenged on balsamo by murdering him at the first convenient opportunity. having given utterance to this threat in the hearing of a friend of balsamo, it was reported to the latter, who immediately packed up his valuables and quitted europe. he chose medina, in arabia, for his future dwelling-place, and there became acquainted with a greek named altotas, a man exceedingly well versed in all the languages of the east, and an indefatigable student of alchymy. he possessed an invaluable collection of arabian manuscripts on his favourite science, and studied them with such unremitting industry that he found he had not sufficient time to attend to his crucibles and furnaces without neglecting his books. he was looking about for an assistant when balsamo opportunely presented himself, and made so favourable an impression that he was at once engaged in that capacity. but the relation of master and servant did not long subsist between them; balsamo was too ambitious and too clever to play a secondary part, and within fifteen days of their first acquaintance they were bound together as friends and partners. altotas, in the course of a long life devoted to alchymy, had stumbled upon some valuable discoveries in chemistry, one of which was an ingredient for improving the manufacture of flax, and imparting to goods of that material a gloss and softness almost equal to silk. balsamo gave him the good advice to leave the philosopher's stone for the present undiscovered, and make gold out of their flax. the advice was taken, and they proceeded together to alexandria to trade, with a large stock of that article. they stayed forty days in alexandria, and gained a considerable sum by their venture. they afterwards visited other cities in egypt, and were equally successful. they also visited turkey, where they sold drugs and amulets. on their return to europe, they were driven by stress of weather into malta, and were hospitably received by pinto, the grand master of the knights, and a famous alchymist. they worked in his laboratory for some months, and tried hard to change a pewter-platter into a silver one. balsamo, having less faith than his companions, was sooner wearied; and obtaining from his host many letters of introduction to rome and naples, he left him and altotas to find the philosopher's stone and transmute the pewter-platter without him. he had long since dropped the name of balsamo on account of the many ugly associations that clung to it; and during his travels had assumed at least half a score others, with titles annexed to them. he called himself sometimes the chevalier de fischio, the marquis de melissa, the baron de belmonte, de pelligrini, d'anna, de fenix, de harat, but most commonly the count de cagliostro. under the latter title he entered rome, and never afterwards changed it. in this city he gave himself out as the restorer of the rosicrucian philosophy; said he could transmute all metals into gold; that he could render himself invisible, cure all diseases, and administer an elixir against old age and decay. his letters from the grand master pinto procured him an introduction into the best families. he made money rapidly by the sale of his elixir vitae; and, like other quacks, performed many remarkable cures by inspiring his patients with the most complete faith and reliance upon his powers; an advantage which the most impudent charlatans often possess over the regular practitioner. while thus in a fair way of making his fortune he became acquainted with the beautiful lorenza feliciana, a young lady of noble birth, but without fortune. cagliostro soon discovered that she possessed accomplishments that were invaluable. besides her ravishing beauty, she had the readiest wit, the most engaging manners, the most fertile imagination, and the least principle of any of the maidens of rome. she was just the wife for cagliostro, who proposed himself to her, and was accepted. after their marriage, he instructed his fair lorenza in all the secrets of his calling--taught her pretty lips to invoke angels, and genii, sylphs, salamanders, and undines, and, when need required, devils and evil spirits. lorenza was an apt scholar: she soon learned all the jargon of the alchymists and all the spells of the enchanters; and thus accomplished the hopeful pair set out on their travels, to levy contributions on the superstitious and the credulous. they first went to sleswig on a visit to the count de st. germain, their great predecessor in the art of making dupes, and were received by him in the most magnificent manner. they no doubt fortified their minds for the career they had chosen, by the sage discourse of that worshipful gentleman; for immediately after they left him, they began their operations. they travelled for three or four years in russia, poland, and germany, transmuting metals, telling fortunes, raising spirits, and selling the elixir vitae wherever they went; but there is no record of their doings from whence to draw a more particular detail. it was not until they made their appearance in england in , that the names of the count and countess di cagliostro began to acquire a european reputation. they arrived in london in the july of that year, possessed of property in plate, jewels, and specie to the amount of about three thousand pounds. they hired apartments in whitcombe-street, and lived for some months quietly. in the same house there lodged a portuguese woman named blavary, who, being in necessitous circumstances, was engaged by the count as interpreter. she was constantly admitted into his laboratory, where he spent much of his time in search of the philosopher's stone. she spread abroad the fame of her entertainer in return for his hospitality, and laboured hard to impress everybody with as full a belief in his extraordinary powers as she felt herself. but as a female interpreter of the rank and appearance of madame blavary did not exactly correspond with the count's notions either of dignity or decorum, he hired a person named vitellini, a teacher of languages, to act in that capacity. vitellini was a desperate gambler; a man who had tried almost every resource to repair his ruined fortunes, including among the rest the search for the philosopher's stone. immediately that he saw the count's operations, he was convinced that the great secret was his, and that the golden gates of the palace of fortune were open to let him in. with still more enthusiasm than madame blavary, he held forth to his acquaintance, and in all public places, that the count was an extraordinary man, a true adept, whose fortune was immense, and who could transmute into pure and solid gold, as much lead, iron, and copper as he pleased. the consequence was, that the house of cagliostro was besieged by crowds of the idle, the credulous, and the avaricious, all eager to obtain a sight of the "philosopher," or to share in the boundless wealth which he could call into existence. unfortunately for cagliostro, he had fallen into evil hands; instead of duping the people of england as he might have done, he became himself the victim of a gang of swindlers, who, with the fullest reliance on his occult powers, only sought to make money of him. vitellini introduced to him a ruined gambler like himself, named scot, whom he represented as a scottish nobleman, attracted to london solely by his desire to see and converse with the extraordinary man whose fame had spread to the distant mountains of the north. cagliostro received him with great kindness and cordiality; and "lord" scot thereupon introduced a woman named fry, as lady scot, who was to act as chaperone to the countess di cagliostro, and make her acquainted with all the noble families of britain. thus things went swimmingly. "his lordship," whose effects had not arrived from scotland, and who had no banker in london, borrowed two hundred pounds of the count; they were lent without scruple, so flattered was cagliostro by the attentions they paid him, the respect, nay, veneration they pretended to feel for him, and the complete deference with which they listened to every word that fell from his lips. superstitious, like all desperate gamesters, scot had often tried magical and cabalistic numbers, in the hope of discovering lucky numbers in the lottery, or at the roulette tables. he had in his possession a cabalistic manuscript, containing various arithmetical combinations of the kind, which he submitted to cagliostro, with an urgent request that he would select a number. cagliostro took the manuscript and studied it; but, as he himself informs us, with no confidence in its truth. he however predicted twenty as the successful number for the th of november following. scot ventured a small sum upon this number, out of the two hundred pounds he had borrowed, and won. cagliostro, incited by this success, prognosticated number twenty-five for the next drawing. scot tried again, and won a hundred guineas. the numbers fifty-five and fifty-seven were announced with equal success for the th of the same month, to the no small astonishment and delight of cagliostro, who thereupon resolved to try fortune for himself, and not for others. to all the entreaties of scot and his lady that he would predict more numbers for them, he turned a deaf ear, even while he still thought him a lord and a man of honour. but when he discovered that he was a mere swindler, and the pretended lady scot an artful woman of the town, he closed his door upon them and on all their gang. having complete faith in the supernatural powers of the count, they were in the deepest distress at having lost his countenance. they tried by every means their ingenuity could suggest, to propitiate him again; they implored, they threatened, and endeavoured to bribe him. but all was vain. cagliostro would neither see nor correspond with them. in the mean time they lived extravagantly; and in the hope of future, exhausted all their present gains. they were reduced to the last extremity, when miss fry obtained access to the countess, and received a guinea from her on the representation that she was starving. miss fry, not contented with this, begged her to intercede with her husband, that for the last time he would point out a lucky number in the lottery. the countess promised to exert her influence, and cagliostro thus entreated, named the number eight, at the same time reiterating his determination to have no more to do with any of them. by an extraordinary hazard, which filled cagliostro with surprise and pleasure, number eight was the greatest prize in the lottery. miss fry and her associates cleared fifteen hundred guineas by the adventure; and became more than ever convinced of the occult powers of cagliostro, and strengthened in their determination never to quit him until they had made their fortunes. out of the proceeds, miss fry bought a handsome necklace at a pawnbrokers for ninety guineas. she then ordered a richly chased gold box, having two compartments, to be made at a jeweller's, and putting the necklace in the one, filled the other with a fine aromatic snuff. she then sought another interview with madame di cagliostro, and urged her to accept the box as a small token of her esteem and gratitude, without mentioning the valuable necklace that was concealed in it. madame di cagliostro accepted the present, and was from that hour exposed to the most incessant persecution from all the confederates, blavary, vitellini, and the pretended lord and lady scot. they flattered themselves they had regained their lost footing in the house, and came day after day to know lucky numbers in the lottery; sometimes forcing themselves up the stairs, and into the count's laboratory, in spite of the efforts of the servants to prevent them. cagliostro, exasperated at their pertinacity, threatened to call in the assistance of the magistrates; and taking miss fry by the shoulders, pushed her into the street. from that time may be dated the misfortunes of cagliostro. miss fry, at the instigation of her paramour, determined on vengeance. her first act was to swear a debt of two hundred pounds against cagliostro, and to cause him to be arrested for that sum. while he was in custody in a sponging house, scot, accompanied by a low attorney, broke into his laboratory, and carried off a small box, containing, as they believed, the powder of transmutation, and a number of cabalistic manuscripts and treatises upon alchymy. they also brought an action against him for the recovery of the necklace; and miss fry accused both him and his countess of sorcery and witchcraft, and of foretelling numbers in the lottery by the aid of the devil. this latter charge was actually heard before mr. justice miller. the action of trover for the necklace was tried before the lord chief justice of the common pleas, who recommended the parties to submit to arbitration. in the mean time cagliostro remained in prison for several weeks, till having procured bail, he was liberated. he was soon after waited upon by an attorney named reynolds, also deep in the plot, who offered to compromise all the actions upon certain conditions. scot, who had accompanied him, concealed himself behind the door, and suddenly rushing out, presented a pistol at the heart of cagliostro, swearing he would shoot him instantly, if he would not tell him truly the art of predicting lucky numbers, and of transmuting metals. reynolds pretending to be very angry, disarmed his accomplice, and entreated the count to satisfy them by fair means, and disclose his secrets, promising that if he would do so, they would discharge all the actions, and offer him no further molestation. cagliostro replied, that threats and entreaties were alike useless; that he knew no secrets; and that the powder of transmutation of which they had robbed him, was of no value to anybody but himself. he offered, however, if they would discharge the actions, and return the powder and the manuscripts, he would forgive them all the money they had swindled him out of. these conditions were refused; and scot and reynolds departed, swearing vengeance against him. cagliostro appears to have been quite ignorant of the forms of law in england, and to have been without a friend to advise him as to the best course he should pursue. while he was conversing with his countess on the difficulties that beset them, one of his bail called, and invited him to ride in a hackney coach to the house of a person who would see him righted. cagliostro consented, and was driven to the king's bench prison, where his friend left him. he did not discover for several hours that he was a prisoner, or in fact understand the process of being surrendered by one's bail. he regained his liberty in a few weeks; and the arbitrators between him and miss fry, made their award against him. he was ordered to pay the two hundred pounds she had sworn against him, and to restore the necklace and gold box which had been presented to the countess. cagliostro was so disgusted, that he determined to quit england. his pretensions, besides, had been unmercifully exposed by a frenchman, named morande, the editor of the courier de l'europe, published in london. to add to his distress, he was recognised in westminster hall, as joseph balsamo, the swindler of palermo. such a complication of disgrace was not to be borne. he and his countess packed up their small effects, and left england with no more than fifty pounds, out of the three thousand they had brought with them. they first proceeded to brussels, where fortune was more auspicious. they sold considerable quantities of the elixir of life, performed many cures, and recruited their finances. they then took their course through germany to russia, and always with the same success. gold flowed into their coffers faster than they could count it. they quite forgot all the woes they had endured in england, and learned to be more circumspect in the choice of their acquaintance. in the year , they made their appearance in strasbourg. their fame had reached that city before them. they took a magnificent hotel, and invited all the principal persons of the place to their table. their wealth appeared to be boundless, and their hospitality equal to it. both the count and countess acted as physicians, and gave money, advice, and medicine to all the necessitous and suffering of the town. many of the cures they performed, astonished those regular practitioners who did not make sufficient allowance for the wonderful influence of imagination in certain cases. the countess, who at this time was not more than five-and-twenty, and all radiant with grace, beauty, and cheerfulness, spoke openly of her eldest son as a fine young man of eight-and-twenty, who had been for some years a captain in the dutch service. the trick succeeded to admiration. all the ugly old women in strasbourg, and for miles around, thronged the saloon of the countess to purchase the liquid which was to make them as blooming as their daughters; the young women came in equal abundance that they might preserve their charms, and when twice as old as ninon de l'enclos, be more captivating than she; while men were not wanting fools enough to imagine, that they might keep off the inevitable stroke of the grim foe, by a few drops of the same incomparable elixir. the countess, sooth to say, looked like an incarnation of immortal loveliness, a very goddess of youth and beauty; and it is possible that the crowds of young men and old, who at all convenient seasons haunted the perfumed chambers of this enchantress, were attracted less by their belief in her occult powers than from admiration of her languishing bright eyes and sparkling conversation. but amid all the incense that was offered at her shrine, madame di cagliostro was ever faithful to her spouse. she encouraged hopes, it is true, but she never realised them; she excited admiration, yet kept it within bounds; and made men her slaves, without ever granting a favour of which the vainest might boast. in this city they made the acquaintance of many eminent persons, and among others, of the cardinal prince de rohan, who was destined afterwards to exercise so untoward an influence over their fate. the cardinal, who seems to have had great faith in him as a philosopher, persuaded him to visit paris in his company, which he did, but remained only thirteen days. he preferred the society of strasbourg, and returned thither, with the intention of fixing his residence far from the capital. but he soon found that the first excitement of his arrival had passed away. people began to reason with themselves, and to be ashamed of their own admiration. the populace, among whom he had lavished his charity with a bountiful hand, accused him of being the antichrist, the wandering jew, the man of fourteen hundred years of age, a demon in human shape, sent to lure the ignorant to their destruction; while the more opulent and better informed called him a spy in the pay of foreign governments, an agent of the police, a swindler, and a man of evil life. the outcry grew at last so strong, that he deemed it prudent to try his fortune elsewhere. he went first to naples, but that city was too near palermo; he dreaded recognition from some of his early friends, and after a short stay, returned to france. he chose bordeaux as his next dwelling-place, and created as great a sensation there as he had done in strasbourg. he announced himself as the founder of a new school of medicine and philosophy, boasted of his ability to cure all diseases, and invited the poor and suffering to visit him, and he would relieve the distress of the one class, and cure the ailings of the other. all day long the street opposite his magnificent hotel was crowded by the populace; the halt and the blind, women with sick babes in their arms, and persons suffering under every species of human infirmity flocked to this wonderful doctor. the relief he afforded in money more than counterbalanced the failure of his nostrums; and the affluence of people from all the surrounding country became so great, that the jurats of the city granted him a military guard, to be stationed day and night before his door, to keep order. the anticipations of cagliostro were realised. the rich were struck with admiration of his charity and benevolence, and impressed with a full conviction of his marvellous powers. the sale of the elixir went on admirably. his saloons were thronged with wealthy dupes who came to purchase immortality. beauty, that would endure for centuries, was the attraction for the fair sex; health and strength for the same period were the baits held out to the other. his charming countess in the meantime brought grist to the mill, by telling fortunes and casting nativities, or granting attendant sylphs to any ladies who would pay sufficiently for their services. what was still better, as tending to keep up the credit of her husband, she gave the most magnificent parties in bordeaux. but as at strasbourg the popular delusion lasted for a few months only, and burned itself out; cagliostro forgot, in the intoxication of success, that there was a limit to quackery, which once passed, inspired distrust. when he pretended to call spirits from the tomb, people became incredulous. he was accused of being an enemy to religion--of denying christ, and of being the wandering jew. he despised these rumours as long as they were confined to a few; but when they spread over the town--when he received no more fees--when his parties were abandoned, and his acquaintance turned away when they met him in the street, he thought it high time to shift his quarters. he was by this time wearied of the provinces, and turned his thoughts to the capital. on his arrival, he announced himself as the restorer of egyptian freemasonry and the founder of a new philosophy. he immediately made his way into the best society by means of his friend the cardinal de rohan. his success as a magician was quite extraordinary: the most considerable persons of the time visited him. he boasted of being able, like the rosicrucians, to converse with the elementary spirits; to invoke the mighty dead from the grave, to transmute metals, and to discover occult things, by means of the special protection of god towards him. like dr. dee, he summoned the angels to reveal the future; and they appeared, and conversed with him in crystals and under glass bells. [see the abbe fiard, and "anecdotes of the reign of louis xvi." p. .] "there was hardly," says the biographie des contemporains, "a fine lady in paris who would not sup with the shade of lucretius in the apartments of cagliostro--a military officer who would not discuss the art of war with cesar, hannibal, or alexander; or an advocate or counsellor who would not argue legal points with the ghost of cicero." these interviews with the departed were very expensive; for, as cagliostro said, the dead would not rise for nothing. the countess, as usual, exercised all her ingenuity to support her husband's credit. she was a great favourite with her own sex; to many a delighted and wondering auditory of whom she detailed the marvellous powers of cagliostro. she said he could render himself invisible, traverse the world with the rapidity of thought, and be in several places at the same time. ["biographie des contemporains," article "cagliostro." see also "histoire de la magie en france," par m. jules garinet, p. .] he had not been long at paris before he became involved in the celebrated affair of the queen's necklace. his friend, the cardinal de rohan, enamoured of the charms of marie antoinette, was in sore distress at her coldness, and the displeasure she had so often manifested against him. there was at that time a lady, named la motte, in the service of the queen, of whom the cardinal was foolish enough to make a confidant. madame de la motte, in return, endeavoured to make a tool of the cardinal, and succeeded but too well in her projects. in her capacity of chamber-woman, or lady of honour to the queen, she was present at an interview between her majesty and m. boehmer, a wealthy jeweller of paris, when the latter offered for sale a magnificent diamond necklace, valued at , , francs, or about , pounds sterling. the queen admired it greatly, but dismissed the jeweller, with the expression of her regret that she was too poor to purchase it. madame de la motte formed a plan to get this costly ornament into her own possession, and determined to make the cardinal de rohan the instrument by which to effect it. she therefore sought an interview with him, and pretending to sympathise in his grief for the queen's displeasure, told him she knew a way by which he might be restored to favour. she then mentioned the necklace, and the sorrow of the queen that she could not afford to buy it. the cardinal, who was as wealthy as he was foolish, immediately offered to purchase the necklace, and make a present of it to the queen. madame de la motte told him by no means to do so, as he would thereby offend her majesty. his plan would be to induce the jeweller to give her majesty credit, and accept her promissory note for the amount at a certain date, to be hereafter agreed upon. the cardinal readily agreed to the proposal, and instructed the jeweller to draw up an agreement, and he would procure the queen's signature. he placed this in the hands of madame de la motte, who returned it shortly afterwards, with the words, "bon, bon--approuve--marie antoinette," written in the margin. she told him at the same time that the queen was highly pleased with his conduct in the matter, and would appoint a meeting with him in the gardens of versailles, when she would present him with a flower, as a token of her regard. the cardinal showed the forged document to the jeweller, obtained the necklace, and delivered it into the hands of madame de la motte. so far all was well. her next object was to satisfy the cardinal, who awaited impatiently the promised interview with his royal mistress. there was at that time in paris a young woman named d'oliva, noted for her resemblance to the queen; and madame de la motte, on the promise of a handsome reward, found no difficulty in persuading her to personate marie antoinette, and meet the cardinal de rohan at the evening twilight in the gardens of versailles. the meeting took place accordingly. the cardinal was deceived by the uncertain light, the great resemblance of the counterfeit, and his own hopes; and having received the flower from mademoiselle d'oliva, went home with a lighter heart than had beat in his bosom for many a day. [the enemies of the unfortunate queen of france, when the progress of the revolution embittered their animosity against her, maintained that she was really a party in this transaction; that she, and not mademoiselle d'oliva, met the cardinal and rewarded him with the flower; and that the story above related was merely concocted between her, la motte, and others to cheat the jeweller of his , , francs.] in the course of time the forgery of the queen's signature was discovered. boehmer the jeweller immediately named the cardinal de rohan and madame de la motte as the persons with whom he had negotiated, and they were both arrested and thrown into the bastille. la motte was subjected to a rigorous examination, and the disclosures she made implicating cagliostro, he was seized, along with his wife, and also sent to the bastille, a story involving so much scandal necessarily excited great curiosity. nothing was to be heard of in paris but the queen's necklace, with surmises of the guilt or innocence of the several parties implicated. the husband of madame de la motte escaped to england, and in the opinion of many took the necklace with him, and there disposed of it to different jewellers in small quantities at a time. but madame de la motte insisted that she had entrusted it to cagliostro, who had seized and taken it to pieces, to "swell the treasures of his immense unequalled fortune." she spoke of him as "an empiric, a mean alchymist, a dreamer on the philosopher's stone, a false prophet, a profaner of the true worship, the self-dubbed count cagliostro!" she further said that he originally conceived the project of ruining the cardinal de rohan; that he persuaded her, by the exercise of some magic influence over her mind, to aid and abet the scheme; and that he was a robber, a swindler, and a sorcerer! after all the accused parties had remained for upwards of six months in the bastille, the trial commenced. the depositions of the witnesses having been heard, cagliostro, as the principal culprit, was first called upon for his defence. he was listened to with the most breathless attention. he put himself into a theatrical attitude, and thus began:--"i am oppressed!--i am accused!--i am calumniated! have i deserved this fate? i descend into my conscience, and i there find the peace that men refuse me! i have travelled a great deal--i am known over all europe, and a great part of asia and africa. i have everywhere shown myself the friend of my fellow-creatures. my knowledge, my time, my fortune have ever been employed in the relief of distress! i have studied and practised medicine, but i have never degraded that most noble and most consoling of arts by mercenary speculations of any kind. though always giving, and never receiving, i have preserved my independence. i have even carried my delicacy so far as to refuse the favours of kings. i have given gratuitously my remedies and my advice to the rich: the poor have received from me both remedies and money. i have never contracted any debts, and my manners are pure and uncorrupted." after much more self-laudation of the same kind, he went on to complain of the great hardships he had endured in being separated for so many months from his innocent and loving wife, who, as he was given to understand, had been detained in the bastille, and perhaps chained in an unwholesome dungeon. he denied unequivocally that he had the necklace, or that he had ever seen it; and to silence the rumours and accusations against him, which his own secrecy with regard to the events of his life had perhaps originated, he expressed himself ready to satisfy the curiosity of the public, and to give a plain and full account of his career. he then told a romantic and incredible tale, which imposed upon no one. he said he neither knew the place of his birth nor the name of his parents, but that he spent his infancy in medina in arabia, and was brought up under the name of acharat. he lived in the palace of the great muphti in that city, and always had three servants to wait upon him, besides his preceptor, named althotas. this althotas was very fond of him, and told him that his father and mother, who were christians and nobles, died when he was three months old, and left him in the care of the muphti. he could never, he said, ascertain their names, for whenever he asked althotas the question, he was told that it would be dangerous for him to know. some incautious expressions dropped by his preceptor gave him reason to think they were from malta. at the age of twelve he began his travels, and learned the various languages of the east. he remained three years in mecca, where the cherif, or governor, showed him so much kindness, and spoke to him so tenderly and affectionately, that he sometimes thought that personage was his father. he quitted this good man with tears in his eyes, and never saw him afterwards; but he was convinced that he was, even at that moment, indebted to his care for all the advantages he enjoyed. whenever he arrived in any city, either of europe or asia, he found an account opened for him at the principal bankers' or merchants'. he could draw upon them to the amount of thousands and hundreds of thousands; and no questions were ever asked beyond his name. he had only to mention the word acharat, and all his wants were supplied. he firmly believed that the cherif of mecca was the friend to whom all was owing. this was the secret of his wealth, and he had no occasion to resort to swindling for a livelihood. it was not worth his while to steal a diamond necklace when he had wealth enough to purchase as many as he pleased, and more magnificent ones than had ever been worn by a queen of france. as to the other charges brought against him by madame de la motte, he had but a short answer to give. she had called him an empiric. he was not unfamiliar with the word. if it meant a man who, without being a physician, had some knowledge of medicine, and took no fees--who cured both rich and poor, and took no money from either, he confessed that he was such a man, that he was an empiric. she had also called him a mean alchymist. whether he were an alchymist or not, the epithet mean could only be applied to those who begged and cringed, and he had never done either. as regarded his being a dreamer about the philosopher's stone, whatever his opinions upon that subject might be, he had been silent, and had never troubled the public with his dreams. then, as to his being a false prophet, he had not always been so; for he had prophesied to the cardinal de rohan that madame de la motte would prove a dangerous woman, and the result had verified the prediction. he denied that he was a profaner of the true worship, or that he had ever striven to bring religion into contempt; on the contrary, he respected every man's religion, and never meddled with it. he also denied that he was a rosicrucian, or that he had ever pretended to be three hundred years of age, or to have had one man in his service for a hundred and fifty years. in conclusion, he said every statement that madame de la motte had made regarding him was false, and that she was mentiris impudentissime, which two words he begged her counsel to translate for her, as it was not polite to tell her so in french. such was the substance of his extraordinary answer to the charges against him; an answer which convinced those who were before doubtful that he was one of the most impudent impostors that had ever run the career of deception. counsel were then heard on behalf of the cardinal de rohan and madame de la motte. it appearing clearly that the cardinal was himself the dupe of a vile conspiracy; and there being no evidence against cagliostro, they were both acquitted. madame de la motte was found guilty, and sentenced to be publicly whipped, and branded with a hot iron on the back. cagliostro and his wife were then discharged from custody. on applying to the officers of the bastille for the papers and effects which had been seized at his lodgings, he found that many of them had been abstracted. he thereupon brought an action against them for the recovery of his mss. and a small portion of the powder of transmutation. before the affair could be decided, he received orders to quit paris within four-and-twenty hours. fearing that if he were once more inclosed in the dungeons of the bastille he should never see daylight again, he took his departure immediately and proceeded to england. on his arrival in london he made the acquaintance of the notorious lord george gordon, who espoused his cause warmly, and inserted a letter in the public papers, animadverting upon the conduct of the queen of france in the affair of the necklace, and asserting that she was really the guilty party. for this letter lord george was exposed to a prosecution at the instance of the french ambassador--found guilty of libel, and sentenced to fine and a long imprisonment. cagliostro and the countess afterwards travelled in italy, where they were arrested by the papal government in , and condemned to death. the charges against him were, that he was a freemason, a heretic, and a sorcerer. this unjustifiable sentence was afterwards commuted into one of perpetual imprisonment in the castle of st. angelo. his wife was allowed to escape severer punishment by immuring herself in a nunnery. cagliostro did not long survive. the loss of liberty preyed upon his mind--accumulated misfortunes had injured his health and broken his spirit, and he died early in . his fate may have been no better than he deserved, but it is impossible not to feel that his sentence for the crimes assigned was utterly disgraceful to the government that pronounced it. present state of alchymy. we have now finished the list of the persons who have most distinguished themselves in this foolish and unprofitable pursuit. among them are men of all ranks, characters, and conditions; the truthseeking, but erring philosopher; the ambitious prince and the needy noble, who have believed in it; as well as the designing charlatan, who has not believed in it, but has merely made the pretension to it the means of cheating his fellows, and living upon their credulity. one or more of all these classes will be found in the foregoing pages. it will be seen, from the record of their lives, that the delusion, humiliating as it was to human intellect, was not altogether without its uses. men, in striving to gain too much, do not always overreach themselves: if they cannot arrive at the inaccessible mountain-top, they may, perhaps, get half way towards it, and pick up some scraps of wisdom and knowledge on the road. the useful science of chemistry is not a little indebted to its spurious brother of alchymy. many valuable discoveries have been made in that search for the impossible, which might otherwise have been hidden for centuries yet to come. roger bacon, in searching for the philosopher's stone, discovered gunpowder, a still more extraordinary substance. van helmont, in the same pursuit, discovered the properties of gas; geber made discoveries in chemistry which were equally important; and paracelsus, amidst his perpetual visions of the transmutation of metals, found that mercury was a remedy for one of the most odious and excruciating of all the diseases that afflict humanity. in our day, no mention is made in europe of any new devotees of the science. the belief in witchcraft, which is scarcely more absurd, still lingers in the popular mind: but none are so credulous as to believe that any elixir could make man live for centuries, or turn all our iron and pewter into gold. alchymy, in europe, may be said to be wholly exploded; but in the east it still flourishes in as great repute as ever. recent travellers make constant mention of it, especially in china, hindostan, persia, tartary, egypt, and arabia. book ii.--fortune telling. and men still grope t' anticipate the cabinet designs of fate; apply to wizards to foresee what shall and what shall never be. hudibras, part iii. canto . in accordance with the plan laid down in the introduction to this volume, we proceed to the consideration of the follies into which men have been led by their eager desire to pierce the thick darkness of futurity. god himself, for his own wise purposes, has more than once undrawn the impenetrable veil which shrouds those awful secrets; and, for purposes just as wise, he has decreed that, except in these instances, ignorance shall be our lot for ever. it is happy for man that he does not know what the morrow is to bring forth; but, unaware of this great blessing, he has, in all ages of the world, presumptuously endeavoured to trace the events of unborn centuries, and anticipate the march of time. he has reduced this presumption into a study. he has divided it into sciences and systems without number, employing his whole life in the vain pursuit. upon no subject has it been so easy to deceive the world as upon this. in every breast the curiosity exists in a greater or less degree, and can only be conquered by a long course of self-examination, and a firm reliance that the future would not be hidden from our sight, if it were right that we should be acquainted with it. an undue opinion of our own importance in the scale of creation is at the bottom of all our unwarrantable notions in this respect. how flattering to the pride of man to think that the stars in their courses watch over him, and typify, by their movements and aspects, the joys or the sorrows that await him! he, less in proportion to the universe than the all but invisible insects that feed in myriads on a summer's leaf, are to this great globe itself, fondly imagines that eternal worlds were chiefly created to prognosticate his fate. how we should pity the arrogance of the worm that crawls at our feet, if we knew that it also desired to know the secrets of futurity, and imagined that meteors shot athwart the sky to warn it that a tom-tit was hovering near to gobble it up; that storms and earthquakes, the revolutions of empires, or the fall of mighty monarchs, only happened to, predict its birth, its progress, and its decay! not a whit less presuming has man shown himself; not a whit less arrogant are the sciences, so called, of astrology, augury, necromancy, geomancy, palmistry, and divination of every kind. leaving out of view the oracles of pagan antiquity and religious predictions in general, and confining ourselves solely to the persons who, in modern times, have made themselves most conspicuous in foretelling the future, we shall find that the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were the golden age of these impostors. many of them have been already mentioned in their character of alchymists. the union of the two pretensions is not at all surprising. it was to be expected that those who assumed a power so preposterous as that of prolonging the life of man for several centuries, should pretend, at the same time, to foretell the events which were to mark that preternatural span of existence. the world would as readily believe that they had discovered all secrets, as that they had only discovered one. the most celebrated astrologers of europe, three centuries ago, were alchymists. agrippa, paracelsus, dr. dee, and the rosicrucians, all laid as much stress upon their knowledge of the days to come, as upon their pretended possession of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. in their time, ideas of the wonderful, the diabolical, and the supernatural, were rifer than ever they were before. the devil or the stars were universally believed to meddle constantly in the affairs of men; and both were to be consulted with proper ceremonies. those who were of a melancholy and gloomy temperament betook themselves to necromancy and sorcery; those more cheerful and aspiring, devoted themselves to astrology. the latter science was encouraged by all the monarchs and governments of that age. in england, from the time of elizabeth to that of william and mary, judicial astrology was in high repute. during that period flourished drs. dee, lamb, and forman; with lilly, booker, gadbury, evans, and scores of nameless impostors in every considerable town and village in the country, who made it their business to cast nativities, aid in the recovery of stolen goods, prognosticate happy or unhappy marriages, predict whether journeys would be prosperous, and note lucky moments for the commencement of any enterprise, from the setting up of a cobler's shop to the marching of an army. men who, to use the words of butler, did "deal in destiny's dark counsel, and sage opinion of the moon sell; to whom all people far and near on deep importance did repair, when brass and pewter pots did stray, and linen slunk out of the way." in lilly's memoirs of his life and times, there are many notices of the inferior quacks who then abounded, and upon whom he pretended to look down with supreme contempt; not because they were astrologers, but because they debased that noble art by taking fees for the recovery of stolen property. from butler's hudibras and its curious notes, we may learn what immense numbers of these fellows lived upon the credulity of mankind in that age of witchcraft and diablerie. even in our day how great is the reputation enjoyed by the almanac-makers, who assume the name of francis moore. but in the time of charles i. and the commonwealth, the most learned, the most noble, and the most conspicuous characters did not hesitate to consult astrologers in the most open manner. lilly, whom butler has immortalized under the name of sydrophel, relates, that he proposed to write a work called "an introduction to astrology," in which he would satisfy the whole kingdom of the lawfulness of that art. many of the soldiers were for it, he says, and many of the independent party, and abundance of worthy men in the house of commons, his assured friends, and able to take his part against the presbyterians, who would have silenced his predictions if they could. he afterwards carried his plan into execution, and when his book was published, went with another astrologer named booker to the headquarters of the parliamentary army at windsor, where they were welcomed and feasted in the garden where general fairfax lodged. they were afterwards introduced to the general, who received them very kindly, and made allusion to some of their predictions. he hoped their art was lawful and agreeable to god's word; but he did not understand it himself. he did not doubt, however, that the two astrologers feared god, and therefore he had a good opinion of them. lilly assured him that the art of astrology was quite consonant to the scriptures; and confidently predicted from his knowledge of the stars, that the parliamentary army would overthrow all its enemies. in oliver's protectorate, this quack informs us that he wrote freely enough. he became an independent, and all the soldiery were his friends. when he went to scotland, he saw a soldier standing in front of the army, with a book of prophecies in his hand, exclaiming to the several companies as they passed by him, "lo! hear what lilly saith: you are in this month promised victory! fight it out, brave boys! and then read that month's prediction!" after the great fire of london, which lilly said he had foretold, he was sent for by the committee of the house of commons appointed to inquire into the causes of the calamity. in his "monarchy or no monarchy," published in , he had inserted an hieroglyphical plate, representing on one side persons in winding sheets digging graves; and on the other a large city in flames. after the great fire some sapient member of the legislature bethought him of lilly's book, and having mentioned it in the house, it was agreed that the astrologer should be summoned. lilly attended accordingly, when sir robert brooke told him the reason of his summons, and called upon him to declare what he knew. this was a rare opportunity for the vain-glorious lilly to vaunt his abilities; and he began a long speech in praise of himself and his pretended science. he said, that after the execution of charles i, he was extremely desirous to know what might from that time forth happen to the parliament and to the nation in general. he, therefore, consulted the stars and satisfied himself. the result of his judgment he put into emblems and hieroglyphics, without any commentary, so that the true meaning might be concealed from the vulgar, and made manifest only to the wise; imitating in this the example of many wise philosophers who had done the like. "did you foresee the year of the fire?" said a member. "no!" quoth lilly, "nor was i desirous: of that i made no scrutiny." after some further parley the house found they could make nothing of the astrologer, and dismissed him with great civility. one specimen of the explanation of a prophecy given by lilly, and related by him with much complacency, will be sufficient to show the sort of trash by which he imposed upon the million. "in the year ," says he, "there was a prophecy printed in greek characters, exactly deciphering the long troubles of the english nation from to ;" and it ended thus:--"and after him shall come a dreadful dead man, and with him a royal g, of the best blood in the world, and he shall have the crown, and shall set england on the right way, and put out all heresies." the following is the explanation of this oracular absurdity:-- "monkery being extinguished above eighty or ninety years, and the lord general's name being monk, is the dead man. the royal g. or c, [it is gamma in the greek, intending c. in the latin, being the third letter in the alphabet] is charles ii, who for his extraction may be said to be of the best blood of the world." in france and germany astrologers met even more encouragement than they received in england. in very early ages, charlemagne and his successors fulminated their wrath against them in common with sorcerers. louis xi, that most superstitious of men, entertained great numbers of them at his court; and catherine de medicis, that most superstitious of women, hardly ever took any affair of importance without consulting them. she chiefly favoured her own countrymen; and during the time she governed france, the land was overrun by italian conjurors, necromancers, and fortune-tellers of every kind. but the chief astrologer of that day, beyond all doubt, was the celebrated nostradamus, physician to her husband, king henry ii. he was born in , at the town of st. remi, in provence, where his father was a notary. he did not acquire much fame till he was past his fiftieth year, when his famous "centuries," a collection of verses, written in obscure and almost unintelligible language, began to excite attention. they were so much spoken of in , that henry ii. resolved to attach so skilful a man to his service, and appointed him his physician. in a biographical notice of him prefixed to the edition of his "vraies centuries," published at amsterdam in , we are informed that he often discoursed with his royal master on the secrets of futurity, and received many great presents as his reward, besides his usual allowance for medical attendance. after the death of henry, he retired to his native place, where charles ix. paid him a visit in , and was so impressed with veneration for his wondrous knowledge of the things that were to be, not in france only, but in the whole world for hundreds of years to come, that he made him a counsellor of state, and his own physician, besides treating him in other matters with a royal liberality. "in fine," continues his biographer, "i should be too prolix were i to tell all the honours conferred upon him, and all the great nobles and learned men that arrived at his house, from the very ends of the earth, to see and converse with him as if he had been an oracle. many strangers, in fact, came to france for no other purpose than to consult him." the prophecies of nostradamus consist of upwards of a thousand stanzas, each of four lines, and are to the full as obscure as the oracles of they take so great a latitude, both as to time and space, that they are almost sure to be fulfilled somewhere or other in the course of a few centuries; a little ingenuity like that evinced by lilly, in his explanation about general monk and the dreadful dead man, might easily make events to fit some of them. let us try. in his second century, prediction , he says,--' "from great dangers the captive is escaped. a little time, great fortune changed. in the palace the people are caught. by good augury the city is besieged." "what is this," a believer might exclaim, "but the escape of napoleon from elba--his changed fortune, and the occupation of paris by the allied armies?"--let us try again. in his third century, prediction , he says,-- "two royal brothers will make fierce war on each other; so mortal shall be the strife between them, that each one shall occupy a fort against the other; for their reign and life shall be the quarrel." some lillius redivivus would find no difficulty in this prediction. to use a vulgar phrase, it is as clear as a pikestaff. had not the astrologer in view don miguel and don pedro when he penned this stanza, so much less obscure and oracular than the rest? he is to this day extremely popular in france and the walloon country of belgium, where old farmer-wives consult him with great confidence and assiduity. catherine di medicis was not the only member of her illustrious house who entertained astrologers. at the beginning of the fifteenth century, there was a man named basil, residing in florence, who was noted over all italy for his skill in piercing the darkness of futurity. it is said that he foretold to cosmo di medicis, then a private citizen, that he would attain high dignity, inasmuch as the ascendant of his nativity was adorned with the same propitious aspects as those of augustus caesar and the emperor charles v. [hermippus redivivus, p. .] another astrologer foretold the death of prince alexander di medicis; and so very minute and particular was he in all the circumstances, that he was suspected of being chiefly instrumental in fulfilling his own prophecy; a very common resource with these fellows, to keep up their credit. he foretold confidently that the prince should die by the hand of his own familiar friend, a person of a slender habit of body, a small face, a swarthy complexion, and of most remarkable taciturnity. so it afterwards happened; alexander having been murdered in his chamber by his cousin lorenzo, who corresponded exactly with the above description. [jovii elog. p. .] the author of hermippus redivivus, in relating this story, inclines to the belief that the astrologer was guiltless of any participation in the crime, but was employed by some friend of prince alexander, to warn him of his danger. a much more remarkable story is told of an astrologer, who lived in romagna, in the fifteenth century, and whose name was antiochus tibertus. [les anecdotes de florence ou l'histoire secrete de la maison di medicis, p. .] at that time nearly all the petty sovereigns of italy retained such men in their service; and tibertus having studied the mathematics with great success at paris, and delivered many predictions, some of which, for guesses, were not deficient in shrewdness, was taken into the household of pandolfo di malatesta, the sovereign of rimini. his reputation was so great, that his study was continually thronged, either with visitors who were persons of distinction, or with clients who came to him for advice, and in a short time he acquired a considerable fortune. notwithstanding all these advantages he passed his life miserably, and ended it on the scaffold. the following story afterwards got into circulation, and has been often triumphantly cited by succeeding astrologers as an irrefragable proof of the truth of their science. it was said, that long before he died he uttered three remarkable prophecies; one relating to himself, another to his friend, and the third to his patron, pandolfo di malatesta. the first delivered was that relating to his friend, guido di bogni, one of the greatest captains of the time. guido was exceedingly desirous to know his fortune, and so importuned tibertus, that the latter consulted the stars, and the lines on his palm, to satisfy him. he afterwards told him with a sorrowful face, that according to all the rules of astrology and palmistry, he should be falsely suspected by his best friend, and should lose his life in consequence. guido then asked the astrologer if he could foretell his own fate; upon which tibertus again consulted the stars, and found that it was decreed from all eternity that he should end his days on the scaffold. malatesta, when he heard these predictions, so unlikely, to all present appearance, to prove true, desired his astrologer to predict his fate also; and to hide nothing from him, however unfavourable it might be. tibertus complied, and told his patron, at that time one of the most flourishing and powerful princes of italy, that he should suffer great want, and die at last, like a beggar, in the common hospital of bologna: and so it happened in all three cases. guido di bogni was accused by his own father-in-law, the count di bentivoglio, of a treasonable design to deliver up the city of rimini to the papal forces, and was assassinated afterwards, by order of the tyrant malatesta, as he sat at the supper-table, to which he had been invited in all apparent friendship. the astrologer was, at the same time, thrown into prison, as being concerned in the treason of his friend. he attempted to escape, and had succeeded in letting himself down from his dungeon window into a moat, when he was discovered by the sentinels. this being reported to malatesta, he gave orders for his execution on the following morning. malatesta had, at this time, no remembrance of the prophecy; and his own fate gave him no uneasiness: but events were silently working its fulfilment. a conspiracy had been formed, though guido di bogni was innocent of it, to deliver up rimini to the pope; and all the necessary measures having been taken, the city was seized by the count de valentinois. in the confusion, malatesta had barely time to escape from his palace in disguise. he was pursued from place to place by his enemies, abandoned by all his former friends, and, finally, by his own children. he at last fell ill of a languishing disease, at bologna; and, nobody caring to afford him shelter, he was carried to the hospital, where he died. the only thing that detracts from the interest of this remarkable story is the fact, that the prophecy was made after the event. for some weeks before the birth of louis xiv, an astrologer from germany, who had been sent for by the marshal de bassompierre and other noblemen of the court, had taken up his residence in the palace, to be ready, at a moment's notice, to draw the horoscope of the future sovereign of france. when the queen was taken in labour, he was ushered into a contiguous apartment, that he might receive notice of the very instant the child was born. the result of his observations were the three words, diu, dure, feliciter; meaning, that the new-born prince should live and reign long, with much labour, and with great glory. no prediction less favourable could have been expected from an astrologer, who had his bread to get, and who was at the same time a courtier. a medal was afterwards struck in commemoration of the event; upon one side of which was figured the nativity of the prince, representing him as driving the chariot of apollo, with the inscription "ortus solis gallici,"--the rising of the gallic sun. the best excuse ever made for astrology was that offered by the great astronomer, keppler, himself an unwilling practiser of the art. he had many applications from his friends to cast nativities for them, and generally gave a positive refusal to such as he was not afraid of offending by his frankness. in other cases he accommodated himself to the prevailing delusion. in sending a copy of his "ephemerides" to professor gerlach, he wrote that they were nothing but worthless conjectures; but he was obliged to devote himself to them, or he would have starved. "ye overwise philosophers," he exclaimed, in his "tertius interveniens;" "ye censure this daughter of astronomy beyond her deserts! know ye not that she must support her mother by her charms? the scanty reward of an astronomer would not provide him with bread, if men did not entertain hopes of reading the future in the heavens." necromancy was, next to astrology, the pretended science most resorted to, by those who wished to pry into the future. the earliest instance upon record is that of the witch of endor and the spirit of samuel. nearly all the nations of antiquity believed in the possibility of summoning departed ghosts to disclose the awful secrets that god made clear to the disembodied. many passages in allusion to this subject, will at once suggest themselves to the classical reader; but this art was never carried on openly in any country. all governments looked upon it as a crime of the deepest dye. while astrology was encouraged, and its professors courted and rewarded, necromancers were universally condemned to the stake or the gallows. roger bacon, albertus magnus, arnold of villeneuve, and many others, were accused, by the public opinion of many centuries, of meddling in these unhallowed matters. so deep-rooted has always been the popular delusion with respect to accusations of this kind, that no crime was ever disproved with such toil and difficulty. that it met great encouragement, nevertheless, is evident from the vast numbers of pretenders to it; who, in spite of the danger, have existed in all ages and countries. geomancy, or the art of foretelling the future by means of lines and circles, and other mathematical figures drawn on the earth, is still extensively practised in asiatic countries, but is almost unknown in europe. augury, from the flight or entrails of birds, so favourite a study among the romans, is, in like manner, exploded in europe. its most assiduous professors, at the present day, are the abominable thugs of india. divination, of which there are many kinds, boasts a more enduring reputation. it has held an empire over the minds of men from the earliest periods of recorded history, and is, in all probability, coeval with time itself. it was practised alike by the jews, the egyptians, the chaldeans, the persians, the greeks, and the romans; is equally known to all modern nations, in every part of the world; and is not unfamiliar to the untutored tribes that roam in the wilds of africa and america. divination, as practised in civilized europe at the present day, is chiefly from cards, the tea-cup, and the lines on the palm of the hand. gipsies alone make a profession of it; but there are thousands and tens of thousands of humble families in which the good-wife, and even the good-man, resort to the grounds at the bottom of their teacups, to know whether the next harvest will be abundant, or their sow bring forth a numerous litter; and in which the young maidens look to the same place to know when they are to be married, and whether the man of their choice is to be dark or fair, rich or poor, kind or cruel. divination by cards, so great a favourite among the moderns, is, of course, a modern science; as cards do not yet boast an antiquity of much more than four hundred years. divination by the palm, so confidently believed in by half the village lasses in europe, is of older date, and seems to have been known to the egyptians in the time of the patriarchs; as well as divination by the cup, which, as we are informed in genesis, was practised by joseph. divination by the rod was also practised by the egyptians. in comparatively recent times, it was pretended that by this means hidden treasures could be discovered. it now appears to be altogether exploded in europe. onomancy, or the foretelling a man's fate by the letters of his name, and the various transpositions of which they are capable, is a more modern sort of divination; but it reckons comparatively few believers. the following list of the various species of divination formerly in use, is given by gaule, in his "magastromancer," and quoted in hone's "year book," p. . stareomancy, or divining by the elements. aeromancy, or divining by the air. pyromancy, by fire. hydromancy, by water. geomancy, by earth. theomancy, pretending to divine by the revelation of the spirit, and by the scriptures, or word of god. demonomancy, by the aid of devils and evil spirits. idolomancy, by idols, images, and figures. psychomancy, by the soul, affections, or dispositions of men. antinopomancy, by the entrails of human beings. theriomancy, by beasts. ornithomancy, by birds. icthyomancy, by fishes. botanomancy, by herbs. lithomancy, by stones. kleromancy, by lots. oneiromancy, by dreams. onomancy, by names. arithmancy, by numbers. logarithmancy, by logarithms. sternomancy, by the marks from the breast to the belly. gastromancy, by the sound of, or marks upon, the belly. omphelomancy, by the navel. chiromancy, by the hands. paedomancy, by thee feet. onchyomancy, by the nails. cephaleonomancy, by asses' heads. tuphramancy, by ashes. kapnomancy, by smoke. livanomancy, by the burning of incense. keromancy, by the melting of wax. lecanomancy, by basins of water. katoxtromancy, by looking-glasses. chartomancy, by writing in papers, and by valentines. macharomancy, by knives and swords. crystallomancy, by crystals. dactylomancy, by rings. koseinomancy, by sieves. axinomancy, by saws. kaltabomancy, by vessels of brass, or other metal. spatalamancy, by skins, bones, &c. roadomancy, by stars. sciomancy, by shadows. astragalomancy, by dice. oinomancy, by the lees of wine. sycomancy, by figs. tyromancy, by cheese. alphitomancy, by meal, flour, or bran. krithomancy, by corn or grain. alectromancy, by cocks. gyromancy, by circles. lampadomancy, by candles and lamps. oneiro-criticism, or the art of interpreting dreams, is a relic of the most remote ages, which has subsisted through all the changes that moral or physical revolutions have operated in the world. the records of five thousand years bear abundant testimony to the universal diffusion of the belief, that the skilful could read the future in dreams. the rules of the art, if any existed in ancient times, are not known; but in our day, one simple rule opens the whole secret. dreams, say all the wiseacres in christendom, are to be interpreted by contraries. thus, if you dream of filth, you will acquire something valuable; if you dream of the dead, you will hear news of the living; if you dream of gold and silver, you run a risk of being without either; and if you dream you have many friends, you will be persecuted by many enemies. the rule, however, does not hold good in all cases. it is fortunate to dream of little pigs, but unfortunate to dream of big bullocks. if you dream you have lost a tooth, you may be sure that you will shortly lose a friend; and if you dream that your house is on fire, you will receive news from a far country. if you dream of vermin, it is a sign that there will be sickness in your family; and if you dream of serpents, you will have friends who, in the course of time, will prove your bitterest enemies; but, of all dreams, it is most fortunate if you dream that you are wallowing up to your neck in mud and mire. clear water is a sign of grief; and great troubles, distress, and perplexity are predicted, if you dream that you stand naked in the public streets, and know not where to find a garment to shield you from the gaze of the multitude. in many parts of great britain, and the continents of europe and america, there are to be found elderly women in the villages and country-places whose interpretations of dreams are looked upon with as much reverence as if they were oracles. in districts remote from towns it is not uncommon to find the members of a family regularly every morning narrating their dreams at the breakfast-table, and becoming happy or miserable for the day according to their interpretation. there is not a flower that blossoms, or fruit that ripens, that, dreamed of, is not ominous of either good or evil to such people. every tree of the field or the forest is endowed with a similar influence over the fate of mortals, if seen in the night-visions. to dream of the ash, is the sign of a long journey; and of an oak, prognosticates long life and prosperity. to dream you strip the bark off any tree, is a sign to a maiden of an approaching loss of a character; to a married woman, of a family bereavement; and to a man, of an accession of fortune. to dream of a leafless tree, is a sign of great sorrow; and of a branchless trunk, a sign of despair and suicide. the elder-tree is more auspicious to the sleeper; while the fir-tree, better still, betokens all manner of comfort and prosperity. the lime-tree predicts a voyage across the ocean; while the yew and the alder are ominous of sickness to the young and of death to the old. it is quite astonishing to see the great demand there is, both in england and france, for dream-books, and other trash of the same kind. two books in england enjoy an extraordinary popularity, and have run through upwards of fifty editions in as many years in london alone, besides being reprinted in manchester, edinburgh, glasgow, and dublin. one is "mother bridget's dream-book and oracle of fate;" the other is the "norwood gipsy." it is stated on the authority of one who, is curious in these matters, that there is a demand for these works, which are sold at sums varying from a penny to sixpence, chiefly to servant-girls and imperfectly-educated people, all over the country, of upwards of eleven thousand annually; and that at no period during the last thirty years has the average number sold been less than this. the total number during this period would thus amount to , . among the flowers and fruits charged with messages for the future, the following is a list of the most important, arranged from approved sources, in alphabetical order:-- asparagus, gathered and tied up in bundles, is an omen of tears. if you see it growing in your dreams, it is a sign of good fortune. aloes, without a flower, betoken long life: in flower, betoken a legacy. artichokes. this vegetable is a sign that you will receive, in a short time, a favour from the hands of those from whom you would least expect it. agrimony. this herb denotes that there will be sickness in your house. anemone, predicts love. auriculas, in beds, denote luck; in pots, marriage: while to gather them, foretells widowhood. bilberries, predict a pleasant excursion. broom-flowers, an increase of family. cauliflowers, predict that all your friends will slight you, or that you will fall into poverty and find no one to pity you. dock-leaves, a present from the country. daffodils. any maiden who dreams of daffodils is warned by her good angel to avoid going into a wood with her lover, or into any dark or retired place where she might not be able to make people hear her if she cried out. alas! for her if she pay no attention to the warning! she shall be rifled of the precious flower of chastity, and shall never again have right to wear the garland of virginity. "never again shall she put garland on; instead of it, she'll wear sad cypress now, and bitter elder broken from the bough." figs, if green, betoken embarrassment; if dried, money to the poor and mirth to the rich. heart's-ease, betokens heart's pain. lilies, predict joy; water-lilies, danger from the sea. lemons, betoken a separation. pomegranates, predict happy wedlock to those who are single, and reconciliation to those who are married and have disagreed. quinces, prognosticate pleasant company. roses, denote happy love, not unmixed with sorrow from other sources. sorrel, to dream of this herb is a sign that you will shortly have occasion to exert all your prudence to overcome some great calamity. sunflowers, show that your pride will be deeply wounded. violets, predict evil to the single and joy to the married. yellow-flowers of any kind predict jealousy. yew-berries, predict loss of character to both sexes. it should be observed that the rules for the interpretation of dreams are far from being universal. the cheeks of the peasant girl of england glow with pleasure in the morning after she has dreamed of a rose, while the paysanne of normandy dreads disappointment and vexation for the very same reason. the switzer who dreams of an oaktree does not share in the englishman's joy; for he imagines that the vision was a warning to him that, from some trifling cause, an overwhelming calamity will burst over him. thus do the ignorant and the credulous torment themselves; thus do they spread their nets to catch vexation, and pass their lives between hopes which are of no value and fears which are a positive evil. omens.--among the other means of self-annoyance upon which men have stumbled, in their vain hope of discovering the future, signs and omens hold a conspicuous place. there is scarcely an occurrence in nature which, happening at a certain time, is not looked upon by some persons as a prognosticator either of good or evil. the latter are in the greatest number, so much more ingenious are we in tormenting ourselves than in discovering reasons for enjoyment in the things that surround us. we go out of our course to make ourselves uncomfortable; the cup of life is not bitter enough to our palate, and we distil superfluous poison to put into it, or conjure up hideous things to frighten ourselves at, which would never exist if we did not make them. "we suffer," says addison, ["spectator," no. , march th, - .] "as much from trifling accidents as from real evils. i have known the shooting of a star spoil a night's rest, and have seen a man in love grow pale and lose his appetite upon the plucking of a merrythought. a screech-owl at midnight has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers; nay, the voice of a cricket has struck more terror than the roaring of a lion. there is nothing so inconsiderable which may not appear dreadful to an imagination that is filled with omens and prognostics. a rusty nail or a crooked pin shoot up into prodigies." the century and a quarter that has passed away since addison wrote has seen the fall of many errors. many fallacies and delusions have been crushed under the foot of time since then; but this has been left unscathed, to frighten the weakminded and embitter their existence. a belief in omens is not confined to the humble and uninformed. a general, who led an army with credit, has been known to feel alarmed at a winding-sheet in the candle; and learned men, who had honourably and fairly earned the highest honours of literature, have been seen to gather their little ones around them, and fear that one would be snatched away, because, "when stole upon the time the dead of night, and heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes," a dog in the street was howling at the moon. persons who would acknowledge freely that the belief in omens was unworthy of a man of sense, have yet confessed at the same time that, in spite of their reason, they have been unable to conquer their fears of death when they heard the harmless insect called the death-watch ticking in the wall, or saw an oblong hollow coal fly out of the fire. many other evil omens besides those mentioned above alarm the vulgar and the weak. if a sudden shivering comes over such people, they believe that, at that instant, an enemy is treading over the spot that will one day be their grave. if they meet a sow when they first walk abroad in the morning, it is an omen of evil for that day. to meet an ass, is in like manner unlucky. it is also very unfortunate to walk under a ladder; to forget to eat goose on the festival of st. michael; to tread upon a beetle, or to eat the twin nuts that are sometimes found in one shell. woe, in like manner, is predicted to that wight who inadvertently upsets the salt; each grain that is overthrown will bring to him a day of sorrow. if thirteen persons sit at table, one of them will die within the year; and all of them will be unhappy. of all evil omens, this is the worst. the facetious dr. kitchener used to observe that there was one case in which he believed that it was really unlucky for thirteen persons to sit down to dinner, and that was when there was only dinner enough for twelve. unfortunately for their peace of mind, the great majority of people do not take this wise view of the matter. in almost every country of europe the same superstition prevails, and some carry it so far as to look upon the number thirteen as in every way ominous of evil; and if they find thirteen coins in their purse, cast away the odd one like a polluted thing. the philosophic beranger, in his exquisite song, "thirteen at table," has taken a poetical view of this humiliating superstition, and mingled, as is his wont, a lesson of genuine wisdom in his lay. being at dinner, he overthrows the salt, and, looking round the room, discovers that he is the thirteenth guest. while he is mourning his unhappy fate, and conjuring up visions of disease and suffering, and the grave, he is suddenly startled by the apparition of death herself, not in the shape of a grim foe, with skeleton ribs and menacing dart, but of an angel of light, who shows the folly of tormenting ourselves with the dread of her approach, when she is the friend, rather than the enemy, of man, and frees us from the fetters which bind us to the dust. if men could bring themselves to look upon death in this manner, living well and wisely till her inevitable approach, how vast a store of grief and vexation would they spare themselves! among good omens, one of the most conspicuous is to meet a piebald horse. to meet two of these animals is still more fortunate; and if on such an occasion you spit thrice, and form any reasonable wish, it will be gratified within three days. it is also a sign of good fortune if you inadvertently put on your stocking wrong side out. if you wilfully wear your stocking in this fashion, no good will come of it. it is very lucky to sneeze twice; but if you sneeze a third time, the omen loses its power, and your good fortune will be nipped in the bud. if a strange dog follow you, and fawn on you, and wish to attach itself to you, it is a sign of very great prosperity. just as fortunate is it if a strange male cat comes to your house and manifests friendly intentions towards your family. if a she eat, it is an omen, on the contrary, of very great misfortune. if a swarm of bees alight in your garden, some very high honour and great joys await you. besides these glimpses of the future, you may know something of your fate by a diligent attention to every itching that you may feel in your body. thus, if the eye or the nose itches, it is a sign you will be shortly vexed; if the foot itches you will tread upon strange ground; and if the elbow itches, you will change your bedfellow. itching of the right-hand prognosticates that you will soon have a sum of money; and of the left, that you will be called upon to disburse it. these are but a few of the omens which are generally credited in modern europe. a complete list of them would fatigue from its length, and sicken from its absurdity. it would be still more unprofitable to attempt to specify the various delusions of the same kind which are believed among oriental nations. every reader will remember the comprehensive formula of cursing preserved in "tristram shandy:"--curse a man after any fashion you remember or can invent, you will be sure to find it there. the oriental creed of omens is not less comprehensive. every movement of the body, every emotion of the mind, is at certain times an omen. every form and object in nature, even the shape of the clouds and the changes of the weather; every colour, every sound, whether of men or animals, or birds or insects, or inanimate things, is an omen. nothing is too trifling or inconsiderable to inspire a hope which is not worth cherishing, or a fear which is sufficient to embitter existence. from the belief in omens springs the superstition that has, from very early ages, set apart certain days, as more favourable than others, for prying into the secrets of futurity. the following, copied verbatim from the popular "dream and omen book" of mother bridget, will show the belief of the people of england at the present day. those who are curious as to the ancient history of these observances, will find abundant aliment in the "every-day book." "the st of january.--if a young maiden drink, on going to bed, a pint of cold spring-water, in which is beat up an amulet, composed of the yolk of a pullet's egg, the legs of a spider, and the skin of an eel pounded, her future destiny will be revealed to her in a dream. this charm fails of its effect if tried any other day of the year. "valentine day.--let a single woman go out of her own door very early in the morning, and if the first person she meets be a woman, she will not be married that year: if she meet a man, she will be married within three months. "lady day.--the following charm may be tried this day with certain success:--string thirty-one nuts on a string, composed of red worsted mixed with blue silk, and tie it round your neck on going to bed, repeating these lines-- 'oh, i wish! oh, i wish to see who my true love is to be!' shortly after midnight, you will see your lover in a dream, and be informed at the same time of all the principal events of your future life. "st. swithin's eve.--select three things you most wish to know; write them down with a new pen and red ink on a sheet of fine-wove paper, from which you must previously cut off all the corners and burn them. fold the paper into a true-lover's knot, and wrap round it three hairs from your head. place the paper under your pillow for three successive nights, and your curiosity to know the future will be satisfied. "st. mark's eve.--repair to the nearest churchyard as the clock strikes twelve, and take from a grave on the south-side of the church three tufts of grass (the longer and ranker the better), and on going to bed place them under your pillow, repeating earnestly three several times, 'the eve of st. mark by prediction is blest, set therefore my hopes and my fears all to rest: let me know my fate, whether weal or woe; whether my rank's to be high or low; whether to live single, or be a bride, and the destiny my star doth provide.' should you have no dream that night, you will be single and miserable all your life. if you dream of thunder and lightning, your life will be one of great difficulty and sorrow. "candlemas eve.--on this night (which is the purification of the virgin mary), let three, five, seven, or nine, young maidens assemble together in a square chamber. hang in each corner a bundle of sweet herbs, mixed with rue and rosemary. then mix a cake of flour, olive-oil, and white sugar; every maiden having an equal share in the making and the expense of it. afterwards, it must be cut into equal pieces, each one marking the piece as she cuts it with the initials of her name. it is then to be baked one hour before the fire, not a word being spoken the whole time, and the maidens sitting with their arms and knees across. each piece of cake is then to be wrapped up in a sheet of paper, on which each maiden shall write the love part of solomon's songs. if she put this under her pillow, she will dream true. she will see her future husband and every one of her children, and will know, besides, whether her family will be poor or prosperous--a comfort to her, or the contrary. "midsummer.--take three roses, smoke them with sulphur, and exactly at three in the day, bury one of the roses under a yew tree; the second in a newly-made grave, and put the third under your pillow for three nights, and at the end of that period burn it in a fire of charcoal. your dreams during that time will be prophetic of your future destiny, and, what is still more curious and valuable (mother bridget loquitur), the man whom you are to wed, will know no peace till he comes and visits you. besides this, you will perpetually haunt his dreams. "st. john's eve.--make a new pincushion of the very best black velvet (no inferior quality will answer the purpose), and on one side stick your name in full length with the very smallest pins that can be bought (none other will do). on the other side, make a cross with some very large pins, and surround it with a circle. put this into your stocking when you take it off at night, and hang it up at the foot of the bed. all your future life will pass before you in a dream. "first new moon of the year.--on the first new moon in the year, take a pint of clear springwater and infuse into it the white of an egg laid by a white hen, a glass of white wine, three almonds peeled white, and a tablespoonful of white rose-water. drink this on going to bed, not making more nor less than three draughts of it; repeating the following verses three several times in a clear distinct voice, but not so loud as to be overheard by anybody:-- 'if i dream of water pure before the coming morn, 'tis a sign i shall be poor, and unto wealth not born. if i dream of tasting beer, middling then will be my cheer-- chequer'd with the good and bad, sometimes joyful, sometimes sad; but should i dream of drinking wine, wealth and pleasure will be mine. the stronger the drink, the better the cheer-- dreams of my destiny, appear, appear!' "twenty-ninth of february.--this day, as it only occurs once in four years, is peculiarly auspicious to those who desire to have a glance at futurity, especially to young maidens burning with anxiety to know the appearance and complexion of their future lords. the charm to be adopted is the following: stick twenty-seven of the smallest pins that are made, three by three, into a tallow candle. light it up at the wrong end, and then place it in a candlestick made out of clay, which must be drawn from a virgin's grave. place this on the chimney-place, in the left-hand corner, exactly as the clock strikes twelve, and go to bed immediately. when the candle is burnt out, take the pins and put them into your left-shoe; and before nine nights have elapsed your fate will be revealed to you." we have now taken a hasty review of the various modes of seeking to discover the future, especially as practised in modern times. the main features of the folly appear essentially the same in all countries. national character and peculiarities operate some difference of interpretation. the mountaineer makes the natural phenomena which he most frequently witnesses prognosticative of the future. the dweller in the plains, in a similar manner, seeks to know his fate among the signs of the things that surround him, and tints his superstition with the hues of his own clime. the same spirit animates them all--the same desire to know that which infinite mercy has concealed. there is but little probability that the curiosity of mankind in this respect will ever be wholly eradicated. death and ill-fortune are continual bugbears to the weak-minded, the irreligious, and the ignorant; and while such exist in the world, divines will preach upon its impiety and philosophers discourse upon its absurdity in vain. still, it is evident that these follies have greatly diminished. soothsayers and prophets have lost the credit they formerly enjoyed, and skulk in secret now where they once showed their faces in the blaze of day. so far there is manifest improvement. book iii.--the magnetisers. some deemed them wondrous wise, and some believed them mad. --beattie's minstrel. the wonderful influence of imagination in the cure of diseases is well known. a motion of the hand, or a glance of the eye, will throw a weak and credulous patient into a fit; and a pill made of bread, if taken with sufficient faith, will operate a cure better than all the drugs in the pharmacopoeia. the prince of orange, at the siege of breda, in , cured all his soldiers who were dying of the scurvy, by a philanthropic piece of quackery, which he played upon them with the knowledge of the physicians, when all other means had failed. [see van der mye's account of the siege of breda. the garrison, being afflicted with scurvy, the prince of orange sent the physicians two or three small phials, containing a decoction of camomile, wormwood, and camphor, telling them to pretend that it was a medicine of the greatest value and extremest rarity, which had been procured with very much danger and difficulty from the east; and so strong, that two or three drops would impart a healing virtue to a gallon of water. the soldiers had faith in their commander; they took the medicine with cheerful faces, and grew well rapidly. they afterwards thronged about the prince in groups of twenty and thirty at a time, praising his skill, and loading him with protestations of gratitude.] many hundreds of instances, of a similar kind, might be related, especially from the history of witchcraft. the mummeries, strange gesticulations, and barbarous jargon of witches and sorcerers, which frightened credulous and nervous women, brought on all those symptoms of hysteria and other similar diseases, so well understood now, but which were then supposed to be the work of the devil, not only by the victims and the public in general, but by the operators themselves. in the age when alchymy began to fall into some disrepute, and learning to lift up its voice against it, a new delusion, based upon this power of imagination, suddenly arose, and found apostles among all the alchymists. numbers of them, forsaking their old pursuits, made themselves magnetisers. it appeared first in the shape of mineral, and afterwards of animal, magnetism, under which latter name it survives to this day, and numbers its dupes by thousands. the mineral magnetisers claim the first notice, as the worthy predecessors of the quacks of the present day. the honour claimed for paracelsus of being the first of the rosicrucians has been disputed; but his claim to be considered the first of the magnetisers can scarcely be challenged. it has been already mentioned of him, in the part of this work which treats of alchymy, that, like nearly all the distinguished adepts, he was a physician; and pretended, not only to make gold and confer immortality, but to cure all diseases. he was the first who, with the latter view, attributed occult and miraculous powers to the magnet. animated apparently by a sincere conviction that the magnet was the philosopher's stone, which, if it could not transmute metals, could soothe all human suffering and arrest the progress of decay, he travelled for many years in persia and arabia, in search of the mountain of adamant, so famed in oriental fables. when he practised as a physician at basle, he called one of his nostrums by the name of azoth--a stone or crystal, which, he said, contained magnetic properties, and cured epilepsy, hysteria, and spasmodic affections. he soon found imitators. his fame spread far and near; and thus were sown the first seeds of that error which has since taken root and flourished so widely. in spite of the denial of modern practitioners, this must be considered the origin of magnetism; for we find that, beginning with paracelsus, there was a regular succession of mineral magnetisers until mesmer appeared, and gave a new feature to the delusion. paracelsus boasted of being able to transplant diseases from the human frame into the earth, by means of the magnet. he said there were six ways by which this might be effected. one of them will be quite sufficient, as a specimen. "if a person suffer from disease, either local or general, let the following remedy be tried. take a magnet, impregnated with mummy [mummies were of several kinds, and were all of great use in magnetic medicines. paracelsus enumerates six kinds of mummies; the first four only differing in the composition used by different people for preserving their dead, are the egyptian, arabian, pisasphaltos, and lybian. the fifth mummy of peculiar power was made from criminals that had been hanged; "for from such there is a gentle siccation, that expungeth the watery humour, without destroying the oil and spirituall, which is cherished by the heavenly luminaries, and strengthened continually by the affluence and impulses of the celestial spirits; whence it may be properly called by the name of constellated or celestial mummie." the sixth kind of mummy was made of corpuscles, or spiritual effluences, radiated from the living body; though we cannot get very clear ideas on this head, or respecting the manner in which they were caught.--"medicina diatastica; or, sympathetical mummie, abstracted from the works of paracelsus, and translated out of the latin, by fernando parkhurst, gent." london, . pp. . . quoted by the "foreign quarterly review," vol. xii. p. .] and mixed with rich earth. in this earth sow some seeds that have a congruity or homogeneity with the disease: then let this earth, well sifted and mixed with mummy, be laid in an earthen vessel; and let the seeds committed to it be watered daily with a lotion in which the diseased limb or body has been washed. thus will the disease be transplanted from the human body to the seeds which are in the earth. having done this, transplant the seeds from the earthen vessel to the ground, and wait till they begin to sprout into herbs: as they increase, the disease will diminish; and when they have arrived at their full growth, it will disappear altogether." kircher the jesuit, whose quarrel with the alchymists was the means of exposing many of their impostures, was a firm believer in the efficacy of the magnet. having been applied to by a patient afflicted with hernia, he directed the man to swallow a small magnet reduced to powder, while he applied, at the same time, to the external swelling a poultice, made of filings of iron. he expected that by this means the magnet, when it got to the corresponding place inside, would draw in the iron, and with it the tumour; which would thus, he said, be safely and expeditiously reduced. as this new doctrine of magnetism spread, it was found that wounds inflicted with any metallic substance could be cured by the magnet. in process of time the delusion so increased, that it was deemed sufficient to magnetise a sword, to cure any hurt which that sword might have inflicted! this was the origin of the celebrated "weapon-salve," which excited so much attention about the middle of the seventeenth century. the following was the recipe given by paracelsus for the cure of any wounds inflicted by a sharp weapon, except such as had penetrated the heart, the brain, or the arteries. "take of moss growing on the head of a thief who has been hanged and left in the air; of real mummy; of human blood, still warm--of each, one ounce; of human suet, two ounces; of linseed oil, turpentine, and armenian bole--of each, two drachms. mix all well in a mortar, and keep the salve in an oblong, narrow urn." with this salve the weapon, after being dipped in the blood from the wound, was to be carefully anointed, and then laid by in a cool place. in the mean time, the wound was to be duly washed with fair clean water, covered with a clean, soft, linen rag, and opened once a day to cleanse off purulent or other matter. of the success of this treatment, says the writer of the able article on animal magnetism, in the twelfth volume of the "foreign quarterly review," there cannot be the least doubt; "for surgeons at this moment follow exactly the same method, except anointing the weapon! the weapon salve continued to be much spoken of on the continent, and many eager claimants appeared for the honour of the invention. dr. fludd, or a fluctibus, the rosicrucian, who has been already mentioned in a previous part of this volume, was very zealous in introducing it into england. he tried it with great success in several cases; and no wonder; for, while he kept up the spirits of his patients by boasting of the great efficacy of the salve, he never neglected those common, but much more important remedies, of washing, bandaging, &c. which the experience of all ages had declared sufficient for the purpose. fludd, moreover, declared, that the magnet was a remedy for all diseases, if properly applied; but that man having, like the earth, a north and a south pole, magnetism could only take place when his body was in a boreal position! in the midst of his popularity, an attack was made upon him and his favourite remedy, the salve; which, however, did little or nothing to diminish the belief in its efficacy. one "parson foster" wrote a pamphlet, entitled "hyplocrisma spongus; or, a spunge to wipe away the weapon-salve;" in which he declared, that it was as bad as witchcraft to use or recommend such an unguent; that it was invented by the devil, who, at the last day, would seize upon every person who had given it the slightest encouragement. "in fact," said parson foster, "the devil himself gave it to paracelsus; paracelsus to the emperor; the emperor to the courtier; the courtier to baptista porta; and baptista porta to dr. fludd, a doctor of physic, yet living and practising in the famous city of london, who now stands tooth and nail for it." dr. fludd, thus assailed, took up the pen in defence of his unguent, in a reply called "the squeezing of parson foster's spunge; wherein the spunge-bearer's immodest carriage and behaviour towards his brethren is detected; the bitter flames of his slanderous reports are, by the sharp vinegar of truth, corrected and quite extinguished; and, lastly, the virtuous validity of his spunge in wiping away the weapon-salve, is crushed out and clean abolished." shortly after this dispute a more distinguished believer in the weapon-salve made his appearance, in the person of sir kenelm digby, the son of sir everard digby, who was executed for his participation in the gunpowder plot. this gentleman, who, in other respects, was an accomplished scholar and an able man, was imbued with all the extravagant notions of the alchymists. he believed in the philosopher's stone, and wished to engage descartes to devote his energies to the discovery of the elixir of life, or some other means by which the existence of man might be prolonged to an indefinite period. he gave his wife, the beautiful venetia anastasia stanley, a dish of capons, fed upon vipers, according to the plan supposed to have been laid down by arnold of villeneuve, in the hope that she might thereby preserve her loveliness for a century. if such a man once took up the idea of the weapon-salve, it was to be expected that he would make the most of it. in his hands, however, it was changed from an unguent into a powder, and was called the powder of sympathy. he pretended that he had acquired the knowledge of it from a carmelite friar, who had learned it in persia or armenia, from an oriental philosopher of great renown. king james, the prince of wales, the duke of buckingham, and many other noble personages, believed in its efficacy. the following remarkable instance of his mode of cure was read by sir kenelm to a society of learned men at montpellier. mr. james howell, the well-known author of the "dendrologia," and of various letters, coming by chance as two of his best friends were fighting a duel, rushed between them, and endeavoured to part them. he seized the sword of one of the combatants by the hilt, while, at the same time, he grasped the other by the blade. being transported with fury one against the other, they struggled to rid themselves of the hindrance caused by their friend; and in so doing, the one whose sword was held by the blade by mr. howell, drew it away roughly, and nearly cut his hand off, severing the nerves and muscles, and penetrating to the bone. the other, almost at the same instant, disengaged his sword, and aimed a blow at the head of his antagonist, which mr. howell observing, raised his wounded hand with the rapidity of thought, to prevent the blow. the sword fell on the back of his already wounded hand, and cut it severely. "it seemed," said sir kenelm digby, "as if some unlucky star raged over them, that they should have both shed the blood of that dear friend, for whose life they would have given their own, if they had been in their proper mind at the time." seeing mr. howell's face all besmeared with blood from his wounded hand, they both threw down their swords and embraced him, and bound up his hand with a garter, to close the veins, which were cut, and bled profusely. they then conveyed him home, and sent for a surgeon. king james, who was much attached to mr. howell, afterwards sent his own surgeon to attend him. we must continue the narrative in the words of sir kenelm digby:-- "it was my chance," says he, "to be lodged hard by him: and, four or five days after, as i was making myself ready, he came to my house, and prayed me to view his wounds; 'for i understand,' said he, 'that you have extraordinary remedies on such occasions; and my surgeons apprehend some fear, that it may grow to a gangrene, and so the hand must be cut off.' in effect, his countenance discovered that he was in much pain, which, he said, was insupportable, in regard of the extreme inflammation. i told him i would willingly serve him; but if, haply, he knew the manner how i could cure him, without touching or seeing him, it might be that he would not expose himself to my manner of curing; because he would think it, peradventure, either ineffectual or superstitious. he replied, 'the many wonderful things which people have related unto me of your way of medicinement, makes me nothing doubt at all of its efficacy; and all that i have to say unto you is comprehended in the spanish proverb, hagase el milagro y hagalo mahoma--let the miracle be done, though mahomet do it.' "i asked him then for anything that had the blood upon it: so he presently sent for his garter, wherewith his hand was first bound; and, as i called for a basin of water, as if i would wash my hands, i took a handful of powder of vitriol, which i had in my study, and presently dissolved it. as soon as the bloody garter was brought me, i put it in the basin, observing, in the interim, what mr. howell did, who stood talking with a gentleman in a corner of my chamber, not regarding at all what i was doing. he started suddenly, as if he had found some strange alteration in himself. i asked him what he ailed? 'i know not what ails me; but i find that i feel no more pain. methinks that a pleasing kind of freshness, as it were a wet cold napkin, did spread over my hand, which hath taken away the inflammation that tormented me before.' i replied, 'since, then, you feel already so much good of my medicament, i advise you to cast away all your plasters; only keep the wound clean, and in a moderate temper, betwixt heat and cold.' this was presently reported to the duke of buckingham, and a little after, to the king, who were both very curious to know the circumstances of the business; which was, that after dinner, i took the garter out of the water, and put it to dry before a great fire. it was scarce dry before mr. howell's servant came running, and saying that his master felt as much burning as ever he had done, if not more; for the heat was such as if his hand were betwixt coals of fire. i answered, that although that had happened at present, yet he should find ease in a short time; for i knew the reason of this new accident, and would provide accordingly; for his master should be free from that inflammation, it might be, before he could possibly return to him: but, in case he found no ease, i wished him to come presently back again; if not, he might forbear coming. thereupon he went; and, at the instant, i did put the garter again into the water; thereupon he found his master without any pain at all. to be brief, there was no sense of pain afterwards; but within five or six days, the wounds were cicatrised and entirely healed." such is the marvellous story of sir kenelm digby. other practitioners of that age were not behind him in absurdity. it was not always necessary to use either the powder of sympathy, or the weapon-salve, to effect a cure. it was sufficient to magnetise the sword with the hand (the first faint dawn of the animal theory), to relieve any pain the same weapon had caused. they pretended, that if they stroked the sword upwards with their fingers, the wounded person would feel immediate relief; but if they stroked it downwards, he would feel intolerable pain.[reginald scott, quoted by sir walter scott, in the notes to the "lay of the last minstrel," c. iii. v. xxiii.] another very strange notion of the power and capabilities of magnetism was entertained at the same time. it was believed that a sympathetic alphabet could be made on the flesh, by means of which persons could correspond with each other, and communicate all their ideas with the rapidity of volition, although thousands of miles apart. from the arms of two persons a piece of flesh was cut, and mutually transplanted, while still warm and bleeding. the piece so severed grew to the new arm on which it was placed; but still retained so close a sympathy with its native limb, that its old possessor was always sensible of any injury done to it. upon these transplanted pieces were tattooed the letters of the alphabet; so that, when a communication was to be made, either of the persons, though the wide atlantic rolled between them, had only to prick his arm with a magnetic needle, and straightway his friend received intimation that the telegraph was at work. whatever letter he pricked on his own arm pained the same letter on the arm of his correspondent. ["foreign quarterly review," vol. xii. p. .] who knows but this system, if it had received proper encouragement, might not have rendered the post-office unnecessary, and even obviated much of the necessity for railroads? let modern magnetisers try and bring it to perfection. it is not more preposterous than many of their present notions; and, if carried into effect, with the improvement of some stenographical expedient for diminishing the number of punctures, would be much more useful than their plan of causing persons to read with their great toes, [wirth's "theorie des somnambulismes," p. .] or seeing, with their eyes shut, into other people's bodies, and counting the number of arteries therein. ["report of the academic royale de medicine,"--case of mademoiselle celine sauvage, p. .] contemporary with sir kenelm digby, was the no less famous mr. valentine greatraks who, without mentioning magnetism, or laying claim to any theory, practised upon himself and others a deception much more akin to the animal magnetism of the present day, than the mineral magnetism it was then so much the fashion to study. he was the son of an irish gentleman, of good education and property, in the county of cork. he fell, at an early age, into a sort of melancholy derangement. after some time, he had an impulse, or strange persuasion in his mind, which continued to present itself, whether he were sleeping or waking, that god had given him the power of curing the king's evil. he mentioned this persuasion to his wife, who very candidly told him that he was a fool! he was not quite sure of this, notwithstanding the high authority from which it came, and determined to make trial of the power that was in him. a few days afterwards, he went to one william maher, of saltersbridge, in the parish of lismore, who was grievously afflicted with the king's evil in his eyes, cheek, and throat. upon this man, who was of abundant faith, he laid his hands, stroked him, and prayed fervently. he had the satisfaction to see him heal considerably in the course of a few days; and, finally, with the aid of other remedies, to be quite cured. this success encouraged him in the belief that he had a divine mission. day after day he had further impulses from on high, that he was called upon to cure the ague also. in the course of time he extended his powers to the curing of epilepsy, ulcers, aches, and lameness. all the county of cork was in a commotion to see this extraordinary physician, who certainly operated some very great benefit in cases where the disease was heightened by hypochondria and depression of spirits. according to his own account, [greatraks' account of himself, in a letter to the honourable robert boyle.] such great multitudes resorted to him from divers places, that he had no time to follow his own business, or enjoy the company of his family and friends. he was obliged to set aside three days in the week, from six in the morning till six at night, during which time only he laid hands upon all that came. still the crowds which thronged around him were so great, that the neighbouring towns were not able to accommodate them. he thereupon left his house in the country, and went to youghal, where the resort of sick people, not only from all parts of ireland, but from england, continued so great, that the magistrates were afraid they would infect the place by their diseases. several of these poor credulous people no sooner saw him than they fell into fits, and he restored them by waving his hand in their faces, and praying over them. nay, he affirmed, that the touch of his glove had driven pains away, and, on one occasion, cast out from a woman several devils, or evil spirits, who tormented her day and night. "every one of these devils," says greatraks, "was like to choke her, when it came up into her throat." it is evident, from this, that the woman's complaint was nothing but hysteria. the clergy of the diocese of lismore, who seem to have had much clearer notions of greatraks' pretensions than their parishioners, set their faces against the new prophet and worker of miracles. he was cited to appear in the dean's court, and prohibited from laying on his hands for the future: but he cared nothing for the church. he imagined that he derived his powers direct from heaven, and continued to throw people into fits, and bring them to their senses again, as usual, almost exactly after the fashion of modern magnetisers. his reputation became, at last, so great, that lord conway sent to him from london, begging-that he would come over immediately, to cure a grievous head-ache which his lady had suffered for several years, and which the principal physicians of england had been unable to relieve. greatraks accepted the invitation, and tried his manipulations and prayers upon lady conway. he failed, however, in affording any relief. the poor lady's head-ache was excited by causes too serious to allow her any help, even from faith and a lively imagination. he lived for some months in lord conway's house, at ragley, in warwickshire, operating cures similar to those he had performed in ireland. he afterwards removed to london, and took a house in lincoln's inn fields, which soon became the daily resort of all the nervous and credulous women of the metropolis. a very amusing account of greatraks at this time ( ), is given in the second volume of the "miscellanies of st. evremond," under the title of the irish prophet. it is the most graphic sketch ever made of this early magnetiser. whether his pretensions were more or less absurd than those of some of his successors, who have lately made their appearance among us, would be hard to say. "when m. de comminges," says st. evremond, "was ambassador from his most christian majesty to the king of great britain, there came to london an irish prophet, who passed himself off as a great worker of miracles. some persons of quality having begged m. de comminges to invite him to his house, that they might be witnesses of some of his miracles, the ambassador promised to satisfy them, as much from his own curiosity as from courtesy to his friends; and gave notice to greatraks that he would be glad to see him. "a rumour of the prophet's coming soon spread all over the town, and the hotel of m. de comminges was crowded by sick persons, who came full of confidence in their speedy cure. the irishman made them wait a considerable time for him, but came at last, in the midst of their impatience, with a grave and simple countenance, that showed no signs of his being a cheat. monsieur de comminges prepared to question him strictly, hoping to discourse with him on the matters that he had read of in van helmont and bodinus; but he was not able to do so, much to his regret, for the crowd became so great, and cripples and others pressed around so impatiently to be the first cured, that the servants were obliged to use threats, and even force, before they could establish order among them, or place them in proper ranks. "the prophet affirmed that all diseases were caused by evil spirits. every infirmity was with him a case of diabolical possession. the first that was presented to him was a man suffering from gout and rheumatism, and so severely that the physicians had been unable to cure him. 'ah,' said the miracle-worker, 'i have seen a good deal of this sort of spirits when i was in ireland. they are watery spirits, who bring on cold shivering, and excite an overflow of aqueous humours in our poor bodies.' then addressing the man, he said, 'evil spirit, who hast quitted thy dwelling in the waters to come and afflict this miserable body, i command thee to quit thy new abode, and to return to thine ancient habitation!' this said, the sick man was ordered to withdraw, and another was brought forward in his place. this new comer said he was tormented by the melancholy vapours. in fact, he looked like a hypochondriac; one of those persons diseased in imagination, and who but too often become so in reality. 'aerial spirit,' said the irishman, 'return, i command thee, into the air!--exercise thy natural vocation of raising tempests, and do not excite any more wind in this sad unlucky body!' this man was immediately turned away to make room for a third patient, who, in the irishman's opinion, was only tormented by a little bit of a sprite, who could not withstand his command for an instant. he pretended that he recognized this sprite by some marks which were invisible to the company, to whom he turned with a smile, and said, 'this sort of spirit does not often do much harm, and is always very diverting.' to hear him talk, one would have imagined that he knew all about spirits--their names, their rank, their numbers, their employment, and all the functions they were destined to; and he boasted of being much better acquainted with the intrigues of demons than he was with the affairs of men. you can hardly imagine what a reputation he gained in a short time. catholics and protestants visited him from every part, all believing that power from heaven was in his hands." after relating a rather equivocal adventure of a husband and wife, who implored greatraks to cast out the devil of dissension which had crept in between them, st. evremond thus sums up the effect he produced on the popular mind:--"so great was the confidence in him, that the blind fancied they saw the light which they did not see--the deaf imagined that they heard--the lame that they walked straight, and the paralytic that they had recovered the use of their limbs. an idea of health made the sick forget for a while their maladies; and imagination, which was not less active in those merely drawn by curiosity than in the sick, gave a false view to the one class, from the desire of seeing, as it operated a false cure on the other from the strong desire of being healed. such was the power of the irishman over the mind, and such was the influence of the mind upon the body. nothing was spoken of in london but his prodigies; and these prodigies were supported by such great authorities, that the bewildered multitude believed them almost without examination, while more enlightened people did not dare to reject them from their own knowledge. the public opinion, timid and enslaved, respected this imperious and, apparently, well-authenticated error. those who saw through the delusion kept their opinion to themselves, knowing how useless it was to declare their disbelief to a people filled with prejudice and admiration." about the same time that valentine greatraks was thus magnetising the people of london, an italian enthusiast, named francisco bagnone, was performing the same tricks in italy, and with as great success. he had only to touch weak women with his hands, or sometimes (for the sake of working more effectively upon their fanaticism) with a relic, to make them fall into fits and manifest all the symptoms of magnetism. besides these, several learned men, in different parts of europe, directed their attention to the study of the magnet, believing it might be rendered efficacious in many diseases. van helmont, in particular, published a work on the effects of magnetism on the human frame; and balthazar gracian, a spaniard, rendered himself famous for the boldness of his views on the subject. "the magnet," said the latter, "attracts iron; iron is found everywhere; everything, therefore, is under the influence of magnetism. it is only a modification of the general principle, which establishes harmony or foments divisions among men. it is the same agent which gives rise to sympathy, antipathy, and the passions." ["introduction to the study of animal magnetism," by baron dupotet de sennevoy, p. .] baptista porta, who, in the whimsical genealogy of the weapon-salve, given by parson foster in his attack upon dr. a fluctibus, is mentioned as one of its fathers, had also great faith in the efficacy of the magnet, and operated upon the imagination of his patients in a manner which was then considered so extraordinary that he was accused of being a magician, and prohibited from practising by the court of rome. among others who distinguished themselves by their faith in magnetism, sebastian wirdig and william maxwell claim especial notice. wirdig was professor of medicine at the university of rostock in mecklenburgh, and wrote a treatise called "the new medicine of the spirits," which he presented to the royal society of london. an edition of this work was printed in , in which the author maintained that a magnetic influence took place, not only between the celestial and terrestrial bodies, but between all living things. the whole world, he said, was under the influence of magnetism: life was preserved by magnetism; death was the consequence of magnetism! maxwell, the other enthusiast, was an admiring disciple of paracelsus, and boasted that he had irradiated the obscurity in which too many of the wonder-working recipes of that great philosopher were enveloped. his works were printed at frankfort, in . it would seem, from the following passage, that he was aware of the great influence of imagination, as well in the production as in the cure of diseases. "if you wish to work prodigies," says he, "abstract from the materiality of beings--increase the sum of spirituality in bodies--rouse the spirit from its slumbers. unless you do one or other of these things--unless you can bind the idea, you can never perform anything good or great." here, in fact, lies the whole secret of magnetism, and all delusions of a similar kind: increase the spirituality--rouse the spirit from its slumbers, or in other words, work upon the imagination--induce belief and blind confidence, and you may do anything. this passage, which is quoted with approbation by m. dupotet in a recent work ["introduction to the study of animal magnetism," p. .] as strongly corroborative of the theory now advanced by the animal-magnetists, is just the reverse. if they believe they can work all their wonders by the means so dimly shadowed forth by maxwell, what becomes of the universal fluid pervading all nature, and which they pretend to pour into weak and diseased bodies from the tips of their fingers? early in the eighteenth century, the attention of europe was directed to a very remarkable instance of fanaticism, which has been claimed by the animal magnetists, as a proof of their science. the convulsionaries of st. medard, as they were called, assembled in great numbers round the tomb of their favourite saint, the jansenist priest paris, and taught one another how to fall into convulsions. they believed that st. paris would cure all their infirmities; and the number of hysterical women and weak-minded persons of all descriptions that flocked to the tomb from far and near was so great, as daily to block up all the avenues leading to the spot. working themselves up to a pitch of excitement, they went off one after the other into fits, while some of them, still in apparent possession of all their faculties, voluntarily exposed themselves to sufferings, which on ordinary occasions would have been sufficient to deprive them of life. the scenes that occurred were a scandal to civilization and to religion--a strange mixture of obscenity, absurdity, and superstition. while some were praying on bended knees at the shrine of st. paris, others were shrieking and making the most hideous noises. the women especially exerted themselves. on one side of the chapel there might be seen a score of them, all in convulsions, while at another as many more, excited to a sort of frenzy, yielded themselves up to gross indecencies. some of them took an insane delight in being beaten and trampled upon. one in particular, according to montegre, whose account we quote [dictionnaire des sciences medicales--article "convulsionnaires," par montegre.] was so enraptured with this ill usage, that nothing but the hardest blows would satisfy her. while a fellow of herculean strength was beating her with all his might with a heavy bar of iron, she kept continually urging him to renewed exertion. the harder he struck the better she liked it, exclaiming all the while, "well done, brother; well done; oh, how pleasant it is! what good you are doing me! courage, my brother, courage; strike harder; strike harder still!" another of these fanatics had, if possible, a still greater love for a beating. carre de montgeron, who relates the circumstance, was unable to satisfy her with sixty blows of a large sledge hammer. he afterwards used the same weapon, with the same degree of strength, for the sake of experiment, and succeeded in battering a hole in a stone wall at the twenty-fifth stroke. another woman, named sonnet, laid herself down on a red-hot brazier without flinching, and acquired for herself the nickname of the salamander; while others, desirous of a more illustrious martyrdom, attempted to crucify themselves. m. deleuze, in his critical history of animal magnetism, attempts to prove that this fanatical frenzy was produced by magnetism, and that these mad enthusiasts magnetised each other without being aware of it. as well might he insist that the fanaticism which tempts the hindoo bigot to keep his arms stretched in a horizontal position till the sinews wither, or his fingers closed upon his palms till the nails grow out of the backs of his hands, is also an effect of magnetism! for a period of sixty or seventy years, magnetism was almost wholly confined to germany. men of sense and learning devoted their attention to the properties of the loadstone; and one father hell, a jesuit, and professor of astronomy at the university of vienna, rendered himself famous by his magnetic cures. about the year or , he invented steel plates of a peculiar form, which he applied to the naked body, as a cure for several diseases. in the year , he communicated his system to anthony mesmer. the latter improved upon the ideas of father hell, constructed a new theory of his own, and became the founder of animal magnetism. it has been the fashion among the enemies of the new delusion to decry mesmer as an unprincipled adventurer, while his disciples have extolled him to the skies as a regenerator of the human race. in nearly the same words, as the rosicrucians applied to their founders, he has been called the discoverer of the secret which brings man into more intimate connexion with his creator; the deliverer of the soul from the debasing trammels of the flesh; the man who enables us to set time at defiance, and conquer the obstructions of space. a careful sifting of his pretensions--and examination of the evidence brought forward to sustain them, will soon show which opinion is the more correct. that the writer of these pages considers him in the light of a man, who deluding himself, was the means of deluding others, may be inferred from his finding a place in these volumes, and figuring among the flamels, the agrippas, the borris, the boehmens, and the cagliostros. he was born in may , at mersburg, in swabia, and studied medicine at the university of vienna. he took his degrees in , and chose the influence of the planets on the human body as the subject of his inaugural dissertation. having treated the matter quite in the style of the old astrological physicians, he was exposed to some ridicule both then and afterwards. even at this early period some faint ideas of his great theory were germinating in his mind. he maintained in his dissertation, "that the sun, moon, and fixed stars mutually affect each other in their orbits; that they cause and direct in our earth a flux and reflux not only in the sea, but in the atmosphere, and affect in a similar manner all organized bodies through the medium of a subtile and mobile fluid, which pervades the universe and associates all things together in mutual intercourse and harmony." this influence, he said, was particularly exercised on the nervous system, and produced two states which he called intension and remission, which seemed to him to account for the different periodical revolutions observable in several maladies. when in after-life he met with father hell, he was confirmed by that person's observations in the truth of many of his own ideas. having caused hell to make him some magnetic plates, he determined to try experiments with them himself for his further satisfaction. he tried accordingly, and was astonished at his success. the faith of their wearers operated wonders with the metallic plates. mesmer made due reports to father hell of all he had done, and the latter published them as the results of his own happy invention, and speaking of mesmer as a physician whom he had employed to work under him. mesmer took offence at being thus treated, considering himself a far greater personage than father hell. he claimed the invention as his own, accused hell of a breach of confidence, and stigmatized him as a mean person, anxious to turn the discoveries of others to his own account. hell replied, and a very pretty quarrel was the result, which afforded small talk for months to the literati of vienna. hell ultimately gained the victory. mesmer, nothing daunted, continued to promulgate his views, till he stumbled at last upon the animal theory. one of his patients was a young lady named oesterline, who suffered under a convulsive malady. her attacks were periodical, and attended by a rush of blood to the head, followed by delirium and syncope. these symptoms he soon succeeded in reducing under his system of planetary influence, and imagined he could foretell the periods of accession and remission. having thus accounted satisfactorily to himself for the origin of the disease, the idea struck him that he could operate a certain cure, if he could ascertain beyond doubt what he had long believed, that there existed between the bodies which compose our globe, an action equally reciprocal and similar to that of the heavenly bodies, by means of which he could imitate artificially the periodical revolutions of the flux and reflux beforementioned. he soon convinced himself that this action did exist. when trying the metallic plates of father hell, he thought their efficacy depended on their form; but he found afterwards that he could produce the same effects without using them at all, merely by passing his hands downwards towards the feet of the patient--even when at a considerable distance. this completed the theory of mesmer. he wrote an account of his discovery to all the learned societies of europe, soliciting their investigation. the academy of sciences at berlin was the only one that answered him, and their answer was anything but favourable to his system or flattering to himself. still he was not discouraged. he maintained to all who would listen to him that the magnetic matter, or fluid, pervaded all the universe--that every human body contained it, and could communicate the superabundance of it to another by an exertion of the will. writing to a friend from vienna, he said, "i have observed that the magnetic is almost the same thing as the electric fluid, and that it may be propagated in the same manner, by means of intermediate bodies. steel is not the only substance adapted to this purpose. i have rendered paper, bread, wool, silk, stones, leather, glass, wood, men, and dogs--in short, everything i touched, magnetic to such a degree that these substances produced the same effects as the loadstone on diseased persons. i have charged jars with magnetic matter in the same way as is done with electricity." mesmer did not long find his residence at vienna as agreeable as he wished. his pretensions were looked upon with contempt or indifference, and the case of mademoiselle oesterline brought him less fame than notoriety. he determined to change his sphere of action, and travelled into swabia and switzerland. in the latter country he met with the celebrated father gassner, who, like valentine greatraks, amused himself by casting out devils, and healing the sick by merely laying hands upon them. at his approach puling girls fell into convulsions, and the hypochondriac fancied themselves cured. his house was daily besieged by the lame, the blind, and the hysteric. mesmer at once acknowledged the efficacy of his cures, and declared that they were the obvious result of his own newly-discovered power of magnetism. a few of the father's patients were forthwith subjected to the manipulations of mesmer, and the same symptoms were induced. he then tried his hand upon some paupers in the hospitals of berne and zurich, and succeeded, according to his own account, but no other person's, in curing an opththalmia and a gutta serena. with memorials of these achievements he returned to vienna, in the hope of silencing his enemies, or at least forcing them to respect his newly-acquired reputation, and to examine his system more attentively. his second appearance in that capital was not more auspicious than the first. he undertook to cure a mademoiselle paradis, who was quite blind, and subject to convulsions. he magnetised her several times, and then declared that she was cured; at least, if she was not, it was her fault, and not his. an eminent oculist of that day, named birth, went to visit her, and declared that she was as blind as ever; while her family said she was as much subject to convulsions as before. mesmer persisted that she was cured. like the french philosopher, he would not allow facts to interfere with his theory. [an enthusiastic philosopher, of whose name we are not informed, had constructed a very satisfactory theory on some subject or other, and was not a little proud of it. "but the facts, my dear fellow," said his friend, "the facts do not agree with your theory."--"don't they," replied the philosopher, shrugging his shoulders, "then, taut pis pour les faits;"--so much the worse for the facts.] he declared that there was a conspiracy against him; and that mademoiselle paradis, at the instigation of her family, feigned blindness in order to injure his reputation! the consequences of this pretended cure taught mesmer that vienna was not the sphere for him. paris, the idle, the debauched, the pleasure-hunting, the novelty-loving, was the scene for a philosopher like him, and thither he repaired accordingly. he arrived at paris in , and began modestly, by making himself and his theory known to the principal physicians. at first, his encouragement was but slight; he found people more inclined to laugh at than to patronise him. but he was a man who had great confidence in himself, and of a perseverance which no difficulties could overcome. he hired a sumptuous apartment, which he opened to all comers who chose to make trial of the new power of nature. m. d'eslon, a physician of great reputation, became a convert; and from that time, animal magnetism, or, as some called it, mesmerism, became the fashion in paris. the women were quite enthusiastic about it, and their admiring tattle wafted its fame through every grade of society. mesmer was the rage; and high and low, rich and poor, credulous and unbelieving, all hastened to convince themselves of the power of this mighty magician, who made such magnificent promises. mesmer, who knew as well as any man living the influence of the imagination, determined that, on that score, nothing should be wanting to heighten the effect of the magnetic charm. in all paris, there was not a house so charmingly furnished as monsieur mesmer's. richly-stained glass shed a dim religious light on his spacious saloons, which were almost covered with mirrors. orange blossoms scented all the air of his corridors; incense of the most expensive kinds burned in antique vases on his chimney-pieces; aeolian harps sighed melodious music from distant chambers; while sometimes a sweet female voice, from above or below, stole softly upon the mysterious silence that was kept in the house, and insisted upon from all visitors. "was ever anything so delightful?" cried all the mrs. wittitterley's of paris, as they thronged to his house in search of pleasant excitement; "so wonderful!" said the pseudo-philosophers, who would believe anything if it were the fashion; "so amusing!" said the worn-out debauchees, who had drained the cup of sensuality to its dregs, and who longed to see lovely women in convulsions, with the hope that they might gain some new emotions from the sight. the following was the mode of operation:--in the centre of the saloon was placed an oval vessel, about four feet in its longest diameter, and one foot deep. in this were laid a number of wine-bottles, filled with magnetised water, well corked-up, and disposed in radii, with their necks outwards. water was then poured into the vessel so as just to cover the bottles, and filings of iron were thrown in occasionally to heighten the magnetic effect. the vessel was then covered with an iron cover, pierced through with many holes, and was called the baquet. from each hole issued a long moveable rod of iron, which the patients were to apply to such parts of their bodies as were afflicted. around this baquet the patients were directed to sit, holding each other by the hand, and pressing their knees together as closely as possible to facilitate the passage of the magnetic fluid from one to the other. then came in the assistant magnetisers, generally strong, handsome young men, to pour into the patient from their finger-tips fresh streams of the wondrous fluid. they embraced the patients between the knees, rubbed them gently down the spine and the course of the nerves, using gentle pressure upon the breasts of the ladies, and staring them out of countenance to magnetise them by the eye! all this time the most rigorous silence was maintained, with the exception of a few wild notes on the harmonica or the piano-forte, or the melodious voice of a hidden opera-singer swelling softly at long intervals. gradually the cheeks of the ladies began to glow, their imaginations to become inflamed; and off they went, one after the other, in convulsive fits. some of them sobbed and tore their hair, others laughed till the tears ran from their eyes, while others shrieked and screamed and yelled till they became insensible altogether. this was the crisis of the delirium. in the midst of it, the chief actor made his appearance, waving his wand, like prospero, to work new wonders. dressed in a long robe of lilac-coloured silk, richly embroidered with gold flowers, bearing in his hand a white magnetic rod; and, with a look of dignity which would have sat well on an eastern caliph, he marched with solemn strides into the room. he awed the still sensible by his eye, and the violence of their symptoms diminished. he stroked the insensible with his hands upon the eyebrows and down the spine; traced figures upon their breast and abdomen with his long white wand, and they were restored to consciousness. they became calm, acknowledged his power, and said they felt streams of cold or burning vapour passing through their frames, according as he waved his wand or his fingers before them. "it is impossible," says m. dupotet, "to conceive the sensation which mesmer's experiments created in paris. no theological controversy, in the earlier ages of the catholic church, was ever conducted with greater bitterness." his adversaries denied the discovery; some calling him a quack, others a fool, and others, again, like the abbe fiard, a man who had sold himself to the devil! his friends were as extravagant in their praise, as his foes were in their censure. paris was inundated with pamphlets upon the subject, as many defending as attacking the doctrine. at court, the queen expressed herself in favour of it, and nothing else was to be heard of in society. by the advice of m. d'eslon, mesmer challenged an examination of his doctrine by the faculty of medicine. he proposed to select twenty-four patients, twelve of whom he would treat magnetically, leaving the other twelve to be treated by the faculty according to the old and approved methods. he also stipulated, that to prevent disputes, the government should nominate certain persons who were not physicians, to be present at the experiments; and that the object of the inquiry should be, not how these effects were produced, but whether they were really efficacious in the cure of any disease. the faculty objected to limit the inquiry in this manner, and the proposition fell to the ground. mesmer now wrote to marie antoinette, with the view of securing her influence in obtaining for him the protection of government. he wished to have a chateau and its lands given to him, with a handsome yearly income, that he might be enabled to continue his experiments at leisure, untroubled by the persecution of his enemies. he hinted the duty of governments to support men of science, and expressed his fear, that if he met no more encouragement, he should be compelled to carry his great discovery to some other land more willing to appreciate him. "in the eyes of your majesty," said he, "four or five hundred thousand francs, applied to a good purpose, are of no account. the welfare and happiness of your people are everything. my discovery ought to be received and rewarded with a munificence worthy of the monarch to whom i shall attach myself." the government at last offered him a pension of twenty thousand francs, and the cross of the order of st. michael, if he had made any discovery in medicine, and would communicate it to physicians nominated by the king. the latter part of the proposition was not agreeable to mesmer. he feared the unfavourable report of the king's physicians; and, breaking off the negotiation, spoke of his disregard of money, and his wish to have his discovery at once recognised by the government. he then retired to spa, in a fit of disgust, upon pretence of drinking the waters for the benefit of his health. after he had left paris, the faculty of medicine called upon m. d'eslon, for the third and last time, to renounce the doctrine of animal magnetism, or be expelled from their body. m. d'eslon, so far from doing this, declared that he had discovered new secrets, and solicited further examination. a royal commission of the faculty of medicine was, in consequence, appointed on the th of march , seconded by another commission of the academie des sciences, to investigate the phenomena and report upon them. the first commission was composed of the principal physicians of paris; while, among the eminent men comprised in the latter, were benjamin franklin, lavoisier, and bailly, the historian of astronomy. mesmer was formally invited to appear before this body, but absented himself from day to day, upon one pretence or another. m. d'eslon was more honest, because he thoroughly believed in the phenomena, which it is to be questioned if mesmer ever did, and regularly attended the sittings and performed experiments. bailly has thus described the scenes of which he was a witness in the course of this investigation. "the sick persons, arranged in great numbers and in several rows around the baquet, receive the magnetism by all these means: by the iron rods which convey it to them from the baquet--by the cords wound round their bodies--by the connection of the thumb, which conveys to them the magnetism of their neighbours--and by the sounds of a pianoforte, or of an agreeable voice, diffusing the magnetism in the air. the patients were also directly magnetised by means of the finger and wand of the magnetiser moved slowly before their faces, above or behind their heads, and on the diseased parts, always observing the direction of the holes. the magnetiser acts by fixing his eyes on them. but above all, they are magnetised by the application of his hands and the pressure of his fingers on the hypochondres and on the regions of the abdomen; an application often continued for a long time-sometimes for several hours. "meanwhile the patients in their different conditions present a very varied picture. some are calm, tranquil, and experience no effect. others cough, spit, feel slight pains, local or general heat, and have sweatings. others again are agitated and tormented with convulsions. these convulsions are remarkable in regard to the number affected with them, to their duration and force. as soon as one begins to be convulsed, several others are affected. the commissioners have observed some of these convulsions last more than three hours. they are accompanied with expectorations of a muddy viscous water, brought away by violent efforts. sometimes streaks of blood have been observed in this fluid. these convulsions are characterized by the precipitous, involuntary motion of all the limbs, and of the whole body: by the construction of the throat--by the leaping motions of the hypochondria and the epigastrium--by the dimness and wandering of the eyes--by piercing shrieks, tears, sobbing, and immoderate laughter. they are preceded or followed by a state of languor or reverie, a kind of depression, and sometimes drowsiness. the smallest sudden noise occasions a shuddering; and it was remarked, that the change of measure in the airs played on the piano-forte had a great influence on the patients. a quicker motion, a livelier melody, agitated them more, and renewed the vivacity of their convulsions. "nothing is more astonishing than the spectacle of these convulsions. one who has not seen them can form no idea of them. the spectator is as much astonished at the profound repose of one portion of the patients as at the agitation of the rest--at the various accidents which are repeated, and at the sympathies which are exhibited. some of the patients may be seen devoting their attention exclusively to one another, rushing towards each other with open arms, smiling, soothing, and manifesting every symptom of attachment and affection. all are under the power of the magnetiser; it matters not in what state of drowsiness they may be, the sound of his voice--a look, a motion of his hand--brings them out of it. among the patients in convulsions there are always observed a great many women, and very few men." [rapport des commissaires, redige par m. bailly.--paris, .] these experiments lasted for about five months. they had hardly commenced, before mesmer, alarmed at the loss both of fame and profit, determined to return to paris. some patients of rank and fortune, enthusiastic believers in his doctrine, had followed him to spa. one of them named bergasse, proposed to open a subscription for him, of one hundred shares, at one hundred louis each, on condition that he would disclose his secret to the subscribers, who were to be permitted to make whatever use they pleased of it. mesmer readily embraced the proposal; and such was the infatuation, that the subscription was not only filled in a few days, but exceeded by no less a sum than one hundred and forty thousand francs. with this fortune he returned to paris, and recommenced his experiments, while the royal commission continued theirs. his admiring pupils, who had paid him so handsomely for his instructions, spread the delusion over the country, and established in all the principal towns of france, "societies of harmony," for trying experiments and curing all diseases by means of magnetism. some of these societies were a scandal to morality, being joined by profligate men of depraved appetites, who took a disgusting delight in witnessing young girls in convulsions. many of the pretended magnetisers were notorious libertines, who took that opportunity of gratifying their passions. an illegal increase of the number of french citizens was anything but a rare consequence in strasburg, nantes, bourdeaux, lyons, and other towns, where these societies were established. at last the commissioners published their report, which was drawn up by the illustrious and unfortunate bailly. for clearness of reasoning and strict impartiality it has never been surpassed. after detailing the various experiments made, and their results, they came to the conclusion that the only proof advanced in support of animal magnetism was the effects it produced on the human body--that those effects could be produced without passes or other magnetic manipulations--that all these manipulations, and passes, and ceremonies never produce any effect at all if employed without the patient's knowledge; and that therefore imagination did, and animal magnetism did not, account for the phenomena. this report was the ruin of mesmer's reputation in france. he quitted paris shortly after, with the three hundred and forty thousand francs which had been subscribed by his admirers, and retired to his own country, where he died in , at the advanced age of eighty-one. but the seeds he had sown fructified of themselves, nourished and brought to maturity by the kindly warmth of popular credulity. imitators sprang up in france, germany, and england, more extravagant than their master, and claiming powers for the new science which its founder had never dreamt of. among others, cagliostro made good use of the delusion in extending his claims to be considered a master of the occult sciences. but he made no discoveries worthy to be compared to those of the marquis de puysegur and the chevalier barbarin, honest men, who began by deceiving themselves before they deceived others. the marquis de puysegur, the owner of a considerable estate at busancy, was one of those who had entered into the subscription for mesmer. after that individual had quitted france, he retired to busancy with his brother to try animal magnetism upon his tenants, and cure the country people of all manner of diseases. he was a man of great simplicity and much benevolence, and not only magnetised but fed the sick that flocked around him. in all the neighbourhood, and indeed within a circumference of twenty miles, he was looked upon as endowed with a power almost divine. his great discovery, as he called it, was made by chance. one day he had magnetised his gardener; and observing him to fall into a deep sleep, it occurred to him that he would address a question to him, as he would have done to a natural somnambulist. he did so, and the man replied with much clearness and precision. m. de puysegur was agreeably surprised: he continued his experiments, and found that, in this state of magnetic somnambulism, the soul of the sleeper was enlarged, and brought into more intimate communion with all nature, and more especially with him, m. de puysegur. he found that all further manipulations were unnecessary; that, without speaking or making any sign, he could convey his will to the patient; that he could, in fact, converse with him, soul to soul, without the employment of any physical operation whatever! simultaneously with this marvellous discovery he made another, which reflects equal credit upon his understanding. like valentine greatraks, he found it hard work to magnetise all that came--that he had not even time to take the repose and relaxation which were necessary for his health. in this emergency he hit upon a clever expedient. he had heard mesmer say that he could magnetise bits of wood--why should he not be able to magnetise a whole tree? it was no sooner thought than done. there was a large elm on the village green at busancy, under which the peasant girls used to dance on festive occasions, and the old men to sit, drinking their vin du pays on the fine summer evenings. m. de puysegur proceeded to this tree and magnetised it, by first touching it with his hands and then retiring a few steps from it; all the while directing streams of the magnetic fluid from the branches toward the trunk, and from the trunk toward the root. this done, he caused circular seats to be erected round it, and cords suspended from it in all directions. when the patients had seated themselves, they twisted the cords round the diseased parts of their bodies, and held one another firmly by their thumbs to form a direct channel of communication for the passage of the fluid. m. de puysegur had now two hobbies--the man with the enlarged soul, and the magnetic elm. the infatuation of himself and his patients cannot be better expressed than in his own words. writing to his brother, on the th of may , he says, "if you do not come, my dear friend, you will not see my extraordinary man, for his health is now almost quite restored. i continue to make use of the happy power for which i am indebted to m. mesmer. every day i bless his name; for i am very useful, and produce many salutary effects on all the sick poor in the neighbourhood. they flock around my tree; there were more than one hundred and thirty of them this morning. it is the best baquet possible; not a leaf of it but communicates health! all feel, more or less, the good effects of it. you will be delighted to see the charming picture of humanity which this presents. i have only one regret--it is, that i cannot touch all who come. but my magnetised man--my intelligence--sets me at ease. he teaches me what conduct i should adopt. according to him, it is not at all necessary that i should touch every one; a look, a gesture, even a wish, is sufficient. and it is one of the most ignorant peasants of the country that teaches me this! when he is in a crisis, i know of nothing more profound, more prudent, more clearsighted (clairvoyant) than he is." in another letter, describing his first experiment with the magnetic tree, he says, "yester evening i brought my first patient to it. as soon as i had put the cord round him he gazed at the tree; and, with an air of astonishment which i cannot describe, exclaimed, 'what is it that i see there?' his head then sunk down, and he fell into a perfect fit of somnambulism. at the end of an hour, i took him home to his house again, when i restored him to his senses. several men and women came to tell him what he had been doing. he maintained it was not true; that, weak as he was, and scarcely able to walk, it would have been scarcely possible for him to have gone down stairs and walked to the tree. to-day i have repeated the experiment on him, and with the same success. i own to you that my head turns round with pleasure to think of the good i do. madame de puysegur, the friends she has with her, my servants, and, in fact, all who are near me, feel an amazement, mingled with admiration, which cannot be described; but they do not experience the half of my sensations. without my tree, which gives me rest, and which will give me still more, i should be in a state of agitation, inconsistent, i believe, with my health. i exist too much, if i may be allowed to use the expression." in another letter, he descants still more poetically upon his gardener with the enlarged soul. he says, "it is from this simple man, this tall and stout rustic, twenty-three years of age, enfeebled by disease, or rather by sorrow, and therefore the more predisposed to be affected by any great natural agent,--it is from this man, i repeat, that i derive instruction and knowledge. when in the magnetic state, he is no longer a peasant who can hardly utter a single sentence; he is a being, to describe whom i cannot find a name. i need not speak; i have only to think before him, when he instantly understands and answers me. should anybody come into the room, he sees him, if i desire it (but not else), and addresses him, and says what i wish him to say; not indeed exactly as i dictate to him, but as truth requires. when he wants to add more than i deem it prudent strangers should hear, i stop the flow of his ideas, and of his conversation in the middle of a word, and give it quite a different turn!" among other persons attracted to busancy by the report of these extraordinary occurrences was m. cloquet, the receiver of finance. his appetite for the marvellous being somewhat insatiable, he readily believed all that was told him by m. de puysegur. he also has left a record of what he saw, and what he credited, which throws a still clearer light upon the progress of the delusion. ["introduction to the study of animal magnetism," by baron dupotet, p. .] he says that the patients he saw in the magnetic state had an appearance of deep sleep, during which all the physical faculties were suspended, to the advantage of the intellectual faculties. the eyes of the patients were closed; the sense of hearing was abolished, and they awoke only at the voice of their magnetiser. "if any one touched a patient during a crisis, or even the chair on which he was seated," says m. cloquet, "it would cause him much pain and suffering, and throw him into convulsions. during the crisis, they possess an extraordinary and supernatural power, by which, on touching a patient presented to them, they can feel what part of his body is diseased, even by merely passing their hand over the clothes." another singularity was, that these sleepers who could thus discover diseases--see into the interior of other men's stomachs, and point out remedies, remembered absolutely nothing after the magnetiser thought proper to disenchant them. the time that elapsed between their entering the crisis and their coming out of it was obliterated. not only had the magnetiser the power of making himself heard by the somnambulists, but he could make them follow him by merely pointing his finger at them from a distance, though they had their eyes the whole time completely closed. such was animal magnetism under the auspices of the marquis de puysegur. while he was hibiting these fooleries around his elm-tree, a magnetiser of another class appeared in lyons, in the person of the chevalier de barbarin. this person thought the effort of the will, without any of the paraphernalia of wands or baquets, was sufficient to throw patients into the magnetic sleep. he tried it and succeeded. by sitting at the bedside of his patients, and praying that they might be magnetised, they went off into a state very similar to that of the persons who fell under the notice of m. de puysegur. in the course of time, a very considerable number of magnetisers, acknowledging barbarin for their model, and called after him barbarinists, appeared in different parts, and were believed to have effected some remarkable cures. in sweden and germany, this sect of fanatics increased rapidly, and were called spiritualists, to distinguish them from the followers of m. de puysegur, who were called experimentalists. they maintained that all the effects of animal magnetism, which mesmer believed to be producible by a magnetic fluid dispersed through nature, were produced by the mere effort of one human soul acting upon another; that when a connexion had once been established between a magnetiser and his patient, the former could communicate his influence to the latter from any distance, even hundreds of miles, by the will! one of them thus described the blessed state of a magnetic patient:--"in such a man animal instinct ascends to the highest degree admissible in this world. the clairvoyant is then a pure animal, without any admixture of matter. his observations are those of a spirit. he is similar to god. his eye penetrates all the secrets of nature. when his attention is fixed on any of the objects of this world--on his disease, his death, his well-beloved, his friends, his relations, his enemies,--in spirit he sees them acting; he penetrates into the causes and the consequences of their actions; he becomes a physician, a prophet, a divine!" [see "foreign review, continental miscellany," vol. v. .] let us now see what progress these mysteries made in england. in the year , dr. mainauduc, who had been a pupil, first of mesmer, and afterwards of d'eslon, arrived in bristol, and gave public lectures upon magnetism. his success was quite extraordinary. people of rank and fortune hastened from london to bristol to be magnetised, or to place themselves under his tuition. dr. george winter, in his history of animal magnetism, gives the following list of them:--"they amounted to one hundred and twenty-seven, among whom there were one duke, one duchess, one marchioness, two countesses, one earl, one baron, three baronesses, one bishop, five right honourable gentlemen and ladies, two baronets, seven members of parliament, one clergyman, two physicians, seven surgeons, besides ninety-two gentlemen and ladies of respectability." he afterwards established himself in london, where he performed with equal success. he began by publishing proposals to the ladies for the formation of a hygeian society. in this paper he vaunted highly the curative effects of animal magnetism, and took great credit to himself for being the first person to introduce it into england, and thus concluded:--"as this method of cure is not confined to sex, or college education, and the fair sex being in general the most sympathising part of the creation, and most immediately concerned in the health and care of its offspring, i think myself bound in gratitude to you, ladies, for the partiality you have shown me in midwifery, to contribute, as far as lies in my power, to render you additionally useful and valuable to the community. with this view, i propose forming my hygeian society, to be incorporated with that of paris. as soon as twenty ladies have given in their names, the day shall be appointed for the first meeting at my house, when they are to pay fifteen guineas, which will include the whole expense." hannah more, in a letter addressed to horace walpole, in september , speaks of the "demoniacal mummeries" of dr. mainauduc, and says he was in a fair way of gaining a hundred thousand pounds by them, as mesmer had done by his exhibitions in paris. so much curiosity was excited by the subject that, about the same time, a man, named holloway, gave a course of lectures on animal magnetism in london, at the rate of five guineas for each pupil, and realised a considerable fortune. loutherbourg, the painter, and his wife followed the same profitable trade; and such was the infatuation of the people to be witnesses of their strange manipulations, that, at times, upwards of three thousand persons crowded around their house at hammersmith, unable to gain admission. the tickets sold at prices varying from one to three guineas. loutherbourg performed his cures by the touch, after the manner of valentine greatraks, and finally pretended to a divine mission. an account of his miracles, as they were called, was published in , entitled "a list of new cures performed by mr. and mrs. de loutherbourg of hammersmith terrace, without medicine; by a lover of the lamb of god. dedicated to his grace the archbishop of canterbury." this "lover of the lamb of god" was a half-crazy old woman, named mary pratt, who conceived for mr. and mrs. de loutherbourg a veneration which almost prompted her to worship them. she chose for the motto of her pamphlet a verse in the thirteenth chapter of the acts of the apostles: "behold, ye despisers, and wonder and perish! for i will work a work in your days which ye shall not believe though a man declare it unto you." attempting to give a religious character to the cures of the painter, she thought a woman was the proper person to make them known, since the apostle had declared that a man should not be able to conquer the incredulity of the people. she stated that, from christmas to july , de loutherbourg and his wife had cured two thousand people, "having been made proper recipients to receive divine manuductions; which heavenly and divine influx, coming from the radix god, his divine majesty had most graciously bestowed upon them to diffuse healing to all, be they deaf, dumb, blind, lame, or halt." in her dedication to the archbishop of canterbury, she implored him to compose a new form of prayer to be used in all churches and chapels, that nothing might impede this inestimable gift from having its due course. she further entreated all the magistrates and men of authority in the land to wait on mr. and mrs. de loutherbourg, to consult with them on the immediate erection of a large hospital, with a pool of bethesda attached to it. all the magnetisers were scandalised at the preposterous jabber of this old woman, and de loutherbourg appears to have left london to avoid her; continuing, however, in conjunction with his wife, the fantastic tricks which had turned the brain of this poor fanatic, and deluded many others who pretended to more sense than she had. from this period until , magnetism excited little or no attention in england. an attempt to revive the doctrine was made in that year, but it was in the shape of mineral rather than of animal magnetism. one benjamin douglas perkins, an american, practising as a surgeon in leicestersquare, invented and took out a patent for the celebrated "metallic tractors." he pretended that these tractors, which were two small pieces of metal strongly magnetised, something resembling the steel plates which were first brought into notice by father hell, would cure gout, rheumatism, palsy, and in fact, almost every disease the human frame was subject to, if applied externally to the afflicted part, and moved about gently, touching the surface only. the most wonderful stories soon obtained general circulation, and the press groaned with pamphlets, all vaunting the curative effects of the tractors, which were sold at five guineas the pair. perkins gained money rapidly. gouty subjects forgot their pains in the presence of this new remedy; the rheumatism fled at its approach; and toothache, which is often cured by the mere sight of a dentist, vanished before perkins and his marvellous steel plates. the benevolent quakers, of whose body he was a member, warmly patronised the invention. desirous that the poor, who could not afford to pay mr. perkins five guineas, or even five shillings, for his tractors, should also share in the benefits of that sublime discovery, they subscribed a large sum, and built an hospital, called the "perkinean institution," in which all comers might be magnetised free of cost. in the course of a few months they were in very general use, and their lucky inventor in possession of five thousand pounds. dr. haygarth, an eminent physician at bath, recollecting the influence of imagination in the cure of disease, hit upon an expedient to try the real value of the tractors. perkins's cures were too well established to be doubted; and dr. haygarth, without gainsaying them, quietly, but in the face of numerous witnesses, exposed the delusion under which people laboured with respect to the curative medium. he suggested to dr. falconer that they should make wooden tractors, paint them to resemble the steel ones, and see if the very same effects would not be produced. five patients were chosen from the hospital in bath, upon whom to operate. four of them suffered severely from chronic rheumatism in the ankle, knee, wrist, and hip; and the fifth had been afflicted for several months with the gout. on the day appointed for the experiments, dr. haygarth and his friends assembled at the hospital, and with much solemnity brought forth the fictitious tractors. four out of the five patients said their pains were immediately relieved; and three of them said they were not only relieved, but very much benefited. one felt his knee warmer, and said he could walk across the room. he tried and succeeded, although on the previous day he had not been able to stir. the gouty man felt his pains diminish rapidly, and was quite easy for nine hours, until he went to bed, when the twitching began again. on the following day the real tractors were applied to all the patients, when they described their symptoms in nearly the same terms. to make still more sure, the experiment was tried in the bristol infirmary, a few weeks afterwards, on a man who had a rheumatic affection in the shoulder, so severe as to incapacitate him from lifting his hand from his knee. the fictitious tractors were brought and applied to the afflicted part, one of the physicians, to add solemnity to the scene, drawing a stop-watch from his pocket to calculate the time exactly, while another, with a pen in his hand, sat down to write the change of symptoms from minute to minute as they occurred. in less than four minutes the man felt so much relieved, that he lifted his hand several inches without any pain in the shoulder! an account of these matters was published by dr. haygarth, in a small volume entitled, "of the imagination, as a cause and cure of disorders, exemplified by fictitious tractors." the exposure was a coup de grace to the system of mr. perkins. his friends and patrons, still unwilling to confess that they had been deceived, tried the tractors upon sheep, cows, and horses, alleging that the animals received benefit from the metallic plates, but none at all from the wooden ones. but they found nobody to believe them; the perkinean institution fell into neglect; and perkins made his exit from england, carrying with him about ten thousand pounds, to soothe his declining years in the good city of pennsylvania. thus was magnetism laughed out of england for a time. in france, the revolution left men no leisure for such puerilities. the "societes de l'harmonie," of strasburg, and other great towns, lingered for a while, till sterner matters occupying men's attention, they were one after the other abandoned, both by pupils and professors. the system thus driven from the first two nations of europe, took refuge among the dreamy philosophers of germany. there the wonders of the magnetic sleep grew more and more wonderful every day; the patients acquired the gift of prophecy--their vision extended over all the surface of the globe--they could hear and see with their toes and fingers, and read unknown languages, and understand them too, by merely having the book placed on their bellies. ignorant clodpoles, when once entranced by the grand mesmeric fluid, could spout philosophy diviner than plato ever wrote, descant upon the mysteries of the mind with more eloquence and truth than the profoundest metaphysicians the world ever saw, and solve knotty points of divinity with as much ease as waking men could undo their shoe-buckles! during the first twelve years of the present century, little was heard of animal magnetism in any country of europe. even the germans forgot their airy fancies; recalled to the knowledge of this every-day world by the roar of napoleon's cannon and the fall or the establishment of kingdoms. during this period, a cloud of obscurity hung over the science, which was not dispersed until m. deleuze published, in , his "histoire critique du magnetisme animal." this work gave a new impulse to the half-forgotten delusion; newspapers, pamphlets, and books again waged war upon each other on the question of its truth or falsehood; and many eminent men in the profession of medicine recommenced inquiry, with an earnest design to discover the truth. the assertions made in the celebrated treatise of deleuze are thus summed up: [see the very calm, clear, and dispassionate article upon the subject in the fifth volume ( ) of "the foreign review," page , et seq.]--"there is a fluid continually escaping from the human body," and "forming an atmosphere around us," which, as "it has no determined current," produces no sensible effects on surrounding individuals. it is, however, "capable of being directed by the will;" and, when so directed, "is sent forth in currents," with a force corresponding to the energy we possess. its motion is "similar to that of the rays from burning bodies;" "it possesses different qualities in different individuals." it is capable of a high degree of concentration, "and exists also in trees." the will of the magnetiser, "guided by a motion of the hand, several times repeated in the same direction," can fill a tree with this fluid. most persons, when this fluid is poured into them, from the body and by the will of the magnetiser, "feel a sensation of heat or cold" when he passes his hand before them, without even touching them. some persons, when sufficiently charged with this fluid, fall into a state of somnambulism, or magnetic ecstasy; and, when in this state, "they see the fluid encircling the magnetiser like a halo of light, and issuing in luminous streams from his mouth and nostrils, his head, and hands; possessing a very agreeable smell, and communicating a particular taste to food and water." one would think that these absurdities were quite enough to be insisted upon by any physician who wished to be considered sane, but they only form a small portion of the wondrous things related by m. deleuze. he further said, "when magnetism produces somnambulism, the person who is in this state acquires a prodigious extension of all his faculties. several of his external organs, especially those of sight and hearing, become inactive; but the sensations which depend upon them take place internally. seeing and hearing are carried on by the magnetic fluid, which transmits the impressions immediately, and without the intervention of any nerves or organs directly to the brain. thus the somnambulist, though his eyes and ears are closed, not only sees and hears, but sees and hears much better than he does when awake. in all things he feels the will of the magnetiser, although that will be not expressed. he sees into the interior of his own body, and the most secret organization of the bodies of all those who may be put en rapport, or in magnetic connexion, with him. most commonly, he only sees those parts which are diseased and disordered, and intuitively prescribes a remedy for them. he has prophetic visions and sensations, which are generally true, but sometimes erroneous. he expresses himself with astonishing eloquence and facility. he is not free from vanity. he becomes a more perfect being of his own accord for a certain time, if guided wisely by the magnetiser, but wanders if he is ill-directed." according to m. deleuze, any person could become a magnetiser and produce these effects, by conforming to the following conditions, and acting upon the following rules:-- forget for a while all your knowledge of physics and metaphysics. remove from your mind all objections that may occur. imagine that it is in your power to take the malady in hand, and throw it on one side. never reason for six weeks after you have commenced the study. have an active desire to do good; a firm belief in the power of magnetism, and an entire confidence in employing it. in short, repel all doubts; desire success, and act with simplicity and attention. that is to say, "be very credulous; be very persevering; reject all past experience, and do not listen to reason," and you are a magnetiser after m. deleuze's own heart. having brought yourself into this edifying state of fanaticism, "remove from the patient all persons who might be troublesome to you: keep with you only the necessary witnesses--a single person, if need be; desire them not to occupy themselves in any way with the processes you employ and the effects which result from them, but to join with you in the desire of doing good to your patient. arrange yourself so as neither to be too hot nor too cold, and in such a manner that nothing may obstruct the freedom of your motions; and take precautions to prevent interruption during the sitting. make your patient then sit as commodiously as possible, and place yourself opposite to him, on a seat a little more elevated, in such a manner that his knees may be betwixt yours, and your feet at the side of his. first, request him to resign himself; to think of nothing; not to perplex himself by examining the effects which may be produced; to banish all fear; to surrender himself to hope, and not to be disturbed or discouraged if the action of magnetism should cause in him momentary pains. after having collected yourself, take his thumbs between your fingers in such a way that the internal part of your thumbs may be in contact with the internal part of his, and then fix your eyes upon him! you must remain from two to five minutes in this situation, or until you feel an equal heat between your thumbs and his. this done, you will withdraw your hands, removing them to the right and left; and at the same time turning them till their internal surface be outwards, and you will raise them to the height of the head. you will now place them upon the two shoulders, and let them remain there about a minute; afterwards drawing them gently along the arms to the extremities of the fingers, touching very slightly as you go. you will renew this pass five or six times, always turning your hands, and removing them a little from the body before you lift them. you will then place them above the head; and, after holding them there for an instant, lower them, passing them before the face, at the distance of one or two inches, down to the pit of the stomach. there you will stop them two minutes also, putting your thumbs upon the pit of the stomach and the rest of your fingers below the ribs. you will then descend slowly along the body to the knees, or rather, if you can do so without deranging yourself, to the extremity of the feet. you will repeat the same processes several times during the remainder of the sitting. you will also occasionally approach your patient, so as to place your hands behind his shoulders, in order to descend slowly along the spine of the back and the thighs, down to the knees or the feet. after the first passes, you may dispense with putting your hands upon the head, and may make the subsequent passes upon the arms, beginning at the shoulders, and upon the body, beginning at the stomach." such was the process of magnetising recommended by deleuze. that delicate, fanciful, and nervous women, when subjected to it, should have worked themselves into convulsions will be readily believed by the sturdiest opponent of animal magnetism. to sit in a constrained posture--be stared out of countenance by a fellow who enclosed her knees between his, while he made passes upon different parts of her body, was quite enough to throw any weak woman into a fit, especially if she were predisposed to hysteria, and believed in the efficacy of the treatment. it is just as evident that those of stronger minds and healthier bodies should be sent to sleep by the process. that these effects have been produced by these means there are thousands of instances to show. but are they testimony in favour of animal magnetism?--do they prove the existence of the magnetic fluid? every unprejudiced person must answer in the negative. it needs neither magnetism, nor ghost from the grave, to tell us that silence, monotony, and long recumbency in one position must produce sleep, or that excitement, imitation, and a strong imagination, acting upon a weak body, will bring on convulsions. it will be seen hereafter that magnetism produces no effects but these two; that the gift of prophecy--supernatural eloquence--the transfer of the senses, and the power of seeing through opaque substances, are pure fictions, that cannot be substantiated by anything like proof. m. deleuze's book produced quite a sensation in france; the study was resumed with redoubled vigour. in the following year, a journal was established devoted exclusively to the science, under the title of "annales du magnetisme animal;" and shortly afterwards appeared the "bibliotheque du magnetisme animal," and many others. about the same time, the abbe faria, "the man of wonders," began to magnetise; and the belief being that he had more of the mesmeric fluid about him, and a stronger will, than most men, he was very successful in his treatment. his experiments afford a convincing proof that imagination can operate all, and the supposed fluid none, of the resuits so confidently claimed as evidence of the new science. he placed his patients in an arm-chair; told them to shut their eyes; and then, in a loud commanding voice, pronounced the single word, "sleep!" he used no manipulations whatever--had no baquet, or conductor of the fluid; but he nevertheless succeeded in causing sleep in hundreds of patients. he boasted of having in his time produced five thousand somnambulists by this method. it was often necessary to repeat the command three or four times; and if the patient still remained awake, the abbe got out of the difficulty by dismissing him from the chair, and declaring that he was incapable of being acted on. and here it should be remarked that the magnetisers do not lay claim to a universal efficacy for their fluid; the strong and the healthy cannot be magnetised; the incredulous cannot be magnetised; those who reason upon it cannot be magnetised; those who firmly believe in it can be magnetised; the weak in body can be magnetised, and the weak in mind can be magnetised. and lest, from some cause or other, individuals of the latter classes should resist the magnetic charm, the apostles of the science declare that there are times when even they cannot be acted upon; the presence of one scorner or unbeliever may weaken the potency of the fluid and destroy its efficacy. in m. deleuze's instructions to a magnetiser, he expressly says, "never magnetise before inquisitive persons!" ["histoire critique du magnetisme animal," p. .] yet the followers of this delusion claim for it the rank of a science! the numerous writings that appeared between the years and show how much attention was excited in france. with every succeeding year some new discovery was put forth, until at last the magnetisers seemed to be very generally agreed that there were six separate and distinct degrees of magnetisation. they have been classed as follow:-- in the first stage, the skin of the patient becomes slightly reddened; and there is a feeling of heat, comfort, and lightness all over the body; but there is no visible action on the senses. in the second stage, the eye is gradually abstracted from the dominion of the will (or, in other words, the patient becomes sleepy). the drooping eyelids cannot be raised; the senses of hearing, smelling, feeling, and tasting are more than usually excited. in addition, a variety of nervous sensations are felt, such as spasms of the muscles and prickings of the skin, and involuntary twitchings in various parts of the body. in the third stage, which is that of magnetic sleep, all the senses are closed to external impressions; and sometimes fainting, and cataleptic or apoplectic attacks may occur. in the fourth stage, the patient is asleep to all the world; but he is awake within his own body, and consciousness returns. while in this state, all his senses are transferred to the skin. he is in the perfect crisis, or magnetic somnambulism; a being of soul and mind--seeing without eyes--hearing without ears, and deadened in body to all sense of feeling. in the fifth stage, which is that of lucid vision, the patient can see his own internal organisation, or that of others placed in magnetic communication with him. he becomes, at the same time, possessed of the instinct of remedies. the magnetic fluid, in this stage, unites him by powerful attraction to others, and establishes between them an impenetration of thought and feeling so intense as to blend their different natures into one. in the sixth stage, which is at the same time the rarest and the most perfect of all, the lucid vision is not obstructed by opaque matter, or subject to any barriers interposed by time or space. the magnetic fluid, which is universally spread in nature, unites the individual with all nature, and gives him cognizance of coming events by its universal lucidity. so much was said and written between the years and , and so many converts were made, that the magnetisers became clamorous for a new investigation. m. de foissac, a young physician, wrote to the academie royale du medicine a letter, calling for inquiry, in which he complained of the unfairness of the report of messrs. bailly and franklin in , and stating that, since that time, the science had wholly changed by the important discovery of magnetic somnambulism. he informed the academy that he had under his care a young woman, whose powers of divination when in the somnambulic state were of the most extraordinary character. he invited the members of that body to go into any hospital, and choose persons afflicted with any diseases, acute or chronic, simple or complex, and his somnambulist, on being put en rapport, or in magnetic connexion, with them, would infallibly point out their ailings and name the remedies. she, and other somnambulists, he said, could, by merely laying the hand successively on the head, the chest, and the abdomen of a stranger, immediately discover his maladies, with, the pains and different alterations thereby occasioned. they could indicate, besides, whether the cure were possible, and, if so, whether it were easy or difficult, near or remote, and what means should be employed to attain this result by the surest and readiest way. in this examination they never departed from the sound principles of medicine. "in fact," added m. de foissac, "i go further, and assert that their inspirations are allied to the genius which animated hippocrates!" in the mean time experiments were carried on in various hospitals of paris. the epileptic patients at the salpetriere were magnetised by permission of m. esquirol. at the bicetre also the same resuits were obtained. m. de foissac busied himself with the invalids at the hospice de la charite, and m. dupotet was equally successful in producing sleep or convulsions at val de grace. many members of the chamber of deputies became converts, and m. chardel, the comte de gestas, m. de laseases, and others, opened their saloons to those who were desirous of being instructed in animal magnetism. [dupotet's introduction to the study of animal magnetism, page .] other physicians united with m. de foissac in calling for an inquiry; and ultimately the academy nominated a preliminary committee of five of its members, namely, messrs adelon, burdin, marc, pariset, and husson, to investigate the alleged facts, and to report whether the academy, without any compromise of its dignity, could appoint a new commission. before this committee, m. de foissac produced his famous somnambulist; but she failed in exhibiting any one of the phenomena her physician had so confidently predicted: she was easily thrown into the state of sleep, by long habit and the monotony of the passes and manipulations of her magnetiser; but she could not tell the diseases of persons put en rapport with her. the committee of five framed excuses for this failure, by saying, that probably the magnetic fluid was obstructed, because they were "inexperienced, distrustful, and perhaps impatient." after this, what can be said for the judgment or the impartiality of such a committee? they gave at last their opinion, that it would be advisable to appoint a new commission. on the th of december , they presented themselves to the academie to deliver their report. a debate ensued, which occupied three days, and in which all the most distinguished members took part. it was finally decided by a majority of ten, that the commission should be appointed, and the following physicians were chosen its members:--they were eleven in number, viz. bourdois de la motte, the president; fouquier, gueneau de mussy, guersent, husson, itard, marc, j. j. leroux, thillay, double, and majendie. these gentlemen began their labours by publishing an address to all magnetisers, inviting them to come forward and exhibit in their presence the wonders of animal magnetism. m. dupotet says that very few answered this amicable appeal, because they were afraid of being ridiculed when the report should be published. four magnetisers, however, answered their appeal readily, and for five years were busily engaged in bringing proofs of the new science before the commission. these were m. de foissac, m. dupotet, m. chapelain, and m. de geslin. it would be but an unprofitable, and by no means a pleasant task to follow the commissioners in their erratic career, as they were led hither and thither by the four lights of magnetism above mentioned; the four "wills-o'-the-wisp" which dazzled the benighted and bewildered doctors on that wide and shadowy region of metaphysical inquiry--the influence of mind over matter. it will be better to state at once the conclusion they came to after so long and laborious an investigation, and then examine whether they were warranted in it by the evidence brought before them. the report, which is exceedingly voluminous, is classed under thirty different heads, and its general tenor is favourable to magnetism. the reporters expressly state their belief in the existence of the magnetic fluid, and sum up the result of their inquiries in the four assertions which follow:-- . magnetism has no effect upon persons in a sound state of health, nor upon some diseased persons. . in others its effects are slight. . these effects are sometimes produced by weariness or ennui, by monotony, and by the imagination. . we have seen these effects developed independently of the last causes, most probably as the effects of magnetism alone. it will be seen that the first and second of these sentences presuppose the existence of that magnetic power, which it is the object of the inquiry to discover. the reporters begin, by saying, that magnetism exists, when after detailing their proofs, they should have ended by affirming it. for the sake of lucidity, a favourite expression of their own, let us put the propositions into a new form and new words, without altering the sense. . certain effects, such as convulsions, somnambulism, &c. are producible in the human frame, by the will of others, by the will of the patient himself, or by both combined, or by some unknown means, we wish to discover, perhaps by magnetism. . these effects are not producible upon all bodies. they cannot be produced upon persons in a sound state of health, nor upon some diseased persons; while in other eases, the effects are very slight. . these effects were produced in many cases that fell under our notice, in which the persons operated on were in a weak state of health, by weariness or ennui, by monotony, and by the power of imagination. . but in many other eases these effects were produced, and were clearly not the result of weariness or ennui, of monotony, or of the power of the imagination. they were, therefore, produced by the magnetic processes we employed:--ergo--animal magnetism exists. every one, whether a believer or disbeliever in the doctrine, must see that the whole gist of the argument will be destroyed, if it be proved that the effects which the reporters claimed as resulting from a power independent of weariness, monotony, and the imagination, did, in fact, result from them, and from nothing else. the following are among the proofs brought forward to support the existence of the magnetic fluid, as producing those phenomena:-- "a child, twenty-eight months old, was magnetised by m. foissac, at the house of m. bourdois. the child, as well as its father, was subject to attacks of epilepsy. almost immediately after m. foissac had begun his manipulations and passes, the child rubbed its eyes, bent its head to one side, supported it on one of the cushions of the sofa where it was sitting, yawned, moved itself about, scratched its head and its ears, appeared to strive against the approach of sleep, and then rose, if we may be allowed the expression, grumbling. being taken away to satisfy a necessity of nature, it was again placed on the sofa, and magnetised for a few moments. but as there appeared no decided symptoms of somnolency this time, we terminated the experiment." and this in all seriousness and sobriety was called a proof of the existence of the magnetic fluid! that these effects were not produced by the imagination may be granted; but that they were not produced by weariness and monotony is not so clear. a child is seated upon a sofa, a solemn looking gentleman, surrounded by several others equally grave, begins to play various strange antics before it, moving his hands mysteriously, pointing at his head, all the while preserving a most provoking silence. and what does the child? it rubs its eyes, appears restless, yawns, scratches its head, grumbles, and makes an excuse to get away. magnetism, forsooth! 'twas a decided case of botheration! the next proof (so called), though not so amusing, is equally decisive of the mystification of the commissioners. a deaf and dumb lad, eighteen years of age, and subject to attacks of epilepsy, was magnetised fifteen times by m. foissac. the phenomena exhibited during the treatment were a heaviness of the eyelids, a general numbness, a desire to sleep, and sometimes vertigo:--the epileptic attacks were entirely suspended, and did not return till eight months afterwards. upon this case and the first mentioned, the committee reasoned thus:--"these cases appear to us altogether worthy of remark. the two individuals who formed the subject of the experiment, were ignorant of what was done to them. the one, indeed, was not in a state capable of knowing it; and the other never had the slightest idea of magnetism. both, however, were insensible of its influence; and most certainly it is impossible in either case to attribute this sensibility to the imagination." the first case has been already disposed of. with regard to the second, it is very possible to attribute all the results to imagination. it cannot be contended, that because the lad was deaf and dumb he had no understanding, that he could not see the strange manipulations of the magnetiser, and that he was unaware that his cure was the object of the experiments that were thus made upon him. had he no fancy merely because he was dumb? and could he, for the same reason, avoid feeling a heaviness in his eyelids, a numbness, and a sleepiness, when he was forced to sit for two or three hours while m. foissac pointed his fingers at him? as for the amelioration in his health, no argument can be adduced to prove that he was devoid of faith in the remedy; and that, having faith, he should not feel the benefit of it as well as thousands of others who have been cured by means wholly as imaginary. the third case is brought forward with a still greater show of authority. having magnetised the child and the dumb youth with results so extraordinary, m. foissac next tried his hand upon a commissioner. m. itard was subjected to a course of manipulations; the consequences were a flow of saliva, a metallic savour in the mouth, and a severe headach. these symptoms, say the reporters, cannot be accounted for by the influence of imagination. m. itard, it should be remarked, was a confirmed valetudinarian; and a believer, before the investigation commenced, in the truth of magnetism. he was a man, therefore, whose testimony cannot be received with implicit credence upon this subject. he may have repeated, and so may his brother commissioners, that the results above stated were not produced by the power of the imagination. the patients of perkins, of valentine greatraks, of sir kenelm digby, of father gassner, were all equally positive: but what availed their assertions? experience soon made it manifest, that no other power than that of imagination worked the wonders in their case. m. itard's is not half so extraordinary; the only wonder is, that it should ever have been insisted upon. the commissioners having, as they thought, established beyond doubt the existence of the magnetic fluid, (and these are all their proofs,) next proceeded to investigate the more marvellous phenomena of the science; such as the transfer of the senses; the capability of seeing into one's own or other people's insides, and of divining remedies; and the power of prophecy. a few examples will suffice. m. petit was magnetised by m. dupotet, who asserted that the somnambulist would be able to choose, with his eyes shut, a mesmerised coin out of twelve others. the experiment was tried, and the somnambulist chose the wrong one. [report of the commissioners, p. .] baptiste chamet was also magnetised by m. dupotet, and fell into the somnambulic state after eight minutes. as he appeared to be suffering great pain, he was asked what ailed him, when he pointed to his breast, and said he felt pain there. being asked what part of his body that was, he said his liver. [ibid, p. .] mademoiselle martineau was magnetised by m. dupotet, and it was expected that her case would prove not only the transfer of the senses, but the power of divining remedies. her eyes having been bandaged, she was asked if she could not see all the persons present? she replied, no; but she could hear them talking. no one was speaking at the time. she said she would awake after five or ten minutes sleep. she did not awake for sixteen or seventeen minutes. she announced that on a certain day she would be able to tell exactly the nature of her complaint, and prescribe the proper remedies. on the appointed day she was asked the question, and could not answer. [report of the commissioners, p. .] mademoiselle couturier, a patient of m. de geslin, was thrown into the state of somnambulism, and m. de geslin said she would execute his mental orders. one of the committee then wrote on a slip of paper the words "go and sit down on the stool in front of the piano." he handed the paper to m. de geslin, who having conceived the words mentally, turned to his patient, and told her to do as he required of her. she rose up, went to the clock, and said it was twenty minutes past nine. she was tried nine times more, and made as many mistakes. [idem, p. .] pierre cazot was an epileptic patient, and was said to have the power of prophecy. being magnetised on the nd of april, he said that in nine weeks he should have a fit, in three weeks afterwards go mad, abuse his wife, murder some one, and finally recover in the month of august. after which he should never have an attack again. [idem, p. ] in two days after uttering this prophecy, he was run over by a cabriolet and killed. [foreign quarterly review, vol. xii. p. ] a post mortem examination was made of his body, when it was ascertained beyond doubt, that even had he not met with this accident, he could never have recovered. [at the extremity of the plexus choroides was found a substance, yellow within, and white without, containing small hydatids.--report oltre commissioners, p. .] the inquest which had been the means of eliciting these, along with many other facts, having sat for upwards of five years, the magnetisers became anxious that the report should be received by the solemn conclave of the academie. at length a day (the th of june ) was fixed for the reading. all the doctors of paris thronged around the hall to learn the result; the street in front of the building was crowded with medical students; the passages were obstructed by philosophers. "so great was the sensation," says m. dupotet, "that it might have been supposed the fate of the nation depended on the result." m. husson, the reporter, appeared at the bar and read the report, the substance of which we have just extracted. he was heard at first with great attention, but as he proceeded signs of impatience and dissent were manifested on all sides. the unreasonable inferences of the commissioners--their false conclusions--their too positive assertions, were received with repeated marks of disapprobation. some of the academicians started from their seats, and apostrophising the commissioners, accused them of partiality or stolidity. the commissioners replied; until, at last, the uproar became so violent that an adjournment of the sitting was moved and carried. on the following day the report was concluded. a stormy discussion immediately ensued, which certainly reflected no credit upon the opponents of animal magnetism. both sides lost temper--the anti-magnetists declaring that the whole was a fraud and a delusion; the pro-magnetists reminding the academy that it was too often the fate of truth to be scorned and disregarded for a while, but that eventually her cause would triumph. "we do not care for your disbelief," cried one, "for in this very hall your predecessors denied the circulation of the blood!"--"yes," cried another, "and they denied the falling of meteoric stones!" while a third exclaimed "grande est veritas et praevalebit!" some degree of order being at last restored, the question whether the report should be received and published was decided in the negative. it was afterwards agreed that a limited number of copies should be lithographed, for the private use of such members as wished to make further examination. as might have been expected, magnetism did not suffer from a discussion which its opponents had conducted with so much intemperance. the followers of magnetism were as loud as ever in vaunting its efficacy as a cure, and its value, not only to the science of medicine, but to philosophy in general. by force of repeated outcries against the decision of the academie, and assertions that new facts were discovered day after day, its friends, six years afterwards, prevailed upon that learned and influential body to institute another inquiry. the academie, in thus consenting to renew the investigation after it had twice solemnly decided (once in conjunction with, and once in opposition to a committee of its own appointment) that animal magnetism was a fraud or a chimera, gave the most striking proof of its own impartiality and sincere desire to arrive at the truth. the new commission was composed of m. roux, the president; and messieurs bouillard, cloquet, emery, pelletier, caventon, oudet, cornac, and dubois d'amiens. the chief magnetiser upon the occasion was m. berna, who had written to the academie on the th of february , offering to bring forward the most convincing proofs of the truth of the new "science." the commissioners met for the first time on the th of february, and delivered their report, which was drawn up by m. dubois d'amiens, on the nd of august following. after a careful examination of all the evidence, they decided, as messieurs bailly and franklin had done in , that the touchings, imagination, and the force of imitation would account satisfactorily for all the phenomena; that the supposed mesmeric fluid would not; that m. berna, the magnetiser, laboured under a delusion; and that the facts brought under their notice were anything but conclusive in favour of the doctrine of animal magnetism, and could have no relation either with physiology or with therapeutics. the following abridgment of the report will show that the commissioners did not thus decide without abundant reason. on the rd of march they met at the house of m. roux, the president, when m. berna introduced his patient, a young girl of seventeen, of a constitution apparently nervous and delicate, but with an air sufficiently cool and self-sufficient. m. berna offered eight proofs of animal magnetism, which he would elicit in her case, and which he classed as follow:-- . he would throw her into the state of somnambulism. . he would render her quite insensible to bodily pain. . he would restore her to sensibility by his mere will, without any visible or audible manifestation of it. . his mental order should deprive her of motion. . he would cause her, by a mental order, to cease answering in the midst of a conversation, and by a second mental order would make her begin again. . he would repeat the same experiment, separated from his patient by a door. . he would awake her. . he would throw her again into the somnambulic state, and by his will successively cause her to lose and recover the sensibility of any part of her body. before any attempt at magnetisation was made by m. berna, the commissioners determined to ascertain how far, in her ordinary state, she was sensible to pricking. needles of a moderate size were stuck into her hands and neck, to the depth of half a line, and she was asked by messieurs roux and caventon whether she felt any pain. she replied that she felt nothing; neither did her countenance express any pain. the commissioners, somewhat surprised at this, repeated their question, and inquired whether she was absolutely insensible. being thus pressed, she acknowledged that she felt a little pain. these preliminaries having been completed, m. berna made her sit close by him. he looked steadfastly at her, but made no movements or passes whatever. after the lapse of about two minutes she fell back asleep, and m. berna told the commissioners that she was now in the state of magnetic somnambulism. he then arose, and again looking steadfastly at her from a short distance, declared, after another minute, that she was struck with general insensibility. to ascertain this, the girl's eyes having been previously bandaged, messieurs bouillard, emery, and dubois pricked her one after the other with needles. by word she complained of no pain; and her features, where the bandage allowed them to be seen, appeared calm and unmoved. but m. dubois having stuck his needle rather deep under her chin, she immediately made with much vivacity a movement of deglutition. this experiment having failed, m. berna tried another, saying that he would, by the sole and tacit intervention of his will, paralyze any part of the girl's body the commissioners might mention. to avoid the possibility of collusion, m. dubois drew up the following conditions:-- "that m. berna should maintain the most perfect silence, and should receive from the hands of the commissioners papers, on which should be written the parts to be deprived of motion and sensibility, and that m. berna should let them know when he had done it by closing one of his eyes, that they might verify it. the parts to be deprived of sensibility were the chin, the right thumb, the region of the left deltoid, and that of the right patella." m. berna would not accept these conditions, giving for his reason that the parts pointed out by the commissioners were too limited; that, besides, all this was out of his programme, and he did not understand why such precautions should be taken against him. m. berna had written in his programme that he would deprive the whole body of sensibility, and then a part only. he would afterwards deprive the two arms of motion--then the two legs--then a leg and an arm--then the neck, and lastly the tongue. all the evidence he wished the commissioners to have was after a very unsatisfactory fashion. he would tell the somnambulist to raise her arm, and if she did not raise it, the limb was to be considered paralyzed. besides this, the commissioners were to make haste with their observations. if the first trials did not succeed, they were to be repeated till paralysis was produced. "these," as the commissioners very justly remarked, "were not such conditions as men of science, who were to give an account of their commission, could exactly comply with." after some time spent in a friendly discussion of the point, m. berna said he could do no more at that meeting. then placing himself opposite the girl, he twice exclaimed, "wake!" she awakened accordingly, and the sitting terminated. at the second meeting, m. berna was requested to paralyze the right arm only of the girl by the tacit intervention of his will, as he had confidently assured the commissioners he could. m. berna, after a few moments, made a sign with his eye that he had done so, when m. bouillard proceeded to verify the fact. being requested to move her left arm, she did so. being then requested to move her right leg, she said the whole of her right side was paralyzed--she could neither move arm nor leg. on this experiment the commissioners remark: "m. berna's programme stated that he had the power of paralyzing either a single limb or two limbs at once, we chose a single limb, and there resulted, in spite of his will, a paralysis of two limbs." some other experiments, equally unsatisfactory, were tried with the same girl. m. berna was soon convinced that she had not studied her part well, or was not clever enough to reflect any honour upon the science, and he therefore dismissed her. her place was filled by a woman, aged about thirty, also of very delicate health; and the following conclusive experiments were tried upon her:-- the patient was thrown into the somnambulic state, and her eyes covered with a bandage. at the invitation of the magnetiser, m. dubois d'amiens wrote several words upon a card, that the somnambule might read them through her bandages, or through her occiput. m. dubois wrote the word pantagruel, in perfectly distinct roman characters; then placing himself behind the somnambule, he presented the card close to her occiput. the magnetiser was seated in front of the woman and of m. dubois, and could not see the writing upon the card. being asked by her magnetiser what was behind her head, she answered, after some hesitation, that she saw something white--something resembling a card--a visiting-card. it should be remembered that m. berna had requested m. dubois aloud to take a card and write upon it, and that the patient must have heard it, as it was said in her presence. she was next asked if she could distinguish what there was on this card. she replied "yes; there was writing on it."--"is it small or large, this writing?" inquired the magnetiser. "pretty large," replied she. "what is written on it?" continued the magnetiser. "wait a little-i cannot see very plain. ah! there is first an m. yes, it is a word beginning with an m." [the woman thought it was a visiting-card, and guessed that doubtless it would begin with the words monsieur or madame.] m. cornac, unknown to the magnetiser, who alone put the questions, passed a perfectly blank card to m. dubois, who substituted it quietly for the one on which he had written the word pantagruel. the somnambule still persisted that she saw a word beginning with an m. at last, after some efforts, she added doubtingly that she thought she could see two lines of writing. she was still thinking of the visiting-card, with a name in one line and the address on the other. many other experiments of the same kind, and with a similar result, were tried with blank cards; and it was then determined to try her with playing-cards. m. berna had a pack of them on his table, and addressing m. dubois aloud, he asked him to take one of them and place it at the occiput of the somnambule. m. dubois asked him aloud whether he should take a court card. "as you please," replied the magnetiser. as m. dubois went towards the table, the idea struck him that he would not take either a court or a common card, but a perfectly blank card of the same size. neither m. berna nor the somnambule was aware of the substitution. he then placed himself behind her as before, and held the card to her occiput so that m. berna could not see it. m. berna then began to magnetise her with all his force, that he might sublimate her into the stage of extreme lucidity, and effectually transfer the power of vision to her occiput. she was interrogated as to what she could see. she hesitated; appeared to struggle with herself, and at last said she saw a card. "but what do you see on the card?" after a little hesitation, she said she could see black and red (thinking of the court card). the commissioners allowed m. berna to continue the examination in his own way. after some fruitless efforts to get a more satisfactory answer from the somnambule, he invited m. dubois to pass his card before her head, close against the bandage covering her eyes. this having been done, the somnambule said she could see better. m. berna then began to put some leading questions, and she replied that she could see a figure. hereupon, there were renewed solicitations from m. berna. the somnambule, on her part, appeared to be making great efforts to glean some information from her magnetiser, and at last said that she could distinguish the knave. but this was not all; it remained for her to say which of the four knaves. in answer to further inquiries, she said there was black by the side of it. not being contradicted at all, she imagined that she was in the right track; and made, after much pressing, her final guess, that it was the knave of clubs. m. berna, thinking the experiment finished, took the card from the hands of m. dubois, and in presence of all the commissioners saw that it was entirely blank. blank was his own dismay. as a last experiment, she was tried with a silver medal. it was with very great difficulty that any answers could be elicited from her. m. cornac held the object firmly closed in his hand close before the bandage over her eyes. she first said she saw something round; she then said it was flesh-coloured--then yellow--then the colour of gold. it was as thick as an onion: and, in answer to incessant questions, she said it was yellow on one side, white on the other, and had black above it. she was thinking, apparently, of a gold watch, with its white dial and black figures for the hours. solicited, for the last time, to explain herself clearly--to say, at least, the use of the object and its name, she appeared to be anxious to collect all her energies, and then uttered only the word "hour." then, at last, as if suddenly illumined, she cried out that "it was to tell the hour." thus ended the sitting. some difficulties afterwards arose between the commissioners and m. berna, who wished that a copy of the proces verbal should be given him. the commissioners would not agree; and m. berna, in his turn, refused to make any fresh experiments. it was impossible that any investigation could have been conducted more satisfactorily than this. the report of the commissioners was quite conclusive; and animal magnetism since that day lost much of its repute in france. m. dupotet, with a perseverance and ingenuity worthy a better cause, has found a satisfactory excuse for the failure of m. berna. having taken care in his work not to publish the particulars, he merely mentions, in three lines, that m. berna failed before a committee of the royal academy of medicine in an endeavour to produce some of the higher magnetic phenomena. "there are a variety of incidental circumstances," says that shining light of magnetism, "which it is difficult even to enumerate. an over-anxiety to produce the effects, or any incidental suggestions that may disturb the attention of the magnetiser, will often be sufficient to mar the successful issue of the experiment." ["introduction to the study of animal magnetism," by baron dupotet de sennevoy, london, , p. .] such are the miserable shifts to which error reduces its votaries! while dupotet thus conveniently forbears to dwell upon the unfavourable decision of the committee of , let us hear how he dilates upon the favourable report of the previous committee of , and how he praises the judgment and the impartiality of its members. "the academie royale de medicine," says he, "put upon record clear and authenticated evidence in favour of animal magnetism. the commissioners detailed circumstantially the facts which they witnessed, and the methods they adopted to detect every possible source of deception. many of the commissioners, when they entered on the investigation, were not only unfavourable to magnetism, but avowedly unbelievers; so that their evidence in any court of justice would be esteemed the most unexceptionable that could possibly be desired. they were inquiring too, not into any speculative or occult theory, upon which there might be a chance of their being led away by sophistical representations, but they were inquiring into the existence of facts only--plain demonstrable facts, which were in their own nature palpable to every observer." ["introduction to the study of animal magnetism," p. .] m. dupotet might not unreasonably be asked whether the very same arguments ought not to be applied to the unfavourable report drawn up by the able m. dubois d'amiens and his coadjutors in the last inquiry. if the question were asked, we should, in all probability, meet some such a reply as this:--"true, they might; but then you must consider the variety of incidental circumstances, too numerous to mention! m. berna may have been over anxious; in fact, the experiments must have been spoiled by an incidental suggestion!" a man with a faith so lively as m. dupotet was just the person to undertake the difficult mission of converting the english to a belief in magnetism. accordingly we find that, very shortly after the last decision of the academie, m. dupotet turned his back upon his native soil and arrived in england, loaded with the magnetic fluid, and ready to re-enact all the fooleries of his great predecessors, mesmer and puysegur. since the days of perkinism and metallic tractors, until , magnetism had made no progress, and excited no attention in england. mr. colquhoun, an advocate at the scottish bar, published in that year the, till then, inedited report of the french commission of , together with a history of the science, under the title of "isis revelata; or, an inquiry into the origin, progress, and present state of animal magnetism." mr. colquhoun was a devout believer, and his work was full of enthusiasm. it succeeded in awakening some interest upon a subject certainly very curious, but it made few or no converts. an interesting article, exposing the delusion, appeared in the same year in the "foreign quarterly review;" and one or two medical works noticed the subject afterwards, to scout it and turn it into ridicule. the arrival of m. dupotet, in , worked quite a revolution, and raised animal magnetism to a height of favour, as great as it had ever attained even in france. he began by addressing letters of invitation to the principal philosophers and men of science, physicians, editors of newspapers, and others, to witness the experiments, which were at first carried on at his own residence, in wigmore-street, cavendish-square. many of them accepted the invitation; and, though not convinced, were surprised and confounded at the singular influence which he exercised over the imagination of his patients. still, at first, his success was not flattering. to quote his own words, in the dedication of his work to earl stanhope, "he spent several months in fruitless attempts to induce the wise men of the country to study the phenomena of magnetism. his incessant appeals for an examination of these novel facts remained unanswered, and the press began to declare against him." with a saddened heart, he was about to renounce the design he had formed of spreading magnetism in england, and carry to some more credulous people the important doctrines of which he had made himself the apostle. earl stanhope, however, encouraged him to remain; telling him to hope for a favourable change in public opinion, and the eventual triumph of that truth of which he was the defender. m. dupotet remained. he was not so cruel as to refuse the english people a sight of his wonders. although they might be ungrateful, his kindness and patience should be long enduring. in the course of time his perseverance met its reward. ladies in search of emotions--the hysteric, the idle, the puling, and the ultra-sentimental crowded to his saloons, as ladies similarly predisposed had crowded to mesmer's sixty years before. peers, members of the house of commons, philosophers, men of letters, and physicians came in great numbers--some to believe, some to doubt, and a few to scoff. m. dupotet continued his experiments, and at last made several important converts. most important of all for a second mesmer, he found a second d'eslon. dr. elliotson, the most conspicuous among the converts of dupotet, was, like d'eslon, a physician in extensive practice--a thoroughly honest man, but with a little too much enthusiasm. the parallel holds good between them in every particular; for, as d'eslon had done before him, dr. elliotson soon threw his master into the shade, and attracted all the notice of the public upon himself. he was at that time professor of the principles and practice of medicine at the university college, london, and physician to the hospital. in conjunction with m. dupotet, he commenced a course of experiments upon some of the patients in that institution. the reports which were published from time to time, partook so largely of the marvellous, and were corroborated by the evidence of men whose learning, judgment, and integrity it was impossible to call in question, that the public opinion was staggered. men were ashamed to believe, and yet afraid to doubt; and the subject at last became so engrossing that a committee of some of the most distinguished members of the medical profession undertook to investigate the phenomena, and report upon them. in the mean time, dr. elliotson and m. dupotet continued the public exhibition at the hospital; while the credulous gaped with wonder, and only some few daring spirits had temerity enough to hint about quackery and delusion on the part of the doctors, and imposture on the part of the patients. the phenomena induced in two young women, sisters, named elizabeth and jane okey, were so extraordinary that they became at last the chief, if not the only proofs of the science in london. we have not been able to meet with any reports of these experiments from the pen of an unbeliever, and are therefore compelled to rely solely upon the reports published under the authority of the magnetisers themselves, and given to the world in "the lancet" and other medical journals. elizabeth okey was an intelligent girl, aged about seventeen, and was admitted into the university college hospital, suffering under attacks of epilepsy. she was magnetised repeatedly by m. dupotet in the autumn of , and afterwards by dr. elliotson at the hospital, during the spring and summer of . by the usual process, she was very easily thrown into a state of deep unconscious sleep, from which she was aroused into somnambulism and delirium. in her waking state she was a modest well-behaved girl, and spoke but little. in the somnambulic state, she appeared quite another being; evinced considerable powers of mimicry; sang comic songs; was obedient to every motion of her magnetiser; and was believed to have the power of prophesying the return of her illness--the means of cure, and even the death or recovery of other patients in the ward. mesmer had often pretended in his day that he could impart the magnetic power to pieces of metal or wood, strings of silk or cord, &c. the reader will remember his famous battery, and the no less famous tree of m. de puysegur. during the experiments upon okey, it was soon discovered that all the phenomena could be produced in her, if she touched any object that had been previously mesmerised by the will or the touch of her magnetiser. at a sitting, on the th of july , it was mentioned that okey, some short time previously, and while in the state of magnetic lucidity, had prophesied that, if mesmerised tea were placed in each of her hands, no power in nature would be able to awake her until after the lapse of a quarter of an hour. the experiment was tried accordingly. tea which had been touched by the magnetiser was placed in each hand, and she immediately fell asleep. after ten minutes, the customary means to awaken her were tried, but without effect. she was quite insensible to all external impressions. in a quarter of an hour, they were tried with redoubled energy, but still in vain. she was left alone for six minutes longer; but she still slept, and it was found quite impossible to wake her. at last some one present remarked that this wonderful sleep would, in all probability, last till the tea was removed from her bands. the suggestion was acted upon, the tea was taken away, and she awoke in a few seconds. ["lancet," vol. ii. - , p. .] on the th of july, just a week afterwards, numerous experiments as to the capability of different substances for conveying the magnetic influence were tried upon her. a slip of crumpled paper, magnetised by being held in the hand, produced no effect. a penknife magnetised her immediately. a piece of oilskin had no influence. a watch placed on her palm sent her to sleep immediately, if the metal part were first placed in contact with her; the glass did not affect her so quickly. as she was leaving the room, a sleeve-cuff made of brown-holland, which had been accidentally magnetised by a spectator, stopped her in mid career, and sent her fast to sleep. it was also found that, on placing the point of her finger on a sovereign which had been magnetised, she was immediately stupified. a pile of sovereigns produced sleep; but if they were so placed that she could touch the surface of each coin, the sleep became intense and protracted. still more extraordinary circumstances were related of this patient. in her state of magnetic sleep, she said that a tall black man, or negro, attended her, and prompted the answers she was to give to the various perplexing questions that were put to her. it was also asserted that she could use the back of her hand as an organ of vision. the first time this remarkable phenomenon was said to have been exhibited was a few days prior to the th of july. on the latter day, being in what was called a state of loquacious somnambulism, she was asked by dr. elliotson's assistant whether she had an eye in her hand. she replied that "it was a light there, and not an eye." "have you got a light anywhere else?"--"no, none anywhere else."--"can you see with the inside as well as the out?"--"yes; but very little with the inside." on the th of july bread with butter was given to her, and while eating it she drank some magnetised water, and falling into a stupor dropped her food from her hand and frowned. the eyes, partially closed, had the abstracted aspect that always accompanies stupefaction. the right-hand was open, the palm upwards; the left, with its back presented anteriorly, was relaxed and curved. the bread being lost, she moved her left-hand about convulsively until right over the bread, when a clear view being obtained, the hand turned suddenly round and clutched it eagerly. her hand was afterwards wrapped in a handkerchief; but then she could not see with it, and laid it on her lap with an expression of despair. these are a few only of the wonderful feats of elizabeth okey. jane was not quite so clever; but she nevertheless managed to bewilder the learned men almost as much as her sister. a magnetised sovereign having been placed on the floor, jane, then in the state of delirium, was directed to stoop and pick it up. she stooped, and having raised it about three inches, was fixed in a sound sleep in that constrained position. dr. elliotson pointed his finger at her, to discharge some more of the mesmeric fluid into her, when her hand immediately relaxed its grasp of the coin, and she re-awoke into the state of delirium, exclaiming, "god bless my soul!" it is now time to mention the famous gold-chain experiment which was performed at the hospital upon elizabeth okey, in the presence of count flahault, dr. lardner, mr. knatchbull the professor of arabic in the university of oxford, and many other gentlemen. the object of the experiment was to demonstrate that, when okey held one end of a gold chain, and dr. elliotson, or any other magnetiser, the other, the magnetic fluid would travel through the chain, and, after the lapse of a minute, stupify the patient. a long gold chain having been twice placed around her neck, dr. elliotson at once threw her into a state of stupor. it was then found that, if the intermediate part of the chain were twisted around a piece of wood, or a roll of paper, the passage of the fluid would be checked, and stupor would not so speedily ensue. if the chain were removed, she might be easily thrown into the state of delirium; when she would sing at the request of her magnetiser; and, if the chain were then unrolled, her voice would be arrested in the most gradual manner; its loudness first diminishing--the tune then becoming confused, and finally lost altogether. the operations of her intellect could be checked, while the organs of sound would still continue to exert themselves. for instance, while her thoughts were occupied on the poetry and air of lord byron's song, "the maid of athens," the chain was unrolled; and when she had reached the line, "my life, i love you!" the stupor had increased; a cold statue-like aspect crept over the face--the voice sank--the limbs became rigid--the memory was gone--the faculty of forecasting the thoughts had departed, and but one portion of capacity remained--that of repeating again and again, perhaps twenty times, the line and music which had last issued from her lips, without pause, and in the proper time, until the magnetiser stopped her voice altogether, by further unrolling the chain and stupifying her. on another trial, she was stopped in the comic song, "sir frog he would a wooing go," when she came to the line, "whether his mother would let him or no;" while her left hand outstretched, with the chain in it, was moving up and down, and the right toe was tapping the time on the floor; and with these words and actions she persevered for fifty repetitions, until the winding of the chain re-opened her faculties, when she finished the song. ["lancet," vol. ii. - , p. .] the report from which we have extracted the above passage further informed the public and the medical profession, and expected them to believe, that, when this species of stupefaction was produced while she was employed in any action, the action was repeated as long as the mesmeric influence lasted. for instance, it was asserted that she was once deprived of the motion of every part of her body, except the right forefinger, with which she was rubbing her chin; and that, when thrown into the trance, she continued rubbing her chin for several minutes, until she was unmagnetised, when she ceased. a similar result was obtained when she was smoothing down her hair; and at another time when she was imitating the laughter of the spectators, excited beyond control by her clever mimicry. at another time she was suddenly thrown into the state of delirious stupor while pronouncing the word "you," of which she kept prolonging the sound for several minutes, with a sort of vibrating noise, until she was awakened. at another time, when a magnetised sovereign was given to her, wrapped up in paper, she caught it in her hand, and turned it round flatwise between her fingers, saying that it was wrapped up "very neatly indeed." the mesmeric influence caught her in the remark, which she kept repeating over and over again, all the while twirling the sovereign round and round until the influence in the coin had evaporated. we are also told of a remarkable instance of the force of the magnetic power. while elizabeth okey was one day employed in writing, a sovereign which had been imbued with the fluid was placed upon her boot. in half a minute her leg was paralyzed--rooted to the floor--perfectly immovable at the joints, and visited, apparently, with pain so intense that the girl writhed in agony. "the muscles of the leg were found," says the report, "as rigid and stiff as if they had been carved in wood. when the sovereign was removed, the pain left her in a quarter of a minute. on a subsequent day, a mesmerised sovereign was placed in her left hand as it hung at her side, with the palm turned slightly outwards. the hand and arm were immediately paralyzed--fixed with marble-like firmness." no general stupor having occurred, she was requested to move her arm; but she could not lift it a hair's-breadth from her side. on another occasion, when in a state of delirium, in which she had remained three hours, she was asked to describe her feelings when she handled any magnetised object and went off into the stupor. she had never before, although several times asked, given any information upon the subject. she now replied that, at the moment of losing her senses through any manipulations, she experienced a sensation of opening in the crown of her head; that she never knew when it closed again; but that her eyes seemed to become exceedingly large;--three times as big as before. on recovering from this state, she remembered nothing that had taken place in the interval, whether that interval were hours or days; her only sensation was that of awakening, and of something being lifted from her eyes. the regular publication of these marvellous experiments, authenticated as they were by many eminent names, naturally excited the public attention in an extreme degree. animal magnetism became the topic of discussion in every circle--politics and literature were for a time thrown into the shade, so strange were the facts, or so wonderful was the delusion. the public journals contented themselves in many instances with a mere relation of the results, without giving any opinion as to the cause. one of them which gave a series of reports upon the subject, thus described the girl, and avowed its readiness to believe all that was related of her. [morning post, march , .] "her appearance as she sits, as pale and almost as still as a corpse, is strangely awful. she whistles to oblige dr. elliotson: an incredulous bystander presses his fingers upon her lips; she does not appear conscious of the nature of the interruption; but when asked to continue, replies in childish surprise, 'it can't.' this state of magnetic semi-existence will continue we know not how long. she has continued in it for twelve days at a time, and when awakened to real life forgets all that has occurred in the magnetic one. can this be deception? we have conversed with the poor child her ordinary state as she sat by the fire in her ward, suffering from the headach, which persecutes her almost continually when not under the soothing fluence of the magnetic operation, and we confess we never beheld anybody less likely to prove an impostor. we have seen professor faraday exerting his acute and sagacious powers for an hour together, in the endeavour to detect some physical discrepancy in her performance, or elicit some blush of mental confusion by his naive and startling remarks. but there was nothing which could be detected, and the professor candidly confessed that the matter was beyond his philosophy to unravel." notwithstanding this sincere, and on the point of integrity, unimpeachable evidence in her favour; notwithstanding that she appeared to have no motives for carrying on so extraordinary and long-continued a deception, the girl was an impostor, and all these wise, learned, and contemplative men her dupes. it was some time, however, before this fact was clearly established, and the delusion dissipated by the clear light of truth. in the mean time various other experiments on the efficacy of the supposed magnetic power were tried in various parts of england; but the country did not furnish another epileptic girl so clever as elizabeth okey. an exhibition of the kind was performed on a girl named sarah overton, at the workhouse of the parish of st. martin's-in-the-fields. the magnetiser on this occasion was mr. bainbridge, the parish surgeon. it is but justice to him to state, that he conducted the experiments with the utmost fairness, and did not pretend to produce any of the wondrous and incredible phenomena of other practitioners. this girl, whose age was about twenty, had long been subject to epileptic fits, and appeared remarkably simple and modest in her manners and appearance. she was brought into the room and placed in a chair. about twenty gentlemen were present. mr. bainbridge stationed himself behind, and pointed his fingers at her brain, while his assistant in front made the magnetic passes before her eyes, and over her body. it cannot be said that her imagination was not at work; for she had been previously magnetised, and was brought in with her eyes open, and in complete possession of all her faculties. no means had been taken to prevent interruption during the sitting; new visiters continually arrived, and the noise of the opening and shutting of the door repeatedly called from mr. bainbridge a request that all should be kept silent. the girl herself constantly raised her head to see who was coming in; but still, in direct contradiction to m. dupotet, and, indeed, all the magnetisers, who have repeated over and over again, that interruption destroys the magnetic power, she fell into a deep sleep at the end of about twelve minutes. in this state, which is that called "mesmeric coma," she was quite insensible. though pulled violently by the hair, and pricked on the arm with a pin, she showed no signs of consciousness or feeling. in a short time afterwards, she was awakened into the somnambulic or delirious state, when she began to converse freely with the persons around her, but more especially with her magnetiser. she would sing if required, and even dance in obedience to his command, and pretended to see him although her eyes were closely blindfolded with a handkerchief. she seemed to have a constant tendency to fall back into the state of coma, and had to be aroused with violence every two or three minutes to prevent a relapse. a motion of the hand before her face was sufficient to throw her, in the middle of a song, into this insensible state; but it was observed particularly that she fell at regular intervals, whether any magnetic passes were made at her or not. it was hinted aloud to a person present that he should merely bend his body before her, and she would become insensible, and fall to the ground. the pass was made, and she fell accordingly into the arms of a medical gentleman, who stood behind ready to receive her. the girl having been again aroused into the state of delirium, another person, still audibly, was requested to do the same. he did not; but the girl fell as before. the experiments were sufficient to convince the author that one human being could indubitably exercise a very wonderful influence over another; but that imagination only, and not the mesmeric fluid, was the great agent by which these phenomena could be produced in persons of strong faith and weak bodies. some gentlemen present were desirous of trying whether any of the higher mesmeric states, such as that of lucidity and clairvoyance could be produced. mr. bainbridge was willing to allow the experiment to be made, but previously expressed his own doubts upon the subject. a watch was then put into her bosom, the dial plate and glass against her skin, to ascertain whether she could see without the intervention of the organs of sight. she was asked what hour it was; and was promised a shilling if she would tell by the watch which had been placed in her bosom. she held out her hand for the shilling, and received it with great delight. she was then asked if she could see the watch? she said "no--not a watch; she could see something--something that was very pretty indeed." "come, come, sally," said mr. bainbridge, "you must not be so stupid; rouse up, girl, and tell us what o'clock it is, and i'll give you another shilling!" the girl at this time seemed to be relapsing into a deep sleep; but on being shaken, aroused herself with a convulsive start. in reply to further questions, she said, "she could see a clock, a very pretty clock, indeed!" she was again asked, five or six times, what the hour was: she at last replied that "it was ten minutes to two." the watch being then taken out of her bosom, it was found to be on the stroke of two. every one present, including the magnetiser, confessed that there was nothing wonderful in the conjecture she had hazarded. she knew perfectly well what hour it was before she was brought into the ward, as there was a large clock in the workhouse, and a bell which rang at dinner time; she calculated mentally the interval that had since elapsed, and guessed accordingly. the same watch was afterwards advanced four or five hours, and put into her bosom without a word being said in her hearing. on being again asked what o'clock it was by that watch, and promised another shilling if she would tell, she still replied that it was near two--the actual time. thus, as mr. bainbridge had predicted, the experiment came to nothing. the whole case of this girl offered a striking instance of the power of imagination, but no proof whatever of the supposed existence of the magnetic fluid. the medical committee of the university college hospital took alarm at a very early period at the injury which might be done to that institution, by the exhibitions of okey and her magnetisers. a meeting was held in june , at which dr. elliotson was not present, to take into consideration the reports of the experiments that had been published in the medical journals. resolutions were then passed to the effect, that dr. elliotson should be requested to refrain from further public exhibitions of mesmerism; and, at the same time, stating the wish of the committee not to interfere with its private employment as a remedial agent, if he thought it would be efficacious upon any of the patients of the institution. dr. elliotson replied, that no consideration should prevent him from pursuing the investigation of animal magnetism; but that he had no desire to make a public exhibition of it. he had only given lectures and demonstrations when numbers of scientific gentlemen were present; he still continued to receive numerous letters from learned and eminent men, entreating permission to witness the phenomena; but if the committee willed it, he should admit no person without their sanction. he shortly afterwards sent a list of the names of individuals who were anxious to witness the experiments. the committee returned it to him unread, with the reply that they could not sanction any exhibition that was so entirely foreign to the objects of the hospital. in answer to this, dr. elliotson reiterated his full belief in the doctrines of animal magnetism, and his conviction that his experiments would ultimately throw a light upon the operations of nature, which would equal, if not exceed, that elicited by the greatest discoveries of by-gone ages. the correspondence dropped here; and the experiments continued as usual. the scene, however, was drawing to a close. on the th of august, a notice was published in the lancet, to the effect, that some experiments had been performed on the girls elizabeth and jane okey, at the house of mr. wakley, a report of which was only withheld in the hope that the committee of members of the medical profession, then sitting to investigate the phenomena of mesmerism, would publish their report of what they had witnessed. it was further stated, that whether that committee did or did not publish their report, the result of the experiments at mr. wakley's house should certainly be made known in the next number of that journal. accordingly, on the st of september appeared a statement, which overthrew, in the most complete manner, the delusion of mesmerism. nothing could have been better conducted than these experiments; nothing could be more decisive of the fact, that all the phenomena were purely the results of the excited imaginations of the girls, aided in no slight degree by their wilful deception. the first experiments were performed on the th of august, in the presence of mr. wakley, m. dupotet, dr. elliotson, dr. richardson, mr. herring, mr. clarke, and mr. g. mills the writer of the published reports of the experiments at the university college hospital. dr. elliotson had said, that nickel was capable of retaining and transmitting the magnetic fluid in an extraordinary degree; but that lead possessed no such virtues. the effects of the nickel, he was confident, would be quite astounding; but that lead might always be applied with impunity. a piece of nickel was produced by the doctor, about three quarters of an ounce in weight, together with a piece of lead of the same shape and smoothness, but somewhat larger. elizabeth okey was seated in a chair; and, by a few passes and manipulations, was thrown into the state of "ecstatic delirium." a piece of thick pasteboard was then placed in front of her face, and held in that situation by two of the spectators, so that she could not see what was passing either below or in front of her. mr. wakley having received both the nickel and the lead, seated himself opposite the girl, and applied the lead to each hand alternately, but in such a manner as to lead her to believe that both metals had been used. no effect was produced. the nickel magnetised by dr. elliotson was, after a pause, applied in a similar manner. no results followed. after another pause, the lead was several times applied, and then again the nickel. after the last application of the nickel, the face of the patient became violently flushed, the eyes were convulsed into a startling squint, she fell back in the chair, her breathing was hurried, her limbs rigid, and her back bent in the form of a bow. she remained in this state for a quarter of an hour. this experiment was not considered a satisfactory proof of the magnetic powers of the nickel; and dr. elliotson suggested that, in the second experiment, that metal should alone be tried. mr. wakley was again the operator; but, before commencing, he stated privately to mr. clarke, that instead of using nickel only, he would not employ the nickel at all. mr. clarke, unseen by any person present, took the piece of nickel; put it into his waistcoat pocket; and walked to the window, where he remained during the whole of the experiment. mr. wakley again sat down, employing both hands, but placing his fingers in such a manner, that it was impossible for any person to see what substance he held. presently, on applying his left hand, the girl's vision being still obstructed by the pasteboard, mr. herring, who was standing near, said in a whisper, and with much sincerity, "take care, don't apply the nickel too strongly." immediately the face of the girl became violently red, her eyes were fixed in an intense squint, she fell back convulsively in her chair, and all the previous symptoms were produced more powerfully than before. dr. elliotson observed that the effects were most extraordinary; that no other metal than nickel could produce them, and that they presented a beautiful series of phenomena. this paroxysm lasted half an hour. mr. wakley retired with dr. elliotson and the other gentlemen into an adjoining room, and convinced them that he had used no nickel at all, but a piece of lead and a farthing. this experiment was twice repeated with the same results. a third trial was made with the nickel, but no effect was produced. on the succeeding day the experiments were repeated upon both the sisters, chiefly with mesmerised water and sovereigns. the investigation occupied about five hours, and the following were the results:-- . six wine glasses, filled with water unmesmerised, were placed on a table, and jane okey being called in, was requested to drink from each of them successively. she did so, and no effect was produced. . the same six glasses stood on the table, the water in the fourth having been subjected for a long time to the supposed magnetic influence. she was requested in like manner to drink of these. she did so, and again no effect was produced, although, according to the doctrine of the magnetisers, she ought to have been immediately fixed on drinking of the fourth. . in this experiment the position of the glasses was changed. there was no result. . was a repetition of the foregoing. no result. . the water in all the glasses was subjected to the supposed magnetic influence from the fingers of dr. elliotson, until, in his opinion, it was strongly magnetised. still no result. . the glasses were filled up with fresh water unmesmerised. no result. . the water was strongly magnetised in each glass, and the girl emptied them all. no result. it would be needless to go through the whole series of experiments. the results may be briefly stated. sovereigns unmesmerised threw the girls into convulsions, or fixed them. mesmerised sovereigns sometimes did and sometimes did not produce these symptoms. elizabeth okey became repeatedly fixed when drinking unmagnetised water; while that which had been subjected to the powers of a supposed magnetic battery, produced no results. altogether twenty-nine experiments were tried, which convinced every one present, except dr. elliotson, that animal magnetism was a delusion, that the girls were of very exciteable imaginations, and arrant impostors. their motives for carrying on so extraordinary a deception have often been asked. the question is easily answered. poor girls, unknown and unnoticed, or, if noticed, perhaps despised, they found themselves all at once the observed of all observers, by the really remarkable symptoms of their disease, which it required no aid from magnetism to produce. flattered by the oft-repeated experiments and constant attentions of doctors and learned men, who had begun by deluding themselves, they imagined themselves persons of vast importance, and encouraged by degrees the whims of their physicians, as the means of prolonging the consideration they so unexpectedly enjoyed. constant practice made them at last all but perfect in the parts they were performing; and they failed at last, not from a want of ingenuity, or of a most wonderful power over their own minds, and by their minds upon their bodies, but from the physical impossibility of seeing through a thick pasteboard, or into the closed hands of mr. wakley. the exposure that was made was complete and decisive. from that day forth, magnetism in england has hid its diminished head, and affronted no longer the common sense of the age. m. dupotet is no more heard of, the girls okey afford no more either wonder or amusement by their clever acting, and reason has resumed her sway in the public mind. a few more circumstances remain to be stated. elizabeth okey left the hospital; but was re-admitted some weeks afterwards, labouring under ischuria, a fresh complaint, unconnected with her former malady. as experiments in magnetism were still tried upon her privately, notwithstanding the recent exposure and the all but universal derision of the public, the house committee of the hospital, early in december, met to consider the expediency of expelling the girl. dr. elliotson, on that occasion, expressed his opinion that it was necessary to retain her in the hospital, as she was too ill to be discharged. it was then elicited from the nurse, who was examined by the committee, that okey, when in the state of "magnetic delirium," was in the habit of prophesying the death or recovery of the patients in the ward; that, with the consent of dr. elliotson, she had been led in the twilight into the men's ward, and had prophesied in a similar manner; her predictions being taken down in writing, and given in a sealed paper to the apothecary, to be opened after a certain time, that it might be seen whether they were verified. dr. elliotson did not deny the fact. the nurse also stated more particularly the manner in which the prophecies were delivered. she said that, on approaching the bed of a certain patient, okey gave a convulsive shudder, exclaiming that "great jacky was sitting on the bedclothes!" on being asked to explain herself, she said that great jacky was the angel of death. at the bedside of another patient she shuddered slightly, and said "little jacky was there!" dr. elliotson did not altogether discredit the predictions; but imagined they might ultimately be verified by the death or recovery of the patient. upon the minds of the patients themselves, enfeebled as they were by disease and suffering, the worst effects were produced. one man's death was accelerated by the despondency it occasioned, and the recovery of others was seriously impeded. when these facts became known, the council of the college requested the medical committee to discharge okey and prevent any further exhibitions of animal magnetism in the wards. the latter part of this request having been communicated to dr. elliotson, he immediately sent in his resignation. a successor was afterwards appointed in the person of dr. copland. at his inaugural lecture the students of the college manifested a riotous disposition, called repeatedly for their old instructor, and refused to allow the lecture to proceed; but it appears the disturbance was caused by their respect and affection for dr. elliotson individually, and not from any participation in his ideas about magnetism. extravagant as the vagaries of the english professors of magnetism may appear, they are actual common sense in comparison with the aberrations of the germans. the latter have revived all the exploded doctrines of the rosicrucians; and in an age which is called enlightened, have disinterred from the rubbish of antiquity, the wildest superstitions of their predecessors, and built upon them theories more wild and startling than anything before attempted or witnessed among mankind. paracelsus and bohmen, borri and meyer, with their strange heterogeneous mixture of alchymy and religion, but paved the way for the stranger, and even more extravagant mixture of magnetism and religion, as now practised in germany. magnetism, it is believed, is the key of all knowledge, and opens the door to those forbidden regions where all the wonders of god's works are made clear to the mind of man. the magnetic patient is possessed of all gifts--can converse with myriads of spirits, and even with god himself--be transported with greater rapidity than the lightning's flash to the moon or the stars, and see their inhabitants, and hold converse with them on the wonders and beauties of their separate spheres, and the power and goodness of the god who made them. time and space are to them as if annihilated--nothing is hidden from them--past, present, or future. they divine the laws by which the universe is upheld, and snatch the secrets of the creator from the darkness in which, to all other men, it is enveloped. for the last twenty or thirty years these daring and blasphemous notions have flourished in rank luxuriance; and men of station in society, learning, and apparent good sense in all the usual affairs of life, have publicly given in their adhesion, and encouraged the doctrine by their example, or spread it abroad by their precepts. that the above summary of their tenets may not be deemed an exaggeration we enter into particulars, and refer the incredulous that human folly in the present age could ever be pushed so far, to chapter and verse for every allegation. in a work published in germany in , by j. a. l. richter, entitled "considerations on animal magnetism," the author states that in magnetism is to be found the solution of the enigmas of human existence, and particularly the enigmas of christianity, on the mystic and obscure parts of which it throws a light which permits us to gaze clearly on the secrets of the mystery. wolfart's "annals of animal magnetism" abound with similar passages; and kluge's celebrated work is written in the same spirit. "such is the wonderful sympathy," says the latter, "between the magnetiser and the somnambulist that he has known the latter to vomit and be purged in consequence of medicine which the former had taken. whenever he put pepper on his tongue, or drank wine, the patient could taste these things distinctly on her palate." but kerner's history of the case of madame hauffe, the famous magnetic woman, "seer" or "prophetess of prevorst," will give a more complete and melancholy proof of the sad wanderings of these german "men of science," than any random selections we might make from their voluminous works. this work was published in two volumes, and the authenticity of its details supported by gorres, eschenmeyer, and other men of character and reputation in germany: it is said to have had an immense sale. she resided in the house of kerner, at weinsberg; and being weak and sickly, was very easily thrown into a state of somnambulism. "she belonged," says kerner, "to a world of spirits; she was half spirit herself; she belonged to the region beyond death, in which she already half existed. * * * her body clothed her spirit like a thin veil. * * * she was small and slightly made, had an oriental expression of countenance, and the piercing eyes of a prophet, the gleams of which were increased in their power and beauty by her long dark eyebrows and eyelashes. she was a flower of light, living upon sunbeams. * * * her spirit often seemed to be separated from her frame. the spirits of all things, of which mankind in general have no perception, were perceptible to and operated upon her, more particularly the spirits of metals, herbs, men, and animals. all imponderable matters, even the rays of light, had an effect upon her when she was magnetised." the smell of flint was very agreeable to her. salt laid on her hand caused a flow of saliva: rock crystal laid on the pit of her stomach produced rigidity of the whole body. red grapes produced certain effects, if placed in her hands; white grapes produced different effects. the bone of an elk would throw her into an epileptic fit. the tooth of a mammoth produced a feeling of sluggishness. a spider's web rolled into a ball produced a prickly feeling in the hands, and a restlessness in the whole body. glow-worms threw her into the magnetic sleep. music somnambulised her. when she wanted to be cheerful, she requested kerner to magnetise the water she drank, by playing the jew's-harp. she used to say in her sleep, "magnetise the water by seven vibrations of the harp." if she drank water magnetised in this manner, she was constrained involuntarily to pour forth her soul in song. the eyes of many men threw her into the state of somnambulism. she said that in those eyes there was a spiritual spark, which was the mirror of the soul. if a magnetised rod were laid on her right eye, every object on which she gazed appeared magnified. it was by this means that she was enabled to see the inhabitants of the moon. she said, that on the left side of the moon, the inhabitants were great builders, and much happier than those on the right side. "i often see," said she to her magnetiser, "many spirits with whom i do not come into contact. others come to me, and i speak to them; and they often spend months in my company. i hear and see other things at the same time; but i cannot turn my eyes from the spirits; they are in magnetic rapport with me. they look like clouds, thin, but not transparent; though, at first, they seem so. still, i never saw one which cast a shadow. their form is similar to that which they possessed when alive; but colourless, or grey. they wear clothing; and it appears as if made of clouds, also colourless and misty grey. the brighter and better spirits wear long garments, which hang in graceful folds, with belts around their waists. the expression of their features is sad and solemn. their eyes are bright, like fire; but none of them that i ever saw had hair upon their heads. they make noises when they wish to excite the attention of those who have not the gift of seeing them. these noises consist of sounds in the air, sometimes sudden and sharp, and causing a shock. sometimes the sounds are plaintive and musical; at other times they resemble the rustling of silk, the falling of sand, or the rolling of a ball. the better spirits are brighter than the bad ones, and their voice is not so strong. many, particularly the dark, sad spirits, when i uttered words of religious consolation, sucked them in, as it were; and i saw them become brighter and quite glorious in consequence: but i became weaker. most of the spirits who come to me are of the lowest regions of the spiritual world, which are situated just above our atmosphere. they were, in their life, grovelling and low-minded people, or such as did not die in the faith of jesus; or else such as, in expiring, clung to some earthly thought or affection, which now presses upon them, and prevents them from soaring up to heaven. i once asked a spirit whether children grew after death? 'yes,' replied the spirit,' the soul gradually expands, until it becomes as large as it would have been on earth. i cannot effect the salvation of these spirits; i am only their mediator. i pray ardently with them, and so lead them by degrees to the great saviour of the world. it costs an infinity of trouble before such a soul turns again to the lord.'" it would, however, serve no good purpose to extend to greater length the reveries of this mad woman, or to set down one after the other the names of the magnetisers who encouraged her in her delusions--being themselves deluded. to wade through these volumes of german mysticism is a task both painful and disgusting--and happily not necessary. enough has been stated to show how gross is the superstition even of the learned; and that errors, like comets, run in one eternal cycle--at their apogee in one age, at their perigee in the next, but returning in one phase or another for men to wonder at. in england the delusion of magnetism may for the present be considered as fairly exploded. taking its history from the commencement, and tracing it to our own day, it can hardly be said, delusion though it was, that it has been wholly without its uses. to quote the words of bailly, in , "magnetism has not been altogether unavailing to the philosophy which condemns it: it is an additional fact to record among the errors of the human mind, and a great experiment on the strength of the imagination." over that vast inquiry of the influence of mind over matter,--an inquiry which the embodied intellect of mankind will never be able to fathom completely,--it will, at least, have thrown a feeble and imperfect light. it will have afforded an additional proof of the strength of the unconquerable will, and the weakness of matter as compared with it; another illustration of the words of the inspired psalmist, that "we are fearfully and wonderfully made." if it serve no other purpose than this, its history will prove useful. truth ere now has been elicited by means of error; and animal magnetism, like other errors, may yet contribute its quota towards the instruction and improvement of mankind. the end. digitized by cardinalis etext press [c.e.k.] modified for project gutenberg by andrew sly struggling upward or luke larkin's luck by horatio alger, jr. chapter i the waterbury watch one saturday afternoon in january a lively and animated group of boys were gathered on the western side of a large pond in the village of groveton. prominent among them was a tall, pleasant-looking young man of twenty-two, the teacher of the center grammar school, frederic hooper, a. b., a recent graduate of yale college. evidently there was something of importance on foot. what it was may be learned from the words of the teacher. "now, boys," he said, holding in his hand a waterbury watch, of neat pattern, "i offer this watch as a prize to the boy who will skate across the pond and back in the least time. you will all start together, at a given signal, and make your way to the mark which i have placed at the western end of the lake, skate around it, and return to this point. do you fully understand?" "yes, sir!" exclaimed the boys, unanimously. before proceeding, it may be well to refer more particularly to some of the boys who were to engage in the contest. first, in his own estimation, came randolph duncan, son of prince duncan, president of the groveton bank, and a prominent town official. prince duncan was supposed to be a rich man, and lived in a style quite beyond that of his neighbors. randolph was his only son, a boy of sixteen, and felt that in social position and blue blood he was without a peer in the village. he was a tall, athletic boy, and disposed to act the part of boss among the groveton boys. next came a boy similar in age and physical strength, but in other respects very different from the young aristocrat. this was luke larkin, the son of a carpenter's widow, living on narrow means, and so compelled to exercise the strictest economy. luke worked where he could, helping the farmers in hay-time, and ready to do odd jobs for any one in the village who desired his services. he filled the position of janitor at the school which he attended, sweeping out twice a week and making the fires. he had a pleasant expression, and a bright, resolute look, a warm heart, and a clear intellect, and was probably, in spite of his poverty, the most popular boy in groveton. in this respect he was the opposite of randolph duncan, whose assumption of superiority and desire to "boss" the other boys prevented him from having any real friends. he had two or three companions, who flattered him and submitted to his caprices because they thought it looked well to be on good terms with the young aristocrat. these two boys were looked upon as the chief contestants for the prize offered by their teacher. opinions differed as to which would win. "i think luke will get the watch," said fred acken, a younger boy. "i don't know about that," said tom harper. "randolph skates just as well, and he has a pair of club skates. his father sent to new york for them last week. they're beauties, i tell you. randolph says they cost ten dollars." "of course that gives him the advantage," said percy hall. "look at luke's old-fashioned wooden skates! they would be dear at fifty cents!" "it's a pity luke hasn't a better pair," said harry wright. "i don't think the contest is a fair one. luke ought to have an allowance of twenty rods, to make up for the difference in skates." "he wouldn't accept it," said linton tomkins, the son of a manufacturer in groveton, who was an intimate friend of luke, and preferred to associate with him, though randolph had made advances toward intimacy, linton being the only boy in the village whom he regarded as his social equal. "i offered him my club skates, but he said he would take the chances with his own." linton was the only boy who had a pair of skates equal to randolph's. he, too, was a contestant, but, being three years younger than luke and randolph, had no expectation of rivaling them. randolph had his friends near him, administering the adulation he so much enjoyed. "i have no doubt you'll get the watch, randolph," said sam noble. "you're a better skater any day than luke larkin." "of course you are!" chimed in tom harper. "the young janitor doesn't think so," said randolph, his lips curling. "oh, he's conceited enough to think he can beat you, i make no doubt," said sam. "on those old skates, too! they look as if adam might have used them when he was a boy!" this sally of tom's created a laugh. "his skates are old ones, to be sure," said randolph, who was quick-sighted enough to understand that any remark of this kind might dim the luster of his expected victory. "his skates are old enough, but they are just as good for skating as mine." "they won't win him the watch, though," said sam. "i don't care for the watch myself," said randolph, loftily. "i've got a silver one now, and am to have a gold one when i'm eighteen. but i want to show that i am the best skater. besides, father has promised me ten dollars if i win." "i wish i had ten dollars," said sam, enviously. he was the son of the storekeeper, and his father allowed him only ten cents a week pocket-money, so that ten dollars in his eyes was a colossal fortune. "i have no doubt you would, sam," said tom, joyously; "but you couldn't be trusted with so much money. you'd go down to new york and try to buy out a. t. stewart." "are you ready, boys?" asked mr. hooper. most of the boys responded promptly in the affirmative; but luke, who had been tightening his straps, said quickly: "i am not ready, mr. hooper. my strap has broken!" "indeed, luke, i am sorry to hear it," said the teacher, approaching and examining the fracture. "as matters stand, you can't skate." randolph's eyes brightened. confident as he professed to feel, he knew that his chances of success would be greatly increased by luke's withdrawal from the list. "the prize is yours now," whispered tom. "it was before," answered randolph, conceitedly. poor luke looked disappointed. he knew that he had at least an even chance of winning, and he wanted the watch. several of his friends of his own age had watches, either silver or waterbury, and this seemed, in his circumstances, the only chance of securing one. now he was apparently barred out. "it's a pity you shouldn't skate, luke," said mr. hooper, in a tone of sympathy. "you are one of the best skaters, and had an excellent chance of winning the prize. is there any boy willing to lend luke his skates?" "i will," said frank acken. "my dear boy," said the teacher, "you forget that your feet are several sizes smaller than luke's." "i didn't think of that," replied frank, who was only twelve years old. "you may use my skates, luke," said linton tomkins. "i think they will fit you." linton was only thirteen, but he was unusually large for his age. "you are very kind, linton," said luke, "but that will keep you out of the race." "i stand no chance of winning," said linton, "and i will do my skating afterward." "i don't think that fair," said randolph, with a frown. "each boy ought to use his own skates." "there is nothing unfair about it," said the teacher, "except that luke is placed at disadvantage in using a pair of skates he is unaccustomed to." randolph did not dare gainsay the teacher, but he looked sullen. "mr. hooper is always favoring that beggar!" he said in a low voice, to tom harper. "of course he is!" chimed in the toady. "you are very kind, linny," said luke, regarding his friend affectionately. "i won't soon forget it." "oh, it's all right, luke," said linton. "now go in and win!" chapter ii tom harper's accident tom harper and sam noble were not wholly disinterested in their championship of randolph. they were very ordinary skaters, and stood no chance of winning the match themselves. they wished randolph to win, for each hoped, as he had a silver watch himself already, he might give the waterbury to his faithful friend and follower. nothing in randolph's character granted such a hope, for he was by no means generous or open-handed, but each thought that he might open his heart on this occasion. indeed, tom ventured to hint as much. "i suppose, randolph," he said, "if you win the watch you will give it to me?" "why should i?" asked randolph, surveying tom with a cold glance. "you've got a nice silver watch yourself, you know." "i might like to have two watches." "you'll have the ten dollars your father promised you." "what if i have? what claim have you on me?" tom drew near and whispered something in randolph's ear. "i'll see about it," said randolph, nodding. "are you ready?" asked the teacher, once more. "aye, aye!" responded the boys. "one--two--three--go!" the boys darted off like arrows from a bow. luke made a late start, but before they were half across the pond he was even with randolph, and both were leading. randolph looked sidewise, and shut his mouth tight as he saw his hated rival on equal terms with him and threatening to pass him. it would be humiliating in the extreme, he thought, to be beaten by such a boy. but beaten he seemed likely to be, for luke was soon a rod in advance and slowly gaining. slowly, for randolph was really a fine skater and had no rival except luke. but luke was his superior, as seemed likely to be proved. though only these two stood any chance of final success, all the boys kept up the contest. a branch of a tree had been placed at the western end of the pond, and this was the mark around which the boys were to skate. luke made the circuit first, randolph being about half a dozen rods behind. after him came the rest of the boys in procession, with one exception. this exception was tom harper, who apparently gave up the contest when half-way across, and began skating about, here and there, apparently waiting for his companions to return. "tom harper has given up his chance," said linton to the teacher. "so it seems," replied mr. hooper, "but he probably had no expectation of succeeding." "i should think he would have kept on with the rest. i would have done so, though my chance would have been no better than his." indeed, it seemed strange that tom should have given up so quickly. it soon appeared that it was not caprice, but that he had an object in view, and that a very discreditable one. he waited till the boys were on their way back. by this time luke was some eight rods in advance of his leading competitor. then tom began to be on the alert. as luke came swinging on to victory he suddenly placed himself in his way. luke's speed was so great that he could not check himself. he came into collision with tom, and in an instant both were prostrate. tom, however, got the worst of it. he was thrown violently backward, falling on the back of his head, and lay stunned and motionless on the ice. luke fell over him, but was scarcely hurt at all. he was up again in an instant, and might still have kept the lead, but instead he got down on his knees beside tom and asked anxiously: "are you much hurt, tom?" tom didn't immediately answer, but lay breathing heavily, with his eyes still closed. meanwhile, randolph, with a smile of triumph, swept on to his now assured victory. most of the boys, however, stopped and gathered round luke and tom. this accident had been watched with interest and surprise from the starting-point. "tom must be a good deal hurt," said linton. "what could possibly have made him get in luke's way?" "i don't know," said the teacher, slowly; "it looks strange." "it almost seemed as if he got in the way on purpose," linton continued. "he is a friend of randolph duncan, is he not?" asked the teacher, abruptly. "they are together about all the time." "ha!" commented the teacher, as if struck by an idea. he didn't, however, give expression to the thought in his mind. a minute more, and randolph swept into the presence of the teacher. "i believe i have won?" he said, with a smile of gratification on his countenance. "you have come in first," said the teacher coldly. "luke was considerably ahead when he ran into tom," suggested linton. "that's not my lookout," said randolph, shrugging his shoulders. "the point is that i have come in first." "tom harper is a friend of yours, is he not?" asked the teacher. "oh, yes!" answered randolph, indifferently. "he seems to be a good deal hurt. it was very strange that he got in luke's way." "so it was," said randolph, without betraying much interest. "will you lend me your skates, randolph?" asked linton. "i should like to go out and see if i can help tom in any way." if any other boy than linton had made the request, randolph would have declined, but he wished, if possible, to add linton to his list of friends, and graciously consented. before linton could reach the spot, tom had been assisted to his feet, and, with a dazed expression, assisted on either side by luke and edmund blake, was on his way back to the starting-point. "what made you get in my way, tom?" asked luke, puzzled. "i don't know," answered tom, sullenly. "are you much hurt?" "i think my skull must be fractured," moaned tom. "oh, not so bad as that," said luke, cheerfully. "i've fallen on my head myself, but i got over it." "you didn't fall as hard as i did," groaned tom. "no, i presume not; but heads are hard, and i guess you'll be all right in a few days." tom had certainly been severely hurt. there was a swelling on the back of his head almost as large as a hen's egg. "you've lost the watch, luke," said frank acken. "randolph has got in first." "yes, i supposed he would," answered luke, quietly. "and there is linton tomkins coming to meet us on randolph's skates." "randolph is sitting down on a log taking it easy. what is your loss, luke, is his gain." "yes." "i think he might have come back to inquire after you, tom, as you are a friend of his." tom looked resentfully at randolph, and marked his complacent look, and it occurred to him also that the friend he had risked so much to serve was very ungrateful. but he hoped now, at any rate, to get the watch, and thought it prudent to say nothing. the boys had now reached the shore. "hope you're not much hurt, tom?" said randolph, in a tone of mild interest. "i don't know but my skull is fractured," responded tom, bitterly. "oh, i guess not. it's the fortune of war. well, i got in first." randolph waited for congratulations, but none came. all the boys looked serious, and more than one suspected that there had been foul play. they waited for the teacher to speak. chapter iii randolph gets the watch "it is true," said the teacher, slowly. "randolph has won the race." randolph's face lighted up with exultation. "but it is also evident," continued mr. hooper, "that he would not have succeeded but for the unfortunate collision between luke larkin and tom harper." here some of luke's friends brightened up. "i don't know about that," said randolph. "at any rate, i came in first." "i watched the race closely," said the teacher, "and i have no doubt on the subject. luke had so great a lead that he would surely have won the race." "but he didn't," persisted randolph, doggedly. "he did not, as we all know. it is also clear that had he not stopped to ascertain the extent of tom's injuries he still might have won." "that's so!" said half a dozen boys. "therefore i cannot accept the result as indicating the superiority of the successful contestant." "i think i am entitled to the prize," said randolph. "i concede that; but, under the circumstances, i suggest to you that it would be graceful and proper to waive your claim and try the race over again." the boys applauded, with one or two exceptions. "i won't consent to that, mr. hooper," said randolph, frowning. "i've won the prize fairly and i want it." "i am quite willing randolph should have it, sir," said luke. "i think i should have won it if i had not stopped with tom, but that doesn't affect the matter one way or the other. randolph came in first, as he says, and i think he is entitled to the watch." "then," said mr. hooper, gravely, "there is nothing more to be said. randolph, come forward and receive the prize." randolph obeyed with alacrity, and received the waterbury watch from the hands of mr. hooper. the boys stood in silence and offered no congratulations. "now, let me say," said the teacher, "that i cannot understand why there was any collision at all. tom harper, why did you get in luke's way?" "because i was a fool, sir," answered tom, smarting from his injuries, and the evident indifference of randolph, in whose cause he had incurred them. "that doesn't answer my question. why did you act like a fool, as you expressed it?" "i thought i could get out of the way in time," stammered tom, who did not dare to tell the truth. "you had no other reason?" asked the teacher, searchingly. "no, sir. what other reason could i have?" said tom, but his manner betrayed confusion. "indeed, i don't know," returned the teacher, quietly. "your action, however, spoiled luke's chances and insured the success of randolph." "and got me a broken head," muttered tom, placing his hand upon the swelling at the back of his head. "yes, you got the worst of it. i advise you to go home and apply cold water or any other remedy your mother may suggest." randolph had already turned away, meaning to return home. tom joined him. randolph would gladly have dispensed with his company, but had no decent excuse, as tom's home lay in the same direction as his. "well, randolph, you've won the watch," said tom, when they were out of hearing of the other boys. "yes," answered randolph, indifferently. "i don't care so much for that as for the ten dollars my father is going to give me." "that's what i thought. you've got another watch, you know--more valuable." "well, what of it?" said randolph, suspiciously. "i think you might give me the waterbury. i haven't got any." "why should i give it to you?" answered randolph, coldly. "because but for me you wouldn't have won it, nor the ten dollars, neither." "how do you make that out?" "the teacher said so himself." "i don't agree to it." "you can't deny it. luke was seven or eight rods ahead when i got in his way." "then it was lucky for me." "it isn't lucky for me. my head hurts awfully." "i'm very sorry, of course." "that won't do me any good. come, randolph, give me the watch, like a good fellow." "well, you've got cheek, i must say. i want the watch myself." "and is that all the satisfaction i am to get for my broken head?" exclaimed tom, indignantly. randolph was a thoroughly mean boy, who, if he had had a dozen watches, would have wished to keep them all for himself. "i've a great mind to tell luke and the teacher of the arrangement between us." "there wasn't any arrangement," said randolph, sharply. "however, as i'm really sorry for you, i am willing to give you a quarter. there, now, don't let me hear any more about the matter." he drew a silver quarter from his vest pocket and tendered it to tom. tom harper was not a sensitive boy, but his face flushed with indignation and shame, and he made no offer to take the money. "keep your quarter, randolph duncan," he said scornfully. "i think you're the meanest specimen of a boy that i ever came across. any boy is a fool to be your friend. i don't care to keep company with you any longer." "this to me!" exclaimed randolph, angrily. "this is the pay i get for condescending to let you go with me." "you needn't condescend any longer," said tom, curtly, and he crossed to the other side of the street. randolph looked after him rather uneasily. after all, he was sorry to lose his humble follower. "he'll be coming round in a day or two to ask me to take him back," he reflected. "i would be willing to give him ten cents more, but as for giving him the watch, he must think me a fool to part with that." chapter iv luke's night adventure "i am sorry you have lost the watch, luke," said the teacher, after randolph's departure. "you will have to be satisfied with deserving it." "i am reconciled to the disappointment, sir," answered luke. "i can get along for the present without a watch." nevertheless, luke did feel disappointed. he had fully expected to have the watch to carry home and display to his mother. as it was, he was in no hurry to go home, but remained for two hours skating with the other boys. he used his friend linton's skates, linton having an engagement which prevented his remaining. it was five o'clock when luke entered the little cottage which he called home. his mother, a pleasant woman of middle age, was spreading the cloth for supper. she looked up as he entered. "well, luke?" she said inquiringly. "i haven't brought home the watch, mother," he said. "randolph duncan won it by accident. i will tell you about it." after he had done so, mrs. larkin asked thoughtfully. "isn't it a little singular that tom should have got in your way?" "yes; i thought so at the time." "do you think there was any arrangement between him and randolph?" "as you ask me, mother, i am obliged to say that i do." "it was a very mean trick!" said mrs. larkin, resentfully. "yes, it was; but poor tom was well punished for it. why, he's got a bunch on the back of his head almost as large as a hen's egg." "i don't pity him," said mrs. larkin. "i pity him, mother, for i don't believe randolph will repay him for the service done him. if randolph had met with the same accident i am not prepared to say that i should have pitied him much." "you might have been seriously injured yourself, luke." "i might, but i wasn't, so i won't take that into consideration. however, mother, watch or no watch, i've got a good appetite. i shall be ready when supper is." luke sat down to the table ten minutes afterward and proved his words good, much to his mother's satisfaction. while he is eating we will say a word about the cottage. it was small, containing only four rooms, furnished in the plainest fashion. the rooms, however, were exceedingly neat, and presented an appearance of comfort. yet the united income of mrs. larkin and luke was very small. luke received a dollar a week for taking care of the schoolhouse, but this income only lasted forty weeks in the year. then he did odd jobs for the neighbors, and picked up perhaps as much more. mrs. larkin had some skill as a dressmaker, but groveton was a small village, and there was another in the same line, so that her income from this source probably did not average more than three dollars a week. this was absolutely all that they had to live on, though there was no rent to pay; and the reader will not be surprised to learn that luke had no money to spend for watches. "are you tired, luke?" asked his mother, after supper. "no, mother. can i do anything for you?" "i have finished a dress for miss almira clark. i suppose she will want to wear it to church to-morrow. but she lives so far away, i don't like to ask you to carry it to her." "oh, i don't mind. it won't do me any harm." "you will get tired." "if i do, i shall sleep the better for it." "you are a good son, luke." "i ought to be. haven't i got a good mother?" so it was arranged. about seven o'clock, after his chores were done--for there was some wood to saw and split--luke set out, with the bundle under his arm, for the house of miss clark, a mile and a half away. it was a commonplace errand, that on which luke had started, but it was destined to be a very important day in his life. it was to be a turning-point, and to mark the beginning of a new chapter of experiences. was it to be for good or ill? that we are not prepared to reveal. it will be necessary for the reader to follow his career, step by step, and decide for himself. of course, luke had no thought of this when he set out. to him it had been a marked day on account of the skating match, but this had turned out a disappointment. he accomplished his errand, which occupied a considerable time, and then set out on his return. it was half-past eight, but the moon had risen and diffused a mild radiance over the landscape. luke thought he would shorten his homeward way by taking a path through the woods. it was not over a quarter of a mile, but would shorten the distance by as much more. the trees were not close together, so that it was light enough to see. luke had nearly reached the edge of the wood, when he overtook a tall man, a stranger in the neighborhood, who carried in his hand a tin box. turning, he eyed luke sharply. "boy, what's your name?" he asked. "luke larkin," our hero answered, in surprise. "where do you live?" "in the village yonder." "will you do me a favor?" "what is it, sir?" "take this tin box and carry it to your home. keep it under lock and key till i call for it." "yes, sir, i can do that. but how shall i know you again?" "take a good look at me, that you may remember me." "i think i shall know you again, but hadn't you better give me a name?" "well, perhaps so," answered the other, after a moment's thought. "you may call me roland reed. will you remember?" "yes, sir." "i am obliged to leave this neighborhood at once, and can't conveniently carry the box," explained the stranger. "here's something for your trouble." luke was about to say that he required no money, when it occurred to him that he had no right to refuse, since money was so scarce at home. he took the tin box and thrust the bank-bill into his vest pocket. he wondered how much it was, but it was too dark to distinguish. "good night!" said luke, as the stranger turned away. "good night!" answered his new acquaintance, abruptly. if luke could have foreseen the immediate consequences of this apparently simple act, and the position in which it would soon place him, he would certainly have refused to take charge of the box. and yet in so doing it might have happened that he had made a mistake. the consequences of even our simple acts are oftentimes far-reaching and beyond the power of human wisdom to foreknow. luke thought little of this as, with the box under his arm, he trudged homeward. chapter v luke receives an invitation "what have you there, luke?" asked mrs. larkin, as luke entered the little sitting-room with the tin box under his arm. "i met a man on my way home, who asked me to keep it for him." "do you know the man?" asked his mother, in surprise. "no," answered luke. "it seems very singular. what did he say?" "he said that he was obliged to leave the neighborhood at once, and could not conveniently carry the box." "do you think it contains anything of value?" "yes, mother. it is like the boxes rich men have to hold their stocks and bonds. i was at the bank one day, and saw a gentleman bring in one to deposit in the safe." "i can't understand that at all, luke. you say you did not know this man?" "i never met him before." "and, of course, he does not know you?" "no, for he asked my name." "yet he put what may be valuable property in your possession." "i think," said luke, shrewdly, "he had no one else to trust it to. besides, a country boy wouldn't be very likely to make use of stocks and bonds." "no, that is true. i suppose the tin box is locked?" "yes, mother. the owner--he says his name is roland reed--wishes it put under lock and key." "i can lock it up in my trunk, luke." "i think that will be a good idea." "i hope he will pay you for your trouble when he takes away the tin box." "he has already. i forgot to mention it," and luke drew from his vest pocket, the bank-note he had thrust in as soon as received. "why, it's a ten-dollar bill!" he exclaimed. "i wonder whether he knew he was giving me as much?" "i presume so, luke," said his mother, brightening up. "you are in luck!" "take it, mother. you will find a use for it." "but, luke, this money is yours." "no, it is yours, for you are going to take care of the box." it was, indeed, quite a windfall, and both mother and son retired to rest in a cheerful frame of mind, in spite of luke's failure in the race. "i have been thinking, luke," said his mother, at the breakfast-table, "that i should like to have you buy a waterbury watch out of this money. it will only cost three dollars and a half, and that is only one-third." "thank you, mother, but i can get along without the watch. i cared for it chiefly because it was to be a prize given to the best skater. all the boys know that i would have won but for the accident, and that satisfies me." "i should like you to have a watch, luke." "there is another objection, mother. i don't want any one to know about the box or the money. if it were known that we had so much property in the house, some attempt might be made to rob us." "that is true, luke. but i hope it won't be long before you have a watch of your own." when luke was walking, after breakfast, he met randolph duncan, with a chain attached to the prize watch ostentatiously displayed on the outside of his vest. he smiled complacently, and rather triumphantly, when he met luke. but luke looked neither depressed nor angry. "i hope your watch keeps good time, randolph," he said. "yes; it hasn't varied a minute so far. i think it will keep as good time as my silver watch." "you are fortunate to have two watches." "my father has promised me a gold watch when i am eighteen," said randolph, pompously. "i don't know if i shall have any watch at all when i am eighteen." "oh, well, you are a poor boy. it doesn't matter to you." "i don't know about that, randolph. time is likely to be of as much importance to a poor boy as to a rich boy." "oh, ah! yes, of course, but a poor boy isn't expected to wear a watch." here the conversation ended. luke walked on with an amused smile on his face. "i wonder how it would seem to be as complacent and self-satisfied as randolph?" he thought. "on the whole, i would rather be as i am." "good morning, luke!" it was a girl's voice that addressed him. looking up, he met the pleasant glance of florence grant, considered by many the prettiest girl in groveton. her mother was a widow in easy circumstances, who had removed from chicago three years before, and occupied a handsome cottage nearly opposite mr. duncan's residence. she was a general favorite, not only for her good looks, but on account of her pleasant manner and sweet disposition. "good morning, florence," said luke, with an answering smile. "what a pity you lost the race yesterday!" "randolph doesn't think so." "no; he is a very selfish boy, i am afraid." "did you see the race?" asked luke. "no, but i heard all about it. if it hadn't been for tom harper you would have won, wouldn't you?" "i think so." "all the boys say so. what could have induced tom to get in the way?" "i don't know. it was very foolish, however. he got badly hurt." "tom is a friend of randolph," said florence significantly. "yes," answered luke; "but i don't think randolph would stoop to such a trick as that." "you wouldn't, luke, but randolph is a different boy. besides, i hear he was trying for something else." "i know; his father offered him ten dollars besides." "i don't see why it is that some fare so much better than others," remarked florence, thoughtfully. "the watch and the money would have done you more good." "so they would, florence, but i don't complain. i may be better off some day than i am now." "i hope you will, luke," said florence, cordially. "i am very much obliged to you for your good wishes," said luke, warmly. "that reminds me, luke, next week, thursday, is my birthday, and i am to have a little party in the evening. will you come?" luke's face flushed with pleasure. though he knew florence very well from their being schoolfellows, he had never visited the house. he properly regarded the invitation as a compliment, and as a mark of friendship from one whose good opinion he highly valued. "thank you, florence," he said. "you are very kind, and i shall have great pleasure in being present. shall you have many?" "about twenty. your friend randolph will be there." "i think there will be room for both of us," said luke, with a smile. the young lady bade him good morning and went on her way. two days later luke met randolph at the dry-goods store in the village. "what are you buying?" asked randolph, condescendingly. "only a spool of thread for my mother." "i am buying a new necktie to wear to florence grant's birthday party," said randolph, pompously. "i think i shall have to do the same," said luke, enjoying the surprise he saw expressed on randolph's face. "are you going?" demanded randolph, abruptly. "yes." "have you been invited?" "that is a strange question," answered luke, indignantly. "do you think i would go without an invitation?" "really, it will be quite a mixed affair," said randolph, shrugging his shoulders. "if you think so, why do you go?" "i don't want to disappoint florence." luke smiled. he was privately of the opinion that the disappointment wouldn't be intense. chapter vi preparing for the party the evening of the party arrived. it was quite a social event at groveton, and the young people looked forward to it with pleasant anticipation. randolph went so far as to order a new suit for the occasion. he was very much afraid it would not be ready in time, but he was not to be disappointed. at five o'clock on thursday afternoon it was delivered, and randolph, when arrayed in it, surveyed himself with great satisfaction. he had purchased a handsome new necktie, and he reflected with pleasure that no boy present--not even linton--would be so handsomely dressed as himself. he had a high idea of his personal consequence, but he was also of the opinion that "fine feathers make fine birds," and his suit was of fine cloth and stylish make. "i wonder what the janitor will wear?" he said to himself, with a curl of the lip. "a pair of overalls, perhaps. they would be very appropriate, certainly." this was just the question which was occupying luke's mind. he did not value clothes as randolph did, but he liked to look neat. truth to tell, he was not very well off as to wardrobe. he had his every-day suit, which he wore to school, and a better suit, which he had worn for over a year. it was of mixed cloth, neat in appearance, though showing signs of wear; but there was one trouble. during the past year luke had grown considerably, and his coat-sleeves were nearly two inches too short, and the legs of his trousers deficient quite as much. nevertheless, he dressed himself, and he, too, surveyed himself, not before a pier-glass, but before the small mirror in the kitchen. "don't my clothes look bad, mother?" he asked anxiously. "they are neat and clean, luke," said his mother, hesitatingly. "yes, i know; but they are too small." "you have been growing fast in the last year, luke," said his mother, looking a little disturbed. "i suppose you are not sorry for that?" "no," answered luke, with a smile, "but i wish my coat and trousers had grown, too." "i wish, my dear boy, i could afford to buy you a new suit." "oh, never mind, mother," said luke, recovering his cheerfulness. "they will do for a little while yet. florence didn't invite me for my clothes." "no; she is a sensible girl. she values you for other reasons." "i hope so, mother. still, when i consider how handsomely randolph will be dressed, i can't help thinking that there is considerable difference in our luck." "would you be willing to exchange with him, luke?" "there is one thing i wouldn't like to exchange." "and what is that?" "i wouldn't exchange my mother for his," said luke, kissing the widow affectionately. "his mother is a cold, proud, disagreeable woman, while i have the best mother in the world." "don't talk foolishly, luke," said mrs. larkin; but her face brightened, and there was a warm feeling in her heart, for it was very pleasant to her to hear luke speak of her in this way. "i won't think any more about it, mother," said luke. "i've got a new necktie, at any rate, and i will make that do." just then there was a knock at the door, and linton entered. "i thought i would come round and go to the party with you, luke," he said. linton was handsomely dressed, though he had not bought a suit expressly, like randolph. he didn't appear to notice luke's scant suit. even if he had, he would have been too much of a gentleman to refer to it. "i think we shall have a good time," he said. "we always do at mrs. grant's. florence is a nice girl, and they know how to make it pleasant. i suppose we shall have dancing." "i don't know how to dance," said luke, regretfully. "i should like to have taken lessons last winter when professor bent had a class, but i couldn't afford it." "you have seen dancing?" "oh, yes." "it doesn't take much knowledge to dance a quadrille, particularly if you get on a side set. come, we have an hour before it is time to go. suppose i give you a lesson?" "do you think i could learn enough in that time to venture?" "yes, i do. if you make an occasional mistake it won't matter. so, if your mother will give us the use of the sitting-room, i will commence instructions." luke had looked at some dancers in the dining-room at the hotel, and was not wholly a novice, therefore. linton was an excellent dancer, and was clear in his directions. it may also be said that luke was a ready learner. so it happened at the end of the hour that the pupil had been initiated not only in the ordinary changes of the quadrille, but also in one contra dance, the virginia reel, which was a great favorite among the young people of groveton. "now, i think you'll do, luke," said linton, when the lesson was concluded. "you are very quick to learn." "you think i won't be awkward, linton?" "no, if you keep cool and don't get flustered." "i am generally pretty cool. but i shall be rather surprised to see myself on the floor," laughed luke. "no doubt others will be, but you'll have a great deal more fun." "so i shall. i don't like leaning against the wall while others are having a good time." "if you could dance as well as you can skate you would have no trouble, luke." "no; that is where randolph has the advantage of me." "he is a very great dancer, though he can't come up to you in skating. however, dancing isn't everything. dance as well as he may, he doesn't stand as high in the good graces of florence grant as he would like to do." "i always noticed that he seemed partial to florence." "yes, but it isn't returned. how about yourself, luke?" luke, being a modest boy, blushed. "i certainly think florence a very nice girl," he said. "i was sure of that," said linton, smiling. "but i don't want to stand in your way, linton," continued luke, with a smile. "no danger, luke. florence is a year older than i am. now, you are nearly two years older than she, and are better matched. so you needn't consider me in the matter." of course, this was all a joke. it was true, however, that of all the girls in groveton, luke was more attracted by florence grant than by any other, and they had always been excellent friends. it was well known that randolph also was partial to the young lady, but he certainly had never received much encouragement. finally the boys got out, and were very soon at the door of mrs. grant's handsome cottage. it was large upon the ground, with a broad veranda, in the southern style. in fact, mrs. grant was southern by birth, and, erecting the house herself, had it built after the fashion of her southern birthplace. most of the young visitors had arrived when luke and linton put in an appearance. they had been detained longer than they were aware by the dancing-lesson. randolph and sam noble were sitting side by side at one end of the room, facing the entrance. "look," said randolph, with a satirical smile, to his companion, "there comes the young janitor in his dress suit. just look at his coat-sleeves and the legs of his trousers. they are at least two inches too short. any other boy would be ashamed to come to a party in such ridiculous clothes." sam looked and tittered. luke's face flushed, for, though he did not hear the words, he guessed their tenor. but he was made to forget them when florence came forward and greeted linton and himself with unaffected cordiality. chapter vii florence grant's party luke's uncomfortable consciousness of his deficiencies in dress soon passed off. he noticed the sneer on randolph's face and heard sam's laugh, but he cared very little for the opinion of either of them. no other in the company appeared to observe his poor dress, and he was cordially greeted by them all, with the two exceptions already named. "the janitor ought to know better than to intrude into the society of his superiors," said randolph to sam. "he seems to enjoy himself," said sam. this was half an hour after the party had commenced, when all were engaged in one of the plays popular at a country party. "i am going to have a party myself in a short time," continued randolph, "but i shall be more select than florence in my invitations. i shall not invite any working boys." "right you are, randolph," said the subservient sam. "i hope you won't forget me." "oh, no; i shall invite you. of course, you don't move exactly in my circle, but, at any rate, you dress decently." if sam noble had had proper pride he would have resented the insolent assumption of superiority in this speech, but he was content to play second fiddle to randolph duncan. his family, like himself, were ambitious to be on good terms with the leading families in the village, and did not mind an occasional snub. "shall you invite tom harper?" he asked. he felt a little jealous of tom, who had vied with him in flattering attentions to randolph. "no, i don't think so. tom isn't here, is he?" "he received an invitation, but ever since his accident he has been troubled with severe headaches, and i suppose that keeps him away." "he isn't up to my standard," said randolph, consequentially. "he comes of a low family." "you and he have been together a good deal." "oh, i have found him of some service, but i have paid for it." yet this was the boy who, at his own personal risk, had obtained for randolph the prize at the skating-match. privately, sam thought randolph ungrateful, but he was, nevertheless, pleased at having distanced tom in the favor of the young aristocrat. after an hour, spent in various amusements, one of the company took her place at the piano, and dancing began. "now is your time, luke," said linton. "secure a partner. it is only a quadrille." "i feel a little nervous," said luke. "perhaps i had better wait till the second dance." "oh, nonsense! don't be afraid." meanwhile, randolph, with a great flourish, had invited florence to dance. "thank you," she answered, taking his arm. randolph took his place with her as head couple. linton and annie comray faced them. to randolph's amazement, luke and fanny pratt took their places as one of the side couples. randolph, who was aware that luke had never taken lessons, remarked this with equal surprise and disgust. his lip curled as he remarked to his partner: "really, i didn't know that luke larkin danced." "nor i," answered florence. "i am sorry he is in our set." "why?" asked florence, regarding him attentively. "he will probably put us out by his clownish performance." "wouldn't it be well to wait and see whether he does or not?" responded florence, quietly. randolph shrugged his shoulders. "i pity his partner, at any rate," he said. "i can't join in any such conversation about one of my guests," said florence, with dignity. here the first directions were given, and the quadrille commenced. luke felt a little nervous, it must be confessed, and for that reason he watched with unusual care the movements of the head couples. he was quick to learn, and ordinarily cool and self-possessed. besides, he knew that no one was likely to criticize him except randolph. he saw the latter regarding him with a mocking smile, and this stimulated him to unusual carefulness. the result was that he went through his part with quite as much ease and correctness as any except the most practiced dancers. florence said nothing, but she turned with a significant smile to randolph. the latter looked disappointed and mortified. his mean disposition would have been gratified by luke's failure, but this was a gratification he was not to enjoy. the dance was at length concluded, and luke, as he led his partner to a seat, felt that he had scored a success. "may i have the pleasure of dancing with you next time, florence?" asked randolph. "thank you, but i should not think it right to slight my other guests," said the young lady. just then luke came up and preferred the same request. he would not have done so if he had not acquitted himself well in the first quadrille. florence accepted with a smile. "i was not aware that dancing was one of your accomplishments, luke," she said. "nor i, till this evening," answered luke. "there stands my teacher," and he pointed to linton. "you do credit to your teacher," said florence. "i should not have known you were such a novice." luke was pleased with this compliment, and very glad that he had been spared the mortification of breaking down before the eyes of his ill-wisher, randolph duncan. it is hardly necessary to say that he did equally well in the second quadrille, though he and florence were head couple. the next dance was the virginia reel. here florence had linton for a partner, and luke secured as his own partner a very good dancer. from prudence, however, he took his place at some distance from the head, and by dint of careful watching he acquitted himself as well as in the quadrilles. "really, luke, you are doing wonderfully well," said linton, when the dance was over. "i can hardly believe that you have taken but one lesson, and that from so poor a teacher as i am." "i couldn't have had a better teacher, lin," said luke. "i owe my success to you." "didn't you say luke couldn't dance?" asked sam noble of randolph, later in the evening. "he can't," answered randolph, irritably. "he gets along very well, i am sure. he dances as well as i do." "that isn't saying much," answered randolph, with a sneer. he could not help sneering even at his friends, and this was one reason why no one was really attached to him. sam walked away offended. the party broke up at half-past ten. it was an early hour, but late enough considering the youth of the participants. luke accompanied home one of the girls who had no brother present, and then turned toward his own home. he had nearly reached it, when a tall figure, moving from the roadside, put a hand on his shoulder. "you are luke larkin?" said the stranger, in questioning tone. "yes, sir." "is the tin box safe?" "yes, sir." "that is all--for the present," and the stranger walked quickly away. "who can he be," thought luke, in wonder, "and why should he have trusted a complete stranger--and a boy?" evidently there was some mystery about the matter. had the stranger come honestly by the box, or was luke aiding and abetting a thief? he could not tell. chapter viii miss sprague discovers a secret about this time it became known to one person in the village that the larkins had in their possession a tin box, contents unknown. this is the way it happened: among the best-known village residents was miss melinda sprague, a maiden lady, who took a profound interest in the affairs of her neighbors. she seldom went beyond the limits of groveton, which was her world. she had learned the business of dressmaking, and often did work at home for her customers. she was of a curious and prying disposition, and nothing delighted her more than to acquire the knowledge of a secret. one day--a few days after florence grant's party--mrs. larkin was in her own chamber. she had the trunk open, having occasion to take something from it, when, with a light step, miss sprague entered the room. the widow, who was on her knees before the trunk, turning, recognized the intruder, not without displeasure. "i hope you'll excuse my coming in so unceremoniously, mrs. larkin," said melinda, effusively. "i knocked, but you didn't hear it, being upstairs, and i took the liberty, being as we were so well acquainted, to come upstairs in search of you." "yes, certainly," answered mrs. larkin, but her tone was constrained. she quickly shut the lid of the trunk. there was only one thing among its contents which she was anxious to hide, but that miss melinda's sharp eyes had already discovered. unfortunately, the tin box was at one side, in plain sight. "what on earth does mrs. larkin do with a tin box?" she asked herself, with eager curiosity. "can she have property that people don't know of? i always thought she was left poor." melinda asked no questions. the sudden closing of the trunk showed her that the widow would not be inclined to answer any questions. "i won't let her think i saw anything," she said to herself. "perhaps she'll get anxious and refer to it." "we will go downstairs, melinda," said mrs. larkin. "it will be more comfortable." "if you have anything to do up here, i beg you won't mind me," said the spinster. "no, i have nothing that won't wait." so the two went down into the sitting-room. "and how is luke?" asked miss sprague, in a tone of friendly interest. "very well, thank you." "luke was always a great favorite of mine," continued the spinster. "such a manly boy as he is!" "he is a great help to me," said mrs. larkin. "no doubt he is. he takes care of the schoolhouse, doesn't he?" "yes." "how much pay does he get?" "a dollar a week." "i hope he will be able to keep the position." "what do you mean, melinda?" asked the widow, not without anxiety. "you know doctor snodgrass has resigned on the school committee, and squire duncan has been elected in his place." "well?" "mrs. flanagan went to him yesterday to ask to have her son tim appointed janitor in place of luke, and i heard that she received considerable encouragement from the squire." "do they find any fault with luke?" asked mrs. larkin, jealously. "no, not as i've heard; but mrs. flanagan said luke had had it for a year, and now some one else ought to have the chance." "are you quite sure of this, melinda?" miss sprague, though over forty, was generally called by her first name, not as a tribute to her youth, but to the fact of her being still unmarried. "yes, i am; i had it from mrs. flanagan herself." "i don't think tim would do as well as luke. he has never been able to keep a place yet." "just so; but, of course, his mother thinks him a polygon." probably miss sprague meant a paragon--she was not very careful in her speech, but mrs. larkin did not smile at her mistake. she was too much troubled at the news she had just heard. a dollar a week may seem a ridiculous trifle to some of my readers, but, where the entire income of the family was so small, it was a matter of some consequence. "i don't think luke has heard anything of this," said the widow. "he has not mentioned it to me." "perhaps there won't be any change, after all," said melinda. "i am sure tim flanagan wouldn't do near as well as luke." miss melinda was not entirely sincere. she had said to mrs. flanagan that she quite agreed with her that luke had been janitor long enough, and hoped tim would get the place. she was in the habit of siding with the person she chanced to be talking with at the moment, and this was pretty well understood. luke, however, had heard of this threatened removal. for this, it may be said, randolph was partly responsible. just after mrs. flanagan's call upon the squire to solicit his official influence, prince duncan mentioned the matter to his son. "how long has luke larkin been janitor at the schoolhouse?" he asked. "about a year. why do you ask?" "does he attend to the duties pretty well?" "i suppose so. he's just fit to make fires and sweep the floor," answered randolph, his lip curling. "mrs. flanagan has been here to ask me to appoint her son tim in luke's place." "you'd better do it, pa," said randolph, quickly. "why? you say luke is well fitted for the position." "oh, anybody could do as well, but luke puts on airs. he feels too big for his position." "i suppose mrs. larkin needs the money." "so does mrs. flanagan," said randolph. "what sort of a boy is tim? i have heard that he is lazy." "oh, i guess he'll do. of course, i am not well acquainted with a boy like him," said the young aristocrat. "but i'm quite disgusted with luke. he was at florence grant's party the other evening, and was cheeky enough to ask her to dance with him." "did she do so?" "yes; i suppose it was out of pity. he ought to have known better than to attend a party with such a suit. his coat and pantaloons were both too small for him, but he flourished around as if he were fashionably dressed." squire duncan made no reply to his son's comments, but he felt disposed, for reasons of his own, to appoint tim flanagan. he was hoping to be nominated for representative at the next election, and thought the appointment might influence the irish vote in his favor. "shall you appoint tim, pa?" asked randolph. "i think it probable. it seems only right to give him a chance. rotation in office is a principle of which i approve." "that's good!" thought randolph, with a smile of gratification. "it isn't a very important place, but luke will be sorry to lose it. the first time i see him i will give him a hint of it." randolph met luke about an hour later in the village street. he did not often stop to speak with our hero, but this time he had an object in doing so. chapter ix luke loses his position "luke larkin!" luke turned, on hearing his name called, and was rather surprised to see randolph hastening toward him. "how are you, randolph?" he said politely. "where are you going?" asked randolph, not heeding the inquiry. "to the schoolhouse, to sweep out." "how long have you been janitor?" asked randolph, abruptly. "about a year," luke answered, in surprise. "that's a good while." luke was puzzled. why should randolph feel such an interest, all at once, in his humble office? "i suppose you know that my father is now on the school committee?" randolph continued. "yes; i heard so." "he thinks of appointing tim flanagan janitor in your place." luke's face showed his surprise and concern. the loss of his modest income would, as he knew, be severely felt by his mother and himself. the worst of it was, there seemed no chance in groveton of making it up in any other way. "did your father tell you this?" he asked, after a pause. "yes; he just told me," answered randolph, complacently. "why does he think of removing me? are there any complaints of the way i perform my duties?" "really, my good fellow," said randolph, languidly, "i can't enlighten you on that point. you've held the office a good while, you know." "you are very kind to tell me--this bad news," said luke, pointedly. "oh, don't mention it. good morning. were you fatigued after your violent exercise at florence grant's party?" "no. were you?" "i didn't take any," said randolph, haughtily. "i danced--i didn't jump round." "thank you for the compliment. is there anything more you wish to say to me?" "no." "then good morning." when luke was left alone he felt serious. how was he going to make up the dollar a week of which he was to be deprived? the more he considered the matter the further he was from thinking anything. he was not quite sure whether the news was reliable, or merely invented by randolph to tease and annoy him. upon this point, however, he was soon made certain. the next day, as he was attending to his duties in the schoolhouse, tim flanagan entered. "here's a note for you, luke," he said. luke opened the note and found it brief but significant. it ran thus: "luke larkin: i have appointed the bearer, timothy flanagan, janitor in your place. you will give him the key of the schoolhouse, and he will at once assume your duties. "prince duncan." "well, tim," said luke, calmly, "it appears that you are going to take my place." "yes, luke, but i don't care much about it. my mother went to the squire and got me the job. the pay's a dollar a week, isn't it?" "yes." "that isn't enough." "it isn't very much, but there are not many ways of earning money here in groveton." "what do you have to do?" "make the fire every morning and sweep out twice a week. then there's dusting, splitting up kindlings, and so on." "i don't think i'll like it. i ain't good at makin' fires." "squire duncan writes you are to begin at once." "shure, i'm afraid i won't succeed." "i'll tell you what, tim. i'll help you along till you've got used to the duties. after a while they'll get easy for you." "will you now? you're a good feller, luke. i thought you would be mad at losin' the job." "i am not mad, but i am sorry. i needed the money, but no doubt you do, also. i have no grudge against you." luke had just started in his work. he explained to tim how to do it, and remained with him till it was done. "i'll come again to-morrow, tim," he said. "i will get you well started, for i want to make it easy for you." tim was by no means a model boy, but he was warm-hearted, and he was touched by luke's generous treatment. "i say, luke," he exclaimed, "i don't want to take your job. say the word, and i'll tell mother and the squire i don't want it." "no, tim, it's your duty to help your mother. take it and do your best." on his way home luke chanced to meet the squire, walking in his usual dignified manner toward the bank, of which he was president. "squire duncan," he said, walking up to him in a manly way, "i would like to speak a word to you." "say on, young man." "tim flanagan handed me a note from you this morning ordering me to turn over my duties as janitor to him." "very well?" "i have done so, but i wish to ask you if i have been removed on account of any complaints that my work was not well done?" "i have heard no complaints," answered the squire. "i appointed timothy in your place because i approved of rotation in office. it won't do any good for you to make a fuss about it." "i don't intend to make a fuss, squire duncan," said luke, proudly. "i merely wished to know if there were any charges against me." "there are none." "then i am satisfied. good morning, sir." "stay, young man. is timothy at the schoolhouse?" "yes, sir. i gave him some instruction about the work, and promised to go over to-morrow to help him." "very well." squire duncan was rather relieved to find that luke did not propose to make any fuss. his motive, as has already been stated, was a political one. he wished to ingratiate himself with irish voters and obtain an election as representative; not that he cared so much for this office, except as a stepping-stone to something higher. luke turned his steps homeward. he dreaded communicating the news to his mother, for he knew that it would depress her, as it had him. however, it must be known sooner or later, and he must not shrink from telling her. "mother," he said, as he entered the room where she was sewing, "i have lost my job as janitor." "i expected you would, luke," said his mother, soberly. "who told you?" asked luke, in surprise. "melinda sprague was here yesterday and told me tim flanagan was to have it." "miss sprague seems to know everything that is going on." "yes, she usually hears everything. have you lost the place already?" "tim brought me a note this morning from squire duncan informing me that i was removed and he was put in my place." "it is going to be a serious loss to us, luke," said mrs. larkin, gravely. "yes, mother, but i am sure something will turn up in its place." luke spoke confidently, but it was a confidence he by no means felt. "it is a sad thing to be so poor as we are," said mrs. larkin, with a sigh. "it is very inconvenient, mother, but we ought to be glad that we have perfect health. i am young and strong, and i am sure i can find some other way of earning a dollar a week." "at any rate, we will hope so, luke." luke went to bed early that night. the next morning, as they were sitting at breakfast, melinda sprague rushed into the house and sank into a chair, out of breath. "have you heard the news?" "no. what is it?" "the bank has been robbed! a box of united states bonds has been taken, amounting to thirty or forty thousand dollars!" luke and his mother listened in amazement. chapter x melinda makes mischief "where did you hear this, melinda?" asked mrs. larkin. "i called on mrs. duncan just now--i was doing some work for her--and she told me. isn't it awful?" "was the bank broken open last night, miss sprague?" asked luke. "i don't know when it was entered." "i don't understand it at all," said luke, looking puzzled. "all i know is that, on examining the safe, the box of bonds was missing." "then it might have been taken some time since?" "yes, it might." the same thought came to luke and his mother at once. was the mysterious stranger the thief, and had he robbed the bank and transferred the tin box to luke? it might be so, but, as this happened more than a fortnight since, it would have been strange in that case that the box had not been missed sooner at the bank. luke longed to have miss sprague go, that he might confer with his mother on this subject. he had been told to keep the possession of the box secret, and therefore he didn't wish to reveal the fact that he had it unless it should prove to be necessary. "were any traces of the robber discovered?" he added. "not that i heard of; but i pity the thief, whoever he is," remarked melinda. "when he's found out he will go to jail, without any doubt." "i can't understand, for my part, how an outside party could open the safe," said mrs. larkin. "it seems very mysterious." "there's many things we can't understand," said melinda, shaking her head sagely. "all crimes are mysterious." "i hope they'll find out who took the bonds," said the widow. "did they belong to the bank?" "no, they belonged to a gentleman in cavendish, who kept them in the bank, thinking they would be safer than in his own house. little did he know what iniquity there was even in quiet country places like groveton." "surely, melinda, you don't think any one in groveton robbed the bank?" said mrs. larkin. "there's no knowing!" said miss sprague, solemnly. "there's those that we know well, or think we do, but we cannot read their hearts and their secret ways." "have you any suspicions, miss sprague?" asked luke, considerably amused at the portentous solemnity of the visitor. "i may and i may not, luke," answered melinda, with the air of one who knew a great deal more than she chose to tell; "but it isn't proper for me to speak at present." just then miss sprague saw some one passing who, she thought, had not heard of the robbery, and, hastily excusing herself, she left the house. "what do you think, luke?" asked his mother, after the spinster had gone. "do you think the box we have was taken from the bank?" "no, i don't, mother. i did think it possible at first, but it seems very foolish for the thief, if he was one, to leave the box in the same village, in the charge of a boy. it would have been more natural and sensible for him to open it, take out the bonds, and throw it away or leave it in the woods." "there is something in that," said mrs. larkin, thoughtfully. "there is certainly a mystery about our box, but i can't think it was stolen from the bank." meanwhile, miss sprague had formed an important resolve. the more she thought of it, the more she believed the missing box was the one of which she had caught a glimpse of in mrs. larkin's trunk. true, luke and the widow had not betrayed that confusion and embarrassment which might have been anticipated when the theft was announced, but she had noticed the look exchanged between them, and she was sure it meant something. above all, her curiosity was aroused to learn how it happened that a woman as poor as the widow larkin should have a tin box in her trunk, the contents of which might be presumed to be valuable. "i don't like to get luke and his mother into trouble," melinda said to herself, "but i think it my duty to tell all i know. at any rate, they will have to tell how the box came into their possession, and what it contains. i'll go to the bank and speak to squire duncan." prince duncan had called an extra meeting of the directors to consider the loss which had been discovered, and they were now seated in the bank parlor. there were three of them present, all of whom resided in groveton--mr. manning, the hotelkeeper; mr. bailey, a storekeeper, and mr. beane, the groveton lawyer. miss sprague entered the bank and went up to the little window presided over by the paying-teller. "is squire duncan in the bank?" she asked. "yes, miss sprague." "i would like to speak with him." "that is impossible. he is presiding at a directors' meeting." "still, i would like to see him," persisted melinda. "you will have to wait," said the paying-teller, coldly. he had no particular respect or regard for miss sprague, being quite familiar with her general reputation as a gossip and busybody. "i think he would like to see me," said melinda, nodding her head with mysterious significance. "there has been a robbery at the bank, hasn't there?" "do you know anything about it, miss sprague?" demanded the teller, in surprise. "maybe i do, and maybe i don't; but i've got a secret to tell to squire duncan." "i don't believe it amounts to anything," thought the teller. "well, i will speak to squire duncan," he said aloud. he went to the door of the directors' room, and after a brief conference with prince duncan he returned with the message, "you may go in, miss sprague." she nodded triumphantly, and with an air of conscious importance walked to the bank parlor. prince duncan and his associates were sitting round a mahogany table. melinda made a formal curtsy and stood facing them. "i understand, miss sprague, that you have something to communicate to us in reference to the loss the bank has just sustained," said the squire, clearing his throat. "i thought it my duty to come and tell you all i knew, squire duncan and gentlemen," said melinda. "quite right, miss sprague. now, what can you tell us?" "the article lost was a tin box, was it not?" "yes." "about so long?" continued miss sprague, indicating a length of about fifteen inches. "yes." "what was there in it?" "government bonds." "i know where there is such a box," said miss sprague, slowly. "where? please be expeditious, miss sprague." "a few days since i was calling on mrs. larkin--luke's mother--just happened in, as i may say, and, not finding her downstairs, went up into her chamber. i don't think she heard me, for when i entered the chamber and spoke to her she seemed quite flustered. she was on her knees before an open trunk, and in that trunk i saw the tin box." the directors looked at each other in surprise, and squire duncan looked undeniably puzzled. "i knew the box was one such as is used to hold valuable papers and bonds," proceeded melinda, "and, as i had always looked on the widow as very poor, i didn't know what to make of it." "did you question mrs. larkin about the tin box?" asked mr. beane. "no; she shut the trunk at once, and i concluded she didn't want me to see it." "then you did not say anything about it?" "no; but i went in just now to tell her about the bank being robbed." "how did it seem to affect her?" asked mr. bailey. "she and luke--luke was there, too--looked at each other in dismay. it was evident that they were thinking of the box in the trunk." melinda continued her story, and the directors were somewhat impressed. "i propose," said mr. manning, "that we get out a search-warrant and search mrs. larkin's cottage. that box may be the one missing from the bank." chapter xi luke is arrested just after twelve o'clock, when luke was at home eating dinner, a knock was heard at the front door. "i'll go, mother," said luke, and he rose from the table, and, going into the entry, opened the outer door. his surprise may be imagined when he confronted squire duncan and the gentlemen already mentioned as directors of the groveton bank. "did you wish to see mother?" he asked. "yes; we have come on important business," said squire duncan, pompously. "walk in, if you please." luke led the way into the little sitting-room, followed by the visitors. the dinner-table was spread in the kitchen adjoining. the room looked very much filled up with the unwonted company, all being large men. "mother," called luke, "here are some gentlemen who wish to see you." the widow entered the room, and looked with surprise from one to another. all waited for squire duncan, as the proper person, from his official position, to introduce the subject of their visit. "mrs. larkin," said the squire, pompously, "it has possibly come to your ears that the groveton bank, of which you are aware that i am the president, has been robbed of a box of bonds?" "yes, sir. i was so informed by miss melinda sprague this morning." "i am also informed that you have in your custody a tin box similar to the one that has been taken." he expected to see mrs. larkin show signs of confusion, but she answered calmly: "i have a box in my custody, but whether it resembles the one lost i can't say." "ha! you admit that you hold such a box?" said the squire, looking significantly at his companions. "certainly. why should i not?" "are you willing to show it to us?" "yes, we are willing to show it," said luke, taking it upon himself to answer, "but i have no idea that it will do you any good." "that is for us to decide, young man," said squire duncan. "do you suppose it is the box missing from the bank, sir?" "it may be." "when did you miss the box?" "only this morning, but it may have been taken a month ago." "this box has been in our possession for a fortnight." "such is your statement, luke." "it is the truth," said luke, flushing with indignation. "my boy," said mr. beane, "don't be angry. i, for one, have no suspicion that you have done anything wrong, but it is our duty to inquire into this matter." "who told you that we had such a box, mr. beane?" "miss melinda sprague was the informant." "i thought so, mother," said luke. "she is a prying old maid, and it is just like her." "miss sprague only did her duty," said the squire. "but we are losing time. we require you to produce the box." "i will get it, gentlemen," said the widow, calmly. while she was upstairs, mr. manning inquired: "where did you get the box, luke?" "if you identify it as the box taken from the bank," answered luke, "i will tell you. otherwise i should prefer to say nothing, for it is a secret of another person." "matters look very suspicious, in my opinion, gentlemen," said squire duncan, turning to his associates. "not necessarily," said mr. beane, who seemed inclined to favor our hero. "luke may have a good reason for holding his tongue." here mrs. larkin presented herself with the missing box. instantly it became an object of attention. "it looks like the missing box," said the squire. "of course, i can offer no opinion," said mr. beane, "not having seen the one lost. such boxes, however, have a general resemblance to each other." "have you the key that opens it?" asked the squire. "no, sir." "squire duncan," asked mr. beane, "have you the key unlocking the missing box?" "no, sir," answered squire duncan, after a slight pause. "then i don't think we can decide as to the identity of the two boxes." the trustees looked at each other in a state of indecision. no one knew what ought to be done. "what course do you think we ought to take, squire duncan?" asked mr. bailey. "i think," said the bank president, straightening up, "that there is sufficient evidence to justify the arrest of this boy luke." "i have done nothing wrong, sir," said luke, indignantly. "i am no more of a thief than you are." "do you mean to insult me, you young jackanapes?" demanded mr. duncan, with an angry flush on his face. "i intend to insult no one, but i claim that i have done nothing wrong." "that is what all criminals say," sneered the squire. luke was about to make an angry reply, but mr. beane, waving his hand as a signal for our hero to be quiet, remarked calmly: "i think, duncan, in justice to luke, we ought to hear his story as to how the box came into his possession." "that is my opinion," said mr. bailey. "i don't believe luke is a bad boy." prince duncan felt obliged to listen to that suggestion, mr. bailey and mr. beane being men of consideration in the village. "young man," he said, "we are ready to hear your story. from whom did you receive this box?" "from a man named roland reed," answered luke. the four visitors looked at each other in surprise. "and who is roland reed?" asked the president of the bank. "it seems very much like a fictitious name." "it may be, for aught i know," said luke, "but it is the name given me by the person who gave me the box to keep for him." "state the circumstances," said mr. beane. "about two weeks since i was returning from the house of miss almira clark, where i had gone on an errand for my mother. to shorten my journey, i took my way through the woods. i had nearly passed through to the other side, when a tall man, dark-complexioned, whom i had never seen before stepped up to me. he asked me my name, and, upon my telling him, asked if i would do him a favor. this was to take charge of a tin box, which he carried under his arm." "the one before us?" asked mr. manning. "yes, sir." "did he give any reason for making this request?" "he said he was about to leave the neighborhood, and wished it taken care of. he asked me to put it under lock and key." "did he state why he selected you for this trust?" asked mr. beane. "no, sir; he paid me for my trouble, however. he gave me a bank-note, which, when i reached home, i found to be a ten-dollar bill." "and you haven't seen him since?" "once only." "when was that?" "on the evening of florence grant's party. on my way home the same man came up to me and asked if the box was safe. i answered, 'yes.' he said, 'that is all--for the present,' and disappeared. i have not seen him since." "that is a very pretty romance," said prince duncan, with a sneer. "i can confirm it," said mrs. larkin, calmly. "i saw luke bring in the box, and at his request i took charge of it. the story he told at that time is the same that he tells now." "very possibly," said the bank president. "it was all cut and dried." "you seem very much prejudiced against luke," said mrs. larkin, indignantly. "by no means, mrs. larkin. i judge him and his story from the standpoint of common sense. gentlemen, i presume this story makes the same impression on you as on me?" mr. beane shook his head. "it may be true; it is not impossible," he said. "you believe, then, there is such a man as roland reed?" "there may be a man who calls himself such." "if there is such a man, he is a thief." "it may be so, but that does not necessarily implicate luke." "he would be a receiver of stolen property." "not knowing it to be such." "at all events, i feel amply justified in causing the arrest of luke larkin on his own statement." "surely you don't mean this?" exclaimed mrs. larkin, in dismay. "don't be alarmed, mother," said luke, calmly. "i am innocent of wrong, and no harm will befall me." chapter xii luke as a prisoner prince duncan, who was a magistrate, directed the arrest of luke on a charge of robbing the groveton bank. the constable who was called upon to make the arrest performed the duty unwillingly. "i don't believe a word of it, luke," he said. "it's perfect nonsense to say you have robbed the bank. i'd as soon believe myself guilty." luke was not taken to the lock-up, but was put in the personal custody of constable perkins, who undertook to be responsible for his appearance at the trial. "you mustn't run away, or you'll get me into trouble, luke," said the good-natured constable. "it's the last thing i'd be willing to do, mr. perkins," said luke, promptly. "then everybody would decide that i was guilty. i am innocent, and want a chance to prove it." what was to be done with the tin box, was the next question. "i will take it over to my house," said squire duncan. "i object," said mr. beane. "do you doubt my integrity?" demanded the bank president, angrily. "no; but it is obviously improper that any one of us should take charge of the box before it has been opened and its contents examined. we are not even certain that it is the one missing from the bank." as mr. beane was a lawyer, prince duncan, though unwillingly, was obliged to yield. the box, therefore, was taken to the bank and locked up in the safe till wanted. it is hardly necessary to say that the events at the cottage of mrs. larkin, and luke's arrest, made a great sensation in the village. the charge that luke had robbed the bank was received not only with surprise, but with incredulity. the boy was so well and so favorably known in groveton that few could be found to credit the charge. there were exceptions, however. melinda sprague enjoyed the sudden celebrity she had achieved as the original discoverer of the thief who had plundered the bank. she was inclined to believe that luke was guilty, because it enhanced her own importance. "most people call luke a good boy," she said, "but there was always something about him that made me suspicious. there was something in his expression--i can't tell you what--that set me to thinkin' all wasn't right. appearances are deceitful, as our old minister used to say." "they certainly are, if luke is a bad boy and a thief," retorted the other, indignantly. "you might be in better business, melinda, than trying to take away the character of a boy like luke." "i only did my duty," answered melinda, with an air of superior virtue. "i had no right to keep secret what i knew about the robbery." "you always claimed to be a friend of the larkins. only last week you took tea there." "that's true. i am a friend now, but i can't consent to cover up inquiry. do you know whether the bank has offered any reward for the detection of the thief?" "no," said the other, shortly, with a look of contempt at the eager spinster. "even if it did, and poor luke were found guilty, it would be blood-money that no decent person would accept." "really, mrs. clark, you have singular ideas," said the discomfited melinda. "i ain't after no money. i only mean to do my duty, but if the bank should recognize the value of my services, it would be only right and proper." there was another who heard with great satisfaction of luke's arrest. this was randolph duncan. as it happened, he was late in learning that his rival had got into trouble, not having seen his father since breakfast. "this is great news about luke," said his friend sam noble, meeting him on the street. "what news? i have heard nothing," said randolph, eagerly. "he has been arrested." "you don't say so!" exclaimed randolph. "what has he done?" "robbed the bank of a tin box full of bonds. it was worth an awful lot of money." "well, well!" ejaculated randolph. "i always thought he was a boy of no principle." "the tin box was found in his mother's trunk." "what did luke say? did he own up?" "no; he brazened it out. he said the box was given him to take care of by some mysterious stranger." "that's too thin. how was it traced to luke?" "it seems old maid sprague"--it was lucky for melinda's peace of mind that she did not hear this contemptuous reference to her--"went to the widow larkin's house one day and saw the tin box in her trunk." "she didn't leave the trunk open, did she?" "no; but she had it open, looking into it, when old melinda crept upstairs softly and caught her at it." "i suppose luke will have to go to state's prison," said randolph, with a gratified smile. "i hope it won't be quite so bad as that," said sam, who was not equal in malice to his aristocratic friend. "i haven't any pity for him," said randolph, decidedly. "if he chooses to steal, he must expect to be punished." just then mr. hooper, the grammar-school teacher, came up. "mr. hooper," said randolph, eagerly, "have you heard about luke?" "i have heard that he has been removed from his janitorship, and i'm sorry for it." "if he goes to jail he wouldn't be able to be janitor," said randolph. "goes to jail! what do you mean?" demanded the teacher, sharply. hereupon randolph told the story, aided and assisted by sam noble, to whom he referred as his authority. "this is too ridiculous!" said mr. hooper, contemptuously. "luke is no thief, and if he had the tin box he has given the right explanation of how he came by it." "i know he is a favorite of yours, mr. hooper, but that won't save him from going to jail," said randolph, tartly. "if he is a favorite of mine," said the teacher, with dignity, "it is for a very good reason. i have always found him to be a high-minded, honorable boy, and i still believe him to be so, in spite of the grave accusation that has been brought against him." there was something in the teacher's manner that deterred randolph from continuing his malicious attack upon luke. mr. hooper lost no time in inquiring into the facts of the case, and then in seeking out luke, whom he found in the constable's house. "luke," he said, extending his hand, "i have heard that you were in trouble, and i have come to see what i can do for you." "you are very kind, mr. hooper," said luke, gratefully. "i hope you don't believe me guilty." "i would as soon believe myself guilty of the charge, luke." "that's just what i said, mr. hooper," said constable perkins. "just as if there wasn't more than one tin box in the world." "you never told any one that you had a tin box in your custody, i suppose, luke?" "no, sir; the man who asked me to take care of it especially cautioned me to say nothing about it." "what was his name?" "roland reed." "do you know where to find him? it would be of service to you if you could obtain his evidence. it would clear you at once." "i wish i could, sir, but i have no idea where to look for him." "that is unfortunate," said the teacher, knitting his brows in perplexity. "when are you to be brought to trial?" "to-morrow, i hear." "well, luke, keep up a good heart and hope for the best." "i mean to, sir." chapter xiii in the court-room it was decided that luke should remain until his trial in the personal custody of constable perkins. except for the name of it, his imprisonment was not very irksome, for the perkins family treated him as an honored guest, and mrs. perkins prepared a nicer supper than usual. when mr. perkins went out he said to his wife, with a quizzical smile: "i leave luke in your charge. don't let him run away." "i'll look out for that," said mrs. perkins, smiling. "perhaps i had better leave you a pistol, my dear?" "i am afraid i should not know how to use it." "you might tie my hands," suggested luke. "that wouldn't prevent your walking away." "then my feet." "it won't be necessary, husband," said mrs. perkins. "i've got the poker and tongs ready." but, though treated in this jesting manner, luke could not help feeling a little anxious. for aught he knew, the tin box taken from his mother's trunk might be the same which had been stolen from the bank. in that case roland reed was not likely to appear again, and his story would be disbelieved. it was a strange one, he could not help admitting to himself. yet he could not believe that the mysterious stranger was a burglar. if he were, it seemed very improbable that he would have left his booty within half a mile of the bank, in the very village where the theft had been committed. it was all very queer, and he could not see into the mystery. "i should like to do something," thought luke. "it's dull work sitting here with folded hands." "isn't there something i can do, mrs. perkins?" he said. "i am not used to sitting about the house idle." "well, you might make me some pies," said mrs. perkins. "you'd never eat them if i did. i can boil eggs and fry potatoes. isn't there some wood to saw and split?" "plenty out in the shed." "i understand that, at any rate. have you any objection to my setting to work?" "no, if you won't run away." "send out charlie to watch me." charlie was a youngster about four years of age, and very fond of luke, who was a favorite with most young children. "yes, that will do. charlie, go into the shed and see luke saw wood." "yes, mama." "don't let him run away." "no, i won't," said charlie, gravely. luke felt happier when he was fairly at work. it took his mind off his troubles, as work generally does, and he spent a couple of hours in the shed. then mrs. perkins came to the door and called him. "luke," she said, "a young lady has called to see the prisoner." "a young lady! who is it?" "florence grant." luke's face brightened up with pleasure; he put on his coat and went into the house. "oh, luke, what a shame!" exclaimed florence, hastening to him with extended hand. "i only just heard of it." "then you're not afraid to shake hands with a bank burglar?" said luke. "no, indeed! what nonsense it is! who do you think told me of your arrest?" "randolph duncan." "you have guessed it." "what did he say? did he seem to be shocked at my iniquity?" "i think he seemed glad of it. of course, he believes you guilty." "i supposed he would, or pretend to, at any rate. i think his father is interested to make me out guilty. i hope you don't think there is any chance of it?" "of course not, luke. i know you too well. i'd sooner suspect randolph. he wanted to know what i thought of you now." "and what did you answer?" "that i thought the same as i always had--that you were one of the best boys in the village. 'i admire your taste,' said randolph, with a sneer. then i gave him a piece of my mind." "i should like to have heard you, florence." "i don't know; you have no idea what a virago i am when i am mad. now sit down and tell me all about it." luke obeyed, and the conversation was a long one, and seemed interesting to both. in the midst of it linton tomkins came in. "have you come to see the prisoner, also, linton?" asked florence. "yes, florence. what a desperate-looking ruffian he is! i don't dare to come too near. how did you break into the bank, luke?" first luke smiled, then he became grave. "after all, it is no joke to me, linny," he said. "think of the disgrace of being arrested on such a charge." "the disgrace is in being a burglar, not in being arrested for one, luke. of course, it's absurd. father wants me to say that if you are bound over for trial he will go bail for you to any amount." "your father is very kind, linny. i may need to avail myself of his kindness." the next day came, and at ten o'clock, luke, accompanied by constable perkins, entered the room in which squire duncan sat as trial justice. a considerable number of persons were gathered, for it was a trial in which the whole village was interested. among them was mrs. larkin, who wore an anxious, perturbed look. "oh, luke," she said sorrowfully, "how terrible it is to have you here!" "don't be troubled, mother," said luke. "we both know that i am innocent, and i rely on god to stand by me." "luke," said mr. beane, "though i am a bank trustee, i am your friend and believe you innocent. i will act as your lawyer." "thank you, mr. beane. i shall be very glad to accept your services." the preliminary proceedings were of a formal character. then miss melinda sprague was summoned to testify. she professed to be very unwilling to say anything likely to injure her good friends, luke and his mother, but managed to tell, quite dramatically, how she first caught a glimpse of the tin box. "did mrs. larkin know that you saw it?" asked the squire. "she didn't know for certain," answered melinda, "but she was evidently afraid i would, for she shut the trunk in a hurry, and seemed very much confused. i thought of this directly when i heard of the bank robbery, and i went over to tell luke and his mother." "how did they receive your communication?" "they seemed very much frightened." "and you inferred that they had not come honestly by the tin box?" "it grieves me to say that i did," said melinda, putting her handkerchief to her eyes to brush away an imaginary tear. finally melinda sat down, and witnesses were called to testify to luke's good character. there were more who wished to be sworn than there was time to hear. mr. beane called only mr. hooper, mr. tomkins and luke's sunday-school teacher. then he called luke to testify in his own defense. luke told a straightforward story--the same that he had told before--replying readily and easily to any questions that were asked him. "i submit, squire duncan," said mr. beane, "that my client's statement is plain and frank and explains everything. i hold that it exonerates him from all suspicion of complicity with the robbery." "i differ with you," said squire duncan, acidly. "it is a wild, improbable tale, that does not even do credit to the prisoner's invention. in my opinion, this mysterious stranger has no existence. is there any one besides himself who has seen this roland reed?" at this moment there was a little confusion at the door. a tall, dark-complexioned stranger pushed his way into the court-room. he advanced quickly to the front. "i heard my name called," he said. "there is no occasion to doubt my existence. i am roland reed!" chapter xiv an important witness the effect of roland reed's sudden appearance in the court-room, close upon the doubt expressed as to his existence, was electric. every head was turned, and every one present looked with eager curiosity at the mysterious stranger. they saw a dark-complexioned, slender, but wiry man, above the middle height, with a pair of keen black eyes scanning, not without sarcastic amusement, the faces turned toward him. luke recognized him at once. "thank god!" he ejaculated, with a feeling of intense relief. "now my innocence will be made known." squire duncan was quite taken aback. his face betrayed his surprise and disappointment. "i don't know you," he said, after a pause. "perhaps not, mr. duncan," answered the stranger, in a significant tone, "but i know you." "were you the man who gave this tin box to the defendant?" "wouldn't it be well, since this is a court, to swear me as a witness?" asked roland reed, quietly. "of course, of course," said the squire, rather annoyed to be reminded of his duty by this stranger. this being done, mr. beane questioned the witness in the interest of his client. "do you know anything about the tin box found in the possession of luke larkin?" he asked. "yes, sir." "did you commit it to his charge for safe-keeping?" "i did." "were you previously acquainted with luke?" "i was not." "was it not rather a singular proceeding to commit what is presumably of considerable value to an unknown boy?" "it would generally be considered so, but i do many strange things. i had seen the boy by daylight, though he had never seen me, and i was sure i could trust him." "why, if you desired a place of safe-keeping for your box, did you not select the bank vaults?" roland reed laughed, and glanced at the presiding justice. "it might have been stolen," he said. "does the box contain documents of value?" "the contents are valuable to me, at any rate." "mr. beane," said squire duncan, irritably, "i think you are treating the witness too indulgently. i believe this box to be the one taken from the bank." "you heard the remark of the justice," said the lawyer. "is this the box taken from the bank?" "it is not," answered the witness, contemptuously, "and no one knows this better than mr. duncan." the justice flushed angrily. "you are impertinent, witness," he said. "it is all very well to claim this box as yours, but i shall require you to prove ownership." "i am ready to do so," said roland reed, quietly. "is that the box on the table?" "it is." "has it been opened?" "no; the key has disappeared from the bank." "the key is in the hands of the owner, where it properly belongs. with the permission of the court, i will open the box." "i object," said squire duncan, quickly. "permit me to say that your refusal is extraordinary," said mr. beane, pointedly. "you ask the witness to prove property, and then decline to allow him to do so." squire duncan, who saw that he had been betrayed into a piece of folly, said sullenly: "i don't agree with you, mr. beane, but i withdraw my objection. the witness may come forward and open the box, if he can." roland reed bowed slightly, advanced to the table, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and inserting one of the smallest in the lock easily opened the box. those who were near enough, including the justice, craned their necks forward to look into the box. the box contained papers, certificates of stock, apparently, and a couple of bank-books. "the box missing from the vault contained government bonds, as i understand, squire duncan?" said the lawyer. "yes," answered the justice, reluctantly. "are there any government bonds in the box, mr. reed." "you can see for yourself, sir." the manner of the witness toward the lawyer was courteous, though in the tone in which he addressed the court there had been a scarcely veiled contempt. "i submit, then, that my young client has been guilty of no wrong. he accepted the custody of the box from the rightful owner, and this he had a clear right to do." "how do you know that the witness is the rightful owner of the box?" demanded the justice, in a cross tone. "he may have stolen it from some other quarter." "there is not a shadow of evidence of this," said the lawyer, in a tone of rebuke. "i am not sure but that he ought to be held." "you will hold me at your peril, mr. duncan," said the witness, in clear, resolute tones. "i have a clear comprehension of my rights, and i do not propose to have them infringed." squire duncan bit his lips. he had only a smattering of law, but he knew that the witness was right, and that he had been betrayed by temper into making a discreditable exhibition of himself. "i demand that you treat me with proper respect," he said angrily. "i am ready to do that," answered the witness, in a tone whose meaning more than one understood. it was not an apology calculated to soothe the ruffled pride of the justice. "i call for the discharge of my young client, squire duncan," said the lawyer. "the case against him, as i hardly need say, has utterly failed." "he is discharged," said the justice, unwillingly. instantly luke's friends surrounded him and began to shower congratulations upon him. among them was roland reed. "my young friend," he said, "i am sincerely sorry that by any act of mine i have brought anxiety and trouble upon you. but i can't understand how the fact that you had the box in your possession became known." this was explained to him. "i have a proposal to make to you and your mother," said roland reed, "and with your permission i will accompany you home." "we shall be glad to have you, sir," said mrs. larkin, cordially. as they were making their way out of the court-room, melinda sprague, the cause of luke's trouble, hurried to meet them. she saw by this time that she had made a great mistake, and that her course was likely to make her generally unpopular. she hoped to make it up with the larkins. "i am so glad you are acquitted, luke," she began effusively. "i hope, mrs. larkin, you won't take offense at what i did. i did what i thought to be my duty, though with a bleeding heart. no one is more rejoiced at dear luke's vindication." "miss sprague," said she, "if you think you did your duty, let the consciousness of that sustain you. i do not care to receive any visits from you hereafter." "how cruel and unfeeling you are, mrs. larkin," said the spinster, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. mrs. larkin did not reply. miss sprague found herself so coldly treated in the village that she shortly left groveton on a prolonged visit to some relatives in a neighboring town. it is to be feared that the consciousness of having done her duty did not wholly console her. what she regretted most, however, was the loss of the reward which she had hoped to receive from the bank. chapter xv the larkins are in luck luke and his mother, accompanied by roland reed, took their way from the court-room to the widow's modest cottage. "you may take the tin box, luke," said the stranger, "if you are not afraid to keep in your charge what has given you so much trouble." "all's well that ends well!" said luke. "yes; i don't think it will occasion you any further anxiety." roland reed walked in advance with mrs. larkin, leaving luke to follow. "what sort of a man is this mr. duncan?" he asked abruptly. "squire duncan?" "yes, if that is his title." "he is, upon the whole, our foremost citizen," answered the widow, after a slight hesitation. "is he popular?" "i can hardly say that." "he is president of the bank, is he not?" "yes." "how long has he lived in groveton?" "nearly twenty years." "was he born in this neighborhood?" "i think he came from the west." "does he say from what part of the western country?" "he says very little about his past life." roland reed smiled significantly. "perhaps he has his reasons," he said meditatively. "is he thought to be rich?" he asked, after a pause. "yes, but how rich no one knows. he is taxed for his house and grounds, but he may have a good deal of property besides. it is generally thought he has." "he does not appear to be friendly toward your son." "no," answered mrs. larkin, with a trace of indignation, "though i am sure he has no cause to dislike him. he seemed convinced that luke had come by your tin box dishonestly." "it seemed to me that he was prejudiced against luke. how do you account for it?" "perhaps his son, randolph, has influenced him." "so he has a son--how old?" "almost luke's age. he thinks luke beneath him, though why he should do so, except that luke is poor, i can't understand. not long since there was a skating match for a prize of a waterbury watch, offered by the grammar-school teacher, which luke would have won had not randolph arranged with another boy to get in his way and leave the victory to him." "so randolph won the watch?" "yes." "i suppose he had a watch of his own already." "yes, a silver one, while luke had none. this makes it meaner in him." "i don't mind it now, mother," said luke, who had overheard the last part of the conversation. "he is welcome to his watches--i can wait." "has squire duncan shown his hostility to luke in any other way?" inquired the stranger. "yes; luke has for over a year been janitor at the school-house. it didn't bring much--only a dollar a week--but it was considerable to us. lately squire duncan was appointed on the school committee to fill a vacancy, and his first act was to remove luke from his position." "not in favor of his son, i conclude." luke laughed. "randolph would be shocked at the mere supposition," he said. "he is a young man who wears kid gloves, and the duties of a school janitor he would look upon as degrading." "i really think, luke, you have been badly treated," said roland reed, with a friendly smile. "i have thought so, too, sir, but i suppose i have no better claim to the office than any other boy." "you needed the income, however." "yes, sir." by this time they were at the door of the cottage. "won't you come in, sir?" asked mrs. larkin, cordially. "thank you. i will not only do so, but as i don't care to stay at the hotel, i will even crave leave to pass the night under your roof." "if you don't mind our poor accommodations, you will be very welcome." "i am not likely to complain, mrs. larkin. i have not been nursed in the lap of luxury. for two years i was a california miner, and camped out. for that long period i did not know what it was to sleep in a bed. i used to stretch myself in a blanket, and lie down on the ground." "you won't have to do that here, mr. reed," said luke, smiling. "but it must have been great fun." "how can you say so, luke?" expostulated his mother. "it must have been very uncomfortable, and dangerous to the health." "i wouldn't mind it a bit, mother," said luke, stoutly. roland reed smiled. "i am not surprised that you and your mother regard the matter from different points of view," he said. "it is only natural. women are not adapted to roughing it. boys like nothing better, and so with young men. but there comes a time--when a man passes forty--when he sets a higher value on the comforts of life. i don't mind confessing that i wouldn't care to repeat my old mining experiences." "i hope you were repaid for your trouble and privations, sir." "yes, i was handsomely repaid. i may soon be as rich as your local magnate, prince duncan, but i have had to work harder for it, probably." "so you know the squire's name?" said mrs. larkin, in some surprise. "i must have heard it somewhere," remarked roland reed. "have i got it right?" "yes; it's a peculiar name." when they reached the cottage mrs. larkin set about getting supper. in honor of her guest she sent out for some steak, and baked some biscuit, so that the table presented an inviting appearance when the three sat down to it. after supper was over, roland reed said: "i told you that i wished to speak to you on business, mrs. larkin. it is briefly this: are you willing to receive a boarder?" "i am afraid, sir, that you would hardly be satisfied with our humble accommodations." "oh, i am not speaking of myself, but of a child. i am a widower, mrs. larkin, and have a little daughter eight years of age. she is now boarding in new york, but i do not like the people with whom i have placed her. she is rather delicate, also, and i think a country town would suit her better than the city air. i should like to have her under just such nice motherly care as i am sure you would give her." "i shall be very glad to receive her," said mrs. larkin, with a flush of pleasure. "and for the terms?" "i would rather you would name them, sir." "then i will say ten dollars a week." "ten dollars!" exclaimed the widow, in amazement. "it won't be worth half that." "i don't pay for board merely, but for care and attendance as well. she may be sick, and that would increase your trouble." "she would in that case receive as much care as if she were my own daughter; but i don't ask such an exorbitant rate of board." "it isn't exorbitant if i choose to pay it, mrs. larkin," said mr. reed, smiling. "i am entirely able to pay that price, and prefer to do so." "it will make me feel quite rich, sir," said the widow, gratefully. "i shall find it useful, especially as luke has lost his situation." "luke may find another position." "when do you wish your daughter to come?" asked mrs. larkin. "luke will accompany me to the city to-morrow, and bring her back with him. by the way, i will pay you four weeks in advance." he drew four ten-dollar bills from his pocket and put them into the widow's hand. "i am almost afraid this is a dream," said mrs. larkin. "you have made me very happy." "you mustn't become purse-proud, mother," said luke, "because you have become suddenly rich." "can you be ready to take the first train to new york with me in the morning, luke?" asked roland reed. "yes, sir; it starts at half-past seven." "your breakfast will be ready on time," said the widow, "and luke will call you." chapter xvi luke's visit to new york the morning train to new york carried among its passengers luke and his new friend. the distance was thirty-five miles, and the time occupied was a trifle over an hour. the two sat together, and luke had an opportunity of observing his companion more closely. he was a man of middle age, dark complexion, with keen black eyes, and the expression of one who understood the world and was well fitted to make his way in it. he had already given the larkins to understand that he had been successful in accumulating money. as for luke, he felt happy and contented. the tide of fortune seemed to have turned in his favor, or rather in favor of his family. the handsome weekly sum which would be received for the board of mr. reed's little daughter would be sufficient of itself to defray the modest expenses of their household. if he, too, could obtain work, they would actually feel rich. "luke," said his companion, "does your mother own the cottage where you live?" "yes, sir." "free of incumbrance?" "not quite. there is a mortgage of three hundred dollars held by squire duncan. it was held by deacon tibbetts, but about three months since squire duncan bought it." "what could be his object in buying it?" "i don't know, sir. perhaps the deacon owed him money." "i am surprised, then, that he deprived you of your position as janitor, since it would naturally make it more difficult for you to meet the interest." "that is true, sir. i wondered at it myself." "your house is a small one, but the location is fine. it would make a building lot suitable for a gentleman's summer residence." "yes, sir; there was a gentleman in the village last summer who called upon mother and tried to induce her to sell." "did he offer her a fair price?" "no, sir; he said he should have to take down the cottage, and he only offered eight hundred dollars. mother would have sold for a thousand." "tell her not to accept even that offer, but to hold on to the property. some day she can obtain considerably more." "she won't sell unless she is obliged to," replied luke. "a few days since i thought we might have to do it. now, with the generous sum which you allow for your little girl's board there will be no necessity." "has squire duncan broached the subject to your mother?" "he mentioned it one day, but he wanted her to sell for seven hundred dollars." "he is evidently sharp at a bargain." "yes, sir; he is not considered liberal." there was one thing that troubled luke in spite of the pleasure he anticipated from his visit to new york. he knew very well that his clothes were shabby, and he shrank from the idea of appearing on broadway in a patched suit too small for him. but he had never breathed a word of complaint to his mother, knowing that she could not afford to buy him another suit, and he did not wish to add to her troubles. it might have happened that occasionally he fixed a troubled look on his clothes, but if roland reed noticed it he did not make any comment. but when they reached new york, and found themselves on broadway, his companion paused in front of a large clothing store with large plate-glass windows, and said, quietly: "come in, luke. i think you need some new clothes." luke's face flushed with pleasure, but he said, "i have no money, mr. reed." "i have," said roland reed, significantly. "you are very kind, sir," said luke, gratefully. "it costs little to be kind when you have more money than you know what to do with," said reed. "i don't mean that i am a vanderbilt or an astor, but my income is much greater than i need to spend on myself." a suit was readily found which fitted luke as well as if it had been made for him. it was of gray mixed cloth, made in fashionable style. "you may as well keep it on, luke." then to the shopman: "have you a nice suit of black cloth, and of the same size?" "yes, sir," answered the salesman, readily. "he may as well have two while we are about it. as to the old suit, it is too small, and we will leave it here to be given away to some smaller boy." luke was quite overwhelmed by his new friend's munificence. "i don't think mother will know me," he said, as he surveyed himself in a long mirror. "then i will introduce you or give you a letter of introduction. have you a watch, luke?" "no, sir; you know i did not get the prize at the skating match." "true; then i must remedy the deficiency." they took the roadway stage down below the astor house--it was before the days of jacob sharp's horse railway--and got out at benedict's. there mr. reed made choice of a neat silver watch, manufactured at waltham, and bought a plated chain to go with it. "put that in your vest pocket," he said. "it may console you for the loss of the waterbury." "how can i ever repay you for your kindness, mr. reed?" said luke, overjoyed. "i have taken a fancy to you, luke," said his companion. "i hope to do more for you soon. now we will go uptown, and i will put my little girl under your charge." luke had dreaded making a call at a nice city house in his old suit. now he looked forward to it with pleasure, especially after his new friend completed his benefactions by buying him a new pair of shoes and a hat. "luke," asked his companion, as they were on their way uptown in a sixth avenue car, "do you know who owned the box of bonds taken from the groveton bank?" "i have heard that it was a mr. armstrong, now traveling in europe." "how did he come to leave the box in a village bank?" "he is some acquaintance of squire duncan, and spent some weeks last summer at the village hotel." "then probably he left the box there at the suggestion of duncan, the president." "i don't know, sir, but i think it very likely." "humph! this is getting interesting. the contents of the box were government bonds, i have heard." "i heard squire duncan say so." "were they coupon or registered?" "what difference would that make, sir?" "the first could be sold without trouble by the thief, while the last could not be disposed of without a formal transfer from the owner." "then it would not pay to steal them?" "just so. luke, do you know, a strange idea has come into my head." "what is it, sir?" "i think prince duncan knows more about how those bonds were spirited away than is suspected." luke was greatly surprised. "you don't think he took them himself, do you?" he asked. "that remains to be seen. it is a curious affair altogether. i may have occasion to speak of it another time. are you a good writer?" "fair, i believe, sir." "i have recently come into possession of a business in a city in ohio, which i carry on through a paid agent. among other things, i have bought out the old accounts. i shall need to have a large number of bills made out, covering a series of years, which i shall then put into the hands of a collector and realize so far as i can. this work, with a little instruction, i think you can do." "i shall be very glad to do it, sir." "you will be paid fairly for the labor." "i don't need any pay, mr. reed. you have already paid me handsomely." "you refer to the clothing and the watch? those are gifts. i will pay you thirty cents an hour for the time employed, leaving you to keep the account. the books of the firm i have at the house where my daughter is boarding. you will take them back to groveton with you." "this is a fortunate day for me," said luke. "it will pay me much better than the janitorship." "do your duty, luke, and your good fortune will continue. but here is our street." they left the car at the corner of fourteenth street and sixth avenue, and turning westward, paused in front of a four-story house of good appearance. chapter xvii randolph is mystified in an hour, luke, with the little girl under his charge, was on his way to the depot, accompanied by mr. reed, who paid for their tickets, and bade them good-bye, promising to communicate with luke. rosa reed was a bright little girl of about eight years of age. she made no opposition to going with luke, but put her hand confidently in his, and expressed much pleasure at the prospect of living in the country. she had been under the care of two maiden ladies, the misses graham, who had no love for children, and had merely accepted the charge on account of the liberal terms paid them by the father. they seemed displeased at the withdrawal of rosa, and clearly signified this by their cold, stiff reception of mr. reed and luke. "the old girls don't like to part with rosa," he said, with a smile, as they emerged into the street. "are you sorry to leave them, rosa?" he inquired. "no; they ain't a bit pleasant," answered the little girl, decidedly. "were they strict with you?" asked luke. "yes; they were always saying, 'little girls should be seen and not heard!' they didn't want me to make a bit of noise, and wouldn't let me have any little girls in to play with me. are there any little girls at your home?" "no, but there are some living near by, and they will come to see you." "that will be nice," said rosa, with satisfaction. directions were left to have the little girl's trunk go to groveton by express, and, therefore, luke was encumbered only by a small satchel belonging to his new charge. of the details of the journey it is unnecessary to speak. the two young travelers arrived at groveton, and, as it chanced, reached luke's cottage without attracting much observation. the door was opened by the widow, whose kind manner at once won the favor of the child. "i like you much better than miss graham," she said, with childish frankness. "i am glad of that, my child," said mrs. larkin. "i will try to make this a pleasant home for you." "i like luke, too," said rosa. "really, rosa, you make me blush," said luke. "i am not used to hearing young ladies say they like me." "i think he is a good boy," said rosa, reflectively. "isn't he, mrs. larkin?" "i think so, my dear," said the widow, smiling. "then i suppose i shall have to behave like one," said luke. "do you think i have improved in appearance, mother?" "i noticed your new suit at once, luke." "i have another in this bundle, mother; and that isn't all. do you see this watch? i sha'n't mourn the loss of the waterbury any longer." "mr. reed is certainly proving a kind friend, luke. we have much reason to be grateful." "he has also provided me with employment for a time, mother." and then luke told his mother about the copying he had engaged to do. it is hardy necessary to say that the heart of the widow was unfeignedly thankful for the favorable change in their fortunes, and she did not omit to give thanks to providence for raising up so kind and serviceable a friend. about the middle of the afternoon luke made his appearance in the village street. though i hope my readers will not suspect him of being a dude, he certainly did enjoy the consciousness of being well dressed. he hoped he should meet randolph, anticipating the surprise and disappointment of the latter at the evidence of his prosperity. when luke was arrested, randolph rejoiced as only a mean and spiteful boy would be capable of doing at the humiliation and anticipated disgrace of a boy whom he disliked. he had indulged in more than one expression of triumph, and sought every opportunity of discussing the subject, to the disgust of all fair-minded persons. even sam noble protested, though a toady of randolph. "look here, randolph," he said, "i don't like luke overmuch, and i know he doesn't like me, but i don't believe he's a thief, and i am sorry he is in trouble." "then you are no friend of mine," said randolph, looking black. "oh, i say, randolph, you know better than that. haven't i always stood up for you, and done whatever you wanted me to?" "if you were my friend you wouldn't stand up for luke." "i am not a friend of his, and i am a friend of yours, but i don't want him to go to prison." "i do, if he deserves it." "i don't believe he does deserve it." "that is what i complain of in you." "the fact is, randolph, you expect too much. if you want to break friendship, all right." randolph was amazed at this unexpected independence on the part of one whom he regarded as his bond slave; but, being hardly prepared to part with him, especially as his other follower, tom harper, had partially thrown off his allegiance, thought it prudent to be satisfied with sam's expressions of loyalty, even if they did not go as far as he wished. randolph missed luke at school on the day after the trial. of course, he had no idea that our hero was out of school, and hastily concluded that on account of his trial he was ashamed to show himself. "i don't wonder he doesn't want to show himself," he remarked to tom harper. "why not? he has been acquitted." "never mind. he has been under arrest, and may yet be guilty in spite of his acquittal. have you seen him to-day?" "no." "probably he is hiding at home. well, it shows some sort of shame." on his way home from school randolph was destined to be surprised. not far from his own house he met luke, arrayed in his new suit, with a chain that looked like gold crossing his waistcoat. instead of looking confused and ashamed, luke looked uncommonly bright and cheerful. randolph was amazed. what could it all mean? he had intended not to notice luke, but to pass him with a scornful smile, but his curiosity got the better of him. "why were you not at school to-day?" he asked, abruptly. luke smiled. "i didn't think you would miss me, randolph." "i didn't, but wondered at your absence." "i was detained by business. i expect to have the pleasure of seeing you there to-morrow." "humph! you seem to have invested in a new suit." "yes; my old suit was getting decidedly shabby, as you kindly remarked at florence grant's party." "where did you get them?" "in new york." "in new york!" repeated randolph, in surprise. "when did you go there?" "this morning. it was that which detained me from school." "i see you've got a new watch-chain, too." randolph emphasized the word "chain" satirically, being under the impression that no watch was attached. "yes; you may like to see my new watch." and luke, with pardonable triumph, produced his new watch, which was a stem-winder, whereas randolph's was only a key-winder. randolph condescended to take the watch in his hands and examine it. "where was this bought?" he asked. "at benedict's." "you seem to have plenty of money," he said, with unpleasant significance. "i should like more." "only you are rather imprudent in making such extensive purchases so soon after your trial." "what do you mean?" demanded luke quickly. "what should i mean? it is evident that you robbed the bank, after all. i shall tell my father, and you may find your trouble is not over." "look here, randolph duncan!" said luke sternly, "i look upon that as an insult, and i don't mean to be insulted. i am no more a thief than you are, and that you know." "do you mean to charge me with being a thief?" fumed randolph. "no; i only say you are as much a thief as i am. if you repeat your insult, i shall be obliged to knock you down." "you impudent loafer!" screamed randolph. "you'll be sorry for this. i'll have you arrested over again." "i have no doubt you would if you had the power. i sha'n't lie awake nights thinking of it. if you have nothing more to say i will leave you." randolph did not reply, probably because he was at a loss what to say, but went home angry and mystified. where could luke have got his watch and new suit? he asked himself this many times, but no possible explanation suggested itself. scarcely had luke parted with randolph when he met his friend linton, who surveyed luke's improved appearance with pleasure and surprise. "i say, luke, are you setting up for a dude?" "i thought a little of it," answered luke, with a smile--and then he explained the cause of his good fortune. "i have only one regret," he added, "randolph seems to be grieved over it. he liked me better in my old suit. besides, i have a new watch, and it turns out to be better than his." here he displayed his new silver watch. linton felt a generous pleasure in luke's luck, and it may truly be said rejoiced more at it than he would at any piece of good fortune to himself. "by the way, luke," he said, "i am going to give a party next thursday evening, and i give you the very first invitation. it is my birthday, you know." "i accept with pleasure, sir. i look upon you as my warmest friend, and as long as i retain your friendship i shall not care for randolph's malice." chapter xviii mr. duncan's secret about two weeks later, prince duncan sat at his desk with a troubled look. open before him were letters. one was post-marked london, and ran as follows: "my dear sir: i have decided to shorten my visit, and shall leave liverpool next saturday en route for new york. you will see, therefore, that i shall arrive nearly as soon as the letter i am now writing. i have decided to withdraw the box of securities i deposited in your bank, and shall place it in a safe-deposit vault in new york. you may expect to see me shortly. "yours in haste, "john armstrong." drops of perspiration gathered on the brow of prince duncan as he read this letter. what would mr. armstrong say when he learned that the box had mysteriously disappeared? that he would be thoroughly indignant, and make it very unpleasant for the president of groveton bank, was certain. he would ask, among other things, why mr. duncan had not informed him of the loss by cable, and no satisfactory explanation could be given. he would ask, furthermore, why detectives had not been employed to ferret out the mystery, and here again no satisfactory explanation could be given. prince duncan knew very well that he had a reason, but it was not one that could be disclosed. he next read the second letter, and his trouble was not diminished. it was from a wall street broker, informing him that the erie shares bought for him on a margin had gone down two points, and it would be necessary for him to deposit additional margin, or be sold out. "why did i ever invest in erie?" thought duncan ruefully. "i was confidently assured that it would go up--that it must go up--and here it is falling, and heaven knows how much lower it will go." at this point the door opened, and randolph entered. he had a special favor to ask. he had already given his father several hints that he would like a gold watch, being quite dissatisfied with his silver watch now that luke larkin possessed one superior to his. he had chosen a very unfavorable moment for his request, as he soon found out. "father," he said, "i have a favor to ask." "what is it?" asked prince duncan, with a frown. "i wish you would buy me a gold watch." "oh, you do!" sneered his father. "i was under the impression that you had two watches already." "so i have, but one is a waterbury, and the other a cheap silver one." "well, they keep time, don't they?" "yes." "then what more do you want?" "luke larkin has a silver watch better than mine--a stem-winder." "suppose he has?" "i don't want a working boy like him to outshine me." "where did he get his watch?" "i don't know; he won't tell. will you buy me a gold one, father? then i can look down upon him again." "no, i can't. money is very scarce with me just now." "then i don't want to wear a watch at all," said randolph pettishly. "suit yourself," said his father coldly. "now you may leave the room. i am busy." randolph left the room. he would have slammed the door behind him, but he knew his father's temper, and he did not dare to do so. "what am i to do?" prince duncan asked himself anxiously. "i must send money to the brokers, or they will sell me out, and i shall meet with a heavy loss." after a little thought he wrote a letter enclosing a check, but dated it two days ahead. "they will think it a mistake," he thought, "and it will give me time to turn around. now for money to meet the check when it arrives." prince duncan went up-stairs, and, locking the door of his chamber, opened a large trunk in one corner of the room. from under a pile of clothing he took out a tin box, and with hands that trembled with excitement he extracted therefrom a dozen government bonds. one was for ten thousand dollars, one for five, and the remainder were for one thousand dollars each. "if they were only sold, and the money deposited in the bank to my credit," he thought. "i am almost sorry i started in this thing. the risk is very great, but--but i must have money." at this moment some one tried the door. prince duncan turned pale, and the bonds nearly fell from his hands. "who's there?" he asked. "it is i, papa," answered randolph. "then you may go down-stairs again," answered his father angrily. "i don't want to be disturbed." "won't you open the door a minute? i just want to ask a question." "no, i won't. clear out!" exclaimed the bank president angrily. "what a frightful temper father has!" thought the discomfited randolph. there was nothing for it but to go down-stairs, and he did so in a very discontented frame of mind. "it seems to me that something is going contrary," said duncan to himself. "it is clear that it won't do to keep these bonds here any longer. i must take them to new york to-morrow--and raise money on them." on second thought, to-morrow he decided only to take the five-thousand-dollar bond, and five of the one thousand, fearing that too large a sale at one time might excite suspicion. carefully selecting the bonds referred to, he put them away in a capacious pocket, and, locking the trunk, went down-stairs again. "there is still time to take the eleven-o'clock train," he said, consulting his watch. "i must do it." seeking his wife, he informed her that he would take the next train for new york. "isn't this rather sudden?" she asked, in surprise. "a little, perhaps, but i have a small matter of business to attend to. besides, i think the trip will do me good. i am not feeling quite as well as usual." "i believe i will go, too," said mrs. duncan unexpectedly. "i want to make some purchases at stewart's." this suggestion was very far from agreeable to her husband. "really--i am"--he said, "i must disappoint you. my time will be wholly taken up by matters of business, and i can't go with you." "you don't need to. i can take care of myself, and we can meet at the depot at four o'clock." "besides, i can't supply you with any money for shopping." "i have enough. i might have liked a little more, but i can make it do." "perhaps it will look better if we go in company," thought prince duncan. "she needn't be in my way, for we can part at the station." "very well, jane," he said quietly. "if you won't expect me to dance attendance upon you, i withdraw my objections." the eleven-o'clock train for new york had among its passengers mr. and mrs. duncan. there was another passenger whom neither of them noticed--a small, insignificant-looking man--who occasionally directed a quick glance at the portly bank president. chapter xix effecting a loan prince duncan was unusually taciturn during the railroad journey--so much so that his wife noticed it, and inquired the reason. "business, my dear," answered the bank president. "i am rather perplexed by a matter of business." "business connected with the bank, mr. duncan?" asked his wife. "no, private business." "have you heard anything yet of the stolen bonds?" "not yet." "have you any suspicion?" "none that i am at liberty to mention," answered duncan, looking mysterious. "i suppose you no longer suspect that boy luke?" "i don't know. the man who owns to having given him the tin box for safe-keeping is, in my opinion, a suspicious character. i shouldn't be at all surprised if he were a jailbird." the small man already referred to, who occupied a seat just across the aisle, here smiled slightly, but whether at the president's remark, is not clear. "what did he call himself?" "roland reed--no doubt an alias." "it seems to me you ought to follow him up, and see if you can't convict him of the theft." "you may be sure, jane, that the president and directors of the groveton bank will do their duty in this matter," said mr. duncan rather grandiloquently. "by the way, i have received this morning a letter from mr. armstrong, the owner of the stolen bonds, saying that he will be at home in a few days." "does he know of the loss?" "not yet." "how will he take it?" "really, jane, you are very inquisitive this morning. i presume he will be very much annoyed." the car had become quite warm, and mr. duncan, who had hitherto kept on his overcoat, rose to take it off. unfortunately for him he quite forgot the bonds he had in the inside pocket, and in his careless handling of the coat the package fell upon the floor of the car, one slipping out of the envelope a bond for one thousand dollars. prince duncan turned pale, and stooped to pick up the package. but the small man opposite was too quick for him. he raised the package from the floor, and handing it to the bank president with a polite bow, said, with a smile: "you wouldn't like to lose this, sir." "no," answered duncan gruffly, angry with the other for anticipating him, "it was awkward of me." mrs. duncan also saw the bond, and inquired with natural curiosity. "do they belong to the bank, mr. duncan?" "no; they are my own." "i am glad of that. what are you going to do with them?" "hush! it is dangerous to speak of them here. some one might hear, and i might be followed. i am very much annoyed that they have been seen at all." this closed mrs. duncan's mouth, but she resolved to make further inquiries when they were by themselves. prince duncan looked askance at his opposite neighbor. he was a man who had come to groveton recently, and had opened a billiard saloon and bar not far from the bank. he was not regarded as a very desirable citizen, and had already excited the anxiety of parents by luring into the saloon some of the boys and young men of the village. among them, though squire duncan did not know it, was his own son randolph, who had already developed quite a fondness for playing pool, and even occasionally patronized the bar. this, had he known it, would have explained randolph's increased applications for money. whether tony denton--his full name was anthony denton--had any special object in visiting new york, i am unable to state. at all events it appeared that his business lay in the same direction as that of prince duncan, for on the arrival of the train at the new york depot, he followed the bank president at a safe distance, and was clearly bent upon keeping him in view. mr. duncan walked slowly, and appeared to be plunged in anxious thought. his difficulties were by no means over. he had the bonds to dispose of, and he feared the large amount might occasion suspicion. they were coupon bonds, and bore no name or other evidence of ownership. yet the mere fact of having such a large amount might occasion awkward inquiries. "here's yer mornin' papers!" called a negro newsboy, thrusting his bundle in front of the country banker. "give me a herald," said mr. duncan. opening the paper, his eye ran hastily over the columns. it lighted up as he saw a particular advertisement. "the very thing," he said to himself. this was the advertisement: "loan office--we are prepared to loan sums to suit, on first-class security, at a fair rate of interest. call or address sharp & ketchum, no. -- wall street. third floor." "i will go there," prince duncan suddenly decided. "i will borrow what i can on these bonds, and being merely held on collateral, they will be kept out of the market. at the end of six months, say, i will redeem them, or order them sold, and collect the balance, minus the interest." having arrived at this conclusion, he quickened his pace, his expression became more cheerful, and he turned his steps toward wall street. "what did the old fellow see in the paper?" thought tony. denton, who, still undiscovered, followed mr. duncan closely. "it is something that pleased him, evidently." he beckoned the same newsboy, bought a herald also, and turning to that part of the paper on which the banker's eyes had been resting, discovered sharp & ketchum's advertisement. "that's it, i'll bet a hat," he decided. "he is going to raise money on the bonds. i'll follow him." when duncan turned into wall street, tony denton felt that he had guessed correctly. he was convinced when the bank president paused before the number indicated in the advertisement. "it won't do for me to follow him in," he said to himself, "nor will it be necessary--i can remember the place and turn it to my own account by and by." prince duncan went up-stairs, and paused before a door on which was inscribed: sharp & ketchum bankers loans negotiated he opened the door, and found the room furnished in the style of a private banking-office. "is mr. sharp or mr. ketchum in?" he inquired of a sharp-faced young clerk, the son, as it turned out, of the senior partner. "yes, sir, mr. sharp is in." "is he at leisure? i wish to see him on business." "go in there, sir," said the clerk, pointing to a small private room in the corner of the office. following the directions, mr. duncan found himself in the presence of a man of about fifty, with a hatchet face, much puckered with wrinkles, and a very foxy expression. "i am mr. sharp," he said, in answer to an inquiry. prince duncan unfolded his business. he wished to borrow eight or nine thousand dollars on ten thousand dollars' worth of united states government bonds. "why don't you sell at once?" asked sharp keenly. "because i wish, for special reasons, to redeem these identical bonds, say six months hence." "they are your own?" asked mr. sharp. "they are a part of my wife's estate, of which i have control. i do not, however, wish her to know that i have raised money on them," answered duncan, with a smooth falsehood. "of course, that makes a difference. however, i will loan you seven thousand dollars, and you will give me your note for seven thousand five hundred, at the usual interest, with permission to sell the bonds at the end of six months if the note remains unpaid then, i to hand you the balance." prince duncan protested against these terms as exorbitant, but was finally obliged to accede to them. on the whole, he was fairly satisfied. the check would relieve him from all his embarrassments and give him a large surplus. "so far so good!" said tony denton, as he saw mr. duncan emerge into the street. "if i am not greatly mistaken this will prove a lucky morning for me." chapter xx luke talks with a capitalist luke worked steadily on the task given him by his new patron. during the first week he averaged three hours a day, with an additional two hours on saturday, making, in all, twenty hours, making, at thirty cents per hour, six dollars. this luke considered fair pay, considering that he was attending school and maintaining good rank in his classes. "why don't we see more of you, luke?" asked his friend linton one day. "you seem to stay in the house all the time." "because i am at work, linny. last week i made six dollars." "how?" asked linton, surprised. "by copying and making out bills for mr. reed." "that is better than being janitor at a dollar a week." "yes, but i have to work a good deal harder." "i am afraid you are working too hard." "i shouldn't like to keep it up, but it is only for a short time. if i gave up school i should find it easy enough, but i don't want to do that." "no, i hope you won't; i should miss you, and so would all the boys." "including randolph duncan?" "i don't know about that. by the way, i hear that randolph is spending a good deal of his time at tony denton's billiard saloon." "i am sorry to hear it. it hasn't a very good reputation." * * * * * * * * * one day luke happened to be at the depot at the time of the arrival of the train from new york. a small, elderly man stepped upon the platform whom luke immediately recognized as john armstrong, the owner of the missing box of bonds. he was surprised to see him, having supposed that he was still in europe. mr. armstrong, as already stated, had boarded for several weeks during the preceding summer at groveton. he looked at luke with a half-glance of recognition. "haven't i seen you before?" he said. "what is your name?" "my name is luke larkin. i saw you several times last summer." "then you know me?" "yes, sir, you are mr. armstrong. but i thought you were in europe." "so i was till recently. i came home sooner than i expected." luke was not surprised. he supposed that intelligence of the robbery had hastened mr. armstrong's return. "i suppose it was the news of your box that hurried you home," luke ventured to say. "no, i hadn't heard of it till my arrival in new york can you tell me anything about the matter? has the box been found?" "not that i have heard, sir." "was, or is, anybody suspected?" "i was suspected," answered luke, smiling, "but i don't think any one suspects me now." "you!" exclaimed the capitalist, in evident astonishment. "what could induce any one to suspect a boy like you of robbing a bank?" "there was some ground for it," said luke candidly. "a tin box, of the same appearance as the one lost, was seen in our house. i was arrested on suspicion, and tried." "you don't say so! how did you prove your innocence?" "the gentleman who gave me the box in charge appeared and testified in my favor. but for that i am afraid i should have fared badly." "that is curious. who was the gentleman?" luke gave a rapid history of the circumstances already known to the reader. "i am glad to hear this, being principally interested in the matter. however, i never should have suspected you. i claim to be something of a judge of character and physiognomy, and your appearance is in your favor. your mother is a widow, i believe?" "yes, sir." "and you are the janitor of the schoolhouse?" mr. armstrong was a close observer, and though having large interests of his own, made himself familiar with the affairs of those whom others in his position would wholly have ignored. "i was janitor," luke replied, "but when mr. duncan became a member of the school committee he removed me." "for what reason?" asked mr. armstrong quickly. "i don't think he ever liked me, and his son randolph and i have never been good friends." "you mean mr. duncan, the president of the bank?" "yes, sir?" "why are not you and his son friends?" "i don't know, sir. he has always been in the habit of sneering at me as a poor boy--a working boy--and unworthy to associate with him." "you don't look like a poor boy. you are better dressed than i was at your age. besides, you have a watch, i judge from the chain." "yes, sir; but all that is only lately. i have found a good friend who has been very kind to me." "who is he?" "roland reed, the owner of the tin box i referred to." "roland reed! i never heard the name. where is he from?" "from the west, i believe, though at present he is staying in new york." "how much were you paid as janitor?" "a dollar a week." "that is very little. is the amount important to you?" "no, sir, not now." and then luke gave particulars of the good fortune of the family in having secured a profitable boarder, and, furthermore, in obtaining for himself profitable employment. "this mr. reed seems to be a kind-hearted and liberal man. i am glad for your sake. i sympathize with poor boys. can you guess the reason?" "were you a poor boy yourself, sir?" "i was, and a very poor boy. when i was a boy of thirteen and fourteen i ran around in overalls and bare-footed. but i don't think it did me any harm," the old man added, musingly. "it kept me from squandering money on foolish pleasures, for i had none to spend; it made me industrious and self-reliant, and when i obtained employment it made me anxious to please my employer." "i hope it will have the same effect on me, sir." "i hope so, and i think so. what sort of a boy is this son of mr. duncan?" "if his father were not a rich man, i think he would be more agreeable. as it is, he seems to have a high idea of his own importance." "so his father has the reputation of being a rich man, eh?" "yes, sir. we have always considered him so." "without knowing much about it?" "yes, sir; we judged from his style of living, and from his being president of a bank." "that amounts to nothing. his salary as president is only moderate." "i am sorry you should have met with such a loss, mr. armstrong." "so am i, but it won't cripple me. still, a man doesn't like to lose twenty-five thousand dollars and over." "was there as much as that in the box, sir?" asked luke, in surprise. "yes, i don't know why i need make any secret of it. there were twenty-five thousand dollars in government bonds, and these, at present rates, are worth in the neighborhood of thirty thousand dollars." "that seems to me a great deal of money," said luke. "it is, but i can spare it without any diminution of comfort. i don't feel, however, like pocketing the loss without making a strong effort to recover the money. i didn't expect to meet immediately upon arrival the only person hitherto suspected of accomplishing the robbery." he smiled as he spoke, and luke saw that, so far as mr. armstrong was concerned, he had no occasion to feel himself under suspicion. "are you intending to remain long in groveton, mr. armstrong?" he asked. "i can't say. i have to see mr. duncan about the tin box, and concoct some schemes looking to the discovery of the person or persons concerned in its theft. have there been any suspicious persons in the village during the last few weeks?" "not that i know of, sir." "what is the character of the men employed in the bank, the cashier and teller?" "they seem to be very steady young men, sir. i don't think they have been suspected." "the most dangerous enemies are those who are inside, for they have exceptional opportunities for wrongdoing. moreover, they have the best chance to cover up their tracks." "i don't think there is anything to charge against mr. roper and mr. barclay. they are both young married men, and live in a quiet way." "never speculate in wall street, eh? one of the soberest, steadiest bank cashiers i ever knew, who lived plainly and frugally, and was considered by all to be a model man, wrecked the man he was connected with--a small country banker--and is now serving a term in state's prison. the cause was wall street speculation. this is more dangerous even than extravagant habits of living." a part of this conversation took place on the platform of the railroad-station, and a part while they were walking in the direction of the hotel. they had now reached the village inn, and, bidding our hero good morning, mr. armstrong entered, and registered his name. ten minutes later he set out for the house of prince duncan. chapter xxi the dreaded interview mr. duncan had been dreading the inevitable interview with mr. armstrong. he knew him to be a sharp man of business, clear-sighted and keen, and he felt that this part of the conference would be an awkward and embarrassing one. he had tried to nerve himself for the interview, and thought he had succeeded, but when the servant brought mr. armstrong's card he felt a sinking at his heart, and it was in a tone that betrayed nervousness that he said: "bring the gentleman in." "my dear sir," he said, extending his hand and vigorously shaking the hand of his new arrival, "this is an unexpected pleasure." "unexpected? didn't you get my letter from london?" said mr. armstrong, suffering his hand to be shaken, but not returning the arm pressure. "certainly--" "in which i mentioned my approaching departure?" "yes, certainly; but i didn't know on what day to expect you. pray sit down. it seems pleasant to see you home safe and well." "humph!" returned armstrong, in a tone by no means as cordial. "have you found my box of bonds?" "not yet, but--" "permit me to ask you why you allowed me to remain ignorant of so important a matter? i was indebted to the public prints, to which my attention was directed by an acquaintance, for a piece of news which should have been communicated to me at once." "my dear sir, i intended to write you as soon as i heard of your arrival. i did not know till this moment that you were in america." "you might have inferred it from the intimation in my last letter. why did you not cable me the news?" "because," replied duncan awkwardly, "i did not wish to spoil your pleasure, and thought from day to day that the box would turn up." "you were very sparing of my feelings," said armstrong, dryly-- "too much so. i am not a child or an old woman, and it was your imperative duty, in a matter so nearly affecting my interests, to apprise me at once." "i may have erred in judgment," said duncan meekly, "but i beg you to believe that i acted as i supposed for the best." "leaving that out of consideration at present, let me know what steps you have taken to find out how the box was spirited away, or who was concerned in the robbery." "i think that you will admit that i acted promptly," said the bank president complacently, "when i say that within twenty-four hours i arrested a party on suspicion of being implicated in the robbery, and tried him myself." "who was the party?" asked the capitalist, not betraying the knowledge he had already assessed on the subject. "a boy in the village named luke larkin." "humph! what led you to think a boy had broken into the bank? that does not strike me as very sharp on your part." "i had positive evidence that the boy in question had a tin box concealed in his house--in his mother's trunk. his poverty made it impossible that the box could be his, and i accordingly had him arrested." "well, what was the result of the trial?" "i was obliged to let him go, though by no means satisfied of his innocence." "why?" "a man--a stranger--a very suspicious-looking person, presented himself, and swore that the box was his, and that he had committed it to the charge of this boy." "well, that seems tolerably satisfactory, doesn't it?--that is, if he furnished evidence confirming his statement. did he open the box in court?" "yes." "and the bonds were not there?" "the bonds were not there only some papers, and what appeared to be certificates of stock." "yet you say you are still suspicious of this man and boy." "yes." "explain your grounds." "i thought," replied the president, rather meekly, "he might have taken the bonds from the box and put in other papers." "that was not very probable. moreover, he would hardly be likely to leave the box in the village in the charge of a boy." "the boy might have been his confederate." "what is the boy's reputation in the village? has he ever been detected in any act of dishonesty?" "not that i know of, but there is one suspicious circumstance to which i would like to call your attention." "well?" "since this happened luke has come out in new clothes, and wears a silver watch. the family is very poor, and he could not have had money to buy them unless he obtained some outside aid." "what, then, do you infer?" "that he has been handsomely paid for his complicity in the robbery." "what explanation does he personally give of this unusual expenditure?" "he admits that they were paid for by this suspicious stranger." "has the stranger--what is his name, by the way?" "roland reed, he calls himself, but this, probably, is not his real name." "well, has this reed made his appearance in the village since?" "if so, he has come during the night, and has not been seen by any of us." "i can't say i share your suspicion against mr. reed. your theory that he took out the bonds and substituted other papers is far-fetched and improbable. as to the boy, i consider him honest and reliable." "do you know luke larkin?" asked mr. duncan quickly. "last summer i observed him somewhat, and never saw anything wrong in him." "appearances are deceitful," said the bank president sententiously. "so i have heard," returned mr. armstrong dryly. "but let us go on. what other steps have you taken to discover the lost box?" "i have had the bank vaults thoroughly searched," answered duncan, trying to make the best of a weak situation. "of course. it is hardly to be supposed that it has been mislaid. even if it had been it would have turned up before this. did you discover any traces of the bank being forcibly entered?" "no; but the burglar may have covered his tracks." "there would have been something to show an entrance. what is the character of the cashier and teller." "i know nothing to their disadvantage." "then neither have fallen under suspicion?" "not as yet," answered the president pointedly. "it is evident," thought john armstrong, "that mr. duncan is interested in diverting suspicion from some quarter. he is willing that these men should incur suspicion, though it is clear he has none in his own mind." "well, what else have you done? have you employed detectives?" asked armstrong, impatiently. "i was about to do so," answered mr. duncan, in some embarrassment, "when i heard that you were coming home, and i thought i would defer that matter for your consideration." "giving time in the meanwhile for the thief or thieves to dispose of their booty? this is very strange conduct, mr. duncan." "i acted for the best," said prince duncan. "you have singular ideas of what is best, then," observed mr. armstrong coldly. "it may be too late to remedy your singular neglect, but i will now take the matter out of your hands, and see what i can do." "will you employ detectives?" asked duncan, with evident uneasiness. armstrong eyed him sharply, and with growing suspicion. "i can't say what i will do." "have you the numbers of the missing bonds?" asked duncan anxiously. "i am not sure. i am afraid i have not." was it imagination, or did the bank president look relieved at this statement? john armstrong made a mental note of this. after eliciting the particulars of the disappearance of the bonds, john armstrong rose to go. he intended to return to the city, but he made up his mind to see luke first. he wanted to inquire the address of roland reed. chapter xxii luke secures a new friend luke was engaged in copying when mr. armstrong called. though he felt surprised to see his visitor, luke did not exhibit it in his manner, but welcomed him politely, and invited him into the sitting-room. "i have called to inquire the address of your friend, mr. roland reed," said mr. armstrong. then, seeing a little uneasiness in luke's face, he added quickly: "don't think i have the slightest suspicion of him as regards the loss of the bonds. i wish only to consult him, being myself at a loss what steps to take. he may be able to help me." of course, luke cheerfully complied with his request. "has anything been heard yet at the bank?" he asked. "nothing whatever. in fact, it does not appear to me that any very serious efforts have been made to trace the robber or robbers. i am left to undertake the task myself." "if there is anything i can do to help you, mr. armstrong, i shall be very glad to do so," said luke. "i will bear that in mind, and may call upon you. as yet, my plans are not arranged. perhaps mr. reed, whom i take to be an experienced man of the world, may be able to offer a suggestion. you seem to be at work," he added, with a look at the table at which luke had been sitting. "yes, sir, i am making out some bills for mr. reed." "is the work likely to occupy you long?" "no, sir; i shall probably finish the work this week." "and then your time will be at your disposal?" "yes, sir." "pardon me the question, but i take it your means are limited?" "yes, sir; till recently they have been very limited--now, thanks to mr. reed, who pays a liberal salary for his little girl's board, we are very comfortable, and can get along very well, even if i do not immediately find work." "i am glad to hear that. if i should hear of any employment likely to please you i will send you word." "thank you, sir." "would you object to leave home?" "no, sir; there is little or no prospect in groveton, and though my mother would miss me, she now has company, and i should feel easier about leaving her." "if you can spare the time, won't you walk with me to the depot?" "with great pleasure, sir," and luke went into the adjoining room to fetch his hat, at the same time apprising his mother that he was going out. on the way to the depot mr. armstrong managed to draw out luke with a view to getting better acquainted with him, and forming an idea of his traits of character. luke was quite aware of this, but talked frankly and easily, having nothing to conceal. "a thoroughly good boy, and a smart boy, too!" said armstrong to himself. "i must see if i can't give him a chance to rise. he seems absolutely reliable." on the way to the depot they met randolph duncan, who eyed them curiously. he recognized mr. armstrong as the owner of the stolen bonds--and was a good deal surprised to see him in such friendly conversation with luke. knowing mr. armstrong to be a rich man, he determined to claim acquaintance. "how do you do, mr. armstrong?" he said, advancing with an ingratiating smile. "this is randolph duncan," said luke--whom, by the way, randolph had not thought it necessary to notice. "i believe i have met the young gentleman before," said mr. armstrong politely, but not cordially. "yes, sir, i have seen you at our house," continued randolph--"my father is president of the groveton bank. he will be very glad to see you. won't you come home with me?" "i have already called upon your father," said mr. armstrong. "i am very sorry your bonds were stolen, mr. armstrong." "not more than i am, i assure you," returned mr. armstrong, with a quizzical smile. "could i speak with you a moment in private, sir?" asked randolph, with a significant glance at luke. "certainly; luke, will you cross the road a minute? now, young man!" "probably you don't know that the boy you are walking with was suspected of taking the box from the bank." "i have heard so; but he was acquitted of the charge, wasn't he?" "my father still believes that he had something to do with it, and so do i," added randolph, with an emphatic nod of his head. "isn't he a friend of yours?" asked mr. armstrong quietly. "no, indeed; we go to the same school, though father thinks of sending me to an academy out of town soon, but there is no friendship between us. he is only a working boy." "humph! that is very much against him," observed mr. armstrong, but it was hard to tell from his tone whether he spoke in earnest or ironically. "oh, well, he has to work, for the family is very poor. he's come out in new clothes and a silver watch since the robbery. he says the strange man from whom he received a tin box just like yours gave them to him." "and you think he didn't get them in that way?" "yes, i think they were leagued together. i feel sure that man robbed the bank." "dear me, it does look suspicious!" remarked armstrong. "if luke was guiding you to the train, i will take his place, sir." "thank you, but perhaps i had better keep him with me, and cross-examine him a little. i suppose i can depend upon your keeping your eyes upon him, and letting me know of any suspicious conduct on his part?" "yes, sir, i will do it with pleasure," randolph announced promptly. he felt sure that he had excited mr. armstrong's suspicions, and defeated any plans luke might have cherished of getting in with the capitalist. "have you anything more to communicate?" asked mr. armstrong, politely. "no, sir; i thought it best to put you on your guard." "i quite appreciate your motives, master randolph. i shall keep my eyes open henceforth, and hope in time to discover the real perpetrator of the robbery. now, luke." "i have dished you, young fellow!" thought randolph, with a triumphant glance at the unconscious luke. he walked away in high self-satisfaction. "luke," said mr. armstrong, as they resumed their walk, "randolph seems a very warm friend of yours." "i never thought so," said luke, with an answering smile. "i am glad if he has changed." "what arrangements do you think i have made with him?" "i don't know, sir." "i have asked him to keep his eye on you, and, if he sees anything suspicious, to let me know." luke would have been disturbed by this remark, had not the smile on mr. armstrong's face belied his words. "does he think you are in earnest, sir?" "oh, yes, he has no doubt of it. he warned me of your character, and said he was quite sure that you and your friend mr. reed were implicated in the bank robbery. i told him i would cross-examine you, and see what i could find out. randolph told me that you were only a working boy, which i pronounced to be very much against you." luke laughed outright. "i think you are fond of a practical joke, mr. armstrong," he said. "you have fooled randolph very neatly." "i had an object in it," said mr. armstrong quietly. "i may have occasion to employ you in the matter, and if so, it will be well that no arrangement is suspected between us. randolph will undoubtedly inform his father of what happened this morning." "as i said before, sir, i am ready to do anything that lies in my power." luke could not help feeling curious as to the character of the service he would be called upon to perform. he found it difficult to hazard a conjecture, but one thing at least seemed clear, and this was that mr. armstrong was disposed to be his friend, and as he was a rich man his friendship was likely to amount to some thing. they had now reached the depot, and in ten minutes the train was due. "don't wait if you wish to get to work, luke," said mr. armstrong kindly. "my work can wait; it is nearly finished," said luke. the ten minutes passed rapidly, and with a cordial good-bye, the capitalist entered the train, leaving luke to return to his modest home in good spirits. "i have two influential friends, now," he said to himself--"mr. reed and mr. armstrong. on the whole, luke larkin, you are in luck, your prospects look decidedly bright, even if you have lost the janitorship." chapter xxiii randolph and his creditor though randolph was pleased at having, as he thought, put a spoke in luke's wheel, and filled mr. armstrong's mind with suspicion, he was not altogether happy. he had a little private trouble of his own. he had now for some time been a frequenter of tony denton's billiard saloon, patronizing both the table and the bar. he had fallen in with a few young men of no social standing, who flattered him, and, therefore, stood in his good graces. with them he played billiards and drank. after a time he found that he was exceeding his allowance, but in the most obliging way tony denton had offered him credit. "of course, mr. duncan"--randolph felt flattered at being addressed in this way--"of course, mr. duncan, your credit is good with me. if you haven't the ready money, and i know most young gentlemen are liable to be short, i will just keep an account, and you can settle at your convenience." this seemed very obliging, but i am disposed to think that a boy's worst enemy is the one who makes it easy for him to run into debt. randolph was not wholly without caution, for he said: "but suppose, tony, i am not able to pay when you want the money?" "oh, don't trouble yourself about that, mr. duncan," said tony cordially. "of course, i know the standing of your family, and i am perfectly safe. some time you will be a rich man." "yes, i suppose i shall," said randolph, in a consequential tone. "and it is worth something to me to have my saloon patronized by a young gentleman of your social standing." evidently, tony denton understood randolph's weak point, and played on it skillfully. he assumed an air of extra consequence, as he remarked condescendingly: "you are very obliging, tony, and i shall not forget it." tony denton laughed in his sleeve at the boy's vanity, but his manner was very respectful, and randolph looked upon him as an humble friend and admirer. "he is a sensible man, tony; he understands what is due to my position," he said to himself. after denton's visit to new york with prince duncan, and the knowledge which he then acquired about the president of the groveton bank, he decided that the time had come to cut short randolph's credit with him. the day of reckoning always comes in such cases, as i hope my young friends will fully understand. debt is much more easily contracted than liquidated, and this randolph found to his cost. one morning he was about to start on a game of billiards, when tony denton called him aside. "i would like to speak a word to you, mr. duncan," he said smoothly. "all right, tony," said randolph, in a patronizing tone. "what can i do for you?" "my rent comes due to-morrow, mr. duncan, and i should be glad if you would pay me a part of your account. it has been running some time--" randolph's jaw fell, and he looked blank. "how much do i owe you?" he asked. tony referred to a long ledgerlike account-book, turned to a certain page, and running his fingers down a long series of items, answered, "twenty-seven dollars and sixty cents." "it can't be so much!" ejaculated randolph, in dismay. "surely you have made a mistake!" "you can look for yourself," said tony suavely. "just reckon it up; i may have made a little mistake in the sum total." randolph looked over the items, but he was nervous, and the page swam before his eyes. he was quite incapable of performing the addition, simple as it was, in his then frame of mind. "i dare say you have added it up all right," he said, after an abortive attempt to reckon it up, "but i can hardly believe that i owe you so much." "'many a little makes a mickle,' as we scotch say," answered tony cheerfully. "however, twenty-seven dollars is a mere trifle to a young man like you. come, if you'll pay me to-night, i'll knock off the sixty cents." "it's quite impossible for me to do it," said randolph, ill at ease. "pay me something on account--say ten dollars." "i haven't got but a dollar and a quarter in my pocket." "oh, well, you know where to go for more money," said tony, with a wink. "the old gentleman's got plenty." "i am not so sure about that--i mean that he is willing to pay out. of course, he's got plenty of money invested," added randolph, who liked to have it thought that his father was a great financial magnate. "well, he can spare some for his son, i am sure." "can't you let it go for a little while longer, tony?" asked randolph, awkwardly. "really, mr. duncan, i couldn't. i am a poor man, as you know, and have my bills to pay." "i take it as very disobliging, tony; i sha'n't care to patronize your place any longer," said randolph, trying a new tack. tony denton shrugged his shoulders. "i only care for patrons who are willing to pay their bills," he answered significantly. "it doesn't pay me to keep my place open free." "of course not; but i hope you are not afraid of me?" "certainly not. i am sure you will act honorably and pay your bills. if i thought you wouldn't, i would go and see your father about it." "no, you mustn't do that," said randolph, alarmed. "he doesn't know i come here." "and he won't know from me, if you pay what you owe." matters were becoming decidedly unpleasant for randolph. the perspiration gathered on his brow. he didn't know what to do. that his father would not give him money for any such purpose, he very well knew, and he dreaded his finding out where he spent so many of his evenings. "oh, don't trouble yourself about a trifle," said tony smoothly. "just go up to your father, frankly, and tell him you want the money." "he wouldn't give me twenty-seven dollars," said randolph gloomily. "then ask for ten, and i'll wait for the balance till next week." "can't you put it all off till next week?" "no; i really couldn't, mr. duncan. what does it matter to you this week, or next?" randolph wished to put off as long as possible the inevitable moment, though he knew it would do him no good in the end. but tony denton was inflexible--and he finally said: "well, i'll make the attempt, but i know i shall fail." "that's all right; i knew you would look at it in the right light. now, go ahead and play your game." "no, i don't want to increase my debt." "oh, i won't charge you for what you play this evening. tony denton can be liberal as well as the next man. only i have to collect money to pay my bills." randolph didn't know that all this had been prearranged by the obliging saloon-keeper, and that, in now pressing him, he had his own object in view. the next morning, randolph took an opportunity to see his father alone. "father," he said, "will you do me a favor?" "what is it, randolph?" "let me have ten dollars." his father frowned. "what do you want with ten dollars?" he asked. "i don't like to go round without money in my pocket. it doesn't look well for the son of a rich man." "who told you i was a rich man?" said his father testily. "why, you are, aren't you? everybody in the village says so." "i may, or may not, be rich, but i don't care to encourage my son in extravagant habits. you say you have no money. don't you have your regular allowance?" "it is only two dollars a week." "only two dollars a week!" repeated the father angrily. "let me tell you, young man, that when i was of your age i didn't have twenty-five cents a week." "that was long ago. people lived differently from what they do now." "how did they?" "they didn't live in any style." "they didn't spend money foolishly, as they do now. i don't see for my part what you can do with even two dollars a week." "oh, it melts away, one way or another. i am your only son, and people expect me to spend money. it is expected of one in my position." "so you can. i consider two dollars a week very liberal." "you'd understand better if you were a young fellow like me how hard it is to get along on that." "i don't want to understand," returned his father stoutly. "one thing i understand, and that is, that the boys of the present day are foolishly extravagant. think of luke larkin! do you think he spends two dollars even in a month?" "i hope you don't mean to compare me with a working boy like luke?" randolph said scornfully. "i am not sure but luke would suit me better than you in some respects." "you are speaking of luke," said randolph, with a lucky thought. "well, even he, working boy as he is, has a better watch than i, who am the son of the president of the groveton bank." "do you want the ten dollars to buy a better watch?" asked prince duncan. "yes," answered randolph, ready to seize on any pretext for the sake of getting the money. "then wait till i go to new york again, and i will look at some watches. i won't make any promise, but i may buy you one. i don't care about luke outshining you." this by no means answered randolph's purpose. "won't you let me go up to the city myself, father?" he asked. "no, i prefer to rely upon my own judgment in a purchase of that kind." it had occurred to randolph that he would go to the city, and pretend on his return that he had bought a watch but had his pocket picked. of course, his father would give him more than ten dollars for the purpose, and he could privately pay it over to tony denton. but this scheme did not work, and he made up his mind at last that he would have to tell tony he must wait. he did so. tony denton, who fully expected this, and, for reasons of his own, did not regret it, said very little to randolph, but decided to go round and see prince duncan himself. it would give him a chance to introduce the other and more important matter. it was about this time that linton's birthday-party took place. randolph knew, of course, that he would meet luke, but he no longer had the satisfaction of deriding his shabby dress. our hero wore his best suit, and showed as much ease and self-possession as randolph himself. "what airs that boy luke puts on!" ejaculated randolph, in disgust. "i believe he thinks he is my equal." in this randolph was correct. luke certainly did consider himself the social equal of the haughty randolph, and the consciousness of being well dressed made him feel at greater ease than at florence grant's party. he had taken additional lessons in dancing from his friend linton, and, being quick to learn, showed no awkwardness on the floor. linton's parents, by their kind cordiality, contributed largely to the pleasure of their son's guests, who at the end of the evening unanimously voted the party a success. chapter xxiv a commission for luke upon his return to the city, john armstrong lost no time in sending for roland reed. the latter, though rather surprised at the summons, answered it promptly. when he entered the office of the old merchant he found him sitting at his desk. "mr. armstrong?" he said inquiringly. "that's my name. you, i take it, are roland reed." "yes." "no doubt you wonder why i sent for you," said mr. armstrong. "is it about the robbery of the groveton bank?" "you have guessed it. you know, i suppose, that i am the owner of the missing box of bonds?" "so i was told. have you obtained any clue?" "i have not had time. i have only just returned from europe. i have done nothing except visit groveton." "what led you to send for me? pardon my curiosity, but i can't help asking." "an interview with a protege of yours, luke larkin." "you know that luke was arrested on suspicion of being connected with the robbery, though there are those who pay me the compliment of thinking that i may have had something to do with it." "i think you had as much to do with it as luke larkin," said armstrong, deliberately. "i had--just as much," said reed, with a smile. "luke is a good boy, mr. armstrong." "i quite agree with you. if i had a son i should like him to resemble luke." "give me your hand on that, mr. armstrong," said roland reed, impulsively. "excuse my impetuosity, but i've taken a fancy to that boy." "there, then, we are agreed. now, mr. reed, i will tell you why i have taken the liberty of sending for you. from what luke said, i judged that you were a sharp, shrewd man of the world, and might help me in this matter, which i confess puzzles me. you know the particulars, and therefore, without preamble, i am going to ask you whether you have any theory as regards this robbery. the box hasn't walked off without help. now, who took it from the bank?" "if i should tell you my suspicion you might laugh at me." "i will promise not to do that." "then i believe that prince duncan, president of the groveton bank, could tell you, if he chose, what has become of the box." "extraordinary!" ejaculated john armstrong. "i supposed you would be surprised--probably indignant, if you are a friend of duncan--but, nevertheless, i adhere to my statement." "you mistake the meaning of my exclamation. i spoke of it as extraordinary, because the same suspicion has entered my mind, though, i admit, without a special reason." "i have a reason." "may i inquire what it is?" "i knew prince duncan when he was a young man, though he does not know me now. in fact, i may as well admit that i was then known by another name. he wronged me deeply at that time, being guilty of a crime which he successfully laid upon my shoulders. no one in groveton--no one of his recent associates--knows the real nature of the man as well as i do." "you prefer not to go into particulars?" "not at present." "at all events you can give me your advice. to suspect amounts to little. we must bring home the crime to him. it is here that i need your advice." "i understand that the box contained government bonds." "yes." "what were the denominations?" "one ten thousand dollar bond, one five, and ten of one thousand each." "it seems to me they ought to be traced. i suppose, of course, they were coupon, not registered." "you are right. had they been registered, i should have been at no trouble, nor would the thief have reaped any advantage." "if coupon, they are, of course, numbered. won't that serve as a clue, supposing an attempt is made to dispose of them?" "you touch the weak point of my position. they are numbered, and i had a list of the numbers, but that list has disappeared. it is either lost or mislaid. of course, i can't identify them." "that is awkward. wouldn't the banker of whom you bought them be able to give you the numbers?" "yes, but i don't know where they were bought. i had at the time in my employ a clerk and book-keeper, a steady-going and methodical man of fifty-odd, who made the purchase, and no doubt has a list of the numbers of the bonds." "then where is your difficulty?" asked roland reed, in surprise. "go to the clerk and put the question. what can be simpler?" "but i don't know where he is." "don't know where he is?" echoed reed, in genuine surprise. "no; james harding--this is his name--left my employ a year since, having, through a life of economy, secured a competence, and went out west to join a widowed sister who had for many years made her residence there. now, the west is a large place, and i don't know where this sister lives, or where james harding is to be found." "yet he must be found. you must send a messenger to look for him." "but whom shall i send? in a matter of this delicacy i don't want to employ a professional detective. those men sometimes betray secrets committed to their keeping, and work up a false clue rather than have it supposed they are not earning their money. if, now, some gentleman in whom i had confidence--someone like yourself--would undertake the commission, i should esteem myself fortunate." "thank you for the compliment, mr. armstrong, more especially as you are putting confidence in a stranger, but i have important work to do that would not permit me to leave new york at present. but i know of someone whom i would employ, if the business were mine." "well?" "luke larkin." "but he is only a boy. he can't be over sixteen." "he is a sharp boy, however, and would follow instructions." john armstrong thought rapidly. he was a man who decided quickly. "i will take your advice," he said. "as i don't want to have it supposed that he is in my employ, will you oblige me by writing to him and preparing him for a journey? let it be supposed that he is occupied with a commission for you." "i will attend to the matter at once." the next morning luke received the following letter: "my dear luke: i have some work for you which will occupy some time and require a journey. you will be well paid. bring a supply of underclothing, and assure your mother that she need feel under no apprehensions about you. unless i am greatly mistaken, you will be able to take care of yourself. "your friend, "roland reed." luke read the letter with excitement and pleasure. he was to go on a journey, and to a boy of his age a journey of any sort is delightful. he had no idea of the extent of the trip in store for him, but thought he might possibly be sent to boston, or philadelphia, and either trip he felt would yield him much pleasure. he quieted the natural apprehensions of his mother, and, satchel in hand, waited upon his patron in the course of a day. by him he was taken over to the office of mr. armstrong, from whom he received instructions and a supply of money. chapter xxv mr. j. madison coleman luke didn't shrink from the long trip before him. he enjoyed the prospect of it, having always longed to travel and see distant places. he felt flattered by mr. armstrong's confidence in him, and stoutly resolved to deserve it. he would have been glad if he could have had the company of his friend linton, but he knew that this was impossible. he must travel alone. "you have a difficult and perplexing task, luke," said the capitalist. "you may not succeed." "i will do my best, mr. armstrong." "that is all i have a right to expect. if you succeed, you will do me a great service, of which i shall show proper appreciation." he gave luke some instructions, and it was arranged that our hero should write twice a week, and, if occasion required, oftener, so that his employer might be kept apprised of his movements. luke was not to stop short of chicago. there his search was to begin; and there, if possible, he was to obtain information that might guide his subsequent steps. it is a long ride to chicago, as luke found. he spent a part of the time in reading, and a part in looking out of the window at the scenery, but still, at times, he felt lonely. "i wish linton tomkins were with me," he reflected. "what a jolly time we would have!" but linton didn't even know what had become of his friend. luke's absence was an occasion for wonder at groveton, and many questions were asked of his mother. "he was sent for by mr. reed," answered the widow. "he is at work for him." "mr. reed is in new york, isn't he?" "yes." it was concluded, therefore, that luke was in new york, and one or two persons proposed to call upon him there, but his mother professed ignorance of his exact residence. she knew that he was traveling, but even she was kept in the dark as to where he was, nor did she know that mr. armstrong, and not mr. reed, was his employer. some half dozen hours before reaching chicago, a young man of twenty-five, or thereabouts, sauntered along the aisle, and sat down in the vacant seat beside luke. "nice day," he said, affably. "very nice," responded luke. "i suppose you are bound to chicago?" "yes, i expect to stay there awhile." "going farther?" "i can't tell yet." "going to school out there?" "no." "perhaps you are traveling for some business firm, though you look pretty young for that." "no, i'm not a drummer, if that's what you mean. still, i have a commisison from a new york business man." "a commission--of what kind?" drawled the newcomer. "it is of a confidential character," said luke. "ha! close-mouthed," thought the young man. "well, i'll get it out of him after awhile." he didn't press the question, not wishing to arouse suspicion or mistrust. "just so," he replied. "you are right to keep it to yourself, though you wouldn't mind trusting me if you knew me better. is this your first visit to chicago?" "yes, sir." "suppose we exchange cards. this is mine." he handed luke a card, bearing this name. j. madison coleman at the bottom of the card he wrote in pencil, "representing h. b. claflin & co." "of course you've heard of our firm," he said. "certainly." "i don't have the firm name printed on my card, for claflin won't allow it. you will notice that i am called for old president madison. he was an old friend of my grandfather. in fact, grandfather held a prominent office under his administration-- collector of the port of new york." "i have no card with me," responded luke. "but my name is luke larkin." "good name. do you live in new york?" "no; a few miles in the country." "and whom do you represent?" "myself for the most part," answered luke, with a smile. "good! no one has a better right to. i see there's something in you, luke." "you've found it out pretty quick," thought luke. "and i hope we will get better acquainted. if you're not permanently employed by this party, whose name you don't give, i will get you into the employ of claflin & co., if you would like it." "thank you," answered luke, who thought it quite possible that he might like to obtain a position with so eminent a firm. "how long have you been with them?" "ten years--ever since i was of your age," promptly answered mr. coleman. "is promotion rapid?" luke asked, with interest. "well, that depends on a man's capacity. i have been pushed right along. i went there as a boy, on four dollars a week; now i'm a traveling salesman--drummer as it is called--and i make about four thousand a year." "that's a fine salary," said luke, feeling that his new acquaintance must be possessed of extra ability to occupy so desirable a position. "yes, but i expect next year to get five thousand--claflin knows i am worth it, and as he is a liberal man, i guess he will give it sooner than let me go." "i suppose many do not get on so well, mr. coleman." "i should say so! now, there is a young fellow went there the same time that i did--his name is frank bolton. we were schoolfellows together, and just the same age, that is, nearly--he was born in april, and i in may. well, we began at the same time on the same salary. now i get sixty dollars a week and he only twelve--and he is glad to get that, too." "i suppose he hasn't much business capacity." "that's where you've struck it, luke. he knows about enough to be clerk in a country store--and i suppose he'll fetch up there some day. you know what that means--selling sugar, and tea, and dried apples to old ladies, and occasionally measuring off a yard of calico, or selling a spool of cotton. if i couldn't do better than that i'd hire out as a farm laborer." luke smiled at the enumeration of the duties of a country salesman. it was clear that mr. coleman, though he looked city-bred, must at some time in the past have lived in the country. "perhaps that is the way i should turn out," he said. "i might not rise any higher than your friend mr. bolton." "oh, yes, you would. you're smart enough, i'll guarantee. you might not get on so fast as i have, for it isn't every young man of twenty-six that can command four thousand dollars a year, but you would rise to a handsome income, i am sure." "i should be satisfied with two thousand a year at your age." "i would be willing to guarantee you that," asserted mr. coleman, confidently. "by the way, where do you propose to put up in chicago?" "i have not decided yet." "you'd better go with me to the ottawa house." "is it a good house?" "they'll feed you well there, and only charge two dollars a day" "is it centrally located?" "it isn't as central as the palmer, or sherman, or tremont, but it is convenient to everything." i ought to say here that i have chosen to give a fictitious name to the hotel designated by mr. coleman. "come, what do you say?" "i have no objection," answered luke, after a slight pause for reflection. indeed, it was rather pleasant to him to think that he would have a companion on his first visit to chicago who was well acquainted with the city, and could serve as his guide. though he should not feel justified in imparting to mr. coleman his special business, he meant to see something of the city, and would find his new friend a pleasant companion. "that's good," said coleman, well pleased. "i shall be glad to have your company. i expected to meet a friend on the train, but something must have delayed him, and so i should have been left alone." "i suppose a part of your time will be given to business?" suggested luke. "yes, but i take things easy; when i work, i work. i can accomplish as much in a couple of hours as many would do in a whole day. you see, i understand my customers. when soft sawder is wanted, i am soft sawder. when i am dealing with a plain, businesslike man, i talk in a plain, businesslike way. i study my man, and generally i succeed in striking him for an order, even if times are hard and he is already well stocked." "he certainly knows how to talk," thought luke. in fact, he was rather disposed to accept mr. coleman at his own valuation, though that was a very high one. "do you smoke?" "not at all." "not even a cigarette?" "not even a cigarette." "i was intending to ask you to go with me into the smoking-car for a short time. i smoke a good deal; it is my only vice. you know we must all have some vices." luke didn't see the necessity, but he assented, because it seemed to be expected. "i won't be gone long. you'd better come along, too, and smoke a cigarette. it is time you began to smoke. most boys begin much earlier." luke shook his head. "i don't care to learn," he said. "oh, you're a good boy--one of the sunday-school kind," said coleman, with a slight sneer. "you'll get over that after a while. you'll be here when i come back?" luke promised that he would, and for the next half hour he was left alone. as his friend mr. coleman left the car, he followed him with his glance, and surveyed him more attentively than he had hitherto done. the commercial traveler was attired in a suit of fashionable plaid, wore a showy necktie, from the center of which blazed a diamond scarfpin. a showy chain crossed his vest, and to it was appended a large and showy watch, which looked valuable, though appearances are sometimes deceitful. "he must spend a good deal of money," thought luke. "i wonder that he should be willing to go to a two-dollar-a-day hotel." luke, for his own part, was quite willing to go to the ottawa house. he had never fared luxuriously, and he had no doubt that even at the ottawa house he should live better than at home. it was nearer an hour than half an hour before coleman came back. "i stayed away longer than i intended," he said. "i smoked three cigars, instead of one, seeing you wasn't with me to keep me company. i found some social fellows, and we had a chat." mr. coleman absented himself once or twice more. finally, the train ran into the depot, and the conductor called out, "chicago!" "come along, luke!" said coleman. the two left the car in company. coleman hailed a cab--gave the order, ottawa house--and in less than five minutes they were rattling over the pavements toward their hotel. chapter xxvi the ottawa house there was one little circumstance that led luke to think favorably of his new companion. as the hackman closed the door of the carriage, luke asked: "how much is the fare?" "fifty cents apiece, gentlemen," answered cabby. luke was about to put his hand into his pocket for the money, when coleman touching him on the arm, said: "never mind, luke, i have the money," and before our hero could expostulate he had thrust a dollar into the cab-driver's hand. "all right, thanks," said the driver, and slammed to the door. "you must let me repay you my part of the fare, mr. coleman," said luke, again feeling for his pocketbook. "oh, it's a mere trifle!" said coleman. "i'll let you pay next time, but don't be so ceremonious with a friend." "but i would rather pay for myself," objected luke. "oh, say no more about it, i beg. claflin provides liberally for my expenses. it's all right." "but i don't want claflin to pay for me." "then i assure you i'll get it out of you before we part. will that content you?" luke let the matter drop, but he didn't altogether like to find himself under obligations to a stranger, notwithstanding his assurance, which he took for a joke. he would have been surprised and startled if he had known how thoroughly coleman meant what he said about getting even. the fifty cents he had with such apparent generosity paid out for luke he meant to get back a hundred-fold. his object was to gain luke's entire confidence, and remove any suspicion he might possibly entertain. in this respect he was successful. luke had read about designing strangers, but he certainly could not suspect a man who insisted on paying his hack fare. "i hope you will not be disappointed in the ottawa house," observed mr. coleman, as they rattled through the paved streets. "it isn't a stylish hotel." "i am not used to stylish living," said luke, frankly. "i have always been used to living in a very plain way." "when i first went on the road i used to stop at the tip-top houses, such as the palmer at chicago, the russell house in detroit, etc., but it's useless extravagance. claflin allows me a generous sum for hotels, and if i go to a cheap one, i put the difference into my own pocket." "is that expected?" asked luke, doubtfully. "it's allowed, at any rate. no one can complain if i choose to live a little plainer. when it pays in the way of business to stop at a big hotel, i do so. of course, your boss pays your expenses?" "yes." "then you'd better do as i do--put the difference in your own pocket." "i shouldn't like to do that." "why not? it is evident you are a new traveler, or you would know that it is a regular thing." luke did not answer, but he adhered to his own view. he meant to keep a careful account of his disbursements and report to mr. armstrong, without the addition of a single penny. he had no doubt that he should be paid liberally for his time, and he didn't care to make anything by extra means. the ottawa house was nearly a mile and a half distant. it was on one of the lower streets, near the lake. it was a plain building with accommodations for perhaps a hundred and fifty guests. this would be large for a country town or small city, but it indicated a hotel of the third class in chicago. i may as well say here, however, that it was a perfectly respectable and honestly conducted hotel, notwithstanding it was selected by mr. coleman, who could not with truth be complimented so highly. i will also add that mr. coleman's selection of the ottawa, in place of a more pretentious hotel, arose from the fear that in the latter he might meet someone who knew him, and who would warn luke of his undesirable reputation. jumping out of the hack, j. madison coleman led the way into the hotel, and, taking pen in hand, recorded his name in large, flourishing letters--as from new york. then he handed the pen to luke, who registered himself also from new york. "give us a room together," he said to the clerk. luke did not altogether like this arrangement, but hardly felt like objecting. he did not wish to hurt the feelings of j. madison coleman, yet he considered that, having known him only six hours, it was somewhat imprudent to allow such intimacy. but he who hesitates is lost, and before luke had made up his mind whether to object or not, he was already part way upstairs--there was no elevator--following the bellboy, who carried his luggage. the room, which was on the fourth floor, was of good size, and contained two beds. so far so good. after the ride he wished to wash and put on clean clothes. mr. coleman did not think this necessary, and saying to luke that he would find him downstairs, he left our hero alone. "i wish i had a room alone," thought luke. "i should like it much better, but i don't want to offend coleman. i've got eighty dollars in my pocketbook, and though, of course, he is all right, i don't want to take any risks." on the door he read the regulations of the hotel. one item attracted his attention. it was this: "the proprietors wish distinctly to state that they will not be responsible for money or valuables unless left with the clerk to be deposited in the safe." luke had not been accustomed to stopping at hotels, and did not know that this was the usual custom. it struck him, however, as an excellent arrangement, and he resolved to avail himself of it. when he went downstairs he didn't see mr. coleman. "your friend has gone out," said the clerk. "he wished me to say that he would be back in half an hour." "all right," answered luke. "can i leave my pocketbook with you?" "certainly." the clerk wrapped it up in a piece of brown paper and put it away in the safe at the rear of the office, marking it with luke's name and the number of his room. "there, that's safe!" thought luke, with a feeling of relief. he had reserved about three dollars, as he might have occasion to spend a little money in the course of the evening. if he were robbed of this small amount it would not much matter. a newsboy came in with an evening paper. luke bought a copy and sat down on a bench in the office, near a window. he was reading busily, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. looking up, he saw that it was his roommate, j. madison coleman. "i've just been taking a little walk," he said, "and now i am ready for dinner. if you are, too, let us go into the dining-room." luke was glad to accept this proposal, his long journey having given him a good appetite. chapter xxvii coleman acts suspiciously after dinner, coleman suggested a game of billiards, but as this was a game with which luke was not familiar, he declined the invitation, but went into the billiard-room and watched a game between his new acquaintance and a stranger. coleman proved to be a very good player, and won the game. after the first game coleman called for drinks, and invited luke to join them. "thank you," answered luke, "but i never drink." "oh, i forgot; you're a good boy," said coleman. "well, i'm no puritan. whisky straight for me." luke was not in the least troubled by the sneer conveyed in coleman's words. he was not altogether entitled to credit for refusing to drink, having not the slightest taste for strong drink of any kind. about half-past seven coleman put up his cue, saying: "that'll do for me. now, luke, suppose we take a walk." luke was quite ready, not having seen anything of chicago as yet. they strolled out, and walked for an hour. coleman, to do him justice, proved an excellent guide, and pointed out whatever they passed which was likely to interest his young companion. but at last he seemed to be tired. "it's only half-past eight," he said, referring to his watch. "i'll drop into some theater. it is the best way to finish up the evening." "then i'll go back to the hotel," said luke. "i feel tired, and mean to go to bed early." "you'd better spend an hour or two in the theater with me." "no, i believe not. i prefer a good night's rest." "do you mind my leaving you?" "not at all." "can you find your way back to the hotel alone?" "if you'll direct me, i think i can find it." the direction was given, and coleman was turning off, when, as if it had just occurred to him, he said: "by the way, can you lend me a five? i've nothing less than a fifty-dollar bill with me, and i don't want to break that." luke congratulated himself now that he had left the greater part of his money at the hotel. "i can let you have a dollar," he said. coleman shrugged his shoulders, but answered: "all right; let me have the one." luke did so, and felt now that he had more than repaid the fifty cents his companion had paid for hack fare. though coleman had professed to have nothing less than fifty, luke knew that he had changed a five-dollar bill at the hotel in paying for the drinks, and must have over four dollars with him in small bills and change. "why, then," thought he, "did coleman want to borrow five dollars of me?" if luke had known more of the world he would have understood that it was only one of the tricks to which men like coleman resort to obtain a loan, or rather a gift, from an unsuspecting acquaintance. "i suppose i shall not see my money back," thought luke. "well, it will be the last that he will get out of me." he was already becoming tired of his companion, and doubted whether he would not find the acquaintance an expensive one. he was sorry that they were to share the same room. however, it was for one night only, and to-morrow he was quite resolved to part company. shortly after nine o'clock luke went to bed, and being fatigued with his long journey, was soon asleep. he was still sleeping at twelve o'clock, when coleman came home. coleman came up to his bed and watched him attentively. "the kid's asleep," he soliloquized. "he's one of the good sunday-school boys. i can imagine how shocked he would be if he knew that, instead of being a traveler for h. b. claflin, i have been living by my wits for the last half-dozen years. he seems to be half asleep. i think i can venture to explore a little." he took luke's trousers from the chair on which he had laid them, and thrust his fingers into the pockets, but brought forth only a penknife and a few pennies. "he keeps his money somewhere else, it seems," said coleman. next he turned to the vest, and from the inside vest pocket drew out luke's modest pocketbook. "oh, here we have it," thought coleman, with a smile. "cunning boy; he thought nobody would think of looking in his vest pocket. well, let us see how much he has got." he opened the pocketbook, and frowned with disappointment when he discovered only a two-dollar bill. "what does it mean? surely he hasn't come to chicago with only this paltry sum!" exclaimed coleman. "he must be more cunning than i thought." he looked in the coat pockets, the shoes, and even the socks of his young companion, but found nothing, except the silver watch, which luke had left in one of his vest pockets. "confound the boy! he's foiled me this time!" muttered coleman. "shall i take the watch? no; it might expose me, and i could not raise much on it at the pawnbroker's. he must have left his money with the clerk downstairs. he wouldn't think of it himself, but probably he was advised to do so before he left home. i'll get up early, and see if i can't get in ahead of my young friend." coleman did not venture to take the two-dollar bill, as that would have induced suspicion on the part of luke, and would have interfered with his intention of securing the much larger sum of money, which, as he concluded rightly, was in the safe in the office. he undressed and got into bed, but not without observation. as he was bending over luke's clothes, examining them, our hero's eyes suddenly opened, and he saw what was going on. it flashed upon him at once what kind of a companion he had fallen in with, but he had the wisdom and self-control to close his eyes again immediately. he reflected that there was not much that coleman could take, and if he took the watch he resolved to charge him openly with it. to make a disturbance there and then might be dangerous, as coleman, who was much stronger than he, might ill-treat and abuse him, without his being able to offer any effectual resistance. chapter xxviii coleman's little plan though coleman went to bed late, he awoke early. he had the power of awaking at almost any hour that he might fix. he was still quite fatigued, but having an object in view, overcame his tendency to lie longer, and swiftly dressing himself, went downstairs. luke was still sleeping, and did not awaken while his companion was dressing. coleman went downstairs and strolled up to the clerk's desk, "you're up early," said that official. "yes, it's a great nuisance, but i have a little business to attend to with a man who leaves chicago by an early train. i tried to find him last night, but he had probably gone to some theater. that is what has forced me to get up so early this morning." "i am always up early," said the clerk. "then you are used to it, and don't mind it. it is different with me." coleman bought a cigar, and while he was lighting it, remarked, as if incidentally: "by the way, did my young friend leave my money with you last evening?" "he left a package of money with me, but he didn't mention it was yours." "forgot to, i suppose. i told him to leave it here, as i was going out to the theater, and was afraid i might have my pocket picked. smart fellows, those pickpockets. i claim to be rather smart myself, but there are some of them smart enough to get ahead of me. "i was relieved of my pocketbook containing over two hundred dollars in money once. by jove! i was mad enough to knock the fellow's head off, if i had caught him." "it is rather provoking." "i think i'll trouble you to hand me the money the boy left with you, as i have to use some this morning." mr. coleman spoke in an easy, off-hand way, that might have taken in some persons, but hotel clerks are made smart by their positions. "i am sorry, mr. coleman," said the clerk, "but i can only give it back to the boy." "i commend your caution, my friend," said coleman, "but i can assure you that it's all right. i sent it back by luke when i was going to the theater, and i meant, of course, to have him give my name with it. however, he is not used to business, and so forgot it." "when did you hand it to him?" asked the clerk, with newborn suspicion. "about eight o'clock. no doubt he handed it in as soon as he came back to the hotel." "how much was there?" this question posed mr. coleman, as he had no idea how much money luke had with him. "i can't say exactly," he answered. "i didn't count it. there might have been seventy-five dollars, though perhaps the sum fell a little short of that." "i can't give you the money, mr. coleman," said the clerk, briefly. "i have no evidence that it is yours." "really, that's ludicrous," said coleman, with a forced laugh. "you don't mean to doubt me, i hope," and madison coleman drew himself up haughtily. "that has nothing to do with it. the rule of this office is to return money only to the person who deposited it with us. if we adopted any other rule, we should get into no end of trouble." "but, my friend," said coleman, frowning, "you are putting me to great inconvenience. i must meet my friend in twenty minutes and pay him a part of this money." "i have nothing to do with that," said the clerk. "you absolutely refuse, then?" "i do," answered the clerk, firmly. "however, you can easily overcome the difficulty by bringing the boy down here to authorize me to hand you the money." "it seems to me that you have plenty of red tape here," said coleman, shrugging his shoulders. "however, i must do as you require." coleman had a bright thought, which he proceeded to carry into execution. he left the office and went upstairs. he was absent long enough to visit the chamber which he and luke had occupied together. then he reported to the office again. "the boy is not dressed," he said, cheerfully. "however, he has given me an order for the money, which, of course, will do as well." he handed a paper, the loose leaf of a memorandum book, on which were written in pencil these words: "give my guardian, mr. coleman, the money i left on deposit at the office. luke larkin." "that makes it all right, doesn't it?" asked coleman, jauntily. "now, if you'll be kind enough to hand me my money at once, i'll be off." "it won't do, mr. coleman," said the clerk. "how am i to know that the boy wrote this?" "don't you see his signature?" the clerk turned to the hotel register, where luke had enrolled his name. "the handwriting is not the same," he said, coldly. "oh, confound it!" exclaimed coleman, testily. "can't you understand that writing with a pencil makes a difference?" "i understand," said the clerk, "that you are trying to get money that does not belong to you. the money was deposited a couple of hours sooner than the time you claim to have handed it to the boy--just after you and the boy arrived." "you're right," said coleman, unabashed. "i made a mistake." "you cannot have the money." "you have no right to keep it from me," said coleman, wrathfully. "bring the boy to the office and it shall be delivered to him; then, if he chooses to give it to you, i have nothing to say." "but i tell you he is not dressed." "he seems to be," said the clerk, quietly, with a glance at the door, through which luke was just entering. coleman's countenance changed. he was now puzzled for a moment. then a bold plan suggested itself. he would charge luke with having stolen the money from him. chapter xxix mr. coleman is foiled in his attempt luke looked from coleman to the clerk in some surprise. he saw from their looks that they were discussing some matter which concerned him. "you left some money in my charge yesterday, mr. larkin," said the clerk. "yes." "your friend here claims it. am i to give it to him?" luke's eyes lighted up indignantly. "what does this mean, mr. coleman?" he demanded, sternly. "it means," answered coleman, throwing off the mask, "that the money is mine, and that you have no right to it." if luke had not witnessed coleman's search of his pockets during the night, he would have been very much astonished at this brazen statement. as it was, he had already come to the conclusion that his railroad acquaintance was a sharper. "i will trouble you to prove your claim to it," said luke, not at all disturbed by coleman's impudent assertion. "i gave it to you yesterday to place in the safe. i did not expect you would put it in in your own name," continued coleman, with brazen hardihood. "when did you hand it to me?" asked luke, calmly. "when we first went up into the room." this change in his original charge coleman made in consequence of learning the time of the deposit. "this is an utter falsehood!" exclaimed luke, indignantly. "take care, young fellow!" blustered coleman. "your reputation for honesty isn't of the best. i don't like to expose you, but a boy who has served a three months' term in the penitentiary had better be careful how he acts." luke's breath was quite taken away by this unexpected attack. the clerk began to eye him with suspicion, so confident was coleman's tone. "mr. lawrence," said luke, for he had learned the clerk's name, "will you allow me a word in private?" "i object to this," said coleman, in a blustering tone. "whatever you have to say you can say before me." "yes," answered the clerk, who did not like coleman's bullying tone, "i will hear what you have to say." he led the way into an adjoining room, and assumed an air of attention. "this man is a stranger to me," luke commenced. "i saw him yesterday afternoon for the first time in my life." "but he says he is your guardian." "he is no more my guardian than you are. indeed, i would much sooner select you." "how did you get acquainted?" "he introduced himself to me as a traveler for h. b. claflin, of new york. i did not doubt his statement at the time, but now i do, especially after what happened in the night." "what was that?" asked the clerk, pricking up his ears. luke went on to describe coleman's search of his pockets. "did you say anything?" "no. i wished to see what he was after. as i had left nearly all my money with you, i was not afraid of being robbed." "i presume your story is correct. in fact, i detected him in a misstatement as to the time of giving you the money. but i don't want to get into trouble." "ask him how much money i deposited with you," suggested luke. "he has no idea, and will have to guess." "i have asked him the question once, but will do so again." the clerk returned to the office with luke. coleman eyed them uneasily, as if he suspected them of having been engaged in a conspiracy against him. "well," he said, "are you going to give me my money?" "state the amount," said the clerk, in a businesslike manner. "i have already told you that i can't state exactly. i handed the money to luke without counting it." "you must have some idea, at any rate," said the clerk. "of course i have. there was somewhere around seventy-five dollars." this he said with a confidence which he did not feel, for it was, of course, a mere guess. "you are quite out in your estimate, mr. coleman. it is evident to me that you have made a false claim. you will oblige me by settling your bill and leaving the hotel." "do you think i will submit to such treatment?" demanded coleman, furiously. "i think you'll have to," returned the clerk, quietly. "you can go in to breakfast, if you like, but you must afterward leave the hotel. john," this to a bellboy, "go up to number forty-seven and bring down this gentleman's luggage." "you and the boy are in a conspiracy against me!" exclaimed coleman, angrily. "i have a great mind to have you both arrested!" "i advise you not to attempt it. you may get into trouble." coleman apparently did think better of it. half an hour later he left the hotel, and luke found himself alone. he decided that he must be more circumspect hereafter. chapter xxx a discovery luke was in chicago, but what to do next he did not know. he might have advertised in one or more of the chicago papers for james harding, formerly in the employ of john armstrong, of new york, but if this should come to the knowledge of the party who had appropriated the bonds, it might be a revelation of the weakness of the case against them. again, he might apply to a private detective, but if he did so, the case would pass out of his hands. luke had this piece of information to start upon. he had been informed that harding left mr. armstrong's employment june , , and, as was supposed, at once proceeded west. if he could get hold of a file of some chicago daily paper for the week succeeding, he might look over the last arrivals, and ascertain at what hotel harding had stopped. this would be something. "where can i examine a file of some chicago daily paper for , mr. lawrence?" he asked of the clerk. "right here," answered the clerk. "mr. goth, the landlord, has a file of the times for the last ten years." "would he let me examine the volume for ?" asked luke, eagerly. "certainly. i am busy just now, but this afternoon i will have the papers brought down to the reading-room." he was as good as his word, and at three o'clock in the afternoon luke sat down before a formidable pile of papers, and began his task of examination. he began with the paper bearing date june , and examined that and the succeeding papers with great care. at length his search was rewarded. in the paper for june luke discovered the name of james harding, and, what was a little singular, he was registered at the ottawa house. luke felt quite exultant at this discovery. it might not lead to anything, to be sure, but still it was an encouragement, and seemed to augur well for his ultimate success. he went with his discovery to his friend the clerk. "were you here in june, , mr. lawrence?" he asked. "yes. i came here in april of that year." "of course, you could hardly be expected to remember a casual guest?" "i am afraid not. what is his name?" "james harding." "james harding! yes, i do remember him, and for a very good reason. he took a very severe cold on the way from new york, and he lay here in the hotel sick for two weeks. he was an elderly man, about fifty-five, i should suppose." "that answers to the description given me. do you know where he went to from here?" "there you have me. i can't give you any information on that point." luke began to think that his discovery would lead to nothing. "stay, though," said the clerk, after a moment's thought. "i remember picking up a small diary in mr. harding's room after he left us. i didn't think it of sufficient value to forward to him, nor indeed did i know exactly where to send." "can you show me the diary?" asked luke, hopefully. "yes. i have it upstairs in my chamber. wait five minutes and i will get it for you." a little later a small, black-covered diary was put in luke's hand. he opened it eagerly, and began to examine the items jotted down. it appeared partly to note down daily expenses, but on alternate pages there were occasional memorandums. about the fifteenth of may appeared this sentence: "i have reason to think that my sister, mrs. ellen ransom, is now living in franklin, minnesota. she is probably in poor circumstances, her husband having died in poverty a year since. we two are all that is left of a once large family, and now that i am shortly to retire from business with a modest competence, i feel it will be alike my duty and my pleasure to join her, and do what i can to make her comfortable. she has a boy who must now be about twelve years old." "come," said luke, triumphantly, "i am making progress decidedly. my first step will be to go to franklin, minnesota, and look up mr. harding and his sister. after all, i ought to be grateful to mr. coleman, notwithstanding his attempt to rob me. but for him i should never have come to the ottawa house, and thus i should have lost an important clue." luke sat down immediately and wrote to mr. armstrong, detailing the discovery he had made--a letter which pleased his employer, and led him to conclude that he had made a good choice in selecting luke for this confidential mission. the next day luke left chicago and journeyed by the most direct route to franklin, minnesota. he ascertained that it was forty miles distant from st. paul, a few miles off the railroad. the last part of the journey was performed in a stage, and was somewhat wearisome. he breathed a sigh of relief when the stage stopped before the door of a two-story inn with a swinging sign, bearing the name franklin house. luke entered his name on the register and secured a room. he decided to postpone questions till he had enjoyed a good supper and felt refreshed. then he went out to the desk and opened a conversation with the landlord, or rather submitted first to answering a series of questions propounded by that gentleman. "you're rather young to be travelin' alone, my young friend," said the innkeeper. "yes, sir." "where might you be from?" "from new york." "then you're a long way from home. travelin' for your health?" "no," answered luke, with a smile. "i have no trouble with my health." "you do look pretty rugged, that's a fact. goin' to settle down in our state?" "i think not." "i reckon you're not travelin' on business? you're too young for a drummer." "the fact is, i am in search of a family that i have been told lives, or used to live, in franklin." "what's the name?" "the lady is a mrs. ransom. i wish to see her brother-in-law, mr. james harding." "sho! you'll have to go farther to find them." "don't they live here now?" asked luke, disappointed. "no; they moved away six months ago." "do you know where they went?" asked luke, eagerly. "not exactly. you see, there was a great stir about gold being plenty in the black hills, and mr. harding, though he seemed to be pretty well fixed, thought he wouldn't mind pickin' up a little. he induced his sister to go with him--that is, her boy wanted to go, and so she, not wantin' to be left alone, concluded to go, too." "so they went to the black hills. do you think it would be hard to find them?" "no; james harding is a man that's likely to be known wherever he is. just go to where the miners are thickest, and i allow you'll find him." luke made inquiries, and ascertaining the best way of reaching the black hills, started the next day. "if i don't find james harding, it's because i can't," he said to himself resolutely. chapter xxxi tony denton's call leaving luke on his way to the black hills, we will go back to groveton, to see how matters are moving on there. tony denton had now the excuse he sought for calling upon prince duncan. ostensibly, his errand related to the debt which randolph had incurred at his saloon, but really he had something more important to speak of. it may be remarked that squire duncan, who had a high idea of his own personal importance, looked upon denton as a low and insignificant person, and never noticed him when they met casually in the street. it is difficult to play the part of an aristocrat in a country village, but that is the role which prince duncan assumed. had he been a prince in reality, as he was by name, he could not have borne himself more loftily when he came face to face with those whom he considered his inferiors. when, in answer to the bell, the servant at squire duncan's found tony denton standing on the doorstep, she looked at him in surprise. "is the squire at home?" asked the saloon keeper. "i believe so," said the girl, doubtfully. "i would like to see him. say mr. denton wishes to see him on important business." the message was delivered. "mr. denton!" repeated the squire, in surprise. "is it tony denton?" "yes, sir." "what can he wish to see me about?" "he says it's business of importance, sir." "well, bring him in." prince duncan assumed his most important attitude and bearing when his visitor entered his presence. "mr.--ahem!--denton, i believe?" he said, as if he found difficulty in recognizing tony. "the same." "i am--ahem!--surprised to hear that you have any business with me." "yet so it is, squire duncan," said tony, not perceptibly overawed by the squire's grand manner. "elucidate it!" said prince duncan, stiffly. "you may not be aware, squire duncan, that your son randolph has for some time frequented my billiard saloon and has run up a sum of twenty-seven dollars." "i was certainly not aware of it. had i been, i should have forbidden his going there. it is no proper place for my son to frequent." "well, i don't know about that. it's respectable enough, i guess. at any rate, he seemed to like it, and at his request, for he was not always provided with money, i trusted him till his bill comes to twenty-seven dollars--" "you surely don't expect me to pay it!" said the squire, coldly. "he is a minor, as you very well know, and when you trusted him you knew you couldn't legally collect your claim." "well, squire, i thought i'd take my chances," said tony, carelessly. "i didn't think you'd be willing to have him owing bills around the village. you're a gentleman, and i was sure you'd settle the debt." "then, sir, you made a very great mistake. such bills as that i do not feel called upon to pay. was it all incurred for billiards?" "no; a part of it was for drinks." "worse and worse! how can you have the face to come here, mr. denton, and tell me that?" "i don't think it needs any face, squire. it's an honest debt." "you deliberately entrapped my son, and lured him into your saloon, where he met low companions, and squandered his money and time in drinking and low amusements." "come, squire, you're a little too fast. billiards ain't low. did you ever see schaefer and vignaux play?" "no, sir; i take no interest in the game. in coming here you have simply wasted your time. you will get no money from me." "then you won't pay your son's debt?" asked tony denton. "no." instead of rising to go, tony denton kept his seat. he regarded squire duncan attentively. "i am sorry, sir," said prince duncan, impatiently. "i shall have to cut short this interview." "i will detain you only five minutes, sir. have you ascertained who robbed the bank?" "i have no time for gossip. no, sir." "i suppose you would welcome any information on the subject?" duncan looked at his visitor now with sharp attention. "do you know anything about it?" he asked. "well, perhaps i do." "were you implicated in it?" was the next question. tony denton smiled a peculiar smile. "no, i wasn't," he answered. "if i had been, i don't think i should have called upon you about the matter. but--i think i know who robbed the bank." "who, then?" demanded the squire, with an uneasy look. tony denton rose from his chair, advanced to the door, which was a little ajar, and closed it. then he resumed. "one night late--it was after midnight--i was taking a walk, having just closed my saloon, when it happened that my steps led by the bank. it was dark--not a soul probably in the village was awake save myself, when i saw the door of the bank open and a muffled figure came out with a tin box under his arm. i came closer, yet unobserved, and peered at the person. i recognized him." "you recognized him?" repeated the squire, mechanically, his face pale and drawn. "yes; do you want to know who it was?" prince duncan stared at him, but did not utter a word. "it was you, the president of the bank!" continued denton. "nonsense, man!" said duncan, trying to regain his self-control. "it is not nonsense. i can swear to it." "i mean that it is nonsense about the robbery. i visited the bank to withdraw a box of my own." "of course you can make that statement before the court?" said tony denton, coolly. "but--but--you won't think of mentioning this circumstance?" muttered the squire. "will you pay randolph's bill?" "yes--yes; i'll draw a check at once." "so far, so good; but it isn't far enough. i want more." "you want more?" ejaculated the squire. "yes; i want a thousand-dollar government bond. it's cheap enough for such a secret." "but i haven't any bonds." "you can find me one," said tony, emphatically, "or i'll tell what i know to the directors. you see, i know more than that." "what do you know?" asked duncan, terrified. "i know that you disposed of a part of the bonds on wall street, to sharp & ketchum. i stood outside when you were up in their office." great beads of perspiration gathered upon the banker's brow. this blow was wholly unexpected, and he was wholly unprepared for it. he made a feeble resistance, but in the end, when tony denton left the house he had a thousand-dollar bond carefully stowed away in an inside pocket, and squire duncan was in such a state of mental collapse that he left his supper untasted. randolph was very much surprised when he learned that his father had paid his bill at the billiard saloon, and still more surprised that the squire made very little fuss about it. chapter xxxii on the way to the black hills just before luke started for the black hills, he received the following letter from his faithful friend linton. it was sent to new york to the care of mr. reed, and forwarded, it not being considered prudent to have it known at groveton where he was. "dear luke," the letter commenced, "it seems a long time since i have seen you, and i can truly say that i miss you more than i would any other boy in groveton. i wonder where you are--your mother does not seem to know. she only knows you are traveling for mr. reed. "there is not much news. groveton, you know, is a quiet place. i see randolph every day. he seems very curious to know where you are. i think he is disturbed because you have found employment elsewhere. he professes to think that you are selling newspapers in new york, or tending a peanut stand, adding kindly that it is all you are fit for. i have heard a rumor that he was often to be seen playing billiards at tony denton's, but i don't know whether it is true. i sometimes think it would do him good to become a poor boy and have to work for a living. "we are going to orchard beach next summer, as usual, and in the fall mamma may take me to europe to stay a year to learn the french language. won't that be fine? i wish you could go with me, but i am afraid you can't sell papers or peanuts enough--which is it?--to pay expenses. how long are you going to be away? i shall be glad to see you back, and so will florence grant, and all your other friends, of whom you have many in groveton. write soon to your affectionate friend, "linton." this letter quite cheered up luke, who, in his first absence from home, naturally felt a little lonely at times. "linny is a true friend," he said. "he is just as well off as randolph, but never puts on airs. he is as popular as randolph is unpopular. i wish i could go to europe with him." upon the earlier portions of luke's journey to the black hills we need not dwell. the last hundred or hundred and fifty miles had to be traversed in a stage, and this form of traveling luke found wearisome, yet not without interest. there was a spice of danger, too, which added excitement, if not pleasure, to the trip. the black hills stage had on more than one occasion been stopped by highwaymen and the passengers robbed. the thought that this might happen proved a source of nervous alarm to some, of excitement to others. luke's fellow passengers included a large, portly man, a merchant from some western city; a clergyman with a white necktie, who was sent out by some missionary society to start a church at the black hills; two or three laboring men, of farmerlike appearance, who were probably intending to work in the mines; one or two others, who could not be classified, and a genuine dude, as far as appearance went, a slender-waisted, soft-voiced young man, dressed in the latest style, who spoke with a slight lisp. he hailed from the city of new york, and called himself mortimer plantagenet sprague. as next to himself, luke was the youngest passenger aboard the stage, and sat beside him, the two became quite intimate. in spite of his affected manners and somewhat feminine deportment, luke got the idea that mr. sprague was not wholly destitute of manly traits, if occasion should call for their display. one day, as they were making three miles an hour over a poor road, the conversation fell upon stage robbers. "what would you do, colonel braddon," one passenger asked of the western merchant, "if the stage were stopped by a gang of ruffians?" "shoot 'em down like dogs, sir," was the prompt reply. "if passengers were not so cowardly, stages would seldom be robbed." all the passengers regarded the valiant colonel with admiring respect, and congratulated themselves that they had with them so doughty a champion in case of need. "for my part," said the missionary, "i am a man of peace, and i must perforce submit to these men of violence, if they took from me the modest allowance furnished by the society for traveling expenses." "no doubt, sir," said colonel braddon. "you are a minister, and men of your profession are not expected to fight. as for my friend mr. sprague," and he directed the attention of the company derisively to the new york dude, "he would, no doubt, engage the robbers single-handed." "i don't know," drawled mortimer sprague. "i am afraid i couldn't tackle more than two, don't you know." there was a roar of laughter, which did not seem to disturb mr. sprague. he did not seem to be at all aware that his companions were laughing at him. "perhaps, with the help of my friend, mr. larkin," he added, "i might be a match for three." there was another burst of laughter, in which luke could not help joining. "i am afraid i could not help you much, mr. sprague," he said. "i think, mr. sprague," said colonel braddon, "that you and i will have to do the fighting if any attack is made. if our friend the minister had one of his sermons with him, perhaps that would scare away the highwaymen." "it would not be the first time they have had an effect on godless men," answered the missionary, mildly, and there was another laugh, this time at the colonel's expense. "what takes you to the black hills, my young friend?" asked colonel braddon, addressing luke. other passengers awaited luke's reply with interest. it was unusual to find a boy of sixteen traveling alone in that region. "i hope to make some money," answered luke, smiling. "i suppose that is what we are all after." he didn't think it wise to explain his errand fully. "are you going to dig for gold, mr. larkin?" asked mortimer sprague. "it's awfully dirty, don't you know, and must be dreadfully hard on the back." "probably i am more used to hard work than you, mr. sprague," answered luke. "i never worked in my life," admitted the dude. "i really don't know a shovel from a hoe." "then, if i may be permitted to ask," said colonel braddon, "what leads you to the black hills, mr. sprague?" "i thought i'd better see something of the country, you know. besides, i had a bet with another feller about whether the hills were weally black, or not. i bet him a dozen bottles of champagne that they were not black, after all." this statement was received with a round of laughter, which seemed to surprise mr. sprague, who gazed with mild wonder at his companions, saying: "weally, i can't see what you fellers are laughing at. i thought i'd better come myself, because the other feller might be color-blind, don't you know." here mr. sprague rubbed his hands and looked about him to see if his joke was appreciated. "it seems to me that the expense of your journey will foot up considerably more than a dozen bottles of champagne," said one of the passengers. "weally, i didn't think of that. you've got a great head, old fellow. after all, a feller's got to be somewhere, and, by jove!-- what's that?" this ejaculation was produced by the sudden sinking of the two left wheels in the mire in such a manner that the ponderous colonel braddon was thrown into mr. sprague's lap. "you see, i had to go somewhere," said braddon, humorously. "weally, i hope we sha'n't get mixed," gasped sprague. "if it's all the same to you, i'd rather sit in your lap." "just a little incident of travel, my dear sir," said braddon, laughing, as he resumed his proper seat. "i should call it rather a large incident," said mr. sprague, recovering his breath. "i suppose," said braddon, who seemed rather disposed to chaff his slender traveling companion, "if you like the black hills; you may buy one of them." "i may," answered mr. sprague, letting his glance rest calmly on his big companion. "suppose we buy one together." colonel braddon laughed, but felt that his joke had not been successful. the conversation languished after awhile. it was such hard work riding in a lumbering coach, over the most detestable roads, that the passengers found it hard to be sociable. but a surprise was in store. the coach made a sudden stop. two horsemen appeared at the window, and a stern voice said: "we'll trouble you to get out, gentlemen. we'll take charge of what money and valuables you have about you." chapter xxxiii two unexpected champions it may well be imagined that there was a commotion among the passengers when this stern summons was heard. the highwaymen were but two in number, but each was armed with a revolver, ready for instant use. one by one the passengers descended from the stage, and stood trembling and panic-stricken in the presence of the masked robbers. there seems to be something in a mask which inspires added terror, though it makes the wearers neither stronger nor more effective. luke certainly felt startled and uncomfortable, for he felt that he must surrender the money he had with him, and this would be inconvenient, though the loss would not be his, but his employer's. but, singularly enough, the passenger who seemed most nervous and terrified was the stalwart colonel braddon, who had boasted most noisily of what he would do in case the stage were attacked. he nervously felt in his pockets for his money, his face pale and ashen, and said, imploringly: "spare my life, gentlemen; i will give you all i have." "all right, old man," said one of the stage robbers, as he took the proffered pocketbook. "haven't you any more money?" "no; on my honor, gentlemen. it will leave me penniless." "hand over your watch." with a groan, colonel braddon handed over a gold stem-winder, of waltham make. "couldn't you leave me the watch, gentlemen?" he said, imploringly. "it was a present to me last christmas." "can't spare it. make your friends give you another." next came the turn of mortimer sprague, the young dude. "hand over your spondulics, young feller," said the second gentleman of the road. "weally, i'm afraid i can't, without a good deal of twouble." "oh, curse the trouble; do as i bid, or i'll break your silly head." "you see, gentlemen, i keep my money in my boots, don't you know." "take off your boots, then, and be quick about it." "i can't; that is, without help. they're awfully tight, don't you know." "which boot is your money in?" asked the road agent, impatiently. "the right boot." "hold it up, then, and i'll help you." the road agent stooped over, not suspecting any danger, and in doing so laid down his revolver. in a flash mortimer sprague electrified not only his assailants, but all the stage passengers, by producing a couple of revolvers, which he pointed at the two road agents, and in a stern voice, wholly unlike the affected tones in which he had hitherto spoken, said: "get out of here, you ruffians, or i'll fire!" the startled road agent tried to pick up his revolver, but sprague instantly put his foot on it, and repeated the command. the other road agent, who was occupied with the minister, turned to assist his comrade, when he, too, received a check from an unexpected source. the minister, who was an old man, had a stout staff, which he used to guide him in his steps. he raised it and brought it down with emphasis on the arm which held the revolver, exclaiming. "the sword of the lord and of gideon! i smite thee, thou bold, bad man, not in anger, but as an instrument of retribution." "well done, reverend doctor!" exclaimed mortimer sprague. "between us we will lay the rascals out!" luke, who was close at hand, secured the fallen revolver be fore the road agent's arm had got over tingling with the paralyzing blow dealt by the minister, who, in spite of his advanced age, possessed a muscular arm. "now git, you two!" exclaimed mortimer sprague. "git, if you want to escape with whole bones!" never, perhaps, did two road agents look more foolish than these who had suffered such a sudden and humiliating discomfiture from those among the passengers whom they had feared least. the young dude and the old missionary had done battle for the entire stage-load of passengers, and vanquished the masked robbers, before whom the rest trembled. "stop!" said colonel braddon, with a sudden thought. "one of the rascals has got my pocketbook!" "which one?" asked mortimer. the colonel pointed him out. instantly the dude fired, and a bullet whistled within a few inches of the road agent's head. "drop that pocketbook!" he exclaimed, "or i'll send another messenger for it; that was only a warning!" with an execration the thoroughly terrified robber threw down the pocketbook, and the relieved owner hastened forward to pick it up. "i thought i'd fetch him, don't you know," said the dude, relapsing into his soft drawl. by this time both the road agents were at a safe distance, and the rescued passengers breathed more freely. "really, mr. sprague," said colonel braddon, pompously, "you are entitled to a great deal of credit for your gallant behavior; you did what i proposed to do. of course, i had to submit to losing my pocketbook, but i was just preparing to draw my revolver when you got the start of me." "if i'd only known it, colonel," drawled mr. sprague, "i'd have left the job for you. weally, it would have saved me a good deal of trouble. but i think the reverend doctor here is entitled to the thanks of the company. i never knew exactly what the sword of the lord and of gideon was before, but i see it means a good, stout stick." "i was speaking figuratively, my young friend," said the missionary "i am not sure but i have acted unprofessionally, but when i saw those men of violence despoiling us, i felt the natural man rise within me, and i smote him hip and thigh." "i thought you hit him on the arm, doctor," said mr. sprague. "again i spoke figuratively, my young friend. i cannot say i regret yielding to the impulse that moved me. i feel that i have helped to foil the plans of the wicked." "doctor," said one of the miners, "you've true grit. when you preach at the black hills, count me and my friends among the listeners. we're all willing to help along your new church, for you're one of the right sort." "my friends, i will gladly accept your kind proposal, but i trust it will not be solely because i have used this arm of flesh in your defense. mr. sprague and i have but acted as humble instruments in the hands of a higher power." "well, gentlemen," said colonel braddon, "i think we may as well get into the stage again and resume our journey." "what shall i do with this revolver?" asked luke, indicating the one he had picked up. "keep it," said the colonel. "you'll make better use of it than the rascal who lost it." "i've got an extra one here," said mortimer sprague, raising the one on which he had put his foot. "i don't need it myself, so i will offer it to the reverend doctor." the missionary shook his head. "i should not know how to use it," he said, "nor indeed am i sure that i should feel justified in doing so." "may i have it, sir?" asked one of the miners. "certainly, if you want it," said mr. sprague. "i couldn't afford to buy one; but i see that i shall need one out here." in five minutes the stage was again on its way, and no further adventures were met with. about the middle of the next day the party arrived at deadwood. chapter xxxiv fenton's gulch deadwood, at the time of luke's arrival, looked more like a mining camp than a town. the first settlers had neither the time nor the money to build elaborate dwellings. anything, however rough, that would provide a shelter, was deemed sufficient. luxury was not dreamed of, and even ordinary comforts were only partially supplied. luke put up at a rude hotel, and the next morning began to make inquiries for mr. harding. he ascertained that the person of whom he was in search had arrived not many weeks previous, accompanied by his sister. the latter, however, soon concluded that deadwood was no suitable residence for ladies, and had returned to her former home, or some place near by. mr. harding remained, with a view of trying his luck at the mines. the next point to be ascertained was to what mines he had directed his steps. this information was hard to obtain. finally, a man who had just returned to deadwood, hearing luke making inquiries of the hotel clerk, said: "i say, young chap, is the man you are after an old party over fifty, with gray hair and a long nose?" "i think that is the right description," said luke, eagerly. "can you tell me anything about him?" "the party i mean, he may be harding, or may be somebody else, is lying sick at fenton's gulch, about a day's journey from here--say twenty miles." "sick? what is the matter with him?" "he took a bad cold, and being an old man, couldn't stand it as well as if he were twenty years younger. i left him in an old cabin lying on a blanket, looking about as miserable as you would want to see. are you a friend of his?" "i am not acquainted with him," answered luke, "but i am sent out by a friend of his in the east. i am quite anxious to find him. can you give me directions?" "i can do better. i can guide you there. i only came to deadwood for some supplies, and i go back to-morrow morning." "if you will let me accompany you i will be very much obliged." "you can come with me and welcome. i shall be glad of your company. are you alone?" "yes." "seems to me you're rather a young chap to come out here alone." "i suppose i am," returned luke, smiling, "but there was no one else to come with me. if i find mr. harding, i shall be all right." "i can promise you that. it ain't likely he has got up from his sick-bed and left the mines. i reckon you'll find him flat on his back, as i left him." luke learned that his mining friend was known as jack baxter. he seemed a sociable and agreeable man, though rather rough in his outward appearance and manners. the next morning they started in company, and were compelled to travel all day. toward sunset they reached the place known as fenton's gulch. it was a wild and dreary-looking place, but had a good reputation for its yield of gold dust. "that's where you'll find the man you're after," said baxter, pointing to a dilapidated cabin, somewhat to the left of the mines. luke went up to the cabin, the door of which was open, and looked in. on a pallet in the corner lay a tall man, pale and emaciated. he heard the slight noise at the door, and without turning his head, said: "come in, friend, whoever you are." upon this, luke advanced into the cabin. "is this mr. james harding?" he asked. the sick man turned his head, and his glance rested with surprise upon the boy of sixteen who addressed him. "have i seen you before?" he asked. "no, sir. i have only just arrived at the gulch. you are mr. harding?" "yes, that is my name; but how did you know it?" "i am here in search of you, mr. harding." "how is that?" asked the sick man, quickly. "is my sister sick?" "not that i know of. i come from mr. armstrong, in new york." "you come from mr. armstrong?" repeated the sick man, in evident surprise. "have you any message for me from him?" "yes, but that can wait. i am sorry to find you sick. i hope that it is nothing serious." "it would not be serious if i were in a settlement where i could obtain a good doctor and proper medicines. everything is serious here. i have no care or attention, and no medicines." "do you feel able to get away from here? it would be better for you to be at deadwood than here." "if i had anyone to go with me, i might venture to start for deadwood." "i am at your service, mr. harding." the sick man looked at luke with a puzzled expression. "you are very kind," he said, after a pause. "what is your name?" "luke larkin." "and you know mr. armstrong?" "yes. i am his messenger." "but how came he to send a boy so far? it is not like him." luke laughed. "no doubt you think him unwise," he said. "the fact was, he took me for lack of a better. besides, the mission was a confidential one, and he thought he could trust me, young as i am." "you say you have a message for me?" queried harding. "yes!" "what is it?" "first, can i do something for your comfort? can't i get you some breakfast?" "the message first." "i will give it at once. do you remember purchasing some government bonds for mr. armstrong a short time before you left his employment?" "yes. what of them?" "have you preserved the numbers of the bonds?" luke inquired, anxiously. "why do you ask?" "because mr. armstrong has lost his list, and they have been stolen. till he learns the numbers, he will stand no chance of identifying or recovering them." "i am sure i have the numbers. feel in the pocket of my coat yonder, and you will find a wallet. take it out and bring it to me." luke obeyed directions. the sick man opened the wallet and began to examine the contents. finally he drew out a paper, which he unfolded. "here is the list. i was sure i had them." luke's eyes lighted up with exultation. it was clear that he had succeeded in his mission. he felt that he had justified the confidence which mr. armstrong had reposed in him, and that the outlay would prove not to have been wasted. "may i copy them?" he asked. "certainly, since you are the agent of mr. armstrong--or you may have the original paper." "i will copy them, so that if that paper is lost, i may still have the numbers. and now, what can i do for you?" the resources of fenton's gulch were limited, but luke succeeded in getting together materials for a breakfast for the sick man. the latter brightened up when he had eaten a sparing meal. it cheered him, also, to find that there was someone to whom he could look for friendly services. to make my story short, on the second day he felt able to start with luke for deadwood, which he reached without any serious effect, except a considerable degree of fatigue. arrived at deadwood, where there were postal facilities, luke lost no time in writing a letter to mr. armstrong, enclosing a list of the stolen bonds. he gave a brief account of the circumstances under which he had found mr. harding, and promised to return as soon as he could get the sick man back to his farm in minnesota. when this letter was received, roland reed was in the merchant's office. "look at that, mr. reed," said armstrong, triumphantly. "that boy is as smart as lightning. some people might have thought me a fool for trusting so young a boy, but the result has justified me. now my course is clear. with the help of these numbers i shall soon be able to trace the theft and convict the guilty party." chapter xxxv back in groveton meanwhile, some things occurred in groveton which require to be chronicled. since the visit of tony denton, and the knowledge that his secret was known, prince duncan had changed in manner and appearance. there was an anxious look upon his face, and a haggard look, which led some of his friends to think that his health was affected. indeed, this was true, for any mental disturbance is likely to affect the body. by way of diverting attention from the cause of this altered appearance, mr. duncan began to complain of overwork, and to hint that he might have to travel for his health. it occurred to him privately that circumstances might arise which would make it necessary for him to go to canada for a lengthened period. with his secret in the possession of such a man as tony denton, he could not feel safe. besides, he suspected the keeper of the billiard-room would not feel satisfied with the thousand-dollar bond he had extorted from him, but would, after awhile, call for more. in this he was right. scarcely a week had elapsed since his first visit, when the servant announced one morning that a man wished to see him. "do you know who it is, mary?" asked the squire. "yes, sir. it's tony denton." prince duncan's face contracted, and his heart sank within him. he would gladly have refused to see his visitor, but knowing the hold that tony had upon him, he did not dare offend him. "you may tell him to come in," he said, with a troubled look. "what can the master have to do with a man like that?" thought mary, wondering. "i wouldn't let him into the house if i was a squire." tony denton entered the room with an assumption of ease which was very disagreeable to mr. duncan. "i thought i'd call to see you, squire," he said. "take a seat, mr. denton," said the squire coldly. tony did not seem at all put out by the coldness of his reception. "i s'pose you remember what passed at our last meeting, mr. duncan," he said, in a jaunty way. "well, sir," responded prince duncan, in a forbidding tone. "we came to a little friendly arrangement, if you remember," continued denton. "well, sir, there is no need to refer to the matter now." "pardon me, squire, but i am obliged to keep to it." "why?" "because i've been unlucky??" "i suppose, mr. denton," said the squire haughtily, "you are capable of managing your own business. if you don't manage it well, and meet with losses, i certainly am not responsible, and i cannot understand why you bring the matter to me." "you see, squire," said tony, with a grin, "i look upon you as a friend, and so it is natural that i should come to you for advice." "i wish i dared kick the fellow out of the house," thought prince duncan. "he is a low scamp, and i don't like the reputation of having such visitors." under ordinary circumstances, and but for the secret which tony possessed, he would not have been suffered to remain in the squire's study five minutes, but conscience makes cowards of us all, and mr. duncan felt that he was no longer his own master. "i'll tell you about the bad luck, squire," tony resumed. "you know the bond you gave me the last time i called?" mr. duncan winced, and he did not reply. "i see you remember it. well, i thought i might have the luck to double it, so i went up to new york, and went to see one of them wall street brokers. i asked his advice, and he told me i'd better buy two hundred shares of some kind of stock, leaving the bond with him as margin. he said i was pretty sure to make a good deal of money, and i thought so myself. but the stock went down, and yesterday i got a letter from him, saying that the margin was all exhausted, and i must give him another, or he would sell out the stock." "mr. denton, you have been a fool!" exclaimed mr. duncan irritably. "you might have known that would be the result of your insane folly. you've lost your thousand dollars, and what have you got to show for it?" "you may be right, squire, but i don't want to let the matter end so. i want you to give me another bond." "you do, eh?" said duncan indignantly. "so you want to throw away another thousand dollars, do you?" "if i make good the margin, the stock'll go up likely, and i won't lose anything." "you can do as you please, of course, but you will have to go elsewhere for your money." "will i?" asked tony coolly. "there is no one else who would let me have the money." "i won't let you have another cent, you may rely upon that!" exclaimed prince duncan furiously. "i guess you'll think better of that, squire," said tony, fixing his keen black eyes on the bank president. "why should i?" retorted duncan, but his heart sank within him, for he understood very well what the answer would be. "because you know what the consequences of refusal would be," denton answered coolly. "i don't understand you," stammered the squire, but it was evident from his startled look that he did. "i thought you would," returned tony denton quietly. "you know very well that my evidence would convict you, as the person who robbed the bank." "hush!" ejaculated prince duncan, in nervous alarm. tony denton smiled with a consciousness of power. "i have no wish to expose you," he said, "if you will stand my friend." in that moment prince duncan bitterly regretted the false step he had taken. to be in the power of such a man was, indeed, a terrible form of retribution. "explain your meaning," he said reluctantly. "i want another government bond for a thousand dollars." "but when i gave you the first, you promised to preserve silence, and trouble me no more." "i have been unfortunate, as i already explained to you." "i don't see how that alters matters. you took the risk voluntarily. why should i suffer because you were imprudent and lost your money?" "i can't argue with you, squire," said tony, with an insolent smile. "you are too smart for me. all i have to say is, that i must have another bond." "suppose i should give it to you--what assurance have i that you will not make another demand?" "i will give you the promise in writing, if you like." "knowing that i could not make use of any such paper with out betraying myself." "well, there is that objection, certainly, but i can't do anything better." "what do you propose to do with the bond?" "deposit it with my broker, as i have already told you." "i advise you not to do so. make up your mind to lose the first, and keep the second in your own hands." "i will consider your advice, squire." but it was very clear that tony denton would not follow it. all at once prince duncan brightened up. he had a happy thought. should it be discovered that the bonds used by tony denton belonged to the contents of the stolen box, might he not succeed in throwing the whole blame on the billiard-saloon keeper, and have him arrested as the thief? the possession and use of the bonds would be very damaging, and tony's reputation was not such as to protect him. here seemed to be a rift in the clouds--and it was with comparative cheerfulness that mr. duncan placed the second bond in the hands of the visitor. "of course," he said, "it will be for your interest not to let any one know from whom you obtained this." "all right. i understand. well, good morning, squire; i'm glad things are satisfactory." "good morning, mr. denton." when tony had left the room, prince duncan threw himself back in his chair and reflected. his thoughts were busy with the man who had just left him, and he tried to arrange some method of throwing the guilt upon denton. yet, perhaps, even that would not be necessary. so far as mr. duncan knew, there was no record in mr. armstrong's possession of the numbers of the bonds, and in that case they would not be identified. "if i only knew positively that the numbers would not turn up, i should feel perfectly secure, and could realize on the bonds at any time," he thought. "i will wait awhile, and i may see my way clear." chapter xxxvi a letter from luke "there's a letter for you, linton," said henry wagner, as he met linton tomkins near the hotel. "i just saw your name on the list." in the groveton post-office, as in many country offices, it was the custom to post a list of those for whom letters had been received. "it must be from luke," thought linton, joyfully, and he bent his steps immediately toward the office. no one in the village, outside of luke's family, missed him more than linton. though luke was two years and a half older, they had always been intimate friends. linton's family occupied a higher social position, but there was nothing snobbish about linton, as there was about randolph, and it made no difference to him that luke lived in a small and humble cottage, and, till recently, had been obliged to wear old and shabby clothes. in this democratic spirit, linton was encouraged by his parents, who, while appreciating the refinement which is apt to be connected with liberal means, were too sensible to undervalue sterling merit and good character. linton was right. his letter was from luke. it read thus: "dear linny: i was very glad to receive your letter. it made me homesick for a short time. at any rate, it made me wish that i could be back for an hour in dear old groveton. i cannot tell you where i am, for that is a secret of my employer. i am a long way from home; i can tell you that much. when i get home, i shall be able to tell you all. you will be glad to know that i have succeeded in the mission on which i was sent, and have revived a telegram of thanks from my employer. "it will not be long now before i am back in groveton. i wonder if my dear friend randolph will be glad to see me? you can remember me to him when you see him. it will gratify him to know that i am well and doing well, and that my prospects for the future are excellent. "give my regards to your father and mother, who have always been kind to me. i shall come and see you the first thing after i return. if you only knew how hard i find it to refrain from telling you all, where i am and what adventures i have met with, how i came near being robbed twice, and many other things, you would appreciate my self-denial. but you shall know all very soon. i have had a good time--the best time in my life. let mother read this letter, and believe me, dear lin, "your affectionate friend, "luke larkin." linton's curiosity was naturally excited by the references in luke's letter. "where can luke be?" he asked. "i wish he were at liberty to tell." linton never dreamed, however, that his friend was two thousand miles away, in the wild west. it would have seemed to him utterly improbable. he was folding up the letter as he was walking homeward, when he met randolph duncan. "what's that, linton?" he asked. "a love-letter?" "not much; i haven't got so far along. it is a letter from luke larkin." "oh!" sneered randolph. "i congratulate you on your correspondent. is he in new york?" "the letter is postmarked in new york, but he is traveling." "traveling? where is he traveling?" "he doesn't say. this letter is forwarded by mr. reed." "the man who robbed the bank?" "what makes you say that? what proof have you that he robbed the bank?" "i can't prove it, but my father thinks he is the robber. there was something very suspicious about that tin box which he handed to luke." "it was opened in court, and proved to contain private papers." "oh, that's easily seen through. he took out the bonds, and put in the papers. i suppose he has experience in that sort of thing." "does your father think that?" "yes, he does. what does luke say?" "wait a minute, and i will read you a paragraph," said linton, with a mischievous smile. thereupon he read the paragraph in which randolph was mentioned. "what does he mean by calling me his dear friend?" exclaimed randolph indignantly. "i never was his dear friend, and never want to be." "i believe you, randolph. shall i tell you what he means?" "yes." "he means it for a joke. he knows you don't like him, and he isn't breaking his heart over it." "it's pretty cheeky in him! just tell him when you write that he needn't call me his dear friend again." "you might hurt his feelings," said linton, gravely. "that for his feelings!" said randolph, with a snap of his fingers. "you say he's traveling. shall i tell you what i think he is doing?" "if you like." "i think he is traveling with a blacking-box in his hand. it's just the business for him." "i don't think you are right. he wouldn't make enough in that way to pay traveling expenses. he says he has twice come near being robbed." randolph laughed derisively. "a thief wouldn't make much robbing him," he said. "if he got twenty-five cents he'd be lucky." "you forget that he has a nice silver watch?" randolph frowned. this with him was a sore reflection. much as he was disposed to look down upon luke, he was aware that luke's watch was better than his, and, though he had importuned his father more than once to buy him a gold watch, he saw no immediate prospect of his wish being granted. "oh, well, i've talked enough of luke larkin," he said, snappishly. "he isn't worth so many words. i am very much surprised that a gentleman's son like you, linton, should demean himself by keeping company with such a boy." "there is no boy in the village whom i would rather associate with," said linton, with sturdy friendship. "i don't admire your taste, then," said randolph. "i don't believe your father and mother like you to keep such company." "there you are mistaken," said linton, with spirit. "they have an excellent opinion of luke, and if he should ever need a friend, i am sure my father would be willing to help him." "well, i must be going," said randolph, by no means pleased with this advocacy of luke. "come round and see me soon. you never come to our house." linton answered politely, but did not mean to become intimate with randolph, who was by no means to his taste. he knew that it was only his social position that won him the invitation, and that if his father should suddenly lose his property, randolph's cordiality would be sensibly diminished. such friendship, he felt, was not to be valued. "what are you thinking about? you seem in a brown study," said a pleasant voice. looking up, linton recognized his teacher, mr. hooper. "i was thinking of luke larkin," answered linton. "by the by, where is luke? i have not seen him for some time." "he is traveling for mr. reed, i believe." "the man who committed the tin box to his care?" "yes, sir." "do you know where he is?" "no, sir. i have just received a letter from him, but he says he is not at liberty to mention where he is." "will he be home soon?" "yes, i think so." "i shall be glad to see him. he is one of the most promising of my pupils." linton's expressive face showed the pleasure he felt at this commendation of his friend. he felt more gratified than if mr. hooper had directly praised him. "luke can stand randolph's depreciation," he reflected, "with such a friend as mr. hooper." linton was destined to meet plenty of acquaintances. scarcely had he parted from mr. hooper, when tony denton met him. the keeper of the billiard-room was always on the alert to ingratiate himself with the young people of the village, looking upon them as possible patrons of his rooms. he would have been glad to draw in linton, on account of his father's prominent position in the village. "good day, my young friend," he said, with suavity. "good day, mr. denton," responded linton, who thought it due to himself to be polite, though he did not fancy mr. denton. "i should be very glad to have you look in at my billiard-room, mr. linton," continued tony. "thank you sir, but i don't think my father would like to have me visit a billiard-saloon--at any rate, till i am older." "oh, i'll see that you come to no harm. if you don't want to play, you can look on." "at any rate, i am obliged to you for your polite invitation." "oh, i like to have the nice boys of the village around me. your friend randolph duncan often visits me." "so i have heard," replied linton. "well, i won't keep you, but remember my invitation." "i am not very likely to accept," thought linton. "i have heard that randolph visits the billiard-room too often for his good." chapter xxxvii an incident on the cars as soon as possible, luke started on his return to new york. he had enjoyed his journey, but now he felt a longing to see home and friends once more. his journey to chicago was uneventful. he stayed there a few hours, and then started on his way home. on his trip from chicago to detroit he fell in with an old acquaintance unexpectedly. when about thirty miles from detroit, having as a seatmate a very large man, who compressed him within uncomfortable limits, he took his satchel, and passing into the car next forward, took a seat a few feet from the door. he had scarcely seated himself when, looking around, he discovered, in the second seat beyond, his old chicago acquaintance, mr. j. madison coleman. he was as smooth and affable as ever, and was chatting pleasantly with a rough, farmerlike-looking man, who seemed very much taken with his attractive companion. "i wonder what mischief coleman is up to now?" thought luke. he was so near that he was able to hear the conversation that passed between them. "yes, my friend," said mr. coleman, "i am well acquainted with detroit. business has called me there very often, and it will give me great pleasure to be of service to you in any way." "what business are you in?" inquired the other. "i am traveling for h. b. claflin & co., of new york. of course you have heard of them. they are the largest wholesale dry-goods firm in the united states." "you don't say so!" returned the farmer respectfully. "do you get pretty good pay?" "i am not at liberty to tell just what pay i get," said mr. coleman, "but i am willing to admit that it is over four thousand dollars." "you don't say so!" ejaculated the farmer. "my! i think myself pretty lucky when i make a thousand dollars a year." "oh, well, my dear sir, your expenses are very light compared to mine. i spend about ten dollars a day on an average." "jehu!" ejaculated the farmer. "well, that is a pile. do all the men that travel for your firm get as much salary as you?" "oh, no; i am one of the principal salesmen, and am paid extra. i am always successful, if i do say it myself, and the firm know it, and pay me accordingly. they know that several other firms are after me, and would get me away if they didn't pay me my price." "i suppose you know all about investments, being a business man?" "yes, i know a great deal about them," answered mr. coleman, his eyes sparkling with pleasure at this evidence that his companion had money. "if you have any money to invest, i shall be very glad to advise you." "well, you see, i've just had a note for two hundred and fifty dollars paid in by a neighbor who's been owin' it for two years, and i thought i'd go up to detroit and put it in the savings-bank." "my good friend, the savings-bank pays but a small rate of interest. i think i know a business man of detroit who will take your money and pay you ten per cent." "ten per cent.!" exclaimed the farmer joyfully. "my! i didn't think i could get over four or six." "so you can't, in a general way," answered coleman. "but business men, who are turning over their money once a month, can afford to pay a good deal more." "but is your friend safe?" he inquired, anxiously. "safe as the bank of england," answered coleman. "i've lent him a thousand dollars at a time, myself, and always got principal and interest regularly. i generally have a few thousand invested," he added, in a matter-of-course manner. "i'd be glad to get ten per cent.," said the farmer. "that would be twenty-five dollars a year on my money." "exactly. i dare say you didn't get over six per cent. on the note." "i got seven, but i had to wait for the interest sometimes." "you'll never have to wait for interest if you lend to my friend. i am only afraid he won't be willing to take so small a sum. still, i'll speak a good word for you, and he will make an exception in your favor." "thank you, sir," said the farmer gratefully. "i guess i'll let him have it." "you couldn't do better. he's a high-minded, responsible man. i would offer to take the money myself, but i really have no use for it. i have at present two thousand dollars in bank waiting for investment." "you don't say so!" said the farmer, eying coleman with the respect due to so large a capitalist. "yes, i've got it in the savings-bank for the time being. if my friend can make use of it, i shall let him have it. he's just as safe as a savings-bank." the farmer's confidence in mr. coleman was evidently fully established. the young man talked so smoothly and confidently that he would have imposed upon one who had seen far more of the world than farmer jones. "i'm in luck to fall in with you, mr.--" "coleman," said the drummer, with suavity. "j. madison coleman. my grandfather was a cousin of president james madison, and that accounts for my receiving that name." the farmer's respect was further increased. it was quite an event to fall in with so near a relative of an illustrious ex-president, and he was flattered to find that a young man of such lineage was disposed to treat him with such friendly familiarity. "are you going to stay long in detroit?" asked the farmer. "two or three days. i shall be extremely busy, but i shall find time to attend to your business. in fact, i feel an interest in you, my friend, and shall be glad to do you a service." "you are very kind, and i'm obleeged to you," said the farmer gratefully. "now, if you will excuse me for a few minutes, i will go into the smoking-car and have a smoke." when he had left the car, luke immediately left his seat, and went forward to where the farmer was sitting. "excuse me," he said, "but i saw you talking to a young man just now." "yes," answered the farmer complacently, "he's a relative of president madison." "i want to warn you against him. i know him to be a swindler." "what!" exclaimed the farmer, eying luke suspiciously. "who be you? you're nothing but a boy." "that is true, but i am traveling on business. this mr. coleman tried to rob me about a fortnight since, and nearly succeeded. i heard him talking to you about money." "yes, he was going to help me invest some money i have with me. he said he could get me ten per cent." "take my advice, and put it in a savings-bank. then it will be safe. no man who offers to pay ten per cent. for money can be relied upon." "perhaps you want to rob me yourself?" said the farmer suspiciously. "do i look like it?" asked luke, smiling. "isn't my advice good, to put the money in a savings-bank? but i will tell you how i fell in with mr. coleman, and how he tried to swindle me, and then you can judge for yourself." this luke did briefly and his tone and manner carried conviction. the farmer became extremely indignant at the intended fraud, and promised to have nothing to do with coleman. "i will take my old seat, then," said luke. "i don't want coleman to know who warned you." presently, coleman came back and was about to resume his seat beside the farmer. "you see i have come back," he said. "you needn't have troubled yourself," said the farmer, with a lowering frown. "you nearly took me in with your smooth words, but i've got my money yet, and i mean to keep it. your friend can't have it." "what does all this mean, my friend?" asked coleman, in real amazement. "is it possible you distrust me? why, i was going to put myself to inconvenience to do you a service." "then you needn't. i know you. you wanted to swindle me out of my two hundred and fifty dollars." "sir, you insult me!" exclaimed coleman, with lofty indignation. "what do i--a rich man--want of your paltry two hundred and fifty dollars?" "i don't believe you are a rich man. didn't i tell you, i have been warned against you?" "who dared to talk against me?" asked coleman indignantly. then, casting his eyes about, he noticed luke for the first time. now it was all clear to him. striding up to luke's seat, he said threateningly, "have you been talking against me, you young jackanapes?" "yes, mr. coleman, i have," answered luke steadily. "i thought it my duty to inform this man of your character. i have advised him to put his money into a savings-bank." "curse you for an impertinent meddler!" said coleman wrathfully. "i'll get even with you for this!" "you can do as you please," said luke calmly. coleman went up to the farmer and said, abruptly, "you've been imposed upon by an unprincipled boy. he's been telling you lies about me." "he has given me good advice," said the farmer sturdily, "and i shall follow it." "you are making a fool of yourself!" "that is better than to be made fool of, and lose my money." coleman saw that the game was lost, and left the car. he would gladly have assaulted luke, but knew that it would only get him into trouble. chapter xxxviii luke's return mr. armstrong was sitting in his office one morning when the door opened, and luke entered, his face flushed with health, and his cheeks browned by exposure. "you see i've got back, mr. armstrong," he said, advancing with a smile. "welcome home, luke!" exclaimed the merchant heartily, grasping our hero's hand cordially. "i hope you are satisfied with me," said luke. "satisfied! i ought to be. you have done yourself the greatest credit. it is seldom a boy of your age exhibits such good judgment and discretion." "thank you, sir," said luke gratefully. "i was obliged to spend a good deal of money," he added, "and i have arrived in new york with only three dollars and seventy-five cents in my pocket." "i have no fault to find with your expenses," said mr. armstrong promptly. "nor would i have complained if you had spent twice as much. the main thing was to succeed, and you have succeeded." "i am glad to hear you speak so," said luke, relieved. "to me it seemed a great deal of money. you gave me two hundred dollars, and i have less than five dollars left. here it is!" and luke drew the sum from his pocket, and tendered it to the merchant. "i can't take it," said mr. armstrong. "you don't owe me any money. it is i who am owing you. take this on account," and he drew a roll of bills from his pocketbook and handed it to luke. "here are a hundred dollars on account," he continued. "this is too much, mr. armstrong," said luke, quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the gift. "let me be the judge of that," said mr. armstrong kindly. "there is only one thing, luke, that i should have liked to have you do." "what is that, sir?" "i should like to have had you bring me a list of the numbers certified to by mr. harding." luke's answer was to draw from the inside pocket of his vest a paper signed by the old bookkeeper, containing a list of the numbers, regularly subscribed and certified to. "is that what you wished, sir?" he asked. "you are a wonderful boy," said the merchant admiringly. "was this your idea, or mr. harding's?" "i believe i suggested it to him," said luke modestly. "that makes all clear sailing," said mr. armstrong. "here are fifty dollars more. you deserve it for your thoughtfulness." "you have given me enough already," said luke, drawing back. "my dear boy, it is evident that you still have something to learn in the way of business. when a rich old fellow offers you money, which he can well afford, you had better take it." "that removes all my objections," said luke. "but i am afraid you will spoil me with your liberality, mr. armstrong." "i will take the risk of it. but here is another of your friends." the door had just opened, and roland reed entered. there was another cordial greeting, and luke felt that it was pleasant, indeed, to have two such good friends. "when are you going to groveton, luke?" asked mr. reed. "i shall go this afternoon, if there is nothing more you wish me to do. i am anxious to see my mother." "that is quite right, luke. your mother is your best friend, and deserves all the attention you can give her. i shall probably go to groveton myself to-morrow." after luke had left the office, mr. reed remained to consult with the merchant as to what was the best thing to do. both were satisfied that prince duncan, the president of the bank, was the real thief who had robbed the bank. there were two courses open--a criminal prosecution, or a private arrangement which should include the return of the stolen property. the latter course was determined upon, but should it prove ineffective, severer measures were to be resorted to. chapter xxxix how luke was received luke's return to groveton was received with delight by his mother and his true friend linton. naturally randolph displayed the same feelings toward him as ever. it so chanced that he met luke only an hour after his arrival. he would have passed him by unnoticed but for the curiosity he felt to know where he had been, and what he was intending to do. "humph! so you're back again!" he remarked. "yes," answered luke, with a smile. "i hope you haven't missed me much, randolph." "oh, i've managed to live through it," returned randolph, with what he thought to be cutting sarcasm. "i am glad of that." "where were you?" asked randolph, abruptly. "i was in new york a part of the time," said luke. "where were you the rest of the time?" "i was traveling." "that sounds large. perhaps you were traveling with a hand-organ." "perhaps i was." "well, what are you going to do now?" "thank you for your kind interest in me, randolph. i will tell you as soon as i know." "oh, you needn't think i feel interest in you." "then i won't." "you are impertinent," said randolph, scowling. it dawned upon him that luke was chaffing him. "i don't mean to be. if i have been, i apologize. if you know of any situation which will pay me a fair sum, i wish you would mention me." "i'll see about it," said randolph, in an important tone. he was pleased at luke's change of tone. "i don't think you can get back as janitor, for my father doesn't like you." "couldn't you intercede for me, randolph?" "why, the fact is, you put on so many airs, for a poor boy, that i shouldn't feel justified in recommending you. it is your own fault." "well, perhaps it is," said luke. "i am glad you acknowledge it. i don't know but my father will give you a chance to work round our house, make fires, and run errands." "what would he pay?" asked luke, in a businesslike tone. "he might pay a dollar and a half a week." "i'm afraid i couldn't support myself on that." "oh, well, that's your lookout. it's better than loafing round doing nothing." "you're right there, randolph." "i'll just mention it to father, then." "no, thank you. i shouldn't wonder if mr. reed might find something for me to do." "oh, the man that robbed the bank?" said randolph, turning up his nose. "it may soon be discovered that some one else robbed the bank." "i don't believe it." here the two boys parted. "luke," said linton, the same day, "have you decided what you are going to do?" "not yet; but i have friends who, i think, will look out for me." "because my father says he will find you a place if you fail to get one elsewhere." "tell your father that i think he is very kind. there is no one to whom i would more willingly be indebted for a favor. if i should find myself unemployed, i will come to him." "all right! i am going to drive over to coleraine"--the next town--"this afternoon. will you go with me?" "i should like nothing better." "what a difference there is between randolph and linton!" thought luke. chapter xl the bank robber is found tony denton lost no time in going up to the city with the second bond he had extracted from the fears of prince duncan. he went directly to the office of his brokers, gay & sears, and announced that he was prepared to deposit additional margin. the bond was received, and taken to the partners in the back office. some four minutes elapsed, and the clerk reappeared. "mr. denton, will you step into the back office?" he said. "certainly," answered tony cheerfully. he found the two brokers within. "this is mr. denton?" said the senior partner. "yes, sir." "you offer this bond as additional margin on the shares we hold in your name?" "yes, of course." "mr. denton," said mr. gay searchingly, "where did you get this bond?" "where did i get it?" repeated denton nervously. "why, i bought it." "how long since?" "about a year." the two partners exchanged glances. "where do you live, mr. denton?" "in groveton." "ahem! mr. sears, will you be kind enough to draw out the necessary papers?" tony denton felt relieved. the trouble seemed to be over. mr. gay at the same time stepped into the main office and gave a direction to one of the clerks. mr. sears drew out a large sheet of foolscap, and began, in very deliberate fashion, to write. he kept on writing for some minutes. tony denton wondered why so much writing should be necessary in a transaction of this kind. five minutes later a young man looked into the office, and said, addressing mr. gay. "all right!" upon that mr. sears suspended writing. "mr. denton," said mr. gay, "are you aware that this bond which you have brought us was stolen from the groveton bank?" "i--don't--believe--it," gasped denton, turning pale. "the numbers of the stolen bonds have been sent to all the bankers and brokers in the city. this is one, and the one you brought us not long since is another. do you persist in saying that you bought this bond a year ago?" "no, no!" exclaimed denton, terrified. "did you rob the bank?" "no, i didn't!" ejaculated the terrified man, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "where, then, did you get the bonds?" "i got them both from prince duncan, president of the bank." both partners looked surprised. one of them went to the door of the office, and called in mr. armstrong, who, as well as a policeman, had been sent for. tony denton's statement was repeated to him. "i am not surprised," he said. "i expected it." tony denton now made a clean breast of the whole affair, and his words were taken down. "are you willing to go to groveton with me, and repeat this in presence of mr. duncan?" asked mr. armstrong. "yes." "will you not have him arrested?" asked mr. gay. "no, he has every reason to keep faith with me." it was rather late in the day when mr. armstrong, accompanied by tony denton, made their appearance at the house of prince duncan. when the banker's eyes rested on the strangely assorted pair, his heart sank within him. he had a suspicion of what it meant. "we have called on you, mr. duncan, on a matter of importance," said mr. armstrong. "very well," answered duncan faintly. "it is useless to mince matters. i have evidence outside of this man's to show that it was you who robbed the bank of which you are president, and appropriated to your own use the bonds which it contained." "this is a strange charge to bring against a man in my position. where is your proof?" demanded duncan, attempting to bluster. "i have mr. denton's evidence that he obtained two thousand-dollar bonds of you." "very well, suppose i did sell him two such bonds?" "they were among the bonds stolen." "it is not true. they were bonds i have had for five years." "your denial is useless. the numbers betray you." "you did not have the numbers of the bonds." "so you think, but i have obtained them from an old book-keeper of mine, now at the west. i sent a special messenger out to obtain the list from him. would you like to know who the messenger was?" "who was it?" "luke larkin." "that boy!" exclaimed duncan bitterly. "yes, that boy supplied me with the necessary proof. and now, i have a word to say; i can send you to prison, but for the sake of your family i would prefer to spare you. but the bonds must be given up." "i haven't them all in my possession." "then you must pay me the market price of those you have used. the last one given to this man is safe." "it will reduce me to poverty," said prince duncan in great agitation. "nevertheless, it must be done!" said mr. armstrong sternly. "moreover, you must resign your position as president of the bank, and on that condition you will be allowed to go free, and i will not expose you." of course, squire duncan was compelled to accept these terms. he saved a small sum out of the wreck of his fortune, and with his family removed to the west, where they were obliged to adopt a very different style of living. randolph is now an office boy at a salary of four dollars a week, and is no longer able to swagger and boast as he has done hitherto. mr. tomkins, linton's father, was elected president of the groveton bank in place of mr. duncan, much to the satisfaction of luke. roland reed, much to the surprise of luke, revealed himself as a cousin of mr. larkin, who for twenty-five years had been lost sight of. he had changed his name, on account of some trouble into which he had been betrayed by prince duncan, and thus had not been recognized. "you need be under no anxiety about luke and his prospects," he said to mrs. larkin. "i shall make over to him ten thousand dollars at once, constituting myself his guardian, and will see that he is well started in business. my friend mr. armstrong proposes to take him into his office, if you do not object, at a liberal salary." "i shall miss him very much," said mrs. larkin, "though i am thankful that he is to be so well provided for." "he can come home every saturday night, and stay until monday morning," said mr. reed, who, by the way, chose to retain his name in place of his old one. "will that satisfy you?" "it ought to, surely, and i am grateful to providence for all the blessings which it has showered upon me and mine." there was another change. mr. reed built a neat and commodious house in the pleasantest part of the village and there mrs. larkin removed with his little daughter, of whom she still had the charge. no one rejoiced more sincerely at luke's good fortune than linton, who throughout had been a true and faithful friend. he is at present visiting europe with his mother, and has written an earnest letter, asking luke to join him. but luke feels that he cannot leave a good business position, and must postpone the pleasure of traveling till he is older. mr. j. madison coleman, the enterprising drummer, has got into trouble, and is at present an inmate of the state penitentiary at joliet, illinois. it is fortunate for the traveling public, so many of whom he has swindled, that he is for a time placed where he can do no more mischief. so closes an eventful passage in the life of luke larkin. he has struggled upward from a boyhood of privation and self-denial into a youth and manhood of prosperity and honor. there has been some luck about it, i admit, but after all he is indebted for most of his good fortune to his own good qualities. this etext was prepared with the use of calera wordscan plus . the flirt by booth tarkington to susanah the flirt chapter one valentine corliss walked up corliss street the hottest afternoon of that hot august, a year ago, wearing a suit of white serge which attracted a little attention from those observers who were able to observe anything except the heat. the coat was shaped delicately; it outlined the wearer, and, fitting him as women's clothes fit women, suggested an effeminacy not an attribute of the tall corliss. the effeminacy belonged all to the tailor, an artist plying far from corliss street, for the coat would have encountered a hundred of its fellows at trouville or ostende this very day. corliss street is the avenue du bois de boulogne, the park lane, the fifth avenue, of capitol city, that smoky illuminant of our great central levels, but although it esteems itself an established cosmopolitan thoroughfare, it is still provincial enough to be watchful; and even in its torrid languor took some note of the alien garment. mr. corliss, treading for the first time in seventeen years the pavements of this namesake of his grandfather, mildly repaid its interest in himself. the street, once the most peaceful in the world, he thought, had changed. it was still long and straight, still shaded by trees so noble that they were betrothed, here and there, high over the wide white roadway, the shimmering tunnels thus contrived shot with gold and blue; but its pristine complete restfulness was departed: gasoline had arrived, and a pedestrian, even this august day of heat, must glance two ways before crossing. architectural transformations, as vital, staggered the returned native. in his boyhood that posthumously libelled sovereign lady, anne, had terribly prevailed among the dwellings on this highway; now, however, there was little left of the jig-saw's hare-brained ministrations; but the growing pains of the adolescent city had wrought some madness here. there had been a revolution which was a riot; and, plainly incited by a new outbreak of the colonies, the goth, the tudor, and the tuscan had harried the upper reaches to a turmoil attaining its climax in a howl or two from the spanish moor. yet it was a pleasant street in spite of its improvements; in spite, too, of a long, gray smoke-plume crossing the summer sky and dropping an occasional atomy of coal upon mr. corliss's white coat. the green continuous masses of tree-foliage, lawn, and shrubbery were splendidly asserted; there was a faint wholesome odour from the fine block pavement of the roadway, white, save where the snailish water-wagon laid its long strips of steaming brown. locusts, serenaders of the heat, invisible among the branches, rasped their interminable cadences, competing bitterly with the monotonous chattering of lawn-mowers propelled by glistening black men over the level swards beneath. and though porch and terrace were left to vacant wicker chairs and swinging-seats, and to flowers and plants in jars and green boxes, and the people sat unseen--and, it might be guessed, unclad for exhibition, in the dimmer recesses of their houses--nevertheless, a summery girl under an alluring parasol now and then prettily trod the sidewalks, and did not altogether suppress an ample consciousness of the white pedestrian's stalwart grace; nor was his quick glance too distressingly modest to be aware of these faint but attractive perturbations. a few of the oldest houses remained as he remembered them, and there were two or three relics of mansard and cupola days; but the herd of cast-iron deer that once guarded these lawns, standing sentinel to all true gentry: whither were they fled? in his boyhood, one specimen betokened a family of position and affluence; two, one on each side of the front walk, spoke of a noble opulence; two and a fountain were overwhelming. he wondered in what obscure thickets that once proud herd now grazed; and then he smiled, as through a leafy opening of shrubbery he caught a glimpse of a last survivor, still loyally alert, the haughty head thrown back in everlasting challenge and one foreleg lifted, standing in a vast and shadowy backyard with a clothesline fastened to its antlers. mr. corliss remembered that backyard very well: it was an old battlefield whereon he had conquered; and he wondered if "the lindley boys" still lived there, and if richard lindley would hate him now as implacably as then. a hundred yards farther on, he paused before a house more familiar to him than any other, and gave it a moment's whimsical attention, without emotion. it was a shabby old brick structure, and it stood among the gayest, the most flamboyant dwellings of all corliss street like a bewildered tramp surrounded by carnival maskers. it held place full in the course of the fury for demolition and rebuilding, but remained unaltered--even unrepaired, one might have thought--since the early seventies, when it was built. there was a sagging cornice, and the nauseous brown which the walls had years ago been painted was sooted to a repellent dinge, so cracked and peeled that the haggard red bricks were exposed, like a beggar through the holes in his coat. it was one of those houses which are large without being commodious; its very tall, very narrow windows, with their attenuated, rusty inside shutters, boasting to the passerby of high ceilings but betraying the miserly floor spaces. at each side of the front door was a high and cramped bay-window, one of them insanely culminating in a little six-sided tower of slate, and both of them girdled above the basement windows by a narrow porch, which ran across the front of the house and gave access to the shallow vestibule. however, a pleasant circumstance modified the gloom of this edifice and assured it a remnant of reserve and dignity in its ill-considered old age: it stood back a fine hundred feet from the highway, and was shielded in part by a friendly group of maple trees and one glorious elm, hoary, robust, and majestic, a veteran of the days when this was forest ground. mr. corliss concluded his momentary pause by walking up the broken cement path, which was hard beset by plantain-weed and the long grass of the ill-kept lawn. ascending the steps, he was assailed by an odour as of vehement bananas, a diffusion from some painful little chairs standing in the long, high, dim, rather sorrowful hall disclosed beyond the open double doors. they were stiff little chairs of an inconsequent, mongrel pattern; armless, with perforated wooden seats; legs tortured by the lathe to a semblance of buttons strung on a rod; and they had that day received a streaky coat of a gilding preparation which exhaled the olfactory vehemence mentioned. their present station was temporary, their purpose, as obviously, to dry; and they were doing some incidental gilding on their own account, leaving blots and splashes and sporadic little round footprints on the hardwood floor. the old-fashioned brass bell-handle upon the caller's right drooped from its socket in a dead fag, but after comprehensive manipulation on the part of the young man, and equal complaint on its own, it was constrained to permit a dim tinkle remotely. somewhere in the interior a woman's voice, not young, sang a repeated fragment of "lead, kindly light," to the accompaniment of a flapping dust-cloth, sounds which ceased upon a second successful encounter with the bell. ensued a silence, probably to be interpreted as a period of whispered consultation out of range; a younger voice called softly and urgently, "laura!" and a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl of something over twenty made her appearance to mr. corliss. at sight of her he instantly restored a thin gold card-case to the pocket whence he was in the act of removing it. she looked at him with only grave, impersonal inquiry; no appreciative invoice of him was to be detected in her quiet eyes, which may have surprised him, possibly the more because he was aware there was plenty of appreciation in his own kindling glance. she was very white and black, this lady. tall, trim, clear, she looked cool in spite of the black winter skirt she wore, an effect helped somewhat, perhaps, by the crisp freshness of her white waist, with its masculine collar and slim black tie, and undoubtedly by the even and lustreless light ivory of her skin, against which the strong black eyebrows and undulated black hair were lined with attractive precision; but, most of all, that coolness was the emanation of her undisturbed and tranquil eyes. they were not phlegmatic: a continuing spark glowed far within them, not ardently, but steadily and inscrutably, like the fixed stars in winter. mr. valentine corliss, of paris and naples, removed his white-ribboned straw hat and bowed as no one had ever bowed in that doorway. this most vivid salutation--accomplished by adding something to a rather quick inclination of the body from the hips, with the back and neck held straight expressed deference without affecting or inviting cordiality. it was an elaborate little formality of a kind fancifully called "foreign," and evidently habitual to the performer. it produced no outward effect upon the recipient. such self-control is unusual. "is mr. madison at home? my name is valentine corliss." "he is at home." she indicated an open doorway upon her right. "will you wait in there?" "thank you," said mr. corliss, passing within. "i shall be----" he left the sentence unfinished, for he was already alone, and at liberty to reflect upon the extraordinary coolness of this cool young woman. the room, with its closed blinds, was soothingly dark after the riotous sun without, a grateful obscurity which was one of two attractions discovered in it by mr. corliss while he waited. it was a depressing little chamber, disproportionately high, uncheered by seven chairs (each of a different family, but all belonging to the same knobby species, and all upholstered a repellent blue), a scratched "inlaid table," likewise knobby, and a dangerous looking small sofa--turbulent furniture, warmly harmonious, however, in a common challenge to the visitor to take comfort in any of it. a once-gilt gas chandelier hung from the distant ceiling, with three globes of frosted glass, but undeniable evidence that five were intended; and two of the three had been severely bitten. there was a hostile little coal-grate, making a mouth under a mantel of imitation black marble, behind an old blue-satin fire-screen upon which red cat-tails and an owl over a pond had been roughly embroidered in high relief, this owl motive being the inspiration of innumerable other owls reflected in innumerable other ponds in the formerly silver moonlight with which the walls were papered. corliss thought he remembered that in his boyhood, when it was known as "the parlour" (though he guessed that the madison family called it "the reception room," now) this was the place where his aunt received callers who, she justifiably hoped, would not linger. altogether, it struck him that it might be a good test-room for an alienist: no incipient lunacy would remain incipient here. there was one incongruity which surprised him--a wicker waste-paper basket, so nonsensically out of place in this arid cell, where not the wildest hare-brain could picture any one coming to read or write, that he bestowed upon it a particular, frowning attention, and so discovered the second attractive possession of the room. a fresh and lovely pink rose, just opening full from the bud, lay in the bottom of the basket. there was a rustling somewhere in the house and a murmur, above which a boy's voice became audible in emphatic but undistinguishable complaint. a whispering followed, and a woman exclaimed protestingly, "cora!" and then a startlingly pretty girl came carelessly into the room through the open door. she was humming "quand i' amour meurt" in a gay preoccupation, and evidently sought something upon the table in the centre of the room, for she continued her progress toward it several steps before realizing the presence of a visitor. she was a year or so younger than the girl who had admitted him, fairer and obviously more plastic, more expressive, more perishable, a great deal more insistently feminine; though it was to be seen that they were sisters. this one had eyes almost as dark as the other's, but these were not cool; they were sweet, unrestful, and seeking; brilliant with a vivacious hunger: and not diana but huntresses more ardent have such eyes. her hair was much lighter than her sister's; it was the colour of dry corn-silk in the sun; and she was the shorter by a head, rounder everywhere and not so slender; but no dumpling: she was exquisitely made. there was a softness about her: something of velvet, nothing of mush. she diffused with her entrance a radiance of gayety and of gentleness; sunlight ran with her. she seemed the incarnation of a caressing smile. she was point-device. her close, white skirt hung from a plainly embroidered white waist to a silken instep; and from the crown of her charming head to the tall heels of her graceful white suede slippers, heels of a sweeter curve than the waist of a violin, she was as modern and lovely as this dingy old house was belated and hideous. mr. valentine corliss spared the fraction of a second for another glance at the rose in the waste-basket. the girl saw him before she reached the table, gave a little gasp of surprise, and halted with one hand carried prettily to her breast. "oh!" she said impulsively; "i _beg_ your pardon. i didn't know there was---- i was looking for a book i thought i----" she stopped, whelmed with a breath-taking shyness, her eyes, after one quick but condensed encounter with those of mr. corliss, falling beneath exquisite lashes. her voice was one to stir all men: it needs not many words for a supremely beautiful "speaking-voice" to be recognized for what it is; and this girl's was like herself, hauntingly lovely. the intelligent young man immediately realized that no one who heard it could ever forget it. "i see," she faltered, turning to leave the room; "it isn't here--the book." "there's something else of yours here," said corliss. "is there?" she paused, hesitating at the door, looking at him over her shoulder uncertainly. "you dropped this rose." he lifted the rose from the waste-basket and repeated the bow he had made at the front door. this time it was not altogether wasted. "i?" "yes. you lost it. it belongs to you." "yes--it does. how curious!" she said slowly. "how curious it happened to be _there_!" she stepped to take it from him, her eyes upon his in charming astonishment. "and how odd that----" she stopped; then said quickly: "how did you know it was _my_ rose?" "any one would know!" her expression of surprise was instantaneously merged in a flash of honest pleasure and admiration, such as only an artist may feel in the presence of a little masterpiece by a fellow-craftsman. happily, anticlimax was spared them by the arrival of the person for whom the visitor had asked at the door, and the young man retained the rose in his hand. mr. madison, a shapeless hillock with a large, harassed, red face, evidently suffered from the heat: his gray hair was rumpled back from a damp forehead; the sleeves of his black alpaca coat were pulled up to the elbow above his uncuffed white shirtsleeves; and he carried in one mottled hand the ruins of a palm-leaf fan, in the other a balled wet handkerchief which released an aroma of camphor upon the banana-burdened air. he bore evidences of inadequate adjustment after a disturbed siesta, but, exercising a mechanical cordiality, preceded himself into the room by a genial half-cough and a hearty, "well-well-well," as if wishing to indicate a spirit of polite, even excited, hospitality. "i expected you might be turning up, after your letter," he said, shaking hands. "well, well, well! i remember you as a boy. wouldn't have known you, of course; but i expect you'll find the town about as much changed as you are." with a father's blindness to all that is really vital, he concluded his greeting inconsequently: "oh, this is my little girl cora." "run along, little girl," said the fat father. his little girl's radiant glance at the alert visitor imparted her thorough comprehension of all the old man's absurdities, which had reached their climax in her dismissal. her parting look, falling from corliss's face to the waste-basket at his feet, just touched the rose in his hand as she passed through the door. chapter two cora paused in the hall at a point about twenty feet from the door, a girlish stratagem frequently of surprising advantage to the practitioner; but the two men had begun to speak of the weather. suffering a momentary disappointment, she went on, stepping silently, and passed through a door at the end of the hall into a large and barren looking dining-room, stiffly and skimpily furnished, but well-lighted, owing to the fact that one end of it had been transformed into a narrow "conservatory," a glass alcove now tenanted by two dried palms and a number of vacant jars and earthen crocks. here her sister sat by an open window, repairing masculine underwear; and a handsome, shabby, dirty boy of about thirteen sprawled on the floor of the "conservatory" unloosing upon its innocent, cracked, old black and white tiles a ghastly family of snakes, owls, and visaged crescent moons, in orange, green, and other loathsome chalks. as cora entered from the hall, a woman of fifty came in at a door opposite, and, a dust-cloth retained under her left arm, an unsheathed weapon ready for emergency, leaned sociably against the door-casing and continued to polish a tablespoon with a bit of powdered chamois-skin. she was tall and slightly bent; and, like the flat, old, silver spoon in her hand, seemed to have been worn thin by use; yet it was plain that the three young people in the room "got their looks" from her. her eyes, if tired, were tolerant and fond; and her voice held its youth and something of the music of cora's. "what is he like?" she addressed the daughter by the window. "why don't you ask coralie?" suggested the sprawling artist, relaxing his hideous labour. he pronounced his sister's name with intense bitterness. he called it "cora-_lee_," with an implication far from subtle that his sister had at some time thus gallicized herself, presumably for masculine favour; and he was pleased to receive tribute to his satire in a flash of dislike from her lovely eyes. "i ask laura because it was laura who went to the door," mrs. madison answered. "i do not ask cora because cora hasn't seen him. do i satisfy you, hedrick?" "`cora hasn't seen him!'" the boy hooted mockingly. "she hasn't? she was peeking out of the library shutters when he came up the front walk, and she wouldn't let me go to the door; she told laura to go, but first she took the library waste-basket and laid one o' them roses----" "_those_ roses," said cora sharply. "he _will_ hang around the neighbours' stables. i think you ought to do something about it, mother." "_them_ roses!" repeated hedrick fiercely. "one o' them roses dick lindley sent her this morning. laid it in the waste-basket and sneaked it into the reception room for an excuse to go galloping in and----" "`galloping'?" said mrs. madison gravely. "it was a pretty bum excuse," continued the unaffected youth, "but you bet your life you'll never beat our cora-_lee_ when there's a person in pants on the premises! it's sickening." he rose, and performed something like a toe-dance, a supposed imitation of his sister's mincing approach to the visitor. "oh, dear, i am such a little sweety! here i am all alone just reeking with browning-and-tennyson and thinking to myself about such lovely things, and walking around looking for my nice, pretty rose. where can it be? oh heavens, mister, are _you_ here? oh my, i never, never thought that there was a _man_ here! how you frighten me! see what a shy little thing i am? you _do see, don't_ you, old sweeticums? ta, ta, here's papa. remember me by that rose, 'cause it's just like me. me and it's twins, you see, cutie-sugar!" the diabolical boy then concluded with a reversion to the severity of his own manner: "if she was _my_ daughter i'd whip her!" his indignation was left in the air, for the three ladies had instinctively united against him, treacherously including his private feud in the sex-war of the ages: cora jumped lightly upon the table and sat whistling and polishing the nails of one hand upon the palm of another; laura continued to sew without looking up, and mrs. madison, conquering a tendency to laugh, preserved a serene countenance and said ruminatively: "they were all rather queer, the corlisses." hedrick stared incredulously, baffled; but men must expect these things, and this was no doubt a helpful item in his education. "i wonder if he wants to sell the house," said mrs. madison. "i wish he would. anything that would make father get out of it!" cora exclaimed. "i hope mr. corliss will burn it if he doesn't sell it." "he might want to live here himself." "he!" cora emitted a derisive outcry. her mother gave her a quick, odd look, in which there was a real alarm. "what is he like, cora?" "awfully foreign and distinguished!" this brought hedrick to confront her with a leap as of some wild animal under a lash. he landed close to her; his face awful. "princely, i should call him," said cora, her enthusiasm undaunted. "distinctly princely!" "princely," moaned hedrick. "pe-rin-sley!" "hedrick!" mrs. madison reproved him automatically. "in what way is he `foreign,' cora?" "oh, every way." cora let her glance rest dreamily upon the goaded boy. "he has a splendid head set upon a magnificent torso----" "_torso_!" hedrick whispered hoarsely. "tall, a glorious figure--like a young guardsman's." madness was gathering in her brother's eyes; and observing it with quiet pleasure, she added: "one sees immediately he has the grand manner, the bel air." hedrick exploded. "`_bel air_'!" he screamed, and began to jump up and down, tossing his arms frantically, and gasping with emotion. "oh, bel air! oh, blah! `henry esmond!' been readin' `henry esmond!' oh, you be-yoo-tiful cora-beatrix-a-_lee_! magganifisent torso! gull_o_-rious figgi-your! bel air! oh, slush! oh, luv-a-ly slush!" he cast himself convulsively upon the floor, full length. "luv-a-ly, _luv_-a-ly slush!" "he is thirty, i should say," continued cora, thoughtfully. "yes--about thirty. a strong, keen face, rather tanned. he's between fair and dark----" hedrick raised himself to the attitude of the "dying gaul." "and with `hair slightly silvered at the temples!' _ain_'t his hair slightly silvered at the temples?" he cried imploringly. "oh, sister, in pity's name let his hair be slightly silvered at the temples? only three grains of corn, your grace; my children are starving!" he collapsed again, laid his face upon his extended arms, and writhed. "he has rather wonderful eyes," said cora. "they seem to look right through you." "slush, slush, luv-a-ly slush," came in muffled tones from the floor. "and he wears his clothes so well--so differently! you feel at once that he's not a person, but a personage." hedrick sat up, his eyes closed, his features contorted as with agony, and chanted, impromptu: "slush, slush, luv-a-ly, slush! le'ss all go a-swimmin' in a dollar's worth o' mush. slush in the morning, slush at night, if i don't get my slush i'm bound to get tight!" "hedrick!" said his mother. "altogether i should say that mr. valentine corliss looks as if he lived up to his name," cora went on tranquilly. "valentine corliss of corliss street--i think i rather like the sound of that name." she let her beautiful voice linger upon it, caressingly. "valentine corliss." hedrick opened his eyes, allowed his countenance to resume its ordinary proportions, and spoke another name slowly and with honeyed thoughtfulness: "ray vilas." this was the shot that told. cora sprang down from the table with an exclamation. hedrick, subduing elation, added gently, in a mournful whisper: "_poor_ old dick lindley!" his efforts to sting his sister were completely successful at last: cora was visibly agitated, and appealed hotly to her mother. "am i to bear this kind of thing all my life? aren't you _ever_ going to punish his insolence?" "hedrick, hedrick!" said mrs. madison sadly. cora turned to the girl by the window with a pathetic gesture. "laura----" she said, and hesitated. laura madison looked up into her sister's troubled eyes. "i feel so morbid," said cora, flushing a little and glancing away. "i wish----" she stopped. the silent laura set aside her work, rose and went out of the room. her cheeks, too, had reddened faintly, a circumstance sharply noted by the terrible boy. he sat where he was, asprawl, propped by his arms behind him, watching with acute concentration the injured departure of cora, following her sister. at the door, cora, without pausing, threw him a look over her shoulder: a full-eyed shot of frankest hatred. a few moments later, magnificent chords sounded through the house. the piano was old, but tuned to the middle of the note, and the keys were swept by a master hand. the wires were not hammered; they were touched knowingly as by the player's own fingers, and so they sang--and from out among the chords there stole an errant melody. this was not "piano-playing" and not a pianist's triumphant nimbleness--it was music. art is the language of a heart that knows how to speak, and a heart that knew how was speaking here. what it told was something immeasurably wistful, something that might have welled up in the breast of a young girl standing at twilight in an april orchard. it was the inexpressible made into sound, an improvisation by a master player. "you hear what she's up to?" said hedrick, turning his head at last. but his mother had departed. he again extended himself flat upon the floor, face downward, this time as a necessary preliminary to rising after a manner of his own invention. mysteriously he became higher in the middle, his body slowly forming first a round and then a pointed arch, with forehead, knees, and elbows touching the floor. a brilliantly executed manoeuvre closed his gothic period, set him upright and upon his feet; then, without ostentation, he proceeded to the kitchen, where he found his mother polishing a sugar-bowl. he challenged her with a damnatory gesture in the direction of the music. "you hear what cora's up to?" mrs. madison's expression was disturbed; she gave her son a look almost of appeal, and said, gently: "i believe there's nothing precisely criminal in her getting laura to play for her. laura's playing always soothes her when she feels out of sorts--and--you weren't very considerate of her, hedrick. you upset her." "mentioning ray vilas, you mean?" he demanded. "you weren't kind." "she deserves it. look at her! _you_ know why she's got laura at the piano now." "it's--it's because you worried her," his mother faltered evasively. "besides, it is very hot, and cora isn't as strong as she looks. she said she felt morbid and----" "morbid? blah!" interrupted the direct boy. "she's started after this corliss man just like she did for vilas. if i was dick lindley i wouldn't stand for cora's----" "hedrick!" his mother checked his outburst pleadingly. "cora has so much harder time than the other girls; they're all so much better off. they seem to get everything they want, just by asking: nice clothes and jewellery--and automobiles. that seems to make a great difference nowadays; they all seem to have automobiles. we're so dreadfully poor, and cora has to struggle so for what good times she----" "her?" the boy jibed bitterly. "i don't see her doing any particular struggling." he waved his hand in a wide gesture. "she takes it _all_!" "there, there!" the mother said, and, as if feeling the need of placating this harsh judge, continued gently: "cora isn't strong, hedrick, and she does have a hard time. almost every one of the other girls in her set is at the seashore or somewhere having a gay summer. you don't realize, but it's mortifying to have to be the only one to stay at home, with everybody knowing it's because your father can't afford to send her. and this house is so hopeless," mrs. madison went on, extending her plea hopefully; "it's impossible to make it attractive, but cora keeps trying and trying: she was all morning on her knees gilding those chairs for the music-room, poor child, and----" "`music-room'!" sneered the boy. "gilt chairs! all show-off! that's all she ever thinks about. it's all there is to cora, just show-off, so she'll get a string o' fellows chasin' after her. she's started for this corliss just exactly the way she did for ray vilas!" "hedrick!" "just look at her!" he cried vehemently. "don't you know she's tryin' to make this corliss think it's _her_ playin' the piano right now?" "oh, no----" "didn't she do that with ray vilas?" he demanded quickly. "wasn't that exactly what she did the first time he ever came here--got laura to play and made him think it was _her_? didn't she?" "oh--just in fun." mrs. madison's tone lacked conviction; she turned, a little confusedly, from the glaring boy and fumbled among the silver on the kitchen table. "besides--she told him afterward that it was laura." "he walked in on her one day when she was battin' away at the piano herself with her back to the door. then she pretended it had been a joke, and he was so far gone by that time he didn't care. he's crazy, anyway," added the youth, casually. "who is this corliss?" "he owns this house. his family were early settlers and used to be very prominent, but they're all dead except this one. his mother was a widow; she went abroad to live and took him with her when he was about your age, and i don't think he's ever been back since." "did he use to live in this house?" "no; an aunt of his did. she left it to him when she died, two years ago. your father was agent for her." "you think this corliss wants to sell it?" "it's been for sale all the time he's owned it. that's why we moved here; it made the rent low." "is he rich?" "they used to have money, but maybe it's all spent. it seemed to me he might want to raise money on the house, because i don't see any other reason that could bring him back here. he's already mortgaged it pretty heavily, your father told me. i don't----" mrs. madison paused abruptly, her eyes widening at a dismaying thought. "oh, i do hope your father will know better than to ask him to stay to dinner!" hedrick's expression became cryptic. "father won't ask him," he said. "but i'll bet you a thousand dollars he stays!" the mother followed her son's thought and did not seek to elicit verbal explanation of the certainty which justified so large a venture. "oh, i hope not," she said. "sarah's threatening to leave, anyway; and she gets so cross if there's extra cooking on wash-days." "well, sarah'll have to get cross," said the boy grimly; "and _i_'ll have to plug out and go for a quart of brick ice-cream and carry it home in all this heat; and laura and you'll have to stand over the stove with sarah; and father'll have to change his shirt; and we'll all have to toil and moil and sweat and suffer while cora-lee sits out on the front porch and talks toodle-do-dums to her new duke. and then she'll have _you_ go out and kid him along while----" "_hedrick_!" "yes, you will!--while she gets herself all dressed and powdered up again. after that, she'll do her share of the work: she'll strain her poor back carryin' dick lindley's flowers down the back stairs and stickin' 'em in a vase over a hole in the tablecloth that laura hasn't had time to sew up. you wait and see!" the gloomy realism of this prophecy was not without effect upon the seer's mother. "oh, no!" she exclaimed, protestingly. "we really can't manage it. i'm sure cora won't want to ask him----" "you'll see!" "no; i'm sure she wouldn't think of it, but if she does i'll tell her we can't. we really can't, to-day." her son looked pityingly upon her. "she ought to be _my _ daughter," he said, the sinister implication all too plain;--"just about five minutes!" with that, he effectively closed the interview and left her. he returned to his abandoned art labours in the "conservatory," and meditatively perpetrated monstrosities upon the tiles for the next half-hour, at the end of which he concealed his box of chalks, with an anxiety possibly not unwarranted, beneath the sideboard; and made his way toward the front door, first glancing, unseen, into the kitchen where his mother still pursued the silver. he walked through the hall on tiptoe, taking care to step upon the much stained and worn strip of "turkish" carpet, and not upon the more resonant wooden floor. the music had ceased long since. the open doorway was like a brilliantly painted picture hung upon the darkness of the hall, though its human centre of interest was no startling bit of work, consisting of mr. madison pottering aimlessly about the sun-flooded, unkempt lawn, fanning himself, and now and then stooping to pull up one of the thousands of plantain-weeds that beset the grass. with him the little spy had no concern; but from a part of the porch out of sight from the hall came cora's exquisite voice and the light and pleasant baritone of the visitor. hedrick flattened himself in a corner just inside the door. "i should break any engagement whatsoever if i had one," mr. corliss was saying with what the eavesdropper considered an offensively "foreign" accent and an equally unjustifiable gallantry; "but of course i haven't: i am so utterly a stranger here. your mother is immensely hospitable to wish you to ask me, and i'll be only too glad to stay. perhaps after dinner you'll be very, very kind and play again? of course you know how remarkable such----" "oh, just improvising," cora tossed off, carelessly, with a deprecatory ripple of laughter. "it's purely with the mood, you see. i can't make myself do things. no; i fancy i shall not play again today." there was a moment's silence. "shan't i fasten that in your buttonhole for you," said cora. "you see how patiently i've been awaiting the offer!" there was another little silence; and the listener was able to construct a picture (possibly in part from an active memory) of cora's delicate hands uplifted to the gentleman's lapel and cora's eyes for a moment likewise uplifted. "yes, one has moods," she said, dreamily. "i am _all_ moods. i think you are too, mr. corliss. you _look_ moody. aren't you?" a horrible grin might have been seen to disfigure the shadow in the corner just within the doorway. chapter three it was cooler outdoors, after dinner, in the dusk of that evening; nevertheless three members of the madison family denied themselves the breeze, and, as by a tacitly recognized and habitual house-rule, so disposed themselves as to afford the most agreeable isolation for the younger daughter and the guest, who occupied wicker chairs upon the porch. the mother and father sat beneath a hot, gas droplight in the small "library"; mrs. madison with an evening newspaper, her husband with "king solomon's mines"; and laura, after crisply declining an urgent request from hedrick to play, had disappeared upstairs. the inimical lad alone was inspired for the ungrateful role of duenna. he sat upon the topmost of the porch steps with the air of being permanently implanted; leaning forward, elbows on knees, cheeks on palms, in a treacherous affectation of profound reverie; and his back (all of him that was plainly visible in the hall light) tauntingly close to a delicate foot which would, god wot! willingly have launched him into the darkness beyond. it was his dreadful pleasure to understand wholly the itching of that shapely silk and satin foot. the gas-light from the hall laid a broad orange path to the steps--cora and her companion sat just beyond it, his whiteness gray, and she a pale ethereality in the shadow. she wore an evening gown that revealed a vague lilac through white, and shimmered upon her like a vapour. she was very quiet; and there was a wan sweetness about her, an exhalation of wistfulness. cora, in the evening, was more like a rose than ever. she was fragrant in the dusk. the spell she cast was an undine's: it was not to be thought so exquisite a thing as she could last. and who may know how she managed to say what she did in the silence and darkness? for it was said--without words, without touch, even without a look--as plainly as if she had spoken or written the message: "if i am a rose, i am one to be worn and borne away. are you the man?" with the fall of night, the street they faced had become still, save for an infrequent squawk of irritation on the part of one of the passing automobiles, gadding for the most part silently, like fireflies. but after a time a strolling trio of negroes came singing along the sidewalk. "in the evening, by the moonlight, you could hear those banjos ringing; in the evening, by the moonlight, you could hear those darkies singing. how the ole folks would injoy it; they would sit all night an' lis-sun, as we sang i-i-n the evening by-y-y the moonlight.' "ah, _that_ takes me back!" exclaimed corliss. "that's as it used to be. i might be a boy again." "and i suppose this old house has many memories for you?" said cora, softly. "not very many. my, old-maid aunt didn't like me overmuch, i believe; and i wasn't here often. my mother and i lived far down the street. a big apartment-house stands there now, i noticed as i was walking out here this afternoon--the `verema,' it is called, absurdly enough!" "ray vilas lives there," volunteered hedrick, not altering his position. "vilas?" said the visitor politely, with a casual recollection that the name had been once or twice emphasized by the youth at dinner. "i don't remember vilas among the old names here." "it wasn't, i guess," said hedrick. "ray vilas has only been here about two years. he came from kentucky." "a great friend of yours, i suppose." "he ain't a boy," said hedrick, and returned to silence without further explanation. "how cool and kind the stars are to-night," said cora, very gently. she leaned forward from her chair, extending a white arm along the iron railing of the porch; bending toward corliss, and speaking toward him and away from hedrick in as low a voice as possible, probably entertaining a reasonable hope of not being overheard. "i love things that are cool and kind," she said. "i love things that are cool and strong. i love iron." she moved her arm caressingly upon the railing. "i love its cool, smooth touch. any strong life must have iron in it. i like iron in men." she leaned a very little closer to him. "have you iron in you, mr. corliss?" she asked. at these words the frayed edge of hedrick's broad white collar was lifted perceptibly from his coat, as if by a shudder passing over the back and shoulders beneath. "if i have not," answered corliss in a low voice, "i will have--now!" "tell me about yourself," she said. "dear lady," he began--and it was an effective beginning, for a sigh of pleasure parted her lips as he spoke--"there is nothing interesting to tell. i have spent a very commonplace life." "i think not. you shouldn't call any life commonplace that has escaped _this_!" the lovely voice was all the richer for the pain that shook it now. "this monotony, this unending desert of ashes, this death in life!" "this town, you mean?" "this prison, i mean! everything. tell me what lies outside of it. you can." "what makes you think i can?" "i don't need to answer that. you understand perfectly." valentine corliss drew in his breath with a sound murmurous of delight, and for a time they did not speak. "yes," he said, finally, "i think i do." "there are meetings in the desert," he went on, slowly. "a lonely traveller finds another at a spring, sometimes." "and sometimes they find that they speak the same language?" his answer came, almost in a whisper: "`even as you and i.'" "`even as you and i,'" she echoed, even more faintly. "yes." cora breathed rapidly in the silence that followed; she had every appearance of a woman deeply and mysteriously stirred. her companion watched her keenly in the dusk, and whatever the reciprocal symptoms of emotion he may have exhibited, they were far from tumultuous, bearing more likeness to the quiet satisfaction of a good card-player taking what may prove to be a decisive trick. after a time she leaned back in her chair again, and began to fan herself slowly. "you have lived in the orient, haven't you, mr. corliss?" she said in an ordinary tone. "not lived. i've been east once or twice. i spend a greater part of the year at posilipo." "where is that?" "on the fringe of naples." "do you live in a hotel?" "no." a slight surprise sounded in his voice. "i have a villa there." "do you know what that seems to me?" cora asked gravely, after a pause; then answered herself, after another: "like magic. like a strange, beautiful dream." "yes, it is beautiful," he said. "then tell me: what do you do there?" "i spend a lot of time on the water in a boat." "sailing?" "on sapphires and emeralds and turquoises and rubies, melted and blown into waves." "and you go yachting over that glory?" "fishing with my crew--and loafing." "but your boat is really a yacht, isn't it?" "oh, it might be called anything," he laughed. "and your sailors are italian fishermen?" hedrick slew a mosquito upon his temple, smiting himself hard. "no, they're chinese!" he muttered hoarsely. "they're neapolitans," said corliss. "do they wear red sashes and earrings?" asked cora. "one of them wears earrings and a derby hat!" "ah!" she protested, turning to him again. "you don't tell me. you let me cross-question you, but you don't tell me things! don't you see? i want to know what _life_ is! i want to know of strange seas, of strange people, of pain and of danger, of great music, of curious thoughts! what are the neapolitan women like?" "they fade early." she leaned closer to him. "before the fading have you--have you loved--many?" "all the pretty ones i ever saw," he answered gayly, but with something in his tone (as there was in hers) which implied that all the time they were really talking of things other than those spoken. yet here this secret subject seemed to come near the surface. she let him hear a genuine little snap of her teeth. "i _thought_ you were like that!" he laughed. "ah, but you were sure to see it!" "you could 'a' seen a neapolitan woman yesterday, cora," said hedrick, obligingly, "if you'd looked out the front window. she was working a hurdy-gurdy up and down this neighbourhood all afternoon." he turned genially to face his sister, and added: "ray vilas used to say there were lots of pretty girls in lexington." cora sprang to her feet. "you're not smoking," she said to corliss hurriedly, as upon a sudden discovery. "let me get you some matches." she had entered the house before he could protest, and hedrick, looking down the hall, was acutely aware that she dived desperately into the library. but, however tragic the cry for justice she uttered there, it certainly was not prolonged; and the almost instantaneous quickness of her reappearance upon the porch, with matches in her hand, made this one of the occasions when her brother had to admit that in her own line cora was a miracle. "so thoughtless of me," she said cheerfully, resuming her seat. she dropped the matches into mr. corliss's hand with a fleeting touch of her finger-tips upon his palm. "of course you wanted to smoke. i can't think why i didn't realize it before. i must have----" a voice called from within, commanding in no, uncertain tones. "hedrick! i should like to see you!" hedrick rose, and, looking neither to the right nor, to the left, went stonily into the house, and appeared before the powers. "call me?" he inquired with the air of cheerful readiness to proceed upon any errand, no matter how difficult. mr. madison countered diplomacy with gloom. "i don't know what to do with you. why can't you let your sister alone?" "has laura been complaining of me?" "oh, hedrick!" said mrs. madison. hedrick himself felt the justice of her reproof: his reference to laura was poor work, he knew. he hung his head and began to scrape the carpet with the side of his shoe. "well, what'd cora say i been doing to her?" "you know perfectly well what you've been doing," said mr. madison sharply. "nothing at all; just sitting on the steps. what'd she _say_?" his father evidently considered it wiser not to repeat the text of accusation. "you know what you did," he said heavily. "oho!" hedrick's eyes became severe, and his sire's evasively shifted from them. "you keep away from the porch," said the father, uneasily. "you mean what i said about ray vilas?" asked the boy. both parents looked uncomfortable, and mr. madison, turning a leaf in his book, gave a mediocre imitation of an austere person resuming his reading after an impertinent interruption. "that's what you mean," said the boy accusingly. "ray vilas!" "just you keep away from that porch." "because i happened to mention ray vilas?" demanded hedrick. "you let your sister alone." "i got a right to know what she said, haven't i?" there was no response, which appeared to satisfy hedrick perfectly. neither parent met his glance; the mother troubled and the father dogged, while the boy rejoiced sternly in some occult triumph. he inflated his scant chest in pomp and hurled at the defeated pair the well-known words: "i wish she was _my_ daughter--about five minutes!" new sounds from without--men's voices in greeting, and a ripple of response from cora somewhat lacking in enthusiasm--afforded mr. madison unmistakable relief, and an errand upon which to send his deadly offspring. hedrick, after a reconnaissance in the hall, obeyed at leisure. closing the library door nonchalantly behind him, he found himself at the foot of a flight of unillumined back stairs, where his manner underwent a swift alteration, for here was an adventure to be gone about with ceremony. "ventre st. gris!" he muttered hoarsely, and loosened the long rapier in the shabby sheath at his side. for, with the closing of the door, he had become a huguenot gentleman, over forty and a little grizzled perhaps, but modest and unassuming; wiry, alert, lightning-quick, with a wrist of steel and a heart of gold; and he was about to ascend the stairs of an unknown house at blois in total darkness. he went up, crouching, ready for anything, without a footfall, not even causing a hideous creak; and gained the top in safety. here he turned into an obscure passage, and at the end of it beheld, through an open door, a little room in which a dark-eyed lady sat writing in a book by the light of an oil lamp. the wary huguenot remained in the shadow and observed her. laura was writing in an old ledger she had found in the attic, blank and unused. she had rebound it herself in heavy gray leather; and fitted it with a tiny padlock and key. she wore the key under her dress upon a very thin silver chain round her neck. upon the first page of the book was written a date, now more than a year past, the month was june--and beneath it: "love came to me to-day." nothing more was written upon that page. chapter four laura, at this writing, looked piquantly unfamiliar to her brother: her eyes were moist and bright; her cheeks were flushed and as she bent low, intently close to the book, a loosened wavy strand of her dark hair almost touched the page. hedrick had never before seen her wearing an expression so "becoming" as the eager and tremulous warmth of this; though sometimes, at the piano, she would play in a reverie which wrought such glamour about her that even a brother was obliged to consider her rather handsome. she looked more than handsome now, so strangely lovely, in fact, that his eyes watered painfully with the protracted struggle to read a little of the writing in her book before she discovered him. he gave it up at last, and lounged forward blinking, with the air of finding it sweet to do nothing. "whatch' writin'?" he asked in simple carelessness. at the first sound of his movement she closed the book in a flash; then, with a startled, protective gesture, extended her arms over it, covering it. "what is it, hedrick?" she asked, breathlessly. "what's the padlock for?" "nothing," she panted. "what is it you want?" "you writin' poetry?" laura's eyes dilated; she looked dangerous. "oh, i don't care about your old book," said hedrick, with an amused nonchalance talleyrand might have admired. "there's callers, and you have to come down." "who sent you?" "a man i've often noticed around the house," he replied blightingly. "you may have seen him--i think his name's madison. his wife and he both sent for you." one of laura's hands instinctively began to arrange her hair, but the other remained upon the book. "who is it calling?" "richard lindley and that wade trumble." laura rose, standing between her brother and the table. "tell mother i will come down." hedrick moved a little nearer, whereupon, observing his eye, she put her right hand behind her upon the book. she was not deceived, and boys are not only superb strategic actors sometimes, but calamitously quick. appearing to be unaware of her careful defence, he leaned against the wall and crossed his feet in an original and interesting manner. "of course _you_ understand," he said cosily. "cora wants to keep this corliss in a corner of the porch where she can coo at him; so you and mother'll have to raise a ballyhoo for dick lindley and that wade trumble. it'd been funny if dick hadn't noticed anybody was there and kissed her. what on earth does he want to stay engaged to her for, anyway?" "you don't know that she is engaged to mr. lindley, hedrick." "get out!" he hooted. "what's the use talking like that to me? a blind mackerel could see she's let poor old lindley think he's high man with her these last few months; but he'll have to hit the pike now, i reckon, 'cause this corliss is altogether too pe-rin-sley for dick's class. lee roy est mort. vive lee roy!" "hedrick, won't you please run along? i want to change my dress." "what for? there was company for dinner and you didn't change then." laura's flushed cheeks flushed deeper, and in her confusion she answered too quickly. "i only have one evening gown. i--of course i can't wear it every night." "well, then," he returned triumphantly, "what do you want to put it on now for?" "_please_ run along, hedrick," she pleaded. "you didn't for this corliss," he persisted sharply. "you know dick lindley couldn't see anybody but cora to save his life, and i don't suppose there's a girl on earth fool enough to dress up for that wade trum----" "hedrick!" laura's voice rang with a warning which he remembered to have heard upon a few previous occasions when she had easily proved herself physically stronger than he. "go and tell mother i'm coming," she said. he began to whistle "beulah land" as he went, but, with the swift closing of the door behind him, abandoned that pathetically optimistic hymn prematurely, after the third bar. twenty minutes later, when laura came out and went downstairs, a fine straight figure in her black evening gown, the sieur de marsac--that hard-bitten huguenot, whose middle-aged shabbiness was but the outward and deceptive seeming of the longest head and the best sword in france--emerged cautiously from the passageway and stood listening until her footsteps were heard descending the front stairs. nevertheless, the most painstaking search of her room, a search as systematic as it was feverish, failed to reveal where she had hidden the book. he returned wearily to the porch. a prophet has always been supposed to take some pleasure, perhaps morbid, in seeing his predictions fulfilled; and it may have been a consolation to the gloomy heart of hedrick, sorely injured by laura's offensive care of her treasure, to find the grouping upon the porch as he had foretold: cora and mr. corliss sitting a little aloof from the others, far enough to permit their holding an indistinct and murmurous conversation of their own. their sequestration, even by so short a distance, gave them an appearance of intimacy which probably accounted for the rather absent greeting bestowed by mr. lindley upon the son of the house, who met him with some favour. this richard lindley was a thin, friendly looking young man with a pleasing, old-fashioned face which suggested that if he were minded to be portrayed it should be by the daguerreotype, and that a high, black stock would have been more suitable to him than his businesslike, modern neck-gear. he had fine eyes, which seemed habitually concerned with faraway things, though when he looked at cora they sparkled; however, it cannot be said that the sparkling continued at its brightest when his glance wandered (as it not infrequently did this evening) from her lovely head to the rose in mr. corliss's white coat. hedrick, resuming a position upon the top step between the two groups, found the conversation of the larger annoying because it prevented him from hearing that of the smaller. it was carried on for the greater part by his mother and mr. trumble; laura sat silent between these two; and lindley's mood was obviously contemplative. mr. wade trumble, twenty-six, small, earnest, and already beginning to lose his hair, was talkative enough. he was one of those people who are so continuously aggressive that they are negligible. "what's the matter here? nobody pays any attention to me. i'm important!" he might have had that legend engraved on his card, it spoke from everything else that was his: face, voice, gesture--even from his clothes, for they also clamoured for attention without receiving it. worn by another man, their extravagance of shape and shade might have advertised a self-sacrificing effort for the picturesque; but upon mr. trumble they paradoxically confirmed an impression that he was well off and close. certainly this was the impression confirmed in the mind of the shrewdest and most experienced observer on that veranda. the accomplished valentine corliss was quite able to share cora's detachment satisfactorily, and be very actively aware of other things at the same time. for instance: richard lindley's preoccupation had neither escaped him nor remained unconnected in his mind with that gentleman's somewhat attentive notice of the present position of a certain rose. mr. trumble took up mrs. madison's placid weather talk as if it had been a flaunting challenge; he made it a matter of conscience and for argument; for he was a doughty champion, it appeared, when nothings were in question, one of those stern men who will have accuracy in the banal, insisting upon portent in talk meant to be slid over as mere courteous sound. "i don't know about that, now," he said with severe emphasis. "i don't know about that at all. i can't say i agree with you. in fact, i do not agree with you: it was hotter in the early part of july, year before last, than it has been at any time this summer. several degrees hotter--several degrees." "i fear i must beg to differ with you," he said, catching the poor lady again, a moment later. "i beg to differ decidedly. other places get a great deal more heat. look at egypt." "permit me to disagree," he interrupted her at once, when she pathetically squirmed to another subject. "there's more than one side to this matter. you are looking at this matter from a totally wrong angle. . . . let me inform you that statistics. . . ." mrs. madison's gentle voice was no more than just audible in the short intervals he permitted; a blind listener would have thought mr. trumble at the telephone. hedrick was thankful when his mother finally gave up altogether the display of her ignorance, inaccuracy, and general misinformation, and trumble talked alone. that must have been the young man's object; certainly he had struggled for it; and so it must have pleased him. he talked on and on and on; he passed from one topic to another with no pause; swinging over the gaps with a "now you take," or, "and that reminds me," filling many a vacancy with "so-and-so and so-and-so," and other stencils, while casting about for material to continue. everything was italicized, the significant and the trivial, to the same monotone of emphasis. death and shoe-laces were all the same to him. anything was all the same to him so long as he talked. hedrick's irritation was gradually dispelled; and, becoming used to the sound, he found it lulling; relaxed his attitude and drowsed; mr. lindley was obviously lost in a reverie; mrs. madison, her hand shading her eyes, went over her market-list for the morrow and otherwise set her house in order; laura alone sat straight in her chair; and her face was toward the vocalist, but as she was in deep shadow her expression could not be guessed. however, one person in that group must have listened with genuine pleasure--else why did he talk? it was the returned native whose departure at last rang the curtain on the monologue. the end of the long sheltered seclusion of cora and her companion was a whispered word. he spoke it first: "to-morrow?" "to-morrow." cora gave a keen, quick, indrawn sigh--not of sorrow--and sank back in her chair, as he touched her hand in farewell and rose to go. she remained where she was, motionless and silent in the dark, while he crossed to mrs. madison, and prefaced a leave-taking unusually formal for these precincts with his mannered bow. he shook hands with richard lindley, asking genially: "do you still live where you did--just below here?" "yes." "when i passed by there this afternoon," said corliss, "it recalled a stupendous conflict we had, once upon a time; but i couldn't remember the cause." "i remember the cause," said mr. lindley, but, stopping rather short, omitted to state it. "at all events, it was settled." "yes," said the other quietly. "you whipped me." "did i so?" corliss laughed gayly. "we mustn't let it happen again!" mr. trumble joined the parting guest, making simultaneous adieus with unmistakable elation. mr. trumble's dreadful entertainment had made it a happy evening for him. as they went down the steps together, the top of his head just above the level of his companion's shoulder, he lifted to corliss a searching gaze like an actor's hopeful scrutiny of a new acquaintance; and before they reached the street his bark rang eagerly on the stilly night: "now _there_ is a point on which i beg to differ with you. . . ." mrs. madison gave lindley her hand. "i think i'll go in. good-night, richard. come, hedrick!" hedrick rose, groaning, and batted his eyes painfully as he faced the hall light. "what'd you and this corliss fight about?" he asked, sleepily. "nothing," said lindley. "you said you remembered." "oh, i remember a lot of useless things." "well, what was it? i want to know what you fought about." "come, hedrick," repeated his mother, setting a gently urgent hand on his shoulder. "i won't," said the boy impatiently, shaking her off and growing suddenly very wideawake and determined. "i won't move a step till he tells me what they fought about. not a step!" "well--it was about a `show.' we were only boys, you know--younger than you, perhaps." "a circus?" "a boy-circus he and my brother got up in our yard. i wasn't in it." "well, what did you fight about?" "i thought val corliss wasn't quite fair to my brother. that's all." "no, it isn't! how wasn't he fair?" "they sold tickets to the other boys; and i thought my brother didn't get his share." "this corliss kept it all?" "oh, something like that," said lindley, laughing. "probably i was in the wrong." "and he licked you?" "all over the place!" "i wish i'd seen it," said hedrick, not unsympathetically, but as a sportsman. and he consented to be led away. laura had been standing at the top of the steps looking down the street, where corliss and his brisk companion had emerged momentarily from deep shadows under the trees into the illumination of a swinging arc-lamp at the corner. they disappeared; and she turned, and, smiling, gave the delaying guest her hand in good-night. his expression, which was somewhat troubled, changed to one of surprise as her face came into the light, for it was transfigured. deeply flushed, her eyes luminous, she wore that shining look hedrick had seen as she wrote in her secret book. "why, laura!" said lindley, wondering. she said good-night again, and went in slowly. as she reached the foot of the stairs, she heard him moving a chair upon the porch, and cora speaking sharply: "please don't sit close to me!" there was a sudden shrillness in the voice of honey, and the six words were run so rapidly together they seemed to form but one. after a moment cora added, with a deprecatory ripple of laughter not quite free from the same shrillness: "you see, richard, it's so--it's so hot, to-night." chapter five half an hour later, when lindley had gone, cora closed the front doors in a manner which drew an immediate cry of agony from the room where her father was trying to sleep. she stood on tiptoe to turn out the gas-light in the hall; but for a time the key resisted the insufficient pressure of her finger-tips: the little orange flame, with its black-green crescent over the armature, so maliciously like the "eye" of a peacock feather, limned the exquisite planes of the upturned face; modelled them with soft and regular shadows; painted a sullen loveliness. the key turned a little, but not enough; and she whispered to herself a monosyllable not usually attributed to the vocabulary of a damsel of rank. next moment, her expression flashed in a brilliant change, like that of a pouting child suddenly remembering that tomorrow is christmas. the key surrendered instantly, and she ran gayly up the familiar stairs in the darkness. the transom of laura's door shone brightly; but the knob, turning uselessly in cora's hand, proved the door itself not so hospitable. there was a brief rustling within the room; the bolt snapped, and laura opened the door. "why, laura," said cora, observing her sister with transient curiosity, "you haven't undressed. what have you been doing? something's the matter with you. i know what it is," she added, laughing, as she seated herself on the edge of the old black-walnut bed. "you're in love with wade trumble!" "he's a strong man," observed laura. "a remarkable throat." "horrible little person!" said cora, forgetting what she owed the unfortunate mr. trumble for the vocal wall which had so effectively sheltered her earlier in the evening. "he's like one of those booming june-bugs, batting against the walls, falling into lamp-chimneys-----" "he doesn't get very near the light he wants," said laura. "me? yes, he would like to, the rat! but he's consoled when he can get any one to listen to his awful chatter. he makes up to himself among women for the way he gets sat on at the club. but he has his use: he shows off the other men so, by contrast. oh, laura!" she lifted both hands to her cheeks, which were beautiful with a quick suffusion of high colour. "isn't he gorgeous!" "yes," said laura gently, "i've always thought so." "now what's the use of that?" asked cora peevishly, "with _me_? i didn't mean richard lindley. you _know_ what i mean." "yes--of course--i do," laura said. cora gave her a long look in which a childlike pleading mingled with a faint, strange trouble; then this glance wandered moodily from the face of her sister to her own slippers, which she elevated to meet her descending line of vision. "and you know i can't help it," she said, shifting quickly to the role of accuser. "so what's the use of behaving like the pest?" she let her feet drop to the floor again, and her voice trembled a little as she went on: "laura, you don't know what i had to endure from him to-night. i really don't think i can stand it to live in the same house any longer with that frightful little devil. he's been throwing ray vilas's name at me until--oh, it was ghastly to-night! and then--then----" her tremulousness increased. "i haven't said anything about it all day, but i _met_ him on the street downtown, this morning----" "you met vilas?" laura looked startled. "did he speak to you?" "`speak to me!'" cora's exclamation shook with a half-laugh of hysteria. "he made an awful _scene_! he came out of the richfield hotel barroom on main street just as i was going into the jeweller's next door, and he stopped and bowed like a monkey, square in front of me, and--and he took off his hat and set it on the pavement at my feet and told me to kick it into the gutter! everybody stopped and stared; and i couldn't get by him. and he said--he said i'd kicked his heart into the gutter and he didn't want it to catch cold without a hat! and wouldn't i please be so kind as to kick----" she choked with angry mortification. "it was horrible! people were stopping and laughing, and a rowdy began to make fun of ray, and pushed him, and they got into a scuffle, and i ran into the jeweller's and almost fainted." "he is insane!" said laura, aghast. "he's nothing of the kind; he's just a brute. he does it to make people say i'm the cause of his drinking; and everybody in this gossipy old town _does_ say it--just because i got bored to death with his everlasting do-you-love-me-to-day-as-well-as-yesterday style of torment, and couldn't help liking richard better. yes, every old cat in town says i ruined him, and that's what he wants them to say. it's so unmanly! i wish he'd die! yes, i _do_ wish he would! why doesn't he kill himself?" "ah, don't say that," protested laura. "why not? he's threatened to enough. and i'm afraid to go out of the house because i can't tell when i'll meet him or what he'll do. i was almost sick in that jeweller's shop, this morning, and so upset i came away without getting my pendant. there's _another_ thing i've got to go through, i suppose!" she pounded the yielding pillow desperately. "oh, oh, oh! life isn't worth living--it seems to me sometimes as if everybody in the world spent his time trying to think up ways to make it harder for me! i couldn't have worn the pendant, though, even if i'd got it," she went on, becoming thoughtful. "it's richard's silly old engagement ring, you know," she explained, lightly. "i had it made up into a pendant, and heaven knows how i'm going to get richard to see it the right way. he was so unreasonable tonight." "was he cross about mr. corliss monopolizing you?" "oh, you know how he is," said cora. "he didn't speak of it exactly. but after you'd gone, he asked me----" she stopped with a little gulp, an expression of keen distaste about her mouth. "oh, he wants me to wear my ring," she continued, with sudden rapidity: "and how the dickens _can_ i when i can't even tell him it's been made into a pendant! he wants to speak to father; he wants to _announce_ it. he's sold out his business for what he thinks is a good deal of money, and he wants me to marry him next month and take some miserable little trip, i don't know where, for a few weeks, before he invests what he's made in another business. oh!" she cried. "it's a _horrible_ thing to ask a girl to do: to settle down--just housekeeping, housekeeping, housekeeping forever in this stupid, stupid town! it's so unfair! men are just possessive; they think it's loving you to want to possess you themselves. a beautiful `love'! it's so mean! men!" she sprang up and threw out both arms in a vehement gesture of revolt. "damn 'em, i wish they'd let me _alone_!" laura's eyes had lost their quiet; they showed a glint of tears, and she was breathing quickly. in this crisis of emotion the two girls went to each other silently; cora turned, and laura began to unfasten cora's dress in the back. "poor richard!" said laura presently, putting into her mouth a tiny pearl button which had detached itself at her touch. "this was his first evening in the overflow. no wonder he was troubled!" "pooh!" said cora. "as if you and mamma weren't good enough for him to talk to! he's spoiled. he's so used to being called `the most popular man in town' and knowing that every girl on corliss street wanted to marry him----" she broke off, and exclaimed sharply: "i wish they would!" "cora!" "oh, i suppose you mean that's the reason _i_ went in for him?" "no, no," explained laura hurriedly. "i only meant, stand still." "well, it was!" and cora's abrupt laugh had the glad, free ring fancy attaches to the merry confidences of a buccaneer in trusted company. laura knelt to continue unfastening the dress; and when it was finished she extended three of the tiny buttons in her hand. "they're always loose on a new dress," she said. "i'll sew them all on tight, to-morrow." cora smiled lovingly. "you good old thing," she said. "you looked pretty to-night." "that's nice!" laura laughed, as she dropped the buttons into a little drawer of her bureau. it was an ugly, cheap, old bureau, its veneer loosened and peeling, the mirror small and flawed--a piece of furniture in keeping with the room, which was small, plain and hot, its only ornamental adjunct being a silver-framed photograph of mrs. madison, with cora, as a child of seven or eight, upon her lap. "you really do look ever so pretty," asserted cora. "i wonder if i look as well as i did the last time i heard i was pretty," said the other. "that was at the assembly in march. coming down the stairs, i heard a man from out of town say, `that black-haired miss madison is a pretty girl.' and some one with him said, `yes; you'll think so until you meet her sister!'" "you are an old dear!" cora enfolded her delightedly; then, drawing back, exclaimed: "you _know_ he's gorgeous!" and with a feverish little ripple of laughter, caught her dress together in the back and sped through the hall to her own room. this was a very different affair from laura's, much cooler and larger; occupying half the width of the house; and a rather expensive struggle had made it pretty and even luxurious. the window curtains and the wall-paper were fresh, and of a quiet blue; there was a large divan of the same colour; a light desk, prettily equipped, occupied a corner; and between two gilt gas-brackets, whose patent burners were shielded by fringed silk shades, stood a cheval-glass six feet high. the door of a very large clothes-pantry stood open, showing a fine company of dresses, suspended from forms in an orderly manner; near by, a rosewood cabinet exhibited a delicate collection of shoes and slippers upon its four shelves. a dressing-table, charmingly littered with everything, took the place of a bureau; and upon it, in a massive silver frame, was a large photograph of mr. richard lindley. the frame was handsome, but somewhat battered: it had seen service. however, the photograph was quite new. there were photographs everywhere--photographs framed and unframed; photographs large and photographs small, the fresh and the faded; tintypes, kodaks, "full lengths," "cabinets," groups--every kind of photograph; and among them were several of cora herself, one of her mother, one of laura, and two others of girls. all the rest were sterner. two or three were seamed across with cracks, hastily recalled sentences to destruction; and here and there remained tokens of a draughtsman's over-generous struggle to confer upon some of the smooth-shaven faces additional manliness in the shape of sweeping moustaches, long beards, goatees, mutton-chops, and, in the case of one gentleman of a blond, delicate and tenor-like beauty, neck-whiskers;--decorations in many instances so deeply and damply pencilled that subsequent attempts at erasure had failed of great success. certainly, hedrick had his own way of relieving dull times. cora turned up the lights at the sides of the cheval-glass, looked at herself earnestly, then absently, and began to loosen her hair. her lifted hands hesitated; she re-arranged the slight displacement of her hair already effected; set two chairs before the mirror, seated herself in one; pulled up her dress, where it was slipping from her shoulder, rested an arm upon the back of the other chair as, earlier in the evening, she had rested it upon the iron railing of the porch, and, leaning forward, assumed as exactly as possible the attitude in which she had sat so long beside valentine corliss. she leaned very slowly closer and yet closer to the mirror; a rich colour spread over her; her eyes, gazing into themselves, became dreamy, inexpressibly wistful, cloudily sweet; her breath was tumultuous. "`even as you and i'?" she whispered. then, in the final moment of this after-the-fact rehearsal, as her face almost touched the glass, she forgot how and what she had looked to corliss; she forgot him; she forgot him utterly: she leaped to her feet and kissed the mirrored lips with a sort of passion. "you _darling_!" she cried. cora's christening had been unimaginative, for the name means only, "maiden." she should have been called narcissa. the rhapsody was over instantly, leaving an emotional vacuum like a silence at the dentist's. cora yawned, and resumed the loosening of her hair. when she had put on her nightgown, she went from one window to another, closing the shutters against the coming of the morning light to wake her. as she reached the last window, a sudden high wind rushed among the trees outside; a white flare leaped at her face, startling her; there was a boom and rattle as of the brasses, cymbals, and kettle-drums of some fatal orchestra; and almost at once it began to rain. and with that, from the distance came a voice, singing; and at the first sound of it, though it was far away and almost indistinguishable, cora started more violently than at the lightning; she sprang to the mirror lights, put them out; threw herself upon the bed, and huddled there in the darkness. the wind passed; the heart of the storm was miles away; this was only its fringe; but the rain pattered sharply upon the thick foliage outside her windows; and the singing voice came slowly up the street. it was a strange voice: high-pitched and hoarse--and not quite human, so utter was the animal abandon of it. "i love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie," it wailed and piped, coming nearer; and the gay little air--wrought to a grotesque of itself by this wild, high voice in the rain--might have been a banshee's love-song. "i love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie. she's as pure as the lily in the dell----" the voice grew louder; came in front of the house; came into the yard; came and sang just under cora's window. there it fell silent a moment; then was lifted in a long peal of imbecile laughter, and sang again: "then slowly, slowly rase she up and slowly she came nigh him, and when she drew the curtain by-- `young man i think you're dyin'.'" cora's door opened and closed softly, and laura, barefooted, stole to the bed and put an arm about the shaking form of her sister. "the drunken beast!" sobbed cora. "it's to disgrace me! that's what he wants. he'd like nothing better than headlines in the papers: `ray vilas arrested at the madison residence'!" she choked with anger and mortification. "the neighbours----" "they're nearly all away," whispered laura. "you needn't fear----" "hark!" the voice stopped singing, and began to mumble incoherently; then it rose again in a lamentable outcry: "oh, god of the fallen, be thou merciful to me! be thou merciful--merciful--_merciful_" . . . "merciful, merciful, merciful!" it shrieked, over and over, with increasing loudness, and to such nerve-racking effect that cora, gasping, beat the bedclothes frantically with her hands at each iteration. the transom over the door became luminous; some one had lighted the gas in the upper hall. both girls jumped from the bed, ran to the door, and opened it. their mother, wearing a red wrapper, was standing at the head of the stairs, which mr. madison, in his night-shirt and slippers, was slowly and heavily descending. before he reached the front door, the voice outside ceased its dreadful plaint with the abrupt anti-climax of a phonograph stopped in the middle of a record. there was the sound of a struggle and wrestling, a turmoil in the wet shrubberies, branches cracking. "let me go, da----" cried the voice, drowned again at half a word, as by a powerful hand upon a screaming mouth. the old man opened the front door, stepped out, closing it behind him; and the three women looked at each other wanly during a hushed interval like that in a sleeping-car at night when the train stops. presently he came in again, and started up the stairs, heavily and slowly, as he had gone down. "richard lindley stopped him," he said, sighing with the ascent, and not looking up. "he heard him as he came along the street, and dressed as quick as he could, and ran up and got him. richard's taken him away." he went to his own room, panting, mopping his damp gray hair with his fat wrist, and looking at no one. cora began to cry again. it was an hour before any of this family had recovered sufficient poise to realize, with the shuddering gratitude of adventurers spared from the abyss, that, under providence, hedrick had not wakened! chapter six much light shatters much loveliness; but a pretty girl who looks pretty outdoors on a dazzling hot summer morning is prettier then than ever. cora knew it; of course she knew it; she knew exactly how she looked, as she left the concrete bridge behind her at the upper end of corliss street and turned into a shrub-bordered bypath of the river park. in imagination she stood at the turn of the path just ahead, watching her own approach: she saw herself as a picture--the white-domed parasol, with its cheerful pale-green lining, a background for her white hat, her corn-silk hair, and her delicately flushed face. she saw her pale, live arms through their thin sleeves, and the light grasp of her gloved fingers upon the glistening stick of the parasol; she saw the long, simple lines of her close white dress and their graceful interchanging movements with the alternate advance of her white shoes over the fine gravel path; she saw the dazzling splashes of sunshine playing upon her through the changeful branches overhead. cora never lacked a gallery: she sat there herself. she refreshed the eyes of a respectable burgess of sixty, a person so colourless that no one, after passing him, could have remembered anything about him except that he wore glasses and some sort of moustache; and to cora's vision he was as near transparent as any man could be, yet she did not miss the almost imperceptible signs of his approval, as they met and continued on their opposite ways. she did not glance round, nor did he pause in his slow walk; neither was she clairvoyant; none the less, she knew that he turned his head and looked back at her. the path led away from the drives and more public walks of the park, to a low hill, thoughtfully untouched by the gardener and left to the shadowy thickets and good-smelling underbrush of its rich native woodland. and here, by a brown bench, waited a tall gentleman in white. they touched hands and sat without speaking. for several moments they continued the silence, then turned slowly and looked at each other; then looked slowly and gravely away, as if to an audience in front of them. they knew how to do it; but probably a critic in the first row would have concluded that cora felt it even more than valentine corliss enjoyed it. "i suppose this is very clandestine," she said, after a deep breath. "i don't think i care, though." "i hope you do," he smiled, "so that i could think your coming means more." "then i'll care," she said, and looked at him again. "you dear!" he exclaimed deliberately. she bit her lip and looked down, but not before he had seen the quick dilation of her ardent eyes. "i wanted to be out of doors," she said. "i'm afraid there's one thing of yours i don't like, mr. corliss." "i'll throw it away, then. tell me." "your house. i don't like living in it, very much. i'm sorry you _can't_ throw it away." "i'm thinking of doing that very thing," he laughed. "but i'm glad i found the rose in that queer old waste-basket first." "not too much like a rose, sometimes," she said. "i think this morning i'm a little like some of the old doors up on the third floor: i feel rather unhinged, mr. corliss." "you don't look it, miss madison!" "i didn't sleep very well." she bestowed upon him a glance which transmuted her actual explanation into, "i couldn't sleep for thinking of you." it was perfectly definite; but the acute gentleman laughed genially. "go on with you!" he said. her eyes sparkled, and she joined laughter with him. "but it's true: you did keep me awake. besides, i had a serenade." "serenade? i had an idea they didn't do that any more over here. i remember the young men going about at night with an orchestra sometimes when i was a boy, but i supposed----" "oh, it wasn't much like that," she interrupted, carelessly. "i don't think that sort of thing has been done for years and years. it wasn't an orchestra--just a man singing under my window." "with a guitar?" "no." she laughed a little. "just singing." "but it rained last night," said corliss, puzzled. "oh, _he_ wouldn't mind that!" "how stupid of me! of course, he wouldn't. was it richard lindley?" "never!" "i see. yes, that was a bad guess: i'm sure lindley's just the same steady-going, sober, plodding old horse he was as a boy. his picture doesn't fit a romantic frame--singing under a lady's window in a thunderstorm! your serenader must have been very young." "he is," said cora. "i suppose he's about twenty-three; just a boy--and a very annoying one, too!" her companion looked at her narrowly. "by any chance, is he the person your little brother seemed so fond of mentioning--mr. vilas?" cora gave a genuine start. "good heavens! what makes you think that?" she cried, but she was sufficiently disconcerted to confirm his amused suspicion. "so it was mr. vilas," he said. "he's one of the jilted, of course." "oh, `jilted'!" she exclaimed. "all the wild boys that a girl can't make herself like aren't `jilted,' are they?" "i believe i should say--yes," he returned. "yes, in this instance, just about all of them." "is every woman a target for you, mr. corliss? i suppose you know that you have a most uncomfortable way of shooting up the landscape." she stirred uneasily, and moved away from him to the other end of the bench. "i didn't miss that time," he laughed. "don't you ever miss?" he leaned quickly toward her and answered in a low voice: "you can be sure i'm not going to miss anything about _you_." it was as if his bending near her had been to rouge her. but it cannot be said that she disliked his effect upon her; for the deep breath she drew in audibly, through her shut teeth, was a signal of delight; and then followed one of those fraught silences not uncharacteristic of dialogues with cora. presently, she gracefully and uselessly smoothed her hair from the left temple with the backs of her fingers, of course finishing the gesture prettily by tucking in a hairpin tighter above the nape of her neck. then, with recovered coolness, she asked: "did you come all the way from italy just to sell our old house, mr. corliss?" "perhaps that was part of why i came," he said, gayly. "i need a great deal of money, miss cora madison." "for your villa and your yacht?" "no; i'm a magician, dear lady----" "yes," she said, almost angrily. "of course you know it!" "you mock me! no; i'm going to make everybody rich who will trust me. i have a secret, and it's worth a mountain of gold. i've put all i have into it, and will put in everything else i can get for myself, but it's going to take a great deal more than that. and everybody who goes into it will come out on monte cristo's island." "then i'm sorry papa hasn't anything to put in," she said. "but he has: his experience in business and his integrity. i want him to be secretary of my company. will you help me to get him?" he laughed. "do you want me to?" she asked with a quick, serious glance straight in his eyes, one which he met admirably. "i have an extremely definite impression," he said lightly, "that you can make anybody you know do just what you want him to." "and i have another that you have still another `extremely definite impression' that takes rank over that," she said, but not with his lightness, for her tone was faintly rueful. "it is that you can make _me_ do just what you want me to." mr. valentine corliss threw himself back on the bench and laughed aloud. "what a girl!" he cried. then for a fraction of a second he set his hand over hers, an evanescent touch at which her whole body started and visibly thrilled. she lifted her gloved hand and looked at it with an odd wonder; her alert emotions, always too ready, flinging their banners to her cheeks again. "oh, i don't think it's soiled," he said, a speech which she punished with a look of starry contempt. for an instant she made him afraid that something had gone wrong with his measuring tape; but with a slow movement she set her hand softly against her hot cheek; and he was reassured: it was not his touching her that had offended her, but the allusion to it. "thanks," he said, very softly. she dropped her hand to her parasol, and began, musingly, to dig little holes in the gravel of the path. "richard lindley is looking for investments," she said. "i'm glad to hear he's been so successful," returned corliss. "he might like a share in your gold-mine." "thank heaven it isn't literally a gold-mine," he exclaimed. "there have been so many crooked ones exploited i don't believe you could get anybody nowadays to come in on a real one. but i think you'd make an excellent partner for an adventurer who had discovered hidden treasure; and i'm that particular kind of adventurer. i think i'll take you in." "do you?" "how would you like to save a man from being ruined?" "ruined? you don't mean it literally?" "literally!" he laughed gayly. "if i don't `land' this i'm gone, smashed, finished--quite ended! don't bother, i'm going to `land' it. and it's rather a serious compliment i'm paying you, thinking you can help me. i'd like to see a woman--just once in the world--who could manage a thing like this." he became suddenly very grave. "good god! wouldn't i be at her feet!" her eyes became even more eager. "you think i--i _might_ be a woman who could?" "who knows, miss madison? i believe----" he stopped abruptly, then in a lowered, graver voice asked: "doesn't it somehow seem a little queer to you when we call each other, `miss madison' and `mr. corliss'?" "yes," she answered slowly; "it does." "doesn't it seem to you," he went on, in the same tone, "that we only `miss' and `mister' each other in fun? that though you never saw me until yesterday, we've gone pretty far beyond mere surfaces? that we did in our talk, last night?" "yes," she repeated; "it does." he let a pause follow, and then said huskily: "how far are we going?" "i don't know." she was barely audible; but she turned deliberately, and there took place an eager exchange of looks which continued a long while. at last, and without ending this serious encounter, she whispered: "how far do _you_ think?" mr. corliss did not answer, and a peculiar phenomenon became vaguely evident to the girl facing him: his eyes were still fixed full upon hers, but he was not actually looking at her; nevertheless, and with an extraordinarily acute attention, he was unquestionably looking at something. the direct front of pupil and iris did not waver from her; but for the time he was not aware of her; had not even heard her question. something in the outer field of his vision had suddenly and completely engrossed him; something in that nebulous and hazy background which we see, as we say, with the white of the eye. cora instinctively turned and looked behind her, down the path. there was no one in sight except a little girl and the elderly burgess who had glanced over his shoulder at cora as she entered the park; and he was, in face, mien, and attire, so thoroughly the unnoticeable, average man-on-the-street that she did not even recall him as the looker-round of a little while ago. he was strolling benevolently, the little girl clinging to one of his hands, the other holding an apple; and a composite photograph of a thousand grandfathers might have resulted in this man's picture. as the man and little girl came slowly up the walk toward the couple on the bench there was a faint tinkle at cora's feet: her companion's scarfpin, which had fallen from his tie. he was maladroit about picking it up, trying with thumb and forefinger to seize the pin itself, instead of the more readily grasped design of small pearls at the top, so that he pushed it a little deeper into the gravel; and then occurred a tiny coincidence: the elderly man, passing, let fall the apple from his hand, and it rolled toward the pin just as corliss managed to secure the latter. for an instant, though the situation was so absolutely commonplace, so casual, cora had a wandering consciousness of some mysterious tensity; a feeling like the premonition of a crisis very near at hand. this sensation was the more curious because nothing whatever happened. the man got his apple, joined in the child's laughter, and went on. "what was it you asked me?" said corliss, lifting his head again and restoring the pin to his tie. he gazed carelessly at the back of the grandsire, disappearing beyond a bush at a bend in the path. "who was that man?" said cora with some curiosity. "that old fellow? i haven't an idea. you see i've been away from here so many years i remember almost no one. why?" "i don't know, unless it was because i had an idea you were thinking of him instead of me. you didn't listen to what i said." "that was because i was thinking so intensely of you," he began instantly. "a startlingly vivid thought of you came to me just then. didn't i look like a man in a trance?" "what was the thought?" "it was a picture: i saw you standing under a great bulging sail, and the water flying by in moonlight; oh, a moon and a night such as you have never seen! and a big blue headland looming up against the moon, and crowned with lemon groves and vineyards, all sparkling with fireflies--old watch-towers and the roofs of white villas gleaming among olive orchards on the slopes--the sound of mandolins----" "ah!" she sighed, the elderly man, his grandchild, and his apple well-forgotten. "do you think it was a prophecy?" he asked. "what do _you_ think?" she breathed. "that was really what i asked you before." "i think," he said slowly, "that i'm in danger of forgetting that my `hidden treasure' is the most important thing in the world." "in great danger?" the words were not vocal. he moved close to her; their eyes met again, with increased eagerness, and held fast; she was trembling, visibly; and her lips--parted with her tumultuous breathing--were not far from his. "isn't any man in great danger," he said, "if he falls in love with you?" "well?" chapter seven toward four o'clock that afternoon, a very thin, fair young man shakily heaved himself into a hammock under the trees in that broad backyard wherein, as valentine corliss had yesterday noticed, the last iron monarch of the herd, with unabated arrogance, had entered domestic service as a clothes-prop. the young man, who was of delicate appearance and unhumanly pale, stretched himself at full length on his back, closed his eyes, moaned feebly, cursed the heat in a stricken whisper. then, as a locust directly overhead violently shattered the silence, and seemed like to continue the outrage forever, the shaken lounger stopped his ears with his fingers and addressed the insect in old saxon. a white jacketed mulatto came from the house bearing something on a silver tray. "julip, mist' vilas?" he said sympathetically. ray vilas rustily manoeuvred into a sitting position; and, with eyes still closed, made shift to accept the julep in both hands, drained half of it, opened his eyes, and thanked the cup-bearer feebly, in a voice and accent reminiscent of the melodious south. "and i wonder," he added, "if you can tell me----" "i'm miz william lindley's house-man, joe vaxdens," said the mulatto, in the tone of an indulgent nurse. "you in miz lindley's backyard right now, sittin' in a hammick." "i seem to gather almost that much for myself," returned the patient. "but i should like to know how i got here." "jes' come out the front door an' walk' aroun' the house an' set down. mist' richard had to go downtown; tole me not to wake you; but i heerd you splashin' in the bath an' you tole me you din' want no breakfuss----" "yes, joe, i'm aware of what's occurred since i woke," said vilas, and, throwing away the straws, finished the julep at one draught. "what i want to know is how i happened to be here at mr. lindley's." "mist' richard brought you las' night, suh. i don' know where he got you, but i heered a considerable thrashum aroun', up an' down the house, an' so i come help him git you to bed in one vem spare-rooms." joe chuckled ingratiatingly. "lord name! you cert'n'y wasn't askin' fer no _bed_!" he took the glass, and the young man reclined again in the hammock, a hot blush vanquishing his pallor. "was i--was i very bad, joe?" "oh, you was all _right_," joe hastened to reassure him. "you was jes' on'y a little bit tight." "did it really seem only a little?" the other asked hopefully. "yessuh," said joe promptly. "nothin' at all. you jes' wanted to rare roun' little bit. mist' richard took gun away from you----" "what?" "oh, i tole him you wasn' goin' use it!" joe laughed. "but you so wile be din' know what you do. you cert'n'y was drunkes' man _i_ see in _long_ while," he said admiringly. "you pert near had us bofe wore out 'fore you give up, an' mist' richard an' me, we _use'_ to han'lin' drunkum man, too--use' to have big times week-in, week-out 'ith mist' will--at's mist' richard's brother, you know, suh, what died o' whiskey." he laughed again in high good-humour. "you cert'n'y laid it all over any vem ole times we had 'ith mist' will!" mr. vilas shifted his position in the hammock uneasily; joe's honest intentions to be of cheer to the sufferer were not wholly successful. "i tole mist' richard," the kindly servitor continued, "it was a mighty good thing his ma gone up norf endurin' the hot spell. sence mist' will die she can't hardly bear to see drunkum man aroun' the house. mist' richard hardly ever tech nothin' himself no more. you goin' feel better, suh, out in the f'esh air," he concluded, comfortingly as he moved away. "joe!" "yessuh." mr. vilas pulled himself upright for a moment. "what use in the world do you reckon one julep is to me?" "mist' richard say to give you one drink ef you ask' for it, suh," answered joe, looking troubled. "well, you've told me enough now about last night to make any man hang himself, and i'm beginning to remember enough more----" "pshaw, mist' vilas," the coloured man interrupted, deprecatingly, "you din' broke nothin'! you on'y had couple glass' wine too much. you din' make no trouble at all; jes' went right off to bed. you ought seen some vem ole times me an mist' richard use to have 'ith mist' will----" "joe!" "yessuh." "i want three more juleps and i want them right away." the troubled expression upon the coloured man's face deepened. "mist' richard say jes' one, suh," he said reluctantly. "i'm afraid----" "joe." "yessuh." "i don't know," said ray vilas slowly, "whether or not you ever heard that i was born and raised in kentucky." "yessuh," returned joe humbly. "i heerd so." "well, then," said the young man in a quiet voice, "you go and get me three juleps. i'll settle it with mr. richard." "yessuh." but it was with a fifth of these renovators that lindley found his guest occupied, an hour later, while upon a small table nearby a sixth, untouched, awaited disposal beside an emptied coffee-cup. also, mr. vilas was smoking a cigarette with unshadowed pleasure; his eye was bright, his expression care-free; and he was sitting up in the hammock, swinging cheerfully, and singing the "marseillaise." richard approached through the yard, coming from the street without entering the house; and anxiety was manifest in the glance he threw at the green-topped glass upon the table, and in his greeting. "hail, gloom!" returned mr. vilas, cordially, and, observing the anxious glance, he swiftly removed the untouched goblet from the table to his own immediate possession. "two simultaneous juleps will enhance the higher welfare," he explained airily. "sir, your mr. varden was induced to place a somewhat larger order with us than he protested to be your intention. trusting you to exonerate him from all so-and-so and that these few words, etcetera!" he depleted the elder glass of its liquor, waved it in the air, cried, "health, host!" and set it upon the table. "i believe i do not err in assuming my cup-bearer's name to be varden, although he himself, in his simple americo-africanism, is pleased to pluralize it. do i fret you, host?" "not in the least," said richard, dropping upon a rustic bench, and beginning to fan himself with his straw hat. "what's the use of fretting about a boy who hasn't sense enough to fret about himself?" "`boy?'" mr. vilas affected puzzlement. "do i hear aright? sir, do you boy me? bethink you, i am now the shell of five mint-juleps plus, and am pot-valiant. and is this mere capacity itself to be lightly _boyed_? again, do i not wear a man's garment, a man's garnitures? heed your answer; for this serge, these flannels, and these silks are yours, and though i may not fill them to the utmost, i do to the longmost, precisely. i am the stature of a man; had it not been for your razor i should wear the beard of a man; therefore i'll not be boyed. what have you to say in defence?" "hadn't you better let me get joe to bring you something to eat?" asked richard. "eat?" mr. vilas disposed of the suggestion with mournful hauteur. "there! for the once i forgive you. let the subject never be mentioned between us again. we will tactfully turn to a topic of interest. my memories of last evening, at first hazy and somewhat disconcerting, now merely amuse me. following the pleasant spanish custom, i went a-serenading, but was kidnapped from beneath the precious casement by--by a zealous arrival. host, `zealous arrival' is not the julep in action: it is a triumph of paraphrase." "i wish you'd let joe take you back to bed," said richard. "always bent on thoughts of the flesh," observed the other sadly. "beds are for bodies, and i am become a thing of spirit. my soul is grateful a little for your care of its casing. you behold, i am generous: i am able to thank my successor to carmen!" lindley's back stiffened. "vilas!" "spare me your protests." the younger man waved his hand languidly. "you wish not to confer upon this subject----" "it's a subject we'll omit," said richard. his companion stopped swinging, allowed the hammock to come to rest; his air of badinage fell from him; for the moment he seemed entirely sober; and he spoke with gentleness. "mr. lindley, if you please, i am still a gentleman--at times." "i beg your pardon," said richard quickly. "no need of that!" the speaker's former careless and boisterous manner instantly resumed possession. "you must permit me to speak of a wholly fictitious lady, a creature of my wanton fancy, sir, whom i call carmen. it will enable me to relieve my burdened soul of some remarks i have long wished to address to your excellent self." "oh, all right," muttered richard, much annoyed. "let us imagine," continued mr. vilas, beginning to swing again, "that i thought i had won this carmen----" lindley uttered an exclamation, shifted his position in his chair, and fixed a bored attention upon the passing vehicles in the glimpse of the street afforded between the house and the shrubberies along the side fence. the other, without appearing to note his annoyance, went on, cheerfully: "she was a precocious huntress: early in youth she passed through the accumulator stage, leaving it to the crude or village belle to rejoice in numbers and the excitement of teasing cubs in the bear-pit. it is the nature of this imagined carmen to play fiercely with one imitation of love after another: a man thinks he wins her, but it is merely that she has chosen him--for a while. and carmen can have what she chooses; if the man exists who could show her that she cannot, she would follow him through the devil's dance; but neither you nor i would be that man, my dear sir. we assume that carmen's eyes have been mine--her heart is another matter--and that she has grown weary of my somewhat sicilian manner of looking into them, and, following her nature and the law of periodicity which carmens must bow to, she seeks a cooler gaze and calls mr. richard lindley to come and take a turn at looking. now, mr. richard lindley is straight as a die: he will not even show that he hears the call until he is sure that i have been dismissed: therefore, i have no quarrel with him. also, i cannot even hate him, for in my clearer julep vision i see that he is but an interregnum. let me not offend my friend: chagrin is to be his as it is mine. i was a strong draught, he but the quieting potion our carmen took to settle it. we shall be brothers in woe some day. nothing in the universe lasts except hell: life is running water; love, a looking-glass; death, an empty theatre! that reminds me: as you are not listening i will sing." he finished his drink and lifted his voice hilariously: "the heavenly stars far above her, the wind of the infinite sea, who know all her perfidy, love her, so why call it madness in me? ah, why call it madness----" he set his glass with a crash upon the table, staring over his companion's shoulder. "_what_, if you please, is the royal exile who thus seeks refuge in our hermitage?" his host had already observed the approaching visitor with some surprise, and none too graciously. it was valentine corliss: he had turned in from the street and was crossing the lawn to join the two young men. lindley rose, and, greeting him with sufficient cordiality, introduced mr. vilas, who bestowed upon the newcomer a very lively interest. "you are as welcome, mr. corliss," said this previous guest, earnestly, "as if these sylvan shades were mine. i hail you, not only for your own sake, but because your presence encourages a hope that our host may offer refreshment to the entire company." corliss smilingly declined to be a party to this diplomacy, and seated himself beside richard lindley on the bench. "then i relapse!" exclaimed mr. vilas, throwing himself back full-length in the hammock. "i am not replete, but content. i shall meditate. gentlemen, speak on!" he waved his hand in a gracious gesture, indicating his intention to remain silent, and lay quiet, his eyes fixed steadfastly upon corliss. "i was coming to call on you," said the latter to lindley, "but i saw you from the street and thought you mightn't mind my being as informal as i used to be, so many years ago." "of course," said richard. "i have a sinister purpose in coming," mr. corliss laughingly went on. "i want to bore you a little first, and then make your fortune. no doubt that's an old story to you, but i happen to be one of the adventurers whose argosies are laden with real cargoes. nobody knows who has or hasn't money to invest nowadays, and of course i've no means of knowing whether _you_ have or not--you see what a direct chap i am--but if you have, or can lay hold of some, i can show you how to make it bring you an immense deal more." "naturally," said richard pleasantly, "i shall be glad if you can do that." "then i'll come to the point. it is exceedingly simple; that's certainly one attractive thing about it." corliss took some papers and unmounted photographs from his pocket, and began to spread them open on the bench between himself and richard. "no doubt you know southern italy as well as i do." "oh, i don't `know' it. i've been to naples; down to paestum; drove from salerno to sorrentoby amalfi; but that was years ago." "here's a large scale map that will refresh your memory." he unfolded it and laid it across their knees; it was frayed with wear along the folds, and had been heavily marked and dotted with red and blue pencillings. "my millions are in this large irregular section," he continued. "it's the anklebone and instep of italy's boot; this sizable province called basilicata, east of salerno, north of calabria. and i'll not hang fire on the point, lindley. what i've got there is oil." "olives?" asked richard, puzzled. "hardly!" corliss laughed. "though of course one doesn't connect petroleum with the thought of italy, and of all italy, southern italy. but in spite of the years i've lived there, i've discovered myself to be so essentially american and commercial that i want to drench the surface of that antique soil with the brown, bad-smelling crude oil that lies so deep beneath it. basilicata is the coming great oil-field of the world--and that's my secret. i dare to tell it here, as i shouldn't dare in naples." "shouldn't `dare'?" richard repeated, with growing interest, and no doubt having some vague expectation of a tale of the camorra. to him naples had always seemed of all cities the most elusive and incomprehensible, a laughing, thieving, begging, mandolin-playing, music-and-murder haunted metropolis, about which anything was plausible; and this impression was not unique, as no inconsiderable proportion of mr. lindley's fellow-countrymen share it, a fact thoroughly comprehended by the returned native. "it isn't a case of not daring on account of any bodily danger," explained corliss. "no," richard smiled reminiscently. "i don't believe that would have much weight with you if it were. you certainly showed no symptoms of that sort in your extreme youth. i remember you had the name of being about the most daring and foolhardy boy in town." "i grew up to be cautious enough in business, though," said the other, shaking his head gravely. "i haven't been able to afford not being careful." he adjusted the map--a prefatory gesture. "now, i'll make this whole affair perfectly clear to you. it's a simple matter, as are most big things. i'll begin by telling you of moliterno--he's been my most intimate friend in that part of the continent for a great many years; since i went there as a boy, in fact." he sketched a portrait of his friend, prince moliterno, bachelor chief of a historic house, the soul of honour, "land-poor"; owning leagues and leagues of land, hills and mountains, broken towers and ruins, in central basilicata, a province described as wild country and rough, off the rails and not easy to reach. moliterno and the narrator had gone there to shoot; corliss had seen "surface oil" upon the streams and pools; he recalled the discovery of oil near his own boyhood home in america; had talked of it to moliterno, and both men had become more and more interested, then excited. they decided to sink a well. corliss described picturesquely the difficulties of this enterprise, the hardships and disappointments; how they dragged the big tools over the mountains by mule power; how they had kept it all secret; how he and moliterno had done everything with the help of peasant labourers and one experienced man, who had "seen service in the persian oil-fields." he gave the business reality, colouring it with details relevant and irrelevant, anecdotes and wayside incidents: he was fluent, elaborate, explicit throughout. they sank five wells, he said, "at the angles of this irregular pentagon you see here on the map, outlined in blue. these red circles are the wells." four of the wells "came in tremendous," but they had managed to get them sealed after wasting--he was "sorry to think how many thousand barrels of oil." the fifth well was so enormous that they had not been able to seal it at the time of the speaker's departure for america. "but i had a cablegram this morning," he added, "letting me know they've managed to do it at last. here is, the cablegram." he handed richard a form signed "antonio moliterno." "now, to go back to what i said about not `daring' to speak of this in naples," he continued, smiling. "the fear is financial, not physical." the knowledge of the lucky strike, he explained, must be kept from the "neapolitan money-sharks." a third of the land so rich in oil already belonged to the moliterno estates, but it was necessary to obtain possession of the other two thirds "before the secret leaks into naples." so far, it was safe, the peasants of basilicata being "as medieval a lot as one could wish." he related that these peasants thought that the devils hiding inside the mountains had been stabbed by the drills, and that the oil was devils' blood. "you can see some of the country people hanging about, staring at a well, in this kodak, though it's not a very good one." he put into richard's hand a small, blurred photograph showing a spouting well with an indistinct crowd standing in an irregular semicircle before it. "is this the basilicatan peasant costume?" asked richard, indicating a figure in the foreground, the only one revealed at all definitely. "it looks more oriental. isn't the man wearing a fez?" "let me see," responded mr. corliss very quickly. "perhaps i gave you the wrong picture. oh, no," he laughed easily, holding the kodak closer to his eyes; "that's all right: it is a fez. that's old salviati, our engineer, the man i spoke of who'd worked in persia, you know; he's always worn a fez since then. got in the habit of it out there and says he'll never give it up. moliterno's always chaffing him about it. he's a faithful old chap, salviati." "i see." lindley looked thoughtfully at the picture, which the other carelessly returned to his hand. "there seems to be a lot of oil there." "it's one of the smaller wells at that. and you can see from the kodak that it's just `blowing'--not an eruption from being `shot,' or the people wouldn't stand so near. yes; there's an ocean of oil under that whole province; but we want a lot of money to get at it. it's mountain country; our wells will all have to go over fifteen-hundred feet, and that's expensive. we want to pipe the oil to salerno, where the standard's ships will take it from us, and it will need a great deal for that. but most of all we want money to get hold of the land; we must control the whole field, and it's big!" "how did you happen to come here to finance it?" "i was getting to that. moliterno himself is as honourable a man as breathes god's air. but my experience has been that neapolitan capitalists are about the cleverest and slipperiest financiers in the world. we could have financed it twenty times over in naples in a day, but neither moliterno nor i was willing to trust them. the thing is enormous, you see--a really colossal fortune--and italian law is full of ins and outs, and the first man we talked to confidentially would have given us his word to play straight, and, the instant we left him, would have flown post-haste for basilicata and grabbed for himself the two thirds of the field not yet in our hands. moliterno and i talked it over many, many times; we thought of going to rome for the money, to paris, to london, to new york; but i happened to remember the old house here that my aunt had left me--i wanted to sell it, to add whatever it brought to the money i've already put in--and then it struck me i might raise the rest here as well as anywhere else." the other nodded. "i understand." "i suppose you'll think me rather sentimental," corliss went on, with a laugh which unexpectedly betrayed a little shyness. "i've never forgotten that i was born here--was a boy here. in all my wanderings i've always really thought of this as home." his voice trembled slightly and his face flushed; he smiled deprecatingly as though in apology for these symptoms of emotion; and at that both listeners felt (perhaps with surprise) the man's strong attraction. there was something very engaging about him: in the frankness of his look and in the slight tremor in his voice; there was something appealing and yet manly in the confession, by this thoroughgoing cosmopolite, of his real feeling for the home-town. "of course i know how very few people, even among the `old citizens,' would have any recollection whatever of me," he went on; "but that doesn't make any difference in my sentiment for the place and its people. that street out yonder was named for my grandfather: there's a statue of my great uncle in the state house yard; all my own blood: belonged here, and though i have been a wanderer and may not be remembered--naturally am _not_ remembered--yet the name is honoured here, and i--i----" he faltered again, then concluded with quiet earnestness: "i thought that if my good luck was destined to bring fortunes to others, it might as well be to my own kind--that at least i'd offer them the chance before i offered it to any one else." he turned and looked richard in the face. "that's why i'm here, mr. lindley." the other impulsively put out his hand. "i understand," he said heartily. "thank you." corliss changed his tone for one less serious. "you've listened very patiently and i hope you'll be rewarded for it. certainly you will if you decide to come in with us. may i leave the maps and descriptions with you?" "yes, indeed. i'll look them over carefully and have another talk with you about it." "thank heaven, _that's_ over!" exclaimed the lounger in the hammock, who had not once removed his fascinated stare from the expressive face of valentine corliss. "if you have now concluded with dull care, allow me to put a vital question: mr. corliss, do you sing?" the gentleman addressed favoured him with a quizzical glance from between half-closed lids, and probably checking an impulse to remark that he happened to know that his questioner sometimes sang, replied merely, "no." "it is a pity." "why?" "nothing," returned the other, inconsequently. "it just struck me that you ought to sing the toreador song." richard lindley, placing the notes and maps in his pocket, dropped them, and, stooping, began to gather the scattered papers with a very red face. corliss, however, laughed good-naturedly. "that's most flattering," he said; "though there are other things in `carmen' i prefer--probably because one doesn't hear them so eternally." vilas pulled himself up to a sitting position and began to swing again. "observe our host, mr. corliss," he commanded gayly. "he is a kind old dobbin, much beloved, but cares damn little to hear you or me speak of music. he'd even rather discuss your oil business than listen to us talk of women, whereas nothing except women ever really interests _you_, my dear sir. he's not our kind of man," he concluded, mournfully; "not at all our kind of man!" "i hope," corliss suggested, "he's going to be my kind of man in the development of these oil-fields." "how ridic"--mr. vilas triumphed over the word after a slight struggle--"ulous! i shall review that: ridiculous of you to pretend to be interested in oil-fields. you are not that sort of person whatever. nothing could be clearer than that you would never waste the time demanded by fields of oil. groundlings call this `the mechanical age'--a vulgar error. my dear sir, you and i know that it is the age of woman! even poets have begun to see that she is alive. formerly we did not speak of her at all, but of late years she has become such a scandal that she is getting talked about. even our dramas, which used to be all blood, have become all flesh. i wish i were dead--but will continue my harangue because the thought is pellucid. women selecting men to mate with are of only two kinds, just as there are but two kinds of children in a toy-shop. one child sets its fancy on one partic"--the orator paused, then continued--"on one certain toy and will make a distressing scene if she doesn't get it: she will have that one; she will go straight to it, clasp it and keep it; she won't have any other. the other kind of woman is to be understood if you will make the experiment of taking the other kind of child to a toy-shop and telling her you will buy her any toy in the place, but that you will buy her only one. if you do this in the morning, she will still be in the shop when it is closing for the night, because, though she runs to each toy in turn with excitement and delight, she sees another over her shoulder, and the one she has not touched is always her choice--until she has touched it! some get broken in the handling. for my part, my wires are working rather rustily, but i must obey the stage-manager. for my requiem i wish somebody would ask them to play gounod's masterpiece." "what's that?" asked corliss, amused. "`the funeral march of a marionette!'" "i suppose you mean that for a cheerful way of announcing that you are a fatalist." "fatalism? that is only a word," declared mr. vilas gravely. "if i am not a puppet then i am a god. somehow, i do not seem to be a god. if a god is a god, one thinks he would know it himself. i now yield the floor. thanking you cordially, i believe there is a lady walking yonder who commands salutation." he rose to his feet, bowing profoundly. cora madison was passing, strolling rather briskly down the street, not in the direction of her home. she waved her parasol with careless gayety to the trio under the trees, and, going on, was lost to their sight. "hello!" exclaimed corliss, looking at his watch with a start of surprise. "i have two letters to write for the evening mail. i must be off." at this, ray vilas's eyes--still fixed upon him, as they had been throughout the visit--opened to their fullest capacity, in a gaze of only partially alcoholic wildness. entirely aware of this singular glare, but not in the least disconcerted by it, the recipient proffered his easy farewells. "i had no idea it was so late. good afternoon. mr. vilas, i have been delighted with your diagnosis. lindley, i'm at your disposal when you've looked over my data. my very warm thanks for your patience, and--addio!" lindley looked after him as he strode quickly away across the green lawn, turning, at the street, in the direction cora had taken; and the troubled richard felt his heart sink with vague but miserable apprehension. there was a gasp of desperation beside him, and the sound of ray vilas's lips parting and closing with little noises of pain. "so he knows her," said the boy, his thin body shaking. "look at him, damn him! see his deep chest, that conqueror's walk, the easy, confident, male pride of him: a true-born, natural rake--the toreador all over!" his agitation passed suddenly; he broke into a loud laugh, and flung a reckless hand to his companion's shoulder. "you good old fool," he cried. "_you'll_ never play don jose!" chapter eight hedrick madison, like too many other people, had never thought seriously about the moon; nor ever had he encouraged it to become his familiar; and he underwent his first experience of its incomparable betrayals one brilliant night during the last week of that hot month. the preface to this romantic evening was substantial and prosaic: four times during dinner was he copiously replenished with hash, which occasioned so rich a surfeit within him that, upon the conclusion of the meal, he found himself in no condition to retort appropriately to a solicitous warning from cora to keep away from the cat. indeed, it was half an hour later, and he was sitting--to his own consciousness too heavily--upon the back fence, when belated inspiration arrived. but there is no sound where there is no ear to hear, and no repartee, alas! when the wretch who said the first part has gone, so that cora remained unscathed as from his alley solitude hedrick hurled in the teeth of the rising moon these bitter words: "oh, no; _our_ cat only eats _soft_ meat!" he renewed a morbid silence, and the moon, with its customary deliberation, swung clear of a sweeping branch of the big elm in the front yard and shone full upon him. nothing warned the fated youth not to sit there; no shadow of imminent catastrophe tinted that brightness: no angel whisper came to him, bidding him begone--and to go in a hurry and as far as possible. no; he sat upon the fence an inoffensive lad, and--except for still feeling his hash somewhat, and a gradually dispersing rancour concerning the cat--at peace. it is for such lulled mortals that the ever-lurking furies save their most hideous surprises. chin on palms, he looked idly at the moon, and the moon inscrutably returned his stare. plausible, bright, bland, it gave no sign that it was at its awful work. for the bride of night is like a card-dealer whose fingers move so swiftly through the pack the trickery goes unseen. this moon upon which he was placidly gazing, because he had nothing else to do, betokened nought to hedrick: to him it was the moon of any other night, the old moon; certainly no moon of his delight. withal, it may never be gazed upon so fixedly and so protractedly--no matter how languidly--with entire impunity. that light breeds a bug in the brain. who can deny how the moon wrought this thing under the hair of unconscious hedrick, or doubt its responsibility for the thing that happened? "_little boy_!" it was a very soft, small voice, silky and queer; and at first hedrick had little suspicion that it could be addressing him: the most rigid self-analysis could have revealed to him no possibility of his fitting so ignominious a description. "oh, little boy!" he looked over his shoulder and saw, standing in the alley behind him, a girl of about his own age. she was daintily dressed and had beautiful hair which was all shining in pale gold. "little boy!" she was smiling up at him, and once more she used that wantonly inaccurate vocative: "little boy!" hedrick grunted unencouragingly. "who you callin' `little boy'?" for reply she began to climb the fence. it was high, but the young lady was astonishingly agile, and not even to be deterred by several faint wails from tearing and ripping fabrics--casualties which appeared to be entirely beneath her notice. arriving at the top rather dishevelled, and with irregular pennons here and there flung to the breeze from her attire, she seated herself cosily beside the dumbfounded hedrick. she turned her face to him and smiled--and there was something about her smile which hedrick did not like. it discomforted him; nothing more. in sunlight he would have had the better chance to comprehend; but, unhappily, this was moonshine. "kiss me, little boy!" she said. "i won't!" exclaimed the shocked and indignant hedrick, edging uneasily away from her. "let's play," she said cheerfully. "play what?" "i like chickens. did you know i like chickens?" the rather singular lack of connection in her remarks struck him as a misplaced effort at humour. "you're having lots of fun with me, aren't you?" he growled. she instantly moved close to him and lifted her face to his. "kiss me, darling little boy!" she said. there was something more than uncommonly queer about this stranger, an unearthliness of which he was confusedly perceptive, but she was not without a curious kind of prettiness, and her pale gold hair was beautiful. the doomed lad saw the moon shining through it. "kiss me, darling little boy!" she repeated. his head whirled; for the moment she seemed divine. george washington used profanity at the battle of monmouth. hedrick kissed her. he instantly pushed her away with strong distaste. "there!" he said angrily. "i hope that'll satisfy you!" he belonged to his sex. "kiss me some more, darling little boy!" she cried, and flung her arms about him. with a smothered shout of dismay he tried to push her off, and they fell from the fence together, into the yard, at the cost of further and almost fatal injuries to the lady's apparel. hedrick was first upon his feet. "haven't you got _any_ sense?" he demanded. she smiled unwaveringly, rose (without assistance) and repeated: "kiss me some more, darling little boy!" "no, i won't! i wouldn't for a thousand dollars!" apparently, she did not consider this discouraging. she began to advance endearingly, while he retreated backward. "kiss me some----" "i won't, i tell you!" hedrick kept stepping away, moving in a desperate circle. he resorted to a brutal formula: "you make me sick!" "kiss me some more, darling lit----" "i won't!" he bellowed. "and if you say that again i'll----" "kiss me some more, darling little boy!" she flung herself at him, and with a yell of terror he turned and ran at top-speed. she pursued, laughing sweetly, and calling loudly as she ran, "kiss me some more, darling little boy! kiss me some more, darling little boy!" the stricken hedrick knew not whither to direct his flight: he dared not dash for the street with this imminent tattered incubus--she was almost upon him--and he frantically made for the kitchen door, only to swerve with a gasp of despair as his foot touched the step, for she was at his heels, and he was sickeningly assured she would cheerfully follow him through the house, shouting that damning refrain for all ears. a strangling fear took him by the throat--if cora should come to be a spectator of this unspeakable flight, if cora should hear that horrid plea for love! then farewell peace; indeed, farewell all joy in life forever! panting sobbingly, he ducked under the amorous vampire's arm and fled on. he zigzagged desperately to and fro across the broad, empty backyard, a small hand ever and anon managing to clutch his shoulder, the awful petition in his ears: "kiss me some more, darling little boy!" "_hedrick_!" emerging from the kitchen door, laura stood and gazed in wonder as the two eerie figures sped by her, circled, ducked, dodged, flew madly on. this commonplace purlieu was become the scene of a witch-chase; the moonlight fell upon the ghastly flitting face of the pursued, uplifted in agony, white, wet, with fay eyes; also it illumined the unreal elf following close, a breeze-blown fantasy in rags. "kiss me some more, darling little boy!" laura uttered a sharp exclamation. "stand still, hedrick!" she called. "you must!" hedrick made a piteous effort to increase his speed. "it's lolita martin," called laura. "she must have her way or nothing can be done with her. stand _still_!" hedrick had never heard of lolita martin, but the added information concerning her was not ineffective: it operated as a spur; and laura joined the hunt. "stand still!" she cried to the wretched quarry. "she's run away. she must be taken home. stop, hedrick! you _must_ stop!" hedrick had no intention of stopping, but laura was a runner, and, as he dodged the other, caught and held him fast. the next instant, lolita, laughing happily, flung her arms round his neck from behind. "lemme go!" shuddered hedrick. "lemme go!" "kiss me again, darl----" "i--woof!" he became inarticulate. "she isn't quite right," his sister whispered hurriedly in his ear. "she has spells when she's weak mentally. you must be kind to her. she only wants you to----" "`_only_'!" he echoed hoarsely. "i won't ki----" he was unable to finish the word. "we must get her home," said laura anxiously. "will you come with me, lolita, dear?" apparently lolita had no consciousness whatever of laura's presence. instead of replying, she tightened her grasp upon hedrick and warmly reiterated her request. "shut up, you parrot!" hissed the goaded boy. "perhaps she'll go if you let her walk with her arms round your neck," suggested laura. "if i _what_?" "let's try it. we've got to get her home; her mother must be frantic about her. come, let's see if she'll go with us that way." with convincing earnestness, hedrick refused to make the experiment until laura suggested that he remain with lolita while she summoned assistance; then, as no alternative appeared, his spirit broke utterly, and he consented to the trial, stipulating with a last burst of vehemence that the progress of the unthinkable pageant should be through the alley. "come, lolita," said laura coaxingly. "we're going for a nice walk." at the adjective, hedrick's burdened shoulders were racked with a brief spasm, which recurred as his sister added: "your darling little boy will let you keep hold of him." lolita seemed content. laughing gayly, she offered no opposition, but, maintaining her embrace with both arms and walking somewhat sidewise, went willingly enough; and the three slowly crossed the yard, passed through the empty stable and out into the alley. when they reached the cross-street at the alley's upper end, hedrick balked flatly. laura expostulated, then entreated. hedrick refused with sincere loathing to be seen upon the street occupying his present position in the group. laura assured him that there was no one to see; he replied that the moon was bright and the evening early; he would die, and readily, but he would not set foot in the street. unfortunately, he had selected an unfavourable spot for argument: they were already within a yard or two of the street; and a strange boy, passing, stopped and observed, and whistled discourteously. "ain't he the spooner!" remarked this unknown with hideous admiration. "i'll thank you," returned hedrick haughtily, "to go on about your own business." "kiss me some more, darling little boy!" said lolita. the strange boy squawked, wailed, screamed with laughter, howled the loving petition in a dozen keys of mockery, while hedrick writhed and lolita clung. enriched by a new and great experience, the torturer trotted on, leaving viperish cachinnations in his wake. but the martyrdom was at an end. a woman, hurrying past, bareheaded, was greeted by a cry of delight from lolita, who released hedrick and ran to her with outstretched arms. "we were bringing her home, mrs. martin," said laura, reassuringly. "she's all right; nothing's the matter except that her dress got torn. we found her playing in our yard." "i thank you a thousand times, miss madison," cried lolita's mother, and flutteringly plunged into a description of her anxiety, her search for lolita, and concluded with renewed expressions of gratitude for the child's safe return, an outpouring of thankfulness and joy wholly incomprehensible to hedrick. "not at all," said laura cheerfully. "come, hedrick. we'll go home by the street, i think." she touched his shoulder, and he went with her in stunned obedience. he was not able to face the incredible thing that had happened to him: he walked in a trance of horror. "poor little girl!" said laura gently, with what seemed to her brother an indefensibly misplaced compassion. "usually they have her live in an institution for people afflicted as she is, but they brought her home for a visit last week, i believe. of course you didn't understand, but i think you should have been more thoughtful. really, you shouldn't have flirted with her." hedrick stopped short. "`_flirted_'!" his voice was beginning to show symptoms of changing, this year; it rose to a falsetto wail, flickered and went out. with the departure of lolita in safety, what had seemed bizarre and piteous became obscured, and another aspect of the adventure was presented to laura. the sufferings of the arrogant are not wholly depressing to the spectator; and of arrogance hedrick had ever been a master. she began to shake; a convulsion took her, and suddenly she sat upon the curbstone without dignity, and laughed as he had never seen her. a horrid distrust of her rose within him: he began to realize in what plight he stood, what terrors o'erhung. "look here," he said miserably, "are you--you aren't--you don't have to go and--and _talk_ about this, do you?" "no, hedrick," she responded, rising and controlling herself somewhat. "not so long as you're good." this was no reassuring answer. "and politer to cora," she added. seemingly he heard the lash of a slave-whip crack in the air. the future grew dark. "i know you'll try"--she said; and the unhappy lad felt that her assurance was justified; but she had not concluded the sentence--"darling little boy," she capped it, choking slightly. "no other little girl ever fell in love with you, did there, hedrick?" she asked, and, receiving an incoherent but furious reply, she was again overcome, so that she must lean against the fence to recover. "it seems--so--so _curious_," she explained, gasping, "that the first one--the--the only one--should be an--a--an----" she was unable to continue. hedrick's distrust became painfully increased: he began to feel that he disliked laura. she was still wiping her eyes and subject to recurrent outbursts when they reached their own abode; and as he bitterly flung himself into a chair upon the vacant front porch, he heard her stifling an attack as she mounted the stairs to her own room. he swung the chair about, with its back to the street, and sat facing the wall. he saw nothing. there are profundities in the abyss which reveal no glimpse of the sky. presently he heard his father coughing near by; and the sound was hateful, because it seemed secure and unshamed. it was a cough of moral superiority; and just then the son would have liked to believe that his parent's boyhood had been one of degradation as complete as his own; but no one with this comfortable cough could ever have plumbed such depths: his imagination refused the picture he was bitterly certain that mr. madison had never kissed an idiot. hedrick had a dread that his father might speak to him; he was in no condition for light conversation. but mr. madison was unaware of his son's near presence, and continued upon his purposeless way. he was smoking his one nightly cigar and enjoying the moonlight. he drifted out toward the sidewalk and was accosted by a passing acquaintance, a comfortable burgess of sixty, leading a child of six or seven, by the hand. "out taking the air, are you, mr. madison?" said the pedestrian, pausing. "yes; just trying to cool off," returned the other. "how are you, pryor, anyway? i haven't seen you for a long time." "not since last summer," said pryor. "i only get here once or twice a year, to see my married daughter. i always try to spend august with her if i can. she's still living in that little house, over on the next street, i bought for her through your real-estate company. i suppose you're still in the same business?" "yes. pretty slack, these days." "i suppose so, i suppose so," responded mr. pryor, nodding. "summer, i suppose it usually is. well, i don't know when i'll be going out on the road again myself. business is pretty slack all over the country this year." "let's see--i've forgotten," said madison ruminatively. "you travel, don't you?" "for a new york house," affirmed mr. pryor. he did not, however, mention his "line." "yes-sir," he added, merely as a decoration, and then said briskly: "i see you have a fine family, mr. madison; yes-sir, a fine family; i've passed here several times lately and i've noticed 'em: fine family. let's see, you've got four, haven't you?" "three," said madison. "two girls and a boy." "well, sir, that's mighty nice," observed mr. pryor; "_mighty_ nice! i only have my one daughter, and of course me living in new york when i'm at home, and her here, why, i don't get to see much of her. you got both your daughters living with you, haven't you?" "yes, right here at home." "let's see: neither of 'em's married, i believe?" "no; not yet." "seems to me now," said pryor, taking off his glasses and wiping them, "seems to me i did hear somebody say one of 'em was going to be married engaged, maybe." "no," said madison. "not that i know of." "well, i suppose you'd be the first to know! yes-sir." and both men laughed their appreciation of this folly. "they're mighty good-looking girls, _that's_ certain," continued mr. pryor. "and one of 'em's as fine a dresser as you'll meet this side the rue de la paix." "you mean in paris?" asked madison, slightly surprised at this allusion. "you've been over there, pryor?" "oh, sometimes," was the response. "my business takes me over, now and then. i _think_ it's one of your daughters i've noticed dresses so well. isn't one of 'em a mighty pretty girl about twenty-one or two, with a fine head of hair sort of lightish brown, beautiful figure, and carries a white parasol with a green lining sometimes?" "yes, that's cora, i guess." "pretty name, too," said pryor approvingly. "yes-sir. i saw her going into a florist's, downtown, the other day, with a fine-looking young fellow--i can't think of his name. let's see: my daughter was with me, and she'd heard his name--said his family used to be big people in this town and----" "oh," said madison, "young corliss." "corliss!" exclaimed mr. pryor, with satisfaction. "that's it, corliss. well, sir," he chuckled, "from the way he was looking at your miss cora it struck me he seemed kind of anxious for her name to be corliss, too." "well, hardly i expect," said the other. "they just barely know each other: he's only been here a few weeks; they haven't had time to get much acquainted, you see." "i suppose not," agreed mr. pryor, with perfect readiness. "i suppose not. i'll bet _he_ tries all he can to get acquainted though; he looked pretty smart to me. doesn't he come about as often as the law allows?" "i shouldn't be surprised," said madison indifferently. "he doesn't know many people about here any more, and it's lonesome for him at the hotel. but i guess he comes to see the whole family; i left him in the library a little while ago, talking to my wife." "that's the way! get around the old folks first!" mr. pryor chuckled cordially; then in a mildly inquisitive tone he said: "seems to be a fine, square young fellow, i expect?" "yes, i think so." "pretty name, `cora'," said pryor. "what's this little girl's name?" mr. madison indicated the child, who had stood with heroic patience throughout the incomprehensible dialogue. "lottie, for her mother. she's a good little girl." "she is _so_! i've got a young son she ought to know," remarked mr. madison serenely, with an elderly father's total unconsciousness of the bridgeless gap between seven and thirteen. "he'd like to play with her. i'll call him." "i expect we better be getting on," said pryor. "it's near lottie's bedtime; we just came out for our evening walk." "well, he can come and shake hands with her anyway," urged hedrick's father. "then they'll know each other, and they can play some other time." he turned toward the house and called loudly: "hedrick!" there was no response. behind the back of his chair hedrick could not be seen. he was still sitting immovable, his eyes torpidly fixed upon the wall. "hed-_rick_!" silence. "oh, _hed_-rick!" shouted his father. "come out here! i want you to meet a little girl! come and see a nice little girl!" mr. pryor's grandchild was denied the pleasure. at the ghastly words "_little girl_," hedrick dropped from his chair flat upon the floor, crawled to the end of the porch, wriggled through the railing, and immersed himself in deep shadow against the side of the house. here he removed his shoes, noiselessly mounted to the sill of one of the library windows, then reconnoitred through a slit in the blinds before entering. the gas burned low in the "drop-light"--almost too dimly to reveal the two people upon a sofa across the room. it was a faint murmur from one of them that caused hedrick to pause and peer more sharply. they were cora and corliss; he was bending close to her; her face was lifting to his. "ah, kiss me! kiss me!" she whispered. hedrick dropped from the sill, climbed through a window of the kitchen, hurried up the back-stairs, and reached his own apartment in time to be violently ill in seclusion. chapter nine villages are scattered plentifully over the unstable buttresses of vesuvius, and the inhabitants sleep o' nights: why not? quite unaware that he was much of their condition, mr. madison bade his incidental gossip and the tiny lottie good-night, and sought his early bed. he maintained in good faith that saturday night was "a great night to sleep," because of the later hour for rising; probably having also some factitious conviction that there prevailed a hush preparative of the sabbath. as a matter of fact, in summer, the other members of his family always looked uncommonly haggard at the sunday breakfast-table. accepting without question his preposterous legend of additional matutinal slumber, they postponed retiring to a late hour, and were awakened--simultaneously with thousands of fellow-sufferers--at about half-after five on sunday morning, by a journalistic uprising. over the town, in these early hours, rampaged the small vendors of the manifold sheets: local papers and papers from greater cities, hawker succeeding hawker with yell upon yell and brain-piercing shrillings in unbearable cadences. no good burgher ever complained: the people bore it, as in winter they bore the smoke that injured their health, ruined their linen, spoiled their complexions, forbade all hope of beauty and comfort in their city, and destroyed the sweetness of their homes and of their wives. it is an incredibly patient citizenry and exalts its persecutors. of the madison family, cora probably suffered most; and this was the time when it was no advantage to have the front bedroom. she had not slept until close upon dawn, and the hawkers woke her irreparably; she could but rage upon her hot pillow. by and by, there came a token that another anguish kept company with hers. she had left her door open for a better circulation of the warm and languid air, and from hedrick's room issued an "_oof_!" of agonized disgust. cora little suspected that the youth reeked not of newsboys: hedrick's miseries were introspective. the cries from the street were interminable; each howler in turn heard faintly in the distance, then in crescendo until he had passed and another succeeded him, and all the while cora lay tossing and whispering between clenched teeth. having ample reason, that morning, to prefer sleep to thinking, sleep was impossible. but she fought for it: she did not easily surrender what she wanted; and she struggled on, with closed eyes, long after she had heard the others go down to breakfast. about a hundred yards from her windows, to the rear, were the open windows of a church which fronted the next street, and stood dos-a-dos to the dwelling of the madisons. the sunday-school hour had been advanced for the hot weather, and, partly on this account, and partly because of the summer absence of many families, the attendants were few. but the young voices were conducted, rather than accompanied, in pious melody by a cornetist who worthily thought to amend, in his single person, what lack of volume this paucity occasioned. he was a slender young man in hot black clothes; he wore the unfacaded collar fatally and unanimously adopted by all adam's-apple men of morals; he was washed, fair, flat-skulled, clean-minded, and industrious; and the only noise of any kind he ever made in the world was on sunday. "prashus joowuls, sweet joowuls, _thee_ jams off iz crowowun," sang the little voices feebly. they were almost unheard; but the young man helped them out: figuratively, he put them out. and the cornet was heard: it was heard for blocks and blocks; it was heard over all that part of the town--in the vicinity of the church it was the only thing that could be heard. in his daily walk this cornetist had no enemies: he was kind-hearted; he would not have shot a mad dog; he gladly nursed the sick. he sat upon the platform before the children; he swelled, perspired and blew, and felt that it was a good blowing. if other thoughts vapoured upon the borders of his mind, they were of the dinner he would eat, soon after noon, at the house of one of the frilled, white-muslin teachers. he was serene. his eyes were not blasted; his heart was not instantly withered; his thin, bluish hair did not fall from his head; his limbs were not detached from his torso--yet these misfortunes had been desired for him, with comprehension and sincerity, at the first flat blat of his brassy horn. it is impossible to imagine the state of mind of this young cornetist, could he have known that he had caused the prettiest girl in town to jump violently out of bed with what petitions upon her lips regarding his present whereabouts and future detention! it happened that during the course of his sunday walk on corliss street, that very afternoon, he saw her--was hard-smitten by her beauty, and for weeks thereafter laid unsuccessful plans to "meet" her. her image was imprinted: he talked about her to his boarding-house friends and office acquaintances, his favourite description being, "the sweetest-looking lady i ever laid eyes on." cora, descending to the breakfast-table rather white herself, was not unpleasantly shocked by the haggard aspect of hedrick, who, with laura and mrs. madison, still lingered. "good-morning, cora," he said politely, and while she stared, in suspicious surprise, he passed her a plate of toast with ostentatious courtesy; but before she could take one of the slices, "wait," he said; "it's very nice toast, but i'm afraid it isn't hot. i'll take it to the kitchen and have it warmed for you." and he took the plate and went out, walking softly. cora turned to her mother, appalled. "he'll be sick!" she said. mrs. madison shook her head and smiled sadly. "he helped to wait on all of us: he must have been doing something awful." "more likely he wants permission to do something awful." laura looked out of the window. "there, cora," said hedrick kindly, when he brought the toast; "you'll find that nice and hot." she regarded him steadfastly, but with modesty he avoided her eye. "you wouldn't make such a radical change in your nature, hedrick," she said, with a puzzled frown, "just to get out of going to church, would you?" "i don't want to get out of going to church," he said. he gulped slightly. "i like church." and church-time found him marching decorously beside his father, the three ladies forming a rear rank; a small company in the very thin procession of fanning women and mopping men whose destination was the gray stone church at the foot of corliss street. the locusts railed overhead: hedrick looked neither to the right nor to the left. they passed a club, of which a lower window was vacated simultaneously with their coming into view; and a small but ornate figure in pale gray crash hurried down the steps and attached itself to the second row of madisons. "good-morning," said mr. wade trumble. "thought i'd take a look-in at church this morning myself." care of this encumbrance was usually expected of laura and mrs. madison, but to their surprise cora offered a sprightly rejoinder and presently dropped behind them with mr. trumble. mr. trumble was also surprised and, as naively, pleased. "what's happened?" he asked with cheerful frankness. "you haven't given me a chance to talk to you for a long while." "haven't i?" she smiled enigmatically. "i don't think you've tried very hard." this was too careless; it did not quite serve, even for trumble. "what's up?" he asked, not without shrewdness. "is richard lindley out of town?" "i don't know." "i see. perhaps it's this new chap, corliss? has he left?" "what nonsense! what have they got to do with my being nice to you?" she gave him a dangerous smile, and it wrought upon him visibly. "don't you ever be nice to me unless you mean it," he said feebly. cora looked grave and sweet; she seemed mysteriously moved. "i never do anything i don't mean," she said in a low voice which thrilled the little man. this was machine-work, easy and accurate. "cora----" he began, breathlessly. "there!" she exclaimed, shifting on the instant to a lively brusqueness. "that's enough for you just _now_. we're on our way to church!" trumble felt almost that she had accepted him. "have you got your penny for the contribution box?" she smiled. "i suppose you really give a great deal to the church. i hear you're richer and richer." "i do pretty well," he returned, coolly. "you can know just how well, if you like." "not on sunday," she laughed; then went on, admiringly, "i hear you're very dashing in your speculations." "then you've heard wrong, because i don't speculate," he returned. "i'm not a gambler--except on certainties. i guess i disappointed a friend of yours the other day because i wouldn't back him on a thousand-to-one shot." "who was that?" she asked, with an expression entirely veiled. "corliss. he came to see me; wanted me to put real money into an oil scheme. too thin!" "why is it `too thin'?" she asked carelessly. "too far away, for one thing--somewhere in italy. anybody who put up his cash would have to do it on corliss's bare word that he's struck oil." "well?" she turned her face to him, and a faint perturbation was manifest in her tone. "isn't mr. corliss's `bare word' supposed to be perfectly good?" "oh, i suppose so, but i don't know. he isn't known here: nobody really knows anything about him except that he was born here. besides, i wouldn't make an investment on my own father's bare word, if he happened to be alive." "perhaps not!" cora spoke impulsively, a sudden anger getting the better of her, but she controlled it immediately. "of course i don't mean that," she laughed, sweetly. "but _i_ happen to think mr. corliss's scheme a very handsome one, and i want my friends to make their fortunes, of course. richard lindley and papa are going into it." "i'll bet they don't," said trumble promptly. "lindley told me he'd looked it over and couldn't see his way to." "he did?" cora stiffened perceptibly and bit her lip. trumble began to laugh. "this is funny: you trying to talk business! so corliss has been telling you about it?" "yes, he has; and i understand it perfectly. i think there's an enormous fortune in it, and you'd better not laugh at me: a woman's instinct about such things is better than a man's experience sometimes." "you'll find neither lindley nor your father are going to think so," he returned skeptically. she gave him a deep, sweet look. "but i mustn't be disappointed in you," she said, with the suggestion of a tremor in her voice, "whatever _they_ do! you'll take my advice, won't you--wade?" "i'll take your advice in anything but business." he shook his head ominously. "and wouldn't you take my advice in business,"--she asked very slowly and significantly--"under _any_ circumstances?" "you mean," he said huskily, "if you were my wife?" she looked away, and slightly inclined her head. "no," he answered doggedly, "i wouldn't. you know mighty well that's what i want you to be, and i'd give my soul for the tip of your shoe, but business is an entirely different matter, and i----" "_wade_!" she said, with wonderful and thrilling sweetness. they had reached the church; hedrick and his father had entered; mrs. madison and laura were waiting on the steps. cora and trumble came to a stop some yards away. "wade, i--i _want_ you to go into this." "can't do it," he said stubbornly. "if you ever make up your mind to marry me, i'll spend all the money you like on _you_, but you'll have to keep to the woman's side of the house." "you make it pretty hard for me to be nice to you," she returned, and the tremor now more evident in her voice was perfectly genuine. "you positively refuse to do this--for me?" "yes i do. i wouldn't buy sight-unseen to please god 'lmighty, cora madison." he looked at her shrewdly, struck by a sudden thought. "did corliss ask you to try and get me in?" "he did not," she responded, icily. "your refusal is final?" "certainly!" he struck the pavement a smart rap with his walking-stick. "by george, i believe he _did_ ask you! that spoils church for me this morning; i'll not go in. when you quit playing games, let me know. you needn't try to work me any more, because i won't stand for it, but if you ever get tired of playing, come and tell me so." he uttered a bark of rueful laughter. "ha! i must say that gentleman has an interesting way of combining business with pleasure!" under favourable circumstances the blow cora dealt him might have been physically more violent. "good-morning," she laughed, gayly. "i'm not bothering much about mr. corliss's oil in italy. i had a bet with laura i could keep you from saying `i beg to differ,' or talking about the weather for five minutes. she'll have to pay me!" then, still laughing, she lowered her parasol, and with superb impudence, brushed it smartly across his face; turned on her heel, and, red with fury, joined her mother and sister, and went into the church. the service failed to occupy her attention: she had much in her thoughts to distract her. nevertheless, she bestowed some wonderment upon the devotion with which her brother observed each ceremonial rite. he joined in prayer with real fervour; he sang earnestly and loudly; a great appeal sounded in his changing voice; and during the sermon he sat with his eyes upon the minister in a stricken fixity. all this was so remarkable that cora could not choose but ponder upon it, and, observing hedrick furtively, she caught, if not a clue itself, at least a glimpse of one. she saw laura's clear profile becoming subtly agitated; then noticed a shimmer of laura's dark eye as it wandered to hedrick and so swiftly away it seemed not to dare to remain. cora was quick: she perceived that laura was repressing a constant desire to laugh and that she feared to look at hedrick lest it overwhelm her. so laura knew what had wrought the miracle. cora made up her mind to explore this secret passage. when the service was over and the people were placidly buzzing their way up the aisles, cora felt herself drawn to look across the church, and following the telepathic impulse, turned her head to encounter the gaze of ray vilas. he was ascending the opposite aisle, walking beside richard lindley. he looked less pale than usual, though his thinness was so extreme it was like emaciation; but his eyes were clear and quiet, and the look he gave her was strangely gentle. cora frowned and turned away her head with an air of annoyance. they came near each other in the convergence at the doors; but he made no effort to address her, and, moving away through the crowd as quickly as possible, disappeared. valentine corliss was disclosed in the vestibule. he reached her an instant in advance of mr. lindley, who had suffered himself to be impeded; and cora quickly handed the former her parasol, lightly taking his arm. thus the slow richard found himself walking beside laura in a scattered group, its detached portion consisting of his near-betrothed and corliss; for although the dexterous pair were first to leave the church, they contrived to be passed almost at once, and, assuming the position of trailers, lagged far behind on the homeward way. laura and richard walked in the unmitigated glare of the sun; he had taken her black umbrella and conscientiously held it aloft, but over nobody. they walked in silence: they were quiet people, both of them; and richard, not "talkative" under any circumstances, never had anything whatever to say to laura madison. he had known her for many years, ever since her childhood; seldom indeed formulating or expressing a definite thought about her, though sometimes it was vaguely of his consciousness that she played the piano nicely, and even then her music had taken its place as but a colour of cora's background. for to him, as to every one else (including laura), laura was in nothing her sister's competitor. she was a neutral-tinted figure, taken-for-granted, obscured, and so near being nobody at all, that, as richard lindley walked beside her this morning, he glanced back at the lagging couple and uttered a long and almost sonorous sigh, which he would have been ashamed for anybody to hear; and then actually proceeded on his way without the slightest realization that anybody had heard it. she understood. and she did not disturb the trance; she did nothing to make him observe that she was there. she walked on with head, shoulders, and back scorching in the fierce sun, and allowed him to continue shading the pavement before them with her umbrella. when they reached the house she gently took the umbrella from him and thanked him; and he mechanically raised his hat. they had walked more than a mile together; he had not spoken a word, and he did not even know it. chapter ten dinner on sunday, the most elaborate feast of the week for the madisons, was always set for one o'clock in the afternoon, and sometimes began before two, but not to-day: the escorts of both daughters remained, and a change of costume by cora occasioned a long postponement. justice demands the admission that her reappearance in a glamour of lilac was reward for the delay; nothing more ravishing was ever seen, she was warrantably informed by the quicker of the two guests, in a moment's whispered tete-a-tete across the banisters as she descended. another wait followed while she prettily arranged upon the table some dozens of asters from a small garden-bed, tilled, planted, and tended by laura. meanwhile, mrs. madison constantly turned the other cheek to the cook. laura assisted in the pacification; hedrick froze the ice-cream to an impenetrable solidity; and the nominal head of the family sat upon the front porch with the two young men, and wiped his wrists and rambled politically till they were summoned to the dining-room. cora did the talking for the table. she was in high spirits; no trace remained of a haggard night: there was a bloom upon her--she was radiant. her gayety may have had some inspiration in her daring, for round her throat she wore a miraculously slender chain of gold and enamel, with a pendant of minute pale sapphires scrolled about a rather large and very white diamond. laura started when she saw it, and involuntarily threw a glance almost of terror at richard lindley. but that melancholy and absent-minded gentleman observed neither the glance nor the jewel. he saw cora's eyes, when they were vouchsafed to his vision, and when they were not he apparently saw nothing at all. with the general exodus from the table, cora asked laura to come to the piano and play, a request which brought a snort from hedrick, who was taken off his guard. catching laura's eye, he applied a handkerchief with renewed presence of mind, affecting to have sneezed, and stared searchingly over it at corliss. he perceived that the man remained unmoved, evidently already informed that it was laura who was the musician. cora must be going it pretty fast this time: such was the form of her brother's deduction. when laura opened the piano, richard had taken a seat beside cora, and corliss stood leaning in the doorway. the player lost herself in a wandering medley, echoes from "boheme" and "pagliacci"; then drifted into improvisation and played her heart into it magnificently--a heart released to happiness. the still air of the room filled with wonderful, golden sound: a song like the song of a mother flying from earth to a child in the stars, a torrential tenderness, unpent and glorying in freedom. the flooding, triumphant chords rose, crashed--stopped with a shattering abruptness. laura's hands fell to her sides, then were raised to her glowing face and concealed it for a moment. she shivered; a quick, deep sigh heaved her breast; and she came back to herself like a prisoner leaving a window at the warden's voice. she turned. cora and corliss had left the room. richard was sitting beside a vacant chair, staring helplessly at the open door. if he had been vaguely conscious of laura's playing, which is possible, certainly he was unaware that it had ceased. "the others have gone out to the porch," she said composedly, and rose. "shan't we join them?" "what?" he returned, blankly. "i beg your pardon----" "let's go out on the porch with the others." "no, i----" he got to his feet confusedly. "i was thinking---- i believe i'd best be going home." "not `best,' i think," she said. "not even better!" "i don't see," he said, his perplexity only increased. "mr. corliss would," she retorted quickly. "come on: we'll go and sit with them." and she compelled his obedience by preceding him with such a confident assumption that he would follow that he did. the fugitive pair were not upon the porch, however; they were discovered in the shade of a tree behind the house, seated upon a rug, and occupied in a conversation which would not have disturbed a sick-room. the pursuers came upon them, boldly sat beside them; and laura began to talk with unwonted fluency to corliss, but within five minutes found herself alone with richard lindley upon the rug. cora had promised to show mr. corliss an "old print" in the library--so cora said. lindley gave the remaining lady a desolate and faintly reproachful look. he was kind, but he was a man; and laura saw that this last abandonment was being attributed in part to her. she reddened, and, being not an angel, observed with crispness: "certainly. you're quite right: it's my fault!" "what did you say?" he asked vacantly. she looked at him rather fixedly; his own gaze had returned to the angle of the house beyond which the other couple had just disappeared. "i said," she answered, slowly, "i thought it wouldn't rain this, afternoon." his wistful eyes absently swept the serene sky which had been cloudless for several days. "no, i suppose not," he murmured. "richard," she said with a little sharpness, "will you please listen to me for a moment?" "oh--what?" he was like a diver coming up out of deep water. "what did you say?" he laughed apologetically. "wasn't i listening? i beg your pardon. what is it, laura?" "why do you let mr. corliss take cora away from you like that?" she asked gravely. "he doesn't," the young man returned with a rueful shake of the head. "don't you see? it's cora that goes." "why do you let her, then?" he sighed. "i don't seem to be able to keep up with cora, especially when she's punishing me. i couldn't do something she asked me to, last night----" "invest with mr. corliss?" asked laura quickly. "yes. it seemed to trouble her that i couldn't. she's convinced it's a good thing: she thinks it would make a great fortune for us----" "`us'?" repeated laura gently. "you mean for you and her? when you're----" "when we're married. yes," he said thoughtfully, "that's the way she stated it. she wanted me to put in all i have----" "don't do it!" said laura decidedly. he glanced at her with sharp inquiry. "do you mean you would distrust mr. corliss?" "i wasn't thinking of that: i don't know whether i'd trust him or not--i think i wouldn't; there's something veiled about him, and i don't believe he is an easy man to know. what i meant was that i don't believe it would really be a good thing for you with cora." "it would please her, of course--thinking i deferred so much to her judgment." "don't do it!" she said again, impulsively. "i don't see how i can," he returned sorrowfully. "it's my work for all the years since i got out of college, and if i lost it i'd have to begin all over again. it would mean postponing everything. cora isn't a girl you can ask to share a little salary, and if it were a question of years, perhaps-- perhaps cora might not feel she could wait for me, you see." he made this explanation with plaintive and boyish sincerity, hesitatingly, and as if pleading a cause. and laura, after a long look at him, turned away, and in her eyes were actual tears of compassion for the incredible simpleton. "i see," she said. "perhaps she might not." "of course," he went on, "she's fond of having nice things, and she thinks this is a great chance for us to be millionaires; and then, too, i think she may feel that it would please mr. corliss and help to save him from disappointment. she seems to have taken a great fancy to him." laura glanced at him, but did not speak. "he _is_ attractive," continued richard feebly. "i think he has a great deal of what people call `magnetism': he's the kind of man who somehow makes you want to do what he wants you to. he seems a manly, straightforward sort, too--so far as one can tell--and when he came to me with his scheme i was strongly inclined to go into it. but it is too big a gamble, and i can't, though i was sorry to disappoint him myself. he was perfectly cheerful about it and so pleasant it made me feel small. i don't wonder at all that cora likes him so much. besides, he seems to understand her." laura looked very grave. "i think he does," she said slowly. "and then he's `different,'" said richard. "he's more a `man of the world' than most of us here: she never saw anything just like him before, and she's seen _us_ all her life. she likes change, of course. that's natural," he said gently. "poor vilas says she wants a man to be different every day, and if he isn't, then she wants a different man every day." "you've rather taken ray vilas under your wing, haven't you?" asked laura. "oh, no," he answered deprecatingly. "i only try to keep him with me so he'll stay away from downtown as much as possible." "does he talk much of cora?" "all the time. there's no stopping him. i suppose he can't help it, because he thinks of nothing else." "isn't that rather--rather queer for you?" "`queer'?" he repeated. "no, i suppose not!" she laughed impatiently. "and probably you don't think it's `queer' of you to sit here helplessly, and let another man take your place----" "but i don't `let' him, laura," he protested. "no, he just does it!" "well," he smiled, "you must admit my efforts to supplant him haven't----" "it won't take any effort now," she said, rising quickly. valentine corliss came into their view upon the sidewalk in front, taking his departure. seeing that they observed him, he lifted his hat to laura and nodded a cordial good-day to lindley. then he went on. just before he reached the corner of the lot, he encountered upon the pavement a citizen of elderly and plain appearance, strolling with a grandchild. the two men met and passed, each upon his opposite way, without pausing and without salutation, and neither richard nor laura, whose eyes were upon the meeting, perceived that they had taken cognizance of each other. but one had asked a question and the other had answered. mr. pryor spoke in a low monotone, with a rapidity as singular as the restrained but perceptible emphasis he put upon one word of his question. "i got you in the park," he said; and it is to be deduced that "got" was argot. "you're not _doing_ anything here, are you?" "no!" answered corliss with condensed venom, his back already to the other. he fanned himself with his hat as he went on. mr. pryor strolled up the street with imperturbable benevolence. "your coast is cleared," said laura, "since you wouldn't clear it yourself." "wish me luck," said richard as he left her. she nodded brightly. before he disappeared, he looked back to her again (which profoundly surprised her) and smiled rather disconsolately, shaking his head as in prophecy of no very encouraging reception indoors. the manner of this glance recalled to laura what his mother had once said of him. "richard is one of those sweet, helpless men that some women adore and others despise. they fall in love with the ones that despise them." an ostentatious cough made her face about, being obviously designed to that effect; and she beheld her brother in the act of walking slowly across the yard with his back to her. he halted upon the border of her small garden of asters, regarded it anxiously, then spread his handkerchief upon the ground, knelt upon it, and with thoughtful care uprooted a few weeds which were beginning to sprout, and also such vagrant blades of grass as encroached upon the floral territory. he had the air of a virtuous man performing a good action which would never become known. plainly, he thought himself in solitude and all unobserved. it was a touching picture, pious and humble. done into coloured glass, the kneeling boy and the asters--submerged in ardent sunshine--would have appropriately enriched a cathedral: boyhood of saint florus the gardener. laura heartlessly turned her back, and, affecting an interest in her sleeve, very soon experienced the sensation of being stared at with some poignancy from behind. unchanged in attitude, she unravelled an imaginary thread, whereupon the cough reached her again, shrill and loud, its insistence not lacking in pathos. she approached him, driftingly. no sign that he was aware came from the busied boy, though he coughed again, hollowly now--a proof that he was an artist. "all right, hedrick," she said kindly. "i heard you the first time." he looked up with utter incomprehension. "i'm afraid i've caught cold," he said, simply. "i got a good many weeds out before breakfast, and the ground was damp." hedrick was of the new school: everything direct, real, no striving for effect, no pressure on the stroke. he did his work: you could take it or leave it. "you mustn't strain so, dear," returned his sister, shaking her head. "it won't last if you do. you see this is only the first day." struck to the heart by so brutal a misconception, he put all his wrongs into one look, rose in manly dignity, picked up his handkerchief, and left her. her eyes followed him, not without remorse: it was an exit which would have moved the bass-violist of a theatre orchestra. sighing, she went to her own room by way of the kitchen and the back-stairs, and, having locked her door, brought the padlocked book from its hiding-place. "i think i should not have played as i did, an hour ago," she wrote. "it stirs me too greatly and i am afraid it makes me inclined to self-pity afterward, and i must never let myself feel _that_! if i once begin to feel sorry for myself. . . . but i _will_ not! no. you are here in the world. you exist. you _are_! that is the great thing to know and it must be enough for me. it is. i played to you. i played _just love_ to you--all the yearning tenderness--all the supreme kindness i want to give you. isn't love really just glorified kindness? no, there is something more. . . . i feel it, though i do not know how to say it. but it was in my playing--i played it and played it. suddenly i felt that in my playing i had shouted it from the housetops, that i had told the secret to all the world and _everybody_ knew. i stopped, and for a moment it seemed to me that i was dying of shame. but no one understood. no one had even listened. . . . sometimes it seems to me that i am like cora, that i am very deeply her sister in some things. my heart goes all to you--my revelation of it, my release of it, my outlet of it is all here in these pages (except when i play as i did to-day and as i shall not play again) and perhaps the writing keeps me quiet. cora scatters her own releasings: she is looking for the you she may never find; and perhaps the penalty for scattering is never finding. sometimes i think the seeking has reacted and that now she seeks only what will make her feel. i hope she has not found it: i am afraid of this new man--not only for your sake, dear. i felt repelled by his glance at me the first time i saw him. i did not like it--i cannot say just why, unless that it seemed too intimate. i am afraid of him for her, which is a queer sort of feeling because she has alw----" laura's writing stopped there, for that day, interrupted by a hurried rapping upon the door and her mother's voice calling her with stress and urgency. the opening of the door revealed mrs. madison in a state of anxious perturbation, and admitted the sound of loud weeping and agitated voices from below. "please go down," implored the mother. "you can do more with her than i can. she and your father have been having a terrible scene since richard went home." laura hurried down to the library. chapter eleven "oh, _come_ in, laura!" cried her sister, as laura appeared in the doorway. "don't _stand_ there! come in if you want to take part in a grand old family row!" with a furious and tear-stained face, she was confronting her father who stood before her in a resolute attitude and a profuse perspiration. "shut the door!" shouted cora violently, adding, as laura obeyed, "do you want that little pest in here? probably he's eavesdropping anyway. but what difference does it make? i don't care. let him hear! let anybody hear that wants to! they can hear how i'm tortured if they like. i didn't close my eyes last night, and now i'm being tortured. papa!" she stamped her foot. "are you going to take back that insult to me?" "`insult'?" repeated her father, in angry astonishment. "pshaw," said laura, laughing soothingly and coming to her. "you know that's nonsense, cora. kind old papa couldn't do that if he tried. dear, you know he never insulted anybody in his----" "don't touch me!" screamed cora, repulsing her. "listen, if you've got to, but let me alone. he did too! he did! he _knows_ what he said!" "i do not!" "he does! he does!" cried cora. "he said that i was--i was too much `interested' in mr. corliss." "is that an `insult'?" the father demanded sharply. "it was the way he said it," cora protested, sobbing. "he meant something he didn't _say_. he did! he did! he _meant_ to insult me!" "i did nothing of the kind," shouted the old man. "i don't know what you're talking about. i said i couldn't understand your getting so excited about the fellow's affairs and that you seemed to take a mighty sudden interest in him." "well, what if i _do_?" she screamed. "haven't i a right to be interested in what i choose? i've got to be interested in _something_, haven't i? _you_ don't make life very interesting, do you? do you think it's interesting to spend the summer in this horrible old house with the paper falling off the walls and our rotten old furniture that i work my hands off trying to make look decent and can't, and every other girl i know at the seashore with motor-cars and motor-boats, or getting a trip abroad and buying her clothes in paris? what do _you_ offer to interest me?" the unfortunate man hung his head. "i don't see what all that has to do with it----" she seemed to leap at him. "you _don't_? you _don't_?" "no, i don't. and i don't see why you're so crazy to please young corliss about this business unless you're infatuated with him. i had an idea--and i was pleased with it, too, because richard's a steady fellow--that you were just about engaged to richard lindley, and----" "engaged!" she cried, repeating the word with bitter contempt. "engaged! you don't suppose i'll marry him unless i want to, do you? i will if it suits me. i won't if it suits me not to; understand that! i don't consider myself engaged to anybody, and you needn't either. what on earth has that got to do with your keeping richard lindley from doing what mr. corliss wants him to?" "i'm not keeping him from anything. he didn't say----" "he did!" stormed cora. "he said he would if you went into it. he told me this afternoon, an hour ago." "now wait," said madison. "i talked this over with richard two days ago----" cora stamped her foot again in frantic exasperation. "i'm talking about this afternoon!" "two days ago," he repeated doggedly; "and we came to the same conclusion: it won't do. he said he couldn't go into it unless he went over there to italy--and saw for himself just what he was putting his money into, and corliss had told him that it couldn't be done; that there wasn't time, and showed him a cablegram from his italian partner saying the secret had leaked out and that they'd have to form the company in naples and sell the stock over there if it couldn't be done here within the next week. corliss said he had to ask for an immediate answer, and so richard told him no, yesterday." "oh, my god!" groaned cora. "what has that got to do with _your_ going into it? you're not going to risk any money! i don't ask you to _spend_ anything, do i? you haven't got it if i did. all mr. corliss wants is your name. can't you give even _that_? what importance is it?" "well, if it isn't important, what difference does it make whether i give it or not?" she flung up her arms as in despairing appeal for patience. "it _is_ important to him! richard will do it if you will be secretary of the company: he promised me. mr. corliss told me your name was worth everything here: that men said downtown you could have been rich long ago if you hadn't been so square. richard trusts you; he says you're the most trusted man in town----" "that's why i can't do it," he interrupted. "no!" her vehemence increased suddenly to its utmost. "no! don't you say that, because it's a lie. that isn't the reason you won't do it. you won't do it because you think it would please _me_! you're afraid it might make me _happy_! happy--happy--_happy_!" she beat her breast and cast herself headlong upon the sofa, sobbing wildly. "don't come near me!" she screamed at laura, and sprang to her feet again, dishevelled and frantic. "oh, christ in heaven! is there such a thing as happiness in this beast of a world? i want to leave it. i want to go away: i want _so_ to die: why can't i? why can't i! why can't i! oh, god, why _can't_ i die? why can't----" her passion culminated in a shriek: she gasped, was convulsed from head to foot for a dreadful moment, tore at the bosom of her dress with rigid bent fingers, swayed; then collapsed all at once. laura caught her, and got her upon the sofa. in the hall, mrs. madison could be heard running and screaming to hedrick to go for the doctor. next instant, she burst into the room with brandy and camphor. "i could only find these; the ammonia bottle's empty," she panted; and the miserable father started hatless, for the drug-store, a faint, choked wail from the stricken girl sounding in his ears: "it's--it's my heart, mamma." it was four blocks to the nearest pharmacy; he made what haste he could in the great heat, but to himself he seemed double his usual weight; and the more he tried to hurry, the less speed appeared obtainable from his heavy legs. when he reached the place at last, he found it crowded with noisy customers about the "soda-fount"; and the clerks were stonily slow: they seemed to know that they were "already in eternity." he got very short of breath on the way home; he ceased to perspire and became unnaturally dry; the air was aflame and the sun shot fire upon his bare head. his feet inclined to strange disobediences: he walked the last block waveringly. a solemn hedrick met him at the door. "they've got her to bed," announced the boy. "the doctor's up there." "take this ammonia up," said madison huskily, and sat down upon a lower step of the stairway with a jolt, closing his eyes. "you sick, too?" asked hedrick. "no. run along with that ammonia." it seemed to madison a long time that he sat there alone, and he felt very dizzy. once he tried to rise, but had to give it up and remain sitting with his eyes shut. at last he heard cora's door open and close; and his wife and the doctor came slowly down the stairs, mrs. madison talking in the anxious yet relieved voice of one who leaves a sick-room wherein the physician pronounces progress encouraging. "and you're _sure_ her heart trouble isn't organic?" she asked. "her heart is all right," her companion assured her. "there's nothing serious; the trouble is nervous. i think you'll find she'll be better after a good sleep. just keep her quiet. hadn't she been in a state of considerable excitement?" "ye-es--she----" "ah! a little upset on account of opposition to a plan she'd formed, perhaps?" "well--partly," assented the mother. "i see," he returned, adding with some dryness: "i thought it just possible." madison got to his feet, and stepped down from the stairs for them to pass him. he leaned heavily against the wall. "you think she's going to be all right, sloane?" he asked with an effort. "no cause to worry," returned the physician. "you can let her stay in bed to-day if she wants to but----" he broke off, looking keenly at madison's face, which was the colour of poppies. "hello! what's up with _you_?" "i'm all--right." "oh, you are?" retorted sloane with sarcasm. "sit down," he commanded. "sit right where you are--on the stairs, here," and, having enforced the order, took a stethoscope from his pocket. "get him a glass of water," he said to hedrick, who was at his elbow. "doctor!" exclaimed mrs. madison. "_he_ isn't going to be sick, is he? you don't think he's sick _now_?" "i shouldn't call him very well," answered the physician rather grimly, placing his stethoscope upon madison's breast. "get his room ready for him." she gave him a piteous look, struck with fear; then obeyed a gesture and ran flutteringly up the stairs. "i'm all right now," panted madison, drinking the water hedrick brought him. "you're not so darned all right," said sloane coolly, as he pocketed his stethoscope. "come, let me help you up. we're going to get you to bed." there was an effort at protest, but the physician had his way, and the two ascended the stairs slowly, sloane's arm round his new patient. at cora's door, the latter paused. "what's the matter?" "i want," said madison thickly--"i want--to speak to cora." "we'll pass that up just now," returned the other brusquely, and led him on. madison was almost helpless: he murmured in a husky, uncertain voice, and suffered himself to be put to bed. there, the doctor "worked" with him; cold "applications" were ordered; laura was summoned from the other sick-bed; hedrick sent flying with prescriptions, then to telephone for a nurse. the two women attempted questions at intervals, but sloane replied with orders, and kept them busy. "do you--think i'm a---a pretty sick man, sloane?" asked madison after a long silence, speaking with difficulty. "oh, you're sick, all right," the doctor conceded. "i--i want to speak to jennie." his wife rushed to the bed, and knelt beside it. "don't you go to confessing your sins," said doctor sloane crossly. "you're coming out of the woods all right, and you'll be sorry if you tell her too, much. i'll begin a little flirtation with you, miss laura, if you please." and he motioned to her to follow him into the hall. "your father _is_ pretty sick," he told her, "and he may be sicker before we get him into shape again. but you needn't be worried right now; i think he's not in immediate danger." he turned at the sound of mrs. madison's step, behind him, and repeated to her what he had just said to laura. "i hope your husband didn't give himself away enough to be punished when we get him on his feet again," he concluded cheerfully. she shook her head, tried to smile through tears, and, crossing the hall, entered cora's room. she came back after a moment, and, rejoining the other two at her husband's bedside, found the sick man in a stertorous sleep. presently the nurse arrived, and upon the physician's pointed intimation that there were "too many people around," laura went to cora's room. she halted on the threshold in surprise. cora was dressing. "mamma says the doctor says he's all right," said cora lightly, "and i'm feeling so much better myself i thought i'd put on something loose and go downstairs. i think there's more air down there." "papa isn't all right, dear," said laura, staring perplexedly at cora's idea of "something loose," an equipment inclusive of something particularly close. "the doctor says he is very sick." "i don't believe it," returned cora promptly. "old sloane never did know anything. besides, mamma told me he said papa isn't in any danger." "no `immediate' danger," corrected laura. "and besides, doctor sloane said you were to stay in bed until to-morrow." "i can't help that." cora went on with her lacing impatiently. "i'm not going to lie and stifle in this heat when i feel perfectly well again--not for an old idiot like sloane! he didn't even have sense enough to give me any medicine." she laughed. "lucky thing he didn't: i'd have thrown it out of the window. kick that slipper to me, will you, dear?" laura knelt and put the slipper on her sister's foot. "cora, dear," she said, "you're just going to put on a negligee and go down and sit in the library, aren't you?" "laura!" the tone was more than impatient. "i wish i could be let alone for five whole minutes some time in my life! don't you think i've stood enough for one day? i can't bear to be questioned, questioned, questioned! what do you do it for? don't you see i can't stand anything more? if you can't let me alone i do wish you'd keep out of my room." laura rose and went out; but as she left the door, cora called after her with a rueful laugh: "laura, i know i'm a little devil!" half an hour later, laura, suffering because she had made no reply to this peace-offering, and wishing to atone, sought cora downstairs and found no one. she decided that cora must still be in her own room; she would go to her there. but as she passed the open front door, she saw cora upon the sidewalk in front of the house. she wore a new and elaborate motoring costume, charmingly becoming, and was in the act of mounting to a seat beside valentine corliss in a long, powerful-looking, white "roadster" automobile. the engine burst into staccato thunder, sobered down; the wheels began to move both cora and corliss were laughing and there was an air of triumph about them--cora's veil streamed and fluttered: and in a flash they were gone. laura stared at the suddenly vacated space where they had been. at a thought she started. then she rushed upstairs to her mother, who was sitting in the hall near her husband's door. "mamma," whispered laura, flinging herself upon her knees beside her, "when papa wanted to speak to you, was it a message to cora?" "yes, dear. he told me to tell her he was sorry he'd made her sick, and that if he got well he'd try to do what she asked him to." laura nodded cheerfully. "and he _will_ get well, darling mother," she said, as she rose. "i'll come back in a minute and sit with you." her return was not so quick as she promised, for she lay a long time weeping upon her pillow, whispering over and over: "oh, poor, poor papa! oh, poor, poor richard!" chapter twelve within a week mr. madison's illness was a settled institution in the household; the presence of the nurse lost novelty, even to hedrick, and became a part of life; the day was measured by the three regular visits of the doctor. to the younger members of the family it seemed already that their father had always been sick, and that he always would be; indeed, to cora and hedrick he had become only a weak and querulous voice beyond a closed door. doctor sloane was serious but reassuring, his daily announcement being that his patient was in "no immediate danger." mrs. madison did not share her children's sanguine adaptability; and, of the three, cora was the greatest solace to the mother's troubled heart, though mrs. madison never recognized this without a sense of injustice to laura, for laura now was housewife and housekeeper--that is, she did all the work except the cooking, and on "wash-day" she did that. but cora's help was to the very spirit itself, for she was sprightly in these hours of trial: with indomitable gayety she cheered her mother, inspiring in her a firmer confidence, and, most stimulating of all, cora steadfastly refused to consider her father's condition as serious, or its outcome as doubtful. old sloane exaggerated, she said; and she made fun of his gravity, his clothes and his walk, which she mimicked till she drew a reluctant and protesting laugh from even her mother. mrs. madison was sure she "couldn't get through" this experience save for cora, who was indeed the light of the threatened house. strange perversities of this world: cora's gayety was almost unbearable to her brother. not because he thought it either unfeeling or out of place under the circumstances (an aspect he failed to consider), but because years of warfare had so frequently made him connect cheerfulness on her part with some unworthily won triumph over himself that habit prevailed, and he could not be a witness of her high spirits without a strong sense of injury. additionally, he was subject to a deeply implanted suspicion of any appearance of unusual happiness in her as having source, if not in his own defeat, then in something vaguely "soft" and wholly distasteful. she grated upon him; he chafed, and his sufferings reached the surface. finally, in a reckless moment, one evening at dinner, he broke out with a shout and hurled a newly devised couplet concerning luv-a-ly slush at his, sister's head. the nurse was present: cora left the table; and hedrick later received a serious warning from laura. she suggested that it might become expedient to place him in cora's power. "cora knows perfectly well that something peculiar happened to you," she advised him. "and she knows that i know what it was; and she says it isn't very sisterly of me not to tell her. now, hedrick, there was no secret about it; you didn't _confide_ your--your trouble to me, and it would be perfectly honourable of me to tell it. i wont{sic} unless you make me, but if you can't be polite and keep peace with cora--at least while papa is sick i think it may be necessary. i believe," she finished with imperfect gravity, "that it--it would keep things quieter." the thoughts of a boy may be long, long thoughts, but he cannot persistently remember to fear a threatened catastrophe. youth is too quickly intimate with peril. hedrick had become familiar with his own, had grown so accustomed to it he was in danger of forgetting it altogether; therefore it was out of perspective. the episode of lolita had begun to appear as a thing of the distant and clouded past: time is so long at thirteen. added to this, his late immaculate deportment had been, as laura suggested, a severe strain; the machinery of his nature was out of adjustment and demanded a violent reaction before it could get to running again at average speed. also, it is evident that his destruction had been planned on high, for he was mad enough to answer flippantly: "tell her! go on and tell her--_i_ give you leaf! _that_ wasn't anything anyway--just helped you get a little idiot girl home. what is there to that? i never saw her before; never saw her again; didn't have half as much to do with her as you did yourself. she was a lot more _your_ friend than mine; i didn't even know her. i guess you'll have to get something better on me than that, before you try to boss _this_ ranch, laura madison!" that night, in bed, he wondered if he had not been perhaps a trifle rash; but the day was bright when he awoke, and no apprehension shadowed his morning face as he appeared at the breakfast table. on the contrary, a great weight had lifted from him; clearly his defiance had been the proper thing; he had shown laura that her power over him was but imaginary. hypnotized by his own words to her, he believed them; and his previous terrors became gossamer; nay, they were now merely laughable. his own remorse and shame were wholly blotted from memory, and he could not understand why in the world he had been so afraid, nor why he had felt it so necessary to placate laura. she looked very meek this morning. _that_ showed! the strong hand was the right policy in dealing with women. he was tempted to insane daring: the rash, unfortunate child waltzed on the lip of the crater. "told cora yet?" he asked, with scornful laughter. "told me what?" cora looked quickly up from her plate. "oh, nothing about this corliss," he returned scathingly. "don't get excited." "hedrick!" remonstrated his mother, out of habit. "she never thinks of anything else these days," he retorted. "rides with him every evening in his pe-rin-sley hired machine, doesn't she?" "really, you should be more careful about the way you handle a spoon, hedrick," said cora languidly, and with at least a foundation of fact. "it is not the proper implement for decorating the cheeks. we all need nourishment, but it is _so_ difficult when one sees a deposit of breakfast-food in the ear of one's vis-a-vis." hedrick too impulsively felt of his ears and was but the worse stung to find them immaculate and the latter half of the indictment unjustified. "spoon!" he cried. "i wouldn't talk about spoons if i were you, cora-lee! after what i saw in the library the other night, believe _me_, you're the one of this family that better be careful how you `handle a spoon'!" cora had a moment of panic. she let the cup she was lifting drop noisily upon its saucer, and gazed whitely at the boy, her mouth opening wide. "oh, no!" he went on, with a dreadful laugh. "i didn't hear you asking this corliss to kiss you! oh, no!" at this, though her mother and laura both started, a faint, odd relief showed itself in cora's expression. she recovered herself. "you little liar!" she flashed, and, with a single quick look at her mother, as of one too proud to appeal, left the room. "hedrick, hedrick, hedrick!" wailed mrs. madison. "and she told me you drove her from the table last night too, right before miss peirce!" miss peirce was the nurse, fortunately at this moment in the sick-room. "i _did_ hear her ask him that," he insisted, sullenly. "don't you believe it?" "certainly not!" burning with outrage, he also left his meal unfinished and departed in high dignity. he passed through the kitchen, however, on his way out of the house; but, finding an unusual politeness to the cook nothing except its own reward, went on his way with a bitter perception of the emptiness of the world and other places. "your father managed to talk more last night," said mrs. madison pathetically to laura. "he made me understand that he was fretting about how little we'd been able to give our children; so few advantages; it's always troubled him terribly. but sometimes i wonder if we've done right: we've neither of us ever exercised any discipline. we just couldn't bear to. you see, not having any money, or the things money could buy, to give, i think we've instinctively tried to make up for it by indulgence in other ways, and perhaps it's been a bad thing. not," she added hastily, "not that you aren't all three the best children any mother and father ever had! _he_ said so. he said the only trouble was that our children were too good for us." she shook her head remorsefully throughout laura's natural reply to this; was silent a while; then, as she rose, she said timidly, not looking at her daughter: "of course hedrick didn't mean to tell an outright lie. they were just talking, and perhaps he--perhaps he heard something that made him think what he _did_. people are so often mistaken in what they hear, even when they're talking right to each other, and----" "isn't it more likely," said laura, gravely, "that cora was telling some story or incident, and that hedrick overheard that part of it, and thought she was speaking directly to mr. corliss?" "of course!" cried the mother with instant and buoyant relief; and when the three ladies convened, a little later, cora (unquestioned) not only confirmed this explanation, but repeated in detail the story she had related to mr. corliss. laura had been quick. hedrick passed a variegated morning among comrades. he obtained prestige as having a father like-to-die, but another boy turned up who had learned to chew tobacco. then hedrick was pronounced inferior to others in turning "cartwheels," but succeeded in a wrestling match for an apple, which he needed. later, he was chased empty-handed from the rear of an ice-wagon, but greatly admired for his retorts to the vociferous chaser: the other boys rightly considered that what he said to the ice-man was much more horrible than what the ice-man said to him. the ice-man had a fair vocabulary, but it lacked pliancy; seemed stiff and fastidious compared with the flexible saxon in which hedrick sketched a family tree lacking, perhaps, some plausibility as having produced even an ice-man, but curiously interesting zoologically. he came home at noon with the flush of this victory new upon his brow. he felt equal to anything, and upon cora's appearing at lunch with a blithe, bright air and a new arrangement of her hair, he opened a fresh campaign with ill-omened bravado. "ear-muffs in style for september, are they?" he inquired in allusion to a symmetrical and becoming undulation upon each side of her head. "too bad ray vilas can't come any more; he'd like those, i know he would." cora, who was talking jauntily to her mother, went on without heeding. she affected her enunciation at times with a slight lisp; spoke preciously and over-exquisitely, purposely mincing the letter r, at the same time assuming a manner of artificial distinction and conscious elegance which never failed to produce in her brother the last stage of exasperation. she did this now. charming woman, that dear mrs. villard, she prattled. "i met her downtown this morning. dear mamma, you should but have seen her delight when she saw _me_. she was but just returned from bar harbor----" "`baw-hawbaw'!" poor hedrick was successfully infuriated immediately. "what in thunder is `baw-hawbaw'? mrs. villawd! baw-hawbaw! oh, maw!" "she had no idea she should find _me_ in town, she said," cora ran on, happily. "she came back early on account of the children having to be sent to school. she has such adorable children--beautiful, dimpled babes----" "slush! slush! luv-a-ly slush!" "--and her dear son, egerton villard, he's grown to be such a comely lad, and he has the most charming courtly manners: he helped his mother out of her carriage with all the air of a man of the world, and bowed to me as to a duchess. i think he might be a great influence for good if the dear villards would but sometimes let him associate a little with our unfortunate hedrick. egerton villard is really _distingue_; he has a beautiful head; and if he could be induced but to let hedrick follow him about but a little----" "i'll beat his beautiful head off for him if he but butts in on me but a little!" hedrick promised earnestly. "idiot!" cora turned toward him innocently. "what did you say, hedrick?" "i said `idiot'!" "you mean egerton villard?" "both of you!" "you think i'm an idiot, hedrick?" her tone was calm, merely inquisitive. "yes, i do!" "oh, no," she said pleasantly. "don't you think if i were _really_ an idiot i'd be even fonder of you than i am?" it took his breath. in a panic he sat waiting he knew not what; but cora blandly resumed her interrupted remarks to her mother, beginning a description of mrs. villard's dress; laura was talking unconcernedly to miss peirce; no one appeared to be aware that anything unusual had been said. his breath came back, and, summoning his presence of mind, he found himself able to consider his position with some degree of assurance. perhaps, after all, cora's retort had been merely a coincidence. he went over and over it in his mind, making a pretence, meanwhile, to be busy with his plate. "if i were _really_ an idiot." . . . it was the "_really_" that troubled him. but for that one word, he could have decided that her remark was a coincidence; but "_really_" was ominous; had a sinister ring. "if i were _really_ an idiot!" suddenly the pleasant clouds that had obscured his memory of the fatal evening were swept away as by a monstrous hand: it all came back to him with sickening clearness. so is it always with the sinner with his sin and its threatened discovery. again, in his miserable mind, he sat beside lolita on the fence, with the moon shining through her hair; and he knew--for he had often read it--that a man could be punished his whole life through for a single moment's weakness. a man might become rich, great, honoured, and have a large family, but his one soft sin would follow him, hunt him out and pull him down at last. "_really_ an idiot!" did that relentless comanche, cora, know this thing? he shuddered. then he fell back upon his faith in providence. it _could_ not be that she knew! ah, no! heaven would not let the world be so bad as that! and yet it did sometimes become negligent--he remembered the case of a baby-girl cousin who fell into the bath-tub and was drowned. providence had allowed that: what assurance had he that it would not go a step farther? "why, hedrick," said cora, turning toward him cheerfully, "you're not really eating anything; you're only pretending to." his heart sank with apprehension. was it coming? "you really must eat," she went on. "school begins so soon, you must be strong, you know. how we shall miss you here at home during your hours of work!" with that, the burden fell from his shoulders, his increasing terrors took wing. if laura had told his ghastly secret to cora, the latter would not have had recourse to such weak satire as this. cora was not the kind of person to try a popgun on an enemy when she had a thirteen-inch gun at her disposal; so he reasoned; and in the gush of his relief and happiness, responded: "you're a little too cocky lately, cora-lee: i wish you were _my_ daughter--just about five minutes!" cora looked upon him fondly. "what would you do to me," she inquired with a terrible sweetness--"darling little boy?" hedrick's head swam. the blow was square in the face; it jarred every bone; the world seemed to topple. his mother, rising from her chair, choked slightly, and hurried to join the nurse, who was already on her way upstairs. cora sent an affectionate laugh across the table to her stunned antagonist. "you wouldn't beat me, would you, dear?" she murmured. "i'm almost sure you wouldn't; not if i asked you to kiss me some _more_." all doubt was gone, the last hope fled! the worst had arrived. a vision of the awful future flamed across his staggered mind. the doors to the arena were flung open: the wild beasts howled for hunger of him; the spectators waited. cora began lightly to sing: . . . "dear, would thou wert near to hear me tell how fair thou art! since thou art gone i mourn all alone, oh, my lolita----" she broke off to explain: "it's one of those passionate little spanish serenades, hedrick. i'll sing it for your boy-friends next time they come to play in the yard. i think they'd like it. when they know why you like it so much, i'm sure they will. of course you _do_ like it--you roguish little lover!" a spasm rewarded this demoniacal phrase. "darling little boy, the serenade goes on like this: oh, my lolita, come to my heart: oh, come beloved, love let me press thee, while i caress thee in one long kiss, lolita! lolita come! let me----" hedrick sprang to his feet with a yell of agony. "laura madison, you tattle-tale," he bellowed, "i'll never forgive you as long as i live! i'll get even with you if it takes a thousand years!" with that, and pausing merely to kick a rung out of a chair which happened to be in his way, he rushed from the room. his sisters had risen to go, and cora flung her arms round laura in ecstacy. "you mean old viper!" she cried. "you could have told me days ago! it's almost too good to be true: it's the first time in my whole life i've felt safe from the pest for a moment!" laura shook her head. "my conscience troubles me; it did seem as if i ought to tell you--and mamma thought so, too; and i gave him warning, but now that i have done it, it seems rather mean and----" "no!" exclaimed cora. "you just gave me a chance to protect myself for once, thank heaven!" and she picked up her skirts and danced her way into the front hall. "i'm afraid," said laura, following, "i shouldn't have done it." "oh, laura," cried the younger girl, "i am having the best time, these days! this just caps it." she lowered her voice, but her eyes grew even brighter. "i think i've shown a certain gentleman a few things he didn't understand!" "who, dear?" "val," returned cora lightly; "valentine corliss. i think he knows a little more about women than he did when he first came here." "you've had a difference with him?" asked laura with eager hopefulness. "you've broken with him?" "oh, lord, no! nothing like that." cora leaned to her confidentially. "he told me, once, he'd be at the feet of any woman that could help put through an affair like his oil scheme, and i decided i'd just show him what i could do. he'd talk about it to me; then he'd laugh at me. that very sunday when i got papa to go in----" "but he didn't," said laura helplessly. "he only said he'd try to----when he gets well." "it's all the same--and it'll be a great thing for him, too," said cora, gayly. "well, that very afternoon before val left, he practically told me i was no good. of course he didn't use just those words--that isn't his way--but he laughed at me. and haven't i shown him! i sent richard a note that very night saying papa had consented to be secretary of the company, and richard had said he'd go in if papa did that, and he couldn't break his word----" "i know," said laura, sighing. "i know." "laura"--cora spoke with sudden gravity--"did you ever know anybody like me? i'm almost getting superstitious about it, because it seems to me i _always_ get just what i set out to get. i believe i could have anything in the world if i tried for it." "i hope so, if you tried for something good for you," said laura sadly. "cora, dear, you will--you will be a little easy on hedrick, won't you?" cora leaned against the newel and laughed till she was exhausted. chapter thirteen mr. trumble's offices were heralded by a neat blazon upon the principal door, "wade j. trumble, mortgages and loans"; and the gentleman thus comfortably, proclaimed, emerging from that door upon a september noontide, burlesqued a start of surprise at sight of a figure unlocking an opposite door which exhibited the name, "ray vilas," and below it, the cryptic phrase, "probate law." "water!" murmured mr. trumble, affecting to faint. "you ain't going in _there_, are you, ray?" he followed the other into the office, and stood leaning against a bookcase, with his hands in his pockets, while vilas raised the two windows, which were obscured by a film of smoke-deposit: there was a thin coat of fine sifted dust over everything. "better not sit down, ray," continued trumble, warningly. "you'll spoil your clothes and you might get a client. that word `probate' on the door ain't going to keep 'em out forever. you recognize the old place, i s'pose? you must have been here at least twice since you moved in. what's the matter? dick lindley hasn't missionaried you into any idea of _working_, has he? oh, no, _i_ see: the richfield hotel bar has closed--you've managed to drink it all at last!" "have you heard how old man madison is to-day?" asked ray, dusting his fingers with a handkerchief. "somebody told me yesterday he was about the same. he's not going to get well." "how do you know?" ray spoke quickly. "stroke too severe. people never recover----" "oh, yes, they do, too." trumble began hotly: "i beg to dif----" but checked himself, manifesting a slight confusion. "that is, i know they don't. old madison may live a while, if you call that getting well; but he'll never be the same man he was. doctor sloane says it was a bad stroke. says it was `induced by heat prostration and excitement.' `excitement!'" he repeated with a sour laugh. "yep, i expect a man could get all the excitement he wanted in _that_ house, especially if he was her daddy. poor old man, i don't believe he's got five thousand dollars in the world, and look how she dresses!" ray opened a compartment beneath one of the bookcases, and found a bottle and some glasses. "aha," he muttered, "our janitor doesn't drink, i perceive. join me?" mr. trumble accepted, and ray explained, cheerfully: "richard lindley's got me so cowed i'm afraid to go near any of my old joints. you see, he trails me; the scoundrel has kept me sober for whole days at a time, and i've been mortified, having old friends see me in that condition; so i have to sneak up here to my own office to drink to cora, now and then. you mustn't tell him. what's she been doing to _you_, lately?" the little man addressed grew red with the sharp, resentful memory. "oh, nothing! just struck me in the face with her parasol on the public street, that's all!" he gave an account of his walk to church with cora. "i'm through with that girl!" he exclaimed vindictively, in conclusion. "it was the damnedest thing you ever saw in your life: right in broad daylight, in front of the church. and she laughed when she did it; you'd have thought she was knocking a puppy out of her way. she can't do that to me twice, i tell you. what the devil do you see to laugh at?" "you'll be around," returned his companion, refilling the glasses, "asking for more, the first chance she gives you. here's her health!" "i don't drink it!" cried mr. trumble angrily. "and i'm through with her for good, i tell you! i'm not your kind: i don't let a girl like that upset me till i can't think of anything else, and go making such an ass of myself that the whole town gabbles about it. cora madison's seen the last of me, i'll thank you to notice. she's never been half-decent to me; cut dances with me all last winter; kept me hanging round the outskirts of every crowd she was in; stuck me with laura and her mother every time she had a chance; then has the nerve to try to use me, so's she can make a bigger hit with a new man! you can bet your head i'm through! she'll get paid though! oh, she'll get paid for it!" "how?" laughed ray. it was a difficult question. "you wait and see," responded the threatener, feebly. "just wait and see. she's wild about this corliss, i tell you," he continued, with renewed vehemence. "she's crazy about him; she's lost her head at last----" "you mean he's going to avenge you?" "no, i don't, though he might, if she decided to marry him." "do you know," said ray slowly, glancing over his glass at his nervous companion, "it doesn't strike me that mr. valentine corliss has much the air of a marrying man." "he has the air to _me_," observed mr. trumble, "of a darned bad lot! but i have to hand it to him: he's a wizard. he's got something besides his good looks--a man that could get cora madison interested in `business'! in _oil_! cora madison! how do you suppose----" his companion began to laugh again. "you don't really suppose he talked his oil business to her, do you, trumble?" "he must have. else how could she----" "oh, no, cora herself never talks upon any subject but one; she never listens to any other either." "then how in thunder did he----" "if cora asks you if you think it will rain," interrupted vilas, "doesn't she really seem to be asking: `do you love me? how much?' suppose mr. corliss is an expert in the same line. of course he can talk about oil!" "he strikes me," said trumble, "as just about the slickest customer that ever hit this town. i like richard lindley, and i hope he'll see his fifty thousand dollars again. _i_ wouldn't have given corliss thirty cents." "why do you think he's a crook?" "i don't say that," returned trumble. "all _i_ know about him is that he's done some of the finest work to get fifty thousand dollars put in his hands that i ever heard of. and all anybody knows about him is that he lived here seventeen years ago, and comes back claiming to know where there's oil in italy. he shows some maps and papers and gets cablegrams signed `moliterno.' then he talks about selling the old corliss house here, where the madisons live, and putting the money into his oil company: he does that to sound plausible, but i have good reason to know that house was mortgaged to its full value within a month after his aunt left it to him. he'll not get a cent if it's sold. that's all. and he's got cora madison so crazy over him that she makes life a hell for poor old lindley until he puts all he's saved into the bubble. the scheme may be all right. how do _i_ know? there's no way to tell, without going over there, and corliss won't let anybody do that--oh, he's got a plausible excuse for it! but i'm sorry for lindley: he's so crazy about cora, he's soft. and she's so crazy about corliss _she's_ soft! well, i used to be crazy about her myself, but i'm not soft--i'm not the lindley kind of loon, thank heaven!" "what kind are you, trumble?" asked ray, mildly. "not your kind either," retorted the other going to the door. "she cut me on the street the other day; she's quit speaking to me. if you've got any money, why don't you take it over to the hotel and give it to corliss? she might start speaking to _you_ again. i'm going to lunch!" he slammed the door behind him. ray vilas, left alone, elevated his heels to the sill, and stared out of the window a long time at a gravelled roof which presented little of interest. he replenished his glass and his imagination frequently, the latter being so stirred that when, about three o'clock, he noticed the inroads he had made upon the bottle, tears of self-pity came to his eyes. "poor little drunkard!" he said aloud. "go ahead and do it. isn't anything _you_ won't do!" and, having washed his face at a basin in a corner, he set his hat slightly upon one side, picked up a walking stick and departed jauntily, and, to the outward eye, presentably sober. mr. valentine corliss would be glad to see him, the clerk at the richfield hotel reported, after sending up a card, and upon ray's following the card, mr. valentine corliss in person confirmed the message with considerable amusement and a cordiality in which there was some mixture of the quizzical. he was the taller; and the robust manliness of his appearance, his splendid health and boxer's figure offered a sharp contrast to the superlatively lean tippler. corliss was humorously aware of his advantage: his greeting seemed really to say, "hello, my funny bug, here you are again!" though the words of his salutation were entirely courteous; and he followed it with a hospitable offer. "no," said vilas; "i won't drink with you." he spoke so gently that the form of his refusal, usually interpreted as truculent, escaped the other's notice. he also declined a cigar, apologetically asking permission to light one of his own cigarettes; then, as he sank into a velour-covered chair, apologized again for the particular attention he was bestowing upon the apartment, which he recognized as one of the suites de luxe of the hotel. "`parlour, bedroom, and bath,'" he continued, with a melancholy smile; "and `lachrymae,' and `a reading from homer.' sometimes they have `the music lesson,' or `winter scene' or `a neapolitan fisher lad' instead of `lachrymae,' but they always have `a reading from homer.' when you opened the door, a moment ago, i had a very strong impression that something extraordinary would some time happen to me in this room." "well," suggested corliss, "you refused a drink in it." "even more wonderful than that," said ray, glancing about the place curiously. "it may be a sense of something painful that already has happened here--perhaps long ago, before your occupancy. it has a pathos." "most hotel rooms have had something happen in them," said corliss lightly. "i believe the managers usually change the door numbers if what happens is especially unpleasant. probably they change some of the rugs, also." "i feel----" ray paused, frowning. "i feel as if some one had killed himself here." "then no doubt some of the rugs _have_ been changed." "no doubt." the caller laughed and waved his hand in dismissal of the topic. "well, mr. corliss," he went on, shifting to a brisker tone, "i have come to make my fortune, too. you are midas. am i of sufficient importance to be touched?" valentine corliss gave him sidelong an almost imperceptibly brief glance of sharpest scrutiny--it was like the wink of a camera shutter--but laughed in the same instant. "which way do you mean that?" "you have been quick," returned the visitor, repaying that glance with equal swiftness, "to seize upon the american idiom. i mean: how small a contribution would you be willing to receive toward your support!" corliss did not glance again at ray; instead, he looked interested in the smoke of his cigar. "`contribution,'" he repeated, with no inflection whatever. "`toward my support.'" "i mean, of course, how small an investment in your oil company." "oh, anything, anything," returned the promoter, with quick amiability. "we need to sell all the stock we can." "all the money you can get?" "precisely. it's really a colossal proposition, mr. vilas." corliss spoke with brisk enthusiasm. "it's a perfectly certain enormous profit upon everything that goes in. prince moliterno cables me later investigations show that the oil-field is more than twice as large as we thought when i left naples. he's on the ground now, buying up what he can, secretly." "i had an impression from richard lindley that the secret had been discovered." "oh, yes; but only by a few, and those are trying to keep it quiet from the others, of course." "i see. does your partner know of your success in raising a large investment?" "you mean lindley's? certainly." corliss waved his hand in light deprecation. "of course that's something, but moliterno would hardly be apt to think of it as very large! you see he's putting in about five times that much, himself, and i've already turned over to him double it for myself. still, it counts--certainly; and of course it will be a great thing for lindley." "i fear," ray said hesitatingly, "you won't be much interested in my drop for your bucket. i have twelve hundred dollars in the world; and it is in the bank--i stopped there on my way here. to be exact, i have twelve hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents. my dear sir, will you allow me to purchase one thousand dollars' worth of stock? i will keep the two hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents to live on--i may need an egg while waiting for you to make me rich. will you accept so small an investment?" "certainly," said corliss, laughing. "why not? you may as well profit by the chance as any one. i'll send you the stock certificates--we put them at par. i'm attending to that myself, as our secretary, mr. madison, is unable to take up his duties." vilas took a cheque-book and a fountain-pen from his pocket. "oh, any time, any time," said corliss cheerfully, observing the new investor's movement. "now, i think," returned vilas quietly. "how shall i make it out?" "oh, to me, i suppose," answered corliss indifferently. "that will save a little trouble, and i can turn it over to moliterno, by cable, as i did lindley's. i'll give you a receipt----" "you need not mind that," said ray. "really it is of no importance." "of course the cheque itself is a receipt," remarked corliss, tossing it carelessly upon a desk. "you'll have some handsome returns for that slip of paper, mr. vilas." "in that blithe hope i came," said ray airily. "i am confident of it. i have my own ways of divination, mr. corliss. i have gleams." he rose as if to go, but stood looking thoughtfully about the apartment again. "singular impression," he murmured. "not exactly as if i'd seen it in a dream; and yet--and yet----" "you have symptoms of clairvoyance at times, i take it." the conscious, smooth superiority of the dexterous man playing with an inconsequent opponent resounded in this speech, clear as the humming of a struck bell; and vilas shot him a single open glance of fire from hectic eyes. for that instant, the frailer buck trumpeted challenge. corliss--broad-shouldered, supple of waist, graceful and strong--smiled down negligently; yet the very air between the two men seemed charged with an invisible explosive. ray laughed quickly, as in undisturbed good nature; then, flourishing his stick, turned toward the door. "oh, no, it isn't clairvoyance--no more than when i told you that your only real interest is women." he paused, his hand upon the door-knob. "i'm a quaint mixture, however: perhaps i should be handled with care." "very good of you," laughed corliss--"this warning. the afternoon i had the pleasure of meeting you i think i remember your implying that you were a mere marionette." "a haggard harlequin!" snapped vilas, waving his hand to a mirror across the room. "don't i look it?" and the phrase fitted him with tragic accuracy. "you see? what a merry wedding-guest i'll be! i invite you to join me on the nuptial eve." "thanks. who's getting married: when the nuptial eve?" ray opened the door, and, turning, rolled his eyes fantastically. "haven't you heard?" he cried. "when hecate marries john barleycorn!" he bowed low. "mr. midas, adieu." corliss stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the long hall to the elevator. there, ray turned and waved his hand, the other responding with gayety which was not assumed: vilas might be insane, or drunk, or both, but the signature upon his cheque was unassailable. corliss closed the door and began to pace his apartment thoughtfully. his expression manifested a peculiar phenomenon. in company, or upon the street, or when he talked with men, the open look and frank eyes of this stalwart young man were disarming and his most winning assets. but now, as he paced alone in his apartment, now that he was not upon exhibition, now when there was no eye to behold him, and there was no reason to dissimulate or veil a single thought or feeling, his look was anything but open; the last trace of frankness disappeared; the muscles at mouth and eyes shifted; lines and planes intermingled and altered subtly; there was a moment of misty transformation--and the face of another man emerged. it was the face of a man uninstructed in mercy; it was a shrewd and planning face: alert, resourceful, elaborately perceptive, and flawlessly hard. but, beyond all, it was the face of a man perpetually on guard. he had the air of debating a question, his hands in his pockets, his handsome forehead lined with a temporary indecision. his sentry-go extended the length of his two rooms, and each time he came back into his bedroom his glance fell consideringly upon a steamer-trunk of the largest size, at the foot of his bed. the trunk was partially packed as if for departure. and, indeed, it was the question of departure which he was debating. he was a man of varied dexterities, and he had one faculty of high value, which had often saved him, had never betrayed him; it was intuitive and equal to a sixth sense: he always knew when it was time to go. an inner voice warned him; he trusted to it and obeyed it. and it had spoken now, and there was his trunk half-packed in answer. but he had stopped midway in his packing, because he had never yet failed to make a clean sweep where there was the slightest chance for one; he hated to leave a big job before it was completely finished--and mr. wade trumble had refused to invest in the oil-fields of basilicata. corliss paused beside the trunk, stood a moment immersed in thought; then nodded once, decisively, and, turning to a dressing-table, began to place some silver-mounted brushes and bottles in a leather travelling-case. there was a knock at the outer door. he frowned, set down what he had in his hands, went to the door and opened it to find mr. pryor, that plain citizen, awaiting entrance. corliss remained motionless in an arrested attitude, his hand upon the knob of the opened door. his position did not alter; he became almost unnaturally still, a rigidity which seemed to increase. then he looked quickly behind him, over his shoulder, and back again, with a swift movement of the head. "no," said pryor, at that. "i don't want you. i just thought i'd have two minutes' talk with you. all right?" "all right," said corliss quietly. "come in." he turned carelessly, and walked away from the door keeping between his guest and the desk. when he reached the desk, he turned again and leaned against it, his back to it, but in the action of turning his hand had swept a sheet of note-paper over ray vilas's cheque--a too conspicuous oblong of pale blue. pryor had come in and closed the door. "i don't know," he began, regarding the other through his glasses, with steady eyes, "that i'm going to interfere with you at all, corliss. i just happened to strike you--i wasn't looking for you. i'm on vacation, visiting my married daughter that lives here, and i don't want to mix in if i can help it." corliss laughed, easily. "there's nothing for you to mix in. you couldn't if you wanted to." "well, i hope that's true," said pryor, with an air of indulgence, curiously like that of a teacher for a pupil who promises improvement. "i do indeed. there isn't anybody i'd like to see turn straight more than you. you're educated and cultured, and refined, and smarter than all hell. it would be a big thing. that's one reason i'm taking the trouble to talk to you." "i told you i wasn't doing anything," said corliss with a petulance as oddly like that of a pupil as the other's indulgence was like that of a tutor. "this is my own town; i own property here, and i came here to sell it. i can prove it in half-a-minute's telephoning. where do you come in?" "easy, easy," said pryor, soothingly. "i've just told you i don't want to come in at all." "then what do you want?" "i came to tell you just one thing: to go easy up there at mr. madison's house." corliss laughed contemptuously. "it's _my_ house. i own it. that's the property i came here to sell." "oh, i know," responded pryor. "that part of it's all right. but i've seen you several times with that young lady, and you looked pretty thick, to me. you know you haven't got any business doing such things, corliss. i know your record from buda pesth to copenhagen and----" "see here, my friend," said the younger man, angrily, "you may be a tiptop spotter for the government when it comes to running down some poor old lady that's bought a string of pearls in the rue de la paix----" "i've been in the service twenty-eight years," remarked pryor, mildly. "all right," said the other with a gesture of impatience; "and you got me once, all right. well, that's over, isn't it? have i tried anything since?" "not in that line," said pryor. "well, what business have you with any other line?" demanded corliss angrily. "who made you general supervisor of public morals? i want to know----" "now, what's the use your getting excited? i'm just here to tell you that i'm going to keep an eye on you. i don't know many people here, and i haven't taken any particular pains to look you up. for all i know, you're only here to sell your house, as you say. but i know old man madison a little, and i kind of took a fancy to him; he's a mighty nice old man, and he's got a nice family. he's sick and it won't do to trouble him; but--honest, corliss--if you don't slack off in that neighbourhood a little, i'll have to have a talk with the young lady herself." a derisory light showed faintly in the younger man's eyes as he inquired, softly: "that all, mr. pryor?" "no. don't try anything on out here. not in _any_ of your lines." "i don't mean to." "that's right. sell your house and clear out. you'll find it healthy." he went to the door. "so far as i can see," he observed, ruminatively, "you haven't brought any of that moliterno crowd you used to work with over to this side with you." "i haven't seen moliterno for two years," said corliss, sharply. "well, i've said my say." pryor gave him a last word as he went out. "you keep away from that little girl." "ass!" exclaimed corliss, as the door closed. he exhaled a deep breath sharply, and broke into a laugh. then he went quickly into his bedroom and began to throw the things out of his trunk. chapter fourteen hedrick madison's eyes were not of marble; his heart was not flint nor his skin steel plate: he was flesh and tender; he was a vulnerable, breathing boy, with highly developed capacities for pain which were now being taxed to their utmost. once he had loved to run, to leap, to disport himself in the sun, to drink deep of the free air; he had loved life and one or two of his fellowmen. he had borne himself buoyantly, with jaunty self-confidence, even with some intolerance toward the weaknesses of others, not infrequently displaying merriment over their mischances; but his time had found him at last; the evil day had come. indian summer was indian for him, indeed: sweet death were welcome; no charity was left in him. he leaped no more, but walked broodingly and sought the dark places. and yet it could not be said that times were dull for him: the luckless picket who finds himself in an open eighty-acre field, under the eye of a sharpshooter up a tree, would not be apt to describe the experience as dull. and cora never missed a shot; she loved the work; her pleasure in it was almost as agonizing for the target as was the accuracy of her fire. she was ingenious: the horrible facts at her disposal were damaging enough in all conscience: but they did not content her. she invented a love-story, assuming that hedrick was living it: he was supposed to be pining for lolita, to be fading, day-by-day, because of enforced separation; and she contrived this to such an effect of reality, and with such a diabolical affectation of delicacy in referring to it, that the mere remark, with gentle sympathy, "i think poor hedrick is looking a little better to-day," infallibly produced something closely resembling a spasm. she formed the habit of never mentioning her brother in his presence except as "poor hedrick," a too obvious commiseration of his pretended attachment--which met with like success. most dreadful of all, she invented romantic phrases and expressions assumed to have been spoken or written by hedrick in reference to his unhappiness; and she repeated them so persistently, yet always with such apparent sincerity of belief that they were quotations from him, and not her inventions, that the driven youth knew a fear, sometimes, that the horrid things were actually of his own perpetration. the most withering of these was, "torn from her i love by the ruthless hand of a parent. . . ." it was not completed; cora never got any further with it, nor was there need: a howl of fury invariably assured her of an effect as satisfactory as could possibly have been obtained by an effort less impressionistic. life became a series of easy victories for cora, and she made them somehow the more deadly for hedrick by not seeming to look at him in his affliction, nor even to be aiming his way: he never could tell when the next shot was coming. at the table, the ladies of his family might be deep in dress, or discussing mr. madison's slowly improving condition, when cora, with utter irrelevance, would sigh, and, looking sadly into her coffee, murmur, "ah, _fond_ mem'ries!" or, "_why_ am i haunted by the dead past?" or, the dreadful, "torn from her i love by the ruthless hand of a parent. . . ." there was compassion in laura's eyes and in his mother's, but cora was irresistible, and they always ended by laughing in spite of themselves; and though they pleaded for hedrick in private, their remonstrances proved strikingly ineffective. hedrick was the only person who had ever used the high hand with cora: she found repayment too congenial. in the daytime he could not go in the front yard, but cora's window would open and a tenderly smiling cora lean out to call affectionately, "don't walk on the grass--darling little boy!" or, she would nod happily to him and begin to sing: "oh come beloved, love let me press thee, while i caress thee in one long kiss, lolita. . . . " one terror still hung over him. if it fell--as it might at any fatal moment--then the utmost were indeed done upon him; and this apprehension bathed his soul in night. in his own circle of congenial age and sex he was, by virtue of superior bitterness and precocity of speech, a chief--a moral castigator, a satirist of manners, a creator of stinging nicknames; and many nourished unhealed grievances which they had little hope of satisfying against him; those who attempted it invariably departing with more to avenge than they had brought with them. let these once know what cora knew. . . . the vision was unthinkable! it was cora's patent desire to release the hideous item, to spread the scandal broadcast among his fellows--to ring it from the school-bells, to send it winging on the hot winds of hades! the boys had always liked his yard and the empty stable to play in, and the devices he now employed to divert their activities elsewhere were worthy of a great strategist. his energy and an abnormal ingenuity accomplished incredible things: school had been in session several weeks and only one boy had come within conversational distance of cora;--him hedrick bore away bodily, in simulation of resistless high spirits, a brilliant exhibition of stagecraft. and then cora's friend, mrs. villard, removed her son egerton from the private school he had hitherto attended, and he made his appearance in hedrick's class, one morning at the public school. hedrick's eye lighted with a savage gleam; timidly the first joy he had known for a thousand years crept into his grim heart. after school, egerton expiated a part of cora's cruelty. it was a very small part, and the exploit no more than infinitesimally soothing to the conqueror, but when egerton finally got home he was no sight for a mother. thus hedrick wrought his own doom: mrs. villard telephoned to cora, and cora went immediately to see her. it happened to hedrick that he was late leaving home the next morning. his entrance into his classroom was an undeniable sensation, and within ten minutes the teacher had lost all control of the school. it became necessary to send for the principal. recess was a frantic nightmare for hedrick, and his homeward progress at noon a procession of such uproarious screamers as were his equals in speed. the nethermost depths were reached when an ignoble pigtailed person he had always trodden upon flat-footed screamed across the fence from next door, as he reached fancied sanctuary in his own backyard: "kiss me some _more_, darling little boy!" this worm, established upon the fence opposite the conservatory windows, and in direct view from the table in the dining-room, shrieked the accursed request at short intervals throughout the luncheon hour. the humour of childhood is sometimes almost intrusive. and now began a life for hedrick which may be rather painfully but truthfully likened to a prolongation of the experiences of a rat that finds itself in the middle of a crowded street in daylight: there is plenty of excitement but no pleasure. he was pursued, harried, hounded from early morning till nightfall, and even in his bed would hear shrill shouts go down the sidewalk from the throats of juvenile fly-by-nights: "oh dar-ling lit-oh darling lit-oh _lit_-le boy, _lit_-le boy, kiss me some _more_!" and one day he overheard a remark which strengthened his growing conviction that the cataclysm had affected the whole united states: it was a teacher who spoke, explaining to another a disturbance in the hall of the school. she said, behind her hand: "_he kissed an idiot_." laura had not even remotely foreseen the consequences of her revelation, nor, indeed, did she now properly estimate their effect upon hedrick. she and her mother were both sorry for him, and did what they could to alleviate his misfortunes, but there was an inevitable remnant of amusement in their sympathy. youth, at war, affects stoicism but not resignation: in truth, resignation was not much in hedrick's line, and it would be far from the fact to say that he was softened by his sufferings. he brooded profoundly and his brightest thought was revenge. it was not upon cora that his chief bitterness turned. cora had always been the constant, open enemy: warfare between them was a regular condition of life; and unconsciously, and without "thinking it out," he recognized the naturalness of her seizing upon the deadliest weapon against him that came to her hand. there was nothing unexpected in that: no, the treachery, to his mind, lay in the act of laura, that non-combatant, who had furnished the natural and habitual enemy with this scourge. at all times, and with or without cause, he ever stood ready to do anything possible for the reduction of cora's cockiness, but now it was for the taking-down of laura and the repayment of her uncalled-for and overwhelming assistance to the opposite camp that he lay awake nights and kept his imagination hot. laura was a serene person, so neutral--outwardly, at least--and so little concerned for herself in any matter he could bring to mind, that for purposes of revenge she was a difficult proposition. and then, in a desperate hour, he remembered her book. only once had he glimpsed it, but she had shown unmistakable agitation of a mysterious sort as she wrote in it, and, upon observing his presence, a prompt determination to prevent his reading a word of what she had written. therefore, it was something peculiarly sacred and intimate. this deduction was proved by the care she exercised in keeping the book concealed from all eyes. a slow satisfaction began to permeate him: he made up his mind to find that padlocked ledger. he determined with devoted ardour that when he found it he would make the worst possible use of it: the worst, that is, for laura. as for consequences to himself, he was beyond them. there is an irish play in which an old woman finds that she no longer fears the sea when it has drowned the last of her sons; it can do nothing more to her. hedrick no longer feared anything. the book was somewhere in laura's room, he knew that; and there were enough opportunities to search, though laura had a way of coming in unexpectedly which was embarrassing; and he suffered from a sense of inadequacy when--on the occasion of his first new attempt--he answered the casual inquiry as to his presence by saying that he "had a headache." he felt there was something indirect in the reply; but laura was unsuspicious and showed no disposition to be analytical. after this, he took the precaution to bring a school-book with him and she often found the boy seated quietly by her west window immersed in study: he said he thought his headaches came from his eyes and that the west light "sort of eased them a little." the ledger remained undiscovered, although probably there has never been a room more thoroughly and painstakingly searched, without its floor being taken up and its walls torn down. the most mysterious, and, at the same time, the most maddening thing about it was the apparent simplicity of the task. he was certain that the room contained the book: listening, barefooted, outside the door at night, he had heard the pen scratching. the room was as plain as a room can be, and small. there was a scantily filled clothes-press; he had explored every cubic inch of it. there was the small writing table with one drawer; it held only some note-paper and a box of pen-points. there was a bureau; to his certain knowledge it contained no secret whatever. there were a few giltless chairs, and a white "wash-stand," a mere basin and slab with exposed plumbing. lastly, there was the bed, a very large and ugly "eastlake" contrivance; he had acquired a close acquaintance with all of it except the interior of the huge mattress itself, and here, he finally concluded, must of necessity be the solution. the surface of the mattress he knew to be unbroken; nevertheless the book was there. he had recently stimulated his deductive powers with a narrative of french journalistic sagacity in a similar case; and he applied french reasoning. the ledger existed. it was somewhere in the room. he had searched everything except the interior of the mattress. the ledger was in that interior. the exploration thus become necessary presented some difficulties. detection in the act would involve explanations hard to invent; it would not do to say he was looking for his knife; and he could not think of any excuse altogether free from a flavour of insincerity. a lameness beset them all and made them liable to suspicion; and laura, once suspicious, might be petty enough to destroy the book, and so put it out of his power forever. he must await the right opportunity, and, after a racking exercise of patience, at last he saw it coming. doctor sloane had permitted his patient to come down stairs for an increasing interval each day. mr. madison crept, rather than walked, leaning upon his wife and closely attended by miss peirce. he spoke with difficulty and not clearly; still, there was a perceptible improvement, and his family were falling into the habit of speaking of him as almost well. on that account, mrs. madison urged her daughters to accept an invitation from the mother of the once courtly egerton villard. it was at breakfast that the matter was discussed. "of course cora must go," laura began, "but----" "but nothing!" interrupted cora. "how would it look if i went and you didn't? everybody knows papa's almost well, and they'd think it silly for us to give up the first real dance since last spring on that account; yet they're just spiteful enough, if i went and you stayed home, to call me a `girl of no heart.' besides," she added sweetly, "we ought to go to show mrs. villard we aren't hurt because egerton takes so little notice of poor hedrick." hedrick's lips moved silently, as in prayer. "i'd rather not," said laura. "i doubt if i'd have a very good time." "you would, too," returned her sister, decidedly. "the men like to dance with you; you dance every bit as well as i do, and that black lace is the most becoming dress you ever had. nobody ever remembers a black dress, anyway, unless it's cut very conspicuously, and yours isn't. i can't go without you; they love to say nasty things about me, and you're too good a sister to give 'em this chance, you old dear." she laughed and nodded affectionately across the table at laura. "you've got to go!" "yes, it would be nicer," said the mother. and so it was settled. it was simultaneously settled in hedrick's mind that the night of the dance should mark his discovery of the ledger. he would have some industrious hours alone with the mysterious mattress, safe from intrusion. meekly he lifted his eyes from his plate. "i'm glad you're going, sister laura," he said in a gentle voice. "i think a change will do you good." "isn't it wonderful," exclaimed cora, appealing to the others to observe him, "what an improvement a disappointment in love can make in deportment?" for once, hedrick only smiled. chapter fifteen laura had spent some thoughtful hours upon her black lace dress with results that astonished her family: it became a ball-gown--and a splendidly effective one. she arranged her dark hair in a more elaborate fashion than ever before, in a close coronal of faintly lustrous braids; she had no jewellery and obviously needed none. her last action but one before she left her room was to dispose of the slender chain and key she always wore round her neck; then her final glance at the mirror--which fairly revealed a lovely woman--ended in a deprecatory little "face" she made at herself. it meant: "yes, old lady, you fancy yourself very passable in here all by yourself, don't you? just wait: you'll be standing beside cora in a moment!" and when she did stand beside cora, in the latter's room, a moment later, her thought seemed warranted. cora, radiant-eyed, in high bloom, and exquisite from head to foot in a shimmering white dancing-dress, a glittering crescent fastening the silver fillet that bound her vivid hair, was a flame of enchantment. mrs. madison, almost weeping with delight, led her daughters proudly, an arm round the waist of each, into her husband's room. propped with pillows, he reclined in an armchair while miss peirce prepared his bed, an occupation she gave over upon this dazzling entrance, departing tactfully. "look at these," cried the mother; "--from our garden, jim, dear! don't we feel rich, you and i?" "and--and--laura," said the sick man, with the slow and imperfect enunication caused by his disease; "laura looks pretty--too." "isn't she adorable!" cora exclaimed warmly. "she decided to be the portrait of a young duchess, you see, all stately splendour--made of snow and midnight!" "hear! hear!" laughed laura; but she blushed with pleasure, and taking cora's hand in hers lifted it to her lips. "and do you see cora's crescent?" demanded mrs. madison. "what do you think of _that_ for magnificence? she went down town this morning with seven dollars, and came back with that and her party gloves and a dollar in change! isn't she a bargainer? even for rhinestones they are the cheapest things you ever heard of. they look precisely like stones of the very finest water." they did--so precisely, indeed, that if the resemblance did not amount to actual identity, then had a jeweller of the town been able to deceive the eye of valentine corliss, which was an eye singularly learned in such matters. "they're--both smart girls," said madison, "both of them. and they look--beautiful, to-night--both. laura is--amazing!" when they had gone, mrs. madison returned from the stairway, and, kneeling beside her husband, put her arms round him gently: she had seen the tear that was marking its irregular pathway down his flaccid, gray cheek, and she understood. "don't. don't worry, jim," she whispered. "those bright, beautiful things!--aren't they treasures?" "it's--it's laura," he said. "cora will be all right. she looks out for--herself. i'm--i'm afraid for--laura. aren't you?" "no, no," she protested. "i'm not afraid for either of them." but she was: the mother had always been afraid for cora. . . . . at the dance, the two girls, attended up the stairway to the ballroom by a chattering covey of black-coats, made a sensational entrance to a gallant fanfare of music, an effect which may have been timed to the premonitory tuning of instruments heard during the ascent; at all events, it was a great success; and cora, standing revealed under the wide gilt archway, might have been a lithe and shining figure from the year eighteen-hundred-and-one, about to dance at the luxembourg. she placed her hand upon the sleeve of richard lindley, and, glancing intelligently over his shoulder into the eyes of valentine corliss, glided rhythmically away. people looked at her; they always did. not only the non-dancers watched her; eyes everywhere were upon her, even though the owners gyrated, glided and dipped on distant orbits. the other girls watched her, as a rule, with a profound, an almost passionate curiosity; and they were prompt to speak well of her to men, except in trustworthy intimacy, because they did not enjoy being wrongfully thought jealous. many of them kept somewhat aloof from her; but none of them ever nowadays showed "superiority" in her presence, or snubbed her: that had been tried and proved disastrous in rebound. cora never failed to pay her score--and with a terrifying interest added, her native tendency being to take two eyes for an eye and the whole jaw for a tooth. they let her alone, though they asked and asked among themselves the never-monotonous question: "why do men fall in love with girls like that?" a riddle which, solved, makes wives condescending to their husbands. most of the people at this dance had known one another as friends, or antagonists, or indifferent acquaintances, for years, and in such an assembly there are always two worlds, that of the women and that of the men. each has its own vision, radically different from that of the other; but the greatest difference is that the men are unaware of the other world, only a few of them--usually queer ones like ray vilas--vaguely perceiving that there are two visions, while all the women understand both perfectly. the men splash about on the surface; the women keep their eyes open under water. or, the life of the assembly is like a bright tapestry: the men take it as a picture and are not troubled to know how it is produced; but women are weavers. there was a beauty of far-flung renown at mrs. villard's to-night: mary kane, a creature so made and coloured that young men at sight of her became as water and older men were apt to wonder regretfully why all women could not have been made like mary. she was a kindly soul, and never intentionally outshone her sisters; but the perfect sumptuousness of her had sometimes tried the amiability of cora madison, to whom such success without effort and without spark seemed unfair, as well as bovine. miss kane was a central figure at the dance, shining tranquilly in a new triumph: that day her engagement had been announced to mr. george wattling, a young man of no special attainments, but desirable in his possessions and suitable to his happiness. the pair radiated the pardonable, gay importance of newly engaged people, and cora, who had never before bestowed any notice upon mr. wattling, now examined him with thoughtful attention. finding him at her elbow in a group about a punch bowl, between dances, she offered warm felicitations. "but i don't suppose you care whether _i_ care for you to be happy or not," she added, with a little plaintive laugh;--"you've always hated me so!" mr. wattling was startled: never before had he imagined that cora madison had given him a thought; but there was not only thought, there was feeling, in this speech. she seemed to be concealing with bravery an even deeper feeling than the one inadvertently expressed. "why, what on earth makes you think that?" he exclaimed. "think it? i _know_ it!" she gave him a strange look, luminous yet mysterious, a curtain withdrawn only to show a shining mist with something undefined but dazzling beyond. "i've always known it!" and she turned away from him abruptly. he sprang after her. "but you're wrong. i've never----" "oh, yes, you have." they began to discuss it, and for better consideration of the theme it became necessary for cora to "cut" the next dance, promised to another, and to give it to mr. wattling. they danced several times together, and mr. wattling's expression was serious. the weavers of the tapestry smiled and whispered things the men would not have understood--nor believed. ray vilas, seated alone in a recessed and softly lighted gallery, did not once lose sight of the flitting sorceress. with his elbows on the railing, he leaned out, his head swaying slowly and mechanically as she swept up and down the tumultuously moving room, his passionate eyes gaunt and brilliant with his hunger. and something very like a general thrill passed over the assembly when, a little later, it was seen that he was dancing with her. laura, catching a glimpse of this couple, started and looked profoundly disturbed. the extravagance of vilas's passion and the depths he sounded, in his absurd despair when discarded, had been matters of almost public gossip; he was accounted a somewhat scandalous and unbalanced but picturesque figure; and for the lady whose light hand had wrought such havoc upon him to be seen dancing with him was sufficiently startling to elicit the universal remark--evidently considered superlative--that it was "just like cora madison!" cora usually perceived, with an admirably clear head, all that went on about her; and she was conscious of increasing the sensation, when after a few turns round the room, she allowed her partner to conduct her to a secluding grove of palms in the gallery. she sank into the chair he offered, and, fixing her eyes upon a small lamp of coloured glass which hung overhead, ostentatiously looked bored. "at your feet, cora," he said, seating himself upon a stool, and leaning toward her. "isn't it appropriate that we should talk to music--we two? it shouldn't be that quick step though--not dance-music--should it?" "don't know 'm sure," murmured cora. "you were kind to dance with me," he said huskily. "i dared to speak to you----" she did not change her attitude nor the direction of her glance. "i couldn't cut you very well with the whole town looking on. i'm tired of being talked about. besides, i don't care much who i dance with--so he doesn't step on me." "cora," he said, "it is the prelude to `l'arlesienne' that they should play for you and me. yes, i think it should be that." "never heard of it." "it's just a rustic tragedy, the story of a boy in the south of france who lets love become his whole life, and then--it kills him." "sounds very stupid," she commented languidly. "people do sometimes die of love, even nowadays," he said, tremulously--"in the south." she let her eyes drift indifferently to him and perceived that he was trembling from head to foot; that his hands and knees shook piteously; that his lips quivered and twitched; and, at sight of this agitation, an expression of strong distaste came to her face. "i see." her eyes returned to the lamp. "you're from the south, and of course it's going to kill you." "you didn't speak the exact words you had in your mind.'" "oh, what words did i have `in my mind'?" she asked impatiently. "what you really meant was: `if it does kill you, what of it?'" she laughed, and sighed as for release. "cora," he said huskily, "i understand you a little because you possess me. i've never--literally never--had another thought since the first time i saw you: nothing but you. i think of you--actually every moment. drunk or sober, asleep or--awake, it's nothing but you, you, _you_! it will never be different: i don't know why i can't get over it--i only know i can't. you own me; you burn like a hot coal in my heart. you're through with me, i know. you drained me dry. you're like a child who eats so heartily of what he likes that he never touches it again. and i'm a dish you're sick of. oh, it's all plain enough, i can tell you. i'm not exciting any more--no, just a nauseous slave!" "do you want people to hear you?" she inquired angrily, for his voice had risen. he tempered his tone. "cora, when you liked me you went a pretty clipping gait with me," he said, trembling even more than before. "but you're infinitely more infatuated with this toreador of a corliss than you were with me; you're lost in him; you're slaving for him as i would for you. how far are you going with----" "do you want me to walk away and leave you?" she asked, suddenly sitting up straight and looking at him with dilating eyes. "if you want a `scene'----" "it's over," he said, more calmly. "i know now how dangerous the man is. of course you will tell him i said that." he laughed quietly. "well--between a dangerous chap and a desperate one, we may look for some lively times! do you know, i believe i think about as continuously of him, lately, as i do of you. that's why i put almost my last cent into his oil company, and got what may be almost my last dance with you!" "i wouldn't call it `almost' your last dance with me!" she returned icily. "not after what you've said. i had a foolish idea you could behave--well, at least decently." "did corliss tell you that i insulted him in his rooms at the hotel?" "you!" she laughed, genuinely. "i see him letting you!" "he did, however. by manner and in speech i purposely and deliberately insulted him. you'll tell him every word of this, of course, and he'll laugh at it, but i give myself the pleasure of telling you. i put the proposition of an `investment' to him in a way nobody not a crook would have allowed to be smoothed over--and he allowed it to be smoothed over. he ate it! i felt he was a swindler when he was showing richard lindley his maps and papers, and now i've proved it to myself, and it's worth the price." often, when they had danced, and often during this interview, his eyes lifted curiously to the white flaming crescent in her hair; now they fixed themselves upon it, and in a flash of divination he cried: "you wear it for me!" she did not understand. "finished raving?" she inquired. "i gave corliss a thousand dollars," he said, slowly. "considering the fact that it was my last, i flatter myself it was not unhandsomely done--though i may never need it. it has struck me that the sum was about what a man who had just cleaned up fifty thousand might regard as a sort of `extra'--`for lagniappe'--and that he might have thought it an appropriate amount to invest in a present some jewels perhaps--to place in the hair of a pretty friend!" she sprang to her feet, furious, but he stood in front of her and was able to bar the way for a moment. "cora, i'll have a last word with you if i have to hold you," he said with great rapidity and in a voice which shook with the intense repression he was putting upon himself. "we do one thing in the south, where i came from. we protect our women----" "this looks like it! keeping me when----" "i love you," he said, his face whiter than she had ever seen it. "i love you! i'm your dog! you take care of yourself if you want to take care of anybody else! as sure as----" "my dance, miss madison." a young gentleman on vacation from the navy had approached, and, with perfect unconsciousness of what he was interrupting, but with well-founded certainty that he was welcome to the lady, urged his claim in a confident voice. "i thought it would never come, you know; but it's here at last and so am i." he laughed propitiatingly. ray yielded now at once. she moved him aside with her gloved forearm as if he were merely an awkward stranger who unwittingly stood between her and the claiming partner. carrying the gesture farther, she took the latter's arm, and smilingly, and without a backward glance, passed onward and left the gallery. the lieutenant, who had met her once or twice before, was her partner for the succeeding dance as well, and, having noted the advantages of the place where he had discovered her, persuaded her to return there to sit through the second. then without any fatiguing preamble, he proposed marriage. cora did not accept, but effected a compromise, which, for the present, was to consist of an exchange of photographs (his to be in uniform) and letters. she was having an evening to her heart. ray's attack on corliss had no dimming effect; her thought of it being that she was "used to his raving"; it meant nothing; and since ray had prophesied she would tell corliss about it, she decided not to do so. the naval young gentleman and valentine corliss were the greatest of all the lions among ladies that night; she had easily annexed the lieutenant, and corliss was hers already; though, for a purpose, she had not yet been seen in company with him. he was visibly "making an impression." his name, as he had said to richard lindley, was held in honour in the town; and there was a flavour of fancied romance in his absence since boyhood in unknown parts, and his return now with a `foreign air' and a bow that almost took the breath of some of the younger recipients. he was, too, in his way, the handsomest man in the room; and the smiling, open frankness of his look, the ready cordiality of his manner, were found very winning. he caused plenty of flutter. cora waited till the evening was half over before she gave him any visible attention. then, during a silence of the music, between two dances, she made him a negligent sign with her hand, the gesture of one indifferently beckoning a creature who is certain to come, and went on talking casually to the man who was with her. corliss was the length of the room from her, chatting gayly with a large group of girls and women; but he immediately nodded to her, made his bow to individuals of the group, and crossed the vacant, glistening floor to her. cora gave him no greeting whatever; she dismissed her former partner and carelessly turned away with corliss to some chairs in a corner. "do you see that?" asked vilas, leaning over the balcony railing with richard lindley. "look! she's showing the other girls--don't you see? he's the new man; she let 'em hope she wasn't going in for him; a lot of them probably didn't even know that she knew him. she sent him out on parade till they're all excited about him; now she shows 'em he's entirely her property--and does it so matter-of-factly that it's rubbed in twice as hard as if she seemed to take some pains about it. he doesn't dance: she'll sit out with him now, till they all read the tag she's put on him. she says she hates being talked about. she lives on it!--so long as it's envious. and did you see her with that chap from the navy? neptune thinks he's dallying with venus perhaps, but he'll get----" lindley looked at him commiseratingly. "i think i never saw prettier decorations. have you noticed, ray? must have used a thousand chrysanthemums." "toreador!" whispered the other between his teeth, looking at corliss; then, turning to his companion, he asked: "has it occurred to you to get any information about basilicata, or about the ancestral domain of the moliterni, from our consul-general at naples?" richard hesitated. "well--yes. yes, i did think of that. yes, i thought of it." "but you didn't do it." "no. that is, i haven't yet. you see, corliss explained to me that----" his friend interrupted him with a sour laugh. "oh, certainly! he's one of the greatest explainers ever welcomed to our city!" richard said mildly: "and then, ray, once i've gone into a thing i--i don't like to seem suspicious." "poor old dick!" returned vilas compassionately. "you kind, easy, sincere men are so conscientiously untruthful with yourselves. you know in your heart that cora would be furious with you if you seemed suspicious, and she's been so nice to you since you put in your savings to please her, that you can't bear to risk offending her. she's twisted you around her little finger, and the unnamed fear that haunts you is that you won't be allowed to stay there--even twisted!" "pretty decorations, ray," said richard; but he grew very red. "do you know what you'll do," asked ray, regarding him keenly, "if this don giovanni from sunny it' is shown up as a plain get-rich-quick swindler?" "i haven't considered----" "you would do precisely," said ray, "nothing! cora'd see to that. you'd sigh and go to work again, beginning at the beginning where you were years ago, and doing it all over. admirable resignation, but not for me! i'm a stockholder in his company and in shape to `take steps'! i don't know if i'd be patient enough to make them legal--perhaps i should. he may be safe on the legal side. i'll know more about that when i find out if there is a prince moliterno in naples who owns land in basilicata." "you don't doubt it?" "i doubt everything! in this particular matter i'll have less to doubt when i get an answer from the consul-general. _i_'ve written, you see." lindley looked disturbed. "you have?" vilas read him at a glance. "you're afraid to find out!" he cried. then he set his hand on the other's shoulder. "if there ever was a god's fool, it's you, dick lindley. really, i wonder the world hasn't kicked you around more than it has; you'd never kick back! you're as easy as an old shoe. cora makes you unhappy," he went on, and with the very mention of her name, his voice shook with passion,--"but on my soul i don't believe you know what jealousy means: you don't even understand hate; you don't eat your heart----" "let's go and eat something better," suggested richard, laughing. "there's a continuous supper downstairs and i hear it's very good." ray smiled, rescued for a second from himself. "there isn't anything better than your heart, you old window-pane, and i'm glad you don't eat it. and if i ever mix it up with don giovanni t. corliss--`t' stands for toreador--i do believe it'll be partly on your----" he paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, as his attention was caught by the abysmal attitude of a figure in another part of the gallery: mr. wade trumble, alone in a corner, sitting upon the small of his small back, munching at an unlighted cigar and otherwise manifesting a biting gloom. ray drew lindley's attention to this tableau of pain. "here's a three of us!" he said. he turned to look down into the rhythmic kaleidoscope of dancers. "and there goes the girl we all _ought_ to be morbid about." "who is that?" "laura madison. why aren't we? what a self-respecting creature she is, with that cool, sweet steadiness of hers--she's like a mountain lake. she's lovely and she plays like an angel, but so far as anybody's ever thinking about her is concerned she might almost as well not exist. yet she's really beautiful to-night, if you can manage to think of her except as a sort of retinue for cora." "she _is_ rather beautiful to-night. laura's always a very nice-looking girl," said richard, and with the advent of an idea, he added: "i think one reason she isn't more conspicuous and thought about is that she is so quiet," and, upon his companion's greeting this inspiration with a burst of laughter, "yes, that was a brilliant deduction," he said; "but i do think she's about the quietest person i ever knew. i've noticed there are times when she'll scarcely speak at all for half an hour, or even more." "you're not precisely noisy yourself," said ray. "have you danced with her this evening?" "why, no," returned the other, in a tone which showed this omission to be a discovery; "not yet. i must, of course." "yes, she's really `rather' beautiful. also, she dances `rather' better than any other girl in town. go and perform your painful duty." "perhaps i'd better," said richard thoughtfully, not perceiving the satire. "at any rate, i'll ask her for the next." he found it unengaged. there came to laura's face an april change as he approached, and she saw he meant to ask her to dance. and, as they swam out into the maelstrom, he noticed it, and remarked that it _was_ rather warm, to which she replied by a cheerful nod. presently there came into richard's mind the thought that he was really an excellent dancer; but he did not recall that he had always formed the same pleasing estimate of himself when he danced with laura, nor realize that other young men enjoyed similar self-help when dancing with her. and yet he repeated to her what ray had said of her dancing, and when she laughed as in appreciation of a thing intended humorously, he laughed, too, but insisted that she did dance "very well indeed." she laughed again at that, and they danced on, not talking. he had no sense of "guiding" her; there was no feeling of effort whatever; she seemed to move spontaneously with his wish, not to his touch; indeed, he was not sensible of touching her at all. "why, laura," he exclaimed suddenly, "you dance _beautifully_!" she stumbled and almost fell; saved herself by clutching at his arm; he caught her; and the pair stopped where they were, in the middle of the floor. a flash of dazed incredulity from her dark eyes swept him; there was something in it of the child dodging an unexpected blow. "did i trip you?" he asked anxiously. "no," she laughed, quickly, and her cheeks grew even redder. "i tripped myself. wasn't that too bad--just when you were thinking that i danced well! let's sit down. may we?" they went to some chairs against a wall. there, as they sat, cora swung by them, dancing again with her lieutenant, and looking up trancedly into the gallant eyes of the triumphant and intoxicated young man. visibly, she was a woman with a suitor's embracing arm about her. richard's eyes followed them. "ah, don't!" said laura in a low voice. he turned to her. "don't what?" "i didn't mean to speak out loud," she said tremulously. "but i meant: don't look so troubled. it doesn't mean anything at all--her coquetting with that bird of passage. he's going away in the morning." "i don't think i was troubling about that." "well, whatever it was"--she paused, and laughed with a plaintive timidity--"why, just don't trouble about it!" "do i look very much troubled?" he asked seriously. "yes. and you don't look very gay when you're not!" she laughed with more assurance now. "i think you're always the wistfulest looking man i ever saw." "everybody laughs at me, i believe," he said, with continued seriousness. "even ray vilas thinks i'm an utter fool. am i, do _you_ think?" he turned as he spoke and glanced inquiringly into her eyes. what he saw surprised and dismayed him. "for heaven's sake, don't cry!" he whispered hurriedly. she bent her head, turning her face from him. "i've been very hopeful lately," he said. "cora has been so kind to me since i did what she wanted me to, that i----" he gave a deep sigh. "but if you're _that_ sorry for me, my chances with her must be pretty desperate." she did not alter her attitude, but with her down-bent face still away from him, said huskily: "it isn't you i'm sorry for. you mustn't ever give up; you must keep on trying and trying. if you give up, i don't know what will become of her!" a moment later she rose suddenly to her feet. "let's finish our dance," she said, giving him her hand. "i'm sure i won't stumble again." chapter sixteen the two girls let themselves into the house noiselessly, and, turning out the hall-light, left for them by their mother, crept upstairs on tiptoe; and went through the upper hall directly to laura's room--cora's being nearer the sick-room. at their age it is proper that a gayety be used three times: in anticipation, and actually, and in after-rehearsal. the last was of course now in order: they went to laura's room to "talk it over." there was no gas-fixture in this small chamber; but they found laura's oil-lamp burning brightly upon her writing-table. "how queer!" said laura with some surprise, as she closed the door. "mother never leaves the lamp lit for me; she's always so afraid of lamps exploding." "perhaps miss peirce came in here to read, and forgot to turn it out," suggested cora, seating herself on the edge of the bed and letting her silk wrap fall from her shoulders. "oh, laura, wasn't he gorgeous. . . ." she referred to the gallant defender of our seas, it appeared, and while laura undressed and got into a wrapper, cora recounted in detail the history of the impetuous sailor's enthrallment;--a resume predicted three hours earlier by a gleeful whisper hissed across the maritime shoulder as the sisters swung near each other during a waltz: "_proposed_!" "i've always heard they're horribly inconstant," she said, regretfully. "but, oh, laura, wasn't he beautiful to look at! do you think he's more beautiful than val? no--don't tell me if you do. i don't want to hear it! val was so provoking: he didn't seem to mind it at all. he's nothing but a big brute sometimes: he wouldn't even admit that he minded, when i asked him. i was idiot enough to ask; i couldn't help it; he was so tantalizing and exasperating--laughing at me. i never knew anybody like him; he's so sure of himself and he can be so cold. sometimes i wonder if he really cares about anything, deep down in his heart--anything except himself. he seems so selfish: there are times when he almost makes me hate him; but just when i get to thinking i do, i find i don't--he's so deliciously strong, and there's such a _big_ luxury in being understood: i always feel he _knows_ me clear to the bone, somehow! but, oh," she sighed regretfully, "doesn't a uniform become a man? they ought to all wear 'em. it would look silly on such a little goat as that wade trumble, though: nothing could make him look like a whole man. did you see him glaring at me? beast! i was going to be so nice and kittenish and do all my prettiest tricks for him, to help val with his oil company. val thinks wade would come in yet, if i'd only get him in the mood to have another talk with val about it; but the spiteful little rat wouldn't come near me. i believe that was one of the reasons val laughed at me and pretended not to mind my getting proposed to. he _must_ have minded; he couldn't have helped minding it, really. that's his way; he's so _mean_--he won't show things. he knows _me_. i can't keep anything from him; he reads _me_ like a signboard; and then about himself he keeps me guessing, and i can't tell when i've guessed right. ray vilas behaved disgustingly, of course; he was horrid and awful. i might have expected it. i suppose richard was wailing _his_ tiresome sorrows on your poor shoulder----" "no," said laura. "he was very cheerful. he seemed glad you were having a good time." "he didn't look particularly cheerful at me. i never saw so slow a man: i wonder when he's going to find out about that pendant. val would have seen it the instant i put it on. and, oh, laura! isn't george wattling funny? he's just _soft_! he's good-looking though," she continued pensively, adding, "i promised to motor out to the country club with him to-morrow for tea." "oh, cora," protested laura, "no! please don't!" "i've promised; so i'll have to, now." cora laughed. "it'll do mary kane good. oh, i'm not going to bother much with _him_--he makes me tired. i never saw anything so complacent as that girl when she came in to-night, as if her little georgie was the greatest capture the world had ever seen. . . ." she chattered on. laura, passive, listened with a thoughtful expression, somewhat preoccupied. the talker yawned at last. "it must be after three," she said, listlessly, having gone over her evening so often that the colours were beginning to fade. she yawned again. "laura," she remarked absently, "i don't see how you can sleep in this bed; it sags so." "i've never noticed it," said her sister. "it's a very comfortable old bed." cora went to her to be unfastened, reverting to the lieutenant during the operation, and kissing the tire-woman warmly at its conclusion. "you're always so sweet to me, laura," she said affectionately. "i don't know how you manage it. you're so good"--she laughed--"sometimes i wonder how you stand me. if i were you, i'm positive i couldn't stand me at all!" another kiss and a hearty embrace, and she picked up her wrap and skurried silently through the hall to her own room. it was very late, but laura wrote for almost an hour in her book (which was undisturbed) before she felt drowsy. then she extinguished the lamp, put the book away and got into bed. it was almost as if she had attempted to lie upon the empty air: the mattress sagged under her weight as if it had been a hammock; and something tore with a ripping sound. there was a crash, and a choked yell from a muffled voice somewhere, as the bed gave way. for an instant, laura fought wildly in an entanglement of what she insufficiently perceived to be springs, slats and bedclothes with something alive squirming underneath. she cleared herself and sprang free, screaming, but even in her fright she remembered her father and clapped her hand over her mouth that she might keep from screaming again. she dove at the door, opened it, and fled through the hall to cora's room, still holding her hand over her mouth. "cora! oh, cora!" she panted, and flung herself upon her sister's bed. cora was up instantly; and had lit the gas in a trice. "there's a burglar!" laura contrived to gasp. "in my room! under the bed!" "what!" "i fell on him! something's the matter with the bed. it broke. i fell on him!" cora stared at her wide-eyed. "why, it can't be. think how long i was in there. your bed broke, and you just thought there was some one there. you imagined it." "no, no, no!" wailed laura. "i _heard_ him: he gave a kind of dreadful grunt." "are you sure?" "_sure_? he wriggled--oh! i could _feel_ him!" cora seized a box of matches again. "i'm going to find out." "oh, no, no!" protested laura, cowering. "yes, i am. if there's a burglar in the house i'm going to find him!" "we mustn't wake papa." "no, nor mamma either. you stay here if you want to----" "let's call hedrick," suggested the pallid laura; "or put our heads out of the window and scream for----" cora laughed; she was not in the least frightened. "that wouldn't wake papa, of course! if we had a telephone i'd send for the police; but we haven't. i'm going to see if there's any one there. a burglar's a man, i guess, and i can't imagine myself being afraid of any _man_!" laura clung to her, but cora shook her off and went through the hall undaunted, laura faltering behind her. cora lighted matches with a perfectly steady hand; she hesitated on the threshold of laura's room no more than a moment, then lit the lamp. laura stifled a shriek at sight of the bed. "look, look!" she gasped. "there's no one under it now, that's certain," said cora, and boldly lifted a corner of it. "why, it's been cut all to pieces from underneath! you're right; there was some one here. it's practically dismembered. don't you remember my telling you how it sagged? and i was only sitting on the edge of it! the slats have all been moved out of place, and as for the mattress, it's just a mess of springs and that stuffing stuff. he must have thought the silver was hidden there." "oh, oh, oh!" moaned laura. "he _wriggled_----ugh!" cora picked up the lamp. "well, we've got to go over the house----" "no, no!" "hush! i'll go alone then." "you _can't_." "i will, though!" the two girls had changed places in this emergency. in her fright laura was dependent, clinging: actual contact with the intruder had unnerved her. it took all her will to accompany her sister upon the tour of inspection, and throughout she cowered behind the dauntless cora. it was the first time in their lives that their positions had been reversed. from the days of cora's babyhood, laura had formed the habit of petting and shielding the little sister, but now that the possibility became imminent of confronting an unknown and dangerous man, laura was so shaken that, overcome by fear, she let cora go first. cora had not boasted in vain of her bravery; in truth, she was not afraid of any man. they found the fastenings of the doors secure and likewise those of all the windows, until they came to the kitchen. there, the cook had left a window up, which plausibly explained the marauder's mode of ingress. then, at cora's insistence, and to laura's shivering horror, they searched both cellar and garret, and concluded that he had escaped by the same means. except laura's bed, nothing in the house had been disturbed; but this eccentricity on the part of a burglar, though it indeed struck the two girls as peculiar, was not so pointedly mysterious to them as it might have been had they possessed a somewhat greater familiarity with the habits of criminals whose crimes are professional. they finally retired, laura sleeping with her sister, and cora had begun to talk of the lieutenant again, instead of the burglar, before laura fell asleep. in spite of the short hours for sleep, both girls appeared at the breakfast-table before the meal was over, and were naturally pleased with the staccato of excitement evoked by their news. mrs. madison and miss peirce were warm in admiration of their bravery, but in the same breath condemned it as foolhardy. "i never knew such wonderful girls!" exclaimed the mother, almost tearfully. "you crazy little lions! to think of your not even waking hedrick! and you didn't have even a poker and were in your bare feet--and went down in the _cellar_----" "it was all cora," protested laura. "i'm a hopeless, disgusting coward. i never knew what a coward i was before. cora carried the lamp and went ahead like a drum-major. i just trailed along behind her, ready to shriek and run--or faint!" "could you tell anything about him when you fell on him?" inquired miss peirce. "what was his voice like when he shouted?" "choked. it was a horrible, jolted kind of cry. it hardly sounded human." "could you tell anything about whether he was a large man, or small, or----" "only that he seemed very active. he seemed to be kicking. he _wriggled_----ugh!" they evolved a plausible theory of the burglar's motives and line of reasoning. "you see," said miss peirce, much stirred, in summing up the adventure, "he either jimmies the window, or finds it open already, and sarah's mistaken and she _did_ leave it open! then he searched the downstairs first, and didn't find anything. then he came upstairs, and was afraid to come into any of the rooms where we were. he could tell which rooms had people in them by hearing us breathing through the keyholes. he finds two rooms empty, and probably he made a thorough search of miss cora's first. but he isn't after silver toilet articles and pretty little things like that. he wants really big booty or none, so he decides that an out-of-the-way, unimportant room like miss laura's is where the family would be most apt to hide valuables, jewellery and silver, and he knows that mattresses have often been selected as hiding-places; so he gets under the bed and goes to work. then miss cora and miss laura come in so quietly--not wanting to wake anybody--that he doesn't hear them, and he gets caught there. that's the way it must have been." "but why," mrs. madison inquired of this authority, "why do you suppose he lit the lamp?" "to see by," answered the ready miss peirce. it was accepted as final. further discussion was temporarily interrupted by the discovery that hedrick had fallen asleep in his chair. "don't bother him, cora," said his mother. "he's finished eating--let him sleep a few minutes, if he wants to, before he goes to school. he's not at all well. he played too hard, yesterday afternoon, and hurt his knee, he said. he came down limping this morning and looking very badly. he oughtn't to run and climb about the stable so much after school. see how utterly exhausted he looks!--not even this excitement can keep him awake." "i think we must be careful not to let mr. madison suspect anything about the burglar," said miss peirce. "it would be bad for him." laura began: "but we ought to notify the police----" "police!" hedrick woke so abruptly, and uttered the word with such passionate and vehement protest, that everybody started. "i suppose you want to _kill_ your father, laura madison!" "how?" "do you suppose he wouldn't know something had happened with a squad of big, heavy policemen tromping all over the house? the first thing they'd do would be to search the whole place----" "oh, no," said mrs. madison quickly. "it wouldn't do at all." "i should think not! i'm glad," continued hedrick, truthfully, "_that_ idea's out of your head! i believe laura imagined the whole thing anyway." "have you looked at her mattress," inquired cora, "darling little boy?" he gave her a concentrated look, and rose to leave. "nothin' on earth but imagina----" he stopped with a grunt as he forgetfully put his weight on his left leg. he rubbed his knee, swallowed painfully, and, leaving the word unfinished, limped haughtily from the room. he left the house, gloomily swinging his books from a spare length of strap, and walking with care to ease his strains and bruises as much as possible. he was very low in his mind, that boy. his fortunes had reached the ebb-tide, but he had no hope of a rise. he had no hope of anything. it was not even a consolation that, through his talent for surprise in waylayings, it had lately been thought necessary, by the villard family, to have egerton accompanied to and from school by a man-servant. nor was hedrick more deeply depressed by the certainty that both public and domestic scandal must soon arise from the inevitable revelation of his discontinuing his attendance at school without mentioning this important change of career at home. he had been truant a full fortnight, under brighter circumstances a matter for a lawless pride--now he had neither fear nor vainglory. there was no room in him for anything but dejection. he walked two blocks in the direction of his school; turned a corner; walked half a block; turned north in the alley which ran parallel to corliss street, and a few moments later had cautiously climbed into an old, disused refuse box which stood against the rear wall of the empty stable at his own home. he pried up some loose boards at the bottom of the box, and entered a tunnel which had often and often served in happier days--when he had friends--for the escape of union officers from libby prison and andersonville. emerging, wholly soiled, into a box-stall, he crossed the musty carriage house and ascended some rickety steps to a long vacant coachman's-room, next to the hayloft. he closed the door, bolted it, and sank moodily upon a broken, old horsehair sofa. this apartment was his studio. in addition to the sofa, it contained an ex-bureau, three chair-like shapes, a once marble-topped table, now covered with a sheet of zinc, two empty bird cages, and a condemned whatnot. the walls were rather over-decorated in coloured chalks, the man-headed-snake motive predominating; they were also loopholed for firing into the hayloft. upon the table lay a battered spy-glass, minus lenses, and, nearby, two boxes, one containing dried corn-silk, the other hayseed, convenient for the making of amateur cigarettes; the smoker's outfit being completed by a neat pile of rectangular clippings from newspapers. on the shelves of the whatnot were some fragments of a dead pie, the relics of a "fifteen-puzzle," a pink easter-egg, four seashells, a tambourine with part of a girl's face still visible in aged colours, about two thirds of a hot-water bag, a tintype of hedrick, and a number of books: several by henty, "twenty thousand leagues under the sea," " practical jokes, easy to perform," "the jungle book," "my lady rotha," a "family atlas," "three weeks," "pilgrim's progress," "a boy's life in camp," and "the mystery of the count's bedroom." the gloomy eye of hedrick wandered to "the mystery of the count's bedroom," and remained fixed upon it moodily and contemptuously. his own mystery made that one seem tame and easy: laura's bedroom laid it all over the count's, in his conviction; and with a soul too weary of pain to shudder, he reviewed the bafflements and final catastrophe of the preceding night. he had not essayed the attempt upon the mattress until assured that the house was wrapped in slumber. then, with hope in his heart, he had stolen to laura's room, lit the lamp, feeling safe from intrusion, and set to work. his implement at first was a long hatpin of cora's. lying on his back beneath the bed, and, moving the slats as it became necessary, he sounded every cubic inch of the mysterious mattress without encountering any obstruction which could reasonably be supposed to be the ledger. this was not more puzzling than it was infuriating, since by all processes of induction, deduction, and pure logic, the thing was necessarily there. it was nowhere else. therefore it was there. it _had_ to be there! with the great blade of his boy scout's knife he began to disembowel the mattress. for a time he had worked furiously and effectively, but the position was awkward, the search laborious, and he was obliged to rest frequently. besides, he had waited to a later hour than he knew, for his mother to go to bed, and during one of his rests he incautiously permitted his eyes to close. when he woke, his sisters were in the room, and he thought it advisable to remain where he was, though he little realized how he had weakened his shelter. when cora left the room, he heard laura open the window, sigh, and presently a tiny clinking and a click set him a-tingle from head to foot: she was opening the padlocked book. the scratching sound of a pen followed. and yet she had not come near the bed. the mattress, then, was a living lie. with infinite caution he had moved so that he could see her, arriving at a coign of vantage just as she closed the book. she locked it, wrapped it in an oilskin cover which lay beside it on the table, hung the key-chain round her neck, rose, yawned, and, to his violent chagrin, put out the light. he heard her moving but could not tell where, except that it was not in his part of the room. then a faint shuffling warned him that she was approaching the bed, and he withdrew his head to avoid being stepped upon. the next moment the world seemed to cave in upon him. laura's flight had given him opportunity to escape to his own room unobserved; there to examine, bathe and bind his wounds, and to rectify his first hasty impression that he had been fatally mangled. hedrick glared at "the mystery of the count's bedroom." by and by he got up, brought the book to the sofa and began to read it over. chapter seventeen the influence of a familiar and sequestered place is not only soothing; the bruised mind may often find it restorative. thus hedrick, in his studio, surrounded by his own loved bric-a-brac, began to feel once more the stir of impulse. two hours' reading inspired him. what a french reporter (in the count's bedroom) could do, an american youth in full possession of his powers--except for a strained knee and other injuries--could do. yes, and would! he evolved a new chain of reasoning. the ledger had been seen in laura's room; it had been heard in her room; it appeared to be kept in her room. but it was in no single part of the room. all the parts make a whole. therefore, the book was not in the room. on the other hand, laura had not left the room when she took the book from its hiding-place. this was confusing; therefore he determined to concentrate logic solely upon what she had done with the ledger when she finished writing in it. it was dangerous to assume that she had restored it to the place whence she obtained it, because he had already proved that place to be both in the room and out of the room. no; the question he must keep in was: what did she do with it? laura had not left the room. but the book had left the room. arrived at this inevitable deduction, he sprang to his feet in a state of repressed excitement and began to pace the floor--like a hound on the trail. laura had not left the room, but the book had left the room: he must keep his mind upon this point. he uttered a loud exclamation and struck the zinc table-top a smart blow with his clenched fist. laura had thrown the book out of the window! in the exaltation of this triumph, he forgot that it was not yet the hour for a scholar's reappearance, and went forth in haste to search the ground beneath the window--a disappointing quest, for nowhere in the yard was there anything but withered grass, and the rubbish of other frost-bitten vegetation. his mother, however, discovered something else, and, opening the kitchen window, she asked, with surprise: "why, hedrick, what on earth are you doing here?" "me?" inquired hedrick. "what are you doing here?" "here?" evidently she puzzled him. she became emphatic. "i want to know what you are doing." "just standing here," he explained in a meek, grieved way. "but why aren't you at school?" this recalled what he had forgotten, and he realized the insecurity of his position. "oh, yes," he said--"school. did you ask me----" "didn't you go to school?" he began to speak rapidly. "didn't i go to _school_? well, where else could i go? just because i'm here now doesn't mean i didn't _go_, does it? because a person is in china right now wouldn't have to mean he'd never been in south america, would it?" "then what's the matter?" "well, i was going along, and you know i didn't feel very well and----" he paused, with the advent of a happier idea, then continued briskly: "but that didn't stop me, because i thought i ought to go if i dropped, so i went ahead, but the teacher was sick and they couldn't get a substitute. she must have been pretty sick, she looked so pale----" "they dismissed the class?" "and i don't have to go to-morrow either." "i see," said his mother. "but if you feel ill, hedrick, hadn't you better come in and lie down?" "i think it's kind of passing off. the fresh air seems to be doing me good." "be careful of your sore knee, dear." she closed the window, and he was left to continue his operations in safety. laura had thrown the ledger out of the window; that was proved absolutely. obviously, she had come down before daylight and retrieved it. or, she had not. proceeding on the assumption that she had not, he lifted his eyes and searched the air. was it possible that the book, though thrown from the window, had never reached the ground? the branches of an old and stalwart maple, now almost divested of leaves, extended in rough symmetry above him, and one big limb, reaching out toward the house, came close to laura's windows. triumph shown again from the shrewd countenance of the sleuth: laura must have slid the ledger along a wire into a hollow branch. however, no wire was to be seen--and the shrewd countenance of the sleuth fell. but perhaps she had constructed a device of silk threads, invisible from below, which carried the book into the tree. action! he climbed carefully but with many twinges, finally pausing in a parlous situation not far from the mysterious window which laura had opened the night before. a comprehensive survey of the tree revealed only the very patent fact that none of the branches was of sufficient diameter to conceal the ledger. no silk threads came from the window. he looked and looked and looked at that window; then his eye fell a little, halted less than three feet below the window-ledge, and the search was ended. the kitchen window which his mother had opened was directly beneath laura's, and was a very long, narrow window, in the style of the house, and there was a protecting stone ledge above it. upon this ledge lay the book, wrapped in its oil-skin covering and secured from falling by a piece of broken iron hooping, stuck in the mortar of the bricks. it could be seen from nowhere save an upper window of the house next door, or from the tree itself, and in either case only when the leaves had fallen. laura had felt very safe. no one had ever seen the book except that night, early in august, when, for a better circulation of air, she had left her door open as she wrote, and hedrick had come upon her. he had not spoken of it again; she perceived that he had forgotten it; and she herself forgot that the memory of a boy is never to be depended on; its forgettings are too seldom permanent in the case of things that ought to stay forgotten. to get the book one had only to lean from the window. * * * hedrick seemed so ill during lunch that his mother spoke of asking doctor sloane to look at him, if he did not improve before evening. hedrick said meekly that perhaps that would be best--if he did not improve. after a futile attempt to eat, he courteously excused himself from the table--a ceremony which made even cora fear that his case might be serious--and, going feebly to the library, stretched himself upon the sofa. his mother put a rug over him; hedrick, thanking her touchingly, closed his eyes; and she went away, leaving him to slumber. after a time, laura came into the room on an errand, walking noiselessly, and, noticing that his eyes were open, apologized for waking him. "never mind," he returned, in the tone of an invalid. "i didn't sleep sound. i think there's something the matter inside my head: i have such terrible dreams. i guess maybe it's better for me to keep awake. i'm kind of afraid to go to sleep. would you mind staying here with me a little while?" "certainly i'll stay," she said, and, observing that his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes unusually bright, she laid a cool hand on his forehead. "you haven't any fever, dear; that's good. you'll be all right to-morrow. would you like me to read to you?" "i believe," he answered, plaintively, "reading might kind of disturb my mind: my brain feels so sort of restless and queer. i'd rather play some kind of game." "cards?" "no, not cards exactly. something' i can do lying down. oh, i know! you remember the one where we drew pictures and the others had to guess what they were? well, i've invented a game like that. you sit down at the desk over there and take some sheets of paper. i'll tell you the rest." she obeyed. "what next?" "now, i'll describe some people and where they live and not tell who they are, and you see if you can guess their names and addresses." "addresses, too?" "yes, because i'm going to describe the way their houses look. write each name on a separate sheet of paper, and the number of their house below it if you know it, and if you don't know it, just the street. if it's a woman: put `miss' or `mrs.' before their name and if it's a man write `esquire' after it." "is all that necessary for the game?" "it's the way i invented it and i think you might----" "oh, all right," she acquiesced, good-naturedly. "it shall be according to your rules." "then afterward, you give me the sheets of paper with the names and addresses written on 'em, and we--we----" he hesitated. "yes. what do we do then?" "i'll tell you when we come to it." but when that stage of his invention was reached, and laura had placed the inscribed sheets in his hand, his interest had waned, it appeared. also, his condition had improved. "let's quit. i thought this game would be more exciting," he said, sitting up. "i guess," he added with too much modesty, "i'm not very good at inventing games. i b'lieve i'll go out to the barn; i think the fresh air----" "do you feel well enough to go out?" she asked. "you do seem to be all right, though." "yes, i'm a lot better, i think." he limped to the door. "the fresh air will be the best thing for me." she did not notice that he carelessly retained her contributions to the game, and he reached his studio with them in his hand. hedrick had entered the 'teens and he was a reader: things in his head might have dismayed a borgia. no remotest glimpse entered that head of the enormity of what he did. to put an end to his punishing of cora, and, to render him powerless against that habitual and natural enemy, laura had revealed a horrible incident in his career--it had become a public scandal; he was the sport of fools; and it might be months before the thing was lived down. now he had the means, as he believed, to even the score with both sisters at a stroke. to him it was turning a tremendous and properly scathing joke upon them. he did not hesitate. * * * that evening, as richard lindley sat at dinner with his mother, joe varden temporarily abandoned his attendance at the table to answer the front doorbell. upon his return, he remarked: "messenger-boy mus' been in big hurry. wouldn' wait till i git to door." "what was it?" asked richard. "boy with package. least, i reckon it were a boy. call' back from the front walk, say he couldn' wait. say he lef' package in vestibule." "what sort of a package?" "middle-size kind o' big package." "why don't you see what it is, richard?" mrs. lindley asked of her son. "bring it to the table, joe." when it was brought, richard looked at the superscription with surprise. the wrapper was of heavy brown paper, and upon it a sheet of white notepaper had been pasted, with the address: "richard lindley, esq., corliss street." "it's from laura madison," he said, staring at this writing. "what in the world would laura be sending me?" "you might possibly learn by opening it," suggested his mother. "i've seen men puzzle over the outside of things quite as often as women. laura madison is a nice girl." she never volunteered similar praise of laura madison's sister. mrs. lindley had submitted to her son's plans concerning cora, lately confided; but her submission lacked resignation. "it's a book," said richard, even more puzzled, as he took the ledger from its wrappings. "two little torn places at the edge of the covers. looks as if it had once had clasps----" "perhaps it's the madison family album," mrs. lindley suggested. "pictures of cora since infancy. i imagine she's had plenty taken." "no." he opened the book and glanced at the pages covered in laura's clear, readable hand. "no, it's about half full of writing. laura must have turned literary." he read a line or two, frowning mildly. "my soul! i believe it's a novel! she must think i'm a critic--to want me to read it." smiling at the idea, he closed the ledger. "i'll take it upstairs to my hang-out after dinner, and see if laura's literary manner has my august approval. who in the world would ever have thought she'd decide to set up for a writer?" "i imagine she might have something to write worth reading," said his mother. "i've always thought she was an interesting-looking girl." "yes, she is. she dances well, too." "of course," continued mrs. lindley, thoughtfully, "she seldom _says_ anything interesting, but that may be because she so seldom has a chance to say anything at all." richard refused to perceive this allusion. "curious that laura should have sent it to me," he said. "she's never seemed interested in my opinion about anything. i don't recall her ever speaking to me on any subject whatever--except one." he returned his attention to his plate, but his mother did not appear to agree with him that the topic was exhausted. "`except one'?" she repeated, after waiting for some time. "yes," he replied, in his habitual preoccupied and casual tone. "or perhaps two. not more than two, i should say--and in a way you'd call that only one, of course. bread, joe." "what two, richard?" "cora," he said, with gentle simplicity, "and me." chapter eighteen mrs. lindley had arranged for her son a small apartment on the second floor, and it was in his own library and smoking-room that richard, comfortable in a leather-chair by a reading-lamp, after dinner, opened laura's ledger. the first page displayed no more than a date now eighteen months past, and the line: "love came to me to-day." the next page was dated the next day, and, beneath, he read: "that was all i _could_ write, yesterday. i think i was too excited to write. something seemed to be singing in my breast. i couldn't think in sentences--not even in words. how queer it is that i had decided to keep a diary, and bound this book for it, and now the first thing i have written in it was _that_! it will not be a diary. it shall be _your_ book. i shall keep it sacred to you and write to you in it. how strange it will be if the day ever comes when i shall show it to you! if it should, you would not laugh at it, for of course the day couldn't come unless you understood. i cannot think it will ever come--that day! but maybe---- no, i mustn't let myself hope too much that it will, because if i got to hoping too much, and you didn't like me, it would hurt too much. people who expect nothing are never disappointed--i must keep that in mind. yet _every_ girl has a _right_ to hope for her own man to come for her some time, hasn't she? it's not easy to discipline the wanting to hope--since _yesterday_! "i think i must always have thought a great deal about you without knowing it. we really know so little what we think: our minds are going on all the time and we hardly notice them. it is like a queer sort of factory--the owner only looks in once in a while and most of the time hasn't any idea what sort of goods his spindles are turning out. "i saw you yesterday! it seems to me the strangest thing in the world. i've seen you by chance, probably two or three times a month nearly all my life, though you so seldom come here to call. and this time wasn't different from dozens of other times--you were just standing on the corner by the richfield, waiting for a car. the only possible difference is that you had been out of town for several months--cora said so this morning--and how ridiculous it seems now, didn't even know it! i hadn't noticed it--not with the top part of my mind, but perhaps the deep part that does the real thinking had noticed it and had mourned your absence and was so glad to see you again that it made the top part suddenly see the wonderful truth!" lindley set down the ledger to relight his cigar. it struck him that laura had been writing "very odd stuff," but interesting; and certainly it was not a story. vaguely he recalled marie bashkirtseff: hadn't she done something like this? he resumed the reading: "you turned and spoke to me in that lovely, cordial, absent-minded way of yours--though i'd never thought (with the top part) what a lovely way it was; and for a moment i only noticed how nice you looked in a light gray suit, because i'd only seen you in black for so long, while you'd been in mourning for your brother." richard, disturbed by an incredible idea, read these last words over and then dismissed the notion as nonsense. ". . . while you'd been in mourning for your brother--and it struck me that light gray was becoming to you. then such a queer thing happened: i felt the great kindness of your eyes. i thought they were full of--the only word that seems to express it at all is _charity_--and they had a sweet, faraway look, too, and i've _always_ thought that a look of wistful kindness was the loveliest look in the world--and you had it, and i saw it and then suddenly, as you held your hat in your hand, the sunshine on your hair seemed brighter than any sunshine i had ever seen--and i began to tremble all over. i didn't understand what was the matter with me or what had made me afraid with you not of you--all at once, but i was so hopelessly rattled that instead of waiting for the car, as i'd just told you i meant to, i said i'd decided to walk, and got away--without any breath left to breathe with! i _couldn't_ have gotten on the car with you--- and i couldn't have spoken another word. "and as i walked home, trembling all the way, i saw that strange, dazzling sunshine on your hair, and the wistful, kind look in your eyes--you seemed not to have taken the car but to have come with me--and i was uplifted and exalted oh, so strangely--oh, how the world was changing for me! and when i got near home, i began to walk faster, and on the front path i broke into a run and rushed in the house to the piano--and it was as if my fingers were thirsty for the keys! then i saw that i was playing to you and knew that i loved you. "i love you! "how different everything is now from everything before. music means what it never did: life has leaped into blossom for me. everywhere there is colour and radiance that i had never seen--the air is full of perfume. dear, the sunshine that fell upon your head has spread over the world! "i understand, as i never understood, that the world--so dazzling to me now--was made for love and is meaningless without it. the years until yesterday are gray--no, not gray, because that was the colour you were wearing--not gray, because that is a beautiful colour. the empty years until yesterday had no colour at all. yes, the world has meaning only through loving, and without meaning there is no real life. we live only by loving, and now that this gift of life has come to me i love _all_ the world. i feel that i must be so kind, kind, _kind_ to _everybody_! such an odd thing struck me as my greatest wish. when i was little, i remember grandmother telling me how, when she was a child in pioneer days, the women made the men's clothes--homespun--and how a handsome young circuit rider, who was a bachelor, seemed to her the most beautifully dressed man she had ever seen. the women of the different churches made his clothes, as they did their husbands' and brothers.' you see--only better! it came into my head that that would be the divinest happiness that i could know--to sew for you! if you and i lived in those old, old times--you _look_ as if you belonged to them, you know, dear--and you were the young minister riding into the settlement on a big bay horse--and all the girls at the window, of course!--and i sewing away at the homespun for you!--i think all the angels of heaven would be choiring in my heart--and what thick, warm clothes i'd make you for winter! perhaps in heaven they'll let some of the women sew for the men they love--i wonder! "i hear cora's voice from downstairs as i write. she's often so angry with ray, poor girl. it does not seem to me that she and ray really belong to each other, though they _say_ so often that they do." richard having read thus far with a growing, vague uneasiness, looked up, frowning. he hoped laura had no marie bashkirtseff idea of publishing this manuscript. it was too intimate, he thought, even if the names in it were to be disguised. . . . "though they _say_ so often that they do. i think ray is in love with _her_, but it can't be like _this_. what he feels must be something wholly different--there is violence and wildness in it. and they are bitter with each other so often-- always `getting even' for something. he does care--he is frantically `_in_ love' with her, undoubtedly, but so insanely jealous. i suppose all jealousy is insane. but love is the only sanity. how can what is insane be part of it? i could not be jealous of you. i owe life to you--i have never lived till now." the next writing was two days later: . . . . "to-day as i passed your house with cora, i kept looking at the big front door at which you go in and out so often--_your_ door! i never knew that just a door could look so beautiful! and unconsciously i kept my eyes on it, as we walked on, turning my head and looking and looking back at it, till cora suddenly burst out laughing, and said: `well, _laura_!' and i came to myself--and found her looking at me. it was like getting back after a journey, and for a second i was a little dazed, and cora kept on laughing at me, and i felt myself getting red. i made some silly excuse about thinking your house had been repainted--and she laughed louder than ever. i was afraid then that she understood--i wonder if she could have? i hope not, though i love her so much i don't know why i would rather she didn't know, unless it is just my _feeling_ about it. it is a _guardian_ feeling--that i must keep for myself, the music of these angels singing in my heart--singing of you. i hope she did not understand--and i so fear she did. why should i be so _afraid_?" . . . . . . . "two days since i have talked to you in your book after cora caught me staring at your door and laughed at me--and ten minutes ago i was sitting beside the _actual_ you on the porch! i am trembling yet. it was the first time you'd come for months and months; and yet you had the air of thinking it rather a pleasant thing to do as you came up the steps! and a dizzy feeling came over me, because i wondered if it was seeing me on the street _that_ day that put it into your head to come. it seemed too much happiness--and risking too much--to let myself _believe_ it, but i couldn't help just wondering. i began to tremble as i saw you coming up our side of the street in the moonlight--and when you turned in here i was all panic--i nearly ran into the house. i don't know how i found voice to greet you. i didn't seem to have any breath left at all. i was so relieved when cora took a chair between us and began to talk to you, because i'm sure i couldn't have. she and poor ray had been having one of their quarrels and she was punishing him. poor boy, he seemed so miserable--though he tried to talk to me--about politics, i think, though i'm not sure, because i couldn't listen much better than either of us could talk. i could only hear your voice--such a rich, quiet voice, and it has a sound like the look you have--friendly and faraway and wistful. i have thought and thought about what it is that makes you look wistful. you have less to wish for than anybody else in the world because you have yourself. so why are you wistful? i think it's just because you _are_! "i heard cora asking you why you hadn't come to see us for so long, and then she said: `is it because you dislike me? you look at me, sometimes, as if you dislike me!' and i wished she hadn't said it. i had a feeling you wouldn't like that `personal' way of talking that she enjoys--and that--oh, it didn't seem to be in keeping with the dignity of you! and i love cora so much i wanted her to be finer--with you. i wanted her to understand you better than to play those little charming tricks at you. you are so good, so _high_, that if she could make a real friend of you i think it would be the best thing for her that could happen. she's never had a man-_friend_. perhaps she _was_ trying to make one of you and hasn't any other way to go about it. she can be so _really_ sweet, i wanted you to see that side of her. "afterwhile, when ray couldn't bear it any longer to talk to me, and in his desperation brazenly took cora to the other end of the porch almost by force, and i was left, in a way, alone with you what did you think of me? i was tongue-tied! oh, oh, oh! you were quiet--but _i_ was _dumb_! my heart wasn't dumb--it hammered! all the time i kept saying to myself such a jumble of things. and into the jumble would come such a rapture that you were there--it was like a paean of happiness--a chanting of the glory of having you near me--i _was_ mixed up! i could _play_ all those confused things, but writing them doesn't tell it. writing them would only be like this: `he's here, he's _here_! speak, you little fool! he's here, he's here! he's sitting beside you! _speak_, idiot, or he'll never come back! he's here, he's beside you you could put out your hand and touch him! are you dead, that you can't speak? he's here, he's here, he's _here_!' "ah, some day i shall be able to talk to you--but not till i get more used to this inner song. it seems to _will_ that nothing else shall come from my lips till _it_ does! "in spite of my silence--my outward woodenness--you said, as you went away, that you would come again! you said `soon'! i could only nod but cora called from the other end of the porch and asked: `_how_ soon?' oh, i bless her for it, because you said, `day after to-morrow.' day after tomorrow! day after to-morrow! _day after tomorrow_! . . . . "twenty-one hours since i wrote--no, _sang_--`day after to-morrow!' and now it is `to-morrow!' oh, the slow, golden day that this has been! i could not stay in the house--i walked--no, i _winged_! i was in the open country before i knew it--with you! for you are in everything. i never knew the sky was blue, before. until now i just thought it was the sky. the whitest clouds i ever saw sailed over that blue, and i stood upon the prow of each in turn, then leaped in and swam to the next and sailed with _it_! oh, the beautiful sky, and kind, green woods and blessed, long, white, dusty country road! never in my life shall i forget that walk--this day in the open with my love--you! to-morrow! to-morrow! to-morrow! _to-morrow_!" the next writing in laura's book was dated more than two months later: . . . . "i have decided to write again in this book. i have thought it all out carefully, and i have come to the conclusion that it can do no harm and may help me to be steady and sensible. it is the thought, not its expression, that is guilty, but i do not believe that my thoughts are guilty: i believe that they are good. i know that i wish only good. i have read that when people suffer very much the best thing is for them to cry. and so i'll let myself _write_ out my feelings--and perhaps get rid of some of the silly self-pity i'm foolish enough to feel, instead of going about choked up with it. how queer it is that even when we keep our thoughts respectable we can't help having absurd _feelings_ like self-pity, even though we know how rotten stupid they are! yes, i'll let it all out here, and then, some day, when i've cured myself all whole again, i'll burn this poor, silly old book. and if i'm not cured before the wedding, i'll burn it then, anyhow. "how funny little girls are! from the time they're little bits of things they talk about marriage--whom they are going to marry, what sort of person it will be. i think cora and i began when she was about five and i not seven. and as girls grow up, i don't believe there was ever one who genuinely expected to be an old maid. the most unattractive young girls discuss and plan and expect marriage just as much as the prettier and gayer ones. the only way we can find out that men don't want to marry us is by their not asking us. we don't see ourselves very well, and i honestly believe we all think--way deep down--that we're pretty attractive. at least, every girl has the idea, sometimes, that if men only saw the whole truth they'd think her as nice as any other girl, and really nicer than most others. but i don't believe i have any hallucinations of that sort about myself left. i can't imagine--now--_any_ man seeing anything in me that would make him care for me. i can't see anything about me to care for, myself. sometimes i think maybe i could make a man get excited about me if i could take a startlingly personal tone with him from the beginning, making him wonder all sorts of you-and-i perhapses--but i couldn't do it very well probably--oh, i couldn't make myself do it if i could do it well! and i shouldn't think it would have much effect except upon very inexperienced men--yet it does! now, i wonder if this is a streak of sourness coming out; i don't feel bitter--i'm just thinking honestly, i'm sure. "well, here i am facing it: all through my later childhood, and all through my girlhood, i believe what really occupied me most--with the thought of it underlying all things else, though often buried very deep--was the prospect of my marriage. i regarded it as a certainty: i would grow up, fall in love, get engaged, and be married--of course! so i grew up and fell in love with you--but it stops there, and i must learn how to be an old maid and not let anybody see that i mind it. i know this is the hardest part of it, the beginning: it will get easier by-and-by, of course. if i can just manage this part of it, it's bound not to hurt so much later on. "yes, i grew up and fell in love with you--for you will always be you. i'll never, never get over _that_, my dear! you'll never, never know it; but i shall love you always till i die, and if i'm still me after that, i shall keep right on loving you then, of course. you see, i didn't fall in love with you just to have you for myself. i fell in love with you! and that can never bother you at all nor ever be a shame to me that i love unsought, because you won't know, and because it's just an ocean of good-will, and every beat of my heart sends a new great wave of it toward you and cora. i shall find happiness, i believe, in service--i am sure there will be times when i can serve you both. i love you both and i can serve her for you and you for her. this isn't a hysterical mood, or a fit of `exaltation': i have thought it all out and i know that i can live up to it. you are the best thing that can ever come into her life, and everything i can do shall be to keep you there. i must be very, very careful with her, for talk and advice do not influence her much. you love her--she has accepted you, and it is beautiful for you both. it must be kept beautiful. it has all become so clear to me: you are just what she has always needed, and if by any mischance she lost you i do not know what would become----" "good god!" cried richard. he sprang to his feet, and the heavy book fell with a muffled crash upon the floor, sprawling open upon its face, its leaves in disorder. he moved away from it, staring at it in incredulous dismay. but he knew. chapter nineteen memory, that drowsy custodian, had wakened slowly, during this hour, beginning the process with fitful gleams of semi-consciousness, then, irritated, searching its pockets for the keys and dazedly exploring blind passages; but now it flung wide open the gallery doors, and there, in clear light, were the rows of painted canvasses. he remembered "that day" when he was waiting for a car, and laura madison had stopped for a moment, and then had gone on, saying she preferred to walk. he remembered that after he got into the car he wondered why he had not walked home with her; had thought himself "slow" for not thinking of it in time to do it. there had seemed something very "taking" about her, as she stopped and spoke to him, something enlivening and wholesome and sweet--it had struck him that laura was a "very nice girl." he had never before noticed how really charming she could look; in fact he had never thought much about either of the madison sisters, who had become "young ladies" during his mourning for his brother. and this pleasant image of laura remained with him for several days, until he decided that it might be a delightful thing to spend an evening with her. he had called, and he remembered, now, cora's saying to him that he looked at her sometimes as if he did not like her; he had been surprised and astonishingly pleased to detect a mysterious feeling in her about it. he remembered that almost at once he had fallen in love with cora: she captivated him, enraptured him, as she still did--as she always would, he felt, no matter how she treated him or what she did to him. he did not analyze the process of the captivation and enrapturement--for love is a mystery and cannot be analyzed. this is so well known that even richard lindley knew it, and did not try! . . . heartsick, he stared at the fallen book. he was a man, and here was the proffered love of a woman he did not want. there was a pathos in the ledger; it seemed to grovel, sprawling and dishevelled in the circle of lamp-light on the floor: it was as if laura herself lay pleading at his feet, and he looked down upon her, compassionate but revolted. he realized with astonishment from what a height she had fallen, how greatly he had respected her, how warmly liked her. what she now destroyed had been more important than he had guessed. simple masculine indignation rose within him: she was to have been his sister. if she had been unable to stifle this misplaced love of hers, could she not at least have kept it to herself? laura, the self-respecting! no; she offered it--offered it to her sister's betrothed. she had written that he should "never, never know it"; that when she was "cured" she would burn the ledger. she had not burned it! there were inconsistencies in plenty in the pitiful screed, but these were the wildest--and the cheapest. in talk, she had urged him to "keep trying," for cora, and now the sick-minded creature sent him this record. she wanted him to know. then what else was it but a plea? "i love you. let cora go. take me." he began to walk up and down, wondering what was to be done. after a time, he picked up the book gingerly, set it upon a shelf in a dark corner, and went for a walk outdoors. the night air seemed better than that of the room that held the ledger. at the corner a boy, running, passed him. it was hedrick madison, but hedrick did not recognize richard, nor was his mind at that moment concerned with richard's affairs; he was on an errand of haste to doctor sloane. mr. madison had wakened from a heavy slumber unable to speak, his condition obviously much worse. hedrick returned in the doctor's car, and then hung uneasily about the door of the sick-room until laura came out and told him to go to bed. in the morning, his mother did not appear at the breakfast table, cora was serious and quiet, and laura said that he need not go to school that day, though she added that the doctor thought their father would get "better." she looked wan and hollow-eyed: she had not been to bed, but declared that she would rest after breakfast. evidently she had not missed her ledger; and hedrick watched her closely, a pleasurable excitement stirring in his breast. she did not go to her room after the meal; the house was cold, possessing no furnace, and, with hedrick's assistance, she carried out the ashes from the library grate, and built a fire there. she had just lighted it, and the kindling was beginning to crackle, glowing rosily over her tired face, when the bell rang. "will you see who it is, please, hedrick?" he went with alacrity, and, returning, announced in an odd voice. "it's dick lindley. he wants to see you." "me?" she murmured, wanly surprised. she was kneeling before the fireplace, wearing an old dress which was dusted with ashes, and upon her hands a pair of worn-out gloves of her father's. lindley appeared in the hall behind hedrick, carrying under his arm something wrapped in brown paper. his expression led her to think that he had heard of her father's relapse, and came on that account. "don't look at me, richard," she said, smiling faintly as she rose, and stripping her hands of the clumsy gloves. "it's good of you to come, though. doctor sloane thinks he is going to be better again." richard inclined his head gravely, but did not speak. "well," said hedrick with a slight emphasis, "i guess i'll go out in the yard a while." and with shining eyes he left the room. in the hall, out of range from the library door, he executed a triumphant but noiseless caper, and doubled with mirth, clapping his hand over his mouth to stifle the effervescings of his joy. he had recognized the ledger in the same wrapping in which he had left it in mrs. lindley's vestibule. his moment had come: the climax of his enormous joke, the repayment in some small measure for the anguish he had so long endured. he crept silently back toward the door, flattened his back against the wall, and listened. "richard," he heard laura say, a vague alarm in her voice, "what is it? what is the matter?" then lindley: "i did not know what to do about it. i couldn't think of any sensible thing. i suppose what i am doing is the stupidest of all the things i thought of, but at least it's honest--so i've brought it back to you myself. take it, please." there was a crackling of the stiff wrapping paper, a little pause, then a strange sound from laura. it was not vocal and no more than just audible: it was a prolonged scream in a whisper. hedrick ventured an eye at the crack, between the partly open door and its casing. lindley stood with his back to him, but the boy had a clear view of laura. she was leaning against the wall, facing richard, the book clutched in both arms against her bosom, the wrapping paper on the floor at her feet. "i thought of sending it back and pretending to think it had been left at my mother's house by mistake," said richard sadly, "and of trying to make it seem that i hadn't read any of it. i thought of a dozen ways to pretend i believed you hadn't really meant me to read it----" making a crucial effort, she managed to speak. "you--think i--did mean----" "well," he answered, with a helpless shrug, "you sent it! but it's what's in it that really matters, isn't it? i could have pretended anything in a note, i suppose, if i had written instead of coming. but i found that what i most dreaded was meeting you again, and as we've got to meet, of course, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to blunder through a talk with you, somehow or another, and get that part of it over. i thought the longer i put off facing you, the worse it would be for both of us--and--and the more embarrassing. i'm no good at pretending, anyhow; and the thing has happened. what use is there in not being honest? well?" she did not try again to speak. her state was lamentable: it was all in her eyes. richard hung his head wretchedly, turning partly away from her. "there's only one way--to look at it," he said hesitatingly, and stammering. "that is--there's only one thing to do: to forget that it's happened. i'm--i--oh, well, i care for cora altogether. she's got never to know about this. she hasn't any idea or--suspicion of it, has she?" laura managed to shake her head. "she never must have," he said. "will you promise me to burn that book now?" she nodded slowly. "i--i'm awfully sorry, laura," he said brokenly. "i'm not idiot enough not to see that you're suffering horribly. i suppose i have done the most blundering thing possible." he stood a moment, irresolute, then turned to the door. "good-bye." hedrick had just time to dive into the hideous little room of the multitudinous owls as richard strode into the hall. then, with the closing of the front door, the boy was back at his post. laura stood leaning against the wall, the book clutched in her arms, as richard had left her. slowly she began to sink, her eyes wide open, and, with her back against the wall, she slid down until she was sitting upon the floor. her arms relaxed and hung limp at her sides, letting the book topple over in her lap, and she sat motionless. one of her feet protruded from her skirt, and the leaping firelight illumined it ruddily. it was a graceful foot in an old shoe which had been re-soled and patched. it seemed very still, that patched shoe, as if it might stay still forever. hedrick knew that laura had not fainted, but he wished she would move her foot. he went away. he went into the owl-room again, and stood there silently a long, long time. then he stole back again toward the library door, but caught a glimpse of that old, motionless shoe through the doorway as he came near. then he spied no more. he went out to the stable, and, secluding himself in his studio, sat moodily to meditate. something was the matter. something had gone wrong. he had thrown a bomb which he had expected to go off with a stupendous bang, leaving him, as the smoke cleared, looking down in merry triumph, stinging his fallen enemies with his humour, withering them with satire, and inquiring of them how it felt, now _they_ were getting it. but he was decidedly untriumphant: he wished laura had moved her foot and that she hadn't that patch upon her shoe. he could not get his mind off that patch. he began to feel very queer: it seemed to be somehow because of the patch. if she had worn a pair of new shoes that morning. . . . yes, it was that patch. thirteen is a dangerous age: nothing is more subtle. the boy, inspired to play the man, is beset by his own relapses into childhood, and hedrick was near a relapse. by and by, he went into the house again, to the library. laura was not there, but he found the fire almost smothered under heaping ashes. she had burned her book. he went into the room where the piano was, and played "the girl on the saskatchewan" with one finger; then went out to the porch and walked up and down, whistling cheerily. after that, he went upstairs and asked miss peirce how his father was "feeling," receiving a noncommital reply; looked in at cora's room; saw that his mother was lying asleep on cora's bed and cora herself examining the contents of a dressing-table drawer; and withdrew. a moment later, he stood in the passage outside laura's closed door listening. there was no sound. he retired to his own chamber, found it unbearable, and, fascinated by laura's, returned thither; and, after standing a long time in the passage, knocked softly on the door. "laura," he called, in a rough and careless voice, "it's kind of a pretty day outdoors. if you've had your nap, if i was you i'd go out for a walk." there was no response. "i'll go with you," he added, "if you want me to." he listened again and heard nothing. then he turned the knob softly. the door was unlocked; he opened it and went in. laura was sitting in a chair, with her back to a window, her hands in her lap. she was staring straight in front of her. he came near her hesitatingly, and at first she did not seem to see him or even to know that she was not alone in the room. then she looked at him wonderingly, and, as he stood beside her, lifted her right hand and set it gently upon his head. "hedrick," she said, "was it you that took my book to----" all at once he fell upon his knees, hid his face in her lap, and burst into loud and passionate sobbing. chapter twenty valentine corliss, having breakfasted in bed at a late hour that morning, dozed again, roused himself, and, making a toilet, addressed to the image in his shaving-mirror a disgusted monosyllable. "ass!" however, he had not the look of a man who had played cards all night to a disastrous tune with an accompaniment in scotch. his was a surface not easily indented: he was hard and healthy, clear-skinned and clear-eyed. when he had made himself point-device, he went into the "parlour" of his apartment, frowning at the litter of malodorous, relics, stumps and stubs and bottles and half-drained glasses, scattered chips and cards, dregs of a night session. he had been making acquaintances. he sat at the desk and wrote with a steady hand in italian: most illustrious moliterno: we live but learn little. as to myself it appears that i learn nothing--nothing! you will at once convey to me by _cable_ five thousand lire. no; add the difference in exchange so as to make it one thousand dollars which i shall receive, taking that sum from the two-hundred and thirty thousand lire which i entrusted to your safekeeping by cable as the result of my enterprise in this place. i should have returned at once, content with that success, but as you know i am a very stupid fellow, never pleased with a moderate triumph, nor with a large one, when there is a possible prospect of greater. i am compelled to believe that the greater i had in mind in this case was an illusion: my gentle diplomacy avails nothing against a small miser--for we have misers even in these states, though you will not believe it. i abandon him to his riches! from the success of my venture i reserved four thousand dollars to keep by me and for my expenses, and it is humiliating to relate that all of this, except a small banknote or two, was taken from me last night by amateurs. i should keep away from cards--they hate me, and alone i can do nothing with them. some young gentlemen of the place, whose acquaintance i had made at a ball, did me the honour of this lesson at the native game of poker, at which i--though also native--am not even so expert as yourself, and, as you will admit, antonio, my friend, you are not a good player--when observed. unaided, i was a child in their hands. it was also a painful rule that one paid for the counters upon delivery. this made me ill, but i carried it off with an air of carelessness creditable to an adopted neapolitan. upon receipt of the money you are to cable me, i shall leave this town and sail immediately. come to paris, and meet me there at the place on the rue auber within ten days from your reading this letter. you will have, remaining, two hundred and twenty-five thousand francs, which it will be safer to bring in cash, and i will deal well with you, as is our custom with each other. you have done excellently throughout; your cables and letters for exhibition concerning those famous oil wells have been perfection; and i shall of course not deduct what was taken by these thieves of poker players from the sum of profits upon which we shall estimate your commission. i have several times had the feeling that the hour for departure had arrived; now i shall delay not a moment after receiving your cable, though i may occupy the interim with a last attempt to interest my small miser. various circumstances cause me some uneasiness, though i do not believe i could be successfully assailed by the law in the matter of oil. you do own an estate in basilicata, at least your brother does--these good people here would not be apt to discover the difference--and the rest is a matter of plausibility. the odious coincidence of encountering the old cow, pryor, fretted me somewhat (though he has not repeated his annoying call), and i have other small apprehensions--for example, that it may not improve my credit if my loss of last night becomes gossip, though the thieves professed strong habits of discretion. my little affair of gallantry grows embarrassing. such affairs are so easy to inaugurate; extrication is more difficult. however, without it i should have failed to interest my investor and there is always the charm. your last letter is too curious in that matter. licentious man, one does not write of these things while under the banner of the illustrious uncle sam--i am assuming the american attitude while here, or perhaps my early youth returns to me--a thing very different from your own boyhood, don antonio. nevertheless, i promise you some laughter in the rue auber. though you will not be able to understand the half of what i shall tell you--particularly the portraits i shall sketch of my defeated rivals--your spirit shall roll with laughter. to the bank, then, the instant you read. cable me one thousand dollars, and be at the rue auber not more than ten days later. to the bank! thence to the telegraph office. speed! v. c. he was in better spirits as he read over this letter, and he chuckled as he addressed it. he pictured himself in the rear room of the bar in the rue auber, relating, across the little marble-topped table, this american adventure, to the delight of that blithe, ne'er-do-well outcast of an exalted poor family, that gambler, blackmailer and merry rogue, don antonio moliterno, comrade and teacher of this ductile valentine since the later days of adolescence. they had been school-fellows in rome, and later roamed europe together unleashed, discovering worlds of many kinds. valentine's careless mother let her boy go as he liked, and was often negligent in the matter of remittances: he and his friend learned ways to raise the wind, becoming expert and making curious affiliations. at her death there was a small inheritance; she had not been provident. the little she left went rocketing, and there was the wind to be raised again: young corliss had wits and had found that they could supply him--most of the time--with much more than the necessities of life. he had also found that he possessed a strong attraction for various women; already--at twenty-two--his experience was considerable, and, in his way, he became a specialist. he had a talent; he improved it and his opportunities. altogether, he took to the work without malice and with a light heart. . . . he sealed the envelope, rang for a boy, gave him the letter to post, and directed that the apartment should be set to rights. it was not that in which he had received ray vilas. corliss had moved to rooms on another floor of the hotel, the day after that eccentric and somewhat ominous person had called to make an "investment." ray's shadowy forebodings concerning that former apartment had encountered satire: corliss was a "materialist" and, at the mildest estimate, an unusually practical man, but he would never sleep in a bed with its foot toward the door; southern italy had seeped into him. he changed his rooms, a measure of which don antonio moliterno would have wholly approved. besides, these were as comfortable as the others, and so like them as even to confirm ray's statement concerning "a reading from homer": evidently this work had been purchased by the edition. a boy came to announce that his "roadster" waited for him at the hotel entrance, and corliss put on a fur motoring coat and cap, and went downstairs. a door leading from the hotel bar into the lobby was open, and, as corliss passed it, there issued a mocking shout: "tor'dor! oh, look at the tor'dor! ain't he the handsome spaniard!" ray vilas stumbled out, tousled, haggard, waving his arms in absurd and meaningless gestures; an amused gallery of tipplers filling the doorway behind him. "goin' take carmen buggy ride in the country, ain't he? good ole tor'dor!" he quavered loudly, clutching corliss's shoulder. "how much you s'pose he pays f' that buzz-buggy by the day, jeli'm'n? naughty tor'dor, stole thousand dollars from me--makin' presents--diamond cresses. tor'dor, i hear you been playing cards. tha's sn't nice. tor'dor, you're not a goo' boy at all--_you_ know you oughtn't waste dick lindley's money like that!" corliss set his open hand upon the drunkard's breast and sent him gyrating and plunging backward. some one caught the grotesque figure as it fell. "oh, my god," screamed ray, "i haven't got a gun on me! he _knows_ i haven't got my gun with me! _why_ haven't i got my gun with me?" they hustled him away, and corliss, enraged and startled, passed on. as he sped the car up corliss street, he decided to anticipate his letter to moliterno by a cable. he had stayed too long. cora looked charming in a new equipment for november motoring; yet it cannot be said that either of them enjoyed the drive. they lunched a dozen miles out from the city at an establishment somewhat in the nature of a roadside inn; and, although its cuisine was quite unknown to cora's friend, mrs. villard (an eager amateur of the table), they were served with a meal of such unusual excellence that the waiter thought it a thousand pities patrons so distinguished should possess such poor appetites. they returned at about three in the afternoon, and cora descended from the car wearing no very amiable expression. "why won't you come in now?" she asked, looking at him angrily. "we've got to talk things out. we've settled nothing whatever. i want to know why you can't stop." "i've got some matters to attend to, and----" "what matters?" she shot him a glance of fierce skepticism. "are you packing to get out?" "cora!" he cried reproachfully, "how can you say things like that to _me_!" she shook her head. "oh, it wouldn't surprise me in the least! how do _i_ know what you'll do? for all i know, you may be just that kind of a man. you _said_ you ought to be going----" "cora," he explained, gently, "i didn't say i meant to go. i said only that i thought i ought to, because moliterno will be needing me in basilicata. i ought to be there, since it appears that no more money is to be raised here. i ought to be superintending operations in the oil-field, so as to make the best use of the little i have raised." "you?" she laughed. "of course _i_ didn't have anything to do with it!" he sighed deeply. "you know perfectly well that i appreciate all you did. we don't seem to get on very well to-day----" "no!" she laughed again, bitterly. "so you think you'll be going, don't you?" "to my rooms to write some necessary letters." "of course not to pack your trunk?" "cora," he returned, goaded; "sometimes you're just impossible. i'll come to-morrow forenoon." "then don't bring the car. i'm tired of motoring and tired of lunching in that rotten hole. we can talk just as well in the library. papa's better, and that little fiend will be in school to-morrow. come out about ten." he started the machine. "don't forget i love you," he called in a low voice. she stood looking after him as the car dwindled down the street. "yes, you do!" she murmured. she walked up the path to the house, her face thoughtful, as with a tiresome perplexity. in her own room, divesting herself of her wraps, she gave the mirror a long scrutiny. it offered the picture of a girl with a hard and dreary air; but cora saw something else, and presently, though the dreariness remained, the hardness softened to a great compassion. she suffered: a warm wave of sorrow submerged her, and she threw herself upon the bed and wept long and silently for herself. at last her eyes dried, and she lay staring at the ceiling. the doorbell rang, and sarah, the cook, came to inform her that mr. richard lindley was below. "tell him i'm out." "can't," returned sarah. "done told him you was home." and she departed firmly. thus abandoned, the prostrate lady put into a few words what she felt about sarah, and, going to the door, whisperingly summoned in laura, who was leaving the sick-room, across the hall. "richard is downstairs. will you go and tell him i'm sick in bed--or dead? anything to make him go." and, assuming laura's acquiescence, cora went on, without pause: "is father worse? what's the matter with you, laura?" "nothing. he's a little better, miss peirce thinks." "you look ill." "i'm all right." "then run along like a duck and get rid of that old bore for me." "cora--please see him?" "not me! i've got too much to think about to bother with him." laura walked to the window and stood with her back to her sister, apparently interested in the view of corliss street there presented. "cora," she said, "why don't you marry him and have done with all this?" cora hooted. "why not? why not marry him as soon as you can get ready? why don't you go down now and tell him you will? why not, cora?" "i'd as soon marry a pail of milk--yes, tepid milk, skimmed! i----" "don't you realize how kind he'd be to you?" "i don't know about that," said cora moodily. "he might object to some things--but it doesn't matter, because i'm not going to try him. i don't mind a man's being a fool, but i can't stand the absent-minded breed of idiot. i've worn his diamond in the pendant right in his eyes for weeks; he's never once noticed it enough even to ask me about the pendant, but bores me to death wanting to know why i won't wear the ring! anyhow, what's the use talking about him? he couldn't marry me right now, even if i wanted him to--not till he begins to get something on the investment he made with val. outside of that, he's got nothing except his rooms at his mother's; she hasn't much either; and if richard should lose what he put in with val, he couldn't marry for years, probably. that's what made him so obstinate about it. no; if i ever marry right off the reel it's got to be somebody with----" "cora"--laura still spoke from the window, not turning--"aren't you tired of it all, of this getting so upset about one man and then another and----" "_tired_!" cora uttered the word in a repressed fury of emphasis. "i'm sick of _everything_! i don't care for anything or anybody on this earth--except--except you and mamma. i thought i was going to love val. i thought i _did_--but oh, my lord, i don't! i don't think i _can_ care any more. or else there isn't any such thing as love. how can anybody tell whether there is or not? you get kind of crazy over a man and want to go the limit--or marry him perhaps--or sometimes you just want to make him crazy about you--and then you get over it--and what is there left but hell!" she choked with a sour laugh. "ugh! for heaven's sake, laura, don't make me talk. everything's gone to the devil and i've got to think. the best thing you can do is to go down and get rid of richard for me. i _can't_ see him!" "very well," said laura, and went to the door. "you're a darling," whispered cora, kissing her quickly. "tell him i'm in a raging headache--make him think i wanted to see him, but you wouldn't let me, because i'm too ill." she laughed. "give me a little time, old dear: i may decide to take him yet!" it was mrs. madison who informed the waiting richard that cora was unable to see him, because she was "lying down"; and the young man, after properly inquiring about mr. madison, went blankly forth. hedrick was stalking the front yard, mounted at a great height upon a pair of stilts. he joined the departing visitor upon the sidewalk and honoured him with his company, proceeding storkishly beside him. "been to see cora?" "yes, hedrick." "what'd you want to see her about?" asked the frank youth seriously. richard was able to smile. "nothing in particular, hedrick." "you didn't come to tell her about something?" "nothing whatever, my dear sir. i wished merely the honour of seeing her and chatting with her upon indifferent subjects." "why?" "did you see her?" "no, i'm sorry to----" "she's home, all right," hedrick took pleasure in informing him. "yes. she was lying down and i told your mother not to disturb her." "worn out with too much automobile riding, i expect," hedrick sniffed. "she goes out about every day with this corliss in his hired roadster." they walked on in silence. not far from mrs. lindley's, hedrick abruptly became vocal in an artificial laugh. richard was obviously intended to inquire into its cause, but, as he did not, hedrick, after laughing hollowly for some time, volunteered the explanation: "i played a pretty good trick on you last night." "odd i didn't know it." "that's why it was good. you'd never guess it in the world." "no, i believe i shouldn't. you see what makes it so hard, hedrick, is that i can't even remember seeing you, last night." "nobody saw me. somebody heard me though, all right." "who?" "the nigger that works at your mother's--joe." "what about it? were you teasing joe?" "no, it was you i was after." "well? did you get me?" hedrick made another somewhat ghastly pretence of mirth. "well, i guess i've had about all the fun out of it i'm going to. might as well tell you. it was that book of laura's you thought she sent you." richard stopped short; whereupon hedrick turned clumsily, and began to stalk back in the direction from which they had come. "that book--i thought she--sent me?" lindley repeated, stammering. "she never sent it," called the boy, continuing to walk away. "she kept it hid, and i found it. i faked her into writing your name on a sheet of paper, and made you think she'd sent the old thing to you. i just did it for a joke on you." with too retching an effort to simulate another burst of merriment, he caught the stump of his right stilt in a pavement crack, wavered, cut in the air a figure like a geometrical proposition gone mad, and came whacking to earth in magnificent disaster. richard took him to mrs. lindley for repairs. she kept him until dark: hedrick was bandaged, led, lemonaded and blandished. never in his life had he known such a listener. chapter twenty-one that was a long night for cora madison, and the morning found her yellow. she made a poor breakfast, and returned from the table to her own room, but after a time descended restlessly and wandered from one room to another, staring out of the windows. laura had gone out; mrs. madison was with her husband, whom she seldom left; hedrick had departed ostensibly for school; and the house was as still as a farm in winter--an intolerable condition of things for an effervescent young woman whose diet was excitement. cora, drumming with her fingers upon a window in the owl-haunted cell, made noises with her throat, her breath and her lips not unsuggestive of a sputtering fuse. she was heavily charged. "now what in thunder do _you_ want?" she inquired of an elderly man who turned in from the sidewalk and with serious steps approached the house. pryor, having rung, found himself confronted with the lady he had come to seek. ensued the moment of strangers meeting: invisible antennae extended and touched;--at the contact, cora's drew in, and she looked upon him without graciousness. "i just called," he said placatively, smiling as if some humour lurked in his intention, "to ask how your father is. i heard downtown he wasn't getting along quite so well." "he's better this morning, thanks," said cora, preparing to close the door. "i thought i'd just stop and ask about him. i heard he'd had another bad spell--kind of a second stroke." "that was night before last. the doctor thinks he's improved very much since then." the door was closing; he coughed hastily, and detained it by speaking again. "i've called several times to inquire about him, but i believe it's the first time i've had the pleasure of speaking to you, miss madison. i'm mr. pryor." she appeared to find no comment necessary, and he continued: "your father did a little business for me, several years ago, and when i was here on my vacation, this summer, i was mighty sorry to hear of his sickness. i've had a nice bit of luck lately and got a second furlough, so i came out to spend a couple of weeks and thanksgiving with my married daughter." cora supposed that it must be very pleasant. "yes," he returned. "but i was mighty sorry to hear your father wasn't much better than when i left. the truth is, i wanted to have a talk with him, and i've been reproaching myself a good deal that i didn't go ahead with it last summer, when he was well, only i thought then it mightn't be necessary--might be disturbing things without much reason." "i'm afraid you can't have a talk with him now," she said. "the doctor says----" "i know, i know," said pryor, "of course. i wonder"--he hesitated, smiling faintly--"i wonder if i could have it with you instead." "me?" "oh, it isn't business," he laughed, observing her expression. "that is, not exactly." his manner became very serious. "it's about a friend of mine--at least, a man i know pretty well. miss madison, i saw you driving out through the park with him, yesterday noon, in an automobile. valentine corliss." cora stared at him. honesty, friendliness, and grave concern were disclosed to her scrutiny. there was no mistaking him: he was a good man. her mouth opened, and her eyelids flickered as from a too sudden invasion of light--the look of one perceiving the close approach of a vital crisis. but there was no surprise in her face. "come in," she said. * * * . . . . when corliss arrived, at about eleven o'clock that morning, sarah brought him to the library, where he found cora waiting for him. he had the air of a man determined to be cheerful under adverse conditions: he came in briskly, and cora closed the door behind him. "keep away from me," she said, pushing him back sharply, the next instant. "i've had enough of that for a while i believe." he sank into a chair, affecting desolation. "caresses blighted in the bud! cora, one would think us really married." she walked across the floor to a window, turned there, with her back to the light, and stood facing him, her arms folded. "good heavens!" he exclaimed, noting this attitude. "is it the trial scene from a faded melodrama?" she looked steadily at him without replying. "what's it all about to-day?" he asked lightly. "i'll try to give you the proper cues if you'll indicate the general nature of the scene, cora mine." she continued to look at him in silence. "it's very effective," he observed. "brings out the figure, too. do forgive me if you're serious, dear lady, but never in my life was i able to take the folded-arms business seriously. it was used on the stage of all countries so much that i believe most new-school actors have dropped it. they think it lacks genuineness." cora waited a moment longer, then spoke. "how much chance have i to get richard lindley's money back from you?" he was astounded. "oh, i say!" "i had a caller, this morning," she said, slowly. "he talked about you--quite a lot! he's told me several things about you." "mr. vilas?" he asked, with a sting in his quick smile. "no," she answered coolly. "much older." at that he jumped up, stepped quickly close to her, and swept her with an intense and brilliant scrutiny. "pryor, by god!" he cried. "he knows you pretty well," she said. "so do i now!" he swung away from her, back to his chair, dropped into it and began to laugh. "old pryor! doddering old pryor! doddering old ass of a pryor! so he did! blood of an angel! what a stew, what a stew!" he rose again, mirthless. "well, what did he say?" she had begun to tremble, not with fear. "he said a good deal." "well, what was it? what did he tell you?" "i think you'll find it plenty!" "come on!" "_you_!" she pointed at him. "let's have it." "he told me"--she burst out furiously--"he said you were a professional sharper!" "oh, no. old pryor doesn't talk like that." she came toward him. "he told me you were notorious over half of europe," she cried vehemently. "he said he'd arrested you himself, once, in rotterdam, for smuggling jewels, and that you were guilty, but managed to squirm out of it. he said the police had put you out of germany and you'd be arrested if you ever tried to go back. he said there were other places you didn't dare set foot in, and he said he could have you arrested in this country any time he wanted to, and that he was going to do it if he found you'd been doing anything wrong. oh, yes, he told me a few things!" he caught her by the shoulder. "see here, cora, do you believe all this tommy-rot?" she shook his hand off instantly. "believe it? i know it! there isn't a straight line in your whole soul and mind: you're crooked all over. you've been crooked with _me_ from the start. the moment that man began to speak, i knew every word of it was true. he came to me because he thought it was right: he hasn't anything against you on his own account; he said he _liked_ you! i _knew_ it was true, i tell you." he tried to put his hand on her shoulder again, beginning to speak remonstratingly, but she cried out in a rage, broke away from him, and ran to the other end of the room. "keep away! do you suppose i like you to touch me? he told me you always had been a wonder with women! said you were famous for `handling them the right way'--using them! ah, that was pleasant information for _me_, wasn't it! yes, i could have confirmed him on that point. he wanted to know if i thought you'd been doing anything of that sort here. what he meant was: had you been using me?" "what did you tell him?" the question rang sharply on the instant. "ha! that gets into you, does it?" she returned bitterly. "you can't overdo your fear of that man, i think, but _i_ didn't tell him anything. i just listened and thanked him for the warning, and said i'd have nothing more to do with you. how _could_ i tell him? wasn't it i that made papa lend you his name, and got richard to hand over his money? where does that put _me_?" she choked; sobs broke her voice. "every--every soul in town would point me out as a laughing-stock--the easiest fool out of the asylum! do you suppose _i_ want you arrested and the whole thing in the papers? what i want is richard's money back, and i'm going to have it!" "can you be quiet for a moment and listen?" he asked gravely. "if you'll tell me what chance i have to get it back." "cora," he said, "you don't want it back." "oh? don't i?" "no." he smiled faintly, and went on. "now, all this nonsense of old pryor's isn't worth denying. i have met him abroad; that much is true--and i suppose i have rather a gay reputation----" she uttered a jeering shout. "wait!" he said. "i told you i'd cut quite a swathe, when i first talked to you about myself. let it go for the present and come down to this question of lindley's investment----" "yes. that's what i want you to come down to." "as soon as lindley paid in his check i gave him his stock certificates, and cabled the money to be used at once in the development of the oil-fields----" "what! that man told me you'd `promoted' a south american rubber company once, among people of the american colony in paris. the details he gave me sounded strangely familiar!" "you'd as well be patient, cora. now, that money has probably been partially spent, by this time, on tools and labour and----" "what are you trying to----" "i'll show you. but first i'd like you to understand that nothing can be done to me. there's nothing `on' me! i've acted in good faith, and if the venture in oil is unsuccessful, and the money lost, i can't be held legally responsible, nor can any one prove that i am. i could bring forty witnesses from naples to swear they have helped to bore the wells. i'm safe as your stubborn friend, mr. trumble, himself. but now then, suppose that old pryor is right--as of course he isn't--suppose it, merely for a moment, because it will aid me to convey something to your mind. if i were the kind of man he says i am, and, being such a man, had planted the money out of reach, for my own use, what on earth would induce me to give it back?" "i knew it!" she groaned. "i knew you wouldn't!" "you see," he said quietly, "it would be impossible. we must go on supposing for a moment: if i had put that money away, i might be contemplating a departure----" "you'd better!" she cried fiercely. "he's going to find out everything you've been doing. he said so. he's heard a rumour that you were trying to raise money here; he told me so, and said he'd soon----" "the better reason for not delaying, perhaps. cora, see here!" he moved nearer her. "wouldn't i need a lot of money if i expected to have a beautiful lady to care for, and----" "you idiot!" she screamed. "do you think i'm going with you?" he flushed heavily. "well, aren't you?" he paused, to stare at her, as she wrung her hands and sobbed with hysterical laughter. "i thought," he went on, slowly, "that you would possibly even insist on that." "oh, lord, lord, lord!" she stamped her foot, and with both hands threw the tears from her eyes in wide and furious gestures. "he told me you were married----" "did you let him think you hadn't known that?" demanded corliss. "i tell you i didn't let him think _anything_! he said you would never be able to get a divorce: that your wife hates you too much to get one from you, and that she'll never----" "see here, cora," he said harshly, "i told you i'd been married; i told you before i ever kissed you. you understood perfectly----" "i did not! you said you _had_ been. you laughed about it. you made me think it was something that had happened a long time ago. i thought of course you'd been divorced----" "but i told you----" "you told me after! and then you made me think you could easily get one--that it was only a matter of form and----" "cora," he interrupted, "you're the most elaborate little self-deceiver i ever knew. i don't believe you've ever faced yourself for an honest moment in----" "honest! _you_ talk about `honest'! you use that word and face _me_?" he came closer, meeting her distraught eyes squarely. "you love to fool yourself, cora, but the role of betrayed virtue doesn't suit you very well. you're young, but you're a pretty experienced woman for all that, and you haven't done anything you didn't want to. you've had both eyes open every minute, and we both know it. you are just as wise as----" "you're lying and _you_ know it! what did _i_ want to make richard go into your scheme for? you made a fool of me." "i'm not speaking of the money now," he returned quickly. "you'd better keep your mind on the subject. are you coming away with me?" "what for?" she asked. "what _for_?" he echoed incredulously. "i want to know if you're coming. i promise you i'll get a divorce as soon as it's possible----" "val," she said, in a tone lower than she had used since he entered the room; "val, do you want me to come?" "yes." "much?" she looked at him eagerly. "yes, i do." his answer sounded quite genuine. "will it hurt you if i don't?" "of course it will." "thank heaven for that," she said quietly. "you honestly mean you won't?" "it makes me sick with laughing just to imagine it! i've done some hard little thinking, lately, my friend--particularly last night, and still more particularly this morning since that man was here. i'd cut my throat before i'd go with you. if you had your divorce i wouldn't marry you--not if you were the last man on earth!" "cora," he cried, aghast, "what's the matter with you? you're too many for me sometimes. i thought i understood a few kinds of women! now listen: i've offered to take you, and you can't say----" "offered!" it was she who came toward him now. she came swiftly, shaking with rage, and struck him upon the breast. "`offered'! do you think i want to go trailing around europe with you while dick lindley's money lasts? what kind of a life are you `offering' me? do you suppose i'm going to have everybody saying cora madison ran away with a jail-bird? do you think i'm going to dodge decent people in hotels and steamers, and leave a name in this town that--oh, get out! i don't want any help from you! i can take care of myself, i tell you; and i don't have to marry _you_! i'd kill you if i could--you made a fool of me!" her voice rose shrilly. "you made a fool of me!" "cora----" he began, imploringly. "you made a fool of me!" she struck him again. "strike me," he said. "i love you!" "actor!" "cora, i want you. i want you more than i ever----" she screamed with hysterical laughter. "liar, liar, liar! the same old guff. don't you even see it's too late for the old rotten tricks?" "cora, i want you to come." "you poor, conceited fool," she cried, "do you think you're the only man i can marry?" "cora," he gasped, "you wouldn't do that!" "oh, get out! get out _now_! i'm tired of you. i never want to hear you speak again." "cora," he begged. "for the last time----" "_no_! you made a fool of me!" she beat him upon the breast, striking again and again, with all her strength. "get out, i tell you! i'm through with you!" he tried to make her listen, to hold her wrists: he could do neither. "get out--get out!" she screamed. she pushed and dragged him toward the door, and threw it open. her voice thickened; she choked and coughed, but kept on screaming: "get out, i tell you! get out, get out, damn you! damn you, _damn_ you! get out!" still continuing to strike him with all her strength, she forced him out of the door. chapter twenty-two cora lost no time. corliss had not closed the front door behind him before she was running up the stairs. mrs. madison, emerging from her husband's room, did not see her daughter's face; for cora passed her quickly, looking the other way. "was anything the matter?" asked the mother anxiously. "i thought i heard----" "nothing in the world," cora flung back over her shoulder. "mr. corliss said i couldn't imitate sara bernhardt, and i showed him i could." she began to hum; left a fragment of "rag-time" floating behind her as she entered her own room; and mrs. madison, relieved, returned to the invalid. cora changed her clothes quickly. she put on a pale gray skirt and coat for the street, high shoes and a black velvet hat, very simple. the costume was almost startlingly becoming to her: never in her life had she looked prettier. she opened her small jewel-case, slipped all her rings upon her fingers; then put the diamond crescent, the pendant, her watch, and three or four other things into the flat, envelope-shaped bag of soft leather she carried when shopping. after that she brought from her clothes-pantry a small travelling-bag and packed it hurriedly. laura, returning from errands downtown and glancing up at cora's window, perceived an urgently beckoning, gray-gloved hand, and came at once to her sister's room. the packed bag upon the bed first caught her eye; then cora's attire, and the excited expression of cora's face, which was high-flushed and moist, glowing with a great resolve. "what's happened?" asked laura quickly. "you look exactly like a going-away bride. what----" cora spoke rapidly: "laura, i want you to take this bag and keep it in your room till a messenger-boy comes for it. when the bell rings, go to the door yourself, and hand it to him. don't give hedrick a chance to go to the door. just give it to the boy;--and don't say anything to mamma about it. i'm going downtown and i may not be back." laura began to be frightened. "what is it you want to do, cora?" she asked, trembling. cora was swift and business-like. "see here, laura, i've got to keep my head about me. you can do a great deal for me, if you won't be emotional just now, and help me not to be. i can't afford it, because i've got to do things, and i'm going to do them just as quickly as i can, and get it over. if i wait any longer i'll go insane. i _can_'t wait! you've been a wonderful sister to me; i've always counted on you, and you've never once gone back on me. right now, i need you to help me more than i ever have in my life. will you----" "but i must know----" "no, you needn't! i'll tell you just this much: i've got myself in a devil of a mess----" laura threw her arms round her: "oh, my dear, dear little sister!" she cried. but cora drew away. "now that's just what you mustn't do. i can't stand it! you've got to be _quiet_. i can't----" "yes, yes," laura said hurriedly. "i will. i'll do whatever you say." "it's perfectly simple: all i want you to do is to take charge of my travelling-bag, and, when a messenger-boy comes, give it to him without letting anybody know anything about it." "but i've got to know where you're going--i can't let you go and not----" "yes, you can! besides, you've promised to. i'm not going to do anything foolish ----" "then why not tell me?" laura began. she went on, imploring cora to confide in her, entreating her to see their mother--to do a dozen things altogether outside of cora's plans. "you're wasting your breath, laura," said the younger sister, interrupting, "and wasting my time. you're in the dark: you think i'm going to run away with val corliss and you're wrong. i sent him out of the house for good, a while ago----" "thank heaven for that!" cried laura. "i'm going to take care of myself," cora went on rapidly. "i'm going to get out of the mess i'm in, and you've got to let me do it my own way. i'll send you a note from downtown. you see that the messenger----" she was at the door, but laura caught her by the sleeve, protesting and beseeching. cora turned desperately. "see here. i'll come back in two hours and tell you all about it. if i promise that, will you promise to send me the bag by the----" "but if you're coming back you won't need----" cora spoke very quietly. "i'll go to pieces in a moment. really, i do think i'd better jump out of the window and have it over." "i'll send the bag," laura quavered, "if you'll promise to come back in two hours." "i promise!" cora gave her a quick embrace, a quick kiss, and, dry-eyed, ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. she walked briskly down corliss street. it was a clear day, bright noon, with an exhilarating tang in the air, and a sky so glorious that people outdoors were continually conscious of the blue overhead, and looked up at it often. an autumnal cheerfulness was abroad, and pedestrians showed it in their quickened steps, in their enlivened eyes, and frequent smiles, and in the colour of their faces. but none showed more colour or a gayer look than cora. she encountered many whom she knew, for it was indeed a day to be stirring, and she nodded and smiled her way all down the long street, thinking of what these greeted people would say to-morrow. "_i_ saw her yesterday, walking down corliss street, about noon, in a gray suit and looking fairly radiant!" some of those she met were enemies she had chastened; she prophesied their remarks with accuracy. some were old suitors, men who had desired her; one or two had place upon her long list of boy-sweethearts: she gave the same gay, friendly nod to each of them, and foretold his morrow's thoughts of her, in turn. her greeting of mary kane was graver, as was aesthetically appropriate, mr. wattling's engagement having been broken by that lady, immediately after his drive to the country club for tea. cora received from the beautiful jilt a salutation even graver than her own, which did not confound her. halfway down the street was a drug-store. she went in, and obtained appreciative permission to use the telephone. she came out well satisfied, and went swiftly on her way. ten minutes later, she opened the door of wade trumble's office. he was alone; her telephone had caught him in the act of departing for lunch. but he had been glad to wait--glad to the verge of agitation. "by george, cora!" he exclaimed, as she came quickly in and closed the door, "but you _can_ look stunning! believe me, that's some get-up. but let me tell you right here and now, before you begin, it's no use your tackling me again on the oil proposition. if there was any chance of my going into it which there wasn't, not one on earth--why, the very fact of your asking me would have stopped me. i'm no dick lindley, i beg to inform you: i don't spend my money helping a girl that i want, myself, to make a hit with another man. you treated me like a dog about that, right in the street, and you needn't try it again, because i won't stand for it. you can't play _me_, cora!" "wade," she said, coming closer, and looking at him mysteriously, "didn't you tell me to come to you when i got through playing?" "what?" he grew very red, took a step back from her, staring at her distrustfully, incredulously. "i've got through playing", she said in a low voice. "and i've come to you." he was staggered. "you've come----" he said, huskily. "here i am, wade." he had flushed, but now the colour left his small face, and he grew very white. "i don't believe you mean it." "listen," she said. "i was rotten to you about that oil nonsense. it _was_ nonsense, nothing on earth but nonsense. i tell you frankly i was a fool. i didn't care the snap of my finger for corliss, but--oh, what's the use of pretending? you were always such a great `business man,' always so absorbed in business, and put it before everything else in the world. you cared for me, but you cared for business more than for me. well, no woman likes _that_, wade. i've come to tell you the whole thing: i can't stand it any longer. i suffered horribly because--because----" she faltered. "wade, that was no way to _win_ a girl." "cora!" his incredulity was strong. "i thought i hated you for it, wade. yes, i did think that; i'm telling you everything, you see just blurting it out as it comes, wade. well, corliss asked me to help him, and it struck me i'd show that i could understand a business deal, myself. wade, this is pretty hard to say, i was such a little fool, but you ought to know it. you've got a right to know it, wade: i thought if i put through a thing like that, it would make a tremendous hit with you, and that then i could say: `so this is the kind of thing you put ahead of _me_, is it? simple little things like this, that _i_ can do, myself, by turning over my little finger!' so i got richard to go in--that was easy; and then it struck me that the crowning triumph of the whole thing would be to get you to come in yourself. that _would_ be showing you, i thought! but you wouldn't: you put me in my place--and i was angry--i never was so angry in my life, and i showed it." tears came into her voice. "oh, wade," she said, softly, "it was the very wildness of my anger that showed what i really felt." "about--about _me_?" his incredulity struggled with his hope. he stepped close to her. "what an awful fool i've been," she sighed. "why, i thought i could show you i was your _equal_! and look what it's got me into, wade!" "what has it got you into, cora?" "one thing worth while: i can see what i really am when i try to meet you on your own ground." she bent her head, humbly, then lifted it, and spoke rapidly. "all the rest is dreadful, wade. i had a distrust of corliss from the first; i didn't like him, but i took him up because i thought he offered the chance to show _you_ what i could do. well, it's got me into a most horrible mess. he's a swindler, a rank----" "by george!" wade shouted. "cora, you're talking out now like a real woman." "listen. i got horribly tired of him after a week or so, but i'd promised to help him and i didn't break with him; but yesterday i just couldn't stand him any longer and i told him so, and sent him away. then, this morning, an old man came to the house, a man named pryor, who knew him and knew his record, and he told me all about him." she narrated the interview. "but you had sent corliss away first?" wade asked, sharply. "yesterday, i tell you." she set her hand on the little man's shoulder. "wade, there's bound to be a scandal over all this. even if corliss gets away without being arrested and tried, the whole thing's bound to come _out_. i'll be the laughing-stock of the town--and i deserve to be: it's all through having been ridiculous idiot enough to try and impress you with my business brilliancy. well, i can't stand it!" "cora, do you----" he faltered. she leaned toward him, her hand still on his shoulder, her exquisite voice lowered, and thrilling in its sweetness. "wade, i'm through playing. i've come to you at last because you've utterly conquered me. if you'll take me away to-day, i'll _marry_ you to-day!" he gave a shout that rang again from the walls. "do you want me?" she whispered; then smiled upon his rapture indulgently. rapture it was. with the word "marry," his incredulity sped forever. but for a time he was incoherent: he leaped and hopped, spoke broken bits of words, danced fragmentarily, ate her with his eyes, partially embraced her, and finally kissed her timidly. "such a wedding we'll have!" he shouted, after that. "no!" she said sharply. "we'll be married by a justice of the peace and not a soul there but us, and it will be now, or it never will be! if you don't----" he swore she should have her way. "then we'll be out of this town on the three o'clock train this afternoon," she said. she went on with her plans, while he, growing more accustomed to his privilege, caressed her as he would. "you shall have your way," she said, "in everything except the wedding-journey. that's got to be a long one--i won't come back here till people have forgotten all about this corliss mix-up. i've never been abroad, and i want you to take me. we can stay a long, long time. i've brought nothing--we'll get whatever we want in new york before we sail." he agreed to everything. he had never really hoped to win her; paradise had opened, dazing him with glory: he was astounded, mad with joy, and abjectly his lady's servant. "hadn't you better run along and get the license?" she laughed. "we'll have to be married on the way to the train." "cora!" he gasped. "you angel!" "i'll wait here for you," she smiled. "there won't be too much time." he obtained a moderate control of his voice and feet. "enfield--that's my cashier--he'll be back from his lunch at one-thirty. tell him about us, if i'm not here by then. tell him he's got to manage somehow. good-bye till i come back mrs. trumble!" at the door he turned. "oh, have you--you----" he paused uncertainly. "have you sent richard lindley any word about----" "wade!" she gave his inquiry an indulgent amusement. "if i'm not worrying about him, do you think you need to?" "i meant about----" "you funny thing," she said. "i never had any idea of really marrying him; it wasn't anything but one of those silly half-engagements, and----" "i didn't mean that," he said, apologetically. "i meant about letting him know what this pryor told you about corliss, so that richard might do something toward getting his money back. we ought to--" "oh, yes," she said quickly. "yes, that's all right." "you saw richard?" "no. i sent him a note. he knows all about it by this time, if he has been home this morning. you'd better start, wade. send a messenger to our house for my bag. tell him to bring it here and then take a note for me. you'd really better start--dear!" "_cora_!" he shouted, took her in his arms, and was gone. his departing gait down the corridor to the elevator seemed, from the sounds, to be a gallop. left alone, cora wrote, sealed, and directed a note to laura. in it she recounted what pryor had told her of corliss; begged laura and her parents not to think her heartless in not preparing them for this abrupt marriage. she was in such a state of nervousness, she wrote, that explanations would have caused a breakdown. the marriage was a sensible one; she had long contemplated it as a possibility; and, after thinking it over thoroughly, she had decided it was the only thing to do. she sent her undying love. she was sitting with this note in her hand when shuffling footsteps sounded in the corridor; either wade's cashier or the messenger, she supposed. the door-knob turned, a husky voice asking, "want a drink?" as the door opened. cora was not surprised--she knew vilas's office was across the hall from that in which she waited--but she was frightened. ray stood blinking at her. "what are you doing here?" he asked, at last. chapter twenty-three it is probable that he got the truth out of her, perhaps all of it. that will remain a matter of doubt; cora's evidence, if she gave it, not being wholly trustworthy in cases touching herself. but she felt no need of mentioning to any one that she had seen her former lover that day. he had gone before the return of enfield, mr. trumble's assistant, who was a little later than usual, it happened; and the extreme nervousness and preoccupation exhibited by cora in telling enfield of his employer's new plans were attributed by the cashier to the natural agitation of a lady about to wed in a somewhat unusual (though sensible) manner. it is the more probable that she told ray the whole truth, because he already knew something of corliss's record abroad. on the dusty desk in ray's own office lay a letter, received that morning from the american consul at naples, which was luminous upon that subject, and upon the probabilities of financial returns for the investment of a thousand dollars in the alleged oil-fields of basilicata. in addition, cora had always found it very difficult to deceive vilas: he had an almost perfect understanding of a part of her nature; she could never far mislead him about herself. with her, he was intuitive and jumped to strange, inconsistent, true conclusions, as women do. he had the art of reading her face, her gestures; he had learned to listen to the tone of her voice more than to what she said. in his cups, too, he had fitful but almost demoniac inspirations for hidden truth. and, remembering that cora always "got even," it remains finally to wonder if she might not have told him everything at the instance of some shadowy impulse in that direction. there may have been a luxury in whatever confession she made; perhaps it was not entirely forced from her, and heaven knows how she may have coloured it. there was an elusive, quiet satisfaction somewhere in her subsequent expression; it lurked deep under the surface of the excitement with which she talked to enfield of her imminent marital abduction of his small boss. her agitation, a relic of the unknown interview just past, simmered down soon, leaving her in a becoming glow of colour, with slender threads of moisture brilliantly outlining her eyelids. mr. enfield, a young, well-favoured and recent importation from another town, was deliciously impressed by the charm of the waiting lady. they had not met; and enfield wondered how trumble had compassed such an enormous success as this; and he wished that he had seen her before matters had gone so far. he thought he might have had a chance. she seemed pleasantly interested in him, even as it was--and her eyes were wonderful, with their swift, warm, direct little plunges into those of a chance comrade of the moment. she went to the window, in her restlessness, looking down upon the swarming street below, and the young man, standing beside her, felt her shoulder most pleasantly though very lightly--in contact with his own, as they leaned forward, the better to see some curiosity of advertising that passed. she turned her face to his just then, and told him that he must come to see her: the wedding journey would be long, she said, but it would not be forever. trumble bounded in, shouting that everything was attended to, except instructions to enfield, whom he pounded wildly upon the back. he began signing papers; a stenographer was called from another room of his offices; and there was half an hour of rapid-fire. cora's bag came, and she gave the bearer the note for laura; another bag was brought for wade; and both bags were carried down to the automobile the bridegroom had left waiting in the street. last, came a splendid cluster of orchids for the bride to wear, and then wade, with his arm about her, swept her into the corridor, and the stirred enfield was left to his own beating heart, and the fresh, radiant vision of this startling new acquaintance: the sweet mystery of the look she had thrown back at him over his employer's shoulder at the very last. "do not forget _me_!" it had seemed to say. "we shall come back--some day." the closed car bore the pair to the little grim marriage-shop quickly enough, though they were nearly run down by a furious police patrol automobile, at a corner near the richfield hotel. their escape was by a very narrow margin of safety, and cora closed her eyes. then she was cross, because she had been frightened, and commanded wade cavalierly to bid the driver be more careful. wade obeyed sympathetically. "of course, though, it wasn't altogether his fault," he said, settling back, his arm round his lady's waist. "it's an outrage for the police to break their own rules that way. i guess they don't need to be in a hurry any more than _we_ do!" the justice made short work of it. as they stood so briefly before him, there swept across her vision the memory of what she had always prophesied as her wedding:--a crowded church, "the light that breathed o'er eden" from an unseen singer; then the warm air trembling to the lohengrin march; all heads turning; the procession down the aisle; herself appearing--climax of everything--a delicious and brilliant figure: graceful, rosy, shy, an imperial prize for the groom, who in these foreshadowings had always been very indistinct. the picture had always failed in outline there: the bridegroom's nearest approach to definition had never been clearer than a composite photograph. the truth is, cora never in her life wished to be married. but she was. chapter twenty-four valentine corliss had nothing to do but to wait for the money his friend antonio would send him by cable. his own cable, anticipating his letter, had been sent yesterday, when he came back to the hotel, after lunching in the country with cora. as he walked down corliss street, after his tumultuous interview with her, he was surprised to find himself physically tremulous: he had not supposed that an encounter, however violent, with an angry woman could so upset his nerves. it was no fear of pryor which shook him. he knew that pryor did not mean to cause his arrest--certainly not immediately. of course, pryor knew that cora would tell him. the old fellow's move was a final notification. it meant: "get out of town within twenty-four hours." and corliss intended to obey. he would have left that evening, indeed, without the warning; his trunk was packed. he would miss cora. he had kept a cool head throughout their affair until the last; but this morning she had fascinated him: and he found himself passionately admiring the fury of her. she had confused him as he had never been confused. he thought he had tamed her; thought he owned her; and the discovery of this mistake was what made him regret that she would not come away with him. such a flight, until to-day, had been one of his apprehensions: but now the thought that it was not to be, brought something like pain. at least, he felt a vacancy; had a sense of something lacking. she would have been a bright comrade for the voyage; and he thought of gestures of hers, turns of the head, tricks of the lovely voice; and sighed. of course it was best for him that he could return to his old trails alone and free; he saw that. cora would have been a complication and an embarrassment without predictable end, but she would have been a rare flame for a while. he wondered what she meant to do; of course she had a plan. should he try again, give her another chance? no; there was one point upon which she had not mystified him: he knew she really hated him. . . . the wind was against the smoke that day; and his spirits rose, as he walked in the brisk air with the rich sky above him. after all, this venture upon his native purlieus had been fax from fruitless: he could not have expected to do much better. he had made his coup; he knew no other who could have done it. it was a handsome bit of work, in fact, and possible only to a talented native thoroughly sophisticated in certain foreign subtleties. he knew himself for a rare combination. he had a glimmer of richard lindley beginning at the beginning again to build a modest fortune: it was the sort of thing the richard lindleys were made for. corliss was not troubled. richard had disliked him as a boy; did not like him now; but corliss had not taken his money out of malice for that. the adventurer was not revengeful; he was merely impervious. at the hotel, he learned that moliterno's cable had not yet arrived; but he went to an agency of one of the steamship lines and reserved his passage, and to a railway ticket office and secured a compartment for himself on an evening train. then he returned to his room in the hotel. the mirror over the mantelpiece, in the front room of his suite, showed him a fine figure of a man: hale, deep-chested, handsome, straight and cheerful. he nodded to it. "well, old top," he said, reviewing and summing up his whole campaign, "not so bad. not so bad, all in all; not so bad, old top. well played indeed!" at a sound of footsteps approaching his door, he turned in casual expectancy, thinking it might be a boy to notify him that moliterno's cable had arrived. but there was no knock, and the door was flung wide open. it was vilas, and he had his gun with him this time. he had two. there was a shallow clothes-closet in the wall near the fireplace, and corliss ran in there; but vilas began to shoot through the door. mutilated, already a dead man, and knowing it, corliss came out, and tried to run into the bedroom. it was no use. ray saved his last shot for himself. it did the work. chapter twenty-five there is a song of parting, an intentionally pathetic song, which contains the line, "all the tomorrows shall be as to-day," meaning equally gloomy. young singers, loving this line, take care to pronounce the words with unusual distinctness: the listener may feel that the performer has the capacity for great and consistent suffering. it is not, of course, that youth loves unhappiness, but the appearance of it, its supposed picturesqueness. youth runs from what is pathetic, but hangs fondly upon pathos. it is the idea of sorrow, not sorrow, which charms: and so the young singer dwells upon those lingering tomorrows, happy in the conception of a permanent wretchedness incurred in the interest of sentiment. for youth believes in permanence. it is when we are young that we say, "i shall never," and "i shall always," not knowing that we are only time's atoms in a crucible of incredible change. an old man scarce dares say, "i have never," for he knows that if he searches he will find, probably, that he has. "all, all is change." it was an evening during the winter holidays when mrs. lindley, coming to sit by the fire in her son's smoking-room, where richard sat glooming, narrated her legend of the devil of lisieux. it must have been her legend: the people of lisieux know nothing of it; but this richard the guileless took it for tradition, as she alleged it, and had no suspicion that she had spent the afternoon inventing it. she did not begin the recital immediately upon taking her chair, across the hearth from her son; she led up to it. she was an ample, fresh-coloured, lively woman; and like her son only in being a kind soul: he got neither his mortal seriousness nor his dreaminess from her. she was more than content with cora's abandonment of him, though, as chivalrousness was not demanded of her, she would have preferred that he should have been the jilt. she thought richard well off in his release, even at the price of all his savings. but there was something to hope, even in that matter, pryor wrote from paris encouragingly: he believed that moliterno might be frightened or forced into at least a partial restitution; though richard would not count upon it, and had "begun at the beginning" again, as a small-salaried clerk in a bank, trudging patiently to work in the morning and home in the evening, a long-faced, tired young man, more absent than ever, lifeless, and with no interest in anything outside his own broodings. his mother, pleased with his misfortune in love, was of course troubled that it should cause him to suffer. she knew she could not heal him; but she also knew that everything is healed in time, and that sometimes it is possible for people to help time a little. her first remark to her son, this evening, was that to the best of her memory she had never used the word "hellion." and, upon his saying gently, no, he thought it probable that she never had, but seeking no farther and dropping his eyes to the burning wood, apparently under the impression that the subject was closed, she informed him brusquely that it was her intention to say it now. "what is it you want to say, mother?" "if i can bring myself to use the word `hellion'," she returned, "i'm going to say that of all the heaven-born, whole-souled and consistent ones i ever knew hedrick madison is the king." "in what new way?" he inquired. "egerton villard. egerton used to be the neatest, best-mannered, best-dressed boy in town; but he looks and behaves like a digger indian since he's taken to following hedrick around. mrs. villard says it's the greatest sorrow of her life, but she's quite powerless: the boy is hedrick's slave. the other day she sent a servant after him, and just bringing him home nearly ruined her limousine. he was solidly covered with molasses, over his clothes and all, from head to foot, and then he'd rolled in hay and chicken feathers to be a _gnu_ for hedrick to kodak in the african wilds of the madisons' stable. egerton didn't know what a gnu was, but hedrick told him that was the way to be one, he said. then, when they'd got him scraped and boiled, and most of his hair pulled out, a policemen came to arrest him for stealing the jug of molasses at a corner grocery." richard nodded, and smiled faintly for comment. they sat in silence for a while. "i saw mrs. madison yesterday," said his mother. "she seemed very cheerful; her husband is able to talk almost perfectly again, though he doesn't get downstairs. laura reads to him a great deal." he nodded again, his gaze not moving from the fire. "laura was with her mother," said mrs. lindley. "she looked very fetching in a black cloth suit and a fur hat--old ones her sister left, i suspect, but very becoming, for all that. laura's `going out' more than usual this winter. she's really the belle of the holiday dances, i hear. of course she would be", she added, thoughtfully--"now." "why should she be `now' more than before?" "oh, laura's quite blossomed," mrs. lindley answered. "i think she's had some great anxieties relieved. of course both she and her mother must have worried about cora as much as they waited on her. it must be a great burden lifted to have her comfortably settled, or, at least, disposed of. i thought they both looked better. but i have a special theory about laura: i suppose you'll laugh at me----" "oh, no." "i wish you would sometimes," she said wistfully, "so only you laughed. my idea is that laura was in love with that poor little trumble, too." "what?" he looked up at that. "yes; girls fall in love with anybody. i fancy she cared very deeply for him; but i think she's a strong, sane woman, now. she's about the steadiest, coolest person i know--and i know her better, lately, than i used to. i think she made up her mind that she'd not sit down and mope over her unhappiness, and that she'd get over what caused it; and she took the very best remedy: she began going about, going everywhere, and she went gayly, too! and i'm sure she's cured; i'm sure she doesn't care the snap of her fingers for wade trumble or any man alive. she's having a pretty good time, i imagine: she has everything in the world except money, and she's never cared at all about _that_. she's young, and she dresses well--these days--and she's one of the handsomest girls in town; she plays like a poet, and she dances well----" "yes," said richard;--reflectively, "she does dance well." "and from what i hear from mrs. villard," continued his mother, "i guess she has enough young men in love with her to keep any girl busy." he was interested enough to show some surprise. "in love with laura?" "four, i hear." the best of women are sometimes the readiest with impromptu statistics. "well, well!" he said, mildly. "you see, laura has taken to smiling on the world, and the world smiles back at her. it's not a bad world about that, richard." "no," he sighed. "i suppose not." "but there's more than that in this case, my dear son." "is there?" the intelligent and gentle matron laughed as though at some unexpected turn of memory and said: "speaking of hedrick, did you ever hear the story of the devil of lisieux, richard?" "i think not; at least, i don't remember it." "lisieux is a little town in normandy," she said. "i was there a few days with your father, one summer, long ago. it's a country full of old stories, folklore, and traditions; and the people still believe in the old scratch pretty literally. this legend was of the time when he came to lisieux. the people knew he was coming because a wise woman had said that he was on the way, and predicted that he would arrive at the time of the great fair. everybody was in great distress, because they knew that whoever looked at him would become bewitched, but, of course, they had to go to the fair. the wise woman was able to give them a little comfort; she said some one was coming with the devil, and that the people must not notice the devil, but keep their eyes fastened on this other--then they would be free of the fiend's influence. but, when the devil arrived at the fair, nobody even looked to see who his companion was, for the devil was so picturesque, so vivid, all in flaming scarlet and orange, and he capered and danced and sang so that nobody could help looking at him--and, after looking once, they couldn't look away until they were thoroughly under his spell. so they were all bewitched, and began to scream and howl and roll on the ground, and turn on each other and brawl, and `commit all manner of excesses.' then the wise woman was able to exorcise the devil, and he sank into the ground; but his companion stayed, and the people came to their senses, and looked, and they saw that it was an angel. the angel had been there all the time that the fiend was, of course. so they have a saying now, that there may be angels with us, but we don't notice them when the devil's about." she did not look at her son as she finished, and she had hurried through the latter part of her "legend" with increasing timidity. the parallel was more severe, now that she put it to him, than she intended; it sounded savage; and she feared she had overshot her mark. laura, of course, was the other, the companion; she had been actually a companion for the vivid sister, everywhere with her at the fair, and never considered: now she emerged from her overshadowed obscurity, and people were able to see her as an individual--heretofore she had been merely the retinue of a flaming cora. but the "legend" was not very gallant to cora! mrs. lindley knew that it hurt her son; she felt it without looking at him, and before he gave a sign. as it was, he did not speak, but, after a few moments, rose and went quietly out of the room: then she heard the front door open and close. she sat by his fire a long, long time and was sorry--and wondered. when richard came home from his cold night-prowl in the snowy streets, he found a sheet of note paper upon his pillow: "dearest richard, i didn't mean that anybody you ever cared for was a d---l. i only meant that often the world finds out that there are lovely people it hasn't noticed." . . . he reproached himself, then, for the reproach his leaving her had been; he had a susceptible and annoying conscience, this unfortunate richard. he found it hard to get to sleep, that night; and was kept awake long after he had planned how he would make up to his mother for having received her "legend" so freezingly. what kept him awake, after that, was a dim, rhythmic sound coming from the house next door, where a holiday dance was in progress--music far away and slender: fiddle, 'cello, horn, bassoon, drums, all rollicking away almost the night-long, seeping through the walls to his restless pillow. finally, when belated drowsiness came, the throbbing tunes mingled with his half-dreams, and he heard the light shuffling of multitudinous feet over the dancing-floor, and became certain that laura's were among them. he saw her, gliding, swinging, laughing, and happy and the picture did not please him: it seemed to him that she would have been much better employed sitting in black to write of a hopeless love. coquetting with four suitors was not only inconsistent; it was unbecoming. it "suited cora's style," but in laura it was outrageous. when he woke, in the morning, he was dreaming of her: dressed as parthenia, beautiful, and throwing roses to an acclaiming crowd through which she was borne on a shield upon the shoulders of four antinouses. richard thought it scandalous. his indignation with her had not worn off when he descended to breakfast, but he made up to his mother for having troubled her. then, to cap his gallantry, he observed that several inches of snow must have fallen during the night; it would be well packed upon the streets by noon; he would get a sleigh, after lunch, and take her driving. it was a holiday. she thanked him, but half-declined. "i'm afraid it's too cold for me, but there are lots of nice girls in town, richard, who won't mind weather." "but i asked _you_!" it was finally left an open question for the afternoon to settle; and, upon her urging, he went out for a walk. she stood at the window to watch him, and, when she saw that he turned northward, she sank into a chair, instead of going to give joe varden his after-breakfast instructions, and fell into a deep reverie. outdoors, it was a biting cold morning, wind-swept and gray; and with air so frosty-pure no one might breathe it and stay bilious: neither in body nor bilious in spirit. it was a wind to sweep the yellow from jaundiced cheeks and make them rosy; a wind to clear dulled eyes; it was a wind to lift foolish hearts, to lift them so high they might touch heaven and go winging down the sky, the wildest of wild-geese. . . . when the bell rang, laura was kneeling before the library fire, which she had just kindled, and she had not risen when sarah brought richard to the doorway. she was shabby enough, poor cinderella! looking up, so frightened, when her prince appeared. she had not been to the dance. she had not four suitors. she had none. he came toward her. she rose and stepped back a little. ashes had blown upon her, and, oh, the old, old thought of the woman born to be a mother! she was afraid his clothes might get dusty if he came too close. but to richard she looked very beautiful; and a strange thing happened: trembling, he saw that the firelight upon her face was brighter than any firelight he had ever seen. "il est bon de connaitre les delires de l'esprit humain. chaque people a ses folies plus ou moins grossieres." millot memories of extraordinary popular delusions vol ii. by charles mackay contents of the second volume. the crusades the witch mania the slow poisoners haunted houses the crusades .... they heard, and up they sprung upon the wing innumerable. as when the potent rod of amram's son, in egypt's evil day, waved round the coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud of locusts, warping on the eastern wind that o'er the realm of impious pharaoh hung like night, and darken'd all the realm of nile, so numberless were they. * * * * * * * * * * * all in a moment through the gloom were seen ten thousand banners rise into the air, with orient colours waving. with them rose a forest huge of spears; and thronging helms appear'd, and serried shields, in thick array, of depth immeasurable. paradise lost. every age has its peculiar folly--some scheme, project, or phantasy into which it plunges, spurred on either by the love of gain, the necessity of excitement, or the mere force of imitation. failing in these, it has some madness, to which it is goaded by political or religious causes, or both combined. every one of these causes influenced the crusades, and conspired to render them the most extraordinary instance upon record of the extent to which popular enthusiasm can be carried. history in her solemn page informs us, that the crusaders were but ignorant and savage men, that their motives were those of bigotry unmitigated, and that their pathway was one of blood and tears. romance, on the other hand, dilates upon their piety and heroism and pourtrays in her most glowing and impassioned hues their virtue and magnanimity, the imperishable honour they acquired for themselves, and the great services they rendered to christianity. in the following pages we shall ransack the stores of both, to discover the true spirit that animated the motley multitude who took up arms in the service of the cross, leaving history to vouch for facts, but not disdaining the aid of contemporary poetry and romance to throw light upon feelings, motives, and opinions. in order to understand thoroughly the state of public feeling in europe at the time when peter the hermit preached the holy war, it will be necessary to go back for many years anterior to that event. we must make acquaintance with the pilgrims of the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries, and learn the tales they told of the dangers they had passed, and the wonders they had seen. pilgrimages to the holy land seem at first to have been undertaken by converted jews, and by christian devotees of lively imagination, pining with a natural curiosity to visit the scenes which of all others were most interesting in their eyes. the pious and the impious alike flocked to jerusalem,--the one class to feast their sight on the scenes hallowed by the life and sufferings of their lord, and the other, because it soon became a generally received opinion, that such a pilgrimage was sufficient to rub off the long score of sins, however atrocious. another and very numerous class of pilgrims were the idle and roving, who visited palestine then as the moderns visit italy or switzerland now, because it was the fashion, and because they might please their vanity by retailing, on their return, the adventures they had met with. but the really pious formed the great majority. every year their numbers increased, until at last they became so numerous as to be called the "armies of the lord." full of enthusiasm, they set the danger and difficulty of the way at defiance, and lingered with holy rapture on every scene described in the evangelists. to them it was bliss indeed to drink the clear waters of the jordan, or be baptized in the same stream where john had baptized the saviour. they wandered with awe and pleasure in the purlieus of the temple, on the solemn mount of olives, or the awful calvary, where a god had bled for sinful men. to these pilgrims every object was precious. relics were eagerly sought after; flagons of water from jordan, or paniers of mould from the hill of the crucifixion, were brought home, and sold at extravagant prices to churches and monasteries. more apocryphical relics, such as the wood of the true cross, the tears of the virgin mary, the hems of her garments, the toe-nails and hair of the apostles--even the tents that paul had helped to manufacture--were exhibited for sale by the knavish in palestine, and brought back to europe "with wondrous cost and care." a grove of a hundred oaks would not have furnished all the wood sold in little morsels as remnants of the true cross; and the tears of mary, if collected together, would have filled a cistern. for upwards of two hundred years the pilgrims met with no impediment in palestine. the enlightened haroun al reschid, and his more immediate successors, encouraged the stream which brought so much wealth into syria, and treated the wayfarers with the utmost courtesy. the race of fatemite caliphs,--who, although in other respects as tolerant, were more distressed for money, or more unscrupulous in obtaining it, than their predecessors of the house of abbas,--imposed a tax of a bezant for each pilgrim that entered jerusalem. this was a serious hardship upon the poorer sort, who had begged their weary way across europe, and arrived at the bourne of all their hopes without a coin. a great outcry was immediately raised, but still the tax was rigorously levied. the pilgrims unable to pay were compelled to remain at the gate of the holy city until some rich devotee arriving with his train, paid the tax and let them in. robert of normandy, father of william the conqueror, who, in common with many other nobles of the highest rank, undertook the pilgrimage, found on his arrival scores of pilgrims at the gate, anxiously expecting his coming to pay the tax for them. upon no occasion was such a boon refused. the sums drawn from this source were a mine of wealth to the moslem governors of palestine, imposed as the tax had been at a time when pilgrimages had become more numerous than ever. a strange idea had taken possession of the popular mind at the close of the tenth and commencement of the eleventh century. it was universally believed that the end of the world was at hand; that the thousand years of the apocalypse were near completion, and that jesus christ would descend upon jerusalem to judge mankind. all christendom was in commotion. a panic terror seized upon the weak, the credulous, and the guilty, who in those days formed more than nineteen twentieths of the population. forsaking their homes, kindred, and occupation, they crowded to jerusalem to await the coming of the lord, lightened, as they imagined, of a load of sin by their weary pilgrimage. to increase the panic, the stars were observed to fall from heaven, earthquakes to shake the land, and violent hurricanes to blow down the forests. all these, and more especially the meteoric phenomena, were looked upon as the forerunners of the approaching judgments. not a meteor shot athwart the horizon that did not fill a district with alarm, and send away to jerusalem a score of pilgrims, with staff in hand and wallet on their back, praying as they went for the remission of their sins. men, women, and even children, trudged in droves to the holy city, in expectation of the day when the heavens would open, and the son of god descend in his glory. this extraordinary delusion, while it augmented the numbers, increased also the hardships of the pilgrims. beggars became so numerous on all the highways between the west of europe and constantinople that the monks, the great alms-givers upon these occasions, would have brought starvation within sight of their own doors, if they had not economized their resources, and left the devotees to shift for themselves as they could. hundreds of them were glad to subsist upon the berries that ripened by the road, who, before this great flux, might have shared the bread and flesh of the monasteries. but this was not the greatest of their difficulties. on their arrival in jerusalem they found that a sterner race had obtained possession of the holy land. the caliphs of bagdad had been succeeded by the harsh turks of the race of seljook, who looked upon the pilgrims with contempt and aversion. the turks of the eleventh century were more ferocious and less scrupulous than the saracens of the tenth. they were annoyed at the immense number of pilgrims who overran the country, and still more so because they showed no intention of quitting it. the hourly expectation of the last judgment kept them waiting; and the turks, apprehensive of being at last driven from the soil by the swarms that were still arriving, heaped up difficulties in their way. persecution of every kind awaited them. they were plundered, and beaten with stripes, and kept in suspense for months at the gates of jerusalem, unable to pay the golden bezant that was to facilitate their entrance. when the first epidemic terror of the day of judgment began to subside, a few pilgrims ventured to return to europe, their hearts big with indignation at the insults they had suffered. everywhere as they passed they related to a sympathizing auditory the wrongs of christendom. strange to say, even these recitals increased the mania for pilgrimage. the greater the dangers of the way, the more chance that sins of deep dye would be atoned for. difficulty and suffering only heightened the merit, and fresh hordes issued from every town and village, to win favour in the sight of heaven by a visit to the holy sepulchre. thus did things continue during the whole of the eleventh century. the train that was to explode so fearfully was now laid, and there wanted but the hand to apply the torch. at last the man appeared upon the scene. like all who have ever achieved so great an end, peter the hermit was exactly suited to the age; neither behind it, nor in advance of it; but acute enough to penetrate its mystery ere it was discovered by any other. enthusiastic, chivalrous, bigoted, and, if not insane, not far removed from insanity, he was the very prototype of the time. true enthusiasm is always persevering and always eloquent, and these two qualities were united in no common degree in the person of this extraordinary preacher. he was a monk of amiens, and ere he assumed the hood had served as a soldier. he is represented as having been ill favoured and low in stature, but with an eye of surpassing brightness and intelligence. having been seized with the mania of the age, he visited jerusalem, and remained there till his blood boiled to see the cruel persecution heaped upon the devotees. on his return home he shook the world by the eloquent story of their wrongs. before entering into any further details of the astounding results of his preaching, it will be advisable to cast a glance at the state of the mind of europe, that we may understand all the better the causes of his success. first of all, there was the priesthood, which, exercising as it did the most conspicuous influence upon the fortunes of society, claims the largest share of attention. religion was the ruling idea of that day, and the only civiliser capable of taming such wolves as then constituted the flock of the faithful. the clergy were all in all; and though they kept the popular mind in the most slavish subjection with regard to religious matters, they furnished it with the means of defence against all other oppression except their own. in the ecclesiastical ranks were concentrated all the true piety, all the learning, all the wisdom of the time; and, as a natural consequence, a great portion of power, which their very wisdom perpetually incited them to extend. the people knew nothing of kings and nobles, except in the way of injuries inflicted. the first ruled for, or more properly speaking against, the barons, and the barons only existed to brave the power of the kings, or to trample with their iron heels upon the neck of prostrate democracy. the latter had no friend but the clergy, and these, though they necessarily instilled the superstition from which they themselves were not exempt, yet taught the cheering doctrine that all men were equal in the sight of heaven. thus, while feudalism told them they had no rights in this world, religion told them they had every right in the next. with this consolation they were for the time content, for political ideas had as yet taken no root. when the clergy, for other reasons, recommended the crusade, the people joined in it with enthusiasm. the subject of palestine filled all minds; the pilgrims' tales of two centuries warmed every imagination; and when their friends, their guides, and their instructors preached a war so much in accordance with their own prejudices and modes of thinking, the enthusiasm rose into a frenzy. but while religion inspired the masses, another agent was at work upon the nobility. these were fierce and lawless; tainted with every vice, endowed with no virtue, and redeemed by one good quality alone, that of courage. the only religion they felt was the religion of fear. that and their overboiling turbulence alike combined to guide them to the holy land. most of them had sins enough to answer for. they lived with their hand against every man; and with no law but their own passions. they set at defiance the secular power of the clergy, but their hearts quailed at the awful denunciations of the pulpit with regard to the life to come. war was the business and the delight of their existence; and when they were promised remission of all their sins upon the easy condition of following their favourite bent, is it to be wondered at that they rushed with enthusiasm to the onslaught, and became as zealous in the service of the cross as the great majority of the people, who were swayed by more purely religious motives? fanaticism and the love of battle alike impelled them to the war, while the kings and princes of europe had still another motive for encouraging their zeal. policy opened their eyes to the great advantages which would accrue to themselves, by the absence of so many restless, intriguing, and blood-thirsty men, whose insolence it required more than the small power of royalty to restrain within due bounds. thus every motive was favourable to the crusades. every class of society was alike incited to join or encourage the war; kings and the clergy by policy, the nobles by turbulence and the love of dominion, and the people by religious zeal and the concentrated enthusiasm of two centuries, skilfully directed by their only instructors. it was in palestine itself that peter the hermit first conceived the grand idea of rousing the powers of christendom to rescue the christians of the east from the thraldom of the mussulmans, and the sepulchre of jesus from the rude hands of the infidel. the subject engrossed his whole mind. even in the visions of the night he was full of it. one dream made such an impression upon him, that he devoutly believed the saviour of the world himself appeared before him, and promised him aid and protection in his holy undertaking. if his zeal had ever wavered before, this was sufficient to fix it for ever. peter, after he had performed all the penances and duties of his pilgrimage, demanded an interview with simeon, the patriarch of the greek church at jerusalem. though the latter was a heretic in peter's eyes, yet he was still a christian, and felt as acutely as himself for the persecutions heaped by the turks upon the followers of jesus. the good prelate entered fully into his views, and, at his suggestion, wrote letters to the pope, and to the most influential monarchs of christendom, detailing the sorrows of the faithful, and urging them to take up arms in their defence. peter was not a laggard in the work. taking an affectionate farewell of the patriarch, he returned in all haste to italy. pope urban ii. occupied the apostolic chair. it was at that time far from being an easy seat. his predecessor, gregory, had bequeathed him a host of disputes with the emperor henry iv. of germany, and he had made philip i. of france his enemy by his strenuous opposition to an adulterous connexion formed by that monarch. so many dangers encompassed him about, that the vatican was no secure abode, and he had taken refuge in apulia, under the protection of the renowned robert guiscard. thither peter appears to have followed him, though in what spot their meeting took place is not stated with any precision by ancient chroniclers or modern historians. urban received him most kindly; read, with tears in his eyes, the epistle from the patriarch simeon, and listened to the eloquent story of the hermit with an attention which showed how deeply he sympathised with the woes of the christian church. enthusiasm is contagious, and the pope appears to have caught it instantly from one whose zeal was so unbounded. giving the hermit full powers, he sent him abroad to preach the holy war to all the nations and potentates of christendom. the hermit preached, and countless thousands answered to his call. france, germany, and italy started at his voice, and prepared for the deliverance of zion. one of the early historians of the crusade, who was himself an eye-witness of the rapture of europe, [guibert de nogent] describes the personal appearance of the hermit at this time. he says, that there appeared to be something of divine in every thing which he said or did. the people so highly reverenced him, that they plucked hairs from the mane of his mule, that they might keep them as relics. while preaching, he wore in general a woollen tunic, with a dark-coloured mantle, which fell down to his heels. his arms and feet were bare, and he ate neither flesh nor bread, supporting himself chiefly upon fish and wine. "he set out," says the chronicler, "from whence i know not; but we saw him passing through the towns and villages, preaching every where, and the people surrounding him in crowds, loading him with offerings, and celebrating his sanctity with such great praises that i never remember to have seen such honours bestowed upon any one." thus he went on, untired, inflexible, and full of devotion, communicating his own madness to his hearers, until europe was stirred from its very depths. while the hermit was appealing with such signal success to the people, the pope appealed with as much success to those who were to become the chiefs and leaders of the expedition. his first step was to call a council at placentia, in the autumn of the year . here, in the assembly of the clergy, the pope debated the grand scheme, and gave audience to emissaries who had been sent from constantinople by the emperor of the east to detail the progress made by the turks in their design of establishing themselves in europe. the clergy were of course unanimous in support of the crusade, and the council separated, each individual member of it being empowered to preach it to his people. but italy could not be expected to furnish all the aid required; and the pope crossed the alps to inspire the fierce and powerful nobility and chivalrous population of gaul. his boldness in entering the territory, and placing himself in the power of his foe, king philip of france, is not the least surprising feature of his mission. some have imagined that cool policy alone actuated him, while others assert, that it was mere zeal, as warm and as blind as that of peter the hermit. the latter opinion seems to be the true one. society did not calculate the consequences of what it was doing. every man seemed to act from impulse only; and the pope, in throwing himself into the heart of france, acted as much from impulse as the thousands who responded to his call. a council was eventually summoned to meet him at clermont, in auvergne, to consider the state of the church, reform abuses, and, above all, make preparations for the war. it was in the midst of an extremely cold winter, and the ground was covered with snow. during seven days the council sat with closed doors, while immense crowds from all parts of france flocked into the town, in expectation that the pope himself would address the people. all the towns and villages for miles around were filled with the multitude; even the fields were encumbered with people, who, unable to procure lodging, pitched their tents under the trees and by the way-side. all the neighbourhood presented the appearance of a vast camp. during the seven days' deliberation, a sentence of excommunication was passed upon king philip for adultery with bertrade de montfort, countess of anjou, and for disobedience to the supreme authority of the apostolic see. this bold step impressed the people with reverence for so stern a church, which in the discharge of its duty showed itself no respecter of persons. their love and their fear were alike increased, and they were prepared to listen with more intense devotion to the preaching of so righteous and inflexible a pastor. the great square before the cathedral church of clermont became every instant more densely crowded as the hour drew nigh when the pope was to address the populace. issuing from the church in his frill canonicals, surrounded by his cardinals and bishops in all the splendour of romish ecclesiastical costume, the pope stood before the populace on a high scaffolding erected for the occasion, and covered with scarlet cloth. a brilliant array of bishops and cardinals surrounded him; and among them, humbler in rank, but more important in the world's eye, the hermit peter, dressed in his simple and austere habiliments. historians differ as to whether or not peter addressed the crowd, but as all agree that he was present, it seems reasonable to suppose that he spoke. but it was the oration of the pope that was most important. as he lifted up his hands to ensure attention, every voice immediately became still. he began by detailing the miseries endured by their brethren in the holy land; how the plains of palestine were desolated by the outrageous heathen, who with the sword and the firebrand carried wailing into the dwellings and flames into the possessions of the faithful; how christian wives and daughters were defiled by pagan lust; how the altars of the true god were desecrated, and the relics of the saints trodden under foot. "you," continued the eloquent pontiff, (and urban the second was one of the most eloquent men of the day,) "you, who hear me, and who have received the true faith, and been endowed by god with power, and strength, and greatness of soul,--whose ancestors have been the prop of christendom, and whose kings have put a barrier against the progress of the infidel,--i call upon you to wipe off these impurities from the face of the earth, and lift your oppressed fellow-christians from the depths into which they have been trampled. the sepulchre of christ is possessed by the heathen, the sacred places dishonoured by their vileness. oh, brave knights and faithful people! offspring of invincible fathers! ye will not degenerate from your ancient renown. ye will not be restrained from embarking in this great cause by the tender ties of wife or little ones, but will remember the words of the saviour of the world himself, 'whosoever loves father and mother more than me is not worthy of me. whosoever shall abandon for my name's sake his house, or his brethren, or his sisters, or his father, or his mother, or his wife, or his children, or his lands, shall receive a hundredfold, and shall inherit eternal life.'" the warmth of the pontiff communicated itself to the crowd, and the enthusiasm of the people broke out several times ere he concluded his address. he went on to pourtray, not only the spiritual but the temporal advantages, that should accrue to those who took up arms in the service of the cross. palestine was, he said, a land flowing with milk and honey, and precious in the sight of god, as the scene of the grand events which had saved mankind. that land, he promised, should be divided among them. moreover, they should have full pardon for all their offences, either against god or man. "go, then," he added, "in expiation of your sins; and go assured, that after this world shall have passed away, imperishable glory shall be yours in the world which is to come." the enthusiasm was no longer to be restrained, and loud shouts interrupted the speaker; the people exclaiming as if with one voice, "dieu le veult! dieu le veult!" with great presence of mind urban took advantage of the outburst, and as soon as silence was obtained, continued: "dear brethren, to-day is shown forth in you that which the lord has said by his evangelist, 'when two or three are gathered together in my name, there will i be in the midst of them to bless them.' if the lord god had not been in your souls, you would not all have pronounced the same words; or rather god himself pronounced them by your lips, for it was he that put them in your hearts. be they, then, your war-cry in the combat, for those words came forth from god. let the army of the lord when it rushes upon his enemies shout but that one cry, 'dieu le veult! dieu le veult!' let whoever is inclined to devote himself to this holy cause make it a solemn engagement, and bear the cross of the lord either on his breast or his brow till he set out, and let him who is ready to begin his march place the holy emblem on his shoulders, in memory of that precept of our saviour, 'he who does not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.'" the news of this council spread to the remotest parts of europe in an incredibly short space of time. long before the fleetest horseman could have brought the intelligence it was known by the people in distant provinces, a fact which was considered as nothing less than supernatural. but the subject was in everybody's mouth, and the minds of men were prepared for the result. the enthusiastic only asserted what they wished, and the event tallied with their prediction. this was, however, quite enough in those days for a miracle, and as a miracle every one regarded it. for several months after the council of clermont, france and germany presented a singular spectacle. the pious, the fanatic, the needy, the dissolute, the young and the old, even women and children, and the halt and lame, enrolled themselves by hundreds. in every village the clergy were busied in keeping up the excitement, promising eternal rewards to those who assumed the red cross, and fulminating the most awful denunciations against all the worldly-minded who refused or even hesitated. every debtor who joined the crusade was freed by the papal edict from the claims of his creditors; outlaws of every grade were made equal with the honest upon the same conditions. the property of those who went was placed under the protection of the church, and st. paul and st. peter themselves were believed to descend from their high abode, to watch over the chattels of the absent pilgrims. signs and portents were seen in the air to increase the fervour of the multitude. an aurora-borealis of unusual brilliancy appeared, and thousands of the crusaders came out to gaze upon it, prostrating themselves upon the earth in adoration. it was thought to be a sure prognostic of the interposition of the most high; and a representation of his armies fighting with and overthrowing the infidels. reports of wonders were everywhere rife. a monk had seen two gigantic warriors on horseback, the one representing a christian and the other a turk, fighting in the sky with flaming swords, the christian of course overcoming the paynim. myriads of stars were said to have fallen from heaven, each representing the fall of a pagan foe. it was believed at the same time that the emperor charlemagne would rise from the grave, and lead on to victory the embattled armies of the lord. a singular feature of the popular madness was the enthusiasm of the women. everywhere they encouraged their lovers and husbands to forsake all things for the holy war. many of them burned the sign of the cross upon their breasts and arms, and coloured the wound with a red dye, as a lasting memorial of their zeal. others, still more zealous, impressed the mark by the same means upon the tender limbs of young children and infants at the breast. guibert de nogent tells of a monk who made a large incision upon his forehead in the form of a cross, which he coloured with some powerful ingredient, telling the people that an angel had done it when he was asleep. this monk appears to have been more of a rogue than a fool, for he contrived to fare more sumptuously than any of his brother pilgrims, upon the strength of his sanctity. the crusaders everywhere gave him presents of food and money, and he became quite fat ere he arrived at jerusalem, notwithstanding the fatigues of the way. if he had acknowledged in the first place that he had made the wound himself, he would not have been thought more holy than his fellows; but the story of the angel was a clincher. all those who had property of any description rushed to the mart to change it into hard cash. lands and houses could be had for a quarter of their value, while arms and accoutrements of war rose in the same proportion. corn, which had been excessively dear in anticipation of a year of scarcity, suddenly became plentiful; and such was the diminution in the value of provisions, that seven sheep were sold for five deniers.[guibert de nogent] the nobles mortgaged their estates for mere trifles to jews and unbelievers, or conferred charters of immunity upon the towns and communes within their fiefs, for sums which, a few years previously, they would have rejected with disdain. the farmer endeavoured to sell his plough, and the artisan his tools, to purchase a sword for the deliverance of jerusalem. women disposed of their trinkets for the same purpose. during the spring and summer of this year ( ) the roads teemed with crusaders, all hastening to the towns and villages appointed as the rendezvous of the district. some were on horseback, some in carts, and some came down the rivers in boats and rafts, bringing their wives and children, all eager to go to jerusalem. very few knew where jerusalem was. some thought it fifty thousand miles away, while others imagined that it was but a month's journey, while at sight of every town or castle, the children exclaimed, "is that jerusalem? is that the city?" [guibert de nogent] parties of knights and nobles might be seen travelling eastward, and amusing themselves as they went with the knightly diversion of hawking to lighten the fatigues of the way. guibert de nogent, who did not write from hearsay, but from actual observation, says, the enthusiasm was so contagious, that when any one heard the orders of the pontiff, he went instantly to solicit his neighbours and friends to join with him in "the way of god," for so they called the proposed expedition. the counts palatine were full of the desire to undertake the journey, and all the inferior knights were animated with the same zeal. even the poor caught the flame so ardently, that no one paused to think of the inadequacy of his means, or to consider whether he ought to yield up his house and his vine and his fields. each one set about selling his property, at as low a price as if he had been held in some horrible captivity, and sought to pay his ransom without loss of time. those who had not determined upon the journey, joked and laughed at those who were thus disposing of their goods at such ruinous prices, prophesying that the expedition would be miserable and their return worse. but they held this language only for a day. the next, they were suddenly seized with the same frenzy as the rest. those who had been loudest in their jeers gave up all their property for a few crowns, and set out with those they had so laughed at a few hours before. in most cases the laugh was turned against them, for when it became known that a man was hesitating, his more zealous neighbours sent him a present of a knitting needle or a distaff, to show their contempt of him. there was no resisting this, so that the fear of ridicule contributed its fair contingent to the armies of the lord. another effect of the crusade was, the religious obedience with which it inspired the people and the nobility for that singular institution "the truce of god." at the commencement of the eleventh century, the clergy of france, sympathizing for the woes of the people, but unable to diminish them, by repressing the rapacity and insolence of the feudal chiefs, endeavoured to promote universal good-will by the promulgation of the famous "peace of god." all who conformed to it bound themselves by oath not to take revenge for any injury, not to enjoy the fruits of property usurped from others, nor to use deadly weapons; in reward of which they would receive remission of all their sins. however benevolent the intention of this "peace," it led to nothing but perjury, and violence reigned as uncontrolled as before. in the year another attempt was made to soften the angry passions of the semi-barbarous chiefs, and the "truce of god" was solemnly proclaimed. the truce lasted from the wednesday evening to the monday morning of every week, in which interval it was strictly forbidden to recur to violence on any pretext, or to seek revenge for any injury. it was impossible to civilize men by these means; few even promised to become peaceable for so unconscionable a period as five days a week; or, if they did, they made ample amends on the two days left open to them. the truce was afterwards shortened from the saturday evening to the monday morning; but little or no diminution of violence and bloodshed was the consequence. at the council of clermont, urban ii. again solemnly proclaimed the truce. so strong was the religious feeling, that every one hastened to obey. all minor passions disappeared before the grand passion of crusading; the noble ceased to oppress, the robber to plunder, and the people to complain; but one idea was in all hearts, and there seemed to be no room for any other. the encampments of these heterogeneous multitudes offered a singular aspect. those vassals who ranged themselves under the banners of their lord, erected tents around his castle; while those who undertook the war on their own account, constructed booths and huts in the neighbourhood of the towns or villages, preparatory to their joining some popular leader of the expedition. the meadows of france were covered with tents. as the belligerents were to have remission of all their sins on their arrival in palestine, hundreds of them gave themselves up to the most unbounded licentiousness: the courtezan, with the red cross upon her shoulders, plied her shameless trade with sensual pilgrims, without scruple on either side: the lover of good cheer gave loose rein to his appetite, and drunkenness and debauchery flourished. their zeal in the service of the lord was to wipe out all faults and follies, and they had the same surety of salvation as the rigid anchorite. this reasoning had charms for the ignorant, and the sounds of lewd revelry and the voice of prayer rose at the same instant from the camp. it is now time to speak of the leaders of the expedition. great multitudes ranged themselves under the command of peter the hermit, whom, as the originator, they considered the most appropriate leader of the war. others joined the banner of a bold adventurer, whom history has dignified with no other name than that of gautier sans avoir, or walter the pennyless, but who is represented as having been of noble family, and well skilled in the art of war. a third multitude from germany flocked around the standard of a monk, named gottschalk, of whom nothing is known, except that he was a fanatic of the deepest dye. all these bands, which together are said to have amounted to three hundred thousand men, women, and children, were composed of the vilest rascality of europe. without discipline, principle, or true courage, they rushed through the nations like a pestilence, spreading terror and death wherever they went. the first multitude that set forth was led by walter the pennyless early in the spring of , within a very few months after the council of clermont. each man of that irregular host aspired to be his own master: like their nominal leader, each was poor to penury, and trusted for subsistence on his journey to the chances of the road. rolling through germany like a tide, they entered hungary, where, at first, they were received with some degree of kindness by the people. the latter had not yet caught sufficient of the fire of enthusiasm to join the crusade themselves, but were willing enough to forward the cause by aiding those embarked in it. unfortunately, this good understanding did not last long. the swarm were not contented with food for their necessities, but craved for luxuries also: they attacked and plundered the dwellings of the country people, and thought nothing of murder where resistance was offered. on their arrival before semlin, the outraged hungarians collected in large numbers, and, attacking the rear of the crusading host, slew a great many of the stragglers, and, taking away their arms and crosses, affixed them as trophies to the walls of the city. walter appears to have been in no mood or condition to make reprisals; for his army, destructive as a plague of locusts when plunder urged them on, were useless against any regular attack from a determined enemy. their rear continued to be thus harassed by the wrathful hungarians until they were fairly out of their territory. on his entrance into bulgaria, walter met with no better fate; the cities and towns refused to let him pass; the villages denied him provisions; and the citizens and country people uniting, slaughtered his followers by hundreds. the progress of the army was more like a retreat than an advance; but as it was impossible to stand still, walter continued his course till he arrived at constantinople, with a force which famine and the sword had diminished to one-third of its original number. the greater multitude, led by the enthusiastic hermit, followed close upon his heels, with a bulky train of baggage, and women and children, sufficient to form a host of themselves. if it were possible to find a rabble more vile than the army of walter the pennyless it was that led by peter the hermit. being better provided with means, they were not reduced to the necessity of pillage in their progress through hungary; and had they taken any other route than that which led through semlin, might perhaps have traversed the country without molestation. on their arrival before that city, their fury was raised at seeing the arms and red crosses of their predecessors hanging as trophies over the gates. their pent-up ferocity exploded at the sight. the city was tumultuously attacked, and the besiegers entering, not by dint of bravery, but of superior numbers, it was given up to all the horrors which follow when victory, brutality, and licentiousness are linked together. every evil passion was allowed to revel with impunity, and revenge, lust, and avarice,--each had its hundred victims in unhappy semlin. any maniac can kindle a conflagration, but it requires many wise men to put it out. peter the hermit had blown the popular fury into a flame, but to cool it again was beyond his power. his followers rioted unrestrained, until the fear of retaliation warned them to desist. when the king of hungary was informed of the disasters of semlin, he marched with a sufficient force to chastise the hermit, who at the news broke up his camp and retreated towards the morava, a broad and rapid stream that joins the danube a few miles to the eastward of belgrade. here a party of indignant bulgarians awaited him, and so harassed him as to make the passage of the river a task both of difficulty and danger. great numbers of his infatuated followers perished in the waters, and many fell under the swords of the bulgarians. the ancient chronicles do not mention the amount of the hermit's loss at this passage, but represent it in general terms as very great. at nissa the duke of bulgaria fortified himself, in fear of an assault; but peter, having learned a little wisdom from experience, thought it best to avoid hostilities. he passed three nights in quietness under the walls, and the duke, not wishing to exasperate unnecessarily so fierce and rapacious a host, allowed the townspeople to supply them with provisions. peter took his departure peaceably on the following morning, but some german vagabonds falling behind the main body of the army, set fire to the mills and house of a bulgarian, with whom, it appears, they had had some dispute on the previous evening. the citizens of nissa, who had throughout mistrusted the crusaders, and were prepared for the worst, sallied out immediately, and took signal vengeance. the spoilers were cut to pieces, and the townspeople pursuing the hermit, captured all the women and children who had lagged in the rear, and a great quantity of baggage. peter hereupon turned round and marched back to nissa, to demand explanation of the duke of bulgaria. the latter fairly stated the provocation given, and the hermit could urge nothing in palliation of so gross an outrage. a negotiation was entered into which promised to be successful, and the bulgarians were about to deliver up the women and children when a party of undisciplined crusaders, acting solely upon their own suggestion, endeavoured to scale the walls and seize upon the town. peter in vain exerted his authority; the confusion became general, and after a short but desperate battle, the crusaders threw down their arms and fled in all directions. their vast host was completely routed, the slaughter being so great among them as to be counted, not by hundreds, but by thousands. it is said that the hermit fled from this fatal field to a forest a few miles from nissa, abandoned by every human creature. it would be curious to know whether, after so dire a reverse, . . . . . . . . . . "his enpierced breast sharp sorrow did in thousand pieces rive," or whether his fiery zeal still rose superior to calamity, and pictured the eventual triumph of his cause. he, so lately the leader of a hundred thousand men, was now a solitary skulker in the forests, liable at every instant to be discovered by some pursuing bulgarian, and cut off in mid career. chance at last brought him within sight of an eminence where two or three of his bravest knights had collected five hundred of the stragglers. these gladly received the hermit, and a consultation having taken place, it was resolved to gather together the scattered remnants of the army. fires were lighted on the hill, and scouts sent out in all directions for the fugitives. horns were sounded at intervals to make known that friends were near, and before nightfall the hermit saw himself at the head of seven thousand men. during the succeeding day he was joined by twenty thousand more, and with this miserable remnant of his force he pursued his route towards constantinople. the bones of the rest mouldered in the forests of bulgaria. on his arrival at constantinople, where he found walter the pennyless awaiting him, he was hospitably received by the emperor alexius. it might have been expected that the sad reverses they had undergone would have taught his followers common prudence; but, unhappily for them, their turbulence and love of plunder were not to be restrained. although they were surrounded by friends, by whom all their wants were liberally supplied, they could not refrain from rapine. in vain the hermit exhorted them to tranquillity; he possessed no more power over them, in subduing their passions, than the obscurest soldier of the host, they set fire to several public buildings in constantinople, out of pure mischief, and stripped the lead from the roofs of the churches, which, they afterwards sold for old metal in the purlieus of the city. from this time may be dated the aversion which the emperor alexius entertained for the crusaders, and which was afterwards manifested in all his actions, even when he had to deal with the chivalrous and more honourable armies which arrived after the hermit. he seems to have imagined that the turks themselves were enemies less formidable to his power than these outpourings of the refuse of europe: he soon found a pretext to hurry them into asia minor. peter crossed the bosphorus with walter, but the excesses of his followers were such, that, despairing of accomplishing any good end by remaining at their head, he left them to themselves, and returned to constantinople, on the pretext of making arrangements with the government of alexius for a proper supply of provisions. the crusaders, forgetting that they were in the enemy's country, and that union, above all things, was desirable, gave themselves up to dissensions. violent disputes arose between the lombards and normans, commanded by walter the pennyless, and the franks and germans, led out by peter. the latter separated themselves from the former, and, choosing for their leader one reinaldo, or reinhold, marched forward, and took possession of the fortress of exorogorgon. the sultan solimaun was on the alert, with a superior force. a party of crusaders, which had been detached from the fort, and stationed at a little distance as an ambuscade, were surprised and cut to pieces, and exorogorgon invested on all sides. the siege was protracted for eight days, during which the christians suffered the most acute agony from the want of water. it is hard to say how long the hope of succour or the energy of despair would have enabled them to hold out: their treacherous leader cut the matter short by renouncing the christian faith, and delivering up the fort into the hands of the sultan. he was followed by two or three of his officers; all the rest, refusing to become mahometans, were ruthlessly put to the sword. thus perished the last wretched remnant of the vast multitude which had traversed europe with peter the hermit. walter the pennyless and his multitude met as miserable a fate. on the news of the disasters of exorogorgon, they demanded to be led instantly against the turks. walter, who only wanted good soldiers to have made a good general, was cooler of head, and saw all the dangers of such a step. his force was wholly insufficient to make any decisive movement in a country where the enemy was so much superior, and where, in case of defeat, he had no secure position to fall back upon; and he therefore expressed his opinion against advancing until the arrival of reinforcements. this prudent counsel found no favour: the army loudly expressed their dissatisfaction at their chief, and prepared to march forward without him. upon this, the brave walter put himself at their head, and rushed to destruction. proceeding towards nice, the modern isnik, he was intercepted by the army of the sultan: a fierce battle ensued in which the turks made fearful havoc; out of twenty-five thousand christians, twenty-two thousand were slain, and among them gautier himself, who fell pierced by seven mortal wounds. the remaining three thousand retreated upon civitot, where they intrenched themselves. disgusted as was peter the hermit at the excesses of the multitude, who, at his call, had forsaken europe, his heart was moved with grief and pity at their misfortunes. all his former zeal revived: casting himself at the feet of the emperor alexius, he implored him, with tears in his eyes, to send relief to the few survivors at civitot. the emperor consented, and a force was sent, which arrived just in time to save them from destruction. the turks had beleaguered the place, and the crusaders were reduced to the last extremity. negotiations were entered into, and the last three thousand were conducted in safety to constantinople. alexius had suffered too much by their former excesses to be very desirous of retaining them in his capital: he therefore caused them all to be disarmed, and, furnishing each with a sum of money, he sent them back to their own country. while these events were taking place, fresh hordes were issuing from the woods and wilds of germany, all bent for the holy land. they were commanded by a fanatical priest, named gottschalk, who, like gautier and peter the hermit, took his way through hungary. history is extremely meagre in her details of the conduct and fate of this host, which amounted to at least one hundred thousand men. robbery and murder seem to have journeyed with them, and the poor hungarians were rendered almost desperate by their numbers and rapacity. karloman, the king of the country, made a bold effort to get rid of them; for the resentment of his people had arrived at such a height, that nothing short of the total extermination of the crusaders would satisfy them. gottschalk had to pay the penalty, not only for the ravages of his own bands, but for those of the swarms that had come before him. he and his army were induced, by some means or other, to lay down their arms: the savage hungarians, seeing them thus defenceless, set upon them, and slaughtered them in great numbers. how many escaped their arrows, we are not informed; but not one of them reached palestine. other swarms, under nameless leaders, issued from germany and france, more brutal and more frantic than any that had preceded them. their fanaticism surpassed by far the wildest freaks of the followers of the hermit. in bands, varying in numbers from one to five thousand, they traversed the country in all directions, bent upon plunder and massacre. they wore the symbol of the crusade upon their shoulders, but inveighed against the folly of proceeding to the holy land to destroy the turks, while they left behind them so many jews, the still more inveterate enemies of christ. they swore fierce vengeance against this unhappy race, and murdered all the hebrews they could lay their hands on, first subjecting them to the most horrible mutilation. according to the testimony of albert aquensis, they lived among each other in the most shameless profligacy, and their vice was only exceeded by their superstition. whenever they were in search of jews, they were preceded by a goose and goat, which they believed to be holy, and animated with divine power to discover the retreats of the unbelievers. in germany alone they slaughtered more than a thousand jews, notwithstanding all the efforts of the clergy to save them. so dreadful was the cruelty of their tormentors, that great numbers of jews committed self-destruction to avoid falling into their hands. again it fell to the lot of the hungarians to deliver europe from these pests. when there were no more jews to murder, the bands collected in one body, and took the old route to the holy land, a route stained with the blood of three hundred thousand who had gone before, and destined also to receive theirs. the number of these swarms has never been stated; but so many of them perished in hungary, that contemporary writers, despairing of giving any adequate idea of their multitudes, state that the fields were actually heaped with their corpses, and that for miles in its course the waters of the danube were dyed with their blood. it was at mersburg, on the danube, that the greatest slaughter took place,--a slaughter so great as to amount almost to extermination. the hungarians for a while disputed the passage of the river, but the crusaders forced their way across, and attacking the city with the blind courage of madness, succeeded in making a breach in the walls. at this moment of victory an unaccountable fear came over them. throwing down their arms they fled panic-stricken, no one knew why, and no one knew whither. the hungarians followed, sword in hand, and cut them down without remorse, and in such numbers, that the stream of the danube is said to have been choked up by their unburied bodies. this was the worst paroxysm of the madness of europe; and this passed, her chivalry stepped upon the scene. men of cool heads, mature plans, and invincible courage stood forward to lead and direct the grand movement of europe upon asia. it is upon these men that romance has lavished her most admiring epithets, leaving to the condemnation of history the vileness and brutality of those who went before. of these leaders the most distinguished were godfrey of bouillon duke of lorraine, and raymond count of toulouse. four other chiefs of the royal blood of europe also assumed the cross, and led each his army to the holy land: hugh, count of vermandois, brother of the king of france; robert, duke of normandy, the elder brother of william rufus; robert count of flanders, and boemund prince of tarentum, eldest son of the celebrated robert guiscard. these men were all tinged with the fanaticism of the age, but none of them acted entirely from religious motives. they were neither utterly reckless like gautier sans avoir, crazy like peter the hermit, nor brutal like gottschalk the monk, but possessed each of these qualities in a milder form; their valour being tempered by caution, their religious zeal by worldly views, and their ferocity by the spirit of chivalry. they saw whither led the torrent of the public will; and it being neither their wish nor their interest to stem it, they allowed themselves to be carried with it, in the hope that it would lead them at last to a haven of aggrandizement. around them congregated many minor chiefs, the flower of the nobility of france and italy, with some few from germany, england, and spain. it was wisely conjectured that armies so numerous would find a difficulty in procuring provisions if they all journeyed by the same road. they, therefore, resolved to separate, godfrey de bouillon proceeding through hungary and bulgaria, the count of toulouse through lombardy and dalmatia, and the other leaders through apulia to constantinople, where the several divisions were to reunite. the forces under these leaders have been variously estimated. the princess anna comnena talks of them as having been as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, or the stars in the firmament. fulcher of chartres is more satisfactory, and exaggerates less magnificently, when he states, that all the divisions, when they had sat down before nice in bithynia, amounted to one hundred thousand horsemen, and six hundred thousand men on foot, exclusive of the priests, women and children. gibbon is of opinion that this amount is exaggerated; but thinks the actual numbers did not fall very far short of the calculation. the princess anna afterwards gives the number of those under godfrey of bouillon as eighty thousand foot and horse; and supposing that each of the other chiefs led an army as numerous, the total would be near half a million. this must be over rather than under the mark, as the army of godfrey of bouillon was confessedly the largest when it set out, and suffered less by the way than any other. the count of vermandois was the first who set foot on the grecian territory. on his arrival at durazzo he was received with every mark of respect and courtesy by the agents of the emperor, and his followers were abundantly supplied with provisions. suddenly however, and without cause assigned, the count was arrested by order of the emperor alexius, and conveyed a close prisoner to constantinople. various motives have been assigned by different authors as having induced the emperor to this treacherous and imprudent proceeding. by every writer he has been condemned for so flagrant a breach of hospitality and justice. the most probable reason for his conduct appears to be that suggested by guibert of nogent, who states that alexius, fearful of the designs of the crusaders upon his throne, resorted to this extremity in order afterwards to force the count to take the oath of allegiance to him, as the price of his liberation. the example of a prince so eminent as the brother of the king of france, would, he thought, be readily followed by the other chiefs of the crusade. in the result he was wofully disappointed, as every man deserves to be who commits positive evil that doubtful good may ensue. but this line of policy accorded well enough with the narrowmindedness of the emperor, who, in the enervating atmosphere of his highly civilized and luxurious court, dreaded the influx of the hardy and ambitious warriors of the west, and strove to nibble away by unworthy means, the power which he had not energy enough to confront. if danger to himself had existed from the residence of the chiefs in his dominions, he might easily have averted it, by the simple means of placing himself at the head of the european movement, and directing its energies to their avowed object, the conquest of the holy land. but the emperor, instead of being, as he might have been, the lord and leader of the crusades, which he had himself aided in no inconsiderable degree to suscitate by his embassies to the pope, became the slave of men who hated and despised him. no doubt the barbarous excesses of the followers of gautier and peter the hermit made him look upon the whole body of them with disgust, but it was the disgust of a little mind, which is glad of any excuse to palliate or justify its own irresolution and love of ease. godfrey of bouillon traversed hungary in the most quiet and orderly manner. on his arrival at mersburg he found the country strewed with the mangled corpses of the jew-killers, and demanded of the king of hungary for what reason his people had set upon them. the latter detailed the atrocities they had committed, and made it so evident to godfrey that the hungarians had only acted in self-defence, that the high-minded leader declared himself satisfied and passed on, without giving or receiving molestation. on his arrival at philippopoli, he was informed for the first time of the imprisonment of the count of vermandois. he immediately sent messengers to the emperor, demanding the count's release, and threatening, in case of refusal, to lay waste the country with fire and sword. after waiting a day at philippopoli he marched on to adrianople, where he was met by his messengers returning with the emperor's refusal. godfrey, the bravest and most determined of the leaders of the crusade, was not a man to swerve from his word, and the country was given up to pillage. alexius here committed another blunder. no sooner did he learn from dire experience that the crusader was not an utterer of idle threats, than he consented to the release of the prisoner. as he had been unjust in the first instance, he became cowardly in the second, and taught his enemies (for so the crusaders were forced to consider themselves) a lesson which they took care to remember to his cost, that they could hope nothing from his sense of justice, but every thing from his fears. godfrey remained encamped for several weeks in the neighbourhood of constantinople, to the great annoyance of alexius, who sought by every means to extort from him the homage he had extorted from vermandois. sometimes he acted as if at open and declared war with the crusaders, and sent his troops against them. sometimes he refused to supply them with food, and ordered the markets to be shut against them, while at other times he was all for peace and goodwill, and sent costly presents to godfrey. the honest, straightforward crusader was at last so wearied by his false kindness, and so pestered by his attacks, that, allowing his indignation to get the better of his judgment, he gave up the country around constantinople to be plundered by his soldiers. for six days the flames of the farm-houses around struck terror into the heart of alexius, but as godfrey anticipated they convinced him of his error. fearing that constantinople itself would be the next object of attack, he sent messengers to demand an interview with godfrey, offering at the same time to leave his son as a hostage for his good faith. godfrey agreed to meet him, and, whether to put an end to these useless dissensions, or for some other unexplained reason, he rendered homage to alexius as his liege lord. he was thereupon loaded with honours, and, according to a singular custom of that age, underwent the ceremony of the "adoption of honour," as son to the emperor. godfrey, and his brother baudouin de bouillon, conducted themselves with proper courtesy on this occasion, but were not able to restrain the insolence of their followers, who did not conceive themselves bound to keep any terms with a man so insincere as he had shown himself. one barbarous chieftain, count robert of paris, carried his insolence so far as to seat himself upon the throne, an insult which alexius merely resented with a sneer, but which did not induce him to look with less mistrust upon the hordes that were still advancing. it is impossible, notwithstanding his treachery, to avoid feeling some compassion for the emperor, whose life at this time was rendered one long scene of misery by the presumption of the crusaders, and his not altogether groundless fears of the evil they might inflict upon him, should any untoward circumstance force the current of their ambition to the conquest of his empire. his daughter, anna comnena, feelingly deplores his state of life at this time, and a learned german, [m. wilken's geschichte der kreuzzuge.] in a recent work, describes it, on the authority of the princess, in the following manner:-- "to avoid all occasion of offence to the crusaders, alexius complied with all their whims, and their (on many occasions) unreasonable demands, even at the expense of great bodily exertion, at a time when he was suffering severely under the gout, which eventually brought him to his grave. no crusader who desired an interview with him was refused access: he listened with the utmost patience to the long-winded harangues which their loquacity or zeal continually wearied him with: he endured, without expressing any impatience, the unbecoming and haughty language which they permitted themselves to employ towards him, and severely reprimanded his officers when they undertook to defend the dignity of the imperial station from these rude assaults; for he trembled with apprehension at the slightest disputes, lest they might become the occasion of greater evil. though the counts often appeared before him with trains altogether unsuitable to their dignity and to his--sometimes with an entire troop, which completely filled the royal apartment--the emperor held his peace. he listened to them at all hours; he often seated himself on his throne at day-break to attend to their wishes and requests, and the evening twilight saw him still in the same place. very frequently he could not snatch time to refresh himself with meat and drink. during many nights he could not obtain any repose, and was obliged to indulge in an unrefreshing sleep upon his throne, with his head resting on his hands. even this slumber was continually disturbed by the appearance and harangues of some newly-arrived rude knights. when all the courtiers, wearied out by the efforts of the day and by night-watching, could no longer keep themselves on their feet, and sank down exhausted--some upon benches and others on the floor--alexius still rallied his strength to listen with seeming attention to the wearisome chatter of the latins, that they might have no occasion or pretext for discontent. in such a state of fear and anxiety, how could alexius comport himself with dignity and like an emperor?" alexius, however, had himself to blame, in a great measure, for the indignities he suffered: owing to his insincerity, the crusaders mistrusted him so much, that it became at last a common saying, that the turks and saracens were not such inveterate foes to the western or latin christians as the emperor alexius and the greeks.[wilken] it would be needless in this sketch, which does not profess to be so much a history of the crusades as of the madness of europe, from which they sprang, to detail the various acts of bribery and intimidation, cajolery and hostility, by which alexius contrived to make each of the leaders in succession, as they arrived, take the oath of allegiance to him as their suzerain. one way or another he exacted from each the barren homage on which he had set his heart, and they were then allowed to proceed into asia minor. one only, raymond de st. gilles, count of toulouse, obstinately refused the homage. their residence in constantinople was productive of no good to the armies of the cross. bickerings and contentions on the one hand, and the influence of a depraved and luxurious court on the other, destroyed the elasticity of their spirits, and cooled the first ardour of their enthusiasm. at one time the army of the count of toulouse was on the point of disbanding itself; and, had not their leader energetically removed them across the bosphorus, this would have been the result. once in asia, their spirits in some degree revived, and the presence of danger and difficulty nerved them to the work they had undertaken. the first operation of the war was the siege of nice, to gain possession of which all their efforts were directed. godfrey of bouillon and the count of vermandois were joined under its walls by each host in succession, as it left constantinople. among the celebrated crusaders who fought at this siege, we find, besides the leaders already mentioned, the brave and generous tancred, whose name and fame have been immortalized in the gerusalemme liberata, the valorous bishop of puy, baldwin, afterwards king of jerusalem, and peter the hermit, now an almost solitary soldier, shorn of all the power and influence he had formerly possessed. kilij aslaun, the sultan of roum, and chief of the seljukian turks, whose deeds, surrounded by the false halo of romance, are familiar to the readers of tasso, under the name of soliman, marched to defend this city, but was defeated after several obstinate engagements, in which the christians showed a degree of heroism that quite astonished him. the turkish chief had expected to find a wild undisciplined multitude, like that under peter the hermit, without leaders capable of enforcing obedience; instead of which he found the most experienced leaders of the age at the head of armies that had just fanaticism enough to be ferocious, but not enough to render them ungovernable. in these engagements, many hundreds fell on both sides; and on both sides the most revolting barbarity was practised: the crusaders cut off the heads of the fallen mussulmans, and sent them in paniers to constantinople, as trophies of their victory. after the temporary defeat of kilij aslaun, the siege of nice was carried on with redoubled vigour. the turks defended themselves with the greatest obstinacy, and discharged showers of poisoned arrows upon the crusaders. when any unfortunate wretch was killed under the walls, they let down iron hooks from above, and drew the body up, which, after stripping and mutilating, they threw back again at the besiegers. the latter were well supplied with provisions, and for six-and-thirty days the siege continued without any relaxation of the efforts on either side. many tales are told of the almost superhuman heroism of the christian leaders--how one man put a thousand to flight; and how the arrows of the faithful never missed their mark. one anecdote of godfrey of bouillon, related by albert of aix, is worth recording, not only as showing the high opinion entertained of his valour, but as showing the contagious credulity of the armies--a credulity which as often led them to the very verge of defeat, as it incited them to victory. one turk, of gigantic stature, took his station day by day on the battlements of nice, and, bearing an enormous bow, committed great havoc among the christian host. not a shaft he sped, but bore death upon its point; and, although the crusaders aimed repeatedly at his breast, and he stood in the most exposed position, their arrows fell harmless at his feet. he seemed to be invulnerable to attack; and a report was soon spread abroad, that he was no other than the arch fiend himself, and that mortal hand could not prevail against him. godfrey of bouillon, who had no faith in the supernatural character of the mussulman, determined, if possible, to put an end to the dismay which was rapidly paralyzing the exertions of his best soldiers. taking a huge cross-bow, he stood forward in front of the army, to try the steadiness of his hand against the much-dreaded archer: the shaft was aimed directly at his heart, and took fatal effect. the moslem fell amid the groans of the besieged, and the shouts of deus adjuva! deus adjuva! the war-cry of the besiegers. at last the crusaders imagined that they had overcome all obstacles, and were preparing to take possession of the city, when to their great astonishment they saw the flag of the emperor alexius flying from the battlements. an emissary of the emperor, named faticius or tatin, had contrived to gain admission with a body of greek troops at a point which the crusaders had left unprotected, and had persuaded the turks to surrender to him rather than to the crusading forces. the greatest indignation prevailed in the army when this stratagem was discovered, and the soldiers were, with the utmost difficulty, prevented from renewing the attack and besieging the greek emissary. the army, however, continued its march, and by some means or other was broken into two divisions; some historians say accidentally, [fulcher of chartres.--guibert de nogent.--vital.] while others affirm by mutual consent, and for the convenience of obtaining provisions on the way. [william of tyre.--mills.--wilken, &c.] the one division was composed of the forces under bohemund, tancred, and the duke of normandy; while the other, which took a route at some distance on the right, was commanded by godfrey of bouillon and the other chiefs. the sultan of roum, who, after his losses at nice, had been silently making great efforts to crush the crusaders at one blow, collected in a very short time all the multitudinous tribes that owed him allegiance, and with an army which, according to a moderate calculation, amounted to two hundred thousand men, chiefly cavalry, he fell upon the first division of the christian host in the valley of dorylaeum. it was early in the morning of the st of july , when the crusaders saw the first companies of the turkish horsemen pouring down upon them from the hills. bohemund had hardly time to set himself in order, and transport his sick and helpless to the rear, when the overwhelming force of the orientals was upon him. the christian army, composed principally of men on foot, gave way on all sides, and the hoofs of the turkish steeds, and the poisoned arrows of their bowmen, mowed them down by hundreds. after having lost the flower of their chivalry, the christians retreated upon their baggage, when a dreadful slaughter took place. neither women nor children, nor the sick, were spared. just as they were reduced to the last extremity, godfrey of bouillon and the count of toulouse made their appearance on the field, and turned the tide of battle. after an obstinate engagement the turks fled, and their rich camp fell into the bands of the enemy. the loss of the crusaders amounted to about four thousand men, with several chiefs of renown, among whom were count robert of paris and william the brother of tancred. the loss of the turks, which did not exceed this number, taught them to pursue a different mode of warfare. the sultan was far from being defeated. with his still gigantic army, he laid waste all the country on either side of the crusaders. the latter, who were unaware of the tactics of the enemy, found plenty of provisions in the turkish camp; but so far from economizing these resources, they gave themselves up for several days to the most unbounded extravagance. they soon paid dearly for their heedlessness. in the ravaged country of phrygia, through which they advanced towards antiochetta, they suffered dreadfully for want of food for themselves and pasture for their cattle. above them was a scorching sun, almost sufficient of itself to dry up the freshness of the land, a task which the firebrands of the sultan had but too surely effected, and water was not to be had after the first day of their march. the pilgrims died at the rate of five hundred a-day. the horses of the knights perished on the road, and the baggage which they had aided to transport, was either placed upon dogs, sheep, and swine, or abandoned altogether. in some of the calamities that afterwards befell them, the christians gave themselves up to the most reckless profligacy; but upon this occasion, the dissensions which prosperity had engendered, were all forgotten. religion, often disregarded, arose in the stern presence of misfortune, and cheered them as they died by the promises of eternal felicity. at length they reached antiochetta, where they found water in abundance, and pastures for their expiring cattle. plenty once more surrounded them, and here they pitched their tents. untaught by the bitter experience of famine, they again gave themselves up to luxury and waste. on the th of october they sat down before the strong city of antioch, the siege of which, and the events to which it gave rise, are among the most extraordinary incidents of the crusade. the city, which is situated on an eminence, and washed by the river orontes, is naturally a very strong position, and the turkish garrison were well supplied with provisions to endure a long siege. in this respect the christians were also fortunate, but, unluckily for themselves, unwise. their force amounted to three hundred thousand fighting men; and we are informed by raymond d'argilles, that they had so much provision, that they threw away the greater part of every animal they killed, being so dainty, that they would only eat particular parts of the beast. so insane was their extravagance, that in less than ten days famine began to stare them in the face. after making a fruitless attempt to gain possession of the city by a coup de main, they, starving themselves, sat down to starve out the enemy. but with want came a cooling of enthusiasm. the chiefs began to grow weary of the expedition. baldwin had previously detached himself from the main body of the army, and, proceeding to edessa, had intrigued himself into the supreme power in that little principality. the other leaders were animated with less zeal than heretofore. stephen of chartres and hugh of vermandois began to waver, unable to endure the privations which their own folly and profusion had brought upon them. even peter the hermit became sick at heart ere all was over. when the famine had become so urgent that they were reduced to eat human flesh in the extremity of their hunger, bohemund and robert of flanders set forth on an expedition to procure a supply. they were in a slight degree successful; but the relief they brought was not economized, and in two days they were as destitute as before. faticius, the greek commander and representative of alexius, deserted with his division under pretence of seeking for food, and his example was followed by various bodies of crusaders. misery was rife among those who remained, and they strove to alleviate it by a diligent attention to signs and omens. these, with extraordinary visions seen by the enthusiastic, alternately cheered and depressed them according as they foretold the triumph or pictured the reverses of the cross. at one time a violent hurricane arose, levelling great trees with the ground, and blowing down the tents of the christian leaders. at another time an earthquake shook the camp, and was thought to prognosticate some great impending evil to the cause of christendom. but a comet which appeared shortly afterwards, raised them from the despondency into which they had fallen; their lively imaginations making it assume the form of a flaming cross leading them on to victory. famine was not the least of the evils they endured. unwholesome food, and the impure air from the neighbouring marshes, engendered pestilential diseases, which carried them off more rapidly than the arrows of the enemy. a thousand of them died in a day, and it became at last a matter of extreme difficulty to afford them burial. to add to their misery, each man grew suspicious of his neighbour; for the camp was infested by turkish spies, who conveyed daily to the besieged intelligence of the movements and distresses of the enemy. with a ferocity, engendered by despair, bohemund caused two spies, whom he had detected, to be roasted alive in presence of the army, and within sight of the battlements of antioch. but even this example failed to reduce their numbers, and the turks continued to be as well informed as the christians themselves of all that was passing in the camp. the news of the arrival of a reinforcement of soldiers from europe, with an abundant stock of provisions, came to cheer them when reduced to the last extremity. the welcome succour landed at st. simeon, the port of antioch, and about six miles from that city. thitherwards the famishing crusaders proceeded in tumultuous bands, followed by bohemund and the count of toulouse, with strong detachments of their retainers and vassals, to escort the supplies in safety to the camp. the garrison of antioch, forewarned of this arrival, was on the alert, and a corps of turkish archers was despatched to lie in ambuscade among the mountains and intercept their return. bohemund, laden with provisions, was encountered in the rocky passes by the turkish host. great numbers of his followers were slain, and he himself had just time to escape to the camp with the news of his defeat. godfrey of bouillon, the duke of normandy, and the other leaders had heard the rumour of this battle, and were at that instant preparing for the rescue. the army was immediately in motion, animated both by zeal and by hunger, and marched so rapidly as to intercept the victorious turks before they had time to reach antioch with their spoil. a fierce battle ensued, which lasted from noon till the going down of the sun. the christians gained and maintained the advantage, each man fighting as if upon himself alone had depended the fortune of the day. hundreds of turks perished in the orontes, and more than two thousand were left dead upon the field of battle. all the provision was recaptured and brought in safety to the camp, whither the crusaders returned singing allelulia! or shouting deus adjuva! deus adjuva! this relief lasted for some days, and, had it been duly economized, would have lasted much longer; but the chiefs had no authority, and were unable to exercise any control over its distribution. famine again approached with rapid strides, and stephen count of blois, not liking the prospect, withdrew from the camp, with four thousand of his retainers, and established himself at alexandretta. the moral influence of this desertion was highly prejudicial upon those who remained; and bohemund, the most impatient and ambitious of the chiefs, foresaw that, unless speedily checked, it would lead to the utter failure of the expedition. it was necessary to act decisively; the army murmured at the length of the siege, and the sultan was collecting his forces to crush them. against the efforts of the crusaders antioch might have held out for months; but treason within effected that, which courage without might have striven for in vain. baghasihan, the turkish prince or emir of antioch, had under his command an armenian of the name of phirouz, whom he had intrusted with the defence of a tower on that part of the city wall which overlooked the passes of the mountains. bohemund, by means of a spy who had embraced the christian religion, and to whom he had given his own name at baptism, kept up a daily communication with this captain, and made him the most magnificent promises of reward, if he would deliver up his post to the christian knights. whether the proposal was first made by bohemund or by the armenian is uncertain, but that a good understanding soon existed between them, is undoubted; and a night was fixed for the execution of the project. bohemund communicated the scheme to godfrey and the count of toulouse, with the stipulation that, if the city were won, he, as the soul of the enterprise, should enjoy the dignity of prince of antioch. the other leaders hesitated: ambition and jealousy prompted them to refuse their aid in furthering the views of the intriguer. more mature consideration decided them to acquiesce, and seven hundred of the bravest knights were chosen for the expedition, the real object of which, for fear of spies, was kept a profound secret from the rest of the army. when all was ready, a report was promulgated, that the seven hundred were intended to form an ambuscade for a division of the sultan's army, which was stated to be approaching. every thing favoured the treacherous project of the armenian captain, who, on his solitary watchtower, received due intimation of the approach of the crusaders. the night was dark and stormy; not a star was visible above, and the wind howled so furiously as to overpower all other sounds: the rain fell in torrents, and the watchers on the towers adjoining to that of phirouz could not hear the tramp of the armed knights for the wind, nor see them for the obscurity of the night and the dismalness of the weather. when within shot of the walls, bohemund sent forward an interpreter to confer with the armenian. the latter urged them to make haste, and seize the favourable interval, as armed men, with lighted torches, patrolled the battlements every half hour, and at that instant they had just passed. the chiefs were instantly at the foot of the wall: phirouz let down a rope; bohemund attached it to the end of a ladder of hides, which was then raised by the armenian, and held while the knights mounted. a momentary fear came over the spirits of the adventurers, and every one hesitated. at last bohemund, [vide william of tyre.] encouraged by phirouz from above, ascended a few steps on the ladder, and was followed by godfrey, count robert of flanders, and a number of other knights. as they advanced, others pressed forward, until their weight became too great for the ladder, which, breaking, precipitated about a dozen of them to the ground, where they fell one upon the other, making a great clatter with their heavy coats of mail. for a moment they thought that all was lost; but the wind made so loud a howling as it swept in fierce gusts through the mountain gorges--and the orontes, swollen by the rain, rushed so noisily along--that the guards heard nothing. the ladder was easily repaired, and the knights ascended two at a time, and reached the platform in safety, when sixty of them had thus ascended, the torch of the coming patrol was seen to gleam at the angle of the wall. hiding themselves behind a buttress, they awaited his coming in breathless silence. as soon as he arrived at arm's length, he was suddenly seized, and, before he could open his lips to raise an alarm, the silence of death closed them up for ever. they next descended rapidly the spiral staircase of the tower, and, opening the portal, admitted the whole of their companions. raymond of toulouse, who, cognizant of the whole plan, had been left behind with the main body of the army, heard at this instant the signal horn, which announced that an entry had been effected, and, leading on his legions, the town was attacked from within and without. imagination cannot conceive a scene more dreadful than that presented by the devoted city of antioch on that night of horror. the crusaders fought with a blind fury, which fanaticism and suffering alike incited. men, women, and children were indiscriminately slaughtered till the streets ran in gore. darkness increased the destruction, for when morning dawned the crusaders found themselves with their swords at the breasts of their fellow-soldiers, whom they had mistaken for foes. the turkish commander fled, first to the citadel, and that becoming insecure, to the mountains, whither he was pursued and slain, his grey head brought back to antioch as a trophy. at daylight the massacre ceased, and the crusaders gave themselves up to plunder. they found gold, and jewels, and silks, and velvets in abundance, but, of provisions, which were of more importance to them, they found but little of any kind. corn was excessively scarce, and they discovered to their sorrow that in this respect the besieged had been but little better off than the besiegers. before they had time to instal themselves in their new position, and take the necessary measures for procuring a supply, the city was invested by the turks. the sultan of persia had raised an immense army, which he intrusted to the command of kerbogha, the emir of mosul, with instructions to sweep the christian locusts from the face of the land. the emir effected junction with kilij aslaun, and the two armies surrounded the city. discouragement took complete possession of the christian host, and numbers of them contrived to elude the vigilance of the besiegers, and escape to count stephen of blots at alexandretta, to whom they related the most exaggerated tales of the misery they had endured, and the utter hopelessness of continuing the war. stephen forthwith broke up his camp and retreated towards constantinople. on his way he was met by the emperor alexius, at the head of a considerable force, hastening to take possession of the conquests made by the christians in asia. as soon as he heard of their woeful plight, he turned back, and proceeded with the count of blots to constantinople, leaving the remnant of the crusaders to shift for themselves. the news of this defection increased the discouragement at antioch. all the useless horses of the army had been slain and eaten, and dogs, cats, and rats were sold at enormous prices. even vermin were becoming scarce. with increasing famine came a pestilence, so that in a short time but sixty thousand remained of the three hundred thousand that had originally invested antioch. but this bitter extremity, while it annihilated the energy of the host, only served to knit the leaders more firmly together; and bohemund, godfrey, and tancred swore never to desert the cause as long as life lasted. the former strove in vain to reanimate the courage of his followers. they were weary and sick at heart, and his menaces and promises were alike thrown away. some of them had shut themselves up in the houses, and refused to come forth. bohemund, to drive them to their duty, set fire to the whole quarter, and many of them perished in the flames, while the rest of the army looked on with the utmost indifference. bohemund, animated himself by a worldly spirit, did not know the true character of the crusaders, nor understand the religious madness which had brought them in such shoals from europe. a priest, more clear-sighted, devised a scheme which restored all their confidence, and inspired them with a courage so wonderful as to make the poor sixty thousand emaciated, sick, and starving zealots, put to flight the well-fed and six times as numerous legions of the sultan of persia. this priest, a native of provence, was named peter barthelemy, and whether he were a knave or an enthusiast, or both; a principal, or a tool in the hands of others, will ever remain a matter of doubt. certain it is, however, that he was the means of raising the siege of antioch, and causing the eventual triumph of the armies of the cross. when the strength of the crusaders was completely broken by their sufferings, and hope had fled from every bosom, peter came to count raymond of toulouse, and demanded an interview on matters of serious moment. he was immediately admitted. he said that, some weeks previously, at the time the christians were besieging antioch, he was reposing alone in his tent, when he was startled by the shock of the earthquake, which had so alarmed the whole host. through violent terror of the shock he could only ejaculate, god help me! when turning round he saw two men standing before him, whom he at once recognized by the halo of glory around them as beings of another world. one of them appeared to be an aged man, with reddish hair sprinkled with grey, black eyes, and a long flowing grey beard. the other was younger, larger, and handsomer, and had something more divine in his aspect. the elderly man alone spoke, and informed him that he was the holy apostle st. andrew, and desired him to seek out the count raymond, the bishop of puy, and raymond of altopulto, and ask them why the bishop did not exhort the people, and sign them with the cross which he bore. the apostle then took him, naked in his shirt as he was, and transported him through the air into the heart of the city of antioch, where he led him into the church of st. peter, at that time a saracen mosque. the apostle made him stop by the pillar close to the steps by which they ascend on the south side to the altar, where hung two lamps, which gave out a light brighter than that of the noonday sun; the younger man, whom he did not at that time know, standing afar off, near the steps of the altar. the apostle then descended into the ground and brought up a lance, which he gave into his hand, telling him that it was the very lance that had opened the side whence had flowed the salvation of the world. with tears of joy he held the holy lance, and implored the apostle to allow him to take it away and deliver it into the hands of count raymond. the apostle refused, and buried the lance again in the ground, commanding him, when the city was won from the infidels, to go with twelve chosen men, and dig it up again in the same place. the apostle then transported him back to his tent, and the two vanished from his sight. he had neglected, he said, to deliver this message, afraid that his wonderful tale would not obtain credence from men of such high rank. after some days he again saw the holy vision, as he was gone out of the camp to look for food. this time the divine eyes of the younger looked reproachfully upon him. he implored the apostle to choose some one else more fitted for the mission, but the apostle refused, and smote him with a disorder of the eyes, as a punishment for his disobedience. with an obstinacy unaccountable even to himself, he had still delayed. a third time the apostle and his companion had appeared to him, as he was in a tent with his master william at st. simeon. on that occasion st. andrew told him to bear his command to the count of toulouse not to bathe in the waters of the jordan when he came to it, but to cross over in a boat, clad in a shirt and breeches of linen, which he should sprinkle with the sacred waters of the river. these clothes he was afterwards to preserve along with the holy lance. his master william, although he could not see the saint, distinctly heard the voice giving orders to that effect. again he neglected to execute the commission, and again the saints appeared to him, when he was at the port of mamistra, about to sail for cyprus, and st. andrew threatened him with eternal perdition if he refused longer. upon this he made up his mind to divulge all that had been revealed to him. the count of toulouse, who, in all probability, concocted this precious tale with the priest, appeared struck with the recital, and sent immediately for the bishop of puy and raymond of altapulto. the bishop at once expressed his disbelief of the whole story, and refused to have anything to do in the matter. the count of toulouse, on the contrary, saw abundant motives, if not for believing, for pretending to believe; and, in the end, he so impressed upon the mind of the bishop the advantage that might be derived from it, in working up the popular mind to its former excitement, that the latter reluctantly agreed to make search in due form for the holy weapon. the day after the morrow was fixed upon for the ceremony, and, in the mean time, peter was consigned to the care of raymond, the count's chaplain, in order that no profane curiosity might have an opportunity of cross-examining him, and putting him to a nonplus. twelve devout men were forthwith chosen for the undertaking, among whom were the count of toulouse and his chaplain. they began digging at sunrise, and continued unwearied till near sunset, without finding the lance;--they might have dug till this day with no better success, had not peter himself sprung into the pit, praying to god to bring the lance to light, for the strengthening and victory of his people. those who hide know where to find; and so it was with peter, for both he and the lance found their way into the hole at the same time. on a sudden, he and raymond, the chaplain, beheld its point in the earth, and raymond, drawing it forth, kissed it with tears of joy, in sight of the multitude which had assembled in the church. it was immediately enveloped in a rich purple cloth, already prepared to receive it, and exhibited in this state to the faithful, who made the building resound with their shouts of gladness. peter had another vision the same night, and became from that day forth "dreamer of dreams," in general, to the army. he stated on the following day, that the apostle andrew and "the youth with the divine aspect" appeared to him again, and directed that the count of toulouse, as a reward for his persevering piety, should carry the holy lance at the head of the army, and that the day on which it was found should be observed as a solemn festival throughout christendom. st. andrew showed him, at the same time, the holes in the feet and hands of his benign companion; and he became convinced that he stood in the awful presence of the redeemer. peter gained so much credit by his visions that dreaming became contagious. other monks beside himself were visited by the saints, who promised victory to the host if it would valiantly hold out to the last, and crowns of eternal glory to those who fell in the fight. two deserters, wearied of the fatigues and privations of the war, who had stealthily left the camp, suddenly returned, and seeking bohemund, told him that they had been met by two apparitions, who, with great anger, had commanded them to return. the one of them said, that he recognized his brother, who had been killed in battle some months before, and that he had a halo of glory around his head. the other, still more hardy, asserted that the apparition which had spoken to him was the saviour himself, who had promised eternal happiness as his reward if he returned to his duty, but the pains of eternal fire if he rejected the cross. no one thought of disbelieving these men. the courage of the army immediately revived; despondency gave way to hope; every arm grew strong again, and the pangs of hunger were for a time disregarded. the enthusiasm which had led them from europe burned forth once more as brightly as ever, and they demanded, with loud cries, to be led against the enemy. the leaders were not unwilling. in a battle lay their only chance of salvation; and although godfrey, bohemund, and tancred received the story of the lance with much suspicion, they were too wise to throw discredit upon an imposture which bade fair to open the gates of victory. peter the hermit was previously sent to the camp of kerbogha to propose that the quarrel between the two religions should be decided by a chosen number of the bravest soldiers of each army. kerbogha turned from him with a look of contempt, and said he could agree to no proposals from a set of such miserable beggars and robbers. with this uncourteous answer peter returned to antioch. preparations were immediately commenced for an attack upon the enemy: the latter continued to be perfectly well informed of all the proceedings of the christian camp. the citadel of antioch, which remained in their possession, overlooked the town, and the commander of the fortress could distinctly see all that was passing within. on the morning of the th of june a black flag, hoisted from its highest tower, announced to the besieging army that the christians were about to sally forth. the moslem leaders knew the sad inroads that famine and disease had made upon the numbers of the foe: they knew that not above two hundred of the knights had horses to ride upon, and that the foot soldiers were sick and emaciated; but they did not know the almost incredible valour which superstition had infused into their hearts. the story of the lance they treated with the most supreme contempt, and, secure of an easy victory, they gave themselves no trouble in preparing for the onslaught. it is related that kerbogha was playing a game at chess, when the black flag on the citadel gave warning of the enemy's approach, and that, with true oriental coolness, he insisted upon finishing the game ere he bestowed any of his attention upon a foe so unworthy. the defeat of his advanced post of two thousand men aroused him from his apathy. the crusaders, after this first victory, advanced joyfully towards the mountains, hoping to draw the turks to a place where their cavalry would be unable to manoeuvre. their spirits were light and their courage high, as led on by the duke of normandy, count robert of flanders, and hugh of vermandois, they came within sight of the splendid camp of the enemy. godfrey of bouillon and adhemar, bishop of puy, followed immediately after these leaders, the latter clad in complete armour, and bearing the holy lance within sight of the whole army: bohemund and tancred brought up the rear. kerbogha, aware at last that his enemy was not so despicable, took vigorous measures to remedy his mistake, and, preparing himself to meet the christians in front, he despatched the sultan soliman, of roum, to attack them in the rear. to conceal this movement, he set fire to the dried weeds and grass with which the ground was covered, and soliman, taking a wide circuit with his cavalry, succeeded, under cover of the smoke, in making good his position in the rear. the battle raged furiously in front; the arrows of the turks fell thick as hail, and their well-trained squadrons trod the crusaders under their hoofs like stubble. still the affray was doubtful; for the christians had the advantage of the ground, and were rapidly gaining upon the enemy, when the overwhelming forces of soliman arrived in the rear. godfrey and tancred flew to the rescue of bohemund, spreading dismay in the turkish ranks by their fierce impetuosity. the bishop of puy was left almost alone with the provencals to oppose the legions commanded by kerbogha in person; but the presence of the holy lance made a hero of the meanest soldier in his train. still, however, the numbers of the enemy seemed interminable. the christians, attacked on every side, began at last to give way, and the turks made sure of victory. at this moment a cry was raised in the christian host that the saints were fighting on their side. the battle-field was clear of the smoke from the burning weeds, which had curled away, and hung in white clouds of fantastic shape on the brow of the distant mountains. some imaginative zealot, seeing this dimly through the dust of the battle, called out to his fellows, to look at the army of saints, clothed in white, and riding upon white horses, that were pouring over the hills to the rescue. all eyes were immediately turned to the distant smoke; faith was in every heart; and the old battle-cry, god wills it! god wills it! resounded through the field, as every soldier, believing that god was visibly sending his armies to his aid, fought with an energy unfelt before. a panic seized the persian and turkish hosts, and they gave way in all directions. in vain kerbogha tried to rally them. fear is more contagious than enthusiasm, and they fled over the mountains like deer pursued by the hounds. the two leaders, seeing the uselessness of further efforts, fled with the rest; and that immense army was scattered over palestine, leaving nearly seventy thousand of its dead upon the field of battle. their magnificent camp fell into the hands of the enemy, with its rich stores of corn, and its droves of sheep and oxen. jewels, gold, and rich velvets in abundance were distributed among the army. tancred followed the fugitives over the hills, and reaped as much plunder as those who had remained in the camp. the way, as they fled, was covered with valuables, and horses of the finest breed of arabia became so plentiful, that every knight of the christians was provided with a steed. the crusaders, in this battle, acknowledge to have lost nearly ten thousand men. their return to antioch was one of joy indeed: the citadel was surrendered at once, and many of the turkish garrison embraced the christian faith, and the rest were suffered to depart. a solemn thanksgiving was offered up by the bishop of puy, in which the whole army joined, and the holy lance was visited by every soldier. the enthusiasm lasted for some days, and the army loudly demanded to be led forward to jerusalem, the grand goal of all their wishes: but none of their leaders was anxious to move;--the more prudent among them, such as godfrey and tancred, for reasons of expediency; and the more ambitious, such as the count of toulouse and bohemund, for reasons of self-interest. violent dissensions sprang up again between all the chiefs. raymond of toulouse, who was left at antioch to guard the town, had summoned the citadel to surrender, as soon as he saw that there was no fear of any attack upon the part of the persians; and the other chiefs found, upon their return, his banner waving on its walls. this had given great offence to bohemund, who had stipulated the principality of antioch as his reward for winning the town in the first instance. godfrey and tancred supported his claim, and, after a great deal of bickering, the flag of raymond was lowered from the tower, and that of bohemund hoisted in its stead, who assumed from that time the title of prince of antioch. raymond, however, persisted in retaining possession of one of the city gates and its adjacent towers, which he held for several months, to the great annoyance of bohemund and the scandal of the army. the count became in consequence extremely unpopular, although his ambition was not a whit more unreasonable than that of bohemund himself, nor of baldwin, who had taken up his quarters at edessa, where he exercised the functions of a petty sovereign. the fate of peter barthelemy deserves to be recorded. honours and consideration had come thick upon him after the affair of the lance, and he consequently felt bound in conscience to continue the dreams which had made him a personage of so much importance. the mischief of it was, that like many other liars he had a very bad memory, and he contrived to make his dreams contradict each other in the most palpable manner. st. john one night appeared to him, and told one tale, while, a week after, st. paul told a totally different story, and held out hopes quite incompatible with those of his apostolic brother. the credulity of that age had a wide maw, and peter's visions must have been absurd and outrageous indeed, when the very men who had believed in the lance refused to swallow any more of his wonders. bohemund at last, for the purpose of annoying the count of toulouse, challenged poor peter to prove the truth of his story of the lance by the fiery ordeal. peter could not refuse a trial so common in that age, and being besides encouraged by the count and his chaplain, raymond, an early day was appointed for the ceremony. the previous night was spent in prayer and fasting, according to custom, and peter came forth in the morning bearing the lance in his hand, and walked boldly up to the fire. the whole army gathered round, impatient for the result, many thousands still believing that the lance was genuine and peter a holy man. prayers having been said by raymond d'agilles, peter walked into the flames, and had got nearly through, when pain caused him to lose his presence of mind: the heat too affected his eyes, and, in his anguish, he turned round unwittingly, and passed through the fire again, instead of stepping out of it, as he should have done. the result was, that he was burned so severely, that he never recovered, and, after lingering for some days, he expired in great agony. most of the soldiers were suffering either from wounds, disease, or weariness, and it was resolved by godfrey,--the tacitly acknowledged chief of the enterprize,--that the army should have time to refresh itself ere they advanced upon jerusalem. it was now july, and he proposed that they should pass the hot months of august and september within the walls of antioch, and march forward in october with renewed vigour, and numbers increased by fresh arrivals from europe. this advice was finally adopted, although the enthusiasts of the army continued to murmur at the delay. in the mean time the count of vermandois was sent upon an embassy to the emperor alexius at constantinople, to reproach him for his base desertion of the cause, and urge him to send the reinforcements he had promised. the count faithfully executed his mission, (of which, by the way, alexius took no notice whatever,) and remained for some time at constantinople, till his zeal, never very violent, totally evaporated. he then returned to france, sick of the crusade, and determined to intermeddle with it no more. the chiefs, though they had determined to stay at antioch for two months, could not remain quiet for so long a time. they would, in all probability, have fallen upon each other, had there been no turks in palestine upon whom they might vent their impetuosity. godfrey proceeded to edessa, to aid his brother baldwin in expelling the saracens from his principality, and the other leaders carried on separate hostilities against them as caprice or ambition dictated. at length the impatience of the army to be led against jerusalem became so great that the chiefs could no longer delay, and raymond, tancred, and robert of normandy marched forward with their divisions, and laid siege to the small but strong town of marah. with their usual improvidence, they had not food enough to last a beleaguering army for a week. they suffered great privations in consequence, till bohemund came to their aid and took the town by storm. in connexion with this siege, the chronicler, raymond d'agilles, (the same raymond, the chaplain, who figured in the affair of the holy lance,) relates a legend, in the truth of which he devoutly believed, and upon which tasso has founded one of the most beautiful passages of his poem. it is worth preserving, as showing the spirit of the age and the source of the extraordinary courage manifested by the crusaders on occasions of extreme difficulty. "one day," says raymond, "anselme de ribeaumont beheld young engelram, the son of the count de st. paul, who had been killed at marsh, enter his tent. 'how is it,' said anselme to him, 'that you, whom i saw lying dead on the field of battle, are full of life?'--'you must know,' replied engelram, 'that those who fight for jesus christ never die.'--'but whence,' resumed anselme, 'comes that strange brightness that surrounds you?' upon this engelram pointed to the sky, where anselme saw a palace of diamond and crystal. 'it is thence,' said he, 'that i derive the beauty which surprises you. my dwelling is there; a still finer one is prepared for you, and you shall soon come to inhabit it. farewell! we shall meet again to-morrow.' with these words engelram returned to heaven. anselme, struck by the vision, sent the next morning for the priests, received the sacrament; and although full of health, took a last farewell of all his friends, telling them that he was about to leave this world. a few hours afterwards, the enemy having made a sortie, anselme went out against them sword in hand, and was struck on the forehead by a stone from a turkish sling, which sent him to heaven, to the beautiful palace that was prepared for him." new disputes arose between the prince of antioch and the count of toulouse with regard to the capture of this town, which were with the utmost difficulty appeased by the other chiefs. delays also took place in the progress of the army, especially before arches, and the soldiery were so exasperated that they were on the point of choosing new leaders to conduct them to jerusalem. godfrey, upon this, set fire to his camp at arches, and marched forward. he was immediately joined by hundreds of the provencals of the count of toulouse. the latter, seeing the turn affairs were taking, hastened after them, and the whole host proceeded towards the holy city, so long desired amid sorrow, and suffering, and danger. at emmaus they were met by a deputation from the christians of bethlehem, praying for immediate aid against the oppression of the infidels. the very name of bethlehem, the birthplace of the saviour, was music to their ears, and many of them wept with joy to think they were approaching a spot so hallowed. albert of aix informs us that their hearts were so touched that sleep was banished from the camp, and that, instead of waiting till the morning's dawn to recommence their march, they set out shortly after midnight, full of hope and enthusiasm. for upwards of four hours the mail-clad legions tramped steadfastly forward in the dark, and when the sun arose in unclouded splendour, the towers and pinnacles of jerusalem gleamed upon their sight. all the tender feelings of their nature were touched; no longer brutal fanatics, but meek and humble pilgrims, they knelt down upon the sod, and with tears in their eyes, exclaimed to one another, "jerusalem! jerusalem!" some of them kissed the holy ground, others stretched themselves at full length upon it, in order that their bodies might come in contact with the greatest possible extent of it, and others prayed aloud. the women and children who had followed the camp from europe, and shared in all its dangers, fatigues, and privations, were more boisterous in their joy; the former from long-nourished enthusiasm, and the latter from mere imitation, [guibert de nogent relates a curious instance of the imitativeness of these juvenile crusaders. he says that, during the siege of antioch, the christian and saracen boys used to issue forth every evening from the town and camp in great numbers under the command of captains chosen from among themselves. armed with sticks instead of swords, and stones instead of arrows, they ranged themselves in battle order, and shouting each the war-cry of their country, fought with the utmost desperation. some of them lost their eyes, and many became cripples for life from the injuries they received on these occasions.] and prayed, and wept, and laughed till they almost put the more sober to the blush. the first ebullition of their gladness having subsided, the army marched forward, and invested the city on all sides. the assault was almost immediately begun; but after the christians had lost some of their bravest knights, that mode of attack was abandoned, and the army commenced its preparations for a regular siege. mangonels, moveable towers, and battering rams, together with a machine called a sow, made of wood, and covered with raw hides, inside of which miners worked to undermine the walls, were forthwith constructed; and to restore the courage and discipline of the army, which had suffered from the unworthy dissensions of the chiefs, the latter held out the hand of friendship to each other, and tancred and the count of toulouse embraced in sight of the whole camp. the clergy aided the cause with their powerful voice, and preached union and goodwill to the highest and the lowest. a solemn procession was also ordered round the city, in which the entire army joined, prayers being offered up at every spot which gospel records had taught them to consider as peculiarly sacred. the saracens upon the ramparts beheld all these manifestations without alarm. to incense the christians, whom they despised, they constructed rude crosses, and fixed them upon the walls, and spat upon and pelted them with dirt and stones. this insult to the symbol of their faith raised the wrath of the crusaders to that height that bravery became ferocity and enthusiasm madness. when all the engines of war were completed the attack was recommenced, and every soldier of the christian army fought with a vigour which the sense of private wrong invariably inspires. every man had been personally outraged, and the knights worked at the battering-rams with as much readiness as the meanest soldiers. the saracen arrows and balls of fire fell thick and fast among them, but the tremendous rams still heaved against the walls, while the best marksmen of the host were busily employed in the several floors of the moveable towers in dealing death among the turks upon the battlements. godfrey, raymond, tancred, and robert of normandy, each upon his tower, fought for hours with unwearied energy, often repulsed, but ever ready to renew the struggle. the turks, no longer despising the enemy, defended themselves with the utmost skill and bravery till darkness brought a cessation of hostilities. short was the sleep that night in the christian camp. the priests offered up solemn prayers in the midst of the attentive soldiery for the triumph of the cross in this last great struggle, and as soon as morning dawned every one was in readiness for the affray. the women and children lent their aid, the latter running unconcerned to and fro while the arrows fell fast around them, bearing water to the thirsty combatants. the saints were believed to be aiding their efforts, and the army, impressed with this idea, surmounted difficulties under which a force thrice as numerous, but without their faith, would have quailed and been defeated. raymond of toulouse at last forced his way into the city by escalade, while at the very same moment tancred and robert of normandy succeeded in bursting open one of the gates. the turks flew to repair the mischief, and godfrey of bouillon, seeing the battlements comparatively deserted, let down the drawbridge of his moveable tower, and sprang forward, followed by all the knights of his train. in an instant after, the banner of the cross floated upon the walls of jerusalem. the crusaders, raising once more their redoubtable war-cry, rushed on from every side, and the city was taken. the battle raged in the streets for several hours, and the christians, remembering their insulted faith, gave no quarter to young or old, male or female, sick or strong. not one of the leaders thought himself at liberty to issue orders for staying the carnage, and if he had, he would not have been obeyed. the saracens fled in great numbers to the mosque of soliman, but they had not time to fortify themselves within it ere the christians were upon them. ten thousand persons are said to have perished in that building alone. peter the hermit, who had remained so long under the veil of neglect, was repaid that day for all his zeal and all his sufferings. as soon as the battle was over, the christians of jerusalem issued forth from their hiding-places to welcome their deliverers. they instantly recognized the hermit as the pilgrim who, years before, had spoken to them so eloquently of the wrongs and insults they had endured, and promised to stir up the princes and people of europe in their behalf. they clung to the skirts of his garments in the fervour of their gratitude, and vowed to remember him for ever in their prayers. many of them shed tears about his neck, and attributed the deliverance of jerusalem solely to his courage and perseverance. peter afterwards held some ecclesiastical office in the holy city, but what it was, or what was his ultimate fate, history has forgotten to inform us. some say that he returned to france and founded a monastery, but the story does not rest upon sufficient authority. the grand object for which the popular swarms of europe had forsaken their homes was now accomplished. the moslem mosques of jerusalem were converted into churches for a purer faith, and the mount of calvary and the sepulchre of christ were profaned no longer by the presence or the power of the infidel. popular frenzy had fulfilled its mission, and, as a natural consequence, it began to subside from that time forth. the news of the capture of jerusalem brought numbers of pilgrims from europe, and, among others, stephen count of chartres and hugh of vermandois, to atone for their desertion; but nothing like the former enthusiasm existed among the nations. thus then ends the history of the first crusade. for the better understanding of the second, it will be necessary to describe the interval between them, and to enter into a slight sketch of the history of jerusalem under its latin kings, the long and fruitless wars they continued to wage with the unvanquished saracens, and the poor and miserable results which sprang from so vast an expenditure of zeal, and so deplorable a waste of human life. the necessity of having some recognized chief was soon felt by the crusaders, and godfrey de bouillon, less ambitious than bohemund, or raymond of toulouse, gave his cold consent to wield a sceptre which the latter chiefs would have clutched with eagerness. he was hardly invested with the royal mantle before the saracens menaced his capital. with much vigour and judgment he exerted himself to follow up the advantages he had gained, and marching out to meet the enemy before they had time to besiege him in jerusalem, he gave them battle at ascalon, and defeated them with great loss. he did not, however, live long to enjoy his new dignity, being seized with a fatal illness when he had only reigned nine months. to him succeeded his brother, baldwin of edessa. the latter monarch did much to improve the condition of jerusalem and to extend its territory, but was not able to make a firm footing for his successors. for fifty years, in which the history of jerusalem is full of interest to the historical student, the crusaders were exposed to fierce and constant hostilities, often gaining battles and territory, and as often losing them, but becoming every day weaker and more divided, while the saracens became stronger and more united to harass and root them out. the battles of this period were of the most chivalrous character, and deeds of heroism were done by the handful of brave knights that remained in syria, which have hardly their parallel in the annals of war. in the course of time, however, the christians could not avoid feeling some respect for the courage, and admiration for the polished manners and advanced civilization of the saracens, so much superior to the rudeness and semi-barbarism of europe at that day. difference of faith did not prevent them from forming alliances with the dark-eyed maidens of the east. one of the first to set the example of taking a paynim spouse was king baldwin himself, and these connexions in time became, not only frequent, but almost universal, among such of the knights as had resolved to spend their lives in palestine. these eastern ladies were obliged, however, to submit to the ceremony of baptism before they could be received to the arms of a christian lord. these, and their offspring, naturally looked upon the saracens with less hatred than did the zealots who conquered jerusalem, and who thought it a sin deserving the wrath of god to spare an unbeliever. we find, in consequence, that the most obstinate battles waged during the reigns of the later kings of jerusalem were fought by the new and raw levies who from time to time arrived from europe, lured by the hope of glory, or spurred by fanaticism. the latter broke without scruple the truces established between the original settlers and the saracens, and drew down severe retaliation upon many thousands of their brethren in the faith, whose prudence was stronger than their zeal, and whose chief desire was to live in peace. things remained in this unsatisfactory state till the close of the year , when edessa, the strong frontier town of the christian kingdom, fell into the bauds of the saracens. the latter were commanded by zenghi, a powerful and enterprising monarch, and, after his death, by his son nourheddin, as powerful and enterprising as his father. an unsuccessful attempt was made by the count of edessa to regain the fortress, but nourheddin, with a large army, came to the rescue, and after defeating the count with great slaughter, marched into edessa and caused its fortifications to be rased to the ground, that the town might never more be a bulwark of defence for the kingdom of jerusalem. the road to the capital was now open, and consternation seized the hearts of the christians. nourheddin, it was known, was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to advance upon jerusalem, and the armies of the cross, weakened and divided, were not in a condition to make any available resistance. the clergy were filled with grief and alarm, and wrote repeated letters to the pope and the sovereigns of europe, urging the expediency of a new crusade for the relief of jerusalem. by far the greater number of the priests of palestine were natives of france, and these naturally looked first to their own country. the solicitations they sent to louis the seventh were urgent and oft repeated, and the chivalry of france began to talk once more of arming in the defence of the birthplace of jesus. the kings of europe, whose interest it had not been to take any part in the first crusade, began to bestir themselves in this; and a man appeared, eloquent as peter the hermit, to arouse the people as he had done. we find, however, that the enthusiasm of the second did not equal that of the first crusade: in fact, the mania had reached its climax in the time of peter the hermit, and decreased regularly from that period. the third crusade was less general than the second, and the fourth than the third, and so on, until the public enthusiasm was quite extinct, and jerusalem returned at last to the dominion of its old masters without a convulsion in christendom. various reasons have been assigned for this; and one very generally put forward is, that europe was wearied with continued struggles, and had become sick of "precipitating itself upon asia." m. guizot, in his admirable lectures upon european civilization, successfully combats this opinion, and offers one of his own, which is far more satisfactory. he says, in his eighth lecture, "it has been often repeated, that europe was tired of continually invading asia. this expression appears to me exceedingly incorrect. it is not possible that human beings can be wearied with what they have not done--that the labours of their forefathers can fatigue them. weariness is a personal, not an inherited feeling. the men of the thirteenth century were not fatigued by the crusades of the twelfth. they were influenced by another cause. a great change had taken place in ideas, sentiments, and social conditions. the same desires and the same wants were no longer felt. the same things were no longer believed. the people refused to believe what their ancestors were persuaded of." this is, in fact, the secret of the change; and its truth becomes more apparent as we advance in the history of the crusades, and compare the state of the public mind at the different periods when godfrey of bouillon, louis vii. and richard i. were chiefs and leaders of the movement. the crusades themselves were the means of operating a great change in national ideas, and advancing the civilization of europe. in the time of godfrey, the nobles were all-powerful and all-oppressive, and equally obnoxious to kings and people. during their absence along with that portion of the community the deepest sunk in ignorance and superstition, both kings and people fortified themselves against the renewal of aristocratic tyranny, and in proportion as they became free, became civilized. it was during this period that in france, the grand centre of the crusading madness, the communes began to acquire strength, and the monarch to possess a tangible and not a merely theoretic authority. order and comfort began to take root, and, when the second crusade was preached, men were in consequence much less willing to abandon their homes than they had been during the first. such pilgrims as had returned from the holy land came back with minds more liberal and expanded than when they set out. they had come in contact with a people more civilized than themselves; they had seen something more of the world, and had lost some portion, however small, of the prejudice and bigotry of ignorance. the institution of chivalry had also exercised its humanizing influence, and coming bright and fresh through the ordeal of the crusades, had softened the character and improved the hearts of the aristocratic order. the trouveres and troubadours, singing of love and war in strains pleasing to every class of society, helped to root out the gloomy superstitions which, at the first crusade, filled the minds of all those who were able to think. men became in consequence less exclusively under the mental thraldom of the priesthood, and lost much of the credulity which formerly distinguished them. the crusades appear never to have excited so much attention in england as on the continent of europe; not because the people were less fanatical than their neighbours, but because they were occupied in matters of graver interest. the english were suffering too severely from the recent successful invasion of their soil, to have much sympathy to bestow upon the distresses of people so far away as the christians of palestine; and we find that they took no part in the first crusade, and very little in the second. even then those who engaged in it were chiefly norman knights and their vassals, and not the saxon franklins and population, who no doubt thought, in their sorrow, as many wise men have thought since, that charity should begin at home. germany was productive of more zeal in the cause, and her raw, uncivilized hordes continued to issue forth under the banners of the cross in numbers apparently undiminished, when the enthusiasm had long been on the wane in other countries. they were sunk at that time in a deeper slough of barbarism than the livelier nations around them, and took, in consequence, a longer period to free themselves from their prejudices. in fact, the second crusade drew its chief supplies of men from that quarter, where alone the expedition can be said to have retained any portion of popularity. such was the state of the mind of europe when pope eugenius, moved by the reiterated entreaties of the christians of syria, commissioned st. bernard to preach a new crusade. st. bernard was a man eminently qualified for the mission. he was endowed with an eloquence of the highest order, could move an auditory to tears, or laughter, or fury, as it pleased him, and had led a life of such rigid and self-denying virtue, that not even calumny could lift her finger and point it at him. he had renounced high prospects in the church, and contented himself with the simple abbacy of clairvaux, in order that he might have the leisure he desired, to raise his powerful voice against abuses wherever he found them. vice met in him an austere and uncompromising reprover; no man was too high for his reproach, and none too low for his sympathy. he was just as well suited for his age as peter the hermit had been for the age preceding. he appealed more to the reason, his predecessor to the passions; peter the hermit collected a mob, while st. bernard collected an army. both were endowed with equal zeal and perseverance, springing, in the one, from impulse, and in the other from conviction, and a desire to increase the influence of the church, that great body of which he was a pillar and an ornament. one of the first converts he made was in himself a host. louis vii. was both superstitious and tyrannical, and, in a fit of remorse for the infamous slaughter he had authorised at the sacking of vitry, he made a vow to undertake the journey to the holy land. [the sacking of vitry reflects indelible disgrace upon louis vii. his predecessors had been long engaged in resistance to the outrageous powers assumed by the popes, and louis continued the same policy. the ecclesiastical chapter of bourges, having elected an archbishop without his consent, he proclaimed the election to be invalid, and took severe and prompt measures against the refractory clergy. thibault, count de champagne, took up arms in defence of the papal authority, and intrenched himself in the town of vitry. louis was immediately in the field to chastise the rebel, and he besieged the town with so much vigour, that the count was forced to surrender. upwards of thirteen hundred of the inhabitants, fully one half of whom were women and children, took refuge in the church; and, when the gates of the city were opened, and all resistance had ceased, louis inhumanly gave orders to set fire to the church, and a thousand persons perished in the flames.] he was in this disposition when st. bernard began to preach, and wanted but little persuasion to embark in the cause. his example had great influence upon the nobility, who, impoverished as many of them were by the sacrifices made by their fathers in the holy wars, were anxious to repair their ruined fortunes by conquests on a foreign shore. these took the field with such vassals as they could command, and, in a very short time, an army was raised amounting to two hundred thousand men. at vezelai the monarch received the cross from the hands of st. bernard, on a platform elevated in sight of all the people. several nobles, three bishops, and his queen, eleanor of aquitaine, were present at this ceremony, and enrolled themselves under the banners of the cross, st. bernard cutting up his red sacerdotal vestments, and making crosses of them, to be sewn on the shoulders of the people. an exhortation from the pope was read to the multitude, granting remission of their sins to all who should join the crusade, and directing that no man on that holy pilgrimage should encumber himself with heavy baggage and vain superfluities, and that the nobles should not travel with dogs or falcons, to lead them from the direct road, as had happened to so many during the first crusade. the command of the army was offered to st. bernard; but he wisely refused to accept a station for which his habits had unqualified him. after consecrating louis with great solemnity, at st. denis, as chief of the expedition, he continued his course through the country, stirring up the people wherever he went. so high an opinion was entertained of his sanctity, that he was thought to be animated by the spirit of prophecy, and to be gifted with the power of working miracles. many women, excited by his eloquence, and encouraged by his predictions, forsook their husbands and children, and, clothing themselves in male attire, hastened to the war. st. bernard himself wrote a letter to the pope, detailing his success, and stating, that in several towns there did not remain a single male inhabitant capable of bearing arms, and that everywhere castles and towns were to be seen filled with women weeping for their absent husbands. but in spite of this apparent enthusiasm, the numbers who really took up arms were inconsiderable, and not to be compared to the swarms of the first crusade. a levy of no more than two hundred thousand men, which was the utmost the number amounted to, could hardly have depopulated a country like france to the extent mentioned by st. bernard. his description of the state of the country appears, therefore, to have been much more poetical than true. suger, the able minister of louis, endeavoured to dissuade him from undertaking so long a journey at a time when his own dominions so much needed his presence. but the king was pricked in his conscience by the cruelties of vitry, and was anxious to make the only reparation which the religion of that day considered sufficient. he was desirous moreover of testifying to the world, that though he could brave the temporal power of the church when it encroached upon his prerogatives, he could render all due obedience to its spiritual decrees whenever it suited his interest or tallied with his prejudices to so do. suger, therefore, implored in vain, and louis received the pilgrim's staff at st. denis, and made all preparations for his pilgrimage. in the mean time st. bernard passed into germany, where similar success attended his preaching. the renown of his sanctity had gone before him, and he found everywhere an admiring audience. thousands of people, who could not understand a word he said, flocked around him to catch a glimpse of so holy a man; and the knights enrolled themselves in great numbers in the service of the cross, each receiving from his hands the symbol of the cause. but the people were not led away as in the days of gottschalk. we do not find that they rose in such tremendous masses of two and three hundred thousand men, swarming over the country like a plague of locusts. still the enthusiasm was very great. the extraordinary tales that were told and believed of the miracles worked by the preacher brought the country people from far and near. devils were said to vanish at his sight, and diseases of the most malignant nature to be cured by his touch. [philip, archdeacon of the cathedral of liege, wrote a detailed account of all the miracles performed by st. bernard during thirty-four days of his mission. they averaged about ten per day. the disciples of st. bernard complained bitterly that the people flocked around their master in such numbers, that they could not see half the miracles he performed. but they willingly trusted the eyes of others, as far as faith in the miracles went, and seemed to vie with each other whose credulity should be greatest.] the emperor conrad caught at last the contagion from his subjects, and declared his intention to follow the cross. the preparations were carried on so vigorously under the orders of conrad, that in less than three months he found himself at the head of an army containing at least one hundred and fifty thousand effective men, besides a great number of women who followed their husbands and lovers to the war. one troop of them rode in the attitude and armour of men: their chief wore gilt spurs and buskins, and thence acquired the epithet of the golden-footed lady. conrad was ready to set out long before the french monarch, and in the month of june , he arrived before constantinople, having passed through hungary and bulgaria without offence to the inhabitants. manuel comnenus, the greek emperor, successor not only to the throne, but to the policy of alexius, looked with alarm upon the new levies who had come to eat up his capital and imperil its tranquillity. too weak to refuse them a passage through his dominions, too distrustful of them to make them welcome when they came, and too little assured of the advantages likely to result to himself from the war, to feign a friendship which he did not feel, the greek emperor gave offence at the very outset. his subjects, in the pride of superior civilization, called the germans barbarians, while the latter, who, if semi-barbarous, were at least honest and straight-forward, retorted upon the greeks by calling them double-faced knaves and traitors. disputes continually arose between them, and conrad, who had preserved so much good order among his followers during their passage, was unable to restrain their indignation when they arrived at constantinople. for some offence or other which the greeks had given them, but which is rather hinted at than stated by the scanty historians of the day, the germans broke into the magnificent pleasure garden of the emperor, where he had a valuable collection of tame animals, for which the grounds had been laid out in woods, caverns, groves, and streams, that each might follow in captivity his natural habits. the enraged germans, meriting the name of barbarians that had been bestowed upon them, laid waste this pleasant retreat, and killed or let loose the valuable animals it contained. manuel, who is said to have beheld the devastation from his palace windows without power or courage to prevent it, was completely disgusted with his guests, and resolved, like his predecessor alexius, to get rid of them on the first opportunity. he sent a message to conrad respectfully desiring an interview, but the german refused to trust himself within the walls of constantinople. the greek emperor, on his part, thought it compatible neither with his dignity nor his safety to seek the german, and several days were spent in insincere negotiations. manuel at length agreed to furnish the crusading army with guides to conduct it through asia minor; and conrad passed over the hellespont with his forces, the advanced guard being commanded by himself, and the rear by the warlike bishop of freysinghen. historians are almost unanimous in their belief that the wily greek gave instructions to his guides to lead the army of the german emperor into dangers and difficulties. it is certain, that instead of guiding them through such districts of asia minor as afforded water and provisions, they led them into the wilds of cappadocia, where neither was to be procured, and where they were suddenly attacked by the sultaun of the seljukian turks, at the head of an immense force. the guides, whose treachery is apparent from this fact alone, fled at the first sight of the turkish army, and the christians were left to wage unequal warfare with their enemy, entangled and bewildered in desert wilds. toiling in their heavy mail, the germans could make but little effective resistance to the attacks of the turkish light horse, who were down upon them one instant, and out of sight the next. now in the front and now in the rear, the agile foe showered his arrows upon them, enticing them into swamps and hollows, from which they could only extricate themselves after long struggles and great losses. the germans, confounded by this mode of warfare, lost all conception of the direction they were pursuing, and went back instead of forward. suffering at the same time for want of provisions, they fell an easy prey to their pursuers. count bernhard, one of the bravest leaders of the german expedition, was surrounded, with his whole division, not one of whom escaped the turkish arrows. the emperor himself had nearly fallen a victim, and was twice severely wounded. so persevering was the enemy, and so little able were the germans to make even a show of resistance, that when conrad at last reached the city of nice, he found that, instead of being at the head of an imposing force of one hundred thousand foot and seventy thousand horse, he had but fifty or sixty thousand men, and these in the most worn and wearied condition. totally ignorant of the treachery of the greek emperor, although he had been warned to beware of it, louis vii. proceeded, at the head of his army, through worms and ratisbon, towards constantinople. at ratisbon he was met by a deputation from manuel, bearing letters so full of hyperbole and flattery, that louis is reported to have blushed when they were read to him by the bishop of langres. the object of the deputation was to obtain from the french king a promise to pass through the grecian territories in a peaceable and friendly manner, and to yield to the greek emperor any conquest he might make in asia minor. the first part of the proposition was immediately acceded to, but no notice was taken of the second and more unreasonable. louis marched on, and, passing through hungary, pitched his tents in the outskirts of constantinople. on his arrival, manuel sent him a friendly invitation to enter the city, at the head of a small train. louis at once accepted it, and was met by the emperor at the porch of his palace. the fairest promises were made; every art that flattery could suggest was resorted to, and every argument employed, to induce him to yield his future conquests to the greek. louis obstinately refused to pledge himself, and returned to his army, convinced that the emperor was a man not to be trusted. negotiations were, however, continued for several days, to the great dissatisfaction of the french army. the news that arrived of a treaty entered into between manuel and the turkish sultan changed their dissatisfaction into fury, and the leaders demanded to be led against constantinople, swearing that they would raze the treacherous city to the ground. louis did not feel inclined to accede to this proposal, and, breaking up his camp, he crossed over into asia. here he heard, for the first time, of the mishaps of the german emperor, whom he found in a woeful plight under the walls of nice. the two monarchs united their forces, and marched together along the sea-coast to ephesus; but conrad, jealous, it would appear, of the superior numbers of the french, and not liking to sink into a vassal, for the time being, of his rival, withdrew abruptly with the remnant of his legions, and returned to constantinople. manuel was all smiles and courtesy. he condoled with the german so feelingly upon his losses, and cursed the stupidity or treachery of the guides with such apparent heartiness, that conrad was half inclined to believe in his sincerity. louis, marching onward in the direction of jerusalem, came up with the enemy on the banks of the meander. the turks contested the passage of the river, but the french bribed a peasant to point out a ford lower down: crossing the river without difficulty, they attacked the turks with much vigour, and put them to flight. whether the turks were really defeated, or merely pretended to be so, is doubtful; but the latter supposition seems to be the true one. it is probable that it was part of a concerted plan to draw the invaders onwards to more unfavourable ground, where their destruction might be more certain. if such were the scheme, it succeeded to the heart's wish of its projectors. the crusaders, on the third day after their victory, arrived at a steep mountain-pass, on the summit of which the turkish host lay concealed so artfully, that not the slightest vestige of their presence could be perceived. "with labouring steps and slow," they toiled up the steep ascent, when suddenly a tremendous fragment of rock came bounding down the precipices with an awful crash, bearing dismay and death before it. at the same instant the turkish archers started from their hiding-places, and discharged a shower of arrows upon the foot soldiers, who fell by hundreds at a time. the arrows rebounded harmlessly against the iron mail of the knights, which the turks observing, took aim at their steeds, and horse and rider fell down the steep into the rapid torrent which rushed below. louis, who commanded the rear-guard, received the first intimation of the onslaught from the sight of his wounded and flying soldiers, and, not knowing the numbers of the enemy, he pushed vigorously forward to stay, by his presence, the panic which had taken possession of his army. all his efforts were in vain. immense stones continued to be hurled upon them as they advanced, bearing men and horse before them; and those who succeeded in forcing their way to the top, were met hand-to-hand by the turks, and cast down headlong upon their companions. louis himself fought with the energy of desperation, but had great difficulty to avoid falling into the enemy's hands. he escaped at last under cover of the night, with the remnant of his forces, and took up his position before attalia. here he restored the discipline and the courage of his disorganized and disheartened followers, and debated with his captains the plan that was to be pursued. after suffering severely both from disease and famine, it was resolved that they should march to antioch, which still remained an independent principality under the successors of bohemund of tarentum. at this time the sovereignty was vested in the person of raymond, the uncle of eleanor of aquitaine. this prince, presuming upon his relationship to the french queen, endeavoured to withdraw louis from the grand object of the crusade--the defence of the kingdom of jerusalem, and secure his co-operation in extending the limits and the power of his principality of antioch. the prince of tripoli formed a similar design, but louis rejected the offers of both, and marched after a short delay to jerusalem. the emperor conrad was there before him, having left constantinople with promises of assistance from manuel comnenus; assistance which never arrived, and was never intended. a great council of the christian princes of palestine and the leaders of the crusade was then summoned, to discuss the future operations of the war. it was ultimately determined that it would further the cause of the cross in a greater degree if the united armies, instead of proceeding to edessa, laid siege to the city of damascus, and drove the saracens from that strong position. this was a bold scheme, and, had it been boldly followed out, would have insured, in all probability, the success of the war. but the christian leaders never learned from experience the necessity of union, that very soul of great enterprises. though they all agreed upon the policy of the plan, yet every one had his own notions as to the means of executing it. the princes of antioch and tripoli were jealous of each other, and of the king of jerusalem. the emperor conrad was jealous of the king of france, and the king of france was disgusted with them all. but he had come out to palestine in accordance with a solemn vow; his religion, though it may be called bigotry, was sincere; and he determined to remain to the very last moment that a chance was left, of effecting any good for the cause he had set his heart on. the siege of damascus was accordingly commenced, and with so much ability and vigour that the christians gained a considerable advantage at the very outset. for weeks the siege was pressed, till the shattered fortifications and diminishing resistance of the besieged gave evidence that the city could not hold out much longer. at that moment the insane jealousy of the leaders led to dissensions that soon caused the utter failure, not only of the siege, but of the crusade. a modern cookery-book, in giving a recipe for cooking a hare, says, "first catch your hare, and then kill it;" a maxim of indisputable wisdom. the christian chiefs on this occasion had not so much sagacity, for they began a violent dispute among themselves for the possession of a city which was still unconquered. there being already a prince of antioch and a prince of tripoli, twenty claimants started for the principality of damascus, and a grand council of the leaders was held to determine the individual on whom the honour should devolve. many valuable days were wasted in this discussion, the enemy in the mean while gaining strength from their inactivity. it was at length, after a stormy deliberation, agreed that count robert of flanders, who had twice visited the holy land, should be invested with the dignity. the other claimants refused to recognise him, or to co-operate in the siege, until a more equitable arrangement had been made. suspicion filled the camp; the most sinister rumours of intrigues and treachery were set afloat; and the discontented candidates withdrew at last to the other side of the city, and commenced operations on their own account, without a probability of success. they were soon joined by the rest of the army. the consequence was that the weakest side of the city, and that on which they had already made considerable progress in the work of demolition, was left uncovered. the enemy was prompt to profit by the mistake, and received an abundant supply of provisions, and refortified the walls, before the crusaders came to their senses again. when this desirable event happened, it was too late. saph eddin, the powerful emir of mousoul, was in the neighbourhood, at the head of a large army, advancing by forced marches to the relief of the city. the siege was abruptly abandoned, and the foolish crusaders returned to jerusalem, having done nothing to weaken the enemy, but every thing to weaken themselves. the freshness of enthusiasm had now completely subsided;--even the meanest soldiers were sick at heart. conrad, from whose fierce zeal at the outset so much might have been expected, was wearied with reverses, and returned to europe with the poor remnant of his host. louis lingered a short time longer, for very shame, but the pressing solicitations of his minister suger induced him to return to france. thus ended the second crusade. its history is but a chronicle of defeats. it left the kingdom of jerusalem in a worse state than when it quitted europe, and gained nothing but disgrace for its leaders and discouragement for all concerned. st. bernard, who had prophesied a result so different, fell after this into some disrepute, and experienced, like many other prophets, the fate of being without honour in his own country. what made the matter worse, he could not obtain it in any other. still, however, there were not wanting zealous advocates to stand forward in his behalf, and stem the tide of incredulity, which, unopposed, would have carried away his reputation. the bishop of freysinghen declared that prophets were not always able to prophesy, and that the vices of the crusaders drew down the wrath of heaven upon them. but the most ingenious excuse ever made for st. bernard is to be found in his life by geoffroi de clairvaux, where he pertinaciously insists that the crusade was not unfortunate. st. bernard, he says, had prophesied a happy result, and that result could not be considered other than happy which had peopled heaven with so glorious an army of martyrs. geoffroi was a cunning pleader, and, no doubt, convinced a few of the zealous; but plain people, who were not wanting even in those days, retained their own opinion, or, what amounts to the same thing, "were convinced against their will." we now come to the consideration of the third crusade, and of the causes which rendered it necessary. the epidemic frenzy, which had been cooling ever since the issue of the first expedition, was now extinct, or very nearly so, and the nations of europe looked with cold indifference upon the armaments of their princes. but chivalry had flourished in its natural element of war, and was now in all its glory. it continued to supply armies for the holy land when the popular ranks refused to deliver up their able-bodied swarms. poetry, which, more than religion, inspired the third crusade, was then but "caviare to the million," who had other matters, of sterner import, to claim all their attention. but the knights and their retainers listened with delight to the martial and amatory strains of the minstrels, minnesangers, trouveres, and troubadours, and burned to win favour in ladies' eyes by showing prowess in holy land. the third was truly the romantic era of the crusades. men fought then, not so much for the sepulchre of jesus, and the maintenance of a christian kingdom in the east, as to gain glory for themselves in the best, and almost only field, where glory could be obtained. they fought, not as zealots, but as soldiers; not for religion, but for honour; not for the crown of martyrdom, but for the favour of the lovely. it is not necessary to enter into a detail of the events by which saladin attained the sovereignty of the east, or how, after a succession of engagements, he planted the moslem banner once more upon the battlements of jerusalem. the christian knights and population, including the grand orders of st. john, the hospitallers, and the templars, were sunk in an abyss of vice, and torn by unworthy jealousies and dissensions, were unable to resist the well-trained armies which the wise and mighty saladin brought forward to crush them. but the news of their fall created a painful sensation among the chivalry of europe, whose noblest members were linked to the dwellers in palestine by many ties, both of blood and friendship. the news of the great battle of tiberias, in which saladin defeated the christian host with terrible slaughter, arrived first in europe, and was followed in quick succession by that of the capture of jerusalem, antioch, tripoli, and other cities. dismay seized upon the clergy. the pope (urban iii.) was so affected by the news that he pined away for grief, and was scarcely seen to smile again, until he sank into the sleep of death. [james of vitry--william de nangis.] his successor, gregory viii. felt the loss as acutely, but had better strength to bear it, and instructed all the clergy of the christian world to stir up the people to arms for the recovery of the holy sepulchre. william, archbishop of tyre, a humble follower in the path of peter the hermit, left palestine to preach to the kings of europe the miseries he had witnessed, and to incite them to the rescue. the renowned frederick barbarossa, the emperor of germany, speedily collected an army, and passing over into syria with less delay than had ever before awaited a crusading force, defeated the saracens, and took possession of the city of iconium. he was unfortunately cut off in the middle of his successful career, by imprudently bathing in the cydnus [the desire of comparing two great men has tempted many writers to drown frederick in the river cydnus, in which alexander so imprudently bathed (q. curt. lib. iii. c. , .): but, from the march of the emperor, i rather judge that his saleph is the calycadnus, a stream of less fame, but of a longer course.--gibbon] while he was overheated, and the duke of suabia took the command of the expedition. the latter did not prove so able a general, and met with nothing but reverses, although he was enabled to maintain a footing at antioch until assistance arrived from europe. henry ii. of england and philip augustus of france, at the head of their chivalry, supported the crusade with all their influence, until wars and dissensions nearer home estranged them from it for a time. the two kings met at gisors in normandy in the month of january , accompanied by a brilliant train of knights and warriors. william of tyre was present, and expounded the cause of the cross with considerable eloquence, and the whole assembly bound themselves by oath to proceed to jerusalem. it was agreed at the same time that a tax, called saladin's tithe, and consisting of the tenth part of all possessions, whether landed or personal, should be enforced over christendom, upon every one who was either unable or unwilling to assume the cross. the lord of every feof, whether lay or ecclesiastical, was charged to raise the tithe within his own jurisdiction; and any one who refused to pay his quota, became by that act the bondsman and absolute property of his lord. at the same time the greatest indulgence was shown to those who assumed the cross; no man was at liberty to stay them by process of any kind, whether for debt, or robbery, or murder. the king of france, at the breaking up of the conference, summoned a parliament at paris, where these resolutions were solemnly confirmed, while henry ii. did the same for his norman possessions at rouen, and for england at geddington, in northamptonshire. to use the words of an ancient chronicler, [stowe.] "he held a parliament about the voyage into the holy land, and troubled the whole land with the paying of tithes towards it." but it was not england only that was "troubled" by the tax. the people of france also looked upon it with no pleasant feelings, and appear from that time forth to have changed their indifference for the crusade into aversion. even the clergy, who were exceedingly willing that other people should contribute half, or even all their goods in furtherance of their favourite scheme, were not at all anxious to contribute a single sous themselves. millot ["elemens de l'histoire de france."] relates that several of them cried out against the impost. among the rest the clergy of rheims were called upon to pay their quota, but sent a deputation to the king, begging him to be contented with the aid of their prayers, as they were too poor to contribute in any other shape. philip augustus knew better, and by way of giving them a lesson, employed three nobles of the vicinity to lay waste the church lands. the clergy, informed of the outrage, applied to the king for redress. "i will aid you with my prayers," said the monarch condescendingly, "and will intreat those gentlemen to let the church alone." he did as he had promised, but in such a manner, that the nobles, who appreciated the joke, continued their devastations as before. again the clergy applied to the king. "what would you have of me?" he replied, in answer to their remonstrances: "you gave me your prayers in my necessity, and i have given you mine in yours." the clergy understood the argument, and thought it the wiser course to pay their quota of saladin's tithe without further parley. this anecdote shows the unpopularity of the crusade. if the clergy disliked to contribute, it is no wonder that the people felt still greater antipathy. but the chivalry of europe was eager for the affray: the tithe was rigorously collected, and armies from england, france, burgundy, italy, flanders, and germany, were soon in the field; the two kings who were to have led it, were, however, drawn into broils by an aggression of richard; duke of guienne, better known as richard coeur de lion, upon the territory of the count of toulouse, and the proposed journey to palestine was delayed. war continued to rage between france and england, and with so little probability of a speedy termination, that many of the nobles, bound to the crusade, left the two monarchs to settle their differences at their leisure, and proceeded to palestine without them. death at last stepped in and removed henry ii. from the hostility of his foes, and the treachery and ingratitude of his children. his son richard immediately concluded an alliance with philip augustus, and the two young, valiant, and impetuous monarchs, united all their energies to forward the crusade. they met with a numerous and brilliant retinue at nonancourt in normandy, where, in sight of their assembled chivalry, they embraced as brothers, and swore to live as friends and true allies, until a period of forty days after their return from the holy land. with a view of purging their camp from the follies and vices which had proved so ruinous to preceding expeditions, they drew up a code of laws for the government of the army. gambling had been carried to a great extent, and had proved the fruitful source of quarrels and bloodshed, and one of their laws prohibited any person in the army, beneath the degree of a knight, from playing at any game for money. [strutt's "sports and pastimes."] knights and clergymen might play for money, but no one was permitted to lose or gain more than twenty shillings in a day, under a penalty of one hundred shillings. the personal attendants of the monarchs were also allowed to play to the same extent. the penalty in their case for infraction was that they should be whipped naked through the army for the space of three days. any crusader, who struck another and drew blood, was ordered to have his hand cut off; and whoever slew a brother crusader was condemned to be tied alive to the corpse of his victim and buried with him. no young women were allowed to follow the army, to the great sorrow of many vicious and of many virtuous dames, who had not courage to elude the decree by dressing in male attire. but many high-minded and affectionate maidens and matrons, bearing the sword or the spear, followed their husbands and lovers to the war in spite of king richard, and in defiance of danger. the only women allowed to accompany the army in their own habiliments, were washerwomen, of fifty years complete, and any others of the fair sex who had reached the same age. these rules having been promulgated, the two monarchs marched together to lyons, where they separated, agreeing to meet again at messina. philip proceeded across the alps to genoa, where he took ship, and was conveyed in safety to the place of rendezvous. richard turned in the direction of marseilles, where he also took ship for messina. his impetuous disposition hurried him into many squabbles by the way, and his knights and followers, for the most part as brave and as foolish as himself, imitated him very zealously in this particular. at messina the sicilians charged the most exorbitant prices for every necessary of life. richard's army in vain remonstrated. from words they came to blows, and, as a last resource, plundered the sicilians, since they could not trade with them. continual battles were the consequence, in one of which lebrun, the favourite attendant of richard, lost his life. the peasantry from far and near came flocking to the aid of the townspeople, and the battle soon became general. richard, irritated at the loss of his favourite, and incited by a report that tancred, the king of sicily, was fighting at the head of his own people, joined the melee with his boldest knights, and, beating back the sicilians, attacked the city, sword in hand, stormed the battlements, tore down the flag of sicily, and planted his own in its stead. this collision gave great offence to the king of france, who became from that time jealous of richard, and apprehensive that his design was not so much to re-establish the christian kingdom of jerusalem, as to make conquests for himself. he, however, exerted his influence to restore peace between the english and sicilians, and shortly afterwards set sail for acre, with distrust of his ally germinating in his heart. richard remained behind for some weeks, in a state of inactivity quite unaccountable in one of his temperament. he appears to have had no more squabbles with the sicilians, but to have lived an easy luxurious life, forgetting, in the lap of pleasure, the objects for which he had quitted his own dominions and the dangerous laxity he was introducing into his army. the superstition of his soldiers recalled him at length to a sense of his duty: a comet was seen for several successive nights, which was thought to menace them with the vengeance of heaven for their delay. shooting stars gave them similar warning; and a fanatic, of the name of joachim, with his drawn sword in his hand, and his long hair streaming wildly over his shoulders, went through the camp, howling all night long, and predicting plague, famine, and every other calamity, if they did not set out immediately. richard did not deem it prudent to neglect the intimations; and, after doing humble penance for his remissness, he set sail for acre. a violent storm dispersed his fleet, but he arrived safely at rhodes with the principal part of the armament. here he learned that three of his ships had been stranded on the rocky coasts of cyprus, and that the ruler of the island, isaac comnenus, had permitted his people to pillage the unfortunate crews, and had refused shelter to his betrothed bride, the princess berengaria, and his sister, who, in one of the vessels, had been driven by stress of weather into the port of limisso. the fiery monarch swore to be revenged, and, collecting all his vessels, sailed back to limisso. isaac comnenus refused to apologize or explain, and richard, in no mood to be trifled with, landed on the island, routed with great loss the forces sent to oppose him, and laid the whole country under contribution. on his arrival at acre, he found the whole of the chivalry of europe there before him. guy of lusignan, the king of jerusalem, had long before collected the bold knights of the temple, the hospital, and st. john, and had laid siege to acre, which was resolutely defended by the sultan saladin, with an army magnificent both for its numbers and its discipline. for nearly two years the crusaders had pushed the siege, and made efforts almost superhuman to dislodge the enemy. various battles had taken place in the open fields with no decisive advantage to either party, and guy of lusignan had begun to despair of taking that strong position without aid from europe. his joy was extreme on the arrival of philip with all his chivalry, and he only awaited the coming of coeur de lion to make one last decisive attack upon the town. when the fleet of england was first seen approaching the shores of syria, a universal shout arose from the christian camp; and when richard landed with his train, one louder still pierced to the very mountains of the south, where saladin lay with all his army. it may be remarked as characteristic of this crusade, that the christians and the moslems no longer looked upon each other as barbarians, to whom mercy was a crime. each host entertained the highest admiration for the bravery and magnanimity of the other, and in their occasional truces met upon the most friendly terms. the moslem warriors were full of courtesy to the christian knights, and had no other regret than to think that such fine fellows were not mahomedans. the christians, with a feeling precisely similar, extolled to the skies the nobleness of the saracens, and sighed to think that such generosity and valour should be sullied by disbelief in the gospel of jesus. but when the strife began, all these feelings disappeared, and the struggle became mortal. the jealousy excited in the mind of philip by the events of messina still rankled, and the two monarchs refused to act in concert. instead of making a joint attack upon the town, the french monarch assailed it alone, and was repulsed. richard did the same, and with the same result. philip tried to seduce the soldiers of richard from their allegiance by the offer of three gold pieces per month to every knight who would forsake the banners of england for those of france. richard met the bribe by another, and promised four pieces to every french knight who should join the lion of england. in this unworthy rivalry their time was wasted, to the great detriment of the discipline and efficiency of their followers. some good was nevertheless effected; for the mere presence of two such armies prevented the besieged city from receiving supplies, and the inhabitants were reduced by famine to the most woeful straits. saladin did not deem it prudent to risk a general engagement by coming to their relief, but preferred to wait till dissension had weakened his enemy, and made him an easy prey. perhaps if he had been aware of the real extent of the extremity in acre, he would have changed his plan; but, cut off from the town, he did not know their misery till it was too late. after a short truce the city capitulated upon terms so severe that saladin afterwards refused to ratify them. the chief conditions were, that the precious wood of the true cross, captured by the moslems in jerusalem, should be restored; that a sum of two hundred thousand gold pieces should be paid; and that all the christian prisoners in acre should be released, together with two hundred knights and a thousand soldiers, detained in captivity by saladin. the eastern monarch, as may be well conceived, did not set much store on the wood of the cross, but was nevertheless anxious to keep it, as he knew its possession by the christians would do more than a victory to restore their courage. he refused, therefore, to deliver it up, or to accede to any of the conditions; and richard, as he had previously threatened, barbarously ordered all the saracen prisoners in his power to be put to death. the possession of the city only caused new and unhappy dissensions between the christian leaders. the archduke of austria unjustifiably hoisted his flag on one of the towers of acre, which richard no sooner saw than he tore it down with his own hands, and trampled it under his feet. philip, though he did not sympathise with the archduke, was piqued at the assumption of richard, and the breach between the two monarchs became wider than ever. a foolish dispute arose at the same time between guy of lusignan and conrad of montferrat for the crown of jerusalem. the inferior knights were not slow to imitate the pernicious example, and jealousy, distrust, and ill-will reigned in the christian camp. in the midst of this confusion the king of france suddenly announced his intention to return to his own country. richard was filled with indignation, and exclaimed, "eternal shame light on him, and on all france, if, for any cause, he leave this work unfinished!" but philip was not to be stayed. his health had suffered by his residence in the east, and, ambitious of playing a first part, he preferred to play none at all, than to play second to king richard. leaving a small detachment of burgundians behind, he returned to france with the remainder of his army; and coeur de lion, without feeling, in the multitude of his rivals, that he had lost the greatest, became painfully convinced that the right arm of the enterprize was lopped off. after his departure, richard re-fortified acre, restored the christian worship in the churches, and, leaving a christian garrison to protect it, marched along the sea-coast towards ascalon. saladin was on the alert, and sent his light horse to attack the rear of the christian army, while he himself, miscalculating their weakness since the defection of philip, endeavoured to force them to a general engagement. the rival armies met near azotus. a fierce battle ensued, in which saladin was defeated and put to flight, and the road to jerusalem left free for the crusaders. again discord exerted its baleful influence, and prevented richard from following up his victory. his opinion was constantly opposed by the other leaders, all jealous of his bravery and influence; and the army, instead of marching to jerusalem, or even to ascalon, as was first intended, proceeded to jaffa, and remained in idleness until saladin was again in a condition to wage war against them. many months were spent in fruitless hostilities and as fruitless negotiations. richard's wish was to recapture jerusalem; but there were difficulties in the way, which even his bold spirit could not conquer. his own intolerable pride was not the least cause of the evil; for it estranged many a generous spirit, who would have been willing to co-operate with him in all cordiality. at length it was agreed to march to the holy city; but the progress made was so slow and painful, that the soldiers murmured, and the leaders meditated retreat. the weather was hot and dry, and there was little water to be procured. saladin had choked up the wells and cisterns on the route, and the army had not zeal enough to push forward amid such privation. at bethlehem a council was held, to debate whether they should retreat or advance. retreat was decided upon, and immediately commenced. it is said, that richard was first led to a hill, whence he could obtain a sight of the towers of jerusalem, and that he was so affected at being so near it, and so unable to relieve it, that he hid his face behind his shield, and sobbed aloud. the army separated into two divisions, the smaller falling back upon jaffa, and the larger, commanded by richard and the duke of burgundy, returning to acre. before the english monarch had made all his preparations for his return to europe, a messenger reached acre with the intelligence that jaffa was besieged by saladin, and that, unless relieved immediately, the city would be taken. the french, under the duke of burgundy, were so wearied with the war, that they refused to aid their brethren in jaffa. richard, blushing with shame at their pusillanimity, called his english to the rescue, and arrived just in time to save the city. his very name put the saracens to flight, so great was their dread of his prowess. saladin regarded him with the warmest admiration, and when richard, after his victory, demanded peace, willingly acceded. a truce was concluded for three years and eight months, during which christian pilgrims were to enjoy the liberty of visiting jerusalem without hindrance or payment of any tax. the crusaders were allowed to retain the cities of tyre and jaffa, with the country intervening. saladin, with a princely generosity, invited many of the christians to visit jerusalem; and several of the leaders took advantage of his offer to feast their eyes upon a spot which all considered so sacred. many of them were entertained for days in the sultan's own palace, from which they returned with their tongues laden with the praises of the noble infidel. richard and saladin never met, though the impression that they did will remain on many minds, who have been dazzled by the glorious fiction of sir walter scott. but each admired the prowess and nobleness of soul of his rival, and agreed to terms far less onerous than either would have accepted, had this mutual admiration not existed.[richard left a high reputation in palestine. so much terror did his name occasion, that the women of syria used it to frighten their children for ages afterwards. every disobedient brat became still when told that king richard was coming. even men shared the panic that his name created; and a hundred years afterwards, whenever a horse shied at any object in the way, his rider would exclaim, "what! dost thou think king richard is in the bush?"] the king of england no longer delayed his departure, for messengers from his own country brought imperative news that his presence was required to defeat the intrigues that were fomenting against his crown. his long imprisonment in the austrian dominions and final ransom are too well known to be dwelt upon. and thus ended the third crusade, less destructive of human life than the two first, but quite as useless. the flame of popular enthusiasm now burned pale indeed, and all the efforts of popes and potentates were insufficient to rekindle it. at last, after flickering unsteadily, like a lamp expiring in the socket, it burned up brightly for one final instant, and was extinguished for ever. the fourth crusade, as connected with popular feeling, requires little or no notice. at the death of saladin, which happened a year after the conclusion of his truce with richard of england, his vast empire fell to pieces. his brother saif eddin, or saphaddin, seized upon syria, in the possession of which he was troubled by the sons of saladin. when this intelligence reached europe, the pope, celestine iii. judged the moment favourable for preaching a new crusade. but every nation in europe was unwilling and cold towards it. the people had no ardour, and kings were occupied with more weighty matters at home. the only monarch of europe who encouraged it was the emperor henry of germany, under whose auspices the dukes of saxony and bavaria took the field at the head of a considerable force. they landed in palestine, and found anything but a welcome from the christian inhabitants. under the mild sway of saladin, they had enjoyed repose and toleration, and both were endangered by the arrival of the germans. they looked upon them in consequence as over-officious intruders, and gave them no encouragement in the warfare against saphaddin. the result of this crusade was even more disastrous than the last--for the germans contrived not only to embitter the saracens against the christians of judea, but to lose the strong city of jaffa, and cause the destruction of nine-tenths of the army with which they had quitted europe. and so ended the fourth crusade. the fifth was more important, and had a result which its projectors never dreamed of--no less than the sacking of constantinople, and the placing of a french dynasty upon the imperial throne of the eastern caesars. each succeeding pope, however much he may have differed from his predecessors on other points, zealously agreed in one, that of maintaining by every possible means the papal ascendancy. no scheme was so likely to aid in this endeavour as the crusades. as long as they could persuade the kings and nobles of europe to fight and die in syria, their own sway was secured over the minds of men at home. such being their object, they never inquired whether a crusade was or was not likely to be successful, whether the time were well or ill chosen, or whether men and money could be procured in sufficient abundance. pope innocent iii. would have been proud if he could have bent the refractory monarchs of england and france into so much submission. but john and philip augustus were both engaged. both had deeply offended the church, and had been laid under her ban, and both were occupied in important reforms at home; philip in bestowing immunities upon his subjects, and john in having them forced from him. the emissaries of the pope therefore plied them in vain;--but as in the first and second crusades, the eloquence of a powerful preacher incited the nobility, and through them a certain portion of the people, foulque, bishop of neuilly, an ambitious and enterprizing prelate, entered fully into the views of the court of rome, and preached the crusade wherever he could find an audience. chance favoured him to a degree he did not himself expect, for he had in general found but few proselytes, and those few but cold in the cause. theobald, count of champagne, had instituted a grand tournament, to which he had invited all the nobles from far and near. upwards of two thousand knights were present with their retainers, besides a vast concourse of people to witness the sports. in the midst of the festivities foulque arrived upon the spot, and conceiving the opportunity to be a favourable one, he addressed the multitude in eloquent language, and passionately called upon them to enrol themselves for the new crusade. the count de champagne, young, ardent, and easily excited, received the cross at his hands. the enthusiasm spread rapidly. charles count of blois followed the example, and of the two thousand knights present, scarcely one hundred and fifty refused. the popular phrensy seemed on the point of breaking out as in the days of yore. the count of flanders, the count of bar, the duke of burgundy, and the marquis of montferrat, brought all their vassals to swell the train, and in a very short space of time an effective army was on foot and ready to march to palestine. the dangers of an overland journey were too well understood, and the crusaders endeavoured to make a contract with some of the italian states to convey them over in their vessels. dandolo, the aged doge of venice, offered them the galleys of the republic; but the crusaders, on their arrival in that city, found themselves too poor to pay even half the sum demanded. every means was tried to raise money; the crusaders melted down their plate, and ladies gave up their trinkets. contributions were solicited from the faithful, but came in so slowly, as to make it evident to all concerned, that the faithful of europe were outnumbered by the prudent. as a last resource, dandolo offered to convey them to palestine at the expense of the republic, if they would previously aid in the recapture of the city of zara, which had been seized from the venetians a short time previously by the king of hungary. the crusaders consented, much to the displeasure of the pope, who threatened excommunication upon all who should be turned aside from the voyage to jerusalem. but notwithstanding the fulminations of the church, the expedition never reached palestine. the siege of zara was speedily undertaken. after a long and brave defence, the city surrendered at discretion, and the crusaders were free, if they had so chosen it, to use their swords against the saracens. but the ambition of the chiefs had been directed, by unforeseen circumstances, elsewhere. after the death of manuel comnenus, the greek empire had fallen a prey to intestine divisions. his son alexius ii. had succeeded him, but was murdered after a very short reign by his uncle andronicus, who seized upon the throne. his reign also was but of short duration. isaac angelus, a member of the same family, took up arms against the usurper, and having defeated and captured him in a pitched battle, had him put to death. he also mounted the throne only to be cast down from it. his brother alexius deposed him, and to incapacitate him from reigning, put out his eyes, and shut him up in a dungeon. neither was alexius iii. allowed to remain in peaceable possession of the throne; the son of the unhappy isaac, whose name also was alexius, fled from constantinople, and hearing that the crusaders had undertaken the siege of zara, made them the most magnificent offers if they would afterwards aid him in deposing his uncle. his offers were, that if by their means he was re-established in his father's dominions, he would place the greek church under the authority of the pope of rome, lend the whole force of the greek empire to the conquest of palestine, and distribute two hundred thousand marks of silver among the crusading army. the offer was accepted, with a proviso on the part of some of the leaders, that they should be free to abandon the design, if it met with the disapproval of the pope. but this was not to be feared. the submission of the schismatic greeks to the see of rome was a greater bribe to the pontiff, than the utter annihilation of the saracen power in palestine would have been. the crusaders were soon in movement for the imperial city. their operations were skilfully and courageously directed, and spread such dismay as to paralyse the efforts of the usurper to retain possession of his throne. after a vain resistance, he abandoned the city to its fate, and fled no one knew whither. the aged and blind isaac was taken from his dungeon by his subjects, and placed upon the throne ere the crusaders were apprized of the flight of his rival. his son alexius iv. was afterwards associated with him in the sovereignty. but the conditions of the treaty gave offence to the grecian people, whose prelates refused to place themselves under the dominion of the see of rome. alexius at first endeavoured to persuade his subjects to submission, and prayed the crusaders to remain in constantinople until they had fortified him in the possession of a throne which was yet far from secure. he soon became unpopular with his subjects; and breaking faith with regard to the subsidies, he offended the crusaders. war was at length declared upon him by both parties; by his people for his tyranny, and by his former friends for his treachery. he was seized in his palace by his own guards and thrown into prison, while the crusaders were making ready to besiege his capital. the greeks immediately proceeded to the election of a new monarch; and looking about for a man with courage, energy, and perseverance, they fixed upon alexius ducas, who, with almost every bad quality, was possessed of the virtues they needed. he ascended the throne under the name of murzuphlis. one of his first acts was to rid himself of his youngest predecessor--a broken heart had already removed the blind old isaac--no longer a stumbling block in his way--and the young alexius was soon after put to death in his prison. war to the knife was now declared between the greeks and the franks, and early in the spring of the year , preparations were commenced for an assault upon constantinople. the french and venetians entered into a treaty for the division of the spoils among their soldiery, for so confident were they of success, that failure never once entered into their calculations. this confidence led them on to victory, while the greeks, cowardly as treacherous people always are, were paralysed by a foreboding of evil. it has been a matter of astonishment to all historians, that murzuphlis, with the reputation for courage which he had acquired, and the immense resources at his disposal, took no better measures to repel the onset of the crusaders. their numbers were as a mere handful in comparison with those which he could have brought against them; and if they had the hopes of plunder to lead them on, the greeks had their homes to fight for, and their very existence as a nation to protect. after an impetuous assault, repulsed for one day, but renewed with double impetuosity on another, the crusaders lashed their vessels against the walls, slew every man who opposed them, and, with little loss to themselves, entered the city. murzuphlis fled, and constantinople was given over to be pillaged by the victors. the wealth they found was enormous. in money alone there was sufficient to distribute twenty marks of silver to each knight, ten to each squire or servant at arms, and five to each archer. jewels, velvets, silks, and every luxury of attire, with rare wines and fruits, and valuable merchandise of every description, also fell into their hands, and were bought by the trading venetians, and the proceeds distributed among the army. two thousand persons were put to the sword; but had there been less plunder to take up the attention of the victors, the slaughter would in all probability have been much greater. in many of the bloody wars which defile the page of history, we find that soldiers, utterly reckless of the works of god, will destroy his masterpiece, man, with unsparing brutality, but linger with respect around the beautiful works of art. they will slaughter women and children, but spare a picture; will hew down the sick, the helpless, and the hoary-headed, but refrain from injuring a fine piece of sculpture. the latins, on their entrance into constantinople, respected neither the works of god nor man, but vented their brutal ferocity upon the one and satisfied their avarice upon the other. many beautiful bronze statues, above all price as works of art, were broken into pieces to be sold as old metal. the finely-chiselled marble, which could be put to no such vile uses, was also destroyed, with a recklessness; if possible, still more atrocious. [the following is a list of some of the works of art thus destroyed, from nicetas, a contemporary greek author:-- st. a colossal juno, from the forum of constantine, the head of which was so large that four horses could scarcely draw it from the place where it stood to the palace. d. the statue of paris presenting the apple to venus. d. an immense bronze pyramid, crowned by a female figure, which turned with the wind. th. the colossal statue of bellerophon, in bronze, which was broken down and cast into the furnace. under the inner nail of the horse's hind foot on the left side, was found a seal wrapped in a woollen cloth. th. a figure of hercules, by lysimachus, of such vast dimensions that the thumb was equal in circumference to the waist of a man. th. the ass and his driver, cast by order of augustus after the battle of actium, in commemoration of his having discovered the position of antony through the means of an ass-driver. th. the wolf suckling the twins of rome. th. the gladiator in combat with a lion. th. the hippopotamus. th. the sphinxes. th. an eagle fighting with a serpent. th. a beautiful statue of helen. th. a group, with a monster somewhat resembling a bull, engaged in deadly conflict with a serpent; and many other works of art, too numerous to mention.] the carnage being over, and the spoil distributed, six persons were chosen from among the franks and six from among the venetians, who were to meet and elect an emperor, previously binding themselves by oath to select the individual best qualified among the candidates. the choice wavered between baldwin, count of flanders, and boniface, marquis of montferrat, but fell eventually upon the former. he was straightway robed in the imperial purple, and became the founder of a new dynasty. he did not live long to enjoy his power, or to consolidate it for his successors, who, in their turn, were soon swept away. in less than sixty years the rule of the franks at constantinople was brought to as sudden and disastrous a termination as the reign of murzuphlis: and this was the grand result of the fifth crusade. pope innocent iii, although he had looked with no very unfavourable eye upon these proceedings, regretted that nothing had been done for the relief of the holy land; still, upon every convenient occasion, he enforced the necessity of a new crusade. until the year , his exhortations had no other effect than to keep the subject in the mind of europe. every spring and summer, detachments of pilgrims continued to set out for palestine to the aid of their brethren, but not in sufficient numbers to be of much service. these periodical passages were called the passagiuum martii, or the passage of march, and the passagium johannis, or the passage of the festival of st. john. these did not consist entirely of soldiers, armed against the saracen, but of pilgrims led by devotion, and in performance of their vows, bearing nothing with them but their staff and their wallet. early in the spring of a more extraordinary body of crusaders was raised in france and germany. an immense number of boys and girls, amounting, according to some accounts, to thirty thousand, were incited by the persuasion of two monks to undertake the journey to palestine. they were, no doubt, composed of the idle and deserted children who generally swarm in great cities, nurtured in vice and daring, and ready for anything. the object of the monks seems to have been the atrocious one of inveigling them into slave ships, on pretence of sending them to syria, and selling them for slaves on the coast of africa. [see jacob de voragine and albericus.] great numbers of these poor victims were shipped at marseilles; but the vessels, with the exception of two or three, were wrecked on the shores of italy, and every soul perished. the remainder arrived safely in africa, and were bought up as slaves, and sent off into the interior of the country. another detachment arrived at genoa; but the accomplices in this horrid plot having taken no measures at that port, expecting them all at marseilles, they were induced to return to their homes by the genoese. fuller, in his quaint history of the "holy warre," says that this crusade was done by the instinct of the devil; and he adds a reason, which may provoke mirth now, but which was put forth by the worthy historian in all soberness and sincerity. he says, "the devil, being cloyed with the murdering of men, desired a cordial of children's blood to comfort his weak stomach;" as epicures, when tired of mutton, resort to lamb for a change. it appears from other authors that the preaching of the vile monks had such an effect upon these deluded children that they ran about the country, exclaiming, "o, lord jesus, restore thy cross to us!" and that neither bolts nor bars, the fear of fathers, nor the love of mothers, was sufficient to restrain them from journeying to jerusalem. the details of these strange proceedings are exceedingly meagre and confused, and none of the contemporary writers who mention the subject have thought it worth while to state the names of the monks who originated the scheme, or the fate they met for their wickedness. two merchants of marseilles, who were to have shared in the profits, were, it is said, brought to justice for some other crime, and suffered death; but we are not informed whether they divulged any circumstances relating to this matter. pope innocent iii does not seem to have been aware that the causes of this juvenile crusade were such as have been stated, for, upon being informed that numbers of them had taken the cross, and were marching to the holy land, he exclaimed, "these children are awake, while we sleep!" he imagined, apparently, that the mind of europe was still bent on the recovery of palestine, and that the zeal of these children implied a sort of reproach upon his own lukewarmness. very soon afterwards, he bestirred himself with more activity, and sent an encyclical letter to the clergy of christendom, urging them to preach a new crusade. as usual, a number of adventurous nobles, who had nothing else to do, enrolled themselves with their retainers. at a council of lateran, which was held while these bands were collecting, innocent announced that he himself would take the cross, and lead the armies of christ to the defence of his sepulchre. in all probability he would have done so, for he was zealous enough; but death stepped in, and destroyed his project ere it was ripe. his successor encouraged the crusade, though he refused to accompany it; and the armament continued in france, england, and germany. no leaders of any importance joined it from the former countries. andrew, king of hungary, was the only monarch who had leisure or inclination to leave his dominions. the dukes of austria and bavaria joined him with a considerable army of germans, and marching to spalatro, took ship for cyprus, and from thence to acre. the whole conduct of the king of hungary was marked by pusillanimity and irresolution. he found himself in the holy land at the head of a very efficient army; the saracens were taken by surprise, and were for some weeks unprepared to offer any resistance to his arms. he defeated the first body sent to oppose him, and marched towards mount tabor, with the intention of seizing upon an important fortress which the saracens had recently constructed. he arrived without impediment at the mount, and might have easily taken it; but a sudden fit of cowardice came over him, and he returned to acre without striking a blow. he very soon afterwards abandoned the enterprise altogether, and returned to his own country. tardy reinforcements arrived at intervals from europe; and the duke of austria, now the chief leader of the expedition, had still sufficient forces at his command to trouble the saracens very seriously. it was resolved by him, in council with the other chiefs, that the whole energy of the crusade should be directed upon egypt, the seat of the saracen power in its relationship to palestine, and from whence were drawn the continual levies that were brought against them by the sultan. damietta, which commanded the river nile, and was one of the most important cities of egypt, was chosen as the first point of attack. the siege was forthwith commenced, and carried on with considerable energy, until the crusaders gained possession of a tower, which projected into the middle of the stream, and was looked upon as the very key of the city. while congratulating themselves upon this success, and wasting in revelry the time which should have been employed in pushing the advantage, they received the news of the death of the wise sultan saphaddin. his two sons, camhel and cohreddin, divided his empire between them. syria and palestine fell to the share of cohreddin, while egypt was consigned to the other brother, who had for some time exercised the functions of lieutenant of that country. being unpopular among the egyptians, they revolted against him, giving the crusaders a finer opportunity for making a conquest than they had ever enjoyed before. but, quarrelsome and licentious as they had been from time immemorial, they did not see that the favourable moment had come; or, seeing, could not profit by it. while they were revelling or fighting among themselves, under the walls of damietta, the revolt was put down, and camhel firmly established on the throne of egypt. in conjunction with his brother, cohreddin, his next care was to drive the christians from damietta, and, for upwards of three months, they bent all their efforts to throw in supplies to the besieged, or draw on the besiegers to a general engagement. in neither were they successful; and the famine in damietta became so dreadful, that vermin of every description were thought luxuries, and sold for exorbitant prices. a dead dog became more valuable than a live ox in time of prosperity. unwholesome food brought on disease, and the city could hold out no longer, for absolute want of men to defend the walls. cohreddin and camhel were alike interested in the preservation of so important a position, and, convinced of the certain fate of the city, they opened a conference with the crusading chiefs, offering to yield the whole of palestine to the christians, upon the sole condition of the evacuation of egypt. with a blindness and wrong-headedness almost incredible, these advantageous terms were refused, chiefly through the persuasion of cardinal pelagius, an ignorant and obstinate fanatic, who urged upon the duke of austria and the french and english leaders, that infidels never kept their word; that their offers were deceptive, and merely intended to betray. the conferences were brought to an abrupt termination by the crusaders, and a last attack made upon the walls of damietta. the besieged made but slight resistance, for they had no hope, and the christians entered the city, and found, out of seventy thousand people, but three thousand remaining: so fearful had been the ravages of the twin fiends, plague and famine. several months were spent in damietta. the climate either weakened the frames or obscured the understandings of the christians; for, after their conquest, they lost all energy, and abandoned themselves more unscrupulously than ever to riot and debauchery. john of brienne, who, by right of his wife, was the nominal sovereign of jerusalem, was so disgusted with the pusillanimity, arrogance, and dissensions of the chiefs, that he withdrew entirely from them, and retired to acre. large bodies also returned to europe, and cardinal pelagius was left at liberty to blast the whole enterprise whenever it pleased him. he managed to conciliate john of brienne, and marched forward with these combined forces to attack cairo. it was only when he had approached within a few hours' march of that city, that he discovered the inadequacy of his army. he turned back immediately, but the nile had risen since his departure; the sluices were opened, and there was no means of reaching damietta. in this strait, he sued for the peace he had formerly spurned, and, happily for himself, found the generous brothers, camhel and cohreddin, still willing to grant it. damietta was soon afterwards given up, and the cardinal returned to europe. john of brienne retired to acre, to mourn the loss of his kingdom, embittered against the folly of his pretended friends, who had ruined where they should have aided him. and thus ended the sixth crusade. the seventh was more successful. frederic ii, emperor of germany, had often vowed to lead his armies to the defence of palestine, but was as often deterred from the journey by matters of more pressing importance. cohreddin was a mild and enlightened monarch, and the christians of syria enjoyed repose and toleration under his rule: but john of brienne was not willing to lose his kingdom without an effort; and the popes in europe were ever willing to embroil the nations for the sake of extending their own power. no monarch of that age was capable of rendering more effective assistance than frederic of germany. to inspire him with more zeal, it was proposed that he should wed the young princess, violante, daughter of john of brienne, and heiress of the kingdom of jerusalem. frederic consented with joy and eagerness. the princess was brought from acre to rome without delay, and her marriage celebrated on a scale of great magnificence. her father, john of brienne, abdicated all his rights in favour of his son-in-law, and jerusalem had once more a king, who had not only the will, but the power, to enforce his claims. preparations for the new crusade were immediately commenced, and in the course of six months the emperor was at the head of a well-disciplined army of sixty thousand men. matthew paris informs us, that an army of the same amount was gathered in england; and most of the writers upon the crusades adopt his statement. when john of brienne was in england, before his daughter's marriage with the emperor was thought of, praying for the aid of henry iii. and his nobles to recover his lost kingdom, he did not meet with much encouragement. grafton, in his chronicle, says, "he departed again without any great comfort." but when a man of more influence in european politics appeared upon the scene, the english nobles were as ready to sacrifice themselves in the cause as they had been in the time of coeur de lion. the army of frederic encamped at brundusium; but a pestilential disease having made its appearance among them, their departure was delayed for several months. in the mean time the empress violante died in child-bed. john of brienne, who had already repented of his abdication, and was besides incensed against frederic for many acts of neglect and insult, no sooner saw the only tie which bound them, severed by the death of his daughter, than he began to bestir himself, and make interest with the pope to undo what he had done, and regain the honorary crown he had renounced. pope gregory the ninth, a man of a proud, unconciliating, and revengeful character, owed the emperor a grudge for many an act of disobedience to his authority, and encouraged the overtures of john of brienne more than he should have done. frederic, however, despised them both, and, as soon as his army was convalescent, set sail for acre. he had not been many days at sea, when he was himself attacked with the malady, and obliged to return to otranto, the nearest port. gregory, who had by this time decided in the interest of john of brienne, excommunicated the emperor for returning from so holy an expedition on any pretext whatever. frederic at first treated the excommunication with supreme contempt; but when he got well, he gave his holiness to understand that he was not to be outraged with impunity, and sent some of his troops to ravage the papal territories. this, however, only made the matter worse, and gregory despatched messengers to palestine, forbidding the faithful, under severe pains and penalties, to hold any intercourse with the excommunicated emperor. thus between them both, the scheme which they had so much at heart bade fair to be as effectually ruined as even the saracens could have wished. frederic still continued his zeal in the crusade, for he was now king of jerusalem, and fought for himself, and not for christendom, or its representative, pope gregory. hearing that john of brienne was preparing to leave europe, he lost no time in taking his own departure, and arrived safely at acre. it was here that he first experienced the evil effects of excommunication. the christians of palestine refused to aid him in any way, and looked with distrust, if not with abhorrence, upon him. the templars, hospitallers, and other knights, shared at first the general feeling; but they were not men to yield a blind obedience to a distant potentate, especially when it compromised their own interests. when, therefore, frederic prepared to march upon jerusalem without them, they joined his banners to a man. it is said, that previous to quitting europe, the german emperor had commenced a negotiation with the sultan camhel for the restoration of the holy land, and that camhel, who was jealous of the ambition of his brother cohreddin, was willing to stipulate to that effect, on condition of being secured by frederic in the possession of the more important territory of egypt. but before the crusaders reached palestine, camhel was relieved from all fears by the death of his brother. he nevertheless did not think it worth while to contest with the crusaders the barren corner of the earth which had already been dyed with so much christian and saracen blood, and proposed a truce of three years, only stipulating, in addition, that the moslems should be allowed to worship freely in the temple of jerusalem. this happy termination did not satisfy the bigoted christians of palestine. the tolerance they fought for themselves, they were not willing to extend to others, and they complained bitterly of the privilege of free worship allowed to their opponents. unmerited good fortune had made them insolent, and they contested the right of the emperor to become a party to any treaty, as long as he remained under the ecclesiastical ban. frederic was disgusted with his new subjects; but, as the templars and hospitallers remained true to him, he marched to jerusalem to be crowned. all the churches were shut against him, and he could not even find a priest to officiate at his coronation. he had despised the papal authority too long to quail at it now, when it was so unjustifiably exerted, and, as there was nobody to crown him, he very wisely crowned himself. he took the royal diadem from the altar with his own hands, and boldly and proudly placed it on his brow. no shouts of an applauding populace made the welkin ring, no hymns of praise and triumph resounded from the ministers of religion; but a thousand swords started from their scabbards, to testify that their owners would defend the new monarch to the death. it was hardly to be expected that he would renounce for any long period the dominion of his native land for the uneasy crown and barren soil of palestine. he had seen quite enough of his new subjects before he was six months among them, and more important interests called him home. john of brienne, openly leagued with pope gregory against him, was actually employed in ravaging his territories at the head of a papal army. this intelligence decided his return. as a preliminary step, he made those who had contemned his authority feel, to their sorrow, that he was their master. he then set sail, loaded with the curses of palestine. and thus ended the seventh crusade, which, in spite of every obstacle and disadvantage, had been productive of more real service to the holy land than any that had gone before; a result solely attributable to the bravery of frederic and the generosity of the sultan camhel. soon after the emperor's departure a new claimant started for the throne of jerusalem, in the person of alice, queen of cyprus, and half-sister of the mary who, by her marriage, had transferred her right to john of brienne. the grand military orders, however, clung to frederic, and alice was obliged to withdraw. so peaceful a termination to the crusade did not give unmixed pleasure in europe. the chivalry of france and england were unable to rest, and long before the conclusion of the truce, were collecting their armies for an eighth expedition. in palestine, also, the contentment was far from universal. many petty mahomedan states in the immediate vicinity were not parties to the truce, and harassed the frontier towns incessantly. the templars, ever turbulent, waged bitter war with the sultan of aleppo, and in the end were almost exterminated. so great was the slaughter among them that europe resounded with the sad story of their fate, and many a noble knight took arms to prevent the total destruction of an order associated with so many high and inspiring remembrances. camhel, seeing the preparations that were making, thought that his generosity had been sufficiently shown, and the very day the truce was at an end assumed the offensive, and marching forward to jerusalem took possession of it, after routing the scanty forces of the christians. before this intelligence reached europe a large body of crusaders was on the march, headed by the king of navarre, the duke of burgundy, the count de bretagne, and other leaders. on their arrival, they learned that jerusalem had been taken, but that the sultan was dead, and his kingdom torn by rival claimants to the supreme power. the dissensions of their foes ought to have made them united, but, as in all previous crusades, each feudal chief was master of his own host, and acted upon his own responsibility, and without reference to any general plan. the consequence was that nothing could be done. a temporary advantage was gained by one leader, who had no means of improving it, while another was defeated, without means of retrieving himself. thus the war lingered till the battle of gaza, when the king of navarre was defeated with great loss, and compelled to save himself from total destruction by entering into a hard and oppressive treaty with the emir of karac. at this crisis aid arrived from england, commanded by richard earl of cornwall, the namesake of coeur de lion, and inheritor of his valour. his army was strong, and full of hope. they had confidence in themselves and in their leader, and looked like men accustomed to victory. their coming changed the aspect of affairs. the new sultan of egypt was at war with the sultan of damascus, and had not forces to oppose two enemies so powerful. he therefore sent messengers to meet the english earl, offering an exchange of prisoners and the complete cession of the holy land. richard, who had not come to fight for the mere sake of fighting, agreed at once to terms so advantageous, and became the deliverer of palestine without striking a blow. the sultan of egypt then turned his whole force against his moslem enemies, and the earl of cornwall returned to europe. thus ended the eighth crusade, the most beneficial of all. christendom had no further pretence for sending her fierce levies to the east. to all appearance, the holy wars were at an end: the christians had entire possession of jerusalem, tripoli, antioch, edessa, acre, jaffa, and, in fact, of nearly all judea; and, could they have been at peace among themselves, they might have overcome, without great difficulty, the jealousy and hostility of their neighhours. a circumstance, as unforeseen as it was disastrous, blasted this fair prospect, and reillumed, for the last time, the fervour and fury of the crusades. gengis khan and his successors had swept over asia like a tropical storm, overturning in their progress the landmarks of ages. kingdom after kingdom was cast down as they issued, innumerable, from the far recesses of the north and east, and, among others, the empire of korasmin was overrun by these all-conquering hordes. the korasmins, a fierce, uncivilized race, thus driven from their homes, spread themselves, in their turn, over the south of asia with fire and sword, in search of a resting place. in their impetuous course they directed themselves towards egypt, whose sultan, unable to withstand the swarm that had cast their longing eyes on the fertile valleys of the nile, endeavoured to turn them from their course. for this purpose, he sent emissaries to barbaquan, their leader, inviting them to settle in palestine; and the offer being accepted by the wild horde, they entered the country before the christians received the slightest intimation of their coming. it was as sudden as it was overwhelming. onwards, like the simoom, they came, burning and slaying, and were at the walls of jerusalem before the inhabitants had time to look round them. they spared neither life nor property; they slew women and children, and priests at the altar, and profaned even the graves of those who had slept for ages. they tore down every vestige of the christian faith, and committed horrors unparalleled in the history of warfare. about seven thousand of the inhabitants of jerusalem sought safety in retreat; but before they were out of sight, the banner of the cross was hoisted upon the walls by the savage foe to decoy them back. the artifice was but too successful. the poor fugitives imagined that help had arrived from another direction, and turned back to regain their homes. nearly the whole of them were massacred, and the streets of jerusalem ran with blood. the templars, hospitallers, and teutonic knights forgot their long and bitter animosities, and joined hand in hand to rout out this desolating foe. they intrenched themselves in jaffa with all the chivalry of palestine that yet remained, and endeavoured to engage the sultans of emissa and damascus to assist them against the common enemy. the aid obtained from the moslems amounted at first to only four thousand men, but with these reinforcements walter of brienne, the lord of jaffa, resolved to give battle to the korasrains. the conflict was as deadly as despair on the one side, and unmitigated ferocity on the other, could make it. it lasted with varying fortune for two days, when the sultan of emissa fled to his fortifications, and walter of brienne fell into the enemy's hands. the brave knight was suspended by the arms to a cross in sight of the walls of jaffa, and the korasminian leader declared that he should remain in that position until the city surrendered. walter raised his feeble voice, not to advise surrender, but to command his soldiers to hold out to the last. but his gallantry was unavailing. so great had been the slaughter, that out of the grand array of knights, there now remained but sixteen hospitallers, thirty-three templars, and three teutonic cavaliers. these with the sad remnant of the army fled to acre, and the korasmins were masters of palestine. the sultans of syria preferred the christians to this fierce horde for their neighbours. even the sultan of egypt began to regret the aid he had given to such barbarous foes, and united with those of emissa and damascus to root them from the land. the korasmins amounted to but twenty thousand men, and were unable to resist the determined hostility which encompassed them on every side. the sultans defeated them in several engagements, and the peasantry rose up in masses to take vengeance upon them. gradually their numbers were diminished. no mercy was shown them in defeat. barbaquan, their leader, was slain, and after five years of desperate struggles they were finally extirpated, and palestine became once more the territory of the mussulmans. a short time previous to this devastating irruption, louis ix. fell sick in paris, and dreamed in the delirium of his fever that he saw the christian and moslem hosts fighting before jerusalem, and the christians defeated with great slaughter. the dream made a great impression on his superstitious mind, and he made a solemn vow that if ever he recovered his health, he would take a pilgrimage to the holy land. when the news of the misfortunes of palestine, and the awful massacres at jerusalem and jaffa, arrived in europe, st. louis remembered him of his dream. more persuaded than ever, that it was an intimation direct from heaven, he prepared to take the cross at the head of his armies, and march to the deliverance of the holy sepulchre. from that moment he doffed the royal mantle of purple and ermine, and dressed in the sober serge becoming a pilgrim. all his thoughts were directed to the fulfilment of his design, and although his kingdom could but ill spare him, he made every preparation to leave it. pope innocent iv. applauded his zeal and afforded him every assistance. he wrote to henry iii. of england to forward the cause in his dominions, and called upon the clergy and laity all over europe to contribute towards it. william longsword, the celebrated earl of salisbury, took the cross at the head of a great number of valiant knights and soldiers. but the fanaticism of the people was not to be awakened either in france or england. great armies were raised, but the masses no longer sympathized. taxation had been the great cooler of zeal. it was no longer a disgrace even to a knight if he refused to take the cross. rutebeuf, a french minstrel, who flourished about this time ( ), composed a dialogue between a crusader and a non-crusader, which the reader will find translated in "way's fabliaux." the crusader uses every argument to persuade the non-crusader to take up arms, and forsake every thing, in the holy cause; but it is evident from the greater force of the arguments used by the noncrusader, that he was the favourite of the minstrel. to a most urgent solicitation of his friend, the crusader, he replies, "i read thee right, thou boldest good to this same land i straight should hie, and win it back with mickle blood, nor gaine one foot of soil thereby. while here dejected and forlorn, my wife and babes are left to mourn; my goodly mansion rudely marred, all trusted to my dogs to guard. but i, fair comrade, well i wot an ancient saw, of pregnant wit, doth bid us keep what we have got, and troth i mean to follow it." this being the general feeling, it is not to be wondered at that louis ix. was occupied fully three years in organizing his forces, and in making the necessary preparations for his departure. when all was ready he set sail for cyprus, accompanied by his queen, his two brothers, the counts d'anjou and d'artois, and a long train of the noblest chivalry of france. his third brother, the count de poitiers, remained behind to collect another corps of crusaders, and followed him in a few months afterwards. the army united at cyprus, and amounted to fifty thousand men, exclusive of the english crusaders under william longsword. again, a pestilential disease made its appearance, to which many hundreds fell victims. it was in consequence found necessary to remain in cyprus until the spring. louis then embarked for egypt with his whole host; but a violent tempest separated his fleet, and he arrived before damietta with only a few thousand men. they were, however, impetuous and full of hope; and although the sultan melick shah was drawn up on the shore with a force infinitely superior, it was resolved to attempt a landing without waiting the arrival of the rest of the army. louis himself in wild impatience sprang from his boat, and waded on shore; while his army, inspired by his enthusiastic bravery, followed, shouting the old war-cry of the first crusaders, dieu le veut! dieu le veut! a panic seized the turks. a body of their cavalry attempted to bear down upon the crusaders, but the knights fixed their large shields deep in the sands of the shore, and rested their lances upon them, so that they projected above, and formed a barrier so imposing, that the turks, afraid to breast it, turned round and fairly took to flight. at the moment of this panic, a false report was spread in the saracen host, that the sultan had been slain. the confusion immediately became general--the deroute was complete: damietta itself was abandoned, and the same night the victorious crusaders fixed their headquarters in that city. the soldiers who had been separated from their chief by the tempest, arrived shortly afterwards; and louis was in a position to justify the hope, not only of the conquest of palestine, but of egypt itself. but too much confidence proved the bane of his army. they thought, as they had accomplished so much, that nothing more remained to be done, and gave themselves up to ease and luxury. when, by the command of louis, they marched towards cairo, they were no longer the same men; success, instead of inspiring, had unnerved them; debauchery had brought on disease, and disease was aggravated by the heat of a climate to which none of them were accustomed. their progress towards massoura, on the road to cairo, was checked by the thanisian canal, on the banks of which the saracens were drawn up to dispute the passage. louis gave orders that a bridge should be thrown across; and the operations commenced under cover of two cat-castles, or high moveable towers. the saracens soon destroyed them by throwing quantities of greek fire, the artillery of that day, upon them, and louis was forced to think of some other means of effecting his design. a peasant agreed, for a considerable bribe, to point out a ford where the army might wade across, and the count d'artois was despatched with fourteen hundred men to attempt it, while louis remained to face the saracens with the main body of the army. the count d'artois got safely over, and defeated the detachment that had been sent to oppose his landing. flushed with the victory, the brave count forgot the inferiority of his numbers, and pursued the panic-stricken enemy into massoura. he was now completely cut off from the aid of his brother-crusaders, which the moslems perceiving, took courage and returned upon him, with a force swollen by the garrison of massoura, and by reinforcements from the surrounding districts. the battle now became hand to hand. the christians fought with the energy of desperate men, but the continually increasing numbers of the foe surrounded them completely, and cut off all hope, either of victory or escape. the count d'artois was among the foremost of the slain, and when louis arrived to the rescue, the brave advance-guard was nearly cut to pieces. of the fourteen hundred but three hundred remained. the fury of the battle was now increased threefold. the french king and his troops performed prodigies of valour, and the saracens, under the command of the emir ceccidun, fought as if they were determined to exterminate, in one last decisive effort, the new european swarm that had settled upon their coast. at the fall of the evening dews the christians were masters of the field of massoura, and flattered themselves that they were the victors. self-love would not suffer them to confess that the saracens had withdrawn, and not retreated; but their leaders were too wofully convinced that that fatal field had completed the disorganization of the christian army, and that all hopes of future conquest were at an end. impressed with this truth, the crusaders sued for peace. the sultan insisted upon the immediate evacuation of damietta, and that louis himself should be delivered as hostage for the fulfilment of the condition. his army at once refused, and the negotiations were broken off. it was now resolved to attempt a retreat; but the agile saracens, now in the front and now in the rear, rendered it a matter of extreme difficulty, and cut off the stragglers in great numbers. hundreds of them were drowned in the nile; and sickness and famine worked sad ravage upon those who escaped all other casualties. louis himself was so weakened by disease, fatigue, and discouragement that he was hardly able to sit upon his horse. in the confusion of the flight he was separated from his attendants, and left a total stranger upon the sands of egypt, sick, weary, and almost friendless. one knight, geffry de sergines, alone attended him, and led him to a miserable hut in a small village, where for several days he lay in the hourly expectation of death. he was at last discovered and taken prisoner by the saracens, who treated him with all the honour due to his rank and all the pity due to his misfortunes. under their care his health rapidly improved, and the next consideration was that of his ransom. the saracens demanded, besides money, the cession of acre, tripoli, and other cities of palestine. louis unhesitatingly refused, and conducted himself with so much pride and courage that the sultan declared he was the proudest infidel he had ever beheld. after a good deal of haggling, the sultan agreed to waive these conditions, and a treaty was finally concluded. the city of damietta was restored; a truce of ten years agreed upon, and ten thousand golden bezants paid for the release of louis and the liberation of all the captives. louis then withdrew to jaffa, and spent two years in putting that city, and cesarea, with the other possessions of the christians in palestine, into a proper state of defence. he then returned to his own country, with great reputation as a saint, but very little as a soldier. matthew paris informs us that, in the year , while louis was in egypt, "thousands of the english were resolved to go to the holy war, had not the king strictly guarded his ports and kept his people from running out of doors." when the news arrived of the reverses and captivity of the french king, their ardour cooled; and the crusade was sung of only, but not spoken of. in france, a very different feeling was the result. the news of the king's capture spread consternation through the country. a fanatic monk of citeaux suddenly appeared in the villages, preaching to the people, and announcing that the holy virgin, accompanied by a whole army of saints and martyrs, had appeared to him, and commanded him to stir up the shepherds and farm labourers to the defence of the cross. to them only was his discourse addressed, and his eloquence was such that thousands flocked around him, ready to follow wherever he should lead. the pastures and the corn-fields were deserted, and the shepherds, or pastoureaux, as they were termed, became at last so numerous as to amount to upwards of fifty thousand,--millot says one hundred thousand men. [elemens de l'histoire de france.] the queen blanche, who governed as regent during the absence of the king, encouraged at first the armies of the pastoureaux; but they soon gave way to such vile excesses that the peaceably disposed were driven to resistance. robbery, murder, and violation marked their path; and all good men, assisted by the government, united in putting them down. they were finally dispersed, but not before three thousand of them had been massacred. many authors say that the slaughter was still greater. the ten years' truce concluded in , and st. louis was urged by two powerful motives to undertake a second expedition for the relief of palestine. these were fanaticism on the one hand, and a desire of retrieving his military fame on the other, which had suffered more than his parasites liked to remind him of. the pope, of course, encouraged his design, and once more the chivalry of europe began to bestir themselves. in , edward, the heir of the english monarchy, announced his determination to join the crusade; and the pope (clement iv.) wrote to the prelates and clergy to aid the cause by their persuasions and their revenues. in england, they agreed to contribute a tenth of their possessions; and by a parliamentary order, a twentieth was taken from the corn and moveables of all the laity at michaelmas. in spite of the remonstrances of the few clearheaded statesmen who surrounded him, urging the ruin that might in consequence fall upon his then prosperous kingdom, louis made every preparation for his departure. the warlike nobility were nothing loth, and in the spring of , the king set sail with an army of sixty thousand men. he was driven by stress of weather into sardinia, and while there, a change in his plans took place. instead of proceeding to acre, as he originally intended, he shaped his course for tunis, on the african coast. the king of tunis had some time previously expressed himself favourably disposed towards the christians and their religion, and louis, it appears, had hopes of converting him, and securing his aid against the sultan of egypt. "what honour would be mine," he used to say, "if i could become godfather to this mussulman king." filled with this idea he landed in africa, near the site of the city of carthage, but found that he had reckoned without his host. the king of tunis had no thoughts of renouncing his religion, nor intention of aiding the crusaders in any way. on the contrary, he opposed their landing with all the forces that could be collected on so sudden an emergency. the french, however, made good their first position, and defeated the moslems with considerable loss. they also gained some advantage over the reinforcements that were sent to oppose them; but an infectious flux appeared in the army, and put a stop to all future victories. the soldiers died at the rate of a hundred in a day. the enemy, at the same time, made as great havoc as the plague. st. louis himself was one of the first attacked by the disease. his constitution had been weakened by fatigues, and even before he left france he was unable to bear the full weight of his armour. it was soon evident to his sorrowing soldiers that their beloved monarch could not long survive. he lingered for some days, and died in carthage, in the fifty-sixth year of his age, deeply regretted by his army and his subjects, and leaving behind him one of the most singular reputations in history. he is the model-king of ecclesiastical writers, in whose eyes his very defects became virtues, because they were manifested in furtherance of their cause. more unprejudiced historians, while they condemn his fanaticism, admit that he was endowed with many high and rare qualities; that he was in no one point behind his age, and, in many, in advance of it. his brother, charles of anjou, in consequence of a revolution in sicily, had become king of that country. before he heard of the death of louis, he had sailed from messina with large reinforcements. on his landing near carthage, he advanced at the head of his army, amid the martial music of drums and trumpets. he was soon informed how inopportune was his rejoicing, and shed tears before his whole army, such as no warrior would have been ashamed to shed. a peace was speedily agreed upon with the king of tunis, and the armies of france and sicily returned to their homes. so little favour had the crusade found in england, that even the exertions of the heir to the throne had only collected a small force of fifteen hundred men. with these few prince edward sailed from dover to bourdeaux, in the expectation that he would find the french king in that city. st. louis, however, had left a few weeks previously; upon which edward followed him to sardinia, and afterwards to tunis. before his arrival in africa, st. louis was no more, and peace had been concluded between france and tunis. he determined, however, not to relinquish the crusade. returning to sicily, he passed the winter in that country, and endeavoured to augment his little army. in the spring he set sail for palestine, and arrived in safety at acre. the christians were torn, as usual, by mutual jealousies and animosities. the two great military orders were as virulent and as intractable as ever; opposed to each other, and to all the world. the arrival of edward had the effect of causing them to lay aside their unworthy contention, and of uniting heart to heart, in one last effort for the deliverance of their adopted country. a force of six thousand effective warriors was soon formed to join those of the english prince, and preparations were made for the renewal of hostilities. the sultan, bibars or bendocdar, [mills, in his history, gives the name of this chief as "al malek al dhaker rokneddin abulfeth bibars al ali al bundokdari al salehi."] a fierce mamluke, who had been placed on the throne by a bloody revolution, was at war with all his neighbours, and unable, for that reason, to concentrate his whole strength against them. edward took advantage of this; and marching boldly forward to nazareth, defeated the turks and gained possession of that city. this was the whole amount of his successes. the hot weather engendered disease among his troops, and he himself, the life and soul of the expedition, fell sick among the first. he had been ill for some time, and was slowly recovering, when a messenger desired to speak with him on important matters, and to deliver some despatches into his own hand. while the prince was occupied in examining them, the traitorous messenger drew a dagger from his belt, and stabbed him in the breast. the wound fortunately was not deep, and edward had gained a portion of his strength. he struggled with the assassin, and put him to death with his own dagger, at the same time calling loudly for assistance. [the reader will recognise the incident which sir walter scott has introduced into his beautiful romance, "the talisman," and which, with the licence claimed by poets and romancers, he represents as having befallen king richard i.] his attendants came at his call, and found him bleeding profusely, and ascertained on inspection that the dagger was poisoned. means were instantly taken to purify the wound; and an antidote was sent by the grand master of the templars which removed all danger from the effects of the poison. camden, in his history, has adopted the more popular, and certainly more beautiful, version of this story, which says that the princess eleonora, in her love for her gallant husband, sucked the poison from his wound at the risk of her own life: to use the words of old fuller, "it is a pity so pretty a story should not be true; and that so sovereign a remedy as a woman's tongue, anointed with the virtue of loving affection," should not have performed the good deed. edward suspected, and doubtless not without reason, that the assassin was employed by the sultan of egypt. but it amounted to suspicion only; and by the sudden death of the assassin, the principal clue to the discovery of the truth was lost for ever. edward, on his recovery, prepared to resume the offensive; but the sultan, embarrassed by the defence of interests which, for the time being, he considered of more importance, made offers of peace to the crusaders. this proof of weakness on the part of the enemy was calculated to render a man of edward's temperament more anxious to prosecute the war; but he had also other interests to defend. news arrived in palestine of the death of his father, king henry iii; and his presence being necessary in england, he agreed to the terms of the sultan. these were, that the christians should be allowed to retain their possessions in the holy land, and that a truce of ten years should be proclaimed. edward then set sail for england; and thus ended the last crusade. the after-fate of the holy land may be told in a few words. the christians, unmindful of their past sufferings and of the jealous neighbours they had to deal with, first broke the truce by plundering some egyptian traders near margat. the sultan immediately revenged the outrage by taking possession of margat, and war once more raged between the nations. margat made a gallant defence, but no reinforcements arrived from europe to prevent its fall. tripoli was the next, and other cities in succession, until at last acre was the only city of palestine that remained in possession of the christians. the grand master of the templars collected together his small and devoted band; and with the trifling aid afforded by the king of cyprus, prepared to defend to the death the last possession of his order. europe was deaf to his cry for aid, the numbers of the foe were overwhelming, and devoted bravery was of no avail. in that disastrous siege the christians were all but exterminated. the king of cyprus fled when he saw that resistance was vain, and the grand master fell at the head of his knights, pierced with a hundred wounds. seven templars, and as many hospitallets, alone escaped from the dreadful carnage. the victorious moslems then set fire to the city, and the rule of the christians in palestine was brought to a close for ever. this intelligence spread alarm and sorrow among the clergy of europe, who endeavoured to rouse once more the energy and enthusiasm of the nations, in the cause of the holy land: but the popular mania had run its career; the spark of zeal had burned its appointed time, and was never again to be re-illumined. here and there a solitary knight announced his determination to take up arms, and now and then a king gave cold encouragement to the scheme; but it dropped almost as soon as spoken of, to be renewed again, still more feebly, at some longer interval. now what was the grand result of all these struggles? europe expended millions of her treasures, and the blood of two millions of her children; and a handful of quarrelsome knights retained possession of palestine for about one hundred years! even had christendom retained it to this day, the advantage, if confined to that, would have been too dearly purchased. but notwithstanding the fanaticism that originated, and the folly that conducted them, the crusades were not productive of unmitigated evil. the feudal chiefs became better members of society, by coming in contact, in asia, with a civilization superior to their own; the people secured some small instalments of their rights; kings, no longer at war with their nobility, had time to pass some good laws; the human mind learned some little wisdom from hard experience, and, casting off the slough of superstition in which the roman clergy had so long enveloped it, became prepared to receive the seeds of the approaching reformation. thus did the all-wise disposer of events bring good out of evil, and advance the civilization and ultimate happiness of the nations of the west, by means of the very fanaticism that had led them against the east. but the whole subject is one of absorbing interest; and if carried fully out in all its bearings, would consume more space than the plan of this work will allow. the philosophic student will draw his own conclusions; and he can have no better field for the exercise of his powers than this european madness; its advantages and disadvantages; its causes and results. the witch mania. what wrath of gods, or wicked influence of tears, conspiring wretched men t' afflict, hath pour'd on earth this noyous pestilence, that mortal minds doth inwardly infect with love of blindness and of ignorance? spencer's tears of the muses. countrymen: "hang her!--beat her!--kill her!" justice: "how now? forbear this violence!" mother sawyer: "a crew of villains--a knot of bloody hangmen! set to torment me!--i know not why." justice: "alas! neighbour banks, are you a ringleader in mischief? fie i to abuse an aged woman!" banks: "woman!--a she hell-cat, a witch! to prove her one, we no sooner set fire on the thatch of her house, but in she came running, as if the devil had sent her in a barrel of gunpowder." ford's witch of edmonton. the belief that disembodied spirits may be permitted to revisit this world, has its foundation upon that sublime hope of immortality, which is at once the chief solace and greatest triumph of our reason. even if revelation did not teach us, we feel that we have that within us which shall never die; and all our experience of this life but makes us cling the more fondly to that one repaying hope. but in the early days of "little knowledge," this grand belief became the source of a whole train of superstitions, which, in their turn, became the fount from whence flowed a deluge of blood and horror. europe, for a period of two centuries and a half, brooded upon the idea, not only that parted spirits walked the earth to meddle in the affairs of men, but that men had power to summon evil spirits to their aid to work woe upon their fellows. an epidemic terror seized upon the nations; no man thought himself secure, either in his person or possessions, from the machinations of the devil and his agents. every calamity that befell him, he attributed to a witch. if a storm arose and blew down his barn, it was witchcraft; if his cattle died of a murrain-if disease fastened upon his limbs, or death entered suddenly, and snatched a beloved face from his hearth--they were not visitations of providence, but the works of some neighbouring hag, whose wretchedness or insanity caused the ignorant to raise their finger, and point at her as a witch. the word was upon everybody's tongue--france, italy, germany, england, scotland, and the far north, successively ran mad upon this subject, and for a long series of years, furnished their tribunals with so many trials for witchcraft that other crimes were seldom or never spoken of. thousands upon thousands of unhappy persons fell victims to this cruel and absurd delusion. in many cities of germany, as will be shown more fully in its due place hereafter, the average number of executions for this pretended crime, was six hundred annually, or two every day, if we leave out the sundays, when, it is to be supposed, that even this madness refrained from its work. a misunderstanding of the famous text of the mosaic law, "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," no doubt led many conscientious men astray, whose superstition, warm enough before, wanted but a little corroboration to blaze out with desolating fury. in all ages of the world men have tried to hold converse with superior beings; and to pierce, by their means, the secrets of futurity. in the time of moses, it is evident that there were impostors, who trafficked upon the credulity of mankind, and insulted the supreme majesty of the true god by pretending to the power of divination. hence the law which moses, by divine command, promulgated against these criminals; but it did not follow, as the superstitious monomaniacs of the middle ages imagined, that the bible established the existence of the power of divination by its edicts against those who pretended to it. from the best authorities, it appears that the hebrew word, which has been rendered, venefica, and witch, means a poisoner and divineress--a dabbler in spells, or fortune-teller. the modern witch was a very different character, and joined to her pretended power of foretelling future events that of working evil upon the life, limbs, and possessions of mankind. this power was only to be acquired by an express compact, signed in blood, with the devil himself, by which the wizard or witch renounced baptism, and sold his or her immortal soul to the evil one, without any saving clause of redemption. there are so many wondrous appearances in nature, for which science and philosophy cannot, even now, account, that it is not surprising that, when natural laws were still less understood, men should have attributed to supernatural agency every appearance which they could not otherwise explain. the merest tyro now understands various phenomena which the wisest of old could not fathom. the schoolboy knows why, upon high mountains, there should, on certain occasions, appear three or four suns in the firmament at once; and why the figure of a traveller upon one eminence should be reproduced, inverted, and of a gigantic stature, upon another. we all know the strange pranks which imagination can play in certain diseases--that the hypochondriac can see visions and spectres, and that there have been cases in which men were perfectly persuaded that they were teapots. science has lifted up the veil, and rolled away all the fantastic horrors in which our forefathers shrouded these and similar cases. the man who now imagines himself a wolf, is sent to the hospital, instead of to the stake, as in the days of the witch mania; and earth, air, and sea are unpeopled of the grotesque spirits that were once believed to haunt them. before entering further into the history of witchcraft, it may be as well if we consider the absurd impersonation of the evil principle formed by the monks in their legends. we must make acquaintance with the primum mobile, and understand what sort of a personage it was, who gave the witches, in exchange for their souls, the power to torment their fellow-creatures. the popular notion of the devil was, that he was a large, ill-formed, hairy sprite, with horns, a long tail, cloven feet, and dragon's wings. in this shape he was constantly brought on the stage by the monks in their early "miracles" and "mysteries." in these representations he was an important personage, and answered the purpose of the clown in the modern pantomime. the great fun for the people was to see him well belaboured by the saints with clubs or cudgels, and to hear him howl with pain as he limped off, maimed by the blow of some vigorous anchorite. st. dunstan generally served him the glorious trick for which he is renowned--catching hold of his nose with a pair of red-hot pincers, till "rocks and distant dells resounded with his cries." some of the saints spat in his face, to his very great annoyance; and others chopped pieces off his tail, which, however, always grew on again. this was paying him in his own coin, and amused the populace mightily; for they all remembered the scurvy tricks he had played them and their forefathers. it was believed that he endeavoured to trip people up, by laying his long invisible tail in their way, and giving it a sudden whisk when their legs were over it;--that he used to get drunk, and swear like a trooper, and be so mischievous in his cups as to raise tempests and earthquakes, to destroy the fruits of the earth and the barns and homesteads of true believers;--that he used to run invisible spits into people by way of amusing himself in the long winter evenings, and to proceed to taverns and regale himself with the best, offering in payment pieces of gold which, on the dawn of the following morning, invariably turned into slates. sometimes, disguised as a large drake, he used to lurk among the bulrushes, and frighten the weary traveller out of his wits by his awful quack. the reader will remember the lines of burns in his address to the "de'il," which so well express the popular notion on this point-- "ae dreary, windy, winter night, the stars shot down wi' sklentin light, wi' you, mysel, i got a fright ayont the lough; ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight wi' waving sough. "the cudgel in my nieve did shake, each bristled hair stood like a stake, when wi' an eldritch stour, 'quaick! quaick!' among the springs awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, on whistling wings." in all the stories circulated and believed about him, he was represented as an ugly, petty, mischievous spirit, who rejoiced in playing off all manner of fantastic tricks upon poor humanity. milton seems to have been the first who succeeded in giving any but a ludicrous description of him. the sublime pride which is the quintessence of evil, was unconceived before his time. all other limners made him merely grotesque, but milton made him awful. in this the monks showed themselves but miserable romancers; for their object undoubtedly was to represent the fiend as terrible as possible: but there was nothing grand about their satan; on the contrary, he was a low mean devil, whom it was easy to circumvent and fine fun to play tricks with. but, as is well and eloquently remarked by a modern writer, [see article on demonology, in the sixth volume of the "foreign quarterly review."] the subject has also its serious side. an indian deity, with its wild distorted shape and grotesque attitude, appears merely ridiculous when separated from its accessories and viewed by daylight in a museum; but restore it to the darkness of its own hideous temple, bring back to our recollection the victims that have bled upon its altar, or been crushed beneath its ear, and our sense of the ridiculous subsides into aversion and horror. so, while the superstitious dreams of former times are regarded as mere speculative insanities, we may be for a moment amused with the wild incoherences of the patients; but, when we reflect, that out of these hideous misconceptions of the principle of evil arose the belief in witchcraft--that this was no dead faith, but one operating on the whole being of society, urging on the wisest and the mildest to deeds of murder, or cruelties scarcely less than murder--that the learned and the beautiful, young and old, male and female, were devoted by its influence to the stake and the scaffold--every feeling disappears, except that of astonishment that such things could be, and humiliation at the thought that the delusion was as lasting as it was universal. besides this chief personage, there was an infinite number of inferior demons, who played conspicuous parts in the creed of witchcraft. the pages of bekker, leloyer, bodin, delrio, and de lancre abound with descriptions of the qualities of these imps and the functions which were assigned them. from these authors, three of whom were commissioners for the trial of witches, and who wrote from the confessions made by the supposed criminals and the evidence delivered against them, and from the more recent work of m. jules garinet, the following summary of the creed has been, with great pains, extracted. the student who is desirous of knowing more, is referred to the works in question; he will find enough in every leaf to make his blood curdle with shame and horror: but the purity of these pages shall not be soiled by anything so ineffably humiliating and disgusting as a complete exposition of them; what is here culled will be a sufficient sample of the popular belief, and the reader would but lose time who should seek in the writings of the demonologists for more ample details. he will gain nothing by lifting the veil which covers their unutterable obscenities, unless, like sterne, he wishes to gather fresh evidence of "what a beast man is." in that case, he will find plenty there to convince him that the beast would be libelled by the comparison. it was thought that the earth swarmed with millions of demons of both sexes, many of whom, like the human race, traced their lineage up to adam, who, after the fall, was led astray by devils, assuming the forms of beautiful women to deceive him. these demons "increased and multiplied," among themselves, with the most extraordinary rapidity. their bodies were of the thin air, and they could pass though the hardest substances with the greatest ease. they had no fixed residence or abiding place, but were tossed to and fro in the immensity of space. when thrown together in great multitudes, they excited whirlwinds in the air and tempests in the waters, and took delight in destroying the beauty of nature and the monuments of the industry of man. although they increased among themselves like ordinary creatures, their numbers were daily augmented by the souls of wicked men--of children still-born--of women who died in childbed, and of persons killed in duels. the whole air was supposed to be full of them, and many unfortunate men and women drew them by thousands into their mouths and nostrils at every inspiration; and the demons, lodging in their bowels or other parts of their bodies, tormented them with pains and diseases of every kind, and sent them frightful dreams. st. gregory of nice relates a story of a nun who forgot to say her benedicite, and make the sign of the cross, before she sat down to supper, and who, in consequence, swallowed a demon concealed among the leaves of a lettuce. most persons said the number of these demons was so great that they could not be counted, but wierus asserted that they amounted to no more than seven millions, four hundred and five thousand, nine hundred, and twenty-six; and that they were divided into seventy-two companies or battalions, to each of which there was a prince or captain. they could assume any shape they pleased. when they were male, they were called incubi; and when female, succubi. they sometimes made themselves hideous; and at other times, they assumed shapes of such transcendant loveliness, that mortal eyes never saw beauty to compete with theirs. although the devil and his legions could appear to mankind at any time, it was generally understood that he preferred the night between friday and saturday. if satan himself appeared in human shape, he was never perfectly, and in all respects, like a man. he was either too black or too white--too large or too small, or some of his limbs were out of proportion to the rest of his body. most commonly his feet were deformed; and he was obliged to curl up and conceal his tall in some part of his habiliments; for, take what shape he would, he could not get rid of that encumbrance. he sometimes changed himself into a tree or a river; and upon one occasion he transformed himself into a barrister, as we learn from wierus, book iv, chapter ix. in the reign of philippe le bel, he appeared to a monk in the shape of a dark man, riding a tall black horse--then as a friar--afterwards as an ass, and finally as a coach-wheel. instances are not rare in which both he and his inferior demons have taken the form of handsome young men; and, successfully concealing their tails, have married beautiful young women, who have had children by them. such children were easily recognizable by their continual shrieking--by their requiring five nurses to suckle them, and by their never growing fat. all these demons were at the command of any individual, who would give up his immortal soul to the prince of evil for the privilege of enjoying their services for a stated period. the wizard or witch could send them to execute the most difficult missions: whatever the witch commanded was performed, except it was a good action, in which case the order was disobeyed, and evil worked upon herself instead. at intervals, according to the pleasure of satan, there was a general meeting of the demons and all the witches. this meeting was called the sabbath, from its taking place on the saturday or immediately after midnight on fridays. these sabbaths were sometimes held for one district, sometimes for another, and once at least, every year, it was held on the brocken, or among other high mountains, as a general sabbath of the fiends for the whole of christendom. the devil generally chose a place where four roads met, as the scene of this assembly, or if that was not convenient, the neighbourhood of a lake. upon this spot nothing would ever afterwards grow, as the hot feet of the demons and witches burnt the principle of fecundity from the earth, and rendered it barren for ever. when orders had been once issued for the meeting of the sabbath, all the wizards and witches who failed to attend it were lashed by demons with a rod made of serpents or scorpions, as a punishment for their inattention or want of punctuality. in france and england, the witches were supposed to ride uniformly upon broomsticks; but in italy and spain, the devil himself, in the shape of a goat, used to transport them on his back, which lengthened or shortened according to the number of witches he was desirous of accommodating. no witch, when proceeding to the sabbath, could get out by a door or window, were she to try ever so much. their general mode of ingress was by the keyhole, and of egress, by the chimney, up which they flew, broom and all, with the greatest ease. to prevent the absence of the witches from being noticed by their neighbours, some inferior demon was commanded to assume their shapes and lie in their beds, feigning illness, until the sabbath was over. when all the wizards and witches had arrived at the place of rendezvous, the infernal ceremonies of the sabbath began. satan, having assumed his favourite shape of a large he-goat, with a face in front and another in his haunches, took his seat upon a throne; and all present, in succession, paid their respects to him, and kissed him in his face behind. this done, he appointed a master of the ceremonies, in company with whom he made a personal examination of all the wizards and witches, to see whether they had the secret mark about them by which they were stamped as the devil's own. this mark was always insensible to pain. those who had not yet been marked, received the mark from the master of the ceremonies; the devil at the same time bestowing nicknames upon them. this done, they all began to sing and dance in the most furious manner, until some one arrived who was anxious to be admitted into their society. they were then silent for a while, until the new-comer had denied his salvation, kissed the devil, spat upon the bible, and sworn obedience to him in all things. they then began dancing again with all their might, and singing these words, "alegremos, alegremos! que gente va tenemos!" in the course of an hour or two, they generally became wearied of this violent exercise, and then they all sat down and recounted the evil deeds they had done since their last meeting. those who had not been malicious and mischievous enough towards their fellow-creatures, received personal chastisement from satan himself, who flogged them with thorns or scorpions till they were covered with blood, and unable to sit or stand. when this ceremony was concluded, they were all amused by a dance of toads. thousands of these creatures sprang out of the earth; and standing on their hind-legs, danced, while the devil played the bagpipes or the trumpet. these toads were all endowed with the faculty of speech, and entreated the witches to reward them with the flesh of unbaptized babes for their exertions to give them pleasure. the witches promised compliance. the devil bade them remember to keep their word; and then stamping his foot, caused all the toads to sink into the earth in an instant. the place being thus cleared, preparation was made for the banquet, where all manner of disgusting things were served up and greedily devoured by the demons and witches; although the latter were sometimes regaled with choice meats and expensive wines from golden plates and crystal goblets; but they were never thus favoured unless they had done an extraordinary number of evil deeds since the last period of meeting. after the feast, they began dancing again; but such as had no relish for any more exercise in that way, amused themselves by mocking the holy sacrament of baptism. for this purpose, the toads were again called up, and sprinkled with filthy water; the devil making the sign of the cross, and all the witches calling out, "in nomine patrica, aragueaco petrica, agora! agora! valentia, jouando goure gaits goustia!" which meant, "in the name of patrick, petrick of aragon,--now, now, all our ills are over!" when the devil wished to be particularly amused, he made the witches strip off their clothes and dance before him, each with a cat tied round her neck, and another dangling from her body in form of a tail. when the cock crew, they all disappeared, and the sabbath was ended. this is a summary of the belief which prevailed for many centuries nearly all over europe, and which is far from eradicated even at this day. it was varied in some respects in several countries, but the main points were the same in france, germany, great britain, italy, spain, and the far north of europe. the early annals of france abound with stories of supposed sorcery, but it was not until the time of charlemagne that the crime acquired any great importance. "this monarch," says m. jules garinet, ["histoire de la magie en france. rois de la seconde race," page .] "had several times given orders that all necromancers, astrologers, and witches should be driven from his states; but as the number of criminals augmented daily, he found it necessary at last to resort to severer measures. in consequence, he published several edicts, which may be found at length in the 'capitulaire de baluse.' by these, every sort of magic, enchantment, and witchcraft was forbidden; and the punishment of death decreed against those who in any way evoked the devil--compounded love-philters--afflicted either man or woman with barrenness--troubled the atmosphere--excited tempests--destroyed the fruits of the earth--dried up the milk of cows, or tormented their fellow-creatures with sores and diseases. all persons found guilty of exercising these execrable arts, were to be executed immediately upon conviction, that the earth might be rid of the burthen and curse of their presence; and those even who consulted them might also be punished with death." [m. michaud, in his "history of the crusades," m. guinguene, in his "literary history of italy," and some other critics, have objected to tasso's poem, that he has attributed to the crusaders a belief in magic, which did not exist at that time. if these critics had referred to the edicts of charlemagne, they would have seen that tasso was right, and that a disposition too eager to spy out imperfections in a great work was leading themselves into error.] after this time, prosecutions for witchcraft are continually mentioned, especially by the french historians. it was a crime imputed with so much ease, and repelled with so much difficulty, that the powerful, whenever they wanted to ruin the weak, and could fix no other imputation upon them, had only to accuse them of witchcraft to ensure their destruction. instances, in which this crime was made the pretext for the most violent persecution, both of individuals and of communities, whose real offences were purely political or religious, must be familiar to every reader. the extermination of the stedinger, in ; of the templars, from to ; the execution of joan of arc, in ; and the unhappy scenes of arras, in ; are the most prominent. the first of these is perhaps the least known, but is not among the least remarkable. the following account, from dr. kortum's interesting history ["entstehungsgeschichte der freistadlischen bunde im mittelalter, von dr. f. kortum." .] of the republican confederacies of the middle ages, will show the horrible convenience of imputations of witchcraft, when royal or priestly wolves wanted a pretext for a quarrel with the sheep. the frieslanders, inhabiting the district from the weser to the zuydersee, had long been celebrated for their attachment to freedom, and their successful struggles in its defence. as early as the eleventh century, they had formed a general confederacy against the encroachments of the normans and the saxons, which was divided into seven seelands, holding annually a diet under a large oaktree at aurich, near the upstalboom. here they managed their own affairs, without the control of the clergy and ambitious nobles who surrounded them, to the great scandal of the latter. they already had true notions of a representative government. the deputies of the people levied the necessary taxes, deliberated on the affairs of the community, and performed, in their simple and patriarchal manner; nearly all the functions of the representative assemblies of the present day. finally, the archbishop of bremen, together with the count of oldenburg and other neighbouring potentates, formed a league against that section of the frieslanders, known by the name of the stedinger, and succeeded, after harassing them, and sowing dissensions among them for many years, in bringing them under the yoke. but the stedinger, devotedly attached to their ancient laws, by which they had attained a degree of civil and religious liberty very uncommon in that age, did not submit without a violent struggle. they arose in insurrection, in the year , in defence of the ancient customs of their country--refused to pay taxes to the feudal chiefs, or tithes to the clergy, who had forced themselves into their peaceful retreats, and drove out many of their oppressors. for a period of eight-and-twenty years the brave stedinger continued the struggle single-handed against the forces of the archbishops of bremen and the counts of oldenburg, and destroyed, in the year , the strong castle of slutterberg, near delmenhorst, built by the latter nobleman as a position from which he could send out his marauders to plunder and destroy the possessions of the peasantry. the invincible courage of these poor people proving too strong for their oppressors to cope with by the ordinary means of warfare, the archbishop of bremen applied to pope gregory ix. for his spiritual aid against them. that prelate entered cordially into the cause, and launching forth his anathema against the stedinger as heretics and witches, encouraged all true believers to assist in their extermination. a large body of thieves and fanatics broke into their country in the year , killing and burning wherever they went, and not sparing either women or children, the sick or the aged, in their rage. the stedinger, however, rallied in great force, routed their invaders, and killed in battle their leader, count burckhardt of oldenburg, with many inferior chieftains. again the pope was applied to, and a crusade against the stedinger was preached in all that part of germany. the pope wrote to all the bishops and leaders of the faithful an exhortation to arm, to root out from the land those abominable witches and wizards. "the stedinger," said his holiness, "seduced by the devil, have abjured all the laws of god and man; slandered the church--insulted the holy sacraments--consulted witches to raise evil spirits--shed blood like water--taken the lives of priests, and concocted an infernal scheme to propagate the worship of the devil, whom they adore under the name of asmodi. the devil appears to them in different shapes; sometimes as a goose or a duck, and at others in the figure of a pale, black-eyed youth, with a melancholy aspect, whose embrace fills their hearts with eternal hatred against the holy church of christ. this devil presides at their sabbaths, when they all kiss him and dance around him. he then envelopes them in total darkness, and they all, male and female, give themselves up to the grossest and most disgusting debauchery." in consequence of these letters of the pope, the emperor of germany, frederic ii, also pronounced his ban against them. the bishops of ratzebourg, lubeck, osnabruek, munster, and minden took up arms to exterminate them, aided by the duke of brabant, the counts of holland, of cloves, of the mark, of oldenburg, of egmond, of diest, and many other powerful nobles. an army of forty thousand men was soon collected, which marched, under the command of the duke of brabant, into the country of the stedinger. the latter mustered vigorously in defence of their lives and liberties, but could raise no greater force, including every man capable of bearing arms, than eleven thousand men to cope against the overwhelming numbers of their foe. they fought with the energy of despair, but all in vain. eight thousand of them were slain on the field of battle; the whole race was exterminated; and the enraged conquerors scoured the country in all directions--slew the women and children and old men--drove away the cattle--fired the woods and cottages, and made a total waste of the land. just as absurd and effectual was the charge brought against the templars in , when they had rendered themselves obnoxious to the potentates and prelacy of christendom. their wealth, their power, their pride, and their insolence had raised up enemies on every side; and every sort of accusation was made against them, but failed to work their overthrow, until the terrible cry of witchcraft was let loose upon them. this effected its object, and the templars were extirpated. they were accused of having sold their souls to the devil, and of celebrating all the infernal mysteries of the witches' sabbath. it was pretended that, when they admitted a novice into their order, they forced him to renounce his salvation and curse jesus christ; that they then made him submit to many unholy and disgusting ceremonies, and forced him to kiss the superior on the cheek, the navel, and the breech; and spit three times upon a crucifix. that all the members were forbidden to have connexion with women, but might give themselves up without restraint to every species of unmentionable debauchery. that when, by any mischance, a templar infringed this order, and a child was born, the whole order met, and tossed it about like a shuttlecock from one to the other until it expired; that they then roasted it by a slow fire, and with the fat which trickled from it anointed the hair and beard of a large image of the devil. it was also said that, when one of the knights died, his body was burnt into a powder, and then mixed with wine and drunk by every member of the order. philip iv, who, to exercise his own implacable hatred, invented, in all probability, the greater part of these charges, issued orders for the immediate arrest of all the templars in his dominions. the pope afterwards took up the cause with almost as much fervour as the king of france; and in every part of europe, the templars were thrown into prison and their goods and estates confiscated. hundreds of them, when put to the rack, confessed even the most preposterous of the charges against them, and by so doing, increased the popular clamour and the hopes of their enemies. it is true that, when removed from the rack, they denied all they had previously confessed; but this circumstance only increased the outcry, and was numbered as an additional crime against them. they were considered in a worse light than before, and condemned forthwith to the flames, as relapsed heretics. fifty-nine of these unfortunate victims were all burned together by a slow fire in a field in the suburbs of paris, protesting to the very last moment of their lives, their innocence of the crimes imputed to them, and refusing to accept of pardon upon condition of acknowledging themselves guilty. similar scenes were enacted in the provinces; and for four years, hardly a month passed without witnessing the execution of one or more of these unhappy men. finally, in , the last scene of this tragedy closed by the burning of the grand-master, jacques de molay, and his companion, guy, the commander of normandy. anything more atrocious it is impossible to conceive; disgraceful alike to the monarch who originated, the pope who supported, and the age which tolerated the monstrous iniquity. that the malice of a few could invent such a charge, is a humiliating thought for the lover of his species; but that millions of mankind should credit it, is still more so. the execution of joan of arc is the next most notorious example which history affords us, of the imputation of witchcraft against a political enemy. instances of similar persecution, in which this crime was made the pretext for the gratification of political or religious hatred, might be multiplied to a great extent. but it is better to proceed at once to the consideration of the bull of pope innocent, the torch that set fire to the longlaid train, and caused so fearful an explosion over the christian world. it will be necessary, however, to go back for some years anterior to that event, the better to understand the motives that influenced the church in the promulgation of that fearful document. towards the close of the fourteenth and beginning of the fifteenth century, many witches were burned in different parts of europe. as a natural consequence of the severe persecution, the crime, or the pretenders to it, increased. those who found themselves accused and threatened with the penalties, if they happened to be persons of a bad and malicious disposition, wished they had the power imputed to them, that they might be revenged upon their persecutors. numerous instances are upon record of half-crazed persons being found muttering the spells which were supposed to raise the evil one. when religion and law alike recognized the crime, it is no wonder that the weak in reason and the strong in imagination, especially when they were of a nervous temperament, fancied themselves endued with the terrible powers of which all the world was speaking. the belief of their neighbours did not lag behind their own, and execution was the speedy consequence. as the fear of witchcraft increased, the catholic clergy strove to fix the imputation of it upon those religious sects, the pioneers of the reformation, who began about this time to be formidable to the church of rome. if a charge of heresy could not ensure their destruction, that of sorcery and witchcraft never failed. in the year , a devoted congregation of the waldenses, at arras, who used to repair at night to worship god in their own manner in solitary places, fell victims to an accusation of sorcery. it was rumored in arras that in the desert places to which they retired, the devil appeared before them in human form, and read from a large book his laws and ordinances, to which they all promised obedience; that he then distributed money and food among them, to bind them to his service, which done, they gave themselves up to every species of lewdness and debauchery. upon these rumours, several creditable persons in arras were seized and imprisoned, together with a number of decrepit and idiotic old women. the rack, that convenient instrument for making the accused confess anything, was of course put in requisition. monstrelet, in his chronicle, says that they were tortured until some of them admitted the truth of the whole accusations, and said besides, that they had seen and recognized, in their nocturnal assemblies, many persons of rank; many prelates, seigneurs, governors of bailliages, and mayors of cities, being such names as the examiners had themselves suggested to the victims. several who had been thus informed against, were thrown into prison, and so horribly tortured, that reason fled, and, in their ravings of pain, they also confessed their midnight meetings with the devil, and the oaths they had taken to serve him. upon these confessions judgment was pronounced: the poor old women, as usual in such cases, were hanged and burned in the market-place; the more wealthy delinquents were allowed to escape, upon payment of large sums. it was soon after universally recognized that these trials had been conducted in the most odious manner, and that the judges had motives of private vengeance against many of the more influential persons who had been implicated. the parliament of paris afterwards declared the sentence illegal, and the judges iniquitous; but its arret was too late to be of service even to those who had paid the fine, or to punish the authorities who had misconducted themselves; for it was not delivered until thirty-two years after the executions had taken place. in the mean time, accusations of witchcraft spread rapidly in france, italy, and germany. strange to say, that although in the first instance chiefly directed against heretics, the latter were as firm believers in the crime as even the catholics themselves. in after times we also find that the lutherans and calvinists became greater witchburners than ever the romanists had been: so deeply was the prejudice rooted. every other point of belief was in dispute, but that was considered by every sect to be as well established as the authenticity of the scriptures, or the existence of a god. but at this early period of the epidemic the persecutions were directed by the heads of the catholic church. the spread of heresy betokened, it was thought, the coming of antichrist. florimond, in his work concerning the antichrist, lets us fully into the secret of these prosecutions. he says, "all who have afforded us some signs of the approach of antichrist agree that the increase of sorcery and witchcraft is to distinguish the melancholy period of his advent; and was ever age so afflicted as ours? the seats destined for criminals in our courts of justice are blackened with persons accused of this guilt. there are not judges enough to try them. our dungeons are gorged with them. no day passes that we do not render our tribunals bloody by the dooms which we pronounce, or in which we do not return to our homes, discountenanted and terrified at the horrible confessions which we have heard. and the devil is accounted so good a master, that we cannot commit so great a number of his slaves to the flames, but what there shall arise from their ashes a sufficient number to supply their place." florimond here spoke the general opinion of the church of rome; but it never suggested itself to the mind of any person engaged in these trials, that if it were indeed a devil, who raised up so many new witches to fill the places of those consumed, it was no other than one in their own employ--the devil of persecution. but so it was. the more they burned, the more they found to burn; until it became a common prayer with women in the humbler walks of life, that they might never live to grow old. it was sufficient to be aged, poor, and ill-tempered, to ensure death at the stake or the scaffold. in the year there was a severe storm in switzerland, which laid waste the country for four miles around constance. two wretched old women, whom the popular voice had long accused of witchcraft, were arrested on the preposterous charge of having raised the tempest. the rack was displayed, and the two poor creatures extended upon it. in reply to various leading questions from their tormentors, they owned, in their agony, that they were in the constant habit of meeting the devil, that they had sold their souls to him, and that at their command he had raised the tempest. upon this insane and blasphemous charge they were condemned to die. in the criminal registers of constance there stands against the name of each the simple but significant phrase, "convicta et combusta." this case and hundreds of others were duly reported to the ecclesiastical powers. there happened at that time to be a pontiff at the head of the church who had given much of his attention to the subject of witchcraft, and who, with the intent of rooting out the crime, did more to increase it than any other man that ever lived. john baptist cibo, elected to the papacy in , under the designation of innocent viii, was sincerely alarmed at the number of witches, and launched forth his terrible manifesto against them. in his celebrated bull of , he called the nations of europe to the rescue of the church of christ upon earth, emperilled by the arts of satan, and set forth the horrors that had reached his ears; how that numbers of both sexes had intercourse with the infernal fiends; how by their sorceries they afflicted both man and beast; how they blighted the marriage bed, destroyed the births of women and the increase of cattle; and how they blasted the corn on the ground, the grapes of the vineyard, the fruits of the trees, and the herbs of the field. in order that criminals so atrocious might no longer pollute the earth, he appointed inquisitors in every country, armed with the apostolic power to convict and punish. it was now that the witch mania, properly so called, may be said to have fairly commenced. immediately a class of men sprang up in europe, who made it the sole business of their lives to discover and burn the witches. sprenger, in germany, was the most celebrated of these national scourges. in his notorious work, the "malleus maleficarum," he laid down a regular form of trial, and appointed a course of examination by which the inquisitors in other countries might best discover the guilty. the questions, which were always enforced by torture, were of the most absurd and disgusting nature. the inquisitors were required to ask the suspected whether they had midnight meetings with the devil? whether they attended the witch's sabbath on the brocken? whether they had their familiar spirits? whether they could raise whirlwinds and call down the lightning? and whether they had sexual intercourse with satan? straightway the inquisitors set to work; cumarius, in italy, burned forty-one poor women in one province alone, and sprenger, in germany, burned a number which can never be ascertained correctly, but which, it is agreed on all hands, amounted to more than five hundred in a year. the great resemblance between the confessions of the unhappy victims was regarded as a new proof of the existence of the crime. but this is not astonishing. the same questions from the "malleus maleficarum," were put to them all, and torture never failed to educe the answer required by the inquisitor. numbers of people whose imaginations were filled with these horrors, went further in the way of confession than even their tormenters anticipated, in the hope that they would thereby be saved from the rack, and put out of their misery at once. some confessed that they had had children by the devil; but no one, who had ever been a mother, gave utterance to such a frantic imagining, even in the extremity of her anguish. the childless only confessed it, and were burned instanter as unworthy to live. for fear the zeal of the enemies of satan should cool, successive popes appointed new commissions. one was appointed by alexander vi, in ; another by leo x, in , and a third by adrian vi, in . they were all armed with the same powers to hunt out and destroy, and executed their fearful functions but too rigidly. in geneva alone five hundred persons were burned in the years and , under the title of protestant witches. it would appear that their chief crime was heresy, and their witchcraft merely an aggravation. bartolomeo de spina has a list still more fearful. he informs us that, in the year , no less than a thousand persons suffered death for witchcraft in the district of como, and that for several years afterwards the average number of victims exceeded a hundred annually. one inquisitor, remigius, took great credit to himself for having, during fifteen years, convicted and burned nine hundred. in france, about the year , fires for the execution of witches blazed in almost every town. danaeus, in his "dialogues of witches," says they were so numerous that it would be next to impossible to tell the number of them. so deep was the thraldom of the human mind, that the friends and relatives of the accused parties looked on and approved. the wife or sister of a murderer might sympathise in his fate, but the wives and husbands of sorcerers and witches had no pity. the truth is that pity was dangerous, for it was thought no one could have compassion on the sufferings of a witch who was not a dabbler in the art: to have wept for a witch would have insured the stake. in some districts, however, the exasperation of the people broke out, in spite of superstition. the inquisitor of a rural township in piedmont burned the victims so plentifully, and so fast, that there was not a family in the place which did not lose a member. the people at last arose, and the inquisitor was but too happy to escape from the country with whole limbs. the archbishop of the diocese proceeded afterwards to the trial of such as the inquisitor had left in prison. some of the charges were so utterly preposterous that the poor wretches were at once liberated; others met a harder, but the usual fate. some of them were accused of having joined the witches' dance at midnight under a blasted oak, where they had been seen by creditable people. the husbands of several of these women (two of whom were young and beautiful) swore positively that at the time stated their wives were comfortably asleep in their arms; but it was all in vain. their word was taken, but the archbishop told them they had been deceived by the devil and their own senses. it was true they might have had the semblance of their wives in their beds, but the originals were far away, at the devil's dance under the oak. the honest fellows were confounded, and their wives burned forthwith. in the year , five poor women of verneuil were accused of transforming themselves into cats, and in that shape attending the sabbath of the fiends--prowling around satan, who presided over them in the form of a goat, and dancing, to amuse him, upon his back. they were found guilty, and burned. [bodin, page . garinet, page . "anti-demon de serclier," page .] in , three wizards and a witch appeared before the presidents salvert and d'avanton: they confessed, when extended on the rack, that they anointed the sheep-pens with infernal unguents to kill the sheep--that they attended the sabbath, where they saw a great black goat, which spoke to them, and made them kiss him, each holding a lighted candle in his hand while he performed the ceremony. they were all executed at poitiers. in , the celebrated sorcerer, trois echelles, was burned in the place de greve, in paris. he confessed, in the presence of charles ix, and of the marshals de montmorency, de retz, and the sieur du mazille, physician to the king, that he could perform the most wonderful things by the aid of a devil to whom he had sold himself. he described at great length the saturnalia of the fiends--the sacrifices which they offered up--the debaucheries they committed with the young and handsome witches, and the various modes of preparing the infernal unguent for blighting cattle. he said he had upwards of twelve hundred accomplices in the crime of witchcraft in various parts of france, whom he named to the king, and many of whom were afterwards arrested and suffered execution. at dole, two years afterwards, gilles garnier, a native of lyons, was indicted for being a loupgarou, or man-wolf, and for prowling in that shape about the country at night to devour little children. the indictment against him, as read by henri camus, doctor of laws and counsellor of the king, was to the effect that he, gilles garnier, had seized upon a little girl, twelve years of age, whom he drew into a vineyard and there killed, partly with his teeth and partly with his hands, seeming like wolf's paws--that from thence he trailed her bleeding body along the ground with his teeth into the wood of la serre, where he ate the greatest portion of her at one meal, and carried the remainder home to his wife; that, upon another occasion, eight days before the festival of all saints, he was seen to seize another child in his teeth, and would have devoured her had she not been rescued by the country-people--and that the said child died a few days afterwards of the injuries he had inflicted; that fifteen days after the same festival of all saints, being again in the shape of a wolf, he devoured a boy thirteen years of age, having previously torn off his leg and thigh with his teeth, and hid them away for his breakfast on the morrow. he was, furthermore, indicted for giving way to the same diabolical and unnatural propensities even in his shape of a man, and that he had strangled a boy in a wood with the intention of eating him, which crime he would have effected if he had not been seen by the neighhours and prevented. gilles garnier was put to the rack, after fifty witnesses had deposed against him: he confessed everything that was laid to his charge. he was, thereupon, brought back into the presence of his judges, when dr. camus, in the name of the parliament of dole, pronounced the following sentence:-- "seeing that gilles garnier has, by the testimony of credible witnesses, and by his own spontaneous confession, been proved guilty of the abominable crimes of lycanthropy and witchcraft, this court condemns him, the said gilles, to be this day taken in a cart from this spot to the place of execution, accompanied by the executioner (maitre executeur de la haute justice), where he, by the said executioner, shall be tied to a stake and burned alive, and that his ashes be then scattered to the winds. the court further condemns him, the said gilles, to the costs of this prosecution." "given at dole, this th day of january, ." in , the parliament of paris was occupied for several days with the trial of a man, named jacques roller. he, also, was found guilty of being a loup-garou, and in that shape devouring a little boy. he was burnt alive in the place de greve. in , so much alarm was excited in the neighbourhood of melun by the increase of witches and loup-garous, that a council was held to devise some measures to stay the evil. a decree was passed, that all witches, and consulters with witches, should be punished with death; and not only those, but fortune-tellers and conjurors of every kind. the parliament of rouen took up the same question in the following year, and decreed that the possession of a grimoire, or book of spells, was sufficient evidence of witchcraft; and that all persons on whom such books were found should be burned alive. three councils were held in different parts of france in the year , all in relation to the same subject. the parliament of bourdeaux issued strict injunctions to all curates and clergy whatever, to use redoubled efforts to root out the crime of witchcraft. the parliament of tours was equally peremptory, and feared the judgments of an offended god, if all these dealers with the devil were not swept from the face of the land. the parliament of rheims was particularly severe against the noueurs d'aiguillette, or "tyers of the knot;" people of both sexes, who took pleasure in preventing the consummation of marriage, that they might counteract the command of god to our first parents, to increase and multiply. this parliament held it to be sinful to wear amulets to preserve from witchcraft; and that this practice might not be continued within its jurisdiction, drew up a form of exorcism, which would more effectually defeat the agents of the devil, and put them to flight. a case of witchcraft, which created a great sensation in its day, occurred in , at a village in the mountains of auvergne, about two leagues from apchon. a gentleman of that place being at his window, there passed a friend of his who had been out hunting, and who was then returning to his own house. the gentleman asked his friend what sport he had had; upon which the latter informed him that he had been attacked in the plain by a large and savage wolf, which he had shot at, without wounding; and that he had then drawn out his hunting-knife and cut off the animal's fore-paw, as it sprang upon his neck to devour him. the huntsman, upon this, put his hand into his bag to pull out the paw, but was shocked to find that it was a woman's hand, with a wedding-ring on the finger. the gentleman immediately recognized his wife's ring, "which," says the indictment against her, "made him begin to suspect some evil of her." he immediately went in search of her, and found her sitting by the fire in the kitchen, with her arm hidden underneath her apron. he tore off her apron with great vehemence, and found that she had no hand, and that the stump was even then bleeding. she was given into custody, and burned at riom in presence of some thousands of spectators. [tablier. see also boguet, "discours sur les sorciers;" and m. jules garinet, "histoire de la magie," page .] in the midst of these executions, rare were the gleams of mercy; few instances are upon record of any acquittal taking place when the charge was witchcraft. the discharge of fourteen persons by the parliament of paris, in the year , is almost a solitary example of a return to reason. fourteen persons, condemned to death for witchcraft, appealed against the judgment to the parliament of paris, which for political reasons had been exiled to tours. the parliament named four commissioners, pierre pigray, the king's surgeon, and messieurs leroi, renard, and falaiseau, the king's physicians, to visit and examine these witches, and see whether they had the mark of the devil upon them. pigray, who relates the circumstance in his work on surgery, book vii, chapter the tenth, says the visit was made in presence of two counsellors of the court. the witches were all stripped naked, and the physicians examined their bodies very diligently, pricking them in all the marks they could find, to see whether they were insensible to pain, which was always considered a certain proof of guilt. they were, however, very sensible of the pricking, and some of them called out very lustily when the pins were driven into them. "we found them," continues pierre pigray, "to be very poor, stupid people, and some of them insane; many of them were quite indifferent about life, and one or two of them desired death as a relief for their sufferings. our opinion was, that they stood more in need of medicine than of punishment, and so we reported to the parliament. their case was, thereupon, taken into further consideration, and the parliament, after mature counsel amongst all the members, ordered the poor creatures to be sent to their homes, without inflicting any punishment upon them." such was the dreadful state of italy, germany, and france, during the sixteenth century, which was far from being the worst crisis of the popular madness with regard to witchcraft. let us see what was the state of england during the same period. the reformation, which in its progress had rooted out so many errors, stopped short at this, the greatest error of all. luther and calvin were as firm believers in witchcraft as pope innocent himself, and their followers showed themselves more zealous persecutors than the romanists. dr. hutchinson, in his work on witchcraft, asserts that the mania manifested itself later in england, and raged with less virulence than on the continent. the first assertion only is true; but though the persecution began later both in england and scotland, its progress was as fearful as elsewhere. it was not until more than fifty years after the issuing of the bull of innocent viii. that the legislature of england thought fit to make any more severe enactments against sorcery than those already in operation. the statute of was the first that specified the particular crime of witchcraft. at a much earlier period, many persons had suffered death for sorcery in addition to other offences; but no executions took place for attending the witches' sabbath, raising tempests, afflicting cattle with barrenness, and all the fantastic trumpery of the continent. two statutes were passed in ; the first, relating to false prophecies, caused mainly, no doubt, by the impositions of elizabeth barton, the holy maid of kent, in , and the second against conjuration, witchcraft, and sorcery. but even this enactment did not consider witchcraft as penal in itself, and only condemned to death those who by means of spells, incantations, or contracts with the devil, attempted the lives of their neighbours. the statute of elizabeth, in , at last recognized witchcraft as a crime of the highest magnitude, whether exerted or not to the injury of the lives, limbs, and possessions of the community. from that date, the persecution may be fairly said to have commenced in england. it reached its climax in the early part of the seventeenth century, which was the hottest period of the mania all over europe. a few cases of witch persecution in the sixteenth century will enable the reader to form a more accurate idea of the progress of this great error than if he plunged at once into that busy period of its history when matthew hopkins and his coadjutors exercised their infernal calling. several instances occur in england during the latter years of the reign of elizabeth. at this time the public mind had become pretty familiar with the details of the crime. bishop jewell, in his sermons before her majesty, used constantly to conclude them by a fervent prayer that she might be preserved from witches. upon one occasion, in , his words were, "it may please your grace to understand that witches and sorcerers, within these last four years, are marvellously increased within this your grace's realm. your grace's subjects pine away even unto the death; their colour fadeth--their flesh rotteth--their speech is benumbed--their senses are bereft! i pray god they may never practise further than upon the subject!" by degrees, an epidemic terror of witchcraft spread into the villages. in proportion as the doctrines of the puritans took root this dread increased, and, of course, brought persecution in its train. the church of england has claimed, and is entitled to the merit, of having been less influenced in these matters than any other sect of christians; but still they were tainted with the superstition of the age. one of the most flagrant instances of cruelty and delusion upon record was consummated under the authority of the church, and commemorated till a very late period by an annual lecture at the university of cambridge. this is the celebrated case of the witches of warbois, who were executed about thirty-two years after the passing of the statute of elizabeth. although in the interval but few trials are recorded, there is, unfortunately, but too much evidence to show the extreme length to which the popular prejudice was carried. many women lost their lives in every part of england without being brought to trial at all, from the injuries received at the hands of the people. the number of these can never be ascertained. the case of the witches of warbois merits to be detailed at length, not only from the importance attached to it for so many years by the learned of the university, but from the singular absurdity of the evidence upon which men, sensible in all other respects, could condemn their fellow-creatures to the scaffold. the principal actors in this strange drama were the families of sir samuel cromwell and a mr. throgmorton, both gentlemen of landed property near warbois, in the county of huntingdon. mr. throgmorton had several daughters, the eldest of whom, mistress joan, was an imaginative and melancholy girl, whose head was filled with stories of ghosts and witches. upon one occasion she chanced to pass the cottage of one mrs. or, as she was called, mother samuel, a very aged, a very poor, and a very ugly woman. mother samuel was sitting at her door knitting, with a black cap upon her head, when this silly young lady passed, and taking her eyes from her work she looked steadfastly at her. mistress joan immediately fancied that she felt sudden pains in all her limbs, and from that day forth, never ceased to tell her sisters, and everybody about her, that mother samuel had bewitched her. the other children took up the cry, and actually frightened themselves into fits whenever they passed within sight of this terrible old woman. mr. and mrs. throgmorton, not a whir wiser than their children, believed all the absurd tales they had been told; and lady cromwell, a gossip of mrs. throgmorton, made herself very active in the business, and determined to bring the witch to the ordeal. the sapient sir samuel joined in the scheme; and the children thus encouraged gave loose reins to their imaginations, which seem to have been of the liveliest. they soon invented a whole host of evil spirits, and names for them besides, which, they said, were sent by mother samuel to torment them continually. seven spirits especially, they said, were raised from hell by this wicked woman to throw them into fits; and as the children were actually subject to fits, their mother and her commeres gave the more credit to the story. the names of these spirits were, "first smack," "second smack," "third smack," "blue," "catch," "hardname," and "pluck." throgmorton, the father, was so pestered by these idle fancies, and yet so well inclined to believe them, that he marched valiantly forth to the hut where mother samuel resided with her husband and daughter, and dragged her forcibly into his own grounds. lady cromwell, mrs. throgmorton, and the girls were in waiting, armed with long pins to prick the witch, and see if they could draw blood from her. lady cromwell, who seems to have been the most violent of the party, tore the old woman's cap off her head, and plucking out a handful of her grey hair, gave it to mrs. throgmorton to burn, as a charm which would preserve them all from her future machinations. it was no wonder that the poor creature, subjected to this rough usage, should give vent to an involuntary curse upon her tormentors. she did so, and her curse was never forgotten. her hair, however, was supposed to be a grand specific, and she was allowed to depart, half dead with terror and ill usage. for more than a year, the families of cromwell and throgmorton continued to persecute her, and to assert that her imps afflicted them with pains and fits, turned the milk sour in their pans, and prevented their cows and ewes from bearing. in the midst of these fooleries, lady cromwell was taken ill and died. it was then remembered that her death had taken place exactly a year and a quarter since she was cursed by mother samuel, and that on several occasions she had dreamed of the witch and a black cat, the latter being of course the arch-enemy of mankind himself. sir samuel cromwell now conceived himself bound to take more energetic measures against the sorceress, since he had lost his wife by her means. the year and a quarter and the black cat were proofs positive. all the neighbours had taken up the cry of witchcraft against mother samuel; and her personal appearance, unfortunately for her, the very ideal of what a witch ought to be, increased the popular suspicion. it would appear that at last the poor woman believed, even to her own disadvantage, that she was what everybody represented her to be. being forcibly brought into mr. throgmorton's house, when his daughter joan was in one of her customary fits, she was commanded by him and sir samuel cromwell to expel the devil from the young lady. she was told to repeat her exorcism, and to add, "as i am a witch, and the causer of lady cromwell's death, i charge thee, fiend, to come out of her!" she did as was required of her, and moreover confessed that her husband and daughter were leagued with her in witchcraft, and had, like her, sold their souls to the devil. the whole family were immediately arrested, and sent to huntingdon to prison. the trial was instituted shortly afterwards before mr. justice fenner, when all the crazy girls of mr. throgmorton's family gave evidence against mother samuel and her family. they were all three put to the torture. the old woman confessed in her anguish that she was a witch--that she had cast her spells upon the young ladies, and that she had caused the death of lady cromwell. the father and daughter, stronger in mind than their unfortunate wife and parent, refused to confess anything, and asserted their innocence to the last. they were all three condemned to be hanged, and their bodies burned. the daughter, who was young and good-looking, excited the pity of many persons, and she was advised to plead pregnancy, that she might gain at least a respite from death. the poor girl refused proudly, on the ground that she would not be accounted both a witch and a strumpet. her half-witted old mother caught at the idea of a few weeks' longer life, and asserted that she was pregnant. the court was convulsed with laughter, in which the wretched victim herself joined, and this was accounted an additional proof that she was a witch. the whole family were executed on the th of april, . sir samuel cromwell, as lord of the manor, received the sum of pounds out of the confiscated property of the samuels, which he turned into a rent-charge of shillings yearly, for the endowment of an annual sermon or lecture upon the enormity of witchcraft, and this case in particular, to be preached by a doctor or bachelor of divinity of queen's college, cambridge. i have not been able to ascertain the exact date at which this annual lecture was discontinued, but it appears to have been preached so late as , when dr. hutchinson published his work upon witchcraft. to carry on in proper chronological order the history of the witch delusion in the british isles, it will be necessary to examine into what was taking place in scotland during all that part of the sixteenth century anterior to the accession of james vi. to the crown of england. we naturally expect that the scotch,--a people renowned from the earliest times for their powers of imagination,--should be more deeply imbued with this gloomy superstition than their neighhours of the south. the nature of their soil and climate tended to encourage the dreams of early ignorance. ghosts, goblins, wraiths, kelpies, and a whole host of spiritual beings, were familiar to the dwellers by the misty glens of the highlands and the romantic streams of the lowlands. their deeds, whether of good or ill, were enshrined in song, and took a greater hold upon the imagination because "verse had sanctified them." but it was not till the religious reformers began the practice of straining scripture to the severest extremes, that the arm of the law was called upon to punish witchcraft as a crime per se. what pope innocent viii. had done for germany and france, the preachers of the reformation did for the scottish people. witchcraft, instead of being a mere article of faith, became enrolled in the statute book; and all good subjects and true christians were called upon to take arms against it. the ninth parliament of queen mary passed an act in , which decreed the punishment of death against witches and consulters with witches, and immediately the whole bulk of the people were smitten with an epidemic fear of the devil and his mortal agents. persons in the highest ranks of life shared and encouraged the delusion of the vulgar. many were themselves accused of witchcraft; and noble ladies were shown to have dabbled in mystic arts, and proved to the world that, if they were not witches, it was not for want of the will. among the dames who became notorious for endeavouring to effect their wicked ends by the devil's aid, may be mentioned the celebrated lady buccleugh, of branxholme, familiar to all the readers of sir walter scott; the countess of lothian, the countess of angus, the countess of athol, lady kerr, the countess of huntley, euphemia macalzean (the daughter of lord cliftonhall), and lady fowlis. among the celebrated of the other sex who were accused of wizzardism was sir lewis ballantyne, the lord justice clerk for scotland, who, if we may believe scot of scotstarvet, "dealt by curiosity with a warlock called richard grahame," and prayed him to raise the devil. the warlock consented, and raised him in propria persona, in the yard of his house in the canongate, "at sight of whom the lord justice clerk was so terrified that he took sickness and thereof died." by such idle reports as these did the envious ruin the reputation of those they hated, though it would appear in this case that sir lewis had been fool enough to make the attempt of which he was accused, and that the success of the experiment was the only apocryphal part of the story. the enemies of john knox invented a similar tale, which found ready credence among the roman catholics; glad to attach any stigma to that grand scourge of the vices of their church. it was reported that he and his secretary went into the churchyard of st. andrew's with the intent to raise "some sanctes;" but that, by a mistake in their conjurations, they raised the great fiend himself, instead of the saints they wished to consult. the popular rumour added that knox's secretary was so frightened at the great horns, goggle eyes, and long tail of satan, that he went mad, and shortly afterwards died. knox himself was built of sterner stuff, and was not to be frightened. the first name that occurs in the records of the high court of justiciary of persons tried or executed for witchcraft is that of janet bowman, in , nine years after the passing of the act of mary. no particulars of her crimes are given, and against her name there only stand the words, "convict and brynt." it is not, however, to be inferred that, in this interval, no trials or executions took place; for it appears on the authority of documents of unquestioned authenticity in the advocates' library at edinburgh, [foreign quarterly review, vol. vi. page .] that the privy council made a practice of granting commissions to resident gentlemen and ministers, in every part of scotland, to examine, try, and execute witches within their own parishes. no records of those who suffered from the sentence of these tribunals have been preserved; but if popular tradition may be believed, even to the amount of one-fourth of its assertions, their number was fearful. after the year , the entries of executions for witchcraft in the records of the high court become more frequent, but do not average more than one per annum; another proof that trials for this offence were in general entrusted to the local magistracy. the latter appear to have ordered witches to the stake with as little compunction, and after as summary a mode, as modern justices of the peace order a poacher to the stocks. as james vi. advanced in manhood, he took great interest in the witch trials. one of them especially, that of gellie duncan, dr. fian, and their accomplices, in the year , engrossed his whole attention, and no doubt suggested in some degree, the famous work on demonology which he wrote shortly afterwards. as these witches had made an attempt upon his own life, it is not surprising, with his habits, that he should have watched the case closely, or become strengthened in his prejudice and superstition by its singular details. no other trial that could be selected would give so fair an idea of the delusions of the scottish people as this. whether we consider the number of victims, the absurdity of the evidence, and the real villany of some of the persons implicated, it is equally extraordinary. gellie duncan, the prime witch in these proceedings, was servant to the deputy bailiff of tranent, a small town in hadingtonshire, about ten miles from edinburgh. though neither old nor ugly (as witches usually were), but young and good-looking, her neighbours, from some suspicious parts of her behaviour, had long considered her a witch. she had, it appears, some pretensions to the healing art. some cures which she effected were so sudden, that the worthy bailiff, her master, who, like his neighbours, mistrusted her, considered them no less than miraculous. in order to discover the truth, he put her to the torture; but she obstinately refused to confess that she had dealings with the devil. it was the popular belief that no witch would confess as long as the mark which satan had put upon her remained undiscovered upon her body. somebody present reminded the torturing bailie of this fact, and on examination, the devil's mark was found upon the throat of poor gellie. she was put to the torture again, and her fortitude giving way under the extremity of her anguish, she confessed that she was indeed a witch--that she had sold her soul to the devil, and effected all her cures by his aid. this was something new in the witch creed, according to which, the devil delighted more in laying diseases on, than in taking them off; but gellie duncan fared no better on that account. the torture was still applied, until she had named all her accomplices, among whom were one cunningham, a reputed wizard, known by the name of dr. fian, a grave and matron-like witch, named agnes sampson, euphemia macalzean, the daughter of lord cliftonhall, already mentioned, and nearly forty other persons, some of whom were the wives of respectable individuals in the city of edinburgh. every one of these persons was arrested, and the whole realm of scotland thrown into commotion by the extraordinary nature of the disclosures which were anticipated. about two years previous to this time, james had suddenly left his kingdom, and proceeded gallantly to denmark, to fetch over his bride, the princess of denmark, who had been detained by contrary weather in the harbour of upslo. after remaining for some months in copenhagen, he set sail with his young bride, and arrived safely in leith, on the st of may , having experienced a most boisterous passage, and been nearly wrecked. as soon as the arrest of gellie duncan and fian became known in scotland, it was reported by everybody who pretended to be well-informed that these witches and their associates had, by the devil's means, raised the storms which had endangered the lives of the king and queen. gellie, in her torture, had confessed that such was the fact, and the whole kingdom waited aghast and open-mouthed for the corroboration about to be furnished by the trial. agnes sampson, the "grave and matron-like" witch implicated by gellie duncan, was put to the horrible torture of the pilliewinkis. she laid bare all the secrets of the sisterhood before she had suffered an hour, and confessed that gellie duncan, dr. fian, marion lineup, euphemia macalzean, herself, and upwards of two hundred witches and warlocks, used to assemble at midnight in the kirk of north berwick, where they met the devil; that they had plotted there to attempt the king's life; that they were incited to this by the old fiend himself, who had asserted with a thundering oath that james was the greatest enemy he ever had, and that there would be no peace for the devil's children upon earth until he were got rid of; that the devil upon these occasions always liked to have a little music, and that gellie duncan used to play a reel before him on a trump or jew's harp, to which all the witches danced. james was highly flattered at the idea that the devil should have said that he was the greatest enemy he ever had. he sent for gellie duncan to the palace, and made her play before him the same reel which she had played at the witches' dance in the kirk. dr. fian, or rather cunningham, a petty schoolmaster at tranent, was put to the torture among the rest. he was a man who had led an infamous life, was a compounder of and dealer in poisons, and a pretender to magic. though not guilty of the preposterous crimes laid to his charge, there is no doubt that he was a sorcerer in will, though not in deed, and that he deserved all the misery he endured. when put on the rack, he would confess nothing, and held out so long unmoved, that the severe torture of the boots was resolved upon. he endured this till exhausted nature could bear no longer, when insensibility kindly stepped in to his aid. when it was seen that he was utterly powerless, and that his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, he was released. restoratives were administered; and during the first faint gleam of returning consciousness, he was prevailed upon to sign, ere he well knew what he was about, a full confession, in strict accordance with those of gellie duncan and agnes sampson. he was then remanded to his prison, from which, after two days, he managed, somehow or other, to escape. he was soon recaptured, and brought before the court of justiciary, james himself being present. fian now denied all the circumstances of the written confession which he had signed; whereupon the king, enraged at his "stubborn wilfulness," ordered him once more to the torture. his finger nails were riven out with pincers, and long needles thrust up to the eye into the quick; but still he did not wince. he was then consigned again to the boots, in which, to quote a pamphlet published at the time, [news from scotland, declaring the damnable life of dr. fian.] he continued "so long, and abode so many blows in them, that his legs were crushed and beaten together as small as might be, and the bones and flesh so bruised, that the blood and marrow spouted forth in great abundance, whereby they were made unserviceable for ever." the astonishing similarity of the confessions of all the persons implicated in these proceedings has often been remarked. it would appear that they actually endeavoured to cause the king's death by their spells and sorceries. fian, who was acquainted with all the usual tricks of his profession, deceived them with pretended apparitions, so that many of them were really convinced that they had seen the devil. the sum of their confessions was to the following effect:-- satan, who was, of course, a great foe of the reformed religion, was alarmed that king james should marry a protestant princess. to avert the consequences to the realms of evil, he had determined to put an end to the king and his bride by raising a storm on their voyage home. satan, first of all, sent a thick mist over the waters, in the hope that the king's vessel might be stranded on the coast amid the darkness. this failing, dr. fian, who, from his superior scholarship, was advanced to the dignity of the devil's secretary, was commanded to summon all the witches to meet their master, each one sailing on a sieve on the high seas. on all-hallowmas eve, they assembled to the number of upwards of two hundred, including gellie duncan, agnes sampson, euphemia macalzean, one barbara napier, and several warlocks; and each embarking in a riddle, or sieve, they sailed "over the ocean very substantially." after cruising about for some time, they met with the fiend, bearing in his claws a cat, which had been previously drawn nine times through the fire. this he delivered to one of the warlocks, telling him to cast it into the sea, and cry "hola!" this was done with all solemnity, and immediately the ocean became convulsed--the waters hissed loudly, and the waves rose mountains high, "twisting their arms to the dun-coloured heaven." the witches sailed gallantly through the tempest they had raised, and landing on the coast of scotland, took their sieves in their hands, and marched on in procession to the haunted kirk of north berwick, where the devil had resolved to hold a preaching. gellie duncan, the musician of the party, tripped on before, playing on her jew's harp, and singing, "cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye; gif ye will not go before, cummer, let me!" arrived at the kirk, they paced around it withershins, that is, in reverse of the apparent motion of the sun. dr. fian then blew into the key-hole of the door, which opened immediately, and all the witches entered. as it was pitch dark, fian blew with his mouth upon the candles, which immediately lighted, and the devil was seen occupying the pulpit. he was attired in a black gown and hat, and the witches saluted him, by crying, "all hail, master!" his body was hard, like iron; his face terrible; his nose, like the beak of an eagle; he had great burning eyes; his hands and legs were hairy; and he had long claws upon his hands and feet, and spake with an exceedingly gruff voice. before commencing his sermon, he called over the names of his congregation, demanding whether they had been good servants, and what success had attended their operations against the life of the king and his bride. gray meill, a crazy old warlock, who acted as beadle or doorkeeper, was silly enough to answer, "that nothing ailed the king yet, god be thanked;" upon which the devil, in a rage, stepped down from the pulpit, and boxed his ears for him. he then remounted, and commenced the preaching, commanding them to be dutiful servants to him, and do all the evil they could. euphemia macalzean and agnes sampson, bolder than the rest, asked him whether he had brought the image or picture of king james, that they might, by pricking it, cause pains and diseases to fall upon him. "the father of lies" spoke truth for once, and confessed that he had forgotten it; upon which euphemia macalzean upbraided him loudly for his carelessness. the devil, however, took it all in good part, although agnes sampson and several other women let loose their tongues at him immediately. when they had done scolding, he invited them all to a grand entertainment. a newly buried corpse was dug up, and divided among them, which was all they had in the way of edibles. he was more liberal in the matter of drink, and gave them so much excellent wine that they soon became jolly. gellie duncan then played the old tune upon her trump, and the devil himself led off the dance with euphemia mac alzean. thus they kept up the sport till the cock crew. agnes sampson, the wise woman of keith, as she was called, added some other particulars in her confession. she stated, that on a previous occasion, she had raised an awful tempest in the sea, by throwing a cat into it, with four joints of men tied to its feet. she said also, that on their grand attempt to drown king james, they did not meet with the devil after cruising about, but that he had accompanied them from the first, and that she had seen him dimly in the distance, rolling himself before them over the great waves, in shape and size not unlike a huge haystack. they met with a foreign ship richly laden with wines and other good things, which they boarded, and sunk after they had drunk all the wine, and made themselves quite merry. some of these disclosures were too much even for the abundant faith of king james, and he more than once exclaimed, that the witches were like their master, "extreme lyars." but they confessed many other things of a less preposterous nature, and of which they were, no doubt, really guilty. agnes sampson said she was to have taken the king's life by anointing his linen with a strong poison. gellie duncan used to threaten her neighbours by saying she would send the devil after them; and many persons of weaker minds than usual were frightened into fits by her, and rendered subject to them for the remainder of their lives. dr. finn also made no scruple in aiding and abetting murder, and would rid any person of an enemy by means of poison, who could pay him his fee for it. euphemia macalzean also was far from being pure. there is no doubt that she meditated the king's death, and used such means to compass it as the superstition of the age directed. she was a devoted partizan of bothwell, who was accused by many of the witches as having consulted them on the period of the king's death. they were all found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged and burned. barbara napier, though found guilty upon other counts, was acquitted upon the charge of having been present at the great witch-meeting in berwick kirk. the king was highly displeased, and threatened to have the jury indicted for a wilful error upon an assize. they accordingly reconsidered their verdict, and threw themselves upon the king's mercy for the fault they had committed. james was satisfied, and barbara napier was hanged along with gellie duncan, agnes sampson, dr. fian, and five-and-twenty others. euphemia macalzean met a harder fate. her connexion with the bold and obnoxious bothwell, and her share in poisoning one or two individuals who had stood in her way, were thought deserving of the severest punishment the law could inflict. instead of the ordinary sentence, directing the criminal to be first strangled and then burned, the wretched woman was doomed "to be bound to a stake, and burned in ashes, quick to the death." this cruel sentence was executed on the th of june . these trials had the most pernicious consequences all over scotland. the lairds and ministers in their districts, armed with due power from the privy council, tried and condemned old women after the most summary fashion. those who still clung to the ancient faith of rome were the severest sufferers, as it was thought, after the disclosures of the fierce enmity borne by the devil towards a protestant king and his protestant wife, that all the catholics were leagued with the powers of evil to work woe on the realm of scotland. upon a very moderate calculation, it is presumed that from the passing of the act of queen mary till the accession of james to the throne of england, a period of thirty-nine years, the average number of executions for witchcraft in scotland was two hundred annually, or upwards of seventeen thousand altogether. for the first nine years the number was not one quarter so great; but towards the years to , the number must have been more than four hundred. the case last cited was one of an extraordinary character. the general aspect of the trials will be better seen from that of isabel gowdie, which, as it would be both wearisome and disgusting to go through them all, is cited as a fair specimen, although it took place at a date somewhat later than the reign of james. this woman, wearied of her life by the persecutions of her neighbours, voluntarily gave herself up to justice, and made a confession, embodying the whole witch-creed of the period. she was undoubtedly a monomaniac of the most extraordinary kind. she said that she deserved to be stretched upon an iron rack, and that her crimes could never be atoned for, even if she were to be drawn asunder by wild horses. she named a long list of her associates, including nearly fifty women and a few warlocks. they dug up the graves of unchristened infants, whose limbs were serviceable in their enchantments. when they wanted to destroy the crops of an enemy, they yoked toads to his plough, and on the following night satan himself ploughed the land with his team, and blasted it for the season. the witches had power to assume almost any shape; but they generally chose either that of a cat or a hare, oftenest the latter. isabel said, that on one occasion, when she was in this disguise, she was sore pressed by a pack of hounds, and had a very narrow escape with her life. she reached her own door at last, feeling the hot breath of the pursuing dogs at her haunches. she managed, however, to hide herself behind a chest, and got time to pronounce the magic words that could alone restore her to her proper shape. they were:-- "hare! hare! god send thee care! i am in a hare's likeness now; but i shall be a woman e'en now! hare! hare! god send thee care!" if witches, when in this shape, were bitten by the dogs, they always retained the marks in their human form; but she had never heard that any witch had been bitten to death. when the devil appointed any general meeting of the witches, the custom was that they should proceed through the air mounted on broomsticks, or on corn or bean-straws, pronouncing as they went:-- "horse and partook, horse and go, horse and pellats, ho! ho! ho!" they generally left behind them a broom, or a three-legged stool, which, when placed in their beds and duly charmed, assumed the human shape till their return. this was done that the neighhours might not know when they were absent. she added, that the devil furnished his favourite witches with servant imps to attend upon them. these imps were called "the roaring lion," "thief of hell," "wait-upon-herself," "ranting roarer," "care-for-naught," &c. and were known by their liveries, which were generally yellow, sad-dun, sea-green, pea-green, or grass-green. satan never called the witches by the names they had received at baptism; neither were they allowed, in his presence, so to designate each other. such a breach of the infernal etiquette assuredly drew down his most severe displeasure. but as some designation was necessary, he re-baptized them in their own blood by the names of "able-and-stout," "over-the-dike-with-it," "raise-the-wind," "pickle-nearest-the-wind," "batter-them-down-maggy," "blow-kale," and such like. the devil himself was not very particular what name they called him so that it was not "black john." if any witch was unthinking enough to utter these words, he would rush out upon her, and beat and buffet her unmercifully, or tear her flesh with a wool-card. other names he did not care about; and once gave instructions to a noted warlock that whenever he wanted his aid, he was to strike the ground three times and exclaim, "rise up, foul thief!" upon this confession many persons were executed. so strong was the popular feeling, that no one once accused of witchcraft was acquitted; at least, acquittals did not average one in a hundred trials. witch-finding, or witch-pricking became a trade, and a set of mercenary vagabonds roamed about the country, provided with long pins to run into the flesh of supposed criminals. it was no unusual thing then, nor is it now, that in aged persons there should be some spot on the body totally devoid of feeling. it was the object of the witchpricker to discover this spot, and the unhappy wight who did not bleed when pricked upon it, was doomed to the death. if not immediately cast into prison, her life was rendered miserable by the persecution of her neighbours. it is recorded of many poor women, that the annoyances they endured in this way were so excessive, that they preferred death. sir george mackenzie, the lord advocate, at the time when witch-trials were so frequent, and himself a devout believer in the crime, relates, in his "criminal law," first published in , some remarkable instances of it. he says, "i went, when i was a justice-depute, to examine some women who had confessed judicially: and one of them, who was a silly creature, told me, under secrecy, that she had not confessed because she was guilty, but being a poor creature who wrought for her meat, and being defamed for a witch, she knew she should starve; for no person thereafter would either give her meat or lodging, and that all men would beat her and set dogs at her; and that, therefore, she desired to be out of the world; whereupon she wept most bitterly, and upon her knees called god to witness to what she said." sir george, though not wholly elevated above the prejudices of his age upon this subject, was clearsighted enough to see the danger to society of the undue encouragement given to the witch-prosecutions. he was convinced that three-fourths of them were unjust and unfounded. he says, in the work already quoted, that the persons who were in general accused of this crime, were poor ignorant men and women, who did not understand the nature of the accusation, and who mistook their own superstitious fears for witchcraft. one poor wretch, a weaver, confessed that he was a warlock, and, being asked why, he replied, because "he had seen the devil dancing, like a fly, about the candle!" a simple woman, who, because she was called a witch, believed that she was, asked the judge upon the bench, whether a person might be a witch and not know it? sir george adds, that all the supposed criminals were subjected to severe torture in prison from their gaolers, who thought they did god good service by vexing and tormenting them; "and i know," says this humane and enlightened magistrate, "that this usage was the ground of all their confession; and albeit, the poor miscreants cannot prove this usage, the actors in it being the only witnesses, yet the judge should be jealous of it, as that which did at first elicit the confession, and for fear of which they dare not retract it." another author, ["satan's invisible world discovered," by the rev. g. sinclair.] also a firm believer in witchcraft, gives a still more lamentable instance of a woman who preferred execution as a witch to live on under the imputation. this woman, who knew that three others were to be strangled and burned on an early day, sent for the minister of the parish, and confessed that she had sold her soul to satan. "whereupon being called before the judges, she was condemned to die with the rest. being carried forth to the place of execution, she remained silent during the first, second, and third prayer, and then, perceiving that there remained no more but to rise and go to the stake, she lifted up her body, and, with a loud voice, cried out, "now all you that see me this day, know that i am now to die as a witch, by my own confession, and i free all men, especially the ministers and magistrates, of the guilt of my blood. i take it wholly upon myself. my blood be upon my own head. and, as i must make answer to the god of heaven presently, i declare i am as free of witchcraft as any child. but, being delated by a malicious woman, and put in prison under the name of a witch, disowned by my husband and friends, and seeing no ground of hope of ever coming out again, i made up that confession to destroy my own life, being weary of it, and choosing rather to die than to live." as a proof of the singular obstinacy and blindness of the believers in witches, it may be stated, that the minister who relates this story only saw in the dying speech of the unhappy woman an additional proof that she was a witch. true indeed is it, that "none are so blind as those who will not see." it is time, however, to return to james vi, who is fairly entitled to share with pope innocent, sprenger, bodinus, and matthew hopkins the glory or the odium of being at the same time a chief enemy and chief encourager of witchcraft. towards the close of the sixteenth century, many learned men, both on the continent and in the isles of britain, had endeavoured to disabuse the public mind on this subject. the most celebrated were wierus in germany, pietro d'apone in italy, and reginald scot in england. their works excited the attention of the zealous james, who, mindful of the involuntary compliment which his merits had extorted from the devil, was ambitious to deserve it by still continuing "his greatest enemie." in the year he published, in edinburgh, his famous treatise on demonology. its design may be gathered from the following passage in the introduction. "the fearful abounding," says the king, "at this time, and in this country, of these detestable slaves of the devil, the witches, or enchanters, hath moved me, beloved reader, to despatch in post this following treatise of mine, not in any wise, as i protest, to serve for a show of mine own learning and ingene (ingenuity), but only (moved of conscience) to press thereby, so far as i can, to resolve the doubting hearts of many; both that such assaults of satan are most certainly practised, and that the instrument thereof merits most severely to be punished, against the damnable opinions of two, principally in our age, whereof the one, called scot, an englishman, is not ashamed, in public print, to deny that there can be such thing as witchcraft, and so maintains the old error of the sadducees, in denying of spirits. the other, called wierus, a german physician, sets out a public apology for all these crafts-folks, whereby procuring for them impunity, he plainly betrays himself to have been one of that profession." in other parts of this treatise, which the author had put into the form of a dialogue to "make it more pleasant and facile," he says, "witches ought to be put to death, according to the law of god, the civil and imperial law, and the municipal law of all christian nations: yea, to spare the life, and not strike whom god bids strike, and so severely punish in so odious a treason against god, is not only unlawful, but doubtless as great a sin in the magistrate, as was saul's sparing agag." he says also, that the crime is so abominable, that it may be proved by evidence which would not be received against any other offenders,--young children, who knew not the nature of an oath, and persons of an infamous character, being sufficient witnesses against them; but lest the innocent should be accused of a crime so difficult to be acquitted of, he recommends that in all cases the ordeal should be resorted to. he says, "two good helps may be used: the one is, the finding of their mark, and the trying the insensibleness thereof; the other is their floating on the water; for, as in a secret murther, if the dead carcass be at any time thereafter handled by the murtherer, it will gush out of blood, as if the blood were crying to heaven for revenge of the murtherer, (god having appointed that secret supernatural sign for trial of that secret unnatural crime); so that it appears that god hath appointed (for a supernatural sign of the monstrous impiety of witches) that the water shall refuse to receive them in her bosom, that have shaken off them the sacred water of baptism, and wilfully refused the benefit thereof; no, not so much as their eyes are able to shed tears (threaten and torture them as you please), while first they repent (god not permitting them to dissemble their obstinacy in so horrible a crime). albeit, the womenkind especially, be able otherwise to shed tears at every light occasion, when they will; yea, although it were dissembling, like the crocodiles." when such doctrines as these were openly promulgated by the highest authority in the realm, and who, in promulgating them, flattered, but did not force the public opinion, it is not surprising that the sad delusion should have increased and multiplied, until the race of wizards and witches replenished the earth. the reputation which he lost by being afraid of a naked sword, he more than regained by his courage in combating the devil. the kirk showed itself a most zealous coadjutor, especially during those halcyon days when it was not at issue with the king upon other matters of doctrine and prerogative. on his accession to the throne of england, in , james came amongst a people who had heard with admiration of his glorious deeds against the witches. he himself left no part of his ancient prejudices behind him, and his advent was the signal for the persecution to burst forth in england with a fury equal to that in scotland. it had languished a little during the latter years of the reign of elizabeth; but the very first parliament of king james brought forward the subject. james was flattered by their promptitude, and the act passed in . on the second reading in the house of lords, the bill passed into a committee, in which were twelve bishops. by it was enacted, "that if any person shall use, practise, or exercise any conjuration of any wicked or evil spirit, or shall consult, covenant with, or feed any such spirit, the first offence to be imprisonment for a year and standing in the pillory once a quarter; the second offence to be death." the minor punishment seems but rarely to have been inflicted. every record that has been preserved, mentions that the witches were hanged and burned, or burned without the previous strangling, "alive and quick." during the whole of james's reign, amid the civil wars of his successor, the sway of the long parliament, the usurpation of cromwell, and the reign of charles ii, there was no abatement of the persecution. if at any time it raged with less virulence, it was when cromwell and the independents were masters. dr. zachary grey, the editor of an edition of "hudibras," informs us, in a note to that work, that he himself perused a list of three thousand witches who were executed in the time of the long parliament alone. during the first eighty years of the seventeenth century, the number executed has been estimated at five hundred annually, making the frightful total of forty thousand. some of these cases deserve to be cited. the great majority resemble closely those already mentioned, but two or three of them let in a new light upon the popular superstition. every one has heard of the "lancashire witches," a phrase now used to compliment the ladies of that county for their bewitching beauty; but it is not every one who has heard the story in which it originated. a villainous boy, named robinson, was the chief actor in the tragedy. he confessed, many years afterwards, that he had been suborned by his father and other persons to give false evidence against the unhappy witches whom he brought to the stake. the time of this famous trial was about the year . this boy robinson, whose father was a wood-cutter, residing on the borders of pendle forest, in lancashire, spread abroad many rumours against one mother dickenson, whom he accused of being a witch. these rumours coming to the ears of the local magistracy, the boy was sent for, and strictly examined. he told the following extraordinary story, without hesitation or prevarication, and apparently in so open and honest a manner, that no one who heard him doubted the truth of it:--he said, that as he was roaming about in one of the glades of the forest, amusing himself by gathering blackberries, he saw two greyhounds before him, which he thought at the time belonged to some gentleman of the neighbourhood. being fond of sport, he proposed to have a course, and a hare being started, he incited the hounds to run. neither of them would stir. angry at the beasts, he seized hold of a switch, with which he was about to punish them, when one of them suddenly started up in the form of a woman, and the other, of a little boy. he at once recognised the woman to be the witch mother dickenson. she offered him some money to induce him to sell his soul to the devil; but he refused. upon this she took a bridle out of her pocket, and, shaking it over the head of the other little boy, he was instantly turned into a horse. mother dickenson then seized him in her arms, sprang upon the horse; and, placing him before her, rode with the swiftness of the wind over forests, fields, bogs, and rivers, until they came to a large barn. the witch alighted at the door; and taking him by the hand, led him inside. there he saw seven old women, pulling at seven halters which hung from the roof. as they pulled, large pieces of meat, lumps of butter, loaves of bread, basins of milk, hot puddings, black puddings, and other rural dainties, fell from the halters on to the floor. while engaged in this charm they made such ugly faces, and looked so fiendish, that he was quite frightened. after they had pulled, in this manner enough for an ample feast, they set-to, and showed, whatever might be said of the way in which their supper was procured, that their epicurism was a little more refined than that of the scottish witches, who, according to gellie duncan's confession, feasted upon dead men's flesh in the old kirk of berwick. the boy added, that as soon as supper was ready, many other witches came to partake of it, several of whom he named. in consequence of this story, many persons were arrested, and the boy robinson was led about from church to church, in order that he might point out to the officers, by whom he was accompanied, the hags he had seen in the barn. altogether about twenty persons were thrown into prison; eight of them were condemned to die, including mother dickenson, upon this evidence alone, and executed accordingly. among the wretches who concocted this notable story, not one was ever brought to justice for his perjury; and robinson, the father, gained considerable sums by threatening persons who were rich enough to buy off exposure. among the ill weeds which flourished amid the long dissensions of the civil war, matthew hopkins, the witch-finder, stands eminent in his sphere. this vulgar fellow resided, in the year , at the town of manningtree, in essex, and made himself very conspicuous in discovering the devil's marks upon several unhappy witches. the credit he gained by his skill in this instance seems to have inspired him to renewed exertions. in the course of a very short time, whenever a witch was spoken of in essex, matthew hopkins was sure to be present, aiding the judges with his knowledge of "such cattle," as he called them. as his reputation increased, he assumed the title of "witchfinder general," and travelled through the counties of norfolk, essex, huntingdon, and sussex, for the sole purpose of finding out witches. in one year he brought sixty poor creatures to the stake. the test he commonly adopted was that of swimming, so highly recommended by king james in his "demonologie." the hands and feet of the suspected persons were tied together crosswise, the thumb of the right hand to the toe of the left foot, and vice versa. they were then wrapped up in a large sheet or blanket, and laid upon their backs in a pond or river. if they sank, their friends and relatives had the poor consolation of knowing they were innocent, but there was an end of them: if they floated, which, when laid carefully on the water was generally the case, there was also an end of them; for they were deemed guilty of witchcraft, and burned accordingly. another test was to make them repeat the lord's prayer and creed. it was affirmed that no witch could do so correctly. if she missed a word, or even pronounced one incoherently, which in her trepidation, it was most probable she would, she was accounted guilty. it was thought that witches could not weep more than three tears, and those only from the left eye. thus the conscious innocence of many persons, which gave them fortitude to bear unmerited torture without flinching, was construed by their unmerciful tormentors into proofs of guilt. in some districts the test resorted to was to weigh the culprit against the church bible. if the suspected witch proved heavier than the bible, she was set at liberty. this mode was far too humane for the witch-finders by profession. hopkins always maintained that the most legitimate modes were pricking and swimming. hopkins used to travel through his counties like a man of consideration, attended by his two assistants, always putting up at the chief inn of the place, and always at the cost of the authorities. his charges were twenty shillings a town, his expenses of living while there, and his carriage thither and back. this he claimed whether he found witches or not. if he found any, he claimed twenty shillings a head in addition when they were brought to execution. for about three years he carried on this infamous trade, success making him so insolent and rapacious, that high and low became his enemies. the rev. mr. gaul, a clergyman of houghton, in huntingdonshire, wrote a pamphlet impugning his pretensions, and accusing him of being a common nuisance. hopkins replied in an angry letter to the functionaries of houghton, stating his intention to visit their town; but desiring to know whether it afforded many such sticklers for witchcraft as mr. gaul, and whether they were willing to receive and entertain him with the customary hospitality, if he so far honoured them. he added, by way of threat, that in case he did not receive a satisfactory reply, "he would waive their shire altogether, and betake himself to such places where he might do and punish, not only without control, but with thanks and recompence." the authorities of houghton were not much alarmed at his awful threat of letting them alone. they very wisely took no notice either of him or his letter. mr. gaul describes in his pamphlet one of the modes employed by hopkins, which was sure to swell his revenues very considerably. it was a proof even more atrocious than the swimming. he says, that the "witch-finder general" used to take the suspected witch and place her in the middle of a room, upon a stool or table, cross-legged, or in some other uneasy posture. if she refused to sit in this manner, she was bound with strong cords. hopkins then placed persons to watch her for four-and-twenty hours, during which time she was to be kept without meat or drink. it was supposed that one of her imps would come during that interval, and suck her blood. as the imp might come in the shape of a wasp, a moth, a fly, or other insect, a hole was made in the door or window to let it enter. the watchers were ordered to keep a sharp look-out, and endeavour to kill any insect that appeared in the room. if any fly escaped, and they could not kill it, the woman was guilty; the fly was her imp, and she was sentenced to be burned, and twenty shillings went into the pockets of master hopkins. in this manner he made one old woman confess, because four flies had appeared in the room, that she was attended by four imps, named "ilemazar," "pye-wackett," "peck-in-the-crown," and "grizel-greedigut." it is consoling to think that this impostor perished in his own snare. mr. gaul's exposure and his own rapacity weakened his influence among the magistrates; and the populace, who began to find that not even the most virtuous and innocent were secure from his persecution, looked upon him with undisguised aversion. he was beset by a mob, at a village in suffolk, and accused of being himself a wizard. an old reproach was brought against him, that he had, by means of sorcery, cheated the devil out of a certain memorandum-book, in which he, satan, had entered the names of all the witches in england. "thus," said the populace, "you find out witches, not by god's aid, but by the devil's." in vain he denied his guilt. the populace longed to put him to his own test. he was speedily stripped, and his thumbs and toes tied together. he was then placed in a blanket, and cast into a pond. some say that he floated; and that he was taken out, tried, and executed upon no other proof of his guilt. others assert that he was drowned. this much is positive, that there was an end of him. as no judicial entry of his trial and execution is to be found in any register, it appears most probable that he expired by the hands of the mob. butler has immortalized this scamp in the following lines of his "hudibras:"-- "hath not this present parliament a lieger to the devil sent, fully empower'd to treat about finding revolted witches out? and has he not within a year hang'd threescore of them in one shire? some only for not being drown'd, and some for sitting above ground whole days and nights upon their breeches, and feeling pain, were hang'd for witches; and some for putting knavish tricks upon green geese or turkey chicks; or pigs that suddenly deceased of griefs unnatural, as he guess'd; who proved himself at length a witch, and made a rod for his own breech." in scotland also witch-finding became a trade. they were known under the designation of "common prickers," and, like hopkins, received a fee for each witch they discovered. at the trial of janet peaston, in , the magistrates of dalkeith "caused john kincaid, of tranent, the common pricker, to exercise his craft upon her. he found two marks of the devil's making; for she could not feel the pin when it was put into either of the said marks, nor did the marks bleed when the pin was taken out again. when she was asked where she thought the pins were put in her, she pointed to a part of her body distant from the real place. they were pins of three inches in length." [pitcairn's "records of justiciary."] these common prickers became at last so numerous, that they were considered nuisances. the judges refused to take their evidence, and in the privy council of scotland condescended to hear the complaint of an honest woman, who had been indecently exposed by one of them, and expressed their opinion that common prickers were common cheats. but such an opinion was not formed in high places before hundreds of innocent persons had fallen victims. the parliaments had encouraged the delusion both in england and scotland; and, by arming these fellows with a sort of authority, had in a manner forced the magistrates and ministers to receive their evidence. the fate of one poor old gentleman, who fell a victim to the arts of hopkins in , deserves to be recorded. mr. louis, a venerable clergyman, upwards of seventy years of age, and who had been rector of framlingham, in suffolk, for fifty years, excited suspicion that he was a wizard. being a violent royalist, he was likely to meet with no sympathy at that time; and even his own parishioners, whom he had served so long and so faithfully, turned their backs upon him as soon as he was accused. placed under the hands of hopkins, who knew so well how to bring the refractory to confession, the old man, the light of whose intellect had become somewhat dimmed from age, confessed that he was a wizard. he said he had two imps, that continually excited him to do evil; and that one day, when he was walking on the sea-coast, one of them prompted him to express a wish that a ship, whose sails were just visible in the distance, might sink. he consented, and saw the vessel sink before his eyes. he was, upon this confession, tried and condemned. on his trial the flame of reason burned up as brightly as ever. he denied all that had been alleged against him, and cross-examined hopkins with great tact and severity. after his condemnation, he begged that the funeral service of the church might be read for him. the request was refused, and he repeated it for himself from memory, as he was led to the scaffold. a poor woman in scotland was executed upon evidence even less strong than this. john bain, a common pricker, swore that, as he passed her door, he heard her talking to the devil. she said in defence, that it was a foolish practice she had of talking to herself, and several of her neighbours corroborated her statement; but the evidence of the pricker was received. he swore that none ever talked to themselves who were not witches. the devil's mark being found upon her, the additional testimony of her guilt was deemed conclusive, and she was "convict and brynt." from the year to , these trials diminished annually in number, and acquittals were by no means so rare as they had been. to doubt in witchcraft was no longer dangerous. before country justices, condemnations on the most absurd evidence still continued, but when the judges of the land had to charge the jury, they took a more humane and philosophical view. by degrees, the educated classes (comprised, in those days, within very narrow limits), openly expressed their unbelief of modern witchcraft, although they were not bold enough to deny its existence altogether. between them and the believers in the old doctrine fierce arguments ensued, and the sceptics were designated sadducees. to convince them, the learned and reverend joseph glanvil wrote his well-known work, "sadducismus triumphatus," and "the collection of relations;" the first part intended as a philosophical inquiry into witchcraft, and the power of the devil "to assume a mortal shape;" the latter containing what he considered a multitude of well-authenticated modern instances. but though progress was made, it was slow. in , the venerable sir matthew hale condemned two women, named amy duny and rose cullender, to the stake at st. edmondsbury, upon evidence the most ridiculous. these two old women, whose ugliness gave their neighbours the first idea that they were witches, went to a shop to purchase herrings, and were refused. indignant at the prejudice against them, they were not sparing of their abuse. shortly afterward, the daughter of the herring-dealer fell sick, and a cry was raised that she was bewitched by the old women who had been refused the herrings. this girl was subject to epileptic fits. to discover the guilt of amy duny and rose cullender, the girl's eyes were blinded closely with a shawl, and the witches were commanded to touch her. they did so, and she was immediately seized with a fit. upon this evidence they were sent to prison. the girl was afterwards touched by an indifferent person, and the force of her imagination was so great, that, thinking it was again the witches, she fell down in a violent fit as before. this, however, was not received in favour of the accused. the following extract, from the published reports of the trial, will show the sort of evidence which was received:-- "samuel pacey, of leystoff, (a good, sober man,) being sworn, said that, on thursday the th of october last, his younger daughter, deborah, about nine years old, was suddenly taken so lame that she could not stand on her legs, and so continued till the th of the same month, when the child desired to be carried to a bank on the east side of the house, looking towards the sea; and, while she was sitting there, amy duny came to this examinant's house to buy some herrings, but was denied. then she came twice more, but, being as often denied, she went away discontented and grumbling. at this instant of time, the child was taken with terrible fits, complaining of a pain in her stomach, as if she was pricked with pins, shrieking out with a voice like a whelp, and thus continued till the th of the same month. this examinant further saith, that amy duny, having long had the reputation of a witch, and his child having, in the intervals of her fits, constantly cried out on her, as the cause of her disorder, saying, that the said amy did appear to her and fright her, he himself did suspect the said amy to be a witch, and charged her with being the cause of his child's illness, and set her in the stocks. two days after, his daughter elizabeth was taken with such strange fits, that they could not force open her mouth without a tap; and the younger child being in the same condition, they used to her the same remedy. both children grievously complained that amy duny and another woman, whose habit and looks they described, did appear to them, and torment them, and would cry out, 'there stands amy duny! there stands rose cullender!' the other person who afflicted them. their fits were not alike. sometimes they were lame on the right side; sometimes on the left; and sometimes so sore, that they could not bear to be touched. sometimes they were perfectly well in other respects, but they could not hear; at other times, they could not see. sometimes they lost their speech for one, two, and once for eight, days together. at times they had swooning fits, and, when they could speak, were taken with a fit of coughing, and vomited phlegm and crooked pins; and once a great twopenny nail, with above forty pins; which nail he, the examinant, saw vomited up, with many of the pins. the nail and pins were produced in the court. thus the children continued for two months, during which time the examinant often made them read in the new testament, and observed, when they came to the words lord jesus, or christ, they could not pronounce them, but fell into a fit. when they came to the word satan, or devil, they would point, and say, 'this bites, but makes me speak right well.' finding his children thus tormented without hopes of recovery, he sent them to his sister, margaret arnold, at yarmouth, being willing to try whether change of air would help them. "margaret arnold was the next witness. being sworn, she said, that about the th of november, elizabeth and deborah pacey came to her house, with her brother, who told her what had happened, and that he thought his children bewitched. she, this examinant, did not much regard it, supposing the children had played tricks, and put the pins into their mouths themselves. she, therefore, took all the pins from their clothes, sewing them with thread instead of pinning them. but, notwithstanding, they raised, at times, at least thirty pins, in her presence, and had terrible fits; in which fits they would cry out upon amy duny and rose cullender, saying, that they saw them and heard them threatening, as before; that they saw things, like mice, running about the house; and one of them catched one, and threw it into the fire, which made a noise, like a rat. another time the younger child, being out of doors, a thing like a bee would have forced itself into her mouth, at which the child ran screaming into the house, and before this examinant could come at her, fell into a fit, and vomited a twopenny nail, with a broad head. after that, this examinant asked the child how she came by this nail, when she answered, 'the bee brought the nail, and forced it into my mouth.' at other times, the eldest child told this examinant that she saw flies bring her crooked pins. she would then fall into a fit, and vomit such pins. one time the said child said she saw a mouse, and crept under the table to look for it; and afterwards, the child seemed to put something into her apron, saying, 'she had caught it.' she then ran to the fire, and threw it in, on which there did appear to this examinant something like a flash of gunpowder, although she does own she saw nothing in the child's hand. once the child, being speechless, but otherwise very sensible, ran up and down the house, crying, 'hush! hush!' as if she had seen poultry; but this examinant saw nothing. at last the child catched at something, and threw it into the fire. afterwards, when the child could speak, this examinant asked her what she saw at the time? she answered, that she saw a duck. another time the youngest child said, after a fit, that amy duny had been with her, and tempted her to drown herself, or cut her throat, or otherwise destroy herself. another time they both cried out upon amy duny and rose cullender, saying, 'why don't you come yourselves? why do you send your imps to torment us?'" the celebrated sir thomas brown, the author of "vulgar errors," was also examined as a witness upon the trial. being desired to give his opinion of the three persons in court, he said, he was clearly of opinion that they were bewitched. he said, there had lately been a discovery of witches in denmark, who used the same way of tormenting persons, by conveying crooked pins, needles, and nails into their bodies. that he thought, in such cases, the devil acted upon human bodies by natural means, namely, by exciting and stirring up the superabundant humours, he did afflict them in a more surprising manner by the same diseases their bodies were usually subject to; that these fits might be natural, only raised to a great degree by the subtlety of the devil, co-operating with the malice of these witches. the evidence being concluded, sir matthew hale addressed the jury. he said, he would waive repeating the evidence, to prevent any mistake, and told the jury, there were two things they had to inquire into. first, whether or not these children were bewitched; secondly, whether these women did bewitch them. he said, he did not in the least doubt there were witches; first, because the scriptures affirmed it; secondly, because the wisdom of all nations, particularly our own, had provided laws against witchcraft, which implied their belief of such a crime. he desired them strictly to observe the evidence, and begged of god to direct their hearts in the weighty concern they had in hand, since, to condemn the innocent and let the guilty go free, are both an abomination to the lord. the jury then retired, and, in about half an hour, returned a verdict of guilty upon all the indictments, being thirteen in number. the next morning the children came with their father to the lodgings of sir matthew hale, very well, and quite restored to their usual health. mr. pacey, being asked at what time their health began to improve, replied, that they were quite well in half an hour after the conviction of the prisoners. many attempts were made to induce the unfortunate women to confess their guilt; but in vain, and they were both hanged. eleven trials were instituted before chief-justice holt for witchcraft between the years and . the evidence was of the usual character; but holt appealed so successfully in each case to the common sense of the jury, that they were every one acquitted. a general feeling seemed to pervade the country that blood enough had been shed upon these absurd charges. now and then, the flame of persecution burnt up in a remote district; but these instances were no longer looked upon as mere matters of course. they appear, on the contrary, to have excited much attention; a sure proof, if no other were to be obtained, that they were becoming unfrequent. a case of witchcraft was tried in , before lord chief justice powell; in which, however, the jury persisted in a verdict of guilty, though the evidence was of the usual absurd and contradictory character, and the enlightened judge did all in his power to bring them to a right conclusion. the accused person was one jane wenham, better known as the witch of walkerne; and the persons who were alleged to have suffered from her witchcraft were two young women, named thorne and street. a witness, named mr. arthur chauncy, deposed, that he had seen ann thorne in several of her fits, and that she always recovered upon prayers being said, or if jane wenham came to her. he related, that he had pricked the prisoner several times in the arms, but could never fetch any blood from her; that he had seen her vomit pins, when there were none in her clothes or within her reach; and that he had preserved several of them, which he was ready to produce. the judge, however, told him that was needless, as he supposed they were crooked pins. mr. francis bragge, another witness, deposed, that strange "cakes" of bewitched feathers having been taken from ann thorne's pillow, he was anxious to see them. he went into a room where some of these feathers were, and took two of the cakes, and compared them together. they were both of a circular figure, something larger than a crown piece; and he observed that the small feathers were placed in a nice and curious order, at equal distances from each other, making so many radii of the circle, in the centre of which the quill ends of the feathers met. he counted the number of these feathers, and found them to be exactly thirty-two in each cake. he afterwards endeavoured to pull off two or three of them, and observed that they were all fastened together by a sort of viscous matter, which would stretch seven or eight times in a thread before it broke. having taken off several of these feathers, he removed the viscous matter with his fingers, and found under it, in the centre, some short hairs, black and grey, matted together, which he verily believed to be cat's hair. he also said, that jane wenham confessed to him that she had bewitched the pillow, and had practised witchcraft for sixteen years. the judge interrupted the witness at this stage, and said, he should very much like to see an enchanted feather, and seemed to wonder when he was told that none of these strange cakes had been preserved. his lordship asked the witness why he did not keep one or two of them, and was informed that they had all been burnt, in order to relieve the bewitched person of the pains she suffered, which could not be so well effected by any other means. a man, named thomas ireland, deposed, that hearing several times a great noise of cats crying and screaming about his house, he went out and frightened them away, and they all ran towards the cottage of jane wenham. one of them he swore positively had a face very like jane wenham's. another man, named burville, gave similar evidence, and swore that he had often seen a cat with jane wenham's face. upon one occasion he was in ann thorne's chamber, when several cats came in, and among them the cat above stated. this witness would have favoured the court with a much longer statement, but was stopped by the judge, who said he had heard quite enough. the prisoner, in her defence, said nothing, but that "she was a clear woman." the learned judge then summed up, leaving it to the jury to determine whether such evidence as they had heard was sufficient to take away the prisoner's life upon the indictment. after a long deliberation they brought in their verdict, that she was guilty upon the evidence. the judge then asked them whether they found her guilty upon the indictment of conversing with the devil in the shape of a cat? the sapient foreman very gravely answered, "we find her guilty of that." the learned judge then very reluctantly proceeded to pass sentence of death; but, by his persevering exertions, a pardon was at last obtained, and the wretched old woman was set at liberty. in the year , a woman and her daughter,--the latter only nine years of age,--were hanged at huntingdon for selling their souls to the devil, and raising a storm by pulling off their stockings and making a lather of soap. this appears to have been the last judicial execution in england. from that time to the year , the populace raised at intervals the old cry, and more than once endangered the lives of poor women by dragging them through ponds on suspicion; but the philosophy of those who, from their position, sooner or later give the tone to the opinions and morals of the poor, was silently working a cure for the evil. the fear of witches ceased to be epidemic, and became individual, lingering only in minds lettered by inveterate prejudice or brutalizing superstition. in the year , the penal statute of james i. was finally blotted from the statutebook, and suffered no longer to disgrace the advancing intelligence of the country. pretenders to witchcraft, fortune-tellers, conjurors, and all their train, were liable only to the common punishment of rogues and impostors--imprisonment and the pillory. in scotland, the delusion also assumed the same phases, and was gradually extinguished in the light of civilization. as in england the progress of improvement was slow. up to the year , little or no diminution of the mania was perceptible. in , the general assembly recommended that the privy council should institute a standing commission, composed of any "understanding gentlemen or magistrates," to try the witches, who were stated to have increased enormously of late years. in , an act was passed, confirmatory of the original statute of queen mary, explaining some points of the latter which were doubtful, and enacting severe penalties, not only against witches themselves, but against all who covenanted with them, or sought by their means to pry into the secrets of futurity, or cause any evil to the life, lands, or limbs of their neighbours. for the next ten years, the popular madness upon this subject was perhaps more furious than ever; upwards of four thousand persons suffered for the crime during that interval. this was the consequence of the act of parliament and the unparalleled severity of the magistrates; the latter frequently complained that for two witches they burned one day, there were ten to burn the next: they never thought that they themselves were the cause of the increase. in a single circuit, held at glasgow, ayr, and stirling, in , seventeen unhappy creatures were burned by judicial sentence for trafficking with satan. in one day, (november , ,) the privy council issued no less than fourteen commissions for trials in the provinces. next year, the violence of the persecution seems to have abated. from to , although "the understanding gentlemen and magistrates" already mentioned, continued to try and condemn, the high court of justiciary had but one offender of this class to deal with, and she was acquitted. james welsh, a common pricker, was ordered to be publicly whipped through the streets of edinburgh for falsely accusing a woman of witchcraft; a fact which alone proves that the superior court sifted the evidence in these cases with much more care and severity than it had done a few years previously. the enlightened sir george mackenzie, styled by dryden "the noble wit of scotland," laboured hard to introduce this rule into court--that the confessions of the witches should be held of little worth, and that the evidence of the prickers and other interested persons should be received with distrust and jealousy. this was reversing the old practice, and saved many innocent lives. though a firm believer both in ancient and modern witchcraft, he could not shut his eyes to the atrocities daily committed under the name of justice. in his work on the criminal law of scotland, published in , he says, "from the horridness of this crime, i do conclude that, of all others, it requires the clearest relevancy and most convincing probature; and i condemn, next to the wretches themselves, those cruel and too forward judges who burn persons by thousands as guilty of this crime." in the same year, sir john clerk plumply refused to serve as a commissioner on trials for witchcraft, alleging, by way of excuse, "that he was not himself good conjuror enough to be duly qualified." the views entertained by sir george mackenzie were so favourably received by the lords of session that he was deputed, in , to report to them on the cases of a number of poor women who were then in prison awaiting their trial. sir george stated that there was no evidence against them whatever but their own confessions, which were absurd and contradictory, and drawn from them by severe torture. they were immediately discharged. for the next sixteen years, the lords of session were unoccupied with trials for witchcraft; not one is entered upon the record: but in , a case occurred, which equalled in absurdity any of those that signalized the dark reign of king james. a girl, named christiana shaw, eleven years of age, the daughter of john shaw of bargarran, was subject to fits, and being of a spiteful temper, she accused her maid-servant, with whom she had frequent quarrels, of bewitching her. her story, unfortunately, was believed. encouraged to tell all the persecutions of the devil which the maid had sent to torment her, she in the end concocted a romance that involved twenty-one persons. there was no other evidence against them but the fancies of this lying child, and the confessions which pain had extorted from them; but upon this no less than five women were condemned, before lord blantyre and the rest of the commissioners, appointed specially by the privy council to try this case. they were burned on the green at paisley. the warlock of the party, one john reed, who was also condemned, hanged himself in prison. it was the general belief in paisley that the devil had strangled him, lest he should have revealed in his last moments too many of the unholy secrets of witchcraft. this trial excited considerable disgust in scotland. the rev. mr. bell, a contemporary writer, observed that, in this business, "persons of more goodness and esteem than most of their calumniators were defamed for witches." he adds, that the persons chiefly to blame were "certain ministers of too much forwardness and absurd credulity, and some topping professors in and about glasgow." [preface to "law's memorials," edited by sharpe.] after this trial, there again occurs a lapse of seven years, when the subject was painfully forced upon public attention by the brutal cruelty of the mob at pittenween. two women were accused of having bewitched a strolling beggar, who was subject to fits, or who pretended to be so, for the purpose of exciting commiseration. they were cast into prison, and tortured until they confessed. one of them, named janet cornfoot, contrived to escape, but was brought back to pittenween next day by a party of soldiers. on her approach to the town, she was, unfortunately, met by a furious mob, composed principally of fishermen and their wives, who seized upon her with the intention of swimming her. they forced her away to the sea shore, and tying a rope around her body, secured the end of it to the mast of a fishing-boat lying alongside. in this manner they ducked her several times. when she was half dead, a sailor in the boat cut away the rope, and the mob dragged her through the sea to the beach. here, as she lay quite insensible, a brawny ruffian took down the door of his hut, close by, and placed it on her back. the mob gathered large stones from the beach, and piled them upon her till the wretched woman was pressed to death. no magistrate made the slightest attempt to interfere, and the soldiers looked on, delighted spectators. a great outcry was raised against this culpable remissness, but no judicial inquiry was set on foot. this happened in . the next case we hear of is that of elspeth rule, found guilty of witchcraft before lord anstruther at the dumfries circuit, in . she was sentenced to be marked in the cheek with a redhot iron, and banished the realm of scotland for life. again there is a long interval. in , the remote county of caithness, where the delusion remained in all its pristine vigour for years after it had ceased elsewhere, was startled from its propriety by the cry of witchcraft. a silly fellow, named william montgomery, a carpenter, had a mortal antipathy to cats, and, somehow or other, these animals generally chose his back-yard as the scene of their catterwaulings. he puzzled his brains for a long time to know why he, above all his neighbours, should be so pestered; at last he came to the sage conclusion that his tormentors were no cats, but witches. in this opinion he was supported by his maid-servant, who swore a round oath that she had often heard the aforesaid cats talking together in human voices. the next time the unlucky tabbies assembled in his back-yard, the valiant carpenter was on the alert. arming himself with an axe, a dirk, and a broadsword, he rushed out among them: one of them he wounded in the back, a second in the hip, and the leg of a third he maimed with his axe; but he could not capture any of them. a few days afterwards, two old women of the parish died, and it was said that, when their bodies were laid out, there appeared upon the back of one the mark as of a recent wound, and a similar scar upon the hip of the other. the carpenter and his maid were convinced that they were the very cats, and the whole county repeated the same story. every one was upon the look-out for proofs corroborative: a very remarkable one was soon discovered. nanny gilbert, a wretched old creature of upwards of seventy years of age, was found in bed with her leg broken; as she was ugly enough for a witch, it was asserted that she, also, was one of the cats that had fared so ill at the hands of the carpenter. the latter, when informed of the popular suspicion, asserted that he distinctly remembered to have struck one of the cats a blow with the back of his broadsword, which ought to have broken her leg. nanny was immediately dragged from her bed, and thrown into prison. before she was put to the torture, she explained, in a very natural and intelligible manner, how she had broken her limb; but this account did not give satisfaction: the professional persuasions of the torturer made her tell a different tale, and she confessed that she was indeed a witch, and had been wounded by montgomery on the night stated--that the two old women recently deceased were witches also, besides about a score of others whom she named. the poor creature suffered so much by the removal from her own home, and the tortures inflicted upon her, that she died the next day in prison. happily for the persons she had named in her confession, dundas of arniston, at that time the king's advocate-general, wrote to the sheriff-depute, one captain ross of littledean, cautioning him not to proceed to trial, the "thing being of too great difficulty, and beyond the jurisdiction of an inferior court." dundas himself examined the precognition with great care, and was so convinced of the utter folly of the whole case that he quashed all further proceedings. we find this same sheriff-depute of caithness very active four years afterwards in another trial for witchcraft. in spite of the warning he had received, that all such cases were to be tried in future by the superior courts, he condemned to death an old woman at dornoch, upon the charge of bewitching the cows and pigs of her neighbours. this poor creature was insane, and actually laughed and clapped her hands at sight of "the bonnie fire" that was to consume her. she had a daughter, who was lame both of her hands and feet, and one of the charges brought against her was, that she had used this daughter as a pony in her excursions to join the devil's sabbath, and that the devil himself had shod her, and produced lameness. this was the last execution that took place in scotland for witchcraft. the penal statutes were repealed in , and, as in england, whipping, the pillory, or imprisonment, were declared the future punishments of all pretenders to magic or witchcraft. still, for many years after this, the superstition lingered both in england and scotland, and in some districts is far from being extinct even at this day. but before we proceed to trace it any further than to its legal extinction, we have yet to see the frightful havoc it made in continental europe from the commencement of the seventeenth to the middle of the eighteenth century. france, germany, and switzerland were the countries which suffered most from the epidemic. the number of victims in these countries during the sixteenth century has already been mentioned; but, at the early part of the seventeenth, the numbers are so great, especially in germany, that were they not to be found in the official records of the tribunals, it would be almost impossible to believe that mankind could ever have been so maddened and deluded. to use the words of the learned and indefatigable horst, [zauber bibliothek. theil .] "the world seemed to be like a large madhouse for witches and devils to play their antics in." satan was believed to be at everybody's call, to raise the whirlwind, draw down the lightning, blight the productions of the earth, or destroy the health and paralyse the limbs of man. this belief, so insulting to the majesty and beneficence of the creator, was shared by the most pious ministers of religion. those who in their morning and evening prayers acknowledged the one true god, and praised him for the blessings of the seed time and the harvest, were convinced that frail humanity could enter into a compact with the spirits of hell to subvert his laws and thwart all his merciful intentions. successive popes, from innocent viii. downwards, promulgated this degrading doctrine, which spread so rapidly that society seemed to be divided into two great factions, the bewitching and the bewitched. the commissioners named by innocent viii. to prosecute the witch-trials in germany, were jacob sprenger, so notorious for his work on demonology, entitled the "malleus maleficarum," or "hammer to knock down witches," henry institor a learned jurisconsult, and the bishop of strasburgh. barnberg, treves, cologne, paderborn, and wurzburg, were the chief seats of the commissioners, who, during their lives alone, condemned to the stake, on a very moderate calculation, upwards of three thousand victims. the number of witches so increased, that new commissioners were continually appointed in germany, france, and switzerland. in spain and portugal the inquisition alone took cognizance of the crime. it is impossible to search the records of those dark, but now happily nonexisting tribunals; but the mind recoils with affright even to form a guess of the multitudes who perished. the mode of trial in the other countries is more easily ascertained. sprenger, in germany, and bodinus and delrio, in france, have left but too ample a record of the atrocities committed in the much-abused names of justice and religion. bodinus, of great repute and authority in the seventeenth century, says, "the trial of this offence must not be conducted like other crimes. whoever adheres to the ordinary course of justice perverts the spirit of the law, both divine and human. he who is accused of sorcery should never be acquitted unless the malice of the prosecutor be clearer than the sun; for it is so difficult to bring full proof of this secret crime, that out of a million of witches not one would be convicted if the usual course were followed!" henri boguet, a witch-finder, who styled himself "the grand judge of witches for the territory of st. claude," drew up a code for the guidance of all persons engaged in the witch-trials, consisting of seventy articles, quite as cruel as the code of bodinus. in this document he affirms, that a mere suspicion of witchcraft justifies the immediate arrest and torture of the suspected person. if the prisoner muttered, looked on the ground, and did not shed any tears, all these were proofs positive of guilt! in all cases of witchcraft, the evidence of the child ought to be taken against its parent; and persons of notoriously bad character, although not to be believed upon their oaths on the ordinary occasions of dispute that might arise between man and man, were to be believed, if they swore that any person had bewitched them! who, when he hears that this diabolical doctrine was the universally received opinion of the ecclesiastical and civil authorities, can wonder that thousands upon thousands of unhappy persons should be brought to the stake? that cologne should for many years burn its three hundred witches annually? the district of barnberg its four hundred? nuremberg, geneva, paris, toulouse, lyons, and other cities, their two hundred? a few of these trials may be cited, taking them in the order of priority, as they occurred in different parts of the continent. in an old woman residing in a village near constance, angry at not being invited to share the sports of the country people on a day of public rejoicing, was heard to mutter something to herself, and was afterwards seen to proceed through the fields towards a hill, where she was lost sight of. a violent thunderstorm arose about two hours afterwards, which wet the dancers to the skin, and did considerable damage to the plantations. this woman, suspected before of witchcraft, was seized and imprisoned, and accused of having raised the storm, by filling a hole with wine, and stirring it about with a stick. she was tortured till she confessed, and was burned alive the next evening. about the same time two sorcerers in toulouse were accused of having dragged a crucifix about the streets at midnight, stopping at times to spit upon and kick it, and uttering at intervals an exorcism to raise the devil. the next day a hail-storm did considerable damage to the crops, and a girl, the daughter of a shoemaker in the town, remembered to have heard in the night the execrations of the wizards. her story led to their arrest. the usual means to produce confession were resorted to. the wizards owned that they could raise tempests whenever they pleased, and named several persons who possessed similar powers. they were hanged, and then burned in the market-place, and seven of the persons they had mentioned shared the same fate. hoppo and stadlin, two noted wizards of germany, were executed in . they implicated twenty or thirty witches, who went about causing women to miscarry, bringing down the lightning of heaven, and making maidens bring forth toads. to this latter fact several girls were found to swear most positively! stadlin confessed that he had killed seven infants in the womb of one woman. bodinus highly praises the exertions of a witchfinder, named nider, in france, who prosecuted so many that he could not calculate them. some of these witches could, by a single word, cause people to fall down dead; others made women go with child three years instead of nine months; while others, by certain invocations and ceremonies, could turn the faces of their enemies upside down, or twist them round to their backs. although no witness was ever procured who saw persons in this horrible state, the witches confessed that they had the power, and exercised it. nothing more was wanting to insure the stake. at amsterdam a crazy girl confessed that she could cause sterility in cattle, and bewitch pigs and poultry by merely repeating the magic words turius und shurius inturius! she was hanged and burned. another woman in the same city, named kornelis van purmerund, was arrested in consequence of some disclosures the former had made. a witness came forward and swore that she one day looked through the window of her hut, and saw kornelis sitting before a fire muttering something to the devil. she was sure it was to the devil, because she heard him answer her. shortly afterwards twelve black cats ascended out of the floor, and danced on their hind legs around the witch for the space of about half an hour. they then vanished with a horrid noise, and leaving a disagreeable smell behind them. she also was hanged and burned. at bamberg, in bavaria, the executions from the year to were at the rate of about a hundred annually. one woman, suspected of witchcraft, was seized because, having immoderately praised the beauty of a child, it had shortly afterwards fallen ill and died. she confessed upon the rack that the devil had given her the power to work evil upon those she hated, by speaking words in their praise. if she said with unwonted fervour, "what a strong man!" "what a lovely woman!" "what a sweet child!" the devil understood her, and afflicted them with diseases immediately. it is quite unnecessary to state the end of this poor creature. many women were executed for causing strange substances to lodge in the bodies of those who offended them. bits of wood, nails, hair, eggshells, bits of glass, shreds of linen and woollen cloth, pebbles, and even hot cinders and knives, were the articles generally chosen. these were believed to remain in the body till the witches confessed or were executed, when they were voided from the bowels, or by the mouth, nostrils, or ears. modern physicians have often had cases of a similar description under their care, where girls have swallowed needles, which have been voided on the arms, legs, and other parts of the body. but the science of that day could not account for these phenomena otherwise than by the power of the devil; and every needle swallowed by a servant maid cost an old woman her life. nay, if no more than one suffered in consequence, the district might think itself fortunate. the commissioners seldom stopped short at one victim. the revelations of the rack in most cases implicated half a score. of all the records of the witch-trials preserved for the wonder of succeeding ages, that of wurzburg, from to , is the most frightful. hauber, who has preserved this list in his "acta et scripta magica," says, in a note at the end, that it is far from complete, and that there were a great many other burnings too numerous to specify. this record, which relates to the city only, and not to the province of wurzburg, contains the names of one hundred and fifty-seven persons, who were burned in two years in twenty-nine burnings, averaging from five to six at a time. the list comprises three play-actors, four innkeepers, three common councilmen of wurzburg, fourteen vicars of the cathedral, the burgomaster's lady, an apothecary's wife and daughter, two choristers of the cathedral, gobel babelin the prettiest girl in the town, and the wife, the two little sons, and the daughter of the councillor stolzenberg. rich and poor, young and old, suffered alike. at the seventh of these recorded burnings, the victims are described as a wandering boy, twelve years of age, and four strange men and women, found sleeping in the market-place. thirty-two of the whole number appear to have been vagrants, of both sexes, who, failing to give a satisfactory account of themselves, were accused and found guilty of witchcraft. the number of children on the list is horrible to think upon. the thirteenth and fourteenth burnings comprised four persons, who are stated to have been a little maiden nine years of age, a maiden still less, her sister, their mother, and their aunt, a pretty young woman of twenty-four. at the eighteenth burning the victims were two boys of twelve, and a girl of fifteen; at the nineteenth, the young heir of the noble house of rotenhahn, aged nine, and two other boys, one aged ten, and the other twelve. among other entries appear the names of baunach, the fattest, and steinacher, the richest burgher in wurzburg. what tended to keep up the delusion in this unhappy city, and indeed all over europe, was the number of hypochondriac and diseased persons who came voluntarily forward, and made confession of witchcraft. several of the victims in the foregoing list, had only themselves to blame for their fate. many again, including the apothecary's wife and daughter already mentioned, pretended to sorcery, and sold poisons, or attempted by means of charms and incantations to raise the devil. but throughout all this fearful period the delusion of the criminals was as great as that of the judges. depraved persons who, in ordinary times, would have been thieves or murderers, added the desire of sorcery to their depravity, sometimes with the hope of acquiring power over their fellows, and sometimes with the hope of securing impunity in this world by the protection of satan. one of the persons executed at the first burning, a prostitute, was heard repeating the exorcism, which was supposed to have the power of raising the arch enemy in the form of a goat. this precious specimen of human folly has been preserved by horst, in his "zauberbibliothek." it ran as follows, and was to be repeated slowly, with many ceremonies and waivings of the hand:-- "lalle, bachera, magotte, baphia, dajam, vagoth heneche ammi nagaz, adomator raphael immanuel christus, tetragrammaton agra jod loi. konig! konig!" the two last words were uttered quickly, and with a sort of scream, and were supposed to be highly agreeable to satan, who loved to be called a king. if he did not appear immediately, it was necessary to repeat a further exorcism. the one in greatest repute was as follows, and was to be read backwards, with the exception of the last two words "anion, lalle, sabolos, sado, pater, aziel adonai sado vagoth agra, jod, baphra! komm! komm!" when the witch wanted to get rid of the devil, who was sometimes in the habit of prolonging his visits to an unconscionable length, she had only to repeat the following, also backwards, when he generally disappeared, leaving behind him a suffocating smell:-- "zellianelle heotti bonus vagotha plisos sother osech unicus beelzebub dax! komm! komm!" this nonsensical jargon soon became known to all the idle and foolish boys of germany. many an unhappy urchin, who in a youthful frolic had repeated it, paid for his folly the penalty of his life. three, whose ages varied from ten to fifteen, were burned alive at wurzburg for no other offence. of course every other boy in the city became still more convinced of the power of the charm. one boy confessed that he would willingly have sold himself to the devil, if he could have raised him, for a good dinner and cakes every day of his life, and a pony to ride upon. this luxurious youngster, instead of being horsewhipped for his folly, was hanged and burned. the small district of lindheim was, if possible, even more notorious than wurzburg for the number of its witch-burnings. in the year a famous witch, named pomp anna, who could cause her foes to fall sick by merely looking at them, was discovered and burned, along with three of her companions. every year in this parish, consisting at most of a thousand persons, the average number of executions was five. between the years and , the number consumed was thirty. if the executions all over germany had been in this frightful proportion, hardly a family could have escaped losing one of its members. in a ballad entitled the "druten zeitung," or the "witches gazette," was very popular in germany. it detailed, according to the titlepage of a copy printed at smalcald in , "an account of the remarkable events which took place in franconia, bamberg, and wurzburg, with those wretches who from avarice or ambition have sold themselves to the devil, and how they had their reward at last: set to music, and to be sung to the tune of dorothea." the sufferings of the witches at the stake are explained in it with great minuteness, the poet waxing extremely witty when he describes the horrible contortions of pain upon their countenances, and the shrieks that rent the air when any one of more than common guilt was burned alive. a trick resorted to in order to force one witch to confess, is told in this doggrel as an excellent joke. as she obstinately refused to own that she was in league with the powers of evil, the commissioners suggested that the hangman should dress himself in a bear's skin, with the horns, tail, and all the et ceteras, and in this form penetrate into her dungeon. the woman, in the darkness of her cell, could not detect the imposture, aided as it was by her own superstitious fears. she thought she was actually in the presence of the prince of hell; and when she was told to keep up her courage, and that she should be relieved from the power of her enemies, she fell on her knees before the supposed devil, and swore to dedicate herself hereafter body and soul to his service. germany is, perhaps, the only country in europe where the delusion was so great as to have made such detestable verses as these the favourites of the people:-- "man shickt ein henkersknecht zu ihr in gefangniss n'unter, den man hat kleidet recht, mir einer barnhaute, als wenns der teufel war; als ihm die drut anschaute meints ihr buhl kam daher. "sie sprach zu ihm behende, wie lasst du mich so lang in der obrigkeit hande? hilf mir aus ihren zwang, wie du mir hast verheissen, ich bin ja eben dein, thu mich aus der angst entreissen o liebster buhle mein? [they sent a hangman's assistant down to her in her prison; they clothed him properly in a bear's skin, as if he were the devil. him, when the witch saw, she thought he was her familiar. she said to him quickly, "why hast thou left me so long in the magistrate's hands? help me out of their power, as thou hast promised, and i will be thine alone. help me from this anguish, o thou dearest devil (or lover), mine?"] this rare poet adds, that in making such an appeal to the hangman, the witch never imagined the roast that was to be made of her, and puts in, by way of parenthesis, "was not that fine fun!" "was das war fur ein spiel!" as feathers thrown into the air show how the wind blows, so this trumpery ballad serves to show the current of popular feeling at the time of its composition. all readers of history are familiar with the celebrated trial of the marechale d'ancre, who was executed in paris in the year . although witchcraft was one of the accusations brought against her, the real crime for which she suffered was her ascendency over the mind of mary of medicis, and the consequent influence she exercised indirectly over the unworthy king, louis xiii. her coachman gave evidence that she had sacrificed a cock at midnight, in one of the churches, and others swore they had seen her go secretly into the house of a noted witch, named isabella. when asked by what means she had acquired so extraordinary an influence over the mind of the queen mother, she replied boldly, that she exercised no other power over her, than that which a strong mind can always exercise over the weak. she died with great firmness. in two years afterwards scenes far more horrible than any that had yet taken place in france were enacted at labourt, at the foot of the pyrenees. the parliament of bourdeaux, scandalised at the number of witches who were said to infest labourt and its neighbourhood, deputed one of its own members, the noted pierre de l'ancre, and its president, espaignel, to inquire into the matter, with full powers to punish the offenders. they arrived at labourt in may . de l'ancre wrote a book, setting forth all his great deeds, in this battle against the powers of evil. it is full of obscenity and absurdity; but the facts may be relied on as far as they relate to the number of trials and executions, and the strange confessions which torture forced from the unhappy criminals. de l'ancre states as a reason why so many witches were to be found at labourt, that the country was mountainous and sterile! he discovered many of them from their partiality to smoking tobacco. it may be inferred from this, that he was of the opinion of king james, that tobacco was the "devil's weed." when the commission first sat, the number of persons brought to trial was about forty a day. the acquittals did not average so many as five per cent. all the witches confessed that they had been present at the great domdaniel, or sabbath. at these saturnalia the devil sat upon a large gilded throne, sometimes in the form of a goat; sometimes as a gentleman, dressed all in black, with boots, spurs, and sword; and very often as a shapeless mass, resembling the trunk of a blasted tree, seen indistinctly amid the darkness. they generally proceeded to the domdaniel, riding on spits, pitchforks, or broomsticks, and, on their arrival, indulged with the fiends in every species of debauchery. upon one occasion they had had the audacity to celebrate this festival in the very heart of the city of bourdeaux. the throne of the arch fiend was placed in the middle of the place de gallienne, and the whole space was covered with the multitude of witches and wizards, who flocked to it from far and near; some arriving even from distant scotland. after two hundred poor wretches had been hanged and burned, there seemed no diminution in the number of criminals to be tried. many of the latter were asked upon the rack what satan had said, when he found that the commissioners were proceeding with such severity? the general reply was, that he did not seem to care much about it. some of them asserted, that they had boldly reproached him for suffering the execution of their friends, saying, "out upon thee, false fiend! thy promise was, that they should not die! look! how thou hast kept thy word! they have been burned, and are a heap of ashes!" upon these occasions he was never offended. he would give orders that the sports of the domdaniel should cease, and producing illusory fires that did not burn, he encouraged them to walk through, assuring them that the fires lighted by the executioner gave no more pain than those. they would then ask him, where their friends were, since they had not suffered; to which the "father of lies" invariably replied, that they were happy in a far country, and could see and hear all that was then passing; and that, if they called by name those they wished to converse with, they might hear their voices in reply. satan then imitated the voices of the defunct witches so successfully, that they were all deceived. having answered all objections, the orgies recommenced, and lasted till the cock crew. de l'ancre was also very zealous in the trial of unhappy monomaniacs for the crime of lycanthropy. several who were arrested confessed, without being tortured, that they were weir-wolves, and that, at night, they rushed out among the flocks and herds, killing and devouring. one young man at besancon, with the full consciousness of the awful fate that awaited him, voluntarily gave himself up to the commissioner espaignel, and confessed that he was the servant of a strong fiend, who was known by the name of "lord of the forests." by his power, he was transformed into the likeness of a wolf. the "lord of the forests" assumed the same shape, but was much larger, fiercer, and stronger. they prowled about the pastures together at midnight, strangling the watch-dogs that defended the folds, and killing more sheep than they could devour. he felt, he said, a fierce pleasure in these excursions, and howled in excess of joy as he tore with his fangs the warm flesh of the sheep asunder. this youth was not alone in this horrid confession; many others voluntarily owned that they were weir-wolves, and many more were forced by torture to make the same avowal. such criminals were thought to be too atrocious to be hanged first, and then burned: they were generally sentenced to be burned alive, and their ashes to be scattered to the winds. grave and learned doctors of divinity openly sustained the possibility of these transformations, relying mainly upon the history of nebuchadnezzar. they could not imagine why, if he had been an ox, modern men could not become wolves, by divine permission and the power of the devil. they also contended that, if men should confess, it was evidence enough, if there had been no other. delrio mentions that one gentleman accused of lycanthropy was put to the torture no less than twenty times, but still he would not confess. an intoxicating draught was then given him, and under its influence he confessed that he was a weir-wolf. delrio cites this to show the extreme equity of the commissioners. they never burned anybody till he confessed; and if one course of torture would not suffice, their patience was not exhausted, and they tried him again and again, even to the twentieth time! well may we exclaim, when such atrocities have been committed in the name of religion, "quel lion, quel tigre egale en cruaute, une injuste fureur qu'arme la piete?" the trial of the unhappy urbain grandier, the curate of loudun, for bewitching a number of girls in the convent of the ursulines in that town, was, like that of the marechale d'ancre, an accusation resorted to by his enemies to ruin one against whom no other charge could be brought so readily. this noted affair, which kept france in commotion for months, and the true character of which was known even at that time, merits no more than a passing notice in this place. it did not spring from the epidemic dread of sorcery then so prevalent, but was carried on by wretched intriguers, who had sworn to have the life of their foe. such a charge could not be refuted in : the accused could not, as bodinus expresses it, "make the malice of the prosecutors more clear than the sun;" and his own denial, however intelligible, honest, and straightforward, was held as nothing in refutation of the testimony of the crazy women who imagined themselves bewitched. the more absurd and contradictory their assertions, the stronger the argument employed by his enemies that the devil was in them. he was burned alive, under circumstances of great cruelty. [a very graphic account of the execution of this unfortunate gentleman is to be found in the excellent romance of m. alfred de vigny, entitled "cinq mars;" but if the reader wishes for a full and accurate detail of all the circumstances of one of the most extraordinary trials upon record, he is referred to a work published anonymously, at amsterdam, in , entitled "histoire des diables de loudun, ou de la possession des religieuses ursulines, et de la condemnation et du supplice d'urbain grandier."] a singular instance of the epidemic fear of witchcraft occurred at lille, in . a pious, but not very sane lady, named antoinette bourignon, founded a school, or hospice, in that city. one day, on entering the school-room, she imagined that she saw a great number of little black angels flying about the heads of the children. in great alarm, she told her pupils of what she had seen, warning them to beware of the devil, whose imps were hovering about them. the foolish woman continued daily to repeat the same story, and satan and his power became the only subject of conversation, not only between the girls themselves, but between them and their instructors. one of them at this time ran away from the school. on being brought back and interrogated, she said she had not run away, but had been carried away by the devil--she was a witch, and had been one since the age of seven. some other little girls in the school went into fits at this announcement, and, on their recovery, confessed that they also were witches. at last, the whole of them, to the number of fifty, worked upon each other's imaginations to such a degree that they also confessed that they were witches--that they attended the domdaniel, or meeting of the fiends--that they could ride through the air on broom-sticks, feast on infants' flesh, or creep through a key-hole. the citizens of lille were astounded at these disclosures. the clergy hastened to investigate the matter; many of them, to their credit, openly expressed their opinion that the whole affair was an imposture: not so the majority--they strenuously insisted that the confessions of the children were valid, and that it was necessary to make an example by burning them all for witches. the poor parents, alarmed for their offspring, implored the examining capuchins with tears in their eyes to save their young lives, insisting that they were bewitched, and not bewitching. this opinion also gained ground in the town. antoinette bourignon, who had put these absurd notions into the heads of the children, was accused of witchcraft, and examined before the council. the circumstances of the case seemed so unfavourable towards her that she would not stay for a second examination. disguising herself as she best could, she hastened out of lille and escaped pursuit. if she had remained four hours longer, she would have been burned by judicial sentence, as a witch and a heretic. it is to be hoped that, wherever she went, she learned the danger of tampering with youthful minds, and was never again entrusted with the management of children. the duke of brunswick and the elector of menz were struck with the great cruelty exercised in the torture of suspected persons, and convinced at the same time that no righteous judge would consider a confession extorted by pain, and contradictory in itself, as sufficient evidence to justify the execution of any accused person. it is related of the duke of brunswick that he invited two learned jesuits to his house, who were known to entertain strong opinions upon the subject of witchcraft, with a view of showing them the cruelty and absurdity of such practises. a woman lay in the dungeon of the city accused of witchcraft, and the duke, having given previous instructions to the officiating torturers, went with the two jesuits to hear her confession. by a series of artful leading questions, the poor creature, in the extremity of her anguish, was induced to confess that she had often attended the sabbath of the fiends upon the brocken--that she had seen two jesuits there, who had made themselves notorious, even among witches, for their abominations--that she had seen them assume the form of goats, wolves, and other animals; and that many noted witches had borne them five, six, and seven children at a birth, who had heads like toads and legs like spiders. being asked if the jesuits were far from her, she replied that they were in the room beside her. the duke of brunswick led his astounded friends away, and explained the stratagem. this was convincing proof to both of them that thousands of persons had suffered unjustly; they knew their own innocence, and shuddered to think what their fate might have been, if an enemy, instead of a friend, had put such a confession into the mouth of a criminal. one of these jesuits was frederick spee, the author of the "cautio criminalis," published in . this work, exposing the horrors of the witch trials, had a most salutary effect in germany: schonbrunn, archbishop and elector of menz, abolished the torture entirely within his dominions, and his example was imitated by the duke of brunswick and other potentates. the number of supposed witches immediately diminished, and the violence of the mania began to subside. the elector of brandenburg issued a rescript, in , with respect to the case of anna of ellerbrock, a supposed witch, forbidding the use of torture, and stigmatizing the swimming of witches as an unjust, cruel, and deceitful test. this was the beginning of the dawn after the long-protracted darkness. the tribunals no longer condemned witches to execution by hundreds in a year. wurzburg, the grand theatre of the burnings, burned but one, where, forty years previously, it had burned three score. from to , the electoral chambers in all parts of germany constantly commuted the sentence of death passed by the provincial tribunals into imprisonment for life, or burning on the cheek. a truer philosophy had gradually disabused the public mind. learned men freed themselves from the trammels of a debasing superstition, and governments, both civil and ecclesiastical, repressed the popular delusion they had so long encouraged. the parliament of normandy condemned a number of women to death, in the year , on the old charge of riding on broomsticks to the domdaniel; but louis xiv. commuted the sentence into banishment for life. the parliament remonstrated, and sent the king the following remarkable request. the reader will, perhaps, be glad to see this document at length. it is of importance, as the last effort of a legislative assembly to uphold this great error; and the arguments they used, and the instances they quoted, are in the highest degree curious. it reflects honour upon the memory of louis xiv. that he was not swayed by it. "request of the parliament of rouen to the king, in . "sire, "emboldened by the authority which your majesty has committed into our hands in the province of normandy, to try and punish offences, and more particularly those offences of the nature of witchcraft, which tend to the destruction of religion and the ruin of nations, we, your parliament, remonstrate humbly with your majesty upon certain cases of this kind which have been lately brought before us. we cannot permit the letter addressed by your majesty's command to the attorney-general of this district, for the reprieve of certain persons condemned to death for witchcraft, and for the staying of proceedings in several other cases, to remain unnoticed, and without remarking upon the consequences which may ensue. there is also a letter from your secretary of state, declaring your majesty's intention to commute the punishment of these criminals into one of perpetual banishment, and to submit to the opinion of the procureur-general, and of the most learned members of the parliament of paris, whether, in the matter of witchcraft, the jurisprudence of the parliament of rouen is to be followed in preference to that of the parliament of paris, and of the other parliaments of the kingdom which judge differently. "although by the ordinances of the kings your predecessors, parliaments have been forbidden to pay any attention to lettres de cachet; we, nevertheless, from the knowledge which we have, in common with the whole kingdom, of the care bestowed by your majesty for the good of your subjects, and from the submission and obedience to your commandments which we have always manifested, have stayed all proceedings, in conformity to your orders; hoping that your majesty, considering the importance of the crime of witchcraft, and the consequences likely to ensue from its impunity, will be graciously pleased to grant us once more your permission to continue the trials, and execute judgment upon those found guilty. and as, since we received the letter of your secretary of state, we have also been made acquainted with the determination of your majesty, not only to commute the sentence of death passed upon these witches into one of perpetual banishment from the province, but to re-establish them in the possession of their goods and chattels, and of their good fame and character, your parliament have thought it their duty, on occasion of these crimes, the greatest which men can commit, to make you acquainted with the general and uniform feelings of the people of this province with regard to them; it being, moreover, a question in which are concerned the glory of god and the relief of your suffering subjects, who groan under their fears from the threats and menaces of this sort of persons, and who feel the effects of them every day in the mortal and extraordinary maladies which attack them, and the surprising damage and loss of their possessions. "your majesty knows well that there is no crime so opposed to the commands of god as witchcraft, which destroys the very foundation of religion, and draws strange abominations after it. it is for this reason, sire, that the scriptures pronounce the punishment of death against offenders, and that the church and the holy fathers have fulminated their anathemas, and that canonical decisions have one and all decreed the most severe punishments, to deter from this crime; and that the church of france, animated by the piety of the kings your predecessors, has expressed so great a horror at it, that, not judging the punishment of perpetual imprisonment, the highest it has the power to inflict, sufficiently severe, it has left such criminals to be dealt with by the secular power. "it has been the general feeling of all nations that such criminals ought to be condemned to death, and all the ancients were of the same opinion. the law of the "twelve tables," which was the principal of the roman laws, ordains the same punishment. all jurisconsults agreed in it, as well as the constitutions of the emperors, and more especially those of constantine and theodosius, who, enlightened by the gospel, not only renewed the same punishment, but also deprived, expressly, all persons found guilty of witchcraft of the right of appeal, and declared them to be unworthy of a prince's mercy. and charles viii, sire, inspired by the same sentiments, passed that beautiful and severe ordinance (cette belle et severe ordonnance), which enjoined the judges to punish witches according to the exigencies of the case, under a penalty of being themselves fined or imprisoned, or dismissed from their office; and decreed, at the same time, that all persons who refused to denounce a witch, should be punished as accomplices; and that all, on the contrary, who gave evidence against one, should be rewarded. "from these considerations, sire, and in the execution of so holy an ordinance, your parliaments, by their decrees, proportion their punishments to the guilt of the offenders: and your parliament of normandy has never, until the present time, found that its practice was different from that of other courts; for all the books which treat upon this matter cite an infinite number of decrees condemning witches to be burnt, or broken on the wheel, or to other punishments. the following are examples:--in the time of chilperic, as may be seen in gregory of tours, b. vi, c. of his history of france: all the decrees of the parliament of paris passed according to, and in conformity with, this ancient jurisprudence of the kingdom, cited by imbert, in his "judicial practice;" all those cited by monstrelet, in , against the witches of artois; the decrees of the same parliament, of the th of october , against mary le fief, native of saumur; of the st of october , against the sieur de beaumont, who pleaded, in his defence, that he had only sought the aid of the devil for the purpose of unbewitching the afflicted and of curing diseases; of the th of july , against francis du bose; of the th of july , against abel de la rue, native of coulommiers; of the nd of october , against rousseau and his daughter; of , against another rousseau and one peley, for witchcraft and adoration of the devil at the sabbath, under the figure of a he-goat, as confessed by them; the decree of th of february , against leclerc, who appealed from the sentence of the parliament of orleans, and who was condemned for having attended the sabbath, and confessed, as well as two of his accomplices, who died in prison, that he had adored the devil, renounced his baptism and his faith in god, danced the witches' dance, and offered up unholy sacrifices; the decrees of the th of may , against a man named leger, on a similar accusation; the pardon granted by charles ix to trois echelles, upon condition of revealing his accomplices, but afterwards revoked for renewed sorcery on his part; the decree of the parliament of paris, cited by mornac in ; the judgments passed in consequence of the commission given by henry iv to the sieur de lancre, councillor of the parliament of bourdeaux; of the th of march , against etienne audibert; those passed by the chamber of nerac, on the th of june , against several witches; those passed by the parliament of toulouse in , as cited by gregory tolosanus, against four hundred persons accused of this crime, and who were all marked with the sign of the devil. besides all these, we might recall to your majesty's recollection the various decrees of the parliament of provence, especially in the case of gaufredy in ; the decrees of the parliament of dijon, and those of the parliament of rennes, following the example of the condemnation of the marshal de rays, who was burned in , for the crime of witchcraft, in presence of the duke of brittany;--all these examples, sire, prove that the accusation of witchcraft has always been punished with death by the parliaments of your kingdom, and justify the uniformity of their practice. "these, sire, are the motives upon which your parliament of normandy has acted in decreeing the punishment of death against the persons lately brought before it for this crime. if it has happened that, on any occasion, these parliaments, and the parliament of normandy among the rest, have condemned the guilty to a less punishment than that of death, it was for the reason that their guilt was not of the deepest dye; your majesty, and the kings your predecessors, having left full liberty to the various tribunals to whom they delegated the administration of justice, to decree such punishment as was warranted by the evidence brought before them. "after so many authorities, and punishments ordained by human and divine laws, we humbly supplicate your majesty to reflect once more upon the extraordinary results which proceed from the malevolence of this sort of people--on the deaths from unknown diseases, which are often the consequences of their menaces--on the loss of the goods and chattels of your subjects--on the proofs of guilt continually afforded by the insensibility of the marks upon the accused--on the sudden transportation of bodies from one place to another--on the sacrifices and nocturnal assemblies, and other facts, corroborated by the testimony of ancient and modern authors, and verified by so many eye-witnesses, composed partly of accomplices, and partly of people who had no interest in the trials beyond the love of truth, and confirmed, moreover, by the confessions of the accused parties themselves; and that, sire, with so much agreement and conformity between the different cases, that the most ignorant persons convicted of this crime have spoken to the same circumstances, and in nearly the same words, as the most celebrated authors who have written about it, all of which may be easily proved to your majesty's satisfaction by the records of various trials before your parliaments. "these, sire, are truths so intimately bound up with the principles of our religion, that, extraordinary although they be, no person has been able to this time to call them in question. if some have cited, in opposition to these truths, the pretended canon of the council of ancyre, and a passage from st. augustin, in a treatise upon the 'spirit and the soul', it has been without foundation; and it would be easy to convince your majesty that neither the one nor the other ought to be accounted of any authority; and, besides that, the canon, in this sense, would be contrary to the opinion of all succeeding councils of the church, cardinal baronius, and all learned commentators, agree that it is not to be found in any old edition. in effect, in those editions wherein it is found, it is in another language, and is in direct contradiction to the twenty-third canon of the same council, which condemns sorcery, according to all preceding constitutions. even supposing that this canon was really promulgated by the council of ancyre, we must observe that it was issued in the second century, when the principal attention of the church was directed to the destruction of paganism. for this reason, it condemns that class of women who said they could pass through the air, and over immense regions, with diana and herodias, and enjoins all preachers to teach the falsehood of such an opinion, in order to deter people from the worship of these false divinities; but it does not question the power of the devil over the human body, which is, in fact, proved by the holy gospel of jesus christ himself. and with regard, sire, to the pretended passage of st. augustin, everybody knows that it was not written by him, because the writer, whoever he was, cites boetius, who died more than eighty years after the time of st. augustin. besides, there is still more convincing proof in the fact, that the same father establishes the truth of witchcraft in all his writings, and more particularly in his 'city of god;' and in his first volume, question the th, wherein he states that sorcery is a communion between man and the devil, which all good christians ought to look upon with horror. "taking all these things into consideration, sire, the officers of your parliament hope, from the justice of your majesty, that you will be graciously pleased to receive the humble remonstrances they have taken the liberty to make. they are compelled, for the acquittal of their own consciences and in discharge of their duty, to make known to your majesty, that the decrees they passed against the sorcerers and witches brought before them, were passed after a mature deliberation on the part of all the judges present, and that nothing has been done therein which is not conformable to the universal jurisprudence of the kingdom, and for the general welfare of your majesty's subjects, of whom there is not one who can say that he is secure from the malevolence of such criminals. we therefore supplicate your majesty to suffer us to carry into effect the sentences we passed, and to proceed with the trial of the other persons accused of the same crime; and that the piety of your majesty will not suffer to be introduced during your reign an opinion contrary to the principles of that holy religion for which you have always employed so gloriously both your cares and your arms." louis, as we have already mentioned, paid no attention to this appeal. the lives of the old women were spared, and prosecutions for mere witchcraft, unconnected with other offences, were discontinued throughout france. in an act was passed for the punishment, not of witches, but of pretenders to witchcraft, fortune-tellers, divineresses, and poisoners. thus the light broke in upon germany, france, england, and scotland about the same time, gradually growing clearer and clearer till the middle of the eighteenth century, when witchcraft was finally reckoned amongst exploded doctrines, and the belief in it confined to the uttermost vulgar. twice, however, did the madness burst forth again as furious, while it lasted, as ever it had been. the first time in sweden, in , and the second in germany, so late as . both these instances merit particular mention. the first is one of the most extraordinary upon record, and for atrocity and absurdity is unsurpassed in the annals of any nation. it having been reported to the king of sweden that the little village of mohra, in the province of dalecarlia, was troubled exceedingly with witches, he appointed a commission of clergy and laymen to trace the rumour to its source, with full powers to punish the guilty. on the th of august , the commissioners arrived in the bewitched village, to the great joy of the credulous inhabitants. on the following day the whole population, amounting to three thousand persons, assembled in the church. a sermon was preached, "declaring the miserable case of those people that suffered themselves to be deluded by the devil," and fervent prayer was offered up that god would remove the scourge from among them. the whole assembly then adjourned to the rector's house, filling all the street before it, when the king's commission was read, charging every person who knew anything of the witchery, to come forward and declare the truth. a passion of tears seized upon the multitude; men, women, and children began to weep and sob, and all promised to divulge what they had heard or knew. in this frame of mind they were dismissed to their homes. on the following day they were again called together, when the depositions of several persons were taken publicly before them all. the result was that seventy persons, including fifteen children, were taken into custody. numbers also were arrested in the neighbouring district of elfdale. being put to the torture, they all confessed their guilt. they said they used to go to a gravel-pit that lay hard by the cross-way, where they put a vest upon their heads, and danced "round and round and round about." they then went to the cross-way, and called three times upon the devil; the first time in a low still voice; the second, somewhat louder; and the third, very loudly, with these words, "antecessor, come, and carry us to blockula!" this invocation never failed to bring him to their view. he generally appeared as a little old man, in a grey coat, with red and blue stockings, with exceedingly long garters. he had besides a very high-crowned hat, with bands of many-coloured linen enfolded about it, and a long red beard, that hung down to his middle. the first question he put to them was, whether they would serve him soul and body? on their answering in the affirmative, he told them to make ready for the journey to blockula. it was necessary to procure, in the first place, "some scrapings of altars and filings of church clocks." antecessor then gave them a horn, with some salve in it, wherewith they anointed themselves. these preparations ended, he brought beasts for them to ride upon, horses, asses, goats, and monkeys; and, giving them a saddle, a hammer, and a nail, uttered the word of command, and away they went. nothing stopped them. they flew over churches, high walls, rocks, and mountains, until they came to the green meadow where blockula was situated. upon these occasions they carried as many children with them as they could; for the devil, they said, "did plague and whip them if they did not procure him children, insomuch that they had no peace or quiet for him." many parents corroborated a part of this evidence, stating that their children had repeatedly told them that they had been carried away in the night to blockula, where the devil had beaten them black and blue. they had seen the marks in the morning, but they soon disappeared. one little girl was examined, who swore positively that she was carried through the air by the witches, and when at a great height she uttered the holy name of jesus. she immediately fell to the ground, and made a great hole in her side. "the devil, however, picked her up, healed her side, and carried her away to blockula." she added, and her mother confirmed her statement, that she had till that day "an exceeding great pain in her side." this was a clencher, and the nail of conviction was driven home to the hearts of the judges. the place called blockula, whither they were carried, was a large house, with a gate to it, "in a delicate meadow, whereof they could see no end." there was a very long table in it, at which the witches sat down; and in other rooms "there were very lovely and delicate beds for them to sleep upon." after a number of ceremonies had been performed, by which they bound themselves, body and soul, to the service of antecessor, they sat down to a feast, composed of broth, made of colworts and bacon, oatmeal, bread and butter, milk and cheese. the devil always took the chair, and sometimes played to them on the harp or the fiddle, while they were eating. after dinner they danced in a ring, sometimes naked, and sometimes in their clothes, cursing and swearing all the time. some of the women added particulars too horrible and too obscene for repetition. once the devil pretended to be dead, that he might see whether his people regretted him. they instantly set up a loud wail, and wept three tears each for him, at which he was so pleased, that he jumped up among them, and hugged in his arms those who had been most obstreperous in their sorrow. such were the principal details given by the children, and corroborated by the confessions of the full-grown witches. anything more absurd was never before stated in a court of justice. many of the accused contradicted themselves most palpably; but the commissioners gave no heed to discrepancies. one of them, the parson of the district, stated, in the course of the inquiry, that on a particular night, which he mentioned, he had been afflicted with a headach so agonizing, that he could not account for it otherwise than by supposing he was bewitched. in fact, he thought a score of witches must have been dancing on the crown of his head. this announcement excited great horror among the pious dames of the auditory, who loudly expressed their wonder that the devil should have power to hurt so good a man. one poor witch, who lay in the very jaws of death, confessed that she knew too well the cause of the minister's headach. the devil had sent her with a sledge hammer and a large nail, to drive into the good man's skull. she had hammered at it for some time, but the skull was so enormously thick, that she made no impression upon it. every hand was held up in astonishment. the pious minister blessed god that his skull was so solid, and he became renowned for his thick head all the days of his life. whether the witch intended a joke does not appear, but she was looked upon as a criminal more than usually atrocious. seventy persons were condemned to death on these so awful yet so ridiculous confessions. twenty-three of them were burned together, in one fire, in the village of mohra, in the presence of thousands of delighted spectators. on the following day fifteen children were murdered in the same manner; offered up in sacrifice to the bloody moloch of superstition. the remaining thirty-two were executed at the neighbouring town of fahluna. besides these, fifty-six children were found guilty of witchcraft in a minor degree, and sentenced to various punishments, such as running the gauntlet, imprisonment, and public whipping once a week for a twelvemonth. long after the occurrence of this case, it was cited as one of the most convincing proofs upon record of the prevalence of witchcraft. when men wish to construct or support a theory, how they torture facts into their service! the lying whimsies of a few sick children, encouraged by foolish parents, and drawn out by superstitious neighbours, were sufficient to set a country in a flame. if, instead of commissioners as deeply sunk in the slough of ignorance as the people they were sent amongst, there had been deputed a few men firm in courage and clear in understanding, how different would have been the result! some of the poor children who were burned would have been sent to an infirmary; others would have been well flogged; the credulity of the parents would have been laughed at, and the lives of seventy persons spared. the belief in witchcraft remains in sweden to this day; but, happily, the annals of that country present no more such instances of lamentable aberration of intellect as the one just cited. in new england, about the same time, the colonists were scared by similar stories of the antics of the devil. all at once a fear seized upon the multitude, and supposed criminals were arrested day after day in such numbers, that the prisons were found too small to contain them. a girl, named goodwin, the daughter of a mason, who was hypochondriac and subject to fits, imagined that an old irishwoman, named glover, had bewitched her. her two brothers, in whose constitutions there was apparently a predisposition to similar fits, went off in the same way, crying out that the devil and dame glover were tormenting them. at times their joints were so stiff that they could not be moved, while at others, said the neighbours, they were so flexible, that the bones appeared softened into sinews. the supposed witch was seized, and, as she could not repeat the lord's prayer without making a mistake in it, she was condemned and executed. but the popular excitement was not allayed. one victim was not enough: the people waited agape for new disclosures. suddenly two hysteric girls in another family fell into fits daily, and the cry of witchcraft resounded from one end of the colony to the other. the feeling of suffocation in the throat, so common in cases of hysteria, was said by the patients to be caused by the devil himself, who had stuck balls in the windpipe to choke them. they felt the pricking of thorns in every part of the body, and one of them vomited needles. the case of these girls, who were the daughter and niece of a mr. parris, the minister of a calvinist chapel, excited so much attention, that all the weak women in the colony began to fancy themselves similarly afflicted. the more they brooded on it, the more convinced they became. the contagion of this mental disease was as great as if it had been a pestilence. one after the other the women fainted away, asserting, on their recovery, that they had seen the spectres of witches. where there were three or four girls in a family, they so worked, each upon the diseased imagination of the other, that they fell into fits five or six times in a day. some related that the devil himself appeared to them, bearing in his hand a parchment roll, and promising that if they would sign an agreement transferring to him their immortal souls, they should be immediately relieved from fits and all the ills of the flesh. others asserted that they saw witches only, who made them similar promises, threatening that they should never be free from aches and pains till they had agreed to become the devil's. when they refused, the witches pinched, or bit, or pricked them with long pins and needles. more than two hundred persons named by these mischievous visionaries, were thrown into prison. they were of all ages and conditions of life, and many of them of exemplary character. no less than nineteen were condemned and executed before reason returned to the minds of the colonists. the most horrible part of this lamentable history is, that among the victims there was a little child only five years old. some women swore that they had seen it repeatedly in company with the devil, and that it had bitten them often with its little teeth, for refusing to sign a compact with the evil one. it can hardly increase our feelings of disgust and abhorrence when we learn that this insane community actually tried and executed a dog for the same offence! one man, named cory, stoutly refused to plead to the preposterous indictment against him. as was the practice in such eases, he was pressed to death. it is told of the sheriff of new england, who superintended the execution, that when this unhappy man thrust out his tongue in his mortal agony, he seized hold of a cane, and crammed it back again into the mouth. if ever there were a fiend in human form, it was this sheriff; a man, who, if the truth were known, perhaps plumed himself upon his piety--thought he was doing god good service, and "hoped to merit heaven by making earth a hell!" arguing still in the firm belief of witchcraft, the bereaved people began to inquire, when they saw their dearest friends snatched away from them by these wide-spreading accusations, whether the whole proceedings were not carried on by the agency of the devil. might not the great enemy have put false testimony into the mouths of the witnesses, or might not the witnesses be witches themselves? every man who was in danger of losing his wife, his child, or his sister, embraced this doctrine with avidity. the revulsion was as sudden as the first frenzy. all at once, the colonists were convinced of their error. the judges put a stop to the prosecutions, even of those who had confessed their guilt. the latter were no sooner at liberty than they retracted all they had said, and the greater number hardly remembered the avowals which agony had extorted from them. eight persons, who had been tried and condemned, were set free; and gradually girls ceased to have fits and to talk of the persecutions of the devil. the judge who had condemned the first criminal executed on this charge, was so smitten with sorrow and humiliation at his folly, that he set apart the anniversary of that day as one of solemn penitence and fasting. he still clung to the belief in witchcraft; no new light had broken in upon him on that subject, but, happily for the community, the delusion had taken a merciful turn. the whole colony shared the feeling; the jurors on the different trials openly expressed their penitence in the churches; and those who had suffered were regarded as the victims, and not the accomplices of satan. it is related that the indian tribes in new england were sorely puzzled at the infatuation of the settlers, and thought them either a race inferior to, or more sinful than the french colonists in the vicinity, amongst whom, as they remarked, "the great spirit sent no witches." returning again to the continent of europe, we find that, after the year , men became still wiser upon this subject. for twenty years the populace were left to their belief, but governments in general gave it no aliment in the shape of executions. the edict of louis xiv. gave a blow to the superstition, from which it never recovered. the last execution in the protestant cantons of switzerland was at geneva, in . the various potentates of germany, although they could not stay the trials, invariably commuted the sentence into imprisonment, in all cases where the pretended witch was accused of pure witchcraft, unconnected with any other crime. in the year , thomasius, the learned professor at the university of halle, delivered his inaugural thesis, "de crimine magiae," which struck another blow at the falling monster of popular error. but a faith so strong as that in witchcraft was not to be eradicated at once: the arguments of learned men did not penetrate to the villages and hamlets, but still they achieved great things; they rendered the belief an unworking faith, and prevented the supply of victims, on which for so many ages it had battened and grown strong. once more the delusion broke out; like a wild beast wounded to the death, it collected all its remaining energies for the final convulsion, which was to show how mighty it had once been. germany, which had nursed the frightful error in its cradle, tended it on its death-bed, and wurzburg, the scene of so many murders on the same pretext, was destined to be the scene of the last. that it might lose no portion of its bad renown, the last murder was as atrocious as the first. this case offers a great resemblance to that of the witches of mohra and new england, except in the number of its victims. it happened so late as the year , to the astonishment and disgust of the rest of europe. a number of young women in a convent at wurzburg fancied themselves bewitched; they felt, like all hysteric subjects, a sense of suffocation in the throat. they went into fits repeatedly; and one of them, who had swallowed needles, evacuated them at abscesses, which formed in different parts of the body. the cry of sorcery was raised, and a young woman, named maria renata sanger, was arrested on the charge of having leagued with the devil, to bewitch five of the young ladies. it was sworn on the trial that maria had been frequently seen to clamber over the convent walls in the shape of a pig--that, proceeding to the cellar, she used to drink the best wine till she was intoxicated; and then start suddenly up in her own form. other girls asserted that she used to prowl about the roof like a cat, and often penetrate into their chamber, and frighten them by her dreadful howlings. it was also said that she had been seen in the shape of a hare, milking the cows dry in the meadows belonging to the convent; that she used to perform as an actress on the boards of drury lane theatre in london, and, on the very same night, return upon a broomstick to wurzburg, and afflict the young ladies with pains in all their limbs. upon this evidence she was condemned, and burned alive in the market-place of wurzburg. here ends this frightful catalogue of murder and superstition. since that day, the belief in witchcraft has fled from the populous abodes of men, and taken refuge in remote villages and districts too wild, rugged, and inhospitable to afford a resting-place for the foot of civilization. rude fishers and uneducated labourers still attribute every phenomenon of nature which they cannot account for, to the devil and witches. catalepsy, that wondrous disease, is still thought by ignorant gossips to be the work of satan; and hypochondriacs, uninformed by science of the nature of their malady, devoutly believe in the reality of their visions. the reader would hardly credit the extent of the delusion upon this subject in the very heart of england at this day. many an old woman leads a life of misery from the unfeeling insults of her neighbours, who raise the scornful finger and hooting voice at her, because in her decrepitude she is ugly, spiteful, perhaps insane, and realizes in her personal appearance the description preserved by tradition of the witches of yore. even in the neighbourhood of great towns the taint remains of this once widely-spread contagion. if no victims fall beneath it, the enlightenment of the law is all that prevents a recurrence of scenes as horrid as those of the seventeeth century. hundreds upon hundreds of witnesses could be found to swear to absurdities as great as those asserted by the infamous matthew hopkins. in the annual register for , an instance of the belief in witchcraft is related, which shows how superstition lingers. a dispute arose in the little village of glen, in leicestershire, between two old women, each of whom vehemently accused the other of witchcraft. the quarrel at last ran so high that a challenge ensued, and they both agreed to be tried by the ordeal of swimming. they accordingly stripped to their shifts--procured some men, who tied their thumbs and great toes together, cross-wise, and then, with a cart-rope about their middle, suffered themselves to be thrown into a pool of water. one of them sank immediately, but the other continued struggling a short time upon the surface of the water, which the mob deeming an infallible sign of her guilt, pulled her out, and insisted that she should immediately impeach all her accomplices in the craft. she accordingly told them that, in the neighbouring village of burton, there were several old women as "much witches as she was." happily for her, this negative information was deemed sufficient, and a student in astrology, or "white-witch," coming up at the time, the mob, by his direction, proceeded forthwith to burton in search of all the delinquents. after a little consultation on their arrival, they went to the old woman's house on whom they had fixed the strongest suspicion. the poor old creature on their approach locked the outer door, and from the window of an upstairs room asked what they wanted. they informed her that she was charged with being guilty of witchcraft, and that they were come to duck her; remonstrating with her at the same time upon the necessity of submission to the ordeal, that, if she were innocent, all the world might know it. upon her persisting in a positive refusal to come down, they broke open the door and carried her out by force, to a deep gravel-pit full of water. they tied her thumbs and toes together and threw her into the water, where they kept her for several minutes, drawing her out and in two or three times by the rope round her middle. not being able to satisfy themselves whether she were a witch or no, they at last let her go, or, more properly speaking, they left her on the bank to walk home by herself, if she ever recovered. next day, they tried the same experiment upon another woman, and afterwards upon a third; but, fortunately, neither of the victims lost her life from this brutality. many of the ringleaders in the outrage were apprehended during the week, and tried before the justices at quarter-sessions. two of them were sentenced to stand in the pillory and to be imprisoned for a month; and as many as twenty more were fined in small sums for the assault, and bound over to keep the peace for a twelvemonth. "so late as the year ," says arnot, in his collection and abridgment of criminal trials in scotland, "it was the custom among the sect of seceders to read from the pulpit an annual confession of sins, national and personal; amongst the former of which was particularly mentioned the 'repeal by parliament of the penal statute against witches, contrary to the express laws of god.'" many houses are still to be found in england with the horse-shoe (the grand preservative against witchcraft) nailed against the threshold. if any over-wise philosopher should attempt to remove them, the chances are that he would have more broken bones than thanks for his interference. let any man walk into cross-street, hatton-garden, and from thence into bleeding-heart yard, and learn the tales still told and believed of one house in that neighbourhood, and he will ask himself in astonishment if such things can be in the nineteenth century. the witchcraft of lady hatton, the wife of the famous sir christopher, so renowned for his elegant dancing in the days of elizabeth, is as devoutly believed as the gospels. the room is to be seen where the devil seized her after the expiration of the contract he had made with her, and bore her away bodily to the pit of tophet: the pump against which he dashed her is still pointed out, and the spot where her heart was found, after he had torn it out of her bosom with his iron claws, has received the name of bleeding-heart yard, in confirmation of the story. whether the horse-shoe still remains upon the door of the haunted house, to keep away other witches, is uncertain; but there it was, twelve or thirteen years ago. the writer resided at that time in the house alluded to, and well remembers that more than one old woman begged for admittance repeatedly, to satisfy themselves that it was in its proper place. one poor creature, apparently insane, and clothed in rags, came to the door with a tremendous double-knock, as loud as that of a fashionable footman, and walked straight along the passage to the horse-shoe. great was the wonderment of the inmates, especially when the woman spat upon the horse-shoe, and expressed her sorrow that she could do no harm while it remained there. after spitting upon, and kicking it again and again, she coolly turned round and left the house, without saying a word to anybody. this poor creature perhaps intended a joke, but the probability is that she imagined herself a witch. in saffron hill, where she resided, her ignorant neighbours gave her that character, and looked upon her with no little fear and aversion. more than one example of the popular belief in witchcraft occurred in the neighbourhood of hastings so lately as the year . an aged woman, who resided in the rope-walk of that town, was so repulsive in her appearance, that she was invariably accused of being a witch by all the ignorant people who knew her. she was bent completely double; and though very old, her eye was unusually bright and malignant. she wore a red cloak, and supported herself on a crutch: she was, to all outward appearance, the very beau ideal of a witch. so dear is power to the human heart, that this old woman actually encouraged the popular superstition: she took no pains to remove the ill impression, but seemed to delight that she, old and miserable as she was, could keep in awe so many happier and stronger fellow-creatures. timid girls crouched with fear when they met her, and many would go a mile out of their way to avoid her. like the witches of the olden time, she was not sparing of her curses against those who offended her. the child of a woman who resided within two doors of her, was afflicted with lameness, and the mother constantly asserted that the old woman had bewitched her. all the neighbours credited the tale. it was believed, too, that she could assume the form of a cat. many a harmless puss has been hunted almost to the death by mobs of men and boys, upon the supposition that the animal would start up before them in the true shape of mother * * * * *. in the same town there resided a fisherman,--who is, probably, still alive, and whose name, for that reason, we forbear to mention,--who was the object of unceasing persecution, because it was said that he had sold himself to the devil. it was currently reported that he could creep through a keyhole, and that he had made a witch of his daughter, in order that he might have the more power over his fellows. it was also believed that he could sit on the points of pins and needles, and feel no pain. his brother-fishermen put him to this test whenever they had an opportunity. in the alehouses which he frequented, they often placed long needles in the cushions of the chairs, in such a manner that he could not fail to pierce himself when he sat down. the result of these experiments tended to confirm their faith in his supernatural powers. it was asserted that he never flinched. such was the popular feeling in the fashionable town of hastings only seven years ago; very probably it is the same now. in the north of england, the superstition lingers to an almost inconceivable extent. lancashire abounds with witch-doctors, a set of quacks, who pretend to cure diseases inflicted by the devil. the practices of these worthies may be judged of by the following case, reported in the "hertford reformer," of the rd of june, . the witch-doctor alluded to is better known by the name of the cunning man, and has a large practice in the counties of lincoln and nottingham. according to the writer in "the reformer," the dupe, whose name is not mentioned, had been for about two years afflicted with a painful abscess, and had been prescribed for without relief by more than one medical gentleman. he was urged by some of his friends, not only in his own village, but in neighbouring ones, to consult the witch-doctor, as they were convinced he was under some evil influence. he agreed, and sent his wife to the cunning man, who lived in new saint swithin's, in lincoln. she was informed by this ignorant impostor that her husband's disorder was an infliction of the devil, occasioned by his next-door neighbours, who had made use of certain charms for that purpose. from the description he gave of the process, it appears to be the same as that employed by dr. fian and gellie duncan, to work woe upon king james. he stated that the neighbours, instigated by a witch, whom he pointed out, took some wax, and moulded it before the fire into the form of her husband, as near as they could represent him; they then pierced the image with pins on all sides--repeated the lord's prayer backwards, and offered prayers to the devil that he would fix his stings into the person whom that figure represented, in like manner as they pierced it with pins. to counteract the effects of this diabolical process, the witch-doctor prescribed a certain medicine, and a charm to be worn next the body, on that part where the disease principally lay. the patient was to repeat the th and th psalms every day, or the cure would not be effectual. the fee which he claimed for this advice was a guinea. so efficacious is faith in the cure of any malady, that the patient actually felt much better after a three weeks' course of this prescription. the notable charm which the quack had given was afterwards opened, and found to be a piece of parchment, covered with some cabalistic characters and signs of the planets. the next-door neighbours were in great alarm that the witch-doctor would, on the solicitation of the recovering patient, employ some means to punish them for their pretended witchcraft. to escape the infliction, they feed another cunning man, in nottinghamshire, who told them of a similar charm, which would preserve them from all the malice of their enemies. the writer concludes by saying that, "the doctor, not long after he had been thus consulted, wrote to say that he had discovered that his patient was not afflicted by satan, as he had imagined, but by god, and would continue, more or less, in the same state till his life's end." an impostor carried on a similar trade in the neighbourhood of tunbridge wells, about the year . he had been in practice for several years, and charged enormous fees for his advice. this fellow pretended to be the seventh son of a seventh son, and to be endowed in consequence with miraculous powers for the cure of all diseases, but especially of those resulting from witchcraft. it was not only the poor who employed him, but ladies who rode in their carriages. he was often sent for from a distance of sixty or seventy miles by these people, who paid all his expenses to and fro, besides rewarding him handsomely. he was about eighty years of age, and his extremely venerable appearance aided his imposition in no slight degree. his name was okey, or oakley. in france, the superstition at this day is even more prevalent than it is in england. garinet, in his history of magic and sorcery in that country, cites upwards of twenty instances which occurred between the years and . in the latter year, no less than three tribunals were occupied with trials originating in this humiliating belief: we shall cite only one of them. julian desbourdes, aged fifty-three, a mason, and inhabitant of the village of thilouze, near bordeaux, was taken suddenly ill, in the month of january . as he did not know how to account for his malady, he suspected at last that he was bewitched. he communicated this suspicion to his son-in-law, bridier, and they both went to consult a sort of idiot, named baudouin, who passed for a conjuror, or white-witch. this man told them that desbourdes was certainly bewitched, and offered to accompany them to the house of an old man, named renard, who, he said, was undoubtedly the criminal. on the night of the rd of january all three proceeded stealthily to the dwelling of renard, and accused him of afflicting persons with diseases, by the aid of the devil. desbourdes fell on his knees, and earnestly entreated to be restored to his former health, promising that he would take no measures against him for the evil he had done. the old man denied in the strongest terms that he was a wizard; and when desbourdes still pressed him to remove the spell from him, he said he knew nothing about the spell, and refused to remove it. the idiot baudouin, the white-witch, now interfered, and told his companions that no relief for the malady could ever be procured until the old man confessed his guilt. to force him to confession they lighted some sticks of sulphur, which they had brought with them for the purpose, and placed them under the old man's nose. in a few moments, he fell down suffocated and apparently lifeless. they were all greatly alarmed; and thinking that they had killed the man, they carried him out and threw him into a neighbouring pond, hoping to make it appear that he had fallen in accidentally. the pond, however, was not very deep, and the coolness of the water reviving the old man, he opened his eyes and sat up. desbourdes and bridier, who were still waiting on the bank, were now more alarmed than before, lest he should recover and inform against them. they, therefore, waded into the pond--seized their victim by the hair of the head--beat him severely, and then held him under water till he was drowned. they were all three apprehended on the charge of murder a few days afterwards. desbourdes and bridier were found guilty of aggravated manslaughter only, and sentenced to be burnt on the back, and to work in the galleys for life. the white-witch baudouin was acquitted, on the ground of insanity. m. garinet further informs us that france, at the time he wrote ( ), was overrun by a race of fellows, who made a trade of casting out devils and finding out witches. he adds, also, that many of the priests in the rural districts encouraged the superstition of their parishioners, by resorting frequently to exorcisms, whenever any foolish persons took it into their heads that a spell had been thrown over them. he recommended, as a remedy for the evil, that all these exorcists, whether lay or clerical, should be sent to the galleys, and that the number of witches would then very sensibly diminish. many other instances of this lingering belief might be cited both in france and great britain, and indeed in every other country in europe. so deeply rooted are some errors that ages cannot remove them. the poisonous tree that once overshadowed the land, may be cut down by the sturdy efforts of sages and philosophers--the sun may shine clearly upon spots where venemous things once nestled in security and shade; but still the entangled roots are stretched beneath the surface, and may be found by those who dig. another king, like james i, might make them vegetate again; and, more mischievous still, another pope, like innocent viii, might raise the decaying roots to strength and verdure. still, it is consoling to think, that the delirium has passed away; that the raging madness has given place to a milder folly; and that we may now count by units the votaries of a superstition which, in former ages, numbered its victims by tens of thousands, and its votaries by millions. the slow poisoners. pescara.--the like was never read of. stephano.--in my judgment, to all that shall but hear it, 't will appear a most impossible fable. pescara.--troth, i'll tell you, and briefly as i can, by what degrees they fell into this madness. duke of milan. the atrocious system of poisoning, by poisons so slow in their operation, as to make the victim appear, to ordinary observers, as if dying from a gradual decay of nature, has been practised in all ages. those who are curious in the matter may refer to beckmann on secret poisons, in his "history of inventions," in which he has collected several instances of it from the greek and roman writers. early in the sixteenth century the crime seems to have gradually increased, till, in the seventeenth, it spread over europe like a pestilence. it was often exercised by pretended witches and sorcerers, and finally became a branch of education amongst all who laid any claim to magical and supernatural arts. in the twenty-first year of henry viii. an act was passed, rendering it high-treason: those found guilty of it, were to be boiled to death. one of the first in point of date, and hardly second to any in point of atrocity, is the murder by this means of sir thomas overbury, which disgraced the court of james i, in the year . a slight sketch of it will be a fitting introduction to the history of the poisoning mania, which was so prevalent in france and italy fifty years later. robert kerr, a scottish youth, was early taken notice of by james i, and loaded with honours, for no other reason that the world could ever discover than the beauty of his person. james, even in his own day, was suspected of being addicted to the most abominable of all offences, and the more we examine his history now, the stronger the suspicion becomes. however that may be, the handsome kerr, lending his smooth cheek, even in public, to the disgusting kisses of his royal master, rose rapidly in favour. in the year , he was made lord high treasurer of scotland, and created an english peer, by the style and title of viscount rochester. still further honours were in store for him. in this rapid promotion he had not been without a friend. sir thomas overbury, the king's secretary-who appears, from some threats in his own letters, to have been no better than a pander to the vices of the king, and privy to his dangerous secrets--exerted all his backstair influence to forward the promotion of kerr, by whom he was, doubtless, repaid in some way or other. overbury did not confine his friendship to this, if friendship ever could exist between two such men, but acted the part of an entremetteur, and assisted rochester to carry on an adulterous intrigue with the lady frances howard, the wife of the earl of essex. this woman was a person of violent passions, and lost to all sense of shame. her husband was in her way, and to be freed from him, she instituted proceedings for a divorce, on grounds which a woman of any modesty or delicacy of feeling would die rather than avow. her scandalous suit was successful, and was no sooner decided than preparations, on a scale of the greatest magnificence, were made for her marriage with lord rochester. sir thomas overbury, who had willingly assisted his patron to intrigue with the countess of essex, seems to have imagined that his marriage with so vile a woman might retard his advancement; he accordingly employed all his influence to dissuade him from it. but rochester was bent on the match, and his passions were as violent as those of the countess. on one occasion, when overbury and the viscount were walking in the gallery of whitehall, overbury was overheard to say, "well, my lord, if you do marry that base woman, you will utterly ruin your honour and yourself. you shall never do it with my advice or consent; and, if you do, you had best look to stand fast." rochester flung from him in a rage, exclaiming with an oath, "i will be even with you for this." these words were the death-warrant of the unfortunate overbury. he had mortally wounded the pride of rochester in insinuating that by his (overbury's) means he might be lowered in the king's favour; and he had endeavoured to curb the burning passions of a heartless, dissolute, and reckless man. overbury's imprudent remonstrances were reported to the countess; and from that moment, she also vowed the most deadly vengeance against him. with a fiendish hypocrisy, however, they both concealed their intentions, and overbury, at the solicitation of rochester, was appointed ambassador to the court of russia. this apparent favour was but the first step in a deep and deadly plot. rochester, pretending to be warmly attached to the interests of overbury, advised him to refuse the embassy, which, he said, was but a trick to get him out of the way. he promised, at the same time, to stand between him and any evil consequences which might result from his refusal. overbury fell into the snare, and declined the embassy. james, offended, immediately ordered his committal to the tower. he was now in safe custody, and his enemies had opportunity to commence the work of vengeance. the first thing rochester did was to procure, by his influence at court, the dismissal of the lieutenant of the tower, and the appointment of sir jervis elwes, one of his creatures, to the vacant post. this man was but one instrument, and another being necessary, was found in richard weston, a fellow who had formerly been shopman to a druggist. he was installed in the office of under-keeper, and as such had the direct custody of overbury. so far, all was favourable to the designs of the conspirators. in the mean time, the insidious rochester wrote the most friendly letters to overbury, requesting him to bear his ill-fortune patiently, and promising that his imprisonment should not be of long duration; for that his friends were exerting themselves to soften the king's displeasure. still pretending the extreme of sympathy for him, he followed up the letters by presents of pastry and other delicacies, which could not be procured in the tower. these articles were all poisoned. occasionally, presents of a similar description were sent to sir jervis elwes, with the understanding that these articles were not poisoned, when they were unaccompanied by letters: of these the unfortunate prisoner never tasted. a woman, named turner, who had formerly kept a house of ill fame, and who had more than once lent it to further the guilty intercourse of rochester and lady essex, was the agent employed to procure the poisons. they were prepared by dr. forman, a pretended fortune-teller of lambeth, assisted by an apothecary named franklin. both these persons knew for what purposes the poisons were needed, and employed their skill in mixing them in the pastry and other edibles, in such small quantities as gradually to wear out the constitution of their victim. mrs. turner regularly furnished the poisoned articles to the under-keeper, who placed them before overbury. not only his food, but his drink was poisoned. arsenic was mixed with the salt he ate, and cantharides with the pepper. all this time, his health declined sensibly. every day he grew weaker and weaker; and with a sickly appetite, craved for sweets and jellies. rochester continued to condole with him, and anticipated all his wants in this respect, sending him abundance of pastry, and occasionally partridges and other game, and young pigs. with the sauce for the game, mrs. turner mixed a quantity of cantharides, and poisoned the pork with lunar-caustic. as stated on the trial, overbury took in this manner poison enough to have poisoned twenty men; but his constitution was strong, and he still lingered. franklin, the apothecary, confessed that he prepared with dr. forman seven different sorts of poisons; viz. aquafortis, arsenic, mercury, powder of diamonds, lunar-caustic, great spiders, and cantharides. overbury held out so long that rochester became impatient, and in a letter to lady essex, expressed his wonder that things were not sooner despatched. orders were immediately sent by lady essex to the keeper to finish with the victim at once. overbury had not been all this time without suspicion of treachery, although he appears to have had no idea of poison. he merely suspected that it was intended to confine him for life, and to set the king still more bitterly against him. in one of his letters, he threatened rochester that, unless he were speedily liberated, he would expose his villany to the world. he says, "you and i, ere it be long, will come to a public trial of another nature." * * * "drive me not to extremities, lest i should say something that both you and i should repent." * * * "whether i live or die, your shame shall never die, but ever remain to the world, to make you the most odious man living." * * * "i wonder much you should neglect him to whom such secrets of all kinds have passed." * * * "be these the fruits of common secrets, common dangers?" all these remonstrances, and hints as to the dangerous secrets in his keeping, were ill-calculated to serve him with a man so reckless as lord rochester: they were more likely to cause him to be sacrificed than to be saved. rochester appears to have acted as if he thought so. he doubtless employed the murderer's reasoning that "dead men tell no tales," when, after receiving letters of this description, he complained to his paramour of the delay. weston was spurred on to consummate the atrocity; and the patience of all parties being exhausted, a dose of corrosive sublimate was administered to him, in october , which put an end to his sufferings, after he had been for six months in their hands. on the very day of his death, and before his body was cold, he was wrapped up carelessly in a sheet, and buried without any funeral ceremony in a pit within the precincts of the tower. sir anthony weldon, in his "court and character of james i," gives a somewhat different account of the closing scene of this tragedy. he says, "franklin and weston came into overbury's chamber, and found him in infinite torment, with contention between the strength of nature and the working of the poison; and it being very like that nature had gotten the better in this contention, by the thrusting out of boils, blotches, and blains, they, fearing it might come to light by the judgment of physicians, the foul play that had been offered him, consented to stifle him with the bedclothes, which accordingly was performed; and so ended his miserable life, with the assurance of the conspirators that he died by the poison; none thinking otherwise than these two murderers." the sudden death--the indecent haste of the funeral, and the non-holding of an inquest upon the body, strengthened the suspicions that were afloat. rumour, instead of whispering, began to speak out; and the relatives of the deceased openly expressed their belief that their kinsman had been murdered. but rochester was still all powerful at court, and no one dared to utter a word to his discredit. shortly afterwards, his marriage with the countess of essex was celebrated with the utmost splendour, the king himself being present at the ceremony. it would seem that overbury's knowledge of james's character was deeper than rochester had given him credit for, and that he had been a true prophet when he predicted that his marriage would eventually estrange james from his minion. at this time, however, rochester stood higher than ever in the royal favour; but it did not last long--conscience, that busy monitor, was at work. the tongue of rumour was never still; and rochester, who had long been a guilty, became at last a wretched man. his cheeks lost their colour--his eyes grew dim; and he became moody, careless, and melancholy. the king seeing him thus, took at length no pleasure in his society, and began to look about for another favourite. george villiers, duke of buckingham, was the man to his mind; quick-witted, handsome, and unscrupulous. the two latter qualities alone were sufficient to recommend him to james i. in proportion as the influence of rochester declined, that of buckingham increased. a falling favourite has no friends; and rumour wagged her tongue against rochester louder and more pertinaciously than ever. a new favourite, too, generally endeavours to hasten by a kick the fall of the old one; and buckingham, anxious to work the complete ruin of his forerunner in the king's good graces, encouraged the relatives of sir thomas overbury to prosecute their inquiries into the strange death of their kinsman. james was rigorous enough in the punishment of offences when he was not himself involved. he piqued himself, moreover, on his dexterity in unravelling mysteries. the affair of sir thomas overbury found him congenial occupation. he set to work by ordering the arrest of sir jervis elwes. james, at this early stage of the proceedings, does not seem to have been aware that rochester was so deeply implicated. struck with horror at the atrocious system of slow poisoning, the king sent for all the judges. according to sir anthony weldon, he knelt down in the midst of them, and said, "my lords the judges, it is lately come to my hearing that you have now in examination a business of poisoning. lord! in what a miserable condition shall this kingdom be (the only famous nation for hospitality in the world) if our tables should become such a snare, as that none could eat without danger of life, and that italian custom should be introduced among us! therefore, my lords, i charge you, as you will answer it at that great and dreadful day of judgment, that you examine it strictly, without layout, affection, or partiality. and if you shall spare any guilty of this crime, god's curse light on you and your posterity! and if i spare any that are guilty, god's curse light on me and my posterity for ever!" the imprecation fell but too surely upon the devoted house of stuart. the solemn oath was broken, and god's curse did light upon him and his posterity! the next person arrested after sir jervis elwes, was weston, the under-keeper; then franklin and mrs. turner; and, lastly, the earl and countess of somerset, to which dignity rochester had been advanced since the death of overbury. weston was first brought to trial. public curiosity was on the stretch. nothing else was talked of, and the court on the day of trial was crowded to suffocation. the "state trials" report, that lord chief justice coke "laid open to the jury the baseness and cowardliness of poisoners, who attempt that secretly against which there is no means of preservation or defence for a man's life; and how rare it was to hear of any poisoning in england, so detestable it was to our nation. but the devil had taught divers to be cunning in it, so that they can poison in what distance of space they please, by consuming the nativum calidum, or humidum radicale, in one month, two or three, or more, as they list, which they four manner of ways do execute; viz. haustu, gustu, odore, and contactu." when the indictment was read over, weston made no other reply than, "lord have mercy upon me! lord have mercy upon me!" on being asked how he would be tried, he refused to throw himself upon a jury of his country, and declared, that he would be tried by god alone. in this he persisted for some time. the fear of the dreadful punishment for contumacy induced him, at length, to plead "not guilty," and take his trial in due course of law. [the punishment for the contumacious was expressed by the words onere, frigore, et fame. by the first was meant that the culprit should be extended on his back on the ground, and weights placed over his body, gradually increased, until he expired. sometimes the punishment was not extended to this length, and the victim, being allowed to recover, underwent the second portion, the frigore, which consisted in his standing naked in the open air, for a certain space, in the sight of all the people. the third, or fame, was more dreadful, the statute saying, "that he was to be preserved with the coarsest bread that could be got, and water out of the next sink or puddle, to the place of execution; and that day he had water he should have no bread, and that day he had bread, he should have no water;" and in this torment he was to linger as long as nature would hold out.] all the circumstances against him were fully proved, and he was found guilty and executed at tyburn. mrs. turner, franklin, and sir jervis elwes were also brought to trial, found guilty, and executed between the th of october and the th of december ; but the grand trial of the earl and countess of somerset did not take place till the month of may following. on the trial of sir jervis elwes, circumstances had transpired, showing a guilty knowledge of the poisoning on the part of the earl of northampton the uncle of lady somerset, and the chief falconer sir thomas monson. the former was dead; but sir thomas monson was arrested, and brought to trial. it appeared, however, that he was too dangerous a man to be brought to the scaffold. he knew too many of the odious secrets of james i, and his dying speech might contain disclosures which would compromise the king. to conceal old guilt it was necessary to incur new: the trial of sir thomas monson was brought to an abrupt conclusion, and himself set at liberty! already james had broken his oath. he now began to fear that he had been rash in engaging so zealously to bring the poisoners to punishment. that somerset would be declared guilty there was no doubt, and that he looked for pardon and impunity was equally evident to the king. somerset, while in the tower, asserted confidently, that james would not dare to bring him to trial. in this he was mistaken; but james was in an agony. what the secret was between them will now never be known with certainty; but it may be surmised. some have imagined it to be the vice to which the king was addicted; while others have asserted, that it related to the death of prince henry, a virtuous young man, who had held somerset in especial abhorrence. the prince died early, unlamented by his father, and, as public opinion whispered at the time, poisoned by somerset. probably, some crime or other lay heavy upon the soul of the king; and somerset, his accomplice, could not be brought to public execution with safety. hence the dreadful tortures of james, when he discovered that his favourite was so deeply implicated in the murder of overbury. every means was taken by the agonized king to bring the prisoner into what was called a safe frame of mind. he was secretly advised to plead guilty, and trust to the clemency of the king. the same advice was conveyed to the countess. bacon was instructed by the king to draw up a paper of all the points of "mercy and favour" to somerset which might result from the evidence; and somerset was again recommended to plead guilty, and promised that no evil should ensue to him. the countess was first tried. she trembled and shed tears during the reading of the indictment, and, in a low voice, pleaded guilty. on being asked why sentence of death should not be passed against her, she replied meekly, "i can much aggravate, but nothing extenuate my fault. i desire mercy, and that the lords will intercede for me with the king." sentence of death was passed upon her. next day the earl was brought to trial. he appears to have mistrusted the promises of james, and he pleaded not guilty. with a self-possession and confidence, which he felt, probably, from his knowledge of the king's character, he rigorously cross-examined the witnesses, and made a stubborn defence. after a trial which lasted eleven hours, he was found guilty, and condemned to the felon's death. whatever may have been the secrets between the criminal and the king, the latter, notwithstanding his terrific oath, was afraid to sign the death-warrant. it might, perchance, have been his own. the earl and countess were committed to the tower, where they remained for nearly five years. at the end of this period, to the surprise and scandal of the community, and the disgrace of its chief magistrate, they both received the royal pardon, but were ordered to reside at a distance from the court. having been found guilty of felony, the estates of the earl had become forfeited; but james granted him out of their revenues an income of , pounds per annum! shamelessness could go no further. of the after life of these criminals nothing is known, except that the love they had formerly borne each other was changed into aversion, and that they lived under the same roof for months together without the interchange of a word. the exposure of their atrocities did not put a stop to the practice of poisoning. on the contrary, as we shall see hereafter, it engendered that insane imitation which is so strange a feature of the human character. james himself is supposed, with great probability, to have fallen a victim to it. in the notes to "harris's life and writings of james i," there is a good deal of information on the subject. the guilt of buckingham, although not fully established, rests upon circumstances of suspicion stronger than have been sufficient to lead hundreds to the scaffold. his motives for committing the crime are stated to have been a desire of revenge for the coldness with which the king, in the latter years of his reign, began to regard him; his fear that james intended to degrade him; and his hope that the great influence he possessed over the mind of the heir-apparent would last through a new reign, if the old one were brought to a close. in the second volume of the "harleian miscellany," there is a tract, entitled the "forerunner of revenge," written by george eglisham, doctor of medicine, and one of the physicians to king james. harris, in quoting it, says that it is full of rancour and prejudice. it is evidently exaggerated; but forms, nevertheless, a link in the chain of evidence. eglisham says:--"the king being sick of an ague, the duke took this opportunity, when all the king's doctors of physic were at dinner, and offered to him a white powder to take, the which he a long time refused; but, overcome with his flattering importunity, he took it in wine, and immediately became worse and worse, falling into many swoonings and pains, and violent fluxes of the belly, so tormented, that his majesty cried out aloud of this white powder, 'would to god i had never taken it?" he then tells us "of the countess of buckingham (the duke's mother) applying the plaister to the king's heart and breast, whereupon he grew faint and short-breathed, and in agony. that the physicians exclaimed, that the king was poisoned; that buckingham commanded them out of the room, and committed one of them close prisoner to his own chamber, and another to be removed from court; and that, after his majesty's death, his body and head swelled above measure; his hair, with the skin of his head, stuck to his pillow, and his nails became loose on his fingers and toes." clarendon, who, by the way, was a partisan of the duke's, gives a totally different account of james's death. he says, "it was occasioned by an ague (after a short indisposition by the gout) which, meeting many humours in a fat unwieldy body of fifty-eight years old, in four or five fits carried him out of the world. after whose death many scandalous and libellous discourses were raised, without the least colour or ground; as appeared upon the strictest and most malicious examination that could be made, long after, in a time of licence, when nobody was afraid of offending majesty, and when prosecuting the highest reproaches and contumelies against the royal family was held very meritorious." notwithstanding this confident declaration, the world will hardly be persuaded that there was not some truth in the rumours that were abroad. the inquiries which were instituted were not strict, as he asserts, and all the unconstitutional influence of the powerful favourite was exerted to defeat them. in the celebrated accusations brought against buckingham by the earl of bristol, the poisoning of king james was placed last on the list, and the pages of history bear evidence of the summary mode in which they were, for the time, got rid of. the man from whom buckingham is said to have procured his poisons was one dr. lamb, a conjuror and empiric, who, besides dealing in poisons, pretended to be a fortune-teller. the popular fury, which broke with comparative harmlessness against his patron, was directed against this man, until he could not appear with safety in the streets of london. his fate was melancholy. walking one day in cheapside, disguised, as he thought, from all observers, he was recognized by some idle boys, who began to hoot and pelt him with rubbish, calling out, "the poisoner! the poisoner! down with the wizard! down with him!" a mob very soon collected, and the doctor took to his heels and ran for his life. he was pursued and seized in wood street, and from thence dragged by the hair through the mire to st. paul's cross; the mob beating him with sticks and stones, and calling out, "kill the wizard! kill the poisoner!" charles i, on hearing of the riot, rode from whitehall to quell it; but he arrived too late to save the victim. every bone in his body was broken, and he was quite dead. charles was excessively indignant, and fined the city six hundred pounds for its inability to deliver up the ringleaders to justice. but it was in italy that poisoning was most prevalent. from a very early period, it seems to have been looked upon in that country as a perfectly justifiable means of getting rid of an enemy. the italians of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries poisoned their opponents with as little compunction as an englishman of the present day brings an action at law against any one who has done him an injury. the writings of contemporary authors inform us that, when la spara and la tophania carried on their infernal trade, ladies put poisonbottles on their dressing-tables as openly, and used them with as little scruple upon others, as modern dames use eau de cologne or lavender-water upon themselves. so powerful is the influence of fashion, it can even cause murder to be regarded as a venial peccadillo. in the memoirs of the last duke of guise, who made a quixotic attempt, in , to seize upon the government of naples, we find some curious particulars relative to the popular feeling with regard to poisoning. a man, named gennaro annese, who, after the short and extraordinary career of masaniello the fisherman, had established himself as a sort of captain-general of the populace, rendered himself so obnoxious to the duke of guise that the adherents of the latter determined to murder him. the captain of the guard, as the duke himself very coolly informs us, was requested to undertake this office. it was suggested to him that the poniard would be the most effectual instrument, but the man turned up his eyes with pious horror at the proposition. he was ready to poison gennaro annese whenever he might be called upon to do so; but to poniard him, he said, would be disgraceful, and unbecoming an officer of the guards! at last poison was agreed upon, and augustino molla, an attorney in the duke's confidence, brought the bottle containing the liquid to show it to his master. the following is the duke's own account:-- "augustino came to me at night, and told me: 'i have brought you something which will free you from gennaro. he deserves death, and it is no great matter after what fashion justice is done upon him. look at this vial, full of clear and beautiful water: in four days' time, it will punish all his treasons. the captain of the guard has undertaken to give it him; and as it has no taste at all, gennaro will suspect nothing.'" the duke further informs us that the dose was duly administered; but that gennaro, fortunately for himself, ate nothing for dinner that day but cabbage dressed with oil, which acting as an antidote, caused him to vomit profusely, and saved his life. he was exceedingly ill for five days, but never suspected that he had been poisoned. in process of time, poison vending became a profitable trade. eleven years after this period, it was carried on at rome to such an extent that the sluggish government was roused to interference. beckmann, in his "history of inventions," and lebret, in his "magazin zum gebrauche der staaten kirche geschichte," or magazine of materials for a history of a state church, relates that, in the year , it was made known to pope alexander vii. that great numbers of young women had avowed in the confessional that they had poisoned their husbands with slow poisons. the catholic clergy, who in general hold the secrets of the confessional so sacred, were shocked and alarmed at the extraordinary prevalence of the crime. although they refrained from revealing the names of the penitents, they conceived themselves bound to apprise the head of the church of the enormities that were practised. it was also the subject of general conversation in rome that young widows were unusually abundant. it was remarked, too, that if any couple lived unhappily together, the husband soon took ill and died. the papal authorities, when once they began to inquire, soon learned that a society of young wives had been formed, and met nightly, for some mysterious purpose, at the house of an old woman named hieronyma spara. this hag was a reputed witch and fortune-teller, and acted as president of the young viragos, several of whom, it was afterwards ascertained, belonged to the first families of rome. in order to have positive evidence of the practices of this female conclave, a lady was employed by the government to seek an interview with them. she dressed herself out in the most magnificent style; and having been amply provided with money, she found but little difficulty, when she had stated her object, of procuring an audience of la spara and her sisterhood. she pretended to be in extreme distress of mind on account of the infidelities and ill-treatment of her husband, and implored la spara to furnish her with a few drops of the wonderful elixir, the efficacy of which in sending cruel husbands to "their last long sleep" was so much vaunted by the ladies of rome. la spara fell into the snare, and sold her some of her "drops," at a price commensurate with the supposed wealth of the purchaser. the liquor thus obtained was subjected to an analysis, and found to be, as was suspected, a slow poison--clear, tasteless, and limpid, like that spoken of by the duke of guise. upon this evidence the house was surrounded by the police, and la spara and her companions taken into custody. la spara, who is described as having been a little, ugly, old woman, was put to the torture, but obstinately refused to confess her guilt. another of the women, named la gratiosa, had less firmness, and laid bare all the secrets of the infernal sisterhood. taking a confession, extorted by anguish on the rack, at its true value (nothing at all), there is still sufficient evidence to warrant posterity in the belief of their guilt. they were found guilty, and condemned, according to their degrees of culpability, to various punishments. la spara, gratiosa, and three young women, who had poisoned their husbands, were hanged together at rome. upwards of thirty women were whipped publicly through the streets; and several, whose high rank screened them from more degrading punishment, were banished from the country, and mulcted in heavy fines. in a few months afterwards, nine women more were hanged for poisoning; and another bevy, including many young and beautiful girls, were whipped half naked through the streets of rome. this severity did not put a stop to the practice, and jealous women and avaricious men, anxious to step into the inheritance of fathers, uncles, or brothers, resorted to poison. as it was quite free from taste, colour, and smell, it was administered without exciting suspicion. the skilful vendors compounded it of different degrees of strength, so that the poisoners had only to say whether they wanted their victims to die in a week, a month, or six months, and they were suited with corresponding doses. the vendors were chiefly women, of whom the most celebrated was a hag, named tophania, who was in this way accessory to the death of upwards of six hundred persons. this woman appears to have been a dealer in poisons from her girlhood, and resided first at palermo and then at naples. that entertaining traveller, father lebat, has given, in his letters from italy, many curious particulars relating to her. when he was at civita vecchia, in , the viceroy of naples discovered that poison was extensively sold in the latter city, and that it went by the name of aqueta, or little-water. on making further inquiry, he ascertained that tophania (who was by this time near seventy years of age, and who seems to have begun her evil courses very soon after the execution of la spara) sent large quantities of it to all parts of italy in small vials, with the inscription "manna of st. nicholas of barri." the tomb of st. nicholas of barri was celebrated throughout italy. a miraculous oil was said to ooze from it, which cured nearly all the maladies that flesh is heir to, provided the recipient made use of it with the due degree of faith. la tophania artfully gave this name to her poison to elude the vigilance of the custom-house officers, who, in common with everybody else, had a pious respect for st. nicholas de barri and his wonderful oil. the poison was similar to that manufactured by la spara. hahnemann the physician, and father of the homoepathic doctrine, writing upon this subject, says it was compounded of arsenical neutral salts, occasioning in the victim a gradual loss of appetite, faintness, gnawing pains in the stomach, loss of strength, and wasting of the lungs. the abbe gagliardi says that a few drops of it were generally poured into tea, chocolate, or soup, and its effects were slow, and almost imperceptible. garelli, physician to the emperor of austria, in a letter to hoffmann, says it was crystallized arsenic, dissolved in a large quantity of water by decoction, with the addition (for some unexplained purpose) of the herb cymbalaria. the neapolitans called it aqua toffnina; and it became notorious all over europe under the name of aqua tophania. although this woman carried on her infamous traffic so extensively, it was extremely difficult to meet with her. she lived in continual dread of discovery. she constantly changed her name and residence; and pretending to be a person of great godliness, resided in monasteries for months together. whenever she was more than usually apprehensive of detection, she sought ecclesiastical protection. she was soon apprised of the search made for her by the viceroy of naples, and, according to her practice, took refuge in a monastery. either the search after her was not very rigid, or her measures were exceedingly well taken; for she contrived to elude the vigilance of the authorities for several years. what is still more extraordinary, as showing the ramifications of her system, her trade was still carried on to as great an extent as before. lebat informs us that she had so great a sympathy for poor wives who hated their husbands and wanted to get rid of them, but could not afford to buy her wonderful aqua, that she made them presents of it. she was not allowed, however, to play at this game for ever; she was at length discovered in a nunnery, and her retreat cut off. the viceroy made several representations to the superior to deliver her up, but without effect. the abbess, supported by the archbishop of the diocese, constantly refused. the public curiosity was in consequence so much excited at the additional importance thus thrust upon the criminal, that thousands of persons visited the nunnery in order to catch a glimpse of her. the patience of the viceroy appears to have been exhausted by these delays. being a man of sense, and not a very zealous catholic, he determined that even the church should not shield a criminal so atrocious. setting the privileges of the nunnery at defiance, he sent a troop of soldiers, who broke over the walls and carried her away vi et armis. the archbishop, cardinal pignatelli, was highly indignant, and threatened to excommunicate and lay the whole city under interdict. all the inferior clergy, animated by the esprit du corps, took up the question, and so worked upon the superstitious and bigoted people, that they were ready to rise in a mass to storm the palace of the viceroy and rescue the prisoner. these were serious difficulties; but the viceroy was not a man to be daunted. indeed, he seems to have acted throughout with a rare union of astuteness, coolness, and energy. to avoid the evil consequences of the threatened excommunication, he placed a guard round the palace of the archbishop, judging that the latter would not be so foolish as to launch out an anathema which would cause the city to be starved, and himself in it. the marketpeople would not have dared to come to the city with provisions, so long as it remained under the ban. there would have been too much inconvenience to himself and his ghostly brethren in such a measure; and, as the viceroy anticipated, the good cardinal reserved his thunders for some other occasion. still there was the populace. to quiet their clamour and avert the impending insurrection, the agents of the government adroitly mingled with the people, and spread abroad a report that tophania had poisoned all the wells and fountains of the city. this was enough. the popular feeling turned against her immediately. those who, but a moment before, had looked upon her as a saint, now reviled her as a devil, and were as eager for her punishment as they had before been for her escape. tophania was then put to the torture. she confessed the long catalogue of her crimes, and named all the persons who had employed her. she was shortly afterwards strangled, and her corpse thrown over the wall into the garden of the convent, from whence she had been taken. this appears to have been done to conciliate the clergy, by allowing them, at least, the burial of one who had taken refuge within their precincts. after her death the mania for poisoning seems to have abated; but we have yet to see what hold it took upon the french people at a somewhat earlier period. so rooted had it become in france between the years and , that madame de sevigne, in one of her letters, expresses her fear that frenchman and poisoner would become synonymous terms. as in italy, the first notice the government received of the prevalence of this crime was given by the clergy, to whom females of high rank, and some among the middle and lower classes, had avowed in the confessional that they had poisoned their husbands. in consequence of these disclosures, two italians, named exili and glaser, were arrested, and thrown into the bastille, on the charge of compounding and selling the drugs used for these murders. glaser died in prison, but exili remained without trial for several months; and there, shortly afterwards, he made the acquaintance of another prisoner, named sainte croix, by whose example the crime was still further disseminated among the french people. the most notorious of the poisoners that derived their pernicious knowledge from this man was madame de brinvilliers, a young woman connected both by birth and marriage with some of the noblest families of france. she seems, from her very earliest years, to have been heartless and depraved; and, if we may believe her own confession, was steeped in wickedness ere she had well entered her teens. she was, however, beautiful and accomplished; and, in the eye of the world, seemed exemplary and kind. guyot de pitaval, in the "causes celebres," and madame de sevigne, in her letters, represent her as mild and agreeable in her manners, and offering no traces on her countenance of the evil soul within. she was married in to the marquis de brinvilliers, with whom she lived unhappily for some years. he was a loose dissipated character, and was the means of introducing sainte croix to his wife, a man who cast a blight upon her life, and dragged her on from crime to crime till her offences became so great that the mind shudders to dwell upon them. for this man she conceived a guilty passion, to gratify which she plunged at once into the gulf of sin. she was drawn to its most loathsome depths ere retribution overtook her. she had as yet shown a fair outside to the world, and found but little difficulty in effecting a legal separation from her husband, who had not the art to conceal his vices. the proceeding gave great offence to her family. she appears, after this, to have thrown off the mask completely, and carried on her intrigues so openly with her lover, sainte croix, that her father, m. d'aubray, scandalised at her conduct, procured a lettre de cachet, and had him imprisoned in the bastille for a twelvemonth. sainte croix, who had been in italy, was a dabbler in poisons. he knew something of the secrets of the detestable la spara, and improved himself in them from the instructions of exili, with whom he speedily contracted a sort of friendship. by him he was shown how to prepare, not only the liquid poisons employed in italy, but that known as succession powder, which afterwards became so celebrated in france. like his mistress, he appeared amiable, witty, and intelligent, and showed no signs to the world of the two fierce passions, revenge and avarice, which were gnawing at his heart. both these passions were to be sated on the unfortunate family of d'aubray; his revenge, because they had imprisoned him; and his avarice, because they were rich. reckless and extravagant, he was always in want of money, and he had no one to supply him but madame de brinvilliers, whose own portion was far from sufficient to satisfy his need. groaning to think that any impediment should stand between him and wealth, he conceived the horrid idea of poisoning m. d'aubray her father, and her two brothers, that she might inherit the property. three murders were nothing to such a villain. he communicated his plan to madame de brinvilliers; and she, without the slightest scruple, agreed to aid him: he undertook to compound the poisons, and she to administer them. the zeal and alacrity with which she set to work seem hardly credible. sainte croix found her an apt scholar; and she soon became as expert as himself in the manufacture of poisons. to try the strength of the first doses, she used to administer them to dogs, rabbits, and pigeons. afterwards, wishing to be more certain of their effects, she went round to the hospitals, and administered them to the sick poor in the soups which she brought in apparent charity. [this is denied by voltaire in his "age of louis xiv;" but he does not state for what reason. his words are, "il est faux qu'elle eut essaye ses poisons dans les hopitaux, comme le disait le peuple et comme il est ecrit dans les 'causes celebres,' ouvrage d'un avocat sans cause et fait pour le peuple."] none of the poisons were intended to kill at the first dose; so that she could try them once upon an individual without fear of murder. she tried the same atrocious experiment upon the guests at her father's table, by poisoning a pigeon-pie! to be more certain still, she next poisoned herself! when convinced by this desperate essay of the potency of the draught, she procured an antidote from sainte croix, and all doubts being removed, commenced operations upon her grey-headed father. she administered the first dose with her own hands, in his chocolate. the poison worked well. the old man was taken ill, and his daughter, apparently full of tenderness and anxiety, watched by his bedside. the next day she gave him some broth, which she recommended as highly nourishing. this also was poisoned. in this manner she gradually wore out his frame, and in less than ten days he was a corpse! his death seemed so much the result of disease, that no suspicions were excited. when the two brothers arrived from the provinces to render the last sad duties to their sire, they found their sister as grieved, to all outward appearance, as even filial affection could desire: but the young men only came to perish. they stood between sainte croix and the already half-clutched gold, and their doom was sealed. a man, named la chaussee, was hired by sainte croix to aid in administering the poisons; and, in less than six weeks' time, they had both gone to their long home. suspicion was now excited; but so cautiously had all been done, that it found no one upon whom to attach itself. the marquise had a sister, and she was entitled, by the death of her relatives, to half the property. less than the whole would not satisfy sainte croix, and he determined that she should die the same death as her father and brothers. she was too distrustful, however; and, by quitting paris, she escaped the destruction that was lurking for her. the marquise had undertaken these murders to please her lover. she was now anxious to perpetrate another on her own account. she wished to marry sainte croix; but, though separated from her husband, she was not divorced. she thought it would be easier to poison him than to apply to the tribunals for a divorce, which might, perhaps, be refused. but salute croix had no longer any love for his guilty instrument. bad men do not admire others who are as bad as themselves. though a villain himself, he had no desire to marry one, and was not at all anxious for the death of the marquis. he seemed, however, to enter into the plot, and supplied her with poison for her husband: but he took care to provide a remedy. la brinvilliers poisoned him one day, and sainte croix gave him an antidote the next. in this manner he was buffetted about between them for some time, and finally escaped with a ruined constitution and a broken heart. but the day of retribution was at hand, and a terrible mischance brought the murders to light. the nature of the poisons compounded by salute croix was so deadly, that, when working in his laboratory, he was obliged to wear a mask, to preserve himself from suffocation. one day, the mask slipped off, and the miserable wretch perished in his crimes. his corpse was found, on the following morning, in the obscure lodging where he had fitted up his laboratory. as he appeared to be without friends or relatives, the police took possession of his effects. among other things was found a small box, to which was affixed the following singular document:-- "i humbly beg, that those into whose hands this box may fall, will do me the favour to deliver it into the hands only of the marchioness de brinvilliers, who resides in the rue neuve st. paul, as everything it contains concerns her, and belongs to her alone; and as, besides, there is nothing in it that can be of use to any person but her. in case she shall be dead before me, it is my wish that it be burned, with everything it contains, without opening or altering anything. in order that no one may plead ignorance, i swear by the god that i adore, and by all that is held most sacred, that i assert nothing but the truth: and if my intentions, just and reasonable as they are, be thwarted in this point by any persons, i charge their consciences with it, both in this world and that which is to come, in order that i may unload mine. i protest that this is my last will. done at paris, the th of may, . "(signed) sainte croix." this earnest solicitation, instead of insuring respect as was intended, excited curiosity. the box was opened, and found to contain some papers, and several vials and powders. the latter were handed to a chemist for analysis, and the documents were retained by the police, and opened. among them was found a promissory note of the marchioness de brinvilliers, for thirty thousand francs, to the order of sainte croix. the other papers were of greater importance, as they implicated both her and her servant, la chaussee, in the recent murders. as soon as she was informed of the death of sainte croix, she made an attempt to gain possession of his papers and the box; but, being refused, she saw that there was no time to be lost, and immediately quitted. next morning the police were on her trail; but she succeeded in escaping to england. la chaussee was not so fortunate. altogether ignorant of the fatal mischance which had brought his villanies to light, he did not dream of danger. he was arrested and brought to trial: being put to the torture, he confessed that he had administered poison to the messieurs d'aubray, and that he had received a hundred pistoles, and the promise of an annuity for life, from sainte croix and madame de brinvilliers, for the job. he was condemned to be broken alive on the wheel, and the marchioness was, by default, sentenced to be beheaded. he was executed accordingly, in march , on the place de greve, in paris. la brinvilliers appears to have resided for nearly three years in england. early in , thinking that the rigour of pursuit was over, and that she might venture to return to the continent, she proceeded secretly to liege. notwithstanding her care, the french authorities were soon apprised of her return; and arrangements were promptly made with the municipality of that city, to permit the agents of the french police to arrest her within the limits of their jurisdiction. desgrais, an officer of the marechaussee, accordingly left paris for that purpose. on his arrival in liege, he found that she had sought shelter within the walls of a convent. here the arm of the law, long as it is said to be, could not reach her: but desgrais was not a man to be baffled, and he resorted to stratagem to accomplish what force could not. having disguised himself as a priest, he sought admission to the convent, and obtained an interview with la brinvilliers. he said, that being a frenchman, and passing through liege, he could not leave that city without paying a visit to a lady whose beauty and misfortunes were so celebrated. her vanity was flattered by the compliment. desgrais saw, to use a vulgar but forcible expression, "that he had got on the blind side of her;" and he adroitly continued to pour out the language of love and admiration, till the deluded marchioness was thrown completely off her guard. she agreed, without much solicitation, to meet him outside the walls of the convent, where their amorous intrigue might be carried on more conveniently than within. faithful to her appointment with her supposed new lover, she came, and found herself, not in the embrace of a gallant, but in the custody of a policeman. her trial was not long delayed. the proofs against her were abundant. the dying declaration of la chaussee would have been alone enough to convict her; but besides that, there were the mysterious document attached to the box of st. croix; her flight from france; and, stronger and more damning proof than all, a paper, in her own handwriting, found among the effects of st. croix, in which she detailed to him the misdeeds of her life, and spoke of the murder of her father and brothers, in terms that left no doubt of her guilt. during the trial, all paris was in commotion. la brinvilliers was the only subject of conversation. all the details of her crimes were published, and greedily devoured; and the idea of secret poisoning was first put into the heads of hundreds, who afterwards became guilty of it. on the th of july , the superior criminal court of paris pronounced a verdict of guilty against her, for the murder of her father and brothers, and the attempt upon the life of her sister. she was condemned to be drawn on a hurdle, with her feet bare, a rope about her neck, and a burning torch in her hand, to the great entrance of the cathedral of notre dame; where she was to make the amende honorable, in sight of all the people; to be taken from thence to the place de greve, and there to be beheaded. her body was afterwards to be burned, and her ashes scattered to the winds. after her sentence, she made a full confession of her guilt. she seems to have looked upon death without fear; but it was recklessness, not courage, that supported her. madame de sevigne says, that when on the hurdle, on her way to the scaffold, she entreated her confessor to exert his influence with the executioner to place himself next to her, that his body might hide from her view "that scoundrel, desgrais, who had entrapped her." she also asked the ladies, who had been drawn to their windows to witness the procession, what they were looking at? adding, "a pretty sight you have come to see, truly!" she laughed when on the scaffold, dying as she had lived, impenitent and heartless. on the morrow, the populace came in crowds to collect her ashes, to preserve them as relics. she was regarded as a martyred saint, and her ashes were supposed to be endowed, by divine grace, with the power of curing all diseases. popular folly has often canonised persons whose pretensions to sanctity were extremely equivocal; but the disgusting folly of the multitude, in this instance, has never been surpassed. before her death, proceedings were instituted against m. de penautier, treasurer of the province of languedoc, and receiver-general for the clergy, who was accused by a lady, named st. laurent, of having poisoned her husband, the late receiver-general, in order to obtain his appointment. the circumstances of this case were never divulged, and the greatest influence was exerted to prevent it from going to trial. he was known to have been intimate with sainte croix and madame de brinvilliers, and was thought to have procured his poisons from them. the latter, however, refused to say anything which might implicate him. the inquiry was eventually stifled, after penautier had been several months in the bastille. the cardinal de bonzy was accused by the gossips of the day of being an accomplice of penautier. the cardinal's estates were burthened with the payment of several heavy annuities; but, about the time that poisoning became so fashionable, all the annuitants died off, one after the other. the cardinal, in talking of these annuitants, afterwards used to say, "thanks to my star, i have outlived them all!" a wit, seeing him and penautier riding in the same carriage, cried out, in allusion to this expression, "there go the cardinal de bonzy and his star!" it was now that the mania for poisoning began to take hold of the popular mind. from this time until the year , the prisons of france teemed with persons accused of this crime; and it is very singular, that other offences decreased in a similar proportion. we have already seen the extent to which it was carried in italy. it was, if possible, surpassed in france. the diabolical ease with which these murders could be effected, by means of these scentless and tasteless poisons, enticed the evil-minded. jealousy, revenge, avarice, even petty spite, alike resorted to them. those who would have been deterred, by fear of detection, from using the pistol or the dagger, or even strong doses of poison, which kill at once, employed slow poisons without dread. the corrupt government of the day, although it could wink at the atrocities of a wealthy and influential courtier, like penautier, was scandalised to see the crime spreading among the people. disgrace was, in fact, entailed, in the eyes of europe, upon the name of frenchman. louis xiv, to put a stop to the evil, instituted what was called the chambre ardente, or burning chamber, with extensive powers, for the trial and punishment of the prisoners. two women, especially, made themselves notorious at this time, and were instrumental to the deaths of hundreds of individuals. they both resided in paris, and were named lavoisin and lavigoreux. like spars and tophania, of whom they were imitators, they chiefly sold their poisons to women who wanted to get rid of their husbands; and, in some few instances, to husbands who wanted to get rid of their wives. their ostensible occupation was that of midwives. they also pretended to be fortune-tellers, and were visited by persons of every class of society. the rich and poor thronged alike to their mansardes, to learn the secrets of the future. their prophecies were principally of death. they foretold to women the approaching dissolution of husbands, and to needy heirs, the end of rich relatives, who had made them, as byron expresses it, "wait too, too long already." they generally took care to be instrumental in fulfilling their own predictions. they used to tell their wretched employers, that some sign of the approaching death would take place in the house, such as the breaking of glass or china; and they paid servants considerable fees to cause a breakage, as if by accident, exactly at the appointed time. their occupation as midwives made them acquainted with the secrets of many families, which they afterwards turned to dreadful account. it is not known how long they had carried on this awful trade before they were discovered. detection finally overtook them at the close of the year . they were both tried, found guilty, and burned alive on the place de greve, on the nd of february, , after their hands had been bored through with a red-hot iron, and then cut off. their numerous accomplices in paris and in the provinces were also discovered and brought to trial. according to some authors, thirty, and to others, fifty of them, chiefly women, were hanged in the principal cities. lavoisin kept a list of the visiters who came to her house to purchase poisons. this paper was seized by the police on her arrest, and examined by the tribunals. among the names were found those of the marshal de luxembourg, the countess de soissons, and the duchess de bouillon. the marshal seems only to have been guilty of a piece of discreditable folly in visiting a woman of this description, but the popular voice at the time imputed to him something more than folly. the author of the "memoirs of the affairs of europe since the peace of utrecht," says, "the miserable gang who dealt in poison and prophecy alleged that he had sold himself to the devil, and that a young girl of the name of dupin had been poisoned by his means. among other stories, they said he had made a contract with the devil, in order to marry his son to the daughter of the marquis of louvois. to this atrocious and absurd accusation the marshal, who had surrendered himself at the bastille on the first accusation against him, replied with the mingled sentiment of pride and innocence, 'when mathieu de montmorenci, my ancestor, married the widow of louis le gros, he did not have recourse to the devil, but to the states-general, in order to obtain for the minor king the support of the house of montmorenci.' this brave man was imprisoned in a cell six feet and a half long, and his trial, which was interrupted for several weeks, lasted altogether fourteen months. no judgment was pronounced upon him." the countess of soissons fled to brussels, rather than undergo the risk of a trial; and was never able to clear herself from the stigma that attached to her, of having made an attempt to poison the queen of spain by doses of succession powder. the duchess of bouillon was arrested, and tried by the chambre ardente. it would appear, however, that she had nothing to do with the slow poisons, but had merely endeavoured to pry into the secrets of futurity, and gratify her curiosity with a sight of the devil. one of the presidents of the chambre, la reynie, an ugly little old man, very seriously asked her whether she had really seen the devil; to which the lady replied, looking him full in the face, "oh yes! i see him now. he is in the form of a little ugly old man, exceedingly illnatured, and is dressed in the robes of a counsellor of state." m. la reynie prudently refrained from asking any more questions of a lady with so sharp and ready a tongue. the duchess was imprisoned for several months in the bastile; and nothing being proved against her, she was released at the intercession of her powerful friends. the severe punishment of criminals of this note might have helped to abate the fever of imitation among the vulgar;--their comparative impunity had a contrary tendency. the escape of penautier, and the wealthy cardinal de bonzy his employer, had the most pernicious effect. for two years longer the crime continued to rage, and was not finally suppressed till the stake had blazed, or the noose dangled, for upwards of a hundred individuals. haunted houses. here's a knocking indeed! * * * * knock! knock! knock * * * * * * who's there, i' the name o' beelzebub? * * * who's there, i' the devil's name? knock! knock! knock!--never at quiet? macbeth. who has not either seen or heard of some house, shut up and uninhabitable, fallen into decay, and looking dusty and dreary, from which, at midnight, strange sounds have been heard to issue--aerial knockings--the rattling of chains, and the groaning of perturbed spirits?--a house that people have thought it unsafe to pass after dark, and which has remained for years without a tenant, and which no tenant would occupy, even were he paid to do so? there are hundreds of such houses in england at the present day; hundreds in france, germany, and almost every country of europe, which are marked with the mark of fear--places for the timid to avoid, and the pious to bless themselves at, and ask protection from, as they pass--the abodes of ghosts and evil spirits. there are many such houses in london; and if any vain boaster of the march of intellect would but take the trouble to find them out and count them, he would be convinced that intellect must yet make some enormous strides before such old superstitions can be eradicated. the idea that such houses exist is a remnant of the witch creed, which merits separate notice from its comparative harmlessness, and from its being not so much a madness as a folly of the people. unlike other notions that sprang from the belief in witchcraft, and which we have already dwelt upon at sufficient length, it has sent no wretches to the stake or the gibbet, and but a few to the pillory only. many houses have been condemned as haunted, and avoided by the weak and credulous, from circumstances the most trifling in themselves, and which only wanted a vigorous mind to clear up, at once, and dissipate all alarm. a house in aix-la-chapelle, a large desolate-looking building, remained uninhabited for five years, on account of the mysterious knockings that there were heard within it at all hours of the day and night. nobody could account for the noises; and the fear became at last so excessive, that the persons who inhabited the houses on either side relinquished their tenancy, and went to reside in other quarters of the town, where there was less chance of interruption from evil spirits. from being so long without an inhabitant the house at last grew so ruinous, so dingy, and so miserable in its outward appearance, and so like the place that ghosts might be supposed to haunt, that few persons cared to go past it after sunset. the knocking that was heard in one of the upper rooms was not very loud, but it was very regular. the gossips of the neighbourhood asserted that they often heard groans from the cellars, and saw lights moved about from one window to another immediately after the midnight bell had tolled. spectres in white habiliments were reported to have gibed and chattered from the windows; but all these stories could bear no investigation. the knocking, however, was a fact which no one could dispute, and several ineffectual attempts were made by the proprietor to discover the cause. the rooms were sprinkled with holy water--the evil spirits were commanded in due form, by a priest, to depart thence to the red sea; but the knockings still continued, in spite of all that could be done in that way. accident at last discovered the cause, and restored tranquillity to the neighbourhood. the proprietor, who suffered not only in his mind but in his pocket, had sold the building at a ruinously small price, to get rid of all future annoyance. the new proprietor was standing in a room on the first floor when he heard the door driven to at the bottom with a considerable noise, and then fly open immediately, about two inches and no more. he stood still a minute and watched, and the same thing occurred a second and a third time. he examined the door attentively, and all the mystery was unravelled. the latch of the door was broken so that it could not be fastened, and it swung chiefly upon the bottom hinge. immediately opposite was a window, in which one pane of glass was broken; and when the wind was in a certain quarter, the draught of air was so strong that it blew the door to with some violence. there being no latch, it swung open again; and when there was a fresh gust, was again blown to. the new proprietor lost no time in sending for a glazier, and the mysterious noises ceased for ever. the house was replastered and repainted, and once more regained its lost good name. it was not before two or three years, however, that it was thoroughly established in popular favour; and many persons, even then, would always avoid passing it, if they could reach their destination by any other street. a similar story is narrated by sir walter scott, in his letters on demonology and witchcraft, the hero of which was a gentleman of birth and distinction, well known in the political world. shortly after he succeeded to his title and estates, there was a rumour among the servants concerning a strange noise that used to be heard at night in the family mansion, and the cause of which no one could ascertain. the gentleman resolved to discover it himself, and to watch for that purpose with a domestic who had grown old in the family, and who, like the rest, had whispered strange things about the knocking having begun immediately upon the death of his old master. these two watched until the noise was heard, and at last traced it to a small store-room, used as a place for keeping provisions of various kinds for the family, and of which the old butler had the key. they entered this place, and remained for some time, without hearing the noises which they had traced thither. at length the sound was heard, but much lower than it seemed to be while they were further off, and their imaginations were more excited. they then discovered the cause without difficulty. a rat, caught in an old-fashioned trap, had occasioned the noise by its efforts to escape, in which it was able to raise the trap-door of its prison to a certain height, but was then obliged to drop it. the noise of the fall resounding through the house had occasioned the mysterious rumours, which, but for the investigation of the proprietor, would, in all probability, have acquired so bad a name for the dwelling that no servants would have inhabited it. the circumstance was told to sir walter scott by the gentleman to whom it happened. but, in general, houses that have acquired this character, have been more indebted for it, to the roguery of living men, than to accidents like these. six monks played off a clever trick of the kind upon that worthy king, louis, whose piety has procured him, in the annals of his own country, the designation of "the saint." having heard his confessor speak in terms of warm eulogy of the goodness and learning of the monks of the order of saint bruno, he expressed his wish to establish a community of them near paris. bernard de la tour, the superior, sent six of the brethren, and the king gave them a handsome house to live in, in the village of chantilly. it so happened that, from their windows, they had a very fine view of the ancient palace of vauvert, which had been built for a royal residence by king robert, but deserted for many years. the worthy monks thought the palace would just suit them, but their modesty was so excessive that they were ashamed to ask the king for a grant of it in due form. this difficulty was not to be overcome, and the monks set their ingenuity to work to discover another plan. the palace of vauvert had never laboured under any imputation upon its character until they became its neighbours; but, somehow or other, it almost immediately afterwards began to acquire a bad name. frightful shrieks were heard to proceed from it at night--blue, red, and green lights were suddenly observed to glimmer from the windows, and as suddenly to disappear: the clanking of chains was heard, and the howling as of persons in great pain. these disturbances continued for several months, to the great terror of all the country round, and even of the pious king louis, to whom, at paris, all the rumours were regularly carried, with whole heaps of additions, that accumulated on the way. at last a great spectre, clothed all in pea-green, with a long white beard and a serpent's tail, took his station regularly at midnight in the principal window of the palace, and howled fearfully and shook his fists at the passengers. the six monks of chantilly, to whom all these things were duly narrated, were exceedingly wroth that the devil should play such antics right opposite their dwelling, and hinted to the commissioners, sent down by saint louis to investigate the matter, that, if they were allowed to inhabit the palace, they would very soon make a clearance of the evil spirits. the king was quite charmed with their piety, and expressed to them how grateful he felt for their disinterestedness. a deed was forthwith drawn up--the royal sign-manual was affixed to it, and the palace of vauvert became the property of the monks of saint bruno. the deed is dated in . [garinet. histoire de la magie en france, page .] the disturbances ceased immediately--the lights disappeared, and the green ghost (so said the monks) was laid at rest for ever under the waves of the red sea. in the year , one gilles blacre had taken the lease of a house in the suburbs of tours, but repenting him of his bargain with the landlord, peter piquet, he endeavoured to prevail upon him to cancel the agreement. peter, however, was satisfied with his tenant and his terms, and would listen to no compromise. very shortly afterwards, the rumour was spread all over tours that the house of gilles blacre was haunted. gilles himself asserted that he verily believed his house to be the general rendezvous of all the witches and evil spirits of france. the noise they made was awful, and quite prevented him from sleeping. they knocked against the wall--howled in the chimneys--broke his window-glass--scattered his pots and pans all over his kitchen, and set his chairs and tables a dancing the whole night through. crowds of persons assembled around the house to hear the mysterious noises; and the bricks were observed to detach themselves from the wall and fall into the streets upon the heads of those who had not said their paternoster before they came out in the morning. these things having continued for some time, gilles blacre made his complaint to the civil court of tours, and peter piquet was summoned to show cause why the lease should not be annulled. poor peter could make no defence, and the court unanimously agreed that no lease could hold good under such circumstances, and annulled it accordingly, condemning the unlucky owner to all the expenses of the suit. peter appealed to the parliament of paris; and, after a long examination, the parliament confirmed the lease. "not," said the judge, "because it has not been fully and satisfactorily proved that the house is troubled by evil spirits, but that there was an informality in the proceedings before the civil court of tours, that rendered its decision null and of no effect." a similar cause was tried before the parliament of bordeaux, in the year , relative to a house in that city which was sorely troubled by evil spirits. the parliament appointed certain ecclesiastics to examine and report to them, and on their report in the affirmative that the house was haunted, the lease was annulled, and the tenant absolved from all payment of rent and taxes. [garinet. histoire de la magie en france, page .] one of the best stories of a haunted house is that of the royal palace of woodstock, in the year , when the commissioners sent from london by the long parliament to take possession of it, and efface all the emblems of royalty about it, were fairly driven out by their fear of the devil and the annoyances they suffered from a roguish cavalier, who played the imp to admiration. the commissioners, dreading at that time no devil, arrived at woodstock on the th of october, . they took up their lodgings in the late king's apartments-turned the beautiful bedrooms and withdrawing-rooms into kitchens and sculleries--the council-hall into a brew-house, and made the dining-room a place to keep firewood in. they pulled down all the insignia of royal state, and treated with the utmost indignity everything that recalled to their memory the name or the majesty of charles stuart. one giles sharp accompanied them in the capacity of clerk, and seconded their efforts, apparently with the greatest zeal. he aided them to uproot a noble old tree, merely because it was called the king's oak, and tossed the fragments into the dining-room to make cheerful fires for the commissioners. during the first two days, they heard some strange noises about the house, but they paid no great attention to them. on the third, however, they began to suspect they had got into bad company; for they heard, as they thought, a supernatural dog under their bed, which gnawed their bedclothes. on the next day, the chairs and tables began to dance, apparently of their own accord. on the fifth day, something came into the bedchamber and walked up and down, and fetching the warming-pan out of the withdrawing-room, made so much noise with it that they thought five church-bells were ringing in their ears. on the sixth day, the plates and dishes were thrown up and down the dining-room. on the seventh, they penetrated into the bedroom in company with several logs of wood, and usurped the soft pillows intended for the commissioners. on the eighth and ninth nights, there was a cessation of hostilities; but on the tenth, the bricks in the chimneys became locomotive, and rattled and danced about the floors, and round the heads of the commissioners, all the night long. on the eleventh, the demon ran away with their breeches, and on the twelfth filled their beds so full of pewter-platters that they could not get into them. on the thirteenth night, the glass became unaccountably seized with a fit of cracking, and fell into shivers in all parts of the house. on the fourteenth, there was a noise as if forty pieces of artillery had been fired off, and a shower of pebble-stones, which so alarmed the commissioners that, "struck with great horror, they cried out to one another for help." they first of all tried the efficacy of prayers to drive away the evil spirits; but these proving unavailing, they began seriously to reflect whether it would not be much better to leave the place altogether to the devils that inhabited it. they ultimately resolved, however, to try it a little longer; and having craved forgiveness of all their sins, betook themselves to bed. that night they slept in tolerable comfort, but it was merely a trick of their tormentor to lull them into false security. when, on the succeeding night, they heard no noises, they began to flatter themselves that the devil was driven out, and prepared accordingly to take up their quarters for the whole winter in the palace. these symptoms on their part became the signal for renewed uproar among the fiends. on the st of november, they heard something walking with a slow and solemn pace up and down the withdrawing-room, and immediately afterwards a shower of stones, bricks, mortar, and broken glass pelted about their ears. on the nd the steps were again heard in the withdrawing-room, sounding to their fancy very much like the treading of an enormous bear, which continued for about a quarter of an hour. this noise having ceased, a large warming-pan was thrown violently upon the table, followed by a number of stones and the jawbone of a horse. some of the boldest walked valiantly into the withdrawing-room, armed with swords, and pistols; but could discover nothing. they were afraid that night to go to sleep, and sat up, making fires in every room, and burning candles and lamps in great abundance; thinking that, as the fiends loved darkness, they would not disturb a company surrounded with so much light. they were deceived, however: buckets of water came down the chimneys and extinguished the fires, and the candles were blown out, they knew not how. some of the servants who had betaken themselves to bed were drenched with putrid ditch-water as they lay, and arose in great fright, muttering incoherent prayers, and exposing to the wondering eyes of the commissioners their linen all dripping with green moisture, and their knuckles red with the blows they had at the same time received from some invisible tormentors. while they were still speaking, there was a noise like the loudest thunder, or the firing of a whole park of artillery, upon which they all fell down upon their knees and implored the protection of the almighty. one of the commissioners then arose, the others still kneeling, and asked in a courageous voice, and in the name of god, who was there, and what they had done that they should be troubled in that manner. no answer was returned, and the noises ceased for a while. at length, however, as the commissioners said, "the devil came again, and brought with it seven devils worse than itself." being again in darkness, they lighted a candle and placed it in the doorway, that it might throw a light upon the two chambers at once; but it was suddenly blown out, and one commissioner said that he had "seen the similitude of a horse's hoof striking the candle and candlestick into the middle of the chamber, and afterwards making three scrapes on the snuff to put it out." upon this, the same person was so bold as to draw his sword; but he asserted positively that he had hardly withdrawn it from the scabbard before an invisible hand seized hold of it and tugged with him for it, and prevailing, struck him so violent a blow with the pommel that he was quite stunned. then the noises began again; upon which, with one accord, they all retired into the presence-chamber, where they passed the night, praying and singing psalms. they were by this time convinced that it was useless to struggle any longer with the powers of evil, that seemed determined to make woodstock their own. these things happened on the saturday night; and, being repeated on the sunday, they determined to leave the place immediately, and return to london. by tuesday morning early, all their preparations were completed; and, shaking the dust off their feet, and devoting woodstock and all its inhabitants to the infernal gods, they finally took their departure. [dr. h. more's continuation of glanvil's collection of relations in proof of witchcraft.] many years elapsed before the true cause of these disturbances was discovered. it was ascertained, at the restoration, that the whole was the work of giles sharp, the trusty clerk of the commissioners. this man, whose real name was joseph collins, was a concealed royalist, and had passed his early life within the bowers of woodstock; so that he knew every hole and corner of the place, and the numerous trap-doors and secret passages that abounded in the building. the commissioners, never suspecting the true state of his opinions, but believing him to be revolutionary to the back-bone, placed the utmost reliance upon him; a confidence which he abused in the manner above detailed, to his own great amusement, and that of the few cavaliers whom he let into the secret. quite as extraordinary and as cleverly managed was the trick played off at tedworth, in , at the house of mr. mompesson, and which is so circumstantially narrated by the rev. joseph glanvil, under the title of "the demon of tedworth," and appended, among other proofs of witchcraft, to his noted work, called "sadducismus triumphatus." about the middle of april, in the year above mentioned, mr. mompesson, having returned to his house, at tedworth, from a journey he had taken to london, was informed by his wife, that during his absence they had been troubled with the most extraordinary noises. three nights afterwards he heard the noise himself; and it appeared to him to be that of "a great knocking at his doors, and on the outside of his walls." he immediately arose, dressed himself, took down a pair of pistols, and walked valiantly forth to discover the disturber, under the impression that it must be a robber: but, as he went, the noise seemed to travel before or behind him; and, when he arrived at the door from which he thought it proceeded, he saw nothing, but still heard "a strange hollow sound." he puzzled his brains for a long time, and searched every corner of the house; but, discovering nothing, he went to bed again. he was no sooner snug under the clothes, than the noise began again more furiously than ever, sounding very much like a "thumping and drumming on the top of his house, and then by degrees going off into the air." these things continued for several nights, when it came to the recollection of mr. mompesson that some time before, he had given orders for the arrest and imprisonment of a wandering drummer, who went about the country with a large drum, disturbing quiet people and soliciting alms, and that he had detained the man's drum, and that, probably, the drummer was a wizard, and had sent evil spirits to haunt his house, to be revenged of him. he became strengthened in his opinion every day, especially when the noises assumed, to his fancy, a resemblance to the beating of a drum, "like that at the breaking up of a guard." mrs. mompesson being brought to bed, the devil, or the drummer, very kindly and considerately refrained from making the usual riot; but, as soon as she recovered strength, began again "in a ruder manner than before, following and vexing the young children, and beating their bedsteads with so much violence that every one expected they would fall in pieces." for an hour together, as the worthy mr. mompesson repeated to his wondering neighbours, this infernal drummer "would beat 'roundheads and cuckolds,' the 'tat-too,' and several other points of war, as cleverly as any soldier." when this had lasted long enough, he changed his tactics, and scratched with his iron talons under the children's bed. "on the th of november," says the rev. joseph glanvil, "it made a mighty noise; and a servant, observing two boards in the children's room seeming to move, he bid it give him one of them. upon which the board came (nothing moving it, that he saw), within a yard of him. the man added, 'nay, let me have it in my hand;' upon which the spirit, devil, or drummer pushed it towards him so close, that he might touch it. "this," continues glanvil, "was in the day-time, and was seen by a whole room full of people. that morning it left a sulphureous smell behind it, which was very offensive. at night the minister, one mr. cragg, and several of the neighhours, came to the house, on a visit. mr. cragg went to prayers with them, kneeling at the children's bedside, where it then became very troublesome and loud. during prayer time, the spirit withdrew into the cock-loft, but returned as soon as prayers were done; and then, in sight of the company, the chairs walked about the room of themselves, the children's shoes were hurled over their heads, and every loose thing moved about the chamber. at the same time, a bed-staff was thrown at the minister, which hit him on the leg, but so favourably, that a lock of wool could not have fallen more softly." on another occasion, the blacksmith of the village, a fellow who cared neither for ghost nor devil, slept with john, the footman, that he also might hear the disturbances, and be cured of his incredulity, when there "came a noise in the room, as if one had been shoeing a horse, and somewhat came, as it were, with a pair of pincers," snipping and snapping at the poor blacksmith's nose the greater part of the night. next day it came, panting like a dog out of breath; upon which some woman present took a bed-staff to knock at it, "which was caught suddenly out of her hand, and thrown away; and company coming up, the room was presently filled with a bloomy noisome smell, and was very hot, though without fire, in a very sharp and severe winter. it continued in the bed, panting and scratching for an hour and a half, and then went into the next room, where it knocked a little, and seemed to rattle a chain." the rumour of these wonderful occurrences soon spread all over the country, and people from far and near flocked to the haunted house of tedworth, to believe or doubt, as their natures led them, but all filled with intense curiosity. it appears, too, that the fame of these events reached the royal ear, and that some gentlemen were sent by the king to investigate the circumstances, and draw up a report of what they saw or heard. whether the royal commissioners were more sensible men than the neighbours of mr. mompesson, and required more clear and positive evidence than they, or whether the powers with which they were armed to punish anybody who might be found carrying on this deception, frightened the evil-doers, is not certain; but glanvil himself reluctantly confesses, that all the time they were in the house, the noises ceased, and nothing was heard or seen. "however," says he, "as to the quiet of the house when the courtiers were there, the intermission may have been accidental, or perhaps the demon was not willing to give so public a testimony of those transactions which might possibly convince those who, he had rather, should continue in unbelief of his existence." as soon as the royal commissioners took their departure, the infernal drummer re-commenced his antics, and hundreds of persons were daily present to hear and wonder. mr. mompesson's servant was so fortunate as not only to hear, but to see this pertinacious demon; for it came and stood at the foot of his bed. "the exact shape and proportion of it he could not discover; but he saw a great body, with two red and glaring eyes, which, for some time, were fixed steadily on him, and at length disappeared." innumerable were the antics it played. once it purred like a cat; beat the children's legs black and blue; put a long spike into mr. mompesson's bed, and a knife into his mother's; filled the porrengers with ashes; hid a bible under the grate; and turned the money black in people's pockets. "one night," said mr. mompesson, in a letter to mr. glanvil, "there were seven or eight of these devils in the shape of men, who, as soon as a gun was fired, would shuffle away into an arbour;" a circumstance which might have convinced mr. mompesson of the mortal nature of his persecutors, if he had not been of the number of those worse than blind, who shut their eyes and refuse to see. in the mean time the drummer, the supposed cause of all the mischief, passed his time in gloucester gaol, whither he had been committed as a rogue and a vagabond. being visited one day by some person from the neighbourhood of tedworth, he asked what was the news in wiltshire, and whether people did not talk a great deal about a drumming in a gentleman's house there? the visiter replied, that he heard of nothing else; upon which the drummer observed, "i have done it; i have thus plagued him; and he shall never be quiet until he hath made me satisfaction for taking away my drum." no doubt the fellow, who seems to have been a gipsy, spoke the truth, and that the gang of which he was a member knew more about the noises at mr. mompesson's house than anybody else. upon these words, however, he was brought to trial at salisbury, for witchcraft; and, being found guilty, was sentenced to transportation; a sentence which, for its leniency, excited no little wonder in that age, when such an accusation, whether proved or not, generally insured the stake or the gibbet. glanvil says, that the noises ceased immediately the drummer was sent beyond the seas; but that, some how or other, he managed to return from transportation; "by raising storms and affrighting the seamen, it was said;" when the disturbances were forthwith renewed, and continued at intervals for several years. certainly, if the confederates of this roving gipsy were so pertinacious in tormenting poor weak mr. mompesson, their pertinacity is a most extraordinary instance of what revenge is capable of. it was believed by many, at the time, that mr. mompesson himself was privy to the whole matter, and permitted and encouraged these tricks in his house for the sake of notoriety; but it seems more probable that the gipsies were the real delinquents, and that mr. mompesson was as much alarmed and bewildered as his credulous neighhours, whose excited imaginations conjured up no small portion of these stories, "which rolled, and as they rolled, grew larger every hour." many instances, of a similar kind, during the seventeenth century, might be gleaned from glanvil and other writers of that period; but they do not differ sufficiently from these to justify a detail of them. the most famous of all haunted houses acquired its notoriety much nearer our own time; and the circumstances connected with it are so curious, and afford so fair a specimen of the easy credulity even of well-informed and sensible people, as to merit a little notice in this chapter. the cock lane ghost, as it was called, kept london in commotion for a considerable time, and was the theme of conversation among the learned and the illiterate, and in every circle, from that of the prince to that of the peasant. at the commencement of the year , there resided in cock lane, near west smithfield, in the house of one parsons, the parish clerk of st. sepulchre's, a stockbroker, named kent. the wife of this gentleman had died in child-bed during the previous year, and his sister-in-law, miss fanny, had arrived from norfolk to keep his house for him. they soon conceived a mutual affection, and each of them made a will in the other's favour. they lived some months in the house of parsons, who, being a needy man, borrowed money of his lodger. some difference arose betwixt them, and mr. kent left the house, and instituted legal proceedings against the parish clerk for the recovery of his money. while this matter was yet pending, miss fanny was suddenly taken ill of the small-pox; and, notwithstanding every care and attention, she died in a few days, and was buried in a vault under clerkenwell church. parsons now began to hint that the poor lady had come unfairly by her death, and that mr. kent was accessory to it, from his too great eagerness to enter into possession of the property she had bequeathed him. nothing further was said for nearly two years; but it would appear that parsons was of so revengeful a character, that he had never forgotten or forgiven his differences with mr. kent, and the indignity of having been sued for the borrowed money. the strong passions of pride and avarice were silently at work during all that interval, hatching schemes of revenge, but dismissing them one after the other as impracticable, until, at last, a notable one suggested itself. about the beginning of the year , the alarm was spread over all the neighbourhood of cock lane, that the house of parsons was haunted by the ghost of poor fanny, and that the daughter of parsons, a girl about twelve years of age, had several times seen and conversed with the spirit, who had, moreover, informed her, that she had not died of the smallpox, as was currently reported, but of poison, administered by mr. kent. parsons, who originated, took good care to countenance these reports; and, in answer to numerous inquiries, said his house was every night, and had been for two years, in fact, ever since the death of fanny, troubled by a loud knocking at the doors and in the walls. having thus prepared the ignorant and credulous neighhours to believe or exaggerate for themselves what he had told them, he sent for a gentleman of a higher class in life, to come and witness these extraordinary occurrences. the gentleman came accordingly, and found the daughter of parsons, to whom the spirit alone appeared, and whom alone it answered, in bed, trembling violently, having just seen the ghost, and been again informed that she had died from poison. a loud knocking was also heard from every part of the chamber, which so mystified the not very clear understanding of the visiter, that he departed, afraid to doubt and ashamed to believe, but with a promise to bring the clergyman of the parish and several other gentlemen on the following day, to report upon the mystery. on the following night he returned, bringing with him three clergymen, and about twenty other persons, including two negroes, when, upon a consultation with parsons, they resolved to sit up the whole night, and await the ghost's arrival. it was then explained by parsons, that although the ghost would never render itself visible to anybody but his daughter, it had no objection to answer the questions that might be put to it, by any person present, and that it expressed an affirmation by one knock, a negative by two, and its displeasure by a kind of scratching. the child was then put into bed along with her sister, and the clergymen examined the bed and bed-clothes to satisfy themselves that no trick was played, by knocking upon any substance concealed among the clothes. as on the previous night, the bed was observed to shake violently. after some hours, during which they all waited with exemplary patience, the mysterious knocking was heard in the wall, and the child declared that she saw the ghost of poor fanny. the following questions were then gravely put by the clergyman, through the medium of one mary frazer, the servant of parsons, and to whom it was said the deceased lady had been much attached. the answers were in the usual fashion, by a knock or knocks:-- "do you make this disturbance on account of the ill usage you received from mr. kent?"--"yes." "were you brought to an untimely end by poison?"--"yes." "how was the poison administered, in beer or in purl?"--"in purl." "how long was that before your death?"--"about three hours." "can your former servant, carrots, give any information about the poison?"--"yes." "are you kent's wife's sister?"--"yes." "were you married to kent after your sister's death?"--"no." "was anybody else, besides kent, concerned in your murder?"--"no." "can you, if you like, appear visibly to anyone?"--"yes." "will you do so?"--"yes." "can you go out of this house?"--"yes." "is it your intention to follow this child about everywhere?"--"yes." "are you pleased in being asked these questions?"--"yes." "does it case your troubled soul?"--"yes." [here there was heard a mysterious noise, which some wiseacre present compared to the fluttering of wings.] "how long before your death did you tell your servant, carrots, that you were poisoned?--an hour?"--"yes." [carrots, who was present, was appealed to; but she stated positively that such was not the fact, as the deceased was quite speechless an hour before her death. this shook the faith of some of the spectators, but the examination was allowed to continue.] "how long did carrots live with you?"--"three or four days." [carrots was again appealed to, and said that this was true.] "if mr. kent is arrested for this murder, will he confess?"--"yes." "would your soul be at rest if he were hanged for it?"--"yes." "will he be hanged for it?"--"yes." "how long a time first?"--"three years." "how many clergymen are there in this room?"--"three." "how many negroes?"--"two." "is this watch (held up by one of the clergymen) white?"--"no." "is it yellow?"--"no." "is it blue?"--"no." "is it black?"--"yes." [the watch was in a black shagreen case.] "at what time this morning will you take your departure?" the answer to this question was four knocks, very distinctly heard by every person present; and accordingly, at four o'clock precisely, the ghost took its departure to the wheatsheaf public-house, close by, where it frightened mine host and his lady almost out of their wits by knocking in the ceiling right above their bed. the rumour of these occurrences very soon spread over london, and every day cock lane was rendered impassable by the crowds of people who assembled around the house of the parish clerk, in expectation of either seeing the ghost or of hearing the mysterious knocks. it was at last found necessary, so clamorous were they for admission within the haunted precincts, to admit those only who would pay a certain fee, an arrangement which was very convenient to the needy and money-loving mr. parsons. indeed, things had taken a turn greatly to his satisfaction; he not only had his revenge, but he made a profit out of it. the ghost, in consequence, played its antics every night, to the great amusement of many hundreds of people and the great perplexity of a still greater number. unhappily, however, for the parish clerk, the ghost was induced to make some promises which were the means of utterly destroying its reputation. it promised, in answer to the questions of the reverend mr. aldritch of clerkenwell, that it would not only follow the little miss parsons wherever she went, but would also attend him, or any other gentleman, into the vault under st. john's church, where the body of the murdered woman was deposited, and would there give notice of its presence by a distinct knock upon the coffin. as a preliminary, the girl was conveyed to the house of mr. aldritch near the church, where a large party of ladies and gentlemen, eminent for their acquirements, their rank, or their wealth, had assembled. about ten o'clock on the night of the st of february, the girl having been brought from cock lane in a coach, was put to bed by several ladies in the house of mr. aldritch; a strict examination having been previously made that nothing was hidden in the bedclothes. while the gentlemen, in an adjoining chamber, were deliberating whether they should proceed in a body to the vault, they were summoned into the bedroom by the ladies, who affirmed, in great alarm, that the ghost was come, and that they heard the knocks and scratches. the gentlemen entered accordingly, with a determination to suffer no deception. the little girl, on being asked whether she saw the ghost, replied, "no; but she felt it on her back like a mouse." she was then required to put her hands out of bed, and they being held by some of the ladies, the spirit was summoned in the usual manner to answer, if it were in the room. the question was several times put with great solemnity; but the customary knock was not heard in reply in the walls, neither was there any scratching. the ghost was then asked to render itself visible, but it did not choose to grant the request. it was next solicited to give some token of its presence by a sound of any sort, or by touching the hand or cheek of any lady or gentleman in the room; but even with this request the ghost would not comply. there was now a considerable pause, and one of the clergymen went downstairs to interrogate the father of the girl, who was waiting the result of the experiment. he positively denied that there was any deception, and even went so far as to say that he himself, upon one occasion, had seen and conversed with the awful ghost. this having been communicated to the company, it was unanimously resolved to give the ghost another trial; and the clergyman called out in a loud voice to the supposed spirit that the gentleman to whom it had promised to appear in the vault, was about to repair to that place, where he claimed the fulfilment of its promise. at one hour after midnight they all proceeded to the church, and the gentleman in question, with another, entered the vault alone, and took up their position alongside of the coffin of poor fanny. the ghost was then summoned to appear, but it appeared not; it was summoned to knock, but it knocked not; it was summoned to scratch, but it scratched not; and the two retired from the vault, with the firm belief that the whole business was a deception practised by parsons and his daughter. there were others, however, who did not wish to jump so hastily to a conclusion, and who suggested that they were, perhaps, trifling with this awful and supernatural being, which, being offended with them for their presumption, would not condescend to answer them. again, after a serious consultation, it was agreed on all hands that, if the ghost answered anybody at all, it would answer mr. kent, the supposed murderer; and he was accordingly requested to go down into the vault. he went with several others, and summoned the ghost to answer whether he had indeed poisoned her. there being no answer, the question was put by mr. aldritch, who conjured it, if it were indeed a spirit, to end their doubts-make a sign of its presence, and point out the guilty person. there being still no answer for the space of half an hour, during which time all these boobies waited with the most praiseworthy perseverance, they returned to the house of mr. aldritch, and ordered the girl to get up and dress herself. she was strictly examined, but persisted in her statement that she used no deception, and that the ghost had really appeared to her. so many persons had, by their openly expressed belief of the reality of the visitation, identified themselves with it, that parsons and his family were far from being the only persons interested in the continuance of the delusion. the result of the experiment convinced most people; but these were not to be convinced by any evidence, however positive, and they, therefore, spread abroad the rumour, that the ghost had not appeared in the vault because mr. kent had taken care beforehand to have the coffin removed. that gentleman, whose position was a very painful one, immediately procured competent witnesses, in whose presence the vault was entered and the coffin of poor fanny opened. their deposition was then published; and mr. kent indicted parsons and his wife, his daughter, mary frazer the servant, the reverend mr. moor, and a tradesman, two of the most prominent patrons of the deception, for a conspiracy. the trial came on in the court of king's bench, on the th of july, before lord chief-justice mansfield, when, after an investigation which lasted twelve hours, the whole of the conspirators were found guilty. the reverend mr. moor and his friend were severely reprimanded in open court, and recommended to make some pecuniary compensation to the prosecutor for the aspersions they had been instrumental in throwing upon his character. parsons was sentenced to stand three times in the pillory, and to be imprisoned for two years: his wife to one year's, and his servant to six months' imprisonment in the bridewell. a printer, who had been employed by them to publish an account of the proceedings for their profit, was also fined fifty pounds, and discharged. the precise manner in which the deception was carried on has never been explained. the knocking in the wall appears to have been the work of parsons' wife, while the scratching part of the business was left to the little girl. that any contrivance so clumsy could have deceived anybody, cannot fail to excite our wonder. but thus it always is. if two or three persons can only be found to take the lead in any absurdity, however great, there is sure to be plenty of imitators. like sheep in a field, if one clears the stile, the rest will follow. about ten years afterwards, london was again alarmed by the story of a haunted house. stockwell, near vauxhall, the scene of the antics of this new ghost, became almost as celebrated in the annals of superstition as cock lane. mrs. golding, an elderly lady, who resided alone with her servant, anne robinson, was sorely surprised on the evening of twelfth-day, , to observe a most extraordinary commotion among her crockery. cups and saucers rattled down the chimney--pots and pans were whirled down stairs, or through the windows; and hams, cheeses, and loaves of bread disported themselves upon the floor as if the devil were in them. this, at least, was the conclusion that mrs. golding came to; and being greatly alarmed, she invited some of her neighbours to stay with her, and protect her from the evil one. their presence, however, did not put a stop to the insurrection of china, and every room in the house was in a short time strewed with the fragments. the chairs and tables joined, at last, in the tumults, and things looked altogether so serious and inexplicable, that the neighbours, dreading that the house itself would next be seized with a fit of motion, and tumble about their ears, left poor mrs. golding to bear the brunt of it by herself. the ghost in this case was solemnly remonstrated with, and urged to take its departure; but the demolition continuing as great as before, mrs. golding finally made up her mind to quit the house altogether. she took refuge with anne robinson in the house of a neighbour; but his glass and crockery being immediately subjected to the same persecution, he was reluctantly compelled to give her notice to quit. the old lady thus forced back to her own house, endured the disturbance for some days longer, when suspecting that anne robinson was the cause of all the mischief, she dismissed her from her service. the extraordinary appearances immediately ceased, and were never afterwards renewed; a fact which is of itself sufficient to point out the real disturber. a long time afterwards, anne robinson confessed the whole matter to the reverend mr. bray field. this gentleman confided the story to mr. hone, who has published an explanation of the mystery. anne, it appears, was anxious to have a clear house, to carry on an intrigue with her lover, and resorted to this trick to effect her purpose. she placed the china on the shelves in such a manner that it fell on the slightest motion, and attached horse-hairs to other articles, so that she could jerk them down from an adjoining room without being perceived by any one. she was exceedingly dexterous at this sort of work, and would have proved a formidable rival to many a juggler by profession. a full explanation of the whole affair may be found in the "every-day book." the latest instance of the popular panic occasioned by a house supposed to be haunted, occurred in scotland, in the winter of the year . on the th of december, the inmates of the farm-house of baldarroch, in the district of banchory, aberdeenshire, were alarmed by observing a great number of sticks, pebble-stones, and clods of earth flying about their yard and premises. they endeavoured, but in vain, to discover who was the delinquent; and the shower of stones continuing for five days in succession, they came at last to the conclusion that the devil and his imps were alone the cause of it. the rumour soon spread over all that part of the country, and hundreds of persons came from far and near to witness the antics of the devils of baldarroch. after the fifth day, the shower of clods and stones ceased on the outside of the premises, and the scene shifted to the interior. spoons, knives, plates, mustard-pots, rolling-pins, and flat-irons appeared suddenly endued with the power of self-motion, and were whirled from room to room, and rattled down the chimneys in a manner which nobody could account for. the lid of a mustard-pot was put into a cupboard by the servant-girl in the presence of scores of people, and in a few minutes afterwards came bouncing down the chimney to the consternation of everybody. there was also a tremendous knocking at the doors and on the roof, and pieces of stick and pebble-stones rattled against the windows and broke them. the whole neighbourhood was a scene of alarm; and not only the vulgar, but persons of education, respectable farmers, within a circle of twenty miles, expressed their belief in the supernatural character of these events, and offered up devout prayers to be preserved from the machinations of the evil one. the note of fear being once sounded, the visiters, as is generally the case in all tales of wonder, strove with each other who should witness the most extraordinary occurrences; and within a week, it was generally believed in the parishes of banchory-ternan, drumoak, durris, kincardine-o'neil, and all the circumjacent districts of mearns and aberdeenshire, that the devil had been seen in the act of hammering upon the house-top of baldarroch. one old man asserted positively that, one night, after having been to see the strange gambols of the knives and mustard-pots, he met the phantom of a great black man, "who wheeled round his head with a whizzing noise, making a wind about his ears that almost blew his bonnet off," and that he was haunted by him in this manner for three miles. it was also affirmed and believed, that all horses and dogs that approached this enchanted ground, were immediately affected--that a gentleman, slow of faith, had been cured of his incredulity by meeting the butter-churn jumping in at the door as he himself was going out--that the roofs of houses had been torn off, and that several ricks in the corn-yard had danced a quadrille together, to the sound of the devil's bagpipes re-echoing from the mountain-tops. the women in the family of the persecuted farmer of baldarroch also kept their tongues in perpetual motion; swelling with their strange stories the tide of popular wonder. the good wife herself, and all her servants, said that, whenever they went to bed, they were attacked with stones and other missiles, some of which came below the blankets and gently tapped their toes. one evening, a shoe suddenly darted across a garret where some labourers were sitting, and one of the men, who attempted to catch it, swore positively that it was so hot and heavy he was unable to hold it. it was also said that the bearbeater (a sort of mortar used to bruise barley in)--an object of such weight that it requires several men to move it--spontaneously left the barn and flew over the house-top, alighting at the feet of one of the servant maids, and hitting her, but without hurting her in the least, or even causing her any alarm; it being a fact well known to her, that all objects thus thrown about by the devil lost their specific gravity, and could harm nobody, even though they fell upon a person's head. among the persons drawn to baldarroch by these occurrences were the heritor, the minister, and all the elders of the kirk, under whose superintendence an investigation was immediately commenced. their proceedings were not promulgated for some days; and, in the mean time, rumour continued to travel through all the highlands, magnifying each mysterious incident the further it got from home. it was said, that when the goodwife put her potato-pot on the fire, each potato, as the water boiled, changed into a demon, and grinned horribly at her as she lifted the lid; that not only chairs and tables, but carrots and turnips, skipped along the floor in the merriest manner imaginable; that shoes and boots went through all the evolutions of the highland fling without any visible wearers directing their motions; and that a piece of meat detached itself from the hook on which it hung in the pantry, and placed itself before the fire, whence all the efforts of the people of the house were unable to remove it until it was thoroughly roasted; and that it then flew up the chimney with a tremendous bang. at baldarroch itself the belief was not quite so extravagant; but the farmer was so convinced that the devil and his imps were alone the cause of all the disturbance, that he travelled a distance of forty miles to an old conjuror, named willie foreman, to induce him, for a handsome fee, to remove the enchantment from his property. there were, of course, some sensible and educated people, who, after stripping the stories circulated of their exaggeration, attributed all the rest to one or other of two causes; first, that some gipsies, or strolling mendicants, hidden in the neighbouring plantation, were amusing themselves by working on the credulity of the country people; or, secondly, that the inmates of baldarroch carried on this deception themselves, for some reason or other, which was not very clear to anybody. the last opinion gained but few believers, as the farmer and his family were much respected; and so many persons had, in the most open manner, expressed their belief in the supernatural agency, that they did not like to stultify themselves by confessing that they had been deceived. at last, after a fortnight's continuance of the noises, the whole trick was discovered. the two servant lasses were strictly examined, and then committed to prison. it appeared that they were alone at the bottom of the whole affair, and that the extraordinary alarm and credulity of their master and mistress, in the first instance, and of the neighbours and country people afterwards, made their task comparatively easy. a little common dexterity was all they had used; and, being themselves unsuspected, they swelled the alarm by the wonderful stories they invented. it was they who loosened the bricks in the chimneys, and placed the dishes in such a manner on the shelves, that they fell on the slightest motion. in short, they played the same tricks as those used by the servant girl at stockwell, with the same results, and for the same purpose--the gratification of a love of mischief. they were no sooner secured in the county gaol than the noises ceased, and most people were convinced that human agency alone had worked all the wonder. some few of the most devoutly superstitious still held out in their first belief, and refused to listen to any explanation. these tales of haunted houses, especially those of the last and present century, however they may make us blush for popular folly, are yet gratifying in their results; for they show that society has made a vast improvement. had parsons and his wife, and the other contrivers of the cock lane deception, lived two hundred years earlier, they would not, perhaps, have found a greater number of dupes, but they would have been hanged as witches, instead of being imprisoned as vagabonds. the ingenious anne robinson and the sly lasses of baldarroch would, doubtless, have met a similar fate. thus it is pleasant to reflect, that though there may be as much folly and credulity in the world as ever, in one class of society, there is more wisdom and mercy in another than ever were known before. lawgivers, by blotting from the statute-book the absurd or sanguinary enactments of their predecessors, have made one step towards teaching the people. it is to be hoped that the day is not far distant when lawgivers will teach the people by some more direct means, and prevent the recurrence of delusions like these, and many worse, which might be cited, by securing to every child born within their dominions an education in accordance with the advancing state of civilization. if ghosts and witches are not yet altogether exploded, it is the fault, not so much of the ignorant people, as of the law and the government that have neglected to enlighten them. this ebook was produced by jim weiler, xooqi.com the motor boys on the pacific or the young derelict hunters by clarence young preface dear boys: i believe it is not necessary to introduce the motor boys to most of my readers, as they have made their acquaintance in the previous books of this series. to those, however, who take up this volume without having previously read the ones that go before, i take pleasure in presenting my friends, jerry, ned and bob. they are booked for quite a long trip, this time; across the continent to the pacific coast, where they are destined to have some stirring adventures, searching for a mysterious derelict. those of you who know the motor boys from their past performances know that they will meet emergencies in the right spirit, and that they will do their level best to accomplish what they set out to do. whether they did so in this case i leave it for you to determine by reading the book. though their own motor boat, the dartaway, was destroyed in a train wreck, they managed to get the use of a powerful craft, in which they made a cruise on the pacific ocean. their old friend, professor snodgrass was with them, and, if you care to learn of his search for a horned toad, you will find the details set down here. yours very truly, clarence young. _________________________________________________________________ chapter i some bad news "well, she is smashed this time, sure!" exclaimed jerry hopkins, to his chums, ned slade and bob baker. "what's smashed?" asked ned. "who's the letter from'?" for jerry had a slip of paper in his hand. "it isn't a letter. it's a telegram." "a telegram!" exclaimed bob. "what's up, jerry?" "she's smashed, i tell you. busted, wrecked, demolished, destroyed, slivered to pieces, all gone!" "who?" "our motor boat, the dartaway!" "not the dartaway!" and ned and bob crowded closer to jerry. "that's what she is. there's no mistake about it this time, i'm afraid. you know we thought once before she had gone to flinders, but it wasn't so. this time it is." "how did it happen?" asked ned. "yes, tell us, can't you?" cried bob. "what are you so slow about?" "say, chunky," remarked jerry, looking at his fat chum, "if you'll give me a chance i'll tell you all i know. i just got this telegram from the florida coast railway company. it says: "'jerry hopkins. motor boat dartaway, shipped by you from. st. augustine in freight wreck just outside jacksonville. boat total loss, buried under several freight cars. will write further particulars. j. h. maxon, general freight agent." "that's all there is to it," added jerry, folding up the telegram. "all there is to it! i guess not much!" exclaimed bob. "aren't you going to sue 'em for damages, jerry?" "well, there's no use being in such a rush," observed jerry. "maybe they'll pay the claim without a suit. i'll have to make some inquiries." "let's go down to the freight once here and see mr. hitter," suggested ned. "he can tell us what to do. the poor dartaway! smashed!" "and in a land wreck, too!" put in jerry. "it wouldn't be so bad if she had gone down on the atlantic, chasing after a whale, or in pursuit of a shark--" "or with the flag flying, out in a storm, with salt water sam," interrupted ned. "but to think of her being buried under a lot of freight cars! it's tough, that's what it is!" "that's right," agreed bob. "just think of it! no more rides in her! say, we ought to get heavy damages! she was a fine boat!" "come on then," cried ned. "don't let's stand here chinning all day. let's go see mr. hitter. he has charge of all the freight that comes to cresville, and he can tell us how to proceed to collect damages." "yes, i guess that's all that's left for us to do," decided jerry, and the three lads started for the railroad depot. they lived in the town of cresville, mass., a thriving community, and had been chums and inseparable companions ever since they could remember. bob baker was the son of a wealthy banker, while jerry hopkins's mother was a widow, who had been left considerable property, and ned slade's father owned a large department store. you boys who have read the previous volumes of this "motor boys series" do not need to be reminded of the adventures the three chums had together. to those of you who read this book first, i will say that, in the first volume, called "the motor boys," there was related a series of happenings that followed the winning of a certain bicycle race in cresville. after their victory in this contest the boys got motorcycles, and, by winning a race on them, won a touring car. in this automobile they had many adventures, and several narrow escapes. they incurred the enmity of noddy nixon, a town bully, and his crony, bill berry. the three chums then took a long trip overland in their automobile, as related in the second book of this series and, incidentally, managed to locate a rich mine belonging to a prospector, who, to reward them, gave them a number of shares. while out west the boys met a very learned gentleman, professor uriah snodgrass, who was traveling in the interests of science. he persuaded the boys to go with him in their automobile to search for a certain ancient, buried city, and this they found in mexico, where they had a number of surprising adventures. returning from that journey, they made a trip across the plains, on which they discovered the hermit of lost lake. arriving home they decided, some time later, to get a motor boat, and, in the fifth volume of the series, entitled, "the motor boys afloat," there was set down what happened to them on their first cruise on the river, during which they solved a robbery mystery. finding they were well able to manage the boat they took a trip on the atlantic ocean, and, after weathering some heavy storms they reached home, only to start out again on a longer voyage, this time to strange waters amid the everglades of florida. they had recently returned from that queer region, and, as they had done on their journey to that locality, they shipped their boat by rail from st. augustine to cresville. or, rather, they saw it safely boxed at the freight station in st. augustine, and came on up north, trusting that the dartaway would arrive in due season, and in good condition. they had been home a week now, and as there was no news of their boat, jerry had become rather anxious and had written to the railroad officials in st. augustine. in response he got the telegram which brought consternation to the hearts of the motor boys. "it doesn't seem possible," remarked bob, as the three lads hurried on toward the freight office. "i guess it's good-bye to the dartaway this trip," said jerry. "too bad! she was a fine boat." "well, we'll make the railroad pay for it, and we'll get a better boat," spoke up bob. "we couldn't get any better boat than the dartaway, chunky," said ned. "we might get a larger one, and a more powerful one, but never a better one, she served us well. to think of her being crushed under a lot of freight cars! it makes me mad!" "no use feeling that way," suggested jerry. "just think of the good times we had in her, not only on this last trip, but on the previous cruises." "this last was the best," remarked bob, with something like a sigh. "it was lovely down there in florida." "i guess he's thinking of the seabury girls," put in ned, with a wink at jerry. "no more than you are!" exclaimed bob. "i guess you were rather sweet on olivia, yourself." "or was it rose or nellie?" asked jerry with a laugh. "they were all three nice-- very nice." "that's right," said ned, fervently. the three young ladies the boys referred to were daughters of a mr. nathan seabury, whom the boys met while cruising about the everglades and adjacent rivers and lakes. he was in his houseboat wanderer, traveling for his health. mr. seabury owned a large hotel in florida and his meeting with the boys, especially with jerry, was a source of profit to mrs. hopkins. she owned some land in florida; but did not consider it of any value. it developed that it adjoined mr. seabury's hotel property and, as he wished it to enlarge his building, he purchased the lot for a goodly sum. the three boys, after the return of the dartaway and wanderer from the strange waters, had stopped for a week at mr. seabury's hotel, before journeying north. "i'd like to see them again," said bob, after a pause, during which the boys turned into the street leading to the depot. "who?" asked ned. "the seabury family." "mr. seabury-- or-- er-- the girls?" asked jerry. "all of 'em," replied bob quickly. "i had a letter the other day," remarked jerry quietly. "you did!" exclaimed ned. "from them?" asked bob eagerly. "well, it wasn't exactly a family letter," answered jerry, with just the suspicion of a blush. "it was from nellie, and she said she, her sisters and father were going to lower california." "to california?" exclaimed bob and ned. "yes; for mr. seabury's health. you know they said they expected to when we parted from them. the climate of florida did not do him any good, and they are going to try what california will do. she asked us to call and see them, if we were ever in that neighborhood." "i guess our chances of going to california are pretty slim," remarked bob. "our motor boat's gone now, and we can't make any more cruises." "i don't see what that's got to do with it," declared ned. "we couldn't very well cross the continent in her, even if we had the dartaway, and she was rather too small to make the trip by water, even if the panama canal was finished." "oh, well, you know what i mean," retorted bob, who did not exactly know himself. "we can't go anywhere right away. school opens soon, and it's buckle down and study all winter i suppose. but--" bob's remarks were interrupted by the arrival of the boston express, which rumbled into the cresville station, where the boys now were and, after a momentary stop, steamed on again. a man leaped from the steps of a parlor car and ran into the freight office, first, however, looking up and down the length of the train to see if any other passengers got off. "he seems in a hurry," observed ned. "yes, and he must have some pull with the railroad, for the boston express never stops here," said jerry. "maybe he's the president of the road." the boys kept on to the freight office. when they reached it they found the stranger in conversation with mr. hitter, the agent. the chums could not help overhearing the talk. "have you several packages here, addressed to x. y. z., to he held until called for?" the stranger asked. "there they be," replied the agent, pointing to several small boxes, piled near the door. "that's good," and the man seemed much relieved. "now i want them shipped by fast freight to san francisco, and i want to prepay them so there will be no delay. how much is it?" and he pulled out a pocketbook, disclosing a roll of bills. as he did so he hurried to the door and looked up and down the depot platform, as if afraid of being observed. he saw the three boys, and, for a moment, seemed as if he was about to hurry away. then, with an obvious effort, he remained, but turned into the freight office and shut the door. "he acts as if he was afraid we would steal something from him," said bob. "or as if he didn't want us to hear any more about those boxes," supplemented jerry. "he's a queer customer, he is." "well, it's none of our affair," remarked ned, but neither he nor his chums realized how, a little later, they were to take part in an adventure in which the mysterious man and the queer boxes were to figure importantly. in a short time the man came out of the freight office. he did not look at the boys, but hurried off down the street, putting some papers into his pocket book, which, the boys could not help noticing as he passed them, was not so full of money as it had been. "let's go in and ask mr. hitter what to do about our boat," suggested ned. they found the agent counting over a roll of bills. "been robbing a bank?" asked bob cheerfully. "guess i'd better tell dad to look out for his money." "that was paid by the man who was just in in here," replied the agent. "queer chap. seemed as if he didn't want to be found out. first he was going to ship his stuff by fast freight, and then he concluded it would be better by express, though it cost a lot more. but he had plenty of money." "who was he?" asked jerry. "that's another funny part of it. he didn't tell me his name, though i hinted i'd have to have it to give him a receipt. he said to make it out x. y. z., and i done it. that's the way them boxes come, several days ago, from boston. they arrived by express, consigned to x. y. z., and was to be called for. i thought of everybody in town, but there ain't nobody with them initials. i was just wondering what to do with 'em when in be comes an' claims 'em." "what's in em?" asked jerry. "blessed if i know," responded mr. hitter. "i couldn't git that out of him, either, though i hinted that i ought to know if it was dynamite, or anything dangerous." "what did he say?" inquired ned. "he said it wasn't dynamite, but that's all he would say, an' i didn't have no right to open 'em. he paid me the expressage, and seemed quite anxious to know just when i could ship the boxes, and when they'd arrive in san francisco. i could tell him the first, but not the last, for there's no tellin' what delays there'll be on the road. "he was a queer man-- a very queer man. i couldn't make him out. an' he went off in a hurry, as if he was afraid some one would see him. an' he shut the door, jest as if you boys would bother him,-- well, it takes all sorts of people to make a world. i don't s'pose you or i will ever meet him again." mr. hitter was not destined to, but the boys had not seen the last of the strangely acting man, who soon afterward played a strange part in their lives. "what you chaps after, anyhow?" went on the freight agent, when he had put the money in the safe. "our motor boat's smashed!" exclaimed bob. "we want damages for her! how are we going to get 'em?" "not guilty, boys!" exclaimed the agent holding up his hands, as if he thought wild-west robbers were confronting him. "you can search me. nary a boat have i got, an' you can turn my pockets inside out!" and he turned slowly around, like an exhibition figure in a store show window. chapter ii a desperate race "well," remarked mr. hitter, after a pause, during which the boys, rather surprised at his conduct, stood staring at him, "well, why don't you look in my hip pocket. maybe i've got a boat concealed there." "i didn't mean to go at you with such a rush," apologized jerry. "but you see--" "that's all right," interrupted the freight agent. "can i put my hands down now? the blood's all runnin' out of 'em, an' they feel as if they was goin' to sleep. that'll never do, as i've got a lot of way-bills to make out," and he lowered his arms. "do you know anything about this?" asked jerry, handing mr. hitter the telegram. "what's that? the dartaway smashed!" the agent exclaimed, reading the message. "come now, that's too bad! how did it happen?" the boys explained how they had shipped the craft north. "of course the accident didn't happen on the line of railroad i am agent for," said mr. hitter, after reading the telegram again. "if it had, we'd be responsible." "what can we do?" asked bob. "we want to get damages." "an' i guess you're entitled to 'em," replied the agent. "come on inside, and i'll tell you what to do. you'll have to make a claim, submit affidavits, go before a notary public and a whole lot of rig-ma-role, but i guess, in the end you'll get damages. they can't blame you because the boat was smashed. it's too bad! i feel like i'd lost an old friend." mr. hitter had had several rides in the dartaway for he had done the boys many favors and they wished to return them, so he was given a chance to get intimately acquainted with the speedy craft. taking the boys into his office, mr. hitter instructed them how to write a letter to the claim department of the florida coast railway, demanding damages for the smashing of the boat. "be respectful, but put it good and strong," he said. "i'll write on my own account to the general freight agent. he's a friend of mine, and we have business dealings together-- that is his road and my road," and mr. hitter spoke as though he owned the line of which he was the cresville agent. "that'll be good," said bob. "maybe it will hurry matters up. we're much obliged to you, mr. hitter." "that's what we are," chimed in jerry and ned. the boys lost no time in sending in their claim. then there was nothing to do but to wait. they knew it would take some days, and they did not expect an answer in less than a week, while mr. hitter told them that if they got money in payment for the destroyed boat within three months they would be lucky. "well, since the dartaway's gone, i guess we'll have to go back to the automobile for a change," suggested jerry one afternoon, early in september, about a week before school was to open. "let's take a little jaunt out in the country, stay a couple of days, and come back, all ready to pitch in and study." "fine!" cried bob. "we'll stay at a hotel where they have good dinners--" "of course!" retorted ned. "that's chunky's first idea-- something to eat. i've been waiting for him to say something like that." the boys were at jerry's house, talking over various matters. the auto was kept in an unused barn back of his home, but, since the advent of the motor boat, had not seen much service, though occasionally the boys went out in it. now, it was likely to come into active use again. "let's look the machine over," proposed jerry. "it may need some repairs. it got pretty hard usage, especially in our trips to mexico and across the plains." the boys soon found that, beyond two tires which needed repairs, and some minor adjustments to the engine, the car was in good shape. it was in running order and, at bob's suggestion, they got in it and made a trip to the town garage, where they intended to leave it to be overhauled. as they were turning a corner, near the automobile shop, they heard a sudden "honk-honk!" that startled them. jerry, who was at the steering wheel, shut off the power and applied the emergency brake. and it was only just in time for, a moment later, from a cross street, there shot out a big green touring car, very powerful, as they could tell by the throbbing of the engine. it almost grazed the mudguards of the machine in which the three boys were, and, skidded dangerously. then, with what seemed an impudent, warning toot of the horn, it swung around and sped off down the road. "that was a close shave!" remarked jerry, as he released the brake. "i should say yes," agreed bob. "that was a six-cylinder car. bur-r-r-r! if she'd hit us--" he did not finish, but the boys knew what he meant. they proceeded to the garage, leaving their machine to be repaired. it would be ready for them the next day, the man said, and they arranged to call for it, and go for a trip in the country. "let's go to riverton," suggested bob, naming a summer resort about a hundred miles away. "the season is just about to close there, and, as it isn't crowded, we can get better attention and--" "better meals, he means," finished ned. "all right, chunky, we'll go." "it wouldn't be a bad idea," agreed jerry. "we could make it in one day easily, and wouldn't have to hurry. we could stay there a couple of days, making little side strips, and come back saturday. that would put us in good shape for monday, when school opens." there was no dissension from this plan, and, having secured the consent of their parents, the boys, early the next day, started off on their journey. it was a short one, compared to those they had been in the habit of taking, but they did not have time for a longer jaunt. they arrived at riverton in the afternoon, having stopped on the road for dinner. they found the place rather livelier than they expected, for there had been an automobile meet the day previous, including a big race, and several lovers of the sport still remained, for the weather was very pleasant. the sheds about the hotel were filled with all sorts of cars, so that the boys had hardly room to store their machine. "this is a little more exciting than we counted on," remarked jerry, as he and his chums entered the hotel to register. "i'm afraid we'll not get such good attention as bob thought." "oh, it's all the better," was the answer of the stout youth. "they'll have all the more to eat, with this crowd here." "chunky can argue it any way he likes," declared ned. "no use trying to corner him, jerry." "no, i guess not. but i'm hungry enough to eat almost anything." as they were turning away from the clerk's desk, having been assigned to rooms, the boys saw a youth, about their own age, standing near a bulletin board fastened on the side wall. the youth was tacking up a notice and, as he turned, having finished, jerry exclaimed in a whisper: "noddy nixon! what's he doing here?" at the same moment, noddy, the long-time enemy of the motor boys, saw them. his face got red, and he swung quickly aside to avoid speaking to the three chums. the last they had seen of the bully was when he started to accompany them back to cresville, after his disastrous attempt to make money from a florida cocoanut grove. noddy was wanted as a witness by the government authorities, in connection with the attempted wreck of a vessel, in which bill berry was concerned; but, after the motor boys had rescued noddy from an unpleasant position in florida, and he had agreed to return to cresville, he suddenly disappeared in the night. this was the first they had seen of him since. they had learned that the government no longer desired his testimony. "let's see what notice he put up," suggested ned. "maybe he has lost something." they walked over to the bulletin board. there, in noddy's rather poor handwriting, was a challenge. it was to the effect that he would race, on the track near the hotel, any automobilist who would choose to compete with him, for money, up to five hundred dollars, or merely for fun. "noddy must have a new car," remarked ned. "his old one couldn't go for a cent. we beat it several times." "what's the matter with trying again?" asked jerry, a light of excitement coming into his eyes. "i'd like to have a race. maybe several cars will enter, and we can have some fun out of it. our machine has a lot of 'go' left in it yet." "that's the stuff!" exclaimed bob. "i'm with you. but let's get supper first, maybe--" "i guess he's afraid there won't be any left," remarked jerry. "but come on, i can eat a bit myself." as the boys left the office of the hotel, they saw several men reading the notice noddy had tacked up. "a race on this circular track here!" exclaimed one man to a friend as the boys passed him. "it's very risky! the turns are not banked enough. i wouldn't do it, but i suppose some will take the chance." "yes, it will be a dangerous race," responded the other. "who is this noddy nixon?" "a son of that rich nixon over in cresville, i believe. his father made a lot of money in stocks lately, and, i guess the son is helping spend it. he has a powerful car." the motor boys did not stay to hear more, but went to their rooms to change their clothes, and were soon eating supper. there was talk of nothing but automobile topics in the hotel corridors and office that evening. many motorists were planning to leave the next day, but some said they would stay and see if the nixon race would amount to anything. "let's accept the challenge," suggested jerry. "i don't want to have anything to do with noddy," objected ned. "we don't have to," replied bob, "i was talking to the clerk about it. all we have to do is register our names, and the name of the car. it's an informal affair, only for fun. they won't race for money. come on, let's go in it." hearing this, ned agreed, and the boys put their names down. as noddy had stipulated there must be four passengers in each car it would necessitate the motor boys getting some one else to ride with them. this the clerk agreed to arrange. there were six entries in the race, which was to take place the next day. early in the morning, before breakfast, ned, jerry and bob went out in their car to try the course. when they were half way around it they heard a car coming behind them. in a moment it had passed them, and they recognized it as the same machine that had nearly collided with them in cresville. "look who's in it!" cried bob. "who?" asked ned. "noddy nixon. if that's his car, we haven't any show." "humph! i'm afraid not," answered jerry rather ruefully. "still, i'm not going to give up now. he's got a new car, but maybe we can beat him. he's a poor driver." several other autos soon appeared on the track to have a "tryout," and, though none of them seemed as speedy as noddy's new machine, there was no talk of dropping out on the part of those who had entered. that gave the boys more courage, and they decided to stick, even though their chances were not good. noddy did not speak to them, though he passed them several times. nor did he appear very popular with the other autoists. he had several young men with him, and they made things rather lively about the hotel, occasionally giving what seemed to be college yells. "they're regular 'rah-rah' boys," said bob, in contempt. early that afternoon just before the race bob, jerry and ned spent an hour in going over their car, making some adjustments, and seeing that the tires were in good shape. almost at the last minute jerry decided to put the non-skidding chains on the rear wheels. "those turns, which are not banked much, are dangerous," he said, "i'm not going to take any chances. we don't want to turn turtle." there was much activity about the hotel as the hour for the contest arrived. noddy's car seemed the finest of the six that lined up at the starting tape. the motor boys had drawn a position next to the bully and his cronies. noddy glanced contemptuously at them. "you must think it's winter, putting chains on," he remarked to jerry, who had been chosen to steer. "it may be a cold day for somebody before we get through," was all jerry replied. "you haven't the ghost of a show," called one of noddy's companions. "you'll think you're standing still when we start." the others laughed at this joke, and noddy seemed pleased. there was a short consultation among the judges and other officials, and, a moment later, a white puff of smoke was seen hovering above the uplifted revolver of the starter. then came a sharp crack, and the panting machines, the engines of which had been put in motion some time previous, started off together, as the drivers threw in the high speed gears. the race, which was truly a dangerous contest, was on, and, with eager eyes the motor boys looked ahead on the course. chapter iii news from the west the track was a half-mile one, and, as the length of the race was five miles it would be necessary to make ten laps or circuits. the course was in the shape of an ellipse, with rather sharp turns at either end, where the contestants, if they did not want a spill, or a bad skid, must slacken their pace. it was on the two straight stretches that speed could be made. at the report of the pistol noddy's car shot off as an arrow from a bow, the explosions of the cylinders sounding like a small battery of quick-firing guns in action. but the others were after him, the five cars bunched together, that of the motor boys a little behind the other four. "we've got to catch him, jerry," whispered bob. "easier said than done," replied jerry, as he shoved the gasolene lever over a trifle, and advanced the spark, thereby increasing the speed of the car. "noddy's got a powerful machine." "they should have had a handicap on this race," said tom jennings, the young man whom the hotel clerk had asked to be a fourth passenger in the motor boys' car, so that the conditions of the contest would be met. "it's not fair to have a high power auto race one of two cylinders." "ours has four," spoke ned. "of course its not as up-to-date as noddy's is, but--" "we'll beat him!" exclaimed bob. "we've done it before and we can do it again." "i'm afraid not," went on tom. "that big green car of his will go ahead of anything on this track." and so it seemed, for noddy was spinning around the course at fearful speed, his car looking like a green streak. "let's see how he takes the turn," suggested bob. "he'll have to slow up if he doesn't want a spill." noddy was wise enough to do this, though even at the reduced speed at which he went around the bank, his rear wheels skidded rather alarmingly. but jerry was not idle during this time. as he found his car responding to the increase of gasolene and the advanced spark, he shoved the levers still further over. the auto shot forward, distancing the yellow car immediately in front of it, passing one with an aluminum body and closely approaching a purple auto which was behind noddy. suddenly a loud explosion sounded back of the motor boys. "there goes a tire!" exclaimed bob. "hope it isn't one of yours," said tom. "if it was you'd be sliding along the track on your face instead of sitting here," responded bob. "no, it's one on the aluminum car. she's out of the race," he added as he gave a quick glance back. a few minutes later there was another noise-- a crashing sound-- and the motor boys, by a quick glance, saw that the rearmost car in the race had, by injudicious steering, been sent through a frail fence which surrounded the track. the radiator was broken and, though no one was hurt the car was put out of business. that left but four cars-- noddy's green one, the yellow, the red one of the motor boys', and a purple affair. they were speeding along in that order, and, a few seconds later something went wrong with one of the cylinders of the purple machine, leaving but three contestants. then the yellow car shot ahead of the red one containing the motor boys. by this time one circuit of the track had been completed, and a start made on the second lap. "think we're catching up?" asked bob, as jerry cautiously fed the engine a little more gasolene. "well, we're holding our own," was the answer of the steersman, "and i think we're catching up to the yellow car again. if we pass that i'm not so sure but what we can come in a close second to noddy." "i don't want to come in second," spoke up ned. "i want to beat him." "so do i," replied jerry, "but it's not going to be so easy. our car's doing well, but we can't expect wonders of it." "the race isn't over until you're at the finish tape," said tom jennings. "keep on, boys, i'd like to see that nixon chap beaten. he thinks he owns the earth." for two miles there was no change in the position of the cars. then slowly, very slowly, jerry saw that his red machine was overtaking the yellow car. inch by inch it crept up, the steersman of the rival car doing his best but failing to get more speed out of the engine. "too bad we have to pass you!" cried jerry, as he careened past the yellow machine. "that's all right," sung out the steersman good-naturedly. "beat that other one, if you can." "we're going to try!" yelled ned, above the noise of the exploding cylinders. they were on a straight stretch then and, as noddy looked back and saw the red car closer to him than it had been before, he put on more speed. his green auto shot forward but jerry still had something in reserve, and he let his machine out another notch. "he's got to slow up for the turn!" cried ned. "maybe we can pass him!" "yes, but we've got to slacken up too, if we don't want a spill," replied bob. "that's so," admitted ned. noddy did slow up, but not much, and his car skidded worse than at any time yet. it looked as if it was going over, and a cry from the spectators showed that they, too, anticipated this disaster. but, with a sharp wrench of the steering wheel, noddy brought the car back toward the center of the track. jerry swung around the turn at reduced speed, and, because of the chains, his machine did not skid more than a few inches. "good thing you have those chains on," commented tom. "they may come in handy at the finish." "that's what i put them there for," answered jerry. for another mile there was little change in the relative position of the cars of noddy and the motor boys. jerry thought he had cut the bully's lead somewhat, but he still felt that he was far from having a good chance to win the race. still, he was not going to give up. "two laps more and it's all over," said bob, as they began on the final mile. "can't you hit it up a bit more, jerry?" "i'll try." just a degree faster came the explosions of the cylinders of the red car. but also, still faster, came the reports from noddy's auto. he was not going to be beaten if he could help it. around the two machines swung, the yellow car having given up and dropped out. there was a confused shouting from the spectators, and bob could distinguish cheers for the red auto. "we've just got to win!" he cried. "win, jerry! win!" try as he did, by "nursing" the engine, jerry could not gain an inch on noddy's car. the red machine was fifty feet behind the green one, both going at top speed. only an accident, it seemed, could make the motor boys win. as they swung into the last lap ned cried: "noddy isn't going to slow down for the turn!" "neither are we!" cried jerry fiercely. "quick boys! all of you get out on the inside step! crouch down! that will help hold us as we go around the bank, or, otherwise, we'll go over." they all knew what he meant. by hanging out on the runboard or step, nearest the inside of the track, more weight would be added to that side of the car. it was what automobilists call "shifting the center of gravity," and aids in preventing spills. giving one glance to see that the boys were in their places, jerry grasped the steering wheel firmly, and sent the car at the dangerous turn at full speed. noddy was doing the same, but he had not thought of having any of his passengers hang out on the step. "look out now, boys!" called jerry, as they took the turn. "swing out as far as you can, boys, but hang down low!" called tom jennings, who had been in races before. even with this precaution, and aided as they were by the chains on the rear wheels, the red car skidded or slewed so that jerry thought it was going over. but it did not. by the narrowest margin it kept on the bank. not so, however, with noddy's green dragon. as soon as his car struck the turn it began to skid. he would not shut off his power, but kept on the high gear, and with the engine going at top speed. there was a cry of alarm, and then the green car left the track, mounted the bank, slid over the top, and came to a halt in a pool of mud and water on the other side of the field. it went fifty yards before noddy could stop it. "go on! go on!" yelled ned. "we win! we win!" jerry had all he could do to hold the steering wheel of his slewing car, but, by gripping it desperately, he swung it into place, and the red machine started up the home stretch, crossing the tape a winner, for it was the only car left on the track. a burst of cheers greeted it, and men crowded up to shake hands with the plucky boys. "glad you beat the 'mud lark,'" said the owner of the yellow machine, thus giving noddy's car a name that stuck to it for some time. "that nixon chap thought he was going to walk over every one. you taught him a much-needed lesson." nothing was talked of in the hotel that night but the race, and the motor boys were the heroes of the occasion. noddy did not appear, and it was learned that he had to hire men and teams to get his car out of the mud. the motor boys started for home the next day, and thought they were going to make it in good time, but they had a tire accident on the road, when about twenty-five miles away, and decided to stay in the nearest village over night, as they had no spare shoe for the wheel. as they left their car by the roadside, and tramped into the town, to send word to the nearest garage, they saw a cloud of dust approaching. "here comes a car," said bob. "maybe we can get help." as the machine drew nearer they saw that it was painted green, and, a moment later, noddy nixon had brought his auto to a stop, and was grinning at them. "had a break-down, eh?" he asked. "that's a fine car you have, ain't it?" "we can beat you!" exclaimed ned. "yes you can! not in a thousand years if i hadn't gone off the track! want any help? well, you'll not get it, see? bye-bye! i'll tell 'em you're coming," and, with an ugly leer, the bully started off. "i wouldn't take help from him if i had to walk ten miles without my supper," said bob firmly, and that was a strong saying for the stout youth. the motor boys found a good hotel in the village, and the next day, when their car had been repaired, they resumed their journey, arriving at home about noon. "there's some mail for you, jerry," said mrs. hopkins, as her son came in, after putting the auto in the barn. "it's from california. i didn't know you knew any one out there." "neither did i, mother. we'll see who it's from." he tore open the letter, read it hurriedly, and gave a cry of mingled delight and surprise. "it's from nellie seabury!" he said. "she says they are in lower california, traveling about, looking for a good place to stay at for a few months for their father's health. when they locate she wants-- that is mr. seabury-- wants us to come out and see them. oh, i wish i could go-- i wish we could all go!" "perhaps you can," suggested his mother with a smile. "california is not so far away. but i suppose you'll have to wait until next vacation." "yes, i suppose so," admitted jerry. "and that's a long ways off-- a long ways." "the time will soon pass," said his mother. "but tell me about your auto trip. did you have a good time?" "fine, and we beat noddy nixon in a great race." "i wish you wouldn't have anything to do with that young man," said mrs. hopkins. "you have nothing but trouble when you do." "i guess he'll not want much more to do with us," returned jerry. "we manage to beat him every time. but i must go find the boys. this will be great news for them-- this letter from the seabury family." "i thought it was from-- nelly." "so it is-- but it's all the same," answered jerry with a blush. chapter iv more letters jerry found ned, his nearest chum, at home, and told him of the news from the west. "that's fine!" cried ned. "come on and tell bob." "don't have to," said jerry. "here he comes now." the stout youth was, at that moment, walking along the street toward ned's house. "come on in!" cried ned, as he opened the door while his chum was still on the steps. "that's what i was going to do," responded chunky. "did you think i was going to sit out here? of course i'm coming in. what's the matter?" for he saw by ned's face that something unusual had occurred. "jerry's got a letter from nellie seabury-- they're in lower california-- we're going-- i mean they want us to come and pay them a visit-- i mean--" "say, for mercy sakes stop!" cried bob, holding both hands over his ears. "i guess ned's a little excited," suggested jerry. "you guess so-- well, i know so," responded bob. "are you all done?" and he cautiously removed his hands from his ears. "tell him about it, jerry," said ned, and jerry told the news. "it would be fine to go out there," said bob, reflectively. "but there's school. we can't get out of that." they all agreed they could not, and decided the only thing to do was to wait until the following summer. "too bad," remarked bob with a sigh. "winter is the best time of the year out there, too." in spite of the fact that they knew, under the present circumstances, they could not go for several months, the boys spent an hour or more discussing what they would do if they could go to california. "oh, what's the use!" exclaimed ned, when jerry had spoken of how fine it would be to hire a motor boat and cruise along the pacific coast. "don't get us all worked up that way, jerry. have some regard for our feelings!" "well, let's talk about school. it opens monday." "don't mention it!" cried ned. "i say-- hello, there's the postman's whistle. he's coming here." he went to the door, and returned carrying a letter, the envelope of which he was closely examining. "you can find out from who it is by opening it," suggested jerry. "here's a funny thing," spoke ned. "this letter is addressed to my father, but, down in one corner it says, 'may be opened by ned, in case of necessity.'" "well, then, open it," suggested bob. "this is a case of necessity. where's it from?" "boston, but i don't recognize the writing." "open it," called jerry. ned did so, and, as he read, he uttered a cry of astonishment. "well if this isn't a queer thing," he said. "did you ever see such a coincidence? this letter is from professor uriah snodgrass, and listen to what he says: 'dear mr. slade, or ned. i write thus as i want one of you to read it in a hurry, and one of you may be away from home. you remember the last i saw of you and your chums (this part is for ned) was in florida. there i secured the rare butterfly i was looking for, and, through that success i was able to obtain a position with a boston museum, to travel all over the world for them, collecting valuable specimens. i have been here for only a few weeks, but i already have a commission. i am soon to start for california, in search of a cornu batrachian.'" "a 'cornu batrachian'!" exclaimed bob. "for the love of tripe, what's that?" "california!" murmured jerry. "i guess the fates want to pile it up on us." "say, is that 'cornu batrachian' anything like a mountain lion?" asked bob. "wait," counseled ned. "he explains. 'the cornu batrachian,' he says, 'is what is commonly called a horned toad. i must get several fine specimens, and i thought you boys might be making another trip, and could go with me. i would be very glad of your company. please let me hear from you. my regards to mrs. slade.'" "well, wouldn't that tickle your teeth!" exclaimed bob, more forcibly than elegantly. "and we can't go!" he added with a groan. "think of the fun we'll miss by not being with professor snodgrass," went on ned. "and with the seabury family," chimed in jerry. "it's tough!" exclaimed ned. "and school opens monday!" at that moment there was a whistle out in the street and a ring at the door bell. "the postman again," said ned. "i wonder what he wants?" he went to the door. "here's a letter i forgot to give you," said the mailcarrier. "it got out of place in my bundle, and i didn't discover it until i was quite a way up the street." "that's all right," answered ned good-naturedly. "from the board of education," he murmured, as he looked at the printing in the upper left hand corner. "i wonder what they are writing to me about?" he opened it and drew out a printed circular. as he re-entered the room where his chums were he gave a cry of delight. "listen to this!" he called, and he read: "'to the pupils of the cresville academy. it has been discovered, at the last moment, that a new heating boiler will be needed in the school. the tubes of the old one are broken. it has been decided to replace it at once, and, as it will be necessary to do considerable work about the building, thereby interfering with the proper conducting of studies, the school will not open for another month, or six weeks, depending on the length of time required to install a new boiler. "'therefore pupils will kindly not report on monday morning, as originally intended, but will hold themselves in readiness to begin their school work shortly after the receipt of another circular, which will be sent out as soon as the building is in proper shape. the faculty earnestly recommends that all pupils apply themselves diligently to their studies during this unlooked-for, unfortunate, but wholly necessary lengthening of the vacation season. by applying to their respective teachers pupils will learn what studies to continue.'" "whoop!" yelled bob. "o-la-la!" cried ned after the fashion of some eastern dervish. "say! that's great!" exclaimed jerry. "a month more of vacation!" "now we can go to california with professor snodgrass, and help him catch horned toads!" added ned. "and visit the seabury family," supplemented jerry. "oh, boys, this is simply immense! things are coming our way after all!" chapter v professor uriah snodgrass the sudden and unexpected news that they need not begin their school studies on monday morning fairly startled the boys, at first. they read the circular over again, to make sure they were not mistaken. "why didn't i get one?" asked bob, rather suspiciously. "probably it's at your home now," suggested ned. "and i ought to have one, too," said jerry. "you came away before the letter carrier arrived," went on ned. "maybe you'd better go see. it might-- it might be a mistake-- or a joke." "don't say that!" exclaimed bob. "i'm going to see if i have a letter like yours." "so am i," decided jerry. "it might, as you say, ned, be a joke, though it looks genuine." to make sure, jerry and bob hurried to their homes. there they found awaiting them circulars, similar to the one ned had. to further convince them, as jerry and bob were returning to ned's house, they met andy rush, a small chap, but as full of life as an electric battery. "hello!" he exclaimed-- "great news-- no school-- boiler busted-- thousands of teachers killed-- great calamity-- fine-- horrible-- terrible-- don't have to study-- longer vacation-- steam pipes blown out-- clouds of steam-- no heat-- freeze up-- burn to death-- great-- whoope-e-e!" "did you ever take anything for that?" asked jerry calmly, when andy had finished. "dasn't! if i did i'd blow up! but say-- it's great, isn't it? did you get a circular too?" and andy showed one. "it's fearful-- terrible-- no school--" "come on," urged jerry to bob. "he'll give us nervous prostration if we listen to him any longer," but they need not have hurried, for andy, so full of news that he could not keep still, had rushed off down the street, hopping, skipping and jumping, to spread the tidings, which nearly every academy pupil in cresville knew by that time. now the motor boys could discuss a californian trip in earnest, for they knew their parents would let them go, especially after mr. seabury's invitation, and the letter from professor snodgrass. in the course of a few days jerry received another missive from nellie seabury. this letter informed jerry, and, incidentally, his two chums, that she, with her sisters and father, had settled in a small town near the coast, not far from santa barbara, and on a little ocean bay, which, nellie said, was a much nicer place than any they had visited in florida. "father likes it very much here," she wrote, "and he declares he feels better already, though we have been here only a week. he says he knows it would do him good to see you boys, and he wishes-- in fact we all wish-- you three chums could come out here for a long visit, though i suppose you cannot on account of school opening. but, perhaps, we shall see you during the next vacation." "she's going to see us sooner than that," announced bob, when jerry had read the letter to him and ned. "did you write and tell her we were coming?" asked ned, his two friends having called at his house to talk over their prospective trip. "no, i thought we'd wait and see what professor snodgrass had planned. perhaps he isn't going to that part of california." "that's so," admitted bob. "guess we'll have to wait and find out. i wish he'd call or write. have you heard anything more about damages for our smashed boat, jerry?" "no, i saw mr. hitter the other day, and he advised me to wait a while before writing again. something queer happened while i was in his office, too." "what was it'?" "well, you remember the man who got off the boston express that day, and acted so strange about his boxes of stuff he wanted shipped to the pacific coast?" "sure," replied ned and bob at once. "well, through some mistake one of the boxes was left behind. mr. hitter, had it in his office, intending to ship it back to the man, for it wasn't worth while to send one box away out west, but it fell and burst partly open. the box was in one corner of the room, and, while i was there mr. hitter's dog went up to it and began sniffing at it. all at once the dog fell over, just as if he'd been shot. he stiffened out, and we thought he was dead, from having eaten something poisoned he found on the floor." "was he?" "no, after a while he seemed to come to, and was all right, but he looked sick. mr. hitter said there must be something queer in that box, to make the dog act that way, and he and i smelled of it, taking care not to get too close." "what was in it?" asked ned. "i don't know. it was something that smelled rather sweet, and somewhat sickish. mr. hitter said it might be some queer kind of poison that acted on animals, but not on human beings, and he put the box up on a high shelf where his dog couldn't get at it. but i thought it was rather queer stuff for a man to be sending away out to the coast." "it certainly was," agreed bob. "that man acted in a strange manner, too, as if he was afraid some one would see him. i wonder if there is any mystery connected with him?" there came a time when the boys had good reason to remember this incident of the box filled with a strange substance, for they were in great danger from it. "well, i don't know that it concerns us," mused ned. "i guess we'll not get any damages from the railroad company in time to use the money on our california trip, so we might as well take some cash out of our saving fund. i do wish we'd hear from the professor. it's several days since i wrote to him, saying we would go with him." "i suppose he is so busy catching a new kind of flea, or a rare specimen of mud turtle, that he has forgotten all about writing," suggested bob. "if he doesn't--" what bob intended saying was interrupted by a commotion at the front door. the bell had rung a few seconds before, and the servant maid had answered it. now the boys heard her voice raised in protest: "stop! stop!" she cried. "don't do that! you are a crazy man! i'll call the police!" and, in reply came these words: "calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear young lady. all i desire is to capture that spider crawling on your left arm. it is a very valuable variety of the red spotted species, and i must have it for my collection. now just stand still a moment--" "professor snodgrass has arrived!" cried ned, as he made a rush for the door. chapter vi a strange conversation what the boys saw made them stop short in amazement, and they had hard work not to burst into laughter at the sight of the professor, but they knew he would be offended if they made fun of him. professor uriah snodgrass had dropped his valise on the doorstep, and the impact had caused it to open, thereby liberating a number of toads and lizards which were crawling about the steps. in his hand the scientist held a large magnifying glass, through which he was staring at something on the arm of the servant. she had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, for she had been busy sweeping when she answered the door bell. "let me go!" cried the young woman. "you are crazy! i'll call the police!" "one moment! one moment!" pleaded the professor eagerly. "i must have that spider. there!" and with a sudden motion he captured the small insect and transferred it to a tiny glass box. "i have it! oh, this is a most fortunate day for me. the museum will be very glad to get this. it is a perfect specimen," and he peered at it through his magnifying glass, as it crawled around, a captive in the box. "hello, professor!" greeted ned. "glad to see you." "oh, ned, how are you?" asked the scientist, without glancing up from his inspection of the spider. "luck seems to be with me as soon as i arrive at your house. i have a spider--" "yes, but you'll not have any of those other specimens long, if you don't get busy," put in bob. "they're all hopping or crawling away!" "oh, my goodness!" cried professor snodgrass, as he glanced down at the liberated toads and lizards. "oh, my goodness! that is too bad. i brought them with me to compare with the horned toads and web-footed lizards i hope to secure. now they are getting away. please, my dear young lady, help me to save them!" but the servant maid had fled into the house as soon as the scientist released her arm. she was convinced that she had just escaped the clutches of a madman. "come on, boys!" called ned. "help the professor!" "here are some small butterfly nets," the scientist said, producing them from his pocket. "don't injure the toads or lizards." the boys were glad enough of these aids in catching the professor's specimens, that were rapidly seeking hiding places about the stoop and sidewalk. though they had acquired a certain familiarity with strange insects and reptiles, from seeing the museum collector handle them, they did not fancy picking up a toad or lizard bare-handed. with the nets, however, they managed, with the assistance of the scientist, to capture most of the specimens, returning them to their cases in the valise. "there!" exclaimed mr. snodgrass, when, after a close scrutiny of the porch he could see no more of the creatures, "i think we have them all. now boys, permit me to ask how you are. i am sorry my visit was attended with such excitement, but i could not miss the chance of getting that spider. that young woman may consider herself in the light of having advanced science several degrees. there are very few persons a red spider of that variety will get on." "for which we ought all to be very thankful," announced jerry. "i beg to be excused from helping the cause of science in that way. but, professor, we're glad to see you. are you all ready for your trip to california?" "i could start to-night," was the answer. "i suppose you have matters all arranged?" "nearly so," returned ned. "we thought of starting at the end of this week," and he explained how they hoped the destination of the scientist would be such that they might visit the seaburys. "that locality suits me all right," declared mr. snodgrass. "i am not particular where i go, as long as i can get a specimen of a horned toad, and some web-footed lizards. i understand there are some to be had in the southern part of california, and so i will go there. i see no reason why you boys can not go with me, and also visit your friends. only i should like to start as soon as possible. the toads may disappear." "hope not," said bob, "for your sake. i haven't any use for them, myself." "oh, my dear young friend!" exclaimed the professor. "some day you will see the real beauty of a horned toad. it is a most wonderful creature!" "i'll take your word for it," murmured bob. "but now come in and let's see about our arrangements." the professor, who had been invited to be a guest at ned's house, pending the start for the west, entered, placing his valise of specimens in a safe place in the hall. then he and the boys discussed matters. mr. slade came in, soon after the arrival of the scientist, and announced that he had, in accordance with a previous arrangement, purchased the boys' tickets. "all you've got to do is to pack up and start," said mr. slade. "i'm not going to give you any advice, for you ought to be able to take care of yourselves by this time. i know you will be safe as long as you are with the professor." "thank you," said the scientist with a bow. the professor's arrangements for the western trip were complete and it did not take the boys long to get ready. by the end of the week the last valise had been packed, trunks were checked on ahead and, one morning, the boys started. they were to proceed to los angeles, and from there were to go down the coast by land to the small town of san felicity, where mr. seabury and his daughters had rented a bungalow. "now for a good time!" exclaimed ned, as the train pulled out of the cresville depot. "i've always wanted to visit california, and now i'm going to." "we certainly ought to enjoy ourselves," agreed jerry. the travelers made good time to chicago, little of incident occurring on the trip. when they got to the windy city, they found they would have to wait several hours for a connecting train, and they put in the time seeing the sights. when they returned to the depot they found the professor busy over some scientific book, sitting as undisturbed in the station, filled as it was with shifting crowds, as if he was in his quiet study at the museum. "the train will be here in about fifteen minutes," he informed the boys. "better sit down and wait." the three chums were rather tired, and were glad enough to take their places on the comfortable benches. "chicago is a great place," announced bob. "that restaurant, where we had dinner--" "can't you say something that hasn't got any eating in it?" asked ned. "you're the limit, you are." "well," said bob, "they certainly had fine pie in that place. i wish--" he stopped suddenly, as jerry help up his hand to indicate silence. "what's the matter?" asked ned in a whisper, as he leaned forward. "see some new kind of a bug for the professor?" "i overheard that man back of us speaking," replied jerry in a low tone, nodding his head to indicate where he meant. the benches were arranged so that travelers occupying them sat back to back. "his voice sounded like one i've heard before, but i can't place it. i thought maybe you'd remember. we may have met him on our travels. i can't see his face until he turns around." as he finished speaking, the man to whom he referred said something to his companion beside him. there came a momentary lull in the noises of the depot, and the boys heard him remark in low, but clear tones: "we can make everything look regular. derelicts are not uncommon, and i think we'll be able to fool him so that the cargo--" "hush!" cautioned the other man. "not so loud!" the noise in the station again drowned what the two men were saying, but the boys had heard enough. all three of them knew at once that the man who had spoken was the stranger who had acted so queerly in the cresville freight office. if they had any doubts of it they were dispelled a moment later when the doorman called out: "all aboard for the western express!" as the man and his companion arose, the boys saw he was the same individual who had been so particular about the boxes of stuff he shipped to san francisco. before the three chums could make any comment the man and his companion were lost in the crowd that thronged to the door. "come, boys," said the professor, closing his book. "that's our train." chapter vii a bad break "that was queer, wasn't it?" said jerry to his chums when they were seated in the train, moving swiftly toward the great west. "i wonder what he meant, and what he was doing out here?" "and i guess you can keep on wondering, for all the good it will do," commented bob. "i couldn't make anything out of what they said, except that some ship might be lost. that's common enough." "i wonder what that stuff was that he shipped from the freight office?" mused jerry. "rat poison, maybe," replied ned with a laugh. "i've heard there are lots of rats on ships, and maybe he has a patent stuff for getting rid of 'em." "it might be," agreed jerry. "well, as bob says, there's no use wondering. say, but this is pretty nice scenery," and he pointed to the view from the window, as they were passing along the shores of a lake. "fine!" exclaimed ned. "it ought to have some mountains around it, and it would look just like lost lake, where we found the hermit, that time." "seems as if that was a good while ago," commented bob, "but it wasn't so very." for several hours the boys discussed their past adventures, some of which were brought to their minds by views of the western country through which they were passing. professor snodgrass took no interest in anything except a big book which he was studying carefully, at times making notes on slips of paper, which had a tendency to drop into the aisle, or under the seat when he was not looking. in consequence the car, in the vicinity of where the professor sat, looked as though a theatrical snow-storm had taken place. one morning the boys awakened to find the train making fast time over a level stretch of country, with rolling hills here and there, covered with tall grass. occasionally glimpses could be had of herds of cattle. "we're on the prairies!" exclaimed bob, as he went to the lavatory to get ready for breakfast. "say, now we're in the wild and woolly west, all right." "well, it's not the first time," replied jerry. "still it does look good to see it again. it's a little different, traveling this way, than it was scooting along in our auto." "yes, and i think i prefer the auto to this," spoke up ned, yawning and stretching. "this is too lazy a way of journeying. i'd like to rough it a bit." "rough it!" exclaimed bob. "wait until we get out in california, and we can sleep out doors, while the folks back home are tending the furnace fire." the three boys were just about to enter the lavatory when the train gave a sudden lurch, and then it began bumping along over the ties, swaying from side to side. every window in the car rattled as if it would break, and the boys were so shaken up, that, to steady themselves, they had to grasp whatever was nearest. "we're off the track!" cried ned. "this-- is-- roughing-- it-- all right!" said jerry, the words coming out in jerks. "there's-- been-- an-- accident!" "a-- whole-- lot-- of-- 'em-- by-- the-- way-- it-- feels to-- me," declared jerry. "i-- wonder--" just then the train came to a stop, the car the boys were in being tilted at quite an angle. "let's see what happened," suggested bob, going to the door. his companions followed him, and, from various berths the passengers began emerging, in different stages of undress. they looked frightened. "well, at any rate, none of us are killed," said professor snodgrass, as he came down the aisle, fully dressed, for he had arisen early to continue his reading about horned toads. "what is the matter, boys?" "we're just going to find out," said jerry, as he went down the steps and walked along the track toward the engine, about which a crowd of passengers and train men were gathered. "what's the trouble?" asked bob of a brakeman who was running toward the rear end of the train with a red flag. "i don't know exactly. something wrong with the engine; i guess. i heard the conductor say it was a bad break." "come on," said jerry to his chums. "there doesn't seem to be anybody hurt, but it looks as if we were in for a long wait," and he pointed to several cars that were off the track, the wheels resting on the wooden ties. chapter viii hemmed in the boys found a group of worried trainmen gathered about the engine, and it needed but a glance to show what the trouble was. the piston rod had broken while the ponderous engine was going at full speed, and the driving rods, which had broken off from where they were fastened to the wheels, had been driven deep into the ground. this had served to fairly lift the engine from the rails, and, in its mad journey it had pulled several cars with it. the piston rod, threshing about with nothing to hold it, had broken several parts of the engine, and some pieces of the driving rods had been hurled up into the cab, narrowly missing the engineer. "it sure is a bad break," said the fireman as he got down from the cab, after opening the door of the fire box, so that the engine would cool down. "never saw a worse." "me either," fairly growled the conductor. "why couldn't it have held off a couple of hours more and we'd been near some place where we could telegraph for help." "you don't mean to say we are away out on the prairies not near a telegraph station, do you?" asked an excited man. "that's just what i do mean to say," replied the conductor. "i've got to send a brakeman on foot eight miles to wire the news of this accident." "you ought to have a telegraph instrument on the train," said the excited man. "this delay is a bad thing for me. if i don't arrive on time i'll sue the road. why don't you have a telegraph instrument on the train?" "i don't know," replied the conductor wearily, for he realized he was now in for a cross-fire of all sorts of questions. "how long will we have to wait here?" asked another man. "it's hard to say. the brakeman will go as fast as he can, but it will take some time to get the wrecking crew here with a new engine, and then it will take some time to get all the cars back on the track." "railroads oughtn't to have such accidents!" declared the excitable man. "i'll sue 'em, that's what i'll do. what made the piston rod break, conductor?" "oh-- i guess it got tired of going in and out of the cylinder," retorted the conductor, starting towards the baggage car. "humph! i'll report you for impertinence!" declared the now angry passenger, taking out his notebook and making a memorandum lest he forget the conductor's retort. "it's a disgrace the way this road is managed," he went on to the crowd of passengers that had gathered. "i'm going to write to the newspapers about it. they're always having accidents. why, only last week, they run over a steer, somewhere in this locality, the engine was derailed, two cars smashed, the road bed torn up, baggage and express stuff scattered all over, everything upside down, topsy-turvy and--" "was the steer killed?" asked a little boy, who was listening with opened mouth and eyes to the story the excited passenger was telling. "what!" fairly roared the man, and then, as he saw who had asked the question, he turned away, and there was a general laugh. "do you think we'll be here long?" asked bob of the colored porter of the sleeping car they had occupied. "oh, yes, indeedy!" exclaimed the attendant, "if we gits on de move befo' night we'll be mighty lucky." "then we've got to stay out here on the prairie all day," exclaimed jerry. "dat's what," spoke the negro as cheerfully as though that was the regular program. the other passengers were returning to their berths to finish dressing, and soon the excitement that followed the accident had almost disappeared. breakfast was served, and there was nothing to do but to wait for the arrival of the wrecking crew. "what's the matter with taking a stroll across the prairie?" suggested jerry, when the boys and the professor had finished their morning meal. "there's no fun sitting here in the car all day." "good idea!" exclaimed ned. "i'm with you. maybe chunky will be afraid to come, for fear train robbers will carry off the dining car while he's gone." "oh, you let up!" retorted bob. "you like to eat as much as i do." "not quite as much, chunky, but i admit i like my three square meals a day." "where are you going, boys?" asked the professor, looking up from his book, as he saw the three chums leaving the car. "out for a walk across the prairie," replied ned. "wait, and i'll go with you. i might get some new specimens. i must never waste an opportunity," and, placing in his pockets several small boxes to hold any possible captives he might get in his butterfly net, the scientist was ready. it was pleasant on the vast plain that stretched away in every direction from the derailed train. the sun was shining brightly, but not too warm, and there was a gentle breeze. "this is fine!" exclaimed jerry. the boys and the professor strolled on for several miles, the three chums enjoying the walk very much, while mr. snodgrass was continually finding some new insect, or a flower, until his specimen boxes were full. "well, we've come quite a distance," said ned, as they got on top of a small hill and looked about. "we can't see the train anywhere. i guess we'd better be thinking of starting back." "maybe we had," agreed jerry. "but what's that dark line out there?" and he pointed to the horizon. "a cloud isn't it?" asked bob. "it's too low, and it doesn't move like a cloud," objected jerry. they watched it for some time, as it got larger and larger. "why it's all around us!" suddenly exclaimed bob. and so it was. the travelers were hemmed in by a peculiar, moving ring, that seemed to get smaller and smaller. "what do you think it is, professor?" asked ned. "that? why-- er that is-- um-- curious, i can't just say what it is," replied mr. snodgrass. "i have a small telescope," said ned, producing it from his pocket, "we'll take a look through it," and he adjusted it, focusing it on the dark ring, that was, every moment, growing closer and closer to the little group on the hill. chapter ix a lucky escape "what do you make it to be?" asked jerry, as ned was staring through the glass. "cattle!" "cattle?" "yes, steers. thousands of 'em. and they seem to be headed this way." "let me take a look," said jerry. "you're right," he added, after an inspection. "they seem to be coming on rather fast, too. i guess we'd better get out of here. cattle on the prairies don't like to see persons who are not on horseback. they are not used to a man unless he's mounted, and i've read that a man on foot may cause a stampede." "i hope they don't run in this direction," remarked bob. "it's going to be unpleasant for us if they do." "we'd better get out of here," advised ned. "come on, fellows." "that's easier said than done," retorted jerry. "the cattle are all around us. i don't see how we're going to get through them. if we go too close we may stampede 'em at once, whereas, if we stay here, they may pass by us, or change their direction." "what's the matter with the cowboys?" asked rob. "why don't they head the animals the other way when they see we're right in the path?" "probably the cattlemen are on the outer edges of the herd," said jerry. "the cowboys can't see us, and they're simply driving the steers on." "but what makes them go in a circle?" asked bob. "probably the men are driving them all in to a central point to take account of stock, or something like that," was jerry's answer. "but, instead of standing here talking of it we'd better be doing something. what do you advise, professor?" uriah snodgrass, who had discovered some queer kind of a jumping bug in the grass, had lost all interest in the approaching steers, but, at this question, he looked up. "what did you ask?" he said, making a grab for the bug, and catching it. "what do you think we'd better do?" asked ned. "this is getting serious." "what is? oh, the steers. why, they are getting a little too close, aren't they?" they were, for a fact, and the animals in the foremost ranks, catching sight of the little party on the hill, broke into awkward gallop. as far as the boys could see, they beheld nothing but waving tails, heaving heads, armed with long sharp horns, and the movement of brown bodies, as the thousands of steers came on with a rush. "we'd better--" began the professor, who was walking slowly along, his eyes fixed on the ground, in search for another of the queer bugs. "look out!" he suddenly cried. "stand back boys!" hardly had he spoken than there sounded, high and shrill above the dull rumble of the oncoming cattle, a queer, buzzing noise. "rattlesna " exclaimed ned. "yes, a whole nest of them, in a prairie dog's hole," added the professor. "i nearly stepped into them. there must be thirty or forty." the boys looked to where he pointed. there, in a sort of depression, near a little hollow, on the edge of what is called a prairie dog village, they saw an ugly wiggling mass, which, as their eyes became more used to the colorings, was seen to be a number of the deadly rattlesnakes. several were coiled to strike, and had, in accordance with their habit, sounded their rattles. this had aroused the whole den, many snakes appearing from under ground, or crawling from beneath stones. "come on! they'll chase us!" cried bob. "nonsense," replied the professor. "rattlesnakes never attack man unless they are first disturbed. it wouldn't be advisable to go too close, but, as long as we don't molest them, we have nothing to fear from the snakes. i'd like to get a few specimens if i had the proper appliances for extracting their fangs. but i never saw so many in one place, before. it is quite interesting to watch--" the professor broke off suddenly, for the thunderous noise of the approaching steers was now louder. "they're coming right at us!" exclaimed jerry. "yes, and they've stampeded!" cried ned. "we're in for it now!" the situation of the boys and the professor was extremely perilous. they were right in the path of the now frightened steers. the circle had been broken, by many animals, which had been approaching from the rear of the travelers, joining the beasts on either side, so that now a compact, dark mass of cattle, nearly a quarter of a mile wide, was surging ahead with great speed. "run!" called ned. "there's an opening at our backs now!" "you couldn't go a hundred feet before they'd overtake you!" shouted jerry. "let's see if we can't frighten 'em. take off your hats, jump up and down, and yell like mad. if we can force 'em to separate and go on either side of us, we'll be all right!" he started to swing his hat in the air, and prepared to let out a series of yells in imitation of an indian war-whoop. "don't!" cried the professor quickly. "why not?" asked jerry. "it's the only way to stop 'em." "i know a better, and a surer way," replied the scientist. "get the rattlesnakes between ourselves and the cattle! those steers will never go near a rattlesnake den, no matter how frightened they are, nor how badly stampeded! quick! here they come!" the cattle were scarcely two hundred feet away, and were maddened by the sight of unmounted persons, something to which they were unaccustomed, and which thoroughly frightened them. the ground was trembling with their hoof-beats, and the rattle of the horns, as they clashed together, was like the murmur of cannibal tom-toms. the professor grabbed bob, who was nearest him, and swung the boy around, so as to get the nest of rattlesnakes between them and the steers. ned and jerry followed. the snakes, now all aroused, were rattling away like half a hundred electric batteries working at once. would the professor's ruse succeed? would the steers be afraid to come over the deadly reptiles, to trample down the little group, which the animals probably took for some new species of enemy? these were questions which the boys waited anxiously to have answered. nor did they have to wait long. the foremost of the steers came within a few feet of the rattlers. then something seemed to stiffen the cattle. they tried to stop short, but the press of the beasts behind them would not permit of this. for a few seconds it looked as if the impetus of the cattle in the rear would shove the others on, in spite of their desire to stop. but now more of the foremost steers became aware of the den of snakes. their instinct, their sense of smell, and, above all, hearing the rattling, told them the terrible danger that was in their path. more of the animals braced their forelegs to bring themselves to a stop, and all bellowed in terror. then, almost as though an order had been given by some one in command, the ranks of steers parted, right at the point where the snakes were reared ready to strike. to right and left the cattle passed, increasing their speed as they became aware of the danger they were escaping. the boys and the professor stood on the little eminence of land, as if they were on an island in a sea of cattle. the angry snakes hissed and rattled, but did not glide away, or what had proved a source of safety for the travelers, might have been instrumental in their death. right past them rushed the cattle, raising a dust that was choking. the four were enveloped in a yellow haze, as they stood huddled together. then, the last of the steers galloped past, with a band of excited cowboys in the rear, vainly endeavoring to understand the cause of the stampede, and halt it. as they rode on like the wind, they waved their hands to the boys and mr. snodgrass. "well, i guess we can move on now," said jerry, as the last of the steers and cowboys was lost in a cloud of dust that accompanied them. "i've seen all the beef i want to for a long time." "that's the first time i ever knew rattlesnakes were good for anything," remarked ned, as he backed away, with his eyes on the den of reptiles, as if afraid they would spring at him. "they are more feared by animals than any other snake in this country, i believe," said the professor. "luck was certainly with us to-day." the professor successfully resisted a desire to capture some of the snakes for specimens, and soon, with the three boys, he was on his way back to the stalled train, though he did not make very fast progress for he was continually stopping to gather in some strange insect. it was long past dinner-time when the travelers got back, but they found they were not the only ones in this predicament, for a number of the passengers had beguiled the tediousness of the wait by going off across the prairie. "let's get the porter to get us some sandwiches, and then we'll watch 'em get the train back on the track," suggested jerry. chapter x at the seaburys' the wrecking crew had arrived shortly before the boys and the professor got back, and there was a big crowd of passengers and train men around the laborers. "never mind eating," called ned. "come on, watch 'em. we can get a bite afterward." "not for mine," sung out bob, as he made a dive for the dining car. "i'll be with you pretty soon." "there he goes again," remarked ned with a sigh. "i couldn't eat when there's any excitement going on. i want to see how they get the cars on the track." "so do i." said jerry. they pressed on to where, by means of powerful hydraulic jacks, men were busy raising up the engine, which, because of its weight, had sunk quite deeply into the ground. the jacks were small, but one man worked the handle, which pumped water from one part of it to another, and elevated a piston, that, in turn was forced up with terrible pressure, thus raising one end of the ponderous locomotive. when the wheels were clear of the earth other men slipped under them some peculiar shaped pieces of iron, so arranged that when the locomotive was pulled or pushed ahead by another engine, the wheels would slip upon the rails. in turn each of the wheels of the engine and tender were so fixed. then word was given the engineer of the relief train to back down and haul the derailed locomotive back on to the track. "all ready?" called the foreman of the wrecking crew. "all ready," replied the engineer. jerry and ned, in common with scores of others, were straining forward to watch every detail of the task. they wanted to see whether the locomotive would take to the rails, or slip off the inclined irons, and again settle down upon the ground. "let her go, bill," called the foreman to the engineer of the wrecking crew. there was a warning whistle, a straining of heavy chains, creakings and groanings from the derailed engine as if it objected to being pulled and hauled about, then the ponderous driving wheels began to turn slowly. "stand clear, everybody!" cried the foreman. at that moment bob came running up, using the back of his hand as a napkin for his lips. "there she goes!" was the loud cry. as the crowd looked, they saw the derailed and helpless engine give a sort of shudder and shake, mount the inclined pieces of iron, and then slide upon the rails, settling down where it belonged. "hurrah!" cried the passengers, in recognition of a hard task well accomplished. "well, i'm glad that's over," announced the foreman. "now boys, hustle, and we'll get the cars on, and the line will be clear." it did not take long to get the cars on the rails, as they were lighter. the damaged engine was switched off to one side, some rails, which had been displaced when the train bumped off, were spiked down, and the wreck was a thing of the past. "all aboard!" called the conductor. "all aboard! step lively now!" the relief engine was not a fast one, being built more for power than speed, and the train had to proceed along rather slowly. but the boys did not mind this, as they had plenty to talk about, and they were interested in the country through which they were traveling. they arrived at los angeles somewhat behind their schedule, and did not leave there as soon as they expected to, as professor snodgrass wanted to call on a scientific friend, to learn something about the best place to hunt for horned toads. "it's all right, boys," he announced, when he returned to the los angeles hotel, where the three chums had put up. "my friend says the vicinity of san felicity, where you are going to call on the seaburys, is a grand place for horned toads. come, we will start at once." they found, however, that they would have to wait until the next day for a train. they started early the following morning, traveling through a stretch of country where it seemed as if it was always summer. back home there had already been evidences of fall, before they left, but here there seemed to be no hint of approaching winter. "oh, isn't this fine!" exclaimed ned, breathing in the sweetly-scented air, as he stuck his head from the car window. "it's like reading about some fairy story!" "it's better than reading it," said jerry. "it's the real thing." they arrived at san felicity, shortly before noon. it was a very hot day, though the morning had been cool, and the boys began to appreciate the fact that they had come to a southern climate. there seemed to be no one at the little railroad station, at which they were the only passengers to leave the train. the train baggage man piled their trunks and valises in a heap on the platform, the engine gave a farewell toot, and the travelers were thus left alone, in what appeared a deserted locality. "there doesn't seem to be much doing," observed jerry. "let's see now, nellie wrote that we were to take a stage to get to their house, but i don't see any stage. wonder where the station agent is?" "hark!" said the professor, raising his hand for silence. "what noise is that? it sounds as if it might be a horned toad grunting. they make a noise just like that." "i would say it sounded more like some one snoring," ventured ned. "it is!" exclaimed bob. "here's the station agent asleep in the ticket office," and he looked in an open window, on the shady side of the platform. from the interior came the sounds which indicated a person in deep slumber. "bless my soul!" exclaimed the professor. "i took him for a horned toad! i hope he didn't hear me." "no danger," remarked jerry. "he's sound asleep. even the train didn't wake him up." the four gazed in on the slumbering agent. perhaps there was some mysterious influence in the four pairs of eyes, for the man suddenly awakened with a start, stared for a moment at the travelers gazing in on him, and then sat up. "good day, señors!" he exclaimed, and they saw that he was a mexican. "do you wish tickets? if you do, i regret to inform you that the only train for the day has gone. there will be none until to-morrow," and he prepared to go to sleep again. "here!" cried jerry. "we don't want any, tickets! we want to find the way to mr. nathan seabury's house, and to learn if there's a stage which goes there." "there is, señor," replied the agent, yawning, "but i doubt if the driver is here. he seldom comes to meet the train, as there are very few travelers. will it not do to go to señor seabury's to-morrow, or next day, or the day after?" "hardly," replied jerry, who, as did the other boys, began to appreciate the mexican habit of saying "mananna" which means "to-morrow," for the mexicans have a lazy habit of putting off until to-morrow whatever they have to do to-day. "we want to go to-day, right away, at once, now!" "ah, the señors are americanos-- always in a hurry," answered the agent, but in no unfriendly manner. "very well, i will see if hop sing has his stage here." "hop sing?" questioned ned. "yes, señor, he is a chinaman. you will find him a very slow and careful driver." "slow? i guess everything's slow down here," said ned in a low voice. the agent came leisurely from his office, walked to the end of the platform, and, pointing toward a low shed, remarked: "that is where the stage is kept. i will call, and see if hop sing is there." then he called, but in such a low tone, as if he was afraid he might strain his voice, that it did not seem as if he could be heard ten feet away. jerry stood it as long as he could and then said: "i guess hop sing must be taking his noon nap. i'll go over and wake him up." "ah, the señor is in a hurry," and the mexican agent smiled as though that was a strange thing. "if he would wait an hour, or perhaps two, hop sing might awaken. besides, to-morrow--" "not for ours," said ned. "we've got to go to-day." the agent shrugged his shoulders, and went back into his little office to resume his nap. jerry walked over to the shed. "hey! hop sing!" he called, as he approached. "where's the stage?" "want stage? take lide? all lite! me come! chop-chop! give number one, top-slide lide!" exclaimed a voice, and a small chinaman jumped down from the stage seat, where, under the shade of the shed he had been sleeping, and began to untie the halters of the mules that were attached to the ram-shackle old vehicle. "be lite out!" hop sing went on. "me glive you click lide. me go fast! you see! chop-chop!" "all right, if the old shebang doesn't fall apart on the way," said jerry with a laugh, as he saw the stage which the celestial backed out of the shed. certainly it looked as if it could not go many miles. "come on!" called jerry to ned, bob and the professor, who had remained on the platform. "i guess it's safe. the mules don't look as if they would run away." they piled into the aged vehicle, and hop sing, with a quickness that was in surprising contrast to the indolence of the mexican agent, put their trunks and valises on top. "now we glow click, you sabe?" he said, smiling from ear to ear. "me know mlister seablury. him number one man, top-slide," which was hop sing's way of saying that anything was the very best possible. the boys soon found that while hop sing might be a slow and careful driver, it was due more to the characters of the mules, than to anything else. the chinese yelled at them in a queer mixture of his own language, mexican and american. he belabored them with a whip, and yanked on the reins, but the animals only ambled slowly along the sunny road, as if they had a certain time schedule, and were determined to stick to it. "can't they go any faster?" asked ned. "flaster?" asked hop, innocently. "they mlexican mules. no go flast. me go flast, mules not," and he began jumping up and down in his seat, as if that would help matters any. he redoubled his yells and shouts, and made the whip crack like a pistol, but the mules only wagged their ears and crawled along. "i guess you'll have to let matters take their course while you're here," suggested the professor. "you can't change the habits of the people, or the animals." they did manage, after strenuous efforts on hop's part, to get to the seabury bungalow. it was in the midst of a beautiful garden, and a long walk led up to the house, around which was an adobe wall, with a red gate. over the gate was a roof, making a pleasant shade, and there were seats, where one might rest. in fact some one was resting there as the stage drove up. he was a colored man, stretched out on his back, sound asleep. "well, i wonder if they do anything else in this country but sleep?" asked jerry. "why-- that's ponto, mr. seabury's negro helper," said ned. "hello, ponto. all aboard the wanderer!" "what's dat? who done call me?" and the colored man sat up suddenly, rubbing his eyes. "who says wanderer? why dat boat--" then he caught sight of the travelers. "why, i 'clar' t' gracious!" he exclaimed. "ef it ain't dem motor boys an' perfesser snowgrass!" "how are you, ponto?" sang out bob. "fine, sah! dat's what i is! fine. i 'clar' t' gracious i'se glad t' see yo'! git down offen dat stage! it'll fall apart in anoder minute! go long outer heah, yo' yellow trash!" and ponto shook his fist at hop sing. "wha' fo' yo' stan' 'round heah, listen' t' what yo' betters sayin'." "i guess i'd better pay him," said jerry, and settled with the celestial, who drove slowly off. "now come right in!" exclaimed ponto. "i were-- i were jest thinkin' out dar on dat bench-- yais, sah, i were thinkin', an' fust thing i knowed i was 'sleep. it's a turrible sleepy country, dat's what 'tis, fer a fact. i'se gittin' in turrible lazy habits sence i come heah. but come on in. massa seabury, he'll be powerful glad t' see yo'. so'll th' young ladies. dey was sayin' only las' night, dat it seemed laik dem boys nevah goin' t' come. but heah yo' be! yais, sah, i were jest thinkin' out on dat bench--" but panto's rambling talk was suddenly interrupted by a glad cry from the shrubbery. then there came a rush of skirts, and the boys saw three girls running toward them. "here they are, dad!" called nellie. "here are the boys and professor snodgrass! oh, we're so glad you came! welcome to 'the next day'! that's what we've christened our bungalow, in honor of this lazy country. come on in," and she ran up to jerry, holding out her hands. chapter xi after horned toads olivia and rose, as had nellie, warmly welcomed the boys and professor snodgrass, and, mr. seabury coming up a moment later, from his usual stroll about the garden, added his greetings. "we're very glad to see you," said the gentleman. "come right in and make yourselves comfortable. we have more room than we had on the houseboat wanderer. i'll have your baggage-- where is that black rascal, ponto?-- ponto!" "yais, sah, i'se coming," called a voice, and ponto who had gone back to the gate appeared, rubbing his eyes. "ponto, take these-- why, you-- you've been asleep again, i do believe-- ponto--" "i-- i done gone an' jest dozed off fo' a minute, massa seabury," said ponto. "i 'clar' t' goodness, dis am de most sleepiest climate i eber see. peers laik i cain't do nuffin, but shet mah eyes an'--" "well if you don't do something mighty quick with this baggage i'll find some way of keeping you awake," spoke mr. seabury, but he was laughing in spite of himself. "yais, sah, i'se goin' t' take keer of it immejeet, sah," and the colored man went off in search of a wheelbarrow, on which to bring the trunks and valises up to the house from where they had been put off the stage. "i never saw such a chap," said mr. seabury. "before we came down here he was as spry as i could wish, but now he does just as the mexicans do. he sleeps every chance he gets. but come on in. i know you must be tired and hungry." "bob is," said jerry. "i heard him say a while ago--" "no, you didn't hear me say anything," exclaimed bob quickly, fearful lest he might be put to shame before the girls. "i'm not a bit hungry." "fibber!" whispered ned, though not so low but what they all heard, and the girls burst into laughter. "never mind," spoke olivia. "come on, bob. i'll take care of you. the cook and i are great friends," and the girl and bob walked on ahead. "i suppose you came out here to study some new kind of plant or flowers, didn't you?" asked mr. seabury, of the professor. "not exactly," replied the scientist, "though i shall examine them with much interest. what i came down for was to secure some specimens of horned toads for the museum. i--" "horned toads!" exclaimed nellie, who was walking with jerry, while rose had volunteered to show ned the beauties of the mexican garden. "horned toads! ugh! the horrible things. i hope you don't bring them around where i am, professor. horned toads! why don't you search after something beautiful, like the wonderful butterfly you found in florida?" "a horned toad is just as beautiful as a butterfly," said mr. snodgrass gravely. "the only difference is, people don't appreciate the toad. i do, and, some day, i hope to write a history of that creature. i have my notes ready for the first volume, which will be a sort of introduction." "how many volumes do you expect to write?" asked mr. seabury, curiously. "twelve," replied the scientist calmly. "even then i will have to omit much that is of interest. but i hope, in twelve, large books, to be able to convey some idea of horned toads, as well as some information about the other species." "twelve volumes! i should hope so!" murmured mr. seabury. by this time the travelers were at the bungalow. it was a well-arranged affair, quite large, and set in the midst of a beautiful garden, with rambling paths, and shady bowers, while the whole place was enclosed by a mud or adobe wall. all around the bungalow was a wide veranda, and in the center courtyard was a small fountain, with a jet of water spurting up from the middle of a large shell. "isn't this fine!" exclaimed jerry, and the other boys agreed it was. "yes, we like 'the next day' very much," said nellie. "it was my idea to call it that. from the very moment we arrived, and wanted something done, about the only answer we could get was 'to-morrow,' 'mananna' or 'the next day,' so i decided that would be a good name for the bungalow." "indeed it is," declared the professor. "but you have a most delightful place, and i should like to spend many 'next days' here. i hope your health is better, mr. seabury?" "considerably so, sir. i find the air here agrees with my nerves and rheumatism much better than in florida. i have hopes of entirely recovering. but let us go inside, i think luncheon is ready." it was and, in the cool dining-room, within sound of the tinkling fountain, they ate a hearty meal, bob demonstrating in his usual fashion that he was quite hungry. the girls took turns in explaining their experiences since coming to california. the bungalow, which they rented, was on the outskirts of the village of san felicity, which was part of what had once been an old mexican town. it was located on the shores of a secluded bay, and the bungalow was about ten minutes' walk from the water. "do you think there are any horned toads around here?" asked the professor, when the meal was finished, and they had gone out on the veranda. "i don't know, i'm sure," replied mr. seabury. "i'll ask ponto, he knows everything there is to be known about this place. ponto! i say, ponto!" "yais, sah, i'se comin' sah!" and from somewhere in the depths of the garden the voice sounded. a moment later the colored man appeared, trying to hide a broad yawn. "ponto, do you know-- well, i declare, if you haven't been asleep again!" "i-- i-- er-- i jest was weedin' de garden, massa seabury, an' i done felt so warm dat i jest closed mah eyes, jest fo' a second, not a minute longer, no sah, not a minute. guess i knows better dan t' go t' sleep when yo' got company sah!" and ponto looked very much hurt at the accusation. "well, ponto, i suppose you can't help it. do you happen to know where there are any horned toads?" "horned toads! good lan', massa seabury! no sah! i ain't got none!" "i didn't suppose you had. do you know whether there are any around here?" "well, i doan know ef dey has horns or not, but de oder day, when i were comin' home from goin' t' ole mexican pete's shanty after some red peppers, i seen some horrible kind of thing hoppin' along ober de sand. i-- i didn't stop t' look an' see ef he had horns, but i s'pects he had, cause he were kind of diggin' in de sand." "that's the toad all right!" exclaimed the professor, joyfully. "where is the place? take me out there right away, ponto." "take you out dere, perfesser?" "yes, right away." "i-- i s'pects i'd better go back an' 'tend t' mah weedin'!" exclaimed ponto, looking as pale as a colored man can. look. "weeds grow powerful fast in dis climate. dey'll choke de flowers in about an hour. i'se got t' 'tend t' 'em immejeet, sah. i ain't got no time t' go huntin' horned toads. i hopes you'll 'scuse me, sah," and with that ponto was gone, walking faster than he had at any time since the travelers arrived. "he's afraid," said rose, with a laugh. "i'm not. come on, professor, i'll show you where ponto means, and maybe we can find some horned toads." "let's all go," proposed jerry. "i will, if you'll promise not to let the horrible things come near me," said nellie, and jerry promised. mr. seabury declared he would rather rest on the veranda than hunt horned toads, so the three boys and the trio of girls, with the professor, who armed himself with specimen boxes and a small net, set off after the curious reptiles. a short distance from the bungalow there was a sort of sandy stretch, where little grew in the way of vegetation, and there, rose explained, was probably where ponto had seen the toads. they headed toward it, the scientist eagerly looking on the ground, for a first sight of the specimens he had come so far to seek. chapter xii a strange meeting "i guess ponto must have been asleep when he was walking along here, and dreamed he saw those toads," commented ned, after the party had covered a considerable part of the sandy stretch without getting a glimpse of the ugly reptiles. "that's too bad!" exclaimed the professor. "i had hopes of finding one here." "oh!" suddenly screamed rose. "there's one!" "where?" asked the scientist eagerly. "right there, by that stone. i saw it jump. oh, girls, i'm going to run!" "and she said she wasn't afraid of them!" cried nellie. the professor cautiously approached with his net outstretched. with a long stick he turned the boulder over, and made a quick movement with his net, imprisoning something beneath it. "i've got it!" he cried. "i have the horned toad!" holding his captive down beneath the net, he leaned forward on his knees, to get a better view. over his face came a look of disappointment. "it's only a harmless lizard," he said, "and not one of the web-footed variety, either. that's too bad. i thought i had my toad." "i'm glad, professor," said rose. "oh, no," she added quickly, "i'm sorry for you, but i'm glad it wasn't a horned toad so close to me." the professor raised the net and the lizard scurried away, probably very much frightened, and wondering what all the excitement was about. "let's go over this way," suggested ned. "that looks as if it might be a good place for toads," and he pointed to where there was a clump of trees. "can you tell where horned toads like to stay?" asked olivia. "no," replied ned, in a low voice, "but it's shady over there, and this sun, beating down on the sand, is very hot. i wanted to get where it's cool, and, anyhow, there's just as liable to be horned toads there as anywhere. if he doesn't find a toad he'll find something else that will make him nearly as happy, so it's all the same." "isn't he a queer man," said olivia, as they followed along behind mr. snodgrass, who was walking ahead, closely scanning the ground. "he is, but he's a good friend of ours," replied ned. "he is very much in earnest over his collection of insects and reptiles, and, though he acts queerly at times, he is one of the best men in the world." "i'm sure he must be," agreed olivia. "i like him very much. i hope he stays a long time, and i hope you boys do also. it's quite lonesome here, with nothing but mexicans and chinese for the main part of the population." "we'll stay as long as you let us," said ned. "we can have fine times," went on the girl. "we can go boating on the little bay, and take trips off into the country. we, ourselves, haven't seen much of it yet, as papa was not feeling well when we first came, and we had to stay home and care for him. but he is better now, and we can go on little excursions. ned's harmless trick to get the party to a shady spot was successful. the professor headed for the little clump of trees looking, the while, for a horned toad, but he saw none of the queer creatures. "my, but it's hot!" exclaimed bob, as he sat down on the ground. "oh, it will be worse than this, some days," said rose. "we are getting used to it. but suppose we go down to the seashore? it's not far, and there is a very pretty view." "perhaps i can get a horned toad there," put in the professor hopefully. after a short rest in the shade the little party headed for the beach. as they came in sight of it from a small hill, the boys uttered exclamations of delight, for a beautiful expanse of water was stretched out before them,-- the pacific ocean sparkling blue in the sun. "oh, for our motor boat!" exclaimed jerry. "oh, for the dartaway! couldn't we have fine sport in her, out on that bay!" "don't speak of it!" said ned with a groan. "what, is the dartaway lost?" asked rose. "gone! busted! smashed!" exclaimed bob, and the boys all tried to talk at once, telling of the disaster that had befallen their craft. "it's too bad," declared olivia. "but never mind. we have a couple of rowboats, and maybe you can hire a little sailing skiff." "it wouldn't be the dartaway," answered bob, with a sigh. "that boat had the nicest little kitchen in it--" "so, that's all you cared about her for-- the kitchen-- where you could cook something to eat!" exclaimed jerry. "chunky, i'm ashamed of you; that's what i am!" "well, i-- er-- i--" began bob. "oh, come on," he continued, and led the way down to the beach, where there were some bathing pavilions and several houses. the professor was walking along behind, in the vain hope of yet discovering a horned toad, perhaps on its way to get a dip in the surf or drink some salt water. "i think you'll like some chocolate," said nellie, as the boys were in front of a little refreshment booth. "it is made by a mexican--" she stopped, for she saw that the boys were not listening to her. their attention was drawn to a man who was just coming from the place they were going in. the boys could not help staring at him, for he was the man who had acted so strangely in the freight depot at cresville. chapter xiii a queer story for several seconds the boys and the man stared at one another. the stranger did not seem to be the least bit embarrassed but, on the contrary, was smiling in a genial manner. "is he a friend of yours?" asked nellie, of jerry. "well, not exactly what you could call a friend," was the answer. "we don't even know his name," and he spoke in a low voice. "we saw him back in cresville, just before we started out west, and he was acting in a strange manner. we thought--" "excuse me," suddenly interrupted the strange man, advancing toward the group of boys and girls, "but haven't i seen you lads before? your faces are very familiar." "we saw you in the cresville freight office," declared ned boldly. "exactly! i knew it was somewhere. i remember now. i was there attending to some goods that had to be shipped in a hurry. i'm glad you remembered me. to think that i should meet you away out here! it's a small world, isn't it?" and he smiled, but there was something in his smile, in his looks and in his manner that the boys did not like. neither did the girls, for, as nellie said afterward, he acted as though he wanted to make friends so you would not be suspicious of him. "shake hands, won't you?" asked the man, advancing closer to the boys. "my name is carson blowitz, and though it sounds foreign i was born in this country. i travel around so much i can't give you any particular place as my residence." there was no way without being rude of avoiding shaking hands with the man, and, though there was something in his manner that caused the boys to feel a distrust of him, they were not going to be impolite on mere suspicion. they shook hands with mr. blowitz, and jerry introduced himself, his chums, the young ladies and professor snodgrass, and told, briefly, the object of their trip. "well isn't that nice, now," said mr. blowitz, when jerry had finished. "the professor comes out here to hunt horned toads, and you lads come to hunt adventures, mr. seabury comes out here in search of health and i-- well, i'm out here on a sort of hunt myself." "are you interested in science?" asked mr. snodgrass eagerly. "perhaps you and i might go off together after horned toads and web-footed lizards. or, if you care for snakes, or insects, i think i can show you where there are plenty." "no, no," said mr. blowitz, with a laugh, which he tried to make sound hearty by the mere noise of it. "no, i'm on a different sort of a search. in fact it's quite a queer story-- perhaps you would like to hear it. in fact, i'm hunting for a lost ship." "a lost ship!" exclaimed bob. "well, one that was abandoned just before she sank, and that's about the same thing. it was abandoned quite a way out, but off this part of the coast. there is a current setting in towards shore, at this point, i'm told, and i thought i might get some news of her, or find some of the wreckage floating in on the beach. that's why you find me here." "what ship is it?" asked ned, interested in spite of the aversion he and the others felt toward mr. blowitz. "it is a brig, rockhaven by name. but suppose we go inside'? it is rather warm out here in the sun, and i'm not quite used to this climate yet. won't you come in and have some chocolate with me? they have a very nice drink in here, and i--" "it's my treat," interrupted bob. "no; if i may be so bold as to insist, you must be my guests this time," went on mr. blowitz. "it is not often that i see lads away off east and meet them a little later, in california, so i must have the pleasure of their company for a little while. the young ladies too-- i'm very fond of young ladies," and mr. blowitz smiled in a manner that rose characterized later as "ugly," though just why she thought so she couldn't explain. there was no way of getting gracefully out of the invitation, and so the crowd of young people and the professor accompanied mr. blowitz into the refreshment booth. they went out into the shaded courtyard, where a fountain of splashing water at least gave the effect of coolness, if it did not really make it so. they sat at small tables, and were served with cold chocolate and sweet cakes, by a pretty mexican girl. bob wanted to pay for the treat but mr. blowitz would not hear of it. in fact he played the host in such a genial way, and seemed so anxious to make every one have a good time, that the boys were rather ashamed of their first opinion of him. even rose whispered to bob that "he was not so bad, when you got acquainted with him." "now i suppose you would like to hear the story of the abandoning of the brig rockhaven," said mr. blowitz, and the boys nodded. "i hope no one was drowned," exclaimed olivia. "not as far as we know," replied mr. blowitz. "the whole affair is rather mysterious, and i am seeking information about the fate of the ship as much as anything else." "i would like to ask you one question," said professor snodgrass, who had been more interested in the antics of a small bug, walking on the table, than he was in his chocolate. "what is it?" inquired mr. blowitz. "did you, or any of your men notice whether, just before the ship sank, that all the rats on board deserted it?" asked the scientist. "i have often heard that rats will desert a sinking ship, and i would like to know whether it is true. if you made any observations to that effect i wish you would tell me about them, and i can put them into a book i am writing about rats and mice." "i thought you were writing about horned toads," said bob. "so i am, but this is another book. this will be in seventeen volumes, with colored plates. i want to get all the information i can, about rats." "i'm sorry that i can't help you," replied mr. blowitz. "in fact i know little about the abandoning of the brig, except what i heard. i was not aboard, and i don't know whether the rats left it or not. all i know is that the vessel is lost, and with a fortune aboard." "a fortune aboard?" inquired ned. "yes, worth about a quarter of a million." "is it gold or diamonds?" asked rose, who was very fond of jewelry and precious stones. "neither one, my dear young lady," said mr. blowitz, with as happy a smile as he could assume. "it is valuable merchandise. of course there was some money, and some valuable papers, but the main part of the cargo was costly merchandise. i'll tell you how it happened. but first, let us have some more chocolate," and he called to the mexican girl waiter. when the cups had been filled mr. blowitz resumed his story. "i am interested in many enterprises," he said, "and i and some other men went into a venture to ship some valuable goods to the santa barbara islands, which are not far off this coast. i was the principal owner, having bought out my partner, and it looked as if i would make a large sum. "the vessel sailed from san francisco, and as the weather was fine, we looked for a quick trip. i was attending to some of my other business affairs, having just arrived on this coast from boston, when i received a telegram from the captain of the brig, telling me that she had been abandoned with everything on board. of course there must have been an accident. probably there was a collision, or fire on board, so that the brig was in a sinking condition. at any rate the captain, and, i suppose the crew, also, left her. that's why i can't tell whether they were all saved, though i assume so, as nothing was said about any one being lost. "the captain, it appears, was picked up by another vessel, and landed at a small coast town. he sent me the telegram from there, and i forwarded him money to come to san francisco, to meet me. but, for some reason, he did not arrive, and so i decided to come down here, and see if i could get any news of the ship and the valuable cargo. of course, if the ship sank at once that is the end of her, but, if she broke up, there is a chance of some parts of her, and perhaps some of the cargo, being washed ashore. at any rate i would like to get some news of her, that i might collect the insurance, if nothing else. "so that's why i'm here. i arrived yesterday, but, so far, i have been unable to obtain any news of the brig. i left word for the captain to join me here, and he may arrive at any time. i am glad to have met you, for it will not be so lonesome now." "i hope you have good luck," said nellie, as she arose to leave the place. "i think we must be going now," she added to her sisters. "papa might worry about us." "give mr. seabury my regards," said carson blowitz, "and tell him i shall do myself the honor of calling on him soon, to pay my respects. as for you young people, i shall see you again, i hope. i am going to hire a boat and cruise about in search of my brig-- if i don't get some news soon-- and perhaps you might like to go along." "perhaps," replied jerry, as he and his chums followed the girls out of the place. mr. blowitz remained in the courtyard, drinking chocolate, and, as the little party was leaving ned looked back. he saw their recent host pull a bundle of papers from his pocket, and, spreading them on the table in front of him, closely scan them. "i don't like that man," declared nellie, when they were out of hearing. she was very frank in her statements. "neither do i," said jerry, "though he was nice enough to us." "he has a strange manner," commented olivia. "and that was a queer story he told of the abandoning of the brig," went on bob. "i wonder if he made it up, or if it's true? it seems strange that the captain would leave his ship, and not give a reason for it." "there's some mystery back of it, i think," was the opinion of rose. "the less we have to do with mr. carson blowitz, the better it will be, i think." "well, we're not likely to see much of him." said jerry. but in this opinion he was mistaken. they were to see and hear much of him, as later events proved. chapter xiv in a motor boat several days after this, during which time the boys had, under the escort of the three girls, visited many places of interest, rose suggested they make a trip on the bay. "but what can we go in?" asked bob. "we haven't any boat." "we have several rowing skiffs," said nellie. "i know they are not as fine as your dartaway, but you can have a nice time. the fishing is good, and it is very pleasant on the water." "it would be pleasant wherever you girls were," said ned, with an attempt at gallantry. "thank you!" exclaimed nellie, making a low, bow. "you're improving, ned," remarked jeer, critically. "in time you'll be able to go out in polite society." "oh, is that so'?" remarked ned, sarcastically, "thank you." "you're welcome," retorted jerry, bowing low. "oh, stow that away for use at some future time," advised bob. "come on, if we're going out in a boat." there was a little wharf, at which the seaburys kept a couple of rowboats, and, as six were too many to go into one craft, nellie and jerry occupied the smaller, while bob and ned, olivia and rose, got into the other. "where shall we go?" asked ned. "oh, row around anywhere," replied jerry. "we'll have to get used to oars, we haven't handled 'em in quite a while." the boys soon found that the skill with which they had formerly used the ashen blades, before the era of their motor boat, was coming back to them, and they sent the skiffs around the bay at fairly good speed, the two crafts keeping close together. "this is something like work," announced jerry, as he rested on his oars, and let the boat drift with the tide, which was running in. "that's what it is," declared ned. "i wish--" "thank you!" exclaimed olivia. "i'm sure we're very sorry that we have given you so much work. we didn't know we were so heavy; did we girls?" "no, indeed!" chimed in rose. "if you will kindly row us back to shore, we'll get out and you boys can go where you please. work! the idea!" "oh, i say now!" cried ned, alarmed at the effect of his words. "i didn't mean-- jerry didn't mean-- we--" "of course not!" added jerry. "i only said--" "you said it was hard work to row us around," declared nellie in rather icy tones. "well i meant-- you see since we had a motor boat-- that is i-- we-- it's rather--" "now don't try to get out of it and make it worse," advised olivia. "we know what you said, and what you meant." "i didn't say anything," put in bob, with an air of virtue. "good reason," declared jerry. "you're so busy eating that cocoanut candy that you didn't have time to speak. besides you're not rowing." "oh, has he got cocoanut candy!" cried nellie. "give me some and we'll forgive you for the rude way you and ned spoke, jerry. won't we girls?" "of course," chorused olivia and rose. "i-- i didn't know you cared for cocoanut candy," declared bob, rather ashamed that he had not, before this, offered the girls some. "oh, don't we though!" exclaimed nellie. "just you pass some over and you'll see, bob," for the two boats had drifted close together. bob, who had purchased a big bag full of the confection, before they had started for the row, passed it over, and the girls helped themselves generously. "take it all," advised ned, who, perhaps, felt a little vindictive at bob, because of that youth's lucky escape from displeasing the girls by unfortunate remarks. "no, thank you, we don't want to rob him," said olivia. at that moment a shrill whistle sounded just behind the rowboats and the girls turned around to see what it was. ned and jerry, from the position in which they sat to handle the oars had seen a motor boat approaching, and they had stopped using the blades to watch its approach. "oh, that's the ripper!" exclaimed rose. "and charlie farson is all alone in her. maybe he'll give us a ride." "who is charlie farson?" asked jerry of nellie. "he's a friend of rose. he lives in san francisco, but he is staying with his uncle at a bungalow about two miles from where we are. he owns that motor boat, and it's the biggest and fastest on this part of the coast. sometimes he takes us out with him. i hope he does so now. he's headed right this way." "um," grunted jerry, not altogether pleased that a young fellow with a motor boat should come along, and claim the girls who, of course, would naturally prefer a power craft to one propelled by oars. rose waved her handkerchief and, in answer the captain of the ripper sent out three shrill blasts as a salute. "oh, isn't that fine! he's coming over here!" exclaimed rose. "i'll introduce you boys to him." neither ned nor bob looked very pleased at the prospect of meeting a youth who might be a rival in entertaining the girls, but there was no help for it. on came the ripper, and, as she approached, the motor boys could not help admiring her. the craft was powerful and swift, much more so than the dartaway had been. it was considerably larger, too, and had an enclosed cabin. "that's a dandy!" exclaimed jerry in spite of himself. "it's a peach!" was ned's half-spoken comment. "all to the mustard!" came bob's characteristic comment. "want a ride, or a tow?" called charlie farson, when he got within hailing distance, and he slowed down his craft. "i guess we'll ride, if you'll tow our boats," replied rose, for she knew the young fellow fairly well. "all right, come aboard." by this time the ripper was quite close, and, in another moment it had come alongside of the boat containing rose, olivia, ned and bob. "these are some friends of ours from the east," said rose, introducing ned and bob, "there's another one, in that boat with nellie," she went on, telling jerry's name. "i'm sure i'm glad to meet you all," said charlie farson, with such good nature, that the boys could feel no resentment toward him. "come aboard, and we'll go for a spin. i guess it will be best to anchor your two boats here and you can pick them up when we come back. we can make better time then." "oh, your boat always makes good time," complimented nellie, as she made her way to the cabin of the ripper. "that's the only objection i have. you run her so fast that if you ever hit anything it would sink your boat before you had time to jump overboard." "but i'm not going to hit anything," declared charlie. he tied the two rowboats together, the other boys helping him, and then anchored them with a small, spare kedge he carried on his craft. "all ready?" he asked, looking to see that his passengers were comfortably seated. "already, captain charlie," answered rose. "here we go then," and charlie threw in the dutch of the engine, that had not ceased working, the ripper fairly flew away, so suddenly that bob, who was near the stern, nearly toppled overboard. "look out!" cried charlie. "oh, i'm looking out now," said bob. "say, but she can go!" "yes, she has some speed," modestly admitted charlie. he turned on more gasolene and advanced the spark still further, so that the boat increased her rate, piling up waves of white foam on either side. they had a fine trip about the bay, the girls and boys thoroughly enjoying themselves, the latter being particularly interested in the engine part of the craft. the motor boys told the other lad of the dartaway and how the craft had been destroyed. "my, but i certainly would like to run this boat," announced jerry with a sigh. "she's a dandy!" "maybe you'll get the chance," said charlie. "the chance? how? what do you mean?" asked jerry, while his two chums eagerly waited for charlie's answer. chapter xv caught in the fog "well," replied charlie as he sent the ripper around in a big circle, "you see it's this way. i came down here expecting to stay with my uncle until spring. i was going to learn how to raise oranges. i received word this morning that i would have to go back to my home in san francisco. my father needs me there, because of a change in his business, and i've got to go." "that's too bad!" exclaimed rose. "i guess you are thinking more of his motor boat than you are of charlie," said nellie, with a laugh at her sister. "i was not!" declared rose, indignantly. "well, i've got to leave my boat here," went on charlie. "leave it here!" repeated olivia. "yes, and i'm looking for some one to take charge of it while i'm gone." "take charge of it!" exclaimed ned and bob at once, while a joyous look came into jerry's eyes. "what i mean," said charlie, "is that i would hire it out. i think that would be a better plan than merely to loan it to some one, for there is a chance that it might be damaged, and would have to be repaired, and, if i got a reasonable rent for it that would cover such a mishap." "would you hire it to us?" asked jerry anxiously. "i was thinking of that," answered the owner of the ripper. "i heard from my friend, rose," and he looked at the girl, "that you boys had had some experience with motor boats. i had rather hire mine out to some one who knew about machinery, than to persons who would have to learn. so, if we can make some deal, you may have a chance to run this boat. i've got to go to san francisco in about a week." "we'll take the boat," said jerry quickly, "that is--" "oh, you needn't be afraid i'll ask too much money for her," interposed charlie. "all i want is enough to pay for any possible damages, and for reasonable wear and tear. we'll talk it over later." "say, isn't that glorious!" whispered ned to bob. "think of having a motor boat, and cruising on the pacific! we're getting to be like sinbad the sailor, making voyages all over." "yes, but maybe he'll want a small fortune for the hire of the ripper," objected bob. "we haven't any too much money, for this trip was rather costly." "if we could get damages for the dartaway, we--" "yes, but 'if' is a big word, even though it only has two letters," replied bob quickly. "however, we'll do our best to get the ripper during our stay here, and we'll take the girls out for some nice rides." "that's what we will." charlie speeded his boat about the bay for some time longer, and then; as the girls said they thought they had better go home, he put back, picked up the anchored boats, and the motor boys and their hosts were soon rowing to shore. "come over any evening, charlie," called rose. "yes, come to-night," urged jerry. "we can talk over the boat proposition then." "i'll be there," replied the ripper's skipper, as he put about and went whizzing over the blue waters of the bay. when the young people entered the gateway they saw ponto stretched out on the bench in the shade, fast asleep. "wait a minute," said rose. "i'll play a trick on him." she stole softly up, and, with a long piece of grass tickled the old colored servant on the ear. he put up his hand and sat up with a start. "i 'clar' t' goodness!" he said, "i were jest waitin' fo' yo', an' i close mah eyes, jest fo' one little second, but dis atmosphere am so slumberous dat, 'fore i knows it, i'm sort of noddin'." "i guess you were more than nodding," said olivia. "but why were you waiting for us, ponto?" "'deed an' i didn't no mo' dan nod, miss olivia, dat's what i didn't. but i'se been waitin' heah a pow'ful long time, an' i jest natcherly done gone an' fell t' noddin'." "but what were you waiting for?" persisted olivia. "dis letter," replied the colored man. "massa seabury done tole me t' give it t' one ob de young gentlemen what had de motor boat. he say it come from cresville, an' it might be important, so i done set heah waitin', but i done forgot which young gentlemen he tole me t' gib it to." "let me see it," said rose, and she looked at the envelope. "it's for you, jerry," she declared, "and it's from some railroad company. it's been sent on here from cresville." "maybe it's about damages to our boat," said bob. and so it proved. the letter announced that an investigation had been made of the wreck in which the dartaway was smashed, that the claim department of the florida coast railway company admitted their liability, and were prepared to pay damages. they enclosed in the letter a check for the value of the boat, as declared by jerry at the time of the shipment. "hurrah!" cried ned. "that's the stuff!" "well, it's the end of the dartaway," observed jerry. "poor old boat! i suppose we had better accept this sum, and not sue, eh?" and he looked at his chums. "sure," replied bob. "if we sued it would take a good while to collect, and if we got a larger sum we'd have to pay the lawyers. let's take this money and hire the ripper." "i don't believe you'll need all that," interposed rose. "that's quite a sum, and charlie will surely not ask as much as that for the hire of his boat." "well, if he does we'll pay it," decided jerry. "i want to cruise on the pacific, and this seems to be the only way we can do it. we'll have a motor boat trip, even of the dartaway is out of commission." charlie came over to "the next day" bungalow that night and in a short time he and the motor boys had arrived at a business arrangement regarding the hiring of the ripper. charlie only asked a small sum as rental, much less than the amount of damages received, so that the travelers had plenty left for other purposes. "and now the boat is yours, as long as you stay here," said charlie, when the final details had been arranged. "i know you will take good care of her." "of course we will," answered jerry, "and, if you find, after you get to san francisco, that you have a chance to come back, we'll give her up to you." "there's no such good luck as my coming back this season," said charlie. early the next morning he brought the craft to the seabury dock, where it was run in the small boathouse. then, having explained to the boys some minor details of the engine, which was different and more powerful than the one they were used to, charlie took his departure, having had another letter from his father asking him to hurry to san francisco. "i hope you will have a good time," said the ripper's owner, as he bade the boys and girls good-bye. "don't get into any dangerous adventures, especially with the girls on board." "we'll not," promised jerry, but he did not know how soon charlie's warning was to be fulfilled. "well, what do you girls say to a ride?" asked jerry when charlie had gone, and they stood looking at the powerful boat. "do you think you boys can run her?" asked nellie. "run her? well, i guess we can," declared ned. "didn't we tackle the atlantic in the dartaway, a smaller boat than this?" asked bob, "and isn't the atlantic worse than the pacific?" "i don't believe it is, a bit," said olivia. "everyone thinks the pacific ocean is very peaceful, because the name indicates that. but old fishermen here have told me there are terrible storms, which come up quite unexpectedly, and that at times there are dreadful fogs." "well, we're not afraid," boasted bob. "are we fellows?" "oh, i guess we can manage to run the boat," replied jerry, who was critically examining the machinery. "if you girls want to go for a spin, i think i can guarantee to get you safely back." "oh, we're not afraid on a day like this," replied nellie. "there's no sign of a storm. come on girls." she and her sisters got in, followed by ned and bob. jerry was already in the small cabin, set aside for the engineer. he was testing various wheels and levers, seeing that the oil feed cups worked well, and looking to the sparking system. "all ready?" he asked. "let her go, captain jerry," called bob, as he cast off the lines, and the ripper, with her new commander and crew, started off. jerry found he could manage the engine about as well as the one that had been in the dartaway. he soon had the motor going almost at full speed, and the way the boat cut through the water was a revelation to the boys. they had never ridden so fast in a motor boat before. straight out to sea jerry headed the craft, and the weather was so pleasant, the water so calm, and the sense of swift motion so enthralling, that, before they knew it, they had gone several miles. "oh!" suddenly exclaimed rose, as she came from the small cabin, and glanced back toward the shore, "i can't see anything." "it is a bit hazy," admitted ned. "must have blown up a little fog," spoke jerry. "i guess we'll put back. it didn't look as it was going to be thick weather when we started." he swung the boat around and headed for what he supposed was the shore. as the boat speeded on the mist became thicker, until they could scarcely see two hundred feet ahead of them. "better slow down; hadn't you?" suggested bob. "we might hit something." "yes, for goodness, sake, don't have a collision," begged nellie. "we ought to be pretty near shore," remarked jerry. "i'll keep on a little longer, and we'll come pretty near the dock, i think." he tried to peer ahead into the fog, but it slowly settled down in lazy, curling wreaths, that made it as hard to see through as though a white blanket had been hung in front of him. "hark! what's that'?" asked olivia, holding up her hand. out of the mist there came the dismal clang of a bell. "dong! ding! dong!" "a vessel!" cried bob. "look out, jerry, or we'll be run down." "that isn't a vessel," said rose, with a worried look on her face. "that's the bell of the shoal buoy. we are quite a way out to sea!" "and lost in the fog," added nellie. chapter xvi on the rocks with a quick motion jerry shut off the power, and the ripper drifted through the mist, slowly losing headway. the sound of the bell became more distinct, and in a little while something dark loomed up before the anxious eyes of the boys and girls. "lookout! she's going to hit!" cried ned. "that's the buoy," declared nellie. "what's its location?" asked jerry. "can't we get our bearings from it?" "well, it's about eight miles off shore, i've heard the fishermen say," replied nellie, "and it's about four miles down the coast from san felicity." "it doesn't seem as if we came as far as that," said bob. "this is a very fast boat," commented rose. "is the buoy anchored to rocks?" asked ned. "no, it's on a dangerous shoal," answered olivia "but there is no harm from that source to be feared to this boat, as it doesn't draw much water." "it ought to be easy enough to start in the right direction for san felicity, with this buoy to guide us," suggested bob. "can't you, jerry." "i guess so, if you think it will be safe to travel in the fog." "no, don't," urged nellie. "i'm afraid we might have a collision. i don't know much about this bay, and there are dangerous places in it, i've heard the fishermen say. we had better stay here until the fog lifts." "that's what i think," agreed rose and olivia. bob and ned, however, were for going on, but jerry rather sided with the girls. "well," he finally said, in answer to the urging of his two chums, "which way would you say the dock was, ned?" "off there," and ned pointed over the port rail. "no, you're wrong," declared bob. "it's there," and he indicated the opposite direction. "there, you see," remarked jerry. "it can't be both ways. the fog has you puzzled, just as it has me. we should have looked at the compass when we started out. maybe the girls can advise us." but they, too, were equally at loss regarding in what direction san felicity lay. "we'll have to drift around a bit," decided jerry. "it's not very pleasant, but it's better than running any chances." in spite of their dismal situation the boys and girls managed to extract a good deal of fun out of their experience. they laughed, joked, told stories and sang songs. "well, well!" exclaimed jerry, looking at his watch. "here it is noon, and we're not home for dinner." "no, and not likely to be," added ned rather gloomily. "i'll admit i'm as bad as bob this time. i want something to eat." "do you?" asked the stout youth. "sure, chunky." "then, maybe you'll quit making fun of me," was bob's answer, as, from one of the lockers he drew out a bulky package. "what is it?" asked jerry. "sandwiches and cake. i bought 'em in the little booth where we had chocolate with mr. blowitz the other day. i thought we might be hungry, so i got 'em while you were tinkering with the engine. now, maybe you wish i hadn't." "not a bit of it, chunky," declared jerry heartily. "you're all right!" "it was very thoughtful to provide for us," said rose. there was fresh water in a cooler, and the young people made a merry meal. they ate everything to the last crumbs, and, as bob said, they could probably have gotten away with more, for the salt air gave them good appetites. "the fog's lifting!" exclaimed ned suddenly. "now we can start for home. i can just make out the coast." true enough, right ahead of them was a low, dark line. "well, if that isn't queer," remarked bob. "i would have said the shore was off there," and he pointed in the opposite direction. "i guess we must have turned around when we drifted," said jerry. "we're quite a way from the buoy now." once it began to lift, the fog dispersed rapidly, and jerry soon had the engine going, and the boat headed for the shore. he speeded the motor up to as high a pitch as was safe, in unfamiliar waters, and soon the town of san felicity came into view. "get near the shore," advised ned, "then, if the fog shuts down on us again, we'll know where we are." jerry decided this was good advice, and steered the ripper straight in, intending to run up along the coast to san felicity. it was well that he did so, for the lifting of the fog was only temporary. when they were about a quarter of a mile from the shore the white mist closed in again, worse than before. but jerry had his sense of direction now, and decided it would be safe to continue on at half speed, as there did not appear to be any other craft in sight, when he took a rapid survey of the bay just as the fog settled down. peering through the almost impenetrable white mass of vapor ahead of him, jerry sent the ripper slowly on her way. "you'll have to be careful," cautioned rose. "the tide is running out, and there's not much water along here at the ebb. i hope we don't go aground." "so do i," answered jerry. just then there was a shock, and the boat quivered, hesitated for an instant, and then resumed her course. "we struck bottom that time," said ned. "luckily it seemed to be mud." "there are rocks along here," declared nellie. "go slow, jerry." the steersman, who could manage the boat from the engine cockpit, as well as from the bow, further slowed down the motor, until the ripper was barely moving through the water. suddenly there was a grinding sound, the boat heeled over to one side, and came to a stop. "the rocks!" cried rose. "we're on the rocks!" "reverse!" yelled ned, and jerry did so, as quick as a flash, but it was too late. "we're aground," he announced grimly. "will we sink?" asked olivia in alarm. "i guess there's no danger of that," announced jerry, as he went forward, "but i hope we haven't stove a hole in her," he added, peering anxiously over the side. "how about it?" asked ned. "well, it might be worse," answered jerry. "we have run right on the cleft of a rock, and we're held there. can't get off until high tide, i suppose. say, we seem to be up against it on our first trip." "oh, as long as we're not sinking we're all right," said olivia. "we can wade ashore. it's not far." "yes, it's quite a way, and i don't want to spoil my shoes," objected nellie. "we should have brought our bathing suits. oh, dear! isn't it unfortunate? i'm afraid father will be worried about us." "one of us will wade or swim ashore, and tell him," said ned. "we can easily do it." "boat ahoy!" suddenly called a voice out of the mist. "who are you?" "the ripper," answered jerry. "who are you?" a moment later a rowboat appeared from behind the white curtain of fog, and the boys and girls saw. that mr. carson blowitz was in the craft. "well! well!" he exclaimed. "you're in trouble, aren't you?-- and i'm just in time to effect a rescue," and he smiled at the boat load of boys and girls. chapter xvii news of the brig "oh!" exclaimed rose, rather excitedly, "take us off please! our boat is sinking!" "no, it isn't," declared jerry. "we're all right only we're aground. can't get off until high tide i suppose." "then perhaps i had better take the young ladies ashore," proposed mr. blowitz. "i have a large boat here, and they will be more comfortable than sitting there waiting for the tide to rise. besides, you'll heel over quite a bit, i should judge by the way you're listing now." there was no doubt of this, as the ripper was, even now, far from being on an even keel. the boys did not relish having this man, whom they disliked, take off the girls, but there was no help for it. "say, we ought to go to some kindergarten and learn to run a motor boat," grumbled ned in a low voice, as the girls were getting into mr. blowitz's craft. "we're peaches, we are!" "it was my fault," admitted jerry, rather embarrassed over the accident. "not in particular," remarked bob. "any one of us would have done the same thing. lucky the boat isn't damaged any, but i hate to be under obligations to him," and he nodded toward mr. blowitz, who was helping nellie into his boat. "i don't like him," he went on in a low voice. "there's something queer about him." "we oughtn't to feel that way," said jerry. "he's doing us a favor." "of course," admitted bob. "i know it, and i suppose i shouldn't feel that way, but i do, and i can't help it. i don't want any favors from him. he's the kind, who, if he does something for you, will want you to do twice as much for him in return." "well, i'll be more careful next time i run this motor boat," said jerry. "it's too bad." "might be worse," said ned as cheerfully as he could. "don't you want to go ashore, boys?" called mr. blowitz. "i guess we'd better," murmured bob. "the water is quite deep except for the place where the ripper went on the rocks." "the motor boat will stay there all right until high tide," the man went on. "better anchor her well, however, it might come on to blow." jerry attended to this, throwing over a strong anchor which was aboard. then the three boys joined the others in the rowboat. "can you find your way to shore, through this fog?" asked rose. "oh, yes, we're not far from the beach," replied mr. blowitz. "i've been out to see an old fisherman, on business, and i was slowly coming back through the fog, when i saw your boat. i didn't know you owned that." "we don't," replied jerry shortly, for he did not want to get too friendly with mr. blowitz, even if that man did show a desire to do so. "we hired it." "i thought i'd seen it in the bay before," went on the man. "it's a fine boat. i suppose you could go out quite a way to sea in her." "you could," said bob. "it's big enough to weather quite a gale, and you could carry provisions enough for two weeks." "it certainly is a fine craft," went on mr. blowitz, as if he was thinking of something. "a fine craft." "did you ever hear anything more of your brig, the rockhaven?" asked nellie. "yes, i did," was the unexpected answer. "in fact that was why i went out rowing to-day. i had a telegram from the captain of the brig last night. it seems she did not sink as at first supposed, but is a derelict, drifting about somewhere off this coast." "has any one seen her?" asked ned. "yes, the captain of a fishing smack. he was the man i went to interview to-day. he says as he was cruising along, day before yesterday, he sighted what he took to be a small boat. when he got closer he saw it was an abandoned brig. from his description i knew it was the one i was interested in." "but if you only got a telegram from the captain of the brig last night, telling you it had not sunk, how did you know the fishing smack captain had sighted her, and how did you go out to see him to-day?" asked jerry, for he thought there was something queer in the story mr. blowitz told, while the man's manner did not favorably impress him. "oh, that," and mr. blowitz glanced sharply at jerry, and then resumed his rowing toward shore. the fog had lifted a bit, and the beach could be made out. "well, that was rather queer," admitted the man, slowly, as if searching about for a good answer. "you see i didn't know the fishing captain had seen the derelict. when i got the telegram, telling me the brig was still afloat, i thought it might be a good plan to go about among the fishermen, making inquiries." "and you happened to strike the right one?" asked jerry. "i-- that is-- well, i had inquired among several before i met captain deckton of the smack sea girl. he saw the derelict. but i'd like to have a talk with you boys, when you are at liberty," added mr. blowitz, quickly. "i have a proposition to make to you. i think you will be interested." "please put us ashore first, before you talk business," begged olivia. "it is long past noon, and i'm afraid my father will be worried about us." "we'll land at the dock in ten minutes," said mr. blowitz. "i'll talk to the boys later." "i wonder what he wants?" thought jerry. "something of a favor, i'll bet. i know his kind." "let me take the oars and relieve you," proposed ned, who saw that the man was having rather hard work with the boatload of young people. "thank you, there's another pair in the stern, if you want to try them," said mr. blowitz, and ned got them out. they made better time after that, and were soon at the dock. "we must hurry home," said rose. "perhaps you boys had rather talk with me later," suggested mr. blowitz. "there is no special hurry. some time this afternoon will do as well, and you might like to go home with the young ladies." "i guess it would be better," decided jerry. "where shall we see you?" "if you will call at the refreshment booth here about five o'clock this evening, i'll be taking my usual afternoon drink of chocolate there, and i'll be pleased to have you join me." "we will be here," promised jerry, as, with his chums, he followed the girls along the dock and toward the bungalow. "why didn't you ask him what he wanted?" inquired ned, when they were beyond hearing distance. "because, i want a chance to think some matters over," replied jerry. "i believe mr. blowitz is up to some game, and i want to see if i can't discover what it is." "it seems a mean thing to say," added rose, "but i don't like that man, in spite of the fact that he has been kind to us. i'm sure we ought to appreciate what he did for us to-day, in saving us a wetting, but i can't feel that he is sincere." "i, either," admitted olivia and nellie, while the latter added: "i hope you boys don't go into any business dealings with him. perhaps you had better consult with my father, before you do." "i guess it would be a good plan," said jerry. "i hope mr. seabury will not be angry at us for taking you out and getting fog-bound, as well as involving you in a shipwreck." "oh, no!" answered rose with a laugh. "he knows we are all right, for we have been on the water, more or less, all our lives. he sometimes worries a little, but, when we get home safe, he's so glad to see us that he never scolds." nor did he this time. he inquired about the trip, and expressed his regrets at the mishap to the ripper. "it will be all right if we don't get a storm before high tide," he said. "i'll inquire of ponto what the weather signs are. ponto! i say ponto! where are you?" "comin' massa seabury! i'se comin'," answered a sleepy voice and ponto came from the garden to the veranda, where mr. seabury, his daughters and the boys were. "do you think we are going to have a storm?" "storm? no, sah. no storm to-day." "how can you tell?" "easy, massa seabury. when it's goin' t' storm, i cain't never sleep well, an' now, i can fall asleep as easy as a baby." "i believe you. well, that's what i wanted to know. he's a very good weather prophet," he added in a low voice to the boys. "i guess the boat is safe. have you seen professor snodgrass lately, ponto?" "yais, sah, i done saw him 'bout half an hour ago. he were huntin' around de' lower end ob de garden, after some web-footed grasshoppers, i t'ink he said." "web-footed lizards," corrected ned. "yais, sah, dat's what it were. web-footed lizards an' horned toads. golly, i hopes he don't cotch none when i'se around!" the boys told mr. seabury of mr. blowitz, and their host advised them to be careful about entering into any arrangement with the man. "i don't know him," he said, "but i have heard from different persons here that there is something queer about him. however, he may only want some favor that you can easily do." shortly before five o'clock the three boys started to keep their appointment with carson blowitz. professor snodgrass had not succeeded in finding any horned toads, and announced his intention of making a search near the bed of a dried-up river that evening, as he had heard there were some there. the girls were too tired to care for further excursions that afternoon, and they remained on the shady veranda, as the boys started off. "i wonder what blowitz can want?" mused ned, as he and his chums neared the chocolate pavilion. "we'll soon know," said jerry. chapter xviii what mr. blowitz wanted the boys found mr. carson blowitz in the little courtyard of the pavilion, calmly sipping some cold chocolate. "ah, you are right on time, i see," he remarked, as pleasantly as he could. "that's what i like, boys. it shows your american spirit. bright, hustling lads, all of you. just the kind i have been looking for." "did you want to see us on business?" asked jerry, for he did not care for the man's too obvious flattery. "yes, i did, but first let me order some chocolate for you. it is a hot day and you'll feel better after it. i never talk business unless i am eating, or drinking something like chocolate or lemonade. it calms the nerves." jerry was about to refuse, as he wanted to get the interview over with as soon as possible, but he looked at bob, and that youth showed an evident desire to have some refreshment. "well, we'll take a little," jerry said. "i thought so. here!" and he clapped his hands to summon the waitress, who soon returned with some cups of cold chocolate. "now to business," went on mr. blowitz, after a pause. "did i understand you to say you had hired that large motor boat?" "we have; for several weeks," answered jerry, who, by consent of ned and bob, had been elected spokesman. "and do you think it could go to sea-- say for a couple of weeks?" "yes, i think so. but did you think of hiring her from us? because if you did i don't believe we can consider it, as we have no authority to let any one but ourselves run it." "oh, no, i was not thinking of running it," declared mr. blowitz. "i wouldn't know how if i wanted to. but i was thinking i might engage the motor boat and you with it, as a crew, to go on a cruise for me." "a cruise?" "yes, out on the pacific, but not too far from shore, say not more than twenty miles." "what for?" asked jerry. "to search for that derelict-- the brig rockhaven!" "the rockhaven!" exclaimed ned and bob together. "yes, as i told you it has a valuable cargo aboard, and, in addition a supply of gold, in money, and some important papers." "do you think we could find her?" asked ned. "i think so," answered mr. blowitz. "i made some particular inquiries of the captain of the fishing smack, whom i saw to-day, and i got her longitude and latitude, as near as he could give it to me. of course it would be a rather hard search, and might consume considerable time, but i would be willing to pay for that. what i want to know is, if you boys would care to go out in that boat, the ripper, and search for the derelict? if you find her i will pay you prize money." "if we found her, and she was quite a way out to sea, how would we get her in?" asked jerry. "you could tow her, unless there was a bad storm. that motor boat is very powerful." "then there isn't anyone on board now?" asked bob. "not a living soul," answered the man. "it's queer how they came to desert her, but i guess the captain and crew got scared and went off in a hurry, without making a proper investigation. the brig is a small one, and if she hit on a rock, or was in a collision, it would not take much to knock her out. "now here is my proposition. you are to take the ripper, get her in good shape for the cruise, and start out. the sooner the better. i will pay all expenses, such as for provisions and supplies. if you return with the brig i will pay you two thousand dollars. if you don't succeed in finding her, after say a two weeks' search, you are to return, and i will pay you five hundred dollars, and all expenses. what do you say?" "that sounds good to me," replied bob. "suppose we got the vessel, made fast to her, and started to tow her in and had to abandon her because of a storm?" asked jerry. "well, of course that might happen, though it's not likely, for we seldom have bad storms an this coast this time of year. still if you couldn't bring the derelict in, you couldn't that's all. but if you found her, you could get the papers and gold, and if you had to abandon her, you could go back after the storm was over. i think you boys could do what i want, and, as i say, i'm willing to pay well. i'd go with you, of course. what do you say?" mr. blowitz seemed quite anxious. in fact he was so anxious that jerry was suspicious. "i wonder why he doesn't hire some larger boat, or a small steam tug to go for that derelict?" thought jerry. "he could get men, who are regularly engaged in the business of saving vessels, to go out for that price. why should he prefer us, when we have had no experience in that line, and hardly know him? there is something back of all this, that he is not telling us. i wonder what we had better do?" "well?" asked mr. blowitz, as none of the boys spoke. ned and bob were waiting for jerry to reply and the latter was turning it over in his mind, seeking to find a reason for the strange request. "when would we have to start?" asked jerry, at. last. "i'd like you to go to-morrow, or the day after, at the farthest. it would not take long to provision the boat for the cruise." "will you put your offer in writing?" asked jerry. "in writing-- why, isn't my word good? well, of course-- oh, i see-- you think i am a stranger here and might-- oh, well, i have no objection to drawing up an agreement. perhaps that will be the best way." mr. blowitz looked a little annoyed that jerry should have suggested such a thing, but he quickly covered his confusion by speaking rapidly. "i'll draw up a paper right away," he said, taking a fountain pen from his pocket. "i'll have the waitress get me some blanks, and you can have them witnessed before a notary public, if you wish." "there's no hurry," said jerry. "suppose you draw up the papers, and we can meet you here to-morrow to talk things over further. i think we should take a little time to consider this. it is rather a queer proposition--" "oh, of course, i don't want to hurry you into it," declared mr. blowitz, in rather a nervous manner. "of course i could get some other boat and a regular crew, but i saw you boys, and i took a liking to you. i thought you might like to earn some money and, if you have good luck, it oughtn't to be hard work." "oh, we'd like the money all right enough," interposed bob. "we'll think it over," put in jerry quickly, for he was afraid ned or bob might say something that would commit them. "we'll meet you here to-morrow at ten o'clock and you can have the papers with you." "all right," agreed the man, and jerry thought he seemed disappointed that the matter was not settled at once. "don't forget now," he urged them, as they left the pavilion, mr. blowitz remaining there to drink more chocolate. "why didn't you agree to it, jerry?" asked bob, when they were outside. "that would be a swell cruise. just the thing! and think of getting two thousand dollars!" "that's just it," replied jerry. "we want time to think it over, and i guess we had better tell mr. seabury. boys, i believe there is something wrong back of all this, and we don't want to run into danger." "danger!" exclaimed ned. "do you think there is danger?" "i don't know, but i'm going to be on the safe side. i don't like mr. blowitz, but he may be all right. if we find he is, and mr. seabury advises it, we'll go on that cruise, and try to find the derelict. i asked him to make out the papers so we could have a chance to consider it." "well, maybe you're right," admitted ned. "but i do hope it's all right. it would be great, to take a voyage on the pacific in the ripper." the boys hurried back to the bungalow, intending to tell mr. seabury the result of their talk with mr. blowitz before mentioning it to the girls. "father has gone out," said rose. "he has gone to dine with a friend, and he'll not be back until late to-night. we'll have supper together, and go for a trip on the bay. it's going to be a nice moonlight night." "the very thing!" exclaimed ned. "but we must see to the ripper. she's on the rocks yet." "that's so," exclaimed jerry. "i nearly forgot about her. bob and i will get her and take her to the dock. she must be afloat by now." "it's almost supper-time," said nellie, "hurry back." "oh-- it's near supper-time, is it?" asked bob, with a woe-begone look on his face. "i-- er--" "come on, ned," called jerry. "bob's afraid he'll get left on the eating proposition. you come with me." ned and jerry rowed out to the motor boat. they found her floated, and riding easily, and, after towing her to the dock, they returned to the house. partaking of a hasty supper the young folks, leaving ponto and the servant in the bungalow, went down to the beach, and started for a moonlight ride in the ripper. chapter xix a cry for help "isn't this perfectly delightful," remarked nellie, as she reclined on some cushions in the little cabin. "i just love to be on the water!" "well, it's better than being out in the fog," admitted jerry, as he adjusted the oil feed on the engine, and glanced over the moonlit waves. "there don't seem to be many boats out tonight," observed olivia. "maybe the owners are afraid of a storm," suggested rose. "sometimes a storm will follow a fog. i wonder if it's safe for us to go out?" "we're not going far, and we'll keep near shore," replied jerry. "it does act as if it was going to blow a bit, but i guess it will not amount to much." there was quite a swell on as they got further out, and the ripper rolled some, but the boys and girls were too good sailors to mind that. "i wonder if we'll meet mr. blowitz again," came from nellie, after a period of silence. "he's always turning up most unexpectedly." "i don't believe we'll see him to-night," said ned. "what do you think he wanted of us? shall i tell 'em, jerry?" "might as well, i'm going to tell mr. seabury as soon as i see him." thereupon ned related the interview with carson blowitz, and the latter's desire to have the boys search for the derelict rockhaven. "i hope you don't go," spoke nellie. "why not?" asked bob. "because-- well, because," and she laughed a little uneasily. "that's just like a girl," remarked jerry, good-naturedly. "they don't want you to do a thing, but they can't tell you why." "well, it's just an uneasy feeling i have toward mr. blowitz, that's all," went on nellie. "i can't explain it, but i feel, whenever i am near him, that he is planning something mean, or that he is up to some trick." "well, it's just how i feel," declared rose, and olivia admitted that she, too, did not trust the man. "well, we haven't decided to go," said jerry, "and we're going to have a talk with your father about it. i admit i'd like to make the trip and find the brig, but, as you say, i don't quite trust blowitz." "oh!" suddenly exclaimed rose, as a wave, larger than any that had preceded it, sent a shower of spray over the boat. "don't go out any farther, jerry. it's getting quite rough." "yes, i guess it is," admitted the steersman, as he put the boat about. "there's quite a swell on. wouldn't wonder but we'd have a storm by morning, though it's bright enough overhead. i don't believe ponto is a good prophet." there were only a few clouds in the sky, and the moon was shining down like a big silver disk, making objects unusually bright, for the southern moonlight is wonderful. jerry put the boat over near shore, and steered along the coast, which, at that point was quite rocky, cliffs rising here and there to a considerable height above the water. "look out you don't run her on the rocks again," cautioned ned. "i'll be careful," replied jerry. "maybe you want to run her a while. i don't want to be the whole show." ned was glad of the chance to take the wheel, and he and jerry changed places. they were proceeding at slow speed, the girls occasionally humming the chorus of a song, and the boys joining in when they knew the air. the beauty of the night, the fine boat, and delight of moving along with scarcely a sound, had them all under a sort of magic spell, and they felt they could thus go on forever. it was when they came opposite a range of low cliffs, close to the water's edge, that bob suddenly called out in a low voice: "look at the men on the rocks!" "where?" asked jerry. "over there," and bob pointed. ned steered the boat nearer to where two black figures, sharply outlined in the moonlight, could be seen in bold relief on the cliff. "they are men, sure enough," replied jerry, "but you needn't get excited over it." "i'm not," went on bob. "only one of them is mr. blowitz, that's all." "mr. blowitz?" queried jerry sharply. "hush! he'll hear you," cautioned rose. "sounds carry very easily over water." "it is mr. blowitz," admitted jerry. "i wonder what he's doing out here." "probably getting some more information about the brig rockhaven," suggested ned. "maybe that's a seaman who has some news of her." by this time the motor boat was quite close to the two men, who, however, did not seem to notice the ripper. there was no question about the identity of mr. blowitz. the other man was a stranger to the boys and girls. the two were apparently talking earnestly, and, occasionally mr. blowitz could be seen to be gesticulating violently. "he's mad about something," declared ned. "it does look so," agreed rose. all at once the boys saw blowitz take a step toward the other man, who retreated, as if afraid. blowitz raised his hand as though to give a blow. "look out!" cried ned involuntarily, as if the man could hear him. "you'll go over the cliff!" with a quick motion he turned the boat, steering toward the foot of the rock, above which the men stood. at that instant a black cloud came over the moon and the scene was plunged in darkness. it was just as if it had been blotted out, and a murmur of surprise, at the suddenness of it, came from those in the ripper. at the same instant a cry rang out-- a man's cry-- and it seemed to be one for help. chapter xx blowitz is angry "quick!" called jerry. "put us over there, ned!" "i will! something has happened. i wonder--" "oh, why doesn't the moon come out from behind that cloud," exclaimed rose, for she and the other girls were nervously afraid. "maybe they have both toppled over the cliff," suggested nellie. "more likely only one of them did," said bob. "i only heard one cry. what's the matter, ned?" "something's gone wrong with the engine." "here, let me have a look," called jerry, and he went to the cockpit. there was a lantern aboard, and, by the light of it, jerry saw that one of the battery wires, leading to a spark plug, had become loosened, breaking the circuit, and preventing the gas from exploding in the cylinders. he soon had it fixed and the engine started, sending the boat toward shore. by this time the moon was out again, flooding the scene with radiance. eagerly the boys and girls looked toward the spot on the cliffs, where the odd scene had taken place. to their surprise they saw mr. blowitz standing there, and they were close enough to note that he was smoking a cigar. "well!" exclaimed nellie, for that was all she could say, so great was her astonishment. "guess nothing happened after all," added ned. "we have had our fright for nothing." "there certainly was another man there," declared jerry, "and he's gone now." "and i'm certain i heard a cry for help," said bob. "we all heard a cry," admitted jerry, "but it might have been a call for a boatman, or something like that. however--" he did not finish what he was going to say for, at that instant, blowitz heard the noise of the approaching motor boat. the muffler. was not working just right, and the usually noiseless engine of the ripper was making quite a fuss. blowitz was in a listening attitude, standing in bold relief in the moonlight, and, having, apparently, satisfied himself as to where the boat was, he started to descend the cliff. "he's coming down," said ned. "is that the ripper?" called blowitz suddenly. "yes," replied jerry, wondering how the man knew. "i thought i recognized her engine. are you coming ashore? if you are, i'd like to speak to you." "we're coming," answered ned. "don't come too close then, for there are dangerous rocks. make for that little point up there," and the man pointed so that the boys could see where he meant. "there's deep water right up to the edge. it's a sort of natural dock, but go slow. i'll meet you there, i want to tell you something." "shall we ask him about the man?" inquired bob in a low voice. "no, don't," advised nellie quickly. "it might make trouble. see what he has to say, and then let's hurry home. i'm afraid of him." "what? with we three aboard?" asked jerry with a little laugh. "we are complimented." "oh, i don't mean that," nellie hastened to say. "i mean that mr. blowitz is a dangerous man." she spoke low for she did not want him to hear her, and they were quite near to shore now. ned steered for the little point of land, and found he could send the boat quite close with no danger of hitting the rocks. presently blowitz, who had momentarily vanished amid the shadows at the foot of the cliff, appeared. "good evening, boys," he said. "i--" he stopped suddenly, "i didn't know you had young ladies aboard." "yes, we have been taking a moonlight run," jerry explained. "we saw you up there on the cliff, and--" "i was there with a friend of mine," blowitz spoke quickly. "we were talking about the derelict brig. i was to meet a sea captain there, but he did not come. my friend had to leave in a hurry, and just then i heard the noise made by your boat, so i called to you. did you hear a call?" "we heard some sort of a call," spoke up bob, "but we thought it was--" "that was me," interrupted blowitz, "i recognized the ripper by the peculiar sound of the exhaust. i have quite a trick of recognizing boats that way. i was afraid you'd get past, so i called. but i didn't know you had the young ladies with you, or i would not have bothered you." "that's all right," said jerry. "we were coming ashore anyhow." "you were? what for?" and blowitz looked sharply at the boys. "oh, i suppose you saw me and wanted to tell me you would accept my offer-- but excuse me, perhaps the young ladies--" "oh, we have told them of it," answered ned. "you can speak before them." "all right then. i was going to say perhaps you came in after seeing me, to tell me you had accepted my offer and would search for the derelict. is that it?" "well, we hadn't quite decided," replied jerry. "what! not decided!" exclaimed blowitz. "why i want you to start at once-- or-- that is-- to-morrow morning. i have just received news that makes it important that the search begin at once. i am depending on you. you will go at once, won't you? come, i'll increase my offer," he said. "i'll pay you two thousand dollars for your time and trouble, stand all expenses, and, if you find the brig, and tow her in, i'll give you three thousand dollars. that's a fair offer. now you can start to-morrow morning, can't you, boys?" "i don't know," began jerry, slowly. "isn't that money enough?" and blowitz seemed much excited. "oh, yes, the offer is a very good one. but i think we should consult with some one-- we--" "no, there is no need of consulting with any one," interrupted blowitz. "i have the papers all made out. we can go before a notary-public to-night, for it is not late yet, and sign them, and you can start by to-morrow noon. what do you say? will you go?" it was a hard question to decide. the trip was alluring to the boys, even had there been no prize money connected with it. but there was something about blowitz that made them hesitate. his very eagerness to have them start, almost at once, made them feel there was something queer back of it all. still they had undertaken, before this, more difficult and risky tasks. why not this one? "well, i must have your answer soon," said blowitz, approaching nearer to the boat. "will you wait just a moment?" asked jerry. "my chums and i will go in the cabin and talk it over. we'll let you know right away." "i'll wait five minutes," said the man. "time is precious to me. i have lots to do. but i know you'll go. i'll raise the offer five hundred dollars. now, that's the best i can do. but you must start as soon as possible to-morrow." "come in here," called jerry to his chums, entering the small cabin, where the three girls had already gone as they did not wish to seem to listen to the talk between blowitz and the boys. jerry closed the sliding doors, and, by the light of a small lantern which hung from the cabin ceiling, looked at his companions. outside they could hear blowitz pacing up and down on the rocky shore. "well, what do you fellows say?" he asked. "i'd like the trip," said ned, wistfully. "the money is a large sum," added bob. "then you want to go?" asked jerry. "i'll do just what ever you do. i'll tell him we'll go." "no! don't!" cried nellie in a tense whisper. "jerry-- boys-- don't have anything to do with this man. he may be all right, but there's something mysterious about him. why should he want to hire you when, for the same money, or less, he could get a company of fishermen, who know these waters well, to make the search? take a girl's reason, for once, and don't have anything to do with him!" she had risen to her feet, her eyes were flashing and her cheeks flushed with the excitement of the moment. the boys looked at her in admiration. "i admit there is something queer in his offering to increase the prize money," spoke jerry, after a pause. "he must be very desperate." "and why this sudden rush?" inquired ned. "this afternoon he was in no such hurry. something must have occurred in the meanwhile-- i wonder if it was the man on the cliff--" "now don't let's go to guessing at too much," cautioned jerry. "the question to be settled now is: do you want to go on a search for the derelict brig? yes or no? that's what we've got to settle now." there was silence for a moment, broken only by the tick of the clock in the cabin. involuntarily nellie glanced at it. the hands pointed to the hour of nine, and she felt that she and her sisters should be home. jerry looked at his two companions. "i guess we'd better not go," said bob slowly. "i hate to give it up, but maybe it will be for the best," added ned. "i'm suspicious of him. tell him we'll not go, jerry." "very well." jerry stepped to the cabin door and slid it back. at the sound blowitz came eagerly forward. "well?" he queried. "are you going? can you start at once'?" "we have decided not to go," replied jerry, slowly. "i-- that is my chums and i-- do not feel just right about it. it is not our boat, and--" he hesitated, for he did not want to give the main reasons that had influenced him and his chums. but blowitz did not give him a chance to continue. "not go!" the man fairly cried. "why i'm surprised at you! you led me to believe, all along, that you would go. here i've gone and wasted a lot of time on you, gone to a lot of trouble, made all my arrangements, expecting you would go, and--" "we never gave you any reason to think we would go," declared jerry very positively. "you are wrong, there, mr. blowitz. we only said we would consider it. we have done so, and have concluded not to go. i am sorry--" "sorry? you'll be sorrier than this before i'm through with you!" threatened the man. "you'll wish you had gone before very long, let me tell you. you've spoiled all my plans. i depended-- oh! i'll get even with you for this!" and the man, in a fury threw his cigar down on the rocks, whence it bounded up amid a shower of sparks. "you'll regret this!" he cried in angry tones, as he turned away and started off up the cliff, muttering to himself. "you've made him mad," said bob. "can't help it," replied jerry. "i'm glad we are not going to have anything to do with him. i believe he is a dangerous person. certainly he had no right to talk about us as he did." "oh, i'm so glad you're not going!" exclaimed nellie, as she and her sisters came out of the cabin. "i was afraid you would give in when he got so angry. but let's get away from here. somehow, i don't like this place. besides we should have been home some time ago. papa may have returned, and we always try to be in before ten o'clock. we'll hardly get home by that time now." "yes, we will," said ned. "i'll send the ripper along at a good clip." he started the engine, and, as the boat swung out from beside the rock dock, the form of blowitz could be seen going up the cliff in the moonlight. in less than an hour the boat was at san felicity and the girls were put ashore. they found ponto down at the dock to meet them. "massa seabury done got worried after he got home," said the colored man, "an' he sent me to see if yo' was heah." "ponto," asked jerry, "do you think you can take the young ladies safely home, without falling asleep?" "suttinly i can," massa jerry. "fall asleep! i gess i doan't fall asleep at night. i'se only sleepy when de sun shines, i is." "then i guess you'll do all right. see that they get home safe." "why, aren't you boys coming too?" asked nellie, in some surprise. "not now," replied jerry. "why not?" "i think we'll go back to the foot of the cliffs and see if we can't find the man to whom blowitz was talking. i don't like the way he acted, for that certainly was a cry for help, and there may have been foul play!" chapter xxi the man on the rocks jerry's announcement was news to his chums, for he had given them no hint of his intentions as the ripper was nearing the boathouse. "do you mean you are going to hunt for that man on the rocks?" asked ned. "yes, i think he fell; or was pushed over by blowitz. there was no mistaking that call for help. blowitz says it was he who called to us, but i know better. that was a cry of fear." "oh, don't get into any danger," cautioned nellie. "maybe you had better take ponto with you. we're not afraid to go home alone. it's nice and bright, and there is no danger." "deed an' there be, miss nellie," interrupted ponto, who did not relish going off on a strange hunt with the boys. "some ob dem horned toads might git after yo', an' if ponto wasn't along dey'd bite you. i shorely am gwine home wid yo'. massa seabury, he done 'specially stipulate it, an--" "yes, i guess ponto had better go with you," said jerry. "we can do better alone. it won't be the first time we've had a midnight hunt, though never before one just like this. we'll come back as soon as we can, and tell you all about it. we can make quick time in the boat." "and, if you find the man?" asked rose. "if we do, and he needs help, we'll see that he gets it; i think if we do find him we'll learn more about mr. carson blowitz than we know now." "shall i tell my father?" asked nellie, as the boys were preparing to make the return trip. the dock was deserted, save for the young people and ponto, but in the chocolate refreshment place, and other booths on shore there was plenty of life. "i think it would be a good plan," agreed jerry. "you know the whole story, about the brig and the offer blowitz made. tell mr. seabury that we would have consulted him before, only he was out when we got back this afternoon. now, ponto, lookout that no horned toads or web-footed lizards get the young ladies, and, above all, don't lie down alongside the road and take a nap." "hu! guess i ain't gwine t' sleep when i's 'scortin my massa's daughters home," declared the colored man, rather indignant that such a slur should be cast on him. "don't worry," called jerry, as the girls walked along the dock to shore. "we'll be back as soon as we can." "do you really think we'll find anything?" asked ned of jerry when they were some distance out, and speeding along toward where they had seen blowitz and the other man on the cliff. "i don't know," jerry frankly admitted. "it looks suspicious, and the way blowitz acted made it more so. maybe the shadows deceived us, and the man did not fall, for the cloud over the moon made things black. but it will do no harm to take a look, and then we'll be satisfied." "if we find him, what will we do with him?" asked bob, who had a habit of looking ahead. "let's find him first," said jerry. "maybe it is some man who works for blowitz, and who would not do just as his boss wanted him to. blowitz can get angry very easily, as was proved by his actions when we refused to make that trip. maybe he hit the man in a fit of passion, and the man cried out in surprise, and ran away." the sky was more cloudy now, and the moon was oftener obscured by masses of dark vapor. still, there was light enough for the boys to make out landmarks, and distinguish objects when they came near the low cliff, on which they had seen blowitz and the other man. "there's the place," called ned suddenly, from his position near the wheel. "that's right," admitted jerry. "better put us in near that rock where we talked to blowitz. we can fasten the boat there and go ashore. there's no swell in here." in a short time the three boys were on the rocky shore. jerry carried a lantern and ned had a coil of rope, as he thought if the man had fallen over a cliff, and was unable to help himself, they might need a line to hoist him up. "go easy now," cautioned jerry, as they moved forward. "we don't want to send out notice that we have arrived. blowitz may still be sneaking around." as cautiously as possible they advanced. they found there was a rough path leading from the beach up the cliff, on top of which the two men had stood. with jerry, holding the lantern to guide them, ned and bob followed. they paused now and then to listen, but the only sound they heard was caused by the waves of the pacific breaking on the rocky shore, the rattle of the pebbles on the beach, and the soft swish of the seaweed. "it was right over there that he seemed to fall," said ned, pointing to indicate where he meant. "that's where i made it out to be," agreed jerry. it was not easy walking, as the rocks were slippery, and some of them were thick with weeds, for, at very high water, they, were covered by the ocean. several times bob slipped and nearly fell. "look out," cautioned jerry. "we don't want two wounded persons to look after." they paused a moment to get their breath, after a stiff bit of climbing, and, as they stood there in the silence of the night, with the moon fitfully showing through the clouds, they suddenly heard a groan. "what's that?" whispered ned, tensely. "it must be the man we're looking for," replied jerry. "he's hurt. where did the sound come from?" ned pointed to a dark spot at the foot of the cliff. the three boys hastened toward it, jerry flashing his lantern. when they got to the place they saw, lying huddled up on a bed of seaweed, the form of a man. as the light flashed on him they noticed that there was blood on his pale face, and one arm was doubled up under him in a strange manner. "he's dead!" whispered bob softly, "no; he's breathing," answered jerry, as he bent over the man on the rocks. "get me some water in your cap, ned. i'll try to bring him to." chapter xxii de vere's story ned ran down to the shore, slipping and stumbling over the rocks, and once falling and bruising himself considerably. but he did not mind this. he wanted to get the water, for it might save the man's life. it looked as if some crime had been attempted, and evidence pointed to blowitz. making as quick progress on the return trip as the carrying of a cap full of sea water would permit, ned held it so jerry could sprinkle some drops on the man's face. he stirred and seemed to be murmuring something. "we ought to have some fresh water for him to drink," said bob. "i'll get some from the cooler on the boat." off he hurried, returning presently with a pitcherful of fresh water and a glass, and with this the man was given a drink, when jerry held up his head. the water seemed the very thing needed for the sufferer, as they could see by the light of the lantern, opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly about him. "what-- where am i?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper. "you're at the foot of the rocks-- on the cliff near the ocean," said jerry. "you had a fall. are you badly hurt?" the man groaned in reply. then an angry, light shone in his eyes. "no! i didn't fall!" he exclaimed. "i was shoved over the cliff. he wanted to get me out of the way so he could claim everything! he's a villain!" "who?" asked ned quickly. "who? who else but carson blowitz! i suppose he thinks i am dead, and he can have all that is on the ship! but i'll--" the man stopped suddenly, and a spasm of pain passed over his face. "what is it?" asked jerry. "my arm-- oh, i'm afraid it is broken!" the boys remembered how the left arm of the man was doubled up under him in a peculiar manner. he had doubtless fallen on it. "wait a minute and we'll lift you up so that you will rest more comfortably," said jerry, and, with the aid of his chums he made from their coats and some seaweed a rude sort of bed for the man. there was no doubt that the stranger's left arm was broken. it hung limply down, and the least motion of it produced terrible pain. fortunately the man did not again lose his senses, and he directed the boys how to bandage the arm close to his side, with their handkerchiefs tied together, so that the injured member would not swing about, and further splinter the broken bones. "do you think you can walk down to our boat?" asked jerry. "we can take you to a doctor, for i think you need one." "need one? i should say i did," replied the man. "it is a wonder i was not killed by that fall. i'm afraid my ankle is sprained, but, after i rest a bit, and get over this dizzy feeling, i'll try to walk to the boat. it's lucky you boys happened to come along, just when you did." "we didn't 'happen' to come along," said jerry. "we were looking for you." "looking for me'?" "yes, we saw you and blowitz talking on the cliffs in the moonlight, and then we saw you disappear. we thought it was queer at the time," and jerry related the subsequent events. "i'm glad you witnessed that," said the man, when jerry had finished. "this will be additional evidence against that scoundrel who intends to rob me, and who tried to get me out of his way. however my time of reckoning will come. but would you mind telling me your names?" jerry introduced himself and his companions, briefly, telling the reasons for their presence in california. "my name is de vere," said the man. "maurice de vere. i was in partnership with blowitz, in several ventures, including the one in which a brig named the rockhaven is concerned." "are you interested in that?" asked jerry eagerly. "why that is the derelict blowitz wanted us to go in search of in the motor boat." "he did? now i understand why he wanted to get me out of the way!" cried maurice de vere, quickly. "he was afraid i would meet you boys." "yes, and that's why he was in such a hurry for us to start," added ned, and they told of their dealings with blowitz, and his anger at their refusal to take part in his schemes. "i can't be thankful enough to you boys," said the wounded man. "i don't know what would have become of me if you hadn't happened to have seen blowitz push me from the cliff. i-- i wish--" mr. de vere seemed overcome by a sudden weakness, and fell back on the pile of coats and seaweed. "we had better get him to a doctor," said ned. "he may be more injured than we suppose." "i-- i'll be all right in a little while-- that is all but my arm," said the injured man faintly. "it was just a little weakness. if you will give me some more water--" they gave him some and he seemed to feel better after that. then he tried to rise, but he had to fall back again. "my ankle-- i think it's sprained," he said. "then let us carry you to the boat," suggested jerry. "i'm afraid you can't." "well, we can try." they did, but it was hard work. by dint of carefully picking their steps over the rocks, however, the three boys finally managed to get mr. de vere into the cabin of the ripper, where they made him comfortable on the cushions. "now speed her up for the doctor's," said jerry to ned, who had taken charge of the engine. "that is if you know where to find one." "there is a physician whom i know, not far from the main wharf at san felicity," said maurice de vere. "if you run the boat there i can get into a carriage and drive right to his house. then after he has set my arm, i should like to tell you my story. that is, if you care to listen." "we certainly do," said jerry. "we will be very glad to help you in any way that we can." "will you?" asked the man eagerly. "then, perhaps, i can get ahead of blowitz after all." quick time was made to the dock, and, though it was quite late, the boys found several public hackmen on hand. mr. de vere was put in one of the vehicles and driven to the doctor's office, whither, after they had secured their boat, the boys followed. it took a little time to set the broken arm, and, after some restoratives had been administered, and the sprained ankle, bandaged (though that hurt was not as severe as at first supposed) mr. de vere received the boys in his room, which his friend, the physician had provided. "i do not want to detain you boys too long," he said, "and it is not necessary to go into all the details of my story now. i will tell you a little of it, and then i have a request to make of you. i have been making plans while the doctor was working over me. it helped me to forget the pain." "we'll do anything we can for you," promised jerry, and the other boys nodded in assent. "well, blowitz and i have been associated in many enterprises," said mr. de vere, "but, of late, i have had my suspicions of him. i began to fear he was trying to get the best of me, so that he would control all the interests. now i am sure of it. "we went equal shares in loading the brig rockhaven with valuable merchandise, for trade among the santa barbara islands. there was also, aboard the brig, some valuable papers, and a considerable sum in gold, that was to go to a client of ours. after the ship was loaded i learned that blowitz sent some mysterious boxes aboard. they came from boston, i understand. i--" "those are the boxes we saw in cresville!" exclaimed bob. "what's that?" asked mr. de vere, and the boys explained the curious actions of blowitz in connection with the boxes. "very likely they were the same," said mr. de vere. "what they contained i do not know, but i--" "excuse me for interrupting you," said jerry, "but i think at least one of the boxes contained something poisonous," and he related how the dog, in the cresville freight station, had been affected by smelling at the broken package. "that's it!" suddenly exclaimed mr. de vere, after a moment's thought. "i see it all now. i can understand his actions. but i will explain later, for i want to be very sure of my facts. at any rate, not to burden you with too many details, after the brig had sailed, blowitz wanted to purchase my interest in her. as he offered me a large sum i consented, and i transferred all my rights to him. "as soon as i had done so he left town, and then i learned that he had cheated me, for he had pretended to give me certain property for my share in the ship, and this property he gave me was utterly worthless. i then considered the deal off, and i knew that i still had a right to my half of the ship and the cargo. but, more than this, i also learned that blowitz had cheated me in another way, by taking property and money that belonged to me. i consulted my lawyers, and they told me i had a right to the entire ship rockhaven and all that it contained. i am the sole owner, and blowitz has no right to the brig nor anything on it. it is all mine, though he is trying to get it. "this all happened before the brig was abandoned and became a derelict, but i can't understand how that happened, as she was a very stout vessel, though small. there has been no collision, as far as i can learn. it is all something of a mystery, but i am going to solve it. as soon as i learned what a scoundrel blowitz was, and of the wrecking of the brig, or, at least, the reported wrecking of it, i came here for further news. "when i met blowitz i accused him of cheating me, and i claimed the brig, when she should be found. he wanted to argue with me, and talked of seeing lawyers, but i knew i was right. then he asked me to meet him on the clips to-night, to talk matters over. he said we might get some news of the ship from the captain of a fishing smack. "rather foolishly i consented to meet him, and talk the thing over. we quarreled, and he attacked me, with what result you saw. he pushed me over the cliff, and fled, leaving me, i suppose he thought, for dead. "now what i am going to ask of you boys is this: will you go with me in your motor boat and search for the brig? wait; do not give me an answer now. i think i can prove to you that i have a right to the abandoned ship, and i will pay you well for your time and trouble. better than blowitz offered to. but do not decide in a hurry. i must get in a little better shape myself, and then i have some arrangements to make. but i hope you will decide to go. of course, if you don't care to, i can hire some one else, but i would rather have you boys. now you can go home and think it over, and let me know at your leisure." the boys did not know what to say. events had happened so rapidly that they did not exactly understand all of them. they realized, however, that they had another chance to go on a cruise on the pacific, in the ripper, and they felt that they ought to take advantage of it, and aid mr. de vere. "i think i shall have to break up this little party," said the physician, coming in just then. "i can't have my patient getting a fever. you boys will excuse me, i know, if i ask you to let him get some rest now." "that's all right," spoke jerry. "we'll see you to-morrow, mr. de vere." "very well," was the answer, and the boys left the injured man to the care of the doctor. "well, what do you think of that?" asked ned, as he and his chums were on their way to the seabury bungalow. "isn't it simply great?" "great? it's immense!" exclaimed bob. "we're going, aren't we, jerry?" "if you fellows say so, and outvote me, i suppose you are." "but you want to go, don't you, jerry?" "i didn't say i did not. i think we have a different man to deal with, in this mr. de vere, than we had in blowitz. i think we shall go derelict hunting, boys." "and maybe we'll not have sport!" exclaimed ned. they were soon within sight of the bungalow. the storm clouds had continued to gather, and the moon only shone at brief intervals. the wind was blowing considerable, and there was every evidence that it would rain before morning. "guess we got in just in time," said ned, as they entered the gateway. as he spoke ned came to a sudden stop. he was looking at a dark figure which seemed to be stealing up to the bungalow. it appeared to be that of a man, advancing so as to make no noise, and attract no attention. the fitful gleams of moonlight showed him to be stooping over, and, now and then, glints of light about him, indicated that he carried a dark lantern, which he flashed at intervals to enable him to see his way. "look!" whispered ned, grasping jerry's arm. "i see," was the low answer. "it's a burglar," spoke bob. "let's creep up on him, and make a capture!" chapter xxiii off on a cruise cautiously the boys advanced. they did not stop to think what they were going to do, nor how they would capture the man, who, if he had evil designs, was probably armed and desperate. with the sole desire of protecting from loss their friends in the bungalow, they determined to prevent the man from breaking into the place. that this seemed his intention was almost certain to the boys, for they saw him approach one of the low windows, stop under it, and flash his light several times. "now's our chance!" whispered ned. "let's creep up and jump on his back. then yell like mad and ponto, and some of the servants will come and help us." with light footsteps, hardly making a sound that was not covered by the noise of the wind in the trees, the boys advanced until they were within a few feet of the man. he did not suspect their presence. the three chums were trembling with nervousness and excitement. suddenly the man flashed a bright beam of light on the ground, and made a quick motion. "now!" whispered ned. "jump boys!" for it looked as if the intruder was about to open a window, and spring inside. the chums leaped together, and fairly bore the man to the earth. down they came upon him, as if they were stopping a halfback, with a football, running around right end on the second down. "we've got him!" yelled bob. "help! help!" shouted ned. "murder! thieves! robbers! fire! police! help!" these were cries coming from the man who was struggling to get rid of the crushing weight of three healthy, sturdy boys. "he's trying to get away!" called jerry: "hold him, fellows!" "let me go! help! help! i haven't any money!" pleaded the man underneath!" fire! police! help!" "what is it?" cried mr. seabury, opening a window just over where the struggle was going on, and thrusting his head out. "what's the matter?" "we've caught a burglar!" cried bob. "a burglar? hold him until i get my revolver! ponto! where are you? there's a burglar below! hurry up and help the boys! where is that black rascal? i'll bet he's gone to sleep again!" "comin'! i'se comin' massa seabury," answered ponto's voice from the far distance. "i were jest takin' a nap--" "do you take me for a burglar?" suddenly asked the wriggling man, as he succeeded in getting his head from under bob's stomach where it had practically been out of sight. "did you think i was trying to rob the house?" "of course; aren't you--" began jerry, when a light flashing from one of the windows, as ponto approached, shone full on the prostrate man's face. upon the startled view of the boys there burst the vision of the peaceful, though sadly surprised, face of professor snodgrass. "pro-fes-sor snodgrass!" exclaimed ned weakly. "pro-fes-sor," stammered bob, rolling over in his astonishment. "well, if we--" began jerry but he could not finish. he let go his hold of the scientist's arm, and ned at the same time loosened his grip on the supposed burglar's leg. the professor arose, smoothed out his rumpled clothing, and remarked in a sad tone: "i suppose it's got away, now." "what?" asked ned. "the horned toad. i was chasing one through the garden by the light of my portable electric lantern. i cornered him under the window, and i was just casting the net over him when you jumped on me. the toad got away. it's too bad, but of course you didn't know it. i must continue my hunt, for at last i am really on the track." "whar am dat bug'lar man?" suddenly demanded ponto, opening the side door a crack, and thrusting a gun out. "whar am he? jest hold him up agin this yeah shootin' iron, young gem'mens, an' ponto'll make him wish he done gone stayed home? whar am he?" "lookout for that gun," cautioned ned. "it might be loaded. there's no burglar, ponto. it's all a mistake. it was professor snodgrass, hunting for horned toads." "yes," added the scientist. "i heard they were always out just before a storm, and so i went after them. i saw a fine specimen, but he got away. however i shall catch him." "no bug'lar, eh?" mused ponto, in disappointed tones. "golly, it shorely am lucky fo' him dat dere ain't. i shorely would hab plugged him full ob holes, dat's a fact!" by this time mr. seabury had dressed and come down, and the girls were calling in anxious voices to know what all the excitement was about. matters were soon explained, and the awakened household prepared to return to its normal state. that is all but the professor; he decided to continue his toad hunt, and, probably would have done so, but for the fact that it began to rain just then, and there was such a down-pour that it was out of the question to search in the garden. "anyway," the scientist consoled himself, "i don't believe the toads would be out in the rain. i shall probably find one to-morrow," and, with that comforting reflection he went to sleep. though it was rather late mr. seabury insisted on hearing from the boys the rest of the adventure, part of which his daughters had told him. he was much surprised at the disclosure of blowitz's acts, and congratulated the boys that they had had nothing to do with him. "do you think it would be safe to go with mr. de vere?" asked ned. "i think so," replied mr. seabury. "of course you want to make an investigation, but, if you find him all right, i see no reason why you should not go off on a cruise after the derelict." "oh, i wish we could go," spoke rose wistfully, but she knew it was out of the question. mr. de vere was much better the next day. the swelling in his ankle had gone down, and he could walk around, though he had to carry his arm in a sling. he sent for his lawyer, who soon proved that what the injured man had said was true. the boys consulted further with mr. seabury during the next two days, and made up their minds to go on the cruise. "now, when can you start?" asked mr. de vere, after this point had been settled. "or, rather, when can we start, for i intend to go with you, though i can't do much with this broken arm "we can go whenever you are ready," replied jerry. "then i'll give orders to have the ripper provisioned, for i am going to pay all expenses. by the time we get ready i think this storm will have blown over," for the wind and rain had continued for three days. under maurice de vere's directions preparations for the cruise were soon completed. on the fourth day the storm blew away and there was the promise of settled weather, though some old sailors, down at the dock, said there were liable to be high winds for some time yet. the ripper was overhauled, a plentiful cargo of provisions and supplies had been stowed aboard, and, having bid good-bye to their friends, the seaburys, the boys were ready for their cruise. "when will you come back?" asked rose, as she and her sisters went down to the dock to see the party off. "when we find the derelict," answered jerry. "good luck!" said nellie. "don't let a sea serpent catch you," cautioned olivia, as she waved her hand. jerry threw on the switch, ned turned the fly wheel over, there was a throbbing of the cylinders, and the ripper was off on her long cruise after the derelict brig. chapter xxiv hunting the derelict "well, now that we're under way," said jerry, who had assumed charge of the engine, "in which direction do you propose going, mr. de vere? we are under your orders you know." "there are to be no special orders given on this cruise," was the answer. "i regard you boys as my partners in this enterprise. we will all do our best to find the brig, and if any of you have any suggestions, i hope you will not hesitate to offer them. to be frank with you i do not know where to look for the rockhaven. she is somewhere in this vicinity, floating around, but at the mercy of wind, wave and cross currents. all we can do is to cruise about, hoping to get a sight of her." "i thought when you searched for anything on the ocean you had to have the longitude and latitude," said rob. "so you do usually," replied mr. de vere, but, in this case it is impossible to get those figures. if it were it would be an easy matter to pick up the brig. but, in the case of a derelict, that is floating about, going in no particular direction, and making only such speed as the wind or the currents give it, there is no telling where it will drift to. it might be at one spot at night, and many miles off the next morning." "we are prepared for a long cruise," spoke ned, "and it doesn't matter which way we go. how would it do to go about in big circles, taking a new one every day?" "that's a good plan," said the owner of the rockhaven. "we might try it, at any rate." so this was done. with chart and compass mr. de vere, who understood the science of navigation, worked out a plan of traveling about in big sweeps, that took in a goodly portion of that part of the pacific. they had some strong marine glasses aboard and, with these, they would take an observation, every now and then, to see if there was any sight of the brig. as they did not expect to come upon her close to the harbor of san felicity, this work was not undertaken until the afternoon of the first day. in the meanwhile the ripper's cabin had been put in ship-shape, bunks were arranged for sleeping and, at his request bob was put in charge of the galley, to prepare the meals and be cook. "and mind," cautioned jerry, "don't eat all the things yourself. give us a chance, once in a while." "of course; what do you think i am?" asked bob indignantly. "i don't think-- i know," replied jerry with a laugh. mr. de vere could not do much to help the boys as, with his broken arm in a sling, he had to be careful how he moved about so that he would not be tossed against the side of the boat and injured. the ripper was a large boat, for one of the motor class, but, when it got outside the harbor, and felt the full force of the pacific swell, it was not as easy riding as the boys had imagined. at first they were a little inclined to be seasick, as it was some time since they had been on such a big stretch of water, but, after a while, they got used to it. the approach of night found them many miles from the harbor, but they had had no sight of the derelict, nor, did they expect to. if the deserted brig was anywhere in the vicinity, it must be pretty well out to sea, mr. de vere told them. so when it got dark, and lights were set aglow in the cozy cabin, it was with light hearts that the boys and their friends gathered around the supper table, bob had prepared a good meal, and they enjoyed it very much. they took turns at the night watches, the boat continuing to steam on ahead, and the person on the lookout taking occasional observations of the dark horizon through powerful night glasses. morning found them upon a waste of waters, out of sight of land, and with not a sail in view. "say, but it's lonesome," remarked bob when he went to the galley to get breakfast. "what a big place the ocean is." "i suppose you expected to find a lot of excursion boats out here," remarked jerry. "i did not!" exclaimed bob. "but i thought we might see a ship or two." for two days they cruised about, moving in great circles and keeping a sharp watch for any sight of the derelict. several times one of the boys, after peering through the glasses, would call that they had sighted her, and the motor boat would be rushed in that direction. but, each time, it only resulted in disappointment for what they saw turned out to be only a bit of wreckage, a big dead fish, or some floating box or barrel, thrown overboard from some ship. "it looks as if our search was going to be longer than i at first thought," said mr. de vere on the fifth day. "it is a good thing we are well provisioned and have plenty of gasolene." "yes, we could stay out for three weeks if necessary," replied jerry. "i hope we don't have to," went on the owner of the brig. "a week ought to bring us within sight of her, if she still floats. but there is no telling what that scoundrel blowitz may have done. he is capable of having some one of the crew bore holes in the ship before they deserted her, so she would slowly sink, and he could collect the insurance. in fact he may have done so, and only be pretending that she is a derelict. i wish we would get sight of her. a great deal, so far as my fortune is concerned, depends on the result of this search." the boys, no less than maurice de vere, were anxious to sight the derelict, not so much for the prize money, but because they wanted to be successful, and have their cruise result in something. another day went by, and, though they sighted several vessels in the distance, no water-logged craft or slowly drifting derelict greeted their eyes. "we'll hope for better luck to-morrow," said mr. de vere as darkness began to fall, "though from the weather indications, i would say we were in for a blow." "it does look as if getting ready for a storm," admitted jerry. there was a curious stillness to the air, and the ocean had a queer oily look, the waves heaving restlessly as though they were impatient at their slow motion, and wanted to break into a wild revel. off to the west there was a murky, yellowish look to the sky, and, now and then, there came puffs of wind that had in them a hint of great force and power. "we had better make everything as snug as possible," advised mr. de vere. "if it comes on to blow in the night we'll have our hands full to manage the boat." chapter xxv in a bad storm shortly after midnight, jerry who was to take the last, or dog-watch was awakened by ned shaking him in his bunk. "what-- what's the matter?" asked jerry sleepily. "you'd better get up i think. the boat is pitching something fierce, and it's beginning to blow great guns." "um!" exclaimed jerry, as he got out of his bunk, and was thrown up against a bulkhead by a roll of the boat. "i should say it was pitching some. where's rob? where's mr. de vere?" "i didn't call them. i thought i'd tell you first and see what you thought." "wait until i take a look outside," said jerry, dressing as best he could while swaying to and fro with the motion of the ripper. "here! quit your fooling!" suddenly exclaimed bob, as he rolled from his bunk, and barely saved himself from a bad shock by landing on his hands and feet in a crouching attitude, as does a cat. "what did you do that for?" "you'll have to ask father neptune," answered jerry. "we're not guilty, chunky." "didn't you pull me from my bunk?" asked the stout youth. it needed no answer from his chums to assure him to the contrary. the motor boat was now pitching and tossing violently, and, as the boys stood in the cabin, they had hard work to prevent themselves from being thrown from partition to partition. had it not been for their forethought in making everything secure earlier in the night, the boat might have been damaged. "what's the matter, boys?" asked mr. de vere, looking out from his small stateroom. "oh, it's the storm. arrived strictly on time, i guess, and it's a hummer too! how's the engine working?" "fine," declared ned, who had just left the motor cockpit. "runs like a charm, and hasn't missed an explosion since i took charge." "that's good," commented mr. de vere. "we'll need all the power we can get, to keep her head on to the waves, if this gets any worse." as he spoke there was a thundering crash on the deck above them, and a rush of water told that a big comber had come aboard, nearly burying the small craft in a swirl of green water. "are the hatches closed," asked mr. de vere anxiously, "and the sliding doors fastened?" "yes," replied ned. "i saw to that when i noticed the wind was getting worse, and the waves higher." the boat was fitted with a cabin over the full length, but amidships, where the motor was, were sliding partitions that could be taken down, thus making that part of the craft open. ned had put these slides in place, securely fastening them, and closing the top hatches. the derelict hunters were thus completely shut up in the ripper, and could manage the engine, and run the boat without exposing themselves. only for this the big wave might have swamped them. maurice de vere quickly dressed and, with the boys went to the engine compartment. the motor was humming and throbbing, and, at jerry's suggestion, ned gave the wheels and cogs an additional dose of oil. the storm rapidly increased in fury, and the boat was pitching and tossing in a manner that made it difficult to get from one part to another. but the ripper was a substantial craft and though her nose, many times, was buried deep under some big sea, she managed to work her way out, staggering under the shock, but going on, like the gallant boat she was. the engine, from which one or another of the boys never took his eyes, worked to perfection. if it had failed them, and they had gotten into the trough of the sea, there probably would have been a different story to tell of the motor boys on the pacific. "this is getting fierce!" exclaimed bob; after a particularly big wave had deluged the boat. "getting fierce?" repeated jerry. "it's been fierce for some time. i hope it doesn't get any worse." but, if it did not increase in violence, the storm showed no signs of ceasing. the wind fairly howled around the frail boat, as if angry that it could not overwhelm it, and beat it down under the waves, which were altogether too big for the safe or comfortable riding of the ripper. there was nothing to do save watch the engine, keep the wheel steady, and the boat pointed head on to the waves. the three boys took turns at this, for no one would now venture back to his bunk. mr. de vere could do little, for his broken arm hampered him, and, in order that he might suffer no further injury, he braced himself in a corner, where he would be comparatively safe from the pitching and tossing. "wow! that was a bad one!" exclaimed bob, as another heavy wave thundered on the deck, and ran hissing along the scuppers. "i think you had better get out the life preservers," suggested mr. de vere, when several more tremendous waves followed in quick succession. "do you think we are in danger?" asked ned. "no more than we were some time ago," was the rather grave answer. "but it is best to be prepared. we seem to be running into the center of the storm, instead of away from it." "i'll get the cork jackets," volunteered jerry, going to the lockers where the preservers were kept. they were placed where they could be quickly put on in case the boat foundered, and then, with white, set faces the boys prepared to watch out the remainder of the night, looking to the engine occasionally, and hoping fervently that they would weather the storm. it was not cold, for they were in the latitude close to perpetual summer, and there was no rain, only that never-ceasing wind which piled the waves up in great foam-capped masses. on and on the boat staggered, now scarcely making any progress at all, and, again, during a lull shooting through the water at great speed. sometimes the screw would be "racing," as the stern lifted clear of the water, and again the powerful motor would be almost at a standstill, so great was the pressure of the waves on the blades of the propeller. "it doesn't seem to be getting any worse," remarked bob after a long silence, broken only by the howl of the wind. "we haven't been boarded by any seas lately." "no, i think we have gone through the most dangerous part of it," agreed mr. de vere. "but we're still far from being out of danger. there is a very heavy sea on." they waited and hoped. the throb of the engine became a monotonous hum and whir, and the crash of the waves like the boom of some big drum. rob, looking through one of the cabin dead-eyes, exclaimed: "see!" the others looked out. "it's getting morning," spoke jerry, with a sigh of relief. "the night is almost gone." gradually it became lighter, the pale gray dawn stealing in through the thick bull's-eyes, and revealing the rather pale faces of the young derelict hunters. they looked out on a heaving waste of waters, the big waves rising and falling like some gigantic piece of machinery. "the wind is dying down," announced ned in a low voice. somehow it seemed as if they ought to talk in whispers. "yes, i think it will stop when the sun comes up," said mr. de vere. "it looks as if it would be clear." in the east there appeared a rosy light. a golden beam shot up to the sky, tinting the crests of the waves. then the rim of old sol appeared, to cheer the voyagers. "look there!" suddenly called jerry, pointing straight at the disk of the sun, which, every second, was becoming larger. they all looked and saw, laboring in the waves, about a mile away, a powerful tug, that seemed to be following them. chapter xxvi rival searchers "what boat is that?" asked ned. "hand me the glasses," requested mr. de vere, as he went nearer to the cabin port. he peered through the binoculars for some time, then announced: "it's the steam tug, monarch, from san pedro. i wonder what it can be doing out this way?" "perhaps it was blown out of its course by the storm," suggested jerry. "i'm sure we must have been." "very likely," admitted mr. de vere. "still that is a very powerful boat, and the captain must have some reason to be keeping after us the way he is doing." "do you think they are following us?" asked ned. "it certainly looks so. we're headed straight out to sea now," he added, after a glance at the compass. "if the tug was out of it's course it would be turned about and going the other way. instead it is coming right after us." this was very evident, for, as the ripper was laboring through the waves, the other vessel kept in her wake, and seemed to be overhauling the motor boat. "well, it's a free country; i suppose they have a right to be here," spoke jerry. "yes," said mr. de vere, watching the tug through the glasses, "but i don't like their actions." "why not? do you think--" began jerry. "i don't like to say what i think," was the answer. "we will have to wait and see what develops. but i propose that we have some breakfast, or, at least, some hot coffee, if bob can manage to stand in the galley. it has been a hard night for us." bob soon demonstrated that he could get up a breakfast under rather adverse circumstances, and the derelict hunters were soon drinking hot coffee, though they had to hold the partly-filled cups in one hand, and maintain their balance by clinging with the other to some part of the cabin. the day was clear, and, save for the high waves, there were no evidences of the storm. the big sea, however, was not likely to subside soon, and the ripper had to stagger along as best she could, which task she performed to the great satisfaction of the voyagers. maurice de vere seemed much worried by the appearance of the tug, which hung on the wake of the ripper, maintaining a speed that kept it about a mile to the rear. the owner of the rockhaven kept the glasses almost continually on the steam vessel, and the anxious look did not leave his face. "can you slow down the engine a bit?" he asked of jerry, who had relieved ned at the motor. "yes, if you want me to, why?" "i'd like that other boat to come closer to us. i want to see if i can make out who is aboard. if we slacken our speed they may approach before they see the trick, and i can form some opinion of what this strange chase means." "what do you think it means?" asked ned. "i'm afraid it indicates that blowitz is after us," replied mr. de vere. "i think he has heard of our voyage after the brig and has hired this tug to try and beat me. but slow down, and let us see what happens. the waves are not so high now, and you can do it with safety." accordingly jerry reduced the speed of the motor. the ripper at once began to lose headway, and mr. de vere, watching the oncoming tug through the binoculars, announced: "she'll be closer in a little while, and i can make out the man on deck, who seems to be directing operations." the boys anxiously waited. their employer kept the glasses to his eyes, though it was tiresome work, holding them with one hand. suddenly he exclaimed: "i can see him quite plainly, now!" "who is it?" asked jerry quickly. "carson blowitz! he, too, is after the derelict! he is going to try and cheat me again!" nearer and nearer approached the steam tug, for the pilot had, evidently, not taken into consideration the fact that the ripper was going ahead at reduced speed. soon it was close enough for the boys, without the aid of the glasses, to make out the figure of blowitz. "i must go outside," announced mr. de vere. "give me a hand, jerry, so i won't stumble and hurt my broken arm." "what are you going to do?" "i'm going to ask blowitz what he means by following me; and whether he is trying to find the derelict that belongs to me." jerry assisted mr. de vere out on the small deck in front of the cabin. by this time the monarch was within hailing distance, those in charge of her evidently having decided to give up trying to remain in the rear. "ripper ahoy!" called carson blowitz, waving his hand at the little group on deck. "what do you want, you scoundrel?" asked mr. de vere angrily. "what do you mean by following me?" "rather strong language, my dear partner," was the taunting answer from blowitz. "besides i don't know that i am following you. the ocean is big enough for two boats, i guess." "do you deny that you are following me, and seeking to find the derelict rockhaven?" demanded mr. de vere. "i deny nothing-- i admit nothing, my dear partner." "i am no longer in partnership with you, since you tried to cheat me," was the answer. "i consider our relations at an end." "very well. but i am sorry to see that you are hurt. i hope it is nothing serious." "no thanks to you that i was not killed! you meant to end my life when you pushed me over the cliff, and, as soon as this business is settled i intend to see that you are punished for your crimes. you have gone too far, carson blowitz." "not as far as i intend to go!" suddenly exclaimed the other, with a change in his manner. the two boats were now side by side, not twenty feet away. "you have guessed it," he went on. "i am after the derelict brig, and i intend to get her. i am going to finish you before i am through. that ship is mine, and all the cargo on her. if you attempt to touch it i shall have to take stringent measures to prevent you. i warn you not to interfere with my property!" "your property!" cried maurice de vere. "that brig and all on it is mine, by every legal claim, and i shall maintain my rights to the uttermost." "very well then, it is to be a fight!" answered blowitz. "we are to be rival seekers after the derelict. possession is nine points of the law, and i intend to take possession." "first you'll have to find it." "never fear. i am on the track. good-bye, my recent partner. sorry i can't keep you company." blowitz waved his hand, as though in friendly farewell, but mr. de vere turned aside, refusing to notice him, for the scoundrel had greatly wronged him, and was now adding insult to injury. there was a ringing of bells on the tug, and the powerful vessel forged ahead, leaving the ripper astern. "shall we speed up?" asked jerry. "we can easily beat them, for ours is the faster boat." "no, let him go," replied mr. de vere. "he has no more idea, than have i, where to look for the derelict. he is taking the same chances we are, but i'll not follow him. as he says, we are rivals now. i hope i win, for my whole fortune depends on it." "we'll do our best to help you," said bob. "that's what we will," added jerry, and ned nodded an assent. "bear off to the left," suggested mr. de vere, as a cloud of black smoke from the funnel of the tug showed that the engineer was crowding on steam. "we'll part company from them." speeding up the engine jerry steered the ripper out of the course of the monarch. the hunt of the rivals to locate the derelict brig was now on. chapter xxvii the derelict "they don't seem to be following us now," observed ned, after they had watched the tug continuing on her course. "no, it looks as if they were taking another tack," said maurice de vere. "i wonder if he can have private information as to the location of the brig? if he has he may get ahead of me and discover her first." "i don't believe he has," was jerry's opinion. "i think he is on a blind search, just as we are." "i hope so. it means a great deal to me to find that derelict." "what had we better do?" asked bob. "can't we get ahead of him in some way?" "i know of no other way than to cruise about until we find the brig," replied mr. de vere. "it is only a chance, but luck may favor us first. that is all we can hope for." all that day they cruised fruitlessly about, and the next day was equally barren of result. "i'm afraid you'll think we're not very good derelict hunters," remarked jerry on the morning of the third day after the storm, when they took an observation, and saw nothing but a vast extent of water. the weather was calm, the sun shone brightly and the ripper was making good time. "no," was the answer. "it isn't your fault. this was in the nature of an experiment, and i do not expect immediate results. i figured on being three weeks on this search, and we have only spent about a third of that time. we are yet on the safe side, although i admit it is rather disappointing." after breakfast they resumed their observations. it was nearly eight bells when ned, who had been stationed in the bow with the powerful glasses, cried out: "i see something." "where?" asked mr. de vere eagerly. "off the left." mr. de vere took the glasses and peered long and anxiously through them at a small speck which ned pointed out as it rose and fell on the crest of the billows. "is it the derelict?" asked jerry, appearing in the companionway. "i don't know," answered ned. "it looks like some sort of a ship, but i'm afraid to be positive, because we've had so many false alarms." "it's some sort of a ship," remarked mr. de vere suddenly as he passed the glasses to jerry. "i make it out to be a brig, and, from the way it is jibing about, it seems to be under no control. see what you think." jerry took a careful look. "it's a brig, sure enough," he declared, "and i can't see any sign of life on her." "put us over that way," requested mr. de vere, of ned, who was steering and running the engine. "when we get a little nearer i may be able to make out the name." there were anxious hearts beating in the breasts of those aboard the ripper. could it be possible that the ship they saw was the derelict for which they had been searching? they all hoped so. ned speeded the motor up to the highest notch and the boat fairly flew through the calm sea. near and nearer it came to the ship, which could now plainly be made out. there was not a sail set, and this was peculiar in itself. the brig idly rose and fell on the long, heaving swells. "it's my ship!" suddenly cried mr. de vere, after a lengthy observation through the binoculars. "i can make out her name. it's the rockhaven! hurrah, boys! we have found her at last!" "and blowitz and his tug are nowhere in sight!" cried ned. "we have beaten him!" "indeed we have," went on mr. de vere. "now, ned, see how soon you can put us alongside." "it will not take long," declared the young engineer. "it's only a few miles." the ripper proved worthy of her name, for she fairly "ripped" through the waves, and, in a short time, was so close to the derelict that they had to slow up. "put us up under the port quarter," advised mr. de vere. "luckily there is not much of a swell on, and we can easily get aboard as she sets low in the water. she must be leaking." with skillful hand ned brought the motor boat alongside. the anchor chains were hanging low from the hawse holes and as they approached jerry prepared to catch hold and swing himself up. he had reached out his hand, and was just going to grasp the links, when, from the deck of the deserted brig there came savage growls and barks. jerry jumped back in alarm and ned, who had jammed a boat hook in the side of the brig, to hold the ripper steady, looked up. "it's dogs!" he cried. "two of 'em!" as he spoke two savage looking creatures thrust their heads up over the low rail. they were large dogs, of the wolf-hound variety; great shaggy creatures, and they growled in a menacing manner. "they must have left the dogs aboard when they so strangely deserted the ship," said mr. de vere. "i suppose they're glad to see us. they must be lonesome. try again, jerry. i would, if i had the use of my two arms." once more jerry prepared to ascend by means of the chains, but the dogs almost leaped over the rail at him, showing their teeth, while the hair on as much of their backs as could be seen stood up in ridges. foam dripped from their jaws. "look out!" cried bob. "those dogs are mad! be careful!" savage growls and barks from the angry beasts emphasized his words. there was no doubt of it. the dogs were mad from fear and hunger. they disputed the advance of the voyagers, and would not let them aboard. "try on the other side," suggested mr. de vere. the boat was worked around to the other side of the bow, but the dogs followed, and stood on guard there. "maybe we can get up at the stern," said jerry. "perhaps the dogs can't make their way aft." but it was the same there. the maddened animals were ready to fly at the throats of any one who should attempt to board the derelict. "what's to be done?" asked ned. "we didn't count on this. those are fierce dogs." "indeed they are," replied mr. de vere. "it would not be safe to risk getting too close to them." "but what can we do?" asked jerry. "if we wait here too long, blowitz may appear." "we've got to do something," said the boy's employer. "the only thing i can see to do is to shoot the dogs. i'll get my rifle," and he went into the cabin, where he had left his weapon, one of several he had brought aboard. chapter xxviii a mysterious influence "one of you boys will have to do the shooting," said maurice de vere, as he came out on the small forward deck with his rifle. "i'm a pretty good marksman, but i can't do anything when i have this broken arm." "let jerry try," suggested ned. "he's the best shot of us three." "oh, i don't know," spoke jerry modestly, but mr. de vere handed him the rifle. "we have no time to lose," he said. "blowitz may be here at any hour, and, as he said, possession is nine points of the law. i want to get aboard." jerry looked to the loading of the weapon, and then, at his suggestion the motor boat was backed off some yards. "i want to see to get a good shot, and put the poor things out of their misery as soon as possible," he said. the dogs acted more wild than ever as they saw the motor boat moving about. they almost leaped overboard, as they raced about the derelict and finally, they both jumped on the quarter deck, where they stood in bold relief. "now's your chance, jerry!" cried ned. jerry took quick aim, steadying himself as best he could against the motion of the boat. the rifle cracked, and, at the same instant one of the dogs gave a howl, a convulsive leap, and, a second later was floundering in the water. "there's one of the poor brutes gone," remarked mr. de vere. "now, once more, jerry. i hate to kill the dogs, for they are valuable animals, but it is a question of their lives or ours, and it would not be safe to let them live." the remaining dog, startled by the rifle shot, and the disappearance of its companion stood in mute surprise on the quarter deck. he offered a good shot, and jerry fired. the dog howled, and began whirling about in a circle, snapping its jaws. "you've only wounded him!" exclaimed bob. before any one else could speak jerry had fired the repeater again. this time the bullet went true, and the dog fell to the deck, gave a few convulsive struggles, and was still. "that settles him," remarked mr. de vere. "now, boys, we'll go aboard, and i'll get what belongs to me. then we'll see if we can tow the ship in." the ripper was once more put alongside the brig, cork buffers were adjusted to prevent damage being done, and, in a few minutes jerry had scrambled up on deck. "that's a fierce brute," he remarked to bob who followed him, as they stood looking at the dead dog. "i'm glad i didn't have to tackle him at close quarters." "let's heave him overboard," suggested bob, and they did so, though it took all their strength to drag the body to the rail. "i guess you'll have to lower the accommodation ladder for me, boys," said mr. de vere. "i don't believe i can scramble up by way of the chains, as you did." "wait until i get up there and i'll give you a hand," called ned, who had been left in the motor boat. "no, you had better stay here and help fasten the ladder when bob and jerry lower it," answered mr. de vere. "i'll need your aid." after some little difficulty, for part of the tackle had fouled, bob and jerry succeeded in lowering over the ship's side an accommodation ladder, somewhat like a short flight of steps. it hung above the ripper's deck, and when some ropes had been strung for hand rails, mr. de vere was able to ascend, holding on by one hand, and was soon on the deck of the brig. "at last!" he exclaimed. "here we are! i was afraid we'd never find her, and, if we did, that blowitz would be ahead of me. but, thanks to you, boys, i have beaten him. now i must see if my papers are safe." "where will you look for them?" asked jerry. "they must be somewhere in the captain's cabin. that is where the gold will likely be. i suppose we'll have to hunt for it." "shall we help you?" "yes, if you will. let's go below. is the motor boat securely made fast?" "i'll guarantee she'll not drift away," declared ned, as he and his companions followed mr. de vere to the main cabin. on every side were evidences of a hurried abandonment of the brig. some of the sailors had gone off without taking all their clothing, for garments were scattered here and there. things were in confusion below decks, and the captain's cabin showed signs of having been ransacked. "there is something queer about this," said mr. de vere as he surveyed the scene. "the ship is not sinking, and i don't believe it has leaked a drop, though at first i thought so. there was no collision, for there is no sign of damage. yet there is every indication that captain and crew deserted the brig in a hurry. now what made them do that? why did not blowitz give me some reason for that? what caused the abandonment of the brig?" "perhaps the sailors got superstitious, i've often read that they do," suggested jerry. "i hardly think so." "maybe they were afraid of the mad dogs," said bob. "i don't believe the dogs went mad until after the sailors left," was mr. de vere's answer. "no, there is some strange secret connected with the brig, and i'd like to solve it. but i must first find my papers and the gold." "suppose the captain took them with him?" remarked ned. "he did not know about them. that is he did not know of what the valuables consisted. the gold and papers were put in a safe, and only blowitz and myself had the combination. the safe was placed in the captain's cabin, and he was instructed to deliver it, unopened, to a certain man. when they deserted the ship in such a hurry i do not believe they took the safe with them. it must be somewhere on board. we'll search for it." the cabin was rather large, and contained a number of lockers and other places that might serve as a hiding place for the safe. the boys and mr. de vere made a careful hunt. while they were in the midst of it a sudden noise startled them. "what was that?" asked bob. "the cabin door slid shut," answered jerry, who had seen what happened. "i'll open it." "here's the safe!" suddenly called mr. de vere, as he opened a small locker, in an out-of-the-way corner. "help me get it out, boys, and we'll open it." the closed door was forgotten, and the three lads, at their employer's suggestion, fastened a rope about the safe and pulled it out. it rolled on small wheels. "sorry i can't help you much," spoke mr. de vere, "but this arm of mine prevents me." "oh, we can manage it all right," declared jerry, and after a while, they succeeded in wheeling the safe out into the middle of the cabin. "there is some other stuff in the locker," announced bob, as he peered within. "it looks like those small boxes mr. blowitz shipped from cresville." "that's what they are," added jerry, taking a look. "now we have a chance to see what is in them." "wait until we get the safe open," advised mr. de vere. "then we'll see if we can't get at the secret of the ship." he sat down in front of the strong steel box, and began to turn the combination. it was quite complicated, and took some time. "um-m-m-m-m!" exclaimed bob, with a lazy stretch. "i'm beginning to feel sleepy. guess i'll lie down on this couch and rest." he did so, and, somewhat to his companions' surprise, was soon apparently asleep. "he must be pretty well played out," remarked ned. "funny, but i feel a little drowsy myself. we haven't been getting any too much sleep, of late, i suppose." mr. de vere was working away at the combination of the safe. something seemed to have gone wrong with it, and he twirled the knobs and dials, first this way and that. "what a curious ringing sound they make," jerry was thinking, as he sat in a chair and looked on. "it's just like bells away off somewhere. i wonder if it's my ears? i feel as if i had taken quinine for a cold. there seems to be some sort of a haze in the cabin. i wonder--" but jerry never knew what he wondered, for the same mysterious influence that had overpowered bob had made jerry succumb. his head fell forward on his breast, and he was unconscious. ned began to imagine he was in a boiler factory, of which mr. de vere was the foreman. the latter seemed to be hammering on a big steel safe, and soon, in ned's ears there echoed the noise of the blows. then the boy's eyes closed, and he joined bob and jerry in falling under the mysterious spell. seated on the floor in front of the safe mr. de vere wondered what made his fingers move so slowly. with his one good hand he could scarcely turn the dials of the combination. his head, too, felt very heavy, and once there was such a mist before his eyes that he could not see the figures on the shining disk of the safe. "this is queer," he murmured. "it is very close in this cabin. i wish the boys had opened the door. i wish-- i--" mr. de vere fell over backward, unconscious, while, around the silent forms in the cabin wreathed a thin bluish vapor that came from the locker where the safe had been, and where there were some small boxes-- the same mysterious boxes that blowitz had shipped from cresville. in the tightly-closed cabin the derelict hunters were now at the mercy of the mysterious influence-- an influence they could not see or guard against, and from which they were in deadly peril. chapter xxix a command to lay to strange things happen on the ocean. sometimes slight occurrences lead to great results. when the sailors deserted the brig rockhaven, provisioning their boats in a hurry, one water cask was left behind. the mate had intended stowing it away in the captain's gig, but found there was no room for it, so he allowed it to remain on deck, where he set it. in due time, by the motion of the abandoned brig in the storm, the water cask was overturned and rolled about at every heave of the waves, first to port, and then to starboard, now aft, and again forward. as luck would have it, not long after those in the cabin fell under the deadly influence of some queer, stupefying fumes, the water cask was rolling about close to the trunk roof of the cabin, a roof that had side windows in it. with one lurch of the ship the water cask nearly crashed against these windows, but, by the narrowest margin missed. then the cask rolled toward the scuppers. those in the cabin were more than ever under the influence of the fumes. they were breathing heavily, the veins in their necks began to swell, their hearts were laboring hard to overcome the stupefying influence of the fumes. but it was almost too late. suddenly a long roller lifted the brig well up into the air. then it slid down the watery incline. the cask started to roll toward the cabin windows. straight for them it came, turning over and over. with a resounding blow the cask shattered the frame, and sent the glass in a shower into the cabin below. through the opening thus providentially made, the fresh air rushed. the deadly fumes began to escape. once more the cask rolled against the window, breaking another glass, and more fresh air came in. jerry stirred uneasily. it seemed as if some one had a hammer, hitting him on the head. that was the blood beginning to circulate again. his veins throbbed with life. slowly he opened his eyes. he became aware of a sweet, sickish smell, that mingled with the sharp tang of the salt air. by a great effort he roused himself. he could not, for a moment, think where he was, but he had a dim feeling as if some one had tried to chloroform him. then, with a sudden shock his senses came back to him. he became aware of the need of fresh air, and, hardly knowing what he was doing, he opened the cabin door. the inrush of a fresh atmosphere completed the work the water cask had begun. the poisonous fumes were dispersed, and, with their disappearance, the others regained their senses. mr. de vere was the next to arouse. "what-- what happened?" he asked. "i don't know," replied jerry, "unless blowitz came aboard and chloroformed us." "he couldn't do that-- yet-- the safe is not tampered with-- but this drowsy feeling--" mr. de vere stopped suddenly. his eyes were fixed on the closet or locker, whence the safe had been wheeled, and where the little boxes were. from the locker a thin, bluish smoke arose. "quick!" he cried. "i understand it all now! we must get them overboard or we'll all be killed!" ned and bob had been aroused by this time, and were sitting staring stupidly around them. they did not realize what had happened. "i'll throw 'em overboard," volunteered jerry. "don't go near them," cautioned mr. de vere. "if you breathe too deeply of those fumes, you'll be killed. get a boat hook, poke them out of the locker, spear them with the sharp point, and thrust them up through the broken cabin window." jerry hurried to the ripper, which safely rode alongside the brig. he got a sharp boat hook, and, with the aid of bob and ned, the boxes, with their deadly contents were soon out on deck, whence they were knocked into the sea. then a hunt was made in other parts of the brig and more boxes were found and cast into the ocean. "what was in them?" asked ned, when the task was finished. "was that what made us fall asleep?" "it was," replied mr. de vere. "what was in them i do not know exactly, but it was some chemical that blowitz put there to accomplish his purpose. i see through his scheme now. after the brig was loaded he sent these boxes aboard. they were distributed in different parts of the ship, some in the quarters of the crew, some where the mates slept, and others in the captain's cabin. they were properly adjusted to give off a vapor at a certain time and he counted either on the fumes killing the men, or making them unconscious so they would die of heart failure. then, very likely, he intended to make a search for the brig which would have no captain or crew, and claim the vessel. but his scheme did not work as he intended. the crew and captain were probably frightened by feeling some mysterious sleepy influence at work, and they hastily deserted the ship. probably the commander did not like to acknowledge the real reason for his seemingly un-called-for act, and he did not tell blowitz the cause for the abandonment. the stuff in the boxes remained on board, ready to render unconscious any persons who came within reach of the fumes. maybe it made the dogs mad. "the accidental closing of the cabin door deprived us of air. the fumes filled the cabin, and rendered us all unconscious. i do not yet understand how we were revived." "it must have been the water cask," declared jerry, who had seen it on deck, and his theory, which was the correct one, was accepted. "now i will finish working the combination, and open the safe," said mr. de vere, when they had breathed in deep of the fresh air, and felt the last influences of the fumes vanish. "we must have been unconscious an hour or more." it did not take him long after this to open the strong box. from an inner compartment he drew forth a bundle of papers, and a small box, that seemed quite heavy. this he opened. "the gold is safe, at any rate," he announced. "now to look at the papers." a hasty examination of these showed that they were all there. "this is good news for me, boys," announced mr. de vere. "my fortune is safe now, and that scoundrel blowitz can not ruin me as he tried to do!" "hark! what was that?" asked jerry suddenly. from somewhere out on the pacific there sounded a whistle, long drawn out. "it's a steamer!" cried ned. "it has probably sighted the derelict!" "a steamer," murmured mr. de vere. "if it is not--" he did not finish, but the boys knew what he meant. mr. de vere hastily thrust the papers into an inner pocket of his coat. "distribute the gold among you," he told the boys. "when we get it aboard the ripper we can hide it. there is no telling what might happen. if that steamer--" "it's the tug monarch!" cried jerry, who had hurried up on deck. "it's coming this way full speed!" "then we must leave at once!" decided mr. de vere. "i think our boat can beat theirs. i did hope to be able to tow the brig into harbor, and save the cargo, but that is out of the question now. i do not want a fight with blowitz. come, boys, we must escape!" the boys hurriedly divided the gold among them. it made their pockets bulge out, and was quite heavy. mr. de vere had his papers safe. as the derelict hunters all came out on deck they could see the monarch was much nearer. in bold relief stood a figure in the bow. "it's blowitz!" exclaimed mr. de vere, "and he's shaking his fist at me. he's angry because i have beaten him at his own game. but come on, i don't want a clash with him. i am in no shape for another fight. we'll have to retreat." it was the work of but a few seconds to get into the motor boat. the lines were cast off, and, with one turn of the wheel ned started the engine, and ran her up to full speed after a few revolutions. "now let them have the brig," said mr. de vere. "i've gotten the best out of her." but blowitz and his men seemed to have lost interest in the derelict. instead of continuing on their course toward it they were now coming full speed after the ripper, the tug being steered to cross her bows. probably blowitz took it for granted that de vere had the papers and gold. "they're after us!" cried jerry. "yes, but they've got to catch us!" declared bob. an instant later a puff of white smoke spurted out from the side of the monarch, something black jumped from wave-crest to wave-crest. then came a dull boom. "what's that?" asked bob, in alarm. "a shot across our bows. a command to lay to," said mr. de vere. chapter xxx the end of blowitz-- conclusion "are you going to stop?" asked ned, of maurice de vere. "not unless you boys are afraid. i don't believe they can hit us. that's only a small saluting cannon they have, and it's hard to shoot straight when there's as much sea on as there is now. do you want to stop and surrender?" "not much!" cried the three motor boys in a breath. "then may it be a stern chase and a long chase!" exclaimed mr. de vere. "crowd her all you can, ned, and we'll beat him." ned needed no urging to make the powerful motor do its best. the machinery was throbbing and humming, and the ripper was cutting through the water "with a bone in her teeth," as the sailors say. "swing her around so as to get the tug in back of us," advised jerry. "we'll be in less danger then." ned shifted the wheel, but, as he was doing so there was another shot from the monarch, and, this time, the ball from the cannon came uncomfortably close. "their aim is improving," remarked mr. de vere, as he coolly looked at the pursuing tug through the glasses, "but we are leaving them behind." the chase had now become a "stern" one, that is the monarch was directly astern of the ripper, and the varying progresses made by the boats could not be discerned so well as before. still it seemed that the motor boat was maintaining her lead. it now settled down to a pursuit, for, stern on as she was, the ripper offered so small a mark for the tug, that it was almost useless to fire the cannon. there were anxious hearts aboard the motor boat, as they watched the tug pursuing them. they knew there would be a fight if blowitz and mr. de vere met, and, in the latter's crippled condition, it was not hard to imagine how it would result. "how's she running, ned?" asked jerry, as he looked at the engine. "never better. she's singing like a bird. this is a dandy boat." "i think we'll beat him," declared mr. de vere. for an hour or more the chase continued, the monarch seeming to gain slowly. mr. de vere looked anxious, and kept his eyes fixed to the binoculars, through which he viewed the pursuing vessel. at length, however, a more cheerful look came into his face. "something has happened!" he exclaimed. "happened? how?" asked jerry. "why aboard the tug. blowitz went off the deck in a hurry, and the steersman has left the pilot house. maybe something is wrong with the machinery." that something of this nature had happened was evident a few minutes later, for the monarch had to slow up, and the ripper was soon so far in advance that to catch up with her was out of the question. "i guess the chase is over," announced mr. de vere. "i think they've had an accident. still blowitz will not give up. i must expect a legal battle over this matter when i get ashore. he will try to ruin me, and claim these papers and the gold. but i will beat him." the ripper, urged on by her powerful motor, soon lost sight of the tug, which, from the last observation mr. de vere took, seemed to have turned about, to go back to the brig. two days later, having made quick time, and on a straight course, the voyagers sighted the harbor of san felicity a few miles away. "now for home!" cried ned. "and the bungalow 'the next day,' ponto and a good square meal!" added bob. "and the girls," came from jerry. "i guess they'll be glad to see us." "if blowitz doesn't turn up to make trouble for me," put in mr. de vere, rather dubiously. the ripper docked that afternoon, and, mr. de vere, promising to call on the boys and pay them their prize money as soon as he had seen his lawyer, and deposited the gold and papers in a safe place, bade them good-bye at the wharf, and hurried off. he was fearful lest he should be intercepted by some agent of blowitz, though there was no sign that the tug had arrived. the three boys were warmly welcomed by the girls and mr. seabury, when they got to the bungalow. "i congratulate you," said the elderly gentleman. "you deserve great credit for what you did." "well, we had good luck," admitted jerry. "but where is the professor?" "out searching for horned toads and web-footed lizards," said nellie. "he has enlisted the services of ponto, and they are continually on the hunt. i hope he gets what he wants." "he generally does," said bob. "if he doesn't he finds something else nearly as good." some days later mr. de vere called at the bungalow. he had finished up his business affairs, and brought the boys the prize money, as their reward for the parts they had played in the finding of the derelict. "but this is too much," protested jerry, when mr. de vere had given him and his comrades nearly half as much again as was originally promised. "not a bit of it," was the reply. "i can well afford it. those papers were more valuable than you supposed, and i find i will be able to collect insurance on the cargo of the abandoned brig. i have heard from the captain of it, and he tells me, just as i supposed, that he and the crew left her because of the peculiar fumes, so that my theory was right, after all. they tried to take the dogs, which belonged to the first mate, but could not." "did you hear anything more of blowitz?" asked ned. "yes," replied mr. de vere, rather solemnly. "blowitz was killed shortly after the tug gave up the chase." "how?" "the boiler blew up when the tug was trying to tow the derelict in, and he and several of the crew were burned to death. the survivors floated on the wreckage until they were picked up. so i have nothing more to fear from blowitz. but i called to know if you boys, and the young ladies, mr. seabury and professor snodgrass, would not be my guests at a little dinner i am to give at the hotel. i want to show you that i appreciate what you did for me." "i think you have already done so," said jerry. "perhaps i have, but i would like you to come to my dinner. will you?" the boys promised. so did the girls and mr. seabury, whose health was much improved by the california climate. the professor, with a far away look in his eyes, said he would be there if he could. "what's to prevent you?" asked bob. "well, i haven't found that horned toad yet, and i'm still searching." the dinner came off three nights later. it was a grand affair, served in the best of style of which the san felicity hotel chef was capable. the girls and the boys were there, dressed in their best, and ponto was taken along as a sort of chaperon, which gave him great delight. he did not once fall asleep. "but where is professor snodgrass?" asked mr. de vere, when it was nearly time to sit down. "isn't he coming?" "he promised to be here," announced mr. seabury. "probably he is on his way now." at that moment a commotion was heard outside the private dining-room which mr. de vere had engaged. a voice was saying: "i tell you i will go in! i'm invited! my clothes? what about my clothes? all mud? of course they're all mud. i couldn't help it!" then the door flew open and a curious sight was presented. there stood the professor, his coat split up the back, his trousers torn, and his hat smashed. splashes of mud were all over him. "what is the matter?" cried mr. seabury, in alarm. "nothing," replied the professor calmly. "i have caught two horned toads, that's all. i saw them as i was on the way here, and i had to go into a mud puddle to get them. i fell down, but i got the toads," and he held up a small cage, in which were the ugly creatures. "ugh!" exclaimed nellie. "good for you, professor!" cried jerry. "you got the toads and we got our prize money!" "yes, but i would rather have these toads than all your prize money," replied the professor. "they are beauties," he added, fondly. the dinner was a joyous affair, and it is a question who was the happiest, the professor, over the capture of the horned toads, the boys over the successful outcome of their cruise on the pacific, or mr. de vere, who had recovered his fortune. at any rate they all had a good time. "well," remarked bob, when the supper was over, and they were on their way back to the bungalow, "i suppose we'll soon have to think of getting back east, and beginning school. they must have the pipes and boiler fixed by now." "don't think of it," begged ned. "it's too awful. i'd like to go on another long cruise in the ripper." "well, i don't know that we can do that," said jerry, "but i certainly hope we have more adventures soon." how his wish was gratified will be told in another volume of this series, to be entitled, "the motor boys in the clouds; or, a trip for fame and fortune." in that book we shall meet many of our old friends again, and learn something more of a venture in which the motor boys were already interested. "boys, this has been an interesting trip for me," said professor snodgrass. "i have the two horned toads, seven web-footed lizards, and over fifty other valuable specimens to take back with me. i would not have missed this trip for a great deal." "so say we all of us!" cried jerry. "let us go out for another trip in the motor boat to-morrow," said ned. "i mean a short trip." "take us along!" pleaded the girls in concert. "sure thing!" answered the boys. and they went out-- and had a glorious time-- and here we shall have to say farewell. the end _________________________________________________________________ bound to rise or, up the ladder by horatio alger, jr. author of "paul, the peddler," "phil, the fiddler," "strive and succeed," "herrert carter's legacy," "jack's ward," "shifting for himself," etc. biography and bibliography horatio alger, jr., an author who lived among and for boys and himself remained a boy in heart and association till death, was born at revere, mass., january , . he was the son of a clergyman; was graduated at harvard college in , and at its divinity school in ; and was pastor of the unitarian church at brewster, mass., in - . in the latter year he settled in new york and began drawing public attention to the condition and needs of street boys. he mingled with them, gained their confidence, showed a personal concern in their affairs, and stimulated them to honest and useful living. with his first story he won the hearts of all red-blooded boys every-where, and of the seventy or more that followed over a million copies were sold during the author's lifetime. in his later life he was in appearance a short, stout, bald-headed man, with cordial manners and whimsical views of things that amused all who met him. he died at natick, mass., july , . mr. alger's stories are as popular now as when first published, because they treat of real live boys who were always up and about--just like the boys found everywhere to-day. they are pure in tone and inspiring in influence, and many reforms in the juvenile life of new york may be traced to them. among the best known are: strong and steady; strive and succeed; try and trust: bound to rise; risen from the ranks; herbert carter's legacy; brave and bold; jack's ward; shifting for himself; wait and hope; paul the peddler; phil the fiddler: slow and sure: julius the street boy; tom the bootblack; struggling upward; facing the world; the cash boy; making his way; tony the tramp; joe's luck; do and dare: only an irish boy; sink or swim; a cousin's conspiracy; andy gordon; bob burton; harry vane; hector's inheritance; mark manson's triumph; sam's chance; the telegraph boy; the young adventurer; the young outlaw; the young salesman, and luke walton.. chapter i "sit up to the table, children, breakfast's ready." the speaker was a woman of middle age, not good-looking in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but nevertheless she looked good. she was dressed with extreme plainness, in a cheap calico; but though cheap, the dress was neat. the children she addressed were six in number, varying in age from twelve to four. the oldest, harry, the hero of the present story, was a broad-shouldered, sturdy boy, with a frank, open face, resolute, though good-natured. "father isn't here," said fanny, the second child. "he'll be in directly. he went to the store, and he may stop as he comes back to milk." the table was set in the center of the room, covered with a coarse tablecloth. the breakfast provided was hardly of a kind to tempt an epicure. there was a loaf of bread cut into slices, and a dish of boiled potatoes. there was no butter and no meat, for the family were very poor. the children sat up to the table and began to eat. they were blessed with good appetites, and did not grumble, as the majority of my readers would have done, at the scanty fare. they had not been accustomed to anything better, and their appetites were not pampered by indulgence. they had scarcely commenced the meal when the father entered. like his wife, he was coarsely dressed. in personal appearance he resembled his oldest boy. his wife looking up as he entered perceived that he looked troubled. "what is the matter, hiram?" she asked. "you look as if something had happened." "nothing has happened yet," he answered; "but i am afraid we are going to lose the cow." "going to lose the cow!" repeated mrs. walton in dismay. "she is sick. i don't know what's the matter with her." "perhaps it is only a trifle. she may get over it during the day." "she may, but i'm afraid she won't. farmer henderson's cow was taken just that way last fall, and he couldn't save her." "what are you going to do?" "i have been to elihu perkins, and he's coming over to see what he can do for her. he can save her if anybody can." the children listened to this conversation, and, young as they were, the elder ones understood the calamity involved in the possible loss of the cow. they had but one, and that was relied upon to furnish milk for the family, and, besides a small amount of butter and cheese, not for home consumption, but for sale at the store in exchange for necessary groceries. the waltons were too poor to indulge in these luxuries. the father was a farmer on a small scale; that is, he cultivated ten acres of poor land, out of which he extorted a living for his family, or rather a partial living. besides this he worked for his neighbors by the day, sometimes as a farm laborer, sometimes at odd jobs of different kinds, for he was a sort of jack at all trades. but his income, all told, was miserably small, and required the utmost economy and good management on the part of his wife to make it equal to the necessity of a growing family of children. hiram walton was a man of good natural abilities, though of not much education, and after half an hour's conversation with him one would say, unhesitatingly, that he deserved a better fate than his hand-to-hand struggle with poverty. but he was one of those men who, for some unaccountable reason, never get on in the world. they can do a great many things creditably, but do not have the knack of conquering fortune. so hiram had always been a poor man, and probably always would be poor. he was discontented at times, and often felt the disadvantages of his lot, but he was lacking in energy and ambition, and perhaps this was the chief reason why he did not succeed better. after breakfast elihu perkins, the "cow doctor," came to the door. he was an old man with iron-gray hair, and always wore steel-bowed spectacles; at least for twenty years nobody in the town could remember ever having seen him without them. it was the general opinion that he wore them during the night. once when questioned on the subject, he laughingly said that he "couldn't see to go to sleep without his specs". "well, neighbor walton, so the cow's sick?" he said, opening the outer door without ceremony. "yes, elihu, she looks down in the mouth. i hope you can save her." "i kin tell better when i've seen the critter. when you've got through breakfast, we'll go out to the barn." "i've got through now," said mr. walton, whose anxiety for the cow had diminished his appetite. "may i go too, father?" asked harry, rising from the table. "yes, if you want to." the three went out to the small, weather-beaten building which served as a barn for the want of a better. it was small, but still large enough to contain all the crops which mr. walton could raise. probably he could have got more out of the land if he had had means to develop its resources; but it was naturally barren, and needed much more manure than he was able to spread over it. so the yield to an acre was correspondingly small, and likely, from year to year, to grow smaller rather than larger. they opened the small barn door, which led to the part occupied by the cow's stall. the cow was lying down, breathing with difficulty. elihu perkins looked at her sharply through his "specs." "what do you think of her, neighbor perkins?" asked the owner, anxiously. the cow doctor shifted a piece of tobacco from one cheek to the other, and looked wise. "i think the critter's nigh her end," he said, at last. "is she so bad as that?" "pears like it. she looks like farmer henderson's that died a while ago. i couldn't save her." "save my cow, if you can. i don't know what i should do without her." "i'll do my best, but you mustn't blame me if i can't bring her round. you see there's this about dumb critters that makes 'em harder to cure than human bein's. they can't tell their symptoms, nor how they feel; and that's why it's harder to be a cow doctor than a doctor for humans. you've got to go by the looks, and looks is deceivin'. if i could only ask the critter how she feels, and where she feels worst, i might have some guide to go by. not but i've had my luck. there's more'n one of 'em i've saved, if i do say it myself." "i know you can save her if anyone can, elihu," said mr. walton, who appreciated the danger of the cow, and was anxious to have the doctor begin. "yes, i guess i know about as much about them critters as anybody," said the garrulous old man, who had a proper appreciation of his dignity and attainments as a cow doctor. "i've had as good success as anyone i know on. if i can't cure her, you may call her a gone case. have you got any hot water in the house?" "i'll go in and see." "i'll go, father," said harry. "well, come right back. we have no time to lose." harry appreciated the need of haste as well as his father, and speedily reappeared with a pail of hot water. "that's right, harry," said his father. "now you'd better go into the house and do your chores, so as not to be late for school." harry would have liked to remain and watch the steps which were being taken for the recovery of the cow; but he knew he had barely time to do the "chores" referred to before school, and he was far from wishing to be late there. he had an ardent thirst for learning, and, young as he was, ranked first in the district school which he attended. i am not about to present my young hero as a marvel of learning, for he was not so. he had improved what opportunities he had enjoyed, but these were very limited. since he was nine years of age, his schooling had been for the most part limited to eleven weeks in the year. there was a summer as well as a winter school; but in the summer he only attended irregularly, being needed to work at home. his father could not afford to hire help, and there were many ways in which harry, though young, could help him. so it happened that harry, though a tolerably good scholar, was deficient in many respects, on account of the limited nature of his opportunities. he set to work at once at the chores. first he went to the woodpile and sawed and split a quantity of wood, enough to keep the kitchen stove supplied till he came home again from school in the afternoon. this duty was regularly required of him. his father never touched the saw or the ax, but placed upon harry the general charge of the fuel department. after sawing and splitting what he thought to be sufficient, he carried it into the house by armfuls, and piled it up near the kitchen stove. he next drew several buckets of water from the well, for it was washing day, brought up some vegetables from the cellar to boil for dinner, and then got ready for school. chapter ii. a calamity efforts for the recovery of the cow went on. elihu perkins exhausted all his science in her behalf. i do not propose to detail his treatment, because i am not sure whether it was the best, and possibly some of my readers might adopt it under similar circumstances, and then blame me for its unfortunate issue. it is enough to say that the cow grew rapidly worse in spite of the hot-water treatment, and about eleven o'clock breathed her last. the sad intelligence was announced by elihu, who first perceived it. "the critter's gone," he said. "'tain't no use doin' anything more." "the cow's dead!" repeated mr. walton, sorrowfully. he had known for an hour that this would be the probable termination of the disease. still while there was life there was hope. now both went out together. "yes, the critter's dead!" said elihu, philosophically, for he lost nothing by her. "it was so to be, and there wa'n't no help for it. that's what i thought from the fust, but i was willin' to try." "wasn't there anything that could have saved her?" elihu shook his head decidedly. "if she could a-been saved, i could 'ave done it," he said. "what i don't know about cow diseases ain't wuth knowin'." everyone is more or less conceited. elihu's conceit was as to his scientific knowledge on the subject of cows and horses and their diseases. he spoke so confidently that mr. walton did not venture to dispute him. "i s'pose you're right, elihu," he said; "but it's hard on me." "yes, neighbor, it's hard on you, that's a fact. what was she wuth?" "i wouldn't have taken forty dollars for her yesterday." "forty dollars is a good sum." "it is to me. i haven't got five dollars in the world outside of my farm." "i wish i could help you, neighbor walton, but i'm a poor man myself." "i know you are, elihu. somehow it doesn't seem fair that my only cow should be taken, when squire green has got ten, and they're all alive and well. if all his cows should die, he could buy as many more and not feel the loss." "squire green's a close man." "he's mean enough, if he is rich." "sometimes the richest are the meanest." "in his case it is true." "he could give you a cow just as well as not. if i was as rich as he, i'd do it." "i believe you would, elihu; but there's some difference between you and him." "maybe the squire would lend you money to buy a cow. he always keeps money to lend on high interest." mr. walton reflected a moment, then said slowly, "i must have a cow, and i don't know of any other way, but i hate to go to him." "he's the only man that's likely to have money to lend in town." "well, i'll go." "good luck to you, neighbor walton." "i need it enough," said hiram walton, soberly. "if it comes, it'll be the first time for a good many years." "well, i'll be goin', as i can't do no more good." hiram walton went into the house, and a look at his face told his wife the news he brought before his lips uttered it. "is she dead, hiram?" "yes, the cow's dead. forty dollars clean gone," he said, rather bitterly. "don't be discouraged, hiram. it's bad luck, but worse things might happen." "such as what?" "why, the house might burn down, or--or some of us might fall sick and die. it's better that it should be the cow." "you're right there; but though it's pleasant to have so many children round, we shan't like to see them starving." "they are not starving yet, and please god they won't yet awhile. some help will come to us." mrs. walton sometimes felt despondent herself, but when she saw her husband affected, like a good wife she assumed cheerfulness, in order to raise his spirits. so now, things looked a little more hopeful to him, after he had talked to his wife. he soon took his hat, and approached the door. "where are you going, hiram?" she asked. "going to see if squire green will lend me money; enough to buy another cow." "that's right, hiram. don't sit down discouraged, but see what you can do to repair the loss." "i wish there was anybody else to go to. squire green is a very mean man, and he will try to take advantage of any need." "it is better to have a poor resource than none at all." "well, i'll go and see what can be done." squire green was the rich man of the town. he had inherited from his father, just as he came of age, a farm of a hundred and fifty acres, and a few hundred dollars. the land was not good, and far from productive; but he had scrimped and saved and pinched and denied himself, spending almost nothing, till the little money which the farm annually yielded him had accumulated to a considerable sum. then, too, as there were no banks near at hand to accommodate borrowers, the squire used to lend money to his poorer neighbors. he took care not to exact more than six per cent. openly, but it was generally understood that the borrower must pay a bonus besides to secure a loan, which, added to the legal interest, gave him a very handsome consideration for the use of his spare funds. so his money rapidly increased, doubling every five or six years through his shrewd mode of management, and every year he grew more economical. his wife had died ten years before. she had worked hard for very poor pay, for the squire's table was proverbially meager, and her bills for dress, judging from her appearance, must have been uncommonly small. the squire had one son, now in the neighborhood of thirty, but he had not been at home for several years. as soon as he attained his majority he left the homestead, and set out to seek his fortune elsewhere. he vowed he wouldn't any longer submit to the penurious ways of the squire. so the old man was left alone, but he did not feel the solitude. he had his gold, and that was company enough. a time was coming when the two must part company, for when death should come he must leave the gold behind; but he did not like to think of that, putting away the idea as men will unpleasant subjects. this was the man to whom hiram walton applied for help in his misfortune. "is the squire at home?" he asked, at the back door. in that household the front door was never used. there was a parlor, but it had not been opened since mrs. green's funeral. "he's out to the barn," said hannah green, a niece of the old man, who acted as maid of all work. "i'll go out there." the barn was a few rods northeast of the house, and thither mr. walton directed his steps. entering, he found the old man engaged in some light work. "good morning, squire green." "good morning, mr. walton," returned the squire. he was a small man, with a thin figure, and a face deep seamed with wrinkles, more so than might have been expected in a man of his age, for he was only just turned of sixty; but hard work, poor and scanty food and sharp calculation, were responsible for them. "how are you gettin' on?" asked the squire. this was rather a favorite question of his, it being so much the custom for his neighbors to apply to him when in difficulties, so that their misfortune he had come to regard as his harvests.. "i've met with a loss," answered hiram walton. "you don't say so," returned the squire, with instant attention. "what's happened?" "my cow is dead." "when did she die?" "this morning." "what was the matter?" "i don't know. i didn't notice but that she was welt enough last night; but this morning when i went out to the barn, she was lying down breathing heavily." "what did you do?" "i called in elihu perkins, and we worked over her for three hours; but it wasn't of any use; she died half an hour ago." "i hope it isn't any disease that's catchin'," said the squire in alarm, thinking of his ten. "it would be a bad job if it should get among mine." "it's a bad job for me, squire. i hadn't but one cow, and she's gone." "just so, just so. i s'pose you'll buy another." "yes, i must have a cow. my children live on bread and milk mostly. then there's the butter and cheese, that i trade off at the store for groceries." "just so, just so. come into the house, neighbor walton." the squire guessed his visitor's business in advance, and wanted to take time to talk it over. he would first find out how great his neighbor's necessity was, and then he accommodated him, would charge him accordingly. chapter iii. hiram's motto there was a little room just off the kitchen, where the squire had an old-fashioned desk. here it was that he transacted his business, and in the desk he kept his papers. it was into this room that he introduced mr. walton. "set down, set down, neighbor walton," he said. "we'll talk this thing over. so you've got to have a cow?" "yes, i must have one." the squire fixed his eyes cunningly on his intended victim, and said, "goin' to buy one in town?" "i don't know of any that's for sale." "how much do you calc'late to pay?" "i suppose i'll have to pay thirty dollars." squire green shook his head. "more'n that, neighbor walton. you can't get a decent cow for thirty dollars. i hain't got one that isn't wuth more, though i've got ten in my barn." "thirty dollars is all i can afford to pay, squire." "take my advice, and get a good cow while you're about it. it don't pay to get a poor one." "i'm a poor man, squire. i must take what i can get." "i ain't sure but i've got a cow that will suit you, a red with white spots. she's a fust-rate milker." "how old is she?" "she's turned of five." "how much do you ask for her?" "are you going to pay cash down?" asked the squire, half shutting his eyes, and looking into the face of his visitor. "i can't do that. i'm very short of money." "so am i," chimed in the squire. he had two hundred dollars in his desk at that moment waiting for profitable investment; but then he didn't call it exactly a lie to misrepresent for a purpose. "so am i. money's tight, neighbor." "money's always tight with me, squire," returned hiram walton, with a sigh. "was you a-meanin' to pay anything down?" inquired the squire. "i don't see how i can." "that alters the case, you know. i might as well keep the cow, as to sell her without the money down." "i am willing to pay interest on the money." "of course that's fair. wall, neighbor, what do you say to goin' out to see the cow?" "is she in the barn?" "no, she's in the pastur'. 'tain't fur." "i'll go along with you." they made their way by a short cut across a cornfield to the pasture--a large ten-acre lot, covered with a scanty vegetation. the squire's cows could not be said to live in clover. "that's the critter," he said, pointing out one of the cows which was grazing near by. "ain't she a beauty?" "she looks pretty well," said mr. walton, dubiously, by no means sure that she would equal his lost cow. "she's one of the best i've got. i wouldn't sell ef it wasn't to oblige. i ain't at all partic'lar, but i suppose you've got to hev a cow." "what do you ask for her, squire?" "she's wuth all of forty dollars," answered the squire, who knew perfectly well that a fair price would be about thirty. but then his neighbor must have a cow, and had no money to pay, and so was at his mercy. "that seems high," said hiram. "she's wuth every cent of it; but i ain't nowise partic'lar about sellin' her." "couldn't you say thirty-seven?" "i couldn't take a dollar less. i'd rather keep her. maybe i'd take thirty-eight, cash down." hiram walton shook his head. "i have no cash," he said. "i must buy on credit." "wall, then, there's a bargain for you. i'll let you have her for forty dollars, giving you six months to pay it, at reg'lar interest, six per cent. of course i expect a little bonus for the accommodation." "i hope you'll be easy with me--i'm a poor man, squire." "of course, neighbor; i'm always easy." "that isn't your reputation," thought hiram; but he knew that this was a thought to which he must not give expression. "all i want is a fair price for my time and trouble. we'll say three dollars extra for the accommodation--three dollars down." hiram walton felt that it was a hard bargain the squire was driving with him, but there seemed no help for it. he must submit to the imposition, or do without a cow. there was no one else to whom he could look for help on any terms. as to the three dollars, his whole available cash amounted to but four dollars, and it was for three quarters of this sum that the squire called. but the sacrifice must be made. "well, squire green, if that is your lowest price, i suppose i must come to it," he answered, at last. "you can't do no better," said the squire, with alacrity. "if so be as you've made up your mind, we'll make out the papers." "very well." "come back to the house. when do you want to take the cow?" "i'll drive her along now, if you are willing." "why, you see," said the squire, hesitating, while a mean thought entered his, mind, "she's been feedin' in my pastur' all the mornin', and i calc'late i'm entitled to the next milkin', you'd better come 'round to-night, just after milkin', and then you can take her." "i didn't think he was quite so mean," passed through hiram walton's mind, and his lip curved slightly in scorn, but he knew that this feeling must be concealed. "just as you say," he answered. "i'll come round tonight, or send harry." "how old is harry now?" "about fourteen." "he's got to be quite a sizable lad--ought to earn concid'able. is he industrious?" "yes, harry is a good worker--always ready to lend a hand." "that's good. does he go to school?" "yes, he's been going to school all the term." "seems to me he's old enough to give up larnin' altogether. don't he know how to read and write and cipher?" "yes, he's about the best scholar in school." "then, neighbor walton, take my advice and don't send him any more. you need him at home, and he knows enough to get along in the world." "i want him to learn as much as he can. i'd like to send him to school till he is sixteen." "he's had as much schoolin' now as ever i had," said the squire, "and i've got along pooty well. i've been seleckman, and school committy, and filled about every town office, and i never wanted no more schoolin'. my father took me away from school when i was thirteen." "it wouldn't hurt you if you knew a little more," thought hiram, who remembered very well the squire's deficiencies when serving on the town school committee. "i believe in learning," he said. "my father used to say, 'live and learn.' that's a good motto, to my thinking." "it may be carried too far. when a boy's got to be of the age of your boy, he'd ought to be thinking of workin.' his time is too valuable to spend in the schoolroom." "i can't agree with you, squire. i think no time is better spent than the time that's spent in learning. i wish i could afford to send my boy to college." "it would cost a mint of money; and wouldn't pay. better put him to some good business." that was the way he treated his own son, and for this and other reasons, as soon as he arrived at man's estate, he left home, which had never had any pleasant associations with him. his father wanted to convert him into a money-making machine--a mere drudge, working him hard, and denying him, as long as he could, even the common recreations of boyhood--for the squire had an idea that the time devoted in play was foolishly spent, inasmuch as it brought him in no pecuniary return. he was willfully blind to the faults and defects of his system, and their utter failure in the case of his own son, and would, if could, have all the boys in town brought up after severely practical method. but, fortunately for harry, mr. walton had very different notions. he was compelled to keep his son home the greater part of the summer, but it was against his desire. "no wonder he's a poor man," thought the squire, after his visitor returned home. "he ain't got no practical idees. live and learn! that's all nonsense. his boy looks strong and able to work, and it's foolish sendin' him school any longer. that wa'n't my way, and see where i am," he concluded, with complacent remembrance of bonds and mortgages and money out at interest. "that was a pooty good cow trade," he concluded. "i didn't calc' late for to get more'n thirty-five dollars for the critter; but then neighbor walton had to have a cow, and had to pay my price." now for hiram walton's reflections. "i'm a poor man," he said to himself, as he walked slowly homeward, "but i wouldn't be as mean as tom green for all the money he's worth. he's made a hard bargain with me, but there was no help for it." chapter iv. a sum in arithmetic harry kept on his way to school, and arrived just the bell rang. many of my readers have seen a country schoolhouse, and will not be surprised to learn that the one in which our hero obtained his education was far from stately or ornamental, architecturally speaking. it was a one-story structure, about thirty feet square, showing traces of having been painted once, but standing greatly in need of another coat. within were sixty desks, ranged in pairs, with aisles running between them. on one side sat the girls, on the other the boys. these were of all ages from five to sixteen. the boys' desks had suffered bad usage, having been whittled and hacked, and marked with the initials of the temporary occupants, with scarcely an exception. i never knew a yankee boy who was not the possessor of a knife of some kind, nor one who could resist the temptation of using it for such unlawful purposes. even our hero shared the common weakness, and his desk was distinguished from the rest by "h. w." rudely carved in a conspicuous place. the teacher of the school for the present session was nathan burbank, a country teacher of good repute, who usually taught six months in a year, and devoted the balance of the year to surveying land, whenever he could get employment in that line, and the cultivation of half a dozen acres of land, which kept him in vegetables, and enabled him to keep a cow. altogether he succeeded in making a fair living, though his entire income would seem very small to many of my readers. he was not deeply learned, but his education was sufficient to meet the limited requirements of a country school. this was the summer term, and it is the usual custom in new england that the summer schools should be taught by females. but in this particular school the experiment had been tried, and didn't work. it was found that the scholars were too unruly to be kept in subjection by a woman, and the school committee had therefore engaged mr. burbank, though, by so doing, the school term was shortened, as he asked fifty per cent. higher wages than a female teacher would have done. however, it was better to have a short school than an unruly school, and so the district acquiesced. eight weeks had not yet passed since the term commenced, and yet this was the last day but one. to-morrow would be examination day. to this mr. burbank made reference in a few remarks which he made at the commencement of the exercises. he was rather a tall, spare man, and had a habit of brushing his hair upward, thus making the most of a moderate forehead. probably he thought it made him look more intellectual. "boys and girls," he said, "to-morrow is our examination day. i've tried to bring you along as far as possible toward the temple of learning, but some of you have held back, and have not done as well as i should like--john plympton, if you don't stop whispering i'll keep you after school--i want you all to remember that knowledge is better than land or gold. what would you think of a man who was worth a great fortune, and couldn't spell his name?--mary jones, can't you sit still till i get through?--it will be well for you to improve your opportunities while you are young, for by and by you will grow up, and have families to support, and will have no chance to learn--jane quimby, i wish you would stop giggling, i see nothing to laugh at--there are some of you who have studied well this term, and done the best you could. at the beginning of the term i determined to give a book to the most deserving scholar at the end of the term. i have picked out the boy, who, in my opinion, deserves it--ephraim higgins, you needn't move round in your seat. you are not the one." there was a general laugh here, for ephraim was distinguished chiefly for his laziness. the teacher proceeded: "i do not mean to tell you to-day who it is. to-morrow i shall call out his name before the school committee, and present him the prize. i want you to do as well as you can to-morrow. i want you to do yourselves credit, and to do me credit, for i do not want to be ashamed of you. peter shelby, put back that knife into your pocket, and keep it there till i call up the class in whittling." there was another laugh here at the teacher's joke, and peter himself displayed a broad grin on his large, good-humored face. "we will now proceed to the regular lessons," said mr. burbank, in conclusion. "first class in arithmetic will take their places." the first class ranked as the highest class, and in it was harry walton. "what was your lesson to-day?" asked the teacher. "square root," answered harry. "i will give you out a very simple sum to begin with. now, attention all! find the square root of . whoever gets the answer first may hold up his hand." the first to hold up his hand was ephraim higgins. "have you got the answer?" asked mr. burbank in some surprise. "yes, sir." "state it." "forty-five." "how did you get it?" ephraim scratched his head, and looked confused. the fact was, he was entirely ignorant of the method of extracting the square root, but had slyly looked at the slate of his neighbor, harry walton, and mistaken the for , and hurriedly announced the answer, in the hope of obtaining credit for the same. "how did you get it?" asked the teacher again. ephraim looked foolish. "bring me your slate." ephraim reluctantly left his place, and went up to mr. burbank. "what have we here?" said the teacher. "why, you have got down the , and nothing else, except . where did you get that answer?" "i guessed at it," answered ephraim, hard pressed for an answer, and not liking to confess the truth--namely, that he had copied from harry walton. "so i supposed. the next time you'd better guess a little nearer right, or else give up guessing altogether. harry walton, i see your hand up. what is your answer?" "twenty-five, sir." "that is right." ephraim looked up suddenly. he now saw the explanation of his mistake. "will you explain how you did it? you may go to the blackboard, and perform the operation once more, explaining as you go along, for the benefit of ephraim higgins, and any others who guessed at the answer. ephraim, i want you to give particular attention, so that you can do yourself more credit next time. now harry, proceed." our hero explained the sum in a plain, straightforward way, for he thoroughly understood it. "very well," said the schoolmaster, for this, rather than teacher, is the country name of the office. "now, ephraim, do you think you can explain it?" "i don't know, sir," said ephraim, dubiously. "suppose you try. you may take the same sum." ephraim advanced to the board with reluctance, for he was not ambitious, and had strong doubts about his competence for the task. "put down ." ephraim did so. "now extract the square root. what do you do first?" "divide it into two figures each." "divide it into periods of two figures each, i suppose you mean. well, what will be the first period?" "sixty-two," answered ephraim. "and what will be the second?" "i don't see but one other figure." "nor i. you have made a mistake. harry, show to point it off." harry walton did so. "now what do you do next?" "divide the first figure by three." "what do you do that for?" ephraim didn't know. it was only a guess of his, because he knew that the first figure of the answer was two, and this would result from dividing the first figure by three. "to bring the answer," he replied. "and i suppose you divide the next period by five, for the same reason, don't you?" "yes, sir." "you may take your seat, sir. you are an ornament to the class, and you may become a great mathematician, if you live to the age of methuselah. i rather think it will take about nine hundred years for you to reach that, point." the boys laughed. they always relish a joke at the expense of a companion, especially when perpetrated by the teacher. "your method of extracting the square root is very original. you didn't find it in any arithmetic, did you?" "no, sir." "so i thought. you'd better take out a patent for it. the next boy may go to the board." i have given a specimen of mr. burbank's method of conducting the school, but do not propose to enter into further details at present. it will doubtless recall to some of my readers experiences of their own, as the school i am describing is very similar to hundreds of country schools now in existence, and mr. burbank is the representative of a large class. chapter v. the prize winner "are you going to the examination to-day, mother?" asked harry, at breakfast. "i should like to go," said mrs. walton, "but i don't see how i can. to-day's my bakin' day, and somehow my work has got behindhand during the week." "i think harry'll get the prize," said tom, a boy of ten, not heretofore mentioned. he also attended the school, but was not as promising as his oldest brother. "what prize?" asked mrs. walton, looking up with interest. "the master offered a prize, at the beginning of the term, to the scholar that was most faithful to his studies." "what is the prize?" "a book." "do you think you will get it, harry?" asked his mother. "i don't know," said harry, modestly. "i think i have some chance of getting it." "when will it be given?" "toward the close of the afternoon." "maybe i can get time to come in then; i'll try." "i wish you would come, mother," said harry earnestly. "only don't be disappointed if i don't get it. i've been trying, but there are some other good scholars." "you're the best, harry," said tom. "i don't know about that. i shan't count my chickens before they are hatched. only if i am to get the prize i should like to have mother there." "i know you're a good scholar, and have improved your time," said mrs. walton. "i wish your father was rich enough to send you to college." "i should like that very much," said harry, his eyes sparkling at merely the suggestion. "but it isn't much use hoping," continued his mother, with a sigh. "it doesn't seem clear whether we can get a decent living, much less send our boy to college. the cow is a great loss to us." just then mr. walton came in from the barn. "how do you like the new cow, father?" asked harry. "she isn't equal to our old one. she doesn't give as much milk within two quarts, if this morning's milking is a fair sample." "you paid enough for her," said mrs. walton. "i paid too much for her," answered her husband, "but it was the best i could do. i had to buy on credit, and squire green knew i must pay his price, or go without." "forty-three dollars is a great deal of money to pay for a cow." "not for some cows. some are worth more; but this one isn't." "what do you think she is really worth?" "thirty-three dollars is the most i would give if i had the cash to pay." "i think it's mean in squire green to take such advantage of you," said harry. "you mustn't say so, harry, for it won't do for me to get the squire's ill will. i am owing him money. i've agreed to pay for the cow in six months." "can you do it?" "i don't see how; but the money's on interest, and it maybe the squire'll let it stay. i forgot to say, though, that last evening when i went to get the cow he made me agree to forfeit ten dollars if i was not ready with the money and interest in six months. i am afraid he will insist on that if i can't keep my agreement." "it will be better for you to pay, and have done with it." "of course. i shall try to do it, if i have to borrow the money. i suppose i shall have to do that." meantime harry was busy thinking. "wouldn't it be possible for me to earn money enough to pay for the cow in six months? i wish i could do it, and relieve father." he began to think over all the possible ways of earning money, but there was nothing in particular to do in the town except to work for the farmers, and there was very little money to earn ill that way. money is a scarce commodity with farmers everywhere. most of their income is in the shape of farm produce, and used in the family. only a small surplus is converted into money, and a dollar, therefore, seems more to them than to a mechanic, whose substantial income is perhaps less. this is the reason, probably, why farmers are generally loath to spend money. harry knew that if he should hire out to a farmer for the six months the utmost he could expect would be a dollar a week, and it was not certain he could earn that. besides, he would probably be worth as much to his father as anyone, and his labor in neither case provide money to pay for the cow. obviously that would not answer. he must think of some other way, but at present none seemed open. he sensibly deferred thinking till after the examination. "are you going to the school examination, father?" asked our hero. "i can't spare time, harry. i should like to, for i want to know how far you have progressed. 'live and learn,' my boy. that's a good motto, though squire green thinks that 'live and earn' is a better." "that's the rule he acts on," said mrs. walton. "he isn't troubled with learning." "no, he isn't as good a scholar probably as tom, here." "isn't he?" said tom, rather complacently. "don't feel too much flattered, tom," said his mother. "you don't know enough to hurt you." "he never will," said his sister, jane, laughing. "i don't want to know enough to hurt me," returned tom, good humoredly. he was rather used to such compliments, and didn't mind them. "no," said mr. walton; "i am afraid i can't spare time to come to the examination. are you going, mother?" it is quite common in the country for husbands to address wives in this manner. "i shall try to go in the last of the afternoon," said mrs. walton. "if you will come, mother," said harry, "we'll all help you afterwards, so you won't lose anything by it." "i think i will contrive to come." the examination took place in the afternoon. mr. burbank preferred to have it so, for two reasons. it allowed time to submit the pupils to a previous private examination in the morning, thus insuring a better appearance in the afternoon. besides, in the second place, the parents were more likely to be at liberty to attend in the afternoon, and he naturally liked to have as many visitors as possible. he was really a good teacher, though his qualifications were limited; but as far as his knowledge went, he was quite successful in imparting it to others. in the afternoon there was quite a fair attendance of parents and friends of the scholars, though some did not come in till late, like mrs. walton. it is not my intention to speak of the examination in detail. my readers know too little of the scholars to make that interesting. ephraim higgins made some amusing mistakes, but that didn't excite any surprise, for his scholarship was correctly estimated in the village. tom walton did passably well, but was not likely to make his parents proud of his performances. harry, however, eclipsed himself. his ambition had been stirred by the offer of a prize, and he was resolved to deserve it. his recitations were prompt and correct, and his answers were given with confidence. but perhaps he did himself most credit in declamation. he had always been very fond of that, and though he had never received and scientific instruction in it, he possessed a natural grace and a deep feeling of earnestness which made success easy. he had selected an extract from webster--the reply to the hayne--and this was the showpiece of the afternoon. the rest of the declamation was crude enough, but harry's impressed even the most ignorant of his listeners as superior for a boy of his age. when he uttered his last sentence, and made a parting bow, there was subdued applause, and brought a flush of gratification to the cheek of our young hero. "this is the last exercise," said the teacher "except one. at the commencement of the term, i offered a prize to the scholar that would do the best from that time till the close of the school. i will now award the prize. harry walton, come forward." harry rose from his seat, his cheeks flushed again with gratification, and advanced to where the teacher was standing. "harry," said mr. burbank, "i have no hesitation in giving you the prize. you have excelled all the other scholars, and it is fairly yours. the book is not of much value, but i think you will find it interesting and instructive. it is the life of the great american philosopher and statesman, benjamin franklin. i hope you will read and profit by it, and try like him to make your life a credit to yourself and a blessing to mankind." "thank you, sir," said harry, bowing low. "i will try to do so." there was a speech by the chairman of the school committee, in which allusion was made to harry and the prize, and the exercises were over. harry received the congratulations of his schoolmates and others with modest satisfaction, but he was most pleased by the evident pride and pleasure which his mother exhibited, when she, too, was congratulated on his success. his worldly prospects were very uncertain, but he had achieved the success for which he had been laboring, and he was happy. chapter vi. looking out on the world it was not until evening that harry had a chance to look at his prize. it was a cheap book, costing probably not over a dollar; but except his schoolbooks, and a ragged copy of "robinson crusoe," it was the only book that our hero possessed. his father found it difficult enough to buy him the necessary books for use in school, and could not afford to buy any less necessary. so our young hero, who was found of reading, though seldom able to gratify his taste, looked forward with great joy to the pleasure of reading his new book. he did not know much about benjamin franklin, but had a vague idea that he was a great man. after his evening "chores" were done, he sat down by the table on which was burning a solitary tallow candle, and began to read. his mother was darning stockings, and his father had gone to the village store on an errand. so he began the story, and the more he read the more interesting he found it. great as he afterwards became, he was surprised to find that franklin was a poor boy, and had to work for a living. he started out in life on his own account, and through industry, frugality, perseverance, and a fixed determination to rise in life, he became a distinguished an in the end, and a wise man also, though his early opportunities were very limited. it seemed to harry that there was a great similarity between his own circumstances and position in life and those of the great man about whom he was reading, and this made the biography the more fascinating. the hope came to him that, by following franklin's example, he, too, might become a successful man. his mother, looking up at intervals from the stockings which had been so repeatedly darned that the original texture was almost wholly lost of sight of, noticed how absorbed he was. "is your book interesting, harry?" she asked. "it's the most interesting book i ever read," said harry, with a sigh of intense enjoyment. "it's about benjamin franklin, isn't it?" "yes. do you know, mother, he was a poor boy, and he worked his way up?" "yes, i have heard so, but i never read his life." "you'd better read this when i have finished it. i've been thinking that there's a chance for me, mother." "a chance to do what?" "a chance to be somebody when i get bigger. i'm poor now, but so was franklin. he worked hard, and tried to learn all he could. that's the way he succeeded. i'm going to do the same." "we can't all be franklins, my son," said mrs. walton, not wishing her son to form high hopes which might be disappointed in the end. "i know that, mother, and i don't expect to be a great man like him. but if i try hard i think i can rise in the world, and be worth a little money." "i hope you wont' be as poor as your father, harry," said mrs. walton, sighing, as she thought of the years of pain privation and pinching poverty reaching back to the time of their marriage. they had got through it somehow, but she hoped that their children would have a brighter lot. "i hope not," said harry. "if i ever get rich, you shan't have to work any more." mrs. walton smiled faintly. she was not hopeful, and thought it probable that before harry became rich, both she and her husband would be resting from their labor in the village churchyard. but she would not dampen harry's youthful enthusiasm by the utterance of such a thought. "i am sure you won't let your father and mother want, if you have the means to prevent it," she said aloud. "we can't any of us tell what's coming, but i hope you may be well off some time." "i read in the country paper the other day that many of the richest men in boston and new york were once poor boys," said harry, in a hopeful tone. "so i have heard," said his mother. "if they succeeded i don't see why i can't." "you must try to be something more than a rich man. i shouldn't want you to be like squire green." "he is rich, but he is mean and ignorant. i don't think i shall be like him. he has cheated father about the cow." "yes, he drove a sharp trade with him, taking advantage of his necessities. i am afraid your father won't be able to pay for the cow six months from now." "i am afraid so, too." "i don't see how we can possibly save up forty dollars. we are economical now as we can be." "that is what i have been thinking of, mother. there is no chance of father's paying the money." "then it won't be paid, and we shall be worse off when the note comes due, than now." "do you think," said harry, laying down the book on the table, and looking up earnestly, "do you think, mother, i could any way earn the forty dollars before it is to be paid?" "you, harry?" repeated his mother, in surprise, "what could you do to earn the money?" "i don't know, yet," answered harry; "but there are a great many things to be done." "i don't know what you can do, except to hire out to a farmer, and they pay very little. besides, i don't know of any farmer in the town that wants a boy. most of them have boys of their own, or men." "i wasn't thinking of that," said harry. "there isn't much chance there." "i don't know of any work to do here." "nor i, mother. but i wasn't thinking of staying in town." "not thinking of staying in town!" repeated mrs. walton, in surprise. "you don't want to leave home, do you?" "no, mother, i don't want to leave home, or i wouldn't want to, if there was anything to do here. but you know there isn't. farm work wont' help me along, and i don't' like it as well as some other kinds of work. i must leave home if i want to rise in the world." "but your are too young, harry." this was touching harry on a tender spot. no boy of fourteen likes to be considered very young. by that time he generally begins to feel a degree of self-confidence and self-reliance, and fancies he is almost on the threshold of manhood. i know boys of fourteen who look in the glass daily for signs of a coming mustache, and fancy they can see plainly what is not yet visible. harry had not got as far as that, but he no longer looked upon himself as a young boy. he was stout and strong, and of very good height for his age, and began to feel manly. so he drew himself up, upon this remark of his mother's, and said proudly: "i am going on fifteen"--that sounds older than fourteen--"and i don't call that very young." "it seems but a little while since you were a baby," said his mother, meditatively. "i hope you don't think me anything like a baby now, mother," said harry, straightening up, and looking as large as possible. "no, you're quite a large boy, now. how quick the years have passed!" "and i am strong for my age, too, mother. i am sure i am old enough to take care of myself." "but you are young to go out into the world." "i don't believe franklin was much older than i, and he got along. there are plenty of boys who leave home before they are as old as i am." "suppose you are sick, harry?" "if i am i'll come home. but you know i am very healthy, mother, and if i am away from home i shall be very careful." "but you would not be sure of getting anything to do." "i'll risk that, mother," said harry, in a confident tone. "did you think of this before you read that book?" "yes, i've been thinking of it for about a month; but the book put it into my head to-night. i seem to see my way clearer than i did. i want most of all, to earn money enough to pay for the cow in six months. you know yourself, mother, there isn't any chance of father doing it himself, and i can't earn anything if i stay at home." "have you mentioned the matter to your father yet, harry?" "no, i haven't. i wish you would speak about it tonight, mother. you can tell him first what makes me want to go." "i'll tell him that you want to go; but i won't promise to say i think it a good plan." "just mention it, mother, and then i'll talk with him about it to-morrow." to this mrs. walton agreed, and harry, after reading a few pages more in the "life of franklin," went up to bed; but it was some time before he slept. his mind was full of the new scheme on which he had set his heart. chapter vii. in franklin's footsteps "father," said harry, the next morning, as mr. walton was about to leave the house, "there's something i want to say to you." "what is it?" asked his father, imagining it was some trifle. "i'll go out with you, and tell you outside." "very well, my son." harry put on his cap, and followed his father into the open air. "now, my son, what is it?" "i want to go away from home." "away from home! where?" asked mr. walton, in surprise. "i don't know where; but somewhere where i can earn my own living." "but you can do that here. you can give me your help on the farm, as you always have done." "i don't like farming, father." "you never told me that before. is it because of the hard work?" "no," said harry, earnestly. "i am not afraid of hard work; but you know how it is, father. this isn't a very good farm, and it's all you can do to make a living for the rest of us out of it. if i could go somewhere, where i could work at something else, i could send you home my wages." "i am afraid a boy like you couldn't earn very large wages." "i don't see why not, father. i'm strong and stout, and willing to work." "people don't give much for boys' work." "i don't expect much; but i know i can get something, and by and by it will lead to more. i want to help you to pay for that cow you've just bought of squire green." "i don't see how i'm going to pay for it," said mr. walton, with a sigh. "hard money's pretty scarce, and we farmers don't get much of it." "that's just what i'm saying, father. there isn't much money to be got in farming. that's why i want to try something else." "how long have you been thinking of this plan, harry?" "only since last night." "what put it into your head?" "that book i got as a prize." "it is the life of franklin, isn't it?" "yes." "did he go away from home when he was a boy?" "yes, and he succeeded, too." "i know he did. he became a famous man. but it isn't every boy that is like franklin." "i know that. i never expect to become a great man like him; but i can make something." harry spoke those words in a firm, resolute tone, which seemed to indicate a consciousness of power. looking in his son's face, the elder walton, though by no means a sanguine man, was inclined to think favorably of the scheme, but he was cautious, and he did not want harry to be too confident of success. "it's a new idea to me," he said. "suppose you fail?" "i don't mean to." "but suppose you do--suppose you get sick?" "then i'll come home. but i want to try. there must be something for me to do in the world." "there's another thing, harry. it takes money to travel round, and i haven't got any means to give you." "i don't want any, father. i mean to work my way. i've got twenty-five cents to start with. now, father, what do you say?" "i'll speak to your mother about it." "to-day?" "yes, as soon as i go in." with this harry was content. he had a good deal of confidence that he could carry his point with both parents. he went into the house, and said to his mother: "mother, father's going to speak to you about my going away from home. now don't you oppose it." "do you really think it would be a good plan, harry?" "yes, mother." "and if you're sick will you promise to come right home?" "yes, i'll promise that." "then i won't oppose your notion, though i ain't clear about its being wise." "we'll talk about that in a few months, mother." "has harry spoken to you about his plan of going away from home?" asked the farmer, when he reentered the house. "yes," said mrs. walton. "what do you think?" "perhaps we'd better let the lad have his way. he's promised to come home if he's taken sick." "so let it be, then, harry. when do you want to go?" "as soon as i can." "you'll have to wait till monday. it'll take a day or two to fix up your clothes," said his mother. "all right, mother." "i don't know but you ought to have some new shirts. you haven't got but two except the one you have on." "i can get along, mother. father hasn't got any money to spend for me. by the time i want some new shirts, i'll buy them myself." "where do you think of going, harry? have you any idea?" "no, mother. i'm going to trust to luck. i shan't go very far. when i've got fixed anywhere i'll write, and let you know." in the evening harry resumed the "life of franklin," and before he was ready to go to bed he had got two thirds through with it. it possessed for him a singular fascination. to harry it was no alone the "life of benjamin franklin." it was the chart by which he meant to steer in the unknown career which stretched before him. he knew so little of the world that he trusted implicitly to that as a guide, and he silently stored away the wise precepts in conformity with which the great practical philosopher had shaped and molded his life. during that evening, however, another chance was offered to harry, as i shall now describe. as the family were sitting around the kitchen table, on which was placed the humble tallow candle by which the room was lighted, there was heard a scraping at the door, and presently a knock. mr. walton answered it in person, and admitted the thin figure and sharp, calculating face of squire green. "how are you, neighbor?" he said, looking about him with his parrotlike glance. "i thought i'd just run in a minute to see you as i was goin' by." "sit down, squire green. take the rocking-chair." "thank you, neighbor. how's the cow a-doin'?" "middling well. she don't give as much milk as the one i lost." "she'll do better bymeby. she's a good bargain to you, neighbor." "i don't know," said hiram walton, dubiously. "she ought to be a good cow for the price you asked." "and she is a good cow," said the squire, emphatically; "and you're lucky to get her so cheap, buyin' on time. what are you doin' there, harry? school through, ain't it?" "yes, sir." "i hear you're a good scholar. got the prize, didn't you?" "yes," said mr. walton; "harry was always good at his books." "i guess he knows enough now. you'd ought to set him to work." "he is ready enough to work," said mr. walton. "he never was lazy." "that's good. there's a sight of lazy, shiftless boys about in these days. seems as if they expected to earn their bread 'n butter a-doin' nothin'. i've been a thinkin', neighbor walton, that you'll find it hard to pay for that cow in six months." "i am afraid i shall," said the farmer, thinking in surprise, "can he be going to reduce the price?" "so i thought mebbe we might make an arrangement to make it easier." "i should be glad to have it made easier, squire. it was hard on me, losing that cow by disease." "of course. well, what i was thinkin' was, you might hire out your boy to work for me. i'd allow him two dollars a month and board, and the wages would help pay for the cow." harry looked up in dismay at this proposition. he knew very well the meanness of the board which the squire provided, how inferior it was even to the scanty, but well-cooked meals which he got at home; he knew, also that the squire had the knack of getting more work out of his men than any other farmer in the town; and the prospect of being six months in his employ was enough to terrify him. he looked from squire green's mean, crafty face to his father's in anxiety and apprehension. were all his bright dreams of future success to terminate in this? chapter viii. harry's decision squire green rubbed his hands as if he had been proposing a plan with special reference to the interest of the waltons. really he conceived that it would save him a considerable sum of money. he had in his employ a young man of eighteen, named abner kimball, to whom he was compelled to pay ten dollars a month. harry, he reckoned, could be made to do about as much, though on account of his youth he had offered him but two dollars, and that not to be paid in cash. mr. walton paused before replying to his proposal. "you're a little too late," he said, at last, to harry's great relief. "too late!" repeated the squire, hastily. "why, you hain't hired out your boy to anybody else, have you?" "no; but he has asked me to let him leave home, and i've agreed to it." "leave home? where's he goin'?" "he has not fully decided. he wants to go out and seek his fortune." "he'll fetch up at the poorhouse," growled the squire. "if he does not succeed, he will come home again." "it's a foolish plan, neighbor walton. take my word for't. you'd better keep him here, and let him work for me." "if he stayed at home, i should find work for him on my farm." mr. walton would not have been willing to have harry work for the squire, knowing well his meanness, and how poorly he paid his hired men. "i wanted to help you pay for that cow," said the squire, crossly. "if you can't pay for't when the time comes you mustn't blame me." "i shall blame no one. i can't foresee the future; but i hope to get together the money somehow." "you mustn't ask for more time. six months is a long time to give." "i believe i haven't said anything about more time yet, squire green," said hiram walton, stiffly. "i don't see that you need warn me." "i thought we might as well have an understandin' about it," said the squire. "so you won't hire out the boy?" "no, i cannot, under the circumstances. if i did i should consider his services worth more than two dollars a month." "i might give him two'n a half," said the squire, fancying it was merely a question of money. "how much do you pay abner kimball?" "wal, rather more than that," answered the squire, slowly. "you pay him ten dollars a month, don't you?" "wal, somewheres about that; but it's more'n he earns." "if he is worth ten dollars, harry would be worth four or six." "i'll give three," said the squire, who reflected that even at that rate he would be saving considerable. "i will leave it to harry himself," said his father. "harry, you hear squire green's offer. what do you say? will you go to work for him at three dollars a month?" "i'd rather go away, as you told me i might, father." "you hear the boy's decision, squire." "wal, wal," said the squire, a good deal disappointed--for, to tell the truth, he had told abner he should not want him, having felt confident of obtaining harry. "i hope you won't neither of ye regret it." his tone clearly indicated that he really hoped and expected they would. "i bid ye good night." "i'll hev the cow back ag'in," said the squire to himself. "he needn't hope no massy. if he don't hev the money ready for me when the time is up, he shan't keep her." the next morning he was under the unpleasant necessity of reengaging abner. "come to think on't, abner," he said, "i guess i'd like to hev you stay longer. there's more work than i reckoned, and i guess i'll hev to have somebody." this was at the breakfast table. abner looked around him, and after making sure that there was nothing eatable left, put down his knife and fork with the air of one who could have eaten more, and answered, deliberately: "ef i stay i'll hev to hev more wages." "more wages?" repeated squire green, in dismay. "more'n ten dollars?" "yes, a fellow of my age orter hey more'n that." "ten dollars is a good deal of money." "i can't lay up a cent off'n it." "then you're extravagant." "no i ain't. i ain't no chance to be. my cousin, paul bickford, is gettin' fifteen dollars, and he ain't no better worker'n i am." "fifteen dollars!" ejaculated, the squire, as if he were naming some extraordinary sum. "i never heerd of such a thing." "i'll work for twelve'n a half," said abner, "and i won't work for no less." "it's too much," said the squire. "besides, you agreed to come for ten." "i know i did; but this is a new engagement." finally abner reduced his terms to twelve dollars, an advance of two dollars a month, to which the squire was forced to agree, though very reluctantly. he thought, with an inward groan, that but for his hasty dismissal of abner the night before, on the supposition that he could obtain harry in his place, he would not have been compelled to raise abner's wages. this again resulted indirectly from selling the cow, which had put the new plan into his head. when the squire reckoned up this item, amounting in six months to twelve dollars, he began to doubt whether his cow trade had been quite so good after all. "i'll get it out of hiram walton some way," he muttered. "he's a great fool to let that boy have his own way. i thought to be sure he'd oblige me arter the favor i done him in sellin' him the cow. there's gratitude for you!" the squire's ideas about gratitude, and the manner in which he had earned it, were slightly mixed, it must be acknowledged. but, though he knew very well that he had been influenced only by the consideration of his own interest, he had a vague idea that he was entitled to some credit for his kindness in consenting to sell his neighbor a cow at an extortionate price. harry breathed a deep sigh of relief after squire green left the room. "i was afraid you were going to hire me out to the squire, father," he said. "you didn't enjoy the prospect, did you?" said his father, smiling. "not much." "shouldn't think he would," said his brother tom. "the squire's awful stingy. abner kimball told me he had the meanest breakfast he ever ate anywhere." "i don't think any of his household are in danger of contracting the gout from luxurious living." "i guess not," said tom. "i think," said jane, slyly, "you'd better hire out tom to the squire." "the squire would have the worst of the bargain," said his father, with a good-natured hit at tom's sluggishness. "he wouldn't earn his board, however poor it might be." "the squire didn't seem to like it very well," said mrs. walton, looking up from her mending. "no, he fully expected to get harry for little or nothing. it was ridiculous to offer two dollars a month for a boy of his age." "i am afraid he will be more disposed to be hard on you, when the time comes to pay for the cow. he told you he wouldn't extend the time." "he is not likely to after this; but, wife, we won't borrow trouble. something may turn up to help us." "i am sure i shall be able to help you about it, father," said harry. "i hope so, my son, but don't feel too certain. you may not succeed as well as you anticipate." "i know that, but i mean to try at any rate." "if you don't, tom will," said his sister. "quit teasin' a feller, jane," said tom. "i ain't any lazier'n you are. if i am, i'll eat my head." "then you'll have to eat it, tom," retorted jane; "and it won't be much loss to you, either." "don't dispute, children," said mrs. walton. "i expect you both will turn over a new leaf by and by." meanwhile, harry was busily reading the "life of franklin." the more he read, the more hopeful he became as to the future. chapter ix. leaving home monday morning came, and the whole family stood on the grass plat in front of the house, ready to bid harry good-by. he was encumbered by no trunk, but carried his scanty supply of clothing wrapped in a red cotton handkerchief, and not a very heavy bundle at that. he had cut a stout stick in the woods near by, and from the end of this suspended over his back bore the bundle which contained all his worldly fortune except the twenty-five cents which was in his vest pocket. "i don't like to have you go," said his mother, anxiously. "suppose you don't get work?" "don't worry about me, mother," said harry, brightly. "i'll get along somehow." "remember you've got a home here, harry, whatever happens," said his father. "i shan't forget, father." "i wish i was going with you," said tom, for the first time fired with the spirit of adventure. "what could you do, tom?" said jane, teasingly. "work, of course." "i never saw you do it yet." "i'm no more lazy than you," retorted tom, offended. "don't dispute, children, just as your brother is leaving us," said mrs. walton. "good-by, mother," said harry, feeling an unwonted moistening of the eyes, as he reflected that he was about to leave the house in which he had lived since infancy. "good-by, my dear child," said his mother, kissing him. "be sure to write." "yes i will." so with farewell greetings harry walked out into the world. he had all at once assumed a man's responsibilities, and his face grew serious, as he began to realize that he must now look out for himself. his native village was situated in the northern part of new hampshire. not far away could be seen, indistinct in the distance, the towering summits of the white mountain range, but his back was turned to them. in the south were larger and more thriving villages, and the wealth was greater. harry felt that his chances would be greater there. not that he had any particular place in view. wherever there was an opening, he meant to stop. "i won't come back till i am better off," he said to himself. "if i don't succeed it won't be for want of trying." he walked five miles without stopping. this brought him to the middle of the next town. he was yet on familiar ground, for he had been here more than once. he felt tired, and sat down by the roadside to rest before going farther. while he sat there the doctor from his own village rode by, and chanced to espy harry, whom he recognized. "what brings you here, harry?" he asked, stopping his chaise. "i'm going to seek my fortune," said harry. "what, away from home?" "yes, sir." "i hadn't heard of that," said the doctor, surprised. "you haven't run away from home?" he asked, with momentary suspicion. "no, indeed!" said harry, half indignantly. "father's given his permission for me to go." "where do you expect to go?" "south," said harry, vaguely. "and what do you expect to find to do?" "i don't know--anything that'll bring me a living." "i like your spunk," said the doctor, after a pause. "if you're going my way, as i suppose you are, i can carry you a couple of miles. that's better than walking, isn't it?" "i guess it is," said harry, jumping to his feet with alacrity. in a minute he was sitting beside dr. dunham in his old-fashioned chaise. "i might have known that you were not running away," said the doctor. "i should be more likely to suspect your brother tom." "tom's too lazy to run away to earn his own living," said harry, laughing, "as long as he can get it at home." the doctor smiled. "and what put it into your head to start out in this way?" he asked. "the first thing, was reading the' life of franklin.'" "to be sure. i remember his story." "and the next thing was, because my father is so poor. he finds it hard work to support us all. the farm is small, and the land is poor. i want to help him if i can." "very commendable, harry," said the doctor, kindly. "you owe a debt of gratitude to your good father, who has not succeeded so well in life as he deserves." "that's true, sir. he has always been a hard-working man." "if you start out with such a good object, i think you will succeed. have you any plans at all, or any idea what you would like to do?" "i thought i should like to work in a shoe shop, if i got a chance," said harry. "you like that better than working on a farm, then?" "yes, sir, there isn't much money to be earned by working on a farm. i had a chance to do that before i came away." "you mean working on your father's land, i suppose?" "no, squire green wanted to hire me." "what wages did he offer?" "two dollars a month, at first. afterwards he got up to three." the doctor smiled. "how could you decline such a magnificent offer?" he asked. "i don't think i should like boarding at the squire's." "a dollar is twice as large at least in his eyes as in those of anyone else." by this time they had reached a place where a road turned at right angles. "i am going down here, harry," said the doctor. "i should like to have you ride farther, but i suppose it would only be taking you out of your course." "yes, doctor. i'd better get out." "i'll tell your father i saw you." "tell him i was in good spirits," said harry, earnestly. "mother'll be glad to know that." "i will certainly. good-by!" "good-by, doctor. thank you for the ride." "you are quite welcome to that, harry." harry followed with his eyes the doctor's chaise. it seemed like severing the last link that bound him to his native village. he was very glad to have fallen in with the doctor, but it seemed all the more lonesome that he had left him. harry walked six miles farther, and then decided that it was time to rest again. he was not only somewhat fatigued, but decidedly hungry, although it was but eleven o'clock in the forenoon. however, it must be considered that he had walked eleven miles, and this was enough to give anyone an appetite. he sat down again beside the road, and untying the handkerchief which contained his worldly possessions, he drew therefrom a large slice of bread and began to eat with evident relish. there was a slice of cold meat also, which he found tasted particularly good. "i wonder whether they are thinking of me at home," he said to himself. they were thinking about him, and when an hour later the family gathered around the table, no one seemed to have much appetite. all looked sober, for all were thinking of the absent son and brother. "i wish harry was here," said jane, at length, giving voice to the general feeling. "poor boy," sighed his mother. "i'm afraid he'll have a hard time. i wish he had stayed at home, or even have gone to squire green's to work. then we could have seen him every day." "i should have pitied him more if he had gone there than i do now," said his father. "depend upon it, it; will be better for him in the end." "i hope so," said his mother, dubiously. "but you don't feel sure? well, time will show. we shall hear from him before long." we go back to harry. he rested for a couple of hours, sheltered from the sun by the foliage of the oak beneath which he had stretched himself. he whiled away the time by reading for the second time some parts of the "life of franklin," which he had brought away in his bundle, with his few other possessions. it seemed even more interesting to him now that he, too, like franklin, had started out in quest for fortune. he resumed walking, but we will not dwell upon the details of his journey. at six o'clock he was twenty-five miles from home. he had not walked much in the afternoon when, all at once, he was alarmed by the darkening of the sky. it was evident that a storm was approaching. he looked about him for shelter from the shower, and a place where he could pass the night. chapter x. the general the clouds were darkening, and the shower was evidently not far off. it was a solitary place, and no houses were to be seen near by. but nearly a quarter of a mile back harry caught sight of a small house, and jumping over the fence directed his steps toward it. five minutes brought him to it. it was small, painted red, originally, but the color had mostly been washed away. it was not upon a public road, but there was a narrow lane leading to it from the highway. probably it was occupied by a poor family, harry thought. still it would shelter him from the storm which had even now commenced. he knocked at the door. immediately it was opened and a face peered out--the face of a man advanced in years. it was thin, wrinkled, and haggard. the thin white hair, uncombed, gave a wild appearance to the owner, who, in a thin, shrill voice, demanded, "who are you?" "my name is harry walton." "what do you want?" "shelter from the storm. it is going to rain." "come in," said the old man, and opening the door wider, he admitted our hero. harry found himself in a room very bare of furniture, but there was a log fire in the fireplace, and this looked comfortable and pleasant. he laid down his bundle, and drawing up a chair sat down by it, his host meanwhile watching him closely. "does he live alone, i wonder?" thought harry. he saw no other person about, and no traces of a woman's presence. the floor looked as if it had not been swept for a month, and probably it had not. the old man sat down opposite harry, and stared at him, till our hero felt somewhat embarrassed and uncomfortable. "why don't he say something?" thought harry. "he is a very queer old man." after a while his host spoke. "do you know who i am?" he asked. "no," said harry, looking at him. "you've heard of me often," pursued the old man. "i didn't know it," answered harry, beginning to feel curious. "in history," added the other. "in history?" "yes." harry began to look at him in increased surprise. "will you tell me your name, if it is not too much trouble," he asked, politely. "i gained the victory of new orleans," said the old man. "i thought general jackson did that," said harry. "you're right," said the old man, complacently. "i am general jackson." "but general jackson is dead." "that's a mistake," said the old man, quietly. "that's what they say in all the books, but it isn't true." this was amusing, but it was also startling. harry knew now that the old man was crazy, or at least a monomaniac, and, though he seemed harmless enough, it was of course possible that he might be dangerous. he was almost sorry that he had sought shelter here. better have encountered the storm in its full fury than place himself in the power of a maniac. the rain was now falling in thick drops, and he decided at any rate to remain a while longer. he knew that it would not be well to dispute the old man, and resolved to humor his delusion. "you were president once, i believe?" he asked. "yes," said the old man; "and you won't tell anybody, will you?" "no." "i mean to be again," said the old man in a low voice, half in a whisper. "but you mustn't say anything about it. they'd try to kill me, if they knew it." "who would?" "mr. henry clay, and the rest of them." "doesn't henry clay want you to be president again?" "of course not. he wants to be president himself. that's why i'm hiding. they don't any of them know where i am. you won't tell, will you?" "no." "you might meet henry clay, you know." harry smiled to himself. it didn't seem very likely that he would ever find himself in such distinguished company, for henry clay was at that time living, and a united states senator. "what made you come here, general jackson?" he inquired. the old man brightened, on being called by this name. "because it was quiet. they can't find me here." "when do you expect to be president again?" "next year," said the old man. "i've got it all arranged. my friends are to blow up the capitol, and i shall ride into washington on a white horse. do you want an office?" "i don't know but i should like one," said harry, amused. "i'll see what i can do for you," said the old man, seriously. "i can't put you in my cabinet. that's all arranged. if you would like to be minister to england or to france, you can go." "i should like to go to france. benjamin franklin was minister to france." "do you know him?" "no; but i have read his life." "i'll put your name down in my book. what is it?" "harry walton." the old man went to the table, on which was a common account book. he took a pen, and, with a serious look, made this entry: "i promise to make harry walton minister to france, as soon as i take my place in the white house. "general andrew jackson" "it's all right now," he said. "thank you, general. you are very kind," said our hero. "were you ever a soldier?" asked his host. "i never was." "i thought you might have been in the battle of new orleans. our men fought splendidly, sir." "i have no doubt of it." "you'll read all about it in history. we fought behind cotton bales. it was glorious!" "general," said harry, "if you'll excuse me, i'll take out my supper from this bundle." "no, no," said the old man; "you must take supper with me." "i wonder whether he has anything fit to eat," thought harry. "thank you," he said aloud. "if you wish it." the old man had arisen, and, taking a teakettle, suspended it over the fire. a monomaniac though he was on the subject of his identity with general jackson, he knew how to make tea. presently he took from the cupboard a baker's roll and some cold meat, and when the tea was ready, invited harry to be seated at the table. our hero did so willingly. he had lost his apprehensions, perceiving that his companion's lunacy was of a very harmless character. "what if mother could see me now!" he thought. still the rain poured down. it showed no signs of slackening. he saw that it would be necessary to remain where he was through the night. "general, can you accommodate me till morning?" he asked. "certainly," said the old man. "i shall be glad to have you stay here. do you go to france to-morrow?" "i have not received my appointment yet." "true, true; but it won't be long. i will write your instructions to-night." "very well." the supper was plain enough, but it was relished by our young traveler, whose long walk had stimulated a naturally good appetite. "eat heartily, my son," said the old man. "a long journey is before you." after the meal was over, the old man began to write. harry surmised that it was his instructions. he paid little heed, but fixed his eyes upon the fire, listening to the rain that continued to beat against the window panes, and began to speculate about the future. was he to be successful or not? he was not without solicitude, but he felt no small measure of hope. at nine o'clock he began to feel drowsy, and intimated as much to his host. the old man conducted him to an upper chamber, where there was a bed upon the floor. "you can sleep there," he said. "where do you sleep?" asked harry. "down below; but i shall not go to bed till late. i must get ready your instructions." "very well," said harry. "good night." "good night." "i am glad he is not in the room with me," thought harry. "i don't think there is any danger, but it isn't comfortable to be too near a crazy man." chapter xi. in search of work when harry awoke the next morning, after a sound and refreshing sleep, the sun was shining brightly in at the window. he rubbed his eyes, and stared about him, not at first remembering where he was. but almost immediately recollection came to his aid, and he smiled as he thought of the eccentric old man whose guest he was. he leaped out of bed, and quickly dressing himself, went downstairs. the fire was burning, and breakfast was already on the table. it was precisely similar to the supper of the night previous. the old man sat at the fireside smoking a pipe. "good morning, general," said harry. "i am up late." "it is no matter. you have a long journey before you, and it is well to rest before starting." "where does he think i am going?" thought our hero. "breakfast is ready," said the old man, hospitably. "i can't entertain you now as i could have done when i was president. you must come and see me at the white house next year." "i should like to." harry ate a hearty breakfast. when it was over, he rose to go. "i must be going, general," he said. "thank you for your kind entertainment. if you would allow me to pay you." "general jackson does not keep an inn," said the old man, with dignity. "you are his guest. i have your instructions ready." he opened a drawer in the table, and took a roll of foolscap, tied with a string. "put it in your bundle," he said. "let no one see it. above all, don't let it fall into the hands of henry clay, or my life will be in peril." harry solemnly assured him that henry clay should never see it, and shaking the old man by the hand, made his way across the fields to the main road. looking back from time to time, he saw the old man watching him from his place in the doorway, his eyes shaded by his hand. "he is the strangest man i ever saw," thought harry. "still he treated me kindly. i should like to find out some more about him." when he reached the road he saw, just in front of him, a boy of about his own age driving half a dozen cows before him. "perhaps he can tell me something about the old man." "hello!" he cried, by way of salutation. "hello!" returned the country boy. "where are you going?" "i don't know. wherever i can find work," answered our hero. the boy laughed. "dad finds enough for me to do. i don't have to go after it. haven't you got a father?" "yes." "why don't you work for him?" "i want to work for pay." "on a farm?" "no. i'll work in a shoe shop if i get a chance or in a printing office." "do you understand the shoe business?" "no; but i can learn." "where did you come from?" "granton." "you didn't come from there this morning?" "no, i guess not, as it's over twenty miles. last night i stopped at general jackson's." the boy whistled. "what, at the old crazy man's that lives down here a piece?" "yes." "what made you go there?" "it began, to rain, and i had no other place to go." "what did he say?" asked the new boy with curiosity. "did he cut up?" "cut up? no, unless you mean the bread. he cut up that." "i mean, how did he act?" "all right, except when he was talking about being general jackson." "did you sleep there?" "yes." "i wouldn't." "why not?" "i wouldn't sleep in a crazy man's house." "he wouldn't hurt you." "i don't know about that. he chases us boys often, and threatens to kill us." "you plague him, don't you?" "i guess we do. we call him 'old crazy,' and that makes him mad. he says henry clay puts us up to it--ho, ho, ho!" "he thinks clay is his enemy. he told me so." "what did you say?" "oh, i didn't contradict him. i called him general. he treated me tip-top. he is going to make me minister of france, when he is president again." "maybe that was the best way to get along." "how long has he lived here? what made him crazy?" "i don't know. folks say he was disappointed." "did he ever see jackson?" "yes; he fit at new orleans under him." "has he lived long around here?" "ever since i can remember. he gets a pension, i've heard father say. that's what keeps him." here the boy reached the pasture to which he was driving the cows, and harry, bidding him "good-by," went on his way. he felt fresh and vigorous, and walked ten miles before he felt the need of rest. when this distance was accomplished, he found himself in the center of a good-sized village. he felt hungry, and the provision which he brought from home was nearly gone. there was a grocery store close at hand, and he went in, thinking that he would find something to help his meal. on the counter he saw some rolls, and there was an open barrel of apples not far off. "what do you charge for your rolls?" he asked. "two cents." "i'll take one. how do you sell your apples?" "a cent apiece." "i'll take two." thus for four cents harry made quite a substantial addition to his meal. as he left the store, and walked up the road, with the roll in his hand, eating an apple, he called to mind benjamin franklin's entrance of philadelphia with a roll under each arm. "i hope i shall have as good luck as franklin had," he thought. walking slowly, he saw, on a small building which he i had just reached, the sign, "post office." "perhaps the postmaster will know if anybody about here wants a boy," harry said to himself. "at any rate, it won't do any harm to inquire." he entered, finding himself in a small room, with one part partitioned off as a repository for mail matter. he stepped up to a little window, and presently the postmaster, an elderly man, presented himself. "what name," he asked. "i haven't come for a letter," said harry. "what do you want, then?" asked the official, but not roughly. "do you know of anyone that wants to hire a boy?" "who's the boy?" "i am. i want to get a chance to work." "what kind of work?" "any kind that'll pay my board and a little over." "i don't know of any place," said the postmaster, after a little thought. "isn't there any shoe shop where i could get in?" "that reminds me--james leavitt told me this morning that his boy was going to boston to go into a store in a couple of months. he's been pegging for his father and i guess they'll have to get somebody in his place." harry's face brightened at this intelligence. "that's just the kind of place i'd like to get," he said. "where does mr. leavitt live?" "a quarter of a mile from here--over the bridge. you'll know it well enough. it's a cottage house, with a shoe shop in the backyard." "thank you, sir," said harry. "i'll go there and try my luck." "wait a minute," said the postmaster. "there's a letter here for mr. leavitt. if you're going there, you may as well carry it along. it's from boston. i shouldn't wonder if it's about the place bob leavitt wants." "i'll take it with pleasure," said harry. it occurred to him that it would be a good introduction for him, and pave the way for his application. "i hope i may get a chance to work for this mr. leavitt," he said to himself. "i like the looks of this village. i should like to live here for a while." he walked up the street, crossing the bridge referred to by the postmaster, and looked carefully on each side of him for the cottage and shop. at length he came to a place which answered the description, and entered the yard. as he neared the shop he heard a noise which indicated that work was going on inside. he opened the door, and entered. chapter xii. the new boarder harry found himself in a room about twenty-five feet by twenty. the floor was covered with scraps of leather. here stood a deep wooden box containing a case of shoes ready to send off. there was a stove in the center, in which, however, as it was a warm day, no fire was burning. there were three persons present. one, a man of middle age, was mr. james leavitt, the proprietor of the shop. his son robert, about seventeen, worked at an adjoining bench. tom gavitt, a journeyman, a short, thick-set man of thirty, employed by mr. leavitt, was the third. the three looked up as harry entered the shop. "i have a letter for mr. leavitt," said our hero. "that is my name," said the eldest of the party. harry advanced, and placed it in his hands. "where did you get this letter?" "at the post office." "i can't call you by name. do you live about here?" "no, i came from granton." no further questions were asked just then, as mr. leavitt, suspending work, opened the letter. "it's from your uncle benjamin," he said, addressing robert. "let us see what he has to say." he read the letter in silence. "what does he say, father?" asked robert. "he says he shall be ready to take you the first of september. that's in six weeks--a little sooner than we calculated. i wish it were a little later, as work is brisk, and i may find it difficult to fill your place without paying more than i want to." "i guess you can pick up somebody," said robert, who was anxious to go to boston as soon as possible. "won't you hire me?" asked harry, who felt that the time had come for him to announce his business. mr. leavitt looked at him more attentively. "have you ever worked in a shop?" "no, sir." "it will take you some time to learn pegging." "i'll work for my board till i've learned." "but you won't be able to do all i want at first." "suppose i begin now," said harry, "and work for my board till your son goes away. by that time i can do considerable." "i don't know but that's a good idea," said mr. leavitt. "what do you think, bob?" "better take him, father," said robert, who felt that it would facilitate his own plans. "how much would you want after you have learned?" asked the father. "i don't know; what would be a fair price," said harry. "i'll give you three dollars a week and board," said mr. leavitt, after a little consideration--"that is, if i am satisfied with you." "i'll come," said harry, promptly. he rapidly calculated that there would be about twenty weeks for which he would receive pay before the six months expired, at the end of which the cow must be paid for. this would give him sixty dollars, of which he thought he should be able to save forty to send or carry to his father. "how did you happen to come to me?" asked mr. leavitt, with some curiosity. "i heard at the post office that your son was going to the city to work, and i thought i could get in here." "is your father living?" "yes, my father and mother both." "what business is he in?" "he is a farmer; but his farm is small, and not very profitable." "so you thought you would leave home and try something else?" "yes, sir." "well, we will try you at shoemaking. robert, you can teach him what you know about pegging." "come here," said robert. "what is your name?" "harry walton." "how old are you?" "fifteen." "did you ever work much?" "yes, on a farm." "do you think you'll like shoemaking better?" "i don't know yet, but i think i shall. i like almost anything better than farming." "and i like almost anything better than pegging. i began when i was only twelve years old, and i'm sick of it." "what kind of store is it you are going into?" "dry goods. my uncle, benjamin streeter, mother's brother, keeps a dry goods store on washington street. it'll be jolly living in the city." "i don't know," said harry thoughtfully. "i think i like a village just as well." "what sort of a place is granton, where you come from?" "it's a farming town. there isn't any village at all." "there isn't much going on here." "there'll be more than in granton. there's nothing to do there but to work on a farm." "i shouldn't like that myself; but the city's the best of all." "can you make more money in a store than working in a shoe shop?" "not so much at first, but after you've got learned there's better chances. there's a clerk, that went from here ten years ago, that gets fifty dollars a week." "does he?" asked harry, to whose rustic inexperience this seemed like an immense salary. "i didn't think any clerk ever got so much." "they get it often if they are smart," said robert. here he was wrong, however. such cases are exceptional, and a city fry goods clerk, considering his higher rate of expense, is no better off than many country mechanics. but country boys are apt to form wrong ideas on this subject, and are in too great haste to forsake good country homes for long hours of toil behind a city counter, and a poor home in a dingy, third-class city boarding house. it is only in the wholesale houses, for the most part, that high salaries are paid, and then, of course, only to those who have shown superior energy and capacity. of course some do achieve success and become rich; but of the tens of thousand who come from the country to seek clerkships, but a very small proportion rise above a small income. "i shall have a start," robert proceeded, "for i go into my uncle's store. i am to board at his house, and get three dollars a week." "that's what your father offers me," said harry. "yes; you'll earn more after a while, and i can now; but i'd rather live in the city. there's lots to see in the city--theaters, circuses, and all kinds of amusements." "you won't have much money to spend on theaters," said harry, prudently. "not at first, but i'll get raised soon." "i think i should try to save as much as i could." "out of three dollars a week?" "yes." "what can you save out of that?" "i expect to save half of it, perhaps more." "i couldn't do that. i want a little fun." "you see my father's poor. i want to help him all i can." "that's good advice for you, bob," said mr. leavitt. "save up money, and help me." robert laughed. "you'll have to wait till i get bigger pay," he said. "your father's better off than mine," said harry. "of course, if he don't need it, that makes a difference." here the sound of a bell was heard, proceeding from the house. "robert," said his father "go in and tell your mother to put an extra seat at the table. she doesn't know that we've got a new boarder." he took off his apron, and washed his hands. tom gavitt followed his example, but didn't go into the house of his employer. he lived in a house of his own about five minutes' walk distant, but left the shop at the same time. in a country village the general dinner hour is twelve o'clock--a very unfashionably early hour--but i presume any of my readers who had been at work from seven o'clock would have no difficulty in getting up a good appetite at noon. robert went in and informed his mother of the new boarder. it made no difference, for the table was always well supplied. "this is harry walton, mother," said mr. leavitt, "our new apprentice. he will take bob's place when he goes." "i am glad to see you," said mrs. leavitt, hospitably. "you may sit here, next to robert." "what have you got for us to-day, mother?" asked her husband. "a picked-up dinner. there's some cold beef left over from yesterday, and i've made an apple pudding." "that's good. we don't want anything better." so harry thought. accustomed to the painful frugality of the table at home, he regarded this as a splendid dinner, and did full justice to it. in the afternoon he resumed work in the shop under robert's guidance. he was in excellent spirits. he felt that he was very fortunate to have gained a place so soon, and determined to write home that same evening. chapter xiii. an invitation declined the summer passed quickly, and the time arrived for robert leavitt to go to the city. by this time harry was well qualified to take his place. it had not been difficult, for he had only been required to peg, and that is learned in a short time. harry, however, proved to be a quick workman, quicker, if anything, than robert, though the latter had been accustomed to the work for several years. mr. leavitt was well satisfied with his new apprentice, and quite content to pay him the three dollars a week agreed upon. in fact, it diminished the amount of cash he was called upon to pay. "good-by, harry," said robert, as he saw the coach coming up the road, to take him to the railroad station. "good-by, and good luck!" said harry. "when you come to the city, come and see me." "i don't think i shall be going very soon. i can't afford it." "you must save up your wages, and you'll have enough soon." "i've got another use for my wages, bob." "to buy cigars?" harry shook his head. "i shall save it up to carry home." "well, you must try to make my place good in the shop." "he can do that," said mr. leavitt, slyly; "but there's one place where he can't equal you." "where is that?" "at the dinner table." "you've got me there, father," said bob, good-naturedly. "well, good-by all, here's the stage." in a minute more he was gone. harry felt rather lonely, for he had grown used to working beside him. but his spirits rose as he reflected that the time had now come when he should be in receipt of an income. three dollars a week made him feel rich in anticipation. he looked forward already with satisfaction to the time when he might go home with money enough to pay off his father's debt to squire green. but he was not permitted to carry out his economical purpose without a struggle. on saturday evening, after he had received his week's pay, luke harrison, who worked in a shop near by, met him at the post office. "come along, harry," he said. "let us play a game of billiards." "you must excuse me," said harry. "oh, come along," said luke, taking him by the arm; "it's only twenty-five cents." "i can't afford it." "can't afford it! now that's nonsense. you just changed a two-dollar note for those postage stamps." "i know that; but i must save that money for another purpose." "what's the use of being stingy, harry? try one game." "you can get somebody else to play with you, luke." "oh, hang it, if you care so much for a quarter, i'll pay for the game myself. only come and play." harry shook his head. "i don't want to amuse myself at your expense." "you are a miser," said luke, angrily. "you can call me so, if you like," said harry, firmly; "but that won't make it so." "i don't see how you can call yourself anything else, if you are so afraid to spend your money." "i have good reasons." "what are they?" "i told you once that i had another use for the money." "to hoard away in an old stocking," said luke, sneering. "you may say so, if you like," said harry, turning away. he knew he was right, but it was disagreeable to be called a miser. he was too proud to justify himself to luke, who spent all his money foolishly, though earning considerably larger wages than he. there was one thing that harry had not yet been able to do to any great extent, though it was something he had at heart. he had not forgotten his motto, "live and learn," and now that he was in a fair way to make a living, he felt that he had made no advance in learning during the few weeks since he arrived in glenville. the day previous he had heard, for the first time, that there was a public library in another part of the town, which was open evenings. though it was two miles distant, and he had been at work all day, he determined to walk up there and get a book. he felt that he was very ignorant, and that his advance in the world depended upon his improving all opportunities that might present themselves for extending his limited knowledge. this was evidently one. after his unsatisfactory interview with luke, he set out for the upper village, as it was called. forty minutes' walk brought him to the building in which the library was kept. an elderly man had charge of it--a mr. parmenter. "can i take out a book?" asked harry. "do you live in town?" "yes, sir." "i don't remember seeing you before. you don't live in this village, do you?" "no, sir. i live in the lower village." "what is your name?" "harry walton." "i don't remember any walton family." "my father lives in granton. i am working for mr. james leavitt." "i have no doubt this is quite correct, but i shall have to have mr. leavitt's certificate to that effect, before i can put your name down, and trust you with books." "then can't i take any book to-night?" asked harry, disappointed. "i am afraid not." so it seemed his two-mile walk was for nothing. he must retrace his steps and come again monday night. he was turning away disappointed when dr. townley, of the lower village, who lived near mr. leavitt, entered the library. "my wife wants a book in exchange for this, mr. parmenter," he said. "have you got anything new in? ah, harry walton, how came you here? do you take books out of the library?" "that's is what i came up for, but the librarian says i must bring a line from mr. leavitt, telling who i am." "if dr. townley knows you, that is sufficient," said the librarian. "he is all right, mr. parmenter. he is a young neighbor of mine." "that is enough. he can select a book." harry was quite relieved at this fortunate meeting, and after a little reflection selected the first volume of "rollin's universal history," a book better known to our fathers than the present generation. "that's a good, solid book, harry," said the doctor. "most of our young people select stories." "i like stories very much," said harry; "but i have only a little time to read, and i must try to learn something." "you are a sensible boy," said the doctor, emphatically. "i'm afraid there are few of our young people who take such wise views of what is best for them. most care only for present enjoyment." "i have got my own way to make," said harry, "and i suppose that is what influences me. my father is poor and cannot help me, and i want to rise in the world." "you are going the right way to work. do you intend to take out books often from the library?" "yes, sir." "it will be a long walk from the lower village." "i would walk farther rather than do without the books." "i can save you at any rate from walking back. my chaise is outside, and, if you will jump in, i will carry you home." "thank you, doctor. i shall be very glad to ride." on the way, dr. townley said: "i have a few miscellaneous book in my medical library, which i will lend to you with pleasure, if you will come in. it may save you an occasional walk to the library." harry thanked him, and not long afterwards availed himself of the considerate proposal. dr townley was liberally educated, and as far as his professional engagements would permit kept up with general literature. he gave harry some valuable directions as to the books which it would benefit him to read, and more than once took him up on the road to the library. once a week regularly harry wrote home. he knew that his letters would give pleasure to the family, and he never allowed anything to interfere with his duty. his father wrote: "we are getting on about as usual. the cow does tolerably well, but is not as good as the one i lost. i have not yet succeeded in laying up anything toward paying for her. somehow, whenever i have a few dollars laid aside tom wants shoes, or your sister wants a dress, or some other expense swallows it up." harry wrote in reply: "don't trouble yourself, father, about your debt to squire green. if i have steady work, and keep my health, i shall have enough to pay it by the time it comes due." chapter xiv. the tailor's customer at the end of six weeks from the date of robert's departure, harry had been paid eighteen dollars. of this sum he had spent but one dollar, and kept the balance in his pocketbook. he did not care to send it home until he had enough to meet squire green's demand, knowing that his father would be able to meet his ordinary expenses. chiefly through the reports of luke harrison he was acquiring the reputation of meanness, though, as we know, he was far from deserving it. "see how the fellow dresses," said luke, contemptuously, to two of his companions one evening. "his clothes are shabby enough, and he hasn't got an overcoat at all. he hoards his money, and is too stingy to buy one. see, there he comes, buttoned to the chin to keep warm, and i suppose he has more money in his pocketbook than the whole of us together. i wouldn't be as mean as he is for a hundred dollars." "you'd rather get trusted for your clothes than do without them," said frank heath, slyly; for he happened to know that luke had run up a bill with the tailor, about which the latter was getting anxious. "what if i do," said luke, sharply, "as long as i am going to pay for them?" "oh, nothing," said frank. "i didn't say anything against it, did i? i suppose you are as able to owe the tailor as anyone." by this time, harry had come up. "where are you going, walton?" asked luke. "you look cold." "yes, it's a cold day." "left your overcoat at home, didn't you?" harry colored. the fact was, he felt the need of an overcoat, but didn't know how to manage getting one. at the lowest calculation, it would cost all the money he had saved up for one, and the purchase would defeat all his plans. the one he had worn at home during the previous winter was too small for him, and had been given to his brother. "if i only could get through the winter without one," he thought, "i should be all right." but a new england winter is not to be braved with impunity, useless protected by adequate clothing. luke's sneer was therefore not without effect. but he answered, quietly: "i did not leave it at home, for i have none to leave." "i suppose you are bound to the tailor's to order one." "what makes you think so?" asked harry. "you are not such a fool as to go without one when you have money in your pocket, are you?" "you seem very curious about my private affairs," said harry, rather provoked. "he's only drumming up customers for the tailor," said frank heath. "he gets a commission on all he brings." "that's the way he pays his bill," said sam anderson. "quit fooling, boys," said luke, irritated. "i ain't a drummer. i pay my bills, like a gentleman." "by keeping the tailor waiting," said frank. "quit that!" so attention was diverted from harry by this opportune attack upon luke, much to our hero's relief. nevertheless, he saw, that in order to preserve his health, he must have some outer garment, and in order the better to decide what to do, he concluded to step into the tailor's, and inquire his prices. the tailor, merrill by name, had a shop over the dry goods store, and thither harry directed his steps. there was one other person in the shop, a young fellow but little larger than harry, though two years older, who was on a visit to an aunt in the neighborhood, but lived in boston. he belonged to a rich family, and had command of considerable money. his name was maurice tudor. he had gone into the shop to leave a coat to be repaired. "how are you, walton?" he said, for he knew our hero slightly. "pretty well. thank you." "it's pretty cold for october." "yes, unusually so." "mr. merrill," said harry, "i should like to inquire the price of an overcoat. i may want to order one by and by." "what sort of one do you want--pretty nice?" "no, i can't afford anything nice--something as cheap as possible." "this is the cheapest goods i have," said the tailor, pointing to some coarse cloth near by. "i can make you up a coat from that for eighteen dollars." "eighteen dollars!" exclaimed harry, in dismay. "is that the cheapest you have?" "the very cheapest." after a minute's pause he added, "i might take off a dollar for cash. i've got enough of running up bills. there's luke harrison owes me over thirty dollars, and i don't believe he means to pay it al all." "if i buy, i shall pay cash," said harry, quietly. "you can't get anything cheaper than this." said the tailor. "very likely not," said harry, soberly. "i'll think about it, and let you know if i decide to take it." maurice tudor was a silent listener to this dialogue. he saw harry's sober expression, and he noticed the tone in which he repeated "eighteen dollars," and he guessed the truth. he lingered after harry went out, and said: "that's a good fellow." "harry walton?" repeated the tailor. "yes, he's worth a dozen luke harrisons." "has he been in the village long?" "no, not more than two or three months. he works for mr. leavitt." "he is rather poor, i suppose." "yes. the boys call him mean; but leavitt tells me he is saving up every cent to send to his father, who is a poor farmer." "that's a good thing in him." "yes, i wish i could afford to give him and overcoat. he needs one, but i suppose seventeen dollars will come rather hard on him to pay. if it was luke harrison, it wouldn't trouble him much." "you mean he would get it on tick." "yes, if he found anybody fool enough to trust him. i've done it as long as i'm going to. he won't get a dollar more credit out of me till he pays his bill." "you're perfectly right, there." "so i think. he earns a good deal more than walton, but spends what he earns on billiards, drinks and cigars." "there he comes up the stairs, now." in fact, luke with his two companions directly afterwards entered the shop. "merrill," said he, "have you got in any new goods? i must have a new pair of pants." "yes, i've got some new goods. there's a piece open before you." "it's a pretty thing, merrill," said luke, struck by it; "what's your price for a pair off of it?" "ten dollars." "isn't that rather steep?" "no; the cloth is superior quality." "well, darn the expense. i like it, and must have it. just measure me, will you?" "are you ready to pay the account i have against you?" "how much is it?" the tailor referred to his books. "thirty-two dollars and fifty cents," he answered. "all right, merrill. wait till the pants are done, and i'll pay the whole at once." "ain't my credit good?" blustered luke. "you can make it good," said the tailor, significantly. "i didn't think you'd make such a fuss about a small bill." "i didn't think you'd find is so difficult to pay a small bill," returned the tailor. luke looked discomfited. he was silent a moment, and then changed his tactics. "come, merrill," he said, persuasively; "don't be alarmed. i'm good for it, i guess. i haven't got the money convenient to-day. i lent fifty dollars. i shall have it back next week and then i will pay you." "i am glad to hear it," said merrill. "so just measure me and hurry up the pants." "i'm sorry but i can't till you settle the bill." "look here, has walton been talking against me?" "no; what makes you think so?" "he don't like me, because i twitted him with his meanness." "i don't consider him mean." "has he ever bought anything of you?" "no." "i knew it. he prefers to go ragged and save his money." "he's too honorable to run up a bill without paying it." "do you mean me?" demanded luke, angrily. "i hope not. i presume you intend to pay your bills." luke harrison left the shop. he saw that he exhausted his credit with merrill. as to paying the bill, there was not much chance of that at present, as he had but one dollar and a half in his pocket. chapter xv. "by express" "there's a model for you," said the tailor to maurice tudor. "he won't pay his bills." "how did you come to trust him in the first place?" "i didn't know him then as well as i do now. i make it a practice to accommodate my customers by trusting them for a month or two, if they want it. but luke harrison isn't one to be trusted." "i should say not." "if young walton wants to get an overcoat on credit, i shan't object. i judge something by looks, and i am sure he is honest." "well, good night, mr. merrill. you'll have my coat done soon?" "yes, mr. tudor. it shall be ready for you to-morrow." maurice tudor left the tailor's shop, revolving a new idea which had just entered his mind. now he remembered that he had at home and excellent overcoat which he had worn the previous winter, but which was now too small for him. he had no younger brother to wear it, nor in his circumstances was such economy necessary. as well as he could judge by observing harry's figure, it would be an excellent fit for him. why should he not give it to him? the opportunity came. on his way home he overtook our hero, plunged in thought. in fact, he was still occupied with the problem of the needed overcoat. "good evening, harry," said young tudor. "good evening, mr. tudor," answered harry. "are you going back to the city soon?" "in the course of a week or two. mr. leavitt's son is in a store in boston, is he not?" "yes. i have taken his place in the shop." "by the way, i saw you in merrill's this evening." "yes; i was pricing an overcoat." "i bought this one in boston just before i came away. i have a very good one left from last winter but it is too small for me. it is of no use to me. if i thought you would accept it, i would offer it to you." harry's heart gave a joyful bound. "accept it!" he repeated. "indeed i will and thank you for your great kindness." "then i will write home at once to have it sent to me. i also have a suit which i have outgrown; if you wouldn't be too proud to take it." "i am not so foolish. it will be a great favor." "i thought you would take it right," said maurice, well pleased. "i will also send for the suit. i will get my mother to forward them by express." "they will be as good as money to me," said harry; "and that is not very plenty with me." "will you tell me something of your circumstances? perhaps i may have it in my power to help you." harry, assured of his friendly interest, did not hesitate to give him a full account of his plans in life, and especially of his desire to relieve his father of the burden of poverty. his straightforward narrative made a very favorable impression upon maurice, who could not help reflecting: "how far superior this boy is to luke harrison and his tribe!" "thank you for telling me all this," he said. "it was not from mere curiosity that i asked." "i am sure of that," said harry. "thanks to your generosity, i shall present a much more respectable appearance, besides being made more comfortable." three days later a large bundle was brought by the village expressman to mr. leavitt's door. "a bundle for you, walton," said the expressman, seeing harry in the yard. "what is there to pay?" he asked. "nothing. it was prepaid in the city?" harry took it up to his room and opened it eagerly. first came the promised overcoat. it was of very handsome french cloth, with a velvet collar, and rich silk facings, far higher in cost than any mr. merrill would have made for him. it fitted as if it had been made for him. next came, not one, but two complete suits embracing coat, vest and pants. one of pepper-and-salt cloth, the other a dark blue. these, also, so similar was he in figure to maurice, fitted him equally well. the clothes which he brought with from form granton were not only of coarse material but were far from stylish in cut, whereas these garments had been made by a fashionable boston tailor and set off his figure to much greater advantage. "i wonder what luke harrison will say?" said our hero to himself, smiling, as he thought of the surprise of luke at witnessing his transformation. "i've a great mind to keep these on to-night," he said. "perhaps i shall meet luke. he won't have anything more to say about my going without an overcoat." after supper harry, arrayed in his best suit and wearing the overcoat, walked down tot he center of the village. luke was standing on the piazza of the tavern. "luke, see how walton is dressed up!" exclaimed frank heath, who was the first to see our hero. "dressed up!" repeated luke, who was rather shortsighted. "that would be a good joke." "he's got a splendid overcoat," continued frank. "where'd he get it? merrill hasn't been making him one." "it's none of merrill's work. it's too stylish for him." by this time harry had come within luke's range of vision. the latter surveyed him with astonishment and it must be confessed, with disappointment; for he had been fond of sneering at harry's clothes, and now the latter was far better dressed than himself. "where did you get that coat, walton?" asked luke, the instant harry came up. "honestly," said harry, shortly. "have you got anything else new?" harry opened his coat and displayed the suit. "well, you are coming out, walton, that's a fact," said frank heath. "that's a splendid suit." "i thought you couldn't afford to buy a coat," said luke. "you see i've got one," answered harry. "how much did it cost?" "that's a secret." here he left luke and frank. "well, luke, what do you say to that?" said frank heath. luke said nothing. he was astonished and unhappy. he had a fondness for dress and spent a good share of his earnings upon it, paying where he must, and getting credit besides where he could. but he had never had so stylish a suit as this and it depressed him. chapter xvi. asking a favor there was one other tailor in the village, james hayden, and to him luke harrison determined to transfer his custom, hoping to be allowed to run up a bill with him. he did not like his style of cut as well as merrill's, but from the latter he was cut off unless he would pay the old bill, and this would be inconvenient. he strolled into james hayden's shop and asked to look at some cloth for pants. hayden was a shrewd man and, knowing that luke was a customer of his neighbor, suspected the reason of his transfer. however, he showed the cloth, and, a selection having been made, measured him. "when will you have them done?" asked luke. "in three days." "i want them by that time sure." "of course you pay cash." "why," said luke, hesitating, "i suppose you won't mind giving me a month's credit." mr. hayden shook his head. "i couldn't do it. my goods are already paid for and i have to pay for the work. i must have cash." "merrill always trusted me," pleaded luke. "then why did you leave him?" "why," said luke, a little taken aback, "he didn't cut the last clothes exactly to suit me." "didn't suit you? i thought you young people preferred his cut to mine. i am old-fashioned. hadn't you better go back to merrill?" "i've got tired of him," said luke. "i'll get a pair of pants of you, and see how i like them." "i'll make them but i can't trust." "all right. i'll bring the money," said luke, who yet thought that he might get off by paying part down when he took the pants. "the old fellow's deuced disobliging," said he o frank heath, when they got into the street. "i don't know as i blame him," said frank. "i wish merrill wasn't so stiff about it. he's terribly afraid of losing his bill." "that's where he's right," said frank, laughing. "i'd be the same if i were in his place." "do you always pay your bills right off?" said luke. "yes, i do. i don't pretend to be a model boy. i'm afraid i keep bad company," he continued, "but i don't owe a cent to anybody except for board and that i pay up at the end of every week." luke dropped the subject, not finding it to his taste. on saturday night he went round to the tailor's. "have you got my pants done, mr. hayden?" "yes--here they are." "let me see," he said, "how much are they?" "nine dollars." "i'll pay you three dollars to-night and the rest at the end of next week," he said. "very well; then you may have them at the end of next week." "why not now? they are done, ain't they?" "yes," said mr. hayden; "but not paid for." "didn't i tell you i'd pay three dollars now?" "our terms are cash down." "you ain't afraid of me, are you?" blustered luke. "you understood when you ordered the pants that they were to be paid for when they were taken." "i hate to see people so afraid of losing their money." "do you? was that why you left merrill?" luke colored. he suspected that the fact of his unpaid bill at the other tailor's was known to mr. hayden. "i've a great mind to leave them on your hands." "i prefer to keep them on my hands, rather than to let them go out of the shop without being paid for." "frank," said luke, turning to his companion, "lend me five dollars, can't you?" "i'm the wrong fellow to ask," said he; "i've got to pay my board and another bill to-night." "oh, let your bills wait." "and lend you the money? thank you, i ain't so green. when should i get the money again?" "next week." "in a horn. no; i want to wear the pants to-morrow. i'm going out to ride." "i don't see, unless you fork over the spondulies." "i can't. i haven't got enough money." "see harry walton." "i don't believe he has got any. he bought a lot of clothes last week. they must have cost a pile." "can't help it. i saw him open his pocketbook last night and in it was a roll of bills." turning to the tailor, luke said: "just lay aside the pants and i'll come back for them pretty soon." mr. hayden smiled to himself. "there's nothing like fetching up these fellows with a round turn," he said. "'no money, no clothes'--that's my motto. merrill told me all about that little bill that sent luke harrison over here. he don't run up any bill with me, if i know myself." luke went round to the village store. harry walton usually spent a part of every evening in instructive reading and study; but after a hard day's work he felt it necessary to pass an hour or so in the open air, so he came down to the center of center of the village. "hello, walton!" said luke, accosting him with unusual cordiality. "you are just the fellow i want to see." "am i?" inquired harry in surprise, for there was no particular friendship or intimacy between them. "yes; i'm going to ask a little favor of you--a mere trifle. lend me five or ten dollars for a week. five will do it, you can't spare more." harry shook his head. "i can't do that, luke." "why not? haven't you got as much?" "yes, i've got it." "then why won't you lend it to me?" "i have little money and i can't run any risk." "do you think i won't pay you back?" "why do you need to borrow of me? you get much higher wages than i do." "i want to pay a bill to-night. i didn't think you'd be so unaccommodating." "i shouldn't be willing to lend to anyone," said harry. "the money isn't mine. i am going to send it home." "a great sight you are!" sneered luke. "i wanted to see just how mean you were. you've got the money in your pocket but you won't lend it." this taunt did not particularly disturb harry. there is a large class like luke, who offended at being refused a loan, though quite aware that they are never likely to repay it. my young readers will be sure to meet specimens of this class, against whom the only protection is a very firm and decided "no." chapter xvii. the night scholars immediately after thanksgiving day, the winter schools commenced. that in the center district was kept by a student of dartmouth college, who had leave of absence from the college authorities for twelve weeks, in order by teaching to earn something to help defray his college expenses. leonard morgan, now a junior, was a tall, strongly made young man of twenty-two, whose stalwart frame had not been reduced by his diligent study. there were several shoe shops in the village, each employing from one to three boys, varying in age from fifteen to nineteen. why could he not form a private class, to meet in the evening, to be instructed in advanced arithmetic, or, if desired, in latin and greek? he broached the idea to stephen bates, the prudential committeeman. "i don't know," said mr. bates, "what our boys will think of it. i've got a boy that i'll send, but whether you'll get enough to make it pay i don't know." "i suppose i can have the schoolhouse, mr. bates?" "yes, there won't be no objection. won't it be too much for you after teachin' in the daytime?" "it would take a good deal to break me down." "then you'd better draw up a notice and put it up in the store and tavern," suggested the committeeman. in accordance with this advice, the young teacher posted up in the two places the following notice: "evening school "i propose to start an evening school for those who are occupied during the day, and unable to attend the district school. instruction will be given in such english branches as may be desired, and also in latin and greek, if any are desirous of pursuing a classical course. the school will commence next monday evening at the schoolhouse, beginning at seven o'clock. terms: seventy cents a week, or five dollars for the term of ten weeks. "leonard morgan." "are you going to join the class, walton?" asked frank heath. "yes," said harry, promptly. "where'll you get the money?" asked luke harrison, in a jeering tone. "i shan't have to go far for it." "i don't see how you can spend so much money." "i am willing to spend money when i can get my money's worth," said our hero. "are you going?" "to school? no, i guess not. i've got through my schooling." "you don't know enough to hurt you, do you, luke?" inquired frank heath, slyly. "nor i don't want to. i know enough to get along." "i don't and never expect to," said harry. "do you mean to go to school when you're a gray-headed old veteran?" asked frank, jocosely. "i may not go to school then but i shan't give up learning then," said harry, smiling. "one can learn without going to school. but while i'm young, i mean to go to school as much as i can." "i guess you're right," said frank; "i'd go myself, only i'm too lazy. it's hard on a feller to worry his brain with study after he's been at work all day. i don't believe i was cut out for a great scholar." "i don't believe you were, frank," said joe bates. "you always used to stand pretty well down toward the foot of the class when you went to school." "a feller can't be smart as well as handsome. as long as i'm good-looking, i won't complain because i wasn't born with the genius of a bates." "thank you for the compliment, frank, though i suppose it means that i am homely. i haven't got any genius or education to spare." when monday evening arrived ten pupils presented themselves, of whom six were boys, or young men, and four were girls. leonard morgan felt encouraged. a class of ten, though paying but five dollars each, would give him fifty dollars, which would be quite an acceptable addition to his scanty means. "i am glad to see so many," he said. "i think our evening class will be a success. i will take your names and ascertain what studies you wish to pursue." when he came to harry; he asked, "what do you propose to study?" "i should like to take up algebra and latin, if you are willing," answered our hero. "have you studied either at all?" "no, sir; i have not had an opportunity." "how far have you been in arithmetic?" "through the square and cube root?" "if you have been so far, you will have no difficulty with algebra. as to latin, one of the girls wishes to take up that and i will put you in the class with her." it will be seen that harry was growing ambitious. he didn't expect to go to college, though nothing would have pleased him better; but he felt that some knowledge of a foreign language could do him no harm. franklin, whom he had taken as his great exemplar, didn't go to college; yet he made himself one of the foremost scientific men of the age and acquired enduring reputation, not only as a statesman and a patriot, but chiefly as a philosopher. a little later, leonard morgan came round to the desk at which harry was sitting. "i brought a latin grammar with me," he said, "thinking it probable some one might like to begin that language. you can use it until yours comes." "thank you," said harry; and he eagerly took the book, and asked to have a lesson set, which was done. "i can get more than that," he said. "how much more?" "twice as much." still later he recited the double lesson, and so correctly that the teacher's attention was drawn to him. "that's a smart boy," he said. "i mean to take pains with him. what a pity he can't go to college!" chapter xviii. lost, or stolen harry learned rapidly. at the end of four weeks he had completed the latin grammar, or that part of it which his teacher, thought necessary for a beginner to be familiar with, and commenced translating the easy sentences in "andrews' latin reader." "you are getting on famously, harry," said his teacher. "i never had a scholar who advanced so." "i wish i knew as much as you." "don't give me too much credit. when i compare myself with our professors, i feel dissatisfied." "but you know so much more than i do," said harry. "i ought to; i am seven years older." "what are you going to study, mr. morgan?" "i intend to study law." "i should like to be an editor," said harry; "but i don't see much prospect of it." "why not?" "an editor must know a good deal." "there are some who don't," said leonard morgan, with a smile. "however, you would like to do credit to the profession and it is certainly in these modern days a very important profession." "how can i prepare myself?" "by doing your best to acquire a good education; not only by study but by reading extensively. an editor should be a man of large information. have you ever practiced writing compositions?" "a little; not much." "if you get time to write anything, and will submit it to me, i will point out such faults as i may notice." "i should like to do that," said harry, promptly. "what subject shall i take?" "you may choose your own subject. don't be too ambitious but select something upon which you have some ideas of your own." "suppose i take my motto? 'live and learn.'" "do so, by all means. that is a subject upon which you may fairly be said to have some ideas of your own." in due time harry presented a composition on this subject. the thoughts were good, but, as might be expected, the expression was somewhat crude, and of course the teacher found errors to correct and suggestions to make. these harry eagerly welcomed and voluntarily proposed to rewrite the composition. the result was a very much improved draft. he sent a copy home and received in reply a letter from his father, expressing surprise and gratification at the excellence of his essay. "i am glad, harry," the letter concluded, "that you have formed just views of the importance of learning. i have never ceased to regret that my own opportunities for education were so limited and that my time has been so much absorbed by the effort to make a living, that i have been able to do so little toward supplying my deficiencies. even in a pecuniary way an education will open to you a more prosperous career, and lead, i hope, to competence, instead of the narrow poverty which has been my lot. i will not complain of my own want of success, if i can see my children prosper." but while intent upon cultivating his mind, harry had not lost sight of the great object which had sent him from home to seek employment among strangers. he had undertaken to meet the note which his father had given squire green in payment for the cow. by the first of december he had saved up thirty-three dollars toward this object. by the middle of january the note would come due. of course he had not saved so much without the strictest economy, and by denying himself pleasures which were entirely proper. for instance, he was waited upon by luke harrison on the first day of december, and asked to join in a grand sleighing excursion to a town ten miles distant, where it was proposed to take supper, and, after a social time, return late in the evening. "i would like to go," said harry, who was strongly, tempted, for he was by no means averse to pleasure; "but i am afraid i cannot. how much will it cost?" "three dollars apiece. that pays for the supper too." harry shook his head. it was for rum a week's wages. if he were not trying to save money for his father, he might have ventured to incur this expense, but he felt that under present circumstances it would not be best. "i can't go," said harry. "oh, come along," urged luke. "don't make such a mope of yourself. you'll be sure to enjoy it." "i know i should; but i can't afford it." "i never knew a feller that thought so much of money as you," sneered luke. "i suppose it looks so," said harry; "but it isn't true." "everybody says you are a miser." "i have good reasons for not going." "if you would come, it would make the expense lighter for the rest of us and you would have a jolly time." this conversation took place as they were walking home from the store in the evening. harry pulled out his handkerchief suddenly from his pocket and with it came his pocketbook, containing all his savings. he didn't hear if fall; but luke did, and the latter, moreover, suspected what it was. he did not call harry's attention to it, but, falling back, said: "i've got to go back to the store. i forgot something. good night!" "good night!" said harry, unsuspiciously. luke stooped swiftly while our hero's back was turned, and picked up the pocketbook. he slipped it into his own pocket, and, instead of going back to the store, went to his own room, locked the door, and then eagerly pulled out the pocketbook and counted the contents. "thirty-three dollars! what a miser that fellow is! it serves him right to lose his money." chapter xix. an unwelcome visitor luke harrison had picked up harry's pocketbook, and, though knowing it to be his, concealed the discovery upon the impulse of the moment. "what i find is mine," he said to himself. "of course it is. harry walton deserves to lose his money." it will be seen that he had already decided to keep the money. it looked so tempting to him, as his eyes rested on the thick roll of bills--for, though insignificant in amount, the bills were ones and twos, and twenty in number--that he could not make up his mind to return it. luke was fond of new clothes. he wanted to reestablish his credit with merrill, for he was in want of a new coat and knew that it would be useless to order one unless he had some money to pay on account. he decided to use a part of harry's money for this purpose. it would be better, however, he thought, to wait a day or two, as the news of the loss would undoubtedly spread abroad, and his order might excite suspicion, particularly as he had been in harry's company at the time the money disappeared. he therefore put the pocketbook into his trunk, and carefully locked it. then he went to bed. meanwhile, harry reached mr. leavitt's unconscious of the serious misfortune which had befallen him. he went into the sitting room and talked a while with mr. leavitt, and at ten o'clock took his lamp and went up to bed. while he was undressing he felt in his pocket for his money, intending to lock it up in his trunk as usual. his dismay may be conceived when he could not find it. poor harry sank into a chair with that sudden sinking of the heart which unlooked-for misfortune brings and tried to think where he could have left the pocketbook. that evening he found himself under the necessity of buying a necktie at the store, and so had taken it from his trunk. could he have left it on the counter? no; he distinctly remembered replacing it in his pocket. he felt the need of consulting with somebody, and with his lamp in his hand went downstairs again. "you haven't concluded to sit up all night, have you?" asked mr. leavitt, surprised at his reappearance. "are you sick, harry?" asked mrs. leavitt. "you're looking dreadfully pale." "i've lost my pocketbook," said harry.. "how much was there in it?" asked his employer. "thirty-three dollars," answered harry. "whew! that's a good deal of money to lose. i shouldn't want to lose so much myself. when did you have it last?" harry told his story, mr. leavitt listening attentively "and you came right home?" "yes." "alone." "no; luke harrison came with me." "are you two thick together?" "not at all. he doesn't like me, and i don't fancy him." "what was he talking about?" "he wanted me to join a sleighing party." "what did you say?" "i said i couldn't afford it. then he charged me with being a miser, as he often does." "did he come all the way home with you?" "no; he left me at deacon brewster's. he said he must go back to the store." "there is something queer about this," said mr. leavitt, shrewdly. "do you want my advice?" "yes; i wish you would advise me, for i don't know what to do." "then go to the store at once. ask, but without attracting any attention, if luke came back there after leaving you. then ask mr. meade, the storekeeper, whether he noticed you put back your pocketbook." "but i know i did." "then it will be well to say nothing about it, at least publicly. if you find that luke's excuse was false, and that he did not go back, go at once to his boarding place, and ask him whether he saw you drop the pocketbook. you might have dropped it and he picked it up." "suppose he says no?" "then we must watch whether he seems flush of money for the next few days." this seemed to harry good advice. he retraced his steps to the store, carefully looking for the lost pocketbook. but of course, it was not to be seen and he entered the store troubled and out of spirits. "i thought you went home, harry," said frank heath. "you see i am here again," said our hero. "time to shut up shop," said mr. meade, the storekeeper. "you boys will have to adjourn till to-morrow." "where's luke harrison?" asked frank heath. "didn't he go out with you?" "yes; but he left me some time ago. he came back here, didn't he?" "no; he hasn't been here since." "he spoke of coming," said harry. "he wanted me to join that sleighing party." "good night, boys," said the storekeeper, significantly. they took the hint and went out. their way lay in different directions, and they parted company. "now i must call on luke," said harry to himself. "i hope he found the pocketbook. he wouldn't be wicked enough to keep it." but he was not quite so sure of this as he would like to have been. he felt almost sick as he thought of the possibility that he might never recover the money which he had saved so gladly, though with such painful economy. it represented the entire cash earnings of eleven weeks. luke harrison boarded with a mr. glenham, a carpenter, and it was at his door that harry knocked. "is luke harrison at home?" he inquired of mrs. glenham, who opened the door. "at home and abed, i reckon," she replied. "i know it's late, mrs. glenham, but it is about a matter of importance that i wish to see luke." "i reckon it's about the sleighing party." "no, it is quite another thing. i won't stay but minute." "well, i suppose you can go up." harry went upstairs and knocked. ordinarily, luke would have been asleep, for generally he sank to sleep five minutes after his head touched the pillow; but to-night the excitement of his dishonest intention kept him awake, and he started uneasily when he heard the knock. "who's there?" he called out from the bed. "it's i--harry walton." "he's come about that pocketbook," thought luke. "i'm in bed," he answered. "i want to see you a minute, on a matter of importance." "come to-morrow morning." "i must see you now." "oh, well, come in, if you must," said luke. chapter xx. "you seem to be in an awful hurry to see me," said luke, grumbling. "i was just getting to sleep." "i've lost my pocketbook. have you seen it?" "have i seen it? that's a strange question. how should i have seen it?" "i lost it on the way from the store to the house." "do you mean to charge me with taking it?" "i haven't said anything of the sort," said harry; "but you were with me, and i thought you might have seen it drop out of my pocket." "did you drop it out of your pocket?" "i can't think of any other way i could lose it." "of course i haven't seen it. was that all you woke me up about?" "is that all? you talk as if it was a little thing losing thirty-three dollars." "thirty-three dollars!" repeated luke, pretending to be surprised. "you don't mean to say you've lost all that?" "yes, i do." "well," said luke, yawning, "i wish i could help you; but i can't. good night." "good night," said harry, turning away disappointed. "what success, harry?" inquired mr. leavitt, who had deferred going to bed in order to hear his report. "none at all," answered harry. "is there anything by which you can identify any of the bills?" "yes," answered harry, with sudden recollection, "i dropped a penful of ink on one of the bills--a two-dollar note--just in the center. i had been writing a letter, and the bill lay on the table near by." "good!" said mr. leavitt. "now, supposing luke has taken this money, how is he likely to spend it?" "at the tailor's, most likely. he is always talking about new clothes; but lately he hasn't had any because merrill shut down on him on account of an unpaid bill." "then you had better see merrill and ask him to take particular notice of any bills that luke pays him." "innocence must often be suspected, or guilt would never be detected. it is the only way to get on the track of the missing bills." harry saw that this was reasonable and decided to call on merrill the next day. "do you think luke took it?" asked the tailor. "i don't know. i don't like to suspect him." "i haven't much opinion of luke. he owes me a considerable bill." "he prefers your clothes to hayden's, and if he has the money, he will probably come here and spend some of it." "suppose he does, what do you want me to do?" "to examine the bills he pays you, and if you find an ink spot on the center of one let me know." "i understand. i think i can manage it." "my money was mostly in ones and twos." "that may help you. i will bear it in mind." two days afterwards, luke harrison met harry. "have you found your money, walton?" he asked. "no, and i am afraid i never shall," said our hero. "what do you think has become of it?" "that's just what i would like to find out," said harry. "the only thing you can do is to grin and bear it." "and be more careful next time." "of course." "he's given it up," said luke to himself. "i think i can venture to use some of it now. i'll go round to merrill's and see what he's got in the way of pants." accordingly he strolled into merrill's that evening. "got any new cloths in, merrill?" asked luke. "i've got some new cloths for pants." "that's just what i want." "you're owing me a bill." "how much is it?" "some over thirty dollars." "i can't pay it all, but i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll pay you fifteen dollars on account, and you can make me a new pair of pants. will that answer?" "all right. of course i'd rather you'd pay the whole bill. still i want to be accommodating." "let me look at your cloths." the tailor displayed a variety of cloths, one of which suited luke's fancy. "here's fifteen dollars," he said. "just credit me with that on the bill, will you?" "all right," said merrill. he proceeded to count the money, which consisted of consisted of ones and twos, and instantly came to the conclusion that it was from harry's missing pocketbook, particularly as he came upon the identical note with the blot in the center. unaware of the manner in which he had betrayed himself, luke felt quite complacent over his reestablished credit, and that without any expense to himself. "have you got any new cloth for coats?" he asked. "i shall have some new cloths in next week." "all right. when will you have the pants done?" "you may call round in two or three days." "just make 'em in style, merrill, and i'll send all my friends here." "very well. i hope you'll soon be able to pay me the balance of my bill." "oh, yes, to be sure. you won't have to wait long." he swaggered out of the shop, lighting a cigar. "my young friend," soliloquized the tailor, watching his exit, "you have walked into my trap neatly. colman,"--turning to a young man present at the time--"did you see luke harrison pay me this money?" "yes; to be sure." "do you see this blot on one of the bills--a two?" "yes; what of it?" "nothing. i only called your attention to it." "i don't see what there is strange about that. anybody might get ink on a bill, mightn't he?" "of course." colman was puzzled. he could not understand why he should have been called upon to notice such a trifle; but the tailor had his reasons. he wanted to be able to prove by colman's testimony that the blotted bill was actually put into his hands by luke harrison. chapter xxi. in the tailor's power "is that the bill you spoke of, walton?" asked the tailor, on harry's next visit to the shop. "yes," said harry, eagerly. "where did you get it?" "you can guess." "from luke harrison?" "yes; he paid me, last evening, fifteen dollars on account. this note was among those he paid me." "it is mine. i can swear to it." "the rest of the money was yours, no doubt." "what shall i do, mr. merrill?" "the money is yours, and i will restore it to you after seeing luke. i will send for him to be here at seven o'clock this evening." as luke was at work in his shop that day, the tailor's boy came in with a note. luke opened it and read as follows: "will you call at my shop at seven this evening about the pants you ordered? "henry merrill." "tell your father i'll come," said luke. at seven o'clock he entered the tailor's shop once more. "well, merrill, what do you want to see me about?" he asked. "have you cut the pants?" "no." "you haven't? i wanted you to go to work on them at once." "i know; but it was necessary to see you first." "why--didn't you take the measure right?" "luke," said mr. merrill, looking him steadily in the eye, "where did you get that money you paid me?" "where did i get the money?" repeated luke, flushing up. "what makes you ask me that question? isn't it good money? 'tisn't counterfeit, is it?" "i asked you where you got it from?" "from the man i work for, to be sure," said luke. "will you swear to that?" "i don't see the use. can't you take my word?" "i may as well tell you that harry walton recognizes one of the bills as a part of the money he lost." "he does, does he?" said luke, boldly. "that's all nonsense. bills all look alike." "this one has a drop of ink just in the center. he remembered having dropped a blot upon it." "what have i to do with that?" "it is hardly necessary to explain. the evening he lost the money you were with him. two days after, you pay me one of the bills which he lost," said the tailor. "do you mean to say i stole 'em?" demanded luke. "it looks like it, unless you can explain how you came by the blotted bill." "i don't believe i paid you the bill. very likely it was some one else." "i thought you would say that, so i called colman's attention to it. however, if your employer admits paying you the bills, of course you are all right." luke remembered very well that he was paid in fives, and that such an appeal would do him no good. "does walton know this?" he asked, sinking into a chair, and wiping the perspiration from his brow. "yes; he suspected you." "i'd like to choke him!" said luke, fiercely. "the miserly scoundrel!" "it seems to me he is justified in trying to recover his money. what have you done with the rest of it?" "tell me what will be done to me," said luke, sullenly. "i didn't steal it. i only picked it up when he dropped it. he deserves to lose it, for being so careless." "why didn't you tell him you had found it?" "i meant to give it to him after a while. i only wanted to keep it long enough to frighten him." "that was dangerous, particularly as you used it." "i meant to give him back other money." "i don't think that excuse will avail you in court." "court of justice!" repeated luke, turning pale. "he won't have me taken up--will he?" "he will unless you arrange to restore all the money." "i've paid you part of it." "that i shall hand over to him. have you the rest?" "i've spent a few dollars. i've got eight dollars left." "you had better give it to me." reluctantly, luke drew out his pocketbook and passed the eight dollars to mr. merrill. "now when will you pay the rest?" "in a few weeks," said luke. "that won't do. how much do you earn a week?" "fifteen dollars." "how much do you pay for board?" "four dollars." "then you will be able to pay eleven dollars at the end of this week." "i can't get along without money," said luke. "you will have to till you pay back the money, unless you prefer appearing before a court of justice." luke was just going out when the tailor called him back. "i believe you owe me thirty dollars. when are you going to pay it?" "i can't pay it yet a while," said luke. "i think you had better," said the tailor quietly. "i'll pay you as soon as i can." "you make eleven dollars a week over and above your board and spend it on drink, billiards and fast horses. you are fully able to pay for your clothes promptly and i advise you to do it." "i'll pay you as soon as i can." "if you neglect to do it, i may as well tell you that i shall let it be known that you stole walton's pocketbook." an expression of alarm overspread luke's face, and he hastily made the required promise. but he added, "i didn't steal it. i only found it." "the whole story would be told, and people might think as they pleased. but it is much better for you to avoid all this by paying your bills." luke harrison left the tailor's shop in a very unhappy and disgusted frame of mind. "if i had the sense to wait till it blew over," he said to himself, "i should have escaped all this: i didn't think merrill would act so mean. now i'm in for paying his infernal bill besides. it's too bad." just then he came upon frank heath, who hailed him. "luke, come and play a game of billiards." "if you'll promise not to beat me. i haven't got a cent of money." "you haven't? what have you done with those bills you had this afternoon?" "i've paid 'em over to merrill," said luke, hesitating. "he was in a deuced stew about his bill." "when are your pants going to be ready?" "i don't know," said luke, with a pang of sorrow. "merrill's making them, isn't he?" "he says he won't till i pay the whole bill." "seems to me your credit ain't very good, luke." "it's good enough, be he's hard up for money. i guess he's going to fail. if you'll lend me a couple of dollars, i'll go around and have a game." frank heath laughed. "you'll have to go to some one else, luke," he said. luke passed a disagreeable evening. cut off by his want of money from his ordinary amusements, and depressed by the thought that things would be no better till he had paid his bills, he lounged about, feeling that he was a victim of ill luck. it did not occur to him that that ill luck was of his own bringing. chapter xxii. the coming of the magician the week passed and luke carefully avoided our hero going so far as to cross the street so as not to meet him. on saturday evening, according to his arrangement, luke was to have paid the surplus of his wages, after meeting his board bill, to mr. merrill, for harry. but he did not go near him. on monday, the tailor meeting him, inquired why he had not kept his agreement. "the fact is," said luke, "i have been unlucky." "how unlucky?" "i had my wages loose in my pocket, and managed to lose them somehow." "that is very singular," said the tailor, suspiciously. "why is it singular?" asked luke. "didn't harry walton lose his money?" "you seem to have lost yours at a very convenient time." "it's hard on me," said luke. "owing so much, i want to pay as quick as i can, so as to have my wages to myself. don't you see that?" "where do you think you lost the money?" "i'm sure i don't know," said luke. "well," said merrill, dryly, "i hope you will take better care of your wages next saturday evening." "i mean to. i can't afford to lose anymore." "i don't believe, a word of what he says about losing his money," said the tailor, privately, to harry. "i think it's only a trick to get rid of paying you." "don't you think he'll pay me?" asked harry. "he won't if he can help it," was the answer. "he's a slippery customer. i believe his money is in his pocket at this moment." mr. merrill was not quite right; but it was only as to the whereabouts of the money. it was in luke's trunk. he intended to run away, leaving all his creditors in the lurch. this was the "new way to pay old debts," which occurred to luke as much the easiest. the next saturday evening, mr. merrill waited in vain for a call from his debtor. "what excuse will he have now?" he thought. on monday morning he learned that luke had left town without acquainting anyone with his destination. it transpired, also, that he was owing at his boarding house for two weeks' board. he was thus enabled to depart with nearly thirty dollars, for parts unknown. "he's a hard case," said mr. merrill to harry. "i am afraid he means to owe us for a long time to come." "where do you think he is gone?" asked harry. "i have no idea. he has evidently been saving up money to help him out of town. sometime we may get upon his track, and compel him to pay up." "that won't do me much good," said harry, despondently. and then he told the tailor why he wanted the money. "now," he concluded, "i shan't be able to have the money ready in time." "you'll have most of it ready, won't you?" "i think i will." "i would lend you the money myself," said the tailor, "but i've got a heavy payment to meet and some of my customers are slow pay, though i have not many as bad as luke harrison." "thank you, mr. merrill," said harry. "i am as much obliged to you as if you could lend the money." but it is said that misfortunes never come singly. the very next day mr. leavitt received a message from the wholesale dealer to whom he sold his shoes, that the market was glutted and sales slow. "i shall not want any more goods for a month or two," the letter concluded. "i will let you know, when i more." mr. leavitt read this letter aloud in the shop. "so it seems we are to have a vacation," he said. "that's the worst of the shoe trade. it isn't steady. when it's good everybody rushes into it, and the market soon gets overstocked. then there's no work for weeks." this was a catastrophe for which harry was no prepared. he heard the announcement with a grave face, for to him it was a serious calamity. twenty-three dollars were all that he had saved from the money lost and this would be increased by a dollar or two only, when he had settled up with mr. leavitt. if he stayed here did not obtain work, he must pay his board, and that would soon swallow up his money. could he get work in any other shop? that was an important question. "do you think i can get into any other shop in town?" he inquired anxiously of mr. leavitt. "you can try, harry; but i guess you'll find others no better off than i." this was not very encouraging, but harry determined not to give up without an effort. he devoted the next day to going around among the shoe shops; but everywhere he met with unfavorable answers. some had ready suspended. others were about to do so. "it seems as if all my money must go," thought harry, looking despondently at his little hoard. "first the ten dollars luke harrison stole. then work stopped. i don't know but it would be better for me to go home." but the more harry thought of this, the less he liked it. it would be an inglorious ending to his campaign. probably now he would not be able to carry out his plan of paying for the cow; but if his father should lose it, he might be able, if he found work, to buy him another squire green's cow was not the only cow in the world and all would not be lost if he could not buy her. "i won't give up yet," said harry, pluckily. "i must expect to meet with some bad luck. i suppose everybody does. something'll turn up for me if i try to make it." this was good philosophy. waiting passively for something to turn up is bad policy and likely to lead to disappointment; but waiting actively, ready to seize any chance that may offer, is quite different. the world is full of chances, and from such chances so seized has been based many a prosperous career. during his first idle day, harry's attention was drawn to a handbill which had been posted up in the store, the post office, the tavern, and other public places in the village. it was to this effect: "professor henderson, "the celebrated magician, "will exhibit his wonderful feats of magic and sleight of hand in the town hall this evening, commencing at o'clock. in the course of the entertainment he will amuse the audience by his wonderful exhibition of ventriloquism, in which he is unsurpassed. "tickets cents. children under twelve, cents." in a country village, where amusements are few, such entertainments occupy a far more important place than in a city, where amusements abound. "are you going to the exhibition, walton?" asked frank heath. "i don't know," said harry. "better come. it'll be worth seeing." in spite of his economy, our hero wanted to go. "the professor's stopping at the tavern. come over, and we may see him," said frank. chapter xxiii. the ventriloquist the boys went into the public room of the tavern. in the center was a stove, around which were gathered a miscellaneous crowd, who had assembled, as usual, to hear and talk over the news of the day. at the farther end of the room was a bar, where liquor and cigars were sold. the walls of the room, which was rather low-studded, were ornamented by sundry notices and posters of different colors, with here and there an engraving of no great artistic excellence--one representing a horse race, another a steamer of the cunard line, and still another, the presidents of the united states grouped together, with washington as the central figure. "have a cigar, walton?" asked frank heath. "no, thank you, frank." "you haven't got so far along, hey?" "i don't think it would do me any good," said harry. "maybe not; but jolly comfortable on a cold night. the worst of it is, it's mighty expensive." frank walked up to the bar and bought a ten-cent cigar. he returned and sat down on a settee. "the magician isn't here," said harry. "hush, he is here!" said frank, in a low voice, as the door opened, and a tall, portly man entered the room. professor henderson--for it was he--walked up the bar, and followed frank heath's example in the purchase of a cigar then he glanced leisurely round the apartment. apparently, his attention was fixed by our hero, for he walked up to him, and said: "young man, i would like to speak to you." "all right, sir," said harry, in surprise. "if you are not otherwise occupied, will you accompany me to my room?" "certainly, sir," returned harry, in fresh wonder. "perhaps he's going to take in walton as partner," frank heath suggested to tom frisbie. "i wonder what he want anyway?" said frisbie. "why didn't he take you?" "because i'm too sharp," said frank. "i should see through his tricks." meanwhile, harry had entered the professor's chamber. "sit down," said the magician. "i'll tell you what i want of you. i want you to take tickets at the door of hall to-night. can you do it?" "yes, sir," said harry, promptly. "it seems easy enough," said the professor; "but not everyone can do it rapidly without making mistakes. are you quick at figures?" "i am usually considered so," said our hero. "i won't ask whether you are honest, for you would so, of course." "i hope--" commenced harry. "i know what you are going to say; but there is no need of saying it," interrupted the magician. "i judge from your face, which is an honest one. i have traveled about a good deal, and i am a good judge of faces." "you shall not be disappointed, sir." "i know that, in advance. now, tell me if you are at work, or do you attend school?" "i have been at work in a shoe shop in this village, sir." "not now?" "no, sir; business is dull, and work has given out." "what are you going to do next?" "anything by which i can earn an honest living." "that's the way to talk. i'll take you into my employ, if you have no objection to travel." objection to travel! who ever heard of a boy of fifteen who had an objection to travel? "but will your parents consent? that is the next question. i don't want to entice any boys away from home against their parents' consent." "my parents do not live here. they live farther north, in the town of granton." "granton? i never was there. is it a large place?" "no, sir, it is a very small place. my father consented to have me leave home and he will have no objection to my earning my living in any honest way." "well, my young friend, i can assure you that my way is an honest one, though i frankly confess i do my best to deceive the people who come to my entertainments." "what is it you want me to do, sir?" "partly what you are going to do to-night--take tickets at the door; but that is not all. i have to carry about considerable apparatus and i need help about arranging it. sometimes, also, i need help in my experiments. i had a young man with me; but he is taken down with a fever and obliged to go home. it is not likely, as his health is delicate, that he will care to resume his position. i must have somebody in his place. i have no doubt you will answer my purpose." "how much pay do you give, sir?" "a practical question," said the professor, smiling. "to begin with, of course i pay traveling expenses, and i can offer you five dollars a week besides. will that be satisfactory?" "yes, sir," said harry, his heart giving a great throb of exultation as he realized that his new business would give him two dollars week more than his work in the shop, besides being a good deal more agreeable, since it would give him a chance to see a little of the world. "can you start with me to-morrow morning?" "yes, sir." "then it is settled. but it is time you were at the hall. i will give you a supply of small bills and, change, as you may have to change some bills." he drew from his side pocket a wallet, which he placed in the hands of our hero. "this wallet contains twenty dollars," he said: "of course you will bring me back that amount, in addition to what you take at the door this evening." "very well, sir." "you can wait for me at the close of the evening, and hand me all together. now go over to the hall, as the doors are to be open at half past seven o'clock." when frank heath and his companion went over to the town hall they found harry making change. "hello, walton!" said frank. "are you the treasurer of this concern?" "it seems so," said harry. "you'll let in your friends for nothing, won't you?" "not much. i charge them double price." "well here's our money. i say, tom, i wonder the old fellow didn't take me instead of walton." "that's easily told. you don't look honest enough." "oh, if it comes to that, he passed over you, too, tom." "he wouldn't insult a gentleman of my dignity. come on; there's room on the front seat." harry was kept busy till ten minutes after eight. by that time about all who intended to be present were in the hall and the magician was gratified by seeing that it was crowded. he was already well known in the village, having been in the habit of visiting it every for years and his reputation for dexterity, and especially for ventriloquism, had called out this large audience. the professor's tricks excited great wonder in the younger spectators. i will only dwell slightly on his ventriloquism. when he came to this part of the entertainment, he said: "will any young gentleman assist me?" frank heath immediately left his seat and took up his position beside the professor. "now, sir," said the professor, "i want to ask you a question or two. will you answer me truly?" a gruff voice appeared to proceed from frank's mouth, saying: "yes, sir." "are you married, sir?" again the same gruff voice answered: "yes, sir; i wish i wasn't;" to the great delight of the small boys. "indeed, sir! i hope your wife doesn't make it uncomfortable for you." "she licks me," frank appeared to answer. "i am sorry. what does she lick you with?" "with a broomstick." frank looked foolish and there was a general laugh. "i hope she doesn't treat you so badly very often, sir." "yes, she does, every day," was the answer. "if she knowed i was up here telling you, she'd beat me awful." "in that case, sir, i won't be cruel enough to keep you here any longer. take my advice, sir, and get a divorce." "so i will, by hokey!" and frank, amid hearty laughter, resumed his seat, not having uttered a word, the professor being responsible for the whole conversation. chapter xxiv. harry's letter during harry's absence, the little household at granton had got along about as usual. they lived from hand to mouth. it required sharp financiering to provide food and clothes for the little family. there was one neighbor who watched their progress sharply and this was squire green. it will be remembered that he had bound mr. walton to forfeit ten dollars, if, at the end of six months, he was not prepared to pay the forty dollars and interest which he had agreed to pay for the cow. it is a proof of the man's intense meanness that, though rich while his neighbor was poor, he was strongly in hopes that the latter would incur the forfeit and be compelled to pay it. one morning squire green accosted mr. walton, the squire being at work in his own front yard. "good morning, neighbor walton," he said. "good morning, squire." "how is that cow a-doin'?" "pretty well." "she's a good cow." "not so good as the one i lost." "you're jokin' now, neighbor. it was my best cow. i wouldn't have sold her except to obleege." "she doesn't give as much milk as my old one." "sho! i guess you don't feed her as well as i did." "she fares just as well as the other one did. of course, i don't know how you fed her." "she allers had her fill when she was with me. le' me see, how long is it since i sold her to ye?" though the squire apparently asked for information, he knew the time to a day and was not likely to forget. "it's between four and five months, i believe." "jus'so. you was to be ready to pay up at the end of six months." "that was the agreement." "you'd better be a-savin' up for it." "there isn't much chance of my saving. it's all i can do to make both ends meet." "you don't say so," said the squire, secretly pleased. "my farm is small and poor, and doesn't yield much." "but you work out, don't you?" "when i get a chance. you don't want any help, do you, squire? i might work off part of the debt that way." "mebbe next spring i'd like some help." "that will be too late to meet my note, unless you'll renew." "i'll see about it," said the squire, evasively. "what do you hear from that boy of yours? is he doin' well?" "he's at work in a shoe shop." "does it pay well?" "he doesn't get much just at first." "then he won't be able to pay for the cow," thought the squire. "that's what i wanted to know." "he'd better have gone to work for me," he said "no, i think he will do better away from home. he will get a good trade that he can fall back upon hereafter, even if he follows some other business." "wal, i never learned no trade but i've got along middlin' well," said the squire, in a complacent tone. "farmin's good enough for me." "i would say the same if i had your farm, squire. you wouldn't exchange, would you?" "that's a good joke, neighbor walton. when i make up my mind to do it. i'll let you know." "what a mean old curmudgeon he is!" thought hiram walton, as he kept on his way to the village store. "he evidently intends to keep me to my agreement and will exact the ten dollars in case i can't pay for the cow at the appointed time. it will be nothing but a robbery." this was not the day for a letter from harry but it occurred to mr. walton to call at the post office. contrary to his anticipations, a letter was handed him. "i won't open it till i get home," he said to himself. "i've got a letter from harry," he said, as he entered the house. "a letter from harry? it isn't his day for writing," said mrs. walton. "what does he say?" "i haven't opened the letter yet. here, tom, open and read it aloud." tom opened the letter and read as follows: "dear father:--i must tell you, to begin with, that i have been compelled to stop work in the shoe shop. the market is overstocked and trade has become very dull. "of course, i felt quite bad when mr. leavitt told me this, for i feared it would prevent my helping you pay for the cow, as i want so much to do. i went round to several other shops, hoping to get in, but i found it impossible. still, i have succeeded in getting something to do that will pay me better than work in the shop. if you were to guess all day, i don't believe you would guess what business it is. so, to relieve your suspense, i will tell you that i have engaged as assistant to professor henderson, the famous magician and ventriloquist and am to start to-morrow on a tour with him." "assistant to a magician!" exclaimed mrs. walton "what does the boy know about magic?" "it's a bully business," said tom, enthusiastically. "i only wish i was in harry's shoes. i'd like to travel round with a magician first-rate." "you're too thick-headed, tom," said marry. "shut up!" said tom. "i guess i'm as smart as you, any day." "be quiet, both of you!" said mr. walton. "now, tom, go on with your brother's letter." tom proceeded: "i am to take money at the door. we are going about in the southern part of the state and shall visit some towns in massachusetts, the professor says. you know i've never been round any and i shall like traveling and seeing new places. professor henderson is very kind and i think i shall like him. he pays my traveling expenses and five dollars a week, which is nearly twice as much money as i got from mr. leavitt. i can't help thinking i am lucky in getting so good a chance only a day after i lost my place in the shoe shop. i hope, yet, to be able to pay for the cow when the money comes due. "love to all at home. "harry." "harry's lucky," said mary. "he can get along." "he is fortunate to find employment at once," said his father; "though something which he can follow steadily is better. but the pay is good and i am glad he has it." "how long it seems since harry was at home," said his mother. "i wish i could see him." "yes, it would be pleasant," said mr. walton; "but the boy has his own way to make, so we will be thankful that he is succeeding so well." chapter xxv. a strange companion at ten o'clock the next day, harry presented himself at the hotel. he carried in his hand a carpetbag lent him by mr. leavitt, which contained his small stock of under-clothing. his outside suits he left at mr. leavitt's, not wishing to be encumbered with them while traveling. "i see you are on time," said the professor. "yes, sir; i always mean to be." "that's well; now if you'll jump into my buggy with me, we will ride round to the town hall and take in my apparatus. i have to keep a carriage," said the magician, as they rode along. "it saves me a great deal of trouble by making me independent of cars and stages." the apparatus was transferred to a trunk in the back part of the buggy and securely locked. "now we are all ready," said professor henderson, "would you like to drive?" "yes, sir," answered harry, with alacrity. "i am going to give an entertainment in holston this evening," said his new employer. "were you ever there?" "no, sir." "it is a smart little place and although the population is not large, i always draw a full house." "how far is it, sir?" "about six miles." harry was sorry it was not farther, as he enjoyed driving. his companion leaned back at his ease and talked on various subjects. he paused a moment and harry was startled by hearing a stifled child's voice just behind him: "oh, let me out! don't keep me locked up here!" the reins nearly fell from his hands. he turned and heard the voice apparently proceeding from the trunk. "what's the matter?" asked professor henderson. "i thought i heard a child's voice." "so you did," said the voice again. the truth flashed upon harry. his companion was exerting some of his powers as a ventriloquist. "oh, it is you, sir," he said, smiling. his companion smiled. "you are right," he said. "i don't see how you can do it," said harry. "practice, my boy." "but practice wouldn't make everybody a ventriloquist, would it?" "most persons might become ventriloquists, though in an unequal degree. i often amuse myself by making use of it for playing practical jokes upon people. "do you see that old lady ahead?" "yes, sir." "i'll offer her a ride. if she accepts, you'll see sport. i shall make you talk but you must be careful to say nothing yourself." a few rods farther on, they overtook an old woman. "good morning, ma'am," said the professor. "won't you get in and ride? it's easier riding than walking." the old women scanned his countenance and answered: "thank you, sir, i'm obleeged to ye. i don't mind if i do." she was assisted into the carriage and sat at one end of the seat, harry being in the middle. "i was going to see my darter, nancy," said the old women. "mrs. nehemiah babcock her name is. mebbe you know her husband." "i don't think i do," said the professor. "he's got a brother in boston in the dry goods business. mebbe you've been at his store." "mebbe i have." "i ginerally call to see my darter--her name is nancy--once a week; but it's rather hard for me to walk, now i'm getting' on in years." "you're most eighty, ain't you?" appeared to proceed from harry's mouth. our hero's face twitched and he had hard work to keep from laughing. "indeed, i'm not!" said the old lady, indignantly. "i'm only sixty-seven and folks say i don't look more'n sixty," and the old lady looked angrily at harry. "you must excuse him, ma'am," said the professor, soothingly. "he is no judge of a lady's age." "i should think not, indeed." "indeed, madam, you are very young looking." the old lady was pacified by this compliment but looked askance at harry. "is he your son?" "no, ma'am." the old lady sniffed, as if to say, "so much the better for you." "are you travelin' far?" asked the old lady. "what do you want to know for?" harry appeared to ask. "you're a sassy boy!" exclaimed the old woman. "harry," said professor henderson, gravely, "how often have i told you not to be so unmannerly?" "he orter be whipped," said the old lady. "ef i had a boy that was so sassy, i'd larn him manners!" "i'm glad i ain't your boy," harry appeared to reply. "i declare i won't ride another step if you let him insult me so," said the old woman, glaring at our hero. professor henderson caught her eye and significantly touched his forehead, giving her to understand that harry was only "half-witted." "you don't say so," she ejaculated, taking the hint at once. "how long's he been so?" "ever since he was born." "ain't you afraid to have him drive?" "oh, not at all. he understands horses as well as i do." "what's his name?" before the professor's answer could be heard, harry appeared to rattle off the extraordinary name: "george washington harry jefferson ebenezer popkins." "my gracious! has he got all them names?" "why not? what have you got to say about it, old women?" said the same voice. "oh, i ain't got no objection," said the old woman. "you may have fifty-'leven names ef you want to." "i don't interfere with his names," said the professor. "if he chooses to call himself--" "george washington harry jefferson ebenezer popkins," repeated the voice, with great volubility. "if he chooses to call himself by all those names, i'm sure i don't care. how far do you go, ma'am?" "about quarter of a mile farther." the professor saw that he must proceed to his final joke. "let me out! don't keep me locked up here!" said the child's voice, from behind, in a pleading tone. "what's that?" asked the startled old lady. "what's what?" asked the professor, innocently. "that child that wants to get out." "you must have dreamed it, my good lady." "no, there 'tis agin'," said the old lady, excited. "it's in the trunk behind you," said the assumed voice, appearing to proceed from our hero. "so 'tis," said the old lady, turning halfway round. "oh, i shall die! let me out! let me out!" "he's locked up his little girl in the trunk," harry seemed to say. "you wicked man, let her out this minute," said the old lady, very much excited. "don't you know no better than to lock up a child where she can't get no air?" "there is no child in the trunk, i assure you," said professor henderson, politely. "don't you believe him," said harry's voice. "do let me out, father!" implored the child's voice "if you don't open the trunk, i'll have you took up for murder," said the old lady. "i will open it to show you are mistaken." the professor got over the seat, and, opening the trunk, displayed its contents to the astonished old lady. "i told you that there was no child there," he said; "but you would not believe me." "le' me out," gasped the old woman. "i'd rather walk. i never heerd of such strange goin's on afore." "if you insist upon it, madam, but i'm sorry to lose your company. take this with you and read it." he handed her one of his bills, which she put in her pocket, saying she couldn't see to read it. when they were far enough off to make it safe, harry gave vent to his mirth, which he had restrained till this at difficulty and laughed long and loud. chapter xxvi. pages from the past "what will the old lady think of you?" said harry. "she will have a very bad opinion till she puts on her specs and read the bill. that will explain all. i shouldn't be surprised to see her at my entertainment." "i wonder if she'll recognize me," said harry. "no doubt; as soon as she learns with whom she rode, she'll be very curious to come and see me perform." "how old were you when you began to be a ventriloquist?" "i was eighteen. i accidentally made the discovery, and devoted considerable time to perfecting myself in it before acquainting anyone with it. that idea came later. you see when i was twenty-one, with a little property which i inherited from my uncle, i went into business for myself; but i was young and inexperienced in management, and the consequence was, that in about two years i failed. i found it difficult to get employment as a clerk, business being very dull at the time. while uncertain what to do, one of my friends, to whom i had communicated my power, induced me to give me a public entertainment, combining with it a few tricks of magic, which i had been able to pick up from books. i succeeded so well my vocation in life became professor henderson." "it must be great fun to be a ventriloquist." "so i regarded it at first. it may not be a very high vocation but i make the people laugh and so i regard myself as a public benefactor. indeed, i once did an essential service to a young man by means of my ventriloquism." "i should like very much to hear the story." "i will tell you. one day, a young man, a stranger, came to me and introduced himself under the name of paul dabney. he said that i might, if i would, do him a great service. his father had died the year previous, leaving a farm and other property to the value of fifteen thousand dollars. of course, being as only son, he expected that this would be left to himself, or, at least, the greater part of it. conceive his surprise, therefore, when the will came to be read, to find that the entire property was left to his uncle jonas, his father brother, who, for three years past, had been a member of the family. jonas had never prospered in life, and his brother, out of pity, had offered him an asylum on his farm. he had formerly been a bookkeeper and was an accomplished penman. "the will was so extraordinary--since paul and his father had always been on perfectly good terms--that the young man was thunderstruck. his uncle expressed hypocritical surprise at the nature of the will. "'i don't believe my father made that will,' exclaimed paul, angrily. "'what do you mean by that?' demanded the uncle. "his anger made paul think that he had hit upon the truth, particularly as his uncle was an adroit penman. "he carefully examined the will; but the writing so closely resembled his father's that he could see no difference. the witnesses were his uncle jonas and a hired man, who, shortly after witnessing the signature, had been discharged and had disappeared from the neighborhood. all this excited paul's suspicions. "his uncle offered him a home on the farm; but positively refused to give him any portion of the property. "'i sympathize with you,' i said at the conclusion of paul's story; 'but how can i help you?' "'i will tell you, sir,' he replied. 'you must know that my uncle jonas is very superstitious. i mean, through your help, to play upon his fears and thus induce him to give up the property to me.' "with this he unfolded his plan and i agreed to help him. his uncle lived ten miles distant. i procured a laborer's disguise and the morning after--paul having previously gone back--i entered the yard of the farmhouse. the old man was standing outside, smoking a pipe. "'can you give me work?' i asked. "'what kind of work?' inquired jonas. "'farm work,' i answered. "'how much do you want?' "'eight dollars a month.' "'i'll give you six,' he said. "'that's too little.' "'it's the most i'll give you.' "'then i'll take,' i replied, and was at once engaged. "delighted to get me so cheap, the sordid old man asked me no troublesome questions. i knew enough of farm work to get along pretty well and not betray myself. "that night i concealed myself in the old man's apartment without arousing his suspicions, paul helping me. after he had been in bed about twenty minutes, i thought it time to begin. accordingly i uttered a hollow groan. "'eh! what's that?' cried the old man, rising in bed. "'i am the spirit of your dead brother,' i answered, throwing my voice near the bed. "'what do you want?' he asked, his teeth chattering. "'you have cheated paul out of his property.' "'forgive me!' he cried, terror-stricken. "'then give him back the property.' "'the whole?' he groaned. "'yes, the whole.' "'are--are you really my brother?' "'i will give you this proof. unless you do as i order you, in three days you will be with me.' "'what, dead?' he said, shuddering. "'yes,' i answered in sepulchral a tone as possible. "'are--are you sure of it?' "'if you doubt it, disobey me.' "'i'll do it, but--don't come again.' "'be sure you do it then.' "i ceased to speak, being tired, and escaped as soon as i could. but the battle was not yet over. the next day gave jonas courage. afternoon came and he had done nothing. he was with me in the field when i threw a hollow voice, which seemed to be close to his ear. i said, 'obey, or in three days you die.' "he turned pale as a sheet and asked me if i heard anything. i expressed surprise and this confirmed him in his belief of the ghostly visitation. he went to the house, sent for a lawyer and transferred the entire property to his nephew. the latter made him a present of a thousand dollars and so the affair ended happily. paul paid me handsomely for my share in the trick and the next day i made an excuse for leaving the farm." "did the old man ever discover your agency in the affair, professor henderson?" "never. he is dead now and my friend paul is happily married, and has a fine family. his oldest boy is named after me. but here we are in holston." chapter xxvii. a mystifying performance the people of holston turned out in large numbers. among the first to appear was the old lady whom the professor had taken up on his way over. "you're the boy that was so sassy to me this mornin'," she said, peering at harry through her spectacles. "i didn't say a word to you," said harry. "i'm afraid you're tellin' fibs. i heerd you." "it was the professor. he put the words in my mouth." "well, come to think on't the voice was different from yours. then there wa'n't nobody in the trunk?" "no, ma'am," said harry, smiling. "it's wonderful, i declare for't. this is my darter, mrs. nehemiah babcock," continued the old lady. "nancy, this is the ventriloquer's boy. i thought he was sassy to me this mornin'; but he says he didn't speak a word. how much is to pay?" said the old lady. "i won't charge you anything," said harry. "professor henderson told me, if you came to let you in free, and any of your family." "really, now, that's very perlite of the professor," said the old lady. "he's a gentleman if ever there was one. do you hear, nancy, we can go in without payin' a cent. that's all on, account of your marm's being acquainted with the professor. i'm glad i come." the old lady and her party entered the hall, and being early, secured good seats. tom, her grandson, was glad to be so near, as he was ambitious to assist the professor in case volunteers were called for. "will any young gentleman come forward and assist me in the next trick?" asked the professor, after a while. tom started from his seat. his grandmother tried to seize him by the coat but he was too quick for her. "oh, let him go," said his mother. "he won't come to any harm." "is this your first appearance as a magician?" asked the professor. "yes, sir," answered tom, with a grin. "very good. i will get you to help me, but you mustn't tell anybody how the tricks are done." "no, sir, i won't." "as i am going trust you with a little money, i want to ask you whether you are strictly honest." "yes, sir." "i am glad to hear it. do you see this piece of gold?" "yes, sir." "what is its value?" "ten dollars," answered tom, inspecting it. "very good. i want you hold it for me. i give you warning that i mean to make it pass out of you hand." "i don't think you can do it, sir." "well, perhaps not. you look like a pretty sharp customer. it won't be easy to fool you." "you bet." "nancy," whispered the old lady to her daughter. "i hope you don't allow tom to talk so." "look, mother, see want he's going to do." "what i propose to do," said the professor, "is to make that coin pass into the box on the table. i may not be able to do it, as the young gentleman is on his guard. however, i will try. presto, change!" "it didn't go," said tom. "i've got it here." "have you? suppose you open your hand." tom opened his hand. "well, what have you got? is it the gold piece?" "no sir," said tom, astonished; "it's a cent." "then, sir, all i can say is, you have treated me badly. in order to prevent my getting the gold piece into the box, you changed it into a cent." "no, i didn't," said tom. "then perhaps i have succeeded, after all. the fact is, i took out the gold piece and put a penny in its place, so that you might not know the difference. now here is the key of that box. will you unlock it?" tom unlocked it, only to find another box inside. in fact, it was a perfect nest of boxes. in the very last of all was found the gold coin. "it's very strange you didn't feel it go out of your hand," said the professor. "i am afraid you are not quick enough to make a magician. can you fire a pistol?" "yes, sir," said tom. "will any lady lend me a ring?" asked the professor. one was soon found "i will load the pistol," said the professor, "and put the ring in with the rest of the charge. it appears to be rather too large. i shall have to hammer it down." he brought down a hammer heavily upon the ring and soon bent it sufficiently to get it into the pistol. "now, sir," he said, "take the pistol, and stand off there. all right, sir. when i give the word, i want you to fire. one, two, three!" tom fired, his grandmother uttering a half suppressed shriek at the report. when the smoke cleared away, the professor was holding the ring between his thumb and finger, quite uninjured. professor henderson's attention had been drawn to his companion of the morning. he observed that she had taken off her bonnet. he went up to her, and said, politely, "madam, will you kindly lend me your bonnet?" "massy sakes, what do you want of it?" "i won't injure it, i assure you." "you may take it, ef you want to," said the old lady; "but be keerful and don't bend it." "i will be very careful; but, madam," he said, in seeming surprise, "what have you got in it?" "nothing, sir." "you are mistaken. see there, and there, and there"; and he rapidly drew out three onions, four turnips, and a couple of potatoes. "really, you must have thought you were going to market." "they ain't mine," gasped the old lady. "then it's very strange how they got into your bonnet. and--let me see--here's an egg, too." "i never see sich doin's." "granny, i guess a hen made her nest in your bonnet," whispered tom. the old lady shook her head in helpless amazement. chapter xxvii. an unexpected payment a week later harry reached a brisk manufacturing place which i will call centreville. he assisted the professor during the afternoon to get ready the hall for his evening performance and, at half past five, took his seat at the supper table in the village hotel. just as harry began to eat, he lifted his eyes, and started in surprise as he recognized, in his opposite neighbor, luke harrison, whose abrupt departure without paying his debts the reader will remember. under the circumstances, it will not be wondered at that our hero's look was not exactly cordial. as for luke, he was disagreeably startled at harry's sudden appearance. not knowing his connection with professor henderson, he fancied that our hero was in quest of him and not being skilled in the law, felt a little apprehension as to what course he might take. it was best, he concluded to conciliate him. "how are you, walton?" he said. "i am well," said harry, coldly. "how do you happen to be in this neighborhood?" "on business," said harry, briefly. luke jumped to the conclusion that the business related to him and, conscious of wrong-doing, felt disturbed. "i'm glad to see you," he said. "it seems pleasant to see an old acquaintance"--he intended to say "friend." "you left us rather suddenly," said harry. "why, yes," said luke, hesitating. "i had reasons. i'll tell you about it after supper." as harry rose from the table, luke joined him. "come upstairs to my room, walton," he said, "and have a cigar." "i'll go upstairs with you; but i don't smoke." "you'd better learn. it's a great comfort." "do you board here?" "yes. i found i shouldn't have to pay any more than at a boarding house and the grub's better. here's my room. walk in." he led the way into a small apartment on the top floor. "this is my den," he said. "there isn't but one chair; but i'll sit on the bed. when did you reach town?" "about noon." "are you going to stop long?" asked luke. "i shall stay here till i get through with my errand," answered harry, shrewdly; for he saw what luke thought, and it occurred to him that he might turn it to advantage. luke looked a little uneasy. "by the way, walton," he said, "i believe i owe you a little money." "yes. i believe so." "i'm sorry i can't pay you the whole of it. it costs considerable to live, you know; but i'll pay part." "here are five dollars," he said. "i'll pay you the rest as soon as i can--in a week or two." harry took the bank note with secret self-congratulation, for he had given up the debt as bad, and never expected to realize a cent of it. "i am glad to get it," he said. "i have a use for all my money. are you working in this town?" "yes. the shoe business is carried on here considerably. are you still working for mr. leavitt?" "no; i've left him." "what are you doing, then?" "i'm traveling with professor henderson." "what, the magician?" "yes." "and is that what brought you to centreville?" "yes." luke whistled. "i thought--" he began. "what did you think?" "i thought," answered luke, evasively, "that you might be looking for work in some of the shoe shops here." "is there any chance, do you think?" "no, i don't think there is," said luke; for he was by no means anxious to have harry in the same town. "then i shall probably stay with the professor." "what do you do?" "take tickets at the door and help him beforehand with his apparatus." "you'll let me in free, to-night, won't you?" "that isn't for me to decide." "i should think the professor would let your friends go in free." "i'll make you an offer, luke," said he. "what is it?" "just pay me the rest of; that money to-night and i'll let you in free at my own expense." "i can't do it. i haven't got the money. if 'you'll give it back, i'll call it a dollar more and pay you the whole at the end of next week." "i'm afraid your calling it a dollar more wouldn't do much good," said harry, shrewdly. "do you doubt my word?" blustered luke, who had regained courage now that he had ascertained the real object of harry's visit and that it had no connection with him. "i won't express any opinion on that subject," answered harry; "but there's an old saying that a 'bird in the hand's worth two in the bush.'" "i hate old sayings." "some of them contain a great deal of truth." "what a fool i was to pay him that five dollars!" thought luke, regretfully. "if i hadn't been such a simpleton, i should have found out what brought him here, before throwing away nearly all i had." this was the view luke took of paying his debts. he regarded it as money thrown away. apparently, a good many young men are of a similar opinion. this was not, however, according to harry's code, and was never likely to be. he believed in honesty and integrity. if he hadn't, i should feel far less confidence in his ultimate success. "i think i must leave you," said harry, rising. "the professor may need me." "do you like him? have you got a good place?" "yes, i like him. he is a very pleasant man." "how does it pay?" "pretty well." "i wouldn't mind trying it myself. do you handle all the money?" "i take the money at the door." "i suppose you might keep back a dollar or so, every night, and he'd never know the difference." "i don't know. i never thought about that," said harry, dryly. "oh, i remember, you're one of the pious boys." "i'm too pious to take money that doesn't belong to me, if that's what you mean," said harry. this was a very innocent remark; but luke, remembering how he had kept harry's pocketbook, chose to interpret it as a fling to himself. "do you mean that for me?" he demanded, angrily. "mean what for you?" "that about keeping other people's money." "i wasn't talking about you at all. i was talking about myself." "you'd better not insult me," said luke, still suspicious. "i'm not in the habit of insulting anybody." "i don't believe in people that set themselves up to be so much better than everybody else." "do you mean that for me?" asked harry, smiling. "yes, i do. what are you going to do about it?" "nothing, except to deny that i make any such claims. shall you come round to the hall, to-night?" "perhaps so." "then i shall see you. i must be going now." he went out, leaving luke vainly deploring the loss of the five dollars which he had so foolishly squandered in paying his debt. chapter xxix. in the printing office "harry," said the professor, after breakfast the next morning, "i find we must get some more bills printed. you may go round to the office of the centreville gazette, and ask them how soon they can print me a hundred large bills and a thousand small ones." "all right, sir. suppose they can't have them done by the ready to start?" "they can send them to me by express." harry had never been in a printing office; but he had a great curiosity to see one ever since he had read the "life of benjamin franklin." if there was anyone in whose steps he thought he should like to follow, it was franklin, and franklin was a printer. he had no difficulty in finding the office. it was in the second story of a building, just at the junction of two roads near the center of the town, the post office being just underneath. he ascended a staircase, and saw on the door, at the head of the stairs: "centreville gazette" he opened the door and entered. he saw a large room, containing a press at the end, while two young men, with paper caps on their heads, were standing in their shirt sleeves at upright cases setting type. on one side there was a very small office partitioned off. within, a man was seen seated at a desk, with a pile of exchange papers on the floor, writing busily. this was mr. jotham anderson publisher and editor of the gazette. "i want to get some printing done," said harry, looking toward the journeymen. "go to mr. anderson," said one, pointing to the office. harry went in. the editor looked up as he entered. "what can i do for you?" he asked. "i want to get some printing done." "for yourself?" "no; for professor henderson." "i've done jobs for him before. what does he want?" our hero explained. "very well, we will do it." "can you have it done before two o'clock?" "impossible. i am just bringing out my paper." "when can you have the job finished?" "to-morrow noon." "i suppose that will do. we perform to-morrow at berlin and they can be sent over to the hotel there." "you say 'we,'" answered harry, amused. "i take tickets, and assist him generally." "how do you like the business?" "very well; but i should like your business better." "what makes you think so?" "i have been reading the 'life of benjamin franklin.' he was a printer." "that's true; but i'm sorry to say franklins are scarce in our printing offices. i never met one yet." "i shouldn't expect to turn out a franklins; but i think one couldn't help being improved by the business." "true again, though, of course, it depends on the wish to improve. how long have you been working for professor henderson?" "not long. only two or three weeks." "what did you do before?" "i was pegger in a shoe shop." "didn't you like it?" "well enough, for i needed to earn money and it paid me; but i don't think i should like to be a shoemaker all my life. it doesn't give any chance to learn." "then you like learning?" "yes. 'live and learn'--that is my motto." "it is a good one. do you mean to be a printer?" "if i get a chance." "you may come into my office on the first of april, if you like. one of my men will leave me by the first of may. if you are a smart boy, and really wish to learn the business, you can break in so as to be useful in four weeks." "i should like it," said harry; "but," he added, with hesitation, "i am poor, and could not afford to work for nothing while i was learning." "i'll tell you what i'll do, then," said the editor. "i'll give you your board for the first month, on condition that you'll work for six months afterwards for two dollars a week and board. that's a fair offer. i wouldn't make it if i didn't feel assured that you were smart, and would in time be valuable to me." "i'll come if my father does not object." "quite tight. i should not like to have you act contrary to his wishes. i suppose, for the present, you will remain with professor henderson." "yes, sir." "very well. let me hear from you when you have communicated with your father." harry left the office plunged in thought. it came upon him with surprise, that he had engaged himself to learn a new business, and that the one which he had longed to follow ever since he had become acquainted with franklin's early life. he realized that he was probably making immediate sacrifice. he could, undoubtedly, make more money in the shoe shop than in the printing office, for the present at least. by the first of april the shoe business obtain employment. but then he was sure he should like printing better, and if he was ever going to change, why, the sooner he made the change the better. when he returned to the hotel, he told the professor what he had done. "i am glad you are not going at once," said his employer, "for i should be sorry to lose you. i generally give up traveling for the season about the first of april, so that i shall be ready to release you. i commend your choice of a trade. many of our best editors have been practical printers in their youth." "i should like to be an editor, but i don't know enough." "not at present; but you can qualify yourself to become one--that is, if you devote you spare time to reading and studying." "i mean to do that." "then you will fair chance of becoming what you desire. to a certain extent, a boy, or young man, holds the future in his own hands." harry wrote to father, at once, in regard to the plan which he had in view. the answer did not reach him for nearly a week; but we will so far anticipate matters as to insert that part which related to it. "if you desire to be a printer, harry, i shall not object. it is a good trade, and you can make yourself, through it, useful to the community. i do not suppose it will ever make you rich. still, i should think it might, in time, give you a comfortable living--better, i hope, than i have been able to earn as a farmer. if you determine to win success, you probably will. if you should leave your present place before the first of april, we shall be very glad to have you come home, if only for a day or two. we all miss you very much--your mother, particularly. tom doesn't say much about it; but i know he will be as glad to see you as the rest of us." harry read this letter with great pleasure, partly because it brought him permission to do as he desired, and partly because it was gratifying to him to feel that he was missed at home. he determined, if it was a possible thing, to leave the professor a week before his new engagement, and spend that time in granton. chapter xxx. the young treasurer on the morning after receiving the letter from his father, harry came down to breakfast, but looked in vain for the professor. supposing he would be down directly, he sat down to the breakfast table. when he had nearly finished eating, a boy employed about the hotel came to his side. "that gentleman you're with is sick. he wants you to come to his room as soon as you are through breakfast." harry did not wait to finish, but got up from the table at once, and went up to his employer's room. "are you sick, sir?" he inquired, anxiously. the professor's face was flushed, and he was tossing about in bed. "yes," he answered. "i am afraid i am threatened with a fever." "i hope not, sir." "i am subject to fevers; but i hope i might not have another for some time to come. i must have caught cold yesterday, and the result is, that i am sick this morning." "what can i do for you, sir?" "i should like to have you go for the doctor. inquire of the landlord who is the best in the village." "i will go at once." on inquiry, our hero was informed that dr. parker was the most trusted physician in the neighborhood, and he proceeded to his house at once. the doctor was, fortunately, still at home, and answered the summons immediately. he felt the sick man's pulse, asked him a variety of questions, and finally announced his opinion. "you are about to have a fever," he said, "if, indeed, the fever has not already set in." "a serious fever, doctor?" asked the sick man, anxiously. "i cannot yet determine." "do you think i shall be long sick?" "that, also, is uncertain. i suppose you will be likely to be detained here a fortnight, at least." "i wish i could go home." "it would not be safe for you to travel, under present circumstances." "if i were at home, i could be under my wife's care." "can't she come here?" "she has three young children. it would be difficult for her to leave them." "who is the boy that called at my house?" "harry walton. he is my assistant--takes money at the door, and helps me other ways." "is he trustworthy?" "i have always found him so." "why can't he, attend upon you?" "i mean to retain him with me--that is, if he will stay. it will be dull work for a boy of his age." "you can obtain a nurse, besides, if needful." "you had better engage one for me, as i cannot confine him here all the time." "i will do so. i know of one, skillful and experienced, who is just now at leisure. i will send her round here this morning." "what is her name?" "not a very romantic one--betsy chase." "i suppose that doesn't prevent her being a good nurse," said the professor, smiling. "not at all." here harry entered the room. "harry," said the professor, "the doctor tells me i am going to be sick." "i am very sorry, sir," said our hero, with an air of concern. "i shall probably be detained here at least a fortnight. are you willing to remain with me?" "certainly, sir. i should not think of leaving you, sick and alone, if you desired me to stay. i hope i can make myself useful to you." "you can. i shall need you to do errands for me, and to sit with me a part of the time." "i shall be very willing to do so, sir." "you will probably find it dull." "not so dull as you will find it, sir. the time must seem very long to you, lying on that bed." "i suppose it will; but that can't be helped." "a nurse will be here this afternoon," said the doctor. "until she comes, you will be in attendance here." "yes, sir." "i will direct you what to do, and how often to administer the medicines. can remember?" "yes, sir, i shall not forget." dr. parker here gave harry minute instructions, which need not be repeated, since they were altogether of a professional nature. after the doctor was gone, professor henderson said: "as soon as the nurse comes, i shall want you to ride over to the next town, carmansville, and countermand the notices for an exhibition to-night. i shall not be able to give entertainments for some time to come. indeed, i am not sure but i must wait till next season." "how shall i go over?" asked harry. "you may get a horse and buggy at the stable, and drive over there. if i remember rightly, it is between little seven and eight miles. the road is a little winding, but i think you won't lose your way." "oh, i'll find it," said harry, confidently. it was not till three o'clock that the nurse made her appearance, and it was past three before harry started on his way. "you need not hurry home," said the professor. "in fact, you had better take supper at the hotel in carmansville, as you probably could not very well get back here till eight o'clock." "very well, sir," said harry. "but shan't you need me?" "no; miss chase will attend to me." "mrs. chase, if you please," said the nurse. "i've been a widder for twenty years." "i beg your pardon, mrs. chase," said the sick man smiling. "when my husband was alive, i never expected to go out nursin'; but i've had come to it." "the doctor says you are a very skillful and experienced nurse." "i'd ought to be. i've nussed people in almost all sorts of diseases, from measles to smallpox. you needn't be frightened, sir; i haven't had any smallpox case lately. isn't it most time to take your medicine?" harry left the room, and was soon on his way to carmansville. once he got off the road, which was rather a perplexing one, but he soon found it again. however, it was half past five before he reached the village, and nearly an hour later before he had done the errand which brought him over. finally, he came back to the tavern, and being by this time hungry, went in at once to the tavern, and being by this time hungry, went in at once to supper. he did full justice to the meal which was set before him. the day was cold, and his ride had stimulated his appetite. when he sat down to the table he was alone; but a minute afterward a small, dark-complexioned man, with heavy black whiskers, came in, and sat down beside him. he had a heavy look, and a forbidding expression; but our hero was too busy to take particular notice of him till the latter commenced a conversation. "it's a pretty cold day," he remarked. "very cold," said harry. "i am dreading my ride back to pentland." "are you going to pentland to-night?" asked the stranger, with interest. "yes, sir." "do you live over there?" "no; i am there for a short time only," harry replied. "business?" "yes." "you seem rather young to be in business," said the stranger. "oh," said harry, smiling, "i am in the employ of professor henderson, the ventriloquist. i suppose it is hardly proper to say that i am in business." "professor henderson! why, he is going to give an entertainment here to-night, isn't he?" "he was; but i have come over to countermand the notice." "what is that for?" "he is taken sick at pentland, and won't be able to come." "oh, that's it. well, i'm sorry, for i should like to have gone to hear him. so you are his assistant, are you?" "yes, sir." "can you perform tricks, too?" "i don't assist him in that way. i take money at the door, and help him with his apparatus." "have you been with him long?" "only a few weeks." "so you are his treasurer, are you?" asked the stranger smiling. "ye--es," said harry, slowly, for it brought to his mind that he had one hundred and fifty dollars of the professor's money in his pocket, besides the pocketbook containing his own. he intended to have left it with his employer, but in the hurry of leaving he had forgotten to do so. now he was about to take a long ride in the evening with this large sum of money about him. "however," he said, reassuring himself, "there is nothing to be afraid of. country people are not robbers. burglars stay in the cities. i have nothing to fear." still he prudently resolved, if compelled to be out late again, to leave his money at home. he rose from table, followed by the stranger. "well," said the latter, "i must be going. how soon do you start?" "in a few minutes." "well, good night." "good night." "he seems inclined to be social," thought harry, "but i don't fancy him much." chapter xxxi. harry was soon on his way home. it was already getting dark, and he felt a little anxious lest he should lose his way. he was rather sorry that he had not started earlier, though he had lost no time. he had gone about two miles, when he came to a place where two roads met. there was no guideboard, and he could not remember by which road he had come. luckily, as he thought, he described a man a little ahead. he stopped the horse, and hailed him. "can you tell me which road to take to pentland?" he asked. the man addressed turned his head, and, to his surprise, our hero recognized his table companion at the inn. "oh, it's you, my young friend!" he said. "yes, sir. can you tell me the right road to pentland? i have never been this way before to-day, and i have forgotten how i came." "i am thinking of going to pentland myself," said the other. "my sister lives there. if you don't mind giving me a lift, i will jump in with you, and guide you." now, though harry did not fancy the man's appearance, he had no reason to doubt him, nor any ground for refusing his request. "jump in, sir," he said. "there is plenty of room." the stranger was speedily seated at his side. "take the left-hand road," he said. harry turned to his left. "it's rather a blind road," observed the stranger. "i think i could remember in the daytime," said harry; "but it is so dark now, that i am in doubt." "so i suppose." the road on which they had entered was very lonely. scarcely a house was passed, and the neighborhood seemed quite uninhabited. "i don't remember this road," said harry, anxiously. "are you sure we are right?" "yes, yes, we are right. don't trouble yourself." "it's a lonely road." "so it is. i don't suppose there's anybody lives within half a mile." "the road didn't seem so lonely when i came over it this afternoon." "oh, that's the effect of sunshine. nothing seems lonely in the daytime. turn down that lane." "what for?" asked harry, in surprise. "that can't be the road to pentland." "never mind that. turn, i tell you." his companion spoke fiercely, and harry's mind began to conceive alarming suspicions as to his character. but he was brave, and not easily daunted. "the horse and carriage are mine, or, at least, are under my direction," he said, firmly, "and you have no control over them. i shall not turn." "won't you?" retorted the stranger, with an oath, and drew from his pocket a pistol. "won't you?" "what do you mean? who are you?" demanded harry. "you will find out before i get through with you. now turn into the lane." "i will not," said harry, pale, but determined. "then i will save you the trouble," and his companion snatched the reins from him, and turned the horse himself. resistance was, of course, useless, and our hero was compelled to submit. "there, that suits me better. now to business." "to business. produce your pocketbook." "would you rob me?" asked harry, who was in a measure prepared for the demand. "oh, of course not," said the other. "gentlemen never do such things. i want to burrow your money, that is all." "i don't want to lend." "i dare say not," sneered the other; "but i shan't be able to respect your wishes. the sooner you give me the money the better." harry had two pocketbooks. the one contained his own money--about forty dollars--the other the money of his employer. the first was in the side pocket of his coat, the second in the pocket of his pants. the latter, as was stated in the preceding chapter, contained one hundred and fifty dollars. harry heartily repented not having left it behind, but it was to late for repentance. he could only hope that the robber would be satisfied with one pocketbook, and not suspect the existence of the other. there seemed but little hope of saving his own money. however, he determined to do it, if possible. "hurry up," said the stranger, impatiently. "you needn't pretend you have no money. i know better than that. i saw you pay the landlord." "then he saw the professor's pocketbook," thought harry, uneasily. "mine is of different appearance. i hope he won't detect the difference." "i hope you will leave me some of the money," said harry, producing the pocketbook. "it is all i have." "how much is there?" "about forty dollars." "humph! that isn't much." "it is all i have in the world." "pooh! you are young and can soon earn some more. i must have the whole of it." "can't you leave me five dollars?" "no, i can't. forty dollars are little enough to serve my turn." so saying, he coolly deposited the pocketbook in the pocket of his pants. "so far so good. it's well, youngster, you didn't make any more fuss, or i might have had to use my little persuader;" and he displayed the pistol. "will you let me go now, sir?" "i have not got through my business yet. that's a nice overcoat of yours." harry looked at him, in doubt as to his meaning, but he was soon enlightened. "i am a small person," proceeded the man with black whiskers, "scarcely any larger than you. i think it'll be a good fit." "must i lose my overcoat, too?" thought harry, in trouble. "you've got an overcoat of your own, sir," he said. "you don't need mine." "oh, i wouldn't rob you of yours on any account. a fair exchange is no robbery. i am going to give you mine in exchange for yours." the stranger's coat was rough and well worn, and, at its best, had been inferior to harry's coat. our hero felt disturbed at the prospect of losing it, for he could not tell when he could afford to get another. "i should think you might be satisfied with the pocketbook," he said. "i hope you will leave me my coat." "off with the coat, youngster!" was the sole reply. "first, get out of the buggy. we can make the exchange better outside." as opposition would be unavailing, harry obeyed. the robber took from him the handsome overcoat, the possession of which had afforded him so much satisfaction, and handed him his own. in great disgust and dissatisfaction our hero invested himself in it. "fits you as if it was made for you," said the stranger, with a short laugh. "yours is a trifle slow for me, but i can make it go. no, don't be in such a hurry." he seized harry by the arm as he was about to jump into the carriage. "i must go," said harry. "you have already detained me some time." "i intend to detain you some time longer." "have you got any more business with me?" "yes, i have. you've hit it exactly. you'll soon know what it is." he produced a ball of cord from a pocket of his inside coat, and with a knife severed a portion. "do you know what this is for?" he asked, jeeringly. "no." "say, 'no, sir.' it's more respectful. well, i'll gratify your laudable curiosity. it's to tie your hands and feet." "i won't submit to it," said harry, angrily. "won't you?" asked the other, coolly. "this is a very pretty pistol, isn't it? i hope i shan't have to use it." "what do you want to tie my hands for?" asked harry. "for obvious reasons, my young friend." "i can't drive if my hands are tied." "correct, my son. i don't intend you to drive tonight. give me your hands." harry considered whether it would be advisable to resist. the stranger was not much larger than himself. he was a man, however, and naturally stronger. besides, he had a pistol. he seceded that it was necessary to submit. after all, he had saved his employer's money, even if he had lost his own, and this was something. he allowed himself to be bound. "now," said the stranger, setting him up against the stone wall, which bordered the lane, "i will bid you good night. i might take your horse, but, on the whole, i don't want him. i will fasten him to this tree, where he will be all ready for you in the morning. that's considerate in me. good night. i hope you are comfortable." he disappeared in the darkness, and harry was left alone. chapter xxxii. the good samaritan harry's reflections, as he sat on the ground were not the most cheerful. he was sitting in a constrained posture, his hands and feet being tied, and, moreover, the cold air chilled him. the cold was not intense, but as he was unable to move his limbs he, of course, felt it the more. "i suppose it will get colder," thought harry, uncomfortably. "i wonder if there is any danger of freezing." the horse evidently began to feel impatient, for he turned round and looked at our hero. "why don't you keep on?" "i wish somebody would come this way," thought harry, and he looked up and down the lane as well as he could, but could see no one. "if i could only get at my knife," said harry, to himself, "i could cut theses cords. let me try." he tried to get his hands into his pockets, but it was of no avail. the pocket was too deep, and though he worked his body round, he finally gave it up. it seemed likely that he must stay here all night. the next day probably some one would come by, as they were so near a public road, upon whom he could call to release him. "the night will seem about a week long," poor harry considered. "i shan't dare to go to sleep, for fear i may freeze to death." the horse whinnied again, and again looked inquiringly at his young driver, but the latter was not master of the situation, and was obliged to disregard the mute appeal. "i wonder the robber didn't carry off the horse," thought harry. "i suppose he had his reasons. it isn't likely he left him out of his regard for me." two hours passed, and harry still found himself a prisoner. his constrained position became still more uncomfortable. he longed for the power of jumping up and stretching his legs, now numb and chilled, but the cord was strong, and defied his efforts. no person had passed, not had he heard any sound as he lay there, except the occasional whinny of the horse which was tied as well as himself, and did not appear to enjoy his confinement any better. it was at this moment that harry's heart leaped with sudden hope, as he heard in the distance the sound of a whistle. it might be a boy, or it might be a man; but, as he listened intently, he perceived that it was coming nearer. "i hope i can make him hear," thought harry, earnestly. it was a boy of about his own age, who was advancing along the road from which he had turned into the lane. the boy was not alone, as it appeared, for a large dog ran before him. the dog first noticed the horse and buggy, and next our hero, lying on the ground, and, concluding that something was wrong, began to bark violently, circling uncomfortably near harry, against whom he seemed to cherish hostile designs. "what's the matter, caesar?" shouted his young master. "good dog!" said harry, soothingly, in momentary fear that the brute would bite him. but caesar was not to be cajoled by flattery. "bow, wow, wow!" he answered, opening his large mouth, and displaying a formidable set of teeth. "good dog! i'd like to choke him!" added harry, in an undertone to himself. there was another volley of barks, which seemed likely to be followed by an attack. just at this moment, however, luckily for our hero, the dog's master came up. "why, caesar," he called, "what is the matter with you?" "please take your dog away," said harry. "i am afraid he will bite me." "who are you?" inquired the boy, in surprise. "come and untie these cords, and i will tell you." "what! are you tied?" "yes, hand and foot." "who did it?" asked the boy, in increasing surprise. "i don't know his name, but he robbed me of my pocketbook before doing it." "what, a robber around here!" exclaimed the boy, incredulous. "yes; i met him first over in carmansville. thank you; now my feet if you please. it seems good to be free again;" and harry swung his arms, and jumped up and down to bring back the sense of warmth to his chilled limbs. "is this horse yours?" asked the boy. "yes; i took up the man and he promised to show me the road to pentland." "this isn't the road to pentland." "i suppose not. he took me wrong on purpose." "how much money did he take from you?" "forty dollars." "that's a good deal," said the country boy. "was it yours?" "yes." "i never had so much money in my life." "it has taken me almost six months to earn it. but i had more money with me, only he didn't know it." "how much?" "a hundred and fifty dollars." "was it yours?" asked the boy, surprised. "no; it belonged to my employer." "who is he?" "professor henderson, the ventriloquist." "where is he stopping?" "over at pentland. he is sick at the hotel there." "it's lucky for you i was out to-night. i ain't often out so late but i went to see a friend of mine, and stayed later than i meant to." "do you live near here?" "i live about a quarter of a mile up this lane." "do you know what time it is?" "i don't know, but i think it is past ten." "i wonder whether i can get anybody to go with me to pentland. i can't find my way in the dark." "i will go with you to-morrow morning." "but what shall i do to-night?" "i'll tell you. come home with me. the folks will take you in, and the horse can be put up in the barn." harry hesitated "i suppose they will feel anxious about me over at pentland. they won't know what has become of me." "you can start early in the morning--as early as you like." "perhaps it will be better," said harry, after a pause. "it won't trouble your family too much, will it?" "not a bit," answered the boy, heartily. "very likely they won't know till morning," he added, laughing. "they go to bed early, and i told them they needn't wait up for me." "i am very much obliged to you," said harry. "i will accept your kind invitation. as i've got a horse, we may as well ride. i'll untie him, and you jump into the buggy." "all right," said the boy, well pleased. "you may drive, for you know the way better than i." "where did this horse come from?" "from the stable in pentland." "perhaps they will think you have run away with it." "i hope not." "what is your name?" "harry walton. what is yours?" "jefferson selden. the boys usually call me jeff." "is that your dog?" "yes. he's a fine fellow." "i didn't think so when he was threatening to bite me," said harry laughing. "i used to be afraid of dogs," said jeff; "but i got cured of it after a while. when i go out at night, i generally take caesar with me. if you had had him, you would have been a match for the robber." "he had a pistol." "caesar would have had him down before he could use it." "i wish he had been with me, then." they had, by this time, come in sight of jeff's house. it was a square farmhouse, with a barn in the rear. "we'll go right out to the barn," said jeff, "and put up the horse. then we'll come back to the house and go to bed." there was a little difficulty in unharnessing the horse, on account of the absence of light; but at last, by a combined effort, it was done, and the buggy was drawn into the barn and the doors shut. "there, all will be safe till to-morrow morning," said jeff. "now we'll go into the house." he entered by the back shed door, and harry followed him. they went into the broad, low kitchen, with its ample fireplace, in which a few embers were glowing. by these jeff lighted a candle, and asked harry if he would have anything to eat. "no, thank you," said harry. "i ate a hearty supper at carmansville." "then we'll go upstairs to bed. i sleep in a small room over the shed. you won't mind sleeping with me?" "i should like your company," said harry, who was attracted to his good-natured companion. "then come up. i guess we'll find the bed wide enough." he led the way up a narrow staircase, into a room low studded, and very plainly but comfortably furnished. "the folks will be surprised to see you here in the morning," said jeff. "i may be gone before they are up." "i guess not. father'll be up by five o'clock, and i think that'll be as early as you'll want to be stirring." chapter xxxiii. the reward of fidelity "where am i?" asked harry, the next morning, as he sat up in bed and stared around him. "don't you remember?" asked jeff, smiling. jeff was standing by the bedside, already dressed. "yes; i remember now," said harry, slowly. "what time is it?" "seven o'clock." "seven o'clock! i meant to be dressed at six." "that is the time i got up," said jeff. "why didn't you wake me up?" "you looked so comfortable that i thought it was a pity to wake you. you must have felt tired." "i think it was the cold that made me sleepy. i got chilled through when i lay on the ground there, tied hand and foot. but i must get up in hurry now." he jumped out of bed, and hurried on his clothes. "now," said jeff, "come down into the kitchen, and mother'll give you some breakfast." "i am giving you a great deal of trouble, i am afraid," said harry. "no, you're not. it's no trouble at all. the rest of the family have eaten breakfast, but i waited for you. i've been up an hour, and feel as hungry as a wolf. so come down, and we'll see who'll eat the most." "i can do my part," said harry. "i've got a good appetite, though i've been up a food deal less than an hour." "take your overcoat alone," said jeff; "or will you come up and get after breakfast?" "i'll take it down with me. it isn't my coat, you know. mine was a much better one. i wish i had it back." jeff, meanwhile, had taken up the coat. "there's something in the pocket," he said. "what is it?" "i didn't put anything in." harry thrust his hand into the side pocket for the first time, and drew out a shabby leather wallet. "perhaps there's money in it," jeff suggested. the same thought had occurred to harry. he hastily opened it, and his eyes opened wide with astonishment as he drew out a thick roll of bills. "by hokey!" said jeff, "you're in luck. the robber took your pocketbook, and left his own. maybe there's as much as you lost. count it." this harry eagerly proceeded to do. "three--eight--eleven--thirteen--twenty," he repeated, aloud. he continued his count, which resulted in showing that the wallet contained ninety-seven dollars. "ninety-seven dollars!" exclaimed jeff. "how much did you lose?" "forty dollars." "then you've made just fifty-seven dollars. bully for you!" "but i've exchanged a good overcoat for a poor one." "there can't be more than seventeen dollars difference." "not so much." "then you're forty dollars better off, at any rate." "but i don't know as i can claim this money," said harry, doubtfully. "it isn't mine." "he won't be likely to call for it. when he does, and returns you the money and the coat, it will be time to think about it." "i will ask professor henderson about that. at any rate i've got my money back, that's one good thing." this timely discovery made harry decidedly cheerful, and, if anything, sharpened his appetite for breakfast. now mr. selden had gone out to oversee some farm work; but mrs. selden received out hero very kindly, and made him feel that he was heartily welcome to that she could offer. she had many questions to ask about the bold robber who had waylaid him, and expressed the hope that he had left the neighborhood. "perhaps he'll come back for his wallet, harry," said jeff. "you'd better look out for him." "i shall take care how i carry much money about with me, after this," said harry. "that was what got me into a scrape yesterday." "he wouldn't make out much if he tried to rob me," said jeff. "i haven't got money enough about me to pay the board of a full-grown fly for twenty-four hours." "you don't look as if your poverty troubled you much," said his mother. "i don't have any board bills to pay," said jeff, "so i can get along." "i should think you would feel nervous about riding to pentland alone," said mrs. selden, "for fear of meeting the man who robbed you yesterday." "i do dread it a little," said harry, "having so much money about me. besides this ninety-seven dollars, i've got a hundred and fifty dollars belonging to my employer." "suppose i go with you to protect you," said jeff. "i wish you would." "i don't think jefferson would make a very efficient protector," said his mother. "you don't know how brave i am, mother," said jeff, in the tone of an injured hero. "no, i don't," said his mother, smiling. "i believe there was a time when you were not very heroic in the company of dogs." "that's long ago, mother. i've got over it now." "if you would like to ride over with your friend, you may do so. but how will you get back?" "major pinkham will be up there this afternoon. i can wait, and ride home with him." "very well; i have no objection." the two boys rode off together. harry was glad to have a companion who knew the road well, for he did not care to be lost again till he had delivered up the money which he had in charge. there was no opportunity to test jeff's courage, for the highwayman did not make his appearance. indeed, it was not till the next morning that he discovered the serious blunder he had made in leaving his own wallet behind, and, though he was angry and disgusted, prudential considerations prevented his going back. he was forced to the unpleasant conviction that he had overreached himself, and that his intended victim had come out best in the "exchange" which "was no robbery." i may as well add here that, though he deserved to be caught, he was not, and harry has never, to this day, set eyes either upon him or upon the coat. when harry arrived at pentland, he found that no little anxiety had been felt about him. "has harry come yet?" asked the sick man, at ten o'clock the evening previous. "no, he hasn't," answered the nurse. "it's strange what keeps him." "did he have any money of yours with him?" "yes, i believe he had." "oh!" ejaculated mrs. chase, significantly. "what do you mean by that?" "i didn't say anything, did i?" "i am afraid he may have been attacked and robbed on the road." mrs. chase coughed. "don't you think so?" "i'll tell you what i think, professor," said the nurse, proceeding to speak plainly, "i don't think you'll ever see anything of that boy ag'in." "why not?" "it ain't safe to trust boys with money," she answered, sententiously. "oh, i'm not afraid of his honesty." "you don't say! maybe you haven't seen as much of boys as i have." "i was once a boy myself," said the professor, smiling. "oh, you--that's different." "why is it different? i wasn't any better than boys generally." "i don't know anything about that; but you mark my words--as like as not he's run away with your money. how much did he have?" "i can't say exactly. over a hundred dollars, i believe." "then he won't come back," said mrs. chase, decidedly. here the conference closed, as it was necessary for mr. henderson to take medicine. "has the boy returned?" asked the professor, the next morning. "you don't expect him--do you?" "certainly i expect him." "well, he ain't come, and i guess he won't come." "i am sure that boy is honest," said professor henderson to himself. "if he isn't, i'll never trust a boy again." mrs. chase was going downstairs with her patient's breakfast dishes, when she was nearly run into by our hero, who had just returned, and was eager to report to his employer. "do be keerful," she expostulated, when, to her surprise, she recognized harry. so he had come back, after all, and falsified her prediction. such is human nature, that for an instant she was disappointed. "here's pretty work," she said, "stayin' out all night, and worryin' the professor out of his wits." "i couldn't help it, mrs. chase." "why couldn't you help it, i'd like to know?" "i'll tell you afterwards. i must go up now, and see the professor." mrs. chase was so curious that she returned, with the dishes, to hear harry's statement. "good morning," said harry, entering the chamber. "i'm sorry to have been so long away, but i couldn't help it. i hope you haven't worried much about my absence." "i knew you would come back, but mrs. chase had her doubts," said professor henderson, pleasantly. "now tell me what it was that detained you?" "a highwayman," said harry. "a highwayman!" exclaimed both in concert. "yes, i'll tell you all about it. but first, i'll say that he stole only my money, and didn't suspect that i had a hundred and fifty dollars of yours with me. that's all safe. here it is. i think you had better take care of that yourself, sir, hereafter." the professor glanced significantly at mr. chase, as much as to say, "you see how unjust your suspicions were. i am right, after all." "tell us all about it, harry." our hero obeyed instructions; but it is not necessary to repeat a familiar tale. "massy sakes!" ejaculated betsy chase. "who ever heerd the like?" "i congratulate you, harry, on coming off with such flying colors. i will, at my own expense, provide you with a new overcoat, as a reward for bringing home my money safe. you shall not lose anything by your fidelity." chapter xxxiv. in difficulty we must now transfer the scene to the walton homestead. it looks very much the same as on the day when the reader was first introduced to it. there is not a single article of new furniture, nor is any of the family any better dressed. poverty reigns with undisputed sway. mr. walton is reading a borrowed newspaper by the light of a candle--for it is evening--while mrs. walton is engaged in her never-ending task of mending old clothes, in the vain endeavor to make them look as well as new. it is so seldom that anyone of the family has new clothes, that the occasion is one long remembered and dated from. "it seems strange we don't hear from harry," said mrs. walton, looking up from her work. "when was the last letter received?" asked mr. walton, laying down the paper. "over a week ago. he wrote that the professor was sick, and he was stopping at the hotel to take care of him." "i remember. what was the name of the place?" "pentland." "perhaps his employer is recovered, and he is going about with him." "perhaps so; but i should think he would write. i am afraid he is sick himself. he may have caught the same fever." "it is possible; but i think harry would let us know in some way. at any rate, it isn't best to worry ourselves about uncertainties." "i wonder if harry's grown?" said tom. "of course he's grown," said mary. "i wonder if he's grown as much as i have," said tom, complacently. "i don't believe you've grown a bit." "yes, i have; if you don't believe it, see how short my pants are." tom did, indeed, seem to be growing out of his pants, which were undeniably too short for him. "you ought to have some new pants," said his mother, sighing; "but i don't see where the money is to come from." "nor i," said mr. walton, soberly. "somehow i don't seem to get ahead at all. to-morrow my note for the cow comes due, and i haven't but two dollars to meet it." "how large it the note?" "with six months' interest, it amounts to forty-one dollars and twenty cents." "the cow isn't worth that. she doesn't give as much milk as the one we lost." "that's true. it was a hard bargain, but i could do no better." "you say you won't be able to meet the payment. what will be the consequence?" "i suppose squire green will take back the cow." "perhaps you can get another somewhere else, on better terms." "i am afraid my credit won't be very good. i agreed to forfeit ten dollars to squire green, if i couldn't pay at the end of six months." "will he insist on that condition?" "i am afraid he will. he is a hard man." "then," said mrs. walton, indignantly, "he won't deserve to prosper." "worldly prosperity doesn't always go by merit. plenty of mean men prosper." before mrs. walton had time to reply, a knock was heard at the door. "go to the door, tom," said his father. tom obeyed, and shortly reappeared, followed by a small man with a thin figure and wrinkled face, whose deep-set, crafty eyes peered about him curiously as he entered the room. "good evening, squire green," said mr. walton, politely, guessing his errand. "good evenin', mrs. walton. the air's kinder frosty. i ain't so young as i was once, and it chills my blood." "come up to the fire, squire green," said mrs. walton, who wanted the old man to be comfortable, though she neither liked nor respected him. the old man sat down and spread his hands before the fire. "anything new stirring, squire?" asked hiram walton. "nothin' that i know on. i was lookin' over my papers to-night, neighbor, and i come across that note you give for the cow. forty dollars with interest, which makes the whole come to forty-one dollars and twenty cents. to-morrow's the day for payin'. i suppose you'll be ready?" and the old man peered at hiram walton with his little keen eyes. "now for it," thought hiram. "i'm sorry to say, squire green," he answered, "that i can't pay the note. times have been hard, and my family expenses have taken all i could earn." the squire was not much disappointed, for now he was entitled to exact the forfeit of ten dollars. "the contrack provides that if you can't meet the note you shall pay ten dollars," he said. "i 'spose you can do that." "squire green, i haven't got but two dollars laid by." "two dollars!" repeated the squire, frowning. "that ain't honest. you knew the note was comin' due, and you'd oughter have provided ten dollars, at least." "i've done as much as i could. i've wanted to meet the note, but i couldn't make money, and i earned all i could." "you hain't been equinomical," said the squire, testily. "folks can't expect to lay up money ef they spend it fast as it comes in"; and he thumped on the floor with his cane. "i should like to have you tell us how we can economize any more than we have," said mrs. walton, with spirit. "just look around you, and see if you think we have been extravagant in buying clothes. i am sure i have to darn and mend till i am actually ashamed." "there's other ways of wastin' money," said the squire. "if you think we live extravagantly, come in any day to dinner, and we will convince you to the contrary," said mrs. walton, warmly. "tain't none of my business, as long as you pay me what you owe me," said the squire. "all i want is my money, and i'd orter have it." "it doesn't seem right that my husband should forfeit ten dollars and lose the cow." "that was the contrack, mrs. walton. your husband 'greed to it, and--" "that doesn't make it just." "tain't no more'n a fair price for the use of the cow six months. ef you'll pay the ten dollars to-morrow, i'll let you have the cow six months longer on the same contrack." "i don't see any possibility of my paying you the money, squire green. i haven't got it." "why don't you borrer somewhere?" "i might as well owe you as another man, besides, i don't know anybody that would lend me the money." "you haven't tried, have you?" "no." "then you'd better. i thought i might as well come round and remind you of the note as you might forget it." "not much danger," said hiram walton. "i've had it on my mind ever since i gave it." "well, i'll come round to-morrow night, and i hope you'll be ready. good night." no very cordial good night followed squire green as he hobbled out of the cottage--for he was lame--not--i am sure the reader will agree with me--did he deserve any. he was a mean, miserly, grasping man, who had no regard for the feelings or comfort of anyone else; whose master passion was a selfish love of accumulating money. his money did him little good, however, for he was as mean with himself as with others, and grudged himself even the necessaries of life, because, if purchased, it must be at the expense of his hoards. the time would come when he and his money must part, but he did not think of that. chapter xxxv. settled there was a general silence after squire green's departure. hiram walton looked gloomy, and the rest of the family also. "what an awful mean man the squire is!" tom broke out, indignantly. "you're right, for once," said mary. in general, such remarks were rebuked by the father or mother; but the truth of tom's observation was so clear, that for once he was not reproved. "squire green's money does him very little good," said hiram walton. "he spends very little of it on himself, and it certainly doesn't obtain him respect in the village. rich as he is, and poor as i am, i would rather stand in my shoes than his." "i should think so," said his wife. "money isn't everything." "no; but it is a good deal i have suffered too much from the want of it, to despise it." "well, hiram," said mrs. walton, who felt that it would not do to look too persistently upon the dark side, "you know that the song says, 'there's a good time coming.'" "i've waited for it a long time, wife," said the farmer, soberly. "wait a little longer," said mrs. walton, quoting the refrain of the song. he smiled faintly. "very well, i'll wait a little longer; but if i have to wait too long, i shall get discouraged." "children, it's time to go to bed," said mrs. walton. "mayn't i sit up a little longer?" pleaded mary. "'wait a little longer,' mother," said tom, laughing, as he quoted his mother's words against her. "ten minutes, only, then." before the ten minutes were over, there was great and unexpected joy in the little house. suddenly the outer door opened, and, without the slightest warning to anyone, harry walked in. he was immediately surrounded by the delighted family, and in less time than i am taking to describe it he had shaken hands with his father, kissed his mother and sister, and given tom a bearlike hug, which nearly suffocated him. "where did you come from, harry?" asked mary. "dropped down from the sky," said harry, laughing. "has the professor been giving exhibitions up there?" asked tom. "i've discharge the professor," said harry, gayly. "i'm my own man now." "and you've come home to stay, i hope," said his mother. "not long, mother," said harry. "i can only stay a few days." "what a bully overcoat you've got on!" said tom. "the professor gave it to me." "hasn't he got one for me, too?" harry took off his overcoat, and tom was struck with fresh admiration as he surveyed his brother's inside suit. "i guess you spent all you money on clothes," he said. "i hope not," said mr. walton, whom experience had made prudent. "not quite all," said harry, cheerfully. "how much money do you think i have brought home?" "ten dollars," said tom. "more." "fifteen." "more." "twenty," said mary. "more." "twenty-five." "i won't keep you guessing all night. what do you say to fifty dollars?" "oh, what a lot of money!" said mary. "you have done well, my son," said mr. walton. "you must have been very economical." "i tried to be, father. but i didn't say fifty dollars was all i had." "you haven't got more?" said his mother, incredulously. "i've got a hundred dollars, mother," said harry. "here are fifty dollars for you, father. it'll pay your note to squire green, and a little over. here are thirty dollars, mother, of which you must use for ten for yourself, ten for mary, and ten for tom. i want you all to have some new clothes, to remember me by." "but harry, you will have nothing left for yourself." "yes, i shall. i have kept twenty dollars, which will be enough till i can earn some more." "i don't see how you could save so much money, harry," said his father. "it was partly luck, father, and partly hard work. i'll tell you all about it." he sat down before the fire and they listened to his narrative. "well, harry," said mr. walton, "i am very glad to find that you are more fortunate than your father. i have had a hard struggle; but i will not complain if my children can prosper." the cloud that squire green had brought with him had vanished, and all was sunshine and happiness. it was agreed that no hint should be given to squire green that his note was to be paid. he did not even hear of harry's arrival, and was quite unconscious of any change in the circumstances of the family, when he entered the cottage the next evening. "well, neighbor," he said, "i've brought along that ere note. i hope you've raised the money to pay it." "where do you think i could raise money, squire?" asked hiram walton. "i thought mebbe some of the neighbors would lent it to you." "money isn't very plenty with any of them, squire, except with you." "i calc'late better than they. hev you got the ten dollars that you agreed to pay ef you couldn't meet the note?" "yes," said hiram, "i raised the ten dollars." "all right," said the squire, briskly, "i thought you could. as long as you pay that, you can keep the cow six months more, one a new contrack." "don't you think, squire, it's rather hard on a poor man, to make him forfeit ten dollars because he can't meet his note?" "a contrack's a contrack," said the squire. "it's the only way to do business." "i think you are taking advantage of me, squire." "no, i ain't. you needn't hev come to me ef you didn't want to. i didn't ask you to buy the cow. i'll trouble you for that ten dollars, neighbor, as i'm in a hurry." "on the whole, squire, i think i'll settle up the note. that'll be cheaper than paying the forfeit." "what! pay forty-one dollars and twenty cents!" ejaculated the squire, incredulously. "yes; it's more than the cow's worth, but as i agreed to pay it i suppose i must." "i thought you didn't hev the money," said the squire, his lower jaw falling; for he would have preferred the ten dollars' forfeit, and a renewal of the usurious contract. "i didn't have it when you were in last night; but i've raised it since." "you said you couldn't borrow it." "i didn't borrow it." "then where did it come from?" "my son harry has got home, squire. he has supplied me with the money." "you don't say! where is he? been a-doin' well, has he?" "harry!" harry entered the room, and nodded rather coldly to the squire, who was disposed to patronize him, now that he was well dressed, and appeared to be doing well. "i'm glad to see ye, harry. so you've made money, have ye?" "a little." "hev you come home to stay?" "no sir; i shall only stay a few days." "what hev ye been doin'" "i am going to be a printer." "you don't say! is it a good business?" "i think it will be," said harry. "i can tell better by and by." "well, i'm glad you're doin' so well. neighbor walton, when you want another cow i'll do as well by you as anybody. i'll give you credit for another on the same terms." "if i conclude to buy any, squire, i may come round." "well, good night, all. harry, you must come round and see me before you go back." harry thanked him, but did not propose to accept the invitation. he felt that the squire was no true friend, either to himself or to his family, and he should feel no pleasure in his society. it was not in his nature to be hypocritical, and he expressed no pleasure at the squire's affability and politeness. i have thus detailed a few of harry's early experiences; but i am quite aware that i have hardly fulfilled the promise of the title. he has neither lived long nor learned much as yet, nor has he risen very high in the world. in fact, he is still at the bottom of the ladder. i propose, therefore, to devote another volume to his later fortunes, and hope, in the end, to satisfy the reader. the most that can be said thus far is, that he has made a fair beginning, and i must refer the reader who is interested to know what success he met with as a printer, to the next volume, which will be entitled: the end the lady in the car by william le queux published by j.b. lippincott company, philadelphia. this edition dated . the lady in the car, by william le queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the lady in the car, by william le queux. preface. an apology. i hereby tender an apology to the reader for being compelled, in these curious chronicles of an adventurous motorist and his actions towards certain of his female acquaintances, to omit real names, and to substitute assumed ones. with the law of libel looming darkly, the reason is obvious. since the days when, as lads, we played cricket together at cheltenham "the prince," always a sportsman and always generous to the poor, has ever been my friend. in the course of my own wandering life of the past dozen years or so, i have come across him in all sorts of unexpected places up and down europe, and more especially in those countries beyond the danube which we term the balkans. for certain of his actions, and for the ingenuity of his somewhat questionable friends, i make no apology. while the game of "mug-hunting" remains so easy and so profitable, there will be always both hunters and hunted. as my friend's escapades were related to me, so have i set them down in the following pages, in the belief that my readers may perhaps care to make more intimate acquaintance with the clever, fearless, and altogether remarkable man whose exploits have already, from time to time, been referred to in guarded and mysterious terms by the daily press. william le queux. chapter one. his highness's love affair. the prince broke open a big box of choice "petroffs," selected one, lit it slowly, and walked pensively to the window. he was in a good mood that morning, for he had just got rid of a troublesome visitor. the big _salon_ was elegantly furnished with long mirrors, gilt chairs covered with sky-blue silk upholstery, a piano, and a pretty writing-table set close to the long window, which led out to a balcony shaded by a red-and-white sun-blind--the _salon_ of the best suite in the majestic, that huge hotel facing the sea in king's road, brighton. he was a tall, well-set-up man of about thirty-three; dark-haired, good-looking, easy-going, and refined, who, for the exception of the slightest trace of foreign accent in his speech, might easily have been mistaken for an englishman. in his well-cut dark brown flannels and brown shoes he went to the balcony, and, leaning over, gazed down upon the sun-lit promenade, full of life and movement below. his arrival a few days before had caused quite a flutter in the big hotel. he had not noticed it, of course, being too used to it. he travelled a great deal--indeed, he was always travelling nowadays--and had learned to treat the constant endeavours of unknown persons to scrape acquaintance with him with the utter disregard they deserved. not often did the majestic, so freely patronised by the stockbroker and the newly-rich, hold as guest any person equalling the prince in social distinction, yet at the same time so modest and retiring. the blatant persons overcrowding the hotel that august sunday, those pompous, red-faced men in summer clothes and white boots, and those over-dressed women in cream silk blouses and golden chatelaines, mostly denizens of kensington or regent's park, had been surprised when an hour ago he had walked along the hall and gone outside to speak with his chauffeur. he was so very good-looking, such a sportsman, and so very english they whispered. and half of those city men's wives were instantly dying for an opportunity of speaking with him, so that they could return to their suburban friends and tell of their acquaintance with the cousin of his imperial majesty the kaiser. but prince albert of hesse-holstein was thinking of other things. he had no use for that over-fed sunday crowd, with their slang chatter, their motor-cars and their gossip of "bithneth," through which he had just passed. he drew half a dozen times at his yellow russian cigarette, tossed it away, and lit another. he was thinking of his visitor who had just left, and--well, there remained a nasty taste in his mouth. the man had told him something-- something that was not exactly pleasant. anyhow, he had got rid of him. so prince albert ernst karl wilhelm, head of the great house of hesse-holstein, grand-cross of the orders of the black eagle, saint sava and the elephant, and commander of st hubert and of the crown of italy, returned again to the balcony, smoked on, and watched. in the meantime, in the big hall below, sat a well-dressed elderly lady with her daughter, a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of twenty, a dainty figure in white, who wore a jade bangle upon her left wrist. they were americans on a tour with "poppa" through europe. mr robert k. jesup, of goldfields, nevada, had gone to pay a pilgrimage to stratford-on-avon, while his wife and daughter were awaiting him in brighton. with the inquisitiveness of the american girl mary jesup had obtained the "almanach de gotha" from the reading-room, and both mother and daughter were, with difficulty, translating into english the following notice of the prince's family which they found within the little red-covered book: "evangeliques--souche: widukind iii, comte de schwalenberg (principaute de holstein), - ; bailli a arolsen et acquisition du chateau de hesse vers, ; comte du saint empire de hesse, , dignite confirme, juin, ; bailli de wildungen, ; acquisition d'eisenberg (chateau fort, aujourd'hui en ruines, situe sur la montagne du meme nom) vers, ; acquisition par heritage du comte de pyrmont, ; coll. du titre de `hoch et wohlgeboren,' vienne, fevr., ; pretention a l'heritage du comte de rappolstein (ribeaupierre haute-alsace) et des seigneuries de hohenack et de geroldseck (ibidem) par suite du mariage ( juill, ) du cte chretien-louis, ne juill, , + dec. , avec elisabeth de rappolstein, nee mars, , + dec. , apres la mort de son oncle jean-jacques dernier comte de rappolstein, juill, ; les lignes ci-dessus descendent de deux fils (freres consaiguins) du susdit chretien-louis comte de hesse-eisenberg, de pyrmont et rappolstein, etc.--v. l'edition de (page )." "there, mother!" exclaimed the pretty girl. "why, they were an ancient family even before america was discovered! isn't he real nice? say! i only wish we knew him." "ah, my dear," replied the elder woman with a sigh. "those kind of people never know us. he's a royalty." "but he looks such a nice man. what a lovely car he's got--real fine! i've been out to see it. how i wish he'd take us for a ride." "you'd better ask him, my dear," laughed her mother. "guess i shouldn't be backward. i believe he would in a moment, if i asked him very nicely," she exclaimed, laughing in chorus. truth to tell, she had admired him when she had first encountered him two days ago. she had been seated in one of those wicker chairs outside the door in king's road, when he had come out and taken the chair next to hers, awaiting his car--a big sixty "mercedes" painted cream, with the princely arms and crown upon its panels. he was talking in english to his man, who had carried out his motor-coat. he was a prince--one of the wealthiest of all the german princes, a keen automobilist, a sportsman who had hunted big game in german east africa, a landlord who owned a principality with half a dozen mediaeval castles and some of the finest estates in the german empire, and one of the kaiser's most intimate relatives. and yet he was travelling with only his man and his motor-car. though mary jesup was heiress to the two millions sterling which her father had made during the past three years--as half the people in the hotel knew--yet she was aware that even her father's wealth could not purchase for her the title of princess of hesse-holstein. she was a very charming girl, bright, athletic and go-ahead--a typical american girl of to-day--and as she strolled out along the pier with her mother, her thoughts constantly reverted to the young man in brown who had given her more than one glance when he had passed. meanwhile, there had entered to the prince his faithful valet charles, a tall, thin, clean-shaven englishman, some four years his senior. "well?" asked his highness sharply casting himself into an easy-chair, and taking another "petroff." "got rid of him--eh?" "yes--but it was difficult. i gave him a couple of sovereigns, and made an appointment to meet him in the bar of the cecil, in london, next thursday at four." "good. that gives us time," remarked the prince with a sigh of relief. "and about the girl? what have you found out?" "she and her mother dined in the _table-d'hote_ room last night, and took coffee afterwards in the palm court. the father is the man who owns the gold-mines in nevada--worth ten million dollars. last year he gave half a million dollars to charity, and bought the bourbon pearls for his wife. gave eighty thousand pounds for them. she's got them here, a long string twice round her neck and reaches to her waist. she's wearing them to-day, and everybody, of course, thinks they're false." "how foolish these american women are! fancy wearing pearls of that price in the open street! why, she might easily be robbed," his master remarked. "but who'd believe they're genuine? they're too big to take a thiefs fancy," replied the faithful charles. "the jesups seem fond of jewellery. miss mary has a lovely diamond necklet--" "and wore it last night, i suppose?" "of course. they are newly-rich people, and crowd it all on. yet, what does it matter? men like jesup can easily buy more if they lose it. why, to have her jewels stolen is only a big advertisement for the american woman. haven't you seen cases in the paper--mostly at newport they seem to occur." "the girl is pretty--distinctly pretty, charles," remarked the prince slowly, with a philosophic air. "yes, your highness. and she'd esteem it a great honour if you spoke to her, i'm sure." prince albert pursed his lips. "i think not. these american girls have a good deal of spirit. she'd most probably snub me." "i think not. i passed through the hall five minutes ago, and she was looking you up in the `almanach de gotha.'" his highness started. "was she?" he cried with quick interest. "then she evidently knows all about me by this time! i wonder--" and he paused without concluding his sentence. charles saw that his master was thinking deeply, so he busied himself by putting some papers in order. "she's uncommonly pretty," his highness declared presently. "but dare i speak to her, charles? you know what these americans are." "by all means speak to her. the mother and daughter would be company for you for a few days. you could invite them to go motoring, and they'd no doubt accept," the man suggested. "i don't want the same experience that we had in vichy, you know." "oh, never fear. these people are quite possible. their wealth hasn't spoilt them--as far as i can hear." "very well, charles." the prince laughed, tossing his cigarette-end into the grate, and rising. "i'll make some excuse to speak with them." and charles, on his part, entertained shrewd suspicions that his master, confirmed bachelor that he was, had, at last, been attracted by a girl's fresh, fair beauty, and that girl an american. time hung heavily upon the prince's hands. that afternoon he ran over in his car to worthing, where he dined at warne's, and the evening he spent in lonely state in a box at the brighton alhambra. truth to tell, he found himself thinking always of the sweet-faced, rather saucy american girl, whose waist was so neat, whose tiny shoes were so pointed, and whose fair hair was always drawn straight back from her intelligent brow. yes. he felt he must know her. the morrow came, and with it an opportunity occurred to speak with her mother. they were sitting, as it is usual to sit, at the door of the hotel, when a mishap to a dog-cart driven by a well-known actress gave him the desired opportunity, and ten minutes later he had the satisfaction of bowing before mary jesup herself. he strolled with them on to the pier, chatting so very affably that both mother and daughter could hardly believe that he was the cousin of an emperor. then, at his request to be allowed to join them at their table at luncheon, they had their midday meal together. the girl in white was altogether charming, and so unlike the milk-and-water misses of germany, or the shy, dark-eyed minxes of france or italy, so many of whom had designed to become princess of hesse-holstein. her frank open manner, her slight american twang, and her americanisms he found all delightful. mrs jesup, too, was a sensible woman, although this being the first occasion that either mother or daughter had even met a prince, they used "your highness" a trifle too frequently. nevertheless, he found this companionship of both women most charming. "what a splendid motor-car you have!" mary remarked when, after luncheon, they were taking their coffee in the palm court at the back of the hotel. "i'm very fond of motoring, miss jesup. are you?" was his highness's reply. "i love it. poppa's got a car. we brought it over with us and ran around france in it. we left it in paris till we get back to the continent in the fall. then we do italy," she said. "perhaps you would like to have a run with me and your mother to-morrow," the prince suggested. "it's quite pretty about the neighbourhood." "i'm sure you're very kind, prince," responded the elder woman. "we should be charmed. and further, i guess my husband'll be most delighted to meet you when he gets down here. he's been in germany a lot." "i shall be very pleased to meet mr jesup," the young patrician responded. "till he comes, there's no reason why we should not have a few runs--that is, if you're agreeable." "oh! it'll be real lovely!" declared mary, her pretty face brightening in anticipation of the pleasure of motoring with the man she so admired. "then what about running over to eastbourne to tea to-day?" he suggested. mother and daughter exchanged glances. "well," replied mrs jesup, "we don't wish to put you out in the least, prince. i'm sure--" "good! you'll both come. i'll order the car for three o'clock." the prince ascended the stairs much gratified. he had made a very creditable commencement. the hundred or so of other girls of various nations who had been presented to him with matrimonial intent could not compare with her, either for beauty, for charm, or for intelligence. it was a pity, he reflected, that she was not of royal, or even noble birth. charles helped him on with a light motor-coat, and, as he did so, asked: "if the parson calls, what am i to say?" "say what you like, only send him back to london. tell him he is better off in bayswater than in brighton. he'll understand." "he may want some money. he wrote to you yesterday, remember." "then give him fifty pounds, and tell him that when i want to see him i'll wire. i want to be alone just now, charles," he added a trifle impatiently. "you've got the key of my despatch-box, eh?" "yes, your highness." below, he found the big cream-coloured car in waiting. some of the guests were admiring it, for it had an extra long wheelbase and a big touring body and hood--a car that was the last word in all that was comfort in automobilism. the english chauffeur, garrett, in drab livery faced with scarlet, and with the princely cipher and crown upon his buttons, raised his hat on the appearance of his master. and again when a moment later the two ladies, in smart motor-coats, white caps, and champagne-coloured veils, emerged and entered the car, being covered carefully by the fine otter-skin rug. the bystanders at the door of the hotel regarded mother and daughter with envy, especially when the prince got in at the girl's side, and, with a light laugh, gave the order to start. a few moments later they were gliding along the king's road eastward, in the direction of lewes and eastbourne. "you motor a great deal, i suppose?" she asked him, as they turned the corner by the aquarium. "a good deal. it helps to pass the time away, you know," he laughed. "when i have no guests i usually drive myself. quite recently i've been making a tour up in scotland." "we're going up there this autumn. to the trossachs. they say they're fine! and we're going to see scott's country, and edinburgh. i'm dying to see melrose abbey. it must be lovely from the pictures." "you ought to get your father to have his car over," the prince suggested. "it's a magnificent run up north from london." the millionaire's wife was carefully examining the prince with covert glances. his highness was unaware that the maternal gaze was so searching, otherwise he would probably have acted somewhat differently. a splendid run brought them to lewes, the old-world sussex capital. there, with a long blast of the electric siren, they shot down the hill and out again upon the eastbourne road, never pulling up until they were in the small garden before the queen's. mary jesup stepped out, full of girlish enthusiasm. her only regret was that the people idling in the hall of the hotel could not be told that their companion was a real live prince. they took tea under an awning overlooking the sea, and his highness was particularly gracious towards mrs jesup, until both mother and daughter were filled with delight at his pleasant companionship. he treated both women as equals; his manner, as they afterwards put it, being devoid of any side, and yet he was every inch a prince. that run was the first of many they had together. robert k. jesup had been suddenly summoned by cable to paris on business connected with his mining interests, therefore his wife and daughter remained in brighton. and on account of their presence the prince lingered there through another fortnight. mostly he spent his days walking or motoring with mrs jesup and her daughter, and sometimes--on very rare occasions--he contrived to walk with mary alone. one morning, when he had been with her along the pier listening to the band, he returned to luncheon to find in his own room a rather tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged clergyman, whose round face and ruddy complexion gave him rather the air of a _bon vivant_. sight of his unexpected visitor caused the prince to hold his breath for a second. it was the parson. "sorry i was out," his highness exclaimed. "charles told you where i was, i suppose?" "yes, prince," replied the cleric. "i helped myself to a whisky and soda. hope you won't mind. it was a nice morning in town, so i thought i'd run down to see you." "you want another fifty, i suppose--eh?" asked his highness sharply. "some other work of charity--eh?" "my dear prince, you've guessed it at once. you are, indeed, very good." his highness rang the bell, and when the valet appeared, gave him orders to go and get fifty pounds, which he handed to the clergyman. then the pair had luncheon brought up to the room, and as they sat together their conversation was mostly about mutual friends. for a cleric the reverend thomas clayton was an extremely easy-going man, a thorough sportsman of a type now alas! dying out in england. it was plain to see that they were old friends, and plainer still when, on parting a couple of hours later, the prince said: "when i leave here, old fellow, you'll join me for a little, won't you? don't worry me any more at present for your confounded--er charities-- will you? fresh air for the children, and whisky for yourself--eh? by jove, if i hadn't been a prince, i'd have liked to have been a parson! good-bye, old fellow." and the rubicund cleric shook his friend's hand heartily and went down the broad staircase. the instant his visitor had gone he called charles and asked excitedly: "did any one know the parson came to see me?" "no, your highness. i fortunately met him in king's road, and brought him up here. he never inquired at the office." "he's a fool! he could easily have written," cried the prince eagerly. "where are those women, i wonder?" he asked, indicating mrs jesup and her daughter. "i told them you would be engaged all the afternoon." "good. i shan't go out again to-day, charles. i want to think. go to them with my compliments, and say that if they would like to use the car for a run this afternoon they are very welcome. you know what to say. and--and see that a bouquet of roses is sent up to the young lady's room before she goes to dress. put one of my cards on it." "yes, your highness," replied the valet, and turning, left his master to himself. the visit of the reverend thomas clayton had, in some way, perturbed and annoyed him. and yet their meeting had been fraught by a marked cordiality. presently he flung himself into a big armchair, and lighting one of his choice "petroffs" which he specially imported, sat ruminating. "ah! if i were not a prince!" he exclaimed aloud to himself. "i could do it--do it quite easily. but it's my confounded social position that prevents so much. and yet--yet i must tell her. it's imperative. i must contrive somehow or other to evade that steely maternal eye. i wonder if the mother has any suspicion--whether--?" but he replaced his cigarette between his lips without completing the expression of his doubts. as the sunlight began to mellow, he still sat alone, thinking deeply. then he moved to go and dress, having resolved to dine in the public restaurant with his american friends. just then charles opened the door, ushering in a rather pale-faced, clean-shaven man in dark grey tweeds. he entered with a jaunty air and was somewhat arrogant of manner, as he strode across the room. the prince's greeting was greatly the reverse of cordial. "what brings you here, max?" he inquired sharply. "didn't i telegraph to you only this morning?" "yes. but i wanted a breath of sea-air, so came down. i want to know if you're going to keep the appointment next monday--or not." "i can't tell yet." "hylda is anxious to know. you promised her, remember." "i know. but apologise, and say that--well, i have some private business here. you know what to say, max. and i may want you down here in a hurry. come at once if i wire." the man looked him straight in the face for a few moments. "oh!" he ejaculated, and then without being invited, crossed and took a cigarette. "charles," said the visitor to the valet who had remained in the room, "give me a drink. let me wish success to matrimony." and with a knowing laugh he tossed off the whisky and soda handed to him. for half an hour he remained chatting confidentially with the prince, then he left, saying that he should dine alone at the old ship, and return to london at ten. when max mason had gone, prince albert heaved a long sigh, and passed into the adjoining room to dress. that night proved a momentous one in his highness's life, for after dinner mrs jesup complained of a bad headache, and retiring at once to her room, left the young people together. what more natural, therefore, than that his highness should invite mary to put on her wrap and go for a stroll along the promenade in the moonlight. she accepted the invitation eagerly, and went up to her mother's room. "i'm going for a walk with him, mother," she cried excitedly as she burst into the room where mrs jesup, with all traces of headache gone, was lazily reading a novel. "that's real good. put on something thick, child, for its chilly," was the maternal reply. "and, remember, you don't go flirting with princes very often." "no, mother, but just leave him to me. i've been thinking over what you say, and i mean to be princess of hesse-holstein before the year's out. or else--" "or else there'll be trouble--eh?" laughed her mother. but the girl had disappeared to join the man who loved her, and who was waiting below. in the bright august moonlight they strolled together as far as hove, where they sat upon a seat outside the lawns. the evening was perfect, and there were many passers-by, mostly couples more or less amatory. never had a girl so attracted him as had mary that calm and glorious night. never had he looked into a woman's eyes and seen there love reflected as in hers. they rose and strolled back again, back to the pier which they traversed to its head. there they found a seat unoccupied, and rested upon it. and there, taking her little hand tenderly in his, he blurted forth, in the blundering words of a blundering man, the story of his affection. she heard him in silence to the end. "i--i think, prince, you have not fully considered what all this means. what--" "it means, mary, that i love you--love you deeply and devotedly as no other man has ever loved a woman! i am not given to ecstasies over affection, for i long ago thought every spark of it was dead within my heart. i repeat, however, that i love you." and ere she could prevent him, he had raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. she tried to withdraw it, but he held it firmly. the moon shone full upon her sweet face, and he noticed how pale and beautiful she looked. she gave him one glance, and in that instant he saw the light of unshed tears. but she was silent, and her silence puzzled him. "ah!" he sighed despondently. "am i correct, then, in suspecting that you already have a lover?" "a lover? whom do you mean?" "that tall, fair-haired, mysterious man who, during the past week, has been so interested in your movements. have you not noticed him? he's staying at the hotel. i've seen him twenty times at least, and it is only too apparent that he admires you." "i've never even seen him," she exclaimed in surprise. "you must point him out to me. i don't like mysterious men." "i'm not mysterious, am i?" asked the prince, laughing, and again raising her hand to his lips tenderly. "will you not answer my question? do you think you can love me sufficiently--sufficiently to become my wife?" "but--but all this is so sudden, prince. i--i--" "can you love me?" he interrupted. for answer she bent her head. next moment his lips met hers in a hot passionate caress. and thus did their hearts beat in unison. before they rose from the seat mary jesup had promised to become princess of hesse-holstein. next morning, the happy girl told her mother the gratifying news, and when mrs jesup entered the prince's private _salon_ his highness asked her, at least for the present, to keep their engagement secret. that day the prince was occupied by a quantity of correspondence, but the future princess, after a tender kiss upon her white brow, went out in the car with her mother as far as bognor. two hours later the prince sent a telegram to the rev thomas clayton, despatched charles post-haste to london by the pullman express, and then went out for a stroll along king's road. he was one of the happiest men in all the world. not until dinner did he again meet mrs jesup and her daughter. after describing what an excellent run they had had, the millionaire's wife said: "oh, mary has been telling me something about a mysterious fair-haired man whom you say has been watching her." "yes," replied his highness. "he's been hanging about for some days. i fancy he's no good--one of those fellows who live in hotels on the look-out for pigeons." "what we call in america a crook--eh?" "exactly. at least that's my opinion," he declared in confidence. mrs jesup and her daughter appeared both very uneasy, a circumstance which the prince did not fail to notice. they went up to his _salon_ where they had coffee, and then retired early. half an hour later, while his highness was lazily enjoying one of his brown "petroffs," the millionaire's wife, with blanched face, burst into the room crying: "prince! oh, prince! the whole of my jewels and mary's have been stolen! both cases have been broken open and the contents gone! my pearls too! what shall we do?" his highness started to his feet astounded. "do? why find that fair-haired man!" he replied. "i'll go at once to the manager." he sped downstairs, and all was quickly in confusion. the manager recollected the man, who had given the name of mason, and who had left suddenly on the previous morning. the police were telephoned for, and over the wires to london news of the great jewel robbery was flashed to new scotland yard. there was little sleep for either of the trio that night. examination showed that whoever the thief was, he had either been in possession of the keys of the ladies' trunks, wherein were the jewel-cases, or had obtained impressions of them, for after the jewels had been abstracted the trunks had been relocked. the prince was very active, while the two ladies and their maid were in utter despair. their only consolation was that, though mary had lost her diamonds, she had gained a husband. about noon on the following day, while his highness was reading the paper as he lolled lazily in the depths of the big armchair, a tap came at the door and a waiter ushered in a thin, spare, grey-faced, grey-bearded man. the prince sprang to his feet as though he had received an electric shock. the two men faced each other, both utterly dumbfounded. "wal!" ejaculated the visitor at last, when he found tongue. "if this don't beat hog-stickin'! say, young tentoes, do you know i'm robert k. jesup?" "you--jesup! my dear uncle jim!" gasped the other. "what does this mean?" "yes. things in new york over that little poker job are a bit hot just now, so lil and the old lady are working the matrimonial trick this side--a spoony jay, secret engagement, and blackmail. worked it in paris two years ago. great success! done neatly, it's real good. i thought they'd got hold of a real live prince this time--and rushed right here to find it's only you! they ought really to be more careful!" "and i tell you, uncle, i too have been completely deceived. i thought i'd got a soft thing--those bourbon pearls, you know? they left their keys about, i got casts, and when they were out bagged the boodle." "wal, my boy, you'd better cough 'em up right away," urged the old american criminal, whose name was ford, and who was known to his associates as "uncle jim." "i suppose the parson's in it, as usual--eh? say! the whole lot of sparklers aren't worth fifty dollars, but the old woman and the girl look well in 'em. my! ain't we all been taken in finely! order me a cocktail to take the taste away. guess lil'll want to twist your rubber-neck when she sees you, so you'd better get into that famous car of yours and make yourself scarce, young man!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the _sussex daily news_ next morning contained the following announcement: "his royal highness prince albert of hesse-holstein has left brighton for the continent." chapter two. the prince and the parson. his royal highness descended from the big cream-coloured "mercedes" in the place royale, drew off his gloves, and entered the quiet, eminently aristocratic hotel de l'europe. all brussels knew that prince albert of hesse-holstein was staying there. hence, as the car pulled up, and the young man in long dust-coat and motor-goggles rose from the wheel and gave the car over to the smart chauffeur garrett in the grey uniform with crimson facings, a small crowd of gaping idlers assembled to watch his entrance to the hotel. in the hall a few british tourists in tweeds or walking-skirts stared at him, as though a real live prince was of different clay, while on ascending the main staircase to his private suite, two waiters bowed themselves almost in two. in his sitting-room his middle-aged english man-servant was arranging his newspapers, and closing the door sharply behind him he said: "charles! that girl is quite a sweet little thing. i've seen her again!" "and your highness has fallen in love with her?" sniffed the man. "well, i might, charles. one never knows." and he took a "petroff" from the big silver box, and lit it with care. "i am very lonely, you know." charles's lips relaxed into a smile, but he made no remark. he was well aware how confirmed was his master's bachelordom. he often admired pretty girls, just as much as they adored him--because he was a prince-- but his admiration was tinged with the acidity of sarcasm. when charles had gone, his highness flung off his motor-coat and threw himself into a big chair to think. with a smart rat-a-plan, an infantry regiment of _les braves belges_ was crossing the place to relieve the guard at the palace. he rose and gazed across the square: "ah!" he laughed to himself, "my dear uncle, the red rubber king, is closely guarded, it seems! i suppose i ought to call upon him. he's at home, judging from the royal standard. whew! what a bore it is to have been born a prince! if i'd been a policeman or a pork-butcher i daresay i'd have had a much better time. the world never guesses how badly we fellows are handicapped. men like myself cannot cross the road without some scoundrelly journalist working up a `royal scandal' or a political complication." then his thoughts ran off into another direction--the direction in which they had constantly flowed during the past week--towards a certain very charming, sweet-faced girl, scarcely out of her teens, who was staying with her father and mother at the grand hotel, down on the boulevard. the northovers were english--decidedly english. they were of that insular type who, in a continental hotel, demand bacon and eggs for breakfast, denounce every dish as a "foreign mess," and sigh for the roast beef and yorkshire pudding of middle-class suburbia. james northover, charles had discovered to be a very estimable and trusted person, manager of the stamford branch of the london and north western bank, who was now tasting the delights of continental travel by three weeks' vacation in belgium. his wife was somewhat obese and rather strong-minded, while little nellie was decidedly pretty, her light brown hair dressed low and secured by a big black velvet bow, a pair of grey, rather mischievous eyes, sweetly dimpled cheeks, and a perfect complexion. not yet nineteen, she had only left the high school a year before, and was now being afforded an opportunity of inflicting her school-girl french upon all and sundry with whom she came into contact. and it was french--french with those pronounced "ong" and "onny" endings for which the tourist-agents are so terribly responsible. but with all her linguistical shortcomings little nelly northover, the slim-waisted school-miss with the tiny wisp of unruly hair straying across her brow, and the rather smart and intelligent chatter, had attracted him. indeed, he could not get the thought of her out of his head. they had met at a little inn at the village of anseremme, on the meuse, close to dinant--that paradise of the cheap "hotel-included" tourist. something had gone wrong with the clutch of his car, and he had been held up there for two days while an engineer had come out from brussels to repair the damage. being the only other guest in the place beside the eminently respectable bank manager and his wife and daughter, he lost no time in ingratiating himself with them, and more especially with the last-named. though he spoke english perfectly and with but the very slightest accent, he had given his name at the inn as herr birkenfeld, for was not that one of his names? he was count of birkenfeld, and seigneur of a dozen other places, in addition to being prince of the royal house of hesse-holstein. the bank manager and his wife, of course, believed him to be a young german gentleman of means until, on the morning of the day of his departure, charles, in greatest confidence, revealed to them who his master really was. the english trio were utterly staggered. to nellie, there was an element of romance at meeting a real prince in those rural solitudes of river and forest. as she declared to her mother, he was so nice and so unassuming. just, indeed, like any ordinary man. and in her young mind she compared albert prince of hesse-holstein with the provincial young gentlemen whom she had met last season at the popular county function, the stamford ball. as constantly nellie northover's thoughts reverted to the affable prince, so did his highness, on his part, sit hour upon hour smoking his pet russian cigarettes in quick succession, pondering and wondering. his position was one of terrible weariness. ah! how often he wished that he had not been born a prince. as an ordinary mortal he might have dared to aspire to the hand of the sweet young english miss. but as prince albert of hesse-holstein, such a marriage would be denounced by press and public as a _misalliance_. he liked james northover. there was something of the john bull about him which he admired. a keen, hard-headed business man, tall and bald, who spoke with a nottingham brogue, and who had been over thirty years in the service of the bank, he was a highly trusted servant of his directors. in allowing overdrafts he seldom made mistakes, while his courtesy had brought the bank a considerably increased business. the prince knew all that. a couple of days after meeting nellie in anseremme he had written to a certain reverend thomas clayton, who lived in bayswater, and had only that morning received a long letter bearing the stamford postmark. it was on account of this letter that he went out after luncheon in the car along the rue royale, and down the boulevard botanique, to the grand hotel on the boulevard d'anspach. he found nellie alone in the big _salon_, reading an english paper. on seeing him the girl flushed slightly and jumped to her feet, surprised that he should call unexpectedly. "miss northover!" he exclaimed, raising his motor-cap, "i've called to take you all for a little run this afternoon--if you can come. i have the car outside." "i'm sure it's awfully kind of you, prince," the girl replied with some confusion. "i--well, i don't know what to say. father and mother are out." "ah!" he laughed; "and of course you cannot come with me alone. it is against your english ideas of _les convenances_--eh?" she laughed in chorus, afterwards saying: "i expect them back in half an hour." "oh, then, i'll wait," he exclaimed, and taking off his motor-coat, he seated himself in a chair and began to chat with her, asking what sights of brussels she had seen, at the same time being filled with admiration at her fresh sweetness and _chic_. they were alone in the room, and he found an indescribable charm in her almost childlike face and girlish chatter. she was so unlike the artificial women of cosmopolitan society who were his friends. yes. he was deeply in love with her, and by her manner towards him he could not fail to notice that his affection was reciprocated. presently her parents appeared. they had noticed the big cream-coloured car with the chauffeur standing outside, and at once a flutter had run through both their hearts, knowing that the august visitor had arrived to call upon them. northover was full of apologies, but the prince cut them short, and within a quarter of an hour they were all in the car and on the road to that goal of every british tourist, the battlefield of waterloo. the autumn afternoon was perfect. the leaves had scarcely begun to turn, and the sun so hot that it might still have been august. nellie's father was just as proud of the prince's acquaintance as she was herself, while mrs northover was filled with pleasurable anticipations of going back to quiet, old-world stamford--a place where nothing ever happens--and referring, in the hearing of her own tea-drinking circle, to "my friend prince albert." a week passed. mr and mrs northover could not fail to notice how constantly the prince was in nellie's society. only once, however, did her father mention it to his wife, and then in confidence. "nellie seems much struck by the prince, don't you think? and i'm sure he admires her. he's such a good fellow. i like him. i suppose it's a mere harmless flirtation--and it amuses them both." "fancy, if she became princess of hesse-holstein, james!" but james northover only grunted dubiously. he was ignorant of the truth; ignorant of the fact that on the previous night, while they had been taking a stroll along the boulevard after dinner, the prince, who had been walking with nellie, had actually whispered to her a declaration of love. it had all been done so secretly. the pair had been following a little distance behind her worthy parents, and in the star-lit night he had pressed her hand. he had told her hurriedly, whispering low, how fondly he had loved her from the very first moment they had met. how devoted he was to her, and declaring that no woman had ever touched the chord of love in his heart as she had done. "to-morrow, dearest, we shall part," he whispered; "but before we do so will you not give me one word of hope--hope that you may some day be mine! tell me, can you ever reciprocate my love?" he whispered in deep earnestness, as he bent to her, still holding her little hand in his strong grip as they walked. for a few moments she was silent; her dimpled chin sank upon her breast. he felt her quivering with emotion, and as the light of a gas-lamp fell across her beautiful face he saw tears in her eyes. she turned to him and lifted her gaze to his. then he knew the truth without her spoken word. she was his--his own! "we will keep our secret, dearest," he said presently. "no one must know. for family reasons it must not yet leak out. think how lonely i shall be at this hour to-morrow--when you have left!" "and i also," she sobbed. "you know--you must have seen--that i love you!" at that moment her mother turned to look back, and consequently they both instantly assumed an attitude of utter unconcern. and next afternoon when he saw the three off from the gare du nord by the harwich service, neither the estimable northover, nor his rather obese spouse, had the slightest idea of the true secret of the two young hearts. nellie grasped her lover's hand in adieu. their eyes met for a single instant, and it was all-sufficient. each trusted the other implicitly. it was surely a charming love-idyll between prince and school-girl. his highness remained in brussels for about three weeks, then crossed to london. he stayed at the carlton, where, on the night of his arrival, he was visited by the rather ruddy-faced jovial-looking clergyman, the reverend thomas clayton. it was charles who announced him, saying in an abrupt manner: "the parson's called, your highness." "show him in," was the prince's reply. "i was expecting him." the greeting between prince albert and his old clerical friend was hearty, and the two men spent a couple of hours over whisky and sodas and cigarettes, chatting confidentially. "you're in love with her, prince!" laughed his reverend friend. "yes, i really and honestly believe i am," the other admitted, "and especially so, after your report." "my inquiries were perfectly satisfactory," the clergyman said. "i want to have an excuse for going up to stamford, but don't see well how it can be managed," remarked the prince pensively, between whiffs of his cigarette. "with my assistance it might, my dear boy," replied the reverend thomas. "it wants a little thinking over. you're a prince, remember." "yes," sighed the other wearily. "that's just the confounded difficulty. i wonder what the world would say if they knew my secret?" "say?" and the clergyman pulled a wry face. "why bother about what the world thinks? i never do." "yes. but you're a parson, and a parson can do practically just what he likes." "as long as he's popular with his parishioners." and it was not till near midnight, after a dainty snack of supper, served in the prince's sitting-room, that the pair parted. a fortnight later mr james northover was agreeably impressed to receive a letter from the prince stating that a great friend of his, the rev thomas clayton, of st ethelburga's, bayswater, was staying in stamford, convalescent after an illness, and that he was coming to visit him. the northover household was thrown into instant confusion. its head was for inviting the prince to stay with them, but mrs northover and nellie both declared that he would be far more comfortable at the stamford hotel, or at the "george." besides, he was a prince, and alice, the cook, could not possibly do things as was his highness's habit to have them done. so a telegram was sent to the carlton saying that the northovers were most delighted at the prospect of seeing the prince again. next day his highness arrived in the big cream-coloured car at the stamford hotel, causing great excitement in the town. charles had come down by the morning train and engaged rooms for his master, and within half an hour of the prince's arrival the worthy mayor called and left his card. the prince's first visit, however, was to his old friend, the rev thos. clayton, whom he found in rather shabby apartments in rock terrace seated in an armchair, looking very pale, and quite unlike his usual self. "i'm sure it's awfully good of you to become an invalid on my account?" exclaimed the prince the moment they were alone. "however do you pass your days in this sleepy hollow?" "by study, my dear boy! study's a grand thing! see!" and he exhibited a big dry-as-dust volume on "the extinct civilisations of africa." he remained an hour, and then, remounting into the car, drove out along the tinwell road, where, half a mile from the town, mr northover's comfortable, red-brick villa was situated. he found the whole family assembled to welcome him--as they had, indeed, been assembled in eager expectation for the past four hours. nellie he found looking particularly dainty, with the usual big black velvet bow in her hair, and wearing a neat blouse of cream washing-silk and a short black skirt. she was essentially the type of healthy hockey-playing english girl. as he grasped her hand and greeted her with formality, he felt it tremble within his grasp. she had kept his secret; of that there was no doubt. the home life of the northovers he found quite pleasant. it was so unlike anything he had even been used to. he remained to tea, and he returned there to dine and spend a pleasant evening listening to nellie's performances on the piano. afterwards, when the ladies had retired as they did discreetly at half-past ten, he sat smoking his "petroffs" and chatting with mr northover. "i hope you found your friend, the clergyman, better, prince. where is he living?" "oh, yes; he's much better, thanks. but he has rather wretched quarters, in a house in rock terrace. i've urged him to move into an hotel. he says, however, that he hates hotels. he's such a good fellow--gives nearly all he has to the poor." "i suppose he's down here for fresh air?" "yes. he's very fond of this neighbourhood. often came here when a boy, i believe." "when you go again i'd like to call upon him. we must not allow him to be lonely." "i shall call to-morrow. perhaps you could go with me, after the bank has closed?" "yes. at four-thirty. will you call at the bank for me?" and so it was arranged. punctually at the hour named the prince stepped from his car before the bank--which was situated in a side street between two shops--and was at once admitted and ushered through to the manager's room. then the pair went on to rock terrace to pay the visit. the invalid was much better, and northover found him a man entirely after his own heart. he was a man of the world, as well as a clergyman. in the week that followed, nellie's father made several visits, and once, on a particularly bright day, the prince brought the rev thomas round in the car to return the visit at tinwell road. within ten days the vicar of st ethelburga's, bayswater, had become quite an intimate friend of the northovers; so much so, indeed, that they compelled him to give up his rooms in rock terrace, and come and stay as their guest. perhaps it was more for the prince's sake they did this--perhaps because they admired clayton as "a splendid fellow for a parson." anyhow, all this gave the prince plenty of opportunities for meeting nellie clandestinely. instead of going to her music-lesson, or to her hockey-club, or visiting an old schoolfellow, she went daily to a certain secluded spot on the worthope road, where she was joined by the man she loved. her romance was complete. she adored albert, utterly and devotedly; while he, on his part, was her slave. on the third day after his arrival in stamford she had promised to become princess of hesse-holstein, and now they were closely preserving their secret. the advent of his highness had raised mrs northover to the very pinnacle of the social scale in stamford. times without number she tried to obtain from nellie the true state of affairs, but the girl was sly enough to preserve her lover's secret. if the truth were yet known to the family of hesse-holstein, all sorts of complications would assuredly ensue. besides, it would, he felt certain, bring upon him the displeasure of the emperor. he must go to potsdam, and announce to the kaiser his engagement with his own lips. and so little nellie northover, the chosen princess of hesse-holstein, the girl destined to become husband of the ruler of a principality half the size of england, and the wealthiest of the german princes, often wandered the country roads alone, and tried to peer into her brilliant future. what would the girls of stamford say when they found that nellie northover was actually a princess! why, even the marchioness who lived at the great ancestral mansion, mentioned in tennyson's well-known poem, would then receive her! and all through the mere failing of a motor-car clutch at that tiny obscure belgian village. the reverend thomas gradually grew stronger while guest of mr northover, and both he and the prince, together with the northovers, mr henry ashdown, the assistant manager of the bank who lived on the premises, and others of the northovers' friends went for frequent runs in the nobleman's car. the prince never hedged himself in by etiquette. every friend of northover at once became his friend; hence, within a fortnight, his highness was the most popular figure in that quaint old market town. one afternoon while the prince and the clergyman were walking together up the high street, they passed a thin, pale-faced man in dark grey flannels. glances of recognition were exchanged, but no word was uttered. "max is at the `george,' isn't he?" asked the prince. "yes," replied his companion. "arrived the night before last, and having a particularly dull time, i should think." "so should i," laughed the prince. that evening, the two ladies being away at the milton hound show, they took northover and his assistant, ashdown, after their business, over to peterborough to bring them back. ashdown was some ten years younger than his chief, and rather fond of his whisky and soda. at the great northern hotel in peterborough they found the ladies; and on their return to stamford the whole party dined together at the prince's hotel, an old-fashioned hostelry with old-fashioned english fare. and so another fortnight went past. the autumn winds grew more chilly, and the leaves fell with the advance of october. nellie constantly met the prince, in secret, the only person knowing the truth besides themselves being the parson, who had now become one of the girl's particular friends. while the prince was dressing for dinner one evening, charles being engaged in putting the links in his shirt-cuffs, he suddenly asked: "max is still in stamford, i suppose?" "i believe so, your highness." "well, i want you to take this up to london to-night, charles." and he drew from a locked drawer a small sealed packet about four inches square, looking like jewellery. "you'll see the address on it. take it there, then go to the suffolk hotel, in suffolk street, strand, and wait till i send you instructions to return." "very well, your highness," answered the man who always carried out his master's instructions with blind obedience. next day, in conversation with mr northover, the prince expressed regret that he had been compelled to discharge his man charles at a moment's notice. "the man is a thief," he said briefly. "i lost a valuable scarf-pin the other day--one given me by the emperor. but i never suspected him until a few days ago when i received an anonymous letter telling me that my trusted man, charles, had, before i took him into my service, been convicted of theft, and was, indeed, one of a gang of clever swindlers! i made inquiries, and discovered this to be the actual truth." "by jove!" remarked the reverend thomas. "think what an escape the prince has had! all his jewellery might have suddenly disappeared!" "how very fortunate you were warned!" declared mr northover. "your correspondent was anonymous, you say?" "yes. some one must have recognised him in london, i think, and, therefore, given me warning. a most disagreeable affair--i assure you." "then you've lost the emperor's present?" asked nellie. "yes," sighed the prince; "it's gone for ever. i've given notice to the police. they're sending a detective from london to see me, i believe, but i feel certain i shall never see it again." this conversation was repeated by mrs northover to her husband, when he returned from business that evening. about the same hour, however, while the prince was smoking with his clerical friend in his private room at the hotel, the waiter entered, saying that a mr mason had called upon his highness. "that's the man from scotland yard!" exclaimed the prince aloud. "show him up." a few moments later a rather pale-faced, fair-haired man in shabby brown tweeds was ushered in, and the waiter, who knew the story of charles's sudden discharge, retired. "good evening, prince," exclaimed the new-comer. "i got your wire and came at once." at the same time he produced from his pocket a small cartridge envelope containing something slightly bulky, but carefully sealed. "right! go over there, max, and help yourself to a drink. you're at the `george,' i suppose?" "no. i've got a room here--so as to be near you--in case of necessity, you know," he added meaningly. the two men exchanged glances. it was evident at once that mr mason was no stranger, for he helped himself to a cigarette uninvited, and, mixing a small drink, drained it off at a single gulp. then, after chatting for a quarter of an hour or so, he went out "just to get a wash," as he put it. the prince, when he had gone, turned over the small packet in his hand without opening it. then he rose, walked to the window, and in silence looked out upon the old church opposite, deep in thought. the parson, watching him without a word, knit his brows, and pursed his lips. next morning the prince sent garrett with the car to london, as he wanted some alteration to the hood, and that afternoon, as he crossed the marketplace, he again met max. neither spoke. a glance of recognition was all that passed between them. meanwhile, the detective from london had been making a good many inquiries in stamford, concerning the associates and friends of the discharged valet charles. the latter was, the detective declared, an old hand, and his highness had been very fortunate in getting rid of him when he did. that evening mr and mrs ashdown invited the prince and the clergyman to dinner, at which they were joined by the sweet-faced nellie and her father and mother. with true provincial habit, the party broke up at ten-thirty, and while the parson walked home with the northovers, his highness lit a cigar and strolled back to the hotel alone. until nearly two o'clock he sat smoking, reading, and thinking--thinking always of pretty nellie--and now and then glancing at the clock. after the church-bell had struck two he had a final "peg," and then turned in. next morning, when the waiter brought his coffee, the man blurted forth breathlessly: "there's been a great robbery, your highness, last night. the london and north western bank has been entered, and they say that four thousand pounds in gold has been stolen." "what!" gasped the prince, springing up. "mr northover's bank?" "yes, sir. the whole town is in an uproar! i've told mr mason, and he's gone down to see. they say that a week ago a youngish man from london took the empty shop next door to the bank, and it's believed the thieves were secreted in there. there doesn't seem any evidence of any of the locks being tampered with, for the front door was opened with a key, and they had keys of both the doors of the strong-room. the police are utterly mystified, for mr northover has one key, and mr ashdown the other, and the doors can't be opened unless they are both there together. both gentlemen say their keys have never left them, and none of the burglar-alarms rang." "then it's an absolute mystery--eh," remarked the prince, utterly astonished. "perhaps that scoundrel charles has had something to do with it! he went to the bank for me on several occasions!" "that's what mr mason and the other police officers think, sir," the waiter said. "and it seems that the men must have got out the coin, brought it into the empty shop, carried it through the back of the premises and packed it into a dark-green motor-car. a policeman out on the worthorpe road, saw the car pass just before two o'clock this morning. there were two men in it, besides the driver." the prince dressed hastily, and was about to rush down to the bank to condole with northover when the latter burst into his room in a great state of mind. "it's an absolute mystery, and so daring!" he declared. "the thieves must have had duplicate keys of the whole bank! they left all the notes, but cleared out every bit of gold coin. we had some unusually heavy deposits lately, and they've taken three thousand four hundred and thirty-two pounds!" "what about that man who took the shop next door?" "he's perfectly respectable, the police assure me. he knows nothing about it. he's hardly finished stocking the place with groceries, and opens the day after to-morrow. his name is newman." "then how did they get their booty away?" "that's the mystery. unless through the back of the shop next door. no motor-car came along the street in the night, for ashdown's child was ill, and mrs ashdown was up all night and heard nothing. the means by which they got such a heavy lot of coin away so neatly is as mysterious as how they obtained the keys." "depend upon it that my scoundrelly valet has had a finger in this!" the prince declared. "i'll assist you to try and find him. i happen to know some of his friends in london." northover was delighted, and at the police-station the superintendent thanked his highness for his kind promise of assistance. mr mason was ubiquitous, and the parson full of astonishment at the daring coup of the unknown thieves. two bank directors came down from town in the afternoon, and after a discussion, a full report was telegraphed to new scotland yard. that same evening the prince went up to london, accompanied by the keen-eyed mr mason, leaving the parson still the guest of mr northover. the latter, however, would scarcely have continued to entertain him, had he known that, on arrival at king's cross, his highness and mr mason took a cab to a certain house in hereford road, bayswater, where charles and garrett were eagerly awaiting him. in the room were two other men whom the prince shook by the hand and warmly congratulated. charles opened the door of the adjoining room, a poorly furnished bedroom, where stood a chest of drawers. one drawer after the other he opened. they were full of bags of golden sovereigns! "those impressions you sent us, prince, gave us a lot of trouble," declared the elder of the two men, with a pronounced american accent. "the keys were very difficult to make, and when you sent us word that the parson had tried them and they wouldn't act, we began to fear that it was no go. but we did the trick all right, after all, didn't we? guess we spent a pretty miserable week in stamford, but you seemed to be having quite a good time. where's the sky-pilot?" "he's remaining--convalescent, you know. and as for bob newman, he'll be compelled to carry on that confounded grocery business next door for at least a couple of months--before he fails, and shuts up." "well," exclaimed the man mason, whom everybody in stamford--even the police themselves--believed to be a detective. "it was a close shave! you know, prince, when you came out of the bank after dinner and i slipped in past you, i only just got into the shadow before that slip of a girl of northover's ran down the stairs after you. i saw you give her a kiss in the darkness." "she deserved a kiss, the little dear," replied his highness, "for without her we could never have brought off so complete a thing." "ah! you always come in for the good things," charles remarked. "because i'm a prince," was his highness's reply. the police are still looking for the prince's valet, and his highness has, of course, assisted them. charles, however, got away to copenhagen to a place of complete safety, and he being the only person suspected, it is very unlikely that the bank will ever see their money again-- neither is nellie northover ever likely to see her prince. chapter three. the mysterious sixty. when the smart chauffeur, garrett, entered the cosy chambers of his highness prince albert of hesse-holstein, alias charles fotheringham, alias henry tremlett, in dover street, piccadilly, he found him stretched lazily on the couch before the fire. he had exchanged his dinner jacket for an easy coat of brown velvet; between his lips was a russian cigarette of his pet brand, and at his elbow a brandy and soda. "ah! garrett," he exclaimed as the chauffeur entered. "come here, and sit down. shut the door first. i want to talk to you." as chauffeur to the prince and his ingenious companions, garrett had met with many queer adventures and been in many a tight corner. to this day he wonders he was not "pinched" by the police a dozen times, and certainly would have been if it were not that the gay, good-looking, devil-may-care prince albert never left anything to chance. when a _coup_ was to be made he thought out every minute detail, and took precaution against every risk of detection. to his marvellous ingenuity and wonderful foresight garrett, with his friends, owed his liberty. during the three years through which he had thrown in his lot with that select little circle of "crooks," he had really had a very interesting time, and had driven them thousands of miles, mostly on the continent, in the big "mercedes" or the "sixty" six-cylinder "minerva." his highness's share in the plunder had been very considerable. at his bankers he possessed quite a respectable balance, and he lived in easy affluence the life of a prince. in the drawing-rooms of london and paris he was known as essentially a ladies' man; while in italy he was usually henry tremlett, of london, and in france he was charles fotheringham, an anglo-frenchman and chevalier of the legion d'honneur. "look here, garrett," he said, raising himself on his elbow and looking the man in the face as he tossed his cigarette in the grate. "to-day, let's see, is december . you must start in the car to-morrow for san remo. we shall spend a week or two there." "to-morrow!" the chauffeur echoed. "the roads from paris down to the riviera are pretty bad just now. i saw in the paper yesterday that there's heavy snow around valence." "snow, or no snow, we must go," the prince said decisively. "we have a little matter in hand down there--you understand?" he remarked, his dark eyes still fixed upon the chauffeur. the man wondered what was the nature of the _coup_ intended. "and now," he went on, "let me explain something else. there may be some funny proceedings down at san remo. but just disregard everything you see, and don't trouble your head about the why, or wherefore. you're paid to be chauffeur, garrett--and paid well, too, by your share of the profits--so nothing else concerns you. it isn't, sparklers we're after this time--it's something else." the prince who, speaking english so well, turned his birth and standing to such good account, never told the chauffeur of his plans. his confederates, indeed, were generally kept completely in the dark until the very last moment. therefore, they were all very frequently puzzled by what seemed to be extraordinary and motiveless actions by the leader of the party of adventurers. the last _coup_ made was in the previous month, at aix-les-bains, the proceeds being sold to the old jew in amsterdam for four thousand pounds sterling, this sum being divided up between the prince, the parson, a neat-ankled little parisienne named valentine dejardin, and garrett. and they were now going to spend a week or two in that rather dull and much over-rated little italian seaside town, where the sharper and crook flourish to such a great extent in spring--san remo. they were evidently about to change their tactics, for it was not diamonds they were after, but something else. garrett wondered as the count told him to help himself to a whisky and soda what that "something else" would turn out to be. "i daresay you'll be a bit puzzled," he said, lazily lighting a fresh cigarette, "but don't trouble your head about the why or wherefore. leave that to me. stay at the hotel regina at san remo--that big place up on the hill--you know it. you'll find the parson there. let's see, when we were there a year ago i was tremlett, wasn't i?--so i must be that again, i suppose." he rose from his couch, stretched himself, and pulling a bookcase from the high old-fashioned wainscoting slid back one of the white enamelled panels disclosing a secret cavity wherein, garrett knew, reposed a quantity of stolen jewels that he had failed to get rid of to the jew diamond dealer in amsterdam, who acted in most cases as receiver. the chauffeur saw within that small cavity, of about a foot square, a number of little parcels each wrapped in tissue paper--jewels for which the police of europe for a year or so had been hunting high and low. putting his hand into the back the prince produced a bundle of banknotes, from which he counted one "fifty" and ten fivers, and handed them to his man. "they're all right. you'll want money, for i think that, after all, you'd better go to san remo as a gentleman and owner of the car. both the parson and i will be perfect strangers to you--you understand?" "perfectly," was garrett's reply, as he watched him replace the notes, push back the panel into its place, and move the bookcase into its original position. "then get away to-morrow night by newhaven and dieppe," he said. "if i were you i'd go by valence and die, instead of by grenoble. there's sure to be less snow there. wire me when you get down to cannes." and he pushed across his big silver box of cigarettes, one of which the chauffeur took, and seating himself, listened to his further instructions. they, however, gave no insight into the adventure which was about to be undertaken. at half-past seven on the following night, with his smartly-cut clothes packed in two suit-cases, his chauffeur's dress discarded for a big leather-lined coat of dark-green frieze and motor-cap and goggles, and a false number-plate concealed beneath the cushion, garrett drew the car out of the garage in oxford street, and sped along the embankment and over westminster bridge on the first stage of his long and lonely journey. the night was dark, with threatening rain, but out in the country the big searchlight shone brilliantly, and he tore along the brighton road while the rhythmic splutter of his open exhaust awakened the echoes of the country-side. with a loud shriek of the siren he passed village after village until at brighton he turned to the left along that very dangerous switchback road that leads to newhaven. how he shipped the car, or how for four weary days--such was the hopeless state of the roads--he journeyed due south, has no bearing upon this narrative of an adventurer's adventure. fortunately the car ran magnificently, the engines beating in perfect time against rain and blizzard, and tyre-troubles were few. the road--known well to him, for he had traversed it with the prince at least a dozen times to and from monte carlo--was snow-covered right from lyons down to aix in provence, making progress difficult, and causing him constant fear lest he should run into some deep drift. at last, however, in the bright riviera sunshine, so different to the london weather he had left behind five days ago, and with the turquoise mediterranean lying calm and picturesque on his right, he found himself passing along the lower corniche from nice through beaulieu, monaco, and mentone to ventimiglia, the italian frontier. arrived there, he paid the customs deposit at the little roadside bureau of the italian dogana, got a leaden seal impressed upon the front of the chassis, and drew away up the hill again for a few short miles through bordighera and ospedaletti to the picturesque little town of san remo, which so bravely but vainly endeavours to place itself forward as the nice of the italian riviera. the hotel regina, the best and most fashionable, stands high above the sea-road, embowered in palms, oranges, and flowers, and as garrett turned with a swing into the gateway and ran up the steep incline on his "second," his arrival, dirty and travel-worn as he was, caused some stir among the smartly dressed visitors taking their tea _al fresco_. with an air of nonchalance the gentleman chauffeur sprang out, gave over the mud-covered car to a man from the hotel garage, and entering the place, booked a pretty but expensive sitting-room and bedroom overlooking the sea. having tubbed and exchanged his rough tweeds for grey flannels and a straw hat, he descended to see if he could find the parson, who, by the list in the hall, he saw was among the guests. he strolled about the town, and looked in at a couple of _cafes_, but saw nothing of the prince's clever confederate. not until he went in to dinner did he discover him. wearing a faultless clerical collar and perfect-fitting clerical coat, and on his nose gold pince-nez, he was sitting a few tables away, dining with two well-dressed ladies--mother and daughter he took them to be, though afterwards he found they were aunt and niece. the elder woman, handsome and well-preserved, evidently a foreigner from her very dark hair and fine eyes, was dressed handsomely in black, with a bunch of scarlet roses in her corsage. as far as garrett could see, she wore no jewellery. the younger of the pair was certainly not more than nineteen, fair-haired, with a sweet girlish face, blue eyes almost childlike in their softness, and a pretty dimpled cheek, and a perfectly formed mouth that invited kisses. she was in pale carnation--a colour that suited her admirably, and in her bodice, cut slightly low, was a bunch of those sweet-smelling flowers which grow in such profusion along the italian coast as to supply the european markets in winter. both women were looking at garrett, noticing that he was a fresh arrival. in a riviera hotel, where nearly every guest makes a long stay, a fresh arrival early in the season is always an event, and he or she is discussed and criticised, approved or condemned. garrett could see that the two ladies were discussing him with the reverend thomas, who glared at him for a moment through his glasses as though he had never before seen him in his life, and then with some words to his companions, he went on eating his fish. he knew quite well of garrett's advent, but part of the mysterious game was that they did not recognise each other. when dinner was over, and everyone went into the hall to lounge and take coffee, garrett inquired of the hall-porter the names of the two ladies in question. "the elder one, m'sieur," he replied, in french, in a confidential tone, "is roumanian, the princess charles of krajova, and the young lady is her niece, mademoiselle dalrymple." "dalrymple!" he echoed. "then mademoiselle must be english!" "certainly, m'sieur." and garrett turned away, wondering with what ulterior object our friend "the parson" was ingratiating himself with la princesse. next day, the gay devil-may-care prince, giving his name as mr henry tremlett, of london, arrived, bringing the faithful charles, to whose keen observation more than one successful _coup_ had owed its genesis. there were now four of them staying in the hotel, but with what object garrett could not discern. the prince gave no sign of recognition to the parson or the chauffeur. he dined at a little table alone, and was apparently as interested in the two women as garrett was himself. garrett's main object was to create interest, so acting upon the instructions the prince had given him in london, he posed as the owner of the fine car, swaggered in the hall in his big coat and cap, and took runs up and down the white winding coast-road, envied by many of the guests, who, he knew, dearly wanted to explore the beauties of the neighbourhood. it was not, therefore, surprising that more than one of the guests of both sexes got into casual conversation with garrett, and among them, on the second day after his arrival, the princess charles of krajova. she was, he found, an enthusiastic motorist, and as they stood that sunny afternoon by the car, which was before the hotel, she made many inquiries regarding the long stretch from dieppe to the italian frontier. while they were chatting, the parson, with mademoiselle approached. the rev thomas started a conversation, in which the young lady joined. the latter garrett decided was very charming. her speech was that of an educated english girl only lately from her school, yet she had evidently been well trained for her position in society, and though so young, carried herself extremely well. as yet, nobody had spoken to tremlett. he seemed to keep himself very much to himself. why, the chauffeur wondered? that evening he spent in the hall, chatting with the parson and the ladies. he had invited them all to go for a run on the morrow by the seashore as far as savona, then inland to ceva, and back by ormeo and oneglia, and they had accepted enthusiastically. then, when aunt and niece rose to retire, he invited the rev thomas up to his sitting-room for a final whisky and soda. when they were alone with the door shut, clayton said: "look here, garrett! this is a big game we're playing. the prince lies low, while we work it. to-morrow you must attract the girl, while i make myself agreeable to the aunt--a very decent old body, after all. recollect, you must not fall in love with the girl. she admires you, i know." "not very difficult to fall in love with her," laughed the other. "she's uncommonly good-looking." "yes, but be careful that you don't make a fool of yourself, and really allow yourself to be smitten," he urged. "but what is the nature of this fresh game?" garrett inquired, eager to ascertain what was intended. "don't worry about that, my dear fellow," was his reply. "only make love to the girl. leave the rest to his highness and myself." and so it came about that next day, with the pretty winnie--for that was her name--seated at his side, garrett drove the car along to savona, chatting merrily with her, and discovering her to be most _chic_ and charming. her parents lived in london, she informed him, in queen's gate. her father was in parliament, sitting for one of the welsh boroughs. the run was delightful, and was the commencement of a very pleasant friendship. he saw that his little friend was in no way averse to a violent flirtation, and indeed, he spent nearly the whole of the next morning with her in the garden. the chauffeur had already disregarded the parson's advice, and had fallen desperately in love with her. as they sat in the garden she told him that her mother was a roumanian lady, of bucharest, whose sister had married the enormously wealthy landowner, prince charles of krajova. for the past two years she had lived in paris, vienna and bucharest, with her aunt, and they were now at san remo to spend the whole winter. "but," she added, with a wistful look, "i far prefer england. i was at school at folkestone, and had a most jolly time there. i was so sorry to leave to come out here." "then you know but little of london?" "very little," she declared. "i know folkestone better. we used to walk on the leas every day, or play hockey and tennis. i miss my games so very much," she added, raising her fine big eyes to his. at his invitation she walked down to the town and back before luncheon, but not without some hesitation, as perhaps she thought her aunt might not like it. on the promenade they met his highness, but he gave them no sign of recognition. "that gentleman is staying at our hotel," she remarked after he had passed. "i saw on the list that he is a mr tremlett, from london." "yes--i also saw that," remarked the chauffeur. "looks a decent kind of fellow." "rather a fop, i think," she declared. "my aunt, however, is anxious to know him, so if you make his acquaintance, will you please introduce him to us?" "i'll be most delighted, of course, miss dalrymple," he said, inwardly congratulating himself upon his good fortune. and an hour later he wrote a note to the prince and posted it, telling him of what the girl had said. while the parson monopolised the princess, garrett spent most of the time in the company of winifred dalrymple. that afternoon he took the parson and the ladies for a run on the car, and that evening, it being christmas eve, there was a dance, during which he was on several occasions her partner. she waltzed splendidly, and garrett found himself each hour more deeply in love with her. during the dance, he managed to feign to scrape acquaintance with the prince, and presented him to his dainty little friend, as well as her aunt, whereat the latter at once went out of her way to be most gracious and affable. already the handsome tremlett knew most of the ladies in the hotel, as his coming and going always caused a flutter within the hearts of the gentler sex, for he was essentially a ladies' man. indeed, to his easy courtly manner towards them was due the great success of his many ingenious schemes. he would kiss a woman one moment and rifle her jewel-case the next, so utterly unscrupulous was he. he was assuredly a perfect type of the well-bred, audacious young adventurer. while the dance was proceeding garrett was standing with winifred in the hall, when they heard the sound of an arriving motor-car coming up the incline from the road, and going to the door he saw that it was a very fine sixty horse-power "fiat" limousine. there were no passengers, but the driver was a queer grey-haired, hunchbacked old man. his face was splashed, his grey goat's-skin coat was muddy, like the car, for it was evident that he had come a long distance. as he entered the big brilliantly-lit hall, his small black eyes cast a searching look around. winifred, whom garrett was at that moment leading back to the ballroom, started quickly. had she, he wondered, recognised him? if so, why had she started. that she was acquainted with the stranger, and that she did not wish to meet him he quickly saw, for a few moments later she whispered something to the princess, whose face instantly changed, and the pair pleading fatigue a few minutes later, ascended in the lift to their own apartments. so curious was the incident, that garrett determined to ascertain something regarding the queer, wizened-faced old hunchback who acted as chauffeur, but to his surprise when he returned to the hall, he found the car had already left. the little old man in the fur motor-coat had merely called to make inquiry whether a certain german baron was staying in the hotel, and had then left immediately. he was much puzzled at the marked uneasiness of both the princess and winifred at the appearance of the mysterious "sixty." indeed, he saw her highness's maid descend the stairs half an hour later, evidently in order to gather some facts concerning the movements of the hunchback. prince and parson were both playing bridge, therefore garrett was unable to relate to them what he had seen, so he retired to bed wondering what the truth might really be. morning dawned. the prince and his friend were both down unusually early, walking in the garden, and discussing something very seriously. but its nature they kept from their chauffeur. the morning he spent with winifred, who looked very sweet and charming in her white serge gown, white shoes and big black hat. they idled in the garden among the orange groves for an hour, and then walked down to the town and back. at luncheon a surprise awaited them, for quite close to garrett sat the little old man, clean and well-dressed, eating his meal and apparently taking no notice of anybody. yet he saw what effect the man's presence had produced upon the princess and her niece, who having taken their seats could not well escape. where was the big "sixty"? it was certainly not in the garage at the hotel! and why had the old man returned? reviewing all the circumstances, together with what the prince had explained to him in dover street, he found himself utterly puzzled. the whole affair was an enigma. what were the intentions of his ingenious and unscrupulous friends? the prince had, he recollected, distinctly told him that diamonds were not in the present instance the object of their manoeuvres. about three o'clock that afternoon he invited the princess and her pretty niece to go out for a run in the car to taggia, the road to which first runs along by the sea, and afterwards turns inland up a beautiful fertile valley. they accepted, but both prince and parson pleaded other engagements, therefore he took the two ladies alone. the afternoon was bright and warm, with that blue sky and deep blue sea which is so characteristic of the riviera, and the run to taggia was delightful. they had coffee at a clean little osteria--coffee that was not altogether good, but quite passable--and then with winifred up beside him, garrett started to run home in the sundown. they had not gone more than a couple of miles when, of a sudden, almost before he could realise it, garrett was seized by a contraction of the throat so violent that he could not breathe. he felt choking. the sensation was most unusual, for he broke out into a cold perspiration, and his head beginning to reel, he slowed down and put on the brake, for they were travelling at a brisk pace, but beyond that he remembered absolutely nothing. all he knew was that an excruciating pain shot through his heart, and then in an instant all was blank! of only one other thing he had a hazy recollection, and it was this. just at the moment when he lost consciousness the girl at his side, leant towards him, and took the steering-wheel, saying: "let go, you fool!--let go, will you!" her words being followed by a weird peal of laughter. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the darkness was impenetrable. for many hours garrett had remained oblivious to everything. yet as he slowly struggled back to consciousness he became aware that his legs were benumbed, and that water was lapping about him. he was lying in a cramped position, so cramped that to move was impossible. he was chilled to the bone. for a full hour he lay half-conscious, and wondering. the pains in his head were awful. he raised his hand, and discovered a nasty wound upon his left temple. then he at last realised the astounding truth. he was lying upon rocks on the seashore, and it was night! how long he had been there, or how he had come there he had no idea. that woman's laughter rang in his ears. it was a laugh of triumph, and caused him to suspect strongly that he had been the victim of feminine treachery. but with what motive? was it possible that at taggia, while he had been outside looking around the car, something had been placed in his coffee! he recollected that it tasted rather bitter. but where was the car? where were the princess and her pretty niece? it was a long time before his cramped limbs were sufficiently supple to enable him to walk, and then in the faint grey dawn he managed to crawl along a white unfamiliar high road that ran beside the rocky shore. for nearly two hours he walked in his wet clothes until he came to a tiny town which he discovered, was called voltri, and was quite a short distance from genoa. the fascinating winifred had evidently driven the car with his unconscious form covered up in the tonneau for some time before the pair had deposited him in the water, their intention being that the sea should itself dispose of his body. for an hour he remained in the little inn drying his clothes and having his wound attended to, and then when able to travel, he took train back to san remo, arriving late in the afternoon. he found to his astonishment he had remained unconscious at the edge of the tideless sea for about thirty hours. his bandaged head was put down by the guests as due to an accident in the car, for he made no explanation. presently, however, the hotel proprietor came to his room, and asked the whereabouts of the princess and her niece, as they had not been seen since they left with him. in addition, the maid had suddenly disappeared, while the party owed a little bill of nearly one hundred pounds sterling. "and mr tremlett?" garrett asked. "he is still here, of course?" "no, signore," was the courtly italian's reply. "he left in a motor-car with mr clayton and his valet late the same night." their destination was unknown. the little old hunchback had also left, garrett was informed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a week later, as garrett entered the cosy sitting-room in dover street the prince sprang from his chair, exclaiming: "by jove, garrett! i'm glad to see you back. we began to fear that you'd met with foul play. what happened to you? sit down, and tell me. where's the car?" the chauffeur was compelled to admit his ignorance of its whereabouts, and then related his exciting and perilous adventure. "yes," replied the handsome young adventurer, gaily. "it was a crooked bit of business, but we needn't trouble further about the car, garrett, for the fact is we've exchanged our `forty' for that old hunchback's mysterious `sixty.' it's at meunier's garage in paris. but, of course," he laughed, "you didn't know who the hunchback really was. it was finch grey." "finch grey!" gasped garrett, amazed, for he was the most renowned and expert thief in the whole of europe. "yes," he said, "we went to san remo to meet him. it was like this. the reverend thomas was in milan and got wind of a little _coup_ at the banca d'italia which finch grey had arranged. the plot was one night to attack the strong-room of the bank, a tunnel to which had already been driven from a neighbouring house. the proceeds of this robbery--notes and gold--were to be brought down to san remo by finch grey in his `sixty,' the idea being to then meet the princess and her niece, who were really only members of his gang. our idea was to get friendly with the two ladies, so that when the car full of gold and notes arrived we should have an opportunity of getting hold of it. our plans, however, were upset in two particulars, by the fact that a few days prior to my arrival the pair had quarrelled with the old hunchback, and secondly, because a friend of the princess's, staying at the hotel, had recognised you as a `crook.' by some means the two women suspected that, on finch grey's appearance, our intention was either to demand part of the proceeds of the bank robbery or expose them to the police. therefore they put something in your coffee, the girl drove the car to the spot where you found yourself, and then they escaped to genoa, and on to rome. finch grey, who did not know who we were, was highly concerned with us regarding the non-return of the ladies. we suggested that we should go out in his `sixty' with him to search for them, and he, fearing that you had met with an accident, consented. the rest was easy," he laughed. "how?" "well, we let him get half way to oneglia, when we just slipped a handkerchief with a little perfume upon it, over his nose and mouth, and a few minutes later we laid him quietly down behind a wall. then i turned the car back to where we had previously stored some pots of white paint and a couple of big brushes, and in an hour had transformed the colour of the car and changed its identification-plates. imagine our joy when we found the back locker where the tools should have been crammed with bags of gold twenty lire pieces, while under the inside seat we found a number of neat packets of fifty and one-hundred and five-hundred lire notes. just after midnight we slipped back through san remo, and two days ago arrived safely in paris with our valuable freight. like to see some of it?" he added, and rising he pushed back the bookcase, opened the panel and took out several bundles of italian notes. i saw also within a number of small canvas bags of gold. "by this time, garrett," he added, laughing and pouring me out a drink, "old finch grey is gnashing his teeth, for he cannot invoke the aid of the police, and the women who intended to be avenged upon us for our daring are, no doubt, very sorry they ran away with our car, which, after all, was not nearly such a good one as the mysterious `sixty.' theirs wasn't a particularly cheery journey, was it?" and lifting his glass he added, "so let's wish them very good luck!" chapter four. the man with the red circle. another story related by garrett, the chauffeur, is worth telling, for it is not without its humorous side. it occurred about six weeks after the return of the party from san remo. it was dismal and wet in london, one of those damp yellow days with which we, alas i are too well acquainted. about two o'clock in the afternoon, attired in yellow fishermen's oil-skins instead of his showy grey livery, garrett sat at the wheel of the new "sixty" six-cylinder car of finch grey's outside the royal automobile club, in piccadilly, bade adieu to the exemplary bayswater parson, who stood upon the steps, and drew along to the corner of park lane, afterwards turning towards the marble arch, upon the first stage of a long and mysterious journey. when it is said that the journey was a mysterious one garrett was compelled to admit that, ever since he had been in the service of prince albert of hesse-holstein his journeys had been made for the most part with a motive that, until the moment of their accomplishment, remained to him a mystery. his employer gave him orders, but he never allowed him to know his plans. he was paid to hold his tongue and obey. what mattered if his highness, who was such a well-known figure in the world of automobilism was not a highness at all; or whether the rev thomas clayton held no clerical charge in bayswater. he, garrett, was the prince's chauffeur, paid to close his ears and his eyes to everything around him, and to drive whatever lady who might be in the car hither and thither, just as his employer or his audacious friends required. for two years his life had been one of constant change, as these secret records show. in scarcely a country in europe he had not driven, while fully half a dozen times he had driven between boulogne and the "place" at monte carlo, four times from calais due east to berlin, as well as some highly exciting runs over certain frontiers when compelled to evade the officers of the law. the good-looking prince albert, whose real name was hidden in obscurity, but who was best known as tremlett, burchell-laing, drummond, lord nassington, and half a dozen other aliases, constantly amazed and puzzled the police. leader of that small circle of bold and ingenious men, he provided the newspapers with sensational gossip from time to time, exploits in which he usually made use of one or other of his high-power cars, and in which there was invariably a lady in the car. prince albert was nothing if not a ladies' man, and in two years had owned quite a dozen cars of different makes with identification plates innumerable, most of them false. his highness, who always found snobs to bow and dust his boots, and who took good care to prey upon their snobbishness, was a perfect marvel of cunning. his cool audacity was unequalled. the times which he passed unsuspected and unidentified beneath the very noses of the police were innumerable, while the times in which garrett had been in imminent peril of arrest were not a few. the present journey was, however, to say the least, a very mysterious one. that morning at ten o'clock he had sat, as usual, in the cosy chambers in dover street. his highness had given him a cigar, and treated him as an equal, as he did always when they were alone. "you must start directly after lunch for the highlands, garrett," he had said suddenly, his dark, clearly defined brows slightly knit. he was still in his velvet smoking-jacket, and smoked incessantly his brown "petroffs." "i know," he went on, "that the weather is wretched--but it is imperative. we must have the car up there." garrett was disappointed, for they were only just back from hamburg, and he had expected at least to spend a few days with his own people down at surbiton. "what?" he asked, "another _coup_?" his highness smiled meaningly. "we've got a rather ticklish piece of work before us, garrett," he said, contemplating the end of his cigar. "there's a girl in it--a very pretty little girl. and you'll have to make a lot of love to her--you understand?" and the gay nonchalant fellow laughed as his eyes raised themselves to the chauffeur's. "well," remarked the man, somewhat surprised. "you make a much better lover than i do. remember the affair of the pretty miss northover?" "yes, yes!" he exclaimed impatiently. "but in this affair it's different. i have other things to do besides love-making. she'll have to be left to you. i warn you, however, that the dainty elfrida is a dangerous person--so don't make a fool of yourself, garrett." "dangerous?" he echoed. "i mean dangerously attractive, that's all. neither she, nor her people, have the least suspicion. the blair-stewarts, of glenblair castle, up in perthshire, claim to be one of the oldest families in the highlands. the old fellow made his money at shipbuilding, over at dumbarton, and bought back what may be, or may not be, the family estate. at any rate, he's got pots of the needful, and i, having met him with his wife and daughter this autumn at the `excelsior,' at aix, am invited up there to-morrow to spend a week or so. i've consented if i may go _incognito_ as mr drummond." "and i go to take the car up?" "no. you go as herbert hebberdine, son of old sir samuel hebberdine, the banker of old broad street, a young man sowing his wild oats and a motor enthusiast, as every young man is more or less nowadays," he laughed. "you go as owner of the car. to mrs blair-stewart i explained long ago that you were one of my greatest friends, so she has asked me to invite you, and i've already accepted in your name." "but i'm a stranger!" protested garrett. "never mind, my dear fellow," laughed the audacious prince. "clayton will be up there too. it's he who knows the people, and is working the game pretty cleverly." "is it jewels?" asked the chauffeur in a low voice. "no, it just isn't, this time! you're mistaken, as you always are when you're too inquisitive. garrett, it's something better," he answered. "all you've got to do is to pretend to be smitten by the girl. she's a terrible little flirt, so you won't have very much difficulty. you make the running, and leave all the rest to me." his master, having shown him on the map where glenblair was situated, half way between stirling and perth, added: "i'll go up to-night, and you'll be there in three days' time. meanwhile i'll sing your praises, and you'll receive a warm welcome from everybody when you arrive. take your decent kit with you, and act the gentleman. there's a level thousand each for us if we bring it off properly. but," he added, with further injunctions not to fall genuinely in love with the pretty elfrida, "the whole thing rests upon you. the girl must be devoted to you--otherwise we can't work the trick." "what _is_ the trick?" asked garrett, his curiosity aroused. "never mind what it is, garrett," he said, rising to dismiss him. "have your lunch and get away. you've five hundred miles of bad roads and new metal before you, so the sooner you're off the better. call and see clayton at his rooms. he's got a bag, or something, to put in the car, i think. when we meet in scotland, recollect that i'm prince albert _incognito_. we were at bonn together, and have been friends for many years. good luck to you!" and with that he left the prince's cosy rooms, and soon found himself out in dover street again, much puzzled. the real object of his visit and his flirtation at a scotch castle filled his mind as, in the dull light of that fading afternoon, he swept along the muddy great north road his exhaust opened and roaring as he went ascending through whetstone and barnet in the direction of hatfield. the "sixty" repainted cream with narrow gilt lines upon it certainly presented a very smart appearance, but in the back he had a couple of false number-plates, together with three big pots of dark-green enamel and a brush, so that if occasion arose, as it had arisen more than once, he could run up a by-road, and in an hour transform its appearance, so that its own maker would scarcely recognise it. in the grey twilight as he approached hitchin, swinging round those sharp corners at a speed as high as he dared, it poured with rain again, and he was compelled to lower the wind-screen and receive the full brunt of the storm, so blurred became everything through the sheet of plate-glass. the old "sun" at hitchin reached, he got a drink, lit his head-lamps, and crossing the marketplace, pushed forward, a long and monotonous run up alconbury hill and through wansford to stamford where, at the stamford hotel--which recalled memories of the northovers--he ate a cold dinner and rested for an hour over a cigar. many were the exciting adventures he had had while acting as chauffeur to his highness, but his instructions that morning had somehow filled him with unusual misgiving. he was on his way to pretend to make love to a girl whom he had never seen, the daughter of a millionaire shipbuilder, a man who, as the prince had informed him, had risen from a journeyman, and like so many others who make money, had at once looked round for a ready-made pedigree, and its accompanying estate. heraldry and family trees seem to exercise a strange and unaccountable fascination for the parvenu. as he pushed north, on through that long dark night in the teeth of a bitter northeaster and constant rain, his mind was full of the mysterious _coup_ which his highness and his friend were about to attempt. jewels and money were usually what they were in search of, but on this occasion it was something else. what it was, his highness had flatly refused to tell. aided by the rev thomas clayton, one of the cleverest impostors who ever evaded the police, his highness's successes had been little short of marvellous. his audacity was unparalleled. the parson, who lived constantly in that smug circle wherein moved the newly-rich, usually marked down the victim, introduced his highness, or the fascinating mr tremlett, and left the rest to the young cosmopolitan's tact and ingenuity. their aliases were many, while the memory of both tremlett and clayton for faces was extraordinary. a favourite pose of the prince was that of military _attache_ in the service of the german government, and this self-assumed profession often gained him admission to the most exclusive circles here, and on the continent. garrett's alias of herbert hebberdine he had assumed on one or two previous occasions--once at biarritz, when his highness successfully secured the splendid pearl necklace of the duchess of taormino, and again a few months later at abbazia, on the beautiful shore of the adriatic. on both occasions their _coup_ had been brought off without a hitch, he recollected. therefore, why should he, on this occasion, become so foolishly apprehensive? he could not tell. he tried to analyse his feelings as, hour after hour, he sat at the wheel, tearing along that dark, wet, endless highway due north towards york. but all in vain. over him seemed to have spread a shadow of impending evil, and try how he would, he could not shake off the uncomfortable feeling that he was rushing into some grave peril from which he was destined not to escape. to describe in detail that wet, uncomfortable run from hyde park corner to edinburgh would serve no purpose in this little chronicle of an exciting chapter of an adventurous life. suffice it to say that, late in the night of the second day after leaving london, he drew up before the north british hotel, in prince's street, glad of shelter from the icy blast. a telegram from his highness ordered him to arrive at the castle on the following evening; therefore, just as dusk was falling, he found himself before the lodge-gates of the splendid domain of the laird of glenblair, and a moment later turned into the drive which ascended for more than a mile through an avenue of great bare beeches and oaks, on the one side a dense wood, and on the other a deep, beautiful glen, where, far below, rippled a burn with many picturesque cascades. once or twice he touched the button of the electric horn to give warning of his approach, when suddenly the drive took a wide curve and opened out before a splendid old mansion in the scotch baronial style, situated amid the most romantic and picturesque scenery it had ever been his lot to witness. at the door, brought out by the horn, stood his highness, in a smart suit of blue serge, and the parson, in severe clerical garb and pince-nez, while with them stood two women, one plump, elderly, and grey-haired, in a dark gown, the other a slim figure in cream with wavy chestnut hair, and a face that instantly fascinated the new-comer. as he alighted from the car and drew off his fur glove the prince--who was staying _incognito_ as mr drummond--introduced him to his hostess, before whom he bowed, while she, in turn, said: "this is my daughter, elfrida--mr hebberdine." garrett bowed again. their eyes met, and next instant the young man wished heartily that he had never come there. the prince had not exaggerated her beauty. she was absolutely perfect. in all the years he had been a wanderer he had never seen such dainty _chic_, such tiny hands and feet, or such a sweet face with its soft pink cheeks and its red lips made for kisses. she could not have been more than eighteen or so, yet about her was none of the _gaucherie_ of the school-girl. he noticed that she dropped her eyes quickly, and upon her cheeks arose just the _soupcon_ of a blush. "had a good run, herbert?" asked the prince as he entered the big hall of the castle. "not very. the roads were infernally bad in places," replied the other, "and the new metal between york and newcastle is most annoying." "good car, that of yours!" remarked the parson, as though he had never seen it before, while his highness declared that a six-cylinder was certainly the best of all. after a whisky and soda, brought by the grave, antiquated butler, garrett drove the car round to the garage some little distance from the house, where he found three fine cars belonging to his host. then, as he went to his room to change for dinner, he passed his highness on the stairs. "the game's quite easy," whispered the latter as he halted for a second. "it remains for you to make the running with elfrida. only be careful. old blair-stewart is pretty sly--as you'll see." at dinner in the long old-fashioned panelled room, hung with the portraits of what were supposed to be the ancestors of the blair-stewarts of glenblair, garrett first met the rather stout, coarse-featured shipbuilder who had assumed the head of that historic house, and had bought the estate at three times its market value. from the first moment of their meeting garrett saw that he was a blatant parvenu of the worst type, for he began to talk of "my hothouses," "my motors," and "my yacht" almost in the first five minutes of their conversation. the party numbered about fifteen at dinner, and he had the good fortune to be placed next the dainty little girl in turquoise towards whom the part allotted to him was to act as lover. she was, he saw, of very different type to her father. she had been at school in versailles, and afterwards had studied music in dresden she told him, and she could, he found, speak three languages quite well. she had apparently put off her school-girl shyness when she put up her hair, and indeed she struck him as being an amusing little friend to any man. motoring was her chief hobby. she could drive one of her father's cars, a "sixteen-twenty" herself, and often did so. therefore they were soon upon a topic in which they were mutually enthusiastic. a yellow-haired, thin-faced young man of elegant appearance, for he had a velvet collar to his dress-coat and amethyst buttons to his vest, was looking daggers at them. from that garrett concluded that archie gould was the lover of the winning elfrida, and that he did not approve of their mutual merriment. the parson, who said grace, was a perfect example of decorum, and was making himself delightful to his hostess, while his highness was joking with a pretty little married woman who, without doubt, was full of admiration of his handsome face. what would the good people of glenblair have thought had they been aware of the identity of the trio they were entertaining at their table? as garrett reflected, he smiled within himself. his fellow guests were mostly wealthy people, and as he looked around the table he saw several pieces of jewellery, necklets, pendants and the like for which the old jew in the kerk straat at amsterdam would have given them very fair prices. if jewellery was not the object of their visit, then what was? two days passed, and garrett took elfrida and the prince for several runs on the "sixty," much to the girl's delight. he watched closely the actions of his two companions, but could detect nothing suspicious. blair-stewart's wife was a quaint old crow with a faint suspicion of a moustache, who fancied herself hugely as wife of the wealthy laird of glenblair. she was busy visiting the poor of the grey straggling highland village, and his highness, flattering her vanity, was assisting her. next to the prince, the parson was the most prominent person in the house-party, and managed to impress on every occasion his own importance upon the company. with the dainty elfrida, garrett got on famously, much to the chagrin and disgust of her yellow-headed young admirer, gould, who had recently inherited his father's estate up in inverness-shire, and who it was currently reported, was at that moment engaged in the interesting occupation of "going through" it. elfrida, though extremely pretty, with a soft natural beauty all her own, was an essentially out-door girl. it being a hard frost, they had been out together on the "sixty" in the morning, and later she had been teaching him curling on the curling-pond in the park, and initiated him into the mysteries of "elbow in" and "elbow out." indeed, every afternoon the whole party curled, a big bonfire being lit on the side of the pond, and tea being taken in the open. he had never practised the sport of casting those big round stones along the ice before, but he found it most invigorating and amusing, especially when he had as instructress such a charming and delightful little companion. just as the crimson light of sundown was tinting the snow with its blood-red glow one afternoon, she suddenly declared her intentions to return to the house, whereupon he offered to escort her. as soon, however, as they were away from the rest of the party she left the path by which they were approaching the avenue, saying that there was a shorter cut to the castle. it was then that they found themselves wandering over the snow in the centre of a leafless forest, where the deep crimson afterglow gleamed westward among the black trunks of the trees, while the dead silence of winter was upon everything. garrett was laughing with her, as was his habit, for their flirtation from the first had been a desperate one. at eighteen, a girl views nothing seriously, except her hobbies. as they walked together she presented a very neat-ankled and dainty appearance in her short blue serge skirt, little fur bolero, blue french _beret_, and thick white gloves. in the brief time he had been her father's guest, he had not failed to notice how his presence always served to heighten the colour of her cheeks, or how frequently she met him as if by accident in all sorts of odd and out-of-the-way corners. he was not sufficiently conceited to imagine that she cared for him any more than she did for young gould, though he never once saw him with her. he would scowl at them across the table; that was all. of a sudden, as they went on through the leafless wood she halted, and looking into his face with her beautiful eyes, exclaimed with a girl's frankness: "i wonder, mr hebberdine, if i might trust you?--i mean if you would help me?" "trust me!" he echoed very surprised, as their acquaintanceship had been of such short duration. "if you repose any confidence in me, miss blair-stewart, i assure you i shall respect its _secrecy_." her eyes met his, and he was startled to see in them a look of desperation such as he had not seen in any woman's gaze before. in that moment the mask seemed to have fallen from her, and she stood there before him craving his pity and sympathy--his sympathy above that of all other men! was not his position a curious one? the very girl whom he had come to trick and to deceive was asking him to accept her confidences. "you are very kind indeed to say that," she exclaimed, her face brightening. "i hardly know whether i dare ask you to stand my friend, for we've only known each other two or three days." "sufficiently long, miss elfrida, to win me as your faithful champion," the young man declared, whereupon her cheeks were again suffused by a slight flush. "well, the fact is," she said with charming bluntness, "though i have lots of girl friends, i have no man friend." "there is archie gould," he remarked, "i thought he was your friend!" "he's merely a silly boy," she laughed. "i said a man friend--like yourself." "why are you so anxious to have one?" she hesitated. her eyes were fixed upon the spotless snow at their feet, and he saw that she held her breath in hesitation. "men friends are sometimes dangerous, you know," he laughed. "not if the man is a true gentleman," was her rather disconcerting answer. then, raising her eyes again, and gazing straight into his face she asked, "will you really be my friend?" "as i've already said, i'd only be too delighted. what do you want me to do?" "i--i want you to help me, and--and to preserve my secret." "what secret?" he inquired, surprised that a girl of her age should possess a secret. he saw the sudden change in her countenance. her lips were trembling, the corners of her mouth hardened, and, without warning, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. "oh! come, come, elfrida!" he exclaimed quickly, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "no, don't give way like this! i am your friend, and will help you in what ever way you desire, if you will tell me all about it. you are in distress. why? confide in me now that i have promised to stand your friend." "and--and you promise," she sobbed. "you promise to be my friend-- whatever happens." "i promise," he said, perhaps foolishly. "whatever happens you may rely upon my friendship." then, next instant, his instructions from his highness flashed across his mind. he was there for some secret reason to play a treacherous part--that of the faithless lover. she stood immovable, dabbing her eyes with a little wisp of lace. he was waiting for her to reveal the reason of her unhappiness. but she suddenly walked on mechanically, in her eyes a strange look of terror, nay of despair. he strode beside her, much puzzled at her demeanour. she wished to tell him something of which she was ashamed. only the desperation of her position prompted her to make the admission, and seek his advice. they had gone, perhaps, three hundred yards still in the wood. the crimson light had faded, and the december dusk was quickly darkening, as it does in scotland, when again she halted and faced him, saying in a faltering tone: "mr hebberdine, i--i do hope you will not think any the worse of me--i mean, i hope you won't think me fast, when i tell you that i--well, somehow, i don't know how it is--but i feel that fate has brought you here purposely to be my friend--_and to save me_!" "to save you!" he echoed. "what do you mean? be more explicit." "i know my words must sound very strange to you. but it is the truth! ah!" she cried, "you cannot know all that i am suffering--or of the deadly peril in which i find myself. it is because of that, i ask the assistance of you--an honest man." honest! save the mark! he foresaw himself falling into some horrible complication, but the romance of the situation, together with the extreme beauty of his newly found little friend held the young man fascinated. "i cannot be of assistance, miss elfrida, until i know the truth." "if we are to be friends you must call me elfrida," she said in her girlish way, "but in private only." "you are right. other people might suspect, and misconstrue what is a platonic friendship," he said, and he took her hand in order to seal their compact. for a long time he held it, his gaze fixed upon her pale, agitated countenance. why was she in peril? of what? he asked her to tell him. a slight shudder ran through her, and she shook her head mournfully, no word escaping her lips. she sighed, the sigh of a young girl who had a burden of apprehension upon her sorely troubled mind. he could scarcely believe that this was the bright, happy, laughing girl who, half an hour ago, had been putting her stones along the ice, wielding her besom with all her might, and clapping her dainty little hands with delight when any of her own side knocked an opponent off "the pot lid." at last, after long persuasion, during which time dusk had almost deepened into darkness in that silent snow-covered wood, she, in a faltering voice, and with many sentences broken by her emotion, which she vainly strived to suppress, told him a most curious and startling story to which he listened with breathless interest. the first of the series of remarkable incidents had occurred about two years ago, while she was at school in versailles. she, with a number of other elder girls, had gone to spend the summer at a branch of the college close to fontainebleau, and they often succeeded, when cycling, in getting away unobserved and enjoying long runs in the forest alone. one summer's evening she was riding alone along a leafy by-way of the great forest when, by some means, her skirt got entangled in the machine and she was thrown and hurt her ankle. a rather well-dressed frenchman who was coming along assisted her. he appeared to be very kind, gave her a card, with the name "paul berton" upon it, was told her name in response, and very quickly a friendship sprang up between them. he was an engineer, and staying at the lion d'or, in fontainebleau, he said, and having wheeled her machine several miles to a spot quite near the college, suggested another meeting. she, with the school-girl's adventurous spirit, consented, and that proved to be the first of many clandestine rendezvous. she was not quite seventeen while he was, she thought, about twenty-six. she kept her secret from all, even from her most intimate schoolmate, fearing to be betrayed to the head governess, so all the summer these secret meetings went on, she becoming more and more infatuated on every occasion, while he, with apparent carelessness, learned from her the history of her family, who they were, and where they resided. "one thing about paul puzzled me from the very first evening we met," she said reflectively as she was describing those halcyon days of forbidden love. "it was that i noticed, high upon his left wrist, about four inches from the base of the hand, a scarlet mark, encircling the whole arm. it looked as though he had worn a bracelet that had chafed him, or perhaps it had been tattooed there. several times i referred to it, but he always evaded my question, and seemed to grow uneasy because i noticed it. indeed, after a few meetings i noticed that he wore shirts with the cuffs buttoned over with solitaires, instead of open links. well--" she went on slowly with a strange, far-away look in her face. "i--i hardly like to tell you further." "go on, little friend," he urged, "your secret is in safe keeping with me--whatever it may be. you loved the man, eh?" "ah! yes!" she cried. "you are right. i--i loved him--and i did not know. we met again in paris--many times. all sorts of ruses i resorted to, in order to get out, if only for half an hour. he followed me to london--when i left school--and he came up here." "up here!" he gasped. "he loved you, then?" "yes. and when i went to dresden he went there also." "why?" she held her breath. her eyes looked straight into his, and then were downcast. "because--because," she faltered hoarsely, "because he is my husband!" "your husband. great heavens!" "yes. i married him six months ago at the registry office in the blackfriars road, in london," she said in a strangely blank voice. "i am madame berton." he stood utterly dumbfounded. the sweet, refined face of the child-wife was ashen pale, her white lips were trembling, and tears were welling in her eyes. he could see she wished to confide further in him. "well?" he asked. it was the only word he could utter. "we parted half an hour after our marriage, and i have only seen him six times since. he comes here surreptitiously," she said in a low voice of despair. "why?" "because evil fortune has pursued him. he--he confessed to me a few weeks ago that he was not so rich as he had been. he will be rich some day, but now he is horribly poor. he being my husband, it is my duty to help him--is it not?" garrett's heart rose against this cowardly foreigner, who had inveigled her into a secret marriage, whoever he might be, for, according to french law, he might at once repudiate her. poor child! she was evidently devoted to him. "well," he said, "that depends upon circumstances. in what manner is he seeking your assistance?" she hesitated. at last she said: "well--i give him a little money sometimes. but i never have enough. all the trinkets i dare spare are gone." "you love him--eh?" asked the young man seriously. "yes," was her frank reply. "i am looking forward to the day when he can acknowledge me as his wife. being an engineer he has a brilliant idea, namely, to perform a great service to my father in furthering his business aims, so that it will be impossible for him to denounce our marriage. towards this end i am helping him. ah! mr hebberdine, you don't know what a dear, good fellow paul is." the young man sniffed suspiciously. "he has invented a new submarine boat which will revolutionise the naval warfare of the future. father, in secret, builds submarine boats, you know. but paul is anxious to ascertain what difference there is between those now secretly building and his own invention, prior to placing it before dear old dad." "well?" she hesitated. "i wanted to ask you, mr hebberdine, if you will do me a favour to-night," she said presently. "paul is staying at the `star,' down in the village, in the name of mr james. i dare not go there, and he dare not approach me. there have been thieves about in this neighbourhood lately, and dad is having the castle watched at night by detectives." at this garrett pricked up his ears. glenblair was, in those circumstances, no place for his highness and his clerical companion. "i wonder," she suggested, "whether you would do me a great favour and go down to the village to-night about ten and--and give him this." from within her fur bolero she produced an envelope containing what seemed to be a little jewellery box about two inches long by an inch and a half broad. this she handed to him saying, "give it into the hand of nobody except paul personally. tell him that you are my friend--and his." so devoted was the girl-wife to her husband, and so unhappy did she seem that garrett, filled with the romance of the affair, at once agreed to carry out his promise. her remarkable story had amazed him. he alone knew her secret. as they sat at dinner that night, her eyes met his once or twice, and the look they exchanged was full of meaning. he was the bearer of some secret message to her husband. at half-past nine when the men had gone to the billiard-room, garrett slipped upstairs to his room to put on a pair of thick boots, for he had a walk through the snow a good couple of miles to the village. scarcely had he closed the door when it opened again, and the prince, his finger raised in silence, entered, and in a low excited whisper exclaimed: "it's all up! we must get away on the car as soon as possible. every moment's delay means increased peril. how have you got on with elfrida?" the chauffeur stared at him without uttering a word. "elfrida!" he echoed at last. "well, she's told me a most remarkable story, and made me her confidante." then, as briefly as possible, he told him everything. how her husband was staying in glenblair village as mr james; and how he had promised to convey the little packet to him. when he had finished the prince fell back in his chair utterly dumbfounded. then, taking the little packet, he turned it over in his hand. "great heavens!" he cried. "you don't know what you've done, garrett. there's something very funny about all this!" he added quickly. "wait here, and i'll run along to clayton," and he left the young man instantly, carrying the packet in his hand. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ an hour later garrett was driving the prince and the rev thomas clayton in the car due south, and they were travelling for all they were worth over the hard frozen snow. of the reason of that sudden flight, garrett was in complete ignorance. all he knew was that he had orders to creep out to the garage, get the car, and await his companions who, in a few moments, came up out of the shadows. their big overcoats were in the car, therefore their evening clothes did not trouble them. then, with as little noise as possible, they ran down a back drive which his highness, having reconnoitred, knew joined the main perth road. an idling constable saw them, and wished them good evening. they were guests from the castle, therefore he allowed them to pass unmolested. the constable would scarcely have done this, however, had he known what they were carrying away with them. they took the road by dunblane and stirling, and then straight south into glasgow, where at two o'clock in the morning, garrett's two companions alighted in a deserted snow-covered street in the suburbs of the city, and bidding him farewell, gave him orders to get back to london with all haste. the run was a most dismal one. all through the snowstorm next day he kept on, making but poor progress. next night, garrett spent alone in carlisle, and on the following morning started direct for london, being compelled, owing to the abominable state of the roads, to take two days over the run. a week of suspense went by, when one evening he received a note from his highness, in consequence of which he went to dover street, where he found him smoking one of his "petroffs," as was his wont. "well, garrett?" he laughed. "sit down, and have a drink. i've got eight hundred pounds for you here--your share of the boodle?" "but i don't understand," he exclaimed. "what boodle?" "of course you don't understand!" he laughed. "just carry your mind back. you told me the story of little elfrida's unfortunate secret marriage, and that her husband had a red ring tattooed around his left wrist. that conveyed nothing to you; but it told me much. that afternoon i was walking with the ladies up glenblair village when, to my surprise, i saw standing at a door no less a person than jacques fourrier, or `le bravache,' as he's known in paris, an `international,' like ourselves." "le bravache!" gasped garrett, for his reputation was that of the most daring and successful adventurer on the continent, besides which he knew him as his highness's arch-enemy owing to a little love affair of a couple of years before. "yes. `le bravache'!" the prince went on. "he recognised me, and i saw that our game was up. then you told me elfrida's story, and from the red circle on the man's arm i realised that paul berton, the engineer, and `le bravache' were one and the same person! besides, she had actually given you to take to her husband the very thing we had gone to glenblair to obtain!" "what was it?" he asked excitedly. "well, the facts are these," answered the audacious, good-looking prince, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips. "old blair-stewart has taken, in secret, a contract from the german government to build a number of submarine boats for naval use. the plans of these wonderful vessels are kept in a strong safe in the old chap's private office in dumbarton, and both fourrier and ourselves were after them--the french intelligence department having, in confidence, offered a big sum to any one bringing them to the quay d'orsay. now you see the drift of the story of the exemplary paul to his pretty little wife, and why he induced her to take impressions in wax of her father's safe-key, she believing that he merely wanted sight of the plans in order to ascertain whether they were any better than his own alleged invention. fortunately for us, she induced you to be her messenger. when we sent you up there with orders to be nice to elfrida we never anticipated such a _contretemps_ as fourrier's presence, or that the dainty little girl would actually take the impressions for us to use." "then you have used it?" "of course. on the night after leaving you, having made the false key in glasgow, we went over to dumbarton and got the plans quite easily. we crossed by harwich and antwerp to brussels on to paris, and here we are again. the intelligence department of the admiralty are very satisfied--and so are we. the pretty elfrida will no doubt remain in ignorance, until her father discovers his loss, but i'm half inclined to write anonymously to her and tell the poor girl the truth regarding her mysterious husband. i think i really shall, for my letter would cast a good deal of suspicion upon the man with the red circle." chapter five. the wicked mr wilkinson. how my cosmopolitan friend, the prince, was tricked by a woman, and how he was, entirely against his inclination, forced to run the gauntlet of the police at bow street at imminent risk of identification as tremlett, form an interesting narrative which is perhaps best told in his own words, as he recounted it to me the other day in the noisy continental city where he is at this moment in hiding. an untoward incident, he said one afternoon as we sat together in the "sixty" on our way out into the country for a run, occurred to me while travelling from sofia, the bulgarian capital, to bucharest, by way of rustchuk. if you have ever been over that wonderfully-engineered line, which runs up the isker defile and over the high balkans to the danube, you will recollect, diprose, how grand is the scenery, and how full of interest is the journey across the battlefields of plevna and the fertile, picturesque lands of northern bulgaria. it is a corner of europe practically unknown. at gornia, a small wayside station approaching the danube, the train halts to take up water, and it was there that the mishap occurred to me. i had descended to stretch my legs, and had walked up and down the platform for ten minutes or so. then, the signal being given to start again, i entered my compartment, only to discover that my suit-case, despatch-box, coat, and other impedimenta were missing! the train was already moving out of the station, but, in an instant, my mind was made up, and, opening the door, i dropped out. my bulgarian is not very fluent, as may be supposed, but i managed to make the dull station-master understand my loss. he shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and exhibited his palms in perfect ignorance. this rendered me furious. within my official-looking despatch-box were a number of valuable little objects, which i wished to keep from prying eyes my passport and a quantity of papers of highest importance. no doubt some clever railway thief had made off with the whole! for a full ten minutes i was beside myself in frantic anger; but judge my amazement when presently i found the whole of my things piled up outside the station in the village street! they had been placed there by a half-drunken porter, who believed that i intended to descend. fortunately no one understood german or english, for the language i used was rather hem-stitched. my annoyance was increased on learning that there was not another train to rustchuk--where i had to cross the danube--for twenty-four hours, and, further, that the nearest hotel was at tirnovo, eighteen miles distant by a branch line. i was therefore compelled to accept the inevitable, and in the dirty, evil-smelling inn at tirnovo--about on a par with a russian post-house-- i met, on the following day, madame demidoff, the queer-looking old lady with the yellow teeth, who, strangely enough, came from london. she had with her a rather attractive young girl of about twenty, mademoiselle elise, her niece, and she told me that they were travelling in the balkans for pleasure, in order to ascertain what that unbroken ground was like. the first hour i was in tirnovo and its rat-eaten "hotel" i longed to be away from the place; but next morning, when i explored its quaint terrace-like streets, built high upon a sleep cliff where the river below takes a sweep almost at right angles, and where dense woods rise on the opposite bank, i found it to be a town full of interest, its old white mosques and other traces of turkish occupation still remaining. to the stranger, tirnovo is but a name on the map of the balkans, but for beauty of situation and quaint interest it is surely one of the strangest towns in europe. the discomforts of our hotel caused me to first address the ugly old lady in black, and after luncheon she and her niece elise strolled out upon the high bridge with me, and through the turkish town, where the little girls, in their baggy trousers, were playing in the streets, and where grave-faced men in fezzes squatted and smoked. madame and her niece were a decidedly quaint pair. the first-named knew her london well, for when she spoke english it was with a distinctly cockney accent. she said "yers" for "yes," and "'emmersmith" for "hammersmith." mademoiselle was, however, of a type, purely parisienne--thin, dark-haired, narrow-featured, with bright, luminous, brown eyes, a mouth slightly large, and a sense of humour that attracted me. both of them had travelled very extensively, and their knowledge of the continent was practically as wide as my own. both were, of course, much impressed by my princely position. it is marvellous what a title does, and how snobbish is the world in every quarter of the globe. so interesting did i find the pair that i spent another day in tirnovo, where, in the summer sunset, we were idling after dinner on the balcony overhanging the steep cliff above the river. our _salle-a-manger_ was half filled by rough, chattering peasants in their white linen clothes embroidered in red, and round pork-pie hats of fur, while our fare that night had been of the very plainest--and not over fresh at that. but it was a distinctly curious incident to find, in that remotest corner of the balkans, a lady whose residence was in the west end of london, and who, though a foreigner by birth, had evidently been educated "within the sound of bow bells." "i love bulgaria," the old lady had said to me as we had walked together down by the river bank that afternoon. "i bring elise here every summer. last june we were at kazanlik, among the rose-fields, where they make the otto of rose. it was delightful." i replied that i, also, knew servia, bulgaria, and roumania fairly well. "then your highness is travelling for pleasure?" she inquired. i smiled vaguely, for i did not satisfy her. she struck me as being a particularly inquisitive old busybody. when next morning mademoiselle elise informed me that her aunt was suffering from a headache, i invited her to go for a stroll with me out of the town, to which she at once acceded. her smart conversation and natural neat waisted _chic_ attracted me. she used "ideale," the very expensive parisian perfume that to the cosmopolitan is somehow the hall-mark of up-to-date smartness. her gown was well-cut, her gloves fresh and clean, and her hat a small toque of the very latest _mode_. idling beside her in the bright sunshine, with the broad river hundreds of feet below, and the high blue balkans on every side about us, i spent a most delightful morning. "we move down to varna to-morrow, and then home by way of constantinople," she replied in french in answer to my question. "aunt melanie has invited your highness to our house in toddington terrace, she tells me. i do hope you will come. but send us a line first. in a month we shall be back again to the dreariness of the terrace." "dreariness? then you are not fond of london?" "no." and her face fell, as though the metropolis contained for her some sad memory she would fain forget. her life with that yellow-toothed, wizen-faced old aunt could not be fraught with very much pleasure, i reflected. "i much prefer travelling. fortunately we are often abroad, for on all my aunt's journeys i act as her companion." "you are, however, french--eh?" "yes--from paris. but i know the balkans well. we lived in belgrade for a year--before the servian _coup d'etat_. i am very fond of the servians." "and i also," i declared, for i had been many times in servia, and had many friends there. they were a curious pair, and about them both was an indescribable air of mystery which i could not determine, but which caused me to decide to visit them at their london home, the address of which i had already noted. at five o'clock that evening i took farewell of both madams and her dainty little niece, and by midnight was in the roumanian capital. my business--which by the way concerned the obtaining of a little matter of , francs from an unsuspecting french wine merchant--occupied me about a week and afterwards i went north to klausenburg, in hungary, and afterwards to budapest, graz, and other places. contrary to my expectations, my affairs occupied me much longer than i expected, and four months later i found myself still abroad, at the fine hotel stefanie, among the beautiful woods of evergreen laurel at abbazia, on the gulf of quarnero. my friend, the rev thomas clayton from bayswater, was staying there, and as, on the evening of my arrival, we were seated together at dinner i saw, to my great surprise, madame demidoff enter with the pretty elise, accompanied by a tall, fair-haired gentlemanly young man, rather foppishly dressed. "hulloa?" i exclaimed to my friend, "there's somebody i know! that old woman is madame demidoff." "no, my dear prince," was my friend's reply. "you are, i think, mistaken. that is the old countess gemsenberg, and the girl is her daughter elise. she's engaged to that fellow--an awful ass--young hausner, the son of the big banker in vienna, who died last year, leaving him thirty million kroners." "do you really know this?" i asked, looking the parson straight in the face. "know it? why, everybody in this hotel knows of their engagement. i've been here five weeks, and they were here before i arrived. they're staying the season, and have the best suite of rooms in the place. the old countess is, no doubt, very wealthy, and lives in munich." neither of the women had noticed me, and i remained silent. what my friend had told me was certainly extraordinary. why, i wondered had madame represented herself as a woman of the middle-class, resident in a dull west end terrace? why had elise not admitted to me the truth? she had seemed so charmingly frank. with an intention to remain unseen and observant i purposely avoided the pair that evening. next morning i saw elise and young hausner strolling together on the strandweg, that broad path which forms the principal promenade, and runs along the rocky coast from volosca to icici. she was smartly dressed in cream serge, girdled narrow but distinctive, and wore a large black hat which suited her admirably, while he was in an easy suit of dark blue, a panama, and white shoes. they were talking very earnestly as they walked slowly on in the bright autumn sunshine with the blue adriatic before them. he seemed to be telling her something very seriously, and she was listening without uttering a word--or, at least, she scarcely spoke while they were within my sight. on returning to the hotel i stumbled upon madame demidoff, who, seated in the hall, was chatting with a tall, bald-headed, middle-aged man in dark brown tweed, who had every appearance of an englishman. she had just given him a letter to read, and he was laughing heartily over it. fortunately, however, she sat with her back to the door and, therefore, did not observe me. so i was enabled to make my exit without detection. half an hour later i pointed out the englishman to the parson, asking who he was. "i don't know," was his reply. "i've never seen him before; a fresh arrival, i suppose." that day i lunched and dined in my private sitting-room, in order to avoid the pair, and continue my observations. that night i caught sight of elise, whose exquisite gown of pale pink chiffon was creating a sensation among the well-dressed women, for the news of her engagement to the young millionaire banker made her the most-talked-of and admired girl in the great crowded hotel. at eleven that night, when i believed that the ladies had gone to bed, i ventured downstairs to the _fumoir_. as i went along the corridor, i noticed madame's english friend, with his overcoat over his evening clothes, leaving the hotel for a stroll, while almost at the same moment madame herself emerged from one of the rooms, and, without doubt, recognised me, i saw her start quickly, hesitate for a second, and then turn away in pretence that she had not noticed me. her attitude was distinctly curious, and therefore i made no attempt to claim acquaintance. the mystery of the situation was, however, considerably increased when, next morning, i was surprised to learn that the countess gemsenberg had received bad news from munich, that her husband had been injured in a lift accident, and that she and her daughter had left mattuglie--the station for abbazia, three miles distant--by the : train, young hausner leaving by the same train. from the servants i discovered that madame and her daughter had spent half the night packing, and had not announced their departure until six that morning. no telegram had been received by either of the trio, which seemed to me a curiously interesting point. was it possible that madame had fled upon recognising me? if so, for what reason? the mystery surrounding the pair attracted me, and during the further fortnight i remained at the stefanie, i made inquiries concerning them. it appeared that a few days after their arrival the countess herself had told two german ladies of her daughter's engagement to young hausner, and that the latter would arrive in a few days. this news at once spread over the big hotel, and when the young man arrived he at once became the most popular person in abbazia. the countess's enemies, however, declared that one night in the hotel-garden she and hausner had a violent quarrel, but its nature was unknown, because they spoke in english. mademoiselle was also present, and instead of supporting her lover, took her mother's side and openly abused him. and yet next morning the pair were walking arm-in-arm beside the sea, as though no difference of opinion had occurred. as for the englishman in brown, i ascertained that he did not live there, but at the quarnero, down by the sea. those who heard him talk declared that the countess addressed him as mr wilkinson, and that he was undoubtedly english. many facts i ascertained were distinctly strange. the more so when, on making inquiry through a man whom the parson knew living at the quarnero, i found that this mr wilkinson had left abbazia at the same hour as his three friends. i could see no reason why my presence at the stefanie should create such sudden terror within the mind of the old lady with the yellow teeth. the more i reflected upon the whole affair, the more mysterious were the phases it assumed. i recollected that the old lady, whoever she might be, lived at number toddington terrace, regent's park, and i resolved to call and see her in pretence that i had not recognised her in abbazia, and was unaware of her presence there. autumn gave place to winter, and i was still wandering about the continent on matters more or less lucrative. to venice naples and down to constantinople i went, returning at last in the dark days of late january to the rain and mud of london; different, indeed, to the sunshine and brightness of the beautiful bosphorus. one afternoon, while seated here in dover street, lazily looking forth upon the traffic, i suddenly made up my mind to call upon the old lady, and with that purpose took a taxi-cab. as we pulled up before number , i at once recognised the truth, for the green venetian blinds were all down. in answer to my ring, a narrow-faced, consumptive-looking woman, evidently the caretaker, opened the door. "no, sir. madame demidoff and elise left home again for the continent a fortnight ago, and they won't be back till the beginning of april." she spoke of elise familiarly without the prefix "miss." that was curious. "do you know where they are?" "i send their letters to the excelsior hotel, at palermo." "thank you. by the way," i added, "do you happen to know who is the landlord of these houses?" "mr epgrave, sir. he lives just there--that new-painted house at the corner;" and she pointed to the residence in question. and with that information i re-entered the cab and drove back to the club. so madame was enjoying the war in sicilian sunshine! lucky old woman. i had only been back in london a week, and was already longing for warmth and brightness again. that night, seated alone, trying to form some plan for the immediate future, i found myself suggesting a flying visit to palermo. the villa igiea was a favourite hotel of mine, and i could there enjoy the winter warmth, and at the same time keep an eye upon the modest old lady of toddington terrace, who appeared to blossom forth into a wealthy countess whenever occasion required. the idea grew upon me. indeed, a fortnight later, constant traveller that i am, i ran from paris to naples in the "sixty," with garrett, and shipped the car over to palermo, where i soon found myself idling in the big white and pale green lounge of the igiea, wondering how best to get sight of madame, who i had already ascertained, was at the excelsior at the other end of the town, still passing as countess gemsenberg. the pretty elise was with her, and my informant--an italian--told me in confidence that the young marquis torquato torrini, head of the well-known firm of genoese shipowners who was staying in the hotel, was head over heels in love with her, and that engagement was imminent. i heard this in silence. what, i wondered had become of the young austrian millionaire, hausner? i, however, kept my own counsel, waited and watched. the parson also turned up a couple of days later and started gossip and tea-drinking in the hotel. but, of course, we posed as strangers to each other. the igiea being the best hotel in palermo and situated on the sea, the blue mediterranean lapping the grey rocks at the end of the beautiful garden, it is the mode for people at other hotels to go there to tea, just as they go to the "reserve," at beaulieu, or the star and garter at richmond. i therefore waited from day to day, expecting her to come there. each day i pottered about in the car, but in vain. one morning, however, while passing in front of the cathedral, i saw her walking alone, and quickly seized the opportunity and overtook her. "ah! mademoiselle!" i exclaimed in french as i raised my cap in feigned surprise and descended from the car. "fancy, you! in palermo! and madame, your aunt?" "she is quite well, thank you, prince," she replied; and then, at my invitation, she got into the car and we ran round the town. i saw that she was very uneasy. the meeting was not altogether a pleasant surprise for her; that was very evident. "this place is more civilised than tirnovo," i laughed. "since then i expect that you, like myself, have been travelling a good deal." "yes. we've been about quite a lot--to vienna, abbazia, rome, and now to palermo." "and not yet to london?" "oh! yes. we were at home exactly eleven days. the weather was, however, so atrocious that madame--my aunt, i mean--decided to come here. we are at the excelsior. you are, of course, at the igiea?" and so we ran along through the big, rather ugly, town, laughing and chatting affably. dressed in a neat gown of dove-grey cloth, with hat to match and long white gloves, she looked extremely _chic_, full of that daintiness which was so essentially that of the true parisienne. i told her nothing of my visit to toddington terrace, but presently i said: "i'll come to the excelsior, and call on your aunt--if i may?" i noticed that she hesitated. she did not seem at all desirous to see me at their hotel. i, of course, knew the reason. the old lady was not madame demidoff in palermo. "we will call and see you at the igiea," she said. "we have never been there yet." "i shall be delighted," i answered her. "only send me a note, in order that i may be in." beyond the town we ran along beside the calm blue sea, with the high purple hills rising from across the bay. bright and merry, she seemed quite her old self again--that sweet and charming self that i had first met in that rough, uncouth bulgarian town. after an hour, we got out and seated ourselves on the rocks to rest. she was certainly not averse to a mild flirtation. indeed--had she not already been engaged to hausner, broken it off, and was now half engaged to the marquis torrini? she was nothing if not fickle. "yes," she sighed at last, "i suppose we shall have to go back to humdrum london, before long. it is so much more pleasant here than in toddington terrace," she added in her pretty broken english. "ah! mademoiselle," i laughed. "one day you will marry and live in paris, or vienna, or budapest." "marry!" she echoed. "ugh! no!" and she gave her little shoulders a shrug. "i much prefer, prince, to remain my own mistress. i have been too much indulged--what you in english call spoil-et." "all girls say that!" i laughed. "just as the very man who unceasingly declares his intention to remain a bachelor is the first to become enmeshed in the feminine web." "ah! you are a pessimist, i see," she remarked, looking straight into my eyes. "no, not exactly. i suppose i shall marry some day." "and you are engaged--eh?" "no," i laughed, "it hasn't got so far as that yet. a single kiss and a few letters--that's the present stage." "and the lady is engleesh?" "ah! the rest must, for the present, remain a mystery, mademoiselle," i laughed, wondering what the marquis would say if he discovered us idling away the morning like that. and so we chatted and laughed on, the best of friends. i tried to obtain some facts regarding her visit to abbazia, but she was not communicative. knowing that she was well aware of my visit to the stefanie, i mentioned it casually, adding: "you must have already left before my arrival." for an instant she raised her eyes to mine with a keen look of inquiry, but, finding me in earnest, lowered her gaze again. at length i saw from my watch that we must move again, if we intended to be back to luncheon, therefore we rose and re-entering the car drove by the sea-road, back to the town. she seemed delighted with her ride. "i'll bring my aunt to call on you very soon," she said, as we parted. "i will send you a line to say the day." "yes, do, mademoiselle, i shall be greatly charmed. _au revoir_!" and i lifted my hat as she gave me her tiny, white-gloved hand and then turned away. next afternoon, while in the car near the theatre, i saw her driving with a dark-bearded, well-dressed young man, whom i afterwards discovered was the marquis. she saw me raise my hat, blushed in confusion, and gave me a slight bow of acknowledgment. that evening i made a discovery considerably increasing the puzzle. i met the mysterious mr wilkinson face to face in the hall of the hotel de france, whither i had gone to pay a call upon some english friends who had just arrived. wearing the same brown suit, he passed me by and left the hotel, for he was unacquainted with me, and therefore unaware of my presence. from the hall-porter i learnt that "mr james wilkinson, of london"--as he had registered in the hotel-book--had been there for the past three days. for four days i awaited madame's visit, but no note came from elise. the latter was, no doubt, too occupied with her italian lover. i could not write to her, as she had not given me the name by which she was known at the excelsior. compelled, therefore, to play a waiting game, i remained with my eyes ever open to catch sight of one or other of the mysterious quartette. but i was disappointed, for on this fifth day i made inquiry, and to my utter dismay discovered that the same tactics had been adopted in palermo as in abbazia. the whole four had suddenly disappeared! greatly puzzled, the parson returned to london. i nevertheless remained in italy until may, when back again i found myself, one bright afternoon about five o'clock, descending from the car outside the house in toddington terrace, my intention being to pay a call upon madame demidoff. my ring was answered by a neat maidservant in smart cap and apron. next instant we stared at each other in speechless amazement. it was elise! utterly confused, her face first flushed scarlet, and then blanched. "you--you want to see madame," she managed to stammer in her broken english. "she isn't at home!" beyond her, in the hall, stood the tall figure of a man, whom i at once recognised as the mysterious wilkinson. "but, mademoiselle," i said, smiling, yet wondering, the motive of that masquerade. "i called also to see you." she drew herself up in an instant, replying with some hauteur: "i think, m'sieur, you have made some mistake. we have never met before--to my knowledge." her reply staggered me. "when will madame demidoff return?" i inquired, amazed at this reception. "to-morrow--at this hour," was her rather hesitating reply. "then i shall be glad if you will give her my card, and say i will call," i said; "that is if you still deny having met me in tirnovo and in palermo?" "i really do not know what you are talking about, m'sieur," she answered, and then, without further parley, closed the door in my face. i stood still, staggered. surely my reception at toddington terrace was the reverse of cordial. next afternoon at the same hour i called at number , but there was no response to my ring, and the blinds were all down again. the place was deserted, for the tenants had evidently fled. that same night as i sat in my rooms, a short, thick-set man, who gave the name of payne, was ushered in. "i think," he said, "your highness happens to know something of an old lady named demidoff and her friends who live in toddington terrace?" "yes," i replied, much surprised. "well," he explained, "i'm a police officer, and i watched you go twice to the house, so i thought you knew something about them. are they your friends?" "well, no; not exactly my friends," i replied, very suspicious of my visitor. "i had never been nearer a man from scotland yard in all my life! imagine my position, my dear diprose!" "ah! that's a good job. they seem to have been playing a pretty smart game on the continent of late." "how? what was their game?" i asked eagerly. "one that brought them in thousands a year. from the italian and austrian police, who are both over here, it seems that they worked like this: old madame demidoff had a young and pretty french servant named elise. on the continent madame took the title of countess, and elise posed as her daughter. the latter flirted with wealthy young bachelors, and so cleverly did she play her cards, that in several instances they proposed marriage to her. then, after the old woman had secretly spread the report of the engagement, there would suddenly appear on the scene elise's english husband--a well-known ex-convict named wilkinson. this latter person would at once bluster, make charges against the unsuspecting young lover, threaten exposure, and end by accepting a thousand or two to preserve secrecy, none of the young elegants, of course, caring that it should be known how completely they had been `had.' there are over a dozen different charges against them, the most recent being a coup in palermo a few months ago, by which they blackmailed the young marquis torrini to the tune of nine thousand pounds." "i was in palermo at the time, but i never knew that was their game." "were you?" he cried in triumph. "then you'll identify them, won't you? i arrested madame demidoff and wilkinson at parkeston quay last night, as they were getting away to the hook. the girl tried to get to paris, but was followed and apprehended on landing at calais early this morning. the italian government are asking for the extradition of the interesting trio, and the papers are already on their way over." i regretted having blurted forth the fact that i had known them in palermo, for in the interests of justice--though terribly afraid of being recognised myself--i was compelled to identify madame and wilkinson at bow street next day. she swore a terrible vengeance upon me, but at present i have no fear of her reprisals, for the assize court at palermo a month ago condemned her to ten years' imprisonment, while wilkinson--whose past record was brought up--has been sent to gorgona for fifteen years, and the dainty elise, his wife, is serving seven years at syracuse. "but," the prince added: "by jove! it was a narrow squeak for me. old never-let-go hartley, of scotland yard, was in the extradition court. and i know he was racking his brains to remember where he had met me before." chapter six. the vengeance of the vipers. certain incidents in my friend's career are a closed book to all but clayton, the exemplary bayswater parson, the devoted valet charles, and his smart chauffeur garrett. gay, well-dressed, debonair as he always is, a veritable master of the art of skilful deception and ingenious subterfuge, he has found it more than once to his advantage to act as spy. his knowledge of the east of europe is perhaps unique. no man possessed a wider circle of friends than prince albert of hesse-holstein, who to-day can pose perfectly as the young german highness, and to-morrow as the wandering englishman, and a bit of a fool to boot. this wide acquaintance with men and matters in the balkans first brought him in touch with the intelligence department of the foreign office, and his services as secret agent of the british government were promptly secured. in this connection he was always known as mr reginald martin. downing street is rather near new scotland yard, where the names of prince albert of hesse-holstein and of tremlett are a little too well-known. therefore, to the chief of the secret service, and afterwards to the british ministers and consuls resident in the balkan countries, servia, bulgaria, montenegro, and roumania, he was for a time known as reggie martin. only on rare occasions, however, were his services requisitioned. the game of spying did not pay him nearly so well as the game of jewel-lifting. yet he had taken to it out of mere love of adventure, and surely some of his experiences in the orient were sufficiently perilous and exciting. more than once he had been in possession of state secrets which, if divulged, would have set two or more of the powers flying at one another's throats, and more than once he had carried his life in his hand. one series of incidents through which he lived last year were, in themselves, as romantic as anything seen written in fiction. they were hard solid facts--an exciting chapter from the life of a man who was a perfect and polished adventurer, a little too impressionable perhaps, where the fair sex were concerned, but keen-witted, audacious, and utterly fearless. he seldom, if ever, speaks of the affair himself, for he is not anxious that people should know of his connection with the secret service. as an old college chum, and as one whom he knows is not likely to "give him away" to the police, he one day, after great persuasion, related it in confidence to me as together we spent a wearisome day in the _rapide_ between paris and marseilles. "well, my dear diprose, it happened like this," he said, as he selected one of his "petroffs" and lit it with great care. "i was sent to the balkans on a very difficult mission. at downing street they did not conceal that fact from me. but i promised to do my best. garrett was with the `sixty' in vienna, so i wired sending it on to sofia, in bulgaria, and then left charing cross for the balkans myself. "i first went _via_ trieste down the adriatic to cattaro and up to quaint little cettinje, the town of one long street, where i had audience of prince nicholas of montenegro, whom i had met twice before-- in my character of reggie martin, of course--and thence i went north to servia, where i was received several times in private audience by king peter. one day i arrived in bulgaria to have confidential interviews with the prime minister dimitri petkoff, and the newly appointed minister of foreign affairs. my orders from downing street, i may as well at once admit, were to ascertain whether bulgaria intended to declare war against turkey over macedonia. the british government was extremely anxious to ascertain bulgaria's intentions, as well as the views of the other balkan powers, in order that the british policy towards the porte might combat that of the expansion intrigues of germany. "our public at home have a perfectly erroneous idea of bulgaria, believing it to be a semi-savage land. if, however, they went to sofia they would find a fine modern city entirely up to date--a city that must in a few years become the paris of the balkans. "i had wandered along the wide tree-lined boulevards, idled outside the big white mosque, and strolled through the market alive with peasants in their sheepskins, and the girls with sequins and fresh flowers twined in their plaited hair, until it was time for me to keep my appointment with my friend the patriot petkoff, prime minister. "half an hour later i was conducted through the long corridor of the fine government offices opposite the sobranje, or parliament house, and ushered into the presence of the real ruler of bulgaria. "`ah! _mon cher_ martin,' he cried in french. `welcome back to sofia! they were talking of you in the club last night. de corvin was saying you were delayed in belgrade. he met you there--at our legation, so he told us. and you have your motor-car here--eh? good. i'll go for a run with you,' and his excellency put out his left hand in greeting. his right sleeve hung limp and empty, for he lost his arm in the turco-russian campaign, at the historic battle of the shipka. "dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a pleasant face and a small pointed imperial on his chin, he was a wonderful orator and a magnificent statesman who had the full confidence of his sovereign. a dozen times had political plots, inspired by russia, been formed to assassinate him. indeed, he had actually been driving beside the great stambouloff when the latter had been killed in the street. but he had always escaped. under his direction, bulgaria had risen to be the strong power of the balkans, and as my personal friend i hoped that he would tell me, in strictest confidence, what was his future policy towards the turk. "with that object i took the seat he offered me, and lighting cigarettes, we began to chat. "through the open window came up the strains of martial music, as an infantry regiment in their grey uniforms on the russian model were marching past, and as i glanced around the quiet, comfortable, red-carpeted room, i saw that the only picture was a fine full-length portrait of the prince. "for fully an hour we gossiped. perfectly frankly i at last told his excellency the object of my mission. "he shrugged his shoulders somewhat dubiously, and smiled, declaring that each of the powers was endeavouring to ascertain the very same thing. i pressed my point, assuring him of britain's good-will, and explaining certain facts which, after a while, decided him. "`but you see, _mon cher ami_,' he said, `supposing the truth got out to constantinople! all my efforts of the past fifteen years would be negatived. and further--it would mean dire disaster for bulgaria!' "`i have been entrusted with many state secrets before, your excellency,' i replied. `it would, for instance, not be the first time you spoke with me in confidence.' "he admitted it, and assuring me of his good-will towards england, he declared that before he could speak, he must consult his royal master. "therefore, the french minister awaiting an audience, i rose and left, having arranged to dine with him at the union club that evening. "for nearly a week i idled in sofia visiting many diplomatists and their wives, motoring about the neighbourhood, and driving out every night at one legation or the other, no one, of course, being aware of my secret mission in the bulgarian capital. garrett kept eyes and ears open, of course. useful man garrett--very useful indeed. "one night with the italian minister and his wife, i went to the official ball given by the minister-president, and among others i had as partner a rather tall, fair-haired girl with clear blue eyes and a pretty childlike face. about twenty-two, she was dressed exquisitely in white chiffon, the corsage of which was trimmed with tiny pink roses, and on her white-gloved wrist gleamed a splendid diamond bracelet. olga steinkoff was her name, and as we waltzed together amid the smartly dressed women and uniformed and decorated men i thought her one of the most charming of cosmopolitan girls i had ever encountered south of the danube. "her chaperone was an old and rather ugly woman in dark purple silk, a stiff and starchy person who talked nearly the whole evening to one of the _attaches_ of the turkish legation, a sallow, middle-aged, bearded man in black frock-coat and red fez. "the girl in white chiffon was perfect in figure, in daintiness and _chic_, and a splendid dancer. we sat out two dances, and waltzed twice together, i afterwards taking her down to supper. she spoke french excellently, a little english, and a little bulgarian, while russian was her own language. her father lived in moscow, she told me, and she had spent four years in constantinople with her aunt--the ugly old woman in purple. "the sallow-faced, beady-eyed turk who did not dance, and who took no champagne, was evidently her particular friend. i inquired of the italian minister and found that the thin-faced bearded _attache_ was named mehmed zekki, and that he had been in sofia only a couple of months. "towards me he was quite affable, even effusive. he mentioned that he had noticed me in the club, dining with the prime minister, and he referred to a number of people in belgrade who were my friends. he was _attache_ there, he told me, for two years--after the _coup d'etat_. "twice during next day i encountered the charming olga, driving with her aunt, in a smart victoria, and during the next week met them at several diplomatic functions. "one afternoon, olga and her chaperone accepted my invitation for a run on the `sixty,' and i took them for a little tour of about thirty miles around the foot of the high balkans, returning along the winding banks of the isker. they were delighted, for the afternoon was perfect. i drove, and she sat up beside me, her hand on the horn. "one night, ten days later, we were sitting out together in the bright moonlight in the garden of the austrian legation, and i found her not averse to a mild flirtation. i knew that the frock-coated turk was jealous, and had become amused by it. on four or five occasions she had been out for runs with me--twice quite alone. "i mentioned the turk, but she only laughed, and shrugging her shoulders, answered: "`all turks are as ridiculous as they are bigoted. mehmed is no exception.' "i was leaving bulgaria next morning, and told her so. "`perhaps, mademoiselle, we shall meet again some day, who knows?' i added, `you have many friends in the diplomatic circle, so have i.' "`but you are not really going to-morrow!' she exclaimed with undisguised dismay, opening her blue eyes widely, `surely you will stay for the ball at the palace on wednesday.' "`i regret that is impossible,' i replied, laughing. `i only wish i could remain and ask you to be my partner, but i have urgent business in bucharest.' "`oh! you go to roumania!' she cried in surprise. `but,'--she added wistfully, `i--i really wish you could remain longer.' "during our brief friendship i had, i admit, grown to admire her immensely, and were it not for the fact that a very urgent appointment called me to roumania, i would have gladly remained. she had taken possession of my senses. "but i took her soft hand, and wished her adieu. then we returned into the ballroom, where i found several of my friends, and wished them farewell, for my train left at nine next morning. "in a corner of the room stood the veteran prime minister, with a star in brilliants upon his dress-coat, the empty sleeve of which hung limply at his side. "`_au revoir, mon cher ami_,' he said grasping my hand warmly. `recollect what i told you this morning--and return soon to bulgaria again. _bon voyage_!' "then i passed the police-guard at the door, and drove back to the hotel de bulgarie. "that night i slept but little. before me constantly arose the childlike beautiful face of olga steinkoff that had so strangely bewitched me. "i knew that i was a fool to allow myself to be attracted by a pair of big eyes, confirmed bachelor and constant traveller that i am. yet the whole night through i seemed to see before my vision the beautiful face, pale and tearful with grief and sorry. was it at my departure? "next day i set out in the car across the shipka, and three nights later took up my quarters at that most expensive hotel, the `boulevard,' at bucharest, the paris of the near east. next day i paid several visits to diplomats i knew. bucharest is always full of life and movement-- smart uniforms and pretty women--perhaps the gayest city in all the continent of europe. "on the third evening of my arrival i returned to the hotel to dress for dinner, when, on entering my sitting-room, a neat female figure in a dark travelling-dress rose from an armchair, and stood before me gazing at me in silence. "it was olga! "`why, mademoiselle!' i cried, noticing that she was without her hat, `fancy you--in bucharest! when did you arrive?' "`an hour ago,' she answered, breathlessly. `i--i want your assistance, m'sieur martin. i am in danger--grave danger!' "`danger! of what?' "`i hardly know--except that the police may follow me and demand my arrest. this place--like sofia--swarms with spies.' "`i know,' i said, much interested, but surprised that she should have thus followed me. `but why do you fear?' "`i surely need not explain to you facts--facts that are painful!' she said, looking straight at me half-reproachfully with those wonderful blue eyes that held me so fascinated. `i merely tell you that i am in danger, and ask you to render me assistance.' "`how? in what manner can i assist you?' "`in one way alone,' was her quick, breathless answer. `ah! if you would only do it--if you would only save my life!' and with her white ungloved hands clenched in desperation, she stood motionless as a statue. "`save your life!' i echoed. `i--i really don't understand you, mademoiselle.' "`before they arrest me i will commit suicide. i have the means here!' and she touched the bodice of her dress. `ah, m'sieur, you do not know in what a position i find myself. i prefer death to save my honour, and i appeal to you, an english gentleman to help me!' "tears were rolling down her pale cheeks as she snatched up my hand convulsively, imploring me to assist her. i looked into her countenance and saw that it was the same that i had seen in those dark night hours in sofia. "`but, mademoiselle, how can i help you?' i inquired. `what can i do?' "`ah! i--i hardly like to ask you,' she said, her cheeks flushing slightly. `you know so very little of me.' "`i know sufficient to be permitted to call myself your friend,' i said earnestly, still holding her tiny hand. "`then i will be frank,' she exclaimed, raising her clear eyes again to mine. `the only way in which you can save me is to take me at once to england--to--to let me pass as your wife!' "`as my _wife_!' i gasped, staring at her. `but--' "`there are no buts!' she cried, clinging to me imploringly. `to me it is a matter of life--or death! the orient express passes here at three to-morrow morning for constantza, whence we can get to constantinople. thence we can go by steamer on to naples, and across to calais by rail. for me it is unsafe to go direct by budapest and vienna. already the police are watching at the frontier.' "for a moment i was silent. in the course of years of travel i had met with many adventures, but none anything like this! here was a charming girl in dire distress--a girl who had already enchanted me by her beauty and grace--appealing to my honour to help her out of a difficulty. nay to save her life! "she was russian--no doubt a political suspect. "`where is madame?' i inquired. "`gone to belgrade. we parted this morning, and i came here to you.' "`and your friend, mehmed?' "`bah! the yellow-faced fool!' she cried impatiently with a quick snap of her white fingers. `he expects to meet me at the court ball to-night!' "`and he will be disappointed!' i added with a smile, at the same time reflecting that upon my passport already _vised_ for constantinople-- covered as it was, indeed, with _vises_ for all the east--i could easily insert after my own name the words, `accompanied by his wife louisa.' "besides, though i had several times been in the sultan's capital, i knew very few people there. so detection would not be probable. "olga saw my hesitation, and repeated her entreaty. she was, i saw, desperate. yet though i pressed her to tell me the truth, she only answered: "`the police of warsaw are in search of me because of the events of may last. some day, when we know each other better, i will tell you my strange story. i escaped from the "museum of riga"'!" "pale to the lips, her chest rising and falling quickly, her blue eyes full of the terror of arrest and deportment to poland she stood before me, placing her life in my hands. "she had escaped from the `museum of riga,' that prison the awful tortures of which had only recently been exposed in the duma itself. she, frail looking, and beautiful had been a prisoner there. "it wanted, i reflected, still eight days to the opening of the shooting which i was due to spend with friends in scotland. even if i returned by the roundabout route she suggested i should be able to get up north in time. "and yet my duty was to remain there, for at noon on the morrow, by the orient express from constantza to ostend, a friend would pass whom i particularly wanted to meet on business for a single moment at the station. if i left with my pretty companion i should pass my friend on the black sea a few hours out of port. it meant either keeping the appointment i had made with my friend, or securing the girl's safety. to perform my duty meant to consign her into the hands of the police. "acquaintance with political refugees of any sort in the balkan countries is always extremely risky, for spies abound everywhere, and everybody is a suspect. "i fear i am not very impressionable where the fair sex are concerned, but the romance and mystery of the situation whetted my appetite for the truth. her sweet tragic face appealed to me. i had fallen in love with her. "she interpreted my hesitation as an intention to refuse. "`ah! m'sieur martin. do, i beg, have pity upon me! once in your england i shall no longer fear those tortures of riga. see!' and drawing up her sleeve she showed me two great ugly red scars upon the white flesh scarcely yet healed. `once in your england!' she cried clasping her hands and falling at my feet, `i shall be free--_free_!' "`but how do you know that the police have followed you?' "`mariniski, our military _attache_ in sofia, is my cousin. he warned me that two agents of secret police arrived there yesterday morning. when i got here i received a wire from him to say they are now on their way here to bucharest. therefore not a moment must be lost. we can leave at three, and at ten to-morrow morning will have sailed from constantza. they are due here at eleven-thirty.' "`to-night?' "`no, to-morrow.' "she held my hands in hers, still upon her knees, her gaze fixed imploringly into mine. what could i do, save to render her assistance? ah! yes, she was delightfully charming, her face perfect in its beauty, her hands soft and caressing, her voice musical and silvery. "i gave her my reply, and in an instant she sprang to her feet, kissing my hands again and again. "i sent the car back to vienna, and early that morning we entered the train of dusty _wagons-lits_ which had been three days on its journey from ostend to the orient, and next morning in the bright sunshine, found ourselves on the clean deck of the mail steamer for constantinople. "there were not more than twenty passengers, and together with my dainty little companion, i spent a happy day in the bright sunshine, as we steamed down the black sea, a twelve-hour run. dinner was at half-past five, and afterwards, in the evening twilight, as we passed the turkish forts at the beautiful entrance to the bosphorus, we sat together in a cosy corner on deck, and i held her small, soft hand. "she had, i admit, completely enchanted me. "she seemed to have suddenly become greatly interested in me, for she inquired my profession, and the reason i visited the east, to which i gave evasive, if not rather misleading replies, for i led her to believe that i was the representative of a firm of london railway contractors, and was in sofia taking orders for steel rails. "it is not always judicious to tell people one's real profession. "when we reached the quay at constantinople, and i had handed over my baggage to the dragoman of the pera palace hotel, my pretty companion said in french: "`i lived here for quite a long time, you know, so i shall go and stay with friends out at sarmaschik. i will call at your hotel at, say, eleven to-morrow morning. by that time you will have ascertained what is the next steamer to naples.' "and so, in the dirty ill-lit custom-house at galata, with its mud, its be-fezzed officials and slinking dogs, we parted, she entering a cab and driving away. "next morning she kept her appointment and was, i saw, exceedingly well-dressed. "i told her when we met in the big vestibule of the hotel, that there was a steamer leaving for marseilles at four that afternoon, and suggested that route as preferable to naples. "`i think we will delay our departure until to-morrow,' she said. `my friends have a little family gathering to-night, and ask me to say that they would be delighted to meet you. they are not at all bigoted, and you will find them very hospitable.' "i bowed and accepted the invitation. "`you will not find the house alone, as constantinople is so puzzling,' she said. `i will send their _kavass_ for you at eight o'clock.' "and a few moments later she drove away in the smart carriage that had brought her. "that day i idled about the sultan's capital, looked in at st sophia, paused and watched the phantasmagoria of life on the galata bridge, and strolled in the grand rue at pera, merely killing time. case-hardened bachelor that i am, my mind was now filled with that sweet-faced, beautiful woman of my dreams who had been so cruelly tortured in that abominable prison at riga, and whom i was aiding to the safe refuge of england's shores. "once, while turning a corner at the end of the grand rue, the busy shopping centre of the turkish capital, a mysterious incident occurred. among the many figures in frock-coats and fezes my eye caught one which caused me to start. it struck me curiously as that of my sallow-faced friend, mehmed zekki, of sofia. yet in a crowd of turks all dressed alike, one is rather difficult to distinguish from another, so i quickly dismissed the suspicion that we had been followed. "i had already dined at the hotel and was sitting in the turkish smoking-room, when there arrived a big montenegrin _kavass_, in gorgeous scarlet and gold, and wearing an arsenal of weapons in his belt, as is their mode. "`monsieur martin?' he inquired. `mademoiselle olga. she send me for you. i take you to ze house.' "so i rose, slipped on my overcoat, and followed him out to the brougham, upon the box of which, beside the driver, sat a big black eunuch. the carriage had evidently been to fetch some ladies before calling for me. "the _kavass_ seated himself at my side, and we drove up and down many dark, ill-lit streets, where the scavenger dogs were howling, until we suddenly came out in view of the bosphorus, that lay fairy-like beneath the full eastern moon. "nicholas, the _kavass_, was from cettinje, he told me, and when we began to talk, i discovered that his brother mirko had been my servant on a journey through albania two years before. "`what! gospodin!' cried the big mountaineer, grasping my hand and wringing it warmly. `are you really the gospodin martin? i was in cettinje last summer, and my dear old father spoke of you! i have to thank you. it was you who brought the english doctor to him and saved his life. fancy that we should meet here, and to-night!' "`why to-night?' "the big fellow was silent. his manner had entirely changed. "suddenly he said: `gospodin, you are going to the house of mehmed zekki and--' "`zekki!' i gasped. `then i was not mistaken when i thought i saw him. he had followed us.' "`ah! gospodin! have a care of yourself! take this, in case--in case you may require it,' he said, and pulling from his sash one of his loaded revolvers, he handed it to me. "`but you said that mademoiselle had sent you for me?' i remarked surprised. "`i was told to say that, gospodin. i know nothing of mademoiselle.' "`mademoiselle olga steinkoff. have you never heard of her?' i demanded. "`never.' "`then i will go back to the hotel.' "`no, gospodin. do not show fear. it would be fatal. enter and defy the man who is evidently your enemy. touch neither food nor drink there. then, if you are threatened, utter the words, _shunam-al-zulah_--recollect them. show no fear, gospodin--and you will escape.' "at that moment the carriage turned into a large garden, which surrounded a fine house--almost a palace--the house wherein my enemy was lying in wait. "entering a beautiful winter-garden full of flowers, a servant in long blue coat and fez, conducted me through a large apartment, decorated in white and gold, into a smaller room, oriental in decoration and design, an apartment hung with beautiful gold embroideries, and where the soft cushions of the divans were of pale-blue silk and gold brocade. "two middle-aged turks were squatting smoking, and as i was shown in, scowled at me curiously, saluted, and in french asked me to be seated. "`mademoiselle will be here in a few moments,' added the elder of the pair. "a few seconds later the servant entered with a tiny cup of coffee, the turkish welcome, but i left it untouched. then the door again opened and i was confronted by the sallow-faced, black-bearded man against whom the _kavass_ had warned me. "`good evening, monsieur martin,' he exclaimed with a sinister grin upon his thin face. `you expected, i believe, to meet mademoiselle olga, eh?' "`well--i expected to meet you,' i laughed, `for i saw you in pera to-day.' "he looked at me quickly, as his servant at that moment handed him his coffee on a tray. "`i did not see you,' he said somewhat uneasily, raising his cup to his lips. then, noticing that i had not touched mine, he asked, `don't you take coffee? will you have a glass of rahki?' "`i desire nothing,' i said, looking him straight in the face. "`but surely you will take something? we often drank together in the club at sofia, remember!' "`i do not drink with my enemies.' "the trio started, glaring at me. "`you are distinctly insulting,' exclaimed mehmed, his yellow face growing flushed with anger. `recall those words, or by the prophet, you do not pass from this house alive!' "i laughed aloud in their faces. "`ah!' i cried, `this is amusing! this is really a good joke! and pray what do you threaten?' "`we do not threaten,' zekki said. `you are here to die.' and he laughed grimly, while the others grinned. "`why?' "`that is our affair.' "`and mine also,' i replied. `and gentlemen, i would further advise you in future to be quite certain of your victim, or it may go ill with you. let me pass!' and i drew the revolver the _kavass_ had given me. "`put that thing away!' ordered the elder of the men, approaching me with threatening gesture. "`i shall not. let us end this confounded foolishness. _shunam-al-zulah_!' "the effect of these words upon the trio was electrical. "the sallow-faced _attache_ stood staring at me open-mouthed, while his companions fell back, as though i had dealt them both a blow. they seemed too dumbfounded to respond, as, revolver in hand, i next moment passed out of the room and from that house to which i had been so cleverly lured, and where my death had evidently been planned. "at the hotel i spent a sleepless night, full of deep anxiety, wondering for what reason the curious plot had been arranged, and whether my dainty little companion had had any hand in it. "my apprehensions were, however, entirely dispelled when early on the following been morning, olga called to ask why i had absent when the _kavass_ had called for me. "i took her into one of the smaller rooms, and told her the whole truth, whereat she was much upset, and eager to leave the turkish capital immediately. "at seven that same evening we sailed for naples, and without further incident duly arrived at the italian port, took train for rome, and thence by express to paris and charing cross. "on the journey she refused to discuss the plot of the jealous, evil-eyed turk. her one idea was to get to london--and to freedom. "at eleven o'clock at night we stepped out upon charing cross platform, and i ordered the cabman to drive me to the cecil, for when acting the part of reggie martin, i always avoided dover street. it was too late to catch the scotch mail, therefore i would be compelled to spend the first day of the pheasants in london, and start north to my friends on the following day. "suddenly as we entered the station she had decided also to spend the night at the cecil and leave next day for ipswich, where a brother of hers was a tutor. "i wished her good-night in the big hall of the hotel, and went up in the lift. "rising about half-past six next morning and entering my sitting-room, i was amazed to encounter olga, fully dressed in hat and caracul jacket, standing in the grey dawn, reading a paper which she had taken from my despatch-box! "instantly she dropped her hand, and stood staring at me without uttering a word, knowing full well that i had discovered the astounding truth. "i recognised the document by the colour of the paper. "`well, mademoiselle?' i demanded in a hard tone, `and for what reason, pray, do you pry into my private papers like this?' "`i--i was waiting to bid you adieu,' she answered tamely. "`and you were at the same time making yourself acquainted with the contents of that document which i have carried in my belt ever since i left sofia--that document of which you and your interesting friend, zekki, have ever since desired sight--eh?' i exclaimed, bitterly. `my duty is to call in the police, and hand you over as a political spy to be expelled from the country.' "`if m'sieur wishes to do that he is at perfect liberty to do so,' she answered, in quick defiance. `the result is the same. i have read petkoff's declaration, so the paper is of no further use,' and she handed it to me with a smile of triumph upon those childlike lips. `arrest or liberty--i am entirely in monsieur's hands,' she added, shrugging her shoulders. "i broke forth into a torrent of reproach for i saw that bulgaria had been betrayed to her arch-enemy, turkey, by that sweet-faced woman who had so completely deceived me, and who, after the first plot had failed, had so cleverly carried the second to a successful issue. "defiant to the last, she stood smiling in triumph. even when i openly accused her of being a spy she only laughed. "therefore i opened the door and sternly ordered her to leave, knowing, alas! that, now she had ascertained the true facts, the bulgarian secret policy towards turkey would be entirely negatived, that the terrible atrocities in macedonia must continue, and that the russian influence in bulgaria would still remain paramount. "i held my silence, and spent a dull and thoughtful sunday in the great london hotel. had i remained in bucharest, as was my duty, and handed the document in petkoff's handwriting to the king's messenger, who was due to pass in the orient express, the dainty olga could never have obtained sight of it. this she knew, and for that reason had told me the story of her torture in the prison at riga and urged me to save her. zekki, knowing that i constantly carried the secret declaration of bulgaria in the belt beneath my clothes, saw that only by my unconsciousness, or death, could they obtain sight of it. hence the dastardly plot to kill me, frustrated by the utterance of the password of the turkish spies themselves. "it is useless for a man to cross swords with a pretty woman where it is a matter of ingenuity and double-dealing. with the chiefs of the foreign office absent, i could only exist in anxiety and dread, and when i acted it was, alas! too late. "inquiries subsequently made in constantinople showed that the house in which zekki had received me, situated near the konak of ali saib pasha, was the headquarters of the turkish secret service, of which the sallow-faced scoundrel was a well-known member, and that on the evening of the day of my return to london the body of nicholas, the montenegrin _kavass_ who saved my life, had been found floating in the bosphorus. death had been his reward for warning me! "readers of the newspapers are well aware how, two months later, as a result of turkish intrigue in sofia, my poor friend dimitri petkoff, prime minister of bulgaria, was shot through the heart while walking with me in the boris garden. "both bulgarian and turkish governments have, however, been very careful to suppress intelligence of a dramatic incident which occurred in constantinople only a few weeks ago. olga steinkoff, the secret agent employed by the sublime porte, was, at her house in the sarmaschik quarter, handed by her maid a beautiful basket of fruit that had been sent by an admirer. the dainty woman with the childlike face cut the string, when, lo! there darted forth four hissing, venomous vipers. two of the reptiles struck, biting her white wrist ere she could withdraw, and an hour later, her face swollen out of all recognition, she died in terrible agony. "the betrayal of bulgaria and the assassination of petkoff, the patriot, have, indeed, been swiftly avenged." chapter seven. the sign of the cat's-paw. another part which the prince played in the present-day drama now being enacted in eastern europe brought him in touch with "the sign of the cat's-paw," a sign hitherto unknown to our foreign office, or to readers of the daily newspapers. at the same time, however, it very nearly cost him his own life. the affair occurred about a couple of months after the death of the fascinating olga steinkoff. he had been sent back to the balkans upon another mission. cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, he had been moving rapidly up and down europe gathering information for downing street, but ever on the look-out for an opening for the parson and himself to operate in a very different sphere. garrett, blindly obedient to the telegrams he received, had taken the car on some long flying journeys, vienna, berlin and back to belgrade, in servia. for two months or so i had lost sight of both the mild-mannered, spectacled clayton and the prince, when one morning, while walking down st james's street, i saw garrett in his grey and scarlet livery driving the car from piccadilly down to pall mall. by this i guessed that his highness had returned to london, so i called at dover street, and twenty minutes later found myself seated in the big saddle-bag chair with a "petroff" between my lips. he was in his old brown velvet lounge coat and slippers, and had been at his writing-table when i entered. but on my appearance he threw down his pen, stretched himself, and sat round for a gossip. suddenly, while speaking, he made a quick, half-foreign gesture of ignorance in response to a question of mine, and in that brief instant i saw upon his right palm a curious red mark. "hullo!" i asked. "what's that?" "oh--nothing," he replied, rather confused i thought, and shut his hand so that i could not see it. "but it is!" i declared. "let me see." "how inquisitive you are, diprose, old chap," he protested. so persistent was i, and so aroused my curiosity by finding a mark exactly like the imprint of a cat's-paw, that, not without considerable reluctance, he explained its meaning. the story he narrated was, indeed, a most remarkable and dramatic one. and yet he related it as though it were nothing. perhaps, indeed, the puzzling incidents were of but little moment to one who led a life so chock-full of adventure as he. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ yes, it really was curious, he remarked at last. it was in march. i had been in london's mud and rain for a fortnight, and grown tired of it. suddenly a confidential mission had been placed in my hands--a mission which had for its object british support to the bulgarian government against the machinations of austria to extend her sphere of influence southward across the danube and servia. my destination was sofia, the bulgarian capital, and once more the journey by the orient express across europe was a long and tedious one. i had wired to garrett, who was awaiting me with the car at the hungaria, in budapest, to bring it on to sofia. but i was much occupied with the piece of scheming which i had undertaken to carry out. my patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task--one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in london, and that british influence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which, ere long, must be the power of the balkans. i knew, however, that there were others in sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other governments and other financial houses. therefore, in the three long never-ending days the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object. the run was uneventful, save for one fact. at the staatsbahnhof, at vienna, just before our train left for budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered, and was given the compartment next mine. his nationality i could not determine. he spoke deep guttural german with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes--which were rather dandified for so old a man--i did not believe him to be a native of the fatherland. i heard him rumbling about with his bags next door, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in english. a few hours later, at dinner, i found him placed at the little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. he spoke in french-- perfect french it was--but refused to speak english, though, of course, he could had he wished. "ah! non," he laughed, "i cannot. excuse me. my pronunciation is so faulty. your english is so ve-ry deefecult." and so we chatted in french, and i found the queer old fellow was on his way to sofia. he seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. his grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow, and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. he growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only danish margarine. his complaints were amusing. he was possessed of much grim humour. at first the _maitre d'hotel_ bustled about to do the bidding of the new-comer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting criticism of the compagnie internationale des wagons-lits and all its works. next day, at semlin, where our passports were examined, the passport-officer took off his hat to him, bowed low and _vised_ his passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its owner: "_bon voyage_, altesse." i stared at the pair. my fussy friend with the big head must therefore be either a prince or a grand duke! just then i was not a prince--only plain m'sieur martin. in roumania princes are as plentiful as blackberries, so i put him down as a roumanian. as i sat opposite him at dinner that night he was discussing with me the harmful writings of some newly discovered german who was posing as a cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community. he leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven chin upon his finger, displaying to me most, certainly by accident, the palm of his thin right hand. what i discovered there caused me a good deal of surprise. in its centre was a dark livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a cat's-paw! it fascinated me. there was some hidden meaning in that mark, i felt convinced. it was just as though a cat had stepped upon blood with one of its fore-paws and trodden upon his hand. whether he noticed that i had detected it or not, i cannot say, but he moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed. his name, he told me at last, was konstantinos vassos, and he lived in athens. but i took that information _cum grano_, for i knew him to be a prince travelling _incognito_. the passport-officer at semlin makes no mistakes. but if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport? there is, unfortunately, no good hotel at sofia. the best is the bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady to whom i was well-known as m'sieur martin, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. he gave his name as vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in prince ferdinand's capital than i myself was, for i had been there at least half a dozen times before. most of the ministers knew me, and i was always elected a member of the smart diplomats' club, the union, during my stay. the days passed. from the first morning of my arrival i found myself as before in a vortex of gaiety; invitations to the legations poured in upon me, cards for dances here and there, receptions by members of the cabinet, and official dinners by the british and french ministers, while daily i spent each afternoon with my friend, colonel mayhew, the british military _attache_, in his comfortable quarters not far from our agency. all the while, i must here confess, i was working my cards very carefully. i had sounded my friend, petkoff, the grave, grey-haired prime minister--the splendid bulgarian patriot--and he was inclined to admit the british proposals. the minister of war, too, was on my side. german agents had approached him, but he would have none of them. in bulgaria just then they had no love of germany. they were far too russophile. indeed, in this strenuous life of a fortnight or so i had practically lost sight of the ugly old gentleman who had been addressed by the passport-officer as his highness. once or twice i had seen him wandering alone and dejected along the streets, for he apparently knew nobody, and was having a very quiet time, greeks were disliked in sofia almost as much as turks, on account of the greek bands who massacre the bulgars in macedonia. one night at the weekly dance at the military club--a function at which the smart set at sofia always attend, and at which the ministers of state themselves put in an appearance--i had been waltzing with the daughter of the minister of the interior, a pretty dark-haired girl in blue, whom i had met during my last visit to bulgaria, and the spanish _attache_, a pale-faced young man wearing a cross at his throat, had introduced to me a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black evening-gown trimmed with silver. a thin wreath of the same roses was in her hair, and around her neck was a fine gold chain from which was suspended a big and lustrous diamond. mademoiselle balesco was her name, and i found her inexpressibly charming. she spoke french perfectly, and english quite well. she had been at school in england, she said--at scarborough. her home was at galatz, in roumania, where her father was prefect. we had several dances, and afterwards i took her down to supper. then we had a couple of waltzes, and i conducted her out to the carriage awaiting her, and, bowing, watched her drive off alone. but while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow, the short ugly figure of the old greek vassos, with his coat collar turned up, evidently passing without noticing me. a few days later, when in the evening i called on mayhew at his rooms, he said: "what have you been up to, martin? look here! this letter was left upon me, with a note asking me to give it to you in secret. looks like a woman's hand! mind what you're about in this place, old chap! there are some nasty pitfalls, you know!" i took the letter, opened it, read it through, and placed it in my pocket without a word. with a bachelor's curiosity, he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. but i refused to satisfy him. suffice it to say that on that same night i went alone to a house on the outskirts of sofia, and there met at her urgent request the pretty girl marie balesco, who had so enchanted me. ours seemed to be a case of mutual attraction, for as we sat together, she seemed, after apologising for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the winds, to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons which had brought me to bulgaria. like most women of the balkans, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. i took one--a delicious one it was, but rather strong-- so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. before i could fight against it the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and i must have fallen unconscious. indeed i knew no more until on awakening i found myself back in my bed at the hotel. i gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what held occurred. my hand seemed strangely painful. raising it from the sheets, i looked at it. upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the sign of the cat's-paw! horrified i stared at it. it was the same mark that i had seen upon the hand of vassos! what could be its significance? in a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct imprint of the feline foot. from mayhew i tried, by cautious questions, to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played such a prank on me. but he only knew her slightly. she had been staying with a certain madame sovoff, who was something of a mystery, but had left sofia. a month passed. mademoiselle and madame returned from belgrade and were both delighted when i suggested they should go for a run in the "sixty." i took them over the same road as i had taken olga steinkoff. in a week mademoiselle became an enthusiastic motorist, and was full of inquiry into the various parts of the engine, the ignition, lubrication, and other details. one day i carefully approached the matter of this remarkable mark upon my palm. but she affected entire ignorance. i confess that i had grown rather fond of her, and i hesitated to attribute to her, or to madame, any sinister design; the strange mark on my hand was both weird and puzzling. we drove out in the car often, and many a time i recollected pretty olga, and her horrible fate. vassos, who was still at the hotel, annoyed me on account of his extreme politeness, and the manner in which he appeared to spy upon all my movements. i came across him everywhere. inquiries concerning the reason of the ugly greek's presence in bulgaria met with negative result. one thing seemed certain; he was not a prince _incognito_. how i longed to go to him, show him the mark upon my hand, and demand an explanation. but my curiosity was aroused; therefore i patiently awaited developments, my revolver always ready in my hip pocket, in case of foul play. the mysterious action of the pretty girl from galatz also puzzled me. at last the cabinet of prince ferdinand were in complete accord with the prime minister petkoff, regarding the british proposals. all had been done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day i had lunched with his excellency the prime minister, at his house in the suburbs of the city. "you may send a cipher despatch to london, if you like, mr martin," he said, as we sat over our cigars. "the documents will all be signed at the cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow. in exchange for this loan of three millions raised in london, all the contracts for quick-firing guns and ammunition go to your group of financiers." such was the welcome news his excellency imparted to me, and you may imagine that i lost no time in writing out a cipher message, and sending it by the man-servant to the nearest telegraph office. for a long time i sat with him, and then he rose, inviting me to walk with him in the boris gardens, as was his habit every afternoon, before going down to the sitting of the sobranje, or parliament. on our way we passed vassos, who raised his hat politely to me. "who's that man?" inquired the minister quickly, and i told him all i knew concerning the ugly hunchback. in the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown, chatting upon the situation in macedonia and other matters, when of a sudden, a black-moustached man in a dark grey overcoat and round astrachan cap, sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and raising a big service revolver, fired point-blank at his excellency. i felt for my own weapon. alas! it was not there! i had forgotten it! the assassin, seeing the minister reel and fall, turned his weapon upon me. thereupon, in an instant i threw up my hands, crying that i was unarmed, and was an englishman. as i did so, he started back as though terrified. his weapon fell from his grasp, and with a spring, he disappeared again into the bushes. all had happened in a few brief instants; for ere i could realise that a tragedy had actually occurred, i found the unfortunate prime minister lying lifeless at my feet. my friend had been shot through the heart! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragic affair, which is no doubt still fresh in their minds. i told the chief of police of sofia of my strange experience, and showed him the mark upon my palm. though detectives searched high and low for the hunchback greek, for madame sovoff, and for the fascinating mademoiselle, none of them were ever found. the assassin was, nevertheless, arrested a week later, while trying to cross the frontier into servia. i, of course, lost by an ace the great financial coup, but before execution the prisoner made a confession which revealed the existence of a terrible and widespread conspiracy, fostered by bulgaria's arch-enemy turkey, to remove certain members of the cabinet who were in favour of british influence becoming paramount. yes. it was a rather narrow squeak. quite unconsciously, i had, it seemed, become an especial favourite of the silent, watchful old konstantinos vassos. he had no idea that i was a "crook" or that i was a secret agent. fearing lest i, in my innocence, should fall a victim with his excellency--being so often his companion--he had, with the assistance of the pretty marie balesco, contrived to impress upon my palm the secret sign of the conspirators. to this fact i certainly owe my life, for the assassin--a stranger to sofia, who had been drawn by lot--would, no doubt, have shot me dead, had he not seen upon my raised hand "the sign of the cat's-paw." chapter eight. concerning a woman's honour. few people are aware of the prince's serious love affair. beyond his most intimate friend, the parson, i believe nobody knows of it except myself. the truth i have managed to glean only bit by bit, for he has never told me himself. it is a matter which he does not care to mention, for recollections of the woman are, no doubt, ever in his heart, and as with many of us, ever painful. no man or woman is thoroughly bad. adventurer that he is, the prince has ever been true and honourable, even generous, towards a good woman. the best and staunchest of friends, yet the bitterest of enemies if occasion required, he has never, to my knowledge, played an honest woman a scurvy trick. the little romance of real life occurred in florence about three years ago. a good many people got hold of a garbled version of it, but none know the actual truth. he loved, and because he loved he dare not pose in his usual character as a prince, for fear that she should discover the fraud. on the contrary, he was living at a small cheap hotel on the lung arno as jack cross, and posing as a man who was very hard-up and, besides, friendless. he had entered upon the campaign with an entirely different object--an object which had for its consummation the obtaining of some very fine jewels belonging to the wife of an american who had made a corner in cotton, and who was engaged in seeing europe. max mason and the parson were both living as strangers to each other at the savoy, in the piazza vittorio emanuele, and idling daily in the via tornabuoni. a big coup had been planned, but instead of bringing it off, as luck would have it, his highness had fallen hopelessly in love, and with a real royal princess, a woman whose beauty was universally proverbial. their love-story was full of pathos. they were standing together in a garden one sunny afternoon, and were alone, without eavesdroppers. a moment before, he had been wondering what she would do; what she would say if she knew the ghastly truth-- that he was a thief! he had been born a gentleman--though he had no more right to the title of "prince" than i had. true, at college at cheltenham he had been nicknamed "the prince," because of his charming manner and elegant airs. few of us even imagined, however, that he would, in later years, pass himself off as a german princeling and gull the public into providing him with the wherewithal to live in ease and luxury. as he stood at the handsome woman's side, thoughts of the past--bitter and regretful--flashed upon him. his conscience pricked him. "princess!--i--i--" he stammered. "well?" and her sweet red lips parted in a smile. "i--ah! yes, it's madness. i--i know i'm a fool! i see danger in all this. i have jeopardised your good name sufficiently already. people are looking at us now--and they will surely misjudge us!" "you are not a fool, my dear jack," she answered in her charming broken english. "you are what you call a goose." and she laughed outright. "but think! what will they say?" "they may say just whatever pleases them," she answered airily, glancing at the half a dozen or so smartly dressed people taking tea in the beautiful italian garden overlooking the red roofs and cupolas of the lily city, florence. "they--the world--have already said hard things about me. but what do i really care?" "_you_ care for the prince's honour, as well as your own," he ventured in a low serious voice, looking straight into her blue eyes. her imperial and royal highness angelica pia marie therese crown-princess of bosnia, and daughter of a reigning emperor, was acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful and accomplished women in europe. her photographs were everywhere, and a year before, at her brilliant marriage in vienna, all the states of europe were represented, and her photograph had appeared in every illustrated newspaper on the two continents. the world, ignorant of the tragedy of life behind a throne, believed the royal marriage to be a love-match, but the bitter truth remained that it was merely the union of two imperial houses, without the desire of either the man, or the woman. princess angelica had, at the bidding of the emperor, sacrificed her love and her young life to a man for whom she had only contempt and loathing. as she stood there, a tall, frail figure, in plain white embroidered muslin, her fair hair soft beneath her big black hat, her sweet delicately moulded face and her eyes of that deep childlike blue that one so seldom sees in girls after fourteen, there was upon her countenance an undisguised love-look. she was indeed the perfect incarnation of all that was graceful and feminine; little more indeed, than a girl, and yet the wife of a prince that would ere long become a king. for a few moments the man and the woman regarded each other in silence. he was spell-bound by her wondrous beauty like many another man had been. but she knew, within herself, that he was the only man she had ever met that she could love. and surely they were a curiously ill-assorted pair, as far as social equality went, she the daughter of an emperor, while he a hard-up young englishman, tall, dark-haired, with a handsome, serious face, lived, he had explained to her, in florence, first, because it was cheap, and secondly, because his old aunt, who had a small house out on the fiesole road, practically kept him. his story to her was that he had once been on the stock exchange, but a run of ill-luck had broken him, so he had left england, and now managed to scrape along upon a couple of hundred or so a year paid him by a firm of italian shipping and forwarding agents, for whom he now acted as english manager. the position was an excellent "blind." nobody recognised him as tremlett, alias "his highness." half aristocratic florence--those stiff-backed italian duchesses and countesses with their popinjay, over-dressed male appendages--envied jack cross his intimate acquaintance with the crown-princess of bosnia, who, in winter, lived at the magnificent villa on the viale dei colli, overlooking the town. towards italian society her royal highness turned the cold shoulder. the emperor had no love for italy, or the italians, and it was at his orders that she kept herself absolutely to herself. on rare occasions, she would give a small garden-party or dinner to a dozen or so of the most prominent men and women in the city. but it was not often that they were asked, and beyond three or four people in florence her highness had no friends there. but part of her school-days had been spent in the big convent up at fiesole, therefore it had been her whim after her marriage, to purchase that beautiful villa with its gorgeous rooms, marble terraces, and lovely gardens as a winter home. and to that splendid house the prince, alias jack cross, was always a welcome guest. he went there daily, and when not there, her highness would amuse herself by chattering to him over the telephone to his office. envied by the society who would not know him because he was not an aristocrat, and with the sharp eye of the florentine middle-classes upon him, little wonder was it that whispers were soon going about regarding the princess's too frequent confidences with the unknown englishman. he was watched whenever he rang at the great iron gate before which stood an italian sentry day and night, and he was watched when he emerged. in the clubs, in the salons, in the shops, in the _cafes_, the gossip soon became common, and often with a good deal of imaginary embroidery. it was true that he often dined at the villa renata with her highness, the young countess von wilberg, the lady-in-waiting, and the old countess lahovary, a roumanian, who had been lady-in-waiting to her mother the empress, and in whose charge she always was when outside bosnia. the evenings they often spent in the drawing-room, her highness being a good pianist. and on many a night she would rise, take her shawl, and pass out into the bright italian moonlight with the young englishman as her escort. it was the way they passed nearly every evening--in each other's company. yet neither of her companions dare suggest a cessation of the young man's visits, fearing to arouse the princess's anger, and receive their dismissal. at risk of gossip her imperial highness often invited him to go for runs with her in her fine forty "fiat" to siena, to bologna, or to pisa, accompanied always, of course, by the countess lahovary. in those days he pretended not to possess a car, though he could drive one, and on many occasions he drove the princess along those white dusty italian highways. she loved motoring, and so did he. indeed, he knew quite as much regarding the engine as any mechanic. the crown prince hardly, if ever, came to florence. his father, the king, was not on the best of terms with the italian court, therefore he made that an excuse for his absence in paris, where, according to report his life was not nearly as creditable as it might have been. such were the circumstances in which, by slow degrees, her highness found herself admiring and loving the quiet unassuming but good-looking young englishman at whom everybody sneered because, to save himself from penury, he had accepted the managership of a trading concern. prince albert himself saw it all, and recognised the extreme peril of the situation. born in the purple as the woman who had entranced him had been, she held public opinion in supreme contempt, and time after time had assured jack that even if people talked and misconstrued their platonic friendship she was entirely heedless of their wicked untruths and exaggerations. that afternoon was another example of her recklessness in face of her enemies. she had invited up a few people to take tea and eat strawberries in the grounds, while a military band performed under the trees near by. but quickly tiring of the obsequiousness of her guests, she had motioned cross aside, and in a low voice said in english: "for heaven's sake, jack, take me away from these awful people. the women are hags, and the men tailors' dummies. let us walk down to the rosary." and he, bowing as she spoke, turned and walked at her side, well knowing that by taking her from her guests he was increasing the hatred already felt against him. in her heart she loved this unknown hardworking young englishman, while he was held captive beneath her beauty, spell-bound by the music of her voice, thrilled by the touch of the soft hand which he kissed each day at greeting her, and each evening when they parted. yes, people talked. cross knew they did. men had told him so. max and the parson had heard all sorts of wild gossip, and had sent him a letter telling him that he was an idiot. they wanted to handle the american woman's diamonds. they were not in florence for sentimental reasons. the report had even reached his old aunt's ears, and she had administered to him a very severe reprimand, to which he had listened without a single word of protest, except that he denied, and denied most emphatically, that he was the princess's lover. he was her friend, that was all. true, she was lonely and alone there in gay florence, the city of flowers. sarajevo, her own capital she hated, she had often said. "it is pleasant, my dear jack, to be in dear old firenze," she had declared only the previous evening as they had walked and talked together in the white moonlight. "but doubly pleasant to be near such a good, true friend as you are to me." "i do but what is my duty, princess," he replied in a low voice. "you have few friends here. but i am, i hope, one who is loyal and true." those words of his crossed her mind as they strolled away from the music and the guests that warm may afternoon, strolled on beneath the blossoms, and amid the great profusion of flowers. she glanced again at his serious thoughtful face, and sighed within herself. what were titles, imperial birth, power, and the servility of the people, to love? why was she not born a commoner, and allowed to taste the sweets of life, that even the most obscure little waiting-maid or seamstress were allowed. every woman of the people could seek love and obtain it. but to her, she reflected bitterly, it was denied--because she was not of common clay, but an emperor's daughter, and destined to become a reigning queen! together they walked along the cool cypress avenue; he tall, clean-limbed in his suit of white linen and panama. but they strolled on in silence, beyond the gaze of their enemies. "you seem to fear what these wretched gossips may say concerning us, jack," she said at last, raising her eyes to his. "why should you?" "i fear for your sake, princess," he answered. "you have all to lose-- honour, name, husband--everything. for me--what does it matter? i have no reputation. i ceased to have that two years ago when i left england--bankrupt." "poor jack!" she sighed, in her quaint, childlike way. "i do wish you were wealthy, for you'd be so much happier, i suppose. it must be hard to be poor," she added--she who knew nothing of the value of money, and scarcely ever spent any herself, her debts and alms being paid by palace secretaries. "yes," he laughed. "and has it never struck you as strange that you, an imperial princess, should be a friend of a man who's a bankrupt--an outsider like myself?" and an ugly thought flashed through his mind causing him to wince. "and have you not always shown yourself my friend, jack? should i not be ungrateful if i were not your friend in return?" she asked. they halted almost unconsciously half way along the cypress avenue, and stood facing each other. prince albert of hesse-holstein was struggling within himself. he loved this beautiful woman with all his heart, and all his soul. yet he knew himself to be treading dangerous ground. their first acquaintance had been a purely accidental one three years ago. her highness was driving in the ringstrasse, in vienna, when her horses suddenly took fright at a passing motor-car and bolted. jack, who was passing, managed to dash out and stop them, but in doing so was thrown down and kicked on the head. he was taken to the hospital, and not until a fortnight afterwards was he aware of the identity of the pretty woman in the carriage. then, on his recovery, he was commanded to the palace and thanked personally by the princess and by her father, the grey-bearded emperor. from that day the princess angelica had never lost sight of him. when she had married he had endeavoured to end their acquaintance, but she would not hear of it. and so he had drifted along, held completely beneath her spell. he was her confidant, and on many occasions performed in secret little services for her. their friendship, purely platonic, was firm and fast, and surely no man was ever more loyal to a woman than was the young englishman, who was, after all, only an audacious adventurer. in the glorious sunset of the brilliant tuscan day they stood there in silence. at last he spoke. "princess," he exclaimed, looking straight into her eyes. "forgive me for what i am about to say. i have long wished to say it, but had not the courage. i--well, you cannot tell the bitterness it causes me to speak, but i have decided to imperil you no longer. i am leaving florence." she looked at him in blank surprise. "leaving florence!" she gasped. "what do you mean, jack?" "i mean that i must do so--for your sake," was his answer. "the world does not believe that a woman can have a man friend. i--i yesterday heard something." "what?" "that the prince has set close watch upon us." "well, and what of that? do we fear?" "we do not fear the truth, princess. it is the untruth of which we are in peril." "then ferdinand is jealous!" she remarked as though speaking to herself. "ah! that is distinctly amusing!" "my friendship with you has already caused a scandal in this gossip-loving city," he pointed out. "it is best for you that we should part. remember the difference in our stations. you are of blood-royal--while i--" and he hesitated. how could he tell her the ghastly truth? she was silent for a few moments, her beautiful face very grave and thoughtful. well, alas! she knew that if this man left her side the sun of her young life would have set for ever. "but--but jack--you are my friend, are you not?" "how can you ask that?" "ah! yes. forgive me. i--i know--you risked your life to save mine. you--" "no, no," he cried, impatiently. "don't let's talk of the past. let us look at the future, and let us speak plainly. we are old friends enough for that, princess." "angelica," she said, correcting him. "then--angelica," he said, pronouncing her christian name for the first time. then he hesitated and their eyes met. he saw in hers the light of unshed tears, and bit his lip. his own heart was too full for mere words. "jack," she faltered, raising her hand and placing it upon his arm, "i don't quite understand you. you are not yourself this evening." the bar of golden sunlight caught her wrist and caused the diamonds in her bracelet to flash with a thousand fires. "no, princess--i--i mean angelica. i am not. i wish to speak quite plainly. it is this. if i remain here, in florence, i shall commit the supreme folly of--of loving you." she cast her eyes to the ground, flushed slightly and held her breath. "this," he went on, "must never happen for two reasons, first you are already married, and secondly, you are of imperial birth, while i am a mere nobody, and a pauper at that." "i am married, it is true!" she cried, bitterly. "but god knows, what a hollow mockery my marriage has been! god knows how i have suffered, compelled as i am to act a living lie! you despise me for marrying ferdinand, a man i could never love. yes, you are right, you are quite--" "i do not despise, you, angelica. i have always pitied you," he interrupted. "i knew well that you did not love the prince, but were compelled to sacrifice yourself." "you knew!" she cried, clutching his arm wildly, and looking into his face. "ah! yes, jack. you--you knew the truth. you must have known. i could not conceal it from you." "what?" he asked, his hand upon her slim shoulder. "that--that i loved you," she burst forth. but next second, as if ashamed of her confession, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly. tenderly he placed his strong arm about her neck as her head fell upon her shoulder. for a moment he held her closely to him. then, in a faltering voice, he said: "angelica, i know that our love is mutual, that is why we must part." "no! no!" she cried through her tears. "no. do not leave me here alone, jack! if you go from florence i must return to the hateful semi-imprisonment of the palace at sarajevo among those dull boors with whom i have not the least in common." "but, angelica, i am in honour bound not to compromise you further. your enemies are all talking, and inventing disgraceful scandals that have already reached the prince's ears. hence his spies are here, watching all our movements." "spies! yes, bosnia is full of them!" she cried angrily. "and ferdinand sends them here to spy upon me!" and she clenched her tiny white hands resentfully. "they are here, hence we must part. we must face our misfortune bravely; but for your sake i must leave your side, though heaven knows what this decision has cost me--my very life and soul." she raised her head, and with her clear blue eyes looked into his face. at that same instant they heard a footstep on the gravel, and sprang quickly apart. but just as they did so a tall, well-dressed, brown-bearded man came into view. both held their breath, for no doubt he had seen her in jack's arms. the man was the marquis giulio di san rossore, a roman nobleman, who was a friend of her husband the prince. but that he was her secret enemy she well knew. only a month ago he had fallen upon his knees before her, and declared his love to her. but she had spurned and scorned him in indignation. he heard her biting words in silence, and had turned away with an expression upon his face which plainly told her of the fierce italian spirit of revenge within his heart. but he came forward smiling and bowing with those airs and graces which the cultured son of the south generally assumes. "they have sent me to try and find you, your highness," he said. "the duchess of spezia has suggested a ball in aid of the sufferers from the earthquake down in calabria, and we want to beg of you to give it your patronage." and he glanced at the princess's companion with fierce jealousy. he had, as they feared, witnessed the beautiful woman standing with her head upon his shoulder. "let us go back, mr cross," her highness said, "i would like to hear details of what is proposed." and all three strolled along the fine old avenue, and skirted the marble terrace to where the guests, having now finished their tea, were still assembled gossiping with the countess von wilberg and countess lahovary. as they walked together, the marquess giulio chuckled to himself at the discovery he had made, and what a fine tale he would be able to tell that night at the florence club. the truth was proved. the penniless englishman was the princess's lover! florence had suspected it, but now it should know it. that same night, after dinner, jack was standing alone with the princess in the gorgeous _salon_ with its gilt furniture and shaded electric lights. he looked smart and well-groomed, notwithstanding that his evening clothes showed just a trifle the worse for wear, while she was brilliant and beautiful in an evening-gown of palest eau-de-nil embroidered chiffon, a creation of one of the great houses of the rue de la paix. upon her white neck she wore her historic pearls, royal heirlooms that were once the property of catherine the great, and in her corsage a splendid true-lover's knot in diamonds, the ornament from which there usually depended the black ribbon and diamond star-cross decoration, which marked her as an imperial archduchess. the cross was absent that night, for her only visitor was the man at her side. her two female companions were in the adjoining room. they knew well their royal mistress's attraction towards the young englishman, and never sought to intrude upon them. both were well aware of the shameful sham of the princess's marriage and of his neglect and cruelty towards her, and both women pitied her in her loveless loneliness. "but, jack!" her highness was saying, her pale face raised to his. "you really don't mean to go? you can't mean that!" "yes, angelica," was his firm reply, as he held her waist tenderly, drawing her towards him and looking deeply into her fine eyes. "i must go--to save your honour." "no, no!" she cried, clinging to him convulsively. "you must not--you shall not! think, if you go i shall be friendless and alone! i couldn't bear it." "i know. it may seem cruel to you. but in after years you will know that i broke our bond of affection for your own dear sake," he said very slowly, tears standing in his dark eyes as he uttered those words. "you know full well the bitter truth, angelica--just as well as i do," he went on in a low whisper. "you know how deeply, how fervently i love you, how i am entirely and devotedly yours." "yes, yes. i know, jack," she cried, clinging to him. "and i love you. you are the only man for whom i have ever entertained a single spark of affection. but love is forbidden to me. ah! yes i know! had i been a commoner and not a princess, and we had met, i should have found happiness, like other women. but alas! i am accursed by my noble birth, and love and happiness can never be mine--never!" "we love each other, angelica," whispered the man who was a thief, softly stroking her fair hair as her head pillowed itself upon his shoulder. "let us part, and carry tender remembrances of each other through our lives. no man has ever loved a woman more devoutly than i love you." "and no woman has ever loved a man with more reverence and more passion than i love you, jack--my own dear jack," she said. their lips slowly approached each other, until they met in a fierce long passionate caress. it was the first time he had kissed her upon the lips--their kiss, alas! of long farewell. "good-bye, my love. farewell," he whispered hoarsely. "though parted from you in the future i shall be yours always--always. remember me-- sometimes." "remember you!" she wailed. "how can i ever forget?" "no, dear heart," he whispered. "do not forget, remember--remember that we love each other--that i shall love you always--always. farewell!" again he bent and kissed her lips. they were cold. she stood immovable. the blow of parting had entirely paralysed her senses. once more he pressed his hot lips to hers. "may providence protect and help us both, my beloved," he whispered, and then with a last, long, yearning look upon the sad white countenance that had held him in such fascination, he slowly released her. he caught up her soft white hand, kissing it reverently, as had been his habit ever since he had known her. then he turned, hard-faced and determined, struggling within himself, and next second the door had closed upon him, and she was left alone. "jack! my jack!" she gasped. "gone!" and grasping the edge of the table to steady herself, she stood staring straight before her. her future, she knew, was only a blank grey sea of despair. jack, the man whom she worshipped, the man whom she believed was honest, and for whom her pure affection was boundless, had gone out of her young life for ever. outside, a young tuscan contadino, passing on to meet his love, was singing in a fine clear voice one of the old florentine _stornelli_-- those same love-songs sung in the streets of the lily city ever since the middle ages. she listened: _fiorin di mela! la mela e dolce e la sua buccia e amara, l'uomo gli e finto e la donna sincera_. _fior di limone! tre cose son difficili a lasciare: il giuoco, l'amicizia, e il primo amore_! _fior di licore! licore e forte e non si puo incannare; ma son piu forti le pene d'amore_. she held her breath, then with sudden wild abandon, she flung herself upon the silken couch, and burying her face in its cushions gave herself up to a paroxysm of grief and despair. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ six weeks later. grey dawn was slowly spreading over the calm mediterannean, the waters of which lazily lapped the golden shingle. behind the distant blue the yellow sun was just peeping forth. at a spot upon the seashore about four miles from leghorn, in the direction of the maremma, five men had assembled, while at a little distance away, on the old sea-road to rome, stood the hired motor-car which had brought one of them there. the motive for their presence there at that early hour was not far to seek. the men facing each other with their coats cast aside were the brown-bearded marquess giulio di san rossore, and prince albert. the latter, having left florence, had learnt in bologna of a vile, scandalous, and untrue story told of the princess by the marquess to the aristocratic idlers of the florence club, a story that was a foul and abominable lie, invented in order to besmirch the good name of a pure and unhappy woman. on hearing it he had returned at once to the lily city, gone to the marquess's palazzo on the lung' arno, and struck him in the face before his friends. this was followed by a challenge, which jack, although he knew little of firearms, was forced to accept. was he not champion and defender of the helpless and lonely woman he loved--the woman upon whom the marquess had sworn within himself to be avenged? and so the pair, accompanied by their seconds and a doctor, now faced each other, revolvers in their hands. the prince stood unflinching, his dark brow slightly contracted, his teeth hard set, his handsome countenance pale and serious. as he raised his weapon he murmured to himself some words. "for your honour, my own angelica--my dear lost love!" the signal was given an instant later, and two shots sounded in rapid succession. next moment it was seen that the italian was hit, for he staggered, clutched at air, and fell forward upon his face, shot through the throat. quickly the doctor was kneeling at his side, but though medical aid was rendered so quickly, he never spoke again, and five minutes afterwards he was dead. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ half an hour later prince albert was driving the hired car for all he was worth across the great plain towards the marble-built city of pisa to catch the express to paris. from that day jack cross has concealed his identity, and has never been traced by the pretty crown-princess. no doubt she often wonders what was the real status of the obscure good-looking young englishman who spoke german so perfectly, who loved her devotedly, who fought bravely in vindication of her honour, and yet who afterwards so mysteriously disappeared into space. these lines will convey to her the truth. what will she think? chapter nine. a double game. lord nassington drove his big red sixty horse-power six-cylinder "napier" slowly up the corso in rome. by his side was his smart chauffeur, garrett, in dark-green livery with the hand holding a garland proper, the crest of the nassingtons, upon his bright buttons. it was four o'clock, the hour of the _passeggiata_, the hour when those wintering in the eternal city go forth in carriages and cars to drive up and down the long, narrow corso in order to see, and be seen, to exchange bows with each other, and to conclude the processional drive at slow pace owing to the crowded state of the street by a tour of the pincian hill whence one obtains a magnificent view of rome and the tiber in the sunset. roman society is the most exclusive in the world. your roman princess will usually take her airing in her brougham with the windows carefully closed, even on a warm spring afternoon. she holds herself aloof from the crowd of wealthy foreigners, even though her great gaunt palazzo has been denuded of every picture and work of art years ago, and she lives with a _donna di casa_ in four or five meagre rooms on the first floor, the remainder of the great place being unfurnished and untenanted. there is more pitiful make-believe among the aristocracy of rome than in any other city in the world. the old principessa, the marchesa, and the contessa keep themselves within their own little circle, and sneer at the wealthy foreigner and his blatant display of riches. one hears girls of the school-room discussing the social scale of passers-by, and disregarding them as not being "of the aristocracy" like themselves. truly the eternal city is a complex one in winter, and the corso at four o'clock, is the centre of it all. you know that slowly-passing almost funereal line of carriages, some of them very old and almost hearse-like, moving up and down, half of them emblazoned with coronets and shields--for the italian is ever proud of his heraldry--while the other half hired conveyances, many of them ordinary cabs in which sit some of the wealthiest men and women in europe who have come south to see the antiquities and to enjoy the sunshine. behind the lumbering old-fashioned brougham of a weedy marchesa, lord nassington drove his big powerful car at snail's pace, and almost silently. in such traffic the flexibility of the six-cylinder is at once appreciated. both garrett and his master had their eyes about them, as though in search of some one. a dozen times pretty women in furs bowed to lord nassington, who raised his motor-cap in acknowledgment. the smart, good-looking young peer had spent a couple of months there during the previous winter and had become immensely popular with the cosmopolitan world who gather annually in the italian capital. therefore, when he had arrived at the excelsior, a week before, word had quickly gone round the hotels, clubs, pastrycooks, and _cafes_ that the young english motoring milord had returned. upon the table of his luxurious little sitting-room at the hotel were lying a dozen or so invitations to dinners, receptions, the opera, and a luncheon-party out at tivoli, while charles, his man, had been busy spreading some picturesque gossip concerning his master. for the nonce his highness prince albert of hesse-holstein was _incognito_, and as was the case sometimes, he was passing as an english peer, about whose whereabouts, position, and estates debrett was somewhat vague. according to that volume of volumes, lord nassington had let his ancestral seat in northamptonshire, and lived in new orleans. therefore, his highness had but little to fear from unwelcome inquiry. he spoke english as perfectly as he could speak german when occasion required, for to his command of languages his success had been in great measure due. such a fine car as his had seldom, if ever, been seen in rome. it was part of his creed to make people gossip about him, for as soon as they talked they began to tumble over each other in their endeavour to make his acquaintance. both garrett and charles always had some interesting fiction to impart to other servants, and so filter through to their masters and mistresses. the story running round rome, and being passed from mouth to mouth along the corso, in aregno's, in the excelsior, and up among the idlers on the pincio, was that that reckless devil-may-care young fellow in motor-coat and cap, smoking a cigar as he drove, had only a fortnight before played with maximums at monte carlo, and in one day alone had won over forty thousand pounds at roulette. the rather foppishly dressed italians idling along the corso--every man a born gambler--were all interested in him as he passed. he was a favourite of fortune, and they envied him his good luck. and though they wore yellow gloves and patent-leather boots they yearned for a _terno_ on the lotto--the aspiration of every man, be he _conte_ or _contadino_. as his lordship approached the end of the long, narrow street close to the porta del popolo, garrett gave him a nudge, and glancing at an oncoming carriage he saw in it two pretty dark-haired girls. one, the better looking of the pair, was about twenty-two, and wore rich sables, with a neat toque of the same fur. the other about three years her senior, wore a black hat, a velvet coat, and a boa of white arctic fox. both were delicate, refined-looking girls, and evidently ladies. nassington raised his cap and laughed, receiving nods and merry laughs of recognition in return. "i wonder where they're going, garrett?" he remarked after they had passed. "better follow them, hadn't we?" remarked the man. a moment later, however, a humble cab passed, one of those little open victorias which the visitor to rome knows so well, and in it was seated alone a middle-aged, rather red-faced english clergyman. his lordship and he exchanged glances, but neither recognised each other. "good!" whispered the man at the wheel to his servant beside him. "so the parson's arrived. he hasn't been long on the way from berlin. i suppose he's keeping his eye upon the girls." "trust him," laughed the chauffeur. "you sent him the snap-shot, i suppose?" "of course. and it seems he's lost no time. he couldn't have arrived before five o'clock this morning." "when clayton's on a good thing he moves about as quickly as you do," the smart young english chauffeur remarked. "yes," his master admitted. "he's the most resourceful man i've ever known--and i've known a few. we'll take a run up the pincio and back," and, without changing speed, he began to ascend the winding road which leads to the top of the hill. up there, they found quite a crowd of people whom nassington had known the previous season. rome was full of life, merriment and gaiety. carnival had passed, and the pasqua was fast approaching; the time when the roman season is at its gayest and when the hotels are full. the court receptions and balls at the quirinale had brought the italian aristocracy from the various cities, and the ambassadors were mostly at their posts because of the weekly diplomatic receptions. surely it is a strange world--that vain, silly, out-dressing world of rome, where religion is only the cant of the popular confessor and the scandal of a promenade through st peter's or san giovanni. at the summit of the pincio lord nassington pulled up the car close to the long stone balustrade, and as he did so a young italian elegant, the marquis carlo di rimini, stepped up and seizing his hand, was profuse in his welcome back to rome. the englishman descended from the car, lit one of his eternal "petroffs," and leaned upon the balustrade to chat and learn the latest scandal. the marquis carlo and he were fellow members of the circolo unione, one of the smartest clubs in rome, and had played bridge together through many a night. a whisper had once gone forth that the source of the over-dressed young noble's income was cards, but nassington had always given him his due. he had never caught him cheating, and surely if he had cheated the englishman would have known it. as they stood there, gazing across the city below, the sky was aflame in all the crimson glory of the roman sunset, and even as they spoke the angelus had, of a sudden, clashed forth from every church tower, the bells clanging discordantly far and near. it was the hour of the _venti-tre_, but in the city nobody cared. the patient toilers in the campagna, however, the _contadini_ in the fields and in the vineyards who had been working on the brown earth since the dawn, crossed themselves with a murmured prayer to the madonna and prodded their ox-teams onward. in rome itself nowadays, alas! the bells of the _venti-tre_ of spring and winter only remind the gay, giddy cosmopolitan crowd that it is the hour for tea in the halls of the hotels, or the english tea-rooms in the corso. an hour later, when his lordship entered his room at the excelsior, he found the reverend thomas clayton seated in his armchair patiently smoking and awaiting him. "by jove! old chap. you got through quick," cried his lordship throwing off his coat and cap. "well?" "it's a soft thing--that's my opinion, the girl velia is devilish pretty, and the cousin isn't half bad-looking. i haven't been idle. got in at six--an hour late, of course, had a bath and breakfast and out. saw a dozen people i know before noon, lunched at that little _trattoria_ behind the post office where so many of the deputies go, and learnt a lot. i'm no stranger here you know--lived here a year once-- did a splendid bit of business, but had to slip. that was the year before we joined our forces." "well, what do you know?" "boncini, her father is, of course, minister of the interior, and a pretty slick customer. made pots of money, they say, and only keeps in office by bribery. half the money subscribed by charitable people on behalf of the sufferers from the recent earthquake down in calabria went into his pocket. he bought a big villa, and fine estate, close to vallombrosa a month or so afterwards." his lordship grunted. "picks up what he can?" he remarked. "one of us--it seems!" "exactly. and to do any business, we'll have to be pretty cute. he's already seen and heard a lot of you, and he knows that you've met his pretty daughter. perhaps he fancies you'll marry her." "the only use of marriage to a man, my dear clayton," exclaimed the devil-may-care adventurer blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from his lips, "is to enable him to make a settlement upon his wife, and so wriggle from the clutches of his creditors." the parson laughed. regarding the marriage tie his highness, or "his lordship" rather as he was at that moment called, was always sarcastic. "really, old chap, you spread your fame wherever you go. why, all rome is talking about this wonderful coup of yours at monte." "it was garrett's idea. he told them down in the garage, and charles told a lady's maid or two, i think. such things are quite easy when one starts out upon a big bluff. but if what you've discovered about his excellency the minister boncini is really true, then i shall alter my tactics somewhat. i mean that i must make the dark-haired daughter a stepping-stone to her father." "with care--my dear fellow," exclaimed the parson in that calm, clerical drawl habitual to him. "the girl's cousin, miss ethel thorold, is english. the sister of the signora boncini married a man on the london stock exchange, named thorold." "that's awkward," exclaimed his lordship thoughtfully, "upsets my plans." "but he's dead," the parson declared. his companion nodded satisfaction. "now miss ethel is, i've found, a rather religiously inclined young person--all praise to her. so i shall succeed very soon in getting to know her. indeed, as you've already made her acquaintance you might introduce me as the vicar of some living within your gift." "excellent--i will." "and what's your plans?" "they're my own secrets at present, tommy," was the other's quick answer. "you're at the grand, aren't you? well, for the present, we must be strangers--till i approach you. understand?" "of course. give me five hundred francs will you. i'm short?" his lordship unlocked his heavy steel despatch-box and gave his friend five one-hundred franc notes without a word. then they reseated themselves, and with charles, the faithful valet, leaning against the edge of the table smoking a cigarette with them, their conversation was both interesting and confidential. a fortnight went by, and rome was in the middle of her pasqua _fetes_. the night was perfect, bright and star-lit. the great gilded ballroom of the huge old peruzzi palace, in the via nazionale, the residence of his excellency the minister boncini, was thronged by a brilliant crowd, among whom lord nassington made his way, ever and anon bowing over some woman's hand. the bright uniforms, the glittering stars and coloured ribbons worn by the men, and the magnificent toilettes of the women combined to form a perfect phantasmagoria of colour beneath the huge crystal electroliers. the political and social world of rome had gathered there at the monthly reception of his excellency, the rather stout grey-bearded man with the broad cerise-and-white ribbon of the order of the crown of italy across his shirt-front, and the diamond star upon his coat. his lordship strode through the huge painted _salons_ with their heavy gilt mirrors and giant palms, and approached the man of power in that complex nation, modern italy. at that moment his excellency was chatting with the french ambassador, but on the englishman's approach he turned to him exclaiming in french: "ah! lord nassington! i am so pleased you could come. velia told me of the slight accident to your car yesterday. i hope you were not hurt at all?" "oh! no," laughed the debonair young man. "i had perhaps a close shave. my car is a rather fast one, and i was driving recklessly on the maremma road--a sharp turn--and i ran down a bank, that's all. the car will be all right by to-morrow." "ah, milord. the automobile is an invention of the future, without a doubt." "most certainly. indeed, as a matter of fact, i thought of making a suggestion to your excellency--one which i believe would be most acceptable to the italian nation. but, of course, here it's quite impossible to talk." "then come to-morrow morning to my private cabinet at the ministry--or better still, here to luncheon, and we can chat." his lordship expressed his thanks, and then moved off in search of the pretty velia. for the greater part of the evening he dangled at the side of the good-looking girl in turquoise chiffon, having several waltzes with her and afterwards strolling out upon the balcony and sitting there beneath the starlight. "what a charming man your friend mr clayton is!" exclaimed the girl in english, as they were sitting together apart from the others. "papa is delighted with him." "oh, yes--a most excellent fellow for a parson," his lordship laughed, and then their conversation turned upon motors and motoring. "how is your shoulder this evening?" she inquired. "not at all painful," he declared. "it's nearly all right again. the car will be ready for the road to-morrow afternoon. i'm lunching with you here, and i wonder if you and your cousin will come with me for a run out to tivoli afterwards?" "i should be delighted," she said. "our car is only a sixteen `fiat' you know, and we never travel faster than a cab. it would be such fun to have a run in your beautiful `sixty'! i don't suppose papa would object." "i'll ask him to come, too," laughed the man by whom she had become so attracted, and then they returned for another dance. her ears were open, and so were those of the shrewd old man who controlled the internal affairs of the kingdom. there were whisperings everywhere, regarding the young man's wealth, his good fortune, and his aristocratic family. his excellency had not failed to notice the attraction which the young english peer held for his daughter, and also that he paid her marked attention. therefore the old man was extremely self-satisfied. next day after the little family luncheon at the peruzzi palace at which only the signora boncini, velia, and her cousin ethel were present, his excellency took his guest aside in his small private room for their coffee and cigarettes. nassington offered the minister one of his "petroffs" which was pronounced excellent. then, after a brief chat, his lordship came to the point. "the fact is, your excellency," he said, "a suggestion has occurred to me by which the italian government could, while benefiting the country to an enormous extent, at the same time secure a very handsome sum annually towards the exchequer." "how?" inquired the shrewd old statesman. "by granting to a group of substantial english financiers a monopoly for the whole of the motor-transport of italy," his lordship replied, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips. "you have, in every part of the kingdom, great tracts of productive country without railways or communications. at the same time you have excellent roads everywhere. the concession, if granted, would be taken up by a great firm who handle motor-traction, and certain districts, approved by your government, would be opened up as an experiment. would not that be of national benefit?" "i see," replied the statesman stroking his beard thoughtfully. "and you propose that the earnings of the syndicate should be taxed by our department of finance?" "exactly." a keen, eager look was in the old man's eyes, and did not pass unrecognised by the man lounging in the armchair in picturesque indolence. "and suppose we were to go into the matter," the minister said. "what attitude would your lordship adopt?" "well--my attitude would be this," nassington replied. "you give me the proper concession, signed by the ministers, and i guarantee to find the capital among my personal friends in financial circles in london. but on one condition," he added. "that the whole matter is kept secret. afterwards, i venture to think the whole country, and especially the rural population will be grateful to your excellency." boncini instantly saw that such a move would increase his popularity immensely in the country. the idea appealed to him. if lord nassington's friends were ready with capital, they would also be ready, he foresaw, with a very substantial sum for bribery. personally he cared not a rap for the progress of italy. while in office, he intended to amass as much as he could. he was the all-powerful man in italy at the moment. but next year he might be--well where more than one minister as powerful as he, had found himself--in prison! "there are difficulties," his excellency said with some hesitation. "my colleagues in the cabinet may raise objections. they may not see matters in the light that i do. and the senate, too--they--" "i know. i quite understand your excellency," exclaimed his lordship, lowering his voice into a confidential whisper. "let us speak quite frankly. in a gigantic matter of this sort--a matter of millions-- certain palm-oil has to be applied--eh?" the old man smiled, placed his hands together and nodded. "then let us go further," lord nassington went on. "i submit in all deference--and, of course, this conversation is strictly in private between us, that should you think favourably of the scheme--my friends should secretly place a certain sum, say one hundred thousand pounds sterling at your excellency's command, to apply in whatever way you may think best to secure the success of the proposition. are you willing?" the old man rose from his chair, and standing before the younger man stretched forth his hand. "perfectly," he said as the other grasped it. "we agree." "and if i frame the form of the concession you will agree to it and, in return for an undertaking of the payment of one hundred thousand pounds into--where shall we say--into the head office of the credit lyonnais in paris in the name of your nominee, you will hand me the legal concession confirmed by the italian government?" "i agree to hand you the necessary documents within a fortnight," responded his excellency. "the adoption of motor-traction in the remote districts for bringing wine and produce to the nearest railways will be of the greatest boon to our country." "of course, my friends will leave the whole of the details, as far as finance on your side is concerned, to you," his lordship said. "you can administer the official backsheesh so much better than any one else." "within a fortnight you shall be able, my lord, to hand your friends the actual concession for motor-transport throughout the kingdom of italy." for another half-hour they discussed certain details, lord nassington talking big about his wealthy friends in london. then, with his daughter and his niece, his excellency accepted his guest's invitation for a run out to tivoli to take tea. the "sixty" ran splendidly, and the minister of the interior was delighted. before the girls, however, no business was discussed. velia's father, who, by the way had once been a clever advocate in milan, knew better than to mention affairs of state before women. during the run, however, he found himself counting upon the possibilities of velia's marriage with the amiable young english aristocrat who, upon his own initiative, had offered to place one hundred thousand sterling unreservedly in his hands. at most the present cabinet could last another year, and then--well, oblivion if before then he did not line his nest snugly enough. the thought of the poor widows and orphans and starving populace down in calabria sometimes caused him a twinge of conscience. but he only laughed and placed it aside. he had even been unscrupulous, and this young english peer was his friend, he would use to best advantage. though lord nassington was an eligible husband for his daughter, yet, after all, he was not a business man, but a wealthy "mug." as such he intended to treat him. at the little _cafe_, near the falls, where they took tea the conversation ran on motors and motoring, but his excellency could not disguise from himself that the young peer was entirely fascinated by his good-looking daughter. they lingered there until the mists began to rise and the red afterglow was fast disappearing; then they ran past the sulphur springs and on the broad highway back to the eternal city at such a pace that his excellency's breath was taken away. but lord nassington drove, and notwithstanding the accident of two days previously, the minister felt himself perfectly safe in his hands. three weeks went by. his lordship took a flying visit to london, and quickly returned. both he and the highly respectable clergyman of the english church, the reverend thomas clayton, became daily visitors at the peruzzi palace. in the corso the pretty signorina boncini and her cousin were often seen in his lordship's car, and already the gossip-loving world of rome began to whisper that an engagement was about to take place. the valet, charles, also made a quick journey to london and back, and many telegrams were exchanged with a registered cable address in london. one afternoon, in the private cabinet of that colossal building, the ministry of the interior, his excellency handed his english friend a formidable document bearing many signatures with the official seal of the government embossed, a document which gave lord nassington the exclusive right to establish motor-transport for both merchandise and passengers upon every highway in the kingdom. in exchange, his excellency received an undertaking signed by a responsible firm in the city of london to place to the account of madame boncini at the credit lyonnais in paris the respectable sum of one hundred thousand pounds within seven days. "i shall return at once to london," his lordship said replacing the formidable document in its envelope, "and in exchange for this, the financial group will at once pay in the sum to madame's account in paris, while the actual sum for the concession will be paid here, in rome, to the department of finance, on the date stipulated." "benissimo," replied the grey-bearded statesman, holding one of his long toscano cigars in the candle which he had lit for that purpose. "it is all settled. you will dine with us at home to-night." his lordship accepted, and after further discussion regarding several minor details of the concession he rose and left. that night he dined at the peruzzi palace, seated next his excellency's charming daughter, and next morning left the excelsior in his big red car, to run as far as bologna and thence return to london by rail. with her father's consent velia her cousin and signora ciullini, her aunt, accompanied him and they set out across the maremma for marble-built pisa, where the girls were to return home by rail. the more direct road was by orvieto, but it is not so good as that wide, open road across the fever-marshes of the maremma, therefore his lordship resolved on taking the latter. the day was glorious, and travelling for all they were worth with only two stops to refill with petrol, they ran into pisa late that same night. the sleeping-car express from paris to rome was due in half an hour, therefore after a scrambling meal at the victoria the aristocratic motorist saw the girls and their aunt safely into the train--kissing velia in secret by the way--and waving them "addio," watched the train glide out of the big echoing station again. then, with garrett at his side, he turned the big car with its glaring head-lights out of the big gates through the town along the lung' arno and into the high road for florence. in the early morning he passed through the dimly-lit deserted streets of the city of the medici, and away beyond, through prato, to the foot-hills of the appenines where he began to ascend that wonderfully engineered military road which runs, with many dangerous turns for motorists, high up across the mountain range, and ends in the long colonnaded street of old bologna. it was noon ere he drew into the piazza before the station, and giving garrett instructions to continue on to milan and north to berlin where the car was to be garaged, he took the afternoon express for the frontier at chiasso, travelling thence _via_ bale to ostend and london. on entering his snug chambers at five o'clock one afternoon, he found charles and the parson smoking and awaiting him. that evening the trio held a long and earnest consultation. the official document was carefully examined, and the names of many city firms mentioned. the parson seemed to possess a remarkable intimate knowledge of city life. "old boncini is a clever old thief," remarked the reverend gentleman. "he's feathering his nest finely--all the money in his wife's name." "my dear fellow, half the cabinet ministers of europe only use their political influence in order to gain fortune. except the british government there isn't a single one which isn't corrupt." "well, albert, my dear boy, you certainly seem to have got hold of a good thing," the parson remarked. "his corrupt excellency seems to place every faith in you. your four-flush was admirable all the time." "it took a bit of working, i can tell you. he's as slick as a rat." "but he doesn't suspect anything wrong?" "hasn't the slightest idea of it, my dear tommy. he fancies i'm going to marry his daughter. the fat old mother is already imagining herself mother-in-law of a british peer." "yes. all rome knows that you've fallen in love with the pretty velia, and that you've told her the tale. what a fellow you are with the ladies." "why?" he laughed taking a cigarette. "they are all very charming and delightful. but in my career i generally manage to make them useful. it's really remarkable what a woman will do in the interests of the man whom she fancies is in love with her. fortunately, perhaps, for me, i've only been in love once." "and it resulted in a tragedy," remarked the parson quietly, knowing that he referred to the princess. his lordship sighed, flinging himself down in his armchair, worn out by long travel. "my dear boy," he said with a weary sigh, "if i ever got married i'd soon go mothy--everybody does. married people, whatever their position in life, settle down into the monotonous groove that is the death of all romance. before a man marries a girl they have little dinners together at restaurants, and little suppers, and all seems so bright and gay under the red candle-shades. we see it on every hand. but why should it all be dropped for heavy meals and dulness, just because two people who like one another have the marriage service read over them?" the parson laughed. his friend was always amusing when he discussed the question of matrimony. during the next four days his lordship, in the character of mr tremlett--as he was known in certain circles in the city--was busy with financiers to whom he offered the concession. his story was that it had been granted by the italian government to his cousin, lord nassington, and that the latter had given it into his hands to negotiate. in the various quarters where he offered it the concession caused a flutter of excitement. the shrewdest men in the city saw that it was a good thing, and one after the other craved a day to think it over. it really was one of the best things that had been offered for a long time. the terms required by the italian government were not at all heavy, and huge profits were certain to be made out of such a monopoly. the great tracts of fertile land in central and southern italy would, by means of motor-transport, be opened up to trade, while tremlett's picturesque story of how the concession had been snatched away from a strong group of german financiers was, to more than one capitalist, most fascinating. indeed he saw half a dozen of the most influential men in the city, and before a week was out he had got together a syndicate which could command a couple of millions sterling. they were all of them shrewd men, however, and he saw that it behoved him to be on the alert. there is such a thing in the city as to be "frozen out" of a good thing, even when one holds it in one's hand. by dint of close watching and clever observation, he discovered something, and this caused him to ponder deeply. the syndicate expressed themselves ready to treat, but for the present he was rather unwilling. some hitches occurred on technicalities, and there were a number of meetings to consider this point and that. by all this mr tremlett saw that he was losing time, and at the same moment he was not keeping faith with the old statesman concerning the amount to be paid into madame's account in paris. at last one morning, after the parson had left for an unknown destination, he took a taxi-cab down to the city with a bold resolve. the five prominent financiers were seated together in an office in old broad street when mr tremlett, leaning back in his chair, said: "well, gentlemen, it seems that we are as far away as ever from coming to terms, and i think it useless to discuss the matter further. i must take the business elsewhere." "we admit," exclaimed an old bald man, a director of one of london's largest banks, "that it is a good thing, but the price you ask is prohibitive." "i can get it in paris. so i shall go there," was tremlett's prompt reply. "well," exclaimed the bald man, "let's get straight to facts. your cousin, lord nassington, wants sixty thousand pounds in cash for the concession and a percentage of shares, and that, we have decided, is far too much." "those are his figures," remarked tremlett. "well, then all we can offer is one-half--thirty thousand in cash and ten per cent, of shares in the company," said the other, "and," he added, "i venture to say that ours is a very handsome offer." tremlett rose from the table with a sarcastic smile. "let us talk of something else," he said. "i haven't come down here to the city to play at marbles." "well," asked the old man who was head of the syndicate. "what are your lowest terms?" "i've stated them." "but you don't give us time to inquire into the business," he complained. "i have shown you the actual concession. surely you are satisfied with it!" "we are." "and i've told you the conditions of the contract. yet you postpone your decision from day to day!" the five men glanced at each other, rather uneasily tremlett thought. "well," he went on. "this is the last time i shall attend any meeting. we come to a decision this morning, or the matter is off. you, gentlemen, don't even show _bona fides_!" "well, i think you know something of the standing of all of us," the banker said. "that is so. but my cousin complains that he, having offered the concession, you on your part do not attempt to show your intention to take it up." "but we do. we wish to fix a price to-day," remarked another of the men. "a price, gentlemen, which is ridiculous," declared tremlett. the five men consulted together in undertones, and in the end advanced their offer five thousand pounds. at this tremlett only shook his shoulders. a further five thousand was the result, and a long discussion followed. "have you your cousin's authority to accept terms?" asked one of the capitalists. "i have." "then forty thousand is all we can offer." tremlett hesitated. "i have a number of payments to make for bribery," he declared. "it will take half that sum." "that does not concern us, my dear sir," said the bald-headed banker. "we know that a concession such as this can only be obtained by the judicious application of palm-oil." "but i must pay out nearly twenty thousand almost immediately," tremlett said. at this there was another long discussion, whereupon at last the bald-headed man said: "if the payment of the bribes is imperative at once, we will, on consideration of the business being to-day concluded on a forty thousand pound basis, hand you over half the sum at once. that is our final decision." tremlett was not at all anxious. indeed he took up his hat and cane, and was about to leave, when two of the men present exercising all their powers of persuasion, got him at last to reseat himself and to accept the sum of twenty thousand pounds down, and twenty thousand thirty days from that date, in addition to a percentage of shares in the company to be formed. memoranda were drawn up and signed by all parties, whereupon tremlett took from his pocket the official concession and handed it to the head of the syndicate. that same afternoon, before four o'clock, he had received a draft for twenty thousand pounds, with which he had opened an account in charles's name at a branch bank in tottenham court road. at nine o'clock that same evening he left for paris, putting up at a small obscure hotel near the gare du nord where he waited in patience for nearly a week. once or twice he telegraphed, and received replies. late one night the parson arrived unexpectedly and entered the shabby bedroom where his lordship was lounging in an armchair reading a french novel. he sprung up at the entrance of the round-faced cleric, saying: "well, tommy? how has it gone? tell me quick." "you were quite right," exclaimed the clergyman. "the crowd in london were going behind your back. they sent two clever men to rome, and those fellows tried to deal with boncini direct. they arrived the day after i did, and they offered him an extra twenty thousand if he would rescind your concession, and grant them a new one. boncini was too avaricious and refused, so they then treated with you." "i got twenty thousand," remarked his lordship, "got it in cash safe in the bank." "yes. i got your wire." "and what did you do?" asked his friend. "i acted just as you ordered. as soon as i was convinced that the people in london were working behind our backs, i laid my plans. then when your wire came that you'd netted the twenty thousand, i acted." "how?" "i took all the signed proof you gave me of old boncini's acceptance of the bribe, and of madame's banking account at the credit lyonnais, to that scoundrel ricci, the red-hot socialist deputy in the chamber." "and what did he say?" asked his lordship breathlessly. "say!" echoed the other. "he was delighted. i spent the whole evening with him. next day, he and his colleagues held a meeting, and that afternoon he asked in the chamber whether his excellency, the minister of the interior, had not been bribed by an english syndicate and put a number of similarly awkward questions. the government had a difficulty in evading the truth, but imagine the sensation when he waved proofs of the corruptness of the cabinet in the face of the house. a terrible scene of disorder ensued, and the greatest sensation has been caused. look here,"--and he handed his friend a copy of _le soir_. at the head of a column on the front page were the words in french, "cabinet crisis in italy," and beneath, a telegram from rome announcing that in consequence of the exposure of grave scandals by the socialists, the italian cabinet had placed their resignations in the hands of his majesty. "serve that old thief boncini right," declared his lordship. "he was ready to sell me for an extra few thousands, but i fortunately got in before him. i wonder if the pretty velia has still any aspirations to enter the british peerage?" and both men laughed merrily at thought of the nice little nest-egg they had managed to filch so cleverly from the hands of five of the smartest financiers in the city of london. chapter ten. love and the outlaw. "by jove!" i ejaculated, "who's the girl, prince?" "that's zorka. pretty, isn't she, diprose?" "pretty!" i echoed. "why, she's the most beautiful woman i've seen in the whole of servia!" we were driving slowly together in the big "sixty" up the main street of the city of belgrade, and were at that moment passing the iron railings of the palace of his majesty king peter. it was a bright dry afternoon, and the boulevard was thronged by a smart crowd, ladies in paris-made gowns, and officers in brilliant uniforms and white crosses with red and white ribbons on their breasts. belgrade, though constantly in a ferment of political storm and stress, and where rumours of plots against the throne are whispered nightly in the corners of drawing-rooms, is, nevertheless, a quiet and pleasant place. its picturesque situation, high up upon its rocks at the confluence of the save with the danube, its pretty kalemegdan gardens, its wide boulevard and its pleasant suburbs, combine to offer considerable attraction to the foreigner. it is the gateway to eastern europe. at quiet old semlin--or zimony--on the opposite bank of the danube is hungary, the fringe of western europe: in belgrade the orient commences. i happened to be at the grand at belgrade, and had there found the prince, or reggie martin, as he always called himself in the balkans. he was idling, with no apparent object. only the faithful garrett was with him. both charles and the parson he had left behind in london. therefore, i concluded that the reason of his presence in servia was to learn some diplomatic secret or other, for he only went to the balkans with that one object. of his business, the prince seldom, if ever, spoke. even from his most intimate associate, the rev thomas clayton, he usually concealed his ulterior object until it was attained. the parson, garrett, and charles acted in blind obedience. they were paid to obey, not to reason, he often told them. and so it was that although we had been together a week in king peter's capital, i was in entire ignorance of the reason of his presence there. as we had brought the big car slowly along the boulevard, a dark-eyed peasant-girl, with a face full of wondrous beauty, had nodded saucily to him, and this had caused me to notice and admire her. belgrade is full of pretty women, but not one was half so handsome. she was about twenty, i judged, and the manner in which her hair was dressed with the gay-coloured handkerchief upon it was in the style of unmarried women. "i want to speak to her, to ask her a question," the prince said suddenly, after we had gone some distance. and driving the car down into the square we turned back in order to overtake her. "an old friend of yours?" i inquired. "yes, my dear diprose," he laughed as he touched the button of the electric horn. "and a girl with a very remarkable past. her story would make a good novel--by jove it would." five minutes later we had overtaken her, and pulled up at the kerb. the girl blushed and appeared confused as my companion, stopping the car, got down and stood at her side with his motor-cap raised. he spoke to her in his best servian, for he knew a smattering of that difficult language, and appeared to be inviting her to enter the car and come for a run. at first she was disinclined to accept the invitation, because of the crowd of smart promenaders. she was probably shy at being seen in the company of two foreigners. at last her curiosity as to what conveyance by automobile might be got the better of her, and she reluctantly entered the door held open for her. then reggie introduced us, and got back to his seat at the wheel, i mounting again to my place beside him. in a few minutes we were out on the broad semendria road, a fine well-kept military highway, and on getting clear of the town, put on a "move" until the speedometer before me registered fifty miles an hour. zorka, now alone with us, clapped her hands with childish delight. she was an eastern beauty of rare type, with full red lips, magnificent luminous eyes, and a pink and white complexion that any woman of mayfair would envy. ten miles from belgrade, we stopped at a small wine-shop and had some refreshment. she sat at the little table before us laughing at me because we could not understand each other. in lieu of paying the rustic beauty compliments, i raised my glass and bowed. she accepted my homage with queenly grace. indeed, in her peasant costume of scarlet and black, with golden sequins on the bodice, she reminded me of a heroine of opera. we sat in the little garden above the broad blue danube until the sun grew golden with departing day, the prince chatting with her and laughing merrily. he seemed to be asking many questions, while i, in my curiosity, kept pestering him to tell the story of our beautiful companion--the story which he had declared to be so remarkable and romantic. he had offered her one of his "petroffs" from his gold cigarette-case, and she was smoking with the air of one accustomed to the use of tobacco. our eyes met suddenly, and blowing a cloud of smoke from her pretty lips she suddenly burst out laughing. apparently she was enjoying that unconventional meeting to its full bent. she had never before ridden in a motor-car--indeed, there are but few in servia--and the rush through the air had exhilarated her. i noted her well-formed hands, her splendid bust, and her slim, graceful figure, and i longed to hear her story. the prince possessed, indeed, a wide circle of friends ranging from princes of the blood down to peasants. at last he made some remarks, whereupon our delightful little companion grew suddenly silent, her great dark eyes fixed upon me. "zorka is not servian, diprose," the prince began. "she's turkish. and this meeting to-day has recalled to me memories, of a strange and very remarkable incident which occurred to me not so very long ago." and then he went on to relate the following chapter of his amazing life-story. i will here record it in his own words: that silent night was glorious. i shall preserve its memory for ever. high up to that mountain fastness i was the first stranger to ascend, for i was the guest of a wild tribe of albanian brigands, those men of the skreli who from time to time hold up travellers to ransom, and against whom the turkish government are powerless. it was a weird, never-to-be-forgotten experience, living with those tall, handsome fellows in white skin-tight woollen trousers with big snake-like bands running up the legs, black furry boleros, and white fezes. every man was armed to the teeth with great silver-hilted pistols and long knives in their belts, and nobody went a dozen yards without his rifle ready loaded. ever since the days before we were together at cheltenham, diprose, i had read stories of brigands, but here was the real thing--the free-booters of the mountains, who would never let me go about without a dozen men as guard, lest i should be mistaken for a stranger and "picked off" by one of the tribe lurking behind a rock. life is, indeed, cheap in the skreli country, that great range of inaccessible mountains east of gallant little montenegro. on that night in the early autumn i was seated upon a rock with a tall, thin, wiry, but handsome, young man, named luk, known in his tribe as "the open eye," whom the great chieftain, vatt marashi, had given me as head of my body-guard, while beside was the dark-faced albanian who, speaking italian, acted as my guide and interpreter. zorka was spinning her flax close by. in the domain of his imperial majesty the sultan, the moon seems to shine with far greater brilliancy than it does anywhere else in the world, and surely the panorama of high mountain and deep dark valley there spread before us was a veritable stage-picture, while the men at my side were as romantic looking a pair as could be found anywhere in real life. many times, as at night i lay down upon my humble bed of leaves, had i reflected how insecure was my position, and how easily my hosts could break their word, hold me to ransom, and worry the foreign office. yet, let me here assert that all, from the chieftain, down to the humblest tribesman, treated me with a kindness, courtesy, and forethought, that, from the first, caused me to admire them. they might be brigands, and the blood-curdling stories of their cruelty might possibly be true, but they were, without doubt, a most gentlemanly gang of ruffians. we had eaten our evening meal, and were sitting in the calm night smoking cigarettes, prior to turning in. the two men beside me had placed their rifles upon the ground, where the moonbeams glinted along the bright barrels, and our conversation had become exhausted. below, in that dark valley, ran the mule-track to ipek, therefore day and night it was watched for passing travellers, as indeed were all the paths at the confines of the territory over which my friend vatt marashi, defiant of the turks, ruled so firmly and yet so justly. luk, rolling a fresh cigarette, was making some remark to palok, my guide, in his peculiar soft-sounding but unwritten language, when it suddenly occurred to me to ask him to give me some little reminiscence of his own adventurous life. he was silent for a few moments, his keen gaze upon the shining rifle-barrel before him, then, with palok translating into italian, he told me the story of how he earned his nickname of "the open eye." about two years before, when his tribe were at feud with their neighbours, the powerful kastrati, who live in the opposite range of mountains, he was one dark night with a party of his fellow tribesmen in ambush, expecting a raid from their enemies. the false alarms were several when, of a sudden, luk discerned a dark figure moving slowly in the gloom. raising his rifle he was on the point of firing when some impulse seized him to stay his hand and shout a challenge. the reply was a frightened one--and in turkish. luk came forth from his hiding-place, and a few seconds later, to his great surprise, encountered the stranger, who proved to be a woman wearing her veil, and enshrouded by an ugly black shawl wrapped about her. he knew sufficient turkish to demand her name, and whence she had come, but she refused to satisfy him. she had already recognised by his dress, that he was of the tribe of the skreli, therefore she knew that she had fallen into the hands of enemies. "speak!" he cried, believing her to be a spy from the kastrati. "tell me who sent you here to us? whither are you going?" "i know not," was her reply in a sweet voice which told him at once that she was quite young, and he, being unmarried, became instantly interested. "where are you from?" he asked, expecting that she had come from skodra, the nearest turkish town. "from constantinople," was her reply. "constantinople!" gasped luk, to whom the capital was so far off as to be only a mere city of legend. it was, indeed, many hundred leagues away. in the darkness he could not see her eyes. he could only distinguish that the lower part of her face was veiled like that of all mahommedan women. "and you have come here alone?" he asked. "yes, alone. i--i could not remain in constantinople longer. am i still in turkey?" "nominally, yes. but the sultan does not rule us here. we, of the skreli, are christians, and our country is a free one--to ourselves, but not to our captives." "ah!" she said with failing heart. "i see! i am your captive--eh? i have heard in constantinople how you treat the turks whom you capture." "you may have heard many stories, but i assure you that the skreli never maltreat a woman," was the brigand's proud answer. "this path is unsafe for you, and besides it is my duty to take you to our chief vatt marashi that he may decide whether we give you safe conduct." "no, no!" she implored. "i have heard of him. take pity upon me--a defenceless woman! i--i thought to escape from turkey. i have no passport, so i left the train and hoped to get across the mountains into montenegro, where i should be free." "then you have escaped from your harem--eh?" asked luk, his curiosity now thoroughly aroused. "yes. but i have money here with me--and my jewels. i will pay you-- pay you well, if you will help me. ah! you do not know!" luk was silent for a moment. "when a woman is in distress the skreli give their assistance without payment," was his reply, and then, as day was breaking, he led her up the steep and secret paths to that little settlement where we now were-- the headquarters of the all-powerful vatt marashi. at the latter's orders she unwound the veil from her face, disclosing the beautiful countenance of a turkish girl of eighteen, and when she took off her cloak it was seen that beneath she wore a beautiful harem dress, big, baggy trousers of rich mauve and gold brocade, and a little bolero of amaranth velvet richly embroidered with gold. upon her neck were splendid emeralds, pearls, and turquoises, and upon her wrists fine bracelets encrusted with diamonds. she stood in the lowly hut before the chief and her captor luk, a vision of perfect beauty--looking "a veritable houri as promised by mahommed," as luk put it. vatt marashi listened to her story. she had, she told him, escaped from her father's harem because she was betrothed, as is usual in turkey, to a man whom she had never seen. she had taken money from the place where one of the black eunuchs hoarded it, and with the assistance of a young officer, a cousin of hers, had succeeded in leaving the capital in the baggage-waggon of the orient express. unable to procure a passport, however, she dare not attempt to cross the frontier into bulgaria, for she would at once be detected, refused permission to travel, and sent back. for a turkish woman to attempt to leave turkey in that manner the punishment is death. so at some small station near the frontier, the name of which she did not know, she had, under cover of night, left the train, and taken to the mountains. for four days she had wandered alone, until luk had discovered her. "and what was done with her?" i inquired, much interested. "well," replied my companion. "she elected to remain with us, our chief giving her assurance that she would be well and honourably treated. he pointed out that had she been a man he would have demanded of the sultan a heavy ransom for her release, but as she was a defenceless woman, and alone, she was not to remain a prisoner. if she cared to accept the offer of the protection of the skreli, then every man of his tribe would defend her, and her honour to the last drop of blood remaining in their veins. the word of skreli, once given, is, as you know, never broken." and his was no idle boast. the code of honour among the tribes of northern albania would put even ours of england to the blush. the skreli are very bad enemies, but they are, as i know from personal experience, most firm and devoted friends. "and so it came about," luk went on, "that zorka--that was her name--was placed in my mother's charge, and discarded her veil, as do our own women. well--i suppose i may confess it--i loved her. it was only to be expected, i suppose, for she was very lovely, and every unmarried man in the tribe was her devoted admirer. though she lived with us, no word of affection passed between us. why should it? would it not have been folly?--she the daughter of a great pasha who was seeking for her all over turkey, and i a poor humble tribesman, and a christian into the bargain? and so a year went over. we often walked together, and the others envied me my friendship with the delicate and beautiful girl who preferred our free untrammelled life of the mountains to the constant confinement of her father's harem on the bosphorus. unlike that of our women, her skin was lily white, and her little hands as soft as satin. ah! yes, i loved her with all my soul, though i never dared to tell her so. she became as a sister to me, as a daughter to my mother. it was she who said the last word to me when i went forth upon a raid; she who waited to welcome me on my return." "and you said nothing," i remarked, with some surprise. "nothing. our chief had ordered that no man should declare his love to her. she was our guest, like yourself, and she was therefore sacred. well," he went on, gazing thoughtfully across the dark valley, the white moonbeams shining full upon his thin, sun-tanned countenance. "one day our men down yonder, on the northern border, discovered three strangers who were examining the rocks and chipping pieces off--french mining engineers we afterwards found them to be. they were captured, brought up here, and held to ransom. two were elderly men, but the third was about twenty-eight, well-dressed with a quantity of french banknotes upon him. at first the price we asked of the sultan was too high. the vali of skodra refused to pay, but suggested a smaller sum. we were in no hurry to compromise, so the three remained prisoners, and--" "and what?" "well, during that time the younger of the three saw zorka, and fell in love with her. i caught the pair one night walking together. they sat here, at this very spot. the frenchman had been in constantinople, and, speaking a little turkish, could converse with her. i crept up and overheard some of their conversation. next day i told the chief, and when he heard it he was angry, and ordered that the prisoners were to be released and sent away--without ransom--that very day. zorka was one of ourselves. so that afternoon the three strangers were escorted down to the skodra road, and there told to begone." here luk broke off, slowly rolling a fresh cigarette in silence. by the light of the brilliant moon i saw the sudden change in his countenance. "well?" i asked. "there is not much more to tell," he said hoarsely, hard lines showing at the corners of his mouth. "a few weeks later we one night missed zorka. the whole tribe went forth to search for her. some men of the hoti, down on the way to skodra, had seen a woman pass. vatt marashi took me with some others down to the lake-side, where we heard that she had escaped on the little steamer that runs up the lake to ryeka, in montenegro. and further that she had a male companion who, from his description, we knew to be the frenchman whose life we had spared. with the man was an elderly woman. he had evidently returned to skodra, and sent zorka a message in secret. at risk of arrest by the turks we went down into skodra itself, and saw the captain of the steamer, from whom we learnt that the frenchman's name was paul darbour, and that he was a mining engineer, living in paris. while on the boat he had chatted to the captain in french, and mentioned that he was going first to ragusa, down on the dalmatian coast. the skreli punish an insult to their women with death, therefore that same night, upon the lake shore, we twelve men and our good chief raised the blood-feud, and i was ordered to go forth in search of the man who had enticed away our zorka. none of them, however knew how deeply i loved her myself. well, i left, wearing the montenegrin dress, the blue baggy trousers, scarlet jacket, and pork-pie hat. through montenegro, down to cattaro, i followed them, and took the steamer along the adriatic to ragusa. but they had already left. for a month i followed the trio from place to place, until late one night, in trieste, i met zorka in european dress, walking with her lover along the quays. he was speaking sharply to her, evidently trying to induce her to act against her will, for she was weeping bitterly. i crept after them unseen in the shadows. from words she let drop in turkish i knew that he was treating her with cruelty, now that he had got her in his power--that she bitterly regretted listening to his love-speeches. i clenched my teeth, took a few sharp steps, and next instant my keen knife was buried up to the hilt behind our enemy's shoulder. he fell forward almost without a cry." "and zorka?" i asked. "i brought her safely back again to us," was his simple answer. "see. she is my wife!" luk is here, outside belgrade, the prince added. but in secret, for a price is set upon his head. he is a turkish brigand, and he and his band terrorise the montenegrin border. the servian government offered, only a month ago, twenty thousand dinars for his capture. they little dream he is in hiding in a cave over in yonder mountain, and that he is supplied with food by his faithful little wife here! and true sportsman that he was, he raised his glass again to her--and to her husband. chapter eleven. touching the widow's mite. one. the prince, keen motorist that he was, had--attended by the faithful garrett, of course--been executing some remarkably quick performances on the brooklands track. about a month before he had purchased a hundred horse-power racing-car, and now devoted a good deal of his time to the gentle art of record-breaking. some of his times for "the mile" had been very creditable, and as mr richard drummond, son of a manchester cotton magnate, his name was constantly appearing in the motor journals. having for the time being discarded the purple, and with it his cosy chambers off piccadilly, he had now taken up his quarters at that small hotel so greatly patronised by motorists, the "hut," on the ripley road. among the many road-scouts, with their red discs, in that vicinity he had become extremely popular on account of his generosity in tips, while to the police with his ugly grey low-built car with its two seats behind the long bonnet he was a perpetual source of annoyance. though he never exceeded the speed limit--in sight of the police--yet his open exhaust roared and throbbed, while his siren was the most ear-piercing of any on the road. a little bit of business up in staffordshire which he had recently brought to a successful issue by the aid of the faithful charles, the parson, and mr max mason, had placed them all in funds, and while the worthy bayswater vicar was taking his ease at the "majestic" up at harrogate--where, by the way, he had become extremely popular among his fellow guests--mason was at the bath at bournemouth for a change of air. to the guests at harrogate the rev thomas clayton had told the usual tale which seems to be on the lips of every cleric, no matter how snug his living--that of the poor parish, universal suffering, hard work, small stipend, ailing wife and several small children. indeed, he admitted to one or two of the religious old ladies whose acquaintance he had made, that some of his wealthier parishioners, owing to his nervous breakdown, had subscribed in order to send him there for a month's holiday. thus he had become indispensable to the tea-and-tattle circle, and the ladies soon began to refer to him as "that dear mr clayton." with one of them, a certain wealthy widow named edmondson, he had become a particular favourite, a fact which he had communicated in a letter to the good-looking motorist now living at the pretty wayside inn in front of the lake on the ripley road. while the parson was enjoying a most decorous time with the philanthropic widow, dick drummond, as he soon became known, had cultivated popularity in the motor-world. to men in some walks of life, and especially to those on the crooked by-paths, popularity is a very dangerous thing. indeed, as the prince had on many occasions pointed out in confidence to me, his popularity greatly troubled him, making it daily more difficult for him to conceal his identity. at that moment, because he had lowered a record at brooklands, he was living in daily terror of being photographed, and having his picture published in one or other of the illustrated papers. if this did occur, then was it not more than likely that somebody would identify dick drummond the motorist, with the handsome prince albert of hesse-holstein? he led a life of ease and comfort in all else, save this constant dread of recognition, and was seriously contemplating a sudden trip across the channel with a run through france and germany when he one morning received a registered letter bearing the harrogate postmark. he read it through half a dozen times. then he burned it. afterwards he lit a "petroff" and went out for a stroll in the sunshine along the road towards ripley village. "it's really wonderful how clerical clothes and a drawling voice attract a woman. they become fascinated, just as they do when they meet a prince. by jove!" he laughed merrily to himself. "what fools some women--and men, too, for the matter of that--make of themselves! they never trouble to institute inquiry, but accept you just at your own value. take myself as an instance! in all these four years nobody has ever discovered that i'm not prince albert. nobody has taken the trouble to trace the real prince to his safe abode, the sanatorium of wismar. yet the great difficulty is that i cannot always remain a prince." then he strode along for some time in thoughtful silence. in his well-cut blue serge suit and peaked motor-cap he presented the smart devil-may-care figure of a man who would attract most women. indeed, he was essentially a ladies' man, but he always managed to turn his amorous adventures to monetary advantage. only once in his life had he been honestly in love. the tragic story of his romance in florence i have already explained in a previous chapter. his thoughts were always of his real princess--ever of her. she had been his ideal, and would always remain so. he had defended her good name, but dared not return to her and expose himself as a fraud and a criminal. better by far for her to remain in ignorance of the truth; better that he should possess only sweet sad memories of her soft lips and tender hands. as he walked, a young man passed in a dirty white racing-car, on his way to brooklands, and waved to him. it was george hartwell, the holder of the one-mile record, and an intimate friend of his. the prince was debating within himself whether he should adopt the parson's suggestion, abandon motor-racing for the nonce, and join him up in yorkshire. "i wonder whether the game's worth the candle?" he went on, speaking to himself after the cloud of dust has passed. "if what clayton says is true, then it's a good thing. the old woman is evidently gone on him. i suppose he's told her the tale, and she believes he's a most sanctified person." he halted at a gate near the entrance to ripley village, and lighting another cigarette puffed vigorously at it. "my hat!" he ejaculated at last. "a real parson must have an exceedingly soft time of it--snug library, pretty girls in the choir, tea-fights, confidences, and all that kind of thing. in the country no home is complete without its tame curate." then, after a long silence, he at length tossed away the end of his cigarette, and declared: "yes, i'll go. there'll be a bit of fun--if nothing else." and he walked to the village telegraph office and wired one word to his bosom friend and ingenious accomplice. it was a word of their secret code--formice--which clayton would interpret as "all right. shall be with you as soon as possible, and will carry out the suggestions made in your letter." then he walked back to the "hut," where he found garrett sitting out in that little front garden against the road, which is usually so crowded by motorists on warm sunday afternoons. "better go and pack," he said sinking into a chair as his supposed servant rose and stood at attention. "we're going back to town in an hour." garrett, without asking questions, returned into the hotel. he saw by the prince's sharp decided manner that something new was in the wind. an hour later dick drummond motor-maniac, drew the car along the road towards esher, and as he disappeared around the bend among the trees, he ceased to exist. prince albert became himself again. direct to dover street they went--and there found the discreet charles awaiting them. fresh kit was packed while garrett, in a garage over in westminster where he was unknown, was busily engaged in repainting the ugly racer with its big bonnet a bright yellow. that evening the prince spent alone in his pretty sitting-room consuming dozens of his pet russian cigarettes, and thinking hard. for an hour he was busy upon some accounts written in german--accounts from a jew dealer in precious stones in amsterdam. the gentleman in question was a good customer of the prince's, gave fair prices, and asked no questions. his highness seemed troubled about one item, for as he rested his brow upon his hand, still seated at his desk, he murmured in a low voice to himself: "i'm sure the old hebrew has done me out of four hundred and fifty! eighteen hundred was the price agreed for that carroty-headed woman's pendant. that's what comes of leaving business matters to max." and sighing, he added: "i shall really have to attend to the sales myself, for no doubt we're swindled every time. the old jew doesn't believe in honour among thieves, it seems!" some letters which had arrived during his absence were put before him by the valet, charles. among them were several invitations to the houses of people struggling to get into society--by the back door, and who wanted to include the name of prince albert of hesse-holstein in the list of their guests. "are we likely to be away for long?" asked the valet, at the same time helping himself to a cigarette from his master's silver box. "i haven't the slightest idea," laughed the good-looking young adventurer. "you'll go down to the `majestic' at harrogate by the first train in the morning and take the best suite for me. garrett and i will arrive in the car. of course you'll tell the usual story to the servants of my wealth, and all that." "the parson's down there, isn't he?" "yes, but you'll take no notice of him. understand?" so the smart young crook who posed as valet, having received his master's instructions, retired to pack his own clothes. at ten next morning garrett brought round the hundred "racer," now covered in yellow enamel and bearing a different identification-plate from that it had borne the previous day, and with the prince up beside him wearing a light dust-coat and his peaked cap turned the wrong way, so as not to catch the wind, drew out into piccadilly, and turned up shaftesbury avenue due northward. throughout that warm summer's day they tore along the great north road as far as doncaster, wary always of the police-traps which abound there. then, after a light meal, they pushed on to ferrybridge, taking the right-hand road through micklefield to the cross-roads beyond aberford, and then on the well-kept old roman way which runs through wetherby to plampton corner, and ascends the hill into harrogate. the last forty miles they did at tearing speed, the great powerful engine running like a clock, leaving a perfect wall of white dust behind. the car was a "flyer" in every sense of the word. the prince had won the heath stakes at brooklands, therefore, on an open road, without traffic or police-traps, they covered the last forty miles within the hour. the sun had already sunk, and the crimson afterglow had spread before they reached the stray, but as the car drew up before the great hotel, charles, bareheaded and urbane, came forth to receive his master, while behind him stood the assistant manager and a couple of attendants also in bareheaded servitude. charles, who always acted as advance-agent had already created great excitement in the hotel by the announcement that his highness was on his way. quite a small crowd of visitors had concluded their dinner early, and assembled in the hall to catch first sight of the german princeling who preferred residence in england to that in his native principality. as he passed across the great hall and entered the lift, dusty after his journey, his quick eyes caught sight of the sedate modest-looking parson seated away from the others, chatting with a rather buxom, florid-looking, red-necked woman of about fifty. the parson had his face purposely averted. at present he did not wish to claim acquaintance with the new-comer, whom he allowed to ascend to the fine suite of rooms reserved for him. next morning, as the prince crossed the hall to go out for a stroll about the town he created quite a flutter in the hotel, especially among the female guests. the place was filled by summer holiday-makers from london, each of whom was eager to rub elbows with a real live prince. indeed many were the flattering words whispered by pretty lips regarding his highness's good looks and general bearing. the worthy bayswater vicar was chatting with mrs edmondson in his usual clerical drawl, when the prince's sudden appearance caused him to look up. then turning to her again, he exclaimed: "oh, here's prince albert! i knew him quite well when i was british chaplain in hanover," and crossing to his highness he shook hands heartily, adding in the next breath: "i wonder if your highness would allow me to present to you my friend here, mrs edmondson?" "delighted, i'm sure," replied the younger man bowing before the rather stout, dark-haired lady, whose blatant pomposity crumpled up instantly, and who became red and white in turns. the introduction had been effected so suddenly that the relict of thomas edmondson, esquire, j.p., d.l., of milnthorpe hall, near whitby, had been taken completely off her feet--or "off her perch," as the merry cleric afterwards jocosely put it. she knew mr clayton to be a most superior person, but had no idea of his intimate acquaintance with princes of the blood-royal. she succeeded in stammering some conventional expressions of pleasure at being presented, and then lapsed into ignominious silence. "mrs edmondson has kindly expressed herself very interested in my poor parish," explained the parson, "just as your highness has been interested. i wrote to you a month ago to aix-les-bains, thanking you for your generous donation towards our children's holiday fund. it was really extremely kind of you." "oh, don't mention it, mr clayton," replied his highness. "i've been in your parish twice, remember, and i know well how very hard you work, and what a number of the deserving poor you have. i'm just going down in the town for a stroll. perhaps i'll see you after lunch? come to my room for a smoke." and then, bowing to the obese widow, he replaced his grey felt hat and strode out. "what a very charming man!" declared the widow when she recovered herself sufficiently to speak. "so he has been to your parish!" "oh, yes. he gives me most liberal donations," answered clayton in a low tone of confidence. "but he always prefers to remain anonymous, of course. he has been my best friend for years. i had no idea he was in england. he wrote me last from aix." but the widow's brain was already active. though possessing a deep religious feeling, and subscribing liberally to all sorts of charities just as her late husband had done, she was nevertheless a snob, and was already wondering whether, with the assistance of the pleasant-faced cleric, she could not induce the prince to be her guest at milnthorpe. she knew that his presence there would give to her house a _cachet_ which had always been lacking, and would raise her social position in the select county of yorks a hundred per cent. "most delightful man!" she repeated as they went forth into the grounds. "i hope i shall have the pleasure of a long chat with him." "oh, that won't be very difficult, my dear mrs edmondson," her companion replied. "any one introduced by me will, i feel assured, be received most cordially by him. he does me the honour of reposing the most implicit trust in myself." "a trust which certainly is not misplaced," declared the stout widow in her self-satisfied way, as she strutted along in a new grey cotton gown of latest _mode_, a large hat to match, a big golden chatelaine at her side, and a blue silk sunshade. "you are very flattering," replied clayton. "i--i fear i do not deserve such kind words, i only do my duty to my bishop and my parish, and prosecute the line of life which providence has laid out for me." "there are clergymen--and clergymen," the woman said with affected wisdom. "i have known more than one who has been utterly worthless. it is, therefore, very gratifying to meet a man with such a high mind, and such a keen sense of responsibility towards his poor backsliding fellow creatures as yourself." he was silent, for he was biting his nether lip. what would this estimable widow think if she knew the truth that he had no parish, no wife, no little children, and that he had no right to the sombre garb of religion in which he stood before her? a moment later he succeeded in changing the subject. the prince lunched alone in his private room, as he always did in hotels in order to impress both management and guests. it was another habit of his, in order to cause servants to talk, to have a big bottle of eau de cologne placed in his bath each morning. the chatter of servants as to his generosity, and his careless extravagance, was often most useful to him. while the parson was always parsimonious--which, by the way, was rather belied by his rubicund complexion--the prince was ever open-handed. the good-looking, well-dressed young man's slight foreign accent entirely disappeared whenever he became tremlett or lord nassington, or drummond, or any other imaginary person whose identity he from time to time assumed. at present, however, he spoke with just sufficient error of grammar and speech to betray his foreign birth, and as he rose, and stood looking out of the window he presented, in his cool, grey flannels, the ideal young foreign prince of english tastes and english education. already in the reading-room below, the "almanach de gotha" had been handled a dozen times by inquisitive half-pay colonels, and mothers with marriageable daughters. and what had been found printed there had caused a flutter in many hearts. the prince's audacity was superb. the suspicion of any little _coup_ he made as prince he always managed to wriggle out of. even though some evil-disposed persons had made ugly allegations against him at times, yet they were not believed. he was a prince and wealthy, therefore what motive had he to descend to the level of a thief? the parson, too, always managed to evade suspicion. his voice, his manner, and his general get-up were perfect. those who had visited his house in bayswater, not far from queen's road station, had found it to be the ideal and complete clergyman's home, with study and half-written sermons on the writing-table. their victims, indeed, were as puzzled as were the police. the prince's magnificent impertinence and amazing boldness carried him through it all. he was a fatalist. if he and his friends clayton, garrett, and mason were ever caught--well it would be just fate. till they actually fell into the hands of the police they would have a good time, and act fearlessly. as he stood at the window, with the eternal russian cigarette between his lips, gazing thoughtfully out upon the garden below, the door opened and the parson entered. "well, tommy, old chap!" exclaimed his highness, when in a few moments the two men were lounging in easy-chairs opposite each other. "now, tell me all about the old girl," he said laughing. "she walks like a pea-hen." "there's not much more to tell than what you already know," responded the parson, "except that she's all in a flutter at meeting you, and wants to chat with you again." "have you made any inquiries concerning her?" "of course. a week ago i ran over in secret to milnthorpe hall. fine place, big park, large staff of servants, butler an italian. husband was partner in a firm of shipbuilders at barrow, and left nearly a million to his wife. one son recently passed into the army, and just now stationed in cawnpore. rather rackety, his mother says. the old woman dotes on parsons." "and quite gone on you--eh?" clayton laughed. "she gave me a cheque for fifty pounds for my children's holiday fund last week," he said. "she's promised to come down and go round my parish one day, soon." his highness smiled knowingly. "is her place far from whitby?" he inquired, between whiffs of his cigarette. "about four miles, on the high road just past a place called swarthoe cross. grosmount station, on the pickering line is nearest." "the old girl, as far as i've been able to observe, is a purse-proud old crow," his highness remarked. "rather. likes her name to figure in subscription lists. the old man built and endowed some almshouses in whitby, and offered twenty thousand to his party for a knighthood, but was refused. it's a sore point, for she badly wanted to be lady edmondson." "how long since the dear one departed?" "two years." "and she's looking for a second, i suppose?" "that's my belief." "i wonder if she'd be attracted by the title of princess?" he laughed. "why, the very suggestion would take the silly old woman's breath away," declared the reverend thomas. "well, if she's so confoundedly generous, what is to prevent us from benefiting a bit? we sadly need it, tommy," the prince declared. "i had a letter from max the day before yesterday. he wants fifty wired without fail to the poste restante at copenhagen. he's lying low there, just now." "and one of the best places in europe," the parson exclaimed. "it's most snug at the `angleterre,' or at the `bristol.' i put in six months there once. stockholm is another good spot. i was all one summer at that little hotel out at salsjobaden, and had quite a good time. i passed as an american and nobody recognised me, though my description had been circulated all over europe. the swedish and danish police are a muddle-headed lot--fortunately for fellows like ourselves who want to lie undisturbed. have you sent max the money?" "i wired twenty-five this morning, and promised the balance in seven days," responded his highness, lighting a fresh cigarette with his half-consumed one. he always smoked in the russian style, flinging away the end when only half finished. of the proceeds of the various _coups_ made, his highness took one-third, with one-third to clayton, who was a schemer almost as ingenious as the prince himself, and the remaining third was divided between max mason, charles, and garrett, the chauffeur. the pair of conspirators spent the greater part of the afternoon together in exchanging confidences and arranging plans. then his highness rang for garrett, and ordered him to bring round the car at five o'clock. the parson descended to the hall below, being followed ten minutes later by his highness. the latter found his friend lounging picturesquely with the fascinated widow, and joined them at tea, greatly to the gratification of the "pompous old crow," as prince albert had designated her half an hour before. as they finished the tea and muffins, the big yellow racing-car drew slowly up to the door, and on seeing it the widow began to discuss motors and motoring. "i have a car at home--a sixty-mercedes--and i'm awfully fond of a run in it," she told the prince. "one gets about so quickly, and sees so much of the country. my poor husband hated them, so i never rode in one until after his death." "the car i have with me is a racer, as you see," remarked his highness. "it's a hundred horse-power, and made a record on the brooklands track just before i bought her. if you were not of the feminine sex, mrs edmondson, i'd invite you to go for a run with me," he laughed. "it's rather unsociable, for it's only a two-seater, with garrett on the step." "i'd love to go for a run," she declared. "it--well it really wouldn't be too great a breach of the convenances for a woman to go out on a racing-car, would it?" "i don't think so, mrs edmondson," remarked the reverend thomas, in his most cultivated clerical drawl. "but i would wrap up well, for the prince travels very fast on a clear road." so "the old crow" decided to accept his highness's invitation, and ascended to put on her brown motor-cap and veil and a thick coat against the chill, evening winds. two. a quarter of an hour later, with garrett--in his grey and red livery-- seated on the step, and the widow up beside him, the prince drew the great ugly yellow car out of the hotel entrance, while the parson, standing amid the crowd of jealous onlookers, waved his hand in merry farewell. in a few moments the siren screamed, and the open exhaust roared and spluttered as they crossed the stray, taking the road through starbeck to knaresborough, thence south by little ribston to wetherby. having turned off to the left through the town, they came upon a straight open road where, for the first time his highness, accustomed as he was to all the vagaries of his powerful car, put on a "move" over the ten miles into york, a run at such a pace that the widow clung to her seat with both hands, almost breathless. she had never travelled half so fast before in all her life. in york they ran round by the station past the old grey minster, then out again through clifton, as far as shipton moor, turning up to beningborough station, and thence into the by-roads to newton-upon-ouse, in the direction of knaresborough. once or twice while they tore along regardless of speed-limits or of police-traps, the powerful engine throbbing before them, she turned to his highness and tried to make some remarks. but it was only a sorry attempt. travelling at fifty miles an hour over those white roads, without a glass screen, or even body to the car, was very exhilarating, and after the first few minutes of fright, at the tearing pace, she seemed to delight in it. curious though it is, yet it is nevertheless a fact that women delight in a faster pace in a car than men, when once the first sensation of danger has passed. when they were safely back again in the hall of the hotel she turned to him to express her great delight at the run. "your car is, indeed, a magnificent one, your highness. i've never been on a racer before," she said, "but it was truly delightful. i never had a moment's anxiety, for you are such a sure and clever driver." her eye had been from time to time upon the speedometer, and she had noted the terrific rate at which they had now and then travelled, especially upon any downward incline. the prince, on his part, was playing the exquisite courtier. had she been a girl of twenty he could not have paid "old crow" more attention. as he was dressing for dinner with the aid of the faithful charles, the parson entered, and to him he gave an accurate description of the run, and of the rather amorous attitude the obese widow had assumed towards him. "good, my dear boy," exclaimed the urbane cleric, "i told you that she's the most perfect specimen of the snob we've ever met." a week went by--a pleasant week, during which mrs edmondson, her nose now an inch higher in the air than formerly, went out daily with the prince and his chauffeur for runs around the west riding. one afternoon they ran over to ripon, and thence across to the fine old ruins of fountains abbey. like many women of her class and character, the buxom lady delighted in monastic ruins, and as the pair strolled about in the great, roofless transept of the abbey she commenced an enthusiastic admiration of its architecture and dimensions. though living at whitby she had, curiously enough, never before visited the place. "crowland, in lincolnshire is very fine," she remarked, "but this is far finer. yet we have nothing in england to compare with pavia, near milan. have you ever been there, prince?" "only through the station," his highness replied. truth to tell he was not enthusiastic over ruins. he was a very modern up-to-date young man. they idled through the ruins, where the sunshine slanted through the gaunt broken windows, and the cawing rooks flapped lazily in and out. one or two other visitors were there besides themselves, and among them a lonely pale-faced man in grey, wearing gold pince-nez who, with hands behind his back, was studying the architecture and the various outbuildings. the prince and his companion brushed close by him in the old refectory, when he glanced up suddenly at a window. his face was familiar enough to his highness, who, however, passed him by as a stranger. it was max mason, only yesterday returned from copenhagen. that afternoon the widow grew confidential with her princely cavalier in motor clothes, while he, on his part, encouraged her. "ah!" he sighed presently as they were walking slowly together in a distant part of the great ruined fabric. "you have no idea how very lonely a man can really be, even though he may be born a prince. more often than not i'm compelled to live _incognito_, for i have ever upon me the fierce glare of publicity. every movement, every acquaintance i make, even my most private affairs are pried into and chronicled by those confounded press fellows. and for that reason i'm often compelled to hold aloof from people with whom i could otherwise be on terms of intimate friendship. half my time and ingenuity is spent upon the adoption of subterfuges to prevent people from discovering who i really am. and then those infernal illustrated papers, both here and on the continent, are eternally republishing my photograph." "it really must be most annoying, prince," remarked the widow sympathetically. "i often adopt the name of burchell-laing," he said, "and sometimes-- well," and he paused, looking her straight in the face. "i wonder, mrs edmondson, whether i might confide in you--i mean whether you would keep my secret?" "i hope i may be permitted to call myself your highness's friend," she said in a calm, impressive tone. "whatever you may tell me will not, i assure you, pass my lips." "i am delighted to have such a friend as yourself," he declared enthusiastically. "somehow, though our acquaintanceship has been of such brief duration, yet i feel that your friendship is sincere, mrs edmondson." by this speech the widow was intensely flattered. her companion saw it in her countenance. he did not allow her time to make any remark, but added: "my secret is-- well a rather curious one, perhaps--but the fact is that i have a dual personality. while being prince albert of hesse-holstein, i am also known as dick drummond, holder of two records on the brooklands motor-track. in the motor-world i'm believed to be a young man of means, who devotes his time to motor-racing--a motor-maniac in fact." the widow stared at him in blank astonishment. "are you really the mr drummond of whose wonderful feat i read of only the other day in the papers?" "i won the race at brooklands the other day," he said carelessly, "i won it with the car i have here now." "and nobody suspects that this mr drummond is a prince!" she exclaimed. "nobody. i could never afford to go racing in my own name. the kaiser would not allow it, you know. i have to be so very careful." "i quite understand that," remarked the widow. "but what an excellent motor-driver you must be! what a fine performance your record was! why, there was half a column in the _morning post_ about it!" "it was not any more difficult, or more dangerous, than some of the long quick runs i've made on the continent. from rome up to berlin, for instance, or from warsaw to ostend, i'm racing again at brooklands next week." "and may i come and see you?" she asked. "do let me. i will, of course, keep your secret, and not tell a soul." he hesitated. "you see nobody knows but yourself and garrett, my chauffeur--not even clayton. he's a good fellow, but parsons," he laughed, "are bad hands at keeping secrets. too much tea and gossip spoils them, i suppose." "but i'll swear to remain secret. only let me know the day and hour, and i'll go south and see you. i should love to see a motor-race. i've never seen one in my life." so at last, with seeming reluctance, his highness, having taken the flattered widow into his confidence, promised on condition that she said nothing to anybody, she should know the day and hour when to be at brooklands. as the warm summer days slipped by, it became more and more apparent to the parson that his friend, the widow, had become entirely fascinated by the lighthearted easy-going prince. she, on her part, recognised how, because of her intimate acquaintance with his highness, and the fact that he honoured her table with his presence sometimes at dinner, every one in the hotel courted her friendship in the hope that they might be introduced to the cousin of the kaiser. prince and parson were, truth to tell, playing a very big bluff. max had taken up his quarters at the spa hydro, and though meeting his two accomplices frequently in the streets, passed them by as strangers. now and then the parson went up to smoke with the prince after the wealthy widow had retired, and on such occasions the conversation was of such a character that, if she had overheard it, she would have been considerably surprised. one evening, when they were together, the valet, charles, entered, closing the door carefully after him. "well," asked his master, "what's the news?" "i've just left max down in the town," replied the clean-shaven servant. "he got back from milnthorpe hall this morning. he went there as an electrical engineer, sent by cameron brothers, of london, at the old woman's request, and examined the whole place with a view to a lighting installation. he reports that, beyond a few good paintings--mostly family portraits of the original owners--and a little _bric-a-brac_, there's nothing worth having. the old woman keeps her jewels in the bank at york, as well as greater part of the plate. what's in general use is all electro. besides, there are burglar-alarms all over the place." "then the old woman's a four-flush!" declared the parson tossing away his cigarette angrily. "i thought she'd got some good stuff there. that was my impression from the outside." "afraid of thieves, evidently," remarked the prince. "she's a lone woman, and according to what you say, the only men in the house are the italian butler, and a young footman." "if there's nothing there, what's the use troubling over her further?" his highness puffed thoughtfully at his "petroff." he was reflecting deeply, bitterly repenting that he had been such a fool as to tell her the truth regarding his motor-racing _nomade-guerre_. he could not afford to allow her to become his enemy. to abandon her at once would surely be a most injudicious action. "at present let's postpone our decision, tommy," he exclaimed at last. "there may be a way to success yet. you, charles, see max to-morrow, and tell him to go to london and lie low there. i'll wire him when i want him. you have some money. give him a tenner." and the man addressed soon afterwards withdrew. the events of the next two days showed plainly that the original plans formulated by the rev thomas clayton had been abandoned. the widow, with some trepidation, invited the prince and his clerical friend to be her guests at milnthorpe, but they made excuses, much to her chagrin. the exemplary vicar was compelled to return to his bayswater parish, while the prince was also recalled to london to race at brooklands, making the journey, of course, on the car. thus mrs edmondson found herself left alone in the "majestic," with her fellow guests full of wonder at what had really occurred. the widow, however, had been buoyed up by a few whispered words of the prince at the moment of his departure. "preserve my secret as you promised, mrs edmondson, and come to london one day next week. you always go to the langham--you say. i'll call on you there next friday. _au revoir_!" and he lifted his cap, shook her hand, and mounted at the wheel of the big mustard-coloured "racer." on the day appointed he called at the langham and found her installed in one of the best suites, prepared to receive him. he told her that, on the morrow at noon, he was to race at brooklands against carlier, the well-known frenchman, both cars being of the same horse-power. the distance was one hundred miles. she was delighted, and promised to observe every secrecy, and come down to witness the struggle. he remained to tea, chatting with her pleasantly. when he rose and bade her adieu, she sat alone for a long time thinking. was she dreaming? or was it really a fact that he, prince albert of hesse-holstein, had, for a few moments, held her hand tenderly? the difference of their ages was not so much, she argued--about twelve years. she was twelve years older. what did that matter, after all? if she, plain mrs edmondson, of milnthorpe, became princess albert of hesse-holstein! phew! the very thought of it took her breath away. she was a clever scheming woman, and had always been, ever since her school-girl days. she flattered herself that she could read the innermost secrets of a man's heart. yes. she was now convinced. this man, who had reposed confidence in her and told her of his dual personality, was actually in love with her. if he did not marry her, it certainly should not be her fault. with that decision she called marie, her french maid, and passed into her room to dress for dinner with her sister-in-law and her husband--a barrister--with the theatre and savoy to follow. next day at noon she was down at brooklands, where a number of motor enthusiasts and men "in the trade" had assembled. she saw a tall, slim figure in grey overalls and an ugly helmet-shaped cap with dark glasses in the eye-holes, mount upon a long grey car, while a mechanic in blue cotton and a short jacket buttoned tightly, gave a last look round to see that all was working properly. the man mounted the step, the signal was given by the starters, and the two cars, pitted against each other, both grey, with huge numbers painted on the front of their bonnets, came past her like a flash, while the mechanics swung themselves half out, in order to balance the cars as they went round the bend. after the first two or three laps the pace became terrific, and as the widow sat watching, she saw the prince _incognito_, his head bent to the wind, a slim, crouched figure at the wheel driving the long car at a pace which no express train could travel. at first he slowly forged ahead, but presently, after twenty minutes, the frenchman gradually crept up, inch by inch. it was the test of the two cars--a comparatively new english make against a french firm. dick drummond had many friends on the course. he was popular everywhere, and at regular intervals as he passed the stand where the widow was seated, a crowd of young, smart, clean-shaven men shouted to his encouragement. each time, with slight dust flying behind, he went round the bend, garrett, in his dirty blue clothes, swung himself out to balance the car, while to the prince himself all has become a blur. travelling at that terrific pace, the slightest swerve would mean a terrible accident, therefore, he had no eyes save for the track before him. garrett was busy every moment with the lubrication, and at the same time both feared tyre-troubles, the bugbear of the racing motorist. such speed sets up tremendous friction and consequent heat, therefore tyre-bursts are likely, and if a tyre does "go off" while a car is travelling at that pace, the consequences may be very serious. many a bad accident had occurred on that track, and more than one good man had lost his life. yet the prince, sportsman that he was, knowing that the widow's eyes were upon him, set his teeth hard and drove until once again he gradually drew away from his opponent, the renowned carlier. there were present representatives of the daily and the motor press. the race would be chronicled everywhere on the morrow. if the frenchman won, it would be an advertisement worth many thousands of pounds to the firm for whom he was driving. to-day every maker of motor-cars vies with his competitors, and strives strenuously to obtain the greatest advertisement. like so many other things about us, alas! it is not the quality of the car, or of the materials used, but a car's excellence seems to be judged by its popularity. and that popularity is a mere matter of advertisement. the best car ever turned out by the hand of man would never be looked at if not advertised and "boomed." the french driver, a man who had won a dozen races, including the circuit of the ardennes, and the florio cup, was trying to get an advertisement for the particular company for whom he was the professional racer, while dick drummond was merely trying his english car against the paris-built variety. the whirr-r was constant, now approaching and now receding, as the two cars went round and round the track with monotonous regularity. experts, men interested in various makes, stood leaning over the rails making comment. it was agreed on every hand that drummond was a marvel of cool level-headedness. his driving was magnificent, and yet he had apparently nothing to gain, even if he won the race. he was not financially interested, as far as was known, in the make of car he drove. he was merely a man of means, who had taken up motor-car racing as a hobby. the frenchman drove well, and the race, after the first three-quarters of an hour, was a keenly contested one. first drummond would lead, and then carlier. once drummond spurted and got half a lap ahead, then with the frenchman putting on speed, he fell behind again till they were once more neck and neck. time after time they shot past the widow, who had eyes only for her champion. her blue sunshade was up, and as she stood there alone she hoped against hope that the prince--the man who had told her his secret--would prove the victor. when he was in front, loud shouts rent the air from the men interested in the make of car he was driving, while, on the other hand, if the frenchman gained the vantage the applause from his partisans was vociferous. over all was a cloud of light dust, while the wind created by the cars as they rushed past fanned the cheeks of the woman watching her champion with such deep interest. a group of men near her were discussing him. "drummond is a magnificent driver," one remarked in admiration. "look at him coming up now. cagno never drove like that, even in his very best race." "i wonder what interest he has in the company? he surely wouldn't race for the mere excitement," remarked another. "interest!" cried a third man--and, truth to tell, he was max mason--"why he has the option to buy up the whole of the concern, lock, stock, and barrel. i heard so yesterday. the company gave it to him a fortnight ago. lawrence, the secretary, told me so. why, by jove! if he wins, the fortune of that make of car is secured. i suppose he has capital behind him, and will buy up the whole concern. i only wish i were in it. a tenth share would be a fortune." "you're right," remarked the first man. "dick drummond is a shrewd chap. if he wins he'll make a pot of money on the deal--you see. it'll be the biggest advertisement that a car has ever had in all the whole annals of motoring." mrs edmondson listened to all this in silence. she quite understood. the prince, in his character of dick drummond, had entered into the affair with a view to a big financial deal--the purchase of the important company who were responsible for the car he was driving. the car in question, be it said, was the actual mustard-coloured one in which she had careered about the west riding, although she did not recognise it in its garb of dirty slate-grey. she found it quite fascinating, standing there watching those two cars with their powerful roaring engines striving for the mastery, as mile after mile was covered at that frightful break-neck speed. her heart was with the man bent over his wheel, whom every one believed to be a commoner, and whom she alone knew to be a prince. and he, the cousin of the kaiser, had actually squeezed her hand! as the end of the race approached the excitement increased. the onlookers grouped themselves in little knots, watching critically for any sign of weakness in one or the other. but there was none. carlier was as dogged as his opponent, and kept steadily on until at the eightieth mile he gradually overhauled the englishman. there were still twenty miles to cover. but dick drummond was behind, quite an eighth of a lap. carlier had apparently been husbanding all his strength and power. the car he was driving was certainly a splendid one, and was behaving magnificently. would it beat the english make? as the last few laps were negotiated at a frightful speed the knots of onlookers became more and more enthusiastic. some cheered dick until they were hoarse, while others, with an interest in the car carlier was driving, cried "bravo! bravo!" the blood ran quickly in the widow's veins. ninety-five miles had been covered, and still drummond was behind more than half a lap. she watched his crouching figure, with head set forward, his position never altering, his chin upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the track before him. garrett seemed ever at work, touching this and that at the order of his master, whose face was wholly protected from the cutting wind by the ugly mask, save mouth and chin. as the board showed ninety-seven miles he came at a fearful pace past the spot where mrs edmondson had again risen from her seat in her excitement. he was spurting, and so valiantly did he struggle, getting every ounce out of the hundred horse-power of his car, that he slowly, very slowly, crept towards the flying frenchman. "keep on, drummond!" shrieked the men, taking off their caps and waving them. "don't be beaten, old man!" but he could not hear them above the terrible roar of his exhaust. no express train ever designed had run so quickly as he was now travelling. official timekeepers were standing, chronometers in hand, calmly watching, and judges were making ready to declare the winner. every spectator stood breathless. it was really marvellous that one hundred miles could have been covered in that brief space of time while they had been watching. again, and yet again, the two cars flashed by, yet still dick lagged behind. suddenly, however, they came round for the last lap, and as they passed the watchful widow, the englishman like a shot from a gun, passed his opponent and won by twenty yards. when he pulled up, after having run again round the course to slacken speed, he almost fell into the arms of the crowd of men who came up to congratulate him. mrs edmondson had left her post of vantage and stood near by. she overheard one of them--it was mason--say: "by jove, dick! this is a wonderful run. you've broken the five, ten, and hundred mile records! the fortune of your car is made?" then the victor turned to his opponent and shook his hand, saying in french: "thank you, my dear carlier, for a very excellent race." the widow, after a brief chat, returned to town by rail, while garrett drove his master back to dover street. that night his highness dined with the widow at the langham, and she bestowed upon him fulsome praise regarding his prowess. "what make of car is yours?" she asked while they were lingering over their dessert in the widow's private sitting-room. "it's the st christopher," he answered. "st christopher!" she echoed. "what a funny name to give a car!" "it may appear so at first sight, but st christopher has been taken by motorists on the continent as their patron saint--the saint who for ages has guarded the believer against the perils of the way. so it's really appropriate, after all." "i heard them say that you've made the fortune of the car by your success to-day," she remarked. "yes," he answered carelessly. "anybody who cared to put in a few thousands now would receive a magnificent return for their money-- twenty-five per cent, within a year." "you think so?" she asked interestedly. "think, mrs edmondson?" he echoed. "i'm sure of it! why, the st christopher now holds the world's record, and you know what that means. the makers will begin to receive far more orders than they can ever execute. look at the napier, the itala, the fiat, and others. the same thing has happened. the st christopher, however, is in the hands of two men only, and they, unfortunately, lack capital." "you should help them, if it's such a good thing." "i'm doing so. now i've won the race i shall put in fifteen thousand-- perhaps twenty. they are seeing me to-morrow. as a matter of fact," he added, lowering his tone, "i mean to hold controlling interest in the concern. it's far too good a thing to miss." the fat widow, with her black bodice cut low, and the circle of diamonds sparkling upon her red neck, sipped her wine slowly, but said nothing. his highness did not refer to this matter again. he was a past-master of craft and cunning. later on, the rev thomas clayton was announced, and the trio spent quite a pleasant evening, which concluded by the lady inviting them both to milnthorpe the following week. at first the prince again hesitated. the widow sat in breathless expectancy. at all hazards she must get his highness to visit her. it would be known all over the county. she would pay a guinea each to the fashionable papers to announce the fact, for it would be worth so very much to her in the county. "i fear, mrs edmondson, that i must go to berlin next week," replied the prince. "i'm sure it's very good of you, but the emperor has summoned me regarding some affairs of my brother karl." "oh! why can't you postpone your visit, and come and see me first?" she urged in her most persuasive style. "mr clayton, do urge the prince to come to me," she added. "you can surely go to germany a week later, prince," exclaimed the cleric. "where's the kaiser just now?" "at kiel, yachting." "then he may not be in berlin next week?" "he has appointed to meet me at potsdam. his majesty never breaks an engagement." "then you will break yours, prince, and go with me to milnthorpe," declared the parson. "yes," cried mrs edmondson; "and we will have no further excuses, will we, mr clayton?" so his highness was forced to accept, and next day the wily widow returned to yorkshire to make preparations for the visit which was to shed such social lustre upon her house. three. the prince and the parson held several long interviews in the two days that followed, and it was apparent from one meeting which took place, and at which both mason and garrett were present, that some clever manoeuvre was intended. the quartette held solemn councils in the prince's chambers, and there was much discussion, and considerable laughter. the latter, it appeared, was in consequence of max's recollection of the wonderful record of his highness at brooklands. on the day appointed both prince and parson, attended by the faithful charles, left king's cross by train for whitby, garrett having started alone on the "forty," with orders to travel by way of doncaster and york, and arrive at milnthorpe by noon next day. the fine old place was, the prince found, quite a comfortable residence. the widow did the honours gracefully, welcoming her guests warmly. when the two friends found themselves alone in the prince's room, his highness whispered to the exemplary vicar: "i don't like the look of that italian butler, tommy. do you know i've a very strange fancy?" "of what?" "that i've met that fellow before, somewhere or other." "i sincerely hope not," was the clergyman's response. "where i've met him i can't remember. by jove! it'll be awkward for us if he recollects me." "then we'll have to watch him. i wonder if--" and the parson crossed noiselessly to the bedroom door and opened it suddenly. as he did so there was the distinct sound of some one scuffling round the corner in the corridor. both men detected it. there had been an eavesdropper! they were suspected! at dinner that night the pair cast furtive glances at the thin, clean-shaven face of the middle-aged italian butler, whose head was prematurely bald, but whose manners as a servant were perfect. ferrini was the name by which his mistress addressed him, and it was apparent that he was very devoted to her. the young footman was english--a cockney, by his twang. in the old panelled room, with its long family portraits and its old carved buffet laden with well-kept silver--or rather electro-plate, as the pair already knew--a well-cooked dinner was served amid flowers and cunningly-concealed lights. the table was a round one, and the only other guest was a tall, fair-haired young girl, a miss maud mortimer, the daughter of a neighbouring squire. she was a loosely built, slobbering miss, with a face like a wax doll, and a slight impediment in her speech. at first she seemed shy in the presence of the kaiser's cousin, but presently, when her awkwardness wore off, she grew quite merry. to the two visitors the meal was a perfect success. those dark watchful eyes of the italian, however, marred their pleasure considerably. even the parson was now convinced that the man knew something. what was it? where had the fellow met the prince before? was it under suspicious circumstances--or otherwise? next day garrett arrived with the car, while to the white house hotel at whitby came a quietly dressed and eminently respectable golfer, who gave his name as harvey, but with whom we are already familiar under the name of mason. the afternoon was a hot, breathless one, but towards five o'clock the prince invited his hostess to go for a run on the "forty"--repainted, since its recent return from the continent, dark blue with a coronet and cipher upon its panels. garrett who had had a look round the widow's "sixty" mercedes, in confidence told his master that it was all in order, and that the chauffeur was an experienced man. with the widow and her two guests seated together behind, garrett drove the car next day along the pretty road by pickering down to malton, returning by way of castle howard. the pace they travelled was a fast one, and the widow, turning to his highness, said: "really, prince, to motor with you is quite a new experience. my man would never dare to go at such a rate as this for fear of police-traps." "i'm pretty lucky in escaping them," responded the good-looking adventurer, glancing meaningly at the man in black clerical overcoat and cap. "the prince once ran from boulogne to nice in twenty-eight hours on his st christopher," remarked the rev thomas. "and in winter, too." "marvellous!" declared the widow, adjusting her pale-blue motor-veil, new for the occasion. "there's no doubt a great future before that car--especially after the record at brooklands." "rather!" exclaimed the rubicund vicar. "i'm only a poor parson, but if i had a little capital i should certainly put it in. i have inside knowledge, as they say in the city, i believe, mrs edmondson," he laughed. "from the prince?" "of course. he intends having the largest interest in the concern. they've had eight orders for racers in the last six days. a record at brooklands means a fortune to a manufacturer." his highness was silent, while the self-satisfied widow discussed the future of the eight-cylinder st christopher. returning to the hall, ferrini came forth bowing to his mistress, and casting a distinctly suspicious glance at the two visitors. both men noticed it, and were not a little apprehensive. they had played some clever games, but knew not from one moment to the other when some witness might not point a finger at them in open denunciation. while the prince was dressing for dinner charles said: "that butler fellow is far too inquisitive for my liking. i found him in here an hour ago, and i'm positive he had been trying to unlock your crocodile suit-case. he made an excuse that he had come to see whether you had a siphon of soda. but i actually caught him bending over your bag." the prince remained grave and silent. "where have we met that fellow before? i can't remember." "neither can i. his face is somehow familiar. i'm sure we've seen him somewhere!" "that's what the parson says. write to max at whitby, and tell him to come over on some pretext or other and get a glance at the man. post the letter yourself to-night." "perhaps the fellow is afraid of his plate," the valet exclaimed in an undertone, laughing. "he needn't be. it's all `b' electro--not worth taking away in a dung-cart. the only thing i've seen is the old woman's necklet, and that she keeps in her room, i fancy. if the sparklers are real they're worth a couple of thousand to the dutchman." "they are certainly real. she's got them out of the bank in your honour. her maid told me so to-day. and she means, i believe, to give a big dinner-party for some of the county people to meet you." "are you sure of this?" asked his master quickly. "the cook told the footman, who told me. the housekeeper to-day ordered a lot of things from london, and to-morrow the invitations are to be sent out." "are people coming here to dine and sleep?" "yes. eight bedrooms are to be prepared." "then keep an eye on that confounded italian. send that letter to max, and tell him to reply to you in cipher. his letter might fall into somebody else's hands. max might also inquire into what the police arrangements are about here--where the village constable lives, and where is the nearest police-station." "couldn't you send me in to whitby, and i'd give him all instructions, and tell him the state of affairs?" "yes. go in the morning. garrett will take you in on the car. say you're going to buy me a book i want." and with that his highness finished tying his cravat with care, and descended into the pretty drawing-room, where the widow, lounging picturesquely beneath the yellow-shaded lamp, awaited him. that evening the parson, who complained of headache on account of the sun during a walk in the morning, retired to his room early, and until past eleven the prince sat alone with his fat and flattered hostess. as she lolled back in the big silk-covered easy-chair, slowly fanning herself and trying to look her best, he, calm, calculating person that he was, had his eyes fixed upon her sparkling necklet, wondering how much the old jew in amsterdam would give for it. "what a splendid ornament!" he remarked, as though he had noticed it for the first time. "do you like it?" she asked with a smile. "it belonged to my husband's family." "beautiful!" remarked his highness, bending closer to examine it, for he had the eye of a connoisseur, and saw that it was probably french work of the eighteenth century. "many people have admired it," she went on. "my husband was very fond of jewellery, and gave me quite a quantity. i never keep it here, however, for a year ago an attempt was made to break into the place." "so you keep them in a safe deposit?" he exclaimed; "and quite right, too. diamonds are always a sore temptation to burglars." "i'm asking a few people to dinner next wednesday, and am sending to the bank in york for some of my ornaments," remarked the widow. "i hope they'll be safe here. since the attempt by thieves, i confess i've been awfully nervous." "oh, they'll be safe enough," declared the audacious adventurer, taking a fresh russian cigarette from his case. "i hope so. i have invited a few people--the best in the county--to meet your highness. i hope you won't object." "not at all," he replied affably. "only, as you know, i much prefer to remain _incognito_." "you're one of the most modest men i've ever met," she declared, in a soft voice, intended to be seductive. "i find life as a commoner much more agreeable than as a prince," he responded. "in _incognito_, i always enjoy freedom of speech and freedom of action, which, as a royalty, it is impossible to obtain." the widow's mind was ever active. she was straining her utmost to fascinate her guest. the difference in their ages was really not so very great. her secret hope was that she could induce him to make a declaration of love. fancy her, plain mrs edmondson, ridiculed by the county and only tolerated by a certain section of it, suddenly becoming a princess! milnthorpe was a beautiful old place, but to her it was but a sepulchre. she hated it because, while in residence there, she was buried alive. she preferred monte carlo, paris, or even cairo. "then the dinner-party will be a very smart one?" he remarked for want of something better to say. "and my hostess herself will surely be the smartest of them all," he added with a bow and an intent to flatter. "ah! i fear not," replied the widow with a slight sigh. "i dare say the diamonds which poor tubby gave me are as good as any worn by the other women, but as for smartness--well, prince, a woman's mirror does not lie," and she sighed again. "youth is but fleeting, and a woman's life is, alas! a long old age." "oh, come!" he laughed, lounging back in his chair. "you haven't yet arrived at the regretful age. life is surely still full of youth for you!" she was much gratified at that little speech of his, and showed it. he continued to flatter her, and with that cunning innate within him he slowly drew from her the fact that she would not be averse to a second marriage. he was fooling her, yet with such cleverness that she, shrewd woman that she was, never dreamed that he was laughing at her in his sleeve. so earnest, so sensible, so perfectly frank and straightforward was he, that when after half an hour's _tete-a-tete_ she found him holding her hand and asking her to become princess, she became utterly bewildered. what she replied she hardly knew, until suddenly, with an old-fashioned courtliness, he raised her fat, bejewelled hand gallantly to his lips and said: "very well. let it be so, mrs edmondson. we are kindred spirits, and our souls have affinity. you shall be my princess." "and then the old crow started blubbering," as he forcibly described the scene afterwards to the parson. for a few moments he held her in his embrace, fearful every moment that the ferret-eyed italian should enter. indeed, his every movement seemed to be watched suspiciously by that grave, silent servant. they mutually promised, for the present, to keep their secret. he kissed her upon the lips, which, as he declared to the parson, were "sticky with some confounded face-cream or other." then ferrini suddenly appeared, and his mistress dismissed him for the night. the prince, however, knew that he would not retire, but lurk somewhere in the corridor outside. he stood before the old jacobean fireplace, with its high overmantel of carved stone and emblazoned arms, a handsome man who would prove attractive to any woman. was it therefore any wonder that the ambitious widow of the shipbuilder should have angled after him? he had entirely eclipsed the parson. first their conversation was all of affection; then it turned upon something akin, money. upon the latter point the prince was utter careless. he had sufficient, he declared. but the widow was persistent in telling him the state of her own finances. besides the estate of milnthorpe, which produced quite a comfortable income, she enjoyed half the revenue from the great firm her husband had founded, and at that moment, besides other securities, she had a matter of seventy thousand pounds lying idle at her bank, over which she had complete control. she expected this would interest him, but, on the contrary, he merely lit a fresh cigarette, and having done so, said: "my dear mrs edmondson, this marriage of ours is not for monetary interest. my own estates are more than sufficient for me. i do not desire to touch one single penny of your money. i wish you to enjoy your separate estate, and remain just as independent as you are to-day." and so they chatted on until the chimes of the stable clock warned them it was two in the morning. then having given him a slobbery good-night kiss, they separated. before his highness turned in, he took from his steel despatch-box a small black-covered book, and with its aid he constructed two cipher telegrams, which he put aside to be despatched by charles from the whitby post office in the morning. the calm, warm summer days went slowly by. each afternoon the widow-- now perfectly satisfied with herself--accompanied her two guests on runs on the prince's "forty"--one day to scarborough, the next over the cleveland hills to guisborough, to helmsley on to the ruins of rievaulx, and to other places. one afternoon the parson made an excuse to remain at home, and the widow took the prince in to york in her own mercedes. arrived there, they took tea in the coffee-room of the station hotel, then, calling at a solicitor's office in coney street, appended their joint names to a document which, at the widow's instigation, had already been prepared. a quarter of an hour later they pulled up before the west riding bank in stonegate, and though the offices were already closed, a clerk on duty handed to the widow a box about eighteen inches square, tied with string, and sealed with four imposing red seals. for this she scribbled her name to a receipt, and placing it in the car between them, drove back by way of malton, pickering, and levisham. "this is the first time i've had my tiara out, my dear albert, since the burglars tried to get in," she remarked when they had gone some distance, and the mercedes was tearing along that level open stretch towards malton. "well, of course, be careful," answered her companion. then after a pause he lowered his voice so the chauffeur could not overhear, and said: "i wonder, gertrude, if you'll permit me to make a remark--without any offence?" "why, certainly. what is it?" "well, to tell the truth, i don't half like the look of that foreign servant of yours. he's not straight. i'm sure of it by the look in his eyes." "how curious! do you know that the same thought has occurred to me these last few days," she said. "and yet he's such a trusty servant. he's been with me nearly two years." "don't trust him further, gertrude, that's my advice," said his highness pointedly. "i'm suspicious of the fellow--distinctly suspicious. do you know much of him?" "nothing, except that he's a most exemplary servant." "where was he before he entered your service?" "with lady llangoven, in hertford street. she gave him a most excellent character." "well, take my warning," he said. "i'm sure there's something underhand about him." "you quite alarm me," declared the widow. "especially as i have these," and she indicated the sealed parcel at her side. "oh, don't be alarmed. while i'm at milnthorpe i'll keep my eyes upon the fellow, never fear. i suppose you have a safe in which to keep your jewels?" "yes. but some of the plate is kept there, and he often has the key." his highness grunted suspiciously, thereby increasing the widow's alarm. "now you cause me to reflect," she said, "there were several curious features about this recent attempt of thieves. the police from york asked me if i thought that any one in the house could have been in league with them. they apparently suspected one or other of the servants." "oh!" exclaimed the prince. "and the italian was at that time in your service?" "yes." "then does not that confirm our suspicions? is he not a dangerous person to have in a house so full of valuable objects as milnthorpe?" "i certainly agree. after the dinner-party on wednesday, i'll give him notice." "rather pay the fellow his month's money, and send him away," her companion suggested. then in the same breath he added: "of course it is not for me to interfere with your household arrangements. i know this is great presumption. but my eyes are open, and i have noted that the man is not all he pretends to be. therefore i thought it only my duty to broach the subject." "my interests are yours," cooed the widow at his side. "most decidedly ferrini shall go. or else one morning we may wake up and find that thieves have paid us a second visit." then, the chauffeur having put on a "move," their conversation became interrupted, and the subject was not resumed, for very soon they found themselves swinging through the lodge-gates of milnthorpe. wednesday night came. milnthorpe hall was aglow with light, the rooms beautifully decorated by a well-known florist, the dinner cooked by a _chef_ from london, the music played by a well-known orchestra stationed on the lawn outside the long, oak-panelled dining-room; and as one guest after another arrived in carriages and cars they declared that the widow had certainly eclipsed herself by this entertainment in honour of his highness prince albert of hesse-holstein. not a word of their approaching marriage was allowed to leak out. for the present, it was their own secret. any premature announcement might, he had told her, bring upon him the kaiser's displeasure. four. in the long drawing-room, receiving her guests, stood the widow, handsome in black and silver, wearing her splendid tiara and necklet of diamonds, as well as a rope of fine, well-matched pearls, all of which both the parson and his highness duly noted. she certainly looked a brilliant figure, while, beside her, stood the prince himself, with the miniature crosses of half a dozen of his decorations strung upon a tiny gold chain across the lappel of his dress-coat. several guests had arrived earlier in the day to dine and sleep, while the remainder, from the immediate neighbourhood, included several persons of title and social distinction who had accepted the invitation out of mere curiosity. half the guests went because they were to meet a real live prince, and the other half in order to afterwards poke fun at the obese tuft-hunter. the dinner, however, was an unqualified success, the thanks being in a great measure due to his highness, who was full of vivacity and brilliant conversation. everybody was charmed with him, while of course later on, in the corner of the drawing-room, the bayswater parson sang his friend's praises in unmeasured terms. the several unmarried women set their caps pointedly at the hero of the evening, and at last, when the guests had left and the visitors had retired, he, with the parson and two other male visitors, sir henry hutton, and a certain lionel meyer, went to the billiard-room. it was two o'clock when they went upstairs. the bayswater vicar had to pass the prince's room, in order to get to his own, but he did not enter further than the threshold. both men looked eagerly across at the dressing-table, upon which charles had left two candles burning. that was a secret sign. both men recognised it, and the prince instantly raised his finger with a gesture indicative of silence. then he exclaimed aloud: "well, good-night, clayton. we'll go for a run in the morning," and closed his door noisily, while the parson went along to his own room. the prince, always an early riser, was up at eight o'clock, and was already dressed when charles entered his room. "well?" he inquired, as was his habit. "there's a rare to-do below," exclaimed the valet. "the whole house has been ransacked in the night, and a clean sweep made of all the jewellery. the old woman is asking to see you at once." without ado, his highness descended, sending charles along to alarm the parson. in the morning-room he found the widow, with the two male guests and two ladies, assembled in excited conclave. as he entered, his hostess rushed towards him, saying: "oh, prince! a most terrible thing has happened! every scrap of jewellery, including my tiara and necklet, has been stolen!" "stolen!" he gasped, pretending not to have heard the news. "yes. i placed them myself in the safe in the butler's pantry, together with several cases the maids brought me from my guests. i locked them up just after one o'clock and took the key. here it is. it has never left my possession. i--" she was at that moment interrupted by the entrance of the parson, who, having heard of the robbery from the servants, began: "my de-ah mrs edmondson. this is really a most untoward circumstance-- most--" "listen," the widow went on excitedly. "hear me, and then advise me what to do. i took this key,"--and she held it up for their inspection--"and hid it beneath the corner of the carpet in my room. this morning, to my amazement, my maid came to say that the safe-door had been found ajar, and that though the plate had been left, all the jewellery had disappeared. only the empty cases remain!" "how has the safe been opened?" asked the prince, standing amazed. was it possible that some ingenious adventurer had got ahead of him? it certainly seemed so. "it's been opened by another key, that's evident," replied the widow. "and where's ferrini?" inquired his highness quickly. "he's missing. nobody has seen him this morning," answered the distressed woman. "ah, prince, you were right--quite right in your surmise. i believed in him, but you summed him up very quickly. i intended to discharge him to-morrow, but i never dreamed he possessed a second key." "he has the jewels, evidently," remarked sir henry hutton, himself a county magistrate. "i'll run into whitby, and inform the police, mrs edmondson. we have no idea which direction the fellow has taken." at that moment the door opened, and garrett, cap in hand, stood on the threshold. "well, what's the matter?" asked his master. "please, your highness, our car's gone. it's been stolen from the garage in the night!" the announcement caused an electrical effect upon the assembly. "then this man could also drive a car, as well as wait at table!" exclaimed sir henry. "myself, i always distrust foreign servants." "ferrini had one or two lessons in driving from my chauffeur, i believe," remarked the widow, now in a state of utter collapse. "never mind, mrs edmondson," said his highness cheerily. "allow sir henry and myself to do our best. the fellow is bound to be caught. i'll give the police the number of my car, and its description. and what's more, we have something very valuable here." and he drew out his pocket-book. "you recollect the suspicions of ferrini which i entertained, and which i explained in confidence to you? well, my valet has a pocket camera, and with it three days ago i took a snap-shot of your exemplary servant. here it is!" "by jove. excellent!" cried sir henry. "this will be of the greatest assistance to the police." and so it was arranged that the police of whitby should be at once informed. at breakfast--a hurried, scrappy meal that morning--every one condoled with the prince upon the loss of his car. surely the whole affair had been most cleverly contrived by ferrini, who had got clear away. just as the meal had concluded and the parson had promised to accompany sir henry over to whitby to see the police, he received a telegram calling him to his brother, who had just landed in liverpool from america, and who wished to see him at the adelphi hotel that evening. to his hostess he explained that he was bound to keep the appointment, for his brother had come from san francisco on some important family affairs, and was returning to new york by the next boat. therefore he bade adieu to mrs edmondson--"de-ah mrs edmondson," he always called her--and was driven in the dog-cart to grosmont station, while a few minutes later, the prince and sir henry set out in the widow's mercedes for whitby. the pair returned about one o'clock, and at luncheon explained what they had done. in the afternoon, the widow met his highness out in the tent upon the lawn, and they sat together for some time, he enjoying his eternal "petroff." indeed, he induced her to smoke one, in order to soothe her nerves. "don't upset yourself too much, my dear gertrude," he urged, placing his hand upon hers. "we shall catch the fellow, never fear. do you know, i've been wondering whether, if i went up to town and saw them at scotland yard, it would not be the wisest course. i know one of the superintendents. i met him when my life was threatened by anarchists, and the police put me under their protection. the whitby police seem very slow. besides, by this time ferrini is far afield." "i really think, albert, that it would be quite a good plan," exclaimed the widow enthusiastically. "if you went to scotland yard they would, no doubt, move heaven and earth to find the thief." "that's just what i think," declared his highness. "i'll go by the six-twenty." "but you'll return here to-morrow, won't you?" urged the widow. "the people i have here will be so disappointed if you don't--and--and as for myself," she added, her fat face flushing slightly--"well, you know that i am only happy when you are near me." "trust me, gertrude. i'll return at once--as soon as ever i've set the machinery of scotland yard in motion. i have the negative of the photo i took, and i'll hand it to them." and so that evening, without much explanation to his fellow guests, he ran up to town, leaving charles and most of his baggage behind. next day, mrs edmondson received a long and reassuring telegram from him in london. two days passed, but nothing further was heard. garrett, without a car, and therefore without occupation, decided to go up to london. the theft of the car had utterly puzzled him. whatever _coup_ his master and his friends had intended had evidently been effected by the man ferrini. all their clever scheming had been in vain. they had been forestalled. chapter twelve. conclusion. a week later. the soft summer afterglow flooded the pretty pale-blue upholstered sitting-room in the new palast hotel, overlooking the alster at hamburg, wherein the prince, the parson, and the pale-faced englishman, mason, were seated together at their ease. the prince had already been there two days, but clayton was staying over at the hamburgerhof, while mason, who had arrived _via_ copenhagen only a couple of hours before, had taken up his quarters at the kronprinzen, a smaller establishment in the jungfernstieg. the trio had been chatting, and wondering. mason had just shown them a telegram, which apparently caused them some apprehension. suddenly, however, a waiter entered with a card for herr stoltenberg, as the prince was there known. "show the gentleman in," he ordered in german. a moment later a well-dressed gentlemanly-looking young englishman in light travelling overcoat and dark-green felt hat entered. it was the valet charles. "by jove!" he exclaimed, as soon as the door had closed, "i had a narrow squeak--a confoundedly narrow squeak. you got my wire from amersfoort?" he asked of mason. "yes. i've just been explaining to the prince what happened on the night of the dinner-party," replied the pale-faced man. "tell me. i'm all anxiety to know," urged the valet. "i left garrett in rosendaal. he's utterly puzzled." "i expect he is," mason responded. "the fact is that he's just as much puzzled as the wily italian himself. it's a good job i was able to locate that fellow as one of old blair-stewart's servants up at glenblair castle. you remember--when we met `le bravache' on his own ground," mason went on. "well, i played the part of detective, and wrote to him secretly, asking him to meet me in whitby. he did so, and to him i confided my suspicions of you all, promising him a police reward of two hundred pounds if he kept his eye on you, watched, and informed me of all that was in progress. of course i bound him to the most complete secrecy. he tumbled into the trap at once. the prince had, of course, previously got wax-impressions of the widow's safe-key, for she had one day inadvertently given her key to him to go and unlock a cabinet in the library. three times the suspicious butler met me, and made secret reports on your doings. he watched you like a cat. then, on the night of the dinner-party, i had an appointment with him at one o'clock in the morning. i stole our car, and ran it noiselessly by the back road through the park to the spot where he was to meet me. he came punctually, and got in the car at my side to be driven into whitby, where he supposed three detectives were in waiting. my story was that we were to pick them up at the hotel, drive back to the hall, and arrest the lot of you. he was delighted with the project, and on joining me had a nip of whisky from my flask just to keep out the night air. ten minutes later he was _hors de combat_. i'd doctored the whisky, so, pulling up, i bound and gagged him, and deposited him in a disused cow-house on the opposite side of a field on the edge of roxby high moor--a place i'd previously prospected. having thus got rid of him, i turned the car back again to a spot within a mile of milnthorpe lodge-gates--previously arranged with the prince--and there, close by a stile, i found a biggish packet wrapped hurriedly in brown paper. its feel was sufficient to tell me that it was the boodle. the prince and the parson had secured it after ferrini had absented himself, and having placed it there in readiness for me, had quietly returned to their beds. with it under the seat i drove south as hard as i could by driffield into hull. before i got there i changed the identification plate, obliterated the coronets on the panels with the enamel i found in readiness, and leaving the car in a garage, got across to bergen, in norway, and thence by train down to christiania, copenhagen, and here." "well, you put me into a fine hole, prince," protested the valet good-humouredly. "i waited, expecting to hear something each day. the old woman telegraphed frantically to london a dozen times at least, but got no reply. she was just about to go up to town herself to see what had become of you, and i was beginning to feel very uneasy, i confess, when an astounding thing happened. the italian on the morning of the third day turned up, dirty, dazed, and in a state of terrible excitement. i saw him in the hall where he made a long rambling statement, mostly incoherent. the old woman and sir henry, however, would hear no explanation, and, calling the village constable, had him arrested at once. an hour later they carted him off to whitby. then i made an excuse, cleared out, and here i am! but i tell you," he added, "i had a narrow shave. he made an allegation that i was in the swindle, but every one thought he'd either gone mad, or was trying to bluff them." "it was unavoidable, my dear charles. i couldn't communicate with you," the prince explained. "never mind, my boy. there's a good share coming to you. the sparklers are worth at least ten thousand to our old friend the jew, and they'll be in his hands and out of their settings by this time to-morrow. besides, the silly old crow who thought she'd got a mug, and was going to marry me, has put up twenty thousand pounds in cash to get into the st christopher car deal. i got the money out of my bank safely yesterday, and it's now paid into a new account in the dresdener bank, in the name of karl stoltenberg." "well, you absolutely misled me," charles declared. "because it was imperative," replied herr stoltenberg, as he said he wished to be known in the immediate future. "the old crow was a fool from the very first. she was too ambitious, and never saw through our game or how the record at brooklands was faked entirely for her benefit. the parson's first idea was mere vulgar burglary. if we'd brought it off we should have found only a lot of worthless electro. but i saw a little farther. she had money, and with a little working would no doubt part. she did. i suppose by this time the poor vain old woman has given up all idea of becoming princess albert of hesse-holstein." "well, my dear prince," exclaimed the parson, "my own idea is that we should separate and all lie doggo for at least a year, now that we have so successfully touched the widow's mite." and this course was at once unanimously agreed. i happen, as an intimate friend of his audacious highness, to know his whereabouts at the present moment, and also the snug and unsuspected hiding-places of each of his four accomplices. but to reveal them would most certainly put my personal friends at new scotland yard upon their track. as a matter of fact, i am pledged to absolute secrecy. if i were not, my old college chum would never have dared to furnish me with the details of these stirring adventures of a romantic life of daring and subterfuge--adventures which i have here recounted, and in which perhaps the most prominent if sadly-deceived character has always been "the lady in the car." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. get-rich-quick wallingford a cheerful account of the rise and fall of an american business buccaneer by george randolph chester author of "the making of bobby burnit," "the cash intrigue," etc. with four illustrations a. l. burt company publishers new york copyright, , by the curtis publishing company copyright, , by the curtis publishing company copyright, , by howard e. altemus published april, to the live business men of america--those who have been "stung" and those who have yet to undergo that painful experience--this little tale is sympathetically dedicated [illustration: "and the bathroom must have a large tub"] contents chapter i. in which j. rufus wallingford conceives a brilliant invention chapter ii. wherein edward lamb beholds the amazing profits of the carpet-tack industry chapter iii. mr. wallingford's lamb is carefully inspired with a flash of creative genius chapter iv. j. rufus accepts a temporary accommodation and buys an automobile chapter v. the universal covered carpet tack company forms amid great enthusiasm chapter vi. in which an astounding revelation is made concerning j. rufus chapter vii. wherein the great tack inventor suddenly decides to change his location chapter viii. mr. wallingford takes a dose of his own bitter medicine chapter ix. mr. wallingford shows mr. clover how to do the widows and orphans good chapter x. an amazing combination of philanthropy and profit is inaugurated chapter xi. neil takes a sudden interest in the business, and wallingford lets go chapter xii. fate arranges for j. rufus an opportunity to manufacture sales recorders chapter xiii. mr. wallingford offers unlimited financial backing to a new enterprise chapter xiv. showing how five hundred dollars may do the work of five thousand chapter xv. wallingford generously loans the pneumatic company some of its own money chapter xvi. the financier takes a flying trip to europe on an affair of the heart chapter xvii. wherein a good stomach for strong drink is worth thousands of dollars chapter xviii. the town of battlesburg finds a private railroad car in its midst! chapter xix. mr. wallingford wins the town of battlesburg by the toss of a coin chapter xx. battlesburg smells money and plunges into a mad orgie of speculation chapter xxi. in which the sheep are sheared and skinned and their hides tanned chapter xxii. j. rufus prefers farming in america to promoting in europe chapter xxiii. a corner on farmers is formed and it beholds a most wonderful vision chapter xxiv. the farmers' commercial association does terrific things to the board of trade chapter xxv. mr. fox solves his great problem and mr. wallingford falls with a thud chapter xxvi. j. rufus scents a fortune in smoke and lets mr. nickel see the flames chapter xxvii. mr. wallingford gambles a bit and picks up an unsolicited partner chapter xxviii. wherein mr. wallingford joins the largest club in the world get-rich-quick wallingford chapter i in which j. rufus wallingford conceives a brilliant invention the mud was black and oily where it spread thinly at the edges of the asphalt, and wherever it touched it left a stain; it was upon the leather of every pedestrian, even the most fastidious, and it bordered with almost laughable conspicuousness the higher marking of yellow clay upon the heavy shoes of david jasper, where he stood at the curb in front of the big hotel with his young friend, edward lamb. absorbed in "lodge," talk, neither of the oddly assorted cronies cared much for drizzle overhead or mire underfoot; but a splash of black mud in the face must necessarily command some attention. this surprise came suddenly to both from the circumstance of a cab having dashed up just beside them. their resentment, bubbling hot for a moment, was quickly chilled, however, as the cab door opened and out of it stepped one of those impressive beings for whom the best things of this world have been especially made and provided. he was a large gentleman, a suave gentleman, a gentleman whose clothes not merely fit him but distinguished him, a gentleman of rare good living, even though one of the sort whose faces turn red when they eat; and the dignity of his worldly prosperousness surrounded him like a blessed aura. without a glance at the two plain citizens who stood mopping the mud from their faces, he strode majestically into the hotel, leaving mr. david jasper and mr. edward lamb out in the rain. the clerk kowtowed to the signature, though he had never seen nor heard of it before--"j. rufus wallingford, boston." his eyes, however, had noted a few things: traveling suit, scarf pin, watch guard, ring, hatbox, suit case, bag, all expensive and of the finest grade. "sitting room and bedroom; outside!" directed mr. wallingford. "and the bathroom must have a large tub." the clerk ventured a comprehending smile as he noted the bulk before him. "certainly, mr. wallingford. boy, key for -a. anything else, mr. wallingford?" "send up a waiter and a valet." once more the clerk permitted himself a slight smile, but this time it was as his large guest turned away. he had not the slightest doubt that mr. wallingford's bill would be princely, he was positive that it would be paid; but a vague wonder had crossed his mind as to who would regrettingly pay it. his penetration was excellent, for at this very moment the new arrival's entire capitalized worth was represented by the less than one hundred dollars he carried in his pocket, nor had mr. wallingford the slightest idea of where he was to get more. this latter circumstance did not distress him, however; he knew that there was still plenty of money in the world and that none of it was soldered on, and a reflection of this comfortable philosophy was in his whole bearing. as he strode in pomp across the lobby, a score of bellboys, with a carefully trained scent for tips, envied the cheerfully grinning servitor who followed him to the elevator with his luggage. just as the bellboy was inserting the key in the lock of -a, a tall, slightly built man in a glove-fitting black frock suit, a quite ministerial-looking man, indeed, had it not been for the startling effect of his extravagantly curled black mustache and his piercing black eyes, came down the hallway, so abstracted that he had almost passed mr. wallingford. the latter, however, had eyes for everything. "what's the hurry, blackie?" he inquired affably. the other wheeled instantly, with the snappy alertness of a man who has grown of habit to hold himself in readiness against sudden surprises from any quarter. "hello, j. rufus!" he exclaimed, and shook hands. "boston squeezed dry?" mr. wallingford chuckled with a cumbrous heaving of his shoulders. "just threw the rind away," he confessed. "come in." mr. daw, known as "blackie" to a small but select circle of gentlemen who make it their business to rescue and put carefully hoarded money back into rapid circulation, dropped moodily into a chair and sat considering his well-manicured finger-nails in glum silence, while his masterful host disposed of the bellboy and the valet. "had your dinner?" inquired mr. wallingford as he donned the last few garments of a fresh suit. "not yet," growled the other. "i've got such a grouch against myself i won't even feed right, for fear i'd enjoy it. on the cheaps for the last day, too." mr. wallingford laughed and shook his head. "i'm clean myself," he hastened to inform his friend. "if i have a hundred i'm a millionaire, but i'm coming and you're going, and we don't look at that settle-up ceremony the same way. what's the matter?" "i'm the goat!" responded blackie moodily. "the original goat! came clear out here to trim a sucker that looked good by mail, and have swallowed so much of that citric fruit that if i scrape myself my skin spurts lemon juice. say, do i look like a come-on?" "if you only had the shaving-brush goatee, blackie, i'd try to make you bet on the location of the little pea," gravely responded his friend. "that's right; rub it in!" exclaimed the disgruntled one. "massage me with it! jimmy, if i could take off my legs, i'd kick myself with them from here to boston and never lose a stroke. and me wise!" "but where's the fire?" asked j. rufus, bringing the end of his collar to place with a dexterous jerk. "this lamb i came out to shear--rot him and burn him and scatter his ashes! before i went dippy over two letter-heads and a nice round signature, i ordered an extra safety-deposit vault back home and came on to take his bank roll and house and lot, and make him a present of his clothes if he behaved. but not so! _not_--so! jimmy, this whole town blew right over from out of the middle of missouri in the last cyclone. you've got to show everybody, and then turn it over and let 'em see the other side, and i haven't met the man yet that you could separate from a dollar without chloroform and an ax. let me tell you what to do with that hundred, j. rufe. just get on the train and give it to the conductor, and tell him to take you as far ay-way from here as the money will reach!" mr. wallingford settled his cravat tastefully and smiled at himself in the glass. "i like the place," he observed. "they have tall buildings here, and i smell soft money. this town will listen to a legitimate business proposition. what?" "like the milk-stopper industry?" inquired mr. daw, grinning appreciatively. "how is your boston corporation coming on, anyhow?" "it has even quit holding the bag," responded the other, "because there isn't anything left of the bag. the last i saw of them, the thin and feeble stockholders were chasing themselves around in circles, so i faded away." "you're a wonder," complimented the black-haired man with genuine admiration. "you never take a chance, yet get away with everything in sight, and you never leave 'em an opening to put the funny clothes on you." "i deal in nothing but straight commercial propositions that are strictly within the pale of the law," said j. rufus without a wink; "and even at that they can't say i took anything away from boston." "don't blame boston. you never cleaned up a cent less than five thousand a month while you were there, and if you spent it, that was your lookout." "i had to live." "so do the suckers," sagely observed mr. daw, "but they manage it on four cents' worth of prunes a day, and save up their money for good people. how is mrs. wallingford?" "all others are base imitations," boasted the large man, pausing to critically consider the flavor of his champagne. "just now, fanny's in new york, eating up her diamonds. she was swallowing the last of the brooch when i left her, and this morning she was to begin on the necklace. that ought to last her quite some days, and by that time j. rufus expects to be on earth again." a waiter came to the door with a menu card, and mr. wallingford ordered, to be ready to serve in three quarters of an hour, at a choice table near the music, a dinner for two that would gladden the heart of any tip-hunter. "how soon are you going back to boston, blackie?" "to-night!" snapped the other. "i was going to take a train that makes it in nineteen hours, but i found there is one that makes it in eighteen and a half, so i'm going to take that; and when i get back where the police are satisfied with half, i'm not going out after the emerald paper any more. i'm going to make them bring it to me. it's always the best way. i never went after money yet that they didn't ask me why i wanted it." the large man laughed with his eyes closed. "honestly, blackie, you ought to go into legitimate business enterprises. that's the only game. you can get anybody to buy stock when you make them print it themselves, if you'll only bait up with some little staple article that people use and throw away every day, like ice-cream pails, or corks, or cigar bands, or--or--or carpet tacks." having sought about the room for this last illustration, mr. wallingford became suddenly inspired, and, arising, went over to the edge of the carpet, where he gazed down meditatively for a moment. "now, look at this, for instance!" he said with final enthusiasm. "see this swell red carpet fastened down with rusty tacks? there's the chance. suppose those tacks were covered with red cloth to match the carpet. blackie, that's my next invention." "maybe there are covered carpet tacks," observed his friend, with but languid interest. "what do i care?" rejoined mr. wallingford. "a man can always get a patent, and that's all i need, even if it's one you can throw a cat through. the company can fight the patent after i'm out of it. you wouldn't expect me to fasten myself down to the grease-covered details of an actual manufacturing business, would you?" "not any!" rejoined the dark one emphatically. "you're all right, j. rufus. i'd go into your business myself if i wasn't honest. but, on the level, what do you expect to do here?" "organize the universal covered carpet tack company. i'll begin to-morrow morning. give me the list you couldn't use." "don't get in bad from the start," warned mr. daw. "tackle fresh ones. the particular piece of roquefort, though, that fooled me into a pullman compartment and kept me grinning like a drunken hyena all the way here, was a pinhead by the name of edward lamb. when eddy fell for an inquiry about billion strike gold stock, he wrote on the firm's stationery, all printed in seventeen colors and embossed so it made holes in the envelopes when the cancellation stamp came down. from the tone of eddy's letter i thought he was about ready to mortgage father's business to buy billion strike, and i came on to help him do it. honest, j. rufus, wouldn't it strike you that lamb was a good name? couldn't you hear it bleat?" mr. wallingford shook silently, the more so that there was no answering gleam of mirth in mr. daw's savage visage. "say, do you know what i found when i got here?" went on blackie still more ferociously. "i found he was a piker bookkeeper, but with five thousand dollars that he'd wrenched out of his own pay envelope, a pinch at a clip; and every time he takes a dollar out of his pocket his fingers creak. his whole push is like him, too, but i never got any further than eddy. he's not merely johnny wise--he's the whole wise family, and it's only due to my christian bringing up that i didn't swat him with a brick during our last little chatter when i saw it all fade away. do you know what he wanted me to do? he wanted me to prove to him that there actually was a billion strike mine, and that gold had been found in it!" mr. wallingford had ceased to laugh. he was soberly contemplating. "your lamb is my mutton," he finally concluded, pressing his finger tips together. "he'll listen to a legitimate business proposition." "don't make me fuss with you, j. rufus," admonished mr. daw. "remember, i'm going away to-night," and he arose. mr. wallingford arose with him. "by the way, of course i'll want to refer to you; how many addresses have you besides the billion strike? a mention of that would probably get me arrested." "four: the mexican and rio grande rubber company, tremont building; the st. john's blood orange plantation company, third street; the los pocos lead development company, schuttle avenue, and the sierra cinnabar grant, schuttle square, all of which addresses will reach me at my little old desk-room corner in tremont building, third and schuttle avenues; and i'll answer letters of inquiry on four different letter-heads. if you need more i'll post billy riggs over in the cloud block and fix it for another four or five." "i'll write billy a letter myself," observed j. rufus. "i'll need all the references i can get when i come to organize the universal covered carpet tack company." "quit kidding," retorted mr. daw. "it's on the level," insisted j. rufus seriously. "let's go down to dinner." chapter ii wherein edward lamb beholds the amazing profits of the carpet-tack industry there were twenty-four applicants for the position before edward lamb appeared, the second day after the initial insertion of the advertisement which had been designed to meet his eye alone. david jasper, who read his paper advertisements and all, in order to get the full worth of his money out of it, telephoned to his friend edward about the glittering chance. yes, mr. wallingford was in his suite. would the gentleman give his name? mr. lamb produced a card, printed in careful imitation of engraving, and it gained him admission to the august presence, where he created some surprise by a sudden burst of laughter. "ex-cuse me!" he exclaimed. "but you're the man that splashed mud on me the other night!" when the circumstance was related, mr. wallingford laughed with great gusto and shook hands for the second time with his visitor. the incident helped them to get upon a most cordial footing at once. it did not occur to either of them, at the time, how appropriate it was that mr. wallingford should splash mud upon mr. lamb at their very first meeting. "what can i do for you, mr. lamb?" inquired the large man. "you advertised----" began the caller. "oh, you came about that position," deprecated mr. wallingford, with a nicely shaded tone of courteous disappointment in his voice. "i am afraid that i am already fairly well suited, although i have made no final choice as yet. what are your qualifications?" "there will be no trouble about that," returned mr. lamb, straightening visibly. "i can satisfy anybody." and mr. wallingford had the keynote for which he was seeking. he knew at once that mr. lamb prided himself upon his independence, upon his local standing, upon his efficiency, upon his business astuteness. the observer had also the experience of mr. daw to guide him, and, moreover, better than all, here was mr. lamb himself. he was a broad-shouldered young man, who stood well upon his two feet; he dressed with a proper and decent pride in his prosperity, and wore looped upon his vest a watch chain that by its very weight bespoke the wearer's solid worth. the young man was an open book, whereof the pages were embossed in large type. "now you're talking like the right man," said the prospective employer. "sit down. you'll understand, mr. lamb, that my question was only a natural one, for i am quite particular about this position, which is the most important one i have to fill. our business is to be a large one. we are to conduct an immense plant in this city, and i want the office work organized with a thorough system from the beginning. the duties, consequently, would begin at once. the man who would become secretary of the universal covered carpet tack company, would need to know all about the concern from its very inception, and until i have secured that exact man i shall take no steps toward organization." word by word, mr. wallingford watched the face of edward lamb and could see that he was succumbing to the mental chloroform. however, a man who at thirty has accumulated five thousand is not apt to be numbed without struggling. "before we go any further," interposed the patient, with deep, deep shrewdness, "it must be understood that i have no money to invest." "exactly," agreed mr. wallingford. "i stated that in my advertisement. to become secretary it will be necessary to hold one share of stock, but that share i shall give to the right applicant. i do not care for him to have any investment in the company. what i want is the services of the best man in the city, and to that end i advertised for one who had been an expert bookkeeper and who knew all the office routine of conducting a large business, agreeing to start such a man with a salary of two hundred dollars a month. that advertisement stated in full all that i expect from the one who secures this position--his expert services. i may say that you are only the second candidate who has had the outward appearance of being able to fulfill the requirements. actual efficiency would naturally have to be shown." mr. wallingford was now quite coldly insistent. the proper sleep had been induced. "for fifteen years," mr. lamb now hastened to advise him, "i have been employed by the a. j. dorman manufacturing company, and can refer you to them for everything you wish to know. i can give you other references as to reliability if you like." mr. wallingford was instant warmth. "the a. j. dorman company, indeed!" he exclaimed, though he had never heard of that concern. "the name itself is guarantee enough, at least to defer such matters for a bit while i show you the industry that is to be built in your city." from his dresser mr. wallingford produced a handful of tacks, the head of each one covered with a bit of different-colored bright cloth. "you have only to look at these," he continued, holding them forth, and with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand turning one red-topped tack about in front of mr. lamb's eyes, "to appreciate to the full what a wonderful business certainty i am preparing to launch. just hold these tacks a moment," and he turned the handful into mr. lamb's outstretched palm. "now come over to the edge of this carpet. i have selected here a tack which matches this floor covering. you see those rusty heads? imagine the difference if they were replaced by this!" mr. lamb looked and saw, but it was necessary to display his business acumen. "looks like a good thing," he commented; "but the cost?" "the cost is comparatively nothing over the old steel tack, although we can easily get ten cents a paper as against five for the common ones, leaving us a much wider margin of profit than the manufacturers of the straight tack obtain. there is no family so poor that will use the old, rusty tinned or bronze tack when these are made known to the trade, and you can easily compute for yourself how many millions of packages are used every year. why, the eureka tack company, which practically has a monopoly of the carpet-tack business, operates a manufacturing plant covering twenty solid acres, and a loaded freight car leaves its warehouse doors on an average of every seven minutes! you cannot buy a share of stock in the eureka carpet tack company at any price. it yields sixteen per cent. a year dividends, with over eighteen million dollars of undivided surplus--and that business was built on carpet tacks alone! why, sir, if we wished to do so, within two months after we had started our factory wheels rolling we could sell out to the eureka company for two million dollars; or a profit of more than one thousand per cent. on the investment that we are to make." for once mr. lamb was overwhelmed. only three days before he had been beset by mr. daw, but that gentleman had grown hoarsely eloquent over vast possessions that were beyond thousands of miles of circumambient space, across vast barren reaches where desert sands sent up constant streams of superheated atmosphere, with the "hot air" distinctly to be traced throughout the conversation; but here was something to be seen and felt. the points of the very tacks that he held pricked his palm, and his eyes were still glued upon the red-topped one which mr. wallingford held hypnotically before him. "who composes your company?" he managed to ask. "so far, i do," replied mr. wallingford with quiet pride. "i have not organized the company. that is a minor detail. when i go searching for capital i shall know where to secure it. i have chosen this city on account of its manufacturing facilities, and for its splendid geographical position as a distributing center." "the stock is not yet placed, then," mused aloud mr. lamb, upon whose vision there already glowed a pleasing picture of immense profits. why, the thing was startling in the magnificence of its opportunity! simple little trick, millions and millions used, better than anything of its kind ever put upon the market, cheaply manufactured, it was marked for success from the first! "stock placed? not at all," stated mr. wallingford. "my plans only contemplate incorporating for a quarter of a million, and i mean to avoid small stockholders. i shall try to divide the stock into, say, about ten holdings of twenty-five thousand each." mr. lamb was visibly disappointed. "it looks like a fine thing," he declared with a note of regret. "fine? my boy, i'm not much older than you are, but i have been connected with several large enterprises in boston and elsewhere--if any one were to care to inquire about me they might drop a line to the mexican and rio grande rubber company, the st. john's blood orange plantation company, the los pocos lead development company, the sierra cinnabar grant, and a number of others, the addresses of which i could supply--and i never have seen anything so good as this. i am staking my entire business judgment upon it, and, of course, i shall retain the majority of stock myself, inasmuch as the article is my invention." this being the psychological moment, mr. wallingford put forth his hand and had mr. lamb dump the tacks back into the large palm that had at first held them. he left them open to view, however, and presently mr. lamb picked out one of them for examination. this particular tack was of an exquisite apple-green color, the covering for which had been clipped from one of mr. wallingford's own expensive ties, glued to its place and carefully trimmed by mr. wallingford's own hands. mr. lamb took it to the window for closer admiration, and the promoter, left to himself for a moment, stood before the glass to mop his face and head and neck. he had been working until he had perspired; but, looking into the glass at mr. lamb's rigid back, he perceived that the work was well done. mr. lamb was profoundly convinced that the universal covered carpet tack company was an entity to be respected; nay, to be revered! mr. lamb could already see the smoke belching from the tall chimneys of its factory, the bright lights gleaming out from its myriad windows where it was working overtime, the thousands of workmen streaming in at its broad gates, the loaded freight cars leaving every seven minutes! "you're not going home to dinner, are you, mr. lamb?" asked mr. wallingford suddenly. "i owe you one for the splash, you know." "why--i'm expected home." "telephone them you're not coming." "we--we haven't a telephone in the house." "telephone to the nearest drug store and send a messenger over." mr. lamb looked down at himself. he was always neatly dressed, but he did not feel equal to the glitter of the big dining room downstairs. "i am not--cleaned up," he objected. "nonsense! however, as far as that goes, we'll have 'em bring a table right here." and, taking the matter into his own hands, mr. wallingford telephoned for a waiter. from that moment mr. lamb strove not to show his wonder at the heights to which human comfort and luxury can attain, but it was a vain attempt; for from the time the two uniformed attendants brought in the table with its snowy cloth and began to place upon it the shining silver and cut-glass service, with the centerpiece of red carnations, he began to grasp at a new world--and it was about this time that he wished he had on his best black suit. in the bathroom mr. wallingford came upon him as he held his collar ruefully in his hand, and needed no explanation. "i say, old man, we can't keep 'em clean, can we? we'll fix that." the bellboys were anxious to answer summons from -a by this time. mr. wallingford never used money in a hotel except for tips. it was scarcely a minute until a boy had that collar, with instructions to get another just like it. "how are the cuffs? attached, old man? all right. what size shirt do you wear?" mr. lamb gave up. he was now past the point of protest. he told mr. wallingford the number of his shirt. in five minutes more he was completely outfitted with clean linen, and when, washed and refreshed and spotless as to high lights, he stepped forth into what was now a perfectly appointed private dining room, he felt himself gradually rising to mr. wallingford's own height and able to be supercilious to the waiters, under whose gaze, while his collar was soiled, he had quailed. it was said by those who made a business of dining that mr. wallingford could order a dinner worth while, except for the one trifling fault of over-plenty; but then, mr. wallingford himself was a large man, and it took much food and drink to sustain that largeness. whatever other critics might have said, mr. lamb could have but one opinion as they sipped their champagne, toward the end of the meal, and this opinion was that mr. wallingford was a genius, a prince of entertainers, a master of finance, a gentleman to be imitated in every particular, and that a man should especially blush to question his financial standing or integrity. they went to the theater after dinner--box seats--and after the theater they had a little cold snack, amounting to about eleven dollars, including wine and cigars. moreover, mr. lamb had gratefully accepted the secretaryship of the universal covered carpet tack company. chapter iii mr. wallingford's lamb is carefully inspired with a flash of creative genius the next morning, in spite of protests and warnings from his employer, mr. lamb resigned his position with the a. j. dorman company, and, jumping on a car, rode out to the far north side, where he called at david jasper's tumble-down frame house. on either side of this were three neat houses that david had built, one at a time, on land he had bought for a song in his younger days; but these were for renting purposes. david lived in the old one for exactly the same reason that he wore the frayed overcoat and slouch hat that had done him duty for many years--they made him as comfortable as new ones, and appearances fed no one nor kept anybody warm. wholesome ella jasper met the caller at the door with an inward cordiality entirely out of proportion to even a close friend of the family, but her greeting was commonplaceness itself. "father's just over to kriegler's, getting his glass of beer and his lunch," she observed as he shook hands warmly with her. sometimes she wished that he were not quite so meaninglessly cordial; that he could be either a bit more shy or a bit more bold in his greeting of her. "i might have known that," he laughed, looking at his watch. "half-past ten. i'll hurry right over there," and he was gone. ella stood in the doorway and looked after him until he had turned the corner of the house; then she sighed and went back to her baking. a moment later she was singing cheerfully. it was a sort of morning lunch club of elderly men, all of the one lodge, the one building association, the one manner of life, which met over at kriegler's, and "eddy" was compelled to sit with them for nearly an hour of slow beer, while politics, municipal, state and national, was thoroughly thrashed out, before he could get his friend david to himself. "well, what brings you out so early, eddy?" asked the old harness maker on the walk home. "got a new gold-mining scheme again to put us all in the poorhouse?" eddy laughed. "you don't remember of the kid-glove miner taking anybody's money away, do you?" he demanded. "i guess your old chum eddy saw through the grindstone that time, eh?" mr. jasper laughed and pounded him a sledge-hammer blow upon the shoulder. it was intended as a mere pat of approval. "you're all right, eddy. the only trouble with you is that you don't get married. you'll be an old bachelor before you know it." "so you've said before," laughed eddy, "but i can't find the girl that will have me." "i'll speak to ella for you." the younger man laughed lightly again. "she's my sister," he said gayly. "i wouldn't lose my sister for anything." david frowned a little and shook his head to himself, but he said nothing more, though the wish was close to his heart. he thought he was tactful. "no, i've got that new job," went on young lamb. "another man from boston, too. i'm in charge of the complete office organization of a brand-new manufacturing business that's to start up here. two hundred dollars a month to begin. how's that?" "fine," said david. "enough to marry on. but it sounds too good. is he a sharper, too?" "he don't need to be. he seems to have plenty of money, and the article he's going to start manufacturing is so good that it will pay him better to be honest than to be crooked. i don't see where the man could go wrong. why, look here!" and from his vest pocket he pulled an orange-headed tack. "carpet tack--covered with any color you want--same color as your carpet so the tacks don't show--only cost a little bit more than the cheap ones. don't you think it's a good thing?" david stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and put on his spectacles to examine the trifle critically. "is that all he's going to make--just tacks?" "just tacks!" exclaimed the younger man. "why, dave, the eureka tack company, that has a practical monopoly now of the tack business in this country, occupies a plant covering twenty acres. it employs thousands of men. it makes sixteen per cent. a year dividends, and has millions of dollars surplus in its treasury--undivided profits! long freight trains leave its warehouses every day, loaded down with nothing but tacks; and that's all they make--just tacks! why, think, dave, of how many millions of tacks are pulled out of carpets and thrown away every spring!" mr. jasper was still examining the tack from head to point with deep interest. now he drew a long breath and handed it back. "it's a big thing, even if it is little," he admitted. "watch out for the man, though. does he want any money?" "not a cent. why, any money i've got he'd laugh at. i couldn't give him any. he's a rich man, and able to start his own factory. he's going to organize a quarter of a million stock company and keep the majority of the stock himself." "it might be pretty good stock to buy, if you could get some of it," decided dave after some slow pondering. "i wish i could, but there is no chance. what stock he issues is only to be put out in twenty-five-thousand-dollar lots." again david jasper sighed. sixteen per cent. a year! he was thinking now of what a small margin of profit his houses left him after repairs and taxes were paid. "it looks to me like you'd struck it rich, my boy. well, you deserve it. you have worked hard and saved your money. you know, when i got married i had nothing but a set of harness tools and the girl, and we got along." "look here, dave," laughed his younger friend, whose thirty years were unbelievable in that he still looked so much like a boy, "some of these days i will hunt up a girl and get married, just to make you keep still about it, and if i have any trouble i'll throw it up to you as long as you live. but what do you think of this chance of mine? that's what i came out for--to get your opinion on it." "well," drawled dave, cautious now that the final judgment was to be pronounced, "you want to remember that you're giving up a good job that has got better and better every year and that will most likely get still better every year; but, if you can start at two hundred a month, and are sure you're going to get it, and the man don't want any money, and he isn't a sharper, why, it looks like it was too good to miss." "that's what i think," rejoined mr. lamb enthusiastically. "well, i must go now. i want to see mr. lewis and john nolting and one or two of the others, and get their advice," and he swung jubilantly on a car. it was a pleasant figment this, eddy lamb's plan of consulting his older friends. he always went to them most scrupulously to get their advice, and afterward did as he pleased. he was too near the soil, however--only one generation away--to make many mistakes in the matter of caution, and so far he had swung his little financial ventures with such great success that he had begun to be conceited. he found mr. wallingford at the hotel, but not waiting for him by any means. mr. wallingford was very busy with correspondence which, since part of it was to his wife and to "blackie" daw, was entirely too personal to be trusted to a public stenographer, and he frowningly placed his caller near the window with some new samples of tacks he had made that morning; then, for fifteen minutes, he silently wrote straight on, a course which allowed mr. lamb the opportunity to reflect that he was, after all, not entitled to have worn that air of affable familiarity with which he had come into the room. in closing his letter to mr. daw the writer added a postscript: "the lamb is here, and i am now sharpening the shears." his letters finished and a swift boy called to despatch them, mr. wallingford drew a chair soberly to the opposite side of the little table at which he had seated mr. lamb. like every great captain of finance, he turned his back to the window so that his features were in shadow, while the wide-set, open eyes of mr. lamb, under their good, broad brow, blinked into the full light of day, which revealed for minute study every wrinkle of expression in his features. "i forgot to warn you of one thing last night, and i hope you have not talked too much," mr. wallingford began with great seriousness. "i reposed such confidence in you that i did not think of caution, a confidence that was justified, for from such inquiries as i have made this morning i am perfectly satisfied with your record--and, by the way, mr. lamb, while we are upon this subject, here is a list of references to some of whom i must insist that you write, for my own satisfaction if not for yours. but now to the main point. the thing i omitted to warn you about is this," and here he sank his voice to a quite confidential tone: "i have not yet applied for letters patent upon this device." "you have not?" exclaimed mr. lamb in surprise. the revelation rather altered his estimate of mr. wallingford's great business ability. "no," confessed the latter. "you can see how much i trust you, to tell you this, because, if you did not know, you would naturally suppose that the patent was at least under way, and i would be in no danger whatever; but i am not yet satisfied on one point, and i want the device perfect before i make application. it has worried me quite a bit. you see, the heads of these tacks are too smooth to retain the cloth. it is very difficult to glue cloth to a smooth metal surface, and if we send out our tacks in such condition that a hammer will pound the cloth tops off, it will ruin our business the first season. i have experimented with every sort of glue i can get, and have pounded thousands of tacks into boards, but the cloth covering still comes off in such large percentage that i am afraid to go ahead. of course, the thing can be solved--it is merely a question of time--but there is no time now to be lost." from out the drawer of the table he drew a board into which had been driven some dozens of tacks. from at least twenty-five per cent. of them the cloth covering had been knocked off. "i see," observed the lamb, and he examined the board thoughtfully; then he looked out of the window at the passing traffic in the street. mr. wallingford tilted back his chair and lit a fat, black cigar, the barest twinkle of a smile playing about his eyes. he laid a mate to the cigar in front of the bookkeeper, but the latter paid no attention whatever to it. he was perfectly absorbed, and the twinkles around the large man's eyes deepened. "i say!" suddenly exclaimed mr. lamb, turning from the window to the capitalist and throwing open his coat impatiently, as if to get away from anything that encumbered his free expression, "why wouldn't it do to roughen the heads of the tacks?" his eyes fairly gleamed with the enthusiasm of creation. he had found the answer to one of those difficult problems like: "what bright genius can supply the missing letters to make up the name of this great american martyr, who was also a president and freed the slaves? l-nc-ln. $ . in gold to be divided among the four million successful solvers! _send no money_ until afterwards!" mr. wallingford brought down the legs of his chair with a thump. "by george!" he ejaculated. "i'm glad i found you. you're a man of remarkable resource, and i must be a dumbhead. here i have been puzzling and puzzling with this problem, and it never occurred to me to roughen those tacks!" it was now mr. lamb's turn to find the fat, black cigar, to light it, to lean back comfortably and to contemplate mr. wallingford with triumphantly smiling eyes. the latter gentleman, however, was in no contemplative mood. he was a man all of energy. he had two bellboys at the door in another minute. one he sent for a quart of wine and the other to the hardware store with a list of necessities, which were breathlessly bought and delivered: a small table-vise, a heavy hammer, two or three patterns of flat files and several papers of tacks. already in one corner of mr. wallingford's room stood a rough serving table which he had been using as a work bench, and mr. lamb could not but reflect how everything needed came quickly to this man's bidding, as if he had possessed the magic lamp of aladdin. he was forced to admire, too, the dexterity with which this genius screwed the small vise to the table, placed in its jaws a row of tacks, and, pressing upon them the flat side of one of the files, pounded this vigorously until, upon lifting it up, the fine, indented pattern was found repeated in the hard heads of the tacks. the master magician went through this operation until he had a whole paper of them with roughened heads; then, glowing with fervid enthusiasm which was quickly communicated to his helper, he set mr. lamb to gluing bits of cloth upon these heads, to be trimmed later with delicate scissors, an extra pair of which mr. wallingford sent out to get. when the tacks were all set aside to dry the coworkers addressed themselves to the contents of the ice pail; but, as the host was pulling the cork from the bottle, and while both of them were perspiring and glowing with anticipated triumph in the experiment, mr. wallingford's face grew suddenly troubled. "by george, eddy"--and mr. lamb beamed over this early adoption of his familiar first name--"if this experiment succeeds it makes you part inventor with me!" eddy sat down to gasp. chapter iv j. rufus accepts a temporary accommodation and buys an automobile the experiment was a success. immediately after lunch they secured a fresh pine board and pounded all the tacks into it. not one top came off. the fact, however, that mr. lamb was part inventor, made a vast difference in the proposition. "now, we'll talk cold business on this," said mr. wallingford. "of course, the main idea is mine, but the patent must be applied for by both as joint inventors. under the circumstances, i should say that about one fourth of the value of the patent, which we shall sell to the company for at least sixty thousand dollars, would be pretty good for your few minutes of thought, eh?" mr. lamb, his head swimming, agreed with him thoroughly. "very well, then, we'll go right out to a lawyer and have a contract drawn up; then we'll go to a patent attorney and get the thing under way at once. do you know of a good lawyer?" mr. lamb did. there was a young one, thoroughly good, who belonged to mr. lamb's lodge, and they went over to see him. there is no expressing the angle at which mr. lamb held his head as he passed out through the lobby of the best hotel in his city. if his well-to-do townsmen having business there wished to take notice of him, well and good; if they did not, well and good also. he needed nothing of them. it was with the same shoulder-squared self-gratification that he ushered his affluent friend into carwin's office. carwin was in. unfortunately, he was always in. practice had not yet begun for him, but lamb was bringing fortune in his hand and was correspondingly elated. he intended to make carwin the lawyer for the corporation. mr. carwin drew up for them articles of agreement, in which it was set forth, with many a whereas and wherein, that the said party of the first part and the said party of the second part were joint inventors of a herein described new and improved carpet tack, the full and total benefits of which were to accrue to the said parties of the first part and the second part, and to their heirs and assigns forever and ever, in the proportion of one fourth to the said party of the first part and three fourths to the said party of the second part. mr. carwin, as he saw them walk out with the precious agreement, duly signed, attested and sealed, was too timid to hint about his fee, and mr. lamb could scarcely be so indelicate as to call attention to the trifle, even though he knew that mr. carwin was gasping for it at that present moment. the latter had hidden his shoes carefully under his desk throughout the consultation, and had kept tucking his cuffs back out of sight during the entire time. there were reasons, however, why mr. wallingford did not pay the fee. in spite of the fact that everything was charged at his hotel, it did take some cash for the bare necessities of existence, and, in the past three days, he had spent over fifty dollars in mere incidentals, aside from his living expenses. mr. lamb did not know a patent lawyer, but he had seen the sign of one, and he knew where to go right to him. the patent lawyer demanded a preliminary fee of twenty-five dollars. mr. lamb was sorry that mr. christopher had made such an unfortunate "break," for he felt that the man would get no more of mr. wallingford's business. the latter drew out a roll of bills, however, paid the man on the spot and took his receipt. "will a ten-dollar bill help hurry matters any?" he asked. "it might," admitted the patent lawyer with a cheerful smile. his office was in a ramshackle old building that had no elevator, and they had been compelled to climb two flights of stairs to reach it. mr. wallingford handed him the ten dollars. "have the drawings and the application ready by to-morrow. if the thing can be expedited we shall want you to go on to washington with the papers." mr. christopher glowed within him. wherever this man wallingford went he left behind him a trail of high hopes, a glimpse of a better day to dawn. he was a public benefactor, a boon to humanity. his very presence radiated good cheer and golden prospects. as they entered the hotel, said mr. wallingford: "just get the key and go right on up to the room, eddy. you know where it is. make yourself at home. take your knife and try the covering on those last tacks we put in. i'll be up in five or ten minutes." when mr. wallingford came in mr. lamb was testing the tack covers with great gratification. they were all solid, and they could scarcely be dug off with a knife. he looked up to communicate this fact with glee, and saw a frowning countenance upon his senior partner. mr. j. rufus wallingford was distinctly vexed. "nice thing!" he growled. "just got a notice that there is an overdraft in my bank. now, i'll have to order some bonds sold at a loss, with the market down all around; but that will take a couple of days and here i am without cash--without cash! look at that! less than five dollars!" he threw off his coat and hat in disgust and loosened his vest. he mopped his face and brow and neck. mr. wallingford was extremely vexed. he ordered a quart of champagne in a tone which must have made the telephone clerk feel that the princely guest was dissatisfied with the house. "frappé, too!" he demanded. "the last i had was as warm as tea!" mr. lamb, within the past day, had himself begun the rise to dizzy heights; he had breathed the atmosphere of small birds and cold bottles into his nostrils until that vapor seemed the normal air of heaven; the ordinary dollar had gradually shrunk from its normal dimensions of a peck measure to the size of a mere dot, and, moreover, he considered how necessary pocket money was to a man of j. rufus wallingford's rich relationship with the world. "i have a little ready cash i could help you out with, if you will let me offer it," he ventured, embarrassed to find slight alternate waves of heat flushing his face. the borrowing and the lending of money were not unknown by any means in mr. lamb's set. they asked each other for fifty dollars with perfect nonchalance, got it and paid it back with equal unconcern, and no man among them had been known to forget. mr. wallingford accepted quite gracefully. "really, if you don't mind," said he, "five hundred or so would be quite an accommodation for a couple of days." mr. lamb gulped, but it was only a sort of growing pain that he had. it was difficult for him to keep up with his own financial expansion. "certainly," he stammered. "i'll go right down and get it for you. the bank closes at three. i have only a half hour to make it." "i'll go right with you," said mr. wallingford, asking no questions, but rightly divining that his lamb kept no open account. "wait a minute. i'll make you out a note--just so there'll be something to show for it, you know." he hurriedly drew a blank from his pocket, filled it in and arose from the table. "i made it out for thirty days, merely as a matter of business form," stated mr. wallingford as they walked to the elevator, "but, as soon as i put those bonds on the market, i'll take up the note, of course. i left the interest in at six per cent." "oh, that was not necessary at all," protested mr. lamb. the sum had been at first rather a staggering one, but it only took him a moment or two to get his new bearings, and, if possible, he held his head a trifle higher than ever as he walked out through the lobby. on the way to the bank the capitalist passed the note over to his friend. "i believe that's the right date; the twenty-fifth, isn't it?" "the twenty-fifth is right," mr. lamb replied, and perfunctorily opened the note. then he stopped walking. "hello!" he said. "you've made a mistake. this is for a thousand." "is that so? i declare! i so seldom draw less than that. well, suppose we let it go at a thousand." time for gulping was passed. "all right," said the younger man, but he could not make the assent as sprightly as he could have wished. in spite of himself the words drawled. nevertheless, at his bank he handed in his savings-book and the check, and, thoroughly permeated by the atmosphere in which he was now moving, he had made out the order for eleven hundred dollars. "i needed a little loose change myself," he explained, as he put a hundred into his own pocket and passed the thousand over to mr. wallingford. events moved rapidly now. mr. wallingford that night sent off one hundred and fifty dollars to his wife. "cheer up, little girl," he wrote her. "blackie came here and reported that this was a grouch town. i've been here three days and dug up a thousand, and there's more in sight. i've been inquiring around this morning. there is a swell little ten-thousand-dollar house out in the rich end of the burg that i'm going to buy to put up a front, and you know how i'll buy it. also i'm going over to-morrow and pick out an automobile. i need it in my business. you ought to see what long, silky wool the sheep grow here." the next morning was devoted entirely to pleasure. they visited three automobile firms and took spins in four machines, and at last mr. wallingford picked out a five-thousand-dollar car that about suited him. "i shall try this for two weeks," he told the proprietor of the establishment. "keep it here in your garage at my call, and, by that time, if i decide to buy it, i shall have my own garage under way. i have my eye on a very nice little place out in gildendale, and if they don't want too much for it i'll bring on mrs. wallingford from boston." "with pleasure, mr. wallingford," said the proprietor. mr. lamb walked away with a new valuation of things. not a penny of deposit had been asked, for the mere appearance of mr. wallingford and his air of owning the entire garage were sufficient. in the room at the hotel that afternoon they made some further experiments on tacks, and mr. wallingford gave his young partner some further statistics concerning the eureka company: its output, the number of men it employed, the number of machines it had in operation, the small start it had, the immense profits it made. "we've got them all beat," mr. lamb enthusiastically summed up for him. "we're starting much better than they did, and with, i believe, the best manufacturing proposition that was ever put before the public." it was not necessary to supply him with any further enthusiasm. he had been inoculated with the yeast of it, and from that point onward would be self-raising. "the only thing i am afraid of," worried mr. wallingford, "is that the eureka company will want to buy us out before we get fairly started, and, if they offer us a good price, the stockholders will want to stampede. now, you and i must vote down any proposition the eureka company make us, no matter what the other stockholders want, because, if they buy us out before we have actually begun to encroach upon their business, they will not give us one fifth of the price we could get after giving them a good scare. between us, eddy, we'll hold six tenths of the stock and we must stand firm." eddy stuck his thumbs in his vest pocket and with great complacency tapped himself alternately upon his recent luncheon with the finger tips of his two hands. "certainly we will," he admitted. "but say; i have some friends that i'd like to bring into this thing. they're not able to buy blocks of stock as large as you suggested, but, maybe, we could split up one lot so as to let them in." "i don't like the idea of small stockholders," mr. wallingford objected, frowning. "they are too hard to handle. your larger investors are business men who understand all the details and are not raising eternal questions about the little things that turn up; but since we have this tack so perfect i've changed my plan of incorporation, and consequently there is a way in which your friends can get in. we don't want to attract any attention to ourselves from the eureka people just now, so we will only incorporate at first for one thousand dollars, in ten shares of one hundred dollars each--sort of a dummy corporation in which my name will not appear at all. if you can find four friends who will buy one share of stock each you will then subscribe for the other six shares, for which i will pay you, giving you one share, as i promised. these four friends of yours then, if they wish, may take up one block of twenty-five thousand when we make the final corporation, which we will do by increasing our capital stock as soon as we get our corporation papers. these friends of yours would, necessarily, be on our first board of directors, too, which will hold for one year, and it will be an exceptional opportunity for them." "i don't quite understand," said mr. lamb. "we incorporate for one thousand only," explained mr. wallingford, slowly and patiently, "ten shares of one hundred dollars each, all fully paid in. the eureka company will pay no attention to a one-thousand-dollar company. as soon as we get our corporation papers, we original incorporators will, of course, form the officers and board of directors, and we will immediately vote to increase our capitalization to one hundred thousand dollars, in one thousand shares of one hundred dollars each. we will vote to pay you and i as inventors sixty thousand dollars or six hundred shares of stock for our patents--applied for and to be applied for during a period of five years to come--in carpet-tack improvements and machinery for making the same. we will offer the balance of the forty thousand dollars stock for sale, to carry us through the experimental stage--that is, until we get our machinery all in working order. then we will need one hundred thousand dollars to start our factory. to get that, we will reincorporate for a three-hundred-thousand capital, taking up all the outstanding stock and giving to each stockholder two shares at par for each share he then holds. that will take up two hundred thousand dollars of the stock and leave one hundred thousand for sale at par. you, in place of fifteen thousand dollars' worth of stock as your share for the patent rights, will have thirty thousand dollars' worth, or three hundred shares, and if, after we have started operating, the eureka company should buy us out at only a million, you would have a hundred thousand dollars net profit." a long, long sigh was the answer. mr lamb saw. here was real financiering. "let's get outside," he said, needing fresh air in his lungs after this. "let's go up and see my friend, mr. jasper." in ten minutes the automobile had reported. each man, before he left the room, slipped a handful of covered carpet tacks into his coat pocket. chapter v the universal covered carpet tack company forms amid great enthusiasm the intense democracy of j. rufus wallingford could not but charm david jasper, even though he disapproved of diamond stick-pins and red-leather-padded automobiles as a matter of principle. the manner in which the gentleman from boston acknowledged the introduction, the fine mixture of deference due mr. jasper's age and of cordiality due his easily discernible qualities of good fellowship, would have charmed the heart out of a cabbage. "get in, dave; we want to take you a ride," demanded mr. lamb. david shook his head at the big machine, and laughed. "i don't carry enough insurance," he objected. mr. wallingford had caught sight of a little bronze button in the lapel of mr. jasper's faded and threadbare coat. "a man who went through the battle of bull run ought to face anything," he laughed back. the shot went home. mr. jasper _had_ acquitted himself with honor in the battle of bull run, and without further ado he got into the invitingly open door of the tonneau, to sink back among the padded cushions with his friend lamb. as the door slammed shut, ella jasper waved them adieu, and it was fully three minutes after the machine drove away before she began humming about her work. somehow or other, she did not like to see her father's friend so intimately associated with rich people. they had gone but a couple of blocks, and mr. lamb was in the early stages of the enthusiasm attendant upon describing the wonderful events of the past two days--especially his own share in the invention, and the hundred thousand dollars that it was to make him within the year--when mr. wallingford suddenly halted the machine. "you're not going to get home to dinner, you know, mr. jasper," he declared. "oh, we have to! this is lodge night, and i am a patriarch. i haven't missed a night for twenty years, and eddy, here, has an office, too--his first one. we've got ten candidates to-night." "i see," said mr. wallingford gravely. "it is more or less in the line of a sacred duty. nevertheless, we will not go home to dinner. i'll get you at the lodge door at half past eight. will that be early enough?" mr. jasper put his hands upon his knees and turned to his friend. "i guess we can work our way in, can't we, eddy?" he chuckled, and eddy, with equally simple pleasure, replied that they could. "very well. back to the house, chauffeur." and, in a moment more, they were sailing back to the decrepit little cottage, where lamb jumped out to carry the news to ella. she was just coming out of the kitchen door in her sunbonnet to run over to the grocery store as edward came up the steps. he grabbed her by both shoulders and dragged her out. "come on; we're going to take you along!" he threatened, and she did not know why, but, at the touch of his hands, she paled slightly. her eyes never faltered, however, as she laughed and jerked herself away. "not much, you don't! i'm worried enough as it is with father in there--and you, of course." he told her that they would not be home to supper, and, for a second time, she wistfully saw them driving away in the big red machine. mr. wallingford talked with the chauffeur for a few moments, and then the machine leaped forward with definiteness. once or twice mr. wallingford looked back. the two in the tonneau were examining the cloth-topped tacks, and both were talking volubly. mile after mile they were still at it, and the rich man felt relieved of all responsibility. the less he said in the matter the better; he had learned the invaluable lesson of when not to talk. so far as he was concerned, the universal covered carpet tack company was launched, and he was able to turn his attention to the science of running the car, a matter which, by the time they had reached their stopping point, he had picked up to the great admiration of the expert driver. for the last five miles the big man ran the machine himself, with the help of a guiding word or two, and when they finally stopped in front of the one pretentious hotel in the small town they had reached, he was so completely absorbed in the new toy that he was actually as nonchalant about the new company as he would have wished to appear. his passengers were surprised when they found that they had come twenty miles, and mr. wallingford showed them what a man who knows how to dine can do in a minor hotel. he had everybody busy, from the proprietor down. the snap of his fingers was as potent here as the clarion call of the trumpet in battle, and david jasper, though he strove to disapprove, after sixty years of somnolence woke up and actually enjoyed pretentious luxury. there were but five minutes of real business conversation following the meal, but five minutes were enough. david jasper had called his friend eddy aside for one brief moment. "did he give you any references?" he asked, the habit of caution asserting itself. "sure; more than half a dozen of them." "have you written to them?" "i wrote this morning." "i guess he wouldn't give them to you if he wasn't all right." "we don't need the references," urged lamb. "the man himself is reference enough. you see that automobile? he bought it this morning and didn't pay a cent on it. they didn't ask him to." it was a greater recommendation than if the man had paid cash down for the machine; for credit is mightier than cash, everywhere. "i think we'll go in," said dave. think he would go in! it was only his conservative way of expressing himself, for he was already in with his whole heart and soul. in the five minutes of conversation between the three that ensued, david jasper agreed to be one of the original incorporators, to go on the first board of directors, and to provide three other solid men to serve in a like capacity, the preliminary meeting being arranged for the next morning. mr. wallingford passed around his black cigars and lit one in huge content as he climbed into the front seat with the chauffeur, to begin his task of urging driver and machine back through the night in the time that he had promised. that was a wonderful ride to the novices. nothing but darkness ahead, with a single stream of white light spreading out upon the roadway, which, like a fast descending curtain, lowered always before them; a rut here, a rock there, angle and curve and dip and rise all springing out of the night with startling swiftness, to disappear behind them before they had given even a gasp of comprehension for the possible danger they had confronted but that was now past. unconsciously they found themselves gripping tightly the sides of the car, and yet, even to the old man, there was a strange sense of exhilaration, aided perhaps by wine, that made them, after the first breathless five miles, begin to jest in voices loud enough to carry against the wind, to laugh boisterously, and even to sing, by-and-by, a nonsensical song started by lamb and caught up by wallingford and joined by the still firm voice of david jasper. the chauffeur, the while bent grimly over his wheel, peered with iron-nerved intensity out into that mysterious way where the fatal snag might rise up at any second and smite them into lifeless clay, for they were going at a terrific pace. the hoarse horn kept constantly hooting, and every now and then they flashed by trembling horses drawn up at the side of the road and attached to "rigs," the occupants of which appeared only as one or two or three fish-white faces in the one instant that the glow of the headlight gleamed upon them. once there was a quick swerve out of the road and back into it again, where the rear wheel hovered for a fraction of a second over a steep gully, and not until they had passed on did the realization come to them that there had been one horse that had refused, either through stubbornness or fright, to get out of the road fast enough. but what is a danger past when a myriad lie before, and what are dangers ahead when a myriad have been passed safely by? the exhilaration became almost an intoxication, for, in spite of those few moments when mirth and gayety were checked by that sudden throb of what might have been, the songs burst forth again as soon as a level track stretched ahead once more. "five minutes before the time i promised you!" exclaimed mr. wallingford in jovial triumph, jumping from his seat and opening the door of the tonneau for his passengers just in front of the stairway that led to their lodge-rooms. they climbed out, stiff and breathless and still tingling with the inexplicable thrill of it all. "eleven o'clock in the morning, remember, at carwin's," he reminded them as they left him, and afterward they wondered why such a simple exertion as the climbing of one flight of stairs should make their hearts beat so high and their breath come so deep and harsh. it would have been curious, later that night, to see edward lamb buying a quart of champagne for his friends, and protesting that it was not cold enough! mr. wallingford stepped back to the chauffeur. "what's your first name?" he inquired. "frank, sir." "well, frank, when you go back to the shop you tell them that you're to drive my machine hereafter when i call for it, and when i get settled down here i want you to work for me. drive to the hotel now and wait." before climbing into the luxury of the tonneau he handed the chauffeur a five-dollar bill. "all right, sir," said frank. at the hotel, the man of means walked up to the clerk and opened his pocketbook. "i have a little more cash than i care to carry around. just put this to my credit, will you?" and he counted out six one-hundred-dollar bills. as he turned away the clerk permitted himself that faint trace of a smile once more. his confidence was justified. he had known that somebody would pay mr. wallingford's acrobatic bill. his interesting guest strode out to the big red automobile. the chauffeur was out in a second and had the tonneau open before the stately but earnestly willing doorman of the hotel could perform the duty. "now, show us the town," said wallingford as the door closed upon him, and when he came in late that night his eyes were red and his speech was thick; but there were plenty of eager hands to see safely to bed the prince who had landed in their midst with less than a hundred dollars in his possession. he was up bright and vigorous the next morning, however. a cold bath, a hearty breakfast in his room, a half hour with the barber and a spin in the automobile made him elastic and bounding again, so that at eleven o'clock he was easily the freshest man among the six who gathered in mr. carwin's office. the incorporators noted with admiration, which with wiser men might have turned to suspicion, that mr. wallingford was better posted on corporation law than mr. carwin himself, and that he engineered the preliminary proceedings through in a jiffy. with the exception of lamb, they were all men past forty, and not one of them had known experience of this nature. they had been engaged in minor occupations or in minor business throughout their lives, and had gathered their few thousands together dollar by dollar. to them this new realm that was opened up was a fairyland, and the simple trick of watering stock that had been carefully explained to them, one by one, pleased them as no toy ever pleased a child. they had heard of such things as being vague and mysterious operations in the realms of finance and had condemned them, taking their tone from the columns of editorials they had read upon such practices; but, now that they were themselves to reap the fruits of it, they looked through different spectacles. it was a just proceeding which this genius of commerce proposed; for they who stood the first brunt of launching the ship were entitled to greater rewards than they who came in upon an assured certainty of profits, having waited only for the golden cargo to be in the harbor. as a sort of sealing of their compact and to show that this was to be a corporation upon a friendly basis, rather than a cold, grasping business proposition, mr. wallingford took them all over to a simple lunch in a private dining room at his hotel. he was careful not to make it too elaborate, but careful, too, that the luncheon should be notable, and they all went away talking about him: what a wonderful man he was, what a wonderful business proposition he had permitted them to enter upon, what wonderful resources he must have at his command, what wonderful genius was his in manipulation, in invention, in every way. there was a week now in which to act, and mr. wallingford wasted no time. he picked out his house in the exclusive part of gildendale, and when it came to paying the thousand dollars down, mr. wallingford quietly made out a sixty-day note for the amount. "i beg your pardon," hesitated the agent, "the first payment is supposed to be in cash." "oh, i know that it is supposed to be," laughed mr. wallingford, "but we understand how these things are. i guess the house itself will secure the note for that length of time. i am going to be under pretty heavy expense in fitting up the place, and a man with any regard for the earning power of money does not keep much cash lying loose. do you want this note or not?" and his final tone was peremptory. "oh, why, certainly; that's all right," said the agent, and took it. upon the court records appeared the sale, but even before it was so entered a firm of decorators and furnishers had been given _carte blanche_, following, however, certain artistic requirements of mr. wallingford himself. the result that they produced within the three days that he gave them was marvelous; somewhat too garish, perhaps, for people of good taste, but impressive in every detail; and for all this he paid not one penny in cash. he was accredited with being the owner of a house in the exclusive suburb, gildendale. on that accrediting the furnishing was done, on that accrediting he stocked his pantry shelves, his refrigerator, his wine cellar, his coal bins, his humidors, and had started a tailor to work upon half a dozen suits, among them an automobile costume. he had a modest establishment of two servants and a chauffeur by the time his wife arrived, and on the day the final organization of the one-thousand-dollar company was effected, he gave a housewarming for his associates of the universal covered carpet tack company. where mr. wallingford had charmed, mrs. wallingford fascinated, and the five men went home that night richer than they had ever dreamed of being; than they would ever be again. chapter vi in which an astounding revelation is made concerning j. rufus the first stockholders' meeting of the tack company was a cheerful affair, held around a table that was within an hour or so to have a cloth; for whenever j. rufus wallingford did business, he must, perforce, eat and drink, and all who did business with him must do the same. the stockholders, being all present, elected their officers and their board of directors: mr. wallingford, president; mr. lamb, secretary; mr. jasper, treasurer; and mr. lewis, david jasper's nearest friend, vice president, these four and mr. nolting also constituting the board of directors. immediately after, they adopted a stock, printed form of constitution, voted an increase of capitalization to one hundred thousand dollars, and then adjourned. the president, during the luncheon, made them a little speech in which he held before them constantly a tack with a crimson top glued upon a roughened surface, and alluded to the invaluable services their young friend, edward lamb, had rendered to the completion of the company's now perfect and flawless article of manufacture. he explained to them in detail the bigness of the eureka tack manufacturing company, its enormous undivided profits, its tremendous yearly dividends, the fabulous price at which its stock was quoted, with none for sale; and all this gigantic business built upon a simple tack!--gentlemen, not nearly, not _nearly_ so attractive and so profitable an article of commerce as this perfect little convenience held before them. the gentlemen were to be congratulated upon a bigger and brighter and better fortune than had ever come to them; they were all to be congratulated upon having met each other, and since they had been kind enough, since they had been trusting enough, to give him their confidence with but little question, mr. wallingford felt it his duty to reassure them, even though they needed no reassurance, that he was what he was; and he called upon his friend and their secretary, mr. lamb, to read to them the few letters that he understood had been received from the mexican and rio grande rubber company, the st. john's blood orange plantation company, the los pocos lead development company, the sierra cinnabar grant, and others. mr. lamb--secretary lamb, if you please--arose in self-conscious dignity, which he strove to taper off into graceful ease. "it is hardly worth while reading more than one, for they're all alike," he stated jovially, "and if anybody questions our president, send him to his friend eddy!" whereupon he read the letters. according to them, mr. wallingford was a gentleman of the highest integrity; he was a man of unimpeachable character, morally and financially; he was a genius of commerce; he had been sought, for his advice and for the tower of strength that his name had become, by all the money kings of boston; he was, in a word, the greatest boon that had ever descended upon any city, and all of the gentlemen who were lucky enough to be associated with him in any business enterprise that he might back or vouch for, could count themselves indeed most fortunate. the letters were passed around. some of them had embossed heads; most of them were, at least, engraved; some of them were printed in two or three rich colors; some had beautifully tinted pictures of vast mexican estates, and florida plantations, and nevada mining ranges. they were impressive, those letter-heads, and when, after passing the round of the table, they were returned to mr. lamb, four pairs of eyes followed them as greedily as if those eyes had been resting upon actual money. in the ensuing week the committee on factories, consisting of mr. wallingford, mr. lamb and mr. jasper, honked and inspected and lunched until they found a small place which would "do for the first year's business," and within two days the factory was cleaned and the office most sumptuously furnished; then mr. wallingford, having provided work for the secretary, began to attend to his purely personal affairs, one of which was the private consulting of the patent attorney. upon his first visit mr. christopher met him with a dejected air. "i find four interferences against your application," he dolefully stated, "and they cover the ground very completely." "get me a patent," directed mr. wallingford shortly. mr. christopher hesitated. not only was his working jacket out at the elbows, but his street coat was shiny at the seams. "i am bound to tell you," he confessed, after quite a struggle, "that, while i _might_ get you some sort of a patent, it would not hold water." "i don't care if it wouldn't hold pebbles or even brickbats," retorted mr. wallingford. "i'm not particular about the mesh of it. just you get me a patent--any sort of a patent, so it has a seal and a ribbon on it. i believe it is part of your professional ethics, mr. christopher, to do no particular amount of talking except to your clients. "well, yes, sir," admitted mr. christopher. "very well, then; i am the only client you know in this case, and i say--get a patent! after all, a patent isn't worth as much as a dollar at the waldorf, except to form the basis of a lawsuit," whereat mr. christopher saw a great white light and his conscience ceased to bother him. meanwhile the majestic wheels of state revolved, and at the second meeting of the board of directors the secretary was able to lay before them the august permission of the commonwealth to issue one hundred thousand dollars of stock in the new corporation. in fact, the secretary was able to show them a book of especially printed stock certificates, and a corporate seal had been made. their own seal! each man tried it with awe and pride. this also was a cheerful board meeting, wherein the directors, as one man, knowing beforehand what they were to do, voted to mr. wallingford and mr. lamb sixty thousand dollars in stock, for all patents relating to covered carpet tacks or devices for making the same that should be obtained by them for a period of five years to come. the three remaining members of the board of directors and the one stockholder who was allowed to be present by courtesy then took up five thousand dollars' worth of stock each and guaranteed to bring in, by the end of the week, four more like subscriptions, two of which they secured; and, thirty thousand dollars of cash having been put into the treasury, a special stockholders' meeting was immediately called. when this met it was agreed that they should incorporate another company under the name of the universal covered tack company, dropping the word "carpet," with an authorized capital of three hundred thousand dollars, two hundred thousand of which was already subscribed. it took but a little over a month to organize this new company, which bought out the old company for the consideration of two hundred thousand dollars, payable in stock of the new company. with great glee the new stockholders bought from themselves, as old stockholders, the old company at this valuation, each man receiving two shares of one hundred dollars face value for each one hundred dollars' worth of stock that he had held before. it was their very first transaction in water, and the delight that it gave them one and all knew no bounds; they had doubled their money in one day! but their elation was not half the elation of j. rufus wallingford, for in his possession he had ninety thousand dollars' worth, par value, of stock, the legitimacy of which no one could question, and the market price of which could be to himself whatever his glib tongue had the opportunity to make it. in addition to the nine hundred shares of stock, he had a ten-thousand-dollar house, a five-thousand-dollar automobile and unlimited credit; and this was the man who had landed in the city but two brief months before, with no credit in any known spot upon the globe, and with less than one hundred dollars in his pocket! it is a singular commentary upon the honesty of american business methods that so much is done on pure faith. the standing of j. rufus wallingford was established beyond question. aside from the perfunctory inquiries that edward lamb had made, no one ever took the trouble to question into the promoter's past record. so far as local merchants were concerned, these did not care; for did not j. rufus own a finely appointed new house in gildendale, and did he not appear before them daily in a fine new automobile? this, added to the fact that he established credit with one merchant and referred the next one to him, referred the third to the second, and the fourth to the third, was ample. if merchant number four took the trouble to inquire of merchant number three, he was told: "yes, we have mr. wallingford on our books, and consider him good." consequently, mrs. wallingford was able to go to any establishment, in her own little runabout that j. rufus got her presently, and order what she would; and she took ample advantage of the opportunity. she, like j. rufus, was one of those rare beings of earth for whom earth's most prized treasures are delved, and wrought, and woven, and sewed; for transcendent beauty demands ever more beauty for its adornment. in all the city there was nothing too good for either of them, and they got it without money and without price. the provider of all this made no move toward paying even a retainer upon his automobile, for instance; but, when the subtle intuition within him warned that the dealer would presently make a demand, he calmly went in and selected the neat little runabout for his wife, and had it added to his bill. after he had seen the runabout glide away, the dealer was a little aghast at himself. he had firmly intended, the next time he saw mr. wallingford, to insist upon a payment. in place of that, he had only jeopardized two thousand dollars more, and all that he had to show for it were half a dozen covered tacks which j. rufus had left him to ponder upon. in the meantime, lamb's loan of one thousand had been increased, upon plausible pretext, to two thousand. there began, now, busy days at the factory. in the third floor of their building a machine shop was installed. three thousand dollars went there. outside, in a large experimental shop, work was being rapidly pushed on machinery which would make tacks with cross-corrugated heads. genius wallingford had secretly secured drawings of tack machinery, and devised slight changes which would evade the patents, adding dies that would make the roughened tops. a final day came when, set up in their shop, the first faulty machine pounded out tacks ready for later covering, and every stockholder who had been called in to witness the working of the miracle went away profoundly convinced that fortune was just within his reach. they had their first patent granted now, and the sight of it, on stiff parchment with its bit of bright ribbon, was like a glimpse at dividends. it was right at this time, however, that one cat was let out of the bag. the information came first to edward lamb, through the inquiries of a commercial rating company, that their boston capitalist was a whited sepulcher, so far as capital went. he had not a cent. the secretary, in the privacy of their office, put the matter to him squarely, and he admitted it cheerfully. he was glad that the _exposé_ had come--it suited his present course, and he would have brought it about himself before long. "who said i had money?" he demanded. "i never said so." "well, but the way you live," objected lamb. "i have always lived that way, and i always shall. not only is it a fact that i have no money, but i must have some right away." "i haven't any more to lend." "no, eddy; i'm not saying that you have. i am merely stating that i have to have some. i am being bothered by people who want it, and i cannot work on the covering machine until i get it," and mr. wallingford coolly telephoned for his big automobile to be brought around. they sat silently in the office for the next five minutes, while lamb slowly appreciated the position they were in. if j. rufus should "lay down on them" before the covering machine was perfected, they were in a bad case. they had already spent over twenty thousand dollars in equipping their office, their machine shop, and perfecting their stamping machine, and time was flying. "you might sell a little of your stock," suggested lamb. "we have an agreement between us to hold control." "but you can still sell a little of yours, and stay within that amount. i'm not selling any of mine." mr. wallingford drew from his pocket a hundred-share stock certificate. "i have already sold some. make out fifty shares of this to l. w. ramsay, twenty-five to e. h. wyman, and the other twenty-five to c. d. wyman." ramsay and the wyman brothers! ramsay was the automobile dealer; wyman brothers were wallingford's tailors. "so much? why didn't you sell them at least part from our extra treasury stock? there is twenty thousand there, replacing the ten thousand of the old company." "why didn't i? i needed the money. i got twenty-five hundred cash from ramsay, and let him put twenty-five on account. i agreed to take one thousand in trade from wyman brothers, and got four thousand cash there." the younger man looked at him angrily. "look here, wallingford; you're hitting it up rather strong, ain't you? this makes six thousand five hundred, besides two thousand you borrowed from me, that you have spent in three months. you have squandered money since you came here at the rate of three thousand a month, besides all the bills i know you owe, and still you are broke. how is it possible?" "that's my business," retorted wallingford, and his face reddened with assumed anger. "we are not going to discuss it. the point is that i need money and must have it." the automobile drew up at the door, and j. rufus, who was in his automobile suit, put on his cap and riding coat. "where are you going?" "over to rayling." lamb frowned. rayling was sixty miles away. "and you will not be back until midnight, i suppose." "hardly." "why, confound it, man, you can't go!" exclaimed lamb. "they're waiting for you now over at the machine shop, for further instructions on the covering device." "they'll have to wait!" announced j. rufus, and stalked out of the door. the thing had been deliberately followed up. mr. wallingford had come to the point where he wished his flock to know that he had no financial resources whatever, and that they would have to support him. it was the first time that he had departed from his suavity, and he left lamb in a panic. he had been gone scarcely more than an hour when david jasper came in. "where is wallingford?" he asked. "gone out for an automobile trip." "when will he be back?" "not to-day." jasper's face was white, but the flush of slow anger was creeping upon his cheeks. "well, he ought to be; his note is due." "what note?" inquired lamb, startled. "his note for a thousand dollars that i went security on." "you might just as well renew it, or pay it. i had to renew mine," said lamb. "dave, the man is a four-flusher, without a cent to fall back on. i just found it out this morning. why didn't you tell me that he was borrowing money of you?" "why didn't you tell me he was borrowing money of you?" retorted his friend. they looked at each other hotly for a moment, and then both laughed. the big man was too much for them to comprehend. "we are both cutting our eye teeth," lamb decided. "i wonder how many more he's borrowed money from." "lewis, for one. he got fifteen hundred from him. lewis told me this morning, up at kriegler's." lamb began figuring. to the eight thousand five hundred of which he already knew, here was twenty-five hundred more to be added--eleven thousand dollars that the man had spent in three months! some bills, of course, he had paid, but the rest of it had gone as the wind blew. it seemed impossible that a man could spend money at the rate of one hundred and twenty-five dollars a day, but this one had done it, and that at first was the point which held them aghast, to the forgetting of their own share in it. they could not begin to understand it until lamb recalled one incident that had impressed him. wallingford had taken his wife and two friends to the opera one night. they had engaged a private dining room at the hotel, indulging in a dinner that, with flowers and wines, had cost over a hundred dollars. their seats had cost fifty. there had been a supper afterward where the wine flowed until long past midnight. altogether, that evening alone had cost not less than three hundred dollars--and the man lived at that gait all the time! in his home, even when himself and wife were alone, seven-course dinners were served. huge fowls were carved for but the choicest slices, were sent away from the table and never came back again in any form. expensive wines were opened and left uncorked after two glasses, because some whim had led the man to prefer some other brand. lamb looked up from his figuring with an expression so troubled that his older friend, groping as men will do for cheering words, hit upon the idea that restored them both to their equilibrium. "after all," suggested jasper, "it's none of our business. the company is all right." "that's so," agreed lamb, recovering his enthusiasm in a bound. "the tack itself can't be beat, and we are making progress toward getting on the market. suppose the man were to sell all his stock. it wouldn't make any difference, so long as he finishes that one machine for covering the tack." "he's a liar!" suddenly burst out david jasper. "i wish he had his machinery done and was away from us. i can't sleep well when i do business with a liar." "we don't want to get rid of him yet," lamb reminded him, "and, in the meantime, i suppose he will have to have money in order to keep him at work. you'd better get him to give you stock to cover your note and tell lewis to do the same. we'll all go after him on that point, and get protected." david looked troubled in his turn. "i can't afford it. when i took up that five thousand dollars' worth of stock i only had fifteen hundred in the building loan, and i put a mortgage on one of my houses to make up the amount. if i have to stand this thousand i'll have to give another mortgage, and i swore i'd never put a plaster on my property." "the tack's good for it," urged lamb, with conviction. "yes, the tack's good," admitted jasper. that was the thing which held them all in line--the tack! wallingford himself might be a spendthrift and a ne'er-do-well, but their faith in the tack that was to make them all rich was supreme. lamb picked up one from his desk and handed it to his friend. the very sight of it, with its silken covered top, imagination carrying it to its place in a carpet where it would not show, was most reassuring, and behind it, looming up like the immense open cornucopia of fortune herself, was the eureka company, the concern that would buy them out at any time for a million dollars if they were foolish enough to sell. after all, they had nothing to worry them. david jasper went up to the bank and had them hold the note until the next day, which they did without comment. david was "good" for anything he wanted. the next day he got hold of wallingford to get him to renew the note and to give him stock as security for it. when j. rufus came out of that transaction, in which david had intended to be severe with him, he had four thousand dollars in his pocket, for he had transferred to his indorser five thousand dollars of his stock and jasper had placed another mortgage on his property. the single tack in his vest pocket had assumed proportions far larger than his six cottages and his home. it was the same with lewis and one of the others, and, for a week, the inventor struggled with the covering machine. no one seemed to appreciate the fact that here their genius was confronting a problem that was most difficult of solution. to them it meant a mere bit of mechanical juggling, as certain to be accomplished as the simple process of multiplication; but to glue a piece of cloth to so minute and irregular a thing as the head of a tack, to put it on firmly and leave it trimmed properly at the edges, to do this trick by machinery and at a rate rapid enough to insure profitable operation, was a herculean task, and the stockholders would have been aghast had they known that j. rufus was in no hurry to solve this last perplexity. he knew better than to begin actual manufacture. the interference report on the first patent led him to make secret inquiries, the result of which convinced him that the day they went on the market would be the day that they would be disrupted by vigorous suits, backed by millions of capital. he had been right in stating that a patent is of no value except as a basis for lawsuits. there was only one thing which offset his shrewdness in realizing these conditions, and that was his own folly. had he been content to devote himself earnestly to the accomplishment even of his own ends, the many difficulties into which he had floundered would never have existed. always there was the pressing need for money. he was a colossal example of the fact that easily gotten pelf is of no value. his wife was shrewder than he. she had no social aspirations whatever at this time. they were both of them too bohemian of taste and habit to conform to the strict rules which society imposes in certain directions, even had they been able to enter the charmed circle. she cared only to dress as well as the best and to go to such places of public entertainment as the best frequented, to show herself in jewels that would attract attention and in gowns that would excite envy; but she did tire of continuous suspense--and she was not without keenness of perception. "jim," she asked, one night, "how is your business going?" "you see me have money every day, don't you? there's nothing you want, is there?" was the evasive reply. "not a thing, except this: i want a vacation. i don't want to be wondering all my life when the crash is to come. so far as i have seen, this looks like a clean business arrangement that you are in now; but, even if it is, it can't stand the bleeding that you are giving it. if you are going to get out of this thing, as you have left everything else you were ever in, get out right away. realize every dollar you can at once, and let us take a trip abroad." "i can't let go just yet," he replied. she looked up, startled. "nothing wrong in this, is there, jim?" "wrong!" he exclaimed. "fanny, i never did anything in my life that the law could get me for. the law is a friend of mine. it was framed up especially for the protection of j. rufus wallingford. i can shove ordinary policemen off the sidewalk and make the chief stand up and salute when i go past. the only way i could break into a jail would be to buy one." she shook her head. "you're too smart a man to stay out of jail, jim. the penitentiary is full of men who were too clever to go there. you're a queer case, anyhow. if you had buckled down to straight business, with your ability you'd be worth ten million dollars to-day." he chuckled. "look at the fun i'd have missed, though." but for once she would not joke about their position. "no," she insisted, "you're looking at it wrong, jim. you had to leave boston; you had to leave baltimore; you had to leave philadelphia and washington; you will have to leave this town." "never mind, fanny," he admonished her. "there are fifty towns in the united states as good as this, and they've got coin in every one of them. they're waiting for me to come and get it, and when i have been clear through the list i'll start all over again. there's always a fresh crop of bait-nibblers, and money is being turned out at the mint every day." "have it your own way," responded mrs. wallingford; "but you will be wise if you take my advice to accumulate some money while you can this time, so that we do not have to take a night train out in the suburbs, as we did when we left boston." mr. wallingford returned no answer. he opened the cellar door and touched the button that flooded his wine cellar with light, going down himself to hunt among his bottles for the one that would tempt him most. nevertheless, he did some serious thinking, and, at the next board-of-directors' meeting, he announced that the covering machine was well under way, showing them drawings of a patent application he was about to send off. it was a hopeful sign--one that restored confidence. he must now organize a selling department and must have a chicago branch. they listened with respect, even with elation. after all, while this man had deceived them as to his financial standing when he first came among them, he was well posted, for their benefit, upon matters about which they knew nothing. moreover, there was the great tack! he went to chicago and appointed a western sales agent. when he came back he had sold fifteen thousand dollars' worth of his stock through the introductions gained him by this man. j. rufus wallingford was "cleaning up." chapter vii wherein the great tack inventor suddenly decides to change his location "in two weeks we will be ready for the market," wallingford told inquiring members of the company every two weeks, and, in the meantime, the model for the covering device, in which change after change was made, went on very slowly, while the money went very rapidly. a half dozen of the expensive stamping machines had already been installed, and the treasury was exhausted. the directors began to look worried. one morning, while ella jasper was at her sweeping in the front room, the big red automobile chugged up to the gate and j. rufus wallingford got out. he seemed gigantic as he loomed up on the little front porch and filled the doorway. "where is your father?" he asked her. "he is over at kriegler's," she told him, and directed him how to find the little german saloon where the morning "lunch club" gathered. instead of turning, he stood still for a moment and looked her slowly from head to foot. there was that in his look which made her tremble, which made her flush with shame, and when at last he turned away she sat down in a chair and wept. at kriegler's, wallingford found jasper and two other stockholders, and he drew them aside to a corner table. for a quarter of an hour he was jovial with them, and once more they felt the magnetic charm of his personality, though each one secretly feared that he had come again for money. he had, but not for himself. "the treasury is empty," he calmly informed them, during a convenient pause, "and the corley machine company insist on having their bill paid. we owe them two thousand dollars, and it will take five thousand more to complete the covering machine." "you've been wasting money in the company as you do at home," charged david, flaring up at once with long-suppressed grievances. "you had thirty thousand cash to begin with. i was down to the corley machine company myself, day before yesterday, and i saw a pile of things you had them make and throw away that they told me cost nearly five thousand dollars." "they didn't show you all of it," returned wallingford coolly. "there's more. you don't expect to perfect a machine without experimenting, do you? now you let me alone in this. i know my business, and no man can say that i am not going after the best results in the best way. you fellows figure on expense as if we were conducting a harness shop or a grocery store," he continued, whereat jasper and lewis reddened with resentment of the sort for which they could not find voice. "rent, light, power, and wages eat up money every day," he reminded them, "and every day's delay means that much more waste. we _must_ have money to complete this covering machine, and we must have it at once. there is twenty thousand dollars' worth of treasury stock for sale, aside from the hundred thousand held in reserve until we are ready to manufacture. that extra stock must be sold right away! i leave it to you," he concluded, rising. "i'm not a stock salesman," and with that brazen statement he left them. the statement was particularly brazen because that very morning, after he left these men, he disposed of a five-thousand-dollar block of his own stock and turned the money over to his wife before he returned to the office in the afternoon. lamb received him in a torrent of impatience. "i feel like a cheat," he declared. "the corley people were over here again, and say that they do not know us. they only know our money, and they want some at once or they will not proceed with the machinery." "i have been doing what i could," replied wallingford. "i put the matter up to jasper and lewis and nolting this morning. i told them they would have to sell the extra treasury stock." "you did!" exclaimed lamb. "why did you go to them? why didn't you go out and sell the stock yourself?" "i am not a stock salesman, my boy." "you have been active enough in selling your private stock," charged lamb. "that's my business," retorted mr. wallingford. "i am strictly within my legal rights in disposing of my own stock. it is my property, to do with as i please." "it is obtaining money under false pretenses, for until you have completed this machinery and made a market for our goods, the stock you have sold is not worth the paper it is printed on. it represents no value whatever." "it represents as much value as treasury stock or any other stock," retorted mr. wallingford. "by the way, make a transfer of this fifty-share certificate to thomas d. caldwell." "caldwell!" exclaimed lamb. "why, he is one of the very men we have been trying to interest in some of this treasury stock. he is of our lodge. last week we had him almost in the notion, but he backed out." "when the right man came along he bought," said wallingford, and laughed. "this money should have gone into our depleted treasury," lamb declared hotly. "i refuse to make the transfer." "i don't care; it's nothing to me. i have the money and i shall turn over this certificate to mr. caldwell. when he demands the transfer you will have to make it." "there ought to be some legal way to compel this sale to be made of treasury stock." "possibly," admitted mr. wallingford; "but there isn't. you will find, my boy, that everything i do is strictly within the pale of the law. i can go into any court and prove that i am an honest man." lamb sprang angrily from his chair. "you're a thief," he charged, his eyes flashing. "i'm not drawing any salary for it," replied wallingford, and lamb halted his anger with a sickened feeling. the two hundred dollars a month that he had been drawing lay heavily upon his conscience. "i'm going to ask for a reduction in my pay at the next meeting," he declared. "i cannot take the money with a clear conscience." "that's up to you," replied wallingford; "but i want to remind you that unless money is put into this treasury within a day or so the works are stopped," and he went out to climb into his auto, leaving the secretary to some very sober thought. well, lamb reflected, what was there to do? but one thing: raise the money by the sale of treasury stock to replenish their coffers and carry on the work. he wished he could see his friend jasper. the wish was like sorcery, for no more was it uttered than david and mr. lewis came in. they were deeply worried over the condition into which affairs had been allowed to drift, but lamb had cooled down by this time. he allowed them to hold an indignation meeting for a time, but presently he reminded them that, after all, no matter what else was right or wrong, it would be necessary to raise money--that the machine must be finished. they went over to the shop to look at it. the workmen were testing it by hand when they arrived, and it was working with at least a fair degree of accuracy. the inspection committee did not know that the device was entirely impractical. all that they saw was that it produced the result of a finished tack with a cover of colored cloth glued tightly to its head, and to them its operation was a silent tribute to the genius of the man they had been execrating. they came away encouraged. it was mr. lewis who expressed the opinion which was gaining ground with all of them. "after all," he declared, "we're bound to admit that he's a big man." the result was precisely what wallingford had foreseen. these men, to save their company, to save the money they had already invested, raised ten thousand dollars among them. david jasper put another five-thousand-dollar mortgage on his property; mr. lewis raised two thousand, and edward lamb three thousand, and with this money they bought of the extra treasury stock to that amount. j. rufus wallingford returned in the morning. the stock lay open for him to sign; there was ten thousand dollars in the treasury, and a check to the corley machine company, already signed by the treasurer, was also awaiting his signature. the eight thousand dollars that was left went at a surprisingly rapid rate, for, with a love for polished detail, wallingford had ordered large quantities of shipping cases, stamps to burn the company's device upon them, japanned steel signs in half a dozen colors to go with each shipment, and many other expensive incidentals, besides the experimental work. there were patent applications and a host of other accumulating bills that gave lamb more worry and perplexity than he had known in all his fifteen years of service with the dorman company. the next replenishment was harder. to get the remaining ten thousand dollars in the treasury, the already committed stockholders scraped around among their friends to the remotest acquaintance, and placed scrip no longer in blocks of five thousand, but of ten shares, of five shares, even in driblets of one and two hundred dollars, until they had absorbed all the extra treasury stock; and in that time wallingford, by appointing a st. louis agent, had managed to dispose of twenty thousand dollars' worth of his own holdings. he was still "cleaning up," and he brought in his transfer certificates with as much nonchalance as if he were turning in orders for tacks. rapid as he now was, however, he did not work quite fast enough. he had still some fifteen thousand dollars' worth of personal stock when, early one morning, a businesslike gentleman stepped into the office where lamb sat alone at work, and presented his card. it told nothing beyond the mere fact that he was an attorney. "well, mr. rook, what can i do for you?" asked lamb pleasantly, though not without apprehension. he wondered what j. rufus had been doing. "are you an officer of the universal covered tack company?" inquired mr. rook. "the secretary; edward lamb." "quite so. mr. lamb, i represent the invisible carpet tack company, and i bring you their formal notification to cease using their device;" whereupon he delivered to edward a document. "the company assumes that you are not thoroughly posted as to its article of manufacture, nor as to its patents covering it," he resumed. "they have been on the market three years with this product." from his pocket he took a fancifully embellished package, and, opening it, he poured two or three tacks into edward's hand. with dismay the secretary examined one of them. it was an ordinary carpet tack, such as they were about to make, but with a crimson-covered top. dazed, scarcely knowing what he was doing, he mechanically took his knife from his pocket and cut the cloth from it. the head was roughened for gluing precisely as had been planned for their own! "assuming, as i say, that you are not aware of the encroachment," the attorney went on, "the invisible company does not desire to let you invite prosecution, but wishes merely to warn you against attempting to put an infringement of their goods on the market. they have plenty of surplus capital, and are prepared to defend their rights with all of it, if necessary. should you wish to communicate with me or have your counsel do so, my address is on that card," and, leaving the paper of tacks behind him, mr. rook left the office. without taking the trouble to investigate, lamb knew instinctively that the lawyer was right, an opinion which later inquiry all too thoroughly corroborated. for three years the invisible carpet tack company had been supplying precisely the article the universal company was then striving to perfect. what there was of that trade they had and would keep, and a sickening realization came to the secretary that it meant a total loss to himself and his friends of practically everything they possessed. the machinery in which their money was invested was special machinery that could be used for no other purpose, and was worth but little more than the price of scrap iron. every cent that they had invested was gone! his first thought was for david jasper. as for himself, he was young yet. he could stand the loss of five thousand. he could go back to dorman's, take his old position and be the more valuable for his ripened experience, and there was always a chance that a minor partnership might await him there after a few more years; but as for jasper, his day was run, his sun had set. it was a hard task that confronted the secretary, but he must do it. he called up kriegler's and asked for david jasper, and when david came to the telephone he told him what had happened. over and over, carefully and point by point, he had to explain it, for his friend could not believe, since he could not even comprehend, the blow that had fallen upon him. suddenly, lamb found there was no answer to a question that he asked. he called anxiously again and again. he could hear only a confused murmur in the 'phone. there were tramping feet and excited voices, and he gathered that the receiver was left dangling, that no one held it, that no one listened to what he said. hastily putting on his coat and hat, he locked the office and took a car for the north side. j. rufus wallingford himself was busy that morning, and in the north side, too. his huge car whirled past the little frame houses that were covered with mortgages which would never be lifted, and stopped before the home of david jasper. his jaw was hanging loosely, his big, red face was bloated and splotched, and his small eyes were bloodshot, though they glowed with a somber fire. he had been out all night, and this was one of the few times he had been indiscreet enough to carry his excesses over into the morning; usually he was alcohol proof. at first, blinking and blearing in the sunlight, he had been numb; but an hour's swift ride in the fresh air of the country had revived him, while the ascending sun had started into life again the fumes of the wine that he had drunk, so that all of the evil within him had come uppermost without the restraining caution that belonged to his sober hours. in his abnormal condition the thought had struck him that now was the time for the final coup--that he would dispose of his remaining shares of stock at a reduced valuation and get away, at last, from the irksome tasks that confronted him, from the dilemma that was slowly but surely encompassing him. in pursuance of this idea it had occurred to him, as it never would have done in his sober moments, that david jasper could still raise money and that he could still be made to do so. lumbering back to the kitchen door, he knocked upon it, and ella jasper opened it. ella had finished her morning's work hurriedly, for she intended to go downtown shopping, and was already preparing to dress. her white, rounded arms were bared to the elbow, and her collar was turned in with a "v" at the throat. the somber glow in wallingford's eyes leaped into flame, and, without stopping to question her, he pushed his way into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. he lurched suddenly toward her, and, screaming, she flew through the rooms toward the front door. she would have gained the door easily enough, and, in fact, had just reached it, when it opened from the outside, and her father, accompanied by his friend lewis, came suddenly in. for half an hour, up at kriegler's, they had been restoring david from the numb half-trance in which he had dropped the receiver of the telephone, and even now he swayed as he walked, so that his condition could scarcely have been told from that of wallingford when the latter had come through the gate. but there was this difference between them: the strength of wallingford had been dissipated; that of jasper had been merely suspended. it was a mental wrench that had rendered him for the moment physically incapable. now, however, when he saw the author of all his miseries, a hoarse cry of rage burst from him, and before his eyes there suddenly seemed to surge a red mist. hale and sturdy still, a young man in physique, despite his sixty years, he sprang like a tiger at the adventurer who had wrecked his prosperity and who now had held his home in contempt. there was no impact of strained bodies, as when two warriors meet in mortal combat; as when attacker and defender prepare to measure prowess. instead, the big man, twice the size and possibly twice the lifting and striking strength of david jasper, having on his side, too, the advantage of being in what should have been the summit of life, shrank back, pale to the lips, suddenly whimpering and crying for mercy. it was only a limp, resistless man of blubber that david jasper had hurled himself upon, and about whose throat his lean, strong fingers had clutched, the craven gurgling still his appeals for grace. ordinarily this would have disarmed a man like david jasper, for disgust alone would have stayed his hand, have turned his wrath to loathing, his righteous vengefulness to nausea; but now he was blind, blood-mad, and he bore the huge spineless lump of moral putty to the floor by the force of his resistless onrush. "man!" lewis shouted in his ear. "man, there's a law against that sort of thing!" "law!" screamed david jasper. "law! did it save me my savings? let me alone!" the only result of the interference was to alter the direction of his fury, and now, with his left hand still gripping the throat of his despoiler, his stalwart fist rained down blow after blow upon the hated, fat-jowled face that lay beneath him. it was a brutal thing, and, even as she strove to coax and pull her father away, ella was compelled to avert her face. the smacking impact of those blows made her turn faint; but, even so, she had wit enough to close the front door, so that morbid curiosity should not look in upon them nor divine her father's madness. just as she returned to him, however, and even while his fist was upraised for another stroke at that sobbing coward, a spasmodic twitch crossed his face as he gasped deeply for air, and he toppled to the floor, inert by the side of his enemy. age had told at last. in spite of an abstemious life, the unwonted exertion and the unwonted passion had wreaked their punishment upon him. it was david's friend lewis who, with white, set face, helped wallingford to his feet, and, without a word, scornfully shoved him toward the door, throwing his crumpled hat after him as he passed out. with blood upon his face and two rivulets of tears streaming down across it, j. rufus wallingford, the suave, the gentleman for whom all good things of earth were made and provided, ran sobbing, with downstretched quivering lips, to his automobile. the chauffeur jumped out for a moment to get the hat and to dip his kerchief in the stream that he turned on for a moment from the garden hydrant; coming back to the machine, he handed the wet kerchief to his master, then, without instructions, he started home. when his back was thoroughly turned, the chauffeur, despite that he had been well paid and extravagantly tipped during all the months of his fat employment, smiled, and smiled, and kept on smiling, and had all he could do to prevent his shoulders from heaving. he was gratified--was frank--pleased in his two active senses of justice and of humor. just as the automobile turned the corner, edward lamb came running down the street from kriegler's, where he had gone first to find out what had happened, and he met mr. lewis going for a doctor. without stopping to explain, lewis jerked his thumb in the direction of the house, and edward, not knocking, dashed in at the door. they had laid david on his bed in the front room, and his daughter bent over him, bathing his brow with camphor. david was speechless, but his eyes were open now, and the gleam of intelligence was in them. as their friend came to the bedside, ella looked around at him. she tried to gaze up at him unmoved as he stood there so young, so strong, so dependable; she strove to look into his eyes bravely and frankly, but it had been a racking time, in which her strength had been sorely tested, and she swayed slightly toward him. edward lamb caught his sister in his arms, but when her head was pillowed for an instant upon his shoulder and the tears burst forth, lo! the miracle happened. the foolish scales fell so that he could see into his own heart, and detect what had lain there unnamed for many a long year--and ella jasper was his sister no longer! "there, there, dear," he soothed her, and smoothed her tresses with his broad, gentle palm. the touch and the words electrified her. smiling through her tears, she ventured to look up at him, and he bent and kissed her solemnly and gently upon the lips; then david jasper, lying there upon his bed, with all his little fortune gone and all his sturdy vigor vanished, saw, and over his wan lips there flickered the trace of a satisfied smile. hidden that night in a stateroom on a fast train, j. rufus wallingford and his wife, with but such possessions as they could carry in their suit cases and one trunk, whirled eastward. chapter viii mr. wallingford takes a dose of his own bitter medicine as the lights of the railroad yard, red and white and green, slid by, so passed out of the ken of these fugitives all those who had contributed to their luxury through the medium of the universal covered carpet tack company. lamb, jasper, lewis, nolting, ella; what were all these people to them? what were any living creatures except a part of the always moving panorama which composed the background of their lives? nomads always since their marriage, when mrs. wallingford as a girl had run away from home that was no home to join this cheerful knave of fortune, they had known no resting place, no spot on earth that called to them; had formed no new ties and made no new friendships. where all the world seemed anchored they were ever flitting on, and the faces that they knew belonged but to the more or less vivid episodes by which the man strove after such luxurious ideals as he had. only a few of the dubious acquaintances which wallingford had formed in his earlier days of adventure remained for them to greet as they paused before fresh flights afield. "blackie" daw, who had recently removed his "office" from boston to new york, was the most constant of these, and him they entertained in one of the most exclusive hostelries in the metropolis soon after their arrival. mr. wallingford's face still bore traces of the recent conflict. "fanny's the girl!" he declared with his hand resting affectionately on his wife's shoulder, after he had detailed to mr. daw how he had squeezed the covered carpet tack dry of its possibilities. "she's little mamie bright, all right. for once we got away with it. i'm a piker, i know, but twenty-eight thousand in yellow, crinkly boys to the good, all sewed up in fanny's skirt till we ripped it out and soused it in a deposit vault, isn't so bad for four months' work; and now we're on our way to ruin monte carlo." "you're all to the mustard," admired blackie; "you're the big noise and the blinding flash. as i say, i'd go into some legitimate line myself if i wasn't honest. what bites me, though, is that you got all that out of my little lamb and his easy friends." "easy! um--m--m--m," commented mr. wallingford frowningly, as he unconsciously rubbed the tips of his fingers over the black puff under his right eye. "you've got it wrong. i like to sting the big people best. they take it like a dentist's pet; but when you tap one of these pikers for a couple of mean little thousands he howls like a steam calliope. one old pappy guy started to take it out of my hide, and he tried so hard it gave him paralysis." mr. daw laughed in sympathy. "you must have had a lively get-away, to judge from the marks the mill left on you; but why this trip across the pond? are they after you?" "after me!" scorned j. rufus. "there's no chance! why, i never did a thing in my life that stepped outside the law!" "but you lean way over the fence," charged blackie with a knowing nod, "and some of these days the palings will break." "by that time i'll have enough soft money in front of me to ease my fall," announced wallingford confidently. "i'm for that get-rich-quick game, and you can just bank on me as a winner." "you'll win all right," agreed blackie confidently, looking at his watch, "but you're like the rest of us. you'll have to die real sudden if you want to leave anything to your widow. that's the trouble with this quick money. it's lively or you wouldn't catch it on the wing, and it stays so lively after you get it." he arose as he concluded this sage observation and buttoned his coat. "but you're going to stay to dinner with us?" insisted mrs. wallingford. "no," he returned regretfully. "i'd like to, but business is business. i have an engagement to trim a deacon in podunk this evening. give my regards to the prince of monaco." it was scarcely more than a week afterwards when he somberly turned in at the bar room of that same hotel, and almost bumped into wallingford, who was as somberly coming out. for a moment they gazed at each other in amazement and then both laughed. "you must have gone over and back by wireless," observed blackie. "what turned up?" "stung!" exclaimed j. rufus with deep self-scorn. "i got an inside tip on some copper stock the evening you left, and the next morning i looked up a broker and he broke me. he had just started up in the bucket-shop business and i was his first customer. he didn't wait for any more. that's all." daw laughed happily, and he was still laughing when they entered the drawing room of wallingford's suite. "it's the one gaudy bet that the biggest suckers of all are the wise people," he observed. "here you go out west and trim a bunch of come-ons for twenty-five thousand, and what do you do next? oh, just tarry here long enough to tuck that neat little bundle into the pocket of a bucket-shop broker that throws away the bucket! you'd think he was the wise boy, after that, but he'll drop your twenty-five thousand on a wire-tapping game, and the wire tapper will buy gold bricks with it. the gold-brick man will give it to the bookies and the bookies will lose it on stud poker. i'm a billy goat myself. i clean up ten thousand last week on mining stock that permits mr. easy mark to mine if he wants to, and i pay it right over last night for the fun of watching a faro expert deal from a sanded deck! me? cleaned with-_out_ soap!" "you don't mean to say you're broke, too?" demanded his host. "if i had any less they'd arrest me for loitering." mr. wallingford glowered upon his twenty-dollar-a-day apartments with a sigh. the latest in heavy lace curtains fluttered at him from the windows, thick rugs yielded to his feet, all the frippery of louis-quinze, while it mocked his bigness, ministered to his comfort--but waited to be paid for! "you don't look as good to me as you did a while ago," he declared. "i'd figured on you for a sure touch, for now it's back to the rube patch for us. o fanny!" "yes, jim," answered a pleasant voice, and mrs. wallingford, in a stunning gown which, supplementing her hair and eyes, made of her a symphony in brown, came from the adjoining room. she shook hands cordially with mr. daw and sat down with an inquiring look at her husband. "it's time for us to take up a collection," said the latter gentleman. "we're going ay-wye." "ya-as, ay-wye from he-_ah_!" supplemented blackie to no one in particular. "won't your ring and scarf pin do?" his wife inquired anxiously of mr. wallingford. a "collection," in their parlance, meant the sacrifice of a last resource, and she was a woman of experience. "you know they won't," he returned in mild reproach. "if i don't keep a front i know where my ticket reads to; the first tank!" without any further objection she brought him a little black leather case, which he opened. an agreeable glitter sparkled from its velvet depths, and he passed it to his friend with a smile of satisfaction. "they'll please uncle, eh, blackie?" he observed. "the first thing to do, after i cash these, is to look at the map and pick out a fresh town where smart people have money in banks. it always helps a lot to remember that somewhere in this big united states people have been saving up coin for years, just waiting for us to come and get it." the two men laughed, but mrs. wallingford did not. "honest, i'm tired of it," she confessed. "if this speculation of jim's had only turned out luckily i wanted to buy a little house and live quietly and--and decently for a year or so." mr. daw glanced at her in amusement. "she wants to be respectable!" he gasped in mock surprise. "all women do," she said, still earnestly. "you wouldn't last three months," he informed her. "you'd join the village sewing circle and the culture club, and paddle around in a giddy whirl of pale functions till you saw you had to keep your mouth shut all the time for fear the other women would find out you knew something. then you'd quit." "you talk as if you had been crossed in love," she consoled him. "that's because i'm in pain," confessed blackie. "it hasn't been an hour since i saw a thousand dollars in real money, and the telegraph company jerked it away from me just as i reached out to bring it home." "_is_ there that much money in the world?" inquired wallingford. "not loose," replied blackie. "i thought i had this lump pried off, but now it's got a double padlock on it and to-night it starts far, far back to that dear old metropolis of the big thick water, where the windy river looks like a fresh-plowed field. but they've coin out there, and every time i think of mr. james clover and his thousand i'm tempted to go down to his two-dollar hotel and coax him up a dark alley." "who does mr. clover do?" inquired wallingford perfunctorily. blackie's sense of humor came uppermost to soothe his anguished feelings. "he's the supreme exalted ruler of the noble order of friendly hands," he grinned, "and his twenty-six members at three or eleven cents a month don't turn in the money fast enough; so he took a chance on the cold-iron cage and brought a chunk of the insurance reserve fund to new york to double it. i picked myself out to do the doubling for him." mr. wallingford chuckled. "i know," he said. "to double it you fold the bills when you put them in your pocket, and when clover wanted it back you'd have him pinched for a common thief. but how did it get away? i'm disappointed in you, blackie. i thought when you once saw soft money it was yours." "man died in his town. if he'd only put it off for one day the whole burg could have turned into a morgue, for i don't need it. but no! the man died, and the supreme exalted secretary wired the supreme exalted ruler. the telegram was brought to his room just when i had the hook to his gills, and he--went--down--stream! it was perfectly scandalous the names we called that man for having died, but it takes a long time to cuss a thousand dollars' worth." mr. wallingford was thoughtful. "a fraternal insurance company," he mused. "i've never taken a fall out of that game, and it sounds good. this gifted amateur's going out to-night? hustle right down to his hotel and bring him up to dinner. tell him i've been thinking of going into the insurance field and might be induced to buy a share in his business. i've a notion to travel along with that thousand dollars to-night, no matter where it goes. o fanny!" he called again to his wife in the other room. "suppose you begin to pack up while i step out and soak the diamonds." that was how mr. james clover came to obtain some startling new ideas about insurance; also about impressiveness. when mr. wallingford in a dinner coat walked into any public dining room, waiters were instantly electrified and ordinary mortals felt humble. his broad expanse of white shirt front awed the most self-satisfied into instant submission, and he carried himself as one who was monarch of all he surveyed. this was due to complacency, for though bills might press and cash be scarce, there never stood any line of worry upon his smooth brow. worry was for others--those who would have to pay. mr. clover, himself of some bulk but of no genuine lordliness whatever, no sooner set eyes upon mr. j. rufus wallingford than he felt comforted. here was wealth unlimited, and if this opulent being could possibly be induced to finance the noble order of friendly hands, he saw better skies ahead, bright skies that shone down on a fair, fruitful world where all was prosperity and plenty. mr. clover was a block-like man with a square face and a heavy fist, with a loud voice and a cultivated oratorical habit of speech which he meant to be awe-inspiring. behind him there was a string of failures that were a constant source of wonderment to him, since he had not been too scrupulous! "he'd be a crook if he knew how; but he stumbles over his feet," blackie confided to wallingford. to clover he said: "look out for the big man. he's a pretty smooth article, and you'll miss the gold out of your teeth if you don't watch him." it was a recommendation, and a shrewd one. mr. clover was prepared by it to be impressed; he ended by becoming a dazed worshiper, and his conquest began when his host ordered the dinner. it was not merely what he ordered, but how, that stamped him as one who habitually dined well; and to clover, who had always lived upon a beer basis, the ascent to the champagne level was dizzying. it was not until they had broached their second quart of wine that business was brought up for discussion. "i understand you've just had a bit of hard luck, mr. clover," said wallingford, laughing as if hard luck were a joke. mr. clover winced within, but put on a cheerful air. "merely what was to have been expected," he replied. "you refer, i suppose, to the death of one of our members, but as our order now has a large enrollment we are only averaging with the mortality tables." "what is your membership?" asked the other with sudden directness. "at our present rate of progress," began mr. clover, eloquently, squaring his shoulders and looking mr. wallingford straight in the eye, "thousands will have been enrolled upon our books before the end of the coming year. already we are perfecting a new and elaborate filing system to take care of the business, which is increasing by leaps and bounds." mr. wallingford calmly closed one blue orb. "but in chilly figures, discounting next year, how many?" he asked. "live ones, i mean, that cough up their little dues every month." the supreme exalted ruler squirmed and smiled a trifle weakly. "you might just as well tell me, you know," insisted mr. wallingford, "because i shall want to inspect your books if i buy in. have you a thousand?" "not quite," confessed mr. clover, in a voice which, in spite of him, would sound a trifle leaden. "have you five hundred?" persisted mr. wallingford. mr. clover considered, while the silent mr. daw discreetly kept his face straight. "five hundred and seventeen," he blurted, his face reddening. "that isn't so bad," said mr. wallingford encouragingly. "but how do you clinch your rake-off?" at this mr. clover could smile with smug content; he could swell with pride. "out our way, a little knothole in the regulations was found by yours truly," he modestly boasted. "mine is somewhat different from any insurance order on earth. the members think they vote, but they don't. if they ever elect another supreme exalted ruler, all he can do is to wear a brass crown and a red robe; i'll still handle the funds. you see, we've just held our first annual election, and i had the entire membership vote 'yes' on a forever-and-ever contract which puts our whole income--for safety, of course--into the hands of a duly bonded company. for ten cents a month from each member this company is to pay all expenses, to handle, invest and disburse its insurance and other funds for the benefit of the order. it's like making a savings bank our trustee; only it's different, because i'm the company." his host nodded in approval. "you have other rake-offs," he suggested. "right again!" agreed clover with gleeful enthusiasm. "certificate fees, fines for delinquency, regalia company and all that. but the main fountain is the little dime. ten cents seems like a cheap game, maybe, but when we have two hundred and fifty thousand members, that trifling ante amounts to twenty-five thousand dollars a month. bad, i guess!" "when you get it," agreed the other. "you're incorporated, then. for how much?" "ten thousand." "i see," said mr. wallingford with a smile of tolerance. "you need me, all right. you ought to _give_ me a half interest in your business." mr. clover's self-assertiveness came back to him with a jerk. "anything else?" he asked pleasantly. mr. wallingford beamed upon him. "i might want a salary, but it would be purely nominal; a hundred a week or so." mr. clover was highly amused. the only reason on earth that he would admit another man to a partnership with him was that he must have ready cash. his shoe soles were wearing out. "i'm afraid our business wouldn't suit you, anyhow, mr. wallingford," he said with bantering sarcasm. "our office is very plain, for one thing, and we have no rug on the floor." "we'll put rugs down right away, and if the offices are not as swell as they make 'em we'll move," wallingford promptly announced. "i might give you two thousand for a half interest." mr. clover drank a glass of champagne and considered. two thousand dollars, at the present stage of his finances, was real money. the noble order of friendly hands had been started on a "shoestring" of five hundred dollars, and the profits of the friendly hands trust company had been nil up to the present time. this offer was more than a temptation; it was a fall. "couldn't think of it," he nevertheless coldly replied. "but i'll sell you half my stock at par. the secretary has ten shares, and dummy directors four. i hold eighty-six." "forty-three hundred dollars!" figured wallingford. "and you'd charge me that for a brick with the plating worn thin! you forget the value of my expert services." "what do you know about fraternal insurance?" demanded clover, who had reddened under fire. "not a thing," confessed mr. wallingford. "all i know is how to get money. if i go in with you, the first thing we do is to reorganize on a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar basis." mr. clover pounded his fist upon the table until the glasses rang, and laughed so loudly that the head waiter shivered and frowned. seeing, however, that the noise came from mr. wallingford's corner, he smiled. he was venal, was the head waiter, and he remembered the pleasant, velvety rustle of a bill in his palm. "that joke's good enough for a minstrel show," clover declared. "why, man, even if that stock could be sold, gabriel's horn would catch us still struggling to pay our first dividend." mr. wallingford lit a cigarette and smiled in pity. "oh, well, if you figure on staying in the business till you drop dead i won't wake you up," he stated. "but i thought you wanted money." mr. clover shook his head. "we have laws in my state, mr. wallingford." "i should hope so," returned that gentleman. "if it wasn't for good, safe, solid laws i never would make a cent. why, the law's on my side all the time, and the police are the best friends i've got. they show me the way home at night." mr. clover looked incredulous. "i'm afraid you don't understand the fraternal insurance business," he insisted. "it takes a lot of hard, patient work to build up an order." "_you_ don't understand the business," retorted the other. "what, for instance, are you going to do with that thousand dollars you're taking back home?" "give it to the widow of mr. henry l. bishop, of course," said mr. clover, expanding his chest and pursing his mouth virtuously. "the widows and orphans who look to the noble order of friendly hands for protection shall not look in vain." "that will look well in a prospectus," admitted mr. wallingford with a knowing twinkle of his eyes; "but i'm not going to take out any insurance so you could notice it. suppose i show you how to have mrs. bishop hand you back that thousand with sobs of gratitude? do i get two hundred and fifty of it?" "if you can do that legitimately," said mr. clover, leaning forward and surprised into sudden warm eagerness, "i'll accept your price for a half interest." "i'll go with you to-night--if i can get the drawing-room on your train," decided wallingford, and arose. the supreme exalted ruler gazed up at him with profound admiration. he looked so much like actual cash. he might be a "smooth article," but was not one clover also "smooth"? he could guard the gold in his own teeth, all right. "you're a wonder, jim," said mr. daw to his friend when they were alone for a few minutes; "but where are you going to get that two thousand?" "out of the business--if i pay it at all," replied mr. wallingford. "trust your uncle rufus." chapter ix mr. wallingford shows mr. clover how to do the widows and orphans good mrs. bishop, a small, nervous-looking woman of forty-five, with her thin hair drawn back so tightly from her narrow forehead that it gave one the headache to look at her, was in her dismal "front room" with her wrinkled red hands folded in her lap when mr. wallingford and mr. clover called. it was only the day after the funeral, and she broke into tears the moment they introduced themselves. "madam," declaimed mr. clover in his deepest and most sympathetic voice, "it is the blessed privilege of the noble order of friendly hands to dry the tears of the widows and orphans, and to shed the light of hope upon their disconsolate pathway. it is our pleasure to bring you, as a testimonial of your husband's affection and loving care, this check for one thousand dollars." mrs. bishop took the check and burst into uncontrollable sobs, whereat mr. wallingford looked distinctly annoyed. if he could help it, he never, by any possibility, looked upon other than the most cheerful aspects of life. mr. clover cleared his throat. "but the broad paternal interest of the noble order of friendly hands does not stop here," he went on, turning for a glance of earned approval from j. rufus wallingford. "the family of every member of our order becomes at once a ward of ours, and they may look to us for assistance, advice, and benefit in every way possible. we are a group of friends, banded together for mutual aid in time of trouble and sorrow." mr. wallingford judged this magnificent flight to be a quotation from the ritual of the noble order of friendly hands, and he was correct; but, as mrs. bishop had ventured to look up at them, he nodded his head gravely. "it is about that thousand dollars you hold in your hand, mrs. bishop," clover continued, resuming his oratorical version of the lesson he had carefully learned from wallingford; "and we feel it our duty to remind you that, unless it is wisely used, the plans of your thoughtful husband for your safe future will not have been carried out. how had you thought of investing this neat little sum?" mrs. bishop gazed at the check through her tears and tried to comprehend that it was real money, as it would have been but for the astuteness of mr. wallingford. mr. clover had proposed to bring her ten new, crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, but his monitor had pointed out that if she ever got that money between her fingers and felt it crinkle she would never let go of it. a check was so different. "well," she faltered, "my daughter minnie wanted me to get us some clothes and pay some down on a piano and lay in the winter coal and provisions and put the rest in a bank for a rainy day. minnie's my youngest. she's just quit the high school because she wants to go to a commercial college. but my oldest daughter, hattie, wouldn't hear to it. she says if minnie'll only take a job in the store where she works they can run the family, and for me to take this thousand dollars and finish paying off the mortgage on the house with it. the mortgage costs six per cent. a year." "your daughter hattie is a very sensible young lady," said mr. wallingford with great gravity. "it would be folly to expend this thousand dollars upon personal luxuries; but equally wrong to lose its earning power." it was the voice of wall street, of the government mint, of the very soul and spirit of all financial wisdom, that spoke here, and mrs. bishop felt it with a thrill. "madam," orated mr. clover, "the noble order of friendly hands has provided a way for the safe and profitable investment of the funds left to the widows and orphans under its protection. it has set aside a certain amount of high-dividend-bearing stock in the order itself, or rather in its operating department, of which, by the way, i am the president, and of which the eminent capitalist and philanthropist, mr. j. rufus wallingford, is a leading spirit." his sweeping gesture toward that benevolent multi-millionaire, and mr. wallingford's bow in return, were sights worth beholding. "the benevolent gentlemen who organized this generous association have just made possible this further beneficence to its dependents. the stock should pay you not less than twelve per cent. a year, and your original capital can be withdrawn at any time. with this income you can pay the interest on your mortgage, and have a tidy little sum left at the end of each quarter. think of it, madam! money every three months, and your thousand dollars always there!" mrs. bishop glanced at him in slow comprehension. the figures that he gave her did not, as yet, mean so much, but the sight of mr. wallingford did. he was so big, so solid looking, so much like substantial prosperity itself. a huge diamond glowed from his finger. it must be worth several hundred dollars. another one gleamed from his scarf. his clothing was of the latest cut and the finest material. even his socks, in the narrow rim which showed above his low-cut shoes, were silk; she could see that clear across the room. the door opened, and a girl of seventeen or eighteen came in. that she was unusually pretty was attested by the suddenly widening eyes of mr. wallingford. "and is this your daughter minnie?" asked the benevolent gentleman, all his protecting and fostering instincts aroused. mrs. bishop, in a flutter, presented her younger daughter to the fortune-bringing gentlemen, and minnie fluttered a bit on her own account. she knew she was pretty; she read in the eyes of the wealthy-looking, perfectly groomed mr. wallingford that she was pretty; she saw in the smile of mr. clover that she was pretty, and her vanity was pleased inordinately. a sudden brilliant idea came to mr. wallingford. "i have the solution to your problem, mrs. bishop," he said. "we shall need more help in our offices, and your daughter shall have the place. she can soon earn more money than she ever could in a store, and can secure as good a training as she could in a business college. how would you like that, miss bishop?" "i think it would be fine," replied the young lady, with a large-eyed glance toward mr. wallingford. the glance was more of habit than intent. minnie's mirror and what she had heard from her boy friends had given her an impulse toward coquetry. it was pleasant to feel her power, to see what instantaneous impression she could make upon grown men. such a friendly party it was! everybody was pleased, and in the end mr. wallingford and mr. clover walked away from the house with mrs. bishop's check and her receipt and her policy in their pockets. mr. clover was lost in profound admiration. "it worked, all right!" he said exultantly to mr. neil, as soon as they returned to the dingy little office. "here's the thousand dollars," and he threw down the check. "good lord! i couldn't believe but that thousand was gone; and then if another man died he would put us on the toboggan." mr. neil was a thin young man whose forehead wore the perpetual frown of slow thought. also his cuffs were ragged. he was the supreme exalted secretary. "now may i have fifty?" he inquired in an aside to clover. "my board bill, you know." "certainly not!" declared the supreme exalted ruler with loud rectitude. "this thousand dollars belongs in the insurance reserve fund." "tut, tut," interposed wallingford. "your alarm clock is out of order. you just now paid a death claim with that money, and the reserve fund is out that much. a private individual, however, just now bought a thousand dollars' worth of stock in the reorganized friendly hands trust company, and you have the pay in advance. let mr. neil have his fifty dollars, and give me a check for my two hundred and fifty; then we'll go out to hunt a decent suite of offices and buy the furniture for it." "there wouldn't be much of the thousand left after that," objected mr. clover, frowning. "why not? you don't suppose we are going to pay cash for anything, do you?" returned wallingford in surprise. "my credit's good, if yours isn't." his credit! he had not been in town four hours! as mr. clover looked him over again, however, he saw where he was wrong. mr. wallingford's mere appearance was as good as a bond. he would not ask for credit; he would take it. mr. clover, in a quick analysis of this thought, decided that this rich man's resources were so vast that they shone through his very bearing. mr. wallingford, at that same moment, after having paid his enormous hotel bill in new york and the expenses of his luxurious trip, had only ten dollars in the world. "now then," suggested mr. clover as he passed the hypnotically won check to his new partner, "we might as well conclude our personal business. i'll make you over half my stock in the company, and take your two thousand." "all right," agreed wallingford very cheerfully, and they both sat down to write. mr. clover transferred to mr. wallingford forty-three shares of stock in the friendly hands trust company, incorporated, and received a rectangular slip of paper in return. his face reddened as he examined it. "why, this isn't a check!" he said sharply. "it's a note for ninety days!" "sure!" said j. rufus wallingford. "in our talk there wasn't a word said about cash." "but cash is what i want, and nothing but cash!" exploded the other, smacking his hairy fist upon his desk. "how foolish!" chided j. rufus smilingly. "i see i'll have to teach you a lot about business. draw up your chairs and get my plan in detail. if, after that, clover, you do not want my note, you may give it back and go broke in your own way. here's what we will do. we will organize a new operating company for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in twenty-five-dollar shares. we will buy over the old ten-thousand-dollar company for one hundred and fifty thousand in stock of the new company. dividing this pro rata, you and i, clover, will each have nearly twenty-six hundred shares. mr. neil, in place of his present ten shares, will have six hundred, and we shall have left four thousand shares of treasury stock. these we will sell among your members. we will reduce your present insurance rate one fourth, and use the hundred thousand dollars we take in on stock sales to get new members to whom to sell more stock. in the meantime, we'll see money every day. you and i, clover, will each draw a hundred a week, and i think mr. neil will be pretty well satisfied if he drags down fifty." the pleased expression upon mr. neil's face struggled with the deepening creases on his brow. fifteen dollars a week was the most he had ever earned in his life, but he was so full of fraternal insurance figures that his skin prickled. "but how about the insurance end of it?" he interposed. "how will we ever keep up at that ridiculously low rate? that might do for a while, but as our membership becomes older the death rate will increase on us and we can't pay it. why, the mortality tables--" and he reached for the inevitable facts and figures. "who's talking about insurance?" demanded wallingford. "i'm talking about how to get money. put up the little red dope-book. clover, you get busy right away and write a lot of circus literature about the grand work your members will be doing for the widows and orphans by buying this stock; also how much dividend it will pay them. when the treasury stock is sold, and we have a big enough organization to absorb it, we will begin to unload our own shares and get out. if you clean up your sixty-four thousand dollars in this year, i guess you will be willing to let the stockholders elect new officers and conduct their own friendly hands trust company any way they please, won't you?" mr. clover quietly folded mr. wallingford's note and put it in his pocket. "let's go out and rent some new offices," he said. he came back, at mr. neil's call, to write out that fifty-dollar check, and incidentally made out one for himself in a like amount. "what do you think of him, anyhow?" asked neil with a troubled countenance. "think of him?" repeated clover with enthusiasm. "he's the greatest ever! if i had known him five years ago i'd be worth a million to-day!" "but is this scheme on the level?" asked neil. "that's the beauty of it," said clover, exulting like a schoolboy. "the law can't touch us any place." "maybe not," admitted neil; "but somehow i don't quite like it." "i guess you'll like your fifty a week when it begins to come in, and your fifteen thousand when we clean up," retorted clover. "you bet!" said neil, but he began to do some bewildered figuring on his own account. his head was in a whirl. chapter x an amazing combination of philanthropy and profit is inaugurated minnie bishop came to work for the noble order of friendly hands on the day that they moved into offices more in keeping with the magnificence of mr. wallingford, and she was by no means out of place amid the mahogany desks and fine rugs and huge leather chairs. "her smile alone is worth fifty dollars a week to the business," clover admitted, but they only paid her five at the start. she had more to recommend her, however, than white teeth and red lips. wallingford himself was surprised to find that, in spite of her apparently frivolous bent, she had considerable ability and was quick to learn. from the first he assumed a direct guardianship over her, and his approaches toward a slightly more than paternal friendship she considered great fun. at home she mimicked him, and when her older sister tried to talk to her seriously about it she only laughed the more. clover she amused continually, but neil fell desperately in love with her from the start, and him she flouted most unmercifully. really, she liked him, although she would not admit it even to herself, charging him with the fatal error of being "too serious." in the meantime the affairs of the concern progressed delightfully. for the regulation fee, the secretary of state, after some perfunctory inquiries, permitted the "trust company" to increase its capitalization to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. even before the certificates were delivered from the printer's, however, that month's issue of "the friendly hand" bore the news to the five hundred members of the order and to four thousand five hundred prospective members, of the truly unprecedented combination of philanthropy and profit. somewhere the indefatigable wallingford had secured a copy of a most unusual annual statement of a large and highly successful insurance company, of the flat-rate variety and of a similar sounding name. in the smallest type to be found he had printed over this: read this report of the provident friends to its stockholders then followed direct quotations, showing that the provident friends had a membership of a quarter of a million; that it had paid out in death claims an enormous amount; that it had a surplus fund expressed in a staggering array of figures; that its enrollment had increased fifty thousand within the past year. striking sentences, such as: we have just declared a thirty per cent. dividend were displayed in big, black type, the whole being spread out in such form that readers ignorant of such matters would take this to be a sworn statement of the present condition of the order of friendly hands; and they were invited to subscribe for its golden stock at the rate of twenty-five dollars a share! the prudent members who were providing for their families after death could now also participate in the profits of this commendable investment during life, and at a rate which, while not guaranteed, could be expected, in the light of past experience, to pay back the capital in a trifle over three years, leaving it still intact and drawing interest. but this, dear friends and coworkers in a noble cause, was not just a hard, money-grinding proposition. the revenue derived from the sale of stock was to be expended in the further expansion of the order, until it should blanket the world and carry the blessings of protection to the widows and orphans throughout the universe! never before in the history of finance had it been made possible for men of modest means to further a charitable work, a noble work, a work appealing to all the highest aspirations of humanity and creditable to every finest instinct of the human heart, and at the same time to reap an enormous profit! and the price was only twenty-five dollars a share--while they lasted! wallingford had secured the data and supplied the human frailty ideas for this flaming announcement, but clover had put it together, and, as he examined the proof sheet, the latter gentleman leaned back in his chair with profound self-esteem. "that'll get 'em!" he exulted. "if that don't bring in the money to make this the greatest organization in the business, i don't want a cent!" "you spread it on too much," objected neil. "why can't we do just as well or better by presenting the thing squarely? it seems to me that any man who would be caught by the self-evident buncombe of that thing would be too big a sucker to have any money." wallingford looked at him thoughtfully. "you're right, in a way, neil," he admitted. "the men who have real money wouldn't touch it, but the people we're appealing to have stacked theirs up a cent at a time, and they are afraid of all investments--even of the banks. when you offer them thirty per cent., however, they are willing to take a chance; and, after all, i don't see why, with the money that comes in from this stock sale, we should not be able to expand our organization to even larger proportions than the provident friends. if we do that, what is to prevent a good dividend to our stockholders?" clover glanced at his partner in surprise. from that overawing bulk there positively radiated high moral purpose, and neil shriveled under it. when they were alone, clover, making idle marks with his pencil, looked up at wallingford from time to time from under shaggy brows, and finally he laughed aloud. "you're the limit," he observed. "that's a fine line of talk you gave neil." "can't we buy him out?" asked wallingford abruptly. "what with? a note?" inquired clover. "hardly." "cash, then." "will you put it up?" "i'll see about it, for if i have him gauged right he will be hunting for trouble all along the line." wallingford went to the window and looked out; then he got his hat. as he stepped into the hall neil came from an adjoining room. "do you want to sell your stock, neil?" asked clover. "to whom?" asked neil slowly. wallingford had shaken his slow deductions, had suggested new possibilities to ponder, and he was still bewildered. "to wallingford." "say, clover, has he _got_ any money?" demanded neil. "if he hasn't he can get it," replied the other. "come here a minute." he drew neil to the window and they looked down into the street. standing in front of the office building was a huge, maroon-colored automobile with a leather-capped chauffeur in front. as they watched, mr. wallingford came out to the curb and the chauffeur saluted with his finger. mr. wallingford took from the rear seat a broad-checked ulster, put it on, and exchanged his derby for a cap to match. then he climbed into the auto and went whirring away. "that looks like money, don't it?" demanded clover. "i give up," said neil. "how much do you want for your stock?" inquired clover, again with a smile. "par!" exclaimed neil, once more satisfied. "nothing less!" "right you are," agreed clover. "this man wallingford is the greatest ever, i tell you! he's a wonder, a positive genius, and it was a lucky day for me that i met him. he will make us all rich." his admiration for wallingford knew no bounds. he had detected in the man a genius for chicanery, and so long as he was "in with it" wallingford might be as "smooth" as he liked. were they not partners? indeed, yes. share and share alike! that night clover and neil dined with mr. and mrs. wallingford at their hotel, and if neil had any lingering doubts as to mr. wallingford's command of money, those doubts were dispelled by the size of the check, by the obsequiousness shown them, and by the manner in which mrs. wallingford wore her expensive clothing. after dinner wallingford took them for a ride in his automobile, and at a quiet road house, a dozen miles out of town, over sparkling drinks and heavy cigars, they quite incidentally discussed a trifling matter of business. "you fellows go ahead with the insurance part of the game," wallingford directed them. "i don't understand any part of that business, but i'll look after the stock sales. that i know i can handle." they were enthusiastic in their seconding of this idea, and after this point had been reached, the host, his business done, took his guests back to town in the automobile upon which he had not as yet paid a cent, dropping them at their homes in a most blissful state of content. proceeding along the lines of the understanding thus established, within a few days money began to flow into the coffers of the concern. mr. wallingford's method of procedure was perfectly simple. when an experimentally inclined member of any one of the out-of-town "circles" sent in his modest twenty-five dollars for a share of stock, or even inquired about it, wallingford promptly got on a train and went to see that man. upon his arrival he immediately found out how much money the man had and issued him stock to the amount; then he got introductions to the other members and brought home stock subscriptions to approximately the exact total of their available cash. there was no resisting him. in the meantime, with ample funds to urge it forward, the membership of the organization increased at a rapid enough rate to please even the master hand. new members meant new opportunities for stock sales, and that only, to him, and to clover, the world, at last, was as it should be. money was his for the asking, and by means which pleased his sense of being "in" on a bit of superior cleverness. quite early in the days of plenty he saw a side investment which, being questionable, tempted him, and he came to wallingford--to borrow money! "i'll sell some of your stock," offered wallingford. "i want to sell a little of my own, anyhow." in all, he sold for clover five thousand dollars' worth, and the stock was promptly reported by the purchasers for transfer on the books of the company. some of wallingford's also came in for transfer, although a much less amount; sufficient, however, it seemed, for he took the most expensive apartments in town, filled them with the best furnishings that were made, and lived like a king. mrs. wallingford secured her diamonds again and bought many more. clover also "took on airs." neil worried. he had made a study of the actual cost of insurance, and the low rate that they were now receiving filled him with apprehension. "we're going on the rocks as fast as we can go," he declared to clover. "according to the tables we're due for a couple of deaths right now, and the longer they delay the more they will bunch up on us. mark what i say: the avalanche will get you before you have time to get out, if that's what you plan on doing. i wish the laws governed our rate here as they do in some of the other states." "what's the matter with the rate?" clover wanted to know. "when it's inadequate we'll raise it." "that isn't what we're promising to do," insisted neil. "we're advertising a permanent flat rate." "show me where," demanded clover. neil tried to do so, but everywhere, in their policies, in their literature, or even in their correspondence, that he pointed out a statement apparently to that effect, clover showed him a "joker" clause contradicting it. "you see, neil, you're too hasty in jumping at conclusions," he expostulated. "you know that the law will not permit us to claim a flat rate without a sufficient cash provision, under state control, to guarantee it, and compels us to be purely an assessment company. when the time comes that we must do so, we will do precisely what other companies have done before us: raise the rate. if it becomes prohibitive the company will drop out of business, as so many others have; but we will be out of it long before then." "yes," retorted neil, "and thousands of people who are too old to get fresh insurance at any price, and who will have paid for years, will be left holding the bag." "the trouble with you, neil, is that you have a streak of yellow," interrupted clover impatiently. "don't you like your fifty a week?" "yes." "don't you like your fifteen thousand dollars' worth of stock?" "it looks good to me," confessed neil. "then keep still or sell out and get out." "i'm not going to do that," said neil deliberately. he had his slow mind made up at last. "i'm going to stick, and reorganize the company when it goes broke!" when clover reported this to wallingford that gentleman laughed. "how is he on ritual work?" he asked. "fine! he has a streak of fool earnestness in him that makes him take to that flubdubbery like a duck to water." "then send him out as a special degree master to inaugurate the new lodges that are formed. he's a nuisance in the office." in this the big man had a double purpose. neil was paying entirely too much attention to minnie bishop of late, and wallingford resented the interference. his pursuit of the girl was characteristic. he gave her flowers and boxes of candy in an offhand way, not as presents, but as rewards. as the business grew he appropriated her services more and more to his own individual work, seating her at a desk in his private room, and a neat balance-sheet would bring forth an approving word and an offhand: "fine work. i owe you theater tickets for that." the next time he came in he would bring the tickets and drop them upon her desk, with a brusque heartiness that was intended to disarm suspicion, and with a suggestion to take her mother and sister along. moreover, he raised her salary from time to time. the consideration that he showed her would have won the gratitude of any girl unused to such attentions and unfamiliar with the ways of the world, but under them she nevertheless grew troubled and thoughtful. noticing this, wallingford conceived the idea that he had made an impression, whereupon he ventured to become a shade more personal. about this time another disagreeable circumstance came to her attention and plunged her into perplexity. clover walked into mr. wallingford's room just as the latter was preparing to go out. "tag, you're it, wallingford," said clover jovially, holding out a piece of paper. "i've just found out that your note was due yesterday." "quit joking with me on wednesdays," admonished wallingford, and taking the note he tore it into little bits and threw them into the waste basket. "here! that's two thousand dollars, and it's mine," clover protested. wallingford laughed. "you didn't really think i'd pay it, did you? why, i told you at the time that it was only a matter of form; and, besides that, you know my motto: 'i never give up money,'" and, still chuckling, he went out. "isn't he the greatest ever?" said clover admiringly, to minnie. but minnie could not see the joke. if wallingford "never gave up money," and clover subscribed to that clever idea with such enthusiasm that he was willing to be laughed out of two thousand dollars, what would become of her mother's little nest-egg? a thousand dollars was a tragic amount to the bishops. that very evening, as wallingford went out, he ventured to pinch and then to pat her cheek, and shame crimsoned her face that she had brought upon herself the coarse familiarities which now she suddenly understood. neil, who had come in from a trip that afternoon, walked into the office just after wallingford had gone, and found her crying. the sight of her in tears broke down the reserve that she had forced upon him, so that he told her many things; told them eloquently, too, and suddenly she found herself glad that he had come--glad to rely upon him and confide in him. naturally, when she let him draw from her the cause of her distress, he was furious. he wanted to hunt wallingford at once and chastise him, but she stopped him with vehement earnestness. "no," she insisted, "i positively forbid it! when mr. wallingford comes here to-morrow, i want him to find me the same as ever, and i do not want one word said that will make him think i am any different. but i want you to walk home with me, if you can spare the time. i want to talk with you." chapter xi neil takes a sudden interest in the business and wallingford lets go neil, the next day after his talk with minnie bishop, had a great idea, which was nothing more nor less than a supreme circle conclave, in which a picked degree team would exemplify the ritual, and to which delegates from all the local circles should be invited. they had never held a supreme conclave, and they needed it to arouse enthusiasm. clover fell in with the idea at once. it would provide him with an opportunity for one of the spread-eagle speeches he was so fond of making. as this phase of the business--comprising the insurance and the lodge work--was left completely in charge of clover and neil, wallingford made no objections, and, having ample funds for carrying out such a plan, it was accordingly arranged. neil went on the road at once about this matter, but letters between himself and minnie bishop passed almost daily. an indefinable change had come over the girl. she had grown more earnest, for one thing, but she assumed a forced flippancy with wallingford because she found that it was her only defense against him. she turned off his advances as jests, and her instinct of coquetry, though now she recognized it and was ashamed of it, made her able to puzzle and hold uncertainly aloof even this experienced "man of the world." it was immediately after she had jerked her hand away from under his one afternoon that, in place of the reproof he had half expected from her, she turned to him with a most dazzling smile. "by the way, we've both forgotten something, mr. wallingford," she said. "quarter day for the bishops is long past due." "what is it that is past due?" he asked in surprise. "when my mother bought her stock, you know, you promised that she should have twelve per cent. interest on it, payable every three months." "that's right," he admitted, looking at her curiously, and before she started home that evening he handed her an envelope with thirty dollars in it. she immediately made a note of the amount and dropped it in the drawer of her desk. "never mind entering that in your books," he said hastily, noting her action; "just keep the memorandum until we arrange for a regular dividend, then it can all be posted at once. it's--it's a matter that has been overlooked." she thanked him for the money and took it home with her. she had been planning for a week or more upon how to get this thirty dollars. on the very next day, while he was absorbedly poring over a small account book that he kept locked carefully in his desk, he found her standing beside him. "i'm afraid that i shall have to ask you to buy back mother's stock in the company," she said. that morning's mail had been unusually heavy in stock sale possibilities. "we have a sudden pressing need for that thousand dollars, and we'll just have to have it, that's all." wallingford's first impulse was to dissuade her from this idea, but another thought now came to him as he looked musingly into his roll-top desk; and as the girl, standing above him, gazed down upon his thick neck and puffy cheeks, he reminded her of nothing so much as a monstrous toad. "have you the stock certificate with you?" he inquired presently. no, she had not. "well, bring it down to-night," he said, "and i'll give you a check for it. i'm going away on a little trip to-morrow, and i want you to get me up a statement out of the books, anyhow." for an instant the girl hesitated with a sharp intake of breath. then she said, "very well," and went home. that night, when she returned, she paused in the hall a moment to subdue her trepidation, then, whether foolish or not, but with such courage as men might envy, she boldly opened the door and stepped in. she found wallingford at his desk, and she had walked up to him and laid at his elbow the stock certificate, properly released, before he turned his unusually flushed face toward her. in his red eyes she saw that he had been dining rather too well, even for him. she had been prepared for this, however, and her voice was quite steady as she asked: "have you the check made out, mr. wallingford?" "there's no hurry about it," he replied a trifle thickly. "there's some work i want you to do first." "i'd rather you would make out the check now," she insisted, "so that i won't forget it." laboriously he filled out the blank and signed it, and then blinkingly watched her smooth, white fingers as she folded it and snapped it into her purse. suddenly he swung his great arm about her waist and drew her toward him. what followed was the surprise of his life, for a very sharp steel hatpin was jabbed into him in half a dozen indiscriminate places, and minnie bishop stood panting in the middle of the floor. "i have endured it here for weeks now, longer than i believed it possible," she shrieked at him, crying hysterically, "because we could not afford to lose this money: stood it for days when the sight of you turned me sick! it seems a year ago, you ugly beast, that i made sure you were a thief, but i wouldn't leave till i knew it was the right time to ask you for this check!" dazed, he stood nursing his hurts. one of her strokes had been into his cheek, and as he took his reddened handkerchief away from it a flood of rage came over him and he took a step forward; but he had miscalculated her spirit. "i wish i had killed you!" she cried, and darted out of the door. for three days after that episode the man was confined to his room under the care of his wife, whom he told that he had been attacked by a footpad, "a half-crazy foreigner with a stiletto." for a week more he was out of town. a peremptory telegram from clover brought him in from his stock-drumming transactions, and by the time he reached the city he was ready for any emergency, though finally attributing the call to the fact, which he had almost forgotten, that to-morrow was the first day of the three set apart for the supreme circle conclave of the noble order of friendly hands. he arrived at about eight o'clock in the evening, and as his automobile rolled past the big building where their offices were located, he glanced up and saw that lights were blazing brightly from the windows. anxious to find out at once the true status of affairs he went up. he was surprised to find the big reception room full of hard-featured men who looked uncomfortable in their "best clothes," and among them he recognized two or three, from surrounding small towns, to whom he had sold stock. at first, as he opened the door, black looks were cast in his direction, and a couple of the men half arose from their seats; but they sat down again as mr. j. rufus wallingford's face beamed with a cordial smile. "good evening, gentlemen," he observed cheerfully, with a special nod for those he remembered, and then he stalked calmly through the room. the nights being cool now, mr. wallingford wore a fur-lined ulster of rich material and of a fit which made his huge bulk seem the perfection of elegance. upon his feet were shining patent leather shoes; upon his head was a shining high hat. he carried one new glove in his gloved left hand; from his right hand gleamed the big diamond. his ulster hung open in front, displaying his sparkling scarf pin, his rich scarf of the latest pattern, his fancy waistcoat. he held his head high, and no man could stand before him nor against him. when the door had closed behind him they almost sighed in unison. there went money, sacred money, even the more so that some of it was their own! in the inner office, wallingford was surprised to find minnie bishop present and working earnestly upon the books. looking up she met his darkening glance defiantly, but even if he had chosen to speak to her there was no time, for clover had opened the door of his own private office and greeted him with a curt nod. "come in here," said clover roughly. "i want to talk to you." it was the inevitable moment, the one for which wallingford had long been prepared. "certainly," he said with aggravating cheerfulness, and, walking in, let clover close the door behind him. he sat comfortably in the big leather chair at the side of the desk and lit a cigar, while clover plumped himself in his own swivel. "who are the rubes outside?" asked wallingford, puffing critically at his half-dollar perfecto. "neil's picked degree team," answered clover shortly. "he had them meet up here to-night for some instructions, i believe, but he's not here yet. it's his affair entirely. i want to see you about something else." "blaze away," said wallingford with great heartiness, carefully placing his silk hat upon a clean sheet of paper. he was still smiling cheerfully, but in his eyes had come the trace of a glitter. "i'll blaze away all right, whether i have your invitation or not!" snapped clover. "you've been giving me the double cross. for every share of stock you sold for the company you've sold five of your own and pocketed the money." "why shouldn't i?" inquired mr. wallingford calmly, his willingness to admit it so pleasantly amounting to insolence. "it was my stock, and the money i got for such of it as i sold was my money." "_such_ of it as you sold!" repeated clover indignantly. "i know how much you unloaded. you have placed somewhat over twenty thousand for the company--" "and five thousand for you," wallingford reminded him. "i suppose you went south with the proceeds. if you didn't you're crazy!" clover flushed a trifle. "but you got rid of nearly sixty thousand dollars of your own stock," he charged bitterly. it still rankled in him that wallingford had "handed the lemon" to him. _him!_ monstrous that a man should be so dishonorable! "you played me for a mark. when you handed out my certificates you instructed every man to send them in for transfer, but when you peddled your own you said nothing about that, and only the few yaps who happened to know about such things sent them in. you're nearly all sold out, and i'm holding the bag." "right you are," admitted wallingford, openly amused. "i have a few shares left in my desk, though, and i'll make you a present of them. i'm going out of the company, you know." "you're not!" exclaimed clover, smiting his fist upon his desk. "we were in this thing together, half and half, and i want my share!" wallingford laughed. "i told you once," he informed his irate partner, "that i never give up any money. my action is strictly legal. now, don't choke!" he added as he saw clover about to make another objection. "you've not a gasp coming. when i took hold here you were practically on your last legs. you have had a salary of one hundred dollars a week since that time. in addition to that i have handed you five thousand dollars, and you have nearly sixty thousand dollars' worth of stock left. you can do just what i have been doing: sell your stock and get out. as for me i _am_ out, and that's all there is to it! i have all i want and i'm going to quit!" the door had opened and neil stood on the threshold. "you bet you're going to quit!" said neil. his face was pale but his eyes were blazing and his fists were clenched. "you're both going to quit, but not the way you think you are! come out here. some of my friends are in the waiting room, and they want to see you right away!" clover had turned a sickly, ashen white, but wallingford rose to his feet. "you tell them to go plumb to hell!" he snarled. his eyes were widened until they showed the whites. he was fully as much cowed by the suggestion as clover, but he would "put up a front" to the last. "come in, boys!" commanded neil loudly. they came with alacrity. they crowded into the small room, packing it so snugly that neil and wallingford and clover, forced into the little space before clover's desk, stood touching. "what does this mean?" demanded wallingford, glaring at the invaders. he stood almost head and shoulders above them, and where he met a man's eyes those eyes dropped. some of them who had not removed their hats hastily did so. his lordliness was still potent. "you can't bluff me!" shrieked neil, who, standing beside him, shook his fist in wallingford's face. the contrast between the sizes of the two men would have been ludicrous, had it not been for neil's intensity, which seemed to expand him, to make him and his passionate purpose colossal. "i know you, and these men don't!" he went on, his neck chords swelling with anger. "why, think of it, gentlemen, in the four months that he has been here, this man has taken sixty thousand dollars from the hard-working members of this order, has stuffed it in his pocket and is making ready to leave! the little girl out there, who is getting us up a statement for to-morrow, figured him out for the dog he is while i was still groping for the facts. he tried to take her for a fool, but she--she--" his voice broke and he smacked his fist in his palm to loosen his tongue. "you're a smart man, mr. wallingford, but you made a few mistakes. one of them was in sending me on the road so you could--so you--" again his voice broke and he sank his nails into his palms for control. "you thought this meeting was a mere jolly for our members, didn't you? it's not. these men are here solely as representatives of the business interests of their friends. we're going to put this order back upon a sound basis, and the first thing we're going to do is to cut out graft. why, you unclean whelp, you have spent over fourteen thousand dollars in the four months you have been here, and you have--or had, up to a week ago--forty-five thousand dollars in the second national--all of poor men's money! how do i know? you lost your bank book which had just been balanced. as for you, clover, you're a clog upon the business, too!" clover had brought this upon himself by darting at wallingford a glance of hate, which neil caught. "now this is what _you're_ going to do, james clover. for having fathered the order you're to be allowed to keep the five thousand dollars you got for the sale of stock. your remaining stock you're going to transfer over to our treasury, and then you're going to step down and out. as for you, mr. j. rufus wallingford, you're going to write a check for forty-five thousand dollars, payable to the company." "what you are asking of me is unjust--and absurd," whined wallingford. "write that check!" neil almost screamed. "we know you're slick enough to keep your tricks within legal bounds, and that's why these men are here." the brow of wallingford contracted and he tried to look angry, but his breath was coming short and there was a curious pallor around the edge of his lips and around his eyes. "this is coercion!" he charged with dry mouth. "put it that way if you want to," agreed neil hotly. "we'll break your infernal neck, that's what we'll do!" put in a spokesman back toward the door, and there was a general pressing forward. neil had lashed them into fury, and one rawboned fellow, a blacksmith, wedged through them with purple face and upraised fist. so heavily that he knocked the breath out of clover with his chair back, wallingford plumped down at the desk and whipped out his check book. "i ask one thing of you," he said, as he picked up the pen with a curious trembling grimace that was almost like a smile, but was not. "you must leave me at least a thousand dollars to get away from here." there was a moment of silence. "that's reasonable," granted neil, after careful consideration. "give us the check for forty-four thousand." wallingford wrote it and then he put it in his pocket. "i have the check ready, gentlemen," he announced, "but i'll give it to you at the entrance of my home--to a committee consisting of neil and any two others you may select. if i hand it to you before i pass out at that door, some of you are liable to--to lose your heads." he was positively craven in appearance when he said this, and with an expression of contempt neil agreed to it. wallingford's car was still waiting on the street below, and into it piled the four. before the rich building where j. rufus had his apartments, neil and one of the other men got out first; but if they had anticipated any attempt at escape on wallingford's part they were mistaken. without a word he handed the check to neil and waited while they inspected it to see that it was correctly drawn and signed. "now, mr. slippery eel," said neil exultantly as he put the check in his pocket, "it won't do any good to try to stop this check, for if i can't draw it you can't. i shall be there in the morning when the bank opens. i secured an injunction this afternoon that will tie up your account," and his voice swelled with triumph. wallingford laughed. with his hand upon the knob he held the vestibule door open, and he felt safe from violence, which was all he feared. "well," said he philosophically, "i see i'm beaten, and there's no use crying over spilled milk." neil looked after him dubiously, as he swaggered into the hall. "i didn't expect it would be so easy," he said to the men. "i knew the fellow was a physical coward, but i didn't know he was such a big one. my lawyer told me he could even beat us on that injunction." mr. wallingford did not go directly to his apartments. he went into the booth downstairs, instead, and telephoned his wife. then he went out. he was gone for about half an hour, and, when he came back, mrs. wallingford, wastefully leaving a number of expensive accumulations that were too big to be carried as hand luggage, and abandoning the rich furniture to be claimed by the deluded dealers, had four suit cases packed. chapter xii fate arranges for j. rufus an opportunity to manufacture sales recorders it was not until their train had passed beyond the last suburb that wallingford, ensconced in the sleeper drawing room, was able to resume his accustomed cheerfulness. "sure you have that bundle of american passports all right, fanny?" he inquired. "they're perfectly safe, but i'm glad to be rid of them," she answered listlessly, and opening her hand bag she emptied it of its contents, then, with a small penknife, loosened the false bottom in it. from underneath this she drew a flat package of thousand-dollar bills and handed them to him. "forty of them!" gloated wallingford, counting them over. then he pounded upon his knees and laughed. "i can see starvation neil when he has to tell his jay delegates that i drew out every cent the day after i lost my bank book. i'd been missing too many things that never turned up again. i fixed them to-night, too. although i didn't need to do it to be on the law's safe side, i hustled out before we started and swore to a notary that i signed that check under coercion; and they'll get that affidavit before the check and the injunction!" mrs. wallingford did not join him in the shoulder-heaving laugh which followed. "i don't like it, jim," she urged. "you're growing worse all the time, and some day you'll overstep the bounds. and have you noticed another thing? our money never does us any good." "you'll wake up when we get settled down some place to enjoy ourselves. i don't believe you know how well you like fine dresses and diamonds, and to live on the fat of the land. you know what this little bundle of comfort means? that we're the salt of the earth while it lasts; that for a solid year we may have not only all the luxuries in the world, but everybody we meet will try to make life pleasant for us." to that end wallingford secured a suite of rooms at two hundred dollars per week the moment they landed in new york, and began to live at a corresponding rate. he gave himself no regret for yesterday and no care for to-morrow, but let each extravagant moment take care of itself. it was such intervals as this, between her husband's more than doubtful "business" operations, that reconciled mrs. wallingford to their mode of life, or, rather, that numbed the moral sensibilities which lie dormant in every woman. while they were merely spending money she was content to play the _grande dame_, to dress herself in exquisite toilettes and bedeck herself with brilliant gems, to go among other birds of fine feathers that congregated at the more exclusive public places, though she made no friends among them, to be surrounded by every luxury that money could purchase, to have her every whim gratified by the mere pressing of a button. as for wallingford, to be a prince of spenders, to find new and gaudy methods of display, to have people turn as he passed by and ask who he might be; these things made existence worth while. only one thing--his restless spirit--kept him from pursuing this uneventful path until all of his forty thousand dollars was gone. after two months of slothful ease, something more exciting became imperative, and just then the racing season began and supplied that need. every afternoon they drove out to the track, and there wallingford bet thousands as another man might bet fives. there could be but one end to this, but he did not care. what did it matter whether he spent his money a trifle more or less quickly? there was plenty of it within his broad hunting grounds, and when what he had was gone he had only to go capture more; so it was no shock one morning to count over his resources and find that he had but a fragment left of what he had laughingly termed his "insurance fund." upon that same morning an urgent telegram was delivered to him from "blackie" daw. he read it with a whistle of surprise and passed it over to his wife without comment. "you're not going?" she asked with much concern, passing the message back to him. "of course i am," he promptly told her. "blackie's the only man i could depend upon to get me out of a similar scrape." "but, jim," she protested; "you just now said that you have barely over six thousand left." "that's all right," he assured her. "i'd have to get out and hustle in less than a month anyhow, at the rate we're going. i'll just take blackie's five thousand, and a couple of hundred over for expenses. you keep the balance of the money and we'll get out of these apartments at once. i'll get you nice accommodations at about twenty a week, and before i come back i'll have something stirred up." secretly, he was rather pleased with the turn affairs had taken. inaction was beginning to pall upon him, and this message that called urgently upon him to take an immediate trip out of town was entirely to his liking. within an hour he had transferred his wife into comfortable quarters and was on his way to the train. he had very little margin of time, but, slight as it was, the grinning fate which presided over his destinies had opportunity to arrange a meeting for him. even as he pointed out his luggage to a running porter, a fussy little german in very new-looking clothes which fitted almost like tailor-made, had rushed back to the gates of the train shed where the conductor stood with his eyes fixed intently on his watch, his left hand poised ready to raise. "i left my umbrella," spluttered the passenger. "no time," declared the autocrat, not gruffly or unkindly, but in a tone of virtuous devotion to duty. the little german's eyes glared through his spectacles, his face puffed red, his gray mustache bristled. "but it's my wife's umbrella!" he urged, as if that might make a difference. the brass-buttoned slave to duty did not even smile. he raised his hand, and in a moment more the potent wave of his wrist would have sent number eighteen plunging on her westward way. in that moment, however, the pullman conductor, waiting with him, clutched the blue arm of authority. "hold her a second," he advised, and with his thumb pointed far up the platform. "here comes from a dollar up for everybody. he's rode with me before." the captain of eighteen gave a swift glance and was satisfied. "sure. i know him," he said of the newcomer; then he turned to the still desperately hopeful passenger and relented. "run!" he directed briefly. wallingford, who had secured for carl klug this boon, merely by an opportune arrival, was not hurrying. he was too large a man to hurry, so a depot porter was doing it for him. the porter plunged on in advance, springing heavily from one bent leg to the other, weighted down with a hat box in one hand, a huge gladstone bag in the other and a suit case under each arm. the perspiration was streaming down his face, but he was quite content. behind him stalked j. rufus, carrying only a cane and gloves; but more, for him, would have seemed absurd, for when he moved the background seemed to advance with him, he was so broad of shoulder and of chest and of girth. dignity radiated from his frame and carriage, good humor from his big face, wealth from every line and crease of his garments; and it was no matter for wonder that even the rigid schedule of number eighteen was glad to extend to this master of circumstances its small fraction of elasticity. one of the pullman porters from up the train caught a glimpse of his approach and came running back to snatch up two of the pieces of luggage. it did not matter to him whether the impressive gentleman was riding in his coach or not; he was anxious to help on mere general principles, and was even more so when the depot porter, dropping the luggage inside the gate, broke into glorious sunrise over the crinkling green certificate of merit that was handed him. the pullman conductor only asked to what city the man was bound, then he too snatched up a suit case and a bag and raced with the porter to take them on board, calling out as he ran the car into which the luggage must go. to wallingford their activity gave profound satisfaction, and he paused to hand the conductor a counterpart to the huge black cigar he was then smoking. it had no band of any sort upon it, but the conductor judged the cigar by the man. it was not less than three for a dollar, he was sure. "pretty close figuring, old man," observed wallingford cordially. the conductor's smile, while gracious enough, was only fleeting, for this thing of being responsible for eighteen was an anxious business, the gravity of which the traveling public should be taught to appreciate more. "we're nearly a minute off now," he said, "and i've let myself in to wait for a dutchman i let run out when i saw you coming. there he is. third car up for you, sir," and he ran up to the steps of the second car himself. the missing passenger came tearing through the gates just as wallingford went up the car steps. the conductor held his hand aloft, and the engineer, looking back, impatiently clanged his bell. the porter picked up his stepping-box and jumped on after his tip, but he looked out to watch the little german racing with all his might up the platform, and did not withdraw his head until the belated one, all legs and arms, scrambled upon the train. instantly the wheels began to revolve, both vestibule doors were closed with a slam, and a moment later carl klug, puffing and panting, dropped upon a seat in the smoking compartment, opposite to the calm j. rufus wallingford, without breath--and without his umbrella. "_schrecklich!_" he exploded when he could talk. "they are all thieves here. i leave my umbrella in the waiting-room five minutes, i go back and it is gone. gone! and it was my wife's umbrella!" under ordinary circumstances mr. klug, whose thirty years of residence in america had not altogether destroyed certain old-country notions of caste, would not have ventured to address this lordly-looking stranger, but at present he was angry and simply must open the vials of his wrath to some one. he met with no repulse. mr. wallingford was not one to repulse strangers of even modest competence. he only laughed. a score of jovial wrinkles sprang about his half-closed eyes, and his pink face grew pinker. "right you are," he agreed. "when i'm in this town i keep everything i've got right in front of me, and if i want to look the other way i edge around on the other side of my grips." mr. klug digested this idea for a moment, and then he, too, laughed, though not with the abandon of mr. wallingford. he could not so soon forget his wife's umbrella. "it is so," he admitted. "i have been here three days, and every man i had any business with ought to be in _jail_!" a sudden thought as he came to this last word made mr. klug lay almost shrieking emphasis upon it, and smack both fists upon his knees. he craned his head forward, his eyes glared through his spectacles, his cheeks puffed out and his mustache bristled. wallingford surveyed him with careful appraisement. the clothing was ready made, but it was a very good quality of its kind. the man's face was an intelligent one and told of careful, concentrated effort. his hands were lean and rough, the fingers were supple and the outer joints bent back, particularly those of the thumb, which described almost a half circle. the insides of the fingers were seamed and crossed with countless little black lines. from all this the man was a mechanic, and a skilled one. those fingers dealt deftly with small parts, and years of grimy oil had blackened those innumerable cuts and scratches. "did they sting you?" wallingford inquired with a dawning interest that was more than courteous sympathy. "i guess _not_!" snapped mr. klug triumphantly, and the other made quick note of the fact that the man was familiar with current slang. "i was too smart for them." then, after a reflective pause, he added: "maybe. they might steal my patent some way." patent! mr. wallingford's small, thick ears suddenly twitched forward. "been trying to sell one?" he asked, pausing with his cigar half way to his mouth and waiting for the answer. "three hundred dollars they offer me!" exploded mr. klug, again smiting both fists on his knees. "six years i worked on it in my little shop of nights to get up a machine that was different from all the rest and that would work right, and when i get it done and get my patent and take it to them, they already had a copy of my patent and showed it to me. they bought it from the government for five cents, and called me the same as a thief and offered me three hundred dollars!" wallingford pondered seriously. "you must have a good machine," he finally announced. mr. klug thought that he was "being made fun of." "it _is_ a good machine. it's as good a machine as any they have got. there is no joke about it!" "i'm not joking," wallingford insisted. "who are the people?" mr. klug considered for a suspicious moment, but the appearance of this gentleman, the very embodiment of sterling worth, was most reassuring. beneath that broad chest and behind that diamond scarf pin there could rest no duplicity. moreover, mr. klug was still angry, and anger and discretion do not dwell together. "the united sales recording machine company of new jersey," he stated, rolling out the name with a roundness which betrayed how much in respect and even awe he held it. wallingford was now genuinely interested. "then you _have_ a good patent," he repeated. "if they offered you three hundred dollars it is worth thousands, otherwise they would not buy it at any price. they have hundreds of patents now, and you have something that they have not covered." "four hundred and twelve patents they own," corrected mr. klug. "i have been over every one in the last six years, every little wire and bar and spring in them, and mine is a whole new machine, like nothing they have got. they have got one man that does nothing else but look after these patents. you know what he said? 'yes, you have worked six years for a chance to hold us up. but we're used to it. it happens to us every day. if you think you can manufacture your machine and make any money, go at it.' he told me that!" wallingford nodded comprehendingly. "of course," he agreed. "they have either fought out or bought out everybody who ever poked their nose into the business. they had to. i know all about them. if you have a clean invention you were foolish to go to them with it in the first place. they'd only offer you the cost of the first lawsuit they're bound to bring against you. that's no way to sell a patent. inventors all die poor for that very reason. the thing for you to do is to start manufacturing, and make them come to you. throw a scare into them." mr. klug was frightened by the very suggestion. "jiminy, no!" he protested, shaking his head vigorously. "i got no big money like that. i'd lose every cent and all my little property." "it don't take so much money, if you use it right," insisted wallingford. "use as little capital as you can for manufacturing, and save the most of it for litigation. i'll bet i could sell your patent for you." he pondered a while with slowly kindling eyes, and smiled out of the window at the rushing landscape. "i tell you what you do. get up a company and i'll buy some stock in it myself." "humbug with that stock business!" mr. klug exclaimed with explosive violence, his mustache bristling now until it stuck straight out. "i would not get up any such a business with stock in it. i had all the stock i want, and i never buy nor sell any any more. i got some i'll give away." wallingford smiled introspectively. "oh, well, form a partnership, then. you have four or five friends who could put up five thousand apiece, haven't you?" mr. klug was quite certain of that. "i am president of the germania building loan association," he announced with pardonable pride. "then, of course, you can control money," agreed the other in a tone which conveyed a thoroughly proper appreciation of mr. klug's standing. "i'll invest as much as anybody else, and you put in your patent for a half interest. we'll start manufacturing right away, and if your machine's right, as it must be if they offer to buy the patent at all, i'll make the united people kneel down and coax us to take their money. there are ways to do it." "the machine is all right," declared mr. klug. "wait; i'll show it to you." he hurried out to his seat, where reposed a huge box like a typewriter case, but larger. he lugged this back toward the smoker, into which other passengers were now lounging, but on the way wallingford met him. "let's go in here, instead," said the latter, and opened the door into the drawing room. it was the first time mr. klug had ever been in one of these compartments, and the sense of exclusiveness it aroused fairly reeked of money. the dreams of wealth that had been so rudely shattered sprang once more into life as the inventor opened the case and explained his device to this luxury-affording stranger, who, as a display of their tickets had brought out, was bound for his own city. it was a pneumatic machine, each key actuating a piston which flashed the numbered tickets noiselessly into view. it was perfect in every particular, and wallingford examined it with an intelligent scrutiny which raised him still further in mr. klug's estimation; but as he compared patent drawings and machine, intent apparently only upon the mechanism, his busy mind was ranging far and wide over many other matters, bringing tangled threads of planning together here and there, and knotting them firmly. "good," said he at last. "as i said, i'll buy into your company. get your friends together right away and manufacture this machine. i'll guarantee to get a proper price for your patent." chapter xiii mr. wallingford offers unlimited financial backing to a new enterprise the hotel at which mr. wallingford had elected to stop was only four blocks from the depot, but he rode there in a cab, and, having grandly emerged after a soul-warming handshake with mr. klug, paid liberally to have his friend the inventor taken to his destination. his next step, after being shown to one of the best suites in the house, was to telephone for a certain lawyer whose address he carried in his notebook, and the next to make himself richly comfortable after the manner of his kind. when the lawyer arrived, he found wallingford, in lounging jacket and slippers and in fresh linen, enjoying an appetizer of roquefort and champagne by way of resting from the fatigue of his journey. he was a brisk young man, was the lawyer, with his keen eyes set so close together that one praised nature's care in having inserted such a hard, sharp wedge of nose to keep them apart. he cast a somewhat lingering glance at the champagne as he sat down, but he steadfastly refused mr. wallingford's proffer of a share in it. "not in business hours," he said, with over-disdain of such weak indulgence. "in the evening some time, possibly," and he bowed his head with a thin-lipped smile to complete the sentence. "all right," acquiesced j. rufus; "maybe you will smoke then," and he pointed to cigars. one of them mr. maylie took, and wallingford was silent until he had lit it. "how is this town?" he then asked. "is the treasury full, or are the smart people in power?" the young man laughed, and, with a complete change of manner, drew his chair up to the table with a jerk. "say; you're all right!" he admiringly exclaimed, and--shoved forward the extra glass. "they're in debt here up to their ears." "then they'd rather have the bail than the man," wallingford guessed, as he performed the part of host with a practiced hand. "which would you rather have?" asked maylie, pausing with the glass drawn half way toward him. "the man." "then everybody's satisfied," announced the lawyer. "if the authorities once get hold of that five thousand dollars cash bail and the man leaves town, they'll post police at every train to warn him away if he ever comes back." "that's what i thought when i looked at the streets. you can even get the bond reduced." "i don't know," replied the other, shaking his head doubtfully. "i've tried it." "but you didn't go to them with the cash in your hand," wallingford smilingly reminded him, and from an envelope in his inside vest pocket he produced a bundle of large bills. "this is a purchase, understand, and it's worth while to do a little dickering. hurry, and bring the goods back with you." "watch me," said mr. maylie, taking the money with alacrity, but before he went out he hastily swallowed another glass of wine. he was gone about an hour, during which his distinguished client was absorbed in drawing sketch after sketch upon nice, clean sheets of hotel stationery; and every sketch bore a strong resemblance to some part of mr. klug's pneumatic sales recording device. mr. wallingford was very busy indeed over the problem of selling mr. klug's patent. "come in," he called heartily in answer to a knock at the door. it opened and the voice of mr. maylie announced: "here's the goods, all right." and he ushered in a tall, woe-begone gentleman, who, except for the untidiness of black mustache and hair, and the startlingly wrinkled and rusty condition of the black frock suit, bore strong resemblance to a certain expert collector and disseminator of foolish money--one "blackie" daw! mr. wallingford, who, in his creative enthusiasm, had shed his lounging coat and waistcoat, and had even rolled up his shirt sleeves, lay back in his chair and laughed until he shook like a bowl of jelly. mr. daw, erstwhile the dapper mr. daw, had gloomily advanced to shake hands, but now suddenly burst forth in a volley of language so fervid that mr. maylie hastily closed the door. his large friend, with the tears streaming down his face, thereupon laughed all the more, but he managed to call attention to a frost-covered silver pail which awaited this moment, and while mr. daw pounced upon that solace, mr. maylie, smiling unobtrusively as one who must enjoy a joke from the outside, proceeded to business. "i got him for four thousand," he informed mr. wallingford and laid down a five-hundred-dollar bill. the remainder, in hundreds, he counted off one at a time, more slowly with each one, and when there were but two left in his hand mr. wallingford picked up the others and stuffed them in his pocket. "that will about square us, i guess," he observed. "certainly; and thank you. now, if there's anything else--" "not a thing--just now." "very well, sir," said mr. maylie with a glance at the enticing hollow-stemmed glasses; but it was quite evident that this was a private bottle, and he edged himself out of the door, disappearing with much the effect of a sharp knife blade being closed back into its handle. mr. daw had tossed three bumpers of the champagne down his throat without stopping to taste them, and without setting down the bottle. now he poured one for mr. wallingford. "laugh, confound you; laugh!" he snarled. "maybe i look like the original comic supplement, but i don't feel like a joke. think of it, j. rufus! four days in an infernal cement tomb, with exactly seventeen iron bars in front of me! i counted them twenty hours a day, and i know. seven-teen!" he glanced down over his creased and wrinkled and rusty clothing with a shudder, and suddenly began to tear them off, not stopping until he had divested himself of coat, vest and trousers, which he flung upon a chair. then he rushed to the telephone, ridiculously gaunt in his unsheathed state, and ordered a valet and a barber. "give me one of those hundreds, jim, quick! i want it in my hand. maybe i'll believe it's real money after a while." mr. wallingford chuckled again as he passed over one of the crisp bills. "cheer up, blackie," he admonished his friend. "see how calm i am. have a smoke." mr. daw seized eagerly upon one of the cigars that were proffered him; but he was still too much perturbed to sit down, and stalked violently about the room like a huge pair of white tongs. "i notice you turn every seven feet," observed wallingford with a grin. "that must have been the size of your cell. well, you never know your luck. why, out here, blackie, your occupation is called swindling, and it's a wonder they didn't hang you. you see, in these harvest festival towns there's not a yap over twenty-five who hasn't been fanged on a fake gold mine or something of the sort, and when twelve of these born boobs get a happy chance at a vaselined gold brick artist like you, nothing will suit them but a verdict of murder in the first degree." mr. daw merely swore. the events of the past four days had dampened him so that he was utterly incapable of defense. there was a knock at the door. in view of his _déshabillé_ the lank one retreated to the other room, but when the caller proved to be only the valet, he came prancing out with his clothes upon his arm. "i want these back in half an hour," he demanded, "and have this bill changed into money i can understand. i feel better already," he added when the valet had gone. "i've ordered somebody to do something, and he stood for it." wallingford brought from his closet a bath-robe in which mr. daw could wrap himself two or three times, and continued his lecture. "it's too bad you don't understand your profession," he went on, still amused. "sometimes i think i'll buy you another acre of arizona sand and start a new mining company with you, just to show you how the stock can be sold safely and legally." for the first time mr. daw was able to grin. "who's that clattering down the street?" he exclaimed with fine dramatic effect. "why, it's _me_! notice how my coat tails snap as i top yon distant hill. see how pale my face as i turn to see if i am still pursued. oh, no, j. rufus. we've been friends too long. i'd hate to think of us losing sleep every night, trying to figure how to give each other the double cross." "i got you at a bargain just now, and i ought to be able to sell you cheap," retorted the other. "by the way, it's a mighty lucky thing for you that fanny had some money soaked away from that insurance deal of mine. i had to all but use a club to get it, too. she don't think very much of you. she thinks you might lead me astray some time." "_can_ limburger smell worse?" growled mr. daw, but there he stopped. four days in jail had taken a lot of his gift of repartee away. when barber and bootblack and valet had restored him to his well-groomed ministerial aspect, however, his saturnine sense of humor came back and he was able to enjoy the elaborate midday luncheon which his host had served in the room. "amuse yourself, blackie," invited wallingford after luncheon. "get _orey-eyed_ if you want to, and don't mind me, for i'm laying the wires to locate here." "don't!" advised his friend. "this is a poison town. every dollar has a tag on it, and if you touch one they examine the thumb marks and pinch you." "not me! my legitimate methods will excite both awe and admiration." and he set to work again. not caring to show himself in daylight, mr. daw read papers and took naps and drank and smoked until his midnight train; but, no matter what he did, mr. wallingford sat steadily at the little desk, sketching, sketching, sketching. along about closing time he went down to make friends with the bartender, and before he went to bed he had secured an unused sales recording machine which was kept on hand for use during conventions, and this he had taken up to his rooms for leisurely study and comparison. in the morning he drove out to carl klug's clean little model making shop in the outskirts of the town, and here he found an interested group gathered about the pneumatic device that he had seen the day before. on a bench lay the patent--a real united states government patent with a seal and a ribbon on it! "different from all the four hundred and twelve patents, every place!" mr. klug had just a shade pompously reiterated before wallingford came. "so-o-o-o!" commented big otto schmitt, the market gardener, as he pushed down the dollar key and then the forty-five-cent key with a huge, earth-brown finger that spread out on the end like a flat club. "and how much does it cost to make it?" "not twenty-five dollars apiece," claimed carl; "and the united sales recording machine company sells them for two and three hundred dollars. we can sell these for one hundred, and when we get a good business they must buy us out or we take all their trade away from them. that's the way to sell a patent. because they don't do this way is why inventors never get rich." "sure!" agreed henry vogel, the lean, rawboned carpenter. "when they buy us out, that's where we make our money." "sure!" echoed carl, and the three of them laughed. it was such a pleasant idea that they would be able to wrest some of its hoarded thousands from a big monopoly. "it is a good business," went on carl. "when i showed this machine to this mr. wallingford i told you about, he said right away he would come in. he is one of these eastern money fellows, and they are all smart men." over in the corner sat jens jensen, with a hundred shrewd wrinkles in his face and a fringe of wiry beard around his chin from ear to ear. up to now he had not said a word. he was a next door neighbor to carl, and he had seen the great patent over and over. "it is foolishness," declared jens. "he is a skinner, maybe; and, anyhow, if there's money to be made we should keep it at home." big otto schmitt pushed down the two-dollar key. the dollar ticket and the forty-five-cent ticket disappeared, the two-dollar ticket came up with a click, the drawer popped open and a little bell rang. it was wonderful. "i say it too," agreed otto. his face was broad and hard as granite, his cheekbones were enormous and the skin over them was purple. the four men were near the front windows of the shop, and it was at this moment that wallingford's cab whirled up to the door. it was a new looking cab, its woodwork polished like a piano, the glass in it beveled plate. the driver sprang down and opened the door. out of that small opening stepped the huge promoter, resplendent in a new suit of brown checks, and wearing a brown derby, brown shoes and brown silk hose, all of the exact shade to match, while from his coat pocket peeped the fingers of brown gloves. "that's him," said carl. "i knew it," announced jens jensen. "he is a skinner." nothing could exceed the affability of mr. wallingford. he shook hands with mr. klug, with mr. schmitt, with mr. vogel, with mr. jensen; he smiled upon them in turns; he made each one of them feel that never in all his life had he been afforded a keener delight than in this meeting. "you have a fine little shop, mr. klug," he said, looking about him with an air of pleased surprise. "there is room right here to manufacture enough machines to scare the united sales recording machine company into fits. gentlemen, if no one else cares for a share in mr. klug's splendid invention, i am quite willing to back him myself with all the capital he needs." this was an exceptionally generous offer on mr. wallingford's part, particularly as the six hundred dollars he had in his pocket was all the capital he controlled in the world. in justice to him, however, it must be said that he expected to have more money--shortly. the prospects seemed good. they looked him over. twenty-five thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand dollars; it was easy to see that the gentleman could supply any or all of these sums at a moment's notice. "no!" said jens jensen, voicing the suddenly eager sentiment of all. "we're all going in it, and another man." "two other men," corrected carl. "doctor feldmeyer and emil kessler." otto schmitt shook his head dubiously. "emil owes on his building loan," he observed. "emil's coming in," firmly repeated carl klug. "he is a friend of mine. i will lend him the money and he pays me when we sell out." mr. wallingford glanced out of the window at the shining cab and smiled. with business people like these he felt that he could get on. "when, then, do we form the partnership?" he asked. "to-morrow!" jens promptly informed him. "we all put in what money we want to, and we take out according to what we put in." jens, who had condemned mr. wallingford at sight as a "skinner," now kept as close to him as possible, and beamed up at him all the time; one cordial handshake from the man of millions had won him over. "carl," he suggested, "you must take mr. wallingford over to the cellar." "oh, we all go there," said big otto schmitt, and they all laughed, carl more than any of them. "come on," he said. right at the side of the shop stood mr. klug's brick house, in the midst of a big garden that was painfully orderly. every tree was whitewashed to exactly the same height, and everything else that could be whitewashed glared like new-fallen snow. the walks were scrubbed until they were as red as bricks could be made, and all in between was velvet-green grass. there were flowers everywhere, and climbing vines were matted upon the porch trellises and against the entire front of the house. in the rear garden could be seen all sorts of kitchen vegetables in neat rows and beds. down into the front basement the five men crowded and sat on rough wooden benches. jens jensen hastened to spread a clean newspaper on the bench where mr. wallingford was to sit. carl disappeared into another part of the cellar and presently came out again with a big jug and five glasses, all of different shapes and sizes. out of the jug he poured his best home-made wine, and they settled down for a jovial half hour, in which they admitted the guest of honor to full fellowship. "you must come over to church to-night," jens jensen insisted as they came away. "we have a raffle and doctor feldmeyer will be there. he is a swell. he will be glad to know you. there will be plenty to eat and drink. look; you can see the church from here," and he pointed out its tall spire. mr. wallingford shook hands with mr. jensen impulsively. "i'll be _there_!" he declared with enthusiasm. when he had gone, carl klug asked: "well, what do you think of him?" "he is a swell," said jens, and no voice dissented. chapter xiv showing how five hundred dollars may do the work of five thousand at a total cost of twenty-five dollars, mr. wallingford made himself a prince of the blood at the church raffle that night, throwing down bills and refusing all change, winning prizes and turning them back to be raffled over again, treating all the youngsters to endless grabs in the "fish pond"; and jens jensen proudly introduced him to everybody, beginning with the minister and emil kessler--the latter a thin, white-faced man with a high brow, who looked like a university professor and was a shoe-maker--and ending with doctor feldmeyer, who came late. wallingford's eyes brightened when he saw this gentleman. he was more or less of a dandy, was the doctor, and had great polish and suavity of manner. he had not been with mr. wallingford five minutes until he was talking of europe. mr. wallingford had also been to europe. the doctor was very keen on books, on music, on art, on all the refinements of life, also he was very much of a ladies' man, he delicately insinuated, and not one expression of his face was lost upon the eastern capitalist. it transpired that the doctor was living at mr. wallingford's hotel, and they went home together that night, leaving behind them the ineffaceable impression that the rich mr. wallingford was an invaluable acquisition to mr. klug and his friends, to the community, to the city, to any portion of the globe which he might grace with his presence. but when the invaluable acquisition was left alone in his rooms he penned a long letter to his wife. "my dear fanny," he wrote, "come right away. i have in sight the biggest stake i have made yet, in a clean, legitimate deal; and i need your smiling countenance in my business." he meant more by that than he would have dared to tell her, but he laughed and mused on doctor feldmeyer as he sealed the letter; then he sent it out to be mailed and turned his earnest attention to the inside of his sales recorder. this time he found the one little point for which he had been looking: the thing that he knew must be there, and the next morning, bright and early, he drove out to mr. klug's shop. "mr. klug, you are in bad," he said with portentous gravity. "look here." and he pointed out the long, spring-actuated bar which kept all the tickets from dropping back when they sprang up, and released them as others were shot into place. "this is an infringement of the united sales recording machine company's machine," he declared. "nothing like it!" indignantly denied the inventor, bristling and reddening and puffing his cheeks. "the identical device is in every machine they manufacture," insisted wallingford; "and i would bet you all you expect to make that before you're on the market two days they will have an injunction out against you on that very point. now let me show you how we can get around it." mr. klug reluctantly and protestingly followed his mechanical idea, a logical application of the pneumatic principle, as he made it plain by sketches and demonstration on the machine. "another thing," went on mr. wallingford. "it occurs to me that all these little pistons multiply the chances of throwing your machine out of order. why don't you make one compressible air chamber to actuate all the ticket pistons and to be actuated by all the keys, the keys also opening valves in the ticket pistons? it would save at least five dollars on each machine, make it simpler and much more practical. of course, i'll have to patent this improvement, but i'll turn it over to you at practically no cost to the company." mr. klug merely blinked. six long years he had worked on this invention, following the one idea doggedly and persistently, and he had thought that he had it perfect. he had all the united company's patents marked in his copies of the patent record, and now he went through the more basic ones one after the other. "it is not there," he said in triumph, after an hour's search, during which wallingford patiently waited. one book he had held aside, and now he put his finger quietly upon a drawing in it. "no," he admitted, "not in the form that you have used it; but here is the trick that covers the principle, and this patent still has four years to run." carl examined it silently. in form the device was radically different from his own, but when he came to analyze it he saw that wallingford was probably right; the principle had been covered, at least nearly enough to leave a loophole for litigation, and it worried him beyond measure. "don't look at it that way," comforted wallingford. "only be glad that we found it out in time. i'll apply for this patent right away and assign it to you. all i'll want for it will be a slight credit on the books of the company; say fifteen hundred." again carl klug blinked. "i'll let you know this afternoon." he needed time to figure out this tangled proposition; also he wanted, in simple honor, to talk it over with his friends. "all right," said wallingford cheerfully. "by the way, we don't want to form such a big partnership in a lawyer's office, where people are running in and out all the time. i'll provide a room at my hotel. that will be better, don't you think?" "sure," slowly agreed mr. klug. he was glad to decide upon something about which a decision was easy. "can you get word to the others?" asked the promoter. "if not i'll go around and notify them." "oh, they're going to meet here. they all live up this way except doctor feldmeyer. you see him. i'll bring the lawyer along." "all right," said wallingford, quite convinced that a lawyer other than maylie would be secured, and after he had driven from sight he took out his pocketbook and counted again his available cash. he had a trifle over six hundred dollars, and in the afternoon he would be expected to pay over the difference between five thousand dollars and the fifteen hundred he was certain would be allowed for his patent. thirty-five hundred dollars! at the present moment there was no place on earth that he could raise that amount, but nevertheless he smiled complacently as he put up his pocketbook. so long as other people had money, the intricacies of finance were only a pleasant recreation to him, and it was with entire ease of mind that he set the stage for his little drama at the hotel. he had doctor feldmeyer to await carl klug and his friends in the lobby and conduct them up to a private dining room, where the man of specious ideas, at the head of a long table and strictly in his element, received them with broad hospitality. in his bigness and richness of apparel and his general air of belonging to splendid things, he was particularly at home in this high, beam-ceilinged apartment, with its dark woodwork, its rich tapestry, its stained-glass windows, its thick carpet, its glittering buffet. around the snowy clothed table were chairs for eight, and at each plate stood a generous goblet. as the first of the visitors filed in, wallingford touched a button, and almost by the time they were seated a waiter appeared with huge glass pitchers of beer. the coming of this beverage necessarily put them all in a good humor, and there was much refilling and laughing and talking of a purely informal character until doctor feldmeyer arose to his feet and tapped with his knuckles upon the table, when deep gravity sat instantly upon the assemblage. "since our host is already seated at the head of the table," said the doctor with easy pleasantry, "i move that he be made temporary chairman." the doctor had lunched with mr. wallingford at noon, and now knew him to be a thoroughbred in every respect; a _bon vivant_ who knew good food and good wine and good fellowship; a gentleman of vast financial resources, who did not care how he spent his money just so he got what he wanted when he wanted it; and he was quite willing to vouch for mr. wallingford, in every way, upon a gentleman's basis! the election of mr. wallingford as temporary chairman and of doctor feldmeyer as temporary secretary were most cordial and pleasant things to behold. the lawyer, a dry little gentleman who never ventured an opinion unless asked for it, and always put the answer in his bill, thereupon read the articles of agreement which were to bind these friends in a common partnership, whereby it was understood that mr. klug, in virtue of his patents, was to have one half interest in the company, no matter to what size it might be increased, and that the other gentlemen were to put in such money as was needed to carry on the business, each one to share in the profits in exact proportion to the amount of his investment. it appeared to be the unsmiling consensus of the meeting that this agreement was precisely what they wanted, and after it had been read again, very slowly and distinctly, the simply honorable gentlemen interested solemnly signed it. while this little formality was being looked after, with much individual spelling out of the document, word by word, under broad forefingers, the waiter filled the glasses again and wallingford turned to mr. klug. "by the way," he asked, in a voice low enough to be taken as confidential but loud enough to be heard by those nearest, "have you told the gentlemen about the new patent?" jens jensen, seated next to mr. klug, took it upon himself to answer. "that is all right," he said, nodding his head emphatically. "we know all about that," and a glance at the nodding heads about the table disposed of that question. it was quite understood that mr. wallingford was to have a fifteen-hundred-dollar credit for the invaluable addition and correction he had made to their principal asset, the wonderful sales recorder patent. "very well, then," said mr. wallingford, with a secret relief which he carefully kept out of his voice, "as temporary chairman i would instruct the secretary now to take the list of subscriptions." a sigh went around the table. this was serious business, the letting go of toil-won money, but nevertheless they would go sturdily through with it. it appeared upon a canvass that mr. schmitt and mr. jensen and doctor feldmeyer and mr. wallingford were each prepared immediately to invest five thousand dollars, while mr. vogel and mr. kessler were each ready to invest two thousand. "twenty-four thousand dollars," announced the doctor roundly, whereupon mr. wallingford arose. "gentlemen," said he, "there is no use to have idle capital. this is more money than we shall need for some time to come, and that is not good business. i therefore propose that the total assessment from any one member at this time be restricted to two thousand dollars. that will allow mr. schmitt and mr. jensen, doctor feldmeyer and myself each to keep three thousand dollars of our money in our savings banks, building associations and other places where it is earning good interest, until the company needs it, which may perhaps be a matter of six months. i would like to have a vote upon this proposition." there could be but one answer to this. interest! the savings of all these men throughout their lives had been increased at three, four and scarcely to exceed five per cent. rates, and they had grown to reverence interest almost more than capital. he was a smart man, this wallingford, to think of the interest! money was already appearing from deep pockets when the crabby little lawyer, as if it gave him pain to volunteer information, wrenched from himself the fact that before any money could be paid in some one must be appointed to receive it. thereupon, though not a corporate association, they held an election, and, naturally, mr. klug was made president. mr. wallingford firmly declined the vice presidency and also the secretaryship. he might even have had the post of treasurer, but he was too modest, also too busy, to hold office. no, he kindly stated, he would be a mere investor, ready to aid them with what little advice and experience he could give them, and ready to back them to any extent if the time should ever arise when their own finances would prove insufficient to carry the pneumatic sales recorder company on to the undoubted success which awaited it! thereupon the treasurership was voted to jens jensen, and emil kessler proposed that they pay in their respective assessments and adjourn. he had two thousand dollars of carl klug's money in his pocket, and it made him a trifle uncomfortable. "i forbid anybody to leave this room," laughingly announced mr. wallingford, and gave a nod to the waiter, who disappeared. "we'll pay in our money, but we have some other very important business." doctor feldmeyer also became jolly, to show that he was in the secret. he drew a fountain pen and a check book from his pocket. "mr. wallingford wants us to eat, drink and make merry on the united sales recording machine company of new jersey," he told them as he wrote. the joke was thoroughly appreciated. it was a commendable and a holy thing to conspire to get the money of a monopoly away from it, as every newspaper proved to them. in pleasant pursuance of this idea, the united company, by methods that should proceed in comfort and ease and entire absence of worry, such as was foreshadowed by this luxurious dining room and by the personal grandeur of mr. wallingford, was to be brought suppliantly to its knees; so, with the utmost cheerfulness, each of these men paid over his subscription. doctor feldmeyer was the only man among them who paid by check. the rest was in cash, but the host, busy with his hospitable duties, held back his payment until the waiters brought in a luncheon which was a revelation in the way of "cold snacks." it was during this appetite-whetting, gayety-promoting confusion that wallingford quietly paid over his five hundred dollars--this, with the fifteen hundred dollars' credit on the coming patent, making his contribution total to two thousand, the same amount as that put in by every other member of the company except carl klug. this done, the clever gentleman surreptitiously wiped his brow and sighed a little sigh all to himself. it had taken him three days to figure how to fasten upon mr. klug's patent and prospects with as little money as five hundred dollars! it was a happy crowd that dispersed an hour later--a crowd upon which fortune already beamed; but the last of them had scarcely left the room when their princely entertainer telephoned for his own lawyer. "i want you," said wallingford to mr. maylie, when he arrived, "to find out all you can for me about the united sales recording machine company of new jersey. i want to know the outcome of every suit they have brought against infringers of their patents, and the present addresses of the people with whom they fought; also all about the companies they have been forced to buy out. got that?" "i'll get it," replied mr. maylie confidently, and helped himself to a glass of champagne. he looked longingly at the bottle as he finished his first glass, but as mr. wallingford did not invite him to have a second he went out. chapter xv wallingford generously loans the pneumatic company some of its own money the arrival of mrs. wallingford set upon a much higher plane her husband's already well-established reputation as a capitalist of illimitable resources, and had any one of his partners paused to reflect that mr. wallingford had secured an active interest in the concern for five hundred dollars, doctor feldmeyer's report of the capitalist's charming lady was enough to make that trifling incident forgotten. to carl klug and jens jensen at carl's shop, the doctor, without knowing it, did the missionary work that wallingford had planned for him to do. "she is a stunner," he declared, with the faintest suggestion of a smirk, "and carries herself like a queen. she wears a fur coat that cost not less than six or seven hundred dollars, and not a woman in this town has such diamonds. we all went to the theater last night, and there were more opera glasses turned on our box than on the stage. i tell you, our friend wallingford has the best there is, in women, as well as in wine, and as for wealth, he could buy and sell us all." "i believe it," said jens jensen. "but why should such a rich man go into a little business?" "because," said doctor feldmeyer, with profound wisdom, "a rich man never overlooks a thousand per cent. like this. that's why they are rich. why, this man's daily expenses would keep every one of us. he had fine apartments at the hotel himself, but when his wife came he got the best in the house--four fine, big rooms. last night after the theater he took me to his own dining room, and we had a supper that cost not less than thirty or forty dollars!" such gossip would go far to establishing any man's reputation for wealth, especially among such simple natured people as these, and it was quite certain that otto schmitt and henry vogel and emil kessler would hear every scrap of it. had doctor feldmeyer heard the conversation that took place after he left the wallingford suite the night before, his report might have been slightly different. "well, jim," mrs. wallingford had asked with a trace of anxiety, "what are you doing this time?" "the united sales recording machine company of new jersey," he replied with a laugh. "you remember how they turned me down a long time ago when i tried to sell them a patent?" she nodded. "you made me go right to them and try what you called 'straight business,' and i got what was coming to a mollycoddle. i'm going to sell them a patent this time, but in the right way, and for a good, big round chunk." "whose patent?" she inquired. "what's the difference?" he queried, and laughed again. "it serves him right for being an inventor." she did not laugh with him, however. she sat in frowning disquiet, and he watched her curiously. "what's the matter with you?" he presently complained. "it used to be enough for you that i could not be jailed for having a few dollars." "we're nearly middle-aged, jim," she replied, turning to him soberly. "what will we be like when we are old?" "cheer up, fanny, and i will tell you the worst!" he declaimed. "you'll be gray and i'll be bald!" she was compelled to laugh herself, and gave up the idea of serious conversation with him, for that time at least. doctor feldmeyer, encouraged by wallingford, became an unofficial attaché of the family in the following weeks. vain, susceptible, and considering himself very much of a ladies' man, he exerted himself to be agreeable, and j. rufus helped him to opportunities. if he had any ulterior purpose in this he did not confide it to his wife, or even let her suspect it. it would not have been safe. in the meantime the affairs of the pneumatic sales recorder company moved speedily onward. one entire end of his shop carl klug devoted to its affairs, putting in special machinery and hiring as many men as he could use, and here wallingford reported every day, his suggestions being nearly always sound and inspiring mr. klug's respect. he held his standing with the rest of them in a different way. when they called at the shop they found wallingford's cab always standing outside, and it was soon noised about that this cab was hired by the day! "blackie" daw, levying his dubious contributions on a gullible public, was paying for this and wiping out his debt. but little more than two months had elapsed when carl had his first lot of recorders ready for the market, and the treasury was depleted. now it became necessary to have money for marketing, and that meant the remaining three thousand dollars of j. rufus wallingford's subscription or an evasion of it. prepared for this, he took the floor as soon as the matter was mentioned at the meeting which was called to levy this assessment. "what is the use?" he demanded to know. "why use our own money? i understand that mr. schmitt must get his three thousand from the building loan association, to which he must pay six per cent. i understand that mr. jensen has his now out at five per cent. let me show you how to finance this concern. i will put in ten thousand at once, and take the company's note. this note i can then discount, and put the money right back into my business, and in that way my ten thousand dollars is doing twenty thousand dollars' worth of work--a bank carrying the burden of both operations." it was a financial argument entirely new to these men, unused to tricks of money manipulation, and it took them some little time to grasp it. when they did, however, they were as pleased as a boy with his first watch, and wallingford was a dazzling hero, as, with a nonchalant air, after glancing at the clock to make sure that it was after banking hours, he wrote them a check on "his bank in boston" for ten thousand, and took their note, signed by the pneumatic sales recorder company and indorsed jointly by all its members. that night wallingford drove up in hot haste to jens jensen's house. "let me see that check i gave you this afternoon," he demanded, with an air of suspecting a good joke on himself. jens, wondering, produced it from a little tin box. "that's what i thought," said wallingford as he glanced at it. then, smiling, he handed it back. "i have made it out on the fifth national of boston. they'd probably honor it, but it's the wrong bank. i have a balance there, but am not sure that it is sufficient to cover this check. just hold that, and i'll wire them in the morning. if my balance isn't large enough i'll give you a check on the first, with which i do most of my business." "sure," said jens, and put back into the tin box the worthless paper which called for ten thousand dollars. the next morning wallingford called at one of the local banks and had no difficulty whatever in discounting the quite acceptable note. he gained a full day by forwarding the proceeds, special delivery, to the fifth national bank of boston, where his balance at that moment was considerably less than a hundred dollars; then he told jensen to deposit the check: that his balance in the fifth national was all right. it was financial jugglery of a shrewd order, and the juggler prided himself upon it. he was not yet through, however. having loaned the company ten thousand dollars of its own money at six per cent. interest, he was now confronted by the necessity of securing money for his own enormous personal expenses. for replenishment, however, he had long planned, and now he went to his new source of income--doctor feldmeyer. the time was ripe, for, though mrs. wallingford had given him no more encouragement than the ordinary courteous graciousness which is so often misinterpreted by male coquettes, the doctor was aflame with foolish imaginings, and, within the past week or so, had felt guilty upon every meeting with mr. wallingford, betraying it as wallingford had planned that he should, growing nervous at a sharp glance, a sudden movement, an obscure remark. he was as uncomfortable as guilty conscience ever made a coward, and when the big man, on the plea of sudden business and personal needs, went to him almost peremptorily for a loan of rather staggering proportions, the doctor was an easy victim. thus provided and at ease, wallingford "consented" to become the salesman for the first output of pneumatic sales recorders, going directly to a list of cities supplied to him by maylie; and in those cities he went to see certain gentlemen whose names came to him from the same source! incidentally, he sold a number of sales recorders with a celerity that was most gratifying to the delighted members of the company. why, even if the united sales recording machine company of new jersey did not care to buy them out, a fortune was in sight through the legitimate manufacture and sale of this device! before the salesman returned from his trip, however, a blow, entirely unexpected by klug and his friends, fell on them from a clear sky. an injunction and a notice of suit was served, not only upon the company, but upon every purchaser of their contrivance. the injunction restrained the buyers from using and the company from manufacturing or selling any further machines, and the suit was for infringement of patent. the device by which the drawer flew open after the keys had been pressed, the united sales recording machine company of new jersey claimed to be modeled upon their own. the news was wired to wallingford. he had been waiting for it, and he came home at once, where he found that maylie had been appointed the local legal representative of the big new jersey concern; but as this had been a matter of wallingford's own contriving, he was not nearly so much surprised over it as he might have been. he also found direst consternation in the company's ranks, and himself shook his head sadly when questioned, though he spoke bravely. "what we have to do," he declared, "is to keep a stiff upper lip and fight it." they did so. within a couple of months they had the suit decided in their favor, and carl klug was vindicated in the eyes of his friends. again they were jubilant, again they prepared for an era of commercial triumph; but on the very next day another injunction and suit were brought, and from the very start of this proceeding delays were encountered. the weakest case had been brought first, the stubborn one being held back for a longer and more discouraging fight. when that was over there would be a third suit and a fourth. with their millions of capital and their knowledge of such matters, gleaned from vital struggles with others who had demanded either their money or their business life, they could continue such a fight indefinitely, or until the pneumatic sales recorder company should be choked out of existence. there never was a more discouraged lot of men than those who met in carl klug's shop upon the day after notice of this second suit was brought. wallingford was the most inconsolable of all. of course, if the others felt like putting in any more money to fight this company with its millions they could do so; in fact, they ought to do so, but his own business affairs were in such shape that, at the present moment, he could not spare a dollar. he said this in such a hesitant way, with a five-hundred-dollar diamond gleaming from his finger and another from his scarf, that they felt sure he had plenty of capital, but would not risk it further in such a losing fight; and it helped them to realize that all the capital they could command would be but as a wisp of straw to be brushed aside by this formidable giant, which not only could crush them, but had the disposition to do so. wallingford left them in this hopeless spirit, and went "back east to look after his other business." that business took him directly to the offices of the united sales recording machine company of new jersey, and into an immediate conference with the man who had charge of all its patent affairs. "i have come to sell you the pneumatic sales recorder company," said wallingford, by way of introduction. "the pneumatic sales recorder company?" repeated mr. priestly vaguely, trying to convey the impression that the name was unfamiliar to him, and he looked into his desk file. "oh, yes; we have a suit pending against them." "exactly," agreed his caller. "suit number two is now pending. we won suit number one. we will win suits number two, three, four, five and six, if need be, but it is such a waste of money on both sides. you might just as well buy us out now as later." mr. priestly shook his head without a smile. he was almost gloomy about it, even. he was a small man with gray mutton-chop whiskers, and nothing could exceed his deep gravity. from another file he produced a copy of the patent taken out by mr. klug, and of the one just issued to mr. wallingford, assignor to mr. king's company. "the pneumatic sales recorder company," he stated, tossing down the papers as if they were too trifling to examine after he had found them, "has nothing whatever that we wish to purchase." "oh, yes, it has," wallingford insisted. "it has two patents, and the absolute certainty of a business that in three years will take trade enough and profits enough away from you to buy the company several times over." again mr. priestly shook his head sadly. "we shall have to wait three years to determine that," he hinted, with no sinister intonation whatever to go with the veiled threat. "we must defend our very existence here every day of our lives. if we did not we would have been put out of the business years ago." "exactly," again agreed the other. "in your files you have comprehensive reports on mr. carl klug, mr. jens jensen, mr. otto schmitt and the others of the company. you know their small resources to a penny, and you can figure almost to the day how long they can last. but that, mr. priestly, is where you have made your error, for these men will soon be out of the game. i have here another list about which you will not need to collect any information, for you have it even in memory, no doubt." he laid before mr. priestly a neatly-typewritten slip, containing barely over half a dozen names. in spite of his excellent facial command, mr. priestly could not repress a start of surprise, and he shot across at mr. wallingford one quick little glance, which had in it much more of respect than he had hitherto shown. "_j. b._ hammond," read mr. priestly, clutching at a straw. "the last name is familiar, but the initials are not." "no," agreed wallingford. "by the terms under which he sold out to you, mr. w. a. hammond is not to go into the sales recorder business at all. allow me to read you a letter," and from a pocketbook he took a folded paper. "my dear mr. wallingford," he read. "under no circumstances could i participate in the manufacture of sales recorders; but my son, mr. j. b. hammond, is quite convinced that the klug patent is both practical and tenable, and he advises me that he is willing to invest up to two hundred thousand dollars, provided a company of at least one million _bona fide_ capitalization can be formed." "it is a curious coincidence," added wallingford, passing over this letter with a smile, "that two hundred thousand dollars is exactly the price you paid william hammond for his business, after five years of very bitter litigation. the son, no doubt, would take a keen personal interest in regaining the losses of the father through a company that has so excellent a chance to compete with yours. you see, a company with a million dollars, composed of men who know all about the sales recorder business, would set aside these suits of yours in a jiffy, because they are untenable, and you know it, although i do not expect you to admit it just now. mr. keyes, whose name is next on the list, had nothing left to sell after losing almost a quarter of a million in fighting you, and so is unbound. it just happens, however, that he has been left quite a comfortable legacy, and would like nothing so much as to sink part of it in our company. here is the letter from mr. keyes," and he spread the second document in the case before mr. priestly, who now laid down the first letter and, readjusting his glasses, took up the second one in profound silence. mr. wallingford lit a cigar in calm content and waited until mr. priestly had finished reading the letter of mr. keyes, when he produced another one. "mr. rankley," he observed, "has never been in the sales recorder business, but he apparently has his own private and personal reasons for wishing to engage in it," and at the mention of mr. rankley's name mr. priestly broke the toothpick he was holding and threw it away. mr. rankley, as he quite well knew, was mr. alexander's bitterest enemy, and mr. alexander was practically the united sales recording machine company of new jersey. wallingford went on down the list in calm joy. it was composed entirely of men of means, who would put into this enterprise not only experience and shrewd business ability, but a particularly energetic hatred of the big corporation and its components. "i see," said mr. priestly, laying down the final letter upon the previous ones, and with great delicacy and precision placing a glass paperweight squarely in the middle of them. "permit me to retain these letters for a short time. i wish to take them before our board of directors." "when?" asked wallingford. "well, our regular monthly meeting--" began mr. priestly. "no, you don't," interrupted the other. "i think a few minutes of conversation with mr. alexander himself would do away entirely with the necessity of consulting the board of directors. you think it possible, i know, that by going directly to mr. klug and his friends you would be able to purchase the patents cheaper than you can from me, but i am quite sure i can convince klug and his company that these gentlemen will raise the price on you." "why didn't you form this new company in the first place, then?" demanded mr. priestly sharply, implying a doubt. "why do you come to us at all!" "because i personally," patiently explained wallingford, "can make more money by quietly selling the patent to you than i personally can make by selling it openly to them, as you will see if you reflect a moment. at present i own a twelfth share in the company. if i induce this other company to take hold of it i must divide the purchase price into twelve equal shares, of which i receive but one. is mr. alexander in the city?" "i believe so," hesitated mr. priestly. "is he in his office?" "possibly," admitted the other. "oh, he's in, then," concluded wallingford sagely. "well, i think you can give me my answer in an hour. i'll be down at the hotel vandyne. you might telephone me. i want to go back west this evening." it did not take mr. priestly and mr. alexander sixty minutes to conclude that they could save a lot of money by doing business with mr. wallingford, and they asked him to drive up to their office and see them again. when they got through "dickering," mr. wallingford had agreed, in writing, to deliver over to them, within sixty days, the pneumatic sales recorder company patents, for the sum of one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, the receipt of a ten-thousand-dollar advance payment being acknowledged therewith. before he started west, wallingford wired maylie: "note due in morning. advise bank on quiet to sue." chapter xvi the financier takes a flying trip to europe on an affair of the heart a storm that he had scarcely expected awaited wallingford when he returned. his wife met him furiously. she had all her belongings packed separately from his own, and would have been gone before his arrival but that she could not express her anger in a mere letter. "it is the last straw, jim!" she charged him. "you're growing worse all the time. i saw that you were throwing me with this puppy feldmeyer deliberately, but was foolish enough to think that you were doing it only so that i might be amused while you were busy. as well as i know you, i did not suspect that you could possibly bring yourself to use me as a lever to borrow money from him!" a twinkle that he could not help came into wallingford's eyes as he thought of how easily feldmeyer had been bent to his own ends, and it was most unfortunate for him, for she caught the look and interpreted it instantly. "you're even proud of it!" she cried. "there's nothing in this world sacred to you. why, only last night he made open love to me and insisted that i 'disappear' with him on a trip he is taking. he only laughed when i told him how i hated him. he had been drinking, and he and maylie had been together. they are on to you, jim. maylie has found out something about you and has told feldmeyer, and now the man would believe anything of you. he showed me your notes, and as good as told me that i was in partnership with you in getting money out of him. and you exposed me to this!" "where is he?" asked wallingford unsteadily. "i shan't tell you. he has left the city. he left this morning, and i have been considering whether, after all, i had not better stay sold." they were in the parlor. now she opened the door into the next room. "where are you going?" he asked, stepping toward her. for reply she only laughed, the most unpleasant laugh he had ever heard from her, and, stepping through, closed the door. before he could reach it she had bolted it. he went immediately into the hall, but all the other doors to their suite were also locked. maylie stepped out of the elevator as he was pondering what to do. "heard you had come in," said the lawyer, in a jaunty tone of easy familiarity. "how are tricks?" the fellow stood in front of the open parlor door, and the light streamed upon his face. wallingford, in the dimness, could study his countenance without exposing his own to such full scrutiny. there sat upon maylie a new self-possession that had something insolent about it. fanny had been right. maylie had been getting reports upon him. "step in," he cordially invited, and maylie walked into the parlor. it was noticeable that he kept his hat on until after he had sat down. "tricks are very fair indeed," continued wallingford in answer to the offhand question. "we're going to get through with it in good shape." maylie laughed. "you're all right," he said. "from all accounts you're a wonder. no matter what you tackle, the milk stopper business, carpet tacks, insurance, sales recorders, you're always a winner," and after this hint that he knew something of wallingford's past he lit a cigarette with arrogant nonchalance, then got up to close the hall door which had been left slightly ajar. wallingford's half-closed eyes followed him across the room with a gleam in which there boded no good for mr. maylie. turning, however, maylie found his host laughing heartily. "i seldom pick up the hot end of it," asserted wallingford. "how about the bank?" "they're offering suit right now, and the pneumatic will not pay the note. the company hasn't the money, and the tightening up of the local financial situation that has come about in the past month will make it almost impossible to realize on such trifling securities as the members have. moreover, if they had money they're scared stiff, and not one of them would put up a dollar, except klug, perhaps. they'll let the company go to a forced sale. i guess that's what you wanted, isn't it?" "i'm not going to say about that," replied wallingford. "the less we talk, even with the doors locked, the better." "that's so," agreed maylie; "only there's one point of it we _must_ talk about. how did you come out in the east?" "i have just told you not to try to know too much." "i don't want to know too much. i only want to know where i come in." "your experience with me ought to tell you that you will have no occasion to quarrel with your fee." "i thought so," retorted maylie, leaning forward with a laugh that was more like a sneer; "but i want more than a fee, and i'm going to have more than a fee!" for just one instant wallingford almost lost his suavity, but whatever game he played he held all its tangled ends continuously in view. "so we're all thieves together, eh?" he said, smiling, and the gleam of gratification upon maylie's face assured him that he was upon the right track. "of course, i know that you have a string on me in this matter and can hold me up," he admitted, as if reluctantly, "so suppose we say ten thousand for you, if the deal goes through the way i want it." "now you're shouting!" exclaimed maylie, and rising impulsively he shook hands with great enthusiasm. "you may count on me." "i do," said wallingford, also rising; and, still keeping his grip of the lawyer's hand, he turned his back squarely to the window, so that maylie would be compelled to face it. "i consider you as mine from this minute." as he said the words there came that little flicker in maylie's close set eyes for which he had been looking. it told of negation--that maylie still held his own plans in reserve. so adroit himself in plot and counterplot, it was no trick for wallingford to fathom this amateur, and he let the lawyer go away hugging the delusion that he had this experienced schemer under his thumb; then wallingford once more turned his attention to the locked door. the silence within those other rooms had become oppressive, and a panic began to come over him. he knocked, but there was no response. he went out into the hall once more, and trying each of the knobs shook them. the far door, to his surprise, opened under his hand. not one valued possession of mrs. wallingford's was in evidence. empty dresser drawers were open, and two suit cases were gone. a trunk in the corner stood wide, and its bulky articles of lesser worth were strewn upon the floor. he immediately telephoned from that room. yes, mrs. wallingford had gone. no, they did not know to which depot. she had merely called a cab and had hurried away. he ordered up time tables and studied them feverishly. almost at this very moment trains were leaving from two different depots, and these were more than three miles apart. there was no chance of finding quickly to which one she had gone. a horrible fear oppressed him. that she had joined feldmeyer was almost inconceivable, but that she might have taken even this revenge for the slight that had made her furious was a thought in harmony with the principles by which, through his own moral warp, he judged humanity, and he was frantic. at feldmeyer's office he found the door also locked and the rooms for rent! the next train for the east found wallingford upon it. he spent days in attempting to get on the track of them, and he finally found out about feldmeyer. he had gone to europe. on the sailing list almost any name might conceal his wife, and to europe went wallingford, misled by his own worse self. it was characteristic of him that, having found feldmeyer and being convinced that mrs. wallingford had never joined that gentleman, he should remind the doctor that he had been "chased" with his own money; and then he hurried home, more worried than ever, but his precious ten thousand dollars still intact and with some to spare. he needed that ten thousand for a specific purpose. finally it occurred to him to enlist the services of "blackie" daw, and hunted that enterprising salesman of insecure securities. blackie laughed at him and handed him a letter. partly to punish her husband and partly to satisfy certain vague, mistaken longings she had cherished for a "quiet life," mrs. wallingford had immured herself in a little village, living most comfortably upon her diamonds; but now she was tired of it--and anxious for "jim!" "it's no use," she confessed when he had hurried to her. "your way is wrong, but you've spoiled me with luxury." "i'll spoil you with more of it," he assured her, petting her with an overgrown playfulness that seemed strange in one of his bigness of frame, and made of his varied character a most complex thing; "but if i don't hurry back on the job i'll get the hooks." it was, in fact, high time for him to return to business, for he could get no wire from maylie about the forced sale; and this was the strategic point for which he had been planning since the day he met carl klug. three telegrams drew no response, and there was no one else to whom he dared wire in the present condition of affairs. leaving his wife where she was for the present, he took the first train for the west and, arriving on the day before the sale, drove directly from the train to carl klug's, where he found a mournful assembly. "that's him!" exclaimed jens jensen, as he came into the shop. "i always said he was a skinner." klug looked at him with dull eyes. otto schmitt arose to his threatening, rawboned height. henry vogel put his hand on otto's arm. "wait a minute," he cautioned. "you don't know anything for sure about things." "what's the matter?" wallingford asked, stopped in the midst of his intended cordial greeting by the hostile air of the gathering. "you done it a-purpose," charged jens, shaking his skinny fist. "you got from us that note, and now it shuts us up in business. you say you back the company for all you're worth. maybe you ain't worth anything. if you ain't you're a liar. if you are worth something you don't back us up. then you're a liar again, so that makes you a skinner!" "gentlemen," said wallingford sternly, "i am surprised. the question of whether i have or have not money is not worth arguing just now. the point is this: if any one of you had money would you be willing to invest it against the millions of the united sales recording machine company of new jersey? would you, mr. jensen?" "i don't know," said jens sullenly. "i think you're a skinner." wallingford shrugged his shoulders. "would you, mr. schmitt?" "no," said otto, and unclenched his huge fists. "would you, vogel?" vogel was positive about it, too. it would be throwing good money after bad. "i ask mr. klug. would you, carl?" "yes," sturdily asserted carl, his mustache bristling, his face puffing red. "every cent. it is a good patent. it is a good machine. there's money in it." "maybe," admitted mr. wallingford; "but let me tell you something i found out during my trip east. for five years the hammond automatic cashier company fought the united sales recording machine company of new jersey tooth and toe nail, and finally sold out to them for two hundred thousand dollars, a net loss of over a quarter of a million, besides all their time. during the same period, the keyes accounting device company, with a capital of three hundred thousand dollars, was fought out of existence and quit without a cent. the burch company, the electric sales checking system company and the wakeford and littleman store supply company, all rich, all met the same fate. that note you gave me was a mere incident. you had the ten thousand dollars, have used it in the business, and it is gone. if you had a hundred thousand dollars more on top of it, that would drop into the same hole, for i am told that the united company lays aside twenty-five dollars from every sale for patent litigation. but since jensen seems to think i am not a man of my word i will do this: there are seven of us in the company. i will put in ten thousand dollars if the rest of you will raise thirty. we will pay this note and hire lawyers as long as we last, and as a proof that i mean what i say here is ten thousand dollars that i will put into the hands of your treasurer the minute the rest of you are ready to make up your share." from his pocket he drew ten bills of one thousand dollars each. it was the first time they had any of them seen money of such large denomination, and it had a visible effect. "i can raise five thousand dollars on my house and shop," offered carl klug hopefully, but one glance at the glum faces of his friends was enough to discourage that idea. wallingford was rehabilitated, but not their faith in carl klug's unlucky device. the sale of the company must bring something, possibly enough to settle the note. if they could get out of it without losing any more they would consider themselves lucky. "when is this sale?" asked wallingford. "to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. here." "very well," said wallingford. "if before that time any of you want to take up the offer i have just made, you are welcome to do so," and he put the money back in his pocket. he had found out what he wanted to know, and drove away well satisfied with the results of his visit. his proposition to put further cash into the concern "if they would raise thirty thousand dollars" had wrought the effect he had calculated upon. it had scared them out completely. at his hotel he found three telephone memoranda waiting for him. they were all from the same source: room number of the only other good hotel in the city. he did not answer this call until he got to his own rooms, and then he spoke with much briefness. "no, do not come over," he peremptorily insisted. "i have no time to-day nor to-night, nor until after the sale. it is at ten o'clock, at poplar street. stay right where you are. i'll send you over the stuff within an hour," and he rang off. as soon as he could get connection he called up maylie, but if the latter contemplated any trickery he did not show it by any hesitation of speech when he recognized wallingford's voice. as a matter of fact, he already knew wallingford to be in town. he was cordiality itself. why, certainly, he would be right over! his cordiality, however, could not be exceeded by that of mr. wallingford when they met. "you simply must stay for dinner with me, old man," said wallingford. "i have a lot of things to talk over with you." "i really have an engagement," maylie hesitated. he had not, but he would much rather have been alone, this night of all nights. "nonsense," insisted wallingford. "this is more important. it means money, and big money, to both of us, and we'll just have dinner up here. we want to be alone to-night. there might always be somebody at the next table, you know." within ten minutes maylie was glad he had stayed, and the dinner he heard wallingford order had reconciled him. he had been doing yeoman work for himself, and he felt entitled to a certain amount of indulgence. within another ten minutes a bottle of champagne was opened, and wallingford, taking one glass of it, excused himself to remove the stains of travel. when he came back, refreshed and clean, the quart of wine was nearly emptied, and maylie, leaning back in a big leather chair, was puffing smoke rings at the ceiling in huge content. chapter xvii wherein a good stomach for strong drink is worth thousands of dollars wine was the _pièce de résistance_ of that dinner. there were other things, certainly, course after course, one of those leisurely, carefully blended affairs for which wallingford was famous among his friends, a dinner that extended to nearly three hours, perfect in its ordering and appointments; but champagne was, after all, its main ingredient. it was on the table before the first course was served, and half emptied bottles and glasses of it were there when they came to the coffee and the cordials and the fat black cigars. in all, they had consumed an enormous quantity, but wallingford was as steady as when he began, while maylie was flushed and so buoyant that everything was a hilarious joke. wallingford, on their first encounter, had detected this appetite in the young man, and had saved it for just such a possibility as this. it was half past nine before they arose from the table, and by that time maylie was ripe for any suggestion. wallingford's proposal that they pile into a carriage and take a ride met with instant and enthusiastic acquiescence. there were clubs to which wallingford had already secured the _entrée_ by his personality and his free handling of money, and now he put them to full and extravagant use. dawn was breaking when the roisterers finally rolled back to wallingford's apartments. wallingford was holding himself right by a grim effort, but maylie had passed to a pitiable condition of imbecility. his hair was stringing down over his forehead, and his face was of a ghastly pallor. in the parlor, however, he drew himself together for a moment and thought that he was capable of great shrewdness. "look yere, ole man," he stammered, trying to focus his gaze upon his watch; "this's mornin' now, an' i'ss all off. tha's sale's at ten o'clock an' we godda be there." "we'll be there all right," said wallingford. "what we need's a little nap. there are two bedrooms here. we'll leave a call for nine o'clock. three hours of sleep will do us more good than anything else." "aw ri'," agreed maylie, and winked laboriously to himself as an absurdly foolish idea came to him that he would let wallingford get to sleep first, and would then change the call to his own room. he would answer that call, take a hasty plunge, dress and walk out, leaving wallingford to sleep on for a week! wallingford, in the dining room, sought for the thing he had ordered left there: one more bottle, packed tightly in its ice, and this he now opened. into maylie's glass he poured two or three drops of a colorless liquid from a little vial he carried, filled it with wine and set it before him. maylie pushed it away. "do' wan' any more wine," he protested. "sure you do. a nightcap with your dear old pal?" wallingford persisted, and clinked glasses with him. maylie obeyed that clink as he would not have responded to any verbal urging. he reached for the glass of champagne and drank half of it, then collapsed in his chair. wallingford sat opposite to him and watched him as intently as a cat watches a mouse hole, sipping at his own wine quietly from time to time. his capacity was a byword among his friends. maylie's hand slipped from his chair and hung straight down, the other one curling awkwardly upon his lap. his head drooped and he began to snore. he was good for an all-day sleep. only a doctor could arouse him from it. wallingford still waited. by and by he lifted up the hanging hand and dropped it roughly. maylie made not the slightest motion. wallingford stood above him and looked down in smiling contempt; and the ghastly blending of the artificial light with the morning, where it struggled bluely in around the edges of the blinds, touched the smile into a snarl. suddenly he stooped to the limp figure in the chair and picked it up bodily in his arms, and, staggering slightly under the burden, carried the insensate lump to the far sleeping apartment and laid it upon the bed. he loosened the man's collar and took off his shoes, then, as calmly and unconcernedly as he might read a newspaper, he went through mr. maylie's clothing. nothing worth mentioning in the outside coat pockets; nothing in the inside coat pockets; in the inside vest pocket a few yellow papers! he did not even stop at the window of this dim room to make sure of what he held. he was sure without looking. into the parlor and to an easy chair he took them and opened them with grim satisfaction. they were telegrams, all from the united sales recording machine company of new jersey, and they told an absorbingly interesting story. there were four, and in the order of their receipt they read thus: were already informed our mr. bowman will report to you in time for sale since you think bowman's presence might hurt negotiations he will not come look to you to bid us in at lowest possible figure up to one hundred and fifty thousand if bidding goes above that wire for further instructions yes keep all under fifty thousand for your fee business! all pure business! the united sales recording machine company of new jersey was being held up, and it was good business for them to see that they were mulcted of as little as possible. wallingford rather admired them for it. since the property was at open sale they had as much right to buy it as he had. he read these telegrams over and over in profound content. he had foreseen them. moreover, he had read not only maylie's intention, but his plan and every detail of it, and for him he felt no admiration whatever. maylie was too clumsy. there was a small serving table in the dining room, and wallingford carried that in to the sleeper's bedside. upon this he spread the four telegrams in neat order, and weighted them down with _empty glasses_ for mr. maylie's absorbed study if he should happen to awaken. next he drew his favorite chair into that room, and placed it at the opposite end of the serving table. he put upon this the champagne bottle and his own glass, and lighting a big and extremely black cigar he sat down to watch his erstwhile comrade, for he was taking no chances. whenever he felt himself nodding or letting that cigar lax in his fingers he took a tiny sip of the champagne. sometimes he went in and held his head under the cold water faucet. at the end of the first hour sleep threatened to overcome him, in spite of all that he could do, and going into the bathroom he undressed and took a cold shower. that refreshed him exceedingly, and the feel of cool, fresh linen upon him brightened him still more, for in his personal habits he was clean as a cat. it crossed his mind once or twice to send down and get newspapers, but he knew that the least strain upon his eyes would send him to sleep quicker than anything else. the second hour passed; the third, then the fourth one dragged wearily by. at the beginning of the fifth he began to stumble as he walked from room to room to keep awake, but never for more than five minutes at a time did he let that sleeping man out of his sight. it seemed an eternity until the telephone bell rang in the parlor with startling insistence. with a glance of triumph toward the bed, he hurried in to obey the welcome call. "yes, this is wallingford," he answered huskily. "how about it?... good. how much?... what? all right, come straight up." he stood scratching his head and trying to think for a few minutes, endeavoring to recall a certain number that he had in mind. then he turned to the telephone book and fumbled through its leaves, backward and forward. his thumbs and fingers were like clubs. they had no feeling whatever. it took him whole minutes to separate two leaves from each other, swaying upon his feet and muttering to himself, but finally he found the name he wanted and put in the call. slowly and with tremendous effort he delivered his message, then slapped the receiver on the hook and staggered back to his chair. his fight against sleep for the next ten relaxed minutes was like a drowning man's fight for life, but he conquered, and when, a few moments later, there came a knock at his door, he was able to open it briskly. "hee-avings hee-elp us!" exclaimed blackie daw when he came in. "what a bat you've been on! have you looked at yourself, j. rufus?" and kicking the door shut he walked his friend up in front of the mantel mirror. wallingford focused his attention upon his own puffed face, on the swelled and reddened eyelids, on the bloodshot eyes, and laughed hoarsely. "it's worth it," he declared. "i win over one hundred and fifty thousand clean, cold simoleans. but how did you come to have to pay eight thousand for the patents?" "klug," replied blackie. "i thought for a minute he'd top my pile. he'd raised a little money some place, but he spent four thousand of it bidding in some machinery. it never flashed on him that the patents would have to be sold, too, and he nearly took a fit when he found it out. game, though. he bid 'em up to his last cent. we had been going in five-hundred-dollar raises until it got up to six thousand. that was mr. klug's last bid, for i piled two thousand square on top of it and tried to look like i could go two thousand at a jump for the next two hours, and then klug laid down." "eight thousand and four thousand. that's twelve thousand, and the bank's note is ten," figured wallingford with painful slowness. "the costs will run about two hundred, and that lets the company have eighteen hundred dollars to divide among the partners. why, say, blackie, i get one twelfth of that! there's about a hundred and fifty dollars coming to me. suppose we go over and get it." he laughed, but even as he did so he swayed and caught at a chair, and his eyelids dropped. "i've got to keep up now until we get into a pullman," he mumbled with halting effort. "sleep? i'll sleep all the way to new jersey. did you arrange to pay for the patents?" "did i?" triumphed mr. daw. "trust your uncle for that. say, j. rufus, what'll you give me to transfer them over to you?" wallingford turned to his friend a countenance that was almost ferocious in its sudden alertness. "i'll give you twenty minutes to do it in," he said with a growl. "there's a lawyer on the way here now, and i can have a policeman here in two minutes. you know you jumped bail in this town, don't you?" mr. daw was shocked. "there's no need for you to be so ugly about it, j. rufus," he protested. "i wouldn't take a cent away from you." "wouldn't you!" sneered j. rufus. "do you know why? i'd never give you a chance. let me show you the last man that tried to do me up," and he led the way into the apartment where mr. maylie still lay in profound slumber. mr. daw grinned. "he makes you look perfectly sober," he confessed; "but what are those papers on the table?" mr. wallingford laughed quite naturally this time. "poor boob!" he said. "he just lost forty thousand, and those telegrams are his fee." chapter xviii the town of battlesburg finds a private railroad car in its midst! sleep, blessed sleep! desperately wallingford fought it off until the lawyer had arrived and the necessary documents had been signed, and then, more dead than alive, he allowed himself to be bundled into a cab. "now, j. rufus," said blackie daw as he jumped in beside him, "we have your affairs all wound up and a red ribbon tied around them, so let's 'tend to happy horace. i'm a bridegroom! congratulate muh." "huh?" grunted j. rufus, and immediately there followed another succession of unintelligible sounds. wallingford was snoring. it was precisely twenty-four hours before mr. daw could convey this important information to his friend and make him understand it, and it was not until they had arrived in jersey city that j. rufus, still dull from his nerve-racking experience, was normal enough to ask: "who's the lucky lady?" "the star of morning and the queen of night," responded blackie with vast enthusiasm. "the one best bet of blazing broadway. the sweetest peach in the orchard of joy. the fairest blossom in cupid's garden. the--" "it's a fine description," interrupted wallingford. "i'd be able to pick her out any place from it; but what was her name before she shortened it?" "you want to know too quick," complained blackie. "you ought to have waited till i explained something more about her; but you always were an impatient cuss, and i'll tell you. her name was and is, upon the bill-boards and in the barber-shop windows, violet bonnie, whose exquisite voice and perfect figure--" "is _she_ divorced again?" once more interrupted wallingford. "last week," answered blackie with no abatement of his enthusiasm, "and happy horace happened to be on the spot. i was introduced to her over at shirley's the night she was celebrating the granting of her decree, and i had so much money with me it made my clothes look lumpy. she took an awful shine to that bank roll; not so much the diameter of it but the way i rolled it. it never rested, and by two in the morning she had transferred her affections from the swiftly flowing mezuma to me. at four o'clock g. m. we waded out from among the ocean of empties and, attended by a party so happy they didn't care whether it was day before yesterday or day after to-morrow, we took passage in seaworthy taximeters and floated to the little church around the corner, where the bright and shining arc light of musical comedy became mrs. violet bonnie daw. it was a case of love at first sight." "for how long have you secured a lease?" inquired wallingford. "i don't know," replied blackie reflectively. "she was married the first time for three years, the second for two and the third for one. according to those figures number four would have a right to look forward to about six months of married bliss." "i never was drunk for six months at a time in my life," reflected wallingford, "but i can see how it could happen. when it's all over, come around to me and i'll lead you to a sanitarium. in the meantime, when am i to have a chance to congratulate the lady?" "right away. she is now awaiting yours truly with quite yearning yearns. you know, j. rufus, your urgent telegram interrupted the howlingest honeymoon that ever turned the main stem into the great purple way. here's the address. come over as soon as you have held up the united people, and interrupt us. if you don't find us at home, just go charter a car and roll up and down the avenue until you see the speediest automobile cab outdoors. chase that, because it's us." when he called at two o'clock on the following afternoon, however, after having seen mr. priestly to their mutual satisfaction, he found them at home just preparing for breakfast, and blinking at the gray world through the mists of a champagne headache. he found violet bonnie daw, seen thus intimately, to be an extremely blond person with a slight tendency toward _embonpoint_, but her eyes were very blue, and her complexion, even without a make-up, very clear, able even to dominate her charming morning gown of a golden shade that exactly matched her hair. true, if one looked closely there were already traces of coming crow's-feet about the eyes, but one must not look closely; and her very real cordiality made amends for any such slight drawbacks. "so you're my husband's old pal!" she exclaimed as she shook hands with him warmly. then she surveyed him from head to foot with an expert appraisement. "you look like a good sport all right," she concluded. "blackie tells me you just cleaned up a tidy wad of pin money out west, and that you could give pittsburgh's best cards and spades on how to spend it. and blackie's no slouch himself," she rattled on. "my, you ought to have been with us last night." blackie grinned dolefully. "we left a string of long-necked bottles from the café boulevard to churchill's," he stated somberly, but still with quite justifiable pride, "and when we rolled home this morning even the bankers were coming to work." "it was something fierce," smiled his wife reminiscently, "but i guess we had a good time. anyhow, it was so hilarious that we can't tell this morning what to take for a pick-me-up." "that's where i won my first gold medals," boasted wallingford, chuckling. "what sort of a bar outfit have you?" "everything from plain poison to prussic acid," blackie informed him. "the preceding husband of mrs. daw was a swell provider." "you bet he was," agreed mrs. daw as she led the way to the dining room and threw open the cupboard of the sideboard. "harry was a good sport all right, but his stomach gave out." the sideboard, given over in most apartments to cut glass and other ordinary dining-room adornments, was in this case stocked with fancy bottles of all shapes and colors and sizes, and in the lower part of it was ice. "pardon the bartender, mum," observed j. rufus, his eyes lighting up with the dawning of creative skill as he removed his coat. mrs. daw watched him musingly through the open door of the dining room as he worked deftly among those bottles and utensils. "he's a good sport all right," she confided to her present husband, and she was still more of that opinion when wallingford served three tall, thin glasses with sugared edges, crowned with cracked ice and filled with a golden greenish liquid from which projected two straws. one sip and a sigh of satisfaction from both mr. and mrs. daw, and then they drained the glasses. "our hero!" declaimed mrs. daw, looking up at him in gratitude. "you have saved our lives. which will you have, mr. wallingford, breakfast or lunch?" by evening she was calling him jimmie, and any trifle of disapproving impression that wallingford had at first harbored was gone. as blackie claimed, she was born to adorn the night and became more beautiful as dusk fell. perhaps clothes and consummate art in toilet had something to do with this, but before the three had parted in the morning, wallingford had decided to introduce his wife after all, a matter about which he had been in considerable doubt. now, however, he was convinced that the lady was thoroughly respectable. no breath of scandal had ever attached itself to her name. she was always off with the old love before she was on with the new, and could hold up her head in any society! mrs. wallingford came to town the next day, and at no time did she share the enthusiasm of these two men for the incomparable mrs. daw. there was a striking contrast between the women, and even their beauty was not only of a strikingly different kind but of a strikingly different nature. mrs. daw was a flaming poinsettia, mrs. wallingford a rose, and the twain were as antagonistic as were their hues of cheek. mrs. daw, however, was more at ease, for she was in her natural environment, the niche to which her nature had fashioned her and of which she had made deliberate choice; but mrs. wallingford, in spite of her surroundings, had much in her--though she did not recognize it--of the quantities that would go to make up a lady godiva. her proper sphere, one of calm, pure domesticity, she had never known, though she had vaguely yearned for it; but she was adaptable, and, particularly throughout her married life, she had been thrown with all sorts and conditions of chance nomads such as her husband was likely to pick up; so she accepted mrs. daw as a matter of course and got on with her without friction. nevertheless, her face fell a trifle when her husband joyously announced one afternoon that he had just thought up a great stunt--a honeymoon party for the daws. he had acted the moment the suggestion had come to him. he had already chartered a private car and had given orders to have it stocked with the very best of everything. he had telephoned the daws. mrs. daw had only the day before signed a contract with a leading dramatic producer, but what was a contract? the next day, in all the luxury that car builders and fitters had yet been able to devise, they started upon a hilarious tour across the continent; but so far as their mode of life and amusement was concerned they might just as well have stayed on broadway, for their nights were spent in drinking, their mornings in sleep and their afternoons in sobering up, though in all this mrs. wallingford held herself as much reserved and aloof as she could without spoiling the content of the others. they were merely moving a section of the rapid hotel life of new york across the country with them, and the only things which made their hours seem different were the constantly changing scenic environment and the sensation of speed. so long as they were moving swiftly they were satisfied, but a slow rate brought forth howls of discontent. it was on a small connecting line in the middle west that this annoyance reached its climax, and after an hour of exceptionally slow travel wallingford sent for the conductor and put in a vigorous protest. yes, there was a faster train on that road. then why hadn't they been attached to that fast train? the conductor did not know. it was orders. "you go get different orders!" demanded wallingford, and for another hour he made life a burden to that official. goaded to desperation, wiring at every stop, the conductor finally, with a sigh of relief, saw the polished private car "theodore" shunted off on the siding at battlesburg and left behind. to the quartette of riotous travelers battlesburg was only an uninteresting detail of their trip, which had intruded itself unbidden upon their sight; but to battlesburg the arrival of a private car with real people in it was an epoch. why, it might be the president! long-legged billy ricks, standing idly upon the platform because the dragging hours passed by there as well as anywhere else, did not even wait to take a good look at it, but loped up the one long street, so fired with enthusiasm that he scarcely wobbled as his bony knees switched past each other in their faded blue overalls. he did not bother with people near the depot--they would find out soon enough; but at the little frame office of "judge" lampton, justice of the peace, notary public and real estate dealer, he bobbed his head in for a moment. "private car on the sidin'!" he bawled. "name's 'theodore'!" and he was gone. judge lampton, smoking a long, ragged stogie, jerked his feet down from among the dust-covered litter of ages upon his combination bookcase-desk. doc gunther, veterinary surgeon and proprietor of the livery stable across the way, lifted his head forward from against the dark-brown spot it had made during the past years upon the map of battlesburg, where it hung upon the wall, and vigorously took a fresh chew of tobacco. then the two friends, without exchanging one word, stalked solemnly out of the office and toward the depot. in the meantime billy ricks had paused to hurl his startling information in at the door of joe warren's cigar store, of ben kirby's cash grocery, of tom handy's red front saloon, of the dogget brothers' furniture and undertaking establishment, of the barret & lucas dry goods and notion store, and of every other place of business on that side of the street, including the palace hotel, until he came to gus newton's drug store and confectionery, where the real dyed-in-the-wool sports of the town shot dice and played penny-ante in a little back room. here he met a round half dozen of these high-spirited youths piling out upon the street with their eyes depot-ward. "private car on the sidin'!" billy shouted to them. "name's 'theodore'!" "uh-huh," agreed gus newton, "i ordered it. it's late," and, shouting back further ready mendacity, his crowd hurried on. just in front of the battles county bank, billy met clint richards, owner and city editor of the battlesburg _blade_. clint was also reporter, exchange and society editor and advertising solicitor of the _blade_, and, as became a literary man, he wore his hair rather long. he was in a hurry, and had his broad-brimmed black felt hat pulled down determinedly upon his head. "private car--" began billy ricks. "yes," interrupted clint, "i know about it. thank you," and his coat tails fluttered behind him. billy stopped in dejection. the street which, when he started, had been so lazy and deserted, was now alive. people were pouring from all the places of business beyond him and hurrying toward him. back of him they were all hurrying away from him. he had been outstripped by the telephone, and ungrateful battlesburg would fail to connect him with the sensation in any way. well, he might as well go down to the depot himself, and he turned in that direction; but now his feet shuffled. at the siding, the denizens of battlesburg--men, women, children and dogs--were packed four deep around the glistening, rolling palace "theodore." agitated groups of two and three and four, scattered from the depot platform to the siding, were discussing the occurrence excitedly, and dave walker, the station agent, turned suddenly crisp and brusque with importance, was refusing explanations and then relenting in neighborly confidence with each group in turn. clint richards, pale but calm and confident, bustled through the quivering throng, and they all but set up a cheer as they recognized the official and only authorized asker of important questions. the vestibule being open, he pulled himself up the steps and tried the door. it was locked. "push the button, clint," advised gus newton, who knew a thing or two, you bet! and clint, with a smile and a nod in his direction, for gus was an advertiser, rang the bell. a brisk and clean-looking young negro in a white apron and jacket came to the door and clint handed in his card. the porter disappeared. a moment later the news gatherer was admitted. a sigh of relief went up from the waiting crowd, and they swayed in unison from side to side as they stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to see farther in through those broad windows. through the wicker-furnitured observation library the porter led the way into a rich compartment the full width of the car, where at luncheon sat the honeymoon quartette, rich in gay apparel and brave in sparkling adornment. they had evidently just sat down, for an untouched cocktail stood at each place. the extremely large and impressive mr. wallingford, the breadth of whose white waistcoat alone proclaimed him as a man of affairs, arose to greet the representative of the battlesburg _blade_ with great cordiality. "the members of the progressive press are always welcome," he announced, clasping mr. richards' hand in a vast, plump palm, and exuding democratic good will from every square inch of his surface. "we're just going to have a bit of luncheon. join us." "i wouldn't think of intruding," hesitated mr. richards, his eyes leaping with an appreciation of the rare opportunity and his brain already busy framing phrases like "priceless viands," "toothsome delicacies," "epicurean luxuries." "nonsense!" insisted wallingford heartily, and introduced his visitor with much pompous ceremony to mr. horace g. daw, mine dealer and investment specialist; to mrs. violet daw, formerly violet bonnie, the famous comic-opera queen, but now the happy bride of a month; to mrs. fanny wallingford; to himself as a recently retired manufacturer and capitalist; then he placed mr. richards in a chair with a cocktail in front of him. mr. richards was naturally overwhelmed at this close contact with two of america's leading millionaires, and he agreed with his host that the p. d. s. railroad was positively the worst-conducted streak of corrugated rust in the entire united states. he was even more indignant than the travelers that, after having been promised a through train, they had been hitched to the local egg accommodation, and was even more satisfied than they that mr. wallingford had given the chills and ague to the entire transportation system of the p. d. s. until their car had finally been dropped off here to wait for the . , which was a through train and the one which should have carried them in the first place. why, wallingford ought to buy the p. d. s., plow up the right of way and sow it in pumpkins! "sir," declared mr. richards, "the p. d. s. is a disgrace to the science of railroading! why, its through trains stop only on signal at this thriving manufacturing center of four thousand souls. from your car windows here you may see the smoke belching forth from the chimneys of the battlesburg wagon works, of the g. w. battles plow factory, of the battles & handy sash, door and blind company, of the battles & son canning company, of the battles & battles pure food creamery and cheese concern; and yet the only two through trains of the 'pretty darn slow railroad,' as we call it here, clink right on through! the honorable g. w. battles himself has taken up this matter and can do nothing, and when he can do nothing--" the utter hopelessness of a situation for which the honorable g. w. battles himself could do nothing was so far beyond mere words that mr. richards turned from the subject in dejection and inquired about the financial situation back east. he found out all about it, and more. mr. daw and mr. wallingford, their faculty of invention springing instantly to the opportunity, helped him to fill his notebook to the brim, and turned him loose at last with one final glowing fabrication about the priceless sparkling burgundy which was served during the seven courses of the little midday morsel. adorned with a big cigar, from which he did not remove the gold band, mr. richards hastened from the car, and to the pressing throng outside he observed, from the midst of an air of easy familiarity with the great ones of earth: "that's colonel wallingford, the famous eastern millionaire, and he's a prince! you certainly want to see the _blade_ to-night," and he hurried away to put his splendid sensation into type. chapter xix mr. wallingford wins the town of battlesburg by the toss of a coin "colonel" wallingford looked at his watch. "two hours yet!" he exclaimed with a yawn. "two solid hours in a yap town that's not on the map. what shall we do with the time? play cards?" "what's the use?" demanded "blackie" daw. "if i'd win your money you'd choke me till i gave it back, and if you won mine i'd have you pinched." "let's get off then and look at the burg," suggested j. rufus. it was mr. daw's turn to yawn. he looked out on one side of the manufacturing portion of battlesburg, and on the other side at the mercantile and residence portion. "i think i can see all i want to remember of it from here," he objected; "but anything's better than nothing. shall we go, vi?" "that's us," replied the vivacious bride, who was already beginning to respond to all mr. wallingford's suggestions with more alacrity than either mrs. wallingford or mr. daw quite approved. "let's go wake 'em up, jimmy. ring for a carriage." the invaluable porter was already exchanging his white coat and apron for his dark-blue coat and derby, and, in another moment, that dusky autocrat, his face calm with the calmness of them who dwell near to much money, had asked the crowd outside the way to a livery stable. billy ricks projected himself instantly through the assemblage. "i'll show you," he said eagerly. the autocrat surveyed billy ricks briefly and gauged him accurately. "suppose you go get the best two-horse carriage, to seat four, that you can find in town," and in billy's palm he pressed a half dollar. the excitement grew intense! the millionaires were positively to appear! doc gunther's best "rig," his rubber-tired one, came rolling down main street, turned, and drew up near the car. the porter, now wearing his official cap, jumped down with his stepping box. ah-h-h! here they came! first emerged huge, sleek mr. wallingford, looking more like a million cleverly won dollars than the money itself. mr. daw stepped down upon the gravel, tall and slender, clad in glove-fitting "prince albert," his black mustache curled tightly, his black eyes glittering. descended the beautiful, brown-haired mrs. wallingford, brave in dark-green broadcloth. descended the golden-haired mrs. daw, stunning in violet from hat to silken hose. perfectly satisfactory, all of them; perfectly adapted to fill the ideal of what a quartette of genuine nabobs should look like! under the skillful guidance of mr. wallingford they pranced up main street, of fully as much interest and importance as any circus parade that had ever wended its way along that thoroughfare. the town of battlesburg, converting a level, dusty country road into "main street" for a space, lay across the railroad like a huge tennis racquet, its hand grip being the manufacturing district, its handle the business quarter, its net the residence section; and here were the first cross streets, little, short byways, the longest of them ten or twelve blocks in extent, and all ending against the fences of level fields. as they rode through the town, however, its pavements stirred to unusual liveliness by the great event, the impression that here was a place of merely sleeping money grew and grew upon j. rufus wallingford and appealed to his professional instincts. "some town, this," he concluded, turning to mr. daw. "they have rusty wealth here, and, if somebody will only give it a start, it will circulate till it gets all bright and shiny again. then you can see by the flash where it is and nab it." "heads or tails to see who gets it," suggested mr. daw, and drew a dollar from his pocket. "heads!" called mr. wallingford, pulling on the reins, and just in front of the baptist church the fate of battlesburg was decided. mr. daw flipped the coin in the air over mrs. wallingford's lap. upon the green broadcloth the bright silver piece came down with a spat, and the goddess of liberty faced upward to the sky. "i win the place!" exulted j. rufus as they rolled on out past the cemetery and toward battles' grove. "i don't know just yet how i'll milk it, but the milk is here." "you wouldn't honestly come back to this graveyard, would you?" inquired mrs. daw. "why, you'd die." "if i did, i'd die with money in both hands," responded wallingford. "i can smell money, and i don't think there's a pantry shelf in this town without some spare coin tucked away in the little old cracked blue teapot. all you have to do is to play the right music, and all that coin will dance right out. i shouldn't be surprised that i'd come back here and toot a tune." "there's no danger just yet a while," laughed mrs. wallingford. "you have too much wealth. in spite of this trip i never saw you get rid of money so slowly." "he's a good enough spender for me," stated mrs. daw, with a sidelong glance at him from her round blue eyes. "he's a good sport, all right." "i rather like this town, jim," interposed mrs. wallingford quickly, catching that glance. "let's do come back here and start up a business of some sort." "i'm glad i lost," declared mr. daw vehemently. "it's too far away from a push button." he also had seen that glance. it was nothing to which he could object, of course, but he did not like it. a damper had somehow been put upon the spirits of the party, and, after they had driven far out of sight of the town, mrs. wallingford suggested that they had better turn back. "i don't know," said her husband, looking at his watch. "we have nearly an hour and a half yet, and we can easily make it from here in half an hour." "but what a long, long ways we are from a drink, if we wanted one," objected mrs. daw. "just think of all that fizzy red wine in the ice box." "you're a smart woman," declared j. rufus with laughing enthusiasm, "and you win! back we go." they had scarcely proceeded a mile upon the return trip, however, when a shrill whistle screamed behind them. they turned, and there across the fields they saw a passenger train whizzing along at tremendous speed. the same thought came to them instantly. "i thought there wasn't another train in that direction until . ," exclaimed mr. daw, "and now it is only . !" the team was abruptly stopped, and both men gazed accusingly at their watches. suddenly wallingford swore and whipped up the horses. "we've western time!" he called over his shoulder. the explanation, though depressing, was correct. they had thought that they were over the line in the morning, and had set their watches ahead. when they discovered their error they had let it stand and had forgotten about it. they made the trip back to battlesburg at record speed, and just beyond the cemetery they met billy ricks, in the middle of the road. he had been running. "number two's jus' been through, an' it took away your private car!" gasped billy. mr. wallingford, gazing straight ahead, made no intelligible answer, but he was muttering under his breath. "your colored gentleman tried to stop 'em," billy went on with enthusiasm, delighted to be the bearer of good or ill tidings so long as it was startling, "but the conductor cussed an' said he had orders to stop here and take on private car 'theodore,' an' he was goin' to do it. number two didn't even stop at the depot. it jus' backed on to the sidin' an' took your private car an' whizzed out, an' the conductor stood on the back platform damnin' dave walker till he was plumb out o' hearin'!" mrs. wallingford smiled. mr. daw chuckled. mrs. daw laughed hilariously. "ain't that the limit?" she demanded. "let's _all_ be happy!" "i jus' thought i'd come on out and tell you, 'cause you might want to know," went on billy expectantly. for the first time mr. wallingford looked at him, and the next minute his hand went in his pocket. billy ricks drew a long breath. two half dollars for officious errands in one day was a life record, and he trotted behind that carriage all the way to the depot, where mr. wallingford, with the aid of dave walker, immediately began to "burn up the wires." it seemed that the management of the p. d. s. positively refused to haul the "theodore" back to battlesburg. it was not their fault that the passengers had not been aboard at the time they were warned number two would stop for them. they would hold the car at the end of that division, and instruct their agent at battlesburg to issue transportation to the four on the next west bound train; and that was all they would do! the only west bound train that night was a local freight; the only west bound train in the morning was the accommodation which had brought them to battlesburg; then came number two, the next afternoon. they drove straight to the palace hotel and met the only man in battlesburg who was not impressed by the high honor that a lucky accident had bestowed upon the city and upon his hostelry. suspicion, engendered by thirty years of contact with a traveling public which had invariably either insulted his accommodations or tried to cheat him--and sometimes both--had soured the disposition of the proprietor of the palace and cramped his soul until his very beard had crinkled. suspicion gleamed from his puckered eyes, it was chiseled in the wrinkles about his nose, it rasped in his voice; and the first and only thing he noted about mr. j. rufus wallingford and his splendid company was that they had no luggage! whereupon, even before the multi-millionaire had finished inscribing the quartette of names upon his register, he had demanded cash in advance. judge lampton, who had edged up close to the register, was shocked by this crass demand, and expected to see the retired capitalist give pete parsons the dressing down of his life. instead, however, mr. j. rufus wallingford calmly abstracted, from a pocketbook bulging with such trifles, a hundred-dollar bill which he tossed upon the desk, and went on writing. as impassive as fate, pete parsons turned to his safe, slowly worked the combination, and still more slowly started to make change. in this operation he suddenly paused. "billy," said he to the ever-present ricks, "run over to the bank with this hundred-dollar bill and see if battles'll change it." for just one instant the small eyes of wallingford narrowed threateningly, and then he smiled again. "show us to our rooms," he ordered. "send up the change when it comes." he laid down the pen, but his hand had scarcely left the surface of the book when it was clutched by that of judge lampton. "in the name of the judiciary and of the enterprising citizens of this place, i welcome you to battlesburg," he announced. mr. wallingford, "always on the job"--to use the expressive parlance of his friend mr. daw--drew himself up and radiated. "thank you," he returned. "i have already inspected your beautiful little city with much pleasure, and all that you need to make this a live town is a good hotel." the judge shot at pete parsons a triumphant grin. ever since mr. lampton had been denied credit beyond the amount of two dollars at the palace hotel bar, himself and mr. parsons had been "on the outs." "let me show you the very piece of property to build it on," he eagerly returned. only for a moment wallingford considered. "i'll look at it to-morrow morning," he said. "i shall have the facts and figures ready for you, sir," and judge lampton swaggered out of the palace hotel on a bee-line for a little publicity. it was scarcely half an hour later when clint richards called at wallingford's room with four copies of the battlesburg _blade_. "i brought these up myself, mr. wallingford," he explained, "to show you that battlesburg is not without its enterprise. twice this afternoon the _blade_ was made over after it was on the press; once when the p. d. s. stole your private car--stole, sir, is the word--and again upon judge lampton's report of his important conversation with you. if you should decide to invest some of your surplus capital in battlesburg, i am sure that you will find her progressive citizens working hand in hand with you to make that investment profitable." the battlesburg _blade_ consisted of four pages, and the first one of these was devoted entirely to that eminent financier, mr. j. rufus wallingford. eastern millions here was the heading which, in huge, black type, ran entirely across the top of the page just beneath the date line. beneath this was a smaller black streamer, informing the public that these millions were represented in the persons of those eminent captains of industry, mr. j. rufus wallingford and mr. horace g. daw. beneath this, in the center four columns of the six-column page, was another large type headline: robbed of their private car "theodore" by the bungling p. d. s. in the center two columns was this boxed-in, large type announcement: later! it is rumored upon good authority that these wide-awake millionaires may invest a portion of their surplus capital in wide-awake battlesburg. _huge hotel projected!_ the article which filled the balance of the page was an eloquent tribute to the yellow genius of mr. richards. with flaming adjectives and a generous use of exclamation points it told of the marvelous richness of the private car "theodore," owned, of course, by the gentlemen who were traveling in it; of the truly unparalleled sumptuousness of the feast that had been served by these charmingly democratic gentlemen to the humble representative of the _blade_; of the irresistible beauty and refinement of their ladies; of the triumphs of mr. j. rufus wallingford in the milk-stopper business, the carpet tack industry, the insurance field, the sales recorder trade, successive steps by which he had arisen to his present proud eminence as one of the powers of wall street; of mr. daw's tremendously successful activity in gold mining, in rubber cultivation, in orange culture and in allied lines, where deft and brilliant stock manipulations had contributed to the wealth of the nation and himself; of the clumsy and arrogant blundering of the p. d. s. railroad, which, until this lucky accident, had always been a detriment to the energetic city of battlesburg. it was easy to see by the reading of this article that the p. d. s. r. r. did not advertise in the battlesburg _blade_, and that it now issued no passes to the press, and mr. richards took occasion to point out, as he had so often before urged, that, if a traction line could only be induced to parallel the p. d. s. and enter battlesburg, it would awaken that puerile railroad from its lifelong lethargy and infuse a new current of life and activity into the entire surrounding country, besides earning for itself a handsome revenue. it was this last clause which plunged wallingford into profound meditation. "a traction line," he said musingly, by and by. "i'm a shine for overlooking that bet so long, but when we get through this voyage of joy, just watch my trolleys buzz. i'm coming back here and jar loose all the money that's not too much crusted to jingle." "but, jim," protested mrs. wallingford thoughtfully, "you couldn't build a traction line with only a little over a hundred thousand dollars!" "how little you know of business, fanny," he rejoined, with a wink at mr. daw. "i can tear up a street, level a small hill and buy two tons of iron rails with one thousand, and have the rest to marry to other money. blackie, i'm glad i won this town from you. i'd hate to think of all the good coin hidden away under the cellar stairways here being paid over for your fine samples of four-color printing. they don't need phoney gold mining stock in this burg. what they need is something live and progressive, like a traction line." "i know," agreed mr. daw with a grin. "you'll organize an air line and sell them the air." "don't, jim," protested mrs. wallingford. "you're clever enough to make honest money, and i know it. other people do. a hundred thousand is a splendid nest-egg." "to be sure it is," assented mr. daw. "watch jim set on it! if he don't hatch out a whole lot of healthy little dollars from it i'll grow hayseed whiskers and wear rubber boots down broadway." there was another knock at the door. this time it was judge lampton, and with him was a nervous, wiry man, in black broadcloth and wearing a vest of the same snowy whiteness as his natty mustache. "mr. wallingford," said judge lampton, tingling with pride, "permit me to introduce the honorable g. w. battles, president of the battles county bank, of the battlesburg wagon works, of the g. w. battles plow factory, of the battles & handy sash, door and blind company, of the battles & son canning company, of the battles & battles pure food creamery and cheese concern, and of the battlesburg chamber of commerce." as one seasoned financier to another these two masters of commerce foregathered gravely upon matters of investment and profit. the honorable g. w. battles was a man who believed in his own enthusiasm and had command of many, many words, a gift which had been enhanced by much public speechmaking, and now, in a monologue that fairly scintillated and coruscated, he laid before j. rufus wallingford the manifold advantages of investment in the historic town that had been founded by his historic grandfather. before he was entirely through all that he could, would or might have said, there came another knock at the door. judge lampton, who had retired immediately upon introducing the honorable g. w. battles, had returned, and with him was max geldenstein, proprietor of the rock bottom clothing stores, not only in battlesburg, but also in paris, london, dublin, berlin and rome, all six cities being in or adjacent to battles county. he was also a director in the battles county bank and in the battles & son canning company, a city councilman and a member of the chamber of commerce. he, too, extended a welcoming hand to the chance millionaire and invited him most cordially to become one of them. came shortly after, in tow of the indefatigable judge lampton, the honorable timothy battles, mayor of battlesburg and illustrious son of the honorable g. w. battles, bearing with him the keys of the city. came, too, lampton-led, mr. henry quig, coal and ice magnate, and the largest stockholder, except the honorable g. w. battles, in the battlesburg gas and electric light plant; also a member of the city council and of the chamber of commerce. it became necessary to subsidize the dining room after eight o'clock, and until far into the night mr. wallingford and mr. daw entertained the leading gentlemen of the city, who, under the efficient marshalship of judge lampton, came to help the judge sell a building lot and to present their respects to these gentlemen of boundless capital. what need is there to tell how j. rufus wallingford, he of the broad chest and the massive dignity, arose to the opportunity of presiding as informal host over battlesburg's entire supply of twenty-one bottles of champagne? suffice it to say that, when the last callers had gone, he mopped his perspiring brow and turned to blackie daw with a chuckle in which his entire body participated. "they will do it, eh, blackie?" he commented. "just come and beg to be skinned! what will you give me for one side of main street?" "it would be a shame to split it," declared mr. daw. "keep it all, j. rufus. i'm only a piker. if i make ten thousand on a clean-up i think i'm john w. gates, and if i made more i'd start mumbling and making funny signs. i can't trot in your class." but j. rufus was in no humor for banter. he looked at the array of empty bottles and glasses upon the long dining-room table and nodded his head in satisfaction. "it's been a good night's work, blackie," he concluded, "and, when i come back here, i'm going to jam a chestnut burr under the tail of this one-horse town. to-morrow morning i'm going to be an investor in battlesburg real estate, and the traction line idea must be kept under cover for a while. don't breathe a word of it." the next morning, in pursuance of this idea, mr. wallingford went forth with judge lampton and looked at property. between the palace hotel and the depot was an entire vacant block, used at present for mere grazing purposes by doc gunther, and mr. wallingford agreed that this would be an admirable site for an up-to-date, six-story, pressed-brick hotel. he even went so far as to sketch out his idea of the two-story marble lobby--a fountain in the center--balcony at the height of the first floor ceiling--arched orchestra bridge! on the other side of the street, a little above the bank and on a block occupied at present by a blacksmith shop and a prehistoric junk heap, he gave a glowing word picture of the new grand opera house that should be erected there. farther up the street was another cow pasture, over which he thought deeply; but his thoughts he carefully kept to himself, and both clint richards and judge lampton dreamed great, puzzling dreams by reason of that very silence. up in the residence district mr. wallingford picked out three splendid lots, one of which he did not hesitate to say would make an admirable site for an up-to-date apartment house, and one of the others--he had not decided which--would make an admirable location for a private residence. he bought none of this property, but he took ninety-day options on all seven pieces, paying therefor from ten to fifty dollars upon each one, and leaving in the town of battlesburg, aside from his hotel and livery bill and other expenses, not less than two hundred and fifty dollars of real money, each dollar of which glowed with a promise of many more to come. it is needless to say that the battlesburg _blade_ that evening did full honor to these wholesale transactions. it took all of the first page and part of the last to do that; even the telegraphic account of the absorbing and scandalous estelle lightfoot murder romance, clipped from the chicago morning papers, had to be condensed for that day to half-a-dozen lines. chapter xx battlesburg smells money and plunges into a mad orgie of speculation billy ricks, shambling after dandelion greens, stepped out of the road to let a great, olive-green touring car go tearing by and bounce over the railroad track. a second or so later he breathlessly dashed into the near-by office of the wagon works and grabbed for the telephone. "that millionaire that went through here in his private car a couple o' weeks ago has come back to town in his automobile," he told clint richards. "i know it," was the answer. "he's just stopped in front of the palace hotel," and with a sigh billy ricks hung up the telephone receiver, eying that instrument in huge disfavor. in the mean time, main street, which had relapsed into slumber for two weeks, was once more wide awake. hope and j. rufus wallingford had come back to town. there was no avenue of trade that did not feel the quickening influence within an hour. even his appearance, as he stepped from the touring car, clad richly to the last detail of the part, conveyed a golden promise. mrs. wallingford, mostly fluttering veil, was another promise, and even the sedate g. w. battles so far forgot his dignity as to come across from the bank in his bare head and shake hands with the great magnate. quick as he was, however, judge lampton was there before him. his half of the option money left behind by mr. wallingford had wrought a tremendous change in the judge, for now the beard that he had worn straggling for so long was cut vandyke and kept carefully trimmed--and instead of a stogie he was smoking a cigar. warmed by their enthusiastic reception, the wallingfords amiably forgot the purely private and personal quarrel between mrs. wallingford and mrs. daw, which had disrupted the happy quartette and nipped in the bud an itinerary that had been planned through to san francisco, and they plunged into a new life with great zest. for years j. rufus had been content to make a few thousand dollars and spend them, but his last haul of a hundred and fifty thousand that he had received from the perfectly legitimate sale of another man's patent for which the inventor got nothing, had stirred in him the desire not merely to live like a multi-millionaire, but to be one. as the first step in his upward and onward progress he transferred his hundred odd thousand dollars from an eastern depository to the battles county bank. next he took ninety-day options upon all the unoccupied property in battlesburg, including several acres of ground beyond the battles & battles pure food creamery and cheese concern. he was not so improvident as to pay cash for these options, however; instead, he gave ninety-day notes, writing across the face of each one: "not negotiable until after maturity." the first of these notes judge lampton took to the honorable g. w. battles inquiringly. the autocrat of battles county merely smiled. "i'll lend you face value on it, tommy, any time you want it," he observed; and that was the last notch in establishing the local credit of j. rufus wallingford, for judge lampton was in his way as persistent a disseminator as billy ricks himself. but battlesburg alone was not a large enough field for wallingford. having tied up about half the town, he left "for a little pleasure jaunt;" but before he went away he bought the star boarding house and gave judge lampton _carte blanche_ to fit up that magnificent ten-room structure as a private residence, according to certain general plans and requirements laid down by the purchaser. when mr. and mrs. wallingford came back two weeks later, that palatial dwelling was perfect in all its arrangements and appointments, even to the stocking of its cellars and the hiring of letty kirby as cook and bessie walker as maid, and of billy ricks as gardener and man-of-all-work. the vast sensation that might have been created by the hiring of three servants, and by the other lusciously extravagant expenditures faithfully chronicled in the daily issues of the battlesburg _blade_, was, however, swallowed up in a still greater sensation; for during the absence of the noted financier mr. wallingford had become a vast throbbing mystery to the town of his adoption. he had been gone only two days, when, in the _blade_, there appeared the heading: our millionaire favors paris with crumbs of the good fortune falling from battlesburg's table the article that followed was a clipping from the paris _times_, and from this it seemed that colonel j. rufus wallingford, the famous multi-millionaire, late of boston and new york but now of their neighbor and county seat, battlesburg, had been purchasing property liberally along the main street of paris, giving in exchange his promissory notes for ninety days, which notes, upon the telephonic advice of the honorable g. w. battles, of battlesburg, were as good as gold. similar reports were reprinted later on from the london _news_, the dublin _banner_, the berlin _clarion_, the rome _vindicator_, and from the papers of other towns still farther away. it was clint richards who became the sherlock holmes of battlesburg and found the solution to this mystery, being led thereto by the fact that the only towns where mr. wallingford was purchasing this property were along the direct east and west highway, which, running through battlesburg, paralleled the p. d. s. railroad from lewisville to elliston. these two towns were not only the terminals of the p. d. s. railroad, but were also the respective outposts of the great midland valley traction system and the vast golden west traction system. the conclusion was obvious that either colonel wallingford intended to finance a traction road connecting those two great terminal points, or that he had absolute knowledge that such a line was to be built; _and colonel wallingford had chosen battlesburg for his headquarters_! it was exhilarating to see how battlesburg arose to the vast possibilities of this conjecture. men who but a brief two weeks before had slouched to their work in the morning as to a mere daily grind, now stepped forward briskly with smiles upon their faces and high courage in their hearts. every man who had a dollar lying idle looked upon that dollar now not as so much rusting metal, but as being a raft which might float him high upon the shore of golden prosperity. only pete parsons, of all that town, croaked a note of discord. he never for one moment forgot that j. rufus wallingford, upon the day he first registered at the palace hotel, had no baggage with him! the return of mr. wallingford after the _blade's_ revelation was the occasion of a tremendous ovation. clint richards had fairly to paw his way through the crowd that surrounded him on the steps of the bank, where he had stopped to draw a mere five hundred or so for his pocket money; but, once inside the closely packed circle, clint pinned colonel wallingford down to an admission of his plans. yes, the lewisville, battlesburg and elliston traction line was a thing of the near future. all that remained was to secure rights of way. battlesburg would, in all probability, be headquarters, and the l., b. & e. might even build its car shops here if the citizens of battlesburg were willing to do their share. mr. richards reached out impulsively to grasp the hand of colonel wallingford, but it was already in possession of judge lampton, who, thrilled with emotion, guaranteed colonel wallingford that the city of battlesburg would not only be glad, but would be proud, to perform her part in this great work. he might have said more, but that the honorable g. w. battles, who had emerged upon the steps of the bank just above and behind colonel wallingford, publicly thanked that gentleman, on behalf of his fellow citizens, for this vast boon. appreciating the opportunity thus thrown upon his very doorstep, mr. battles, by merely beginning to speak, quickly packed the street to the opposite curb with his admiring fellow townsmen, and gave them a half hour of such eloquence as only a battles could summon upon the spur of the moment; and colonel wallingford, looming beside him as big and as impressive as the panama bond issue, looked his part, every inch! no open-air political meeting, no fourth of july speechmaking, no dedication or grand opening had ever given rise to such tumultuous fervor as this. there were cheers and tigers galore for colonel wallingford, for the honorable g. w. battles, for judge lampton, for the battlesburg _blade_, for the l., b. & e. traction line, for the city of battlesburg, for everything and everybody, until the ecstatic throng was too hoarse to cheer any more; and then, at colonel wallingford's cordial solicitation, the entire town moved down to the mansion which, by the magic of his money, this great benefactor had built within and without the shell of the one-time star boarding house. they filled his yard, they trampled his grass, they invaded the newly carpeted house, and the male portion of them passed in earnest review before his sideboard. cakes and sandwiches were on the way in hot haste from andy wolf's bake-shop, boxes of cigars stood open upon the porch, ice cream appeared for the ladies. suddenly there arose sweet strains of music upon the air, and down the street at a quick march, accompanied by happy billy ricks, came the battlesburg brass band. never before was battlesburg so spontaneously aroused. amid that happy throng, colonel wallingford, laughing from the sheer joy of feeding people into allegiance, moved like a prince in the midst of his devoted subjects; and while he smilingly accepted their homage, came copies of the battlesburg _blade_, wet from the press, an extra special edition. great piles of these were kept replenished upon the porch throughout the evening, so that every inhabitant of the city of promise should know all the golden future that lay before him--and learn to subscribe. battlesburg was at last to become the new metropolis of the west; her citizens were to be in the very vortex of a vast whirlpool of wealth, and not one of them but should wax rich. from the east and from the west, from villages and farms, trade would rush in an endless stream aboard the trolley cars of the l., b. & e. traction line; main street of battlesburg should become a mecca where countless pilgrims would leave their stream of bright and shining dollars; as business increased, property values would rise; with the first singing of the trolleys a hundred-dollar lot would be worth a thousand. and all this through the advent of that master magician of the modern commercial world, colonel j. rufus wallingford! marked copies of that issue of the _blade_ were sent to paris, to london, to dublin, to berlin, to rome and to all the other towns between lewisville and elliston, and all the papers on the route of the proposed new traction line caught up the information eagerly. within three days a boom had leaped along every foot of what had been before but a lazy, dusty hundred miles of country road. it was a magnificent effect. even mrs. wallingford read the accounts of this stupendous movement, which her husband had inaugurated, with wonder and amazement, and laid down the first _eight-page issue_ of the _blade_ with sparkling eyes. "jim," she exclaimed, "i'm proud of you! it is worth something to have started thousands of people into new activity, new hope, new life; to have, by your own unaided efforts, doubled and tripled and quadrupled within just a few days the value of hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of property!" mr. wallingford at that moment was pouring himself out a glass of champagne, and now he laughed. "it is a big stunt, fannie," he agreed; "especially when you come to think that outside of our traveling expenses it was all done at an expense of two-fifty cash, the amount i paid lampton when i bought those first options." it was almost unbelievable, but it was true, that all these huge impulses had been set in motion by mere commercial hypnotism. the public, however, saw in them only the power of unlimited money. money! at last its magic presence hovered over battlesburg, a vast beneficent spirit that quivered in the very air and rendered the mere act of breathing an intoxication. its glitter enhanced the glory of the very sunlight, and to its clinking music the staid inhabitants of the town that had slumbered for half a century quickened their pace as if inspired by the strains of a martial air. the same quickening that applied to individuals applied also to the town as a whole. civic pride and ambition were aroused. the day after wallingford returned, the chamber of commerce convened in special session, and a committee, composed of henry quig and max geldenstein, escorted colonel wallingford before that august board, where the honorable g. w. battles, as president, asked of the eminent capitalist a pregnant question. battlesburg wanted the shops of the l., b. & e. traction line. what did the l., b. & e. want? his requirements were modest, colonel wallingford assured them. he demanded no cash bonus whatever. if they would merely provide him the ground to build the shops, and a lot conveniently placed in the center of the city for a freight, baggage and passenger station, and would use their influence with the city council to secure him a franchise, he would be content. he had secured options upon the very pieces of property that would be ideal for the purposes of the l., b. & e., but upon these he would ask no profit whatever, notwithstanding their enhanced value and his right to share in the wealth he had created. if the chamber of commerce would merely take up his options, repaying him the amounts he had paid to secure them, he would ask no more, and, further than that, he would take the option money, would add to it a like sum--or more--and with the total amount would purchase a fountain for courthouse square as an earnest of his sincere regard for battlesburg and its enterprising and gentlemanly citizens. the enthusiasm that greeted this announcement was distinctly audible for two blocks each way on main street, and in the midst of it the honorable g. w. battles arose to once more make the speech of his life. he could assure colonel wallingford that there would be no trouble in influencing the city council to grant him a franchise, for the chamber of commerce had means of coercing the city council; which was a splendid joke, for every member of the city council was also a member of the chamber of commerce, and they were all present. such a quantity of mutual good will and esteem was never before uncorked in so limited a space as the social room of odd fellows' hall, and clint richards was quite lost to find new adjectives for the front page of the next day's issue of the _blade_. the glorious news, together with some striking illustrations of the healthy advance of battlesburg real estate, was copied in the papers of paris, london, dublin, berlin and rome. in those towns, too, the same civic activity was exhibited, the same golden hopes were aroused, the same era of prosperity set in; and the papers of those villages vied with each other in chronicling the evidences of increased wealth that had come upon them. franchises, therefore, were to be had by the munificent colonel wallingford without the asking. before he could even appeal to them, village councils had given him the exclusive use of their only desirable streets for fifty years without money and without price. ground for stations was donated everywhere, and when wallingford started out to secure a right of way from the regenerated farmers, who in these days kept themselves posted by telephone and rural free delivery, his triumphant progress would have sickened with envy the promoters of legitimate traction lines. discarding the big touring car, he secured a horse and buckboard, and donning yellow leather boots with straps and buckles at the calf, appeared upon the road the very apotheosis of a constructive engineering contractor; and when he stepped to the ground, big and hearty, and head and shoulders above nearly every man he went to see, when he gave them that cordial handclasp and laughed down upon them in that jovial way, every battle was half won. the thorough democracy of the man--that was what caught them! moreover, the value of every foot of ground along the traction line was to be enhanced; at every farmhouse was to be an official stopping point with a platform; cars were to be run at least every hour; it would be possible to go to town in either direction, perform an errand and get back quickly, at infinitesimal cost and without sparing a horse from the field; sidings were to be made everywhere, and wheat cars, whenever required, would be loaded directly from the fields, the cost of transportation being guaranteed to remain less than one half that charged by the railroad; express cars were to be inaugurated, and upon these, milk, butter, eggs, produce of all kinds, could be shipped at trifling expense. [illustration: never in all her married life had she enjoyed any position approaching this] while wallingford was enjoying this new _rôle_ he had created, his wife had also her taste of an entirely new life. she had no more than settled down in her new house than mrs. g. w. battles called upon her. following her lead came mrs. geldenstein and mrs. quig and mrs. dorsett and the other acknowledged social leaders of the town. true, they criticised her house, her gowns, her manner of speech, her way of doing up her hair, but, this solemn duty performed, they unanimously agreed that she was a distinct acquisition to the polite life of the place. never in all her married existence had she enjoyed any position approaching this. they had been nomads always, but now she had actual calls to make, actual, sober, formal friendships to cement, all these made possible by her husband's vast importance in the community; and upon wallingford's triumphant return from his campaign for the right of way he was surprised to find her grown so young and care-free. "i like this place, jim," she told him in explanation. "let's fix it to stay here always." he gazed down at her and laughed. "what have you been doing?" he inquired. "giving pink teas? getting full credit for your diamonds and those paris dresses and hats?" she laughed with him in sheer lightness of spirit. "it's more than that," she said. "it is because i'm a human being at last. i have a chance to be a real woman like other women, and it is nice to have everybody looking up to you as the biggest man in town, not even excepting mr. battles. why, you could go to the legislature from here! you could be elected to any office they have! you could even be governor, i think." he laughed again and shook his head. "there isn't enough in it," he assured her. "i'd rather promote a traction line. this is the best ever. why, fanny, the entire population, on both sides of the road for a solid hundred miles, is laying awake nights and turning handsprings by day, all just to make money for yours truly." "they owe it to you," she insisted. "look how much money you're making for them. the only thing i don't like about it is that you're away so much. you must manage, though, to be home the twenty-first. i'm going to give a lawn reception." "fine!" he exclaimed. "every little bit helps. it's a good business move," and he walked away, laughing. chapter xxi in which the sheep are sheared and skinned and their hides tanned an engineer appeared upon the scene and ran a line straight down the center of main street, amid intense excitement on the part of the populace; then he trailed off into the country, and farmers driving into town reported seeing him at work all along the line. it was strange the amount of business that farmers found in town of late. never before had so brisk a country trade been enjoyed at this season of the year, and the results were far-reaching. the honorable g. w. battles, on the occasion of one of wallingford's visits to the bank, invited him into the back room. "are you going to build that hotel, colonel?" he asked as soon as they were seated. "i scarcely think so," replied wallingford with apparent reluctance. "the traction line itself is going to take all my time to look after it, and i really do not see how i can take part in any other work of magnitude." "that lot, then," began mr. battles hesitatingly. "you know that property belongs to me. judge lampton, on the very day you first stopped here, came for a power of attorney to dispose of it. of course your option hasn't expired yet, but if you don't figure on using the ground i might consider the building of a hotel myself." "good investment," declared wallingford. "just pay me the difference in increased valuation and take over the site." "the difference in valuation?" mused mr. battles. "of course, i appreciate the fact that you are entitled to some of the wealth you produce for us. about how much do you think the property has increased?" "oh, about four times," estimated wallingford. "the lot's probably worth two thousand by now." he had looked for a vigorous objection to this, but when the other turned to a scratch pad and began figuring, he was sorry that he had not asked more, for presently mr. battles turned to him with: "well, in the way property has been going, i presume the lot _is_ worth about two thousand. you paid a twenty-five-dollar option to hold it for ninety days, and that, of course, you lose. you owe me five hundred for the property and i owe you two thousand." with no further words he took from his desk his private check book and wrote mr. wallingford an order for fifteen hundred dollars. then, as by a common impulse, they walked straight up to the office of the battlesburg _blade_. that evening's issue flamed anew. the big hotel was a certainty. it would be called the battles house. it would be four or five stories in height, and ground would be broken for it as soon as the plans could be prepared. in the same item were published the details of the real estate transaction. mr. battles had paid two thousand dollars for his own property, which, less than two months before, he had agreed to sell at five hundred dollars! battlesburg was waking up. mr. geldenstein and henry quig came to mr. wallingford with another proposition. did he intend to build the new opera house, or would he care to dispose of the property he had secured with that end in view? as a favor to them he would dispose of it. with the money he had received from mr. battles he had already taken up his option on this and other property, and he let the opera-house syndicate have it for three thousand, four times what it had cost him. in the papers of paris, london, dublin, berlin, rome, these things were retold, and the temperature of those places went up another degree or two. keeping his fingers carefully upon the pulse of the town, wallingford began to draw upon his capital and close in his options. men whose property he had been holding in leash, accepted that money with wailing and gnashing of teeth, but, within a week, whatever of selfish bitterness they might have held was forgotten in the fever of speculation; for by the end of that time there appeared on the hill just east of town a gang of men with horses and scrapers--and they began chipping off the top of that hill! wallingford was out there every morning in his buckboard and yellow leggings and yellow leather cap. the battlesburg _blade_ and all the other papers from lewisville to elliston blazed with the fact that actual construction work had begun upon the l., b. & e., and the time when trolleys would begin to whiz through the main streets of a dozen villages was calculated to a second. supply men, the agents of street car shops, of ironworks, of electrical machinery and the like, began flocking to battlesburg until even pete parsons woke up and raised his hotel rates; and the arrival of each one of them was heralded in colonel wallingford's invaluable adjunct, the evening _blade_. from these men wallingford secured "cuts," which he distributed gratis, and pictures of the palatial l., b. & e. cars appeared in all the papers along its right of way; photographs of the special wheat cars, of the freight and express cars, even of the through sleeping cars which would traverse the l., b. & e., carrying passengers from the western limit of the midland valley traction system to the most eastern point of the golden west traction system. ground for the opera house and the hotel was broken within a month, and, immediately upon this, small gangs of men were set to work grading near half a dozen different towns at once upon the projected route. the supreme moment of wallingford's planning had arrived, for now leaped into devouring flame the blaze that he had kindled. what had at first been a quickening of business became a craze. at a rapidly accelerating pace property began to change hands, with a leap in value at every change. men thought by day and dreamt by night of nothing but real estate speculation. a hundred per cent. could be made in a day by a lucky trade. a mere "suburban" lot that was purchased in the morning for two hundred and fifty dollars, by night could be sold for five hundred, and every additional transaction added fuel to the flames. the papers chronicled these deals as examples of the wonderful wealth that had suddenly descended upon their respective towns. money, long hoarded, leaped forth from its hiding places. everybody had money, everybody was making money. even the farmers made real estate purchases in the towns, not to hold, but to turn over. the craze for speculation had at last seized upon them all, and it was now that wallingford began to reap his harvest. a sale here, a sale there, with an occasional purchase to offset them, and he gradually began to unload, making it a rule never to close a deal that did not net him ten times the amount that he had invested. he was on the road constantly now, first in one village and then in another, ostensibly to look after details of the building of his route, but in reality to snap up money that was certain to be offered him for this or that or the other piece of property that he held. and all this time the people to whom he sold were raving of the wealth that he had made for them! battlesburg nor any other town stopped for a moment to consider that he had brought it not one cent of new wealth; that the money they were passing so feverishly from hand to hand was their own; that the values he had created for them were purely artificial. they would only realize this after he had gone, and then would come gradually the knowledge that, in place of creating wealth, he had lost it to them in the exact amount that he carried away. never in all his planning had it crossed his mind really to build a traction line. throughout a stretch of a hundred miles he had succeeded in starting a mad, unreasoning scramble for real estate, and he, having bought first to sell last, was the principal gainer. he was unloading now at flood-tide from one end of the line to the other, and the ebb would see all these thousands of people standing dazed and agape upon the barren beach of their hopes. some few shrewd ones would be ahead, but for the most part the "investors" would find themselves with property upon their hands bought at an absurd valuation that could never be realized. at no time did wallingford talk to his wife about his plans and intentions. she, like the rest of them, saw the work apparently pushing forward, and gave herself up to the social triumphs that were hers at last. she was supremely happy, and her lawn reception upon the twenty-first was, to quote the battlesburg _blade_, "the most exclusive and _recherché al fresco_ function of a decade," and wallingford, hurrying in late from the road, scarcely recognized his wife as, in a shimmering white gown, she moved among her guests with a flush upon her cheeks that heightened the sparkling of her eyes. the grounds had been wired, and electric lights of many colors glowed among the trees. on the porch an orchestra, recruited from the ranks of the battlesburg band, discoursed ambitious music, and wallingford smiled grimly as he thought of the awakening that must come within a week or so. he had reached the house unobserved, and paused for a moment outside the fence to view the scene as a stranger might. "i made it myself," he mused, with a strange perversion of pride. "i'm the big josh, all right; but it will be a shame to kick the props out from under all this giddy jubilee." his wife discovered him and came smiling to meet him, and on his way into the house to change his clothing tim battles met him at the porch steps with a cordial handshake. "well, how goes it, colonel?" asked the mayor. "we're listening now for the hum of the trolleys almost any day." "maybe you're deaf," retorted wallingford enigmatically, and laughed. "what will you do if the golden spike is never pounded in?" "drop dead," replied the other promptly. "every cent i could lay my hands on is invested in property for which i'm refusing all sorts of fancy prices, and i'm not going to sell any of it until your first car whizzes through main street. lucky you got back to-night. you'd regret it if you didn't hear my speech at the fountain dedication to-morrow." "is it up?" inquired wallingford perfunctorily. "up and ready to spout; and so is father." he said this because his father was approaching them, and all three of them laughed courteously at the sally. when wallingford, cleansed and dressed, came downstairs again, he was more jovially cordial than usual, even for him, and made his guests, as he always did, feel how incomplete the evening would have been without his presence; but after they had all gone he withdrew into the library, where, after she had seen to the setting of her house to rights, his wife joined him. he had taken a bottle of wine in with him, but it stood upon the table unopened, while he sat close by it, holding an unlighted cigar and gazing thoughtfully out of the window. she hesitated in the doorway and he looked up slowly. "come in, fanny," he invited her soberly. "sit down!" and opening the wine he poured out a glass for her. she sipped at it and set it back upon the table. "what's the matter, jim?" she asked solicitously. "don't you feel well? aren't things going right?" "never felt better in my life," he declared, "and things never panned out half so good. i guess i'm tired. i never pulled off anything near so big a game, but my end of the boom is over. to-day i sold the last piece of property i own, except this. of course, i've been too wise to sell any of the ground that was given to me for shops and depots and terminal stations. i'd lay myself open to the law if i did that; and the law and i are real chummy. i'm particular about the law. but i am rid of everything else, and, in the five months we have been here, i have cleaned up over two hundred thousand dollars." "the most money we ever did have!" she exclaimed. "is that in addition to what we had when we came here?" "all velvet," he assured her. "we have considerably over three hundred thousand now, all told; a full third of a million!" "i knew you could do it if you only set yourself to it," she declared. "and all of that fortune, for it is a fortune, jim, was made in a clean, honorable way." he looked up at her, puzzled. could it be possible that she did not understand? "_is_ a dollar honest?" he responded dryly, and he talked no more of business that night. the next morning ushered in a great day for battlesburg. early in the dawn two carpenters appeared in courthouse square and began putting up a platform; but, early as they were, boys were already on the ground, trying to peer beneath the mysterious swathings of the "veiled" fountain. dan hopkins set up his ice cream and candy stand, and hoarse jim moller appeared with his red and blue and green toy balloons. about nine o'clock the farm wagons came lumbering into town with the old folks. about ten, smart "rigs" drawn by real "high steppers" came speeding in ahead of whirling clouds of dust, and these rigs carried the young folks. by noon there were horses tied to every hitching-post, and genuine throngs shuffled aimlessly up one side of main street and down the other. there was the sound of shrieking whistles and of hoarse tin horns; there was the usual fight in front of len bradley's blacksmith shop. at one o'clock strange noises were wafted out upon the street from odd fellows' hall. the battlesburg brass band was practicing. at one-thirty courthouse square was jammed from fence to fence, and the street was black with people, the narrow lane between being constantly broken by perspiring mothers darting frantically after willie and susie and baby johnnie. za-a-a-am! at last here came the band, two and two, down the street, to the inspiriting strains of "marching through georgia," with will derks at the head in a shako two feet high and performing the most marvelous gyrations with a shining brass baton. throw it whirling right over a telephone wire, for instance, and never miss a stroke! right through the crowd went the band, and in about ten minutes it came back to the lively step of "the girl i left behind me." following the music came carriages, trailed off by ben kirby's gayly decorated grocery wagon; and in the first carriage of all were the honorable g. w. battles, the honorable timothy battles, judge lampton, and last, but not least, that master of golden plenty, colonel j. rufus wallingford! ah, there rode the progress and prosperity, the greatness and power, the initiative and referendum not only of battlesburg, but of a dozen once poor, now rich, villages between lewisville and elliston! amid mingled music and huzzas the noble assemblage took their places upon the platform, the gentlemen in the front row, the ladies in the rear; and, at one side, was a table and a chair for that thoroughly alive representative of the press, clint richards. the band stopped abruptly. the honorable g. w. battles had held up his hand for silence. he had the honor to introduce the speaker of the day, mayor timothy battles, but before doing so he would take up a trifle of their time, only a few brief moments, to congratulate his beloved fellow citizens upon the brave and patriotic struggle they had made to bring battlesburg to such a thriving condition that it could attract eastern capital; and in vivid, glowing, burning words he depicted the glorious future that awaited battlesburg when she should become the new queen of the prairies, the new metropolis of the middle west, the new arbiter of commerce and wealth! nobody escaped the honorable g. w. battles. from the farmer's hired hand who tilled the soil to the millionaire whose enterprise had made so much possible to them, he gave to every man his just and due meed of praise, and there was not one within hearing of his voice who did not ache at that very moment to vote for the honorable g. w. battles, for something, for anything! for full forty-five minutes he introduced the speaker of the day, sitting down at last amid deafening cheers that were so aptly described in that evening's issue of the battlesburg _blade_ as "salvos of applause." the honorable timothy battles, mayor of battlesburg, had also but very little to say. he also would not take up much of their time. it was merely his privilege to introduce a gentleman whom they all knew well, one who had come among them modestly and unobtrusively, asking nothing for himself, but bringing to them precious opportunity, of the golden fruits of which they had already been given more than a taste; a gentleman of masterful ability, of infinite resources, of magnificent plans, of vast accomplishment; in short, a gentleman who had made famous, across five counties and to thousands of grateful people, his own name as a synonym for all that was progressive, for all that was vigorous, for all that was ennobling--the name of colonel j. rufus wallingford! "_wallingford!_" that was the magic word for which they had waited. through all of the honorable g. w. battles' speech of introduction the name itself had not been used, although the address had bristled with allusions to the gentleman who bore it. in the same manner the honorable timothy battles, trained in the same effective school of oratory, had held back the actual name until this dramatic moment, when, with hand upraised, he shouted it down upon them and waited, smiling, for that tumultuous shout of enthusiasm which he knew to be inevitable. "wallingford!" courthouse square fairly rang with the syllables. patiently the honorable timothy battles awaited the subsidence of the storm he had so painstakingly created, smiling upon his beloved people with ineffable approval. not yet was the honorable timothy battles through, however. he had a few words to say about the political party which he had the honor to represent in his humble capacity, and how it had laid the ground work of the prosperity upon which their friend and benefactor, mr. j. rufus wallingford, had reared such a magnificent super-structure; and amid the deadly silence of enforced respect he made them a rousing political speech for a solid half hour, after which he really did introduce that splendid benefactor, colonel j. rufus wallingford! the colonel, all that a distinguished capitalist should be in externals, arose hugely in his frock coat of black broadcloth and looked at his watch. he was not an orator, he said; he was a mere business man, and as he had listened to the earnest remarks of his very dear friends, the honorable g. w. battles and the honorable timothy battles, he felt very humble indeed. he had done but little that he should deserve all the glowing encomiums that had been pronounced upon him. the energetic citizens who stood before him were themselves responsible for the new era of prosperity, and what trifle he had been able to add to it they were quite welcome to have. he only wished that it were more and of greater value. he would remember them, and how they had all worked hand in hand together, throughout life, and in the meantime he thanked them, and he thanked them again for their cordial treatment ever since that first and most happy moment that he had come among them. thanking them yet once more, he mopped his brow and sat down. again the honorable g. w. battles was upon his feet. he had now, beloved citizens, to call their attention to the beautiful and generous gift that had been made them by their esteemed fellow townsman, colonel j. rufus wallingford (great applause) and the honor, moreover, to introduce to them the charming wife of that esteemed fellow townsman, to whose fair hand should be committed the cord that was to reveal to battlesburg its first official glimpse of this splendid gift. the cord was placed in her hand; the battlesburg band, at a signal from the honorable g. w. battles, struck into "the star-spangled banner;" the wife of their esteemed fellow townsman, confused, yet secretly elated, gave a tug at the silken cord; the gray shroud that had enveloped the new bronze fountain fell apart; jim higgins, waiting at the basement window of the courthouse for his signal, turned on the cock and the water spouted high in air, a silver stream in the glorious sunlight of midday, falling back to the basin in a million glittering diamonds. at that moment, gathering these descriptive facts into words as he went, clint richards grabbed his notes from the table, and, springing over the railing of the platform, forced his way through the cheering, howling crowd to strike out on a lope for the office of the battlesburg _blade_. well, it was all over. the grand shakedown was accomplished; he had milked his milk; he had sheared his sheep and skinned them, and nailed their hides up to dry. to-morrow, or in two or three days at most, he would quietly disappear and leave all these reubens to wake up and find themselves waiting at the morgue. but it had been a skyrocket finish, anyhow, and he reflected upon this with a curious satisfaction as he made his slow progress to the street, stopping at every step to shake hands with those who crowded up to greet him as the incomparable human cornucopia. it was with a sigh of relief, however, that he finally reached home, where he could shut himself away from all this adulation. "honest, fanny," he confessed with an uneasy laugh, "it's coming too strong for me. i want to get away from it." "'away'!" she echoed. "i thought you liked all this. i do. i like the place and the people--and we amount to something here." "that's right, puff up," he bantered her. "i like that tight-vest feeling, too, but i can't keep it going, for the yeast's run out; so it's us for europe. next spring i'll try this game again. a couple more such deals, and then i'll jump on wall street and slam the breath out of it. i have an idea or two about that game----" he stopped abruptly, checked by the dawning horror in his wife's face, then he laughed a bit nervously. "go away from here: from the only place where we've ever had respect for ourselves and from others?" she faltered. "not build the traction line? make all this happiness i've had a theft that is worse than stealing money? jim! you can't mean it!" "you don't understand business," he protested. "this is all perfectly legal, and the traction line wouldn't make me as much in ten years as i've already cleared. i'd be a rank sucker----hello, who's this?" they were standing before the window of the library, and at that moment a road-spattered automobile, one of the class built distinctively for service, stopped in front of the door. out of it sprang a rather undersized man with a steel-gray beard and very keen gray eyes, but not at all impressive looking. his clothing was very dusty, but he did not even shake his ulster as he strode up to the porch and rang the bell. of all their household not even billy ricks had as yet returned, and wallingford himself opened the door. "is this the residence of colonel wallingford?" asked the man crisply. "i am mr. wallingford." "i am e. b. lott, of the midland valley traction system, which was yesterday consolidated with the golden west group. i dropped in to talk with you about your lewisville-elliston line." mrs. wallingford stopped for only a moment to gather the full significance of what this might mean, and then hurried upstairs. she was afraid to remain for fear she might betray her own eagerness. "step in," said wallingford calmly, and led the way to the library. chapter xxii j. rufus prefers farming in america to promoting in europe the battlesburg _blade_ was full of the big consolidation for a week following the providential visit of mr. lott. the lewisville, battlesburg and elliston traction line was not merely an assured fact--it had always been that since the coming of colonel wallingford--but it was now even a bigger and better thing than ever, the key to a vast network of trolleys which, with this connecting link, would have its ramifications across more than the fourth part of a continent. the only drawback to all this good was that they were to lose as a permanent resident their esteemed fellow citizen, colonel j. rufus wallingford--since he had sold his right of way, franchises, concessions and good will--and every issue of the _blade_, from news columns to editorials, was a tribute to all that this noble, high-spirited gentleman had done for battlesburg. a score of impulsive women kissed mrs. wallingford good-by at the train, while the honorable g. w. battles strove against billy ricks and judge lampton and clint richards for the honor of the last handshake with her husband; and after mrs. wallingford had fluttered her handkerchief from the car window for the last time, she pressed it to her eyes. "i'm going to keep my house there always," she said, when she had calmed, "and whenever we're tired of living at other places i want to come here--home! why, just think, jim, it's the only town you ever did business in that you can come back to!" he agreed with her in this, but, by and by, she found his shoulders heaving with his usual elephantine mirth. "what is it?" she asked him. "the joke's on me," he laughed. "the biggest stunt i ever pulled off, and even the baa-baas satisfied. why, fanny," and the surprise in his face was almost ludicrous, "it turned out to be a legitimate deal, after all!" that was the keynote of a startling new thought which came to him: that there might actually be more money in legitimate deals than in the dubious ones in which he had always engaged; and that thought he took to europe with him. it dwelt with him in the fogs of london and the sunshine of paris, at the roulette tables of monte carlo and on the canals of venice. it was an ambition-rousing idea, and with perfect confidence in his own powers he saw himself rising to a commanding position in american financial affairs. why, he already owned a round half million of dollars, and the mere momentum of this huge amount caused quite an alteration, not only in his mode of thought, but of life. heretofore he had looked upon such gain as he wrested from his shady transactions as a mere medium of quick exchange, which was to be turned into pleasure and lavish display as rapidly as possible. when he secured money his only impulse had been to spend all of it and then get more; but a half million! it was a sum large enough to represent earning capacity, and his always creative mind was busy with the thought of how he might utilize its power. after all, it was only another new and expensive pleasure that he desired, the pleasure of swaying big affairs, of enrolling himself upon the roster of the pseudo-great, and to that end, during his entire european trip he devoured american newspapers wherever he could find them, seeking for means by which he could increase his fortune to one of truly commanding proportions. in the meantime he was as lavish as ever, scattering money with a prodigal hand; but now it was with a different motive. he used it freely to secure the best to be found in the way of luxury, but no longer spent it merely to get rid of it. mrs. wallingford, content, viewed europe with appreciative eyes, and no empress swathed in silk and diadem-crowned ever took more graciously to the pomp with which their royal progress was attended wherever they went. wallingford's interest in foreign lands, however, had suddenly become a business one. restless as ever, he moved from place to place with rapid speed, and covered in two months the ground that ordinary tourists above the financial standing of "trippers" would think they had slighted in six. europe, as a matter of fact, did not please him at all. its laws were too strict, and he found in nearly every country he visited, that a man, unless he happened to be an innkeeper, was expected to actually deliver value received for every coin that came into his possession! this was so vastly different from the financial and commercial system to which he had been used that he became eager to get back home, and finally, having been visited over night with the inspiration for a brilliant new enterprise, he cabled his bankers to throw open a portion of his account to blackie daw, and to the latter gentleman cabled instructions to buy him a good farm in the middle of the wheat belt and fit it for his residence regardless of cost. then he started back for the land where the money grows. the task he had set blackie daw was very much to that gentleman's liking. there had arisen a sudden crisis in his "business affairs," that very morning, which demanded his immediate absence, not only from his office, but from any other spot in which the authorities might be able to find him, and, relieved of his dilemma in the nick of time by wallingford's money, he immediately put an enormous number of miles between himself and new york. a week he spent in search, and when he found the location which suited him, he set about his task of constructing a wallingford estate in great glee. he built a big new barn, the finest in the county; he put a new front to the house, bigger than the house itself had been; he brought on load after load of fine furniture; he stocked the big cellar with beer and wines and liquors of all kinds; he piped natural gas from twelve miles away and installed a gas furnace in the cellar and a gas engine in a workshop near the barn; he had electricians wire the place from cellar to attic, including the barn and the front porch and the trees in the front yard, and had a dynamo put in to be run by the gas engine and to illuminate the entire estate; he installed both line and house telephone systems, with extension phones wherever they would be handy, and, his work finished, surveyed it with much satisfaction. with the mail carrier stopping every day, with the traction line running right past the door, and with plenty of money, he decided that j. rufus would be able to get along, through the winter, at least. it was in the early part of september when j. rufus, clad according to his notions of what a gentleman farmer should look like--a rich brown velvet corduroy suit with the trousers neatly tucked into an eighteen-dollar pair of seal leather boots; a twenty-dollar broad-brimmed felt hat upon his head; a brown silk negligé shirt and a scarf of a little deeper shade in the "v" of his broad vest; an immense diamond gleaming from the scarf--arrived at the wallingford estate in a splendid equipage drawn by a pair of sleek bays. marching in time to the ringing "soldiers' chorus" from _faust_, blackie daw came down the walk from the wide colonial porch, carrying in his arms the huge phonograph from which the music proceeded, and greeted the laughing new master and mistress of the house with extravagant ceremony, while three country girls, a red-cheeked one, a thin one, and a mortally ugly one, stood giggling upon the porch. "welcome to wallingford villa!" exclaimed blackie, setting the blaring phonograph on the gate post, and, with his left hand tucked into his coat bosom, extending his right hand dramatically toward the porch. "welcome to your ancestral estates and adoring tenantry!" "fine business!" approved j. rufus, shaking hands with mr. daw. "invite the band in to have a drink, blackie." "hush!" admonished mr. daw in a hoarse stage whisper. "_not_ blackie. here, in hiding from the minions of uncle sam, i am horatio raven. remember the name." "what's the matter?" asked wallingford, detecting something real beneath all this absurdity. "i called at your place in boston, and found a corn doctor's sign on the door. i didn't mean to plant you out here." "plant is the word," responded mr. daw, "and i've rooted fast in the soil. i'm going to take out naturalization papers and grow a chin beard. you're harboring a fugitive, jim. the very day i got your letter from dear old lunnon, throwing open a section of your bank account and telling me to buy a farm, the postal authorities took it into their heads to stop all traffic in the yellow streak gold mine; also they wanted to mark one horace g. daw 'exhibit a,' and slam him in a cold cage for future reference; so i put on my green whiskers and snuck here to the far, far prairies." a certain amount of reserve had been quite noticeable in mrs. wallingford, and it was still apparent as she asked courteously: "where is mrs. daw?" "raven, if you please," he corrected her, and, in spite of his general air of flippancy, his face lengthened a trifle. "mrs. violet bonnie d.," he replied, "has returned to the original lemon box of which she was so perfect a product, and is now delighting a palpitating public in 'the jolly divorcée,' with a string of waiting johnnies from the stage door two blocks down broadway every night. let us mention the lady no more lest i use language." "what a pretty place you have made of this!" exclaimed mrs. wallingford, thawing into instant amiability. she had her own reasons for being highly pleased with the absence of violet bonnie daw. "pretty good," agreed the pseudo raven. "step inside and imagine you're in peacock alley at the waldorf." with considerable pride he led them inside. knowing wallingford as he did, he had spared no expense to make this house as luxurious as fine furnishings would render it, and, having considerable taste in wallingford's own bizarre way, he had accomplished rather flaming results. "and this," said he, throwing open a door upstairs, "is my own room; number twenty-three. upon the walls you will observe the mournful relics of a glorious past." the ceiling was papered with silver stock certificates of the late los pocos lead development company, the walls with dark green shares of the late mexican and rio grande rubber company, and dark red ones of the late st. john's blood orange plantation company, while walls and ceiling were divided by a frieze of the beautiful orange-colored stock certificates of the late yellow streak gold mining company. "my own little idea," he explained, as mrs. wallingford smiled her appreciation of the grim humor and went to her own dainty apartment to remove the stains of travel. "a reminder of the happy times that once were but that shall be no more. i have now to figure out another stunt for skinning the beloved public, and it's hard work. i wish i had your ability to dope up gaudy new boob-stringers. what are you going to do with the farm, anyhow?" "save the farmers," replied j. rufus wallingford solemnly. "the farmers of the united states are the most downtrodden people in the world. the real producers of the wealth of our great nation hold the bag, and the non-producers reap the golden riches of the soil. who rises in his might and comes to their rescue? who overturns the old order of things, puts the farmer upon a pinnacle of prosperity and places his well-deserved earnings beyond the reach of avarice and greed? who, i ask? j. rufus wallingford, the friend of the oppressed and the protector of the poor!" "good!" responded mr. daw, "and the way you say it it's worse than ever. i'm in on the play, but please give me a tip before the blow-off comes so i can leave the county." "the county is safe," responded mr. wallingford. "it's nailed down. you know me, blackie. the law and i are old college chums and we never go back on each other. i'm going to lift my money out of the chicago wheat pit, and when i get through that pit will be nothing but an empty hole. by this time next fall i'll have a clean, cool million, and then i can buy a stack of blue chips and sit in the big game. i'll never rest easy till i can hold a royal flush against morgan and rockefeller, and when i skin them all will be forgiven." "jump right in, jim; the water's fine for you just now. i'm not wised up yet to this new game of yours, but i've got a bet on you. go to it and win." "it's my day to break the bank," asserted j. rufus. "your bet's safe. go soak your watch and play me across the board." the telephone bell rang and blackie answered it. "come right over," he told the man at the other end of the wire. "mr. wallingford has arrived." he hung up the receiver and conducted wallingford downstairs into a well-lighted room that jutted out in an "l" from the house, with a separate outside entrance toward the rear. "observe the center of a modern agriculturist's web," he declaimed. "sit at your desk, farmer, for your working superintendent is about to call on you." j. rufus looked around him with vast appreciation. "i thought i had my own ideas about looking the part," he observed, "but you have me skinned four ways from the jack." in the center of the room was a large, flat-top desk, and upon it was an extension 'phone from the country line. on the other side was the desk 'phone and call board of a private line which connected the house, the barn, the granary and a dozen fields throughout the farm. on one side was a roll-top desk, and this was mr. daw's. opposite was another roll-top desk, for the "working superintendent." "at least one real farmer will have to be on the job," blackie explained, "and i nabbed hamlet tinkle, the prize of the neighborhood. he is a graduate of an agricultural college and all the farmers think he's a joke; but i have him doped out as being able to coax more fodder from unwilling mud than any soil tickler in these parts. he helped me select the farm library." with a grin at his own completeness of detail, mr. daw indicated the sectional bookcases, where stood, in neat rows, the government reports on everything agricultural, and treatises on every farm subject under the sun from the pip to the boll weevil. filing cases there were, and card indexes, and every luxury that has been devised for modern office work. with an amused air the up-to-date farmer was leafing through one after the other of the conglomeration of strange books, when hamlet tinkle was ushered in by the ever-grinning nellie. he was a tall, big-boned fellow, who had divided his time at the agricultural college between playing center rush and studying the chemical capabilities of various soils. just now, though the weather was bracing, he wore a broad-brimmed straw hat with the front turned up, and a flannel shirt with no coat or vest; and he had walked two miles, from the place at which he had telephoned, in twenty-two minutes. "mr. tinkle--mr. wallingford," said mr. daw. "mr. wallingford, this is the gentleman whom i recommend as your working superintendent." both mr. wallingford and mr. tinkle accepted this title with perfect gravity. "sit down," said wallingford cordially, and himself took his place at the flat-top desk in the midst of the telephones and push buttons. already he began to feel the exhilaration of his new _rôle_ and loomed broadly above his desk, from the waist line up a most satisfying revelation to mr. tinkle of what the farmer of the future ought to be like. "mr. raven tells me," observed wallingford, "that you are prepared to conduct this farm on scientific principles." "yes, sir," admitted mr. tinkle. "i shall be very glad to show to truscot county what can be done with advanced methods. father doesn't seem to care to have me try it on his farm. he says he made enough out of his own methods to send me to college, and i ought to be satisfied with that." "your father's all right, but maybe we can teach even him some new tricks. the first question, mr. tinkle, is how much money you want." "fifteen a week and board," responded mr. tinkle promptly. "the seasons through." "fine!" responded wallingford with a wave of the hand which indicated that fifty a week and board would have been no bar, as, indeed, it would not have been. "consider yourself engaged from the present moment. now let's get down to brass tacks, mr. tinkle. i don't know enough about farming to stuff up the middle of a cipher; i don't know which end down you plant the grains of wheat; but wheat is what i want, and nothing but wheat!" mr. tinkle shook his head. "with mr. raven's permission i have been making tests of your soil," he observed. "your northeast forty is still good for wheat and will make a good yield, possibly thirty bushels, but the southwest forty will do well if it gives you eight to ten bushels without thorough fertilization; and this will be much more expensive than planting it in some other crop for a couple of years." "jolly it any old way to get wheat," directed wallingford. "wheat is what i want; all you can get." mr. tinkle hesitated. he made two or three false starts, during which his auditors waited with the patience born to those who lie in crouch for incautious money, and then displayed his altruistic youth. "i have to tell you," he blurted. "you have here one hundred and sixty acres. suppose that you could get the high average of thirty bushels per acre from it. suppose you got a dollar a bushel for that wheat, your total income would still be less than five thousand dollars. you are hiring me as manager, and you will need other hands; you have a machinist, who is also to be your chauffeur, i understand; you have three house servants, and upon the scale you evidently intend to conduct this farm and your residence i judge that you cannot get along for less than eight to ten thousand a year. i am bound to tell you that i cannot see a profit for you." "which of these buttons calls one of the girls?" asked wallingford. "the third button is nellie," replied mr. daw gravely, and touched it. the rosy-cheeked girl appeared instantly, on the point of giggling, as she had been from the moment mr. daw first engaged her. "bring in my grip from the hall," mr. wallingford directed; "the one with the labels on it." this brought in, mr. wallingford extracted from it a huge bundle of documents bound with rubber bands. unfolded, they proved to be united states government bonds, shares of railroad stocks and of particularly stable industrials, thousands of dollars worth of them. for mr. tinkle's inspection he passed over his bank book, showing a balance of one hundred and fifty thousand. "wheat," cheerfully lied mr. wallingford, with a wave of his hand; "all wheat! half a million dollars!" "speculation?" charged mr. tinkle, a trace of sternness in his voice. "investment," protested wallingford. "i never sold; i bought, operating always upon margin sufficient for ample protection, and always upon absolute information gathered directly from the centers of production. this farm is for the purpose of bringing me more thoroughly in touch with the actual conditions that make prices. so, as you see, mr. tinkle, the trifling profit or loss of this venture in a business way is a mere bagatelle." both mr. daw and mr. tinkle were regarding mr. wallingford with awe and admiration, but for somewhat different reasons. mr. tinkle, elated, went home to get his clothes and books, and on the way he put into breathless circulation the fact that the new proprietor of the old spicer place was the greatest man on earth, with the possible exception of theodore roosevelt, and that he had already made half a million dollars in wheat! he had seen the money! "i pass," observed mr. daw to mr. wallingford. "i'm in the kindergarten class, and i take off my lid to you as being the most valuable combination known to the history of plain or fancy robbery. you have them all beat twice around the track. you make an amateur of ananias and a piker of judas iscariot." chapter xxiii a corner in farmers is formed and it beholds a most wonderful vision it was already high time for fall planting operations on the wallingford estate, and truscot county was a-quiver with what might be the result of the new-fangled test-tube farming that ham tinkle was to inaugurate. from the first moment of his hiring that young enthusiast plunged into his work with a fervor that left him a scant six hours of sleep a night. in the meantime j. rufus took a flying trip to chicago, where he visited one broker's office after another. those places with fine polished woodwork and brass trimmings and expensive leather furniture he left without even introducing himself--such stage settings were too much in his own line of business for him not to be suspicious of them--but, finally, he wandered into the office of fox & fleecer, a dingy, poorly lighted place, where gas was kept burning on old-fashioned fixtures all day long, where the woodwork was battered and blackened, where the furniture was scratched and hacked and bound together with wires to keep it intact, and where, on a cracked and splintered blackboard, one small and lazy boy posted, for a score or so of rusty men past middle age, the fluctuating figures of the great gamble. mr. fox, a slow-spoken and absolutely placid gentleman of benevolent appearance and silvery mutton-chop whiskers, delicately blended the impressions that while he was indeed flattered by this visit from so distinguished a gentleman, his habitual conservatism would not allow him to express his delight. "how much money can you be trusted with?" asked wallingford bluntly. "i would not say, sir," rejoined mr. fox with no resentment whatever. "we have been thirty years in these same offices, and we never yet have had enough in our hands to make it worth while for us to quit business. permit me to show you our books." his ledger displayed accounts running as high as two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that had been intrusted to their care by single individuals. but thirty years in business at the same old stand! he insisted gently upon this point, and wallingford nodded his head. "before i'm through i'll make all these bets look like cigar money," he asserted, "but just now i'm going to put fifty thousand in your hands, and i want it placed in exactly this way: monday morning, with ten thousand dollars buy me one hundred thousand bushels of december wheat on a ten-cent margin. no more money will be put up on this deal, so place a stop-loss order against it. if wheat drops enough to wipe out the ten thousand dollars, all right; say nothing and report the finish of the transaction to me. i'll do my own grinning. if wheat goes up enough to leave me five cents a bushel profit, clear of commissions, close the deal and remit. on the following monday, if wheat has gone up from the quotations of to-day, sell one hundred thousand bushels more at ten cents margin and close at a sufficient drop to net me five cents clear. if it has gone down, buy. do this on five successive mondays and handle each deal separately. get me one winning out of five. that's all i want." mr. fox considered thoughtfully for a moment, carefully polishing his bald, pink scalp around and around with the palm of his hand. he gave the curious impression of being always engaged with some blandly interesting secret problem along with the business under consideration. "very well, sir," he observed. "fox & fleecer never makes any promises, but if you will put your instructions into writing i will place them in the hands of our mr. fleecer, who conducts our board operations. he will do the best he can for you." mr. wallingford looked about him for a stenographer. there was none employed here, and, sitting down to the little writing table which was pointed out to him, he made out the instructions in long hand, while mr. fox polished away at his already glistening pate, still working at that blandly interesting secret problem. ten days later, at the test-tube farm, arrived a report from messrs. fox & fleecer, inclosing their check for fifteen thousand dollars. wheat, in the week following wallingford's purchase, had fortunately gone up nearly six cents. this check, and the accompanying statement of the transaction which had brought it forth, wallingford showed to ham tinkle, quite incidentally, of course, and ham, in awe and enthusiasm, confided the five-thousand-dollar winning to hiram hines, who spread the report through truscot county that judge wallingford had already made fifteen thousand dollars in wheat since he had come among them. the savings of an ordinary lifetime! the amount was fifty thousand when it reached mapes county. two weeks later messrs. fox & fleecer reported on the second of wallingford's deals. wheat sold at ninety-four had dropped to eighty-eight. luck was distinctly with j. rufus wallingford. "why, oh, why, do cheap skates sell gold bricks and good come-on men waste their talents on broadway!" wailed blackie daw. "but what's the joke, j. rufus? i see your luck, but where do the surrounding farmers get in? or where do you get in on the surrounding farmers? show me. i'm an infant." "you couldn't understand it, blackie," said j. rufus with condescending kindness. "the mere fact that you look on these pocket-change winnings as real money lets you out. wait till i spring the big game. to-morrow night you shall attend this winter's opening meeting of the philomathean literary society at the willow creek schoolhouse, and observe the methods of a real bread winner." for the memorable occasion that he had mentioned, wallingford wore a fur-lined overcoat and quadruple-woven blue silk sweater, and, being welcomed with great acclaim, proposed for debate that burning question: "resolved: that the farmer is a failure as a business man." with much stamping and pawing of the air that subject was thrashed out by abe johnson and dan price for the affirmative, and cal whorley and ed wiggin for the negative. the farmer as a gold-brick purchaser, as prey for every class of tradesmen, as a producer who received less net profit than any other from the capital and labor invested, was presented to himself by men who knew their own grievances well, and the affirmative was carried almost unanimously. flushed with pleasure, beaming with gratification, the most advanced farmer of them all arose in his place and requested of the worthy chairman the privilege to address the meeting, a privilege that was granted with pleasure and delight. it was an eventful moment when j. rufus wallingford stalked up the middle aisle, passed around the red-hot, cannon-ball stove and ascended the rostrum which had been the scene of so many impassioned addresses; and, as he turned to face them from that historic elevation, he seemed to fill the entire end of the schoolroom, to blot out not only the teacher's desk but the judges' seats, the blackboard and the four-colored map of the united states that hung upon the wall behind him. he was a fine-looking man, a solid-looking man, a gentleman of wealth and culture, who, unspoiled by good fortune, was still a brother to all men. already he had gained that enviable reputation among them. friends and neighbors and fellow-farmers, it was startling to reflect that the agriculturist was the only producer in all the world who had no voice in the price which was put upon his product! the manufacturer turned out his goods and set a price upon them and the consumer had to pay that price. and how was this done? by the throttling of competition. and how had competition been throttled? by consolidation of all the interests in any particular line of trade. iron and steel were all controlled by one mighty corporation against which could stand no competitor except by sufferance; petroleum and all its by-products were in the hands of another, and each charged what it liked. the farmer alone, after months of weary, unending toil, of exposure in all sorts of weather, of struggle against the whims of nature and against an appalling list of possible disasters, himself hauled his output to market and meekly accepted whatever was offered him. prices on every product of the soil were dictated by a clique of gamblers who, in all probability, had never seen wheat growing nor cattle grazing. friends and neighbors and fellow-farmers, this woeful condition must end! they must coöperate! once compacted the farmers could stand together as firm as a rock, could demand a fair and reasonable and just price for their output, and get it. to-day wheat was quoted at ninety-four cents on the chicago board of trade. if the farmer, however, secured eighty-two at his delivery point in actual cash he was doing well. there was no reason why the farmers should not agree to establish a standing price of a dollar and a half a bushel for wheat; and that must be their slogan. wheat at a dollar and a half! he was vitally interested in this project, and he was willing to spend his life and fortune for it; and, in the furtherance of it, he invited his friends and neighbors and fellow-farmers to assemble at his house on the following saturday night and discuss ways and means to bring this enormous movement to a practical working basis. incidentally he _might_ find a bite and a sup and a whiff of smoke to offer them. all those who would attend would please rise in their seats. as one man they arose, and when j. rufus wallingford, glowing with the immensity of his noble project, stepped down from that platform, the walls of the willow creek schoolhouse echoed and reechoed with the cheers which followed his speech. the farmers' commercial association! there had been farmers' affiliations without number, with motives political, economical, educational; alliances for the purchasing of supplies at wholesale and for every other purpose under the sun, but nothing like this, for, to begin with, the farmers' commercial association had no initiation fee and no dues, and it had for its sole and only object the securing of a flat, uniform rate of a dollar and a half a bushel for wheat. the first meeting, attended by every able-bodied tiller of the soil in truscot county and some even from mapes county, was so large that there was no place in the wallingford homestead to house it, and it had to be taken out to the great new barn, where, in the spacious aisle between stalls and mows, enthusiasm had plenty of room to soar to the rafters. one feature had stilled all doubts: j. rufus wallingford alone was to pay! with a whoop the association was organized, judge wallingford was made its president, and with great enthusiasm was authorized to go ahead and spend all of his own money that he cared to lay out for the benefit of the association. only one trifling duty was laid upon the members. president wallingford introduced an endless chain letter. it was brief. it was concise. it told in the fewest possible words just why the farmers' commercial association had been formed and what it was expected to do, laying especial stress upon the fact that there were to be no initiation fees and no dues, no money to be paid for anything! all that the members were to do was to join, and when enough were in, to demand one dollar and a half for their wheat. it was a glittering proposition, for there was no trouble and no expense and no risk, with much to gain. every one of the ninety-odd who gathered that night in wallingford's barn was to write three or more of these letters to wheat-growing acquaintances, and each recipient of a letter was told that the only thing which need be done to enroll himself as a member of the order was to write three more such letters and send in his name to horatio raven, secretary. horatio raven himself was there. there was a barrel of good, hard cider on tap in the barn, and every few minutes mr. raven could be seen conducting one or two acquaintances quietly over to the cellar, where there were other things on tap. cigars were passed around, and the good cheer which was provided became so inextricably mingled with the enthusiasm which had been aroused, that no farmer could tell which was which. it only sufficed that when they went away each one was profoundly convinced that j. rufus wallingford was the moses who should lead the farmers of america out of their financial wilderness. during the next two or three days nearly three hundred letters left truscot and mapes counties, inviting nearly three hundred farmers in the great wheat belt, extending from the rockies to the appalachians, to take full sixty per cent. more for their produce than the average price they had always been receiving, to invite others to receive like benefits, and all to accept this boon without money and without price. it was personal solicitation from one man to another who knew him, and the first flood that went out reached every wheat-growing state in the union. within a week, names and requests for further information began pouring in upon horatio raven, secretary, and the card index drawers in the filing cabinet, originally bought in jest, became of actual service. one, then two, then three girls were installed. a pamphlet was printed explaining the purpose of the farmers' commercial association, and these were sent to all "members," j. rufus wallingford furnishing both the printing and the postage. through the long winter the president of that great association was constantly upon the road, always in his corduroy suit and his broad felt hat, with his trousers tucked neatly into his seal-leather boots. his range was from pennsylvania to nebraska and from minnesota to texas, and everywhere his destination was some branch nucleus of the farmers' commercial association where meetings had been arranged for him. each night he addressed some body of skeptical farmers who came wondering, who saw the impressive and instantly convincing "judge" wallingford; who, listening, caught a touch of that magnetic thrill with which he always imbued his auditors, and who went away enthusiastic to carry to still further reaches the great work that he had planned. by the holiday season he had visited a dozen states and had addressed nearly a hundred sub-organizations. in each of these he gave the chain letters a new start, and the december meeting of the central organization of the farmers' commercial association was also a christmas celebration in the barn of that progressive and self-sacrificing and noble farmer, j. rufus wallingford. it was a huge "family affair," held two nights before christmas so as not to interfere with the baptist church at three roads or the presbyterian church at miller's crossing, and the great barn was trimmed with wreaths and festoons of holly from floor to rafters. at one end was a gigantic christmas tree, from the branches of which glowed a myriad of electric lights and sparkled innumerable baubles of vivid coloring and metallic luster. handsome presents had been provided for every man, woman and child, and down the extent of the wide center had been spread two enormous, long tables upon which was placed food enough to feed a small army; huge turkeys and all that went with them. at the head of the ladies' table sat mrs. wallingford, glittering in her diamonds, the first time she had worn them since coming into this environment, and at the head of the men's table, resplendent in a dinner coat and with huge diamond studs flashing from his wide, white shirt bosom, sat the giver of all these bounties, judge j. rufus wallingford, president of the vast farmers' commercial association. he was flushed with triumph, and he told them so at the proper moment. beyond his most sanguine hopes the farmers' commercial association had spread and flourished in every state, nay, in every community where wheat was grown, and the time was rapidly approaching when the farmer, now turned business man, would be able to get the full value of his investment of money, time and toil. moreover, they would destroy the birds of prey, feathers, bones and beaks, fledgelings, eggs and nests. around the table, at this point, horatio raven, secretary, passed a sheaf of reports upon the various successful deals that wallingford had made, each one showing a profit of five thousand dollars on a ten-thousand-dollar investment. the secret facts of the case were that fortune had favored wallingford tremendously. by one of those strange runs of luck which sometimes break the monotony of persistent gambling disasters, he had won not less than five out of every six of the continuous deals intrusted to fox & fleecer. the failures he kept to himself, and ham tinkle added to the furore that the proofs of this success created by rising in his place and advising them how, upon wallingford's certain and sure advance information of the market, he himself had been able to turn his modest little two hundred dollars into seven hundred during the past three months, with the profits still piling up. but j. rufus wallingford, resuming, saw such profits vanishing in the future, for by the aid of the farmers' commercial association he intended to wipe out the iniquitous grain and produce exchange, and, in fact, all gambling in food products throughout the united states. the scope of the farmers' commercial association was much broader, much more far-reaching than even he had imagined when he at first conceived it. when they were ready they would not only establish a firm cash basis for wheat, but they would wipe this festering mass of corruption, called the board of trade, off the face of the earth by the simple process of taking all its money away from it. with their certain knowledge of what the price of wheat would be, when the time was ripe they would go into the market and, themselves, by their aggregate profits, would break every man who was in the business of manipulating prices on wheat, on oats and corn and live stock. why, nearly one million names were now enrolled in the membership of the association, and to these million names circulars explaining in detail the plans of the organization had been mailed at a cost in postage alone of nearly ten thousand dollars. this expense he had cheerfully borne himself, in his devotion to the great work of reformation. not one penny had been paid by any other member of the organization for the furtherance of this project. he had spent nearly twenty thousand dollars in travel and other expenses, but the market had paid for it, and he was not one penny loser by his endeavors. even if he were, that would not stop him. he would sell every government bond and every share of industrial and railroad stock that he owned, he would even mortgage his farm, if necessary, to complete this organization and make it the powerful and impregnable factor in agricultural commerce that he had intended it to be. it was his dream, his ambition, nay, his determined purpose, to leave behind him this vast organization as an evidence that his life had not been spent in vain; and if he could only see the wheat gamblers put out of that nefarious business, and the farmers of the united states coming, after all these toiling generations, into their just and honest dues, he would die with peace in his heart and a smile upon his lips, even though he went to a pauper's grave! there were actual tears in his eyes as he closed with these words, and his voice quivered. from the foot of the table blackie daw was watching with a curious smile that was almost a sardonic grin. from the head of the parallel table mrs. wallingford was watching him with a pallor that deepened as he went on, but no one noticed these significant indications, and as j. rufus wallingford sat down a mighty cheer went up that made every branch of the glittering christmas tree dance and quiver. he was a wonderful man, this wallingford, a genius, a martyr, a being made in his entirety of the milk of human kindness and brotherly love; but this rapidly growing organization that he had formed was more wonderful still. they could see as plain as print what it would do for them; they could see even plainer than print how, with the certain knowledge of the price to which wheat would eventually rise, they could safely dabble in fictitious wheat themselves, and by their enormous aggregate winnings, obliterate all boards of trade. it was a conception titanic in its immensity, perfect in its detail, amazing in its flawlessness, and not one among them who listened but went home that night--j. rufus wallingford's seal-leather pocketbook in his pocket, j. rufus wallingford's box of lace handkerchiefs on his wife's lap, j. rufus wallingford's daintily dressed french doll in his little girl's arm, j. rufus wallingford's toy engine in his little boy's hands--but foresaw, not as in a dream but as in a concrete reality that needed only to be clutched, the future golden success of the farmers' commercial association; and on the forehead of that success was emblazoned in letters of gold: "$ . wheat!" chapter xxiv the farmers' commercial association does terrific things to the board of trade the holidays barely over, wallingford was upon the road again, and until the first of may he spent his time organizing new branches, keeping the endless chain letters booming and taking subscriptions for his new journal, the _commercial farmer_, a device by which he had solved the grave problem of postage. the _commercial farmer_ was issued every two weeks. it was printed on four small pages of thin paper, and to make it second-class postal matter a real subscription price was charged--five cents a year! for this he paid postage of one cent a pound, and there were eighty copies to the pound. he could convey his semi-monthly message to a million people at a cost of one hundred and twenty-five dollars, as against the ten thousand dollars it would cost him to mail a million letters with a one-cent stamp upon them. and five cents a year was enough to pay expenses. on the first of may, the enterprising promoter, who seriously aspired now to become a financial star of the first magnitude, took a swift thousand-mile journey to the offices of fox & fleecer, where mr. fox, polishing, as always, at his glazed scalp, was still intent upon that bland but perplexing secret problem. mr. wallingford, as a preliminary to conversation, drew his chair up to the opposite side of the desk and laid upon it a check book and a package of documents with a rubber band around them. "four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and negotiable securities," he stated, "and all to buy september wheat." mr. fox said nothing, but unconsciously his palm went to the top of his head. "the september option is at this moment quoted at eighty-seven and one-eighth cents," went on mr. wallingford. "could it possibly go lower than sixty-two?" "it is the invariable rule of fox & fleecer," said mr. fox slowly, "never to give advice nor to predict any future performances of wheat. wheat can go to any price, up or down. i may add, however, that it has been several years since the september option has touched the low level you name." "well, i'm going to bet this four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars that it don't go as low as sixty-two," retorted wallingford stiffening. "i want you to take this wad and invest it in september wheat right off the bat, at the market, on a twenty-five cent margin, which covers one million, seven hundred thousand bushels." mr. fox, his eyes hypnotically glued upon the little stack of securities which represented four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, and a larger commission than his firm had ever in all its existence received in one deal, filled his lungs with a long, slow intake of air which he strove to make as noiseless as possible. "you must understand, mr. wallingford," he finally observed, "that it will be impossible to buy an approximate two million bushels of the september option at this time without disturbing the market and running up the price on yourself, and it may take us a little time to get this trade launched. probably five hundred thousand bushels can be placed at near the market, and then we will have to wait until a favorable moment to place another section. our mr. fleecer, however, is very skillful in such matters and will no doubt get a good price for you." "i understand about that," said wallingford, "and i understand about the other end of it, too. i want to turn this four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars into a clean million or i don't want a cent. september wheat will go to one dollar and a quarter." mr. fox reserved his smile until mr. wallingford should be gone. at present he only polished his pate. "that's when you would probably fall down," continued wallingford; "when september wheat reaches a dollar and a quarter. if you try to throw this seventeen hundred thousand bushels on the market you will break the price, unless on the same day that you sell it you can buy the same amount for somebody else. will that let you get the price without dropping it off ten or fifteen cents?" "fox & fleecer never predict," said mr. fox slowly, "but in a general way i should say that if we were to buy in as much as we sold, the market would probably be strengthened rather than depressed." "all right," said wallingford. "now i have another little matter to present to you." from his pocket he drew a copy of the _commercial farmer_, the pages scarcely larger than a sheet of business letter paper. "i want an advertisement from you for the back page of this. just a mere card, with your name and address and the fact that you have been in business at the same location for thirty years; and at the bottom i want to put: 'we handle all the wheat transactions of j. rufus wallingford.'" [illustration: a larger commission than fox and fleecer had ever received in one deal] of course in a matter so trifling mr. fox could not refuse so good a customer, and j. rufus departed, well satisfied, to work and wait while nature helped his plans. across a thousand miles of fertile land the spring rains fell and the life-giving sun shone down; from the warm earth sprang up green blades and tall shoots that through their hollow stems sucked the life of the soil, and by a transformation more wonderful than ever conceived by any magician, upon the stalks there swelled heads of grain that nodded and yellowed and ripened with the advancing summer. from the windows of pullman cars, as he rode hither and yonder throughout this rich territory in the utmost luxury that travelers may have, j. rufus wallingford, the great liberator of farmers, watched all this magic of the almighty with but the one thought of what it might mean to him. back on the wallingford farm, blackie daw and his staff of assistants, now half-a-dozen girls, kept up an ever-increasing correspondence. ham tinkle was jealous of the very night that hid his handiwork for a space out of each twenty-four hours, and begrudged the time that he spent in sleep. during every waking moment, almost, he was abroad in his fields, and led his neighbors, when he could, to see his triumph, for never had the old spicer farm brought forth such a yield, and nowhere in truscot county or in mapes county could such fields be shown. upon these broad acres the wheat was thicker and sturdier, the heads longer and larger and fuller of fine, fat grain than anywhere in all the region round. the farmers' commercial association, a "combination in restraint of trade" which was well protected by the fear-inspiring farmer vote, met monthly, and wallingford ran in to the meetings as often as he could, though there was no need to sustain their enthusiasm; for not only was the plan one of such tremendous scope as to compel admiration, but nature and circumstances both were kind. there came the usual early rumors of a drought in kansas, of over-much rotting rain in the dakotas, of the green bug in oklahoma, of foreign wars and domestic disturbances, and these things were good for the price of wheat, as they were exaggerated upon the floors of the great boards of trade in chicago and new york. through these causes alone september wheat climbed from eighty-seven to ninety, to ninety-five, to a dollar, to a dollar-five; but in the latter part of july there came a new and an unexpected factor. dollar-and-a-half wheat had been the continuous slogan of the farmers' commercial association, and every issue of the _commercial farmer_ had dwelt upon the glorious day when that should be made the standard price. now, in the mid-july issue, the idea was driven home and the entire first page was given up to a great, flaming advertisement: hold your wheat! september wheat will go to $ . ! don't sell a bushel of it for less! the result was widespread and instantaneous. in oklahoma a small farmer drove up to the elevator and asked: "what's wheat worth to-day?" "a dollar, even," was the answer. "this is all you get from me at that price," said the farmer, "and you wouldn't get this if i didn't need fifty dollars to-day. take it in." "think wheat's going higher?" asked the buyer. "higher! it's going to a dollar and a half," boasted the farmer. "i got twelve hundred bushels at home, and nobody gets it for a cent less than eighteen hundred dollars." "you'd better see a doctor before you drive back," advised the elevator man, laughing. over in kansas at one of the big collecting centers the telephone bell rang. "what's cash wheat worth to-day?" "dollar-one." "a dollar-one! i'll hold mine a while." "better take this price while you can get it," advised the shipper. "big crop this year." "a dollar and a half's the price," responded the farmer on the other end of the wire. "who is this?" asked the shipper. "j. w. harkness." the man rubbed his chin. harkness owned five hundred acres of the best wheat land in kansas. in south dakota, on the same day, two farmers who had brought in their wheat drove home with it, refusing the price offered with scorn. in pennsylvania not one-tenth of the grain was delivered as on the same date a year before, and the crop was much larger. in ohio, in indiana, in illinois, in iowa, in nebraska, all through the wheat belt began these significant incidents, and to brokers in chicago and new york were wired startling reports from a hundred centers: farmers were delivering no wheat and were holding out for a dollar and a half! "you can scare the entire board of trade black in the face with a hallowe'en pumpkin," wallingford had declared to blackie daw. "say 'boo!' and they drop dead. step on a parlor match and every trader jumps straight up into the gallery. four snowflakes make a blizzard, and a frost on state street kills all the crops in texas." results seemed to justify his summing up. on that day wheat jumped ten cents within the last hour before closing, and ten thousand small speculators who had been bearing the market, since they could see no good reason for the already high price, were wiped out before they had a chance to protect their margins. on the following day a special edition of the _commercial farmer_ was issued. it exulted, it gloated, it fairly shrieked over the triumph that had already been accomplished by the farmers' commercial association. the first minute that it had shown its teeth it had made for the farmers of the united states ten cents a bushel on four hundred million bushels of wheat! it had made for them in one hour forty million dollars net profit, and this was but the beginning. the farmers themselves, by standing together, had already raised the price of wheat to a dollar-fifteen, and dollar-and-a-half wheat was but a matter of a few days. on the boards of trade it would go even higher. there would be no stopping it. it would soar to a dollar and a half, to a dollar-seventy-five, to two dollars! speculation was a thing ordinarily to be discouraged, yet under these circumstances the farmers themselves should reap the wealth that was now ripe. they should take out of "wall street" and la salle street their share of the money that these iniquitous centers of financial jugglery had taken from the agricultural interests of the country for these many years. they themselves knew now, by the events of one day, that the farmers' commercial association was strong enough to accomplish what it had meant to accomplish, and now was the time to get into the market. it should be not only the pleasure and profit of every farmer, but the duty of every farmer, to hit the gamblers a fatal blow by investing every loose dollar, on safe and conservative margins, in this certain advance of wheat. on the last page of this issue of the _commercial farmer_ appeared for the first time the advertisement of fox & fleecer, and copies went to a million wheat growers. the response was many-phased. farmers who were convinced of this logic, and those who were not, rushed their wheat to market at the then prevailing price, not waiting for the dollar and a half, but turning their produce into cash at once. to offset this sudden release of grain, buying orders poured into the markets, the same cash that had been received from the sale of actual wheat being put into margins upon fictitious wheat. prices fluctuated in leaps of five and ten cents, and the pit went crazy. it was a seething, howling mob, tossing frenzied trades back and forth until faces were red and voices were hoarse; and the firm of fox & fleecer, long noted for its conservative dealing and almost passed by in the course of events, suddenly became the most important factor on the floor. on the ticker that on the first of may he had installed in his now mortgaged house upon his mortgaged farm, wallingford saw the price mount to a dollar and a quarter, drop to a dollar-eighteen, jump to a dollar-twenty-two, back to twenty, up to twenty-five, back to twenty-two, up to twenty-eight. this last quotation he came back into the room to see after he had on his hat and ulster, and while his automobile, carrying blackie daw and mrs. wallingford, was spluttering and quivering at the door. then he started for chicago, leaving his neighbors back home to keep his telephone in a continuous jingle. hiram hines met len miller in the road, for example. both were beaming. "what's the latest about wheat?" asked len. "a dollar twenty-eight and seven-eighths," replied hiram; "at least it was about an hour ago when i telephoned to judge wallingford's house. suppose its climbing for a dollar-thirty by now. how much you got, len?" "twenty thousand bushels," answered len jubilantly. "bought it at a dollar twenty-four on a five-cent margin, and got that much profits already, nearly. raised a thousand dollars on my sixty acres and have made nearly a thousand on it in two weeks; with judge wallingford's own brokers, too." "so's mine," exulted hiram. "paid a dollar-twenty-six, but i'm satisfied. when it reaches a dollar-forty i'll quit." ezekiel tinkle walked six miles to see his son ham at the wallingford place. "jonas whetmore's bragging about two thousand dollars he's made in a few days in this wheat business," he stated. "i don't rightly understand it, hamlet. how about it? i don't believe in speculating, but jonas says this ain't speculating, and if there's such a lot of money to be made i want some." "we all do," laughed ham tinkle, who, since he had "made good" with his new-fangled farming, was accepted as an equal by his father. "i had two hundred when i started. it's a thousand now, and will be five thousand before i quit. bring your money to me, father, and i'll show you how to get in on the profits. but hurry. how much can you spare?" "well," figured ezekiel, "there's that fifteen hundred i've saved up for bobbie's schooling; then when i sell my wheat----" "don't do that!" interposed his son quickly. "wheat is going up so rapidly because the growers are holding it for a dollar and a half. every man who sells his now, weakens the price that much." "is _that_ the way of it!" exclaimed the old man, enlightened at last, and he kicked reflectively at a piece of turf. "to make money out of this all the farmers must hold their wheat for a dollar and a half! say, hamlet; charlie granice sold his wheat at a dollar-six to go into this thing. adam spooner and burt powers and charlie dorsett all sold theirs, and they're all members of this association. ham, i'm going right home to sell my wheat." "they are traitors!" charged hamlet angrily. "i won't send that money away for you." "send it away!" retorted the old man. "not by a danged sight you won't! i'll sell my wheat right now while it's high, and put my money in the bank along with the fifteen hundred i've got there; and you go ahead and be your own fool. i know advice from your old daddy won't stop you." not many, however, were like old man tinkle, and j. rufus wallingford, as he sped toward chicago, was more self-congratulatory than he had ever been in all his life. a million dollars! a real million! why, dignity could now attach to the same sort of dealing that had made him forever avoid the cities where he had "done business." heretofore his operations had been on such a small scale that they could be called "common grafting," but now, with a larger scope, they would be termed "shrewd financiering." it was entirely a matter of proportion. a million! well, he deserved a million, and the other millions that would follow. didn't he look the part? didn't he act it? didn't he live it? "me for the big game!" he exulted. "watch me take my little old cast-iron dollars into wall street and keep six corporations rotating in the air at one and the same time. who's the real napoleon of finance? me; judge wallingford, esquire!" "pull the safety-rope and let out a little gas, j. rufus," advised blackie daw dryly. "your balloon will rip a seam. the boys on wall street were born with their eye-teeth cut, and eat marks like you before breakfast for appetizers." j. rufus only laughed. "they'd be going some," he declared. "any wise willie who can make a million farmers jump in to help him up into the class of purely legitimate theft, like railroad mergers and industrial holding companies, ought to be able to stay there. the manipulator that swallows me will have a horrible stomachache." mrs. wallingford had listened with a puzzled expression. "but i don't understand it, jim," she said. "i can see why you got the farmers together to raise the price of wheat. it does them good as well as you. but why have you worked so hard to make them speculate?" j. rufus looked at her with an amused expression. "my dear infant," he observed; "when fox & fleecer got ready to sell my near-two-million bushels of wheat this morning, somebody had to be ready to buy them. i provided the buyers. that's all." "oh!" exclaimed mrs. wallingford, and pondered the matter slowly. "i see. but, jim! mr. hines, mr. evans, mr. whetmore, mr. granice, and the others--to whom do they sell after they have bought your wheat?" "the sheriff," interposed blackie with a grin. "not necessarily," wallingford hastened to contradict him in answer to the troubled frown upon his wife's brow. "my deal don't disturb the market, and i expect wheat to go on up to at least a dollar and a half. if these farmers get out on the way up they make money. but the boobs who buy from them----" "ain't it funny?" inquired blackie plaintively. "there's always a herd of 'em just crazy eager to grab the hot end." a boy came on the train with evening papers containing the closing market quotations. wheat had touched thirty-four, but a quick break had come at the close, back to twenty-six! another column told why. every cent of advance in the actual grain had brought out cash wheat in floods. members of the great farmers' commercial association had hurried their holdings to market, trusting to the great body of the loosely bound organizations to keep up the price--and the great body of the organization was doing precisely the same thing. at bottom they had, in fact, small faith in it, and the board of trade, sensitive as a barometer, was quick to feel this psychological change in the situation. wallingford said nothing of this to his wife. he had begun to fear her. always she had set herself against actual dishonesty, and more so than ever of late as he had begun to pride himself upon being a great financier. in the smoking compartment, however, he handed the paper to blackie daw, with his thumb upon the quotations. "there's the answer," he said. "the rubes have cut their own throats, as i figured they would, and you'll see wheat tumble to lower than it was when this raise began. hines and evans and granice and the rest of them will hold the bag on this deal, and they needn't blame it to me. they can only blame it to the fact that farmers won't stick. i'm lucky that they hung together long enough to reach my price of a dollar and a quarter." "how do you know you got out?" asked blackie, passing over as a matter of no moment whatever the fact that all their neighbors of truscot and mapes counties, who had followed "judge" wallingford's lead and urging in the matter of speculation, would lose their all; as would hundreds if not thousands of other "members" who had been led through the deftly worded columns of the _commercial farmer_ to gamble in their own grain. "easy," explained j. rufus. "the quotations themselves tell it. fox & fleecer had instructions to unload at a dollar twenty-five, and they follow such instructions absolutely. they began unloading at that price, buying in at the same time for my farmers, and, in spite of the fact that they were pitching nearly two million bushels of wheat on the market after it hit the twenty-five mark, it went on up to thirty-four before it broke, showing that the buying orders until that time were in excess of selling orders. the farmers throughout the country simply ate up my two million bushels of wheat." "then it's their money you got, after all," observed blackie. "it's mine now," responded j. rufus with a chuckle. "i saw it first." chapter xxv mr. fox solves his great problem, and mr. wallingford falls with a thud they arrived in chicago late and they arose late. at breakfast, with languid interest, wallingford picked up the paper that lay beside his plate, and the first item upon which his eyes rested was a sensational article headed: "broker suicides." even then he was scarcely interested until his eye caught the name of edwin h. fox. "what is the matter?" asked his wife anxiously, as, with a startled exclamation, he hastily pushed back his chair and arose. it was the first time that she had ever in any emergency seen his florid face turn ghastly pale. dilemmas, reverses and even absolute defeats he had always accepted with a gambler's coolness, but now, since his vanity had let him dignify his pursuit of other people's money by the name of financiering, the blow came with crushing force; for it maimed not only his pocketbook but his pride as it swept away the glittering air castles that he had been building for the past year. "matter!" he spluttered, half choking. "we are broke!" and leaving his breakfast untasted he hastily ordered a cab and drove to the office of fox & fleecer, devouring the details of the tragedy as he went. the philanthropic mr. fox, he of the glistening bald pate and the air of cold probity, the man who had been for thirty years in business at the old stand, who had seemed as firm as a rock and as unsusceptible as a quart of clams, had been leading not only a double but a sextuple life, for half a dozen pseudo-widows mourned his demise and the loss of a generous banker. to support all these expensive establishments, which, once set up, firmly declined to ever go out of existence, mr. fox had been juggling with the money of his customers; robbing peter to pay paul, until the time had come when paul could be no longer paid and there was only one debt left that he could by any possibility wipe out--the debt he owed to nature. that he had paid with a forty-four caliber bullet through the temple. at last he had solved that perplexing problem which had bothered him all these years. wallingford had expected to find the office of fox & fleecer closed, but the door stood wide open and the dingy apartment was filled with a crowd of men, all equally nervous but violently contrasted as to complexion, some of them being extremely pale and some extremely flushed, according to their temperaments. mr. fleecer, one of those strangest of all anomalies, a nervous fat man, stood behind mr. fox's desk, his collar wilted with perspiration and the flabby pouches under his eyes black from his vigil of the night. he was almost as large as wallingford himself, but a careless dresser, and a pitiable object as he started back on hearing wallingford's name, tossing up his right hand with a curious involuntary motion as if to ward off a blow. his crisp, quick voice, however, did not fit at all with his appearance of crushed indecision. "i might as well tell you the blunt truth at first, mr. wallingford," he said. "you haven't a cent, so far as fox & fleecer is concerned. nobody has. i haven't a dollar in the world and fox was head over heels in debt, i find. how that sanctimonious old hypocrite ever got away with it all these years is the limit. i looked after the buying and selling orders as he gave them to me, and never had anything to do with the books. i never knew when a deal was in the office until i received market orders. i have spent all night on fox's private accounts, however, and since yours was the largest item, i naturally went into it as deeply as i could. if they had telephones in hell i could give you more accurate information, but the way i figure it is this: when he got hold of your four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars with instructions to buy and not to close until it reached a dollar and a quarter, he evidently classed your proposition as absurd. there was absolutely nothing to make wheat go to that price, and, with the big margin you had put up, he figured that the account would drag along at least until september, without being touched; so he used what he had to have of the money to cover up his other steals, expecting to juggle the market with the rest of it on his own judgment, and expecting, in the end, to have it back to hand to you when you got tired. when he understood this upward movement, however, and saw the big thing you had done, he jumped into the market with what was left, something less than three hundred thousand dollars. the only way to make that up to the amount you should have by the time it reached a dollar and a quarter was to pyramid it, and this he did. he bought on short margin, closed when he had a good profit, and spread the total amount over other short margin purchases. he did this three times. on the last deal he had upward of five million bushels bought to your account, and it was this strong buying, coupled with the other buying orders which came in at about the dollar-and-a-quarter mark, that sent the market up to a dollar thirty-four. if the market could have held half an hour he would have gotten out all right and turned over to you a million dollars, after using two hundred and fifty thousand for his own purposes, but when he attempted to unload the market broke; and by ---- we're all broke!" mr. wallingford laughed, quite mechanically, and from his pocket drew two huge black cigars with gold bands around them. "have a smoke," he said to mr. fleecer. lighting his own havana he turned and elbowed his way out of the room. one of the men who had stood near him exchanged a wondering stare with his neighbor. "that's the limit of gameness," he observed. but he was mistaken. it was not gameness. wallingford was merely dazed. he could find no words to express the bitter depth to which he had fallen. as he passed out through the ticker-room he glanced at the blackboard. the boy was just chalking up the latest morning quotation on september wheat--a dollar twelve. in the cab he opened his pocketbook and counted the money in it. before he had started on this trip he had scarcely thought of money, except that at fox & fleecer's there would be waiting for him a cool, clean million. instead of that he found himself with exactly fifty-four dollars. mrs. wallingford was in her room, pale to the lips. "how much money have you?" he asked her. without a word she handed him her purse. a few small bills were in it. she handed him another small black leather case which he took slowly. he opened it, and from the velvet depths there gleamed up at him the old standby--her diamonds. he could get a couple of thousand dollars on these at any time. he put the case in his pocket, but without any gleam of satisfaction, and sat down heavily in one of the huge leather-padded chairs. "fanny," said he savagely, "never preach to me again! i have tried a straight-out legitimate deal and it dumped me. hereafter, be satisfied with whatever way i make money, just so long as i have the law on my side. why," and his indignation over this last reflection was beyond expression, "i've coaxed a carload of money out of the farmers of this country, and i don't get away with a cent of it! a thief got it! _a thief and a grafter!_" mrs. wallingford did not answer him. she was crying. it was not so much that they had lost all of this money, it was not that he had spoken harshly to her for almost the first time since he had come into her life, but the shattering once more of certain hopeful dreams that had grown up within her since their sojourn in battlesburg. of course, he was instantly regretful and made such clumsy amends as he could, but the sting, not of bitterness but of sorrow, was there, and it remained for long after; until, in fact, she came to realize how much to heart her husband had taken his only real defeat. for the first time in his life he became despondent. the height to which he had aspired and had almost reached, looked now so utterly unattainable that the contemplation of it took out of him all ambition, all initiative, all life. he seemed to have lost his creative faculty. where his fertile brain had heretofore teemed with plans and projects, crowding upon each other, clamoring for fulfilment, now he seemed incapable of thought, and fell into an apathy from which he could not arouse himself no matter how hard he tried. parting company with blackie daw, who seemed equally rudderless, they moved aimlessly about from city to city, pawning mrs. wallingford's diamonds as they needed the money, but the man's spirit was gone, and no matter how often he changed his environment or brought himself into contact with new fields and new opportunities, no plan for getting back upon his feet seemed to offer itself. he was too much disheartened, in fact, even to try. to husband their fast waning resources they even descended to living in boarding houses, where the brief gratification of exciting awe among the less impressive boarders was but small compensation for the loss of the luxury to which they had been used. it was the sight of a miserable dinner in one of these boarding houses that proved the turning point for him. his chair was drawn back from the table for him when he suddenly shoved it to its place again, and with a darkening brow stalked out of the dining room, followed by the bewildered mrs. wallingford. "i can't stand this thing, fanny," he declared. "i've insulted my stomach with that sort of fodder until it's too late for an apology." "what are you going to do?" she asked in concern. "go where the good steaks grow," he answered emphatically. "we're going to pack up and move to the best hotel in town and eat ourselves blue in the face, and to-morrow j. rufus is going to go back on the job. i haven't the money in my pocket to pay for it, and we haven't another thing we can soak, but if i run up a hotel bill i'll have to get out and dig to pay it, and that's what i need. i'm lazy." it was a positive elation to him to dash up in a cab to a palatial hotel, to walk into its gilded and marble corridors with a deferential porter carrying his luggage, to loom up before a suave clerk in his impressive immensity and sign his name with a flourish, to demand the best accommodations they had in the house and to be shown into apartments that bathed him once more in a garish atmosphere where everything tasted and felt and smelled of money. it was like the prodigal son coming home again, and instantly his spirits arose with a bound. he began as of old to live like a lord, and though the long sought idea did not come to him for almost two weeks, he held to the untroubled tenor of his way with all his old arrogance, blessed with a cheerful belief that some lucky solution of his difficulties would be found. one thing alone bothered him toward the last, and that was the rapid disappearance of such little ready money as he needed for tips when he was in the hotel, and for drinks and cigars when he found himself away from it. he was sensitive about ordering inferior goods in good places, and when away from his source of credit supplies, took to turning in at obscure cigar stores, preferring to buy the best they had rather than to taking a second grade in a better place. it was in one of these obscure little establishments that the elusive inspiration at last came to him. "the government is rotten!" the stoop-shouldered cigar maker had complained just a moment before, rasping the air of his dingy little store with a high-pitched voice that was almost a whine. "it fosters consolidations. big profits for rich men and bankruptcy for poor men, that's what we have come to!" the stoop-shouldered cigar maker had no chin worth mentioning, and grew a thin, down-pointed mustache which accentuated that lack. he wore a green eye-shade and an apron of bed ticking, and he held in his hand a split mold, gripping the two parts together while he feebly and hopelessly groped for an inspiration in the mending line. the flabby man in the greasy vest, who was playing solitaire with a pack of cards so grimy that it took an experienced eye to tell whether the backs or the faces were up, did not raise his head, nor did the apathetic young man with the chronic dent in his time-yellowed derby, who, sitting motionless with his crossed arms resting on his knees, had been making a business of watching the solitaire game in silence. "that's right," agreed the flabby man, laying the trey of diamonds carefully upon the four of clubs and peeping to see what the next card would have been; "all the laws are against the poor man, and we're ground right down." a pimple-faced youngster, clearly below the legal age, came in and bought two cigarettes for a cent, and the cigar maker waited upon him in sour-visaged nonchalance; neither the solitaire expert nor his interested watcher raised his eyes; a young man with a flashy tie and a soiled collar bought three stogies for a nickel and still apathy reigned; then wallingford's huge bulk darkened the open doorway and everybody woke up. wallingford was so large that he seemed to crowd the little shop and absorb all its light, and he approached the cigar case doubtingly, surveying its contents with the eye of a _connoisseur_. a brand or two that he knew quite well he passed over, for the boxes were nearly empty and no doubt had been reeking for a long time in that sponge-moistened assortment of flavors, but finally he settled upon a newly opened box from which but two cigars had been sold, and tapped his finger on the glass above it. the cigar maker reached in for that box with alacrity, for they were two-for-a-quarter goods, and as he brought them forth he gave to the buyer the appreciative scrutiny due one of so impressive appearance. he did not know that under his inspection the big man winced. in the fine scarf there should have glowed a huge diamond; the scarf itself had two or three frayed threads; the binding of the hat brim was somewhat worn; the cuffs were a little ragged. wallingford felt that all the world saw this unwonted condition, but still he smiled richly; and the cigar dealer saw only richness. probably the imposing customer would have left the store in the same silence in which he had made his purchase, but, as he stopped to fastidiously cut the tip from one of his cigars, an undersized but pompous young collector bustled in and threw down a bill. "hundred blue rings," he announced curtly. with a mechanical curiosity, wallingford glanced into the case where a box of cigars with cheap blue bands was displayed. the cigar maker opened his money drawer and slowly counted out a pile of small silver. "three fifty," he lifelessly whined as he shoved it over, and the collector receipted the bill, dashing out with the same absurd self-assertiveness with which he had come in. "thirty-five a thousand," observed wallingford incredulously. "that price is claimed for every nickel cigar on earth, but i always thought it was phoney. it's a stiff rate, isn't it?" "it's a hold up," snarled the other, "but i got to keep 'em. i make a better cigar myself but people don't know anything about tobacco. they only smoke advertising. here's my cigar," and he set a box on the case; "ed nickel's nickelfine. there's a piece of real goods." the big man picked one out of the box, and twirled it in his deft fingers with a scrutiny that betokened keen judgment of all small articles of manufacture. "it's well made," he admitted; "but what's the use? i could deliver your week's output in my pocket, and on the way back could spend the money getting my shoes shined; all because you haven't the wherewith to advertise." "i got a little money," insisted the other aggressively, touched on a point of pride; "money i saved and pinched and scraped together; but it ain't enough to push a cigar. some of these big manufacturers spread around a fortune on a new brand before they sell a single box. there's john crewly & company. they spent a hundred thousand dollars advertising blue rings." "and you small dealers have handed it back to them," laughed wallingford. "you pay that advertising difference above what the cigar is worth." "ten times over!" exploded mr. nickel. "the houses that buy in big quantities get them for below twenty-eight, i've heard. but that's where the government is rotten! it's fixed so the little man always gets it in the neck. combines and trusts eat us up. every man that joins a consolidation ought to get ten years at hard labor." "don't grouch," advised wallingford, grinning; "consolidate. if all the small dealers in this town formed a consolidation, they could buy their supplies in quantity for spot cash and get the lowest price going." ed nickel looked out of the window at the clanging street cars and digested this palatable new idea. "i reckon they could," he mused, "if there was any way to work it so they wouldn't all spike each other trying to get the best of it," and j. rufus chuckled as he recognized this business anarchist's willingness to undergo an instant change of opinion about consolidation. the door opened, and a tall, thin man, with curly gray hair and a little gray goatee, strode nervously in and threw a half dollar on the case. "two packs of kiosks," he demanded. almost in the same breath he saw wallingford, whose face was at that moment illuminated by the lighter to which he held his cigar. "j. rufus, by heck!" he exclaimed. before wallingford could give voice to his amazement the strangely altered blackie daw was shaking hands eagerly with him. "you probably don't remember me," went on blackie with an expansive grin. "rush is the name. i. b. rush, and i never was so bug-house glad to see anybody in my life!" the eyes of wallingford twinkled. "well, well, well, mr. rush! how you have changed!" he declared. blackie shook his head warningly. "nix on the advertisement," he cautioned. "wallingford, you're the long-sought message from home! feel in your vest pocket and see if there isn't an overlooked hundred or two down in the corner." j. rufus was cheerful, nay, happy, complaisance itself. "certainly, mr. rush," he said heartily; "a thousand if you want it. just step over to the bank with me till i draw the money," and they walked out of the door. with a sigh the flabby man laid the long-suspended jack of hearts upon the queen of spades. "hear the big guy tossin' over a thousand like it was car fare," he observed. "if i had a piece of lead pipe i'd follow him." "what do you suppose his graft is?" queried the watcher at the game. "he's made his money off poor people; that's what!" announced ed nickel. "how else does a man get rich?" chapter xxvi j. rufus scents a fortune in smoke and lets mr. nickel see the flames wallingford had good cause to survey his friend with amused wonder. "how you have aged, blackie," he chuckled. "what has turned you gray in a single month?" "beating it," replied blackie, hoarsely. "did you see that guy just now look around and give me the x-ray stare?" "he was only admiring your handsome make-up," retorted j. rufus. "what's got your nerve all of a sudden?" "nerve!" scorned the other. "say, j. rufus, when i cut my finger i bleed yellow, and the mere sight of a brass button gives me hydrophobia. they're after me, dear friend of my childhood days, for going into the oil-well industry without any oil wells, and you're the first human being i've seen in three weeks that didn't look like he had the iron bracelets in his pocket. even you're a living frost. for a minute you gave me that glad feeling, but when you said to come around to the bank and i could have a thousand, i knew it was all off. if you'd had it, nothing but paralysis would have stopped you from putting your hand in your pocket and making a flash with the two hundred i wanted. i have to make a quick get-away from this town or have the door of a nice steel bedroom locked from the outside!" solemnly j. rufus drew from his pocket his total supply of earthly wealth, a ten-dollar bill and the change he had received at the cigar store. "i'll give you the ten," he offered, "although i'm glued to the floor myself." "i can see it, for your sparks are gone," said mr. daw, glumly looking his friend over from head to foot as he pocketed the ten. "how did the beans get spilled? i thought there was a fresh crop of your particular breed of come-ons every morning." "i'm overtrained," explained j. rufus with cheerful resignation. "i used to be able to jump into a town with ten dollars in my pocket, and have to lock myself in my room to keep 'em from forcing money on me faster than i could take it; but i've lost my winning ways, i guess. the fact of the matter is, blackie, i need an oculist. i can't see small enough since the big blow-up. i had climbed too high, and when i tumbled off the perch i fell so hard i couldn't see anything but stars. a dollar is small as a pea now, and perfectly silent, and it takes at least a thousand to emit even a faint click. i can't learn to pike again." "i wish i could learn anything else," complained mr. daw in disgust. "why, blind-men's tincups look like fat picking to me, and my yellow streak shows through so strong that i cross the street every time i see a push cart; i'm afraid the banana men will make a mistake and pull my fingers off. say! see that mug over there on the corner with his back to us? well, that's a plain-clothes man. i know him all right and he knows me. it's jimmy rogers and i can't hand him a sou to plug his memory!" blackie was visibly distressed and edged around the corner. "i should say you had developed a saffron streak," observed j. rufus, eying him with a trace of contempt. "i wouldn't have known you till you spoke. come on and we'll go right straight past jimmy rogers." he put his hand behind blackie's elbow to take him in that direction, but to his surprise daw shrank back. "not for mine!" he declared. "i know i'm due, but i won't go till they come after me. why, j. rufus, do you know we're all that's left of the old bunch? billy riggs, tommy rance, dick logan, pit hardesty--all put away, for stretches of from five to twenty years! and jim, mind what i say; our turn's next! there, he's turning this way! i'm on the lope. me for the first train out of town. good-by, old man." he shook hands hastily and, drawn-chested, plunged down the side street at a swift pace. wallingford looked after him and involuntarily expanded his own broad chest as he turned in the direction of his hotel. he looked back at ed nickel's cigar store after a few steps, and hesitated as if he might return, but he did not. on the way he counted five such establishments, and he peered keenly into each one of them. they were all of a little better grade than the one he had visited, but none of them was stocked in such manner as to tell of wholesale purchases and cash discounts. suddenly he chuckled. at last he had the detail for his heretofore vague idea, and it was a draught of strong wine to him. he had been the high jester of finance, always, and once more the bells upon his cap jingled merrily. inspired, he walked into his hotel with a swaggering assurance entirely out of keeping with the lonely two dollars in his pocket. the clerk had been instructed to look after wallingford, for though he had been an extravagant guest for within a day of two weeks, no one but the bellboys and waiters had seen a penny of his money--and his bill was nearly two hundred dollars. the clerk firmly intended to call to him if he strode past on the far side of the lobby, as had been his custom in the past two or three days; but he did not need to call, for j. rufus approached the desk without invitation, beaming as he turned toward it, but growing stern as he neared it. "the wine i had served in my rooms last night was vile," he charged. "if i cannot get the brand of champagne i want, have it perfectly frappé when it gets to my apartments, and secure better service all around, i shall pay my bill and leave!" the clerk touched a bell instantly. "very sorry, mr. wallingford," said he. "i shall speak to the wine steward about the matter at once." j. rufus grunted in acknowledgment of this apology, and with a feeling of relief the clerk surveyed that broad back as it retreated in immeasurable dignity. there was no need to worry about the money of a man who took that attitude. on the way to his suite, however, j. rufus, as he handed the elevator boy a quarter with one hand, drew down his cuff furtively with the other, under the impulse of a sudden idea, and, grinning, looked at his cuff button. it was diamond studded, and he ought to be able to raise at least twenty-five apiece on the pair. mrs. wallingford was sewing when her capable husband came in. something in the very movement of the door caused her to look up with an instant knowledge that he brought good news, and a sight of his face confirmed the impression. she smiled at him brightly, and yet with a trace of apprehension. there had come over her a curious change of late. her color was as clear as ever, even clearer, for it seemed to have attained a certain pure transparency, but there seemed, too, a slight pallor beneath it, and her eyes were strangely luminous. "i got the fog out of my conk to-day, fanny," he said exultantly. "it seemed as if i never would be able to frame up a good business stunt again, but it hit me at last. how do you like this place?" "i can't tell," she slowly returned. "i haven't seen much of it, you know." "you will," he laughed. "you may pick out any part of it you like, because i think i'll settle down here for good." she looked up with a little gasp. "then you're going into a--a _real_ business?" she faltered. "a hundred of them," he boasted. "i've just decided to rake off half the profits of all this town's cigar stores, except a few of the best ones, and stay right here to collect. the hundred or more ought to yield me one or two dollars a day apiece. looks good, don't it?" "i'm so glad," she said simply. it never occurred to either of them to doubt that he could do what he had planned, and just now she was less inclined than ever to inquire into details. she sat, her hands folded in the fluffy white goods upon her lap, with a deepening color in her cheeks. "i'll tell you why i'm glad we are to settle down at last and have a real home," she said suddenly, and, arising, advanced to him and shook out the dainty article upon which she had been sewing, holding it outstretched before him so that he could gather its full import. "what?" he gasped. she nodded her head, half crying and half laughing, and suddenly buried her head upon his shoulder, sobbing. he clasped her in his arms, tiny white garment and all, and looked on over her head, out of the window at the gathering dusk in the sky where it stretched down between the tall buildings. for just one fleeting second a trace of the eternal mystery came to awe him, but it passed and left him grinning. "i'd just been figuring on a new house," he observed, "but i guess i'll have to plan it all over now." he led her to a chair presently, and went back to the window, where he stood until the darkness warned him that it was time to dress for dinner. the meal finished, he sat down to write, tearing up sheet after sheet of paper and crumpling it into the waste basket until far into the night, and later he sent down for a city directory, making out a list of cigar stores, dropping out those that were printed in black-face type; but whatever he did he paused once in a while to turn toward that tiny white garment upon the table and survey it with smiling wonder. in the morning he called upon a job printer of reputation, and then he went again to ed nickel's cigar store; but this time he dashed up to the door in a showy carriage drawn by two good horses. the same flabby man sat in the corner playing solitaire as if he had never left off, and the same apathetic young man with the dent in his hat was watching him. the split cigar mold had not yet grown together, though ed nickel still held its two parts matched tightly in his left hand. upon the entrance of wallingford the magnificent, however, the three graven figures, glancing first upon him and then upon the carriage, inhaled the breath of life. the solitaire player suddenly pushed his cards together and began shuffling them over and over and over and over, though he had not yet exhausted the possibilities of the previous game. the apathetic young man stood up to yawn but changed his mind after he had his mouth open. ed nickel bowed, smiled and hurried behind his counter. "what will you take for your business, mr. nickel?" asked j. rufus, throwing a coin on the case and tapping his finger over the box from which he had purchased the cigars the night before. freshly shaven, he wore a new collar, a new shirt with fine, crisp cuffs, and a new silk lavender tie--also plain new cuff buttons. ed nickel's ears heard the astounding question, but ed nickel's mind did not grasp it, for ed nickel's hand went on mechanically into the case after the designated cigars. it secured the box, it brought it partly out--and then dropped it just inside the sliding door. the hand came out and its fingers twined with those of the other hand. "what did you say?" asked mr. nickel's mouth. "how much will you take for your business?" repeated j. rufus. mr. nickel looked slowly around his walls, past the dust-hung wire screen to the dingy back room, under the counter, into the case, over the sparsely filled shelves. "i don't know," he said, his eyes roving back to those of j. rufus. "besides the stock and fixtures, there's the good will, the trade i've worked up, and the call for my nickelfine and the double nickel, my leading ten-cent cigar. i'd have to take an invoice to set a price on this business." "i know," laughed j. rufus with a wink, "but you can invoice it with your eyes shut and we can lump the rest of it. say five hundred for the stock and fixtures and three hundred for the good will, which is crowding it some." ed nickel's cupidity gave a thump. eight hundred was a good price for his business, especially in this location. he had often thought of moving. in a better location he would do a better business; he was sure of that, like every other unsuccessful merchant; but of course he objected. "make it a thousand and i'll listen," he proposed. j. rufus looked about the place coldly. "no," he decided. "i'd be cheating the consolidation." mr. nickel immediately woke up another notch. "what consolidation?" he wanted to know. "the one i spoke to you about yesterday," said the prospective buyer, and picking up the coin he had tossed down he tapped with it on the glass. thus reminded, the benumbed one brought out the delayed box and mr. wallingford lit one of the cigars. "i'm going to finance a consolidation of all the smaller cigar stores in the city," he then explained. "i expect to buy several for spot cash and put in charge of them managers who know their business. the rest i am going to allow to purchase shares in the consolidation, with the value of their stock and good will, so that altogether we shall have a quarter-of-a-million-dollar corporation. with this enormous buying power i intend to get the lowest spot-cash discount on all goods, manufacture a few good brands, cut rates and control the cigar business of this town. but i'm going to be fair to every man. i'll give you eight hundred dollars for your business, in cold coin." the day before, had any providentially sent stranger offered ed nickel eight hundred dollars in real money for his store, he would have jumped at the chance, and with the purchase price would have opened a better one in some other part of the town. now it suddenly occurred to him---- "and if i don't sell or come in i get froze out, i suppose," he gloomily opined. "that's the regulation poor man's chance. but how are you going to work this consolidation, anyhow?" "the same plan upon which all successful organizations are put together," patiently explained the eminent financier whose resplendent carriage was waiting outside. "for instance, five of us organize a holding company. having incorporated for, say, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, i buy your business for eight hundred dollars in stock of the new corporation, fit it up new till it glitters, and put you in charge of it. a hundred other stores go in on the same proposition, their valuations varying according to their location, their stock, and the volume of business their books can show. you get a salary of just as much as you can prove you're making now, and every three months the business is footed up and a dividend is paid. the difference is just this. the cigars for which you now pay thirty-five dollars a thousand, you will get for twenty-eight and less, and so on down the line. your profits will be increased nearly a hundred per cent., and all financial worry will be lifted off your shoulders." ed nickel suddenly awoke to the fact that the flabby solitaire player was pressed closely upon one side of the eminent financier, and the apathetic young man upon the other, both drinking in every word, and quivering. "come in the back room," invited mr. nickel, and on two reeking stools, with tobacco scraps strewn all about them, they sat down to really "get together." patiently the energetic man of wealth went over the proposition again, point by point, and the cigar maker enumerated these upon his fingers until he got it quite clear in his mind that his business was not to pass out of his hands at all. if it was put in at a valuation of eight hundred dollars, he received a salary equal to his present earnings for taking care of it, and also the net profits on eight hundred dollars worth of stock. it was a great scheme! it would put all the goods he wanted upon his shelves. it would brighten up his place of business and he would no longer have the aggravation of knowing that rich dealers, just because they were rich, could buy cigars a shameful per cent. cheaper than he could. moreover, there sat wallingford, a wonderful argument in himself! when he had fully grasped the idea mr. nickel was enthusiastic. "of course i'll come in!" said he. "surest thing, you know!" "suit yourself," said j. rufus, with vast indifference. "i have a little agreement that i'll bring around in a couple of days to let you see, and then you may finally decide. by the way, mr. nickel, i may need you for one of the original five incorporators, and as a director for the first year." mr. nickel hesitated. "that'll cost me something, won't it?" he wanted to know. mr. wallingford laughed. "a little bit," he admitted. "but there are ways to get it back. for instance, as one of the directors i do not suppose there would be any particular harm in selling your business to the consolidation for a thousand in place of eight hundred." the first stock subscriber to the retail cigar dealers' consolidation became as knowingly jovial as the genial promoter. "it listens good to me," he declared, and shook hands. the big man got up to go, but turned and came back. "by the way," said he, "i don't know the cigar men in this town, and if you have a couple of friends in the business who would like to help form this incorporation with the same advantages you have, let's go see them." mr. nickel was already throwing off his apron and eye shade, and now he took his coat and hat from their hook. "i've got two of them, and they ain't too darned smart, either," he stated, showing wise forethought in that last remark; then, putting the flabby man in charge of the store, he went out and _rode in that carriage_! chapter xxvii mr. wallingford gambles a bit and picks up an unsolicited partner in the smart carriage mr. wallingford took mr. nickel and his two friends down to his hotel for lunch to talk over the final steps in the great consolidation. the chief thing the three remembered when they left the hotel was that they had been most liberally treated in the matter of extravagant food and drink, and that the lunch had cost over twenty dollars! also they recalled that the distinguished-looking head waiter had come over to their table half a dozen times to see that everything was served at the proper minute and in the pink of condition. nobody but a rich man could command that sort of attention, and they left the table not only willing but thankful to take any business tonic this commercial genius should prescribe. as they passed the desk, the manager called mr. wallingford to him, and the great promoter, instantly bidding his friends good-by, promised to see them to-morrow. then he walked back to the manager. "good morning, senator," said that official, shaking hands. "how are they treating you? nicely?" "very well, indeed," replied wallingford, "except i'd like to have corner rooms if i could get them." "i know; you spoke of that last week. i've been trying to secure them for you, but those apartments are always dated so far ahead. i think the corner suite on the second floor will be vacant in a day or so, though, and i'll let you know. by the way, mr. wallingford"--this in the most pleasantly confidential tone imaginable--"i'm afraid i'll have to draw on you. the proprietor is a little strict about his rules, and you have been here two weeks to-day." "is that so?" exclaimed wallingford, very much surprised. "i'll have to look after that," and he reached out his hand with courteous alacrity for the bill which the manager was handing to him. without the quiver of an eye-lash he glanced over the items and stuck the bill in his pocket. "i'm glad you spoke of it. i'm rather careless about such matters," and he walked away in perfect nonchalance. the telegraph desk mocked him. there was not a soul he knew to whom he could wire with a certainty of getting money, and if he pretended to wire he must certainly produce quick results. instead of making that error he walked out upon the street briskly. half way to ed nickel's cigar store he paused. mr. nickel was not yet ripe, and it would be folly to waste his chances. thinking most deeply indeed, he strolled into a cigar store of far better appearance than any he had yet visited. the place was a-quiver with life; there was much glitter of beveled plate mirrors; there were expensive light fixtures; the shelves were crowded with rows upon rows of cigar boxes, and at a most ornate case stood three rather strikingly dressed men, playing "ping pong" on a mahogany edged board that was covered with green baize. he had seen these boards before, but they were all set away behind counters, for this game--of dice, not of balls and paddles--was strictly taboo. a moral wave had swept over the town and had made dice shaking for cigars, as well as every other form of gambling, next door to a hanging offense. a heavy-set young fellow, with a red face and a red tie and red stripes in the thread of his broad-checked clothing, was at the end of the counter, half behind it, scoring the game. he was evidently the proprietor, though he had his hat on, and he asked wallingford what he wanted. "i don't know your brands, so i'll leave it to you," said the large man, with a pleasant smile. "i want a nice three for a half, rather heavy, but not too tightly rolled." the proprietor gave his customer a shrewd "sizing-up," as he promptly set out three boxes of different brands. evidently the general appearance of wallingford satisfied him that the man asked for this grade of cigars because he liked them and could afford them, for after the selection had been made the salesman observed that it was quite pleasant weather, looking wallingford squarely in the eyes and smiling in sheer goodfellowship with all the world. he then renewed his attention to the "ping pong" game, and wallingford, aimless for the time and occupied with that tremendous puzzle of the hotel bill, stood by and watched. a policeman came through, but no one paid any attention. "hello, joe!" he said affably to the man in charge, and passed on into the back room. as the door of this was opened the sharp click of ivory chips came through, and wallingford heard one strident voice say, "i'll raise you ten." a brisk and gimlet-eyed young man came out a moment later with a fifty-dollar bill, for which he got change. "how you making it, tommy?" he asked perfunctorily of one of the men who were shaking dice. "rotten!" said the dice shaker. "i've won ten two-for-a-quarter cigars that have cost me four dollars." "i'd blow the game," advised the young man with a bantering laugh. "shoot somebody for the four and quit double or even." "i'll do it," said the man addressed as tommy. "fade me, joe?" "any amount, old man," said the proprietor nonchalantly, and taking four dollars from the cash register he left the drawer open. "how do you want to be skinned?" "first-flop poker dice," said tommy, picking up the leather box which joe had slammed upon the board, and rattling the five dice in it. one turn apiece and the proprietor picked up the money. tommy silently threw a five on the case. "you other fellows want in on this?" he asked. j. rufus suddenly felt that mysterious thing called a "hunch" prickling in his wrist. "how about letting a stranger in?" he observed, considering himself far enough west for this forwardness. with a smile he made ready for that lightning glance of judgment which he knew would be leveled at him from three pairs of eyes at least. "i'd rather anybody would have my money than joe," said the man next to him, after that brief but pleased inspection and after an almost imperceptible nod from the proprietor. "joe's a robber and we none of us like him." "i don't think i like him very well myself," laughed wallingford, throwing down his money, and, having accepted him, they judged him again from this new angle. he was a most likeable man, this big fellow, and an open-handed sport. anybody could see that. it would make no difference to him whether he won or lost. all he wanted was to be in on the game. rich as the mint, no doubt. in reality j. rufus had but three five dollar bills in his pocket, but desperate needs require desperate remedies, and, in view of those vast needs, if he lost he would be but little worse off than he was now. twice he staked his last five, and then luck steadily alternated between him and the proprietor. one at a time the three others dropped out, and the two winners were left confronting each other. "well, old man," said the proprietor to wallingford, shaking the box up and down while he talked, and smiling his challenge, "we split 'em about even. shall we quit satisfied, or shoot it off to see who owns the best rabbit's foot?" wallingford glanced down at the crumpled pile of greenbacks in front of him and made a hasty computation. he was sure that he had fully two hundred dollars, but he could not in decency quit now. "i never saw a finer afternoon for a murder in my life," he declared. "shoot you fifty," said joe. in for it, wallingford covered the bet, and by this time a throng of interested spectators was at his elbows. it was wallingford's first throw, and four aces tumbled up. his opponent followed him with fours, but they were four sixes. "cover the hundred and be a real sport," advised wallingford with a grin. joe counted the money in front of him. there was enough to cover the bet, with a ten-dollar bill left over. he threw down the pile. "i'll press it ten," said he, and wallingford promptly added a ten from his own stack. four aces again. again the man who was called joe threw four sixes. "i'll just leave that bundle of lettuce once more," observed j. rufus. "i've a hunch that you'll be sorry you saw me." "i'm sorry now," admitted the other, "but i'll skin the money drawer rather than have you go away dissatisfied," and from the cash register he took two hundred and twenty dollars. "now shoot your head off," he advised. wallingford, in perfect confidence, rattled the box high in the air and tossed the five little ivory cubes upon the baize; and a dash of cold water fell on his confidence. a single, small, lonely, ashamed-looking pair of deuces confronted him. "here's where we get it all-l-l-l-l back again," laughed joe in much joy. "somebody call the porter to throw this stranger out when i get through," and with a crash he dumped the box upside down, lifting it with a sweep. the dice rattled about the board, and when they had all settled down he leaned over to count them. there was a moment of silence and then everybody laughed. there was not even a pair. wallingford's miserable two deuces had won a two-hundred-and-forty-dollar pot. gently he leaned over. "how much of this spinach would you like to cover now?" he asked in soothing tones. "wait till i ask the safe," replied his antagonist, but at that moment the telephone bell just behind him rang and he turned to answer it. with almost the first words that he heard he looked at his watch and swore, and when he had hung up the receiver he turned to wallingford briskly. "afraid i'll have to let you carry that bundle of kale for a while," he grudgingly admitted, "for i have to hurry over to the court or lose more than there is in sight right here. but for heaven's sake, man, remember the number and bring that back to me. i want it." "thanks," said j. rufus. "if there's any left after i get through with it i'll bring it back," and he walked out, the admired of all beholders. he headed straight for a bank, where he exchanged his crumpled money into nice, crisp, fifty-dollar bills, and then with profound satisfaction he strolled into his hotel and threw two hundred dollars in front of the manager. the circumstance, however, was worth more than money to him. it meant a renewal of his confidence. the world was once more his oyster. that evening, just as he had finished a late dinner, a boy brought a card to him in the dining room; "mr. joseph o. meers." "meers!" read wallingford to his wife. "that isn't one of the men i had to lunch, and besides, none of that bunch would have an engraved card. where is he?" he asked the boy. "out in the lobby, sir." wallingford arose and went with the boy. sitting in one of the big chairs was the "joe" from whom he had won the money that afternoon, and the man began to laugh as soon as he saw j. rufus. "so _you're_ wallingford!" he said, extending his hand. "no wonder i wanted to hunt you up." "yes?" laughed wallingford, entirely at ease. "i had been expecting either you or a warrant." "you can square that with a bottle of wine," offered the caller, and together they trailed in to the bar, where, in a snug little corner, they sat down. "what i came to see you about," began meers, while they waited for the wine to be made cold, "is this cigar dealers' association that i hear you're doping up." "who told you?" asked wallingford. mr. meers winked. "never mind about that," he said. "i get it before the newspapers, and if there's a good game going count little joseph in." wallingford studied this over a bit before answering. that afternoon he had decided not to invite mr. meers into the combination at all. he had not seemed likely material. "i want to give you a little tip," added mr. meers, observing this hesitation. "no matter what the game is you need me. if i see my bit in it it goes through, but if i don't i'll bet you lose." "the thing isn't a game at all," wallingford soberly insisted. "it is a much needed commercial development that lets the cigar store be a real business in place of a peanut stand. what i'm going to do is to consolidate all the small shops in the city, for the purpose of buying at large-lot prices and taking cash discounts." "that's a good play, too," agreed meers; "but how about the details of it? how do you organize?" "make it a stock company," explained wallingford, expanding largely; "incorporate as the retail cigar dealers' consolidation and issue each man stock to the value of his present business; leave each man in charge of his own shop and pay him a salary equal to his present proved clear earnings; split up the surplus profits every three months and declare dividends." "that's the outside," commented mr. meers, nodding his head wisely; "but what's the inside? show me. understand, mr. wallingford, except for a little friendly gamble like we had this afternoon, i only run a game from behind the table. i do the dealing. i'm not what they call rich back in the _effete_ east, but i'm getting along pretty well on one proposition: _i always bet they don't_!" "it's a good healthy bet," admitted wallingford; "but you want to copper it on this deal. this is a straight, legitimate proposition." "sure; sure," assented the other soothingly. "but where do you get in?" "well, i'm going to finance it. i'm going to take up some of the stock and get my quarterly dividends. i'll probably buy a few stores and put them in, and i hope to be made manager at a pretty good salary." "i see but i don't," insisted the seeker after intimate knowledge. "that all sounds good, but it don't look fancy enough for a man that's down on the register of this hotel for suite d. if you come in to get my store in the consolidation--" "which i don't know whether i'll do or not," interrupted wallingford. "wait and you will, though," retorted the other. "if you come into my place of business to get my store into the consolidation, i say, how do you close the deal? i suppose i sign an agreement of some sort, don't i?" "well, naturally, to have a safe understanding you'd have to," admitted the promoter. "let me see the agreement." j. rufus drew a long breath and chuckled. "you're a regular insister, ain't you?" he said as he drew a carbon copy of the agreement from his pocket. mr. meers read the paper over twice. the wine was brought to their table and served, but he paid no attention to the filled glass at his elbow. he was reading a certain portion of that agreement for the third and fourth time, but at last he laid it down on the chair beside him and solemnly tilted his hat to mr. wallingford. "you're an honor to your family," he announced. "i didn't suppose there were any more games left, but you've sprung a new one and it's a peach!" wallingford strove to look magnificently unaware of what he meant, but the attempt was a failure. "the scheme is so smooth," went on mr. meers with a heartfelt appreciation, "that it strained my eyesight to find the little joker; but now i can tell you all about it. it's in the transfer of the stock, and here's what you do. the consolidation buys my place for, say, five thousand dollars, and gives me five thousand dollars' worth of stock in the consolidation for it. that's what this paper seems to say, but that's not what happens. it's _you_ that buys my place for five thousand dollars and gives me five thousand dollars' worth of stock in the consolidation for it, and _you_, being then the temporary owner through a fake trusteeship, turn around and sell my business to the consolidation, the management of which is in your flipper through a board of dummy directors, for _ten_ thousand dollars; and you have our iron-clad contract to let you do this, though it don't say so! when you get through you have consolidated a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of business into a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar stock company, and you have a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of stock which didn't cost you a cent! say! have this wine on me. i insist! i want to buy you something!" slowly mr. wallingford's shoulders began to heave and his face to turn red, and presently he broke into a series of chuckles that expanded to a guffaw. "i don't see how i ever won that five hundred from you this afternoon," he observed, and shook again. "the pleasure is all mine," said the loser politely. "now i'm sorry it wasn't a thousand. you're worth the money and i'm glad i came to see you. count me in on the retail cigar dealers' consolidation." "all right, sign the paper," said wallingford with another chuckle. "watch me sign it not," said meers. "i'm too patriotic. i'm so patriotic that i hate to see all this good money go to a stranger, so i'm going to take sixty-two and one half thousand dollars' worth of that free stock myself. i declare myself in. you hear me?" by the time mr. meers was through talking wallingford was delighted so far as surface went, though he was already doing some intense figuring. "i don't know but that it's a good thing you came to see me," he admitted. "however, i hope it don't strike you that i intend to give you half a nice ripe peach without a good reason for it. what do i get for letting you in?" "that's a fair question. i guess you noticed that if we want to cut a melon or open a keg of nails over in my place we don't go down in the cellar?" "i certainly did," admitted the big man with a grin. "well, that's it. i'm permanent alderman from the fifth ward, and every time they hold an election they come and ask me whether i want it served with mushrooms or tomato sauce. the job has belonged to me ever since i was old enough to lie about my age. what i say goes in the privilege line, and i guess a mere child could figure out what that privilege would be worth to the retail cigar dealers' consolidation; the dice box privilege; the back room privilege with a nice little poker game going on twenty-four hours a day; faro if i want it. besides, i'm coming in just because. why, i'm the man that stopped the ping pong game in this town so i could have a monopoly of it!" "how soon can you be ready to incorporate?" asked wallingford, satisfied to all external appearances; for this man could stop him. "to-morrow?" "to-night, if you say so." wallingford laughed. "it won't spoil over night," he said; "but there's just one thing i want to know. is there anybody else to cut in on this?" in reply, mr. meers slowly drew down the under lid of his right eye to show that there was no green in it, and when they parted an hour or so later it was with mutual, even hilarious expressions of good will. immediately thereafter, however, wallingford retired within himself and spent long, long hours in thought. chapter xxviii wherein mr. wallingford joins the largest club in the world the name of meers was magic. it is quite probable that the magnetic wallingford would have been able to carry through his proposed consolidation alone; but with the fifth ward alderman to back him his work was easy. a few of the small dealers were afraid of meers, but they were also afraid to stay out; for the most part, however, they were glad to enter into any combination with him, particularly since it was tacitly understood that this would open up to them the much coveted "ping pong" privilege, an attraction which not only increased the sale of goods but gave an additional hundred per cent. of profit. the first steps in the incorporation were taken the next day after the interview of wallingford and meers, and within a few days the retail cigar dealers' consolidation was formally effected, even to the trifling little mummeries which covered the state's requirement of a certain percentage of "fully paid up stock." wallingford's share of the initial expense was one hundred dollars, but he had no mind to give up any of his precious pocket money at this time. "suppose you just pay the whole bill yourself, and let us pay you," he suggested in an offhand way to meers. "it looks so much better all in one lump." of course, mr. meers was agreeable to this eminently respectable suggestion; but when wallingford handed over his own check it was dated a week ahead. "if this won't do you i'll have to give up some cash," he explained with an easy laugh. "i'm having some securities negotiated back east to open an account here, and it may take three or four days to have it arranged." meers heard him with a curious smile. "i beat a pleasant stranger's head off once for putting up a line of talk like that," he commented; "but, of course, this is different," and he took the check. he had become an enthusiastic admirer of wallingford's undoubted genius, and at nothing was he more amused than by the caliber of the three other incorporators who had been chosen. stock valuations were at once made for these three, at an exaggerated estimate of the value of their concerns, and when they came to meers himself the same plan was followed. [illustration: "your fine little wife here swears that it will"] "for," said wallingford, "to make this strong you have to come in just like the rest, and i have to take up the balance of the stock right now as trustee." meers balked a trifle at that. "i never feel so cheerful as when i'm my own stakeholder," he stated frankly. "when i hold all the coin it's a cinch i'll get mine, but when somebody else holds it i keep trained down for a foot race." "fix it any way to suit yourself," offered wallingford with a carelessness that he was far from feeling. "if you can figure out a better stunt, show it to me." mr. meers tried earnestly to think of a better plan but was forced to concede that there was none. "oh, well," he gave in at last, "it don't matter. it's only for a week or so i'll have to rub salve on my fingers to cure that itch." "certainly," wallingford assured him. "it won't take more than a week, after we get the stock certificates from the printers, to make all the transfers, and then we'll have from a hundred and twenty to a hundred and forty thousand dollars' worth to split up. if we can't make that yield us five or six thousand a year apiece, aside from salaries, the buying and manufacturing grafts and other rake-offs, we ought to have guardians appointed." "fine business," agreed meers complacently. that complacency, which meant forgetfulness of the fact that all the stock would be temporarily in wallingford's hands and under his absolute legal mastery, was what j. rufus wished to encourage, and to that end he arranged for "secret" meetings of the retail cigar dealers during the constructive period. here the promoter was at his best. singly, his big impressiveness dominated men; in masses, he swayed them. enthusiasm was raised to fever heat. even the smallest among these men grew large. individually they were poor; collectively they were rich. outside the consolidation not one of them amounted to much; inside it each one was a part of a millionaire! in the business of cigar selling a new era had come, and its name was wallingford! by the close of the second meeting, scarcely a small dealer in the town but had signed the cleverly worded agreement. it was while the stock certificates were being printed that wallingford, who almost lived in the resplendent carriage these days, drove up to ed nickel's place of business, at a time when both the flabby solitaire player and the apathetic watcher had gone out to whatever mysterious place it was that they secured food. "i say, mr. vice president," asked wallingford, addressing the amazingly spruced up mr. nickel quite as an equal, "do you know where i could buy a nice house? one for about fifteen thousand?" "i don't know, i'm sure," regretted nickel, pleased to be taken thus into the great wallingford's intimacy, "but there ought to be plenty of them. i wish i could figure on a house like that." "stick to me and see what happens to you," advised wallingford with no thought of the joke he was uttering. "there's no reason you shouldn't have anything you want if you just go after the big game. watch me." "but you've got money," protested the vice president. "did i always have it?" demanded the eminent financier. "every cent i have, mr. nickel, i made myself; and you can do the same. the trouble is, you don't go in big enough. you have only a thousand dollars worth of stock in our consolidation, for instance. you ought to have at least ten thousand." "i haven't the money," said nickel. "how much have you?" "just a shade over five thousand. say, man, i'm forty-six years old and i been slavin' like a dog ever since i was sixteen. thirty years it took me to scrape that five thousand together." "saved it!" snorted wallingford. "no wonder you haven't but five thousand. you can't make money that way. you have to invest. do you suppose rockefeller _saved_ his first million? tell you what i'll do, nickel. can you keep a secret?" "sure," asserted mr. nickel, with the eagerness of one who has never been entrusted with a secret of consequence. "if you want it and will pay for it on delivery next saturday, i can scheme it for you to take up an extra five thousand dollars' worth of stock in the consolidation; but if i do you must not say one word about it to any one until after everything is settled, or some of these other fellows will be jealous. there's meers, for instance. he's crazy right now to take over every share of the surplus, but, between you and i, we don't want him to have such a big finger in the pie." "i should say not," agreed mr. nickel emphatically. "he's too big as it is. why, he pretty near runs this town." "he can't run the consolidation; i'll tell him that!" declared mr. wallingford with much apparent heat. "it's _my_ project and i'll favor whoever i want to. but about this stock, old man. you think it over, and if you want it let me know by not later than to-day noon. if it isn't spoken for by that time i'll take it myself; but remember, not one word!" mr. nickel promised, on his honor as a man and his self-interest as a favored stockholder, to say nothing, and wallingford started out. at the door he turned back, however. "by the way," said he, "when we get going i've made up my mind to push the nickelfine and the double nickel brands. i've been trying those two boxes you gave me and they're great. but don't say anything. jealousy, you know!" mr. nickel put his finger to his lips and smiled and bowed significantly. fine man, that wallingford! knew a good thing when he saw it, and easy as an old shoe in spite of all his money. regular howling swell, too. the regular howling swell was at that very moment on his rubber-tired way to the shop of alfred norton, where he made a similar proposition to the one he had made nickel. in all his manipulating he had kept careful track of the gentlemen who had or who might have money, and now he made it his business to visit each of them in turn, to talk additional stock with them and bind them to inviolate secrecy. for three days he kept this up, and on friday evening was able to mop his brow in content. "fanny," he opined, "you have a smart husband." "that's the only fault i have to find with you, jim," she retorted smiling. "what have you done this time?" "i've just tapped mr. joseph o. meers on the solar plexus," he exulted. "i'll show that gentleman how to horn into my game and take the rake-off that's coming to a real artist! he's dreaming happy dreams just now, but when i leave town with the mezuma he'll wake up." "i thought you were going to stay here," she objected with a troubled frown. he understood her at once, and reached over to stroke her hair. "never mind, girl," he said. "i'm as anxious now as you are to settle down," and he glanced at the fluffy white sewing in her lap; "but this isn't the town. i had a nice clean business planned here, but the village grafter tried to jiu-jitsu me, so i just naturally had to jolt him one. i'll clean up about a hundred thousand to-morrow, and with that i'll go anywhere you say and into any business you pick out. suppose we go back to battlesburg, clear off that mortgage on your house and settle down there?" "oh, will you?" she asked eagerly. "but who loses this money, jim?" she suddenly wanted to know. "i'm more particular than ever about it just now. i don't want to take a dollar that isn't right." again he understood. "don't worry about that," he replied seriously. "this money is legitimate water that i am sopping up out of a reorganization, just like a harriman or a morgan. the drag-down i get is simply my pay as promoter and organizer, and is no bigger percentage than other promoters take when they get a chance." he had never taken so much pains to justify himself in her eyes, and she felt that this was due to a new tenderness. what if the wonderful influence that was dawning upon their lives should make a permanent change in him? there came a knock at the door. wallingford opened it and was confronted by a tall and stoutly built gentleman, who wore a blue helmet and numerous brass buttons upon his clothes. "mr. wallingford," said the caller, with a laborious wink and a broad brogue, "could ye step across to the court house wid me a few minutes and sign them papers?" and when wallingford had stepped outside, he added: "'twas on account of the lady i told ye that, but on the level, i'm after arrestin' yez!" "what's the charge?" asked wallingford with a tolerant smile, knowing his entire innocence of wrong. "obtainin' money under false pretenses." wallingford whistled, and, still unworried, excused himself for a moment. his statement to his wife was characteristic. "i'll be back in about an hour," he said, "but i don't feel safe with so much wealth in my clothes when i'm out with a policeman," and with a laugh he tossed into her lap practically all the money that he had--an even fifty dollars. of course wallingford sent immediately for joseph o. meers, and that gentleman came at once. "lovely place to find your old college chum," the prisoner cheerfully remarked. "i wish you'd go find out what this charge is all about and get me out of this, meers. it might hurt the consolidation if it becomes known. there's a mistake some place." "oh, is there?" mr. meers wanted to know. "i'll bet there ain't a mistake, because i'm the baby that secured the warrant, and i'm going to send you over. tried to double cross me, didn't you?" he asked pleasantly. "well, it can't be done. any grafter that tries to hand me the worst of it is going to find himself sucking at the sour end of a lemon,----quick. so i was to be the mark, eh? just because there wasn't a paper signed between us to show that i was entitled to half that surplus stock, you was going to sell the bunch of it and make a quick get-away. i was to be the fall guy for that nice little futurity check, too! you remember that little old hundred, don't you? well, it got you. i was hep to you day before yesterday, but your date didn't run out on that check till to-day, so i waited; and i'm going to send you over the road for as long a stretch as a good lawyer can hand you. now stay here and rot!" and joseph o. meers, highly pleased with himself, walked out. jail! mr. j. rufus wallingford, to whom tufted carpets and soft leather chairs were not luxuries but necessities, looked around him with the nearest substitute for a "game" grin that he could muster, and the prophetic words of blackie daw occurred to him: "our turn's next!" "it's a fine joke i played on myself," he mused. "me that a few weeks ago had a million in sight and that two hours ago had a hundred thousand cinched for to-morrow, to lose out like this; _and for a hundred dollars_!" that was the rub! to think that after all these years, during which he had conducted his pleasant and legally safe financial recreations with other people's money upon a scale large enough to live like a gentleman, his first introduction to a jail should be because of a miserable, contemptible hundred dollars! _why_ had he forgotten that check? _why_ had he been fool enough to think he could swear a lot of spineless jelly fish to secrecy? _why_ hadn't he been content with half? it served him right, he admitted, and unless meers relented, the penitentiary yawned its ugly mouth very close to him. at any rate, he was now a full-fledged member of the largest organization in the world--the down and out club. it was queer that in all this thought there came no trace of regret for what he had done; there came only regret for the consequences, only self-revilement that he had "overlooked a bet." his "conscience" did not reproach him at all, except for failure; for, monstrous as it may seem, to his own mind he had done no wrong! nor had he meant any wrong! with no sense of moral obligation whatever--and no more to be blamed for that than another man is for being born hunchbacked--he merely looked upon himself as smarter than most men, doing just what they would have done had they been blessed with the ability. only at last he had been unfortunate! well, the joke was on him, and he must be a good loser. the humor of the situation rather wore off when, after a night upon a hard pallet and a breakfast of dry bread and weak coffee, he sent a message to ed nickel and learned from that indignantly virtuous citizen that he would have nothing to do with swindlers! then he sent word to his wife and the answer he got to that message was the last straw. mrs. wallingford had quitted the hotel early that morning! he was sure of her, however. she would turn up again in her own good time, but what could she do? nothing! for the first time in his life, the man who had never thought to have need of a friend outside a few moral defectives of his own class, realized what it is to be absolutely friendless. there was no one left in all this wide world upon whom he could make any demand of loyalty. blackie daw a fugitive, billy riggs a convict, all the old clan scattered far and wide, either paying their penalty, or, having transgressed the law, fleeing from it, the universe had come to an end. hour after hour he spent in trying to think of some one to whom he could appeal, and the conviction gradually burned itself in upon him that at last he was "up against it." it was a bad mess. he had made no deposit whatever in the local bank upon which he had drawn that check, though he had intended to do so. moreover, meers, to prove fraudulent intent, could show his intended bad faith in the other matter between them; and besides all that the alderman cigar dealer had a "pull" of no mean proportions. it had seemed impossible, the night before, that he who had dealt only in thousands and hundreds of thousands should be made a felon for a paltry hundred. it had seemed too absurd to be true, an anomalous situation that a day would clear up and at which he could afterwards laugh. even now he joked with the turnkey, and that guardian of social recalcitrants was profoundly convinced that in j. rufus wallingford he had the swellest prisoner upon whom he had ever slid a bolt. the policeman who arrested him and the judge who next morning remanded him for trial shared that opinion, but it was a very melancholy satisfaction. after his preliminary hearing he went from the city prison to a more "comfortable" cell in the county jail, to think a number of very deep thoughts. not a friendly eye had been turned on him but that of joseph o. meers, who had come around to see the fun. mr. meers had been quite jovial with him, had handed him a good cigar and told him the latest developments in the retail cigar dealers' consolidation. he was reorganizing it himself. it was really a good "stunt," and he thanked j. rufus most effusively for having started it. this was "kidding" of a broad-gauge type that wallingford, for the same reason that a gambler tries to look pleased when he loses his money, was bound to enjoy very much, and with right good wit he replied in kind; but in this exchange of humor he was very much handicapped, for really meers had all the joke on his side. another restless night and another dreary day, and then, just as he had begun to sincerely pity himself as a forlorn castaway upon the barrenest shore of all living things, there came visitors for him, and the turnkey with much deference threw open his cell and led him out to the visitor's cage. his wife! well, he had expected her, and he had expected, too, since this great new tenderness had come upon her, to find her eyes suffused with bravely suppressed tears as they now were; but he had never expected to see again the man who was with her. e. b. lott! the man to whom he had once sold rights of way to a traction line which he had never intended to build! one of his most profitable victims! "so they got you at last, did they, wallingford?" said lott briskly, and shook hands with him, positive pleasure in the meeting beaming from his grizzled countenance. "i expected they would. a nice little game you played on me up in battlesburg, wasn't it? well, my boy, it was worth the money. you really had a valuable right of way, with valuable franchises and concessions, and the lewisville, battlesburg and elliston traction line is doing a ripping business; so i'll forgive you, especially since you're not an individual criminal at all. you're only the logical development of the american tendency to 'get there' no matter how. it is the national weakness, the national menace, and you're only an exaggerated molecule of it. you think that so long as you stay inside the _law_ you're all right, even morally; but a man who habitually shaves so close to the narrow edge is going to slip off some time. now you've had your dose and i shouldn't wonder but it _might_ make a man of you. your fine little wife here, who hunted me up the minute she found out your real predicament, swears that it will, but i'm not sure. you're too valuable, though, to coop up in a penitentiary, and i'm going to buy you off. i can use you. i've been in the traction business ever since the first trolley touched a wire, and i never yet have seen a man who could go out and get a right of way for nothing, as you did, nor get it in so short a space of time, even for money. we expect to open up two thousand miles of lines this coming year and i'm going to put you on the job. i can't fix it to make you such quick riches as you can rake in on crooked deals, but i'll guarantee you will have more in the end. it's a great chance for you, my boy, and just to protect you against yourself i'm going to hire a good man to watch you." wallingford had already regained his breadth of chest, and now he began to laugh. his shoulders heaved and the hundred jovial wrinkles about his eyes creased with the humor of the thought that had come to him. "you'd better hire three," he suggested, "and work them in eight-hour shifts." nevertheless there was a bit of moisture in his eyes, and his hand, dropping down, sought his wife's. perhaps in that moment he vaguely promised himself some effort toward a higher ideal, but the woman at his side, though knowing what she knew, though herself renewed and made over wholly with that great new reason, though detecting the presence of the crippled moral sense that was falling back baffled from its feeble assault upon his soul, pressed her other palm over his hand protectingly and shook her head--for at last she understood! upon thistles grow no roses. the end brave and bold or the fortunes of robert rushton by horatio alger jr. chapter i. the young rivals. the main schoolroom in the millville academy was brilliantly lighted, and the various desks were occupied by boys and girls of different ages from ten to eighteen, all busily writing under the general direction of professor george w. granville, instructor in plain and ornamental penmanship. professor granville, as he styled himself, was a traveling teacher, and generally had two or three evening schools in progress in different places at the same time. he was really a very good penman, and in a course of twelve lessons, for which he charged the very moderate price of a dollar, not, of course, including stationery, he contrived to impart considerable instruction, and such pupils as chose to learn were likely to profit by his instructions. his venture in millville had been unusually successful. there were a hundred pupils on his list, and there had been no disturbance during the course of lessons. at nine precisely, professor granville struck a small bell, and said, in rather a nasal voice: "you will now stop writing." there was a little confusion as the books were closed and the pens were wiped. "ladies and gentlemen," said the professor, placing one arm under his coat tails and extending the other in an oratorical attitude, "this evening completes the course of lessons which i have had the honor and pleasure of giving you. i have endeavored to impart to you an easy and graceful penmanship, such as may be a recommendation to you in after life. it gives me pleasure to state that many of you have made great proficiency, and equaled my highest expectations. there are others, perhaps, who have not been fully sensible of the privileges which they enjoyed. i would say to you all that perfection is not yet attained. you will need practice to reap the full benefit of my instructions. should my life be spared, i shall hope next winter to give another course of writing lessons in this place, and i hope i may then have the pleasure of meeting you again as pupils. let me say, in conclusion, that i thank you for your patronage and for your good behavior during this course of lessons, and at the same time i bid you good-by." with the closing words, professor granville made a low bow, and placed his hand on his heart, as he had done probably fifty times before, on delivering the same speech, which was the stereotyped form in which he closed his evening schools. there was a thumping of feet, mingled with a clapping of hands, as the professor closed his speech, and a moment later a boy of sixteen, occupying one of the front seats, rose, and, advancing with easy self-possession, drew from his pocket a gold pencil case, containing a pencil and pen, and spoke as follows: "professor granville, the members of your writing class, desirous of testifying their appreciation of your services as teacher, have contributed to buy this gold pencil case, which, in their name, i have great pleasure in presenting to you. will you receive it with our best wishes for your continued success as a teacher of penmanship?" with these words, he handed the pencil to the professor and returned to his seat. the applause that ensued was terrific, causing the dust to rise from the floor where it had lain undisturbed till the violent attack of two hundred feet raised it in clouds, through which the figure of the professor was still visible, with his right arm again extended. "ladies and gentlemen," he commenced, "i cannot give fitting utterance to the emotions that fill my heart at this most unexpected tribute of regard and mark of appreciation of my humble services. believe me, i shall always cherish it as a most valued possession, and the sight of it will recall the pleasant, and, i hope, profitable hours which we have passed together this winter. to you, in particular, mr. rushton, i express my thanks for the touching and eloquent manner in which you have made the presentation, and, in parting with you all, i echo your own good wishes, and shall hope that you may be favored with an abundant measure of health and prosperity." this speech was also vociferously applauded. it was generally considered impromptu, but was, in truth, as stereotyped as the other. professor granville had on previous occasions been the recipient of similar testimonials, and he had found it convenient to have a set form of acknowledgment. he was wise in this, for it is a hard thing on the spur of the moment suitably to offer thanks for an unexpected gift. "the professor made a bully speech," said more than one after the exercises were over. "so did bob rushton," said edward kent. "i didn't see anything extraordinary in what he said," sneered halbert davis. "it seemed to me very commonplace." "perhaps you could do better yourself, halbert," said kent. "probably i could," said halbert, haughtily. "why didn't you volunteer, then?" "i didn't care to have anything to do with it," returned halbert, scornfully. "that's lucky," remarked edward, "as there was no chance of your getting appointed." "do you mean to insult me?" demanded halbert, angrily. "no, i was only telling the truth." halbert turned away, too disgusted to make any reply. he was a boy of sixteen, of slender form and sallow complexion, dressed with more pretension than taste. probably there was no boy present whose suit was of such fine material as his. but something more than fine clothes is needed to give a fine appearance, and halbert's mean and insignificant features were far from rendering him attractive, and despite the testimony of his glass, halbert considered himself a young man of distinguished appearance, and was utterly blind to his personal defects. what contributed to feed his vanity was his position as the son of the richest man in millville. indeed, his father was superintendent, and part owner, of the great brick factory on the banks of the river, in which hundreds found employment. halbert found plenty to fawn upon him, and was in the habit of strutting about the village, swinging a light cane, neither a useful nor an ornamental member of the community. after his brief altercation with edward kent, he drew on a pair of kid gloves, and looked about the room for hester paine, the lawyer's daughter, the reigning belle among the girls of her age in millville. the fact was, that halbert was rather smitten with hester, and had made up his mind to escort her home on this particular evening, never doubting that his escort would be thankfully accepted. but he was not quick enough, robert rushton had already approached hester, and said, "miss hester, will you allow me to see you home?" "i shall be very glad to have your company, robert," said hester. robert was a general favorite. he had a bright, attractive face, strong and resolute, when there was occasion, frank and earnest at all times. his clothes were neat and clean, but of a coarse, mixed cloth, evidently of low price, suiting his circumstances, for he was poor, and his mother and himself depended mainly upon his earnings in the factory for the necessaries of life. hester paine, being the daughter of a well-to-do lawyer, belonged to the village aristocracy, and so far as worldly wealth was concerned, was far above robert rushton. but such considerations never entered her mind, as she frankly, and with real pleasure, accepted the escort of the poor factory boy. scarcely had she done so when halbert davis approached, smoothing his kid gloves, and pulling at his necktie. "miss hester," he said, consequentially, "i shall have great pleasure in escorting you home." "thank you," said hester, "but i am engaged." "engaged!" repeated halbert, "and to whom?" "robert rushton has kindly offered to take me home." "robert rushton!" said halbert, disdainfully. "never mind. i will relieve him of his duty." "thank you, halbert," said robert, who was standing by, "i won't trouble you. i will see miss paine home." "your escort was accepted because you were the first to offer it," said halbert. "miss hester," said robert, "i will resign in favor of halbert, if you desire it." "i don't desire it," said the young girl, promptly. "come, robert, i am ready if you are." with a careless nod to halbert, she took robert's arm, and left the schoolhouse. mortified and angry, halbert looked after them, muttering, "i'll teach the factory boy a lesson. he'll be sorry for his impudence yet." chapter ii. punishing a coward mrs. rushton and her son occupied a little cottage, not far from the factory. behind it were a few square rods of garden, in which robert raised a few vegetables, working generally before or after his labor in the factory. they lived in a very plain way, but mrs. rushton was an excellent manager, and they had never lacked the common comforts of life. the husband and father had followed the sea. two years before, he left the port of boston as captain of the ship _norman_, bound for calcutta. not a word had reached his wife and son since then, and it was generally believed that it had gone to the bottom of the sea. mrs. rushton regarded herself as a widow, and robert, entering the factory, took upon himself the support of the family. he was now able to earn six dollars a week, and this, with his mother's earnings in braiding straw for a hat manufacturer in a neighboring town, supported them, though they were unable to lay up anything. the price of a term at the writing school was so small that robert thought he could indulge himself in it, feeling that a good handwriting was a valuable acquisition, and might hereafter procure him employment in some business house. for the present, he could not do better than to retain his place in the factory. robert was up at six the next morning. he spent half an hour in sawing and splitting wood enough to last his mother through the day, and then entered the kitchen, where breakfast was ready. "i am a little late this morning, mother," he said. "i must hurry down my breakfast, or i shall be late at the factory, and that will bring twenty-five cents fine." "it would be a pity to get fined, but you mustn't eat too fast. it is not healthful." "i've got a pretty good digestion, mother," said robert, laughing. "nothing troubles me." "still, you mustn't trifle with it. do you remember, robert," added his mother, soberly, "it is just two years to-day since your poor father left us for boston to take command of his ship?" "so it is, mother; i had forgotten it." "i little thought then that i should never see him again!" and mrs. rushton sighed. "it is strange we have never heard anything of the ship." "not so strange, robert. it must have gone down when no other vessel was in sight." "i wish we knew the particulars, mother. sometimes i think father may have escaped from the ship in a boat, and may be still alive." "i used to think it possible, robert; but i have given up all hopes of it. two years have passed, and if your father were alive, we should have seen him or heard from him ere this." "i am afraid you are right. there's one thing i can't help thinking of, mother," said robert, thoughtfully. "how is it that father left no property? he received a good salary, did he not?" "yes; he had received a good salary for several years." "he did not spend the whole of it, did he?" "no, i am sure he did not. your father was never extravagant." "didn't he ever speak to you on the subject?" "he was not in the habit of speaking of his business; but just before he went away, i remember him telling me that he had some money invested, and hoped to add more to it during the voyage which proved so fatal to him." "he didn't tell you how much it was, nor how it was invested?" "no; that was all he said. since his death, i have looked everywhere in the house for some papers which would throw light upon it; but i have been able to find nothing. i do not care so much for myself, but i should be glad if you did not have to work so hard." "never mind me, mother; i'm young and strong, i can stand work--but it's hard on you." "i am rich in having a good son, robert." "and i in a good mother," said robert, affectionately. "and, now, to change the subject. i suspect i have incurred the enmity of halbert davis." "how is that?" asked mrs. rushton. "i went home with hester paine, last evening, from writing school. just as she had accepted my escort, halbert came up, and in a condescending way, informed her that he would see her home." "what did she say?" "she told him she was engaged to me. he said, coolly, that he would relieve me of the duty, but i declined his obliging offer. he looked mad enough, i can tell you. he's full of self-conceit, and i suppose he wondered how any one could prefer me to him." "i am sorry you have incurred his enmity." "i didn't lose any sleep by it." "you know his father is the superintendent of the factory." "halbert isn't." "but he may prejudice his father against you, and get you discharged." "i don't think he would be quite so mean as that. we won't borrow trouble, mother. but time's up, and i must go." robert seized his hat and hurried to the mill. he was in his place when the great factory bell stopped ringing on the stroke of seven, and so escaped the fine, which would have cut off one-quarter of a day's pay. meanwhile, halbert davis had passed an uncomfortable and restless night. he had taken a fancy to hester paine, and he had fully determined to escort her home on the previous evening. as she was much sought after among her young companions, it would have gratified his pride to have it known that she had accepted his company. but he had been cut out, and by robert rushton--one of his father's factory hands. this made his jealousy more intolerable, and humiliated his pride, and set him to work devising schemes for punishing robert's presumption. he felt that it was robert's duty, even though he had been accepted, to retire from the field as soon as his, halbert's, desire was known. this robert had expressly declined to do, and halbert felt very indignant. he made up his mind that he would give robert a chance to apologize, and if he declined to do so he would do what he could to get him turned out of the factory. at twelve o'clock the factory bell pealed forth a welcome sound to the hundreds who were busily at work within the great building. it was the dinner hour, and a throng of men, women and children poured out of the great portals and hastened to their homes or boarding houses to dine. among them was robert rushton. as he was walking homeward with his usual quick, alert step, he came upon halbert davis, at the corner of the street. halbert was dressed carefully, and, as usual, was swinging his cane in his gloved hand. robert would have passed him with a nod, but halbert, who was waiting for him, called out: "i say, you fellow, stop a minute. i want to speak to you." "are you addressing me?" asked robert, with a pride as great as his own. "yes." "then you had better mend your manners." "what do you mean?" demanded halbert, his sallow face slightly flushing. "my name is robert rushton. call me by either of these names when you speak to me, and don't say 'you fellow.'" "it seems to me," sneered halbert, "that you are putting on airs for a factory boy." "i am a factory boy, i acknowledge, and am not ashamed to acknowledge it. is this all you have to say to me? if so, i will pass on, as i am in haste." "i have something else to say to you. you were impudent to me last evening." "was i? tell me how." "did you not insist on going home with hester paine, when i had offered my escort?" "what of that?" "you forget your place." "my place was at hester paine's side, since she had accepted my escort." "it was very presumptuous in a factory boy like you offering your escort to a young lady like miss paine." "i don't see it," said robert, independently; "and i don't think it struck hester in that light. we had a very agreeable walk." halbert was provoked and inflamed with jealousy, and the look with which he regarded our hero was by no means friendly. "you mustn't regard yourself as miss paine's equal because she condescended to walk with you," he said. "you had better associate with those of your own class hereafter, and not push yourself in where your company is not agreeable." "keep your advice to yourself, halbert davis," said robert, hotly, for he felt the insult conveyed in these words. "if i am a factory boy i don't intend to submit to your impertinence; and i advise you to be careful what you say. as to miss hester paine, i shall not ask your permission to walk with her, but shall do so whenever she chooses to accept my escort. has she authorized you to speak for her?" "no; but----" "then wait till she does." halbert was so incensed that, forgetting robert's superior strength, evident enough to any one who saw the two, one with his well-knit, vigorous figure, the other slender and small of frame, he raised his cane and struck our hero smartly upon the arm. in a moment the cane was wrested from his grasp and applied to his own person with a sharp, stinging blow which broke the fragile stick in two. casting the pieces upon the ground at his feet, robert said, coolly: "two can play at that game, halbert davis. when you want another lesson come to me." he passed his discomfited antagonist and hastened to the little cottage, where his mother was wondering what made him so much behind time. chapter iii. the special deposit. stung with mortification and more incensed against robert than ever, halbert hastened home. the house in which he lived was the largest and most pretentious in millville--a large, square house, built in modern style, and with modern improvements, accessible from the street by a semi-circular driveway terminating in two gates, one at each end of the spacious lawn that lay in front. the house had been built only three years, and was the show-place of the village. halbert entered the house, and throwing his hat down on a chair in the hall, entered the dining-room, his face still betraying his angry feelings. "what's the matter, halbert?" asked his mother, looking up as he entered. "do you see this?" said halbert, displaying the pieces of his cane. "how did you break it?" "i didn't break it." "how came it broken, then?" "robert rushton broke it." "the widow rushton's son?" "yes; he's a low scoundrel," said halbert bitterly. "what made him break it?" "he struck me with it hard enough to break it, and then threw the pieces on the ground. i wouldn't mind it so much if he were not a low factory boy, unworthy of a gentleman's attention." "how dared he touch you?" asked mrs. davis, angrily. "oh, he's impudent enough for anything. he walked home with hester paine last evening from the writing school. i suppose she didn't know how to refuse him. i met him just now and told him he ought to know his place better than to offer his escort to a young lady like hester. he got mad and struck me." "it was very proper advice," said mrs. davis, who resembled her son in character and disposition, and usually sided with him in his quarrels. "i should think hester would have more sense than to encourage a boy in his position." "i have no doubt she was bored by his company," said halbert, who feared on the contrary that hester was only too well pleased with his rival, and hated him accordingly; "only she was too good-natured to say so." "the boy must be a young brute to turn upon you so violently." "that's just what he is." "he ought to be punished for it." "i'll tell you how it can be done," said halbert. "just you speak to father about it, and get him dismissed from the factory." "then he is employed in the factory?" "yes. he and his mother are as poor as poverty, and that's about all they have to live upon; yet he goes round with his head up as if he were a prince, and thinks himself good enough to walk home with hester paine." "i never heard of anything so ridiculous." "then you'll speak to father about it, won't you?" "yes; i'll speak to him to-night. he's gone away for the day." "that'll pay me for my broken cane," said halbert, adding, in a tone of satisfaction: "i shall be glad to see him walking round the streets in rags. perhaps he'll be a little more respectful then." meanwhile robert decided not to mention to his mother his encounter with the young aristocrat. he knew that it would do no good, and would only make her feel troubled. he caught the malignant glance of halbert on parting, and he knew him well enough to suspect that he would do what he could to have him turned out of the factory. this would certainly be a serious misfortune. probably the entire income upon which his mother and himself had to depend did not exceed eight dollars a week, and of this he himself earned six. they had not more than ten dollars laid by for contingencies, and if he were deprived of work, that would soon melt away. the factory furnished about the only avenue of employment open in millville, and if he were discharged it would be hard to find any other remunerative labor. at one o'clock robert went back to the factory rather thoughtful. he thought it possible that he might hear something before evening of the dismission which probably awaited him, but the afternoon passed and he heard nothing. on leaving the factory, he chanced to see halbert again on the sidewalk a little distance in front and advancing toward him. this time, however, the young aristocrat did not desire a meeting, for, with a dark scowl, he crossed the street in time to avoid it. "is he going to pass it over, i wonder?" thought robert. "well, i won't borrow trouble. if i am discharged i think i can manage to pick up a living somehow. i've got two strong arms, and if i don't find something to do, it won't be for the want of trying." two years before, captain rushton, on the eve of sailing upon what proved to be his last voyage, called in the evening at the house of mr. davis, the superintendent of the millville factory. he found the superintendent alone, his wife and halbert having gone out for the evening. he was seated at a table with a variety of papers spread out before him. these papers gave him considerable annoyance. he was preparing his semi-annual statement of account, and found himself indebted to the corporation in a sum three thousand dollars in excess of the funds at his command. he had been drawn into the whirlpool of speculation, and, through a new york broker, had invested considerable amounts in stocks, which had depreciated in value. in doing this he had made use, to some extent, of the funds of the corporation, which he was now at a loss how to replace. he was considering where he could apply for a temporary loan of three thousand dollars when the captain entered. under the circumstances he was sorry for the intrusion. "good-evening, captain rushton," he said, with a forced smile. "sit down. i am glad to see you." "thank you, mr. davis. it will be the last call i shall make upon you for a considerable time." "indeed--how is that?" "i sail to-morrow for calcutta." "indeed--that is a long voyage." "yes, it takes considerable time. i don't like to leave my wife and boy for so long, but we sailors have to suffer a good many privations." "true; i hardly think i should enjoy such a life." "still," said the captain, "it has its compensations. i like the free, wild life of the sea. the ocean, even in its stormiest aspects, has a charm for me." "it hasn't much for me," said the superintendent, shrugging his shoulders. "seasickness takes away all the romance that poets have invested it with." captain rushton laughed. "seasickness!" he repeated. "yes, that is truly a disagreeable malady. i remember once having a lady of rank as passenger on board my ship--a lady alice graham. she was prostrated by seasickness, which is no respecter of persons, and a more forlorn, unhappy mortal i never expect to see. she would have been glad, i am convinced, to exchange places with her maid, who seemed to thrive upon the sea air." "i wish you a prosperous voyage, captain." "thank you. if things go well, i expect to come home with quite an addition to my little savings. and that brings me to the object of my visit this evening. you must know, mr. davis, i have saved up in the last ten years a matter of five thousand dollars." "five thousand dollars!" repeated the superintendent, pricking up his ears. "yes, it has been saved by economy and self-denial. wouldn't my wife be surprised if she knew her husband were so rich?" "your wife doesn't know of it?" asked the superintendent, surprised. "not at all. i have told her i have something, and she may suppose i have a few hundred dollars, but i have never told her how much. i want to surprise her some day." "just so." "now, mr. davis, for the object of my errand. i am no financier, and know nothing of investments. i suppose you do. i want you to take this money, and take care of it, while i am gone on my present voyage. i meant to make inquiries myself for a suitable investment, but i have been summoned by my owners to leave at a day's notice, and have no time for it. can you oblige me by taking care of the money?" "certainly, captain," said the superintendent, briskly. "i shall have great pleasure in obliging an old friend." "i am much obliged to you." "don't mention it. i have large sums of my own to invest, and it is no extra trouble to look after your money. am i to pay the interest to your wife?" "no. i have left a separate fund in a savings bank for her to draw upon. as i told you, i want to surprise her by and by. so not a word, if you please, about this deposit." "your wishes shall be regarded," said the superintendent. "have you brought the money with you?" "yes," said the captain, drawing from his pocket a large wallet. "i have got the whole amount here in large bills. count it, if you please, and see that it is all right." the superintendent took the roll of bills from the hands of his neighbor, and counted them over twice. "it is quite right," he said. "here are five thousand dollars. now let me write you a receipt for them." he drew before him a sheet of paper, and dipping his pen in the inkstand, wrote a receipt in the usual form, which he handed back to the captain, who received it and put it back in his wallet. "now," said the captain, in a tone of satisfaction, "my most important business is transacted. you will keep this money, investing it according to your best judgment. if anything should happen to me," he added, his voice faltering a little, "you will pay it over to my wife and child." "assuredly," said the superintendent; "but don't let us think of such a sad contingency. i fully expect to pay it back into your own hands with handsome interest." "let us hope so," said the captain, recovering his cheerfulness. "our destinies are in the hands of a kind providence. and now good-by! i leave early to-morrow morning, and i must pass the rest of the evening with my own family." "good-night, captain," said the superintendent, accompanying him to the door. "i renew my wish that you have a prosperous and profitable voyage, and be restored in good time to your family and friends." "amen!" said the captain. the superintendent went back to his study, his heart lightened of its anxiety. "could anything be more fortunate?" he ejaculated, "this help comes to me just when it is most needed. thanks to my special deposit, i can make my semi-annual settlement, and have two thousand dollars over. it's lucky the captain knows nothing of my wall street speculations. he might not have been quite so ready to leave his money in my hands. it's not a bad thing to be a banker," and he rubbed his hands together with hilarity. chapter iv. the voice of conscience. when the superintendent accepted captain rushton's money, he did not intend to act dishonestly. he hailed it as a present relief, though he supposed he should have to repay it some time. his accounts being found correct, he went on with his speculations. in these he met with varying success. but on the whole he found himself no richer, while he was kept in a constant fever of anxiety. after some months, he met mrs. rushton in the street one day. "have you heard from your husband, mrs. rushton?" he inquired. "no, mr. davis, not yet. i am beginning to feel anxious." "how long has he been gone?" "between seven and eight months." "the voyage is a long one. there are many ways of accounting for his silence." "he would send by some passing ship. he has been to calcutta before, but i have never had to wait so long for a letter." the superintendent uttered some commonplace phrases of assurance, but in his own heart there sprang up a wicked hope that the _norman_ would never reach port, and that he might never set eyes on captain rushton again. for in that case, he reflected, it would be perfectly safe for him to retain possession of the money with which he had been intrusted. the captain had assured him that neither his wife nor son knew aught of his savings. who then could detect his crime? however, it was not yet certain that the _norman_ was lost. he might yet have to repay the money. six months more passed, and still no tidings of the ship or its commander. even the most sanguine now gave her up for lost, including the owners. the superintendent called upon them, ostensibly in behalf of mrs. rushton, and learned that they had but slender hopes of her safety. it was a wicked thing to rejoice over such a calamity, but his affairs were now so entangled that a sudden demand for the five thousand dollars would have ruined him. he made up his mind to say nothing of the special deposit, though he knew the loss of it would leave the captain's family in the deepest poverty. to soothe his conscience--for he was wholly destitute of one--he received robert into the factory, and the boy's wages, as we already know, constituted their main support. such was the state of things at the commencement of our story. when the superintendent reached home in the evening, he was at once assailed by his wife and son, who gave a highly colored account of the insult which halbert had received from robert rushton. "did he have any reason for striking you, halbert?" asked the superintendent. "no," answered halbert, unblushingly. "he's an impudent young scoundrel, and puts on as many airs as if he were a prince instead of a beggar." "he is not a beggar." "he is a low factory boy, and that is about the same." "by no means. he earns his living by honest industry." "it appears to me," put in mrs. davis, "that you are taking the part of this boy who has insulted your son in such an outrageous manner." "how am i doing it? i am only saying he is not a beggar." "he is far below halbert in position, and that is the principal thing." it occurred to the superintendent that should he make restitution robert rushton would be quite as well off as his own son, but of course he could not venture to breathe a hint of this to his wife. it was the secret knowledge of the deep wrong which he had done to the rushtons that now made him unwilling to oppress him further. "it seems to me," he said, "you are making too much of this matter. it is only a boyish quarrel." "a boyish quarrel!" retorted mrs. davis, indignantly. "you have a singular way of standing by your son, mr. davis. a low fellow insults and abuses him, and you exert yourself to mate excuses for him." "you misapprehend me, my dear." "don't 'my dear' me," said the exasperated lady. "i thought you would be as angry as i am, but you seem to take the whole thing very coolly, upon my word!" mrs. davis had a sharp temper and a sharp tongue, and her husband stood considerably in awe of both. he had more than once been compelled to yield to them, and he saw that he must make some concession to order to keep the peace. "well, what do you want me to do?" he asked. "want you to do! i should think that was plain enough." "i will send for the boy and reprimand him." "reprimand him!" repeated the lady, contemptuously. "and what do you think he will care for that?" "more than you think, perhaps." "stuff and nonsense! he'll be insulting halbert again to-morrow." "i am not so sure that halbert is not in fault in some way." "of course, you are ready to side with a stranger against your own son." "what do you want me to do?" asked the superintendent, submissively. "discharge the boy from your employment," said his wife, promptly. "but how can he and his mother live?--they depend on his wages." "that is their affair. he ought to have thought of that before he raised his hand against halbert." "i cannot do what you wish," said the superintendent, with some firmness, for he felt that it would indeed be a piece of meanness to eject from the factory the boy whom he had already so deeply wronged; "but i will send for young rushton and require him to apologize to halbert." "and if he won't do it?" demanded halbert. "then i will send him away." "will you promise that, father?" asked halbert, eagerly. "yes," said mr. davis, rather reluctantly. "all right!" thought halbert; "i am satisfied; for i know he never will consent to apologize." halbert had good reason for this opinion, knowing, as he did, that he had struck the first blow, a circumstance he had carefully concealed from his father. under the circumstances he knew very well that his father would be called upon to redeem his promise. the next morning, at the regular hour, our hero went to the factory, and taking his usual place, set to work. an hour passed, and nothing was said to him. he began to think that halbert, feeling that he was the aggressor, had resolved to let the matter drop. but he was speedily undeceived. at a quarter after eight the superintendent made his appearance, and after a brief inspection of the work, retired to his private office. ten minutes later, the foreman of the room in which he was employed came up to robert and touched him on the shoulder. "mr. davis wishes to see you in his office," he said. "now for it!" thought robert, as he left his work and made his way, through the deafening clamor of the machinery, to the superintendent's room. chapter v. discharged. the superintendent sat at an office table writing a letter. he did not at first look up, but kept on with his employment. he had some remnants of conscience left, and he shrank from the task his wife had thrust upon him. "mr. baker tells me you wish to see me, mr. davis," said robert, who had advanced into the office, by way of calling his attention. "yes," said the superintendent, laying down his pen, and turning half round; "i hear a bad account of you, rushton." "in what way, sir?" asked our hero, returning his look fearlessly. "i hear that you have been behaving like a young ruffian," said mr. davis, who felt that he must make out a strong case to justify him in dismissing robert from the factory. "this is a serious charge, mr. davis," said robert, gravely, "and i hope you will be kind enough to let me know what i have done, and the name of my accuser." "i mean to do so. probably it will be enough to say that your accuser is my son, halbert." "i supposed so. i had a difficulty with halbert yesterday, but i consider he was in fault." "he says you insulted and struck him." "i did not insult him. the insult came from him." "did you strike him?" "yes, but not until he had struck me first." "he didn't mention this, but even if he had you should not have struck him back." "why not?" asked robert. "you should have reported the affair to me." "and allowed him to keep on striking me?" "you must have said something to provoke him," continued the superintendent, finding it a little difficult to answer this question, "or he would not have done it." "if you will allow me," said robert, "i will give you an account of the whole affair." "go on," said the superintendent, rather unwillingly, for he strongly suspected that our hero would be able to justify himself, and so render dismissal more difficult. "halbert took offense because i accompanied hester paine home from the writing school, evening before last, though i did with the young lady's permission, as he knew. he met me yesterday at twelve o'clock, as i was going home to dinner, and undertook to lecture me on my presumption in offering my escort to one so much above me. he also taunted me with being a factory boy. i told him to keep his advice to himself, as i should not ask his permission when i wanted to walk, with hester paine. then he became enraged, and struck me with his cane. i took it from him and returned the blow, breaking the cane in doing it." "ahem!" said the superintendent, clearing his throat; "you must have been very violent." "i don't think i was, sir. i struck him a smart blow, but the cane was very light and easily broken." "you were certainly very violent," continued mr. davis, resolved to make a point of this. "halbert did not break the cane when he struck you." "he struck the first blow." "that does not alter the question of the amount of violence, which was evidently without justification. you must have been in a great passion." "i don't think i was in any greater passion than halbert." "in view of the violence you made use of, i consider that you owe my son an apology." "an apology!" repeated robert, whose astonishment was apparent in his tone. "i believe i spoke plainly," said the superintendent, irritably. "if any apology is to be made," said our hero, firmly, "it ought to come from halbert to me." "how do you make that out?" "he gave me some impertinent advice, and, because i did not care to take it, he struck me." "and you seized his cane in a fury, and broke it in returning the blow." "i acknowledge that i broke the cane," said robert; "and i suppose it is only right that i should pay for it. i am willing to do that, but not to apologize." "that will not be sufficient," said the superintendent, who knew that payment for the cane would fall far short of satisfying his wife or halbert. "the cost of the cane was a trifle, and i am willing to buy him another, but i cannot consent that my son should be subjected to such rude violence, without an apology from the offender. if i passed this over, you might attack him again to-morrow." "i am not in the habit of attacking others without cause," said robert, proudly. "if halbert will let me alone, or treat me with civility, he may be sure that i shall not trouble him." "you are evading the main point, rushton," said the superintendent. "i have required you to apologize to my son, and i ask you for the last time whether you propose to comply with my wishes." "no, sir," said robert, boldly. "do you know to whom you are speaking, boy?" "yes, sir." "i am not only the father of the boy you have assaulted, but i am also the superintendent of this factory, and your employer.". "i am aware of that, sir." "i can discharge you from the factory." "i know you can," said robert. "of course, i should be sorry to resort to such an extreme measure, but, if you defy my authority, i may be compelled to do so." so the crisis had come. robert saw that he must choose between losing his place and a humiliating apology. between the two he did not for a moment hesitate. "mr. davis," he said, boldly and firmly, "it will be a serious thing for me if i lose my place here, for my mother and i are poor, and my wages make the greatest part of our income. but i cannot make this apology you require. i will sooner lose my place." the bold and manly bearing of our hero, and his resolute tone, impressed the superintendent with an involuntary admiration. he felt that robert was a boy to be proud of, but none the less he meant to carry out his purpose. "is this your final decision?" he asked. "yes, sir." "then you are discharged from the factory. you will report your discharge to mr. baker, and he will pay you what you have earned this week." "very well, sir." robert left the office, with a bold bearing, but a heart full of trouble. if only himself had been involved in the calamity, he could have borne it better, but he knew that his loss of place meant privation and want for his mother, unless he could find something to do that would bring in an equal income, and this he did not expect. "mr. baker," he said, addressing the foreman of his room, on his return from the superintendent's office, "i am discharged." "discharged?" repeated the foreman, in surprise. "there must be some mistake about this. you are one of our best hands--for your age, i mean." "there is no dissatisfaction with my work that i know of, but i got into a quarrel with halbert davis yesterday, and his father wants me to apologize to him." "which you won't do?" "i would if i felt that i were in fault. i am not too proud for that. but the fact is, halbert ought to apologize to me." "halbert is a mean boy. i don't blame you in the least." "so i am to report my discharge to you, and ask you for my wages." this account was soon settled, and robert left the factory his own master. but it is poor consolation to be one's own master under such circumstances. he dreaded to break the news to his mother, for he knew that it would distress her. he was slowly walking along, when he once more encountered halbert davis. halbert was out for the express purpose of meeting and exulting over him, for he rightly concluded that robert would decline to apologize to him. robert saw his enemy, and guessed his object, but resolved to say nothing to him, unless actually obliged to do so. "where are you going?" demanded halbert. "home." "i thought you worked in the factory?" "did you?" asked robert, looking full in his face, and reading the exultation he did not attempt to conceal. "perhaps you have got turned out?" suggested halbert, with a malicious smile. "you would be glad of that, i suppose," said our hero. "i don't think i should cry much," said halbert. "it's true then, is it?" "yes; it's true." "you won't put on so many airs when you go round begging for cold victuals. it'll be some time before you walk with hester paine again." "i shall probably walk with her sooner than you will." "she won't notice a beggar." "there is not much chance of my becoming a beggar, halbert davis; but i would rather be one than be as mean as you. i will drop you a slight hint, which you had better bear in mind. it won't be any safer to insult me now than it was yesterday. i can't lose my place a second time." halbert instinctively moved aside, while our hero passed on, without taking farther notice of him. "i hate him!" he muttered to himself. "i hope he won't find anything to do. if he wasn't so strong, i'd give him a thrashing." chapter vi. halbert's discomfiture. great was the dismay of mrs. rushton when she heard from robert that he was discharged from the factory. she was a timid woman, and rather apt to take desponding views of the future. "oh, robert, what is going to become of us?" she exclaimed, nervously. "we have only ten dollars in the house, and you know how little i can earn by braiding straw. i really think you were too hasty and impetuous." "don't be alarmed, my dear mother," said robert, soothingly. "i am sorry i have lost my place, but there are other things i can do besides working in the factory. we are not going to starve yet." "but, suppose you can't find any work?" said his mother. "then i'll help you braid straw," said robert, laughing. "don't you think i might learn after a while?" "i don't know but you might," said mrs. rushton, dubiously; "but the pay is very poor." "that's so, mother. i shan't, take to braiding straw except as a last resort." "wouldn't mr. davis take you back into the factory if i went to him and told him how much we needed the money?" "don't think of such a thing, mother," said robert, hastily, his brown cheek flushing. "i am too proud to beg to be taken back." "but it wouldn't be you." "i would sooner ask myself than have you do it, mother. no; the superintendent sent me away for no good reason, and he must come and ask me to return before i'll do it." "i am afraid you are proud, robert." "so i am, mother; but it is an honest pride. have faith in me for a week, mother, and see if i don't earn something in that time. i don't expect to make as much as i earned at the factory; but i'll earn something, you may depend upon that. now, how would you like to have some fish for supper?" "i think i should like it. it is a good while since we had any." "then, i'll tell you what--i'll borrow will paine's boat, if he'll let me have it, and see if i can't catch something." "when will you be home, robert?" "it will depend on my success in fishing. it'll be half-past nine, very likely, before i get fairly started, so i think i'd better take my dinner with me. i'll be home some time in the afternoon." "i hope you'll be careful, robert. you might get upset." "i'll take care of that, mother. besides, i can swim like a duck." robert went out into the garden, and dug some worms for bait. meanwhile, his mother made a couple of sandwiches, and wrapped them in a paper for his lunch. provided thus, he walked quickly to the house of squire paine, and rang the bell. "is will home?" he asked. "here i am, old fellow!" was heard from the head of the stairs; and william paine, a boy of our hero's size and age, appeared. "come right up." "how did you happen to be at leisure?" he asked. "i supposed you were at the factory." "i'm turned off." "turned off! how's that?" "through the influence of halbert davis." "halbert is a disgusting sneak. i always despised him, and, if he's done such a mean thing, i'll never speak to him again. tell me all about it." this robert did, necessarily bringing in hester's name. "he needn't think my sister will walk with him," said will. "if she does, i'll cut her off with a shilling. she'd rather walk with you, any day." robert blushed a little; for, though he was too young to be in love, he thought his friend's sister the most attractive girl he had even seen, and, knowing how she was regarded in the village, he naturally felt proud of her preference for himself over a boy who was much richer. "what are you going to do now?" asked will, with interest. "the first thing i am going to do is to catch some fish, if you'll lend me your boat." "lend you my boat? of course i will! i'll lend it to you for the next three months." "but you want it yourself?" "no. haven't you heard the news? i'm going to boarding school." "you are?" "it's a fact. i'm packing my trunk now. come upstairs, and superintend the operation." "i can't stay long. but, will, are you in earnest about the boat?" "to be sure i am. i was meaning to ask you if you'd take care of it for me. you see, i can't carry it with me, and you are the only fellow i am willing to lend it to." "i shall be very glad of the chance, will. i've been wanting a boat for a long time, but there wasn't much chance of my getting one. now i shall feel rich. but isn't this a sudden idea, your going to school?" "rather. there was a college classmate of father's here last week, who's at the head of such a school, and he made father promise to send me. so i'm to start to-morrow morning. if it wasn't for that, and being up to my ears in getting ready, i'd go out fishing with you." "i wish you could." "i must wait till vacation. here is the boat key." robert took the key with satisfaction. the boat owned by his friend was a stanch, round-bottomed boat, of considerable size, bought only two months before, quite the best boat on the river. it was to be at his free disposal, and this was nearly the same thing as owning it. he might find it very useful, for it occurred to him that, if he could find nothing better to do, he could catch fish every day, and sell at the village store such as his mother could not use. in this way he would be earning something, and it would be better than being idle. he knew where the boat was usually kept, just at the foot of a large tree, whose branches drooped over the river. he made his way thither, and, fitting the key in the padlock which confined the boat, soon set it free. the oars he had brought with him from his friend's house. throwing in the oars, he jumped in, and began to push off, when he heard himself called, and, looking up, saw halbert davis standing on the bank. "get out of that boat!" said halbert. "what do you mean?" demanded robert. "you have no business in that boat! it doesn't belong to you!" "you'd better mind your own business, halbert davis. you have nothing to do with the boat." "it's william paine's boat." "thank you for the information. i supposed it was yours, from the interest you seem to take in it." "it will be. he's going to let me have it while he's away at school." "indeed! did he tell you so?" "i haven't asked ma yet; but i know he will let me have it." "i don't think he will." "why not?" "if you ever want to borrow this boat, you'll have to apply to me." "you haven't bought it?" asked halbert, in surprise. "you're too poor." "i'm to have charge of the boat while will paine is away." "did he say you might?" asked halbert, in a tone of disappointment and mortification. "of course he did." "i don't believe it," said halbert, suspiciously. "i don't care what you believe. go and ask him yourself, if you are not satisfied; and don't meddle with what is none of your business;" "you're an impudent rascal." "have you got another cane you'd like to have broken?" asked robert, significantly. halbert looked after him, enviously, as he rowed the boat out into the stream. he had asked his father to buy him a boat, but the superintendent's speculations had not turned out very well of late, and he had been deaf to his son's persuasions, backed, though they were, by his mother's influence. when halbert heard that william paine was going to boarding school, he decided to ask him for the loan of his boat during his absence, as the next best thing. now, it seemed that he had been forestalled, and by the boy he hated. he resolved to see young paine himself, and offer him two dollars for the use of his boat during the coming term. then he would have the double satisfaction of using the boat and disappointing robert. he made his way to the house of squire paine, and, after a brief pause, was admitted. he was shown into the parlor, and will paine came down to see him. "how are you, davis?" he said, nodding, coolly, but not offering his hand. "i hear you are going to boarding school?" "yes; i go to-morrow." "i suppose you won't take your boat with you?" "no." "i'll give you two dollars for the use of it; the next three months?" "i can't accept your offer. robert rushton is to have it." "but he doesn't pay you anything for it. i'll give you three dollars, if you say so?" "you can't have it for three dollars, or ten. i have promised it to my friend, robert rushton, and i shall not take it back." "you may not know," said halbert, maliciously, "that your friend was discharged from the factory this morning for misconduct." "i know very well that he was discharged, and through whose influence, halbert davis," said will, pointedly. "i like him all the better for his misfortune, and so i am sure will my sister." halbert's face betrayed the anger and jealousy he felt, but he didn't dare to speak to the lawyer's son as he had to the factory boy. "good-morning!" he said, rising to go. "good-morning!" said young paine, formally. halbert felt, as he walked homeward, that his triumph over robert was by no means complete. chapter vii. the strange passenger. robert, though not a professional fisherman, was not wholly inexperienced. this morning he was quite lucky, catching quite a fine lot of fish--as much, indeed, as his mother and himself would require a week to dispose of. however, he did not intend to carry them all home. it occurred to him that he could sell them at a market store in the village. otherwise, he would not have cared to go on destroying life for no useful end. accordingly, on reaching the shore, he strung the fish and walked homeward, by way of the market. it was rather a heavy tug, for the fish he had caught weighed at least fifty pounds. stepping into the store, he attracted the attention of the proprietor. "that's a fine lot of fish you have there, robert. what are you going to do with them?" "i'm going to sell most of them to you, if i can." "are they just out of the water?" "yes; i have just brought them in." "what do you want for them?" "i don't know what is a fair price?" "i'll give you two cents a pound for as many as you want to sell." "all right," said our hero, with satisfaction. "i'll carry this one home, and you can weigh the rest." the rest proved to weigh forty-five pounds. the marketman handed robert ninety cents, which he pocketed with satisfaction. "shall you want some more to-morrow?" he asked. "yes, if you can let me have them earlier. but how is it you are not at the factory?" "i've lost my place." "that's a pity." "so i have plenty of time to work for you." "i may be able to take considerable from you. i'm thinking of running a cart to brampton every morning, but i must have the fish by eight o'clock, or it'll be too late." "i'll go out early in the morning, then." "very well; bring me what you have at that hour, and we'll strike a trade." "i've got something to do pretty quick," thought robert, with satisfaction. "it was a lucky thought asking will paine for his boat. i'm sorry he's going away, but it happens just right for me." mrs. rushton was sitting at her work, in rather a disconsolate frame of mind. the more she thought of robert's losing his place, the more unfortunate it seemed. she could not be expected to be as sanguine and hopeful as our hero, who was blessed with strong hands and a fund of energy and self-reliance which he inherited from his father. his mother, on the other hand, was delicate and nervous, and apt to look on the dark side of things. but, notwithstanding this, she was a good mother, and robert loved her. nothing had been heard for some time but the drowsy ticking of the clock, when a noise was heard at the door, and robert entered the room, bringing the fish he had reserved. "you see, mother, we are not likely to starve," he said. "that's a fine, large fish," said his mother. "yes; it'll be enough for two meals. didn't i tell you, mother, i would find something to do?" "true, robert," said his mother, dubiously; "but we shall get tired of fish if we have it every day." robert laughed. "six days in the week will do for fish, mother," he said. "i think we shall be able to afford something else sunday." "of course, fish is better than nothing," said his mother, who understood him literally; "and i suppose we ought to be thankful to get that." "you don't look very much pleased at the prospect of fish six times a week," said robert, laughing again. "on the whole, i think it will be better to say twice." "but what will we do other days, robert?" "what we have always done, mother--eat something else. but i won't keep you longer in suspense. did you think this was the only fish i caught?" "yes, i thought so." "i sold forty-five pounds on the way to minturn, at his market store--forty-five pounds, at two cents a pound. what do you think of that?" "do you mean that you have earned ninety cents to-day, robert?" "yes; and here's the money." "that's much better than i expected," said mrs. rushton, looking several degrees more i cheerful. "i don't expect to do as well as that every day, mother, but i don't believe we'll starve. minturn has engaged me to supply him with fish every day, only some days the fishes won't feel like coming out of the water. then, i forgot to tell you, i'm to have will paine's boat for nothing. he's going to boarding school, and has asked me to take care of it for him." "you are fortunate, robert." "i am hungry, too, mother. those two sandwiches didn't go a great ways. so, if you can just as well as not have supper earlier, it would suit me." "i'll put on the teakettle at once, robert," said his mother, rising. "would you like some of the fish for supper?" "if it wouldn't be too much trouble." "surely not, robert." the usual supper hour was at five in this country household, but a little after four the table was set, and mother and son sat down to a meal which both enjoyed. the fish proved to be excellent, and robert enjoyed it the more, first, because he had caught it himself, and next because he felt that his independent stand at the factory, though it had lost him his place, was not likely to subject his mother to the privations he had feared. "i'll take another piece of fish, mother," said robert, passing his plate. "i think, on the whole, i shan't be obliged to learn to braid straw." "no; you can do better at fishing." "only," added robert, with mock seriousness, "we might change work sometimes, mother; i will stay at home and braid straw, and you can go out fishing." "i am afraid i should make a poor hand at it," said mrs. rushton, smiling. "if halbert davis could look in upon us just now, he would be disappointed to find us so cheerful after my losing my place at factory. however, i've disappointed him in another way." "how is that?" "he expected will paine would lend him his boat while he was gone, but, instead of that, he finds it promised to me." "i am afraid he is not a very kind-hearted boy." "that's drawing it altogether too mild, mother. he's the meanest fellow i ever met. however, i won't talk about him any more, or it'll spoil my appetite." on the next two mornings robert went out at five o'clock, in order to get home in time for the market-wagon. he met with fair luck, but not as good as on the first day. taking the two mornings together, he captured and sold seventy pounds of fish, which, as the price remained the same, brought him in a dollar and forty cents. this was not equal to his wages at the factory; still, he had the greater part of the day to himself, only, unfortunately, he had no way of turning his time profitably to account, or, at least, none had thus far occurred to him. on the morning succeeding he was out of luck. he caught but two fish, and they were so small that he decided not to offer them for sale. "if i don't do better than this," he reflected, "i shan't make very good wages. the fish seem to be getting afraid of me." he paddled about, idly, a few rods from the shore, having drawn up his line and hook. all at once, he heard a voice hailing him from the river bank: "boat ahoy!" "hallo!" answered robert, lifting his eyes, and seeing who called him. "can you set me across the river?" "yes, sir." "bring in your boat, then, and i'll jump aboard. i'll pay you for your trouble." robert did as requested, with alacrity. he was very glad to earn money in this way, since it seemed he was to have no fish to dispose of. he quickly turned the boat to the shore, and the stranger jumped on board. he was a man of rather more than the average height, with a slight limp in his gait, in a rough suit of clothes, his head being surmounted by a felt hat considerably the worse for wear. there was a scar on one cheek, and, altogether, he was not very prepossessing in his appearance. robert noted all this in a rapid glance, but it made no particular impression upon him at the moment. he cared very little how the stranger looked, as long as he had money enough to pay his fare. "it's about a mile across the river, isn't it?" asked the stranger. "about that here. where do you want to go?" "straight across. there's an old man named nichols lives on the other side, isn't there?" "yes; he lives by himself." "somebody told me so. he's rich, isn't he?" asked the stranger, carelessly. "so people say; but he doesn't show it in his dress or way of living." "a miser, i suppose?" "yes." "what does he do with his money?" "i only know what people say." "and what do they say?" "that he is afraid to trust banks, and hides his money in the earth." "that kind of bank don't pay very good interest," said the stranger, laughing. "no; but it isn't likely to break." "here? boy, give me one of the oars. i'm used to rowing, and i'll help you a little." robert yielded one of the oars to his companion, who evidently understood rowing quite as well as he professed to. our hero, though strong-armed, had hard work to keep up with him. "look out, boy, or i'll turn you round," he said. "you are stronger than i am." "and more used to rowing; but i'll suit myself to you." a few minutes brought them to the other shore. the passenger jumped ashore, first handing a silver half-dollar to our hero, who was well satisfied with his fee. robert sat idly in his boat, and watched his late fare as with rapid steps he left the river bank behind him. "he's going to the old man's house," decided robert. "i wonder whether he has any business with him?" chapter viii. the old farmhouse. the stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an old farmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. whether it had ever been painted, was a question not easily solved. at present it was dark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect. the owner, paul nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quite alone, and himself providing for his simple wants. robert was right in calling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. the time was when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessed with two young children. but they were all taken from him in one week by an epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. this bereavement completely revolutionized his life. up to this time he had been a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs. now he became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of its legitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, which he began to love with a passionate energy. he repulsed the advances of neighbors, and became what robert called him--a miser. how much he was worth, no one knew. the town assessors sought in vain for stocks and bonds. he did not appear to possess any. probably popular opinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one or many out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont to visit and gloat over his treasures. there was reason also to believe that it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie payments from those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he used to go to a neighboring town with his bank notes and get the change effected. such was the man about whom robert's unknown passenger exhibited so much curiosity, and whom it seemed that he was intending to visit. "i wonder whether the old man is at home!" he said to himself, as he entered the front yard through a gateway, from which the gate had long since disappeared. "he don't keep things looking very neat and trim, that's a fact," he continued, noticing the rank weeds and indiscriminate litter which filled the yard. "just give me this place, and his money to keep it, and i'd make a change in the looks of things pretty quick." he stepped up to the front door, and, lifting the old-fashioned knocker, sounded a loud summons. "he'll hear that, if he isn't very deaf," he thought. but the summons appeared to be without effect. at all events, he was left standing on the doorstone, and no one came to bid him enter. "he can't be at home, or else he won't come," thought the visitor. "i'll try him again," and another knock, still louder than before, sounded through the farmhouse. but still no one came to the door. the fact was, that the old farmer had gone away early, with a load of hay, which he had sold; to a stable-keeper living some five miles distant. "i'll reconnoiter a little," said the stranger. he stepped to the front window, and looked in. all that met his gaze was a bare, dismantled room. "not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "well, he don't appear to be here; i'll go round to the back part of the house." he went round to the back door, where he thought it best, in the first place, to knock. no answer coming, he peered through the window, but saw no one. "the coast is clear," he concluded. "so much the better, if i can get in." the door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised. through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the only room occupied by the old farmer, with the exception of a room above, which he used as a bedchamber. here he cooked and ate his meals, and here he spent his solitary evenings. jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. he looked around him, with some curiosity. "it is eighteen years since i was last in this room," he said. "time hasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a short laugh. "i've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, and i've come back as poor as i went away. what's that copy i used to write?--'a rolling stone gathers no moss.' well, i'm the rolling stone. in all that time my uncle paul has been moored fast to his hearthstone, and been piling up gold, which he don't seem to have much use for. as far as i know, i'm his nearest relation, there's no reason why he shouldn't launch out a little for the benefit of the family." it will be gathered from the foregoing soliloquy that the newcomer was a nephew of paul nichols. after a not very creditable youth, he had gone to sea, and for eighteen years this was his first reappearance in his native town. he sat down in a chair, and stretched out his legs, with an air of being at home. "i wonder what the old man will say when he sees me," he soliloquized. "ten to one he won't know me. when we saw each other last i was a smooth-faced youth. now i've got hair enough on my face, and the years have made, their mark upon me, i suspect. where is he, i wonder, and how long have i got to wait for him? while i'm waiting, i'll take the liberty of looking in the closet, and seeing if he hasn't something to refresh the inner man. i didn't make much of a breakfast, and something hearty wouldn't come amiss." he rose from his chair, and opened the closet door. a small collection of crockery was visible, most of it cracked, but there was nothing eatable to be seen, except half a loaf of bread. this was from the baker, for the old man, after ineffectual efforts to make his own bread, had been compelled to abandon the attempt, and patronize the baker. "nothing but a half loaf, and that's dry enough," muttered the stranger. "that isn't very tempting. i can't say much for my uncle's fare, unless he has got something more attractive somewhere." but, search as carefully as he might, nothing better could be found, and his appetite was not sufficiently great to encourage an attack upon the stale loaf. he sat down, rather discontented, and resumed the current of his reflections. "my uncle must be more of a miser than i thought, if he stints himself to such fare as this. it's rather a bad lookout for me. he won't be very apt to look with favor on my application for a small loan from his treasure. what's that the boy said? he don't trust any banks, but keeps his money concealed in the earth. by jove! it would be a stroke of luck if i could stumble on one of his hiding places! if i could do that while he was away, i would forego the pleasure of seeing him, and make off with what i could find. i'll look about me, and see if i can't find some of his hidden hoards." no sooner did the thought occur to him than he acted upon it. "let me see," he reflected, "where is he most likely to hide his treasure? old stockings are the favorites with old maids and widows, but i don't believe uncle paul has got any without holes in them. he's more likely to hide his gold under the hearth. that's a good idea, i'll try the hearth first." he kneeled down, and began to examine the bricks, critically, with a view of ascertaining whether any bore the marks of having been removed recently, for he judged correctly that a miser would wish, from time to time, to unearth his treasure for the pleasure of looking at it. but there was no indication of disturbance. the hearth bore a uniform appearance, and did not seem to have been tampered with. "that isn't the right spot," reflected the visitor. "perhaps there's a plank in the floor that raises, or, still more likely, the gold is buried in the cellar. i've a great mind to go down there." he lit a candle, and went cautiously down the rickety staircase. but he had hardly reached the bottom of the stairs, when he caught the sound of a wagon entering the yard. "that must be my uncle," he said. "i'd better go up, and not let him catch me down here." he ascended the stairs, and re-entered the room just as the farmer opened the door and entered. on seeing a tall, bearded stranger, whom he did not recognize, standing before him in his own kitchen, with a lighted candle in his hand, paul nichols uttered a shrill cry of alarm, and ejaculated: "thieves! murder! robbers!" in a quavering voice. chapter ix. the unwelcome guest. the stranger was in rather an awkward predicament. however, he betrayed neither embarrassment nor alarm. blowing out the candle, he advanced to the table and set it down. this movement brought him nearer paul nichols, who, with the timidity natural to an old man, anticipated an immediate attack. "don't kill me! spare my life!" he exclaimed, hastily stepping back. "i see you don't know me, uncle paul?" said the intruder, familiarly. "who are you that call me uncle paul?" asked the old man, somewhat reassured. "benjamin haley, your sister's son. do you know me now?" "you ben haley!" exclaimed the old man, betraying surprise. "why, you are old enough to be his father." "remember, uncle paul, i am eighteen years older than when you saw me last. time brings changes, you know. when i saw you last, you were a man in the prime of life, now you are a feeble old man." "are you really ben haley?" asked the old man, doubtfully. "to be sure i am. i suppose i look to you more like a bearded savage. well, i'm not responsible for my looks. not finding you at home, i took the liberty of coming in on the score of relationship." "what, were you doing with that candle?" asked paul, suspiciously. "i went down cellar with it." "down cellar!" repeated his uncle, with a look of alarm which didn't escape his nephew. "what for?" "in search of something to eat. all i could find in the closet was a dry loaf, which doesn't look very appetizing." "there's nothing down cellar. don't go there again," said the old man, still uneasy. his nephew looked at him shrewdly. "ha, uncle paul! i've guessed your secret so quick," he said to himself. "some of your money is hidden away in the cellar, i'm thinking." "where do you keep your provisions, then?" he said aloud. "the loaf is all i have." "come, uncle paul, you don't mean that. that's a scurvy welcome to give a nephew you haven't seen for eighteen years. i'm going to stay to dinner with you, and you must give me something better than that. haven't you got any meat in the house?" "no." just then ben haley, looking from the window, saw some chickens in the yard. his eye lighted up at the discovery. "ah, there is a nice fat chicken," he said. "we'll have a chicken dinner. shall it be roast or boiled?" "no, no," said the old farmer, hastily. "i can't spare them. they'll bring a good price in the market by and by." "can't help it, uncle paul. charity begins at home. excuse me a minute, i'll be back directly." he strode to the door and out into the yard. then, after a little maneuvering, he caught a chicken, and going to the block, seized the ax, and soon decapitated it. "what have you done?" said paul, ruefully, for the old man had followed his nephew, and was looking on in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. "taken the first step toward a good dinner," said the other, coolly. "i am not sure but we shall want two." "no, no!" said paul, hastily. "i haven't got much appetite." "then perhaps we can make it do. i'll just get it ready, and cook it myself. i've knocked about in all sorts of places, and it won't be the first time i've served as cook. i've traveled some since i saw you last." "have you?" said the old man, who seemed more interested in the untimely death of the pullet than in his nephew's adventures. "yes, i've been everywhere. i spent a year in australia at the gold diggings." "did you find any?" asked his uncle, for the first time betraying interest. "some, but i didn't bring away any." ben haley meanwhile was rapidly stripping the chicken of its feathers. when he finished, he said, "now tell me where you keep your vegetables, uncle paul?" "they're in the corn barn. you can't get in. it's locked." "where's the key?" "lost." "i'll get in, never fear," said the intruder, and he led the way to the corn barn, his uncle unwillingly following and protesting that it would be quite impossible to enter. reaching the building, he stepped back and was about to kick open the door, when old paul hurriedly interposed, saying, "no, no, i've found the key." his nephew took it from his hand, and unlocking the door, brought out a liberal supply of potatoes, beets and squashes. "we'll have a good dinner, after all," he said. "you don't half know how to live, uncle paul. you need me here. you've got plenty around you, but you don't know how to use it." the free and easy manner in which his nephew conducted himself was peculiarly annoying and exasperating to the old man, but as often as he was impelled to speak, the sight of his nephew's resolute face and vigorous frame, which he found it difficult to connect with his recollections of young ben, terrified him into silence, and he contented himself with following his nephew around uneasily with looks of suspicion. when the dinner was prepared both sat down to partake of it, but ben quietly, and, as a matter of course, assumed the place of host and carved the fowl. notwithstanding the shock which his economical notions had received, the farmer ate with appetite the best meal of which he had partaken for a long time. ben had not vaunted too highly his skill as a cook. wherever he had acquired it, he evidently understood the preparation of such a dinner as now lay before them. "now, uncle paul, if we only had a mug of cider to wash down the dinner. haven't you got some somewhere?" "not a drop." "don't you think i might find some stored away in the cellar, for instance?" asked ben, fixing his glance upon his uncle's face. "no, no; didn't i tell you i hadn't got any?" returned paul nichols, with petulance and alarm. "i mean to see what else you have in the cellar," said ben, to himself, "before i leave this place. there's a reason for that pale face of yours." but he only said aloud, "well, if you haven't got any we must do without it. there's a little more of the chicken left. as you don't want it i'll appropriate it. nothing like clearing up things. come, this is rather better than dry bread, isn't it?" "it's very expensive," said the miser, ruefully. "well, you can afford it, uncle paul--there's a comfort in that. i suppose you are pretty rich, eh?" "rich!" repeated paul, in dismay. "what put such a thing into your head?" "not your style of living, you may be sure of that." "i am poor, benjamin. you mustn't think otherwise. i live as well as i can afford." "then what have you been doing with your savings all these years?" "my savings! it has taken all i had to live. there isn't any money to be made in farming. it's hard work and poor pay." "you used to support your family comfortably when you had one." "don't--don't speak of them. i can't bear it," said paul, his countenance changing. "when i had them i was happy." "and now you're not. well, i don't wonder at it. it must be dismal enough living alone. you need somebody with you. i am your nephew and nearest relation. i feel that it is my duty to stay with you." the expression of dismay which overspread the old man's face at this declaration was ludicrous. "you stay with me?" he repeated, in a tone of alarm. "yes, for a time at least. we'll be company for each other, won't we, uncle paul?" "no, no; there's no room." "no room? you don't mean to say that you need the whole house?" "i mean i cannot afford to have you here. besides i'm used to being alone. i prefer it." "that's complimentary, at any rate. you prefer to be alone rather than to have me with you?" "don't be offended, benjamin. i've been alone so many years. besides you'd feel dull here. you wouldn't like it." "i'll try it and see. what room are you going to give me?" "you'd better go away." "well, uncle, we'll talk about that to-morrow. you're very considerate in fearing it will be dull for me, but i've roamed about the world so much that i shall be glad of a little dullness. so it's all settled. and now, uncle paul, if you don't object i'll take out my pipe and have a smoke. i always smoke after dinner." he lit his pipe, and throwing himself back in a chair, began to puff away leisurely, his uncle surveying him with fear and embarrassment. why should his graceless nephew turn up, after so many years, in the form of this big, broad-shouldered, heavy-bearded stranger, only to annoy him, and thrust his unwelcome company upon him? chapter x. uncle and nephew. paul nichols looked forward with dismay to the prospect of having his nephew remain with him as a guest. like all misers, he had a distrust of every one, and the present appearance of his nephew only confirmed the impressions he still retained of his earlier bad conduct. he had all the will to turn him out of his house, but ben was vastly his superior in size and strength, and he did not dare to attempt it. "he wants to rob, perhaps to murder me," thought paul, surveying his big nephew with a troubled gaze. his apprehensions were such that he even meditated offering to pay the intruder's board for a week at the tavern, if he would leave him in peace by himself. but the reluctance to part with his money finally prevented such a proposal being made. in the afternoon the old man stayed around home. he did not dare to leave it lest ben should take a fancy to search the house, and come upon some of his secret hoards, for people were right in reporting that he hid his money. at last evening came. with visible discomposure the old man showed ben to a room. "you can sleep there," he said, pointing to a cot bed in the corner of the room. "all right, uncle. good-night!" "good-night!" said paul nichols. he went out and closed the door behind him. he not only closed it, but locked it, having secretly hidden the key in his pocket. he chuckled softly to himself as he went downstairs. his nephew was securely disposed of for the night, being fastened in his chamber. but if he expected ben haley quietly to submit to this incarceration he was entirely mistaken in that individual. the latter heard the key turn in the lock, and comprehended at once his uncle's stratagem. instead of being angry, he was amused. "so my simple-minded uncle thinks he has drawn my teeth, does he? i'll give him a scare." he began to jump up and down on the chamber floor in his heavy boots, which, as the floor was uncarpeted, made a terrible noise. the old man in the room below, just congratulating himself on his cunning move, grew pale as he listened. he supposed his nephew to be in a furious passion, and apprehensions of personal violence disturbed him. still he reflected that he would be unable to get out, and in the morning he could go for the constable. but he was interrupted by a different noise. ben had drawn off his boots, and was firing them one after the other at the door. the noise became so intolerable, that paul was compelled to ascend the stairs, trembling with fear. "what's the matter?" he inquired at the door, in a quavering voice. "open the door," returned ben. his uncle reluctantly inserted the key in the lock and opening it presented a pale, scared face in the doorway. his nephew, with his coat stripped off, was sitting on the side of the bed. "what's the matter?" asked paul. "nothing, only you locked the door by mistake," said ben, coolly. "what made you make such a noise?" demanded paul. "to call you up. there was no bell in the room, so that was the only way i had of doing it. what made you lock me in?" "i didn't think," stammered the old man. "just what i supposed. to guard against your making that mistake again, let me have the key." "i'd rather keep it, if it's the same to you," said paul, in alarm. "but it isn't the same to me. you see, uncle paul, you are growing old and forgetful, and might lock me in again. that would not be pleasant, you know, especially if the house should catch fire in the night." "what!" exclaimed paul, terror-stricken, half suspecting his nephew contemplated turning incendiary. "i don't think it will, mind, but it's best to be prepared, so give me the key." the old man feebly protested, but ended in giving up the key to his nephew. "there, that's all right. now i'll turn in. good-night." "good-night," responded paul nichols, and left the chamber, feeling more alarmed than ever. he was beginning to be more afraid and more distrustful of his nephew than ever. what if the latter should light on some of his various hiding places for money? why, in that very chamber he had a hundred dollars in gold hidden behind the plastering. he groaned in spirit as he thought of it, and determined to tell his nephew the next morning that he must find another home, as he couldn't and wouldn't consent to his remaining longer. but when the morning came he found the task a difficult one to enter upon. finally, after breakfast, which consisted of eggs and toast, ben haley having ransacked the premises for eggs, which the old man intended for the market, paul said, "benjamin, you must not be offended, but i have lived alone for years, and i cannot invite you to stay longer." "where shall i go, uncle?" demanded ben, taking out his pipe coolly, and lighting it. "there's a tavern in the village." "is there? that won't do me any good." "you'll be better off there than here. they set a very good table, and----" "you don't," said ben, finishing the sentence. "i know that, but then, uncle, i have two reasons for preferring to stay here. the first is, that i may enjoy the society of my only living relation; the second is, that i have not money enough to pay my board at the hotel." he leaned back, and began to puff leisurely at his pipe, as if this settled the matter. "if you have no money, why do you come to me?" demanded paul, angrily. "do you expect me to support you?" "you wouldn't turn out your sister's son, would you, uncle paul?" "you must earn your own living. i can't support you in idleness." "you needn't; i'll work for you. let me see, i'll do the cooking." "i don't want you here," said the old man, desperately. "why do you come to disturb me, after so many years?" "i'll go away on one condition," said ben haley. "what's that?" "give me, or lend me--i don't care which--a hundred dollars." "do you think i'm made of money?" asked paul, fear and anger struggling for the mastery. "i think you can spare me a hundred dollars." "go away! you are a bad man. you were a wild, bad boy, and you are no better now." "now, uncle paul, i think you're rather too hard upon me. just consider that i am your nephew. what will people say if you turn me out of doors?" "i don't care what they say. i can't have you here." "i'm sorry i can't oblige you by going, uncle paul, but i've got a headache this morning, and don't feel like stirring. let me stay with you a day or two, and then i may go." vain were all the old man's expostulations. his nephew sat obstinately smoking, and refused to move. "come out to the barn with me while i milk," said paul, at length, not daring to leave his nephew by himself. "thank you, but i'm well off as i am. i've got a headache, and i'd rather stay here." milking couldn't longer be deferred. but for the stranger's presence it would have been attended to two hours earlier. groaning in spirit, and with many forebodings, paul went out to the barn, and in due time returned with his foaming pails. there sat his nephew in the old place, apparently not having stirred. possibly he didn't mean mischief after all, paul reflected. at any rate, he must leave him again, while he released the cows from their stalls, and drove them to pasture. he tried to obtain his nephew's companionship, but in vain. "i'm not interested in cows, uncle," he said. "i'll be here when you come back." with a sigh his uncle left the house, only half reassured. that he had reason for his distrust was proved by ben haley's movements. he lighted a candle, and going down to the cellar, first securing a pickax, struck into the earthen flooring, and began to work energetically. "i am sure some of the old man's money is here," he said to himself. "i must work fast, or he'll catch me at it." half an hour later paul nichols re-entered the house. he looked for his nephew, but his seat was vacant. he thought he heard a dull thud in the cellar beneath. he hurried to the staircase, and tottered down. ben had come upon a tin quart-measure partly filled with gold coins, and was stooping over, transferring them to his pocket. with a hoarse cry like that of an animal deprived of its young, his uncle sprang upon him, and fastened his claw-like nails in the face of his burly nephew. chapter xi. robert comes to the rescue. the attack was so sudden, and the old man's desperation so reinforced his feeble strength, that ben haley was thrown forward, and the measure of gold coins fell from his hand. but he quickly recovered himself. "let me alone," he said, sternly, forcibly removing his uncle's hands from his face, but not before the claw-like nails had drawn blood. "let me alone, if you know what is best for yourself." "you're a thief!" screamed paul. "you shall go to jail for this." "shall i?" asked ben, his face darkening and his tone full of menace. "who is going to send me there?" "i am," answered paul. "i'll have you arrested." "look here, uncle paul," said ben, confining the old man's arms to his side, "it's time we had a little talk together. you'd better not do as you say." "you're a thief! the jail is the place for thieves." "it isn't the place for me, and i'm not going there. now let us come to an understanding. you are rich and i am poor." "rich!" repeated paul. "yes; at any rate, you have got this farm, and more money hidden away than you will ever use. i am poor. you can spare me this money here as well as not." "it is all i have." "i know better than that. you have plenty more, but i will be satisfied with this. remember, i am your sister's son." "i don't care if you are," said the old man, doggedly. "and you owe me some help. you'll never miss it. now make up your mind to give me this money, and i'll go away and leave you in peace." "never!" exclaimed paul, struggling hard to free himself. "you won't!" his uncle repeated the emphatic refusal. "then i shall have to put it out of your power to carry out your threat." he took his uncle up in his strong arms, and moved toward the stairs. "are you going to murder me?" asked paul, in mortal fear. "you will find out what i am going to do," said ben, grimly. he carried his uncle upstairs, and, possessing himself of a clothesline in one corner of the kitchen, proceeded to tie him hand and foot, despite his feeble opposition. "there," said he, when his uncle lay before him utterly helpless, "i think that disposes of you for a while. now for the gold." leaving him on the floor, he again descended the cellar stairs, and began to gather up the gold coins, which had been scattered about the floor at the time of paul's unexpected attack. the old man groaned in spirit as he found himself about to be robbed, and utterly helpless to resist the outrage. but help was near at hand, though he knew it not. robert rushton had thought more than once of his unknown passenger of the day before, and the particular inquiries he made concerning paul nichols and his money. ben haley had impressed him far from favorably, and the more he called to mind his appearance, the more he feared that he meditated some dishonest designs upon paul. so the next morning, in order to satisfy his mind that all was right, he rowed across to the same place where he had landed ben, and fastening his boat, went up to the farmhouse. he reached it just as ben, having secured the old man, had gone back into the cellar to gather up the gold. robert looked into the window, and, to his surprise, saw the old farmer lying bound hand and foot. he quickly leaped in, and asked: "what is the matter? who has done this?" "hush!" said the old man, "he'll hear you." "who do you mean?" "my nephew." "where is he?" "down cellar. he's tied me here, and is stealing all my gold." "what shall i do? can i help you?" "cut the ropes first." robert drew a jackknife from his pocket, and did as he was bidden. "now," said paul, rising with a sigh of relief from his constrained position, "while i bolt the cellar door, you go upstairs, and in the closet of the room over this you will find a gun. it is loaded. bring it down." robert hurried upstairs, and quickly returned with the weapon. "do you know how to fire a gun?" asked paul. "yes," said robert. "then keep it. for i am nervous, and my hand trembles. if he breaks through the door, fire." ben haley would have been up before this, but it occurred to him to explore other parts of the cellar, that he might carry away as much booty as possible. he had rendered himself amenable to the law already, and he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so he argued. he was so busily occupied that he did not hear the noise of robert's entrance into the room above, or he would at once have gone upstairs. in consequence of the delay his uncle and robert had time to concert measures for opposing him. finally, not succeeding in finding more gold, he pocketed what he had found, and went up the cellar stairs. he attempted to open the door, when, to his great surprise, he found that it resisted his efforts. "what makes the door stick so?" he muttered, not suspecting the true state of the case. but he was quickly enlightened. "you can't come up!" exclaimed the old man, in triumph. "i've bolted the door." "how did he get free? he must have untied the knots," thought ben. "does the old fool think he is going to keep me down here?" "unlock the door," he shouted, in a loud, stern voice, "or it will be the worse for you." "have you got the gold with you?" "yes." "then go down and leave it where you found it, and i will let you come up." "you're a fool," was the reply. "do you think i am a child? open the door, or i will burst it open with my foot." "you'd better not," said paul, whose courage had returned with the presence of robert and the possession of the gun. "why not? what are you going to do about it?" asked ben, derisively. "i've got help. you have more than one to contend with." "i wonder if he has any one with him?" thought ben. "i believe the old fool is only trying to deceive me. at any rate, help or no help, it is time i were out of this hole." "if you don't open the door before i count three," he said, aloud, "i'll burst it open." "what shall i do," asked robert, in a low voice, "if he comes out?" "if he tries to get away with the gold, fire!" said the old man. robert determined only to inflict a wound. the idea of taking a human life, even under such circumstances, was one that made him shudder. he felt that gold was not to be set against life. "one--two--three!" counted ben, deliberately. the door remaining locked, he drew back and kicked the door powerfully. had he been on even ground, it would have yielded to the blow, but kicking from the stair beneath, placed him at a disadvantage. nevertheless the door shook and trembled beneath the force of the attack made upon it. "well, will you unlock it now?" he demanded, pausing. "no," said the old man, "not unless you carry back the gold." "i won't do that. i have had too much trouble to get it. but if you don't unlock the door at once i may be tempted to forget that you are my uncle." "i should like to forget that you are my nephew," said the old man. "the old fool has mustered up some courage," thought ben. "i'll soon have him whining for mercy." he made a fresh attack upon the door. this time he did not desist until he had broken through the panel. then with the whole force he could command he threw himself against the upper part of the door, and it came crashing into the kitchen. ben haley leaped through the opening and confronted his uncle, who receded in alarm. the sight of the burly form of his nephew, and his stern and menacing countenance, once more made him quail. ben haley looked around him, and his eyes lighted upon robert rushton standing beside the door with the gun in his hand. he burst into a derisive laugh, and turning to his uncle, said: "so this is the help you were talking about. he's only a baby. i could twist him around my finger. just lay down that gun, boy! it isn't meant for children like you." chapter xii. escape. though he had a weapon in his hand, many boys in robert's situation would have been unnerved. he was a mere boy, though strong of his age. opposed to him was a tall, strong man, of desperate character, fully resolved to carry out his dishonest purpose, and not likely to shrink from violence, to which he was probably only too well accustomed. from the old man he was not likely to obtain assistance, for already paul's courage had begun to dwindle, and he regarded his nephew with a scared look. "lay down that gun, boy!" repeated ben haley. "i know you. you're the boy that rowed me across the river. you can row pretty well, but you're not quite a match for me even at that." "this gun makes me even with you," said robert, returning his look unflinchingly. "does it? then all i can say is, that when you lose it you'll be in a bad pickle. lay it down instantly." "then lay down the gold you have in your pockets," said our hero, still pointing his gun at haley. "good boy! brave boy!" said the old man, approvingly. "look here, boy," said haley, in quick, stern tones, "i've had enough of this nonsense. if you don't put down that gun in double quick time, you'll repent it. one word--yes or no!" "no," said robert, resolutely. no sooner had he uttered the monosyllable than haley sprang toward him with the design of wresting the gun from him. but robert had his finger upon the trigger, and fired. the bullet entered the shoulder of the ruffian, but in the excitement of the moment he only knew that he was hit, but this incensed him. in spite of the wound he seized the musket and forcibly wrested it from our hero. he raised it in both hands and would probably in his blind fury have killed him on the spot, but for the sudden opening of the outer door, and entrance of a neighboring farmer, who felt sufficiently intimate to enter without knocking. this changed haley's intention. feeling that the odds were against him, he sprang through the window, gun in hand, and ran with rapid strides towards the river. "what's the matter?" demanded the new arrival, surveying the scene before him in astonishment. "he's gone off with my gold," exclaimed paul nichols, recovering from his stupefaction. "run after him, catch him!" "who is it?" "ben haley." "what, your nephew! i thought he was dead long ago." "i wish he had been," said paul, wringing his hands. "he's taken all my money--i shall die in the poorhouse." "i can't understand how it all happened," said the neighbor, looking to robert for an explanation. "who fired the gun?" "i did," said our hero. "did you hit him?" "i think so. i saw blood on his shirt. i must have hit him in the shoulder." "don't stop to talk," said paul, impatiently. "go after him and get back the gold." "we can't do much," said the neighbor, evidently not very anxious to come into conflict with such a bold ruffian. "he has the gun with him." "what made you let him have it?" asked paul. "i couldn't help it," said robert. "but he can't fire it. it is unloaded, and i don't think he has any ammunition with him." "to be sure," said paul, eagerly. "you see there's no danger. go after him, both of you, he can't hurt ye." somewhat reassured the neighbor followed robert, who at once started in pursuit of the escaped burglar. he was still in sight, though he had improved the time consumed in the foregoing colloquy, and was already near the river bank. on he sped, bent on making good his escape with the money he had dishonestly acquired. one doubt was in his mind. should he find a boat? if not, the river would prove an insuperable obstacle, and he would be compelled to turn and change the direction of his flight. looking over his shoulder he saw robert and the farmer on his track, and he clutched his gun the more firmly. "they'd better not touch me," he said to himself. "if i can't fire the gun i can brain either or both with it." thoughts of crossing the stream by swimming occurred to him. a sailor by profession, he was an expert swimmer, and the river was not wide enough to daunt him. but his pockets were filled with the gold he had stolen, and gold is well known to be the heaviest of all the metals. but nevertheless he could not leave it behind since it was for this he had incurred his present peril. in this uncertainty he reached the bank of the river, when to his surprise and joy his eye rested upon robert's boat. "the boy's boat!" he exclaimed, in exultation, "by all that's lucky! i will take the liberty of borrowing it without leave." he sprang in, and seizing one of the oars, pushed out into the stream, first drawing up the anchor. when robert and his companion reached the shore he was already floating at a safe distance. "he's got my boat!" exclaimed our hero, in disappointment. "so he has!" ejaculated the other. "you're a little too late!" shouted ben haley, with a sneer. "just carry back my compliments to the old fool yonder and tell him i left in too great a hurry to give him my note for the gold he kindly lent me. i'll attend to it when i get ready." he had hitherto sculled the boat. now he took the other oar and commenced rowing. but here the wound, of which he had at first been scarcely conscious, began to be felt, and the first vigorous stroke brought a sharp twinge, besides increasing the flow of blood. his natural ferocity was stimulated by his unpleasant discovery, and he shook his fist menacingly at robert, from whom he had received the wound. "there's a reckoning coming betwixt you and me, young one!" he cried, "and it'll be a heavy one. ben haley don't forget that sort of debt. the time'll come when he'll pay it back with interest. it mayn't come for years, but it'll come at last, you may be sure of that." finding that he could not row on account of his wound, he rose to his feet, and sculled the boat across as well as he could with one hand. "i wish i had another boat," said robert. "we could soon overtake him." "better let him go," said the neighbor. "he was always a bad one, that ben haley. i couldn't begin to tell you all the bad things he did when he was a boy. he was a regular dare-devil. you must look out for him, or he'll do you a mischief some time, to pay for that wound." "he brought it on himself," said robert "i gave him warning." he went back to the farmhouse to tell paul of his nephew's escape. he was brave and bold, but the malignant glance with which ben haley uttered his menace, gave him a vague sense of discomfort. chapter xiii. revenge. in spite of his wounded arm ben haley succeeded in propelling the boat to the opposite shore. the blood was steadily, though slowly, flowing from his wound, and had already stained his shirt red for a considerable space. in the excitement of first receiving it he had not felt the pain; now, however, the wound began to pain him, and, as might be expected, his feeling of animosity toward our hero was not diminished. "that cursed boy!" he muttered, between his teeth. "i wish i had had time to give him one blow--he wouldn't have wanted another. i hope the wound isn't serious--if it is, i may have paid dear for the gold." still, the thought of the gold in his pockets afforded some satisfaction. he had been penniless; now he was the possessor of--as near as he could estimate, for he had not had time to count--five hundred dollars in gold. that was more than he had ever possessed before at one time, and would enable him to live at ease for a while. on reaching the shore he was about to leave the boat to its fate, when he espied a boy standing at a little distance, with a hatchet in his hand. this gave him an idea. "come here, boy," he said. the boy came forward, and examined the stranger with curiosity. "is that your hatchet?" he asked. "no, sir. it belongs to my father." "would you mind selling it to me if i will give you money enough to buy a new one?" "this is an old hatchet." "it will suit me just as well, and i haven't time to buy another. would your father sell it?" "yes, sir; i guess so." "very well. what will a new one cost you?" the boy named the price. "here is the money, and twenty-five cents more to pay you for your trouble in going to the store." the boy pocketed the money with satisfaction. he was a farmer's son, and seldom had any money in his possession. he already had twenty-five cents saved up toward the purchase of a junior ball, and the stranger's gratuity would just make up the sum necessary to secure it. he was in a hurry to make the purchase, and, accordingly, no sooner had he received the money than he started at once for the village store. his departure was satisfactory to ben haley, who now had nothing to prevent his carrying out his plans. "i wanted to be revenged on the boy, and now i know how," he said. "i'll make some trouble for him with this hatchet." he drew the boat up and fastened it. then he deliberately proceeded to cut away at the bottom with his newly-acquired hatchet. he had a strong arm, and his blows were made more effective by triumphant malice. the boat he supposed to belong to robert, and he was determined to spoil it. he hacked away with such energy that soon there was a large hole in the bottom of the boat. not content with inflicting this damage, he cut it in various other places, until it presented an appearance very different from the neat, stanch boat of which will paine had been so proud. at length ben stopped, and contemplated the ruin he had wrought with malicious satisfaction. "that's the first instalment in my revenge," he said. "i should like to see my young ferryman's face when he sees his boat again. it'll cost him more than he'll ever get from my miserly uncle to repair it. it serves him right for meddling with matters that don't concern him. and now i must be getting away, for my affectionate uncle will soon be raising a hue and cry after me if i'm not very much mistaken." he would like to have gone at once to obtain medical assistance for his wound, but to go to the village doctor would be dangerous. he must wait till he had got out of the town limits, and the farther away the better. he knew when the train would start, and made his way across the fields to the station, arriving just in time to catch it. first, however, he bound a handkerchief round his shoulder to arrest the flow of blood. when he reached the station, and was purchasing his ticket, the station-master noticed the blood upon his shirt. "are you hurt, sir?" he asked. "yes, a little," said ben haley. "how did it happen?" inquired the other, with yankee inquisitiveness. "i was out hunting," said ben, carelessly, "with a friend who wasn't much used to firearms. in swinging his gun round, it accidentally went off, and i got shot through the shoulder." "that's bad," said the station-master, in a tone of sympathy. "you'd better go round to the doctor's, and have it attended to." "i would," said ben, "but i am called away by business of the greatest importance. i can get along for a few hours, and then i'll have a doctor look at it. how soon will the train be here?" "it's coming now. don't you hear it?" "that's the train i must take. you see i couldn't wait long enough for the doctor," added ben, anxious to account satisfactorily for his inattention to the medical assistance of which he stood in need. when he was fairly on board the cars, and the train was under way, he felt considerably relieved. he was speeding fast away from the man he had robbed, and who was interested in his capture, and in a few days he might be at sea, able to snap his fingers at his miserly uncle and the boy whom he determined some day to meet and settle scores with. from one enemy of robert the transition is brief and natural to another. at this very moment halbert davis was sauntering idly and discontentedly through the streets of the village. he was the son of a rich man, or of one whom most persons, his own family included, supposed to be rich; but this consciousness, though it made him proud, by no means made him happy. he had that morning at the breakfast table asked his father to give him a boat like will paine's, but mr. davis had answered by a decided refusal. "you don't need any boat," he said, sharply. "it wouldn't cost very much," pleaded halbert. "how much do you suppose?" "will paine told me his father paid fifty dollars for his." "why don't you borrow it sometimes?" "i can't borrow it. will started a day or two since for boarding school." "better still. i will hire it for you while he is away." "i thought of it myself," said halbert, "but just before he went away will lent it to the factory boy," sneering as he uttered the last two words. "do you mean robert rushton?" "yes." "that's only a boy's arrangement. i will see mr. paine, and propose to pay him for the use of the boat, and i presume he will be willing to accede to my terms." "when will you see him?" asked halbert, hopefully. "i will try to see him in the course of the day." it turned out, however, that there was no need of calling on mr. paine, for five minutes later, having some business with mr. davis, he rang the bell, and was ushered into the breakfast-room. "excuse my calling early," he said, "but i wished to see you about----" and here he stated his business, in which my readers will feel no interest. when that was over, mr. davis introduced the subject of the boat, and made the offer referred to. "i am sorry to refuse," said mr. paine, "but my son, before going away, passed his promise to robert rushton that he should have it during his absence." "do you hold yourself bound by such a promise?" inquired mrs. davis, with a disagreeable smile. "certainly," said the lawyer, gravely. "robert is a valued friend of my son's, and i respect boyish friendship. i remember very well my own boyhood, and i had some strong friendships at that time." "i don't see what your son can find to like in robert rushton," said mrs. davis, with something of halbert's manner. "i think him a very disagreeable and impertinent boy." mr. paine did not admire mrs. davis, and was not likely to be influenced by her prejudices. without inquiry, therefore, into the cause of her unfavorable opinion, he said, "i have formed quite a different opinion of robert. i am persuaded that you do him injustice." "he attacked halbert ferociously the other day," said mrs. davis, determined to impart the information whether asked or not. "he has an ungovernable temper." mr. paine glanced shrewdly at halbert, of whose arrogant and quarrelsome disposition he had heard from his own son, and replied, "i make it a point not to interfere in boys' quarrels. william speaks very highly of robert, and it affords him great satisfaction, i know, to leave the boat in his charge." mrs. davis saw that there was no use in pursuing the subject, and it dropped. after the lawyer had gone halbert made his petition anew, but without satisfactory results. the fact was, mr. davis had heard unfavorable reports from new york the day previous respecting a stock in which he had an interest, and it was not a favorable moment to prefer a request involving the outlay of money. it was this refusal which made halbert discontented and unhappy. the factory boy, as he sneeringly called him, could have a boat, while he, a gentleman's son, was forced to go without one. of course, he would not stoop to ask the loan of the boat, however much he wanted it, from a boy he disliked so much as robert. he wondered whether robert were out this morning. so, unconsciously, his steps led him to the shore of the river, where he knew the boat was generally kept. he cast his eye toward it, when what was his surprise to find the object of his desire half full of water, with a large hole in the bottom and defaced in other respects. chapter xiv. two unsatisfactory interviews. halbert's first emotion was surprise, his second was gratification. his rival could no longer enjoy the boat which he had envied him. not only that, but he would get into trouble with mr. paine on account of the damage which it had received. being under his care, it was his duty to keep it in good condition. "i wonder how it happened?" thought halbert. "won't the young beggar be in a precious scrape when it's found out? most likely he won't let mr. paine know." in this thought he judged robert by himself. straightway the plan suggested itself of going to the lawyer himself and informing him of robert's delinquency. it would be a very agreeable way of taking revenge him. the plan so pleased him that he at once directed his steps toward mr. paine's office. on the way he overtook hester paine, the young lady on whose account he was chiefly incensed against robert. being as desirous as ever of standing in the young lady's good graces, he hurriedly advanced to her side, and lifting his hat with an air of ceremonious politeness, he said: "good-morning, hester." hester paine was not particularly well pleased with the meeting. she had been made acquainted by her brother with the quarrel between halbert and robert, and the mean revenge which the former had taken in procuring the dismissal of the latter from the factory. having a partiality for robert, this was not likely to recommend his enemy in her eyes. "good-morning, mr. davis," she said, with cool politeness. "you are very ceremonious this morning, miss hester," said halbert, who liked well enough to be called "mr." by others, but not by hester. "am i?" asked hester, indifferently. "how so?" "you called me mr. davis." "that's your name, isn't it?" "i am not called so by my intimate friends." "no, i suppose not," said hester, thus disclaiming the title. halbert bit his lips. he was not in love, not because he was too young, but because he was too selfish to be in love with anybody except himself. but he admired hester, and the more she slighted him the more he was determined to force her to like him. he did, however, feel a little piqued at her behavior, and that influenced his next words. "perhaps you'd rather have the factory boy walking beside you," he said, with not very good judgment, if he wanted to recommend himself to her. "there are a good many factory boys in town," she said. "i can't tell unless you tell me whom you mean." "i mean robert rushton." "perhaps i might," said hester. "he's a low fellow," said halbert, bitterly. "no one thinks so but you," retorted hester, indignantly. "my father was obliged to dismiss him from the factory." "i know all about that, and who was the means of having him sent away." "i suppose you mean me." "yes, halbert davis, i mean you, and i consider it a very mean thing to do," said hester, her cheeks flushed with the indignation she felt. "he attacked me like the low ruffian that he is," pleaded halbert, in extenuation. "if he hadn't insulted me, he wouldn't have got into trouble." "you struck him first, you know you did. my brother told me all about it. you were angry because he walked home with me. i would rather go home alone any time than have your escort." "you're very polite, miss hester," said halbert, angrily. "i can tell you some news about your favorite." "if it's anything bad, i won't believe it." "you'll have to believe it." "well, what is it?" demanded hester, who was not altogether unlike girls in general, and so felt curious to learn what it was that halbert had to reveal. "your brother was foolish enough to leave his boat in rushton's care." "that is no news. will was very glad to do robert a favor." "he'll be sorry enough now." "why will he?" "because the boat is completely ruined." "i don't believe it," said hester, hastily. "it's true, though. i was down at the river just now, and saw it with my own eyes. there is a great hole in the bottom, and it is hacked with a hatchet, so that it wouldn't bring half price." "do you know who did it?" asked hester, with the momentary thought that halbert himself might have been tempted by his hatred into the commission of the outrage. "no, i don't. it was only accidentally i saw it." "was robert at the boat?" "no." "have you asked him about it?" "no, i have not seen him." "then i am sure some enemy has done it. i am sure it is no fault of his." "if your brother had let me have the boat, it wouldn't have happened. i offered him a fair price for its use." "he won't be sorry he refused, whatever has happened. but i must bid you good-morning, mr. davis," and the young lady, who was now at her own gate, opened it, and entered. "she might have been polite enough to invite me in," said halbert, with chagrin. "i don't see how she can be so taken up with that low fellow." he waited till hester had entered the house, and then bent his steps to mr. paine's office, which was a small one-story building in one corner of the yard. the lawyer was sitting at a table covered with papers, from which he looked up as halbert entered the office. "sit down, halbert," he said. "any message from your father?" "no, sir." "no legal business of your own?" he inquired, with a smile. "no, sir, no legal business." "well, if you have any business, you may state it at once, as i am quite busy." "it is about the boat which your son lent to robert rushton." "i shall not interfere with that arrangement," said the lawyer, misunderstanding his object. "i told your father that this morning," and he resumed his writing. "i did not come to say anything about that. the boat wouldn't be of any use to me now." "why not?" asked the lawyer, detecting something significant in the boy's tone. "because," said halbert, in a tone which he could not divest of the satisfaction he felt at his rival's misfortune, "the boat's completely ruined." mr. paine laid down his pen in genuine surprise. "explain yourself," he said. so halbert told the story once more, taking good care to make the damage quite as great as it was. "that is very strange," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "i can't conceive how such damage could have happened to the boat." "robert rushton don't know how to manage a boat." "you are mistaken. he understands it very well. i am sure the injury you speak of could not have happened when he was in charge. you say there was not only a hole in the bottom, but it was otherwise defaced and injured?" "yes, sir, it looked as if it had been hacked by a hatchet." "then it is quite clear that robert could have had nothing to do with it. it must have been done by some malicious person or persons." knowing something of halbert, mr. paine looked hard at him, his suspicions taking the same direction as his daughter's. but, as we know, halbert was entirely innocent, and bore the gaze without confusion. "i don't see why robert hasn't been and let me know of this," said mr. paine, musing. "he was probably afraid to tell you," said halbert, with a slight sneer. "i know him better than that. you can testify," added the lawyer, significantly, "that he is not deficient in bravery." "i thought i would come and tell you," said halbert, coloring a little. "i thought you would like to know." "you are very kind to take so much trouble," said mr. paine, but there was neither gratitude nor cordiality in his tone. halbert thought it was time to be going, and accordingly got up and took his leave. as he opened the office door to go out, he found himself face to face with robert rushton, who passed him with a slight nod, and with an air of trouble entered the presence of his friend's father. chapter xv. halbert's malice. robert was forced, by ben haley's, taking possession of his boat to give up for the present his design of recrossing the river. he felt bound to go back and inform paul of ben's escape. "he has carried off my gold," exclaimed paul, in anguish. "why didn't you catch him?" "he had too much start of us," said robert's companion. "but even if we had come up with him, i am afraid he would have proved more than a match for us. he is a desperate man. how much money did he take away with him?" "more than five hundred dollars," wailed the old man. "i am completely ruined!" "not quite so bad as that, mr. nichols. you have your farm left." but the old man was not to be comforted. he had become so wedded to his gold that to lose it was like losing his heart's blood. but was these no hope of recovery? "why don't you go after him?" he exclaimed, suddenly. "raise the neighbors. it isn't too late yet." "he's across the river before this," said robert. "get a boat and go after him." "i am willing," said our hero, promptly. "where can we find a boat, mr. dunham?" "there's one about a quarter of a mile down the stream--stetson's boat." "let's go, then." "very well, robert. i've no idea we can do anything, but we will try." "go, go. don't waste a moment," implored the old man, in feverish impatience. robert and mr. dunham started, and were soon rowing across the river in stetson's boat. "whereabout would he be likely to land?" asked the farmer. "there's my boat now," said robert, pointing it out. "he has left it where i usually keep it." quickly they rowed alongside. then to his great sorrow robert perceived the malicious injury which his enemy had wrought. "oh, mr. dunham, look at that!" he said, struck with grief. "the boat is spoiled!" "not so bad as that. it can be mended." "what will will paine say? what will his father say?" "then it isn't your boat?" "no, that is the worst of it. it was lent me by will paine, and i promised to take such good care of it." "it isn't your fault, robert?" "no, i couldn't help it, but still it wouldn't have happened if it had not been in my charge." "you can get it repaired, so that it will look almost as well as new." if robert had had plenty of money, this suggestion would have comforted him, but it will be remembered that he was almost penniless, dependent on the fish he caught for the means of supporting his mother and himself. now this resource was cut off. the boat couldn't be used until it was repaired. he felt morally bound to get it repaired, though he was guiltless of the damage. but how could he even do this? one thing was clear--mr. paine must at once be informed of the injury suffered by the boat. robert shrank from informing him, but he knew it to be his duty, and he was too brave to put it off. but first he must try to find some clew to ben haley. he had now a personal interest in bringing to justice the man who had made him so much trouble. he had scarcely got on shore than the boy who had sold ben haley the hatchet, strolled up. "who was that man who came across in your boat?" he asked. "did you see him?" asked robert, eagerly. "to be sure i did," said tom green, with satisfaction. "i sold him my old hatchet for money enough to buy a new one, and he give me a quarter besides for my trouble." "i wish you hadn't done it, tom," said robert, gravely. "see what he's done with it." tom green opened his eyes wide with astonishment. "what did he do that for?" he asked. "to be revenged on me. i'll tell you what for another time. now i want to find him. can you tell me where he went?" "no; i left him here, while i went to the store for a new hatchet." the old hatchet was found under a clump of bushes. robert took possession of it, feeling that he had a right to it, as part compensation for the mischief it had done. "we'd better go to the railroad depot, mr. dunham," he said. "he'd be most likely to go there." "you're right. we'll go." they walked rapidly to the station, but too late, of course, for the train. the station-master was standing on the platform, superintending the removal of a trunk. "mr. cross," said robert, "i want to find out if a particular man left by the last train. i'll describe him." "yes," said the station-master, "that's the man i was wondering about. he had a wound in the shoulder." "he got that from me," said robert. "sho! you don't say so," returned the station-master, in surprise. "he said he was out hunting with a friend, and his friend's gun went off accidentally." "i don't believe he feels very friendly to me," said robert, smiling. "he's stolen five or six hundred dollars in gold from old paul nichols." "it'll about kill the old man, won't it?" "he feels pretty bad about it. for what place did he buy a ticket?" "for cranston; but that ain't no guide. when he gets there, he'll buy a ticket for further on." had there been a telegraph station, robert would have telegraphed on to have ben haley stopped, but there was none nearer than the next town. he determined to give information to a justice of the peace, and leave the matter in his hands. but justice in a country town is slow, and it may as well be stated here, before anything was done ben haley was out of danger. but robert was destined to fall in with him at a future day. this business attended to, robert bent his steps to mr. paine's office. this brings us to his meeting with halbert davis at the door. he was slightly surprised at the encounter, but was far from guessing the object of halbert's call. mr. paine looked up as he entered, and had no difficulty in guessing his errand. "what can i do for you, robert?" he asked, kindly. "i bring bad news, mr. paine," said our hero, boldly plunging into the subject which had brought him to the office. "it's about the boat, isn't it?" said the lawyer. "what, do you know about it?" asked robert, in surprise. "yes; a disinterested friend brought the news." "halbert davis?" "the same. he takes a strong interest in your affairs," added the lawyer, dryly. "now tell me how it happened." robert gave a full explanation, the lawyer occasionally asking a question. "it seems, then," he said, "that you incurred this man's enmity by your defense of mr. nichols' money." "yes, sir." "it was incurred in a good cause. i can't blame you, nor will my son. i will get mr. plane, the carpenter, to look at the boat and see what he can do to repair it." "some time i will pay you the cost of the repairs, mr. paine. i would now if i had any money; but you know how i am situated." "i shall not call upon you to do that," said the lawyer, kindly. "it was not your fault." "but the damage would not have happened if will had not lent the boat to me." "that is true; but in undertaking the defense of mr. nichols you showed a pluck and courage which most boys would not have exhibited. i am interested, like all good citizens, in the prevention of theft, and in this instance i am willing to assume the cost." "you are very kind, mr. paine. i was afraid you would blame me." "no, my boy; i am not so unreasonable. it will save me some trouble if you will yourself see mr. plane and obtain from him an estimate of the probable expense of putting the boat in order." robert left the office, feeling quite relieved by the manner in which his communication had been received. a little way up the road he overtook halbert davis. in fact, halbert was waiting for him, expressly to get an opportunity of enjoying his discomfiture at the ruin of the boat. "hallo, rushton!" he said. "good-morning, halbert!" "are you going out in your boat this afternoon?" asked halbert, maliciously. "you know why i can't." "i wonder what will paine will say when he sees the good care you take of it." "i don't believe he will blame me when he knows the circumstances." "you ain't fit to have the charge of a boat. i suppose you ran it on a rock." "then you suppose wrong." "you won't be able to go out fishing any more. how will you make a living?" "without your help," said robert, coldly. "you will probably see me out again in a few days, if you take the trouble to look." "how can you go?" "mr. paine has asked me to see mr. plane about repairing the boat." "is he going to pay the expenses?" "yes." "then he's a fool." "you'd better not tell him so, or he might give you a lesson in politeness." "you're a low fellow," said halbert, angrily. "you are welcome to your opinion," returned robert, indifferently. chapter xvi. on the railroad track. robert saw the carpenter, according to mr. paine's instructions, but found him so busy that he would not engage to give his attention to the boat under a week. the delay was regretted by our hero, since it cut him off from the employment by which he hoped to provide for his mother. again mrs. rushton was in low spirits. "i am sorry you couldn't agree with halbert davis, robert," she said, with a sigh. "then you could have stayed in the factory, and got your wages regularly every week." "i know that, mother, but i am not willing to have halbert 'boss me round,' even for a place in the factory." "then, robert, you quarreled with the man you took across the river." "i think i did right, mother," said robert. "don't get out of spirits. i don't expect to succeed always. but i think i shall come out right in the end." "i am sure i hope so." mrs. rushton was one of those who look on the dark side. she was distrustful of the future, and apt to anticipate bad fortune. robert was very different. he inherited from his father an unusual amount of courage and self-reliance, and if one avenue was closed to him, he at once set out to find another. it is of this class that successful men are made, and we have hopes that robert will develop into a prosperous and successful man. "i am sure i don't see what you can do," said mrs. rushton, "and we can't live on what i make by braiding straw." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said robert, "i'll go on sligo hill and pick blueberries; i was passing a day or two ago, and saw the bushes quite covered. just give me a couple of tin pails, and i'll see what i can do." the pails were provided, and robert started on his expedition. the hill was not very high, nor was its soil very good. the lower part was used only to pasture a few cows. but this part was thickly covered with blueberry bushes, which this season were fuller than usual of large-sized berries. robert soon settled to work, and picked steadily and rapidly. at the end of three hours he had filled both pails, containing, as near as he could estimate, eight quarts. "that's a pretty good afternoon's work," he said to himself. "now i suppose i must turn peddler, and dispose of them." he decided to ask ten cents a quart. later in the season the price would be reduced, but at that time the berries ought to command that price. the first house at which he called was mr. paine's. he was about to pass, when he saw hester at the window. pride suggested, "she may despise me for being a berry peddler," but robert had no false shame. "at any rate, i won't be coward enough to try to hide it from her." accordingly he walked up boldly to the door, and rang the bell. hester had seen him from the window, and she answered the bell herself. "i am glad to see you, robert," she said, frankly. "won't you come in?" "thank you," said our hero, "but i called on business." "you will find my father in his office," she said, looking a little disappointed. robert smiled. "my business is not of a legal character," he said. "i've turned peddler, and would like to sell you some blueberries." "oh, what nice berries! where did you pick them?" "on sligo." "i am sure mother will buy some. will you wait a minute while i go and ask her?" "i will wait as long as you like." hester soon returned with authority to buy four quarts. i suspect that she was the means of influencing so large a purchase. "they are ten cents a quart," said robert, "but i don't think i ought to charge your father anything." "why not?" "because i shall owe him, or rather will, a good deal of money." "i know what you mean--it's about the boat." "did your father tell you?" "yes, but i knew it before. halbert davis told me." "he takes a great interest in my affairs." "he's a mean boy. you mustn't mind what he says against you." robert laughed. "i don't care what he thinks or says of me, unless he persuades others to think ill of me." "i shall never think ill of you, robert," said hester, warmly. "thank you, hester," said robert, looking up into her glowing face with more gratification than he could express. "i hope i shall deserve your good opinion." "i am sure you will, robert, but won't you come in?" "no, thank you. i must sell the rest of my berries." robert left the house with forty cents in his pocket, the first fruits of his afternoon's work. besides, he had four quarts left, for which he expected to find a ready sale. he had not gone far when he met halbert. the latter was dressed with his usual care, with carefully polished shoes, neatly fitting gloves, and swinging a light cane, the successor of that which had been broken in his conflict with robert. our hero, on the other hand, i am obliged to confess, was by no means fashionably attired. his shoes were dusty, and his bare hands were stained with berry juice. he wore a coarse straw hat with a broad brim to shield him from the hot sun. those of my readers who judge by dress alone would certainly have preferred halbert davis, who looked as if he had just stepped out of a band-box. but those who compared the two faces, the one bright, frank and resolute, the other supercilious and insincere, could hardly fail to prefer robert in spite of his coarse attire and unfashionable air. halbert scanned his rival with scornful eyes. he would have taken no notice of him, but concluded to speak in the hope of saying something disagreeable. "you have found a new business, i see," he said, with a sneer. "yes," said robert, quietly. "when one business gives out, i try another." "you've made a good choice," said halbert. "it's what you are adapted for." "thank you for the compliment, but i don't expect to stick to it all my life." "how do you sell your berries?" "ten cents a quart." "you'd better call on your friend, miss hester paine, and see if she won't buy some." "thank you for the advice, but it comes too late. she bought four quarts of me." "she did!" returned halbert, surprised. "i didn't think you'd go there." "why not?" "she won't think much of a boy that has to pick berries for a living." "i don't think that will change her opinion of me. why should it?" "it's a low business." "i don't see it." "excuse my delaying you. i am afraid i may have interfered with your business. i say," he called out, as robert was going on, "if you will call at our house, perhaps my mother may patronize you." "very well," said robert, "if i don't sell elsewhere, i'll call there. it makes no difference to me who buys my berries." "he's the proudest beggar i ever met," thought halbert, looking after him. "hester paine must be hard up for an escort if she walks with a boy who peddles berries for a living. if i were her father, i would put a stop to it." the same evening there was a concert in the town hall. a free ticket was given to robert in return for some slight service. mr. paine and his daughter were present, and halbert davis also. to the disgust of the latter, robert actually had the presumption to walk home with hester. hester laughed and chatted gayly, and appeared to be quite unconscious that she was lowering herself by accepting the escort of a boy "who picked berries for a living." the next day robert again repaired to sligo. he had realized eighty cents from his sales the previous day, and he felt that picking berries was much better than remaining idle. halbert's sneers did not for a moment discompose him. he had pride, but it was an honorable pride, and not of a kind that would prevent his engaging in any respectable employment necessary for the support of his mother and himself. returning home with well-filled pails, he walked a part of the way on the railroad, as this shortened the distance. he had not walked far when he discovered on the track a huge rock, large enough to throw the train off the track. how it got there was a mystery. just in front there was a steep descent on either side, the road crossing a valley, so that an accident would probably cause the entire train to be thrown down the embankment. robert saw the danger at a glance, and it flashed upon him at the same moment that the train was nearly due. he sprang to the rock, and exerted his utmost strength to dislodge it. he could move it slightly, but it was too heavy to remove. he was still exerting his strength to the utmost when the whistle of the locomotive was heard. robert was filled with horror, as he realized the peril of the approaching train, and his powerlessness to avert it. chapter xvii. the young capitalist. the cars swept on at the rate of twenty miles an hour, the engineer wholly unconscious of the peril in front. robert saw the fated train with its freight of human lives, and his heart grew sick within him as he thought of the terrible tragedy which was about to be enacted. was there any possibility of his averting it? he threw himself against the rock and pushed with all the strength he could command. but, nerved as he was by desperation, he found the task greater than he could compass. and still the train came thundering on. he must withdraw to a place of safety, or he would himself be involved in the destruction which threatened the train. there was one thing more he could do, and he did it. he took his station on the rock which was just in the path of the advancing train, and waved his handkerchief frantically. it was a position to test the courage of the bravest. robert was fully aware that he was exposing himself to a horrible death. should he not be seen by the engineer it would be doubtful whether he could get out of the way in time to escape death--and that of the most frightful nature. but unless he did something a hundred lives perhaps might be lost. so he resolutely took his stand, waving, as we have said, his handkerchief and shouting, though the last was not likely to be of any avail. at first he was not seen. when the engineer at last caught sight of him it was with a feeling of anger at what he regarded as the foolhardiness of the boy. he slackened his speed, thinking he would leave his place, but robert still maintained his position, his nerves strung to their highest tension, not alone at his own danger, but at the peril which he began to fear he could not avert. reluctantly the engineer gave the signal to stop the train. he was only just in time. when it came to a stop there was an interval of only thirty-five feet between it and robert rushton, who, now that he had accomplished his object, withdrew to one side, a little paler than usual, but resolute and manly in his bearing. "what is the meaning of this foolery?" the engineer demanded, angrily. robert pointed in silence to the huge rock which lay on the track. "how came that rock there?" asked the engineer, in a startled tone, as he took in the extent of the peril from which they had been saved. "i don't know," said robert. "i tried to move it, but i couldn't." "you are a brave boy," said the engineer. "you have in all probability saved the train from destruction. but you ran a narrow risk yourself." "i know it," was the reply; "but it was the only thing i could do to catch your attention." "i will speak to you about it again. the first to be done is to move the rock." he left the engine and advanced toward the rock. by this time many of the passengers had got out, and were inquiring why the train was stopped at this point. the sight of the rock made a sensation. though the peril was over, the thought that the train might have been precipitated down the embankment, and the majority of the passengers killed or seriously injured, impressed them not a little. they pressed forward, and several lending a hand, the rock was ousted from its its position, and rolled crashing over the bank. among the passengers was a stout, good-looking man, a new york merchant. he had a large family at home waiting his return from a western journey. he shuddered as he thought how near he had been to never meeting them again on earth. "it was providential, your seeing the rock," he said to the engineer. "we owe our lives to you." "you do me more than justice," replied the engineer. "it was not i who saved the train, but that boy." all eyes were turned upon robert, who, unused to being the center of so many glances, blushed and seemed disposed to withdraw. "how is that?" inquired the merchant. "he saw the obstruction, and tried to remove it, but, not being able to do so, took his station on the rock, and, at the risk of his own life, drew my attention, and saved the train." "it was a noble act, my boy; what is your name?" "robert rushton." "it is a name that we shall all have cause to remember. gentlemen," continued the merchant, turning to the group around him, "you see before you the preserver of your lives. shall his act go unrewarded?" "no, no!" was the general exclamation. "i don't want any reward," said robert, modestly. "any boy would have done as much." "i don't know about that, my young friend. there are not many boys, or men, i think, that would have had the courage to act as you did. you may not ask or want any reward, but we should be forever disgraced if we failed to acknowledge our great indebtedness to you. i contribute one hundred dollars as my share of the testimonial to our young friend." "i follow with fifty!" said his next neighbor, "and shall ask for the privilege of taking him by the hand." robert had won honors at school, but he had never before been in a position so trying to his modesty. the passengers, following the example of the last speaker, crowded around him, and took him by the hand, expressing their individual acknowledgments for the service he had rendered them. our hero, whom we now designate thus appropriately, bore the ordeal with a self-possession which won the favor of all. while this was going on, the collection was rapidly being made by the merchant who had proposed it. the amounts contributed varied widely, but no one refused to give. in ten minutes the fund had reached over six hundred dollars. "master robert rushton," said the merchant, "i have great pleasure in handing you this money, freely contributed by the passengers on this train, as a slight acknowledgment of the great service which you have rendered them at the risk of your own life. it does not often fall to the lot of a boy to perform a deed so heroic. we are all your debtors, and if the time ever comes that you need a friend, i for one shall be glad to show my sense of indebtedness." "all aboard!" shouted the conductor. the passengers hurried into the cars, leaving our hero standing by the track, with one hand full of bank notes and in the other the card of the new york merchant. it was only about fifteen minutes since robert had first signaled the train, yet how in this brief time had his fortunes changed! from the cars now rapidly receding he looked to the roll of bills, and he could hardly realize that all this money was his own. he sat down and counted it over. "six hundred and thirty-five dollars!" he exclaimed. "i must have made a mistake." but a second count turned out precisely the same. "how happy mother will be!" he thought, joyfully. "i must go and tell her the good news." he was so occupied with the thoughts of his wonderful good fortune that he nearly forgot to take the berries which he had picked. "i shan't need to sell them now," he said. "we'll use a part of them ourselves, and what we can't use i will give away." he carefully stored away the money in his coat pocket, and for the sake of security buttoned it tight. it was a new thing for him to be the custodian of so much treasure. as halbert davis usually spent the latter part of the afternoon in promenading the streets, sporting his kids and swinging his jaunty cane, it was not surprising that robert encountered him again. "so, you've been berrying again?" he said, stopping short. "yes," said robert, briefly. "you haven't got the boat repaired, i suppose." "not yet." "it's lucky for you this is berrying season." "why?" "because you'd probably have to go to the poorhouse," said halbert, insolently. "i don't know about that," said robert, coolly. "i rather think i could buy you out, halbert davis, watch, gloves, cane and all." "what do you mean?" demanded halbert, haughtily. "you seem to forget that you are a beggar, or next to it." robert set down his pails, and, opening his coat, drew out a handful of bills. "does that look like going to the almshouse?" he said. "they're not yours," returned halbert, considerably astonished, for, though he did not know the denomination of the bills, it was evident that there was a considerable amount of money. "it belongs to me, every dollar of it," returned robert. "i don't believe it. where did you get it? picking berries, i suppose," he added, with a sneer. "it makes no difference to you where i got it," said our hero, returning the money to his pocket. "i shan't go to the almshouse till this i is all gone." "he must have stolen it," muttered halbert, looking after robert with disappointment and chagrin. it was certainly very vexatious that, in spite of all his attempts to humble and ruin our hero, he seemed more prosperous than ever. chapter xviii. a visit to the lawyer. mrs. rushton was braiding straw when robert entered with his berries. "couldn't you sell your berries, robert?" she asked. "i haven't tried yet, mother." "the berrying season won't last much longer," said his mother, despondently. "don't borrow trouble, mother. i am sure we shall get along well." "you feel more confidence than i do." "i just met halbert davis in the street." "have you made up with him?" "it is for him to make up with me." "i am afraid you are too high-spirited, robert. did halbert speak to you?" "oh, yes," said robert, laughing. "he takes a great interest in my affairs. he predicts that we shall come to the poorhouse yet." "he may be right." "now, mother, don't be so desponding. we've got enough money to pay our expenses for more than a year, even if we both stop work." "what can you mean, robert?" said his mother, looking up in surprise. "you must be crazy." "does that look like going to the poorhouse?" asked robert, drawing out his money. mrs. rushton uttered an exclamation of surprise. "whose money is that, robert?" "mine!" "you haven't done anything wrong?" "no, mother; i thought you knew me too well for that. i see you are anxious to hear how i obtained it, so i'll tell you all about it." he sat down, and in brief words told his mother the story of the train and its peril, how he had rescued it, and, lastly, of the generous gift which he had so unexpectedly received. the mother's heart was touched, and she forgot all her forebodings. "my son, i am proud of you," she said, her eyes moist. "you have done a noble deed, and you deserve the reward. but what a risk you ran!" "i know it, mother, but we won't think of that, now that it is over. how much, money do you think i have here?" "two or three hundred dollars." "six hundred and thirty-five! so you see, mother, we needn't go to the poorhouse just yet. now, how much better off should i have been if i had kept my place in the factory? it would have taken me more than two years to earn as much money as this. but that isn't all. i have been the means of saving a great many lives, for the train was sure to be thrown down the embankment. i shall remember that all my life." "we have reason to be grateful to heaven that you have been the means of doing so much good, robert, while, at the same time, you have benefited yourself." "that is true, mother." "i shall be afraid to have so much money in the house. if it were known, we might be robbed." "i will leave it with mr. paine until i get a chance to put it in a savings bank. he has a safe in his office. at the same time i will carry him some berries as a present. it won't be much, but i should like to do it on account of his kindness about the boat. i will offer now to bear the expense of its repair." after washing his hands and adjusting his clothes a little, for robert, though no fop like halbert, was not regardless of appearances, especially as he thought hester might see him, he set out for the lawyer's office. "excuse my bringing in my berries," said robert, as he entered the office, "but i want to ask your acceptance of them." many persons, under the supposition that robert was too poor to afford a gift, would have declined it, or offered to pay for it, thinking they were acting kindly and considerately. but mr. paine knew that robert would be mortified by such an offer, and he answered: "thank you, robert; i will accept your gift with thanks on one condition." "what is it, mr. paine?" inquired our hero, a little puzzled. "that you will take tea with us to-morrow evening, and help us do justice to them." "thank you," said robert, not a little pleased at the invitation, "but i shouldn't like to leave my mother at home alone." "oh, we must have your mother, too. hester will call this evening, and invite her." "then," said robert, "i can answer for myself, and i think for her, that we should both be very happy to come." the lawyer's social position made such an invitation particularly gratifying to robert. besides, he was led to value it more on account of the persistent efforts of halbert to injure him in the general estimation. then, too, it was pleasant to think that he was to sit down to the same table with hester, as her father's guest, and to receive a call from her at his own house. nothing that mr. paine could have done would have afforded him an equal amount of gratification. "there is one other matter i wanted to speak to you about, mr. paine," he said. "will you take care of some money for me until i get a chance to deposit it in the savings bank?" "certainly, robert," was the reply, but the lawyer's manner showed some surprise. he knew the circumstances of the rushtons, and he had not supposed they had any money on hand. "how much is it?" "six hundred and thirty-five dollars," answered robert, producing it. "will you count it, and see if it is all right?" "is this your money?" asked the lawyer, laying down his pen and gazing at robert in astonishment. "yes, sir," said robert, enjoying his surprise. "i will tell you how i got it." so the story was told, with a modest reserve as to his own courage, but still showing, without his intending it, how nobly he had behaved. "give me your hand, robert," said mr. paine, cordially. "you have shown yourself a hero. we shall be proud of your company to tea to-morrow evening." robert flushed with gratification at the high compliment conveyed in these words. what did he care then for halbert davis and his petty malice! he had the approval of his own conscience, the good opinion of those whom he most respected and a provision against want sufficient to avert all present anxiety. "there is one thing more, mr. paine," he added. "it's about the boat will was kind enough to lend me." "have you seen the carpenter about repairing it?" "yes, sir, and he will attend to it as soon as he can spare the time. but that was not what i wanted to say. i think i ought to bear the expense of repairing it. i would have spoken about it at first, but then i had no money, and didn't know when i should have any. will you be kind enough to take as much of my money as will be needed to pay mr. plane's bill when it comes in?" "certainly not, robert. it was not your fault that the boat was injured." "it wouldn't have happened if i had not borrowed it. it isn't right that the expense should fall on you." "don't trouble yourself about that, robert. i am able and willing to pay it. it is very honorable in you to make the offer, and i like you the better for having made it. won't you need any of this money for present expenses?" "perhaps i had better take the thirty-five dollars. mother may be in want of something." robert received back the sum named, and returned home, much pleased with his interview. about seven o'clock, sitting at the window of the little cottage, he saw hester paine opening the front gate. he sprang to his feet and opened the door. "good-evening, robert," she said. "is your mother at home?" "yes, hester. won't you come in?" "thank you, robert. father has been telling me what a hero you were, and it made me feel proud that you were a friend of mine." robert's face lighted with pleasure. "you compliment me more than i deserve," he answered, modestly; "but it gives me great pleasure to know that you think well of me." "i am sure that there is no boy in millville that would have dared to do such a thing. good-evening, mrs. rushton. are you not proud of your son?" "he is a good son to me," said mrs. rushton, with a glance of affection. "it is such a splendid thing he did. he will be quite a hero. indeed, he is one already. i've got a new york paper giving an account of the whole thing. i brought it over, thinking you might like to read it." she displayed a copy of a great city daily, in which full justice was done to robert's bravery. our hero listened with modest pleasure while it was being read. "i don't deserve all that," he said. "you must let us judge of that," said hester. "but i have come this evening, mrs. rushton, to ask you to take tea with us to-morrow evening, you and robert. you will come, won't you?" mrs. rushton was pleased with this mark of attention, and after a slight demur, accepted. i do not intend to give an account of the next evening, and how robert, in particular, enjoyed it. that can be imagined, as well as halbert's chagrin when he heard of the attention his rival was receiving in a quarter where he himself so earnestly desired to stand well. i must pass on to a communication received by mrs. rushton, a communication of a very unexpected character, which had an important effect upon the fortunes of our hero. chapter xix. the message from the sea. it was not often that mrs. rushton received a letter. neither she nor her husband had possessed many relatives, and such as either had were occupied with their own families, and little communication passed between them and captain rushton's family. robert, therefore, seldom called at the post office. one day, however, as he stepped in by a neighbor's request to inquire for letters for the latter, the postmaster said, "there's a letter for your mother, robert." "is there?" said our hero, surprised, "when did it come?" "yesterday. i was going to ask some one to carry it round to her, as you don't often call here." he handed the letter to robert, who surveyed it with curiosity. it was postmarked "boston," and addressed in a bold business hand to "mrs. captain rushton, millville." "who can be writing to mother from boston?" thought robert. the size of the letter also excited his curiosity. there were two stamps upon it, and it appeared bulky. robert hurried home, and rushed into the kitchen where his mother was at work. "here's a letter for you, mother," he said. "a letter for me!" repeated mrs. rushton. "from boston." "i don't know who would be likely to write me from there. open it for me, robert." he tore open the envelope. it contained two inclosures--one a letter in the same handwriting as the address; the other a large sheet of foolscap rumpled up, and appearing once to have been rolled up, was written in pencil. mrs. rushton had no sooner looked at the latter than she exclaimed, in agitation: "robert, it is your father's handwriting. read it to me, i am too agitated to make it out." robert was equally excited. was his father still alive, or was this letter a communication from the dead? "first let me read the other," he said. "it will explain about this." his mother sank back into a chair too weak with agitation to stand, while her son rapidly read the following letter: "boston, august , . mrs. rushton, dear madam: the fate of our ship _norman_, which left this port now more than two years since, under the command of your husband, has until now been veiled in uncertainty. we had given up all hopes of obtaining any light upon the circumstances of its loss, when by a singular chance information was brought us yesterday. the ship _argo_, while in the south pacific, picked up a bottle floating upon the surface of the water. on opening it, it was found to contain two communications, one addressed to us, the other to you, the latter to be forwarded to you by us. ours contains the particulars of the loss of the _norman_, and doubtless your own letter also contains the same particulars. there is a bare possibility that your husband is still alive, but as so long a period has passed since the letters were written it would not be well to place too much confidence in such a hope. but even if captain rushton is dead, it will be a sad satisfaction to you to receive from him this last communication, and learn the particulars of his loss. we lose no time in forwarding to you the letter referred to, and remain, with much sympathy, yours respectfully, winslow & co." mrs. rushton listened to this letter with eager and painful interest, her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon robert. "now read your father's letter," she said, in a low tone. robert unfolded the sheet, and his eyes filled with tears as he gazed upon the well-known handwriting of the father whose loss he had so long lamented. this letter, too, we transcribe: "november , . my dear wife and son: whether these lines will ever meet your eyes i know not. whether i will be permitted again to look upon your dear faces, i also am ignorant. the good ship _norman_, in which i sailed from boston not quite three months ago, is burned to the water's edge, and i find myself, with five of the sailors, afloat on the vast sea at the mercy of the elements, and with a limited supply of food. the chances are against our ever seeing land. hundreds of miles away from any known shores, our only hope of safety is in attracting the attention of some vessel. in the broad pathways of the ocean such a chance is doubtful. fortunately i have a few sheets of paper and a pencil with me, and i write these lines, knowing well how improbable it is that you will ever read them. yet it is a satisfaction to do what i can to let you know the position in which i stand. but for the revengeful and malignant disposition of one man i should still be walking the deck of the _norman_ as its captain. but to my story: my first mate was a man named haley--benjamin haley--whose name you will perhaps remember. he was born in our neighborhood, or, at all events, once lived there, being the nephew of old paul nichols. he was a wild young man, and bore a bad reputation. finally he disappeared, and, as it seems, embraced the profession of a sailor. i was not prepossessed in his favor, and was not very well pleased to find him my second in command. however, he was regularly engaged, and it was of no use for me to say anything against him. i think, however, that he suspected the state of my feelings, as, while studiously polite, i did not make an effort to be cordial. at any rate, he must have taken a dislike to me early in the voyage, though whether at that time he meditated evil, i cannot say. after a time i found that he was disposed to encroach upon my prerogatives as captain of the vessel, and issue commands which he knew to be in defiance of my wishes. you can imagine that i would not pass over such conduct unnoticed. i summoned him to an interview, and informed him in decided terms that i must be master in my own ship. he said little, but i saw from his expression that there could thereafter be no amicable relations between us. i pass over the days that succeeded--days in which haley went to the furthest verge of insolence that he felt would be safe. at length, carried away by impatience, i reprimanded him publicly. he grew pale with passion, turned on his heel, and strode away. that night i was roused from my sleep by the cry of 'fire!' i sprang to my feet and took immediate measures to extinguish the flames. but the incendiary had taken care to do his work so well that it was already impossible. i did not at first miss haley, until, inquiring for him, i learned that he was missing, and one of the ship's boats. it was evident that he had deliberately fired the ship in order to revenge himself upon me. his hatred must have been extreme, or he would not have been willing to incur so great a risk. though he escaped from the ship, his position in an open boat must be extremely perilous. when all hope of saving the ship was abandoned, we manned the remaining boats hastily, putting in each such a stock of provisions as we could carry without overloading the boats. twenty-four hours have now passed, and we are still tossing about on the ocean. a storm would be our destruction. at this solemn time, my dear wife, my thoughts turn to you and my dear son, whom i am likely never to see again. there is one thing most of all which i wish you to know, but can hardly hope that these few lines will reach you. just before i left home, on my present voyage, i deposited five thousand dollars with mr. davis, the superintendent of the factory, in trust for you, in case i should not return. you will be surprised to learn that i have so much money. it has been the accumulation of years, and was intended as a provision for you and robert. i have no reason to doubt the integrity of mr. davis, yet i wish i had acquainted you with the fact of this deposit, and placed his written acknowledgment in your hands. my reason for concealment was, that i might surprise you at the end of this voyage. when this letter comes to hand (if it ever should come to hand), in case the superintendent has not accounted to you for the money placed in his hands, let robert go to him and claim the money in my name. but i can hardly believe this to be necessary. should i never return, i am persuaded that mr. davis will be true to the trust i have reposed in him, and come forward like an honest man to your relief. and now, my dear wife and son, farewell! my hope is weak that i shall ever again see you, yet it is possible. may heaven bless you, and permit us to meet again in another world, if not in this! i shall inclose this letter, and one to my owners, in a bottle, which i have by me, and commit it to the sea, trusting that the merciful waves may waft it to the shore." here captain rushton signed his name. the feelings with which robert read and his mother listened to this letter, were varied. love and pity for the husband and father, now doubtless long dead, were blended with surprise at the revelation of the deposit made in the hands of the superintendent of the mill. "mother," said robert, "did you know anything of this money father speaks of?" "no," said mrs. rushton, "he never told me. it is strange that mr. davis has never informed us of it. two years have passed, and we have long given him up as lost." "mother," said robert, "it is my opinion that he never intends to let us know." "i cannot believe he would be so dishonorable." "but why should he keep back the knowledge? he knows that we are poor and need the money." "but he has the reputation of an honorable man." "many have had that reputation who do not deserve it," said robert. "the temptation must have proved too strong for him." "what shall we do?" "i know what i am going to do," said robert, resolutely. "i am going to his house, and shall claim restitution of the money which father intrusted to him. he has had it two years, and, with the interest, it will amount to nearer six than five thousand dollars. it will be a fortune, mother." "don't be hasty or impetuous, robert," said his mother. "speak to him respectfully." "i shall be civil if he is," said robert. he took his cap, and putting it on, left the cottage and walked with a quick pace to the house of the superintendent. chapter xx. a disagreeable surprise. mr. davis was seated in his office, but it was his own personal affairs rather than the business of the factory that engaged his attention. he was just in receipt of a letter from his broker in new york, stating that there were but slender chances of a rise in the price of some securities in which he had invested heavily. he was advised to sell out at once, in order to guard against a probable further depreciation. this was far from satisfactory, since an immediate sale would involve a loss of nearly a thousand dollars. mr. davis felt despondent, and, in consequence, irritable. it was at this moment that one of the factory hands came in and told him that robert rushton wished to see him. the superintendent would have refused an interview but for one consideration. he thought that our hero was about to beg to be taken back into his employ. this request he intended to refuse, and enjoyed in advance the humiliation of young rushton. "good-morning, sir," said robert, removing his hat on entering. "i suppose you want to be taken back," said the superintendent, abruptly. "no, sir," said robert. "i have come on quite a different errand." mr. davis was disappointed. he was cheated of his expected triumph. moreover, looking into our young hero's face, he saw that he was entirely self-possessed, and had by no means the air of one about to ask a favor. "then state your business at once," he said, roughly. "my time is too valuable to be taken up by trifles." "my business is important to both of us," said robert. "we have just received a letter from my father." the superintendent started and turned pale. this was the most unwelcome intelligence he could have received. he supposed, of course, that captain rushton was alive, and likely to reclaim the sum, which he was in no position to surrender. "your father!" he stammered. "where is he? i thought he was dead." "i am afraid he is," said robert, soberly. "then how can you just have received a letter from him?" demanded mr. davis, recovering from his momentary dismay. "the letter was inclosed in a bottle, which was picked up in the south pacific, and brought to the owners of the vessel. my father's ship was burned to the water's edge, and at the time of writing the letter he was afloat on the ocean with five of his sailors in a small boat." "how long ago was this? i mean when was the letter dated." "nearly two years ago--in the november after he sailed." "then, of course, he must have perished," said the superintendent, with a feeling of satisfaction. "however, i suppose your mother is glad to have heard from him. is that all you have to tell me?" "no, sir," said robert, looking boldly in the face of his former employer. "my father added in his letter, that just before sailing he deposited with you the sum of five thousand dollars, to be given to my mother in case he never returned." so the worst had come! the dead had revealed the secret which the superintendent hoped would never be known. he was threatened with ruin. he had no means of paying the deposit unless by sacrificing all his property, and it was doubtful whether even then he would be able wholly to make it up. if robert possessed his acknowledgment he would have no defense to make. this he must ascertain before committing himself. "supposing this story to be true," he said, in a half-sneering tone, "you are, of course, prepared to show me my receipt for the money?" "that my father carried away with him. he did not send it with the letter." all the superintendent's confidence returned. he no longer felt afraid, since all evidence of the deposit was doubtless at the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain. he resolved to deny the trust altogether. "rushton," he said, "i have listened patiently to what you had to say, and in return i answer that in the whole course of my life i have never known of a more barefaced attempt at fraud. in this case you have selected the wrong customer." "what!" exclaimed robert, hardly crediting the testimony of his ears; "do you mean to deny that my father deposited five thousand dollars with you just before sailing on his last voyage?" "i certainly do, and in the most unqualified terms. had such been the case, do you think i would have kept the knowledge of it from your mother so long after your father's supposed death?" "there might be reasons for that," said robert, significantly. "none of your impertinent insinuations, you young rascal," said mr. davis, hotly. "the best advice i can give you is, to say nothing to any one about this extraordinary claim. it will only injure you, and i shall be compelled to resort to legal measures to punish you for circulating stories calculated to injure my reputation." if the superintendent expected to intimidate robert by this menace he was entirely mistaken in the character of our young hero. he bore the angry words and threatening glances of his enemy without quailing, as resolute and determined as ever. "mr. davis," he said, "if there is no truth in this story, do you think my father, with death before his eyes, would have written it to my mother?" "i have no evidence, except your word, that any such letter has been received." "i can show it to you, if you desire it, in my father's handwriting." "we will suppose, then, for a moment, that such a letter has been received, and was written by your father. i can understand how, being about to die, and feeling that his family were without provision, he should have written such a letter with the intention of giving you a claim upon me, whom he no doubt selected supposing me to be a rich man. it was not justifiable, but something can be excused to a man finding himself in such a position." robert was filled with indignation as he listened to this aspersion upon his father's memory. he would not have cared half so much for any insult to himself. "mr. davis," he said, boldly, "it is enough for you to cheat my mother out of the money which my father left her, but when you accuse my father of fraud you go too far. you know better than any one that everything which he wrote is true." the superintendent flushed under the boy's honest scorn, and, unable to defend himself truthfully, he worked himself into a rage. "what! do you dare insult me in my own office?" he exclaimed, half rising from his desk, and glaring at our hero. "out of my sight at once, or i may be tempted to strike you!" "before i leave you, mr. davis," said robert, undauntedly, "i wish you to tell me finally whether you deny the deposit referred to in my father's letter?" "and i tell you, once for all," exclaimed the superintendent, angrily, "if you don't get out of my office i will kick you out." "i will leave you now," said our hero, not intimidated; "but you have not heard the last of me. i will not rest until i see justice done to my mother." so saying, he walked deliberately from the office, leaving mr. davis in a state of mind no means comfortable. true, the receipt had doubtless gone to the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain, and, as no one was cognizant of the transaction, probably no claim could be enforced against his denial. but if the letter should be shown, as robert would doubtless be inclined to do, he was aware that, however the law might decide, popular opinion would be against him, and his reputation would be ruined. this was an unpleasant prospect, as the superintendent valued his character. besides, the five thousand dollars were gone and not likely to be recovered. had they still been in his possession, that would have been some compensation. chapter xxi. a denial. robert left the superintendent's office in deep thought. he understood very well that it would be impossible to enforce his claim without more satisfactory testimony than his father's letter. if any one had been cognizant of the transaction between mr. davis and his father it would have helped matters, but no one, so far as he knew, was even aware that his father had possessed so large a sum as five thousand dollars. had captain rushton inclosed the receipt, that would have been sufficient, but it had probably gone to the bottom with him. but, after all, was it certain that his father was dead? it was not certain, but our hero was forced to admit that the chances of his father's being alive were extremely slender. finding himself utterly at a loss, he resolved to call upon his firm friend, squire paine, the lawyer. going to his office, he was fortunate enough to find him in, and unengaged. "good-morning, robert," said the lawyer, pleasantly. "good-morning, sir. you find me a frequent visitor." "always welcome," was the pleasant reply. "you know i am your banker, and it is only natural for you to call upon me." "yes, sir," said robert, smiling; "but it is on different business that i have come to consult you this morning." "go on. i will give you the best advice in my power." the lawyer listened with surprise to the story robert had to tell. "this is certainly a strange tale," he said, after a pause. "but a true one," said robert, hastily. "i do not question that. it affords another illustration of the old saying that truth is stranger than fiction. that a letter committed to the deep so many thousand miles away should have finally reached its destination is very remarkable, i may say providential." "do you think there is any chance of my father being yet alive?" "there is a bare chance, but i cannot encourage you to place much reliance upon it." "if he had been picked up by any vessel i suppose he would have written." "you would doubtless have seen him at home before this time in that case. still there might be circumstances," added the lawyer, slowly, "that would prevent his communicating with friends at home. for instance, his boat might have drifted to some uninhabited island out of the course of ordinary navigation. i don't say it is at all probable, but there is such a probability." "is there any chance of making mr. davis return the money my father deposited with him?" "there again there are difficulties. he may demand the return of his receipt, or he may continue to deny the trust altogether." "won't the letter prove anything?" "it may produce a general conviction that such a deposit was made, since, admitting the letter to be genuine, no one, considering especially the character of your father, can readily believe that in the immediate presence of death he would make any such statement unless thoroughly reliable. but moral conviction and legal proof are quite different things. unless that receipt is produced i don't see that anything can be done." "perhaps my father might have put that in a bottle also at a later date." "he might have done so when he became satisfied that there was no chance of a rescue. but even supposing him to have done it, the chances are ten to one that it will never find its way to your mother. the reception of the first letter was almost a miracle." "i have no doubt you are right, mr. paine," said robert; "but it seems very hard that my poor father's hard earnings should go to such an unprincipled man, and my mother be left destitute." "that is true, robert, but i am obliged to say that your only hope is in awakening mr. davis to a sense of justice." "there isn't much chance of that," said robert, shaking his head. "if you will leave the matter in my hands, i will call upon him to-night, and see what i can do." "i shall feel very glad if you will do so, squire paine. i don't want to leave anything undone." "then i will do so. i don't imagine it will do any good, but we can but try." robert left the office, making up his mind to await the report of the lawyer's visit before moving further. that evening, the lawyer called at the house of the superintendent. mrs. davis and halbert were in the room. after a little unimportant conversation, he said: "mr. davis, may i ask the favor of a few minutes' conversation with you in private?" "certainly," said the superintendent, quite in the dark as to the business which had called his guest to the house. he led the way into another room, and both took seats. "i may as well say to begin with," commenced the lawyer, "that i call in behalf of the family of the late captain rushton." the superintendent started nervously. "that boy has lost no time," he muttered to himself. "i suppose you understand what i have to say?" "i presume i can guess," said the superintendent, coldly. "the boy came into my office this morning, and made a most extraordinary claim, which i treated with contempt. finding him persistent i ordered him out of my office. i need not say that no sane man would for a moment put confidence in such an incredible story or claim." "i can't quite agree with you there," said the lawyer, quietly. "there is nothing incredible about the story. it is remarkable, i grant, but such things have happened before, and will again." "i suppose you refer to the picking up of the bottle at sea." "yes; i fail to see what there is incredible about it. if the handwriting can be identified as that of the late captain rushton, and robert says both his mother and himself recognized it, the story becomes credible and will meet with general belief." "i thought you were too sensible and practical a man," said the superintendent, sneering, "to be taken in by so palpable a humbug. why, it reads like a romance." "in spite of all that, it may be true enough," returned the lawyer, composedly. "you may believe it, if you please. it seems to me quite unworthy of belief." "waiving that point, robert, doubtless, acquainted you with the statement made in the letter that captain rushton, just before sailing on his last voyage, deposited with you five thousand dollars. what have you to say to that?" "what have i to say?" returned the superintendent. "that captain rushton never possessed five thousand dollars in his life. i don't believe he possessed one quarter of the sum." "what authority have you for saying that? did he make you his confidant?" asked the lawyer, keenly. "yes," said the superintendent, promptly. "when last at home, he called at my house one day, and in the course of conversation remarked that sailors seldom saved any money. 'for instance,' said he, 'i have followed the sea for many years, and have many times resolved to accumulate a provision for my wife and child, but as yet i have scarcely done more than to begin.' he then told me that he had little more than a thousand dollars, but meant to increase that, if possible, during his coming voyage." to this statement squire paine listened attentively, fully believing it to be an impromptu fabrication, as it really was. "did he say anything about what he had done with this thousand dollars or more?" he asked. "a part he left for his wife to draw from time to time for expenses; the rest, i suppose, he took with him." mr. paine sat silent for a moment. things looked unpromising, he couldn't but acknowledge, for his young client. in the absence of legal proof, and with an adroit and unscrupulous antagonist, whose interests were so strongly enlisted in defeating justice, it was difficult to see what was to be done. "i understand then, mr. davis," he said, finally, "that you deny the justice of this claim?" "certainly i do," said the superintendent. "it is a palpable fraud. this boy is a precocious young swindler, and will come to a bad end." "i have a different opinion of him." "you are deceived in him, then. i have no doubt he got up the letter himself." "i don't agree with you. i have seen the letter; it is in captain rushton's handwriting. moreover, i have seen the letter of the owners, which accompanied it." the superintendent was in a tight place, and he knew it. but there was nothing to do but to persist in his denial. "then i can only say that captain rushton was a party to the fraud," he said. "you must be aware, mr. davis, that when the public learns the facts in the case, the general belief will be the other way." "i can't help that," said the other, doggedly. "whatever the public chooses to think, i won't admit the justice of this outrageous claim." "then i have only to bid you good-evening," said the lawyer, coldly, affecting not to see the hand which the superintendent extended. the latter felt the slight, and foresaw that from others he must expect similar coldness, but there was no help for it. to restore the money would be ruin. he had entered into the path of dishonesty, and he was forced to keep on in it. chapter xxii. robert's new project. mr. paine called at mrs. rushton's cottage, and communicated the particulars of his interview with the superintendent. "it is evident," he said, "that mr. davis is swayed by his interests, and feeling legally secure, prefers to defraud you rather than to surrender the five thousand dollars." "i wouldn't have believed it of mr. davis," said mrs. rushton; "he is considered such a respectable man." "i have heard rumors that he is dabbling in speculations, and i suspect he may find it inconvenient to pay away so large a sum of money." "he had no right to speculate with my mother's money," said robert, indignantly. "you are right there. he should have invested it securely." "mr. paine," said robert, after a pause, "i have an idea that father is still living, and that some day i shall find him." the lawyer shook his head. "there is not one chance in ten that he is living," he said. "it is only a fancy of yours." "it may be, but i can't get it out of my head." "i hope you will prove correct, but i need not tell you of the many arguments against such a theory." "i know them all, but still i believe he is living. mr. paine," continued robert, earnestly, "i feel so strongly on the subject that, with my mother's permission, i, mean to go out into the world in search of him." "i must say, robert," said mr. paine, "i did not expect such a visionary scheme from a boy of your good sense. you must see yourself how wild it is." "i know it," said our hero; "but i want to take a year, at any rate, to see the world. if, at the end of that time, i discover no trace of my father, i will come home content." "but what will become of your mother during that time?" "i will leave four hundred dollars in your hands for her. the rest i will draw for my own uses." "but you don't expect to travel round the world on two hundred dollars, surely?" said the lawyer. "i shall work my way as far as i can," said robert. "i can't afford to travel as a gentleman." "suppose you find yourself without money in a foreign land?" "i am not afraid. i am willing to work, and i can make my way." "surely, mrs. rushton, you do not approve robert's scheme?" said mr. paine. but to his surprise he found that mrs. rushton was inclined to regard it favorably. she seemed to share robert's belief that her husband was still living, and that robert could find him. she was not a woman in the habit of reasoning, and had no conception of the difficulties in his way. the money left behind in the hands of mr. paine, supplemented by her own earnings, would be enough to maintain her for two years, and this thought made her easy, for she had a great dread of poverty and destitution. when the lawyer found how mrs. rushton felt on the subject, he ceased his objections to the plan; for, though he had no confidence in our young hero's success in the object he had in view, he thought that a year's tour might benefit him by extending his knowledge of the world and increasing his self-reliance. "how soon do you wish to start, robert?" he asked. "it will take me a week to get your clothes ready," said mrs. rushton. "then by a week from monday i will start," said robert. "have you formed any definite plans about the manner of going?" "i will go to new york first, and call on the gentleman who got up the subscription for me. i will tell him my story, and ask his advice." "the most sensible thing you could do. as to the money, i will have that ready for you. of course, you will call on me before you go." the superintendent had made up his mind that robert would spread the report of the deposit, and nervously awaited the result. but to his relief he observed no change in the demeanor of his fellow-townsmen. he could only conclude that, for reasons of his own, the boy he had wronged had concluded to defer the exposure. next he heard with a feeling of satisfaction that robert had decided to go abroad in quest of his father. he had no doubt that captain rushton was dead, and regarded the plan as utterly quixotic and foolish, but still he felt glad that it had been undertaken. "if the boy never comes back, i shan't mourn much," he said to himself. "his mother is a weak woman, who will never give me any trouble, but this young rascal has a strong and resolute will, and i shall feel more comfortable to have him out of the way." when robert got ready to leave he made a farewell call on the lawyer, and drew two hundred dollars of his money. "i don't know but one hundred will do," he said. "perhaps i ought to leave five hundred for my mother." "you carry little enough, robert. don't have any anxiety about your mother. i will not see her suffer." robert grasped his hand in earnest gratitude. "how can i thank you?" he said. "you need not thank me. i had a warm regard for your father, and shall be glad to help your mother if there is any occasion. not only this, but if in your wanderings you find yourself in a tight place, and in want of help, write to me, and i will help you." "you are a true friend," said robert, gratefully. "i wish my father had intrusted his money to you instead of to the superintendent." "i wish he had as matters have turned out, i should have taken care that your interests did not suffer." "oh," exclaimed robert, fervently, "if i could only find my father, and bring him home to confront this false friend, and convict him of his base fraud, i believe i would willingly give ten years of my life." "that question can only be solved by time. i, too, should earnestly rejoice if such an event could be brought about. and now, robert, good-by, and heaven bless you. don't forget that you can count always on my friendship and assistance." on the way home robert fell in with halbert davis. halbert, of course, knew nothing of the claim made upon his father, but he had heard that robert proposed to leave home. he was both sorry and glad on account of this--sorry because he had hoped to see our hero fall into poverty and destitution, and enjoy the spectacle of his humiliation. now he was afraid robert would succeed and deprive him of the enjoyment he had counted upon. on the other hand, robert's departure would leave the field free so far as concerned hester paine, and he hoped to win the favor of that young lady in the absence of any competitor. of this there was not the slightest chance, but halbert was blinded by his own vanity to the obvious dislike which hester entertained for him. now when he saw robert approaching he couldn't forego the pleasure of a final taunt. "so you're going to leave town, rushton?'" he commenced. "yes, davis," answered robert, in the same tone. "shall you miss me much?" "i guess i shall live through it," said halbert. "i suppose you are going because you can't make a living here!" "not exactly. however, i hope to do better elsewhere." "if you're going to try for a place, you'd better not mention that you got turned out of the factory. you needn't apply to my father for a recommendation." "i shan't need any recommendation from your father," said robert. "he is about the last man that i would apply to." "that's where you are right," said halbert. "what sort of a place are you going to try for?" he knew nothing of robert's intention to seek his father, but supposed he meant to obtain a situation in new york. "you seem particularly interested in my movements, davis." "call me mr. davis, if you please," said halbert, haughtily. "when you call me mr. rushton, i will return the compliment." "you are impertinent." "not more so than you are." "you don't seem to realize the difference in our positions." "no, i don't, except that i prefer my own." disgusted with robert's evident determination to withhold the respect which he considered his due, halbert tried him on another tack. "have you bidden farewell to hester paine?" he asked, with a sneer. "yes," said robert. "i suppose she was very much affected!" continued halbert. "she said she was very sorry to part with me." "i admire her taste." "you would admire it more if she had a higher appreciation of you." "i shall be good friends with her, when you are no longer here to slander me to her." "i am not quite so mean as that," said robert. "if she chooses to like you, i shan't try to prevent it." "i ought to be very much obliged to you, i am sure." "you needn't trouble yourself to be grateful," returned robert, coolly. "but i must bid you good-by, as i have considerable to do." "don't let me detain you," said halbert, with an elaborate share of politeness. "i wonder why halbert hates me so much!" he thought. "i don't like him, but i don't wish him any harm." he looked with satisfaction upon a little cornelian ring which he wore upon one of his fingers. it was of very trifling value, but it was a parting gift from hester, and as such he valued it far above its cost. chapter xxiii. a dishonest baggage-smasher. on the next monday morning robert started for the city. at the moment of parting he began to realize that he had undertaken a difficult task. his life hitherto had been quiet and free from excitement. now he was about to go out into the great world, and fight his own way. with only two hundred dollars in his pocket he was going in search of a father, who, when last heard from was floating in an open boat on the south pacific. the probabilities were all against that father's being still alive. if he were, he had no clew to his present whereabouts. all this robert thought over as he was riding in the cars to the city. he acknowledged that the chances were all against his success, but in spite of all, he had a feeling, for which he could not account, that his father was still living, and that he should find him some day. at any rate, there was something attractive in the idea of going out to unknown lands to meet unknown adventures, and so his momentary depression was succeeded by a return of his old confidence. arrived in the city, he took his carpetbag in his hand, and crossing the street, walked at random, not being familiar with the streets, as he had not been in new york but twice before, and that some time since. "i don't know where to go," thought robert. "i wish i knew where to find some cheap hotel." just then a boy, in well-ventilated garments and a rimless straw hat, with a blacking box over his shoulder, approached. "shine your boots, mister?" he asked. robert glanced at his shoes, which were rather deficient in polish, and finding that the expense would be only five cents, told him to go ahead. "i'll give you the bulliest shine you ever had," said the ragamuffin. "that's right! go ahead!" said robert. when the boy got through, he cast a speculative glance at the carpetbag. "smash yer baggage?" he asked. "what's that?" "carry yer bag." "do you know of any good, cheap hotel where i can put up?" asked robert. "eu-ro-pean hotel?" said the urchin, accenting the second syllable. "what kind of a hotel is that?" "you take a room, and get your grub where you like." "yes, that will suit me." "i'll show you one and take yer bag along for two shillings." "all right," said our hero. "go ahead." the boy shouldered the carpetbag and started in advance, robert following. he found a considerable difference between the crowded streets of new york and the quiet roads of millville. his spirits rose, and he felt that life was just beginning for him. brave and bold by temperament, he did not shrink from trying his luck on a broader arena than was afforded by the little village whence he came. such confidence is felt by many who eventually fail, but robert was one who combined ability and willingness to work with confidence, and the chances were in favor of his succeeding. unused to the city streets, robert was a little more cautious about crossing than the young arab who carried his bag. so, at one broad thoroughfare, the latter got safely across, while robert was still on the other side waiting for a good opportunity to cross in turn. the bootblack, seeing that communication was for the present cut off by a long line of vehicles, was assailed by a sudden temptation. for his services as porter he would receive but twenty-five cents, while here was an opportunity to appropriate the entire bag, which must be far more valuable. he was not naturally a bad boy, but his street education had given him rather loose ideas on the subject of property. obeying his impulse, then, he started rapidly, bag in hand, up a side street. "hold on, there! where are you going?" called out robert. he received no answer, but saw the baggage-smasher quickening his pace and dodging round the corner. he attempted to dash across the street, but was compelled to turn back, after being nearly run over. "i wish i could get hold of the young rascal!" he exclaimed indignantly. "who do you mane, johnny?" asked a boy at his side. "a boy has run off with my carpetbag," said robert. "i know him. it's jim malone." "do you know where i can find him?" asked robert, eagerly. "if you'll help me get back my bag, i'll give you a dollar." "i'll do it then. come along of me. here's a chance to cross." following his new guide, robert dashed across the street at some risk, and found himself safe on the other side. "now where do you think he's gone?" demanded robert. "it's likely he'll go home." "do you know where he lives?" "no.--mulberry street." "has he got any father and mother?" "he's got a mother, but the ould woman's drunk most all the time." "then she won't care about his stealing?" "no, she'll think he's smart." "then we'll go there. is it far?" "not more than twenty minutes." the boy was right. jim steered for home, not being able to open the bag in the street without suspicion. his intention was to appropriate a part of the clothing to his own use, and dispose of the rest to a pawnbroker or second-hand dealer, who, as long as he got a good bargain, would not be too particular about inquiring into the customer's right to the property. he did not, however, wholly escape suspicion. he was stopped by a policeman, who demanded, "whose bag is that, johnny?" "it belongs to a gentleman that wants it carried to the st. nicholas," answered jim, promptly. "where is the gentleman?" "he's took a car to wall street on business." "how came he to trust you with the bag? wasn't he afraid you'd steal it?" "oh, he knows me. i've smashed baggage for him more'n once." this might be true. at any rate, it was plausible, and the policeman, having no ground of detention, suffered him to go on. congratulating himself on getting off so well, jim sped on his way, and arrived in quick time at the miserable room in mulberry street, which he called home. his mother lay on a wretched bed in the corner, half stupefied with drink. she lifted up her head as her son entered. "what have you there, jimmy?" she asked. "it's a bag, mother." "whose is it?" "it's mine now." "and where did ye get it?" "a boy gave it to me to carry to a chape hotel, so i brought it home. this is a chape hotel, isn't it?" "you're a smart boy, an' i always said it, jimmy. let me open it," and the old woman, with considerable alacrity, rose to her feet and came to jim's side. "i'll open it myself, mother, that is, i if i had a kay. haven't you got one?" "i have that same. i picked up a bunch of kays in the strate last week." she fumbled in her pocket, and drew out half a dozen keys of different sizes, attached to a steel ring. "bully for you, old woman!" said jim. "give 'em here." "let me open the bag," said mrs. malone, persuasively. "no, you don't," said her dutiful son. "'tain't none of yours. it's mine." "the kays is mine," said his mother, "and i'll kape 'em." "give 'em here," said jim, finding a compromise necessary, "and i'll give you fifty cents out of what i get." "that's the way to talk, darlint," said his mother, approvingly. "you wouldn't have the heart to chate your ould mother out of her share?" "it's better i did," said jim; "you'll only get drunk on the money." "shure a little drink will do me no harm," said mrs. malone. meanwhile the young arab had tried key after key until he found one that fitted--the bag flew open, and robert's humble stock of clothing lay exposed to view. there was a woolen suit, four shirts, half a dozen collars, some stockings and handkerchiefs. besides these there was the little bible which robert had had given him by his father just before he went on his last voyage. it was the only book our hero had room for, but in the adventurous career upon which he had entered, exposed to perils of the sea and land, he felt that he would need this as his constant guide. "them shirts'll fit me," said jim. "i guess i'll kape 'em, and the close besides." "then where'll you git the money for me?" asked his mother. "i'll sell the handkerchiefs and stockings. i don't nade them," said jim, whose ideas of full dress fell considerably short of the ordinary standard. "i won't nade the collars either." "you don't nade all the shirts," said his mother. "i'll kape two," said jim. "it'll make me look respectable. maybe i'll kape two collars, so i can sit up for a gentleman of fashion." "you'll be too proud to walk with your ould mother," said mrs. malone. "maybe i will," said jim, surveying his mother critically. "you aint much of a beauty, ould woman." "i was a purty gal, once," said mrs. malone, "but hard work and bad luck has wore on me." "the whisky's had something to do with it," said jim. "hard work didn't make your face so red." "is it my own boy talks to me like that?" said the old woman, wiping her eyes on her dress. but her sorrow was quickly succeeded by a different emotion, as the door opened suddenly, and robert rushton entered the room. chapter xxiv. a good beginning. jim started to his feet at the sight of the equally unwelcome and unexpected visitor. his mother, ignorant that she saw before her the owner of the bag, supposed it might be a customer wanting some washing done. "good-morning, sir," said she, "and have yez business with me?" "no," said robert, "i have business with your son, if that's he." "shure he's my son, and a smart bye he is too." "he's a little too smart sometimes," returned our hero. "i gave him my carpetbag to carry this morning, and he ran away with it." mrs. malone's face fell at this unexpected intelligence. "shur an' it was a mistake of his," she said. "he's too honest entirely to stale the value of a pin, let alone a carpetbag." meanwhile jim was rapidly reviewing the situation. he was not naturally bad, but he had fallen a victim to sudden temptation. he was ashamed, and determined to make amends by a frank confession. "my mother is wrong," he said; "i meant to kape it, and i'm sorry. here's the bag, wid nothing taken out of it." "that's right, to own up," said robert, favorably impressed with his frank confession. "give me the bag and it'll be all right. i suppose you were poor, and that tempted you. i am poor, too, and couldn't afford to lose it. but i'd rather starve than steal, and i hope you will not be dishonest again." "i won't!" said jim, stoutly. "i'll go with you now to a chape hotel, and won't charge you nothin'." "i've got a boy downstairs who will take it. don't forget what you said just now." "no, i won't," said jim. "shure if i'd known what a bully young gentleman you was, i wouldn't have took it on no account." so robert descended the stairs, having by his forbearance probably effected a moral reformation in jim, and confirmed in him the good principles, which, in spite of his mother's bad example, had already taken root in his heart. if the community, while keeping vigilant watch over the young outcasts that throng our streets, plying their petty avocations, would not always condemn, but encourage them sometimes to a better life, the results would soon appear in the diminution of the offenses for which they are most frequently arrested. his new guide shouldered robert's carpetbag, and conducted him to a hotel of good standing, managed on the european system. dismissing the boy with the promised reward, robert went up to his room on the fifth floor, and after attending to his toilet, sallied out into the street and made his way to the warehouse of the merchant who had been instrumental in raising the fund for him. "mr. morgan is engaged," said a clerk to whom he spoke. "i will wait for him, if you please," said robert. "is it any business that i can attend to?" asked the clerk. "no, i wish to see mr. morgan himself." mr. morgan was engaged with two gentlemen, and our hero was obliged to wait nearly half an hour. at the end of that time, the merchant consented to see him. he did not at first recognize him, but said, inquiringly, "well, my young friend, from whom do you come?" "i come from no one, sir." "have you business with me?" "you do not remember me, mr. morgan. do you remember when the cars came so near running off the track a short time since at millville?" "certainly i do," said mr. morgan, heartily; "and i now remember you as the brave boy who saved all our lives." "you gave me your card and told me i might call on you." "to be sure, i did, and i am very glad to see you. you must go home and dine with me to-day." "thank you, sir, for your kind invitation." "this is my address," said the merchant, writing it in pencil, and handing it to robert. "we dine at half-past six. you had better be at the door at six. we will then talk over your plans, for i suppose you have some, and i will do what i can to promote them. at present i am busy, and am afraid i must ask you to excuse me." "thank you, sir," said robert, gratefully. he left the office, not a little elated at his favorable reception. mr. morgan, judging from his place of business, must be a man of great wealth, and could no doubt be of essential service to him. what was quite as important, he seemed disposed to help him. "that's a good beginning," thought robert. "i wish mother knew how well i have succeeded so far. i'll just write and let her know that i have arrived safe. to-morrow perhaps i shall have better news to tell." he went back to his hotel, and feeling hungry, made a substantial meal. he found the restaurants moderate in price, and within his means. six o'clock found him ringing the bell of a handsome brownstone house on fifth avenue. though not disposed to be shy, he felt a little embarrassed as the door opened and a servant in livery stood before him. "is mr. morgan at home?" inquired robert. "yes, sir," said the servant, glancing speculatively at the neat but coarse garments of our hero. "he invited me to dine with him," said robert. "won't you walk in, sir?" said the servant, with another glance of mild surprise at the dress of the dinner guest. "if you'll walk in here," opening the door of a sumptuously furnished parlor, "i will announce you. what name shall i say?" "robert rushton." robert entered the parlor, and sat down on a sofa. he looked around him with a little, pardonable curiosity, for he had never before been in an elegant city mansion. "i wonder whether i shall ever be rich enough to live like this!" he thought. the room, though elegant, was dark, and to our hero, who was used to bright, sunny rooms, it seemed a little gloomy. he mentally decided that he would prefer a plain country house; not so plain, indeed, as the little cottage where his mother lived, but as nice, perhaps, as the superintendent's house, which was the finest in the village, and the most magnificent he had until this time known. its glories were wholly eclipsed by the house he was in, but robert thought he would prefer it. while he was looking about him, mr. morgan entered, and his warm and cordial manner made his boy guest feel quite at his ease. "i must make you acquainted with my wife and children," he said. "they have heard of you, and are anxious to see you." mrs. morgan gave robert a reception as warm as her husband had done. "so this is the young hero of whom i have heard!" she said. "i am afraid you give me too much credit," said robert, modestly. this modest disclaimer produced a still more favorable impression upon both mr. and mrs. morgan. i do not propose to speak in detail of the dinner that followed. the merchant and his wife succeeded in making robert feel entirely at home, and he displayed an ease and self-possession wholly free from boldness that won their good opinion. when the dinner was over, mr. morgan commenced: "now, robert, dinner being over, let us come to business. tell me your plans, and i will consider how i can promote them." in reply, robert communicated the particulars, already known to the reader, of his father's letter, his own conviction of his still living, and his desire to go in search of him. "i am afraid you will be disappointed," said the merchant, "in the object of your expedition. it may, however, be pleasant for you to see something of the world, and luckily it is in my power to help you. i have a vessel which sails for calcutta early next week. you shall go as a passenger." "couldn't i go as cabin-boy?" asked robert. "i am afraid the price of a ticket will be beyond my means." "i think not," said the merchant, smiling, "since you will go free. as you do not propose to follow the sea, it will not be worth while to go as cabin-boy. besides, it would interfere with your liberty to leave the vessel whenever you deemed it desirable in order to carry on your search for your father." "you are very kind, mr. morgan," said robert, gratefully. "so i ought to be and mean to be," said the merchant. "you know i am in your debt." we pass over the few and simple preparations which robert made for his long voyage. in these he was aided by mrs. morgan, who sent on board, without his knowledge, a trunk containing a complete outfit, considerably better than the contents of the humble carpetbag he had brought from home. he didn't go on board till the morning on which the ship was to sail. he went down into the cabin, and did not come up until the ship had actually started. coming on deck, he saw a figure which seemed familiar to him. from his dress, and the commands he appeared to be issuing, robert judged that it was the mate. he tried to think where he could have met him, when the mate turned full around, and, alike to his surprise and dismay, he recognized ben haley, whom he had wounded in his successful attempt to rob his uncle. chapter xxv. a declaration of war. if robert was surprised, ben haley had even more reason for astonishment. he had supposed his young enemy, as he chose to consider him, quietly living at home in the small village of millville. he was far from expecting to meet him on shipboard bound to india. there was one difference, however, between the surprise felt by the two. robert was disagreeably surprised, but a flash of satisfaction lit up the face of the mate, as he realized that the boy who had wounded him was on the same ship, and consequently, as he supposed, in his power. "how came you here?" he exclaimed, hastily advancing toward robert. resenting the tone of authority in which these words were spoken, robert answered, composedly: "i walked on board." "you'd better not be impudent, young one," said ben, roughly. "when you tell me what right you have to question me in that style," said robert, coolly, "i will apologize." "i am the mate of this vessel, as you will soon find out." "so i supposed," said robert. "and you, i suppose, are the cabin-boy. change your clothes at once, and report for duty." robert felt sincerely thankful at that moment that he was not the cabin-boy, for he foresaw that in that case he would be subjected to brutal treatment from the mate--treatment which his subordinate position would make him powerless to resent. now, as a passenger, he felt independent, and though it was disagreeable to have the mate for an enemy, he did not feel afraid. "you've made a mistake, mr. haley," said our hero. "i am not the cabin-boy." "what are you, then?" "i am a passenger." "you are telling a lie. we don't take passengers," said ben haley, determined not to believe that the boy was out of his power. "if you will consult the captain, you may learn your mistake," said robert. ben haley couldn't help crediting this statement, since it would have done robert no good to misrepresent the facts of the case. he resolved, however, to ask the captain about it, and inquire how it happened that he had been received as a passenger, contrary to the usual custom. "you will hear from me again," he said, in a tone of menace. robert turned away indifferently, so far as appearance went, but he couldn't help feeling a degree of apprehension as he thought of the long voyage he was to take in company with his enemy, who doubtless would have it in his power to annoy him, even if he abstained from positive injury. "he is a bad man, and will injure me if he can," he reflected; "but i think i can take care of myself. if i can't i will appeal to the captain." meanwhile the mate went up to the captain. "captain evans," said he, "is that boy a passenger?" "yes, mr. haley." "it is something unusual to take passengers, is it not?" "yes; but this lad is a friend of the owner; and mr. morgan has given me directions to treat him with particular consideration." ben haley was puzzled. how did it happen that mr. morgan, one of the merchant princes of new york, had become interested in an obscure country boy? "i don't understand it," he said, perplexed. "i suppose the boy is a relation of mr. morgan." "nothing of the kind. he is of poor family, from a small country town." "then you know him?" "i know something of him and his family. he is one of the most impudent young rascals i ever met." "indeed!" returned the captain, surprised. "from what i have seen of him, i have come to quite a different conclusion. he has been very gentlemanly and polite to me." "he can appear so, but you will find out, sooner or later. he has not the slightest regard for truth, and will tell the most unblushing falsehoods with the coolest and most matter-of-fact air." "i shouldn't have supposed it," said captain evans, looking over at our hero, at the other extremity of the deck. "appearances are deceitful, certainly." "they are in this case." this terminated the colloquy for the time. the mate had done what he could to prejudice the captain against the boy he hated. not, however, with entire success. captain evans had a mind of his own, and did not choose to adopt any man's judgment or prejudices blindly. he resolved to watch robert a little more closely than he had done, in order to see whether his own observation confirmed the opinion expressed by the mate. of the latter he did not know much, since this was the first voyage on which they had sailed together; but captain evans was obliged to confess that he did not wholly like his first officer. he appeared to be a capable seaman, and, doubtless, understood his duties, but there was a bold and reckless expression which impressed him unfavorably. ben haley, on his part, had learned something, but not much. he had ascertained that robert was a _protege_ of the owner, and was recommended to the special care of the captain; but what could be his object in undertaking the present voyage, he did not understand. he was a little afraid that robert would divulge the not very creditable part he had played at millville; and that he might not be believed in that case, he had represented him to the captain as an habitual liar. after some consideration, he decided to change his tactics, and induce our hero to believe he was his friend, or, at least, not hostile to him. to this he was impelled by two motives. first, to secure his silence respecting the robbery; and, next, to so far get into his confidence as to draw out of him the object of his present expedition. thus, he would lull his suspicions to sleep, and might thereafter gratify his malice the more securely. he accordingly approached our hero, and tapped him on the shoulder. robert drew away slightly. haley saw the movement, and hated the boy the more for it. "well, my lad," he said, "i find your story is correct." "those who know me don't generally doubt my word," said robert, coldly. "well, i don't know you, or, at least, not intimately," said haley, "and you must confess that i haven't the best reasons to like you." "did you suffer much inconvenience from your wound?" asked robert. "not much. it proved to be slight. you were a bold boy to wing me. i could have crushed you easily." "i suppose you could, but you know how i was situated. i couldn't run away, and desert your uncle." "i don't know about that. you don't understand that little affair. i suppose you think i had no right to the gold i took." "i certainly do think so." "then you are mistaken. my uncle got his money from my grandfather. a part should have gone to my mother, and, consequently, to me, but he didn't choose to act honestly. my object in calling upon him was to induce him to do me justice at last. but you know the old man has become a miser, and makes money his idol. the long and short of it was, that, as he wouldn't listen to reason, i determined to take the law into my own hands, and carry off what i thought ought to come to me." robert listened to this explanation without putting much faith in it. it was not at all according to the story given by mr. nichols, and he knew, moreover, that the man before him had passed a wild and dissolute youth. "i suppose what i did was not strictly legal," continued ben haley, lightly; "but we sailors are not much versed in the quips of the law. to my thinking, law defeats justice about as often as it aids it." "i don't know very much about law," said robert, perceiving that some reply was expected. "that's just my case," said ben, "and the less i have to do with it the better it will suit me. i suppose my uncle made a great fuss about the money i carried off." "yes," said robert. "it was quite a blow to him, and he has been nervous ever since for fear you would come back again." ben haley shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "he needn't be afraid. i don't want to trouble him, but i was bound he shouldn't keep from me what was rightly my due. i haven't got all i ought to have, but i am not a lover of money, and i shall let it go." "i hope you won't go near him again, for he got a severe shock the last time." "when you get back, if you get a chance to see him privately, you may tell him there is no danger of that." "i shall be glad to do so," said robert. "i thought i would explain the matter to you," continued the mate, in an off-hand manner, "for i didn't want you to remain under a false impression. so you are going to see a little of the world?" "yes, sir." "i suppose that is your only object?" "no. i have another object in view." the mate waited to learn what this object was, but robert stopped, and did not seem inclined to go on. "well," said haley, after a slight pause, "as we are to be together on a long voyage, we may as well be friends. here's my hand." to his surprise, robert made no motion to take it. "mr. haley," said he, "i don't like to refuse your hand, but when i tell you that i am the son of captain rushton, of the ship, _norman_, you will understand why i cannot accept your hand." ben haley started back in dismay. how could robert have learned anything of his treachery to his father? had the dead come back from the bottom of the sea to expose him? was captain rushton still alive? he did not venture to ask, but he felt his hatred for robert growing more intense. "boy," he said, in a tone of concentrated passion, "you have done a bold thing in rejecting my hand. i might have been your friend. think of me henceforth as your relentless enemy." he walked away, his face dark with the evil passions which robert's slight had aroused in his breast. chapter xxvi. out on the ocean. we must now go back nearly two years. five men were floating about in a boat in the southern ocean. they looked gaunt and famished. for a week they had lived on short allowance, and now for two days they had been entirely without food. there was in their faces that look, well-nigh hopeless, which their wretched situation naturally produced. for one day, also, they had been without water, and the torments of thirst were worse than the cravings of hunger. these men were captain rushton and four sailors of the ship _norman_, whose burning has already been described. one of the sailors, bunsby, was better educated and more intelligent than the rest, and the captain spoke to him as a friend and an equal, for all the distinctions of rank were broken down by the immediate prospect of a terrible death. "how is all this going to end, bunsby?" said the captain, in a low voice, turning from a vain search for some sail; in sight, and addressing his subordinate. "i am afraid there is only one way," answered bunsby. "there is not much prospect of our meeting a ship." "and, if we do, it is doubtful if we can attract their attention." "i should like the chance to try." "i never knew before how much worse thirst is than hunger." "do you know, captain, if this lasts much longer, i shall be tempted to swallow some of this sea water." "it will only make matters worse." "i know it, but, at least, it will moisten my throat." the other sailors sat stupid and silent, apparently incapable of motion, "i wish i had a plug of tobacco," said one, at last. "if there were any use in wishing, i'd wish myself on shore," said the second. "we'll never see land again," said the third, gloomily. "we're bound for davy jones' locker." "i'd like to see my old mother before i go down," said the first. "i've got a mother, too," said the third. "if i could only have a drop of the warm tea such as she used to make! she's sitting down to dinner now, most likely, little thinking that her jack is dying of hunger out here." there was a pause, and the captain spoke again. "i wish i knew whether that bottle will ever reach shore. when was it we launched it?" "four days since." "i've got something here i wish i could get to my wife." he drew from his pocketbook a small, folded paper. "what is that, captain?" asked bunsby. "it is my wife's fortune." "how is that, captain?" "that paper is good for five thousand dollars." "five thousand dollars wouldn't do us much good here. it wouldn't buy a pound of bread, or a pint of water." "no; but it would--i hope it will--save my wife and son from suffering. just before i sailed on this voyage i took five thousand dollars--nearly all my savings--to a man in our village to keep till i returned, or, if i did not return, to keep in trust for my wife and child. this is the paper he gave me in acknowledgment." "is he a man you can trust, captain?" "i think so. it is the superintendent of the factory in our village--a man rich, or, at any rate, well-to-do. he has a good reputation for integrity." "your wife knew you had left the money in his hands?" "no; i meant it as a surprise to her." "it is a pity you did not leave that paper in her hands." "what do you mean, bunsby?" asked the captain, nervously. "you don't think this man will betray his trust?" "i can't say, captain, for i don't know the man; but i don't like to trust any man too far." captain rushton was silent for a moment. there was a look of trouble on his face. "you make me feel anxious, bunsby. it is hard enough to feel that i shall probably never again see my wife and child--on earth, i mean--but to think that they may possibly suffer want makes it more bitter." "the man may be honest, captain: don't trouble yourself too much." "i see that i made a mistake. i should have left this paper with my wife. davis can keep this money, and no one will be the wiser. it is a terrible temptation." "particularly if the man is pressed for money." "i don't think that. he is considered a rich man. he ought to be one, and my money would be only a trifle to him." "let us hope it is so, captain," said bunsby, who felt that further discussion would do no good, and only embitter the last moments of his commander. but anxiety did not so readily leave the captain. added to the pangs of hunger and the cravings of thirst was the haunting fear that by his imprudence his wife and child would suffer. "do you think it would do any good, bunsby," he said, after a pause, "to put this receipt in a bottle, as i did the letter?" "no, captain, it is too great a risk. there is not more than one chance in a hundred of its reaching its destination. besides, suppose you should be picked up, and go home without the receipt; he might refuse to pay you." "he would do so at the peril of his life, then," said the captain, fiercely. "do you think, if i were alive, i would let any man rob me of the savings of my life?" "other men have done so." "it would not be safe to try it on me, bunsby." "well, captain?" "it is possible that i may perish, but you may be saved." "not much chance of it." "yet it is possible. now, if that happens, i have a favor to ask of you." "name it, captain." "i want you, if i die first, to take this paper, and guard it carefully; and, if you live to get back, to take it to millville, and see that justice is done to my wife and child." "i promise that, captain; but i think we shall die together." twenty-four hours passed. the little boat still rocked hither and thither on the ocean billows. the five faces looked more haggard, and there was a wild, eager look upon them, as they scanned the horizon, hoping to see a ship. their lips and throats were dry and parched. "i can't stand it no longer," said one--it was the sailor i have called jack--"i shall drink some of the sea water." "don't do it, jack," said bunsby. "you'll suffer more than ever." "i can't," said jack, desperately; and, scooping up some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank it eagerly. again and again he drank with feverish eagerness. "how is it?" said the second sailor, "i feel better," said jack; "my throat so dry." "then i'll take some, too." the other two sailors, unheeding the remonstrances of bunsby and the captain, followed the example of jack. they felt relief for the moment, but soon their torments became unendurable. with parched throats, gasping for breath, they lay back in agony. suffering themselves, captain rushton and bunsby regarded with pity the greater sufferings of their wretched companions. "this is horrible," said the captain. "yes," said bunsby, sadly. "it can't last much longer now." his words were truer than he thought. unable to endure his suffering, the sailor named jack suddenly staggered to his feet. "i can't stand it any longer," he said, wildly; "good-by, boys," and before his companions well knew what he intended to do, he had leaped over the side of the boat, and sunk in the ocean waves. there was a thrilling silence, as the waters closed over his body. then the second sailor also rose to his feet. "i'm going after jack," he said, and he, too, plunged into the waves. the captain rose as if to hinder him, but bunsby placed his hand upon his arm. "it's just as well, captain. we must all come to that, and the sooner, the more suffering is saved." "that's so," said the other sailor, tormented like the other two by thirst, aggravated by his draughts of seawater. "good-by, bunsby! good-by, captain! i'm going!" he, too, plunged into the sea, and bunsby and the captain were left alone. "you won't desert me, bunsby?" said the captain. "no, captain. i haven't swallowed seawater like those poor fellows. i can stand it better." "there is no hope of life," said the captain, quietly; "but i don't like to go unbidden into my maker's presence." "nor i. i'll stand by you, captain." "this is a fearful thing, bunsby. if it would only rain." "that would be some relief." as if in answer to his wish, the drops began to fall--slowly at first, then more copiously, till at last their clothing was saturated, and the boat partly filled with water. eagerly they squeezed out the welcome dregs from their clothing, and felt a blessed relief. they filled two bottles they had remaining with the precious fluid. "if those poor fellows had only waited," said the captain. "they are out of suffering now," said bunsby. the relief was only temporary, and they felt it to be so. they were without food, and the two bottles of water would not last them long. still, there was a slight return of hope, which survives under the most discouraging circumstances. chapter xxvii. frank price. the ship _argonaut_, bound for calcutta, was speeding along with a fair wind, when the man at the lookout called: "boat in sight!" "where away?" the sailor pointed, out a small boat a mile distant, nearly in the ship's track, rising and falling with the billows. "is there any one in it?" "i see two men lying in the bottom. they are motionless. they may be dead." the boat was soon overtaken. it was the boat from the ill-fated _norman_, captain rushton and bunsby were lying stretched out in the bottom, both motionless and apparently without life. bunsby was really dead. but there was still some life left in the captain, which, under the care of the surgeon of the ship, was carefully husbanded until he was out of immediate danger. but his system, from the long privation of food, had received such a shock, that his mind, sympathizing with it, he fell into a kind of stupor, mental and physical, and though strength and vigor came slowly back, captain rushton was in mind a child. oblivion of the past seemed to have come over him. he did not remember who he was, or that he had a wife and child. "poor man!" said the surgeon; "i greatly fear his mind has completely given way." "it is a pity some of his friends were not here," said the captain of the ship that had rescued him. "the sight of a familiar face might restore him." "it is possible, but i am not sure of even that." "is there any clew to his identity?" "i have found none." it will at once occur to the reader that the receipt would have supplied the necessary information, since it was dated millville, and contained the captain's name. but this was concealed in an inner pocket in captain rushton's vest, and escaped the attention of the surgeon. so, nameless and unknown, he was carried to calcutta, which he reached without any perceptible improvement in his mental condition. arrived at calcutta, the question arose: "what shall we do with him?" it was a perplexing question, since if carried back to new york, it might be difficult to identify him there, or send him back to his friends. besides, the care of a man in his condition would be a greater responsibility than most shipmasters would care to undertake. it was at this crisis that a large-hearted and princely american merchant, resident in calcutta, who had learned the particulars of the captain's condition, came forward, saying: "leave him here. i will find him a home in some suitable boarding-house, and defray such expenses as may be required. god has blessed me with abundant means. it is only right that i should employ a portion in his service. i hope, under good treatment, he may recover wholly, and be able to tell me who he is, and where is his home. when that is ascertained, if his health is sufficiently good, i will send him home at my own expense." the offer was thankfully accepted, and the generous merchant was as good as his word. a home was found for captain rushton in the boarding-house of mrs. start, a widow, who, thrown upon her own exertions for support, had, by the help of the merchant already referred to, opened a boarding-house, which was now quite remunerative. "he will require considerable care, mrs. start," said mr. perkins, the merchant, "but i am ready and willing to compensate you for all the trouble to which you are put. will you take him?" "certainly i will," said the warm-hearted widow, "if only because you ask it. but for you, i should not be earning a comfortable living, with a little money laid up in the bank, besides." "thank you, mrs. start," said the merchant. "i know the poor man could be in no better hands. but you mustn't let any considerations of gratitude interfere with your charging a fair price for your trouble. i am able and willing to pay whatever is suitable." "i don't believe we shall quarrel on that point," said the widow, smiling. "i will do all i can for your friend. what is his name?" "that i don't know." "we shall have to call him something." "call him smith, then. that will answer till we find out his real name, as we may some day, when his mind comes back, as i hope it may." from that time, therefore, captain rushton was known as mr. smith. he recovered in a considerable degree his bodily health, but mentally he remained in the same condition. sometimes he fixed his eyes upon mrs. start, and seemed struggling to remember something of the past; but after a few moments his face would assume a baffled look, and he would give up the attempt as fruitless. one day when mrs. start addressed him as mr. smith, he asked: "why do you call me by that name?" "is not that your name?" she asked. "no." "what, then, is it?" he put his hand to his brow, and seemed to be thinking. at length he turned to the widow, and said, abruptly: "do you not know my name?" "no." "nor do i," he answered, and left the room hastily. she continued, therefore, to address him as mr. smith, and he gradually became accustomed to it, and answered to it. leaving captain rushton at calcutta, with the assurance that, though separated from home and family, he will receive all the care that his condition requires, we will return to our hero, shut up on shipboard with his worst enemy. i say this advisedly, for though halbert davis disliked him, it was only the feeling of a boy, and was free from the intensity of ben haley's hatred. no doubt, it was imprudent for him to reject the mate's hand, but robert felt that he could not grasp in friendship the hand which had deprived him of a father. he was bold enough to brave the consequences of this act, which he foresaw clearly. ben haley, however, was in no hurry to take the vengeance which he was fully resolved sooner or later to wreak upon our young hero. he was content to bide his time. had robert been less watchful, indeed, he might have supposed that the mate's feelings toward him had changed. when they met, as in the narrow limits of the ship they must do every day, the forms of courtesy passed between them. robert always saluted the mate, and haley responded by a nod, or a cool good-morning, but did not indulge in any conversation. sometimes, however, turning suddenly, robert would catch a malignant glance from the mate, but haley's expression immediately changed, when thus surprised, and he assumed an air of indifference. with captain evans, on the other hand, robert was on excellent terms. the captain liked the bold, manly boy, and talked much with him of the different countries he had visited, and seemed glad to answer the questions which our hero asked. "robert," said the captain, one day, "how is it that you and mr. haley seem to have nothing to say to each other?" "i don't think he likes me, captain evans," said robert. "is there any reason for it, or is it merely a prejudice?" "there is a reason for it, but i don't care to mention it. not that it is anything i have reason to regret, or to be ashamed of," he added, hastily. "it is on mr. haley's account that i prefer to keep it secret." "is there no chance of your being on better terms?" asked the captain, good-naturedly, desirous of effecting a reconciliation. robert shook his head. "i don't wish to be reconciled, captain," he said. "i will tell you this much, that mr. haley has done me and my family an injury which, perhaps, can never be repaired. i cannot forget it, and though i am willing to be civil to him, since we are thrown together, i do not want his friendship, even if he desired mine, as i am sure he does not." captain evans was puzzled by this explanation, which threw very little light upon the subject, and made no further efforts to bring the two together. time passed, and whatever might be ben haley's feelings, he abstained from any attempt to injure him. robert's suspicions were lulled to sleep, and he ceased to be as vigilant and watchful as he had been. his frank, familiar manner made him a favorite on shipboard. he had a friendly word for all the sailors, which was appreciated, for it was known that he was the _protege_ of the owner. he was supposed by some to be a relation, or, at any rate, a near connection, and so was treated with unusual respect. all the sailors had a kind word for him, and many were the praises which he received in the forecastle. among those most devoted to him was a boy of fourteen, frank price, who had sailed in the capacity of cabin-boy. the poor boy was very seasick at first, and captain evans had been indulgent, and excused him from duty until he got better. he was not sturdy enough for the life upon which he had entered, and would gladly have found himself again in the comfortable home which a mistaken impulse had led him to exchange for the sea. with this boy, robert, who was of about the same age, struck up a friendship, which was returned twofold by frank, whose heart, naturally warm, was easily won by kindness. chapter xxviii. the new captain. the voyage was more than half completed, and nothing of importance had occurred to mark it. but at this time, captain evans fell sick. his sickness proved to be a fever, and was very severe. the surgeon was in constant attendance, but the malady baffled all his skill. at the end of seven days, it terminated fatally, to the great grief of all on board, with whom the good-natured captain was very popular. there was one exception, however, to the general grief. it is an ill wind that blows good to no one, and ben haley did not lament much for an event which promoted him to the command of the vessel. of course, he did not show this feeling publicly, but in secret his heart bounded with exultation at the thought that he was, for the time, master of the ship and all on board. he was not slow in asserting his new position. five minutes after the captain breathed his last, one of the sailors approached him, and asked for orders, addressing him as "mr. haley." "captain haley!" roared the new commander. "if you don't know my position on board this ship, it's time you found it out!" "ay, ay, sir," stammered the sailor, taken aback at his unexpected violence. robert mourned sincerely at the death of captain evans, by whom he had always been treated with the utmost kindness. even had he not been influenced by such a feeling, he would have regarded with apprehension the elevation to the command of one whom he well knew to be actuated by a feeling of enmity to himself. he resolved to be as prudent as possible, and avoid, as far as he could, any altercation with haley. but the latter was determined, now that he had reached the command, to pick a quarrel with our hero, and began to cast about for a fitting occasion. now that captain evans was dead, robert spent as much time as the latter's duties would permit with frank price. the boys held long and confidential conversations together, imparting to each other their respective hopes and wishes. haley observed their intimacy and mutual attachment, and, unable to assert his authority over robert, who was a passenger, determined to strike at him through his friend. his determination was strengthened by a conversation which he overheard between the boys when they supposed him beyond earshot. "i wish captain evans were alive," said frank. "i liked him, and i don't like captain haley." "captain evans was an excellent man," said robert. "he knew how to treat a fellow," said frank. "as long as he saw us doing our best, he was easy with us. captain haley is a tyrant." "be careful what you say, frank," said robert. "it isn't safe to say much about the officers." "i wouldn't say anything, except to you. you are my friend." "i am your true friend, frank, and i don't want you to get into any trouble." "i am sure you don't like the captain any better than i do." "i don't like the captain, for more reasons than i can tell you; but i shall keep quiet, as long as i am on board this ship." "are you going back with us?" "i don't know. it will depend upon circumstances. i don't think i shall, though i might have done so had captain evans remained in command." "i wish i could leave it, and stay with you." "i wish you could, frank. perhaps you can." "i will try." haley overheard the last part of this conversation. he took particular notice of robert's remark that he would keep quiet as long as he remained on board the ship, and inferred that on arrival at the destined port our hero would expose all he knew about him. this made him uneasy, for it would injure, if not destroy, his prospect of remaining in command of the _argonaut_. he resented also the dislike which robert had cautiously expressed, and the similar feeling cherished by the cabin-boy. he had half a mind to break in upon their conversation on the spot; but, after a moment's thought, walked away, his neighborhood unsuspected by the two boys. "they shall both rue their impudence," he muttered. "they shall find out that they cannot insult me with impunity." the next day, when both boys were on deck, captain haley harshly ordered frank to attend to a certain duty which he had already performed. "i have done so, sir," said frank, in a respectful tone. "none of your impudence, you young rascal!" roared the captain, lashing himself into a rage. frank looked up into his face in astonishment, unable to account for so violent an outbreak. "what do you mean by looking me in the face in that impudent manner?" demanded captain haley, furiously. "i didn't mean to be impudent, captain haley," said frank. "what have i done?" "what have you done? you, a cabin-boy, have dared to insult your captain, and, by heavens, you shall rue it! strip off your jacket." frank turned pale. he knew what this order meant. public floggings were sometimes administered on shipboard, but, under the command of captain evans, nothing of the kind had taken place. robert, who had heard the whole, listened, with unmeasured indignation, to this wanton abuse on the part of captain haley. his eyes flashed, and his youthful form dilated with righteous indignation. robert was not the only one who witnessed with indignation the captain's brutality. such of the sailors as happened to be on deck shared his feelings. haley, looking about him, caught the look with which robert regarded him, and triumphed inwardly that he had found a way to chafe him. "what have you got to say about it?" he demanded, addressing our hero, with a sneer. "since you have asked my opinion," said robert, boldly, "i will express it. frank price has not been guilty of any impudence, and deserves no punishment." this was a bold speech to be made by a boy to a captain on his own deck, and the sailors who heard it inwardly applauded the pluck of the boy who uttered it. "what do you mean by that, sir?" exclaimed haley, his eyes lighting up fiercely, as he strode to the spot where robert stood, and frowned upon him, menacingly. "you asked my opinion, and i gave it," said robert, not flinching. "i have a great mind to have you flogged, too!" said haley. "i am not one of your crew, captain haley," said robert, coolly; "and you have no right to lay a hand on me." "what is to prevent me, i should like to know?" "i am here as a passenger, and a friend of the owner of this vessel. if i receive any ill-treatment, it shall be reported to him." if the sailors had dared, they would have applauded the stripling who, undaunted by the menacing attitude of the captain, faced him boldly and fearlessly. haley would gladly have knocked him down, but there was something in the resolute mien of his young passenger that made him pause. he knew that he would keep his word, and that, with such representations as he might make, he would stand no further chance of being employed by mr. morgan. "i have an account to settle with you, boy," he said; "and the settlement will not long be delayed. when a passenger tries to incite mutiny, he forfeits his privileges as a passenger." "who has done this, captain haley?" "you have done it." "i deny it," said robert. "your denial is worth nothing. i have a right to throw you into irons, and may yet do it. at present i have other business in hand." he left robert, and walked back to frank price, who, not having robert's courage, had been a terrified listener to the colloquy between him and the captain. "now, boy," he said, harshly, "i will give you a lesson that you shall remember to the latest day of your life. bring me the cat." the barbarous cat, as it was called, once in use on our ships, was brought, and captain haley signaled to one of the sailors to approach. "bates," he said, in a tone of authority, "give that boy a dozen lashes." bates was a stout sailor, rough in appearance, but with a warm and kindly heart. he had a boy of his own at home, about the age of frank price, and his heart had warmed to the boy whose position he felt to be far from an enviable one. the task now imposed upon him was a most distasteful and unwelcome one. he was a good sailor, and aimed on all occasions to show proper obedience to the commands of his officers, but now he could not. "captain haley," he said, not stirring from his position, "i hope you will excuse me." "is this mutiny?" roared the captain. "no, captain haley. i always mean to do my duty on board ship." "i have told you to flog this boy!" "i can't do it, captain haley. i have a boy of my own about the size of that lad there, and, if i struck him, i'd think it was my own boy that stood in his place." this unexpected opposition excited the fierce resentment of the captain. he felt that a crisis had come, and he was determined to be obeyed. "unless you do as i bid you, i will keep you in irons for the rest of the voyage!" "you are the captain of this ship, and can throw me in irons, if you like," said bates, with an air of dignity despite his tarred hands and sailor jacket. "i have refused to do no duty that belongs to me. when i signed my name to the ship's papers, i did not agree to flog boys." "put him in irons!" roared the captain, incensed. "we will see who is captain of this ship!" the mandate was obeyed, and bates was lodged in the forecastle, securely ironed. the captain himself seized the cat, and was about to apply it to the luckless cabin-boy, when a terrible blast, springing up in an instant, as it were, struck the ship, almost throwing it upon its side. there was no time for punishment now. the safety of the ship required instant action, and frank price was permitted to replace his jacket without having received a blow. chapter xxix. the captain's revenge. the storm which commenced so suddenly was one of great violence. it required all the captain's seamanship, and the efforts of all the crew, to withstand it. however reluctant to do it, captain haley was forced to release bates from his irons, and order him to duty. the latter worked energetically, and showed that he did not intend to shirk any part of his duties as seaman. but the result of the storm was that the vessel was driven out of her course, and her rigging suffered considerable injury. the wind blew all night. toward morning it abated, and, as the morning light broke, the lookout described a small island distant about a league. the captain looked at it through his glass, and then examined the chart. "i can't make out what island that is," he said. "it is not large enough," suggested the mate, "to find a place on the map." "perhaps it is as you say," said captain haley, thoughtfully. "i have a mind to go on shore and explore it. there may be some fresh fruits that will vary our diet." this plan was carried out. a boat was got ready, and the captain got in, with four sailors to row. just as he was about to descend into the boat, he turned to robert, who was looking curiously toward land, and said: "rushton, would you like to go with us?" it was precisely what robert wanted. he had a boy's love of adventure, and the thought of exploring an island, perhaps hitherto unknown, struck his fancy, and he eagerly accepted the invitation. "jump in, then," said haley, striving to appear indifferent; but there was a gleam of exultation in his eye, which he took care to conceal from the unsuspecting boy. swiftly the boat sped through the waters, pulled by the strong arms of four stout sailors, and, reaching the island, was drawn into a little cove, which seemed made for it. "now for an exploring expedition," said the captain. "boys," addressing the sailors, "remain near the boat. i will soon be back. rushton," he said, turning to our hero, "go where you like, but be back in an hour." "yes, sir," answered robert. had it been captain evans, instead of captain haley, he would have proposed to join him; but, knowing what he did of the latter, he preferred his own company. the island was about five miles in circumference. near the shore, it was bare of vegetation, but further inland there were numerous trees, some producing fruit. after some weeks of the monotonous life on shipboard, robert enjoyed pressing the solid earth once more. besides, this was the first foreign shore his foot had ever trodden. the thought that he was thousands of miles away from home, and that, possibly, the land upon which he now walked had never before been trodden by a civilized foot, filled him with a sense of excitement and exhilaration. "what would mother say if she should see me now?" he thought. "what a wonderful chance it would be if my father had been wafted in his boat to this island, and i should come upon him unexpectedly!" it was very improbable, but robert thought enough of it to look about him carefully. but everywhere the land seemed to be virgin, without other inhabitants than the birds of strange plumage and note, which sang in the branches of the trees. "i don't believe any one ever lived here," thought robert. it struck him that he should like to live upon the island a week, if he could be sure of being taken off at the end of that time. the cool breezes from the ocean swept over the little island, and made it delightfully cool at morning and evening, though hot in the middle of the day. robert sauntered along till he came to a little valley. he descended the slope, and sat down in the shade of a broad-leaved tree. the grass beneath him made a soft couch, and he felt that he should enjoy lying there the rest of the day. but his time was limited. the captain had told him to be back in an hour, and he felt that it was time for him to be stirring. "i shall not have time to go any further," he reflected. "i must be getting back to the boat." as this occurred to him, he rose to his feet, and, looking up, he started a little at seeing the captain himself descending the slope. "well, robert," said captain haley, "how do you like the island?" "very much, indeed," said our hero. "it seems pleasant to be on land after being on shipboard so many weeks." "quite true. this is a beautiful place you have found." "i was resting under this tree, listening to the birds, but i felt afraid i should not be back to the boat in time, and was just starting to return." "i think we can overstay our time a little," said haley. "they won't go back without me, i reckon," he added, with a laugh. robert was nothing loth to stay, and resumed his place on the grass. the captain threw himself on the grass beside him. "i suppose you have read 'robinson crusoe?'" he said. "oh, yes; more than once." "i wonder how it would seem to live on such an island as this?" "i should like it very well," said robert; "that is, if i could go off at any time. i was just thinking of it when you come up." "were you?" asked the captain, showing his teeth in an unpleasant smile, which, however, robert did not see. "you think you would like it?" "yes, sir." "i am glad of that." "why?" asked robert, turning round and looking his companion in the face. "because," said haley, changing his tone, "i am going to give you a chance to try it." robert sprang to his feet in instant alarm, but too late. haley had grasped him by the shoulder, and in his grasp the boy's strength was nothing. "what are you going to do?" asked robert, with fearful foreboding. "wait a minute and you will see!" the captain had drawn a stout cord, brought for the purpose, from his pocket, and, dragging robert to a tree, tied him securely to the trunk. the terrible fate destined for him was presented vividly to the imagination of our hero; and, brave as he was, it almost unmanned him. finding his struggles useless, he resorted to expostulation. "i am sure you cannot mean this, captain haley!" he said. "you won't leave me to perish miserably on this island?" "won't i?" returned the captain, with an evil light in his eyes. "why won't i?" "surely, you will not be so inhuman?" "look here, boy," said the captain, "you needn't try to come any of your high-flown notions about humanity over me. i owe you a debt, and, by heaven! i'm going to pay it! you didn't think much of humanity when you wounded me." "i couldn't help it," said robert. "i didn't want to hurt you. i only wanted to protect your uncle." "that's all very well; but, when you interfered in a family quarrel, you meddled with what did not concern you. besides, you have been inciting my crew to mutiny." "i have not done so," said robert. "i overheard you the other night giving some of your precious advice to my cabin-boy. besides, you had the impudence to interfere with me in a matter of discipline." "frank price deserved no punishment." "that is for me to decide. when you dared to be impudent to me on my own deck, i swore to be revenged, and the time has come sooner than i anticipated." "captain haley," said robert, "in all that i have done i have tried to do right. if i have done wrong, it was because i erred in judgment. if you will let me go, i will promise to say nothing of the attempt you make to keep me here." "you are very kind," sneered the captain; "but i mean to take care of that myself. you may make all the complaints you like after i have left you here." "there is one who will hear me," said robert. "i shall not be wholly without friends." "who do you mean?" "god!" said robert, solemnly. "rubbish!" retorted haley, contemptuously. "i shall not despair while i have him to appeal to." "just as you like," said the captain, shrugging his shoulders. "you are welcome to all the comfort you can find in your present situation." by this time, robert was bound to the trunk of the tree by a cord, which passed around his waist. in addition to this haley tied his wrists together, fearing that otherwise he might be able to unfasten the knot. he now rose to his feet, and looked down upon the young captive, with an air of triumph. "have you any messages to send by me, rushton?" he said, with a sneer. "are you quite determined to leave me here?" asked robert, in anguish. "quite so." "what will the sailors say when i do not return?" "don't trouble yourself about them. i will take care of that. if you have got anything to say, say it quick, for i must be going." "captain haley," said robert, his courage rising, and looking the captain firmly in the face, "i may die here, and so gratify your enmity; but the time will come when you will repent what you are doing." "i'll risk that," said haley, coolly. "good-by." he walked up the slope, and disappeared from view, leaving robert bound to the tree, a helpless prisoner. chapter xxx. a friend in need. captain haley kept on his way to the shore. the four sailors were all within hail, and on the captain's approach got the boat in readiness to return. "where is the boy?" asked haley. "hasn't he got back?" "no, sir." "that is strange. i told him to be back in an hour, and it is already past that time." "perhaps he hasn't a watch," suggested one of the sailors. "i will wait ten minutes for him," said haley, taking out his watch. "if he is not back in that time, i must go without him." the sailors did not reply, but looked anxiously inland, hoping to catch sight of robert returning. but, bound as he was, we can understand why they looked in vain. "shall i go and look for him?" asked one. "no," said haley, decidedly; "i cannot spare you." the ten minutes were soon up. "into the boat with you," commanded the captain. "i shall wait no longer." slowly and reluctantly, the sailors took their places, for robert was a favorite with them. "now, men, give way," said haley. "if the boy is lost, it is his own fault." they reached the vessel in due time. there was a murmur among the crew, when it was found that robert had been left behind; but, knowing the captain's disposition, no one except bates dared to expostulate. "captain haley," said he, approaching and touching his hat, "will you give me leave to go on shore for the young gentleman that was left?" "no," said the captain. "he had fair warning to be back in time, and chose to disregard it. my duty to the owners will not permit me to delay the ship on his account." "he was a relation of the owner," suggested bates. "no, he was not; and, if he said so, he lied. go about your duty, and take care i have no more fault to find with you, or you go back in irons!" bates ventured upon no further expostulation. he saw through the captain's subterfuge, and felt persuaded that it had been his deliberate intention from the first to abandon robert to his fate. he began to think busily, and finally resolved to go to the island and search for him. for this purpose, a boat would be needful, since the distance, nearly a league, was too far to swim. now, to appropriate one of the ship's boats when the captain was on deck would be impossible, but haley, within five minutes, went below. bates now proceeded to carry out his plan. "what are you going to do?" demanded one of the sailors. "i'm going after the boy." "you'll be left along with him." "i'll take the risk. he shan't say he didn't have one friend." by the connivance of his fellow-sailors, bates got safely off with the boat, and began to pull toward shore. he was already a mile distant from the vessel when captain haley came on deck. "who is that in the boat?" he demanded, abruptly. "i don't know, sir." he pointed the glass toward the boat, and, though he could not fairly distinguish the stout sailor who was pulling the boat through the water, he suspected that it was bates. "where is bates?" he asked. no one had seen him. "the fool has gone to destruction," said captain haley. "i shall not go after him. he is welcome to live on the island if he chooses." his reason for not pursuing the fugitive may be readily understood. he feared that robert would be found bound to the tree, and the story the boy would tell would go heavily against him. he hurried preparation for the vessel's departure, and in a short time it was speeding away from the island with two less on board. i must now go back to robert, whom we left bound to a tree. after the captain left him, he struggled hard to unloose the cords which bound him. the love of life was strong within him, and the thought of dying under such circumstances was appalling. he struggled manfully, but, though he was strong for a boy, the cord was strong, also, and the captain knew how to tie a knot. robert ceased at last, tired with his efforts. a feeling of despair came over him, and the tears started, unbidden, to his eyes, as he thought how his mother would watch and wait for him in vain--how lonely she would feel, with husband and son both taken from her. could it be that he was to die, when life had only just commenced, thousands of miles away from home, in utter solitude? had he come so far for this? then, again, he feared that his mother would suffer want and privation when the money which he had left behind was exhausted. in his pocket there were nearly two hundred dollars, not likely to be of any service to him. he wished that they were in her possession. "if only he had left me free and unbound," thought robert, "i might pick up a living on the island, and perhaps some day attract the attention of some vessel." with this thought, and the hope it brought, he made renewed efforts to release himself, striving to untie the cord which fastened his wrists with his teeth. he made some progress, and felt encouraged, but it was hard work, and he was compelled to stop, from time to time, to rest. it was in one of these intervals that he heard his name called. feeling sure that there was no one on the island but himself, he thought he was deceived. but the sound came nearer, and he distinctly heard "robert!" "here i am!" he shouted, in return, his heart filled with sudden thanksgiving. "captain haley only meant to frighten me," he thought. "he has sent some men back for me." in his gratitude, he thanked heaven fervently for so changing the heart of his enemy, and once more life looked bright. "robert!" he heard again. "here!" he shouted, with all the strength of his lungs. this time the sound reached bates, who, running up his boat on shore, and securing it, was exploring the island in search of our hero. looking around him, he at length, from the edge of the valley, descried robert. "is that you, lad?" he asked. "yes, bates; come and untie me!" bates saw his situation with surprise and indignation. "that's some of the captain's work!" he at once decided. "he must be a cursed scoundrel to leave that poor lad there to die!" he quickened his steps, and was soon at the side of our hero. "who tied you to the tree, lad?" he asked. "did captain haley send you for me?" asked robert first, for he had made up his mind in that case not to expose him. "no; i stole one of the ship's boats, and came for you without leave." "the captain didn't know of your coming?" "no; i asked his leave, and he wouldn't give it." "it was captain haley that tied me here," said robert, his scruples removed. "what did he do that for, lad?" "it's a long story, bates. it's because he hates me, and wishes me harm. untie these cords, and i'll tell you all about it." "that i'll do in a jiffy, my lad. i'm an old sailor and i can untie knots as well as tie them." in five minutes robert was free. he stretched his limbs, with a feeling of great relief, and then turned to bates, whose hand he grasped. "i owe my life to you, bates!" he said. "maybe not, lad. we're in a tight place yet." "has the ship gone?" "most likely. the captain won't send back for either of us in a hurry." "and you have made yourself a prisoner here for my sake?" asked robert, moved by the noble conduct of the rough sailor. "i couldn't abide to leave you alone. there's more chance for two than for one." "heaven bless you, bates! i won't soon forget what you have done for me. do you think there is any chance for us?" "of course there is, lad. we've got a boat, and we can live here till some vessel comes within sight." "let us go down to the shore, and see if we can see anything of the ship." the two bent their steps to the shore, and looked out to sea. they could still see the ship, but it was already becoming a speck in the distant waters. "they have left us," said robert, turning to his companion. "ay, lad, the false-hearted villain has done his worst!" "i didn't think any man would be so inhuman." "you're young, lad, and you don't know what a sight of villainy there is in the world. we've got to live here a while, likely. have you seen anything in the line of grub here-abouts?" "there is fruit on some of the trees." "that's something. maybe we shall find some roots, besides. we'll draw the boat farther upon shore, and go on an exploring expedition." the boat was drawn completely up, and placed, bottom upward, at a safe distance from the sea. then robert and his companion started to explore the island which had so unexpectedly become their home. chapter xxxi. the island realm. but for the knowledge that he was a prisoner, robert would have enjoyed his present situation. the island, though small, was covered with a luxuriant vegetation, and was swept by cooling breezes, which tempered the ardor of the sun's rays. and, of this island realm, he and his companion were the undisputed sovereigns. there was no one to dispute their sway. all that it yielded was at their absolute disposal. "i wonder what is the name of this island?" said robert. "perhaps it has no name. mayhap we are the first that ever visited it." "i have a great mind to declare myself the king," said our young hero, smiling, "unless you want the office." "you shall be captain, and i will be mate," said bates, to whom the distinctions of sea life were more familiar than those of courts. "how long do you think we shall have to stay here?" asked robert, anxiously. "there's no telling, lad. we'll have to stick up a pole on the seashore, and run up a flag when any vessel comes near." "we have no flag." "have you a handkerchief?" "only one," said robert. "that's one more than i have. we'll rig that up when it's wanted." "where shall we sleep?" "that's what i have been thinking. we must build a house." "a brownstone front?" said robert. "the governor ought to live in a good house." "so he shall," said bates. "he shall have the first on the island." "i wonder if it rains often?" "not much at this season. in the winter a good deal of rain falls, but i hope we won't be here then." "where shall we build our house?" "it would be pleasanter inland, but we must be near the shore, so as to be in sight of ships." "that's true, bates. that is the most important consideration." they set to work at once, and built a hut, something like an indian's wigwam, about a hundred yards from the shore. it was composed, for the most part, of branches of trees and inclosed an inner space of about fifteen feet in diameter. they gathered large quantities of leaves, which were spread upon the ground for beds. "that's softer than our bunks aboard ship," said bates. "yes," said robert. "i wouldn't wish any better bed. it is easy to build and furnish a house of your own here." "the next thing is dinner," said his companion. "shall we go to market?" asked robert, with a smile. "we'll find a market just outside." "you mean the trees?" "yes; we'll find our dinner already cooked on them." the fruit of which they partook freely was quite sweet and palatable. still, one kind of food cloys after a time, and so our new settlers found it. besides, it was not very substantial, and failed to keep up their wonted strength. this set them to looking up some other article which might impart variety to their fare. at last they succeeded in finding an esculent root, which they partook of at first with some caution, fearing that it might be unwholesome. finding, however, that eating it produced no unpleasant effects, they continued the use of it. even this, however, failed to afford them as much variety as they wished. "i feel as if i should like some fish for breakfast," said robert one morning, on waking up. "so should i, lad," returned bates. "why shouldn't we have some?" "you mean that we shall go fishing?" "yes; we've got a boat, and i have some cord. we'll rig up fishing lines, and go out on a fishing cruise." robert adopted the idea with alacrity. it promised variety and excitement. "i wonder we hadn't thought of it before. i used to be a fisherman, bates." "did you?" "yes; i supplied the market at home for a short time, till captain haley smashed my boat." "the mean lubber! i wish we had him here." "i don't; i prefer his room to his company." "i'd try how he'd like being tied to a tree." "i don't think you'd untie him again in a hurry." "you may bet high on that, lad." they rigged their fishing lines--cutting poles from the trees--and armed them with hooks, of which, by good luck, bates happened to have a supply with him. then they launched the ship's boat, in which bates had come to the island, and put out to sea. robert enjoyed the row in the early morning, and wondered they had not thought of taking out the boat before. at last they came to the business which brought them out, and in about half an hour had succeeded in catching four fishes, weighing perhaps fifteen pounds altogether. "that'll be enough for us, unless you are very hungry," said robert. "now, suppose we land and cook them." "ay, ay, lad!" of course, their cooking arrangements were very primitive. in the first place, they were compelled to make a fire by the method in use among the savages, of rubbing two sticks smartly together, and catching the flame in a little prepared tinder. the fish were baked over the fire thus kindled. though the outside was smoked, the inside was sweet and palatable, and neither was disposed to be fastidious. the preparation of the meal took considerable time, but they had abundance of that, and occupation prevented their brooding over their solitary situation. "i wish i had 'robinson crusoe' here," said robert--"we might get some hints from his adventures. i didn't imagine, when i used to read them, that i should ever be in a similar position." "i've heard about him," said bates; "but i never was much of a reader, and i never read his yarn. you might maybe tell me something of it." "i will tell you all i can remember, but that isn't very much," said robert. he rehearsed to the attentive sailor such portions as he could call to mind of the wonderful story which for centuries to come is destined to enchain the attention of adventurous boys. "that's a pretty good yarn," said bates, approvingly. "did he ever get off the island?" "yes, he got off, and became quite rich before he died." "maybe it'll be so with us, lad." "i hope so. i don't know what i should do if i were alone as he was. it's selfish in me, bates, to be glad that you are shut up here with me, but i cannot help it." "you needn't try, lad. it would be mighty dull being alone here, 'specially if you was tied to a tree." "but suppose we should never get off!" "we won't suppose that, lad. we are sure to get off some time." this confident assurance always cheered up robert, and for the time inspired him with equal confidence. but when day after day passed away and the promised ship did not come in sight, he used to ponder thoughtfully over his situation, and the possibility that he might have to spend years at least on this lonely island. what in the meantime would become of his mother? she might die, and if he ever returned it would be to realize the loss he had sustained. the island, pleasant as it was, began to lose its charm. if his sailor companion ever shared his feelings, he never manifested them, unwilling to let the boy see that he was becoming discouraged. at length--about six weeks after their arrival upon the island--they were returning from an excursion to the other side of the island, when, on arriving in sight of the shore, an unexpected sight greeted their eyes. a pole had been planted in the sand, and from it waved the familiar flag, dear to the heart of every american--the star-spangled banner. they no sooner caught sight of it, than, in joyful excitement, they ran to the shore with all the speed they could muster. chapter xxxii. a successful mission. there was no one in sight, but it was evident that a party from an american ship had visited the island. had they departed? that was a momentous question. instinctively the eyes of both sought the sea. they saw an american ship riding at anchor a mile or more from shore. "give me your handkerchief, robert," said bates; "i'll signal them." "it isn't very clean," said our hero. "it'll do. see, they are looking at us." "your eyes must be good." "i'm used to looking out to sea, lad." he waved the handkerchief aloft, and felt sure that he had attracted the attention of those on board. but there was no motion to put off a boat. "do they see it?" asked robert, eagerly. "i think so." "do you think they will come for us? if not, we can put off in our boat." "i think the party that planted that flagstaff hasn't got back. it is exploring the island, and will be back soon." "of course it is," said robert, suddenly. "don't you see their boat?" "ay, ay, lad; it's all right. all we've got to do is to stay here till they come." they had not long to wait. a party of sailors, headed by an officer, came out of the woods, and headed for the shore. they stopped short in surprise at the sight of robert and bates. "who are you?" asked the leader, approaching. bates touched his hat, for he judged this was the captain of the vessel he had seen. "i am a sailor from the ship _argonaut_, bound from new york to calcutta, and this young gentleman is robert rushton, passenger aboard the same ship." "where is your ship?" "i don't know, captain." "how came you here?" "we were left here. the vessel went without us." "how long have you been here?" "six weeks." "there is something about this which i do not understand. are you here of your own accord?" "we are anxious to get away, captain," said robert. "will you take us?" "to be sure i will. there's room enough on my ship for both of you. but i can't understand how you were left here." "it's a long yarn, captain," said bates. "if you haven't time to hear it now, i will tell you aboard ship." "you look like a good seaman," said the captain, addressing bates. "i'm short-handed just now. if you will engage with me, i will enroll you among my crew." "that i'll do," said bates, with satisfaction. "i wasn't made for a passenger." "my ship is the _superior_, bound from boston to calcutta; so your destination will be the same. my name is smith. do you know the name of this island?" "i never heard of it before." "i have taken possession of it in the name of the united states, supposing myself the first discoverer." "that's all right. to my mind, the star-spangled banner is the best that can wave over it." "we might offer the captain our boat," suggested robert. the offer was made and accepted; and, while the captain and his party returned in one boat, robert and bates rowed to the ship in their own, and were soon on the deck of the _superior_ to their unbounded satisfaction. "this is something like," said bates. "the island is well enough, but there's nothing like the deck of a good ship." "i don't think i wholly agree with you," said robert, smiling; "but just at present i do. i am glad enough to be here. we may meet captain haley at calcutta," he added, after a pause. "likely he'll have got away before we get there." "i hope not. i should like to meet him face to face, and charge him with his treachery. i don't think he'll be over glad to see me." "that's so, lad. he don't expect ever to set eyes on you again." robert soon felt at home on the new vessel. captain smith he found to be a very different man from captain haley. when he heard the story told him by our hero, he said: "i like your pluck, robert. you've had contrary winds so far, but you've borne up against them. the wind's changed now, and you are likely to have a prosperous voyage. this captain haley is a disgrace to the service. he'll be overhauled some time." "when i get back to new york i shall tell mr. morgan how he treated me." "that will put a spoke in his wheel." "there's one thing i want to speak to you about, captain smith. how much will my passage be?" "nothing at all." "but i have some money with me. i am willing to pay." "keep your money, my lad. you will need it all before you get through. i was once a poor boy myself, obliged to struggle for my living. i haven't forgotten that time, and it makes me willing to lend a helping hand to others in the same position." "you are very kind, captain smith," said robert, gratefully. "i ought to be. how long do you want to stay in calcutta?" "only long enough to look about for my father." "then you can return to new york in my ship. it shall cost you nothing." this offer was gratefully accepted--the more so that our hero had begun to realize that two hundred dollars was a small sum to carry on a journey of such length. at last they reached calcutta. robert surveyed with much interest the great city of india, so different in its external appearance from new york, the only great city besides that he knew anything about. "well, robert," said captain smith, on their arrival, "what are your plans? will you make your home on board the ship, or board in the city, during our stay in port?" "i think," said robert, "i should prefer to live in the city, if you would recommend me to a good boarding place." "that i can do. i am in the habit of boarding at a quiet house kept by a widow. her terms are reasonable, and you can do no better than go there with me." "thank you, captain smith. i shall be glad to follow your advice." so it happened that captain smith and robert engaged board at the house of mrs. start, where, it will be remembered, that captain rushton was also a boarder, passing still under the name of smith. physically he had considerably improved, but mentally he was not yet recovered. his mind had received a shock, which, as it proved, a shock equally great was needed to bring it back to its proper balance. "by the way," said mrs. start to captain smith, "we have another gentleman of your name here." "indeed?" "you will see him at dinner. poor gentleman, his mind is affected, and we only gave him this name because we didn't know his real name." robert little dreamed who it was of whom mrs. start was speaking, nor did he look forward with any particular curiosity to seeing the other mr. smith. when dinner was announced, robert and the captain were early in their seats, and were introduced to the other boarders as they came in. finally captain rushton entered, and moved forward to a seat beside the landlady. robert chanced to look up as he entered, and his heart made a mighty bound when in the new mr. smith he recognized his father. "father!" he exclaimed, eagerly, springing from his seat, and overturning his chair in his haste. captain rushton looked at him for a moment in bewilderment. then all at once the mists that had obscured his faculties were dispelled, and he cried, "robert! my dear son, how came you here?" "i came in search of you, father. thank heaven i have found you alive and well." "i think i have been in a dream, robert. they call me smith. that surely is not my name." "rushton, father! you have not forgotten?" "yes, that is it. often it has been on the tip of my tongue, and then it slipped away from me. but, tell me, how came you here?" "i am indebted to the kindness of this gentleman--captain smith, father--who rescued me from great peril." this scene, of course, excited great astonishment among the boarders, and the worthy landlady who had been uniformly kind to captain rushton, was rejoiced at his sudden recovery. feeling that mutual explanations in public would be unpleasant, she proposed to send dinner for both to captain rushton's room, and this offer was gladly accepted. "and how did you leave your mother, robert?" asked the captain. "she was well, father, but mourning for your loss." "i wish i could fly to her." "you shall go back with me in captain smith's vessel. i am sure he will take us as passengers." "so we will. you are sure your mother is well provided for? but mr. davis has, no doubt, supplied her with money?" "not a cent, father." "not a cent! i deposited five thousand dollars with him for her benefit, just before sailing!" "so you wrote in the letter which you sent in the bottle." "was that letter received?" "yes; it was that which led me to come in search of you." "and did you go to mr. davis?" "he denied the deposit, and demanded to see the receipt." "the villain! he thought i was at the bottom of the sea, and the receipt with me. he shall find his mistake!" "then you have the receipt still, father?" "to be sure i have," and captain rushton drew it from the pocket where it had laid concealed for two years and more. robert regarded it with satisfaction. "he won't dare to deny it after this. i wish we were going back at once." "now, robert, tell me all that has happened in my absence, and how you raised money enough to come out here." so father and son exchanged narrations. captain rushton was astonished to find that the same man, ben haley, who had been the cause of his misfortunes, had also come so near compassing the destruction of his son. "thanks to a kind providence," he said, "his wicked machinations have failed, and we are alive to defeat his evil schemes." chapter xxxiii. defeated. in due time the _superior_ cleared for new york, and among the passengers were robert and his father. since the meeting with his son captain rushton's mental malady had completely disappeared, and his mental recovery affected his physical health favorably. his step became firm and elastic, his eye was bright, and robert thought he had never looked better. leaving the two to pursue their voyage home, we return to captain haley. after leaving robert to his fate, he kept on his way, rejoicing with a wicked satisfaction that he had got rid of an enemy who had it in his power to do him harm, for what robert might suffer in his island prison, he cared little. he took it for granted that he would never get away, but would pass his life, be it longer or shorter, in dreary exile. though the crew did not know all, they knew that the captain had heartlessly left robert to his fate, and all were animated by a common feeling of dislike to their commander, who never under any circumstances would have been popular. but there was no one among them bold enough to come forward and charge haley with his crime, even when they reached calcutta. the captain moved among them, and his orders were obeyed, but not with alacrity. this satisfied him, for he cared nothing for the attachment of those under his command. one day in calcutta he had a surprise. he met captain rushton one day when out walking. it seemed like one risen from the dead, for he supposed him lying at the bottom of the sea. could his eyes deceive him, or was this really the man whom he had so grossly injured? captain rushton did not see haley, for he was partly turned away from him, and was busily conversing with a gentleman of his acquaintance. haley drew near, and heard captain rushton addressed as mr. smith. he at once decided that, in spite of the wonderful resemblance, it was not the man he supposed, and breathed more freely in consequence. but he could not help looking back to wonder at the surprising likeness. "they are as near alike as if they were brothers," he said to himself. he did not again catch sight of captain rushton while in calcutta. before robert arrived, captain haley had sailed for home. but he met with storms, and his vessel received injuries that delayed her, so that his ship only reached new york on the same day with the _superior_, bearing as passengers robert and his father. our hero lost no time in calling upon his friend, mr. morgan, and actually reached the office an hour before haley, the _superior_ having reached her pier a little in advance of the other vessel. when robert walked into the office, mr. morgan, who was at his desk, looked up, and recognized him at once. "welcome back, my young friend," he said, cordially, rising to meet him. "i am glad to see you, but i didn't expect you quite so soon. how did you happen to come in advance of the captain?" "then you have not heard what happened at sea?" said robert. "yes," said the merchant. "i heard, much to my regret, of captain evans' death. he was a worthy man, and i am truly sorry to lose him. what do you think of his successor, captain haley? he has never before sailed for me." "after i have told my story, you can judge of him for yourself. i did not return on your vessel, mr. morgan, but on the _superior_, captain smith." "how is that?" asked the merchant, surprised. "because captain haley left me on an island in the southern ocean, bound to a tree, and probably supposes that i am dead." "your story seems incredible, robert. give me a full account of all that led to this action on the part of the captain." my readers shall not be wearied with a repetition of details with which they are already familiar. robert related what had happened to him in a straightforward manner, and mr. morgan never thought of doubting his statements. "this haley must be a villain," he said. "you are, indeed, fortunate in having escaped from the snare he laid for you." "i have been fortunate in another way also," said robert. "i have succeeded in the object of my voyage." "you have not found your father?" "i found him in calcutta, and i have brought him home with me." "you must have been born under a lucky star, robert," said the merchant. "were your father's adventures as remarkable as yours?" "it was the same man who nearly succeeded in accomplishing the ruin of both--captain haley was my father's mate, and was he who, in revenge for some fancied slight, set fire to the vessel in mid-ocean, and then escaped." scarcely had this revelation been made, when a clerk entered, and approaching mr. morgan, said, "captain haley would like to see you." mr. morgan glanced at robert significantly. "i wish to know what explanation mr. haley has to give of your disappearance. there is a closet. go in, and close the door partially, so that you may hear what passes without yourself being seen." robert was hardly established in his place of concealment when haley entered the office. "good-morning, mr. morgan," he said, deferentially, for he wished to keep in his employer's good graces. "good-morning, sir," said the merchant, formally. "captain haley, i believe?" "yes, sir i succeeded to the command of the _argonaut_ upon the lamented death of my friend, captain evans. his death happened on our passage out. i proceeded at once to calcutta, and after disposing of the cargo sailed for home." "your voyage has been a long one." "yes, we have had stress of weather, which has delayed us materially. i regret this, but did the best i could under the circumstances. i hope to have discharged my duties in a manner satisfactory to you." "i cannot, of course, blame you for delay, since the weather was quite beyond your control," said the merchant, but his tone was marked by coldness, for which haley found it difficult to account. he was anxious to remain in command of the _argonaut_, but the want of cordiality evinced by his employer made him doubtful of his success. he was not timid, however, and resolved to broach the subject. "i hope, mr. morgan," he said, "that you have sufficient confidence in me to intrust me i with the command of the _argonaut_ on her next voyage?" "he certainly is not lacking in audacity," thought mr. morgan. "we will speak of that matter hereafter," he said. "did my young friend, robert rushton, return with you?" now was the critical moment. in spite of his audacity, haley felt embarrassed. "no, sir," he replied. "indeed! i expected that you would bring him back." "may i ask if the boy is a relative of yours?" "no, he is not." "so much the better." "why do you say that? i am particularly interested in him." "then, sir, my task becomes more painful and embarrassing." "you speak in enigmas, captain haley." "i hesitate to speak plainly. i know you will be pained by what i have to tell you." "don't consider my feelings, captain haley, but say what you have to say." "then i regret to say that the boy, robert rushton, is unworthy of your friendship." "this is a grievous charge. of course, i expect you to substantiate it." "i will do so. shortly after the death of captain evans and my accession to the command i found that this boy was trying to undermine my influence with the men, from what motives i cannot guess. i remonstrated with him mildly but firmly, but only received insolence in return. nevertheless i continued to treat him well on account of the interest you felt in him. so things went on till we reached calcutta. he left me at that time, and to my surprise did not return to the ship. i was able to account for his disappearance, however, when i missed one hundred and fifty dollars, of which i have not the slightest doubt that he robbed me. i should have taken measures to have him arrested, but since you felt an interest in him i preferred to suffer the loss in silence. i fear, mr. morgan, that you have been greatly deceived in him." "i suspect that i have been deceived," said mr. morgan, gravely. "it is only fair, however, captain haley, to hear both sides, and i will therefore summon the boy himself to answer your charge. robert!" at the summons, to captain haley's equal surprise and dismay, robert stepped from the closet in which he had been concealed. "what have you to say, robert?" asked the merchant. "captain haley knows very well the falsehood of what he says," said our hero, calmly. "it was not at calcutta i left the _argonaut_, nor was it of my own accord. captain haley, with his own hands, tied me to a tree on a small island in the southern ocean, and there left me, as he supposed, to a solitary death. but heaven did not forsake me, and sent first a brave sailor and afterward a ship to my assistance. the charge that i stole money from him i shall not answer, for i know mr. morgan will not believe it." captain haley was not a fool, and he knew that it would be useless to press the charge further. he rose from his seat; his face was dark with anger and smarting under a sense of defeat. "you have not done with me yet," he said to robert, and without another word left the office. chapter xxxiv. the cup and the lip. affairs in millville had gone on much as usual. mrs. rushton had not yet exhausted the supply of money left by robert in the hands of his friend the lawyer. her expenses were small, and were eked out by her earnings; for she continued to braid straw, and was able in this way to earn two dollars a week. indeed, she made it a point to be as economical as possible, for she thought it likely robert would spend all his money, and return penniless. she had received no letter from him since the one announcing his being about to sail for calcutta, and this made her naturally anxious. but mr. paine assured her that letters were likely to be irregular, and there was no ground for alarm. so she waited with what patience she could till robert should return, hoping that by some strange chance he might succeed in his quest, and bring his father back with him. meanwhile, fortune had improved with mr. davis, the superintendent of the factory. he had lost largely by speculation, but had blundered at last into the purchase of a stock in which some interested parties had effected a corner. it went up rapidly, and on the morning when we introduce him again to the reader he was in high good spirits, having just received intelligence from his broker that he had cleared seven thousand dollars by selling at the top of the market. "another cup of coffee, mrs. davis," he said, passing his cup across the table. seeing that his father appeared in good humor, halbert ventured to prefer a request, which, however, he had little hope of having granted. "have you seen will paine's pony?" he said, paving the way for the request. "yes," said his father; "i saw him on it yesterday." "it's a regular beauty--i wish i had one." "how much did it cost?" "two hundred dollars." "that is rather a high price." "but it will increase in value every year. i wish you would buy me one, father." "i think i will," said the superintendent, helping himself to a fresh slice of toast. "do you mean it?" asked halbert, in the utmost astonishment. "certainly i do. i can afford you a pony as well as mr. paine can afford to buy william one." "thank you!" said halbert, his selfish nature more nearly affected by gratitude than ever before. "you are very kind. when will you see about it?" "i am busy. you may go yourself and ask mr. paine where he got william's pony, and if he knows of any other equally good." "that i will," said halbert, leaving the table in haste. "halbert, you have eaten scarcely anything," said his mother. "i am not hungry," said the excited boy, seizing his hat, and dashing off in the direction of mr. paine's office. "by the way, mrs. davis," said the husband, "i think you mentioned last week that the parlor needed a new carpet." "so it does. the old one is looking very shabby." "how much will a new one cost?" "i can get a nice brussels for a hundred dollars." "well, you may order one." it was the wife's turn to be astonished, for on broaching the subject the week previous, her husband had given her a lecture on extravagance, and absolutely refused to consider her request. this was before the tidings of his good fortune. she was not slow to accept the present concession, and assumed an unusually affectionate manner, in the excess of her delight. meanwhile, halbert, in opening the front door, came in collision with a boy taller and stouter than himself, brown and sunburned. but, changed as he was, he was not slow in recognizing his old enemy, robert rushton. "what, are you back again?" he said, ungraciously. "so it appears. is your father at home?" "yes; but he is at breakfast. i don't think you can see him." "i'll make the attempt, at any rate," said robert. "where have you been all this time?" asked halbert, more from curiosity than interest. "i went to calcutta." "common sailor, i suppose," said halbert, contemptuously. "no, i was a passenger." "where did you get your money to pay the passage?" "i'm sorry that i can't stop to gratify your curiosity just at present, but i have important business with your father." "you're getting mighty important," sneered halbert. "am i?" "i wouldn't advise you to put on so many airs, just because you've been to calcutta." "i never thought of putting on any. i see you haven't changed much since i went away. you have the same agreeable, gentlemanly manners." "do you mean to say that i am not a gentleman?" blustered halbert. "not at all. you may be one, but you don't show it." "i have a great mind to put you out of the yard." robert glanced at halbert's figure, slight compared with his own, and laughed. "i think you would find it a difficult undertaking," he said. halbert privately came to the same conclusion, and decided to war only with words. "i have got something better to do than to stand here listening to your impudence. i won't soil my fingers by touching you." "that's a sensible conclusion. good-morning." halbert did not deign to respond, but walked off, holding his nose very high in the air. then, as he thought of the pony, he quickened his pace, and bent his steps to mr. paine's office. "a young man to see you, mr. davis," said bridget, entering the breakfast-room. "who is it?" "i think it's young robert rushton, but he's much grown entirely." "that boy home again!" exclaimed the superintendent, in displeased surprise. "well, you may ask him into the next room." "good-morning, mr. davis," said robert, as the superintendent entered. "good-morning. when did you get home?" was the cold reply. "last evening." "where have you been?" "to calcutta." "on a fool's errand." "i felt it my duty to search for my father." "i could have told you beforehand you would not succeed. did you go as a sailor?" "no." "where did you raise money to pay your expenses?" "i found friends who helped me." "it is a poor policy for a boy to live on charity." "i never intend to do it," said robert, firmly. "but i would rather do it than live on money that did not belong to me." "what do you mean by that, sir?" said the superintendent, suspiciously. "it was a general remark," said robert. "may i ask what is your motive in calling upon me?" asked mr. davis. "i suppose you have some object." "i have, and i think you can guess it." "i am not good at guessing," said davis, haughtily. "then i will not put you to that trouble. you remember, before i sailed for calcutta, i called here and asked you to restore the sum of five thousand dollars deposited with you by my father?" "i remember it, and at the time i stigmatized the claim as a fraudulent one. no such sum was ever deposited with me by your father." "how can you say that, when my father expressly stated it in the letter, written by him, from the boat in which he was drifting about on the ocean?" "i have no proof that the letter was genuine, and even if it were, i deny the claim. i am not responsible for money i never received." "i understand you then refuse to pay the money?" "you would have understood it long ago, if you had not been uncommonly thick-headed," sneered the superintendent. "let this be the end of it. when you present my note of acknowledgment for the amount, i will pay it and not before." "that is all i ask," said robert. "what?" demanded the superintendent. "i mean that this assurance is all i want. the note shall be presented to you in the course of the day." "what do you mean?" asked davis, startled. "i mean this, mr. davis: that i found my father in calcutta. he came home with me, and, far from having perished at sea, is now alive and well. he has with him your note for five thousand dollars, and will present it in person." "you are deceiving me!" exclaimed davis, in consternation. "you will soon learn whether i am deceiving you or not," said robert. "i will now bid you good-morning. my father will call upon you in the course of the day." he rose to go, leaving the superintendent thunderstruck at the intelligence of captain rushton's return. the five thousand dollars, with arrears of interest, would take the greater part of the money whose sudden acquisition had so elated him. while he was considering the situation, his wife entered. "i think, mr. davis," she said, "i will go to new york to-day to buy carpeting, if you can spare the money." "neither now nor at any other time," he roared, savagely; "the old carpet must do." "why, then, did you tell me fifteen minutes since that i might buy one? what do you mean by such trifling, mr. davis?" said his wife, her eyes flashing. "i mean what i say. i've changed my mind. i can't afford to buy a new carpet." there was a stormy scene between man and wife, which may be passed over in silence. it ended with a fit of hysterics on the part of mrs. davis, while her husband put on his hat and walked gloomily over to the factory. here he soon received a call from halbert, who informed him, with great elation, that mr. paine knew of a desirable pony which could be had on the same terms as his son's. "i've changed my mind," said his father. "a pony will cost too much money." all halbert's entreaties were unavailing, and he finally left his father's presence in a very unfilial frame of mind. chapter xxxv. conclusion. the arrival of captain rushton, confidently supposed to be dead, produced a great sensation in millville, and many were the congratulatory visits received at the little cottage. mrs. rushton was doubly happy at the unexpected return of her husband and son, and felt for the first time in her life perfectly happy. she cared little for poverty or riches, as long as she had regained her chief treasures. when captain rushton called upon the superintendent, the latter received him with embarrassment, knowing that the captain was aware of his intended dishonesty. he tried to evade immediate payment, but on this point his creditor was peremptory. he had no further confidence in mr. davis, and felt that the sooner he got his money back into his hands the better. it was fortunate for him that the superintendent had been at last successful in speculation, or restitution would have been impossible. as is was, he received his money in full, nearly six thousand dollars, which he at once invested in bank stock of reliable city banks, yielding a good annual income. only the day after the payment of this sum, a committee of investigation appointed by the directors, whose suspicions had been excited, visited the factory, and subjected the superintendent's books to a thorough scrutiny. the result showed that mr. davis, in whom hitherto perfect confidence had been felt, had for years pursued a system of embezzlement, which he had covered up by false entries in his books, and had appropriated to his own use from fifteen to twenty thousand dollars belonging to the corporation. while this investigation was pending, the superintendent disappeared, leaving his wife and son unprovided for. his estate was seized in part satisfaction of the amounts he had appropriated, and halbert's pride was brought low. the wealth and position upon which he had based his aristocratic pretensions vanished, and in bitter mortification he found himself reduced to poverty. he could no longer flaunt his cane and promenade the streets in kid gloves, but was glad to accept a position in the factory store, where he was compelled to dress according to his work. in fact, he had exchanged positions with robert, who was now, owing to a circumstance which will at once be mentioned, possessed of a considerable inheritance. the old farmer, paul nichols, whom robert tried to defend from his unprincipled nephew, ben haley, died suddenly of heart disease. speculation was rife as to who would inherit the estate which he left behind him. he had no near relation except ben haley, and so great was the dislike he entertained toward him that no one anticipated that the estate would go to him, unless through paul's dying intestate. but shortly after haley's visit, his uncle made a will, which he deposited in the hands of lawyer paine. on the day after the funeral, the latter met captain rushton and robert, and said: "will you come to my office this afternoon at three o'clock?" "certainly," said the captain. "i suppose you don't want me, mr. paine?" said robert. "i do want you, particularly," said the lawyer. our hero wondered a little why his presence was required, but dismissed the matter from his mind, until three o'clock found him in the lawyer's office. "gentlemen," said the lawyer, "i am about to read the last will and testament of our neighbor, paul nichols, recently deceased." this preamble created surprise, for this was the first intimation that such a will was in existence. the document was brief, and the substance of it was contained in the following paragraph: "having no near relatives, except benjamin haley, for whom i have neither regard nor affection, and who, moreover, has recently stolen a considerable sum of money from me, i leave all of which i may die possessed, whether in land or money, to my brave young friend, robert rushton, who courageously defended me from my said nephew, at his own bodily risk, and i hope he may live long to enjoy the property i bequeath him." no one was more surprised than robert at the unexpected inheritance. he could hardly realize that he was now possessed of a considerable property in his own right. it may be said here that, including the value of the farm, and the gold concealed, his inheritance amounted to quite ten thousand dollars. paul had considerately supplied the lawyer with a list of the hiding places where he had secreted his money on the strictest injunctions of secrecy, and this made the task of finding it quite easy. congratulations poured in upon our hero, who received them with modest satisfaction. "it is a good thing to have a rich son," said captain rushton, humorously. "robert, i hope you won't look down upon me on account of my comparative poverty." "father," said robert, "i wish you would take this money--i don't want it." "i shall do nothing of the kind, robert. it is fairly and deservedly yours, though i confess you may attribute it partly to good luck, for virtue is not always so well rewarded in this world. i will take care of it for you, and if you choose to pay your own expenses out of your income, i shall allow you to do so, since you are now rich and prosperous." "you must take all the income, father. then it will not be necessary for you to go to sea again." "i have already made up my mind to stay on land hereafter," said captain rushton. "my cruise in an open boat without provisions has cured me of my love for the sea. with the little money i have saved, and the help of a rich son, i think i can afford to stay on shore." the cottage was enlarged by the erection of another story, as well as by the addition of a wing and the throwing out of two bay windows, and was otherwise refitted and so metamorphosed by fresh paint and new furniture, that it became one of the most attractive houses in millville. captain rushton, who knew something of agriculture, decided to carry on robert's farm himself, and found the employment both pleasant and profitable. "my only trouble," he used to say, jocosely, "is that i have a very exacting landlord. unless the rent were punctually paid, he would be sure to resort to legal means to recover it." when ben haley heard that his uncle's estate had been bequeathed to the boy whom he had persecuted, and whom for that reason he hated, his rage and disappointment were unbounded. if he had not been within two hours of sailing in command of a ship bound to south america, he would at once have gone down to millville, and in his fury he might have done serious injury to the boy who had superseded him. but he could not delay the day of sailing, and so, much against his will, he was forced to forego his vengeance until his return. but this was destined to be his last voyage. while at rio janeiro he became engaged in a fracas with the keeper of a low grogshop, when the latter, who was a desperate ruffian, snatched a knife from his girdle, and drove it into the heart of the unhappy captain, who fell back on the floor and expired without a groan. thus terminated a misguided and ill-spent life. i should have been glad to report ben haley's reformation instead of his death, but for the sake of robert, whom he hated so intensely, i am relieved that thin source of peril is closed. robert, being now in easy circumstances, decided to pursue his studies for two years longer, and accordingly placed himself in a school of high reputation, where he made rapid improvement. he then entered upon a business life under the auspices of his friend, mr. morgan, and promises in time to become a prominent and wealthy merchant. he passes every sunday at home in the little cottage occupied by his father, who, however, has ceased to be a farmer, having been promoted to the post of superintendent of the factory, formerly occupied by mr. davis. for the first twelve months the post was filled by a new man, who proved to be incompetent, and then was offered to captain rushton, whose excellent executive talents were well known. he soon made himself familiar with his duties, and the post is likely to be his as long as he cares to hold it. hester paine, as a young lady, fulfills the promise of her girlhood. the mutual attachment which existed between her and robert, when boy and girl, still continues, and there is some ground for the report which comes from millville--that they are engaged. the alliance will be in the highest degree pleasing to both families, for if hester is fair and attractive, robert is energetic and of excellent principles, and possessed of precisely those qualities which, with fair good fortune will, under the favor of providence, insure his success in life. the end. domain material generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?id=aagdaaaamaaj&printsec=titlepage the city of numbered days by francis lynde illustrated by arthur e. becher charles scribner's sons new york copyright, , by charles scribner's sons published august, to my wife [illustration: "what would i do? a number of things." _page _] contents i. the heptaderm ii. j. wesley croesus iii. sands of pactolus iv. a fire of little sticks v. symptomatic vi. mirapolis vii. the speedway viii. table stakes ix. bedlam x. epochal xi. the feast of hurrahs xii. quicksands xiii. flood tide xiv. the abyss xv. the setting of the ebb xvi. the man on the bank xvii. the circean cup xviii. love's crucible xix. the sunset gun xx. the terror illustrations "what would i do? a number of things" _frontispiece_ brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him "it's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!" brouillard got between the city of numbered days i the heptaderm it was not characteristic of brouillard--the brouillard grislow knew best--that he should suffer the purely technical talk of dams and reservoirs, bed-rock anchorages, and the latest word in concrete structural processes to languish and should drift into personal reminiscences over their first evening camp-fire in the niquoia. because the personalities were gratefully varying the monotonies, and also because he had a jocose respect for the unusual, grislow was careful not to discourage the drift. there had been a benumbing surfeit of the technical talk dating from the day and hour when the orders had come from washington giving brouillard his step up and directing him to advance with his squad of reclamation-service pioneers upon the new work in the western timanyonis. but, apart from this, the reminiscences had an experimental value. grislow's one unamiable leaning manifested itself in a zest for cleverly turning the hidden facets of the human polygon up to the light; and if the facets chose to turn themselves of their own accord, as in brouillard's case, why, so much the better. "as you were saying?" he prompted, stretching himself luxuriously upon the fragrant banking of freshly clipped spruce tips, with his feet to the blaze and his hands locked under his head. he felt that brouillard was merely responding to the subtle influences of time, place, and encompassments and took no shame for being an analytical rather than a sympathetic listener. the hundred-odd men of the pioneer party, relaxing after the day-long march over the mountains, were smoking, yarning, or playing cards around the dozen or more camp-fires. the evening, with a half-grown moon silvering the inverted bowl of a firmament which seemed to shut down, lid-like, upon the mountain rim of the high-walled valley, was witchingly enchanting; and, to add the final touch, there was comradely isolation, anson, griffith, and leshington, the three other members of the engineering staff, having gone to burn candles in the headquarters tent over blue-prints and field-notes. "i was saying that the present-day world slant is sanely skeptical--as it should be," brouillard went on at the end of the thoughtful pause. "being modern and reasonably sophisticated, we can smile at the signs and omens of the ages that had to get along without laboratories and testing plants. just the same, every man has his little atavistic streak, if you can hit upon it. for example, you may throw flip-flaps and call it rank superstition if you like, but i have never been able to get rid of the notion that birthdays are like the equinoxes--turning-points in the small, self-centred system which we call life." "poodle-dogs!" snorted the one whose attitude was both jocose and analytical, stuffing more of the spruce branches under his head to keep the pipe ashes from falling into his eyes. "i know; being my peculiar weakness instead of your own, it's tommy-rot to you," brouillard rejoined good-naturedly. "as i said a few minutes ago, i am only burbling to hear the sound of my own voice. but the bottoming fact remains. you give a screw twist to a child's mind, and if the mind of the man doesn't exhibit the same helical curve----" "suppose you climb down out of the high-browed altitudes and give it a plain, every-day name?" grumbled the staff authority on watersheds. "it's casting pearls before swine, but you're a pretty good sort of swine, grizzy. if you'll promise to keep your feet out of the trough, i'll tell you. away back in the porringer period, in which we are all like the pin-feathered dicky-birds, open-mouthed for anything anybody may drop into us, some one fed me with the number seven." "succulent morsel!" chuckled grislow. "did it agree with you?" brouillard sat back from the fire and clasped his hands over his bent knees. he was of a type rare enough to be noteworthy in a race which has drawn so heavily upon the anglo-saxon and teutonic stocks for its build and coloring: a well-knit figure of a man, rather under than over the normal stature, but bulging athletically in the loose-fitting khaki of the engineer; dark of skin, even where the sun had not burned its rich mahogany into the olive, and owning a face which, with the upcurled mustaches, the brooding black eyes, and the pure gallic outline of brow and jaw, might have served as a model for a vierge study of a fighting _franc-tireur_. "i don't remember how early in the game the thing began," he resumed, ignoring grislow's joking interruption, "but away back in the dimmest dawnings the number seven began to have a curious significance for me. from my earliest recollections things have been constantly associating themselves with seven or some multiple of it. you don't believe it, of course; but it is true." "which means that you have been sitting up and taking notice when the coincidences hit, and have forgotten the millions of times when they didn't," scoffed the listener. "probably," was the ready admission. "we all do that. but there is one set of 'coincidences,' as you call them, that can't be so easily turned down. back in the pin-feather time that i mentioned somebody handed me a fact--the discovery of the physiologists about the waste and replacement that goes on in the human organism, bringing around a complete cellular change about once in every seven years. are you asleep?" "not yet; go on," said the hydrographer. "it was a long time ago, and i was only a little tad; but i surrounded the idea and took it in literally, in the sense of a sudden and sort of magical change coming at the end of each seven-year period and bound to occur at those particular fixed times. the notion stuck to me like a cockle-bur, and sometimes i wonder if it isn't still sticking." "bugs!" ranted grislow, in good-natured ridicule, and brouillard laughed. "that is what i say to myself, murray, every time the fatal period rolls around. and yet----" "there isn't any 'and yet,'" cut in the scoffer derisively. "this is merely your night for being batty. 'fatal period'--suffering humanity!" "no, hold on: let me tell you, murray--i'd like to get it out of my system if i can. up to my seventh birthday i was a sickly child, puny and only about half alive. i recollect, as if it were only yesterday, how the neighbor women used to come in and condole with my mother, ignoring me, of course, as if i hadn't any ears. i can remember old aunt hetty parsons saying, time and again: 'no, mis' brouillard; you'll never raise that boy the longest day you live!'" "i'm waiting for the 'and yet,'" put in grislow, sitting up to relight his pipe with a blazing splinter from the fire. "it came--the change, i mean--when i was seven years old. that was the year of our removal to vincennes from the country village where i was born. since that time i haven't known what it means to be sick or even ailing." "bully old change!" applauded grislow. "is that all?" "no. what the second period spent on my body it took out of my mind. i grew stouter and stronger every year and became more and more the stupidest blockhead that ever thumbed a school-book. i simply couldn't learn, murray. my mother made excuses for me, as mothers will, but my father was in despair. he was an educated man, and i can imagine that my unconquerable doltishness went near to breaking his heart." "you are safely over that stage of it now, at all events," said the hydrographer in exaggerated sarcasm. "any man who can stare into the fire and think out fetching little imaginations like these you are handing me----" "sometimes i wish they were only imaginings, grizzy. but let me finish. i was fourteen to a day when i squeezed through the final grammar grade; think of it--fourteen years old and still with the women teachers! i found out afterward that i got my dubiously given passport to the high school chiefly because my father was one of the best-known and best-loved men in the old home town. perhaps it wasn't the magic seven that built me all over new that summer; perhaps it was only the change in schools and teachers. but from that year on, all the hard things were too easy. it was as if somebody or something had suddenly opened a closed door in my brain and let the daylight into all the dark corners at once." grislow sat up and finished for him. "yes; and since that time you have staved your way through the university, and butted into the reclamation service, and played skittles with every other man's chances of promotion until you have come out at the top of the heap in the construction division, all of which you're much too modest to brag about. but, say; we've skipped one of the seven-year flag-stations. what happened when you were twenty-one--or were you too busy just then chasing the elusive engineering degree to take notice?" brouillard was staring out over the loom of the dozen camp-fires--out and across the valley at the massive bulk of mount chigringo rising like a huge barrier dark to the sky-line save for a single pin-prick of yellow light fixing the position of a solitary miner's cabin half-way between the valley level and the summit. when he spoke again the hydrographer had been given time to shave another pipe charge of tobacco from his pocket plug and to fill and light the brier. "when i was twenty-one my father died, and"--he stopped short and then went on in a tone which was more than half apologetic--"i don't mind telling you, grislow; you're not the kind to pass it on where it would hurt. at twenty-one i was left with a back load that i am carrying to this good day; that i shall probably go on carrying through life." grislow walked around the fire, kicked two or three of the charred log ends into the blaze, and growled when the resulting smoke rose up to choke and blind him. "forget it, victor," he said in blunt retraction. "i thought it was merely a little splashing match and i didn't mean to back you out into deep water. i know something about the load business myself; i'm trying to put a couple of kid brothers through college, right now." "are you?" said brouillard half-absently; and then, as one who would not be selfishly indifferent: "that is fine. i wish i were going to have something as substantial as that to show for my wood sawing." "won't you?" "not in a thousand years, murray." "in less than a hundredth part of that time you'll be at the top of the reclamation-service pay-roll--won't that help out?" "no; not appreciably." grislow gave it up at that and went back to the original contention. "we're dodging the main issue," he said. "what is the active principle of your 'sevens'--or haven't you figured it out?" "change," was the prompt rejoinder; "always something different--radically different." "and what started you off into the memory woods, particularly, to-night?" "a small recurrence of the coincidences. it began with that hopelessly unreliable little clock that anson persists in carrying around with him wherever he goes. while you were up on the hill cutting your spruce tips anson pulled out and said he was going to unpack his camp kit. he went over to his tent and lighted up, and a few minutes afterward i heard the clock strike--seven. i looked at my watch and saw that it lacked a few minutes of eight, and the inference was that anson had set the clock wrong, as he commonly does. just as i was comfortably forgetting the significant reminder the clock went off again, striking slowly, as if the mechanism were nearly run down." "another seven?" queried grislow, growing interested in spite of a keen desire to lapse into ridicule again. "no; it struck four. i didn't imagine it, murray; i counted: one--two--three--four." "well?" was the bantering comment. "you couldn't conjure an omen out of that, could you? you say there was a light in the tent--i suppose anson was there tinkering with his little tin god of a timepiece. it's a habit of his." "that was the natural inference; but i was curious enough to go and look. when i lifted the flap the tent was empty. the clock was ticking away on anson's soap-box dressing-case, with a lighted candle beside it, and for a crazy half second i had a shock, murray--the minute-hand was pointing to four and the hour-hand to seven!" "still i don't see the miraculous significance," said the hydrographer. "don't you? it was only another of the coincidences, of course. while i stood staring at the clock anson came in with griffith's tool kit. 'i've got to tinker her again,' he said. 'she's got so she keeps pacific time with one hand and eastern with the other.' then i understood that he had been tinkering it and had merely gone over to griffith's tent for the tools." "well," said grislow again, "what of it? the clock struck seven, you say; but it also struck four." brouillard's smile tilted his curling mustaches to the sardonic angle. "the combination was what called the turn, grizzy. to-day happens to be my twenty-eighth birthday--the end of the fourth cycle of seven." "by george!" ejaculated the hydrographer in mock perturbation, sitting up so suddenly that he dropped his pipe into the ashes of the fire. "in that case, according to what seems to be the well-established custom, something is due to fall in right now!" "i have been looking for it all day," returned brouillard calmly, "which is considerably more ridiculous than anything else i have owned to, you will say. let it go at that. we'll talk about something real if you'd rather--that auxiliary reservoir supply from the apache basin, for example. were the field-notes in when you left washington?" and from the abrupt break, the technicalities came to their own again; were still holding the centre of the stage after the groups around the mess fires had melted away into the bunk shelters and tents, and the fires themselves had died down into chastened pools of incandescence edged each with its beach line of silvered ashes. it was murray grislow who finally rang the curtain call on the prolonged shop-talk. "say, man! do you know that it is after ten o'clock?" he demanded, holding the face of his watch down to the glow of the dying embers. "you may sit here all night, if you like, but it's me for the blankets and a few lines of 'tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy'--now, what in the name of a guilty conscience is _that_?" as it chanced, they were both facing toward the lower end of the valley when the quotation-breaking apparition flashed into view. in the deepest of the shadows at the mouth of the gorge, where the torrenting niquoia straightened itself momentarily before entering upon its plunging race through the mountain barrier, a beam of white light flickered unsteadily for a fraction of a second. then it became a luminous pencil to trace a zigzag line up the winding course of the river, across to the foot-hill spur where the camp of the reclamation-service vanguard was pitched, and so on around to the base of chigringo. for certain other seconds it remained quiescent, glowing balefully like the eye of some fabled monster searching for its prey. then it was gone. grislow's comment took the form of a half-startled exclamation. "by jove! wouldn't that give you a fit of the creepies?--this far from civilization and a dynamo?" "it wasn't an electric," returned brouillard thoughtfully, apparently taking grislow's suggestion literally. "it was an acetylene." "supposing it was--what's the difference? aren't we just as far from a carbide shop as we are from the dynamo? what are you calling it?" "your guess is as good as mine," was the half-absent reply. brouillard was still staring fixedly at the distant gulf of blackness where the mysterious light had appeared and disappeared. "then i'll make it and go to bed," said the hydrographer, rising and stretching his arms over his head. "if it had come a couple of hours ago we should have called it the 'spot-light,' turned on to mark the end of your fourth act and the beginning, auspicious or otherwise, of the fifth. maybe it is, anyway; maybe the property-man was asleep or drunk and forgot to turn it on at the spectacular instant. how will that do?" brouillard had got upon his feet and was buttoning his many-pocketed shooting-coat. "it will do to put you into the balaam saddle-beast class, grizzy," he said, almost morosely. then he added: "i'm going to take a little hike down yonder for investigative purposes. want to come along?" but the mapper of watersheds was yawning sleepily. "not on your tintype," he refused. "i'm going to 'cork it orf in me 'ammick.' wake me up when you come back and tell me what the fifth act is going to do to you. the more i think of it the more i'm convinced that it _was_ the spot-light, a little overdue, after all." and he turned away chuckling. it was only a short mile from the camp on the inward slopes of the eastern foot-hills to the mouth of the outlet gorge, across which brouillard could already see, in mental prevision, the great gray wall of the projected niquoia dam--his future work--curving majestically from the broken shoulder of chigringo to the opposing steeps of jack's mountain. the half-grown moon, tilting now toward the sky-line of the western barrier, was leaving the canyon portal in deepest gloom. as brouillard swung along he kept a watchful eye upon the gorge shadows, half expecting a return of the mysterious apparition. but when he finally reached the canyon portal and began to seek for the trail which roughly paralleled the left bank of the stream the mystery was still unexplained. from its upper portal in the valley's throat to the point where the river debouches among the low sand-hills of the buckskin desert the canyon of the niquoia measures little more than a mile as the bird flies, though its crookings through the barrier mountains fairly double the distance. beginning as a broken ravine at the valley outlet, the gorge narrows in its lower third to a cliff-walled raceway for the torrent, and the trail, leaving the bank of the stream, climbs the forested slope of a boundary spur to descend abruptly to the water's edge again at the desert gateway, where the niquoia, leaping joyously from the last of its many hamperings, becomes a placid river of the plain. picking his way judiciously because the trail was new to him, brouillard came in due time to the descending path among the spruces and scrub-pines leading to the western outlook upon the desert swales and sand-hills. at the canyon portal, where the forest thinned away and left him standing at the head of the final descending plunge in the trail, he found himself looking down upon the explanation of the curious apparition. none the less, what he saw was in itself rather inexplicable. in the first desert looping of the river a camp-fire of piñon knots was blazing cheerfully, and beside it, with a picnic hamper for a table, sat a supper party of three--two men and a woman--in enveloping dust-coats, and a third man in chauffeur leather serving the sitters. back of the group, and with its detachable search-light missing, stood a huge touring-car to account for the picnic hamper, the dust-coats, the man in leather, and, doubtless, for the apparitional eye which had appeared and disappeared at the mouth of the upper gorge. also it accounted, in a purely physical sense, for the presence of the picnickers, though the whim which had led them to cross the desolate buckskin desert for the dubious pleasure of making an all-night bivouac on its eastern edge was not so readily apparent. being himself a bedouin of the desert, brouillard's first impulse was hospitable. but when he remarked the ample proportions of the great touring-car and remembered the newness and rawness of his temporary camp he quickly decided that the young woman member of the party would probably fare better where she was. this being the case, the young engineer saw no reason why he should intrude upon the group at the cheerful camp-fire. on the contrary, he began speedily to find good and sufficient reasons why he should not. that the real restraining motive was a sudden attack of desert shyness he would not have admitted. but the fact remained. good red blood with its quickenings of courage and self-reliance, and a manful ability to do and dare, are the desert's gifts; but the penalty the desert exacts in return for them is evenly proportioned. four years in the reclamation service had made the good-looking young chief of construction a man-queller of quality. but each year of isolation had done something toward weakening the social ties. a loosened pebble turned the scale. when a bit of the coarse-grained sandstone of the trail rolled under brouillard's foot and went clattering down to plunge into the stream the man in chauffeur leather reached for the search-light lantern and directed its beam upon the canyon portal. but by that time brouillard had sought the shelter of the scrub-pines and was retracing his steps up the shoulder of the mountain. ii j. wesley croesus measured even by the rather exacting standards of the mining and cattle country, brouillard was not what the west calls "jumpy." four years of field-work, government or other, count for something; and the man who has proved powder-shy in any stage of his grapple with the land of short notice is customarily a dead man. in spite of his training, however, the young chief of construction, making an early morning exploration of the site for the new dam at the mouth of the outlet gorge while the rank and file of the pioneer force were building the permanent camp half-way between the foot-hills and the river, winced handsomely when the shock of a distance-muffled explosion trembled upon the crisp morning air, coming, as it seemed, from some point near the lower end of the canyon. the dull rumble of the explosion and the little start for which it was accountable were disconcerting in more ways than one. as an industry captain busy with the preliminaries of what promised to be one of the greatest of the modern salvages of the waste places, brouillard had been assuring himself that his work was large enough to fill all his horizons. but the detonating crash reminded him forcibly that the presence of the touring party was asserting itself as a disturbing element and that the incident of its discovery the night before had been dividing time pretty equally with his verification of the locating engineer's blue-print mappings and field-notes. this was the first thought, and it was pointedly irritating. but the rebound flung him quickly over into the field of the common humanities. the explosion was too heavy to figure as a gun-shot; and, besides, it was the closed season for game. therefore, it must have been an accident of some sort--possibly the blowing up of the automobile. brouillard had once seen the gasolene tank of a motor-car take fire and go up like a pyrotechnic set piece in a sham battle. between this and a hurried weighting of the sheaf of blue-prints with his field-glass preparatory to a first-aid dash down the outlet gorge, there was no appreciable interval. but the humane impulse doubled back upon itself tumultuously when he came to his outlook halting place of the night before. there had been no accident. the big touring-car, yellow with the dust of the buckskin, stood intact on the sand flat where it had been backed and turned and headed toward the desert. wading in the shallows of the river with a linen dust robe for a seine, the two younger men of the party were gathering the choicest of the dead mountain trout with which the eddy was thickly dotted. coming toward him on the upward trail and climbing laboriously to gain the easier path among the pines, were the two remaining members of the party--an elderly, pudgy, stockily built man with a gray face, stiff gray mustaches and sandy-gray eyes to match, and the young woman, booted, gauntleted, veiled, and bulked into shapelessness by her touring coat, and yet triumphing exuberantly over all of these handicaps in an ebullient excess of captivating beauty and attractiveness. being a fisherman of mark and a true sportsman, brouillard had a sudden rush of blood to the anger cells when he realized that the alarm which had brought him two hard-breathing miles out of his way had been the discharge of a stick of dynamite thrown into the niquoia for the fish-killing purpose. in his code the dynamiting of a stream figured as a high crime. but the two on the trail had come up, and his protest was forestalled by the elderly man with the gray face and the sandy-gray eyes, whose explosive "ha!" was as much a measure of his breathlessness as of his surprise. "i was just telling van bruce that his thundering fish cartridge would raise the neighbors," the trail climber went on with a stout man's chuckle. and then: "you're one of the reclamation engineers? great work the government is undertaking here--fine opportunity to demonstrate the lifting power of aggregated capital backed by science and energy and a whole heap of initiative. it's a high honor to be connected with it, and that's a fact. you _are_ connected with it, aren't you?" brouillard's nod was for the man, but his words were for the young woman whose beauty refused to be quenched by the touring handicaps. "yes, i am in charge of it," he said. "ha!" said the stout man, and this time the exclamation was purely approbative. "chief engineer, eh? that's fine, _fine_! you're young, and you've climbed pretty fast. but that's the way with you young men nowadays; you begin where we older fellows leave off. i'm glad we met you. my name is cortwright--j. wesley cortwright, of chicago. and yours is----?" brouillard named himself in one word. strangers usually found him bluntly unresponsive to anything like effusiveness, but he was finding it curiously difficult to resist the good-natured heartiness which seemed to exude from the talkative gentleman, overlaying him like the honeydew on the leaves in a droughty forest. if mr. j. wesley cortwright's surprise on hearing the brouillard surname was not genuine it was at least an excellent imitation. "well, well, well--you don't say! not of the brouillards of knox county, indiana?--but, of course, you must be. there is only the one family that i ever heard of, and it is mighty good, old _voyageur_ stock, too, dating 'way back to the revolutionary war, and further. i've bought hogs of the farmer brouillards hundreds of times when i was in the packing business, and i want to tell you that no finer animals ever came into the chicago market." "yes?" said brouillard, driving the word in edgewise. "i am sorry to say that i don't know many of the farmers. our branch of the family settled near vincennes, and my father was on the bench, when he wasn't in politics." "what? not judge antoine! why, my dear young man! do you know that i once had the pleasure of introducing your good father to my bankers in chicago? it was years ago, at a time when he was interested in floating a bond issue for some growing industry down on the wabash. and to think that away out here in this howling wilderness, a thousand miles from nowhere, as you might say, i should meet his son!" brouillard laughed and fell headlong into the pit of triteness. "the world isn't so very big when you come to surround it properly, mr. cortwright," he asserted. "that's a fact; and we're doing our level best nowadays to make and keep it little," buzzed the portly man cheerfully, with a wave of one pudgy arm toward the automobile. "it's about a hundred and twenty miles from this to el gato, on the grand canyon, isn't it, mr. brouillard? well, we did it in five hours yesterday afternoon, and we could have cut an hour out of that if rickert hadn't mistaken the way across the buckskin. not that it made any special difference. we expected to spend one night out and came prepared." brouillard admitted that the touring feat kept even pace with the quickening spirit of the age; but he did not add that the motive for the feat was not quite so apparent as it might be. this mystery, however, was immediately brushed aside by mr. cortwright, speaking in his character of universal ouster of mysteries. "you are wondering what fool notion chased us away out here in the desert when we had a comfortable hotel to stop at," he rattled on. "i'll tell you, mr. brouillard--in confidence. it was curiosity--raw, country curiosity. the papers and magazines have been full of this buckskin reclamation scheme, and we wanted to see the place where all the wonderful miracles were going to get themselves wrought out. have you got time to 'put us next'?" brouillard, as the son of the man who had been introduced to the chicago money gods in his hour of need, could scarcely do less than to take the time. the project, he explained, contemplated the building of a high dam across the upper end of the niquoia canyon and the converting of the inland valley above into a great storage reservoir. from this reservoir a series of distributing canals would lead the water out upon the arid lands of the buckskin and the miracle would be a fact accomplished. "sure, sure!" said the cheerful querist, feeling in the pockets of the automobile coat for a cigar. at the match-striking instant he remembered a thing neglected. "by george! you'll have to excuse me, mr. brouillard; i'm always forgetting the little social dewdabs. let me present you to my daughter genevieve. gene, shake hands with the son of my good old friend judge antoine brouillard, of vincennes." it was rather awkwardly done, and somehow brouillard could not help fancying that mr. cortwright could have done it better; that the roughly informal introduction was only one of the component parts of a studied brusquerie which mr. cortwright could put on and off at will, like a well-worn working coat. but when the unquenchable beauty stripped her gauntlet and gave him her hand, with a dazzling smile and a word of acknowledgment which was not borrowed from her father's effusive vocabulary, he straightway fell into another pit of triteness and his saving first impressions of mr. j. wesley cortwright's character began to fade. "i'm immensely interested," was miss cortwright's comment on the outlining of the reclamation project. "do you mean to say that real farms with green things growing on them can be made out of that frightful desert we drove over yesterday afternoon?" brouillard smiled and plunged fatuously. "oh, yes; the farms are already there. nature made them, you know; she merely forgot to arrange for their watering." he was going on to tell about the exhaustive experiments the department of agriculture experts had been making upon the buckskin soils when the gentleman whose name had once figured upon countless thousands of lard packages cut in. "do you know what i'm thinking about, mr. brouillard? i'm saying it over soft and slow to myself that no young man in this world ever had such a magnificent fighting chance as you have right here," he averred, the sandy-gray eyes growing suddenly alert and shrewd. "if you don't come out of this with money enough to buy in all those bonds your father was placing that time in chicago--but of course you will." "i'm afraid i don't quite understand what you mean, mr. cortwright," said brouillard, with some inner monitor warning him that it would be better not to understand. the portly gentleman became suddenly facetious. "hear him, gene," he chuckled, sharing the joke with his daughter; "he says he doesn't understand!" then to brouillard: "say, young man; you don't mean to tell me that your father's son needs a guardian, do you? you know exactly where these canals are going to run and all the choice spots they are going to irrigate; what's to prevent your getting in ahead of the rush and taking up a dozen or so of those prime quarter-sections--homesteads, town sites, and the like? lack of money? why, bless your soul, there are plenty of us who would fall all over ourselves running to back a proposition like that--any god's quantity of us who would fairly throw the working capital at you! for that matter, i don't know but i'd undertake to finance you alone." brouillard's first impulse sprang full-grown out of honest anger. that any man who had known his father should make such a proposal to that father's son was a bald insult to the father's memory. but the calmer second thought turned wrath into amused tolerance. the costly touring-car, the idle, time-killing jaunt in the desert, the dynamiting of the river for the sake of taking a few fish--all these were the indices of a point of view limited strictly by a successful market for hog products. why should he go out of his way to quarrel with it on high moral grounds? "you forget that i am first of all the government's hired man, mr. cortwright," he demurred. "my job of dam building will be fully big enough and strenuous enough to keep me busy. aside from that, i fancy the department heads would take it rather hard if we fellows in the field went plum picking." "let them!" retorted the potential backer of profitable side issues. "what's the odds if you go to it and bring back the money? i tell you, mr. brouillard, money--bunched money--is what talks. a good, healthy bank balance makes so much noise that you can't hear the knockers. if the washington crowd had your chance--but never mind, that's your business and none of mine, and you'll take it as it's meant, as a good-natured hint to your father's son. how far is it up to where you are going to build your dam?" brouillard gave the distance, and mr. cortwright measured the visible trail grades with a deprecatory eye. "do you think my daughter could walk it?" he asked. miss genevieve answered for herself: "of course i can walk it; can't i, mr. brouillard?" "i'll be glad to show you the way if you care to try," brouillard offered; and the tentative invitation was promptly accepted. the transfer of view-points from the lower end of the canyon to the upper was effected without incident, save at its beginning, when the father would have called down to the young man who had waded ashore and was drying himself before the camp-fire. "van bruce won't care to go," the daughter hastened to say; and brouillard, whose gift it was to be able to pick out and identify the human derelict at long range, understood perfectly well the reason for the young woman's hasty interruption. one result of the successfully marketed lard packages was very plainly evident in the dissipated face and hangdog attitude of the marketer's son. conversation flagged, even to the discouragement of a voluble money king, on the climb from the buckskin level to that of the reservoir valley. the trail was narrow, and brouillard unconsciously set a pace which was almost inhospitable for a stockily built man whose tendency was toward increasing waist measures. but when they reached the pine-tree of the anchored blue-prints at the upper portal, mr. cortwright recovered his breath sufficiently to gasp his appreciation of the prospect and its possibilities. "why, good goodness, mr. brouillard, it's practically all done for you!" he wheezed, taking in the level, mountain-enclosed valley with an appraisive eye-sweep. "van bruce and the chauffeur came up here last night, with one of the car lamps for a lantern, but of course they couldn't bring back any idea of the place. what will you do?--build your dam right here and take out your canal through the canyon? is that the plan?" brouillard nodded and went a little further into details, showing how the inward-arching barrier would be anchored into the two opposing mountain buttresses. "and the structure itself--how high is it to be?" "two hundred feet above the spillway apron foot." the lard millionaire twisted his short, fat neck and guessed the distance up the precipitous slopes of chigringo and jack's mountain. "that will be a whale of a chunk of masonry," he said. then, with business-like directness: "what will you build it of?--concrete?" "yes; concrete and steel." "then you are going to need portland cement--a whole world of it. where will you get it? and how will you get it here?" brouillard smiled inwardly at the pork packer's suddenly awakened interest in the technical ways and means. his four years in the desert had taken him out of touch with a money-making world, and this momentary contact with one of its successful devotees was illuminating. he had a growing conviction that the sordid atmosphere which appeared to be as the breath of life to mr. j. wesley cortwright would presently begin to make things taste coppery, but the inextinguishable charm of the veiled princess was a compensation. it was partly for the sake of seeing her with the veil abolished that he recovered the paper-weighting field-glass and gave it to her, showing her how to focus it upon the upper reaches of the valley. "we are in luck on the cement proposition," he told the eager money-maker. "we shall probably manufacture our own supply right here on the ground. there is plenty of limestone and an excellent shale in those hills just beyond our camp; and for burning fuel there is a fairly good vein of bituminous coal underlying that farther range at the head of the valley." "h'm," said the millionaire; "a cement plant, eh? there's money in that anywhere on the face of the globe, just now. and over here, where there is no transportation--gad! if you only had somebody to sell cement to, you could ask your own price. the materials have all been tested, i suppose?" "oh, yes; we've had experts in here for more than a year. the material is all right." "and your labor?" "on the dam, you mean? one advantage of concrete work is that it does not require any great proportion of skilled labor, the crushing, mixing, and placing all being done by machinery. we shall work all the indians we can get from the navajo reservation, forty-odd miles south of here; for the remainder we shall import men from the states, bringing them in over the timanyoni high line--the trail from quesado on the red butte western. at least, that is what we shall do for the present. later on, the railroad will probably build an extension up the barking dog and over war arrow pass." mr. cortwright's calculating eye roved once more over the attractive prospect. "fuel for your power plant?--wood i take it?" he surmised; and then: "oh, i forgot; you say you have coal." "yes; there is coal, of a sort; good enough for the cement kilns. but we sha'n't burn it for power. neither shall we burn the timber, which can be put to much better use in building and in false- and form-work. there are no finer lumber forests this side of the sierras. for power we shall utilize the river. there is another small canyon at the head of the valley where a temporary dam can be built which will deliver power enough to run anything--an entire manufacturing city, if we had one." mr. cortwright made a clucking noise with his tongue and blew his cheeks out like a swimmer gasping for breath. "julius cæsar!" he exploded. "you stand there and tell me calmly that the government has all these resources coopered up here in a barrel?--that nobody is going to get a chance to make any money out of them? it's a crime, mr. brouillard; that's just what it is--a crime!" "no; i didn't say that. the resources just happen to be here and we shall turn them to good account. but if there were any feasible transportation facilities i doubt if we should make use of these native raw materials. it is the policy of the department to go into the market like any other buyer where it can. but here there are no sellers, or, rather, no way in which the sellers can reach us." "no sellers and no chance for a man to get the thin edge of a wedge in anywhere," lamented the money-maker despairingly. then his eye lighted upon the graybeard dump of a solitary mine high up on the face of mount chigringo. "what's that up there?" he demanded. "it is a mine," said brouillard, showing miss cortwright how to adjust the field-glass for the shorter distance. "two men named massingale, father and son, are working it, i'm told." and then again to miss genevieve: "that is their cabin--on the trail a little to the right of the tunnel opening." "i see it quite plainly," she returned. "two people are just leaving it to ride down the path--a man and a woman, i think, though the woman--if it is a woman--is riding on a man's saddle." brouillard's eyebrows went up in a little arch of surprise. harding, the topographical engineer who had made all the preliminary surveys and had spent the better part of the former summer in the niquoia, had reported on the massingales, father and son, and his report had conveyed a hint of possible antagonism on the part of the mine owners to the government project. but there had been no mention of a woman. "the massingale mine, eh?" broke in the appraiser of values crisply. "they showed us some ore specimens from that property while we were stopping over in red butte. it's rich--good and plenty rich--if they have the quantity. and somebody told me they had the quantity, too; only it was too far from the railroad--couldn't jack-freight it profitably over the timanyonis." "in which case it is one of many," brouillard said, taking refuge in the generalities. but mr. cortwright was not to be so easily diverted from the pointed particulars--the particulars having to do with the pursuit of the market trail. "i'm beginning to get my feet on bottom, brouillard," he said, dropping the courtesy prefix and shoving his fat hands deep into the pockets of the dust-coat. "there's a business proposition here, and it looks mighty good to me. that was a mere nursery notion i gave you a while back--about picking up homesteads and town sites in the buckskin. the big thing is right here. i tell you, i can smell money in this valley of yours--scads of it." brouillard laughed. "it is only the fragrance of future reclamation-service appropriations," he suggested. "there will be a good bit of money spent here before the buckskin desert gets its maiden wetting." "i don't mean that at all," was the impatient rejoinder. "let me show you: you are going to have a population of some sort, if it's only the population that your big job will bring here. that's the basis. then you're going to need material by the train load, not the raw stuff, which you say is right here on the ground, but the manufactured article--cement, lumber, and steel. you can ship this material in over the range at prices that will be pretty nearly prohibitory, or, as you suggest, it can be manufactured right here on the spot." "the cement and the lumber can be produced here, but not the steel," brouillard corrected. "that's where you're off," snapped the millionaire. "there are fine ore beds in the hophras and a pretty good quality of coking coal. ten or twelve miles of a narrow-gauge railroad would dump the pig metal into the upper end of your valley, and there you are. with a small reduction plant you could tell the big steel people to go hang." brouillard admitted the postulate without prejudice to a keen and growing wonder. how did it happen that this chicago money king had taken the trouble to inform himself so accurately in regard to the natural resources of the niquoia region? had he not expressly declared that the object of the desert automobile trip was mere tourist curiosity? given a little time, the engineer would have cornered the inquiry, making it yield some sort of a reasonable answer; but mr. cortwright was galloping on again. "there you are, then, with the three prime requisites in raw material: cement stock, timber, and pig metal. fuel you've got, you say, and if it isn't good enough, your dummy railroad can supply you from the hophra mines. best of all, you've got power to burn--and that's the key to any manufacturing proposition. well and good. now, you know, and i know, that the government doesn't care to go into the manufacturing business when it can help it. isn't that so?" "unquestionably. but this is a case of can't-help-it," brouillard argued. "you couldn't begin to interest private capital in any of these industries you speak of." "why not?" was the curt demand. "because of their impermanence--their dependence upon a market which will quit definitely when the dam is completed. what you are suggesting predicates a good, busy little city in this valley, behind the dam--since there is no other feasible place for it--and it would be strictly a city of numbered days. when the dam is completed and the spillway gates are closed, the niqoyastcàdje and everything in it will go down under two hundred feet of water." "the--what?" queried miss cortwright, lowering the glass with which she had been following the progress of the two riders down the buckskin trail from the high-pitched mine on chigringo. "the niqoyastcàdje--'place-where-they-came-up,'" said brouillard, elucidating for her. "that is the navajo name for this valley. the indians have a legend that this is the spot where their tribal ancestors came up from the underworld. our map makers shortened it to 'niquoia' and the cow-men of the buckskin foot-hills have cut that to 'nick-wire.'" this bit of explanatory place lore was entirely lost upon mr. j. wesley cortwright. he was chewing the ends of his short mustaches and scowling thoughtfully out upon the possible site of the future industrial city of the plain. "say, brouillard," he cut in, "you get me the right to build that power dam, and give me the contracts for what material you'd rather buy than make, and i'll be switched if i don't take a shot at this drowning proposition myself. i tell you, it looks pretty good to me. what do you say?" "i'll say what i said a few minutes ago," laughed the young chief of construction--"that i'm only a hired man. you'll have to go a good few rounds higher up on the authority ladder to close a deal like that. i'm not sure it wouldn't require an act of congress." "well, by george, we might get even that if we have to," was the optimistic assertion. "you think about it." "i guess it isn't my think," said brouillard, still inclined to take the retired pork packer's suggestion as the mere ravings of a money-mad promoter. "as the government engineer in charge of this work, i couldn't afford to be identified even as a friendly intermediary in any such scheme as the one you are proposing." "of course, i suppose not," agreed the would-be promoter, sucking his under lip in a way ominously familiar to his antagonists in the wheat pit. then he glanced at his watch and changed the subject abruptly. "we'll have to be straggling back to the chug-wagon. much obliged to you, mr. brouillard. will you come down and see us off?" brouillard said "yes," for miss cortwright's sake, and took the field-glass she was returning to put it back upon the sheaf of blue-prints. she saw what he did with it and made instant acknowledgments. "it was good of you to neglect your work for us," she said, smiling level-eyed at him when he straightened up. he was frank enough to tell the truth--or part of it. "it was the dynamite that called me off. doesn't your brother know that it is illegal to shoot a trout stream?" she waited until her father was out of ear-shot on the gorge trail before she answered: "he ought to know that it is caddish and unsportsmanlike. i didn't know what he and rickert were doing or i should have stopped them." "in that event we shouldn't have met, and you would have missed your chance of seeing the niqoyastcàdje and the site of the city that isn't to be--the city of numbered days," he jested, adding, less lightly: "you wouldn't have missed very much." "no?" she countered with a bright return of the alluring smile which he had first seen through the filmy gauze of the automobile veil. "do you want me to say that i should have missed a great deal? you may consider it said if you wish." he made no reply to the bit of persiflage, and a little later felt the inward warmth of an upflash of resentment directed not at his companion but at himself for having been momentarily tempted to take the persiflage seriously. the temptation was another of the consequences of the four years of isolation which had cut him off from the world of women no less completely than from the world of money-getting. but it was rather humiliating, none the less. "what have i done to make you forget how to talk?" she wished to know, five minutes further on, when his silence was promising to outlast the canyon passage. "you? nothing at all," he hastened to say. then he took the first step in the fatal road of attempting to account for himself. "but i have forgotten, just the same. it has been years since i have had a chance to talk to a woman. do you wonder that i have lost the knack?" "how dreadful!" she laughed. and afterward, with a return to the half-serious mood which had threatened to reopen the door so lately slammed in the face of temptation: "perhaps we shall come back to niqo--niqoy--i simply _can't_ say it without sneezing--and then you might relearn some of the things you have forgotten. wouldn't that be delightful?" this time he chose to ignore utterly the voice of the inward monitor, which was assuring him coldly that young women of miss cortwright's world plane were constrained by the accepted rules of their kind to play the game in season and out of season, and his half-laughing reply was at once a defiance and a counter-challenge. "i dare you to come!" he said brazenly. "haven't you heard how the men of the desert camps kill each other for the chance to pick up a lady's handkerchief?" they were at the final descent in the trail, with the buckskin blanknesses showing hotly beyond the curtaining of pines, and there was space only for a flash of the beautiful eyes and a beckoning word. "in that case, i hope you know how to shoot straight, mr. brouillard," she said quizzically; and then they passed at a step from romance to the crude realities. the realities were basing themselves upon the advent of two new-comers, riding down the chigringo trail to the ford which had been the scene of the fish slaughtering; a sunburnt young man in goatskin "shaps," flannel shirt and a flapping stetson, and a girl whose face reminded brouillard of one of the madonnas, whose name and painter he strove vainly to recall. ten seconds farther along the horses of the pair were sniffing suspiciously at the automobile, and the young man under the flapping hat was telling van bruce cortwright what he thought of cartridge fishermen in general, and of this present cartridge fisherman in particular. "which the same, being translated into buckskin english, hollers like this," he concluded. "don't you tote any more fish ca'tridges into this here rese'vation; not no more, whatsoever. who says so? well, if anybody should ask, you might say it was tig smith, foreman o' the tri'-circ' outfit. no, i ain't no game warden, but what i say goes as she lays. _savez?_" the chauffeur was adjusting something under the upturned bonnet of the touring-car and thus hiding his grin. mr. cortwright, who had maintained his lead on the descent to the desert level, was trying to come between his sullen-faced son and the irate cattleman, money in hand. brouillard walked his companion down to the car and helped her to a seat in the tonneau. she repaid him with a nod and a smile, and when he saw that the crudities were not troubling her he stepped aside and unconsciously fell to comparing the two--the girl on horseback and his walking mate of the canyon passage. they had little enough in common, apart from their descent from eve, he decided--and the decision itself was subconscious. the millionaire's daughter was a warm blonde, beautiful, queenly, a finished product of civilization and high-priced culture; a woman of the world, standing but a single remove from the generation of quick money-getting and yet able to make the money take its proper place as a means to an end. and the girl on horseback? brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him. a rather slight figure, suggestive of the flexible strength of a silken cord; a face winsome rather than beautiful; coils and masses of copper-brown hair escaping under the jaunty cow-boy hat; eyes ... it was her eyes that made brouillard look the third time: they were blue, with a hint of violet in them; he made sure of this when she turned her head and met his gaze fearlessly and with a certain calm serenity that made him feel suddenly uncomfortable and half embarrassed. nevertheless, he would not look aside; and he caught himself wondering if her cow-boy lover--he had already jumped to the sentimental conclusion--had ever been able to look into those steadfast eyes and trifle with the truth. so far the young chief of construction had travelled on the road reflective while the fish-slaughtering matter was getting itself threshed out at the river's edge. when it was finally settled--not by the tender of money that mr. cortwright had made--the man smith and his pretty riding mate galloped through the ford and disappeared among the barren hills, and the chauffeur was at liberty to start the motor. "_au revoir_, mr. brouillard," said the princess, as the big car righted itself for the southward flight into the desert. then, when the wheels began to churn in the loose sand of the halting place, she leaned out to give him a woman's leave-taking. "if i were you i shouldn't fall in love with the calm-eyed goddess who rides like a man. mr. tri'-circ' smith might object, you know; and you haven't yet told me whether or not you can shoot straight." there was something almost heart-warming in the bit of parting badinage; something to make the young engineer feel figuratively for the knife with which he had resolutely cut around himself to the dividing of all hindrances, sentimental or other, on a certain wretched day years before when he had shouldered his life back-load. [illustration: brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him.] but the warmth might have given place to a disconcerting chill if he could have heard mr. j. wesley cortwright's remark to his seat companion, made when the canyon portal of the niquoia and the man climbing the path beside it were hazy mirage distortions in the backward distances. "he isn't going to be the dead easy mark i hoped to find in the son of the old bankrupt hair-splitter, genie, girl. but he'll come down and hook himself all right if the bait is well covered with his particular brand of sugar. don't you forget it." iii sands of pactolus if victor brouillard had been disposed to speculate curiously upon the possibilities suggested by mr. j. wesley cortwright on the occasion of the capitalist's brief visit to the niquoia, or had been tempted to dwell sentimentally upon the idyllic crossing of orbits--miss genevieve's and his own--on the desert's rim, there was little leisure for either indulgence during the strenuous early summer weeks which followed the cortwright invasion. popular belief to the contrary notwithstanding, it is not precisely true that all government undertakings are dilatory industrial imitations, designed, primarily, to promote the even-handed cutting of some appropriation pie, and, secondarily, to provide easy sinecures for placemen and political heelers. holding no brief for the government, one may still say without fear of contradiction that _laissez-faire_ has seldom been justly charged against the reclamation service. fairly confronting his problem, brouillard did not find himself hampered by departmental inertia. while he was rapidly organizing his force for the constructive attack, the equipment and preliminary material for the building of the great dam were piling up by the train load on the side-tracks at quesado; and at once the man- and beast-killing task of rushing the excavating outfit of machinery, teams, scrapers, rock-drilling installations, steam-shovels, and the like, over the war arrow trail was begun. during the weeks which followed, the same trail, and a little later that from the navajo reservation on the south, were strung with ant-like processions of laborers pouring into the shut-in valley at the foot of mount chigringo. almost as if by magic a populous camp of tents, shelter shacks, and indian tepees sprang up in the level bed-bottom of the future lake; camp-fires gave place to mess kitchens; the commissary became a busy department store stocked with everything that thrifty or thriftless labor might wish to purchase; and daily the great foundation scorings in the buttressing shoulders of jack's mountain and chigringo grew deeper and wider under the churning of the air-drills, the crashings of the dynamite, and the rattle and chug of the steam-shovels. magically, too, the life of the isolated working camp sprang into being. from the beginning its speech was a curious polyglot; the hissings and bubblings of the melting-pot out of which a new citizenry is poured. poles and slovaks, men from the slopes of the carpathians, the terraces of the apennines, and the passes of the balkans; scandinavians from the pineries of the north, and a colony of railroad-grading greeks, fresh from the building of a great transcontinental line; all these and more were spilled into the melting-pot, and a new babel resulted. only the indians held aloof. careful from the first for these wards of the nation, brouillard had made laws of draconian severity. the navajos were isolated upon a small reservation of their own on the jack's mountain side of the niquoia, a full half mile from the many-tongued camp in the open valley; and for the man caught "boot-legging" among the indians there were penalties swift and merciless. it was after the huge task of foundation digging was well under way and the work of constructing the small power dam in the upper canyon had been begun that the young chief of construction, busy with a thousand details, had his first forcible reminder of the continued existence of mr. j. wesley cortwright. it came in the form of a communication from washington, forwarded by special post-rider service from quesado, and it called a halt upon the up-river power project. in accordance with its settled policy, the reclamation service would refrain, in the niquoia as elsewhere, from entering into competition with private citizens; would do nothing to discourage the investment of private capital. a company had been formed to take over the power production and to establish a plant for the manufacture of cement, and brouillard was instructed to govern himself accordingly. for his information, the department letter-writer went on to say, it was to be understood that the company was duly organized under the provisions of an act of congress; that it had bound itself to furnish power and material at prices satisfactory to the service; and that the relations between it and the government field-staff on the ground were to be entirely friendly. "it's a graft--a pull-down with a profit in it for some bunch of money leeches a little higher up!" was the young chief's angry comment when he had given grislow the letter to read. "without knowing any more of the details than that letter gives, i'd be willing to bet a month's pay that this is the fine italian hand of mr. j. wesley cortwright!" grislow's eyebrows went up in doubtful interrogation. "ought i to know the gentleman?" he queried mildly. "i don't seem to recall the name." brouillard got up from his desk to go and stand at one of the little square windows of the log-built office quarters. for some reason which he had not taken the trouble to define, even to himself, he had carefully refrained from telling the hydrographer anything about the early morning meeting with the automobilists at the edge of the desert basin; of that and of the subsequent visit of two of them to the site of the dam. "no; you don't know him," he said, turning back to the worker at the mapping table. "it was his motor party that was camping at the buckskin ford the night we broke in here--the night when we saw the search-light." "and you met him? i thought you told me you merely went down and took a look--didn't butt in?" "i didn't--that night. but the next morning----" the hydrographer's smile was a jocose grimace. "i recollect now; you said that one of the motorists was a young woman." brouillard resented the implication irritably. "don't be an ass, murray," he snapped; and then he went on, with the frown of impatience still wrinkling between his eyes. "the young woman was the daughter. there was a cub of a son, and he fired a stick of dynamite in the river to kill a mess of trout. i heard the explosion and thought it might be the gasolene tank of the car." "naturally," said grislow guilelessly. "and, quite as naturally, you went down to see. i'm not sure that i shouldn't have done it myself." "of course you would," was the touchy retort. "when i got there and found out what had happened, i meant to make a second drop-out; but cortwright and his daughter were coming up the trail, and he hailed me. after that i couldn't do less than the decent thing. they wanted to see the valley, and i showed them the way in. cortwright is the multimillionaire pork packer of chicago, and he went up into the air like a lunatic over the money-making chances there were going to be in this job. i didn't pay much attention to his chortlings at the time. it didn't seem remotely credible that anybody with real money to invest would plant it in the bottom of the niquoia reservoir." "but now you think he is going to make his bluff good?" "that looks very much like it," said brouillard sourly, pointing to the letter from washington. "that scheme is going to change the whole face of nature for us up here, grislow. it will spell trouble right from the jump." "oh, i don't know," was the deprecatory rejoinder. "it will relieve us of a lot of side-issue industries--cut 'em out and bury 'em, so far as we are concerned." "that part of it is all right, of course; but it won't end there; not by a hundred miles. we've started in here to be a law to ourselves--as we've got to be to handle this mixed multitude of brigands and ditch diggers. but when this new company gets on the ground it will be different. there will be pull-hauling and scrapping and liquor selling, and we can't go in and straighten things out with a club as we do now. jobson says in that letter that the relations have got to be friendly! i'll bet anything you like that i'll have to go and read the riot act to those people before they've been twenty-four hours on their job!" grislow was trying the point of his mapping-pen on his thumb nail. "curious that this particular fly should drop into your pot of ointment on your birthday, wasn't it?" he remarked. "o suffering jehu!" gritted brouillard ragefully. "are you never going to forget that senseless bit of twaddle?" "you're not giving me a chance to forget it," said the map-maker soberly. "you told me that night that the seven-year characteristic was change; and you're a changed man, victor, if ever there was one. moreover, it began that very night--or the next morning." "oh, damn!" "certainly, if you wish it. but that is only another proof of what i am saying. it's getting on your nerves now. do you know what the men have named you? they call you 'hell's-fire.' that has come to be your word when you light into them for something they've done or haven't done. no longer ago than this morning you were swearing at griffith, as if you'd forgotten that the boy is only a year out of college and can't be supposed to know as much as leshington or anson. where is your sense of humor?" brouillard laughed, if only to prove that his sense of humor was still unimpaired. "they are a fearful lot of dubs, grizzy," he said, meaning the laborers; "the worst we've ever drawn, and that is saying a good deal. three drunken brawls last night, and a man killed in haley's place. and i can't keep liquor out of the camp to save my soul--not if i should sit up nights to invent new regulations. the navajos are the best of the bunch and we've managed to keep the fire from spreading over on their side of the niquoia, thus far. but if the whiskey ever gets hold in the tepees, we'll have orders to shoot chief nicagee's people back to their reservation in a holy minute." grislow nodded. "niqoyastcàdje--'place-where-they-came-up.' it will be 'place-where-they-go-down' if the tin-horns and boot-leggers get an inning." "we'll all go to the devil on a toboggan-slide and there is the order for it," declared the chief morosely, again indicating the letter from washington. "that means more human scum--a new town--an element that we can neither chase out nor control. cortwright and his associates, whoever they are, won't care a rotten hang. they'll be here to sweat money out of the job; to sweat it in any and every way that offers, and to do it quick. all of which is bad enough, you'd say, murray; but it isn't the worst of it. i've just run up against another thing that is threatening to raise merry hell in this valley." "i know," said the hydrographer slowly. "you've been having a _séance_ with steve massingale. leshington told me about it." "what did he tell you?" brouillard demanded half-angrily. "oh, nothing much; nothing to make you hot at him. he happened to be in the other room when massingale was here, and the door was open. he said he gathered the notion that the young sorehead was trying to bully you." "he was," was the brittle admission. "see here, grizzy." the thing to be seen was a small buckskin bag which, when opened, gave up a paper packet folded like a medicine powder. the paper contained a spoonful of dust and pellets of metal of a dull yellow lustre. the hydrographer drew a long breath and fingered the nuggets. "gold--placer gold!" he exclaimed, and brouillard nodded and went on to tell how he had come by the bag and its contents. "massingale had an axe to grind, of course. you may remember that harding talked loosely about the massingale opposition to the building of the dam. there was nothing in it. the opposition was purely personal and it was directed against harding himself, with amy massingale for the exciting cause." "that girl?--the elemental brute!" grislow broke in warmly. he knew the miner's daughter fairly well by this time and, in common with every other man on the staff, not excepting the staff's chief, would have fought for her in any cause. brouillard nodded. "i don't know what harding did, but smith, the triangle-circle foreman, tells me that steve was on the war-path; he told harding when he left, last summer, that if he ever came back to the niquoia, he'd come to stay--and stay dead." "i never did like harding's sex attitude any too well," was the hydrographer's definitive comment; and brouillard went back to the matter of the morning's _séance_ and its golden outcome. "that is only a little side issue. steve massingale came to me this morning with a proposal that was about as cold-blooded as a slap in the face. naturally, for good business reasons of their own, the massingales want to see the railroad built over war arrow pass and into the niquoia. in some way steve has found out that i stand in pretty well with president ford and the pacific southwestern people. his first break was to offer to incorporate the 'little susan' and to give me a block of the stock if i'd pull ford's leg on the extension proposition." "well?" queried grislow. "the railroad over war arrow pass would be the biggest thing that ever happened for our job here. if it did nothing else, it would make us independent of these boomers that are coming in to sell us material at their own prices." "exactly. but my hands are tied; and, besides, massingale's offer was a rank bribe. you can imagine what i told him--that i could neither accept stock in his mine nor say anything to influence the railroad people; that my position as chief engineer for the government cut me out both ways. then he began to bully and pulled the club on me." again grislow's smile was jocose. "you haven't been tumbling into the ditch with leshington and griffith and the rest of us and making love to the little sister, have you?" he jested. "don't be a fool if you can help it," was the curt rejoinder. "and don't give yourself leave to say things like that about amy massingale. she is too good and sweet and clean-hearted to be dragged into this mix-up, even by implication. do you get that, murray?" "oh, yes; it's only another way of saying that i'm one of the fools. go on with the stephen end of it." "well, when i turned him down, young massingale began to bluster and to say that i'd have to boost the railroad deal, whether i wanted to or not. i told him he couldn't prove it, and he said he would show me, if i'd take half an hour's walk up the valley with him. i humored him, more to get quit of him than for any other reason, and on the way past the camp he borrowed a frying-pan at one of the cook shacks. you know that long, narrow sand-bar in the river just below the mouth of the upper canyon?" grislow nodded. "that is where we went for the proof. massingale dipped up a panful of the bar sand, which he asked me to wash out for myself. i did it, and you have the results there in that paper. that bar is comparatively rich placer dirt." "good lord!" ejaculated the map-maker. "comparatively rich, you say?--and you washed this spoonful out of a single pan?" "keep your head," said brouillard coolly. "massingale explained that i had happened to make a ten-strike; that the bar wasn't any such bonanza as that first result would indicate. i proved that, too, by washing some more of it without getting any more than a few 'colors.' but the fact remains: it's placer ground." it was at this point that the larger aspect of the fact launched itself upon the hydrographer. "a gold strike!" he gasped. "and we--we're planning to drown it under two hundred feet of a lake!" brouillard's laugh was harsh. "don't let the fever get hold of you, grislow. don't forget that we are here to carry out the plans of the reclamation service--which are more far-reaching and of a good bit greater consequence than a dozen placer-mines. not that it didn't make me grab for hand-holds for a minute or two, mind you. i wasn't quite as cold about it as i'm asking you to be, and i guess massingale had calculated pretty carefully on the dramatic effect of his little shock. anyway, he drove the peg down good and hard. if i would jump in and pull every possible string to hurry the railroad over the range, and keep on pulling them, the secret of the placer bar would remain a secret. otherwise he, stephen massingale, would give it away, publish it, advertise it to the world. you know what that would mean for us, murray." "my lord! i should say so! we'd have boomtown-on-the-pike right now, with all the variations! every white man in the camp would chuck his job in the hollow half of a minute and go to gravel washing!" "that's it precisely," brouillard acquiesced gloomily. "massingale is a young tough, but he is shrewd enough, when he is sober. he had me dead to rights, and he knew it. 'you don't want any gold camp starting up here in the bottom of your reservoir,' he said; and i had to admit it." grislow had found a magnifying-glass in the drawer of the mapping table, and he was holding it in focus over the small collection of grain gold and nuggets. in the midst of the eager examination he looked up suddenly to say: "hold on a minute. why is steve proposing to give this thing away? why isn't he working the bar himself?" "he explained that phase of it, after a fashion--said that placer-mining was always more or less of a gamble and that they had a sure thing of it in the 'little susan.' of course, if the thing had to be given away, he and his father would avail themselves of their rights as discoverers and take their chance with the crowd for the sake of the ready money they might get out of it. otherwise they'd be content to let it alone and stick to their legitimate business, which is quartz-mining." "and to do that successfully they've got to have the railroad. say, victor, i'm beginning to acquire a great and growing respect for mr. stephen massingale. this field is too small for him; altogether too small. he ought to get a job with some of the malefactors of great wealth. how did you settle it finally?" "massingale was too shrewd to try to push me over the edge while there seemed to be a fairly good chance that i would walk over of my own accord. he told me to take a week or two and think about it. we dropped the matter by common consent after we left the bar in the quadjenàï bend, and on the way down the valley massingale pitched in a bit of information out of what seemed to be sheer good-will. it seems that he and his father have done a lot of test drilling up and down the side of chigringo at one time and another, and he told me that there is a bed of micaceous shale under our south anchorage, cautioning me not to let the excavation stop until we had gone through it." "well! that was pretty decent of him." "yes; and it shows that harding was lying when he said that the massingales were opposing the reclamation project. they are frankly in favor of it. irrigation in the buckskin means population; and population will bring the railroad, sooner or later. in the matter of hurrying the track-laying, massingale is only adopting modern business methods. he has a club and he is using it." grislow was biting the end of his penholder thoughtfully. "what are you going to do about it, victor?" he asked at length. "we can't stand for any more chaos than the gods have already doped out for us, can we?" brouillard took another long minute at the office window before he said: "what would you do if you were in my place, murray?" but at this the map-maker put up his hands as if to ward off a blow. "no, you don't!" he laughed. "i can at least refuse to be that kind of a fool. go and hunt you a professional conscience keeper; i went out of that business for keeps in my sophomore year. but i'll venture a small prophecy: we'll have the railroad--and you'll pull for it. and then, whether massingale tells or doesn't tell, the golden secret will leak out. and after that, the deluge." iv a fire of little sticks two days after the arrival of the letter from washington announcing the approaching invasion of private capital, brouillard, returning from a horseback trip into the buckskin, where anson and griffith were setting grade stakes for the canal diggers, found a visitor awaiting him in the camp headquarters office. one glance at the thick-bodied, heavy-faced man chewing an extinct cigar while he made himself comfortable in the only approach to a lounging chair that the office afforded was sufficient to awaken an alert antagonism. quick to found friendships or enmities upon the intuitive first impression, brouillard's acknowledgment was curt and business-brusque when the big man introduced himself without taking the trouble to get out of his chair. "my name is hosford and i represent the niquoia improvement company as its manager and resident engineer," said the lounger, shifting the dead cigar from one corner of his hard-bitted mouth to the other. "you're brillard, the government man, i take it?" "brouillard, if you please," was the crisp correction. and then with a careful effacement of the final saving trace of hospitality in tone or manner: "what can we do for you, mr. hosford?" "a good many things, first and last. i'm two or three days ahead of my outfit, and you can put me up somewhere until i get a camp of my own. you've got some sort of an engineers' mess, i take it?" "we have," said brouillard briefly. with anson and griffith absent on the field-work, there were two vacancies in the staff mess. moreover, the law of the desert prescribes that not even an enemy shall be refused bread and bed. "you'll make yourself at home with us, of course," he added, and he tried to say it without making it sound too much like a challenge. "all right; so much for that part of it," said the self-invited guest. "now for the business end of the deal--why don't you sit down?" brouillard planted himself behind his desk and began to fill his blackened office pipe, coldly refusing hosford's tender of a cigar. "you were speaking of the business matter," he suggested bluntly. "yes. i'd like to go over your plans for the power dam in the upper canyon. if they look good to me i'll adopt them." brouillard paused to light his pipe before he replied. "perhaps we'd better clear away the underbrush before we begin on the standing timber, mr. hosford," he said, when the tobacco was glowing militantly in the pipe bowl. "have you been given to understand that this office is in any sense a tail to your improvement company's kite?" "i haven't been 'given to understand' anything," was the gruff rejoinder. "our company has acquired certain rights in this valley, and i'm taking it for granted that you've had the situation doped out to you. it won't be worth your while to quarrel with us, mr. brouillard." "i am very far from wishing to quarrel with anybody," said brouillard, but his tone belied the words. "at the same time, if you think that we are going to do your engineering work, or any part of it, for you, you are pretty severely mistaken. our own job is fully big enough to keep us busy." "you're off," said the big man coolly. "somebody has bungled in giving you the dope. you want to keep your job, don't you?" "that is neither here nor there. what we are discussing at present is the department's attitude toward your enterprise. i shall be exceeding my instructions if i make that attitude friendly to the detriment of my own work." the new resident manager sat back in his chair and chewed his cigar reflectively, staring up at the log beaming of the office ceiling. when he began again he did not seem to think it worth while to shift his gaze from the abstractions. "you're just like all the other government men i've ever had to do business with, brouillard; pig-headed, obstinate, blind as bats to their own interests. i didn't especially want to begin by knocking you into line, but i guess it'll have to be done. in the first place, let me tell you that there are all kinds of big money behind this little sky-rocket of ours here in the niquoia: ten millions, twenty millions, thirty millions, if they're needed." brouillard shook his head. "i can't count beyond a hundred, mr. hosford." "all right; then i'll get you on the other side. suppose i should tell you that practically all of your bosses are in with us; what then?" "your stockholders' listings concern me even less than your capitalization. we are miles apart yet." again the representative of niquoia improvement took time to shift the extinct cigar. "i guess the best way to get you is to send a little wire to washington," he said reflectively. "how does that strike you?" "i haven't the slightest interest in what you may do or fail to do," said brouillard. "at the same time, as i have already said, i don't wish to quarrel with you or with your company." "ah! that touched you, didn't it?" "not in the sense you are imagining; no. send your wire if you like. you may have the use of the government telegraph. the office is in the second shack north of this." "still you say you don't want to scrap?" "certainly not. as you have intimated, we shall have to do business together as buyer and seller. i merely wished to make it plain that the reclamation service doesn't put its engineering department at the disposal of the niquoia improvement company." "but you have made the plans for this power plant, haven't you?" "yes; and they are the property of the department. if you want them, i'll turn them over to you upon a proper order from headquarters." "that's a little more like it. where did you say i'd find your wire office?" brouillard gave the information a second time, and as hosford went out, grislow came in and took his place at the mapping table. "glad you got back in time to save my life," he remarked pointedly, with a sly glance at his chief. "he's been ploughing furrows up and down my little potato patch all day." "humph! digging for information, i suppose?" grunted brouillard. "just that; and he's been getting it, too. not out of me, particularly, but out of everybody. also, he was willing to impart a little. we're in for the time of our lives, victor." "i know it," was the crabbed rejoinder. "you don't know the tenth part of it," asserted the hydrographer slowly. "it's a modest name, 'the niquoia improvement company,' but it is going to be like charity--covering a multitude of sins. do you know what that plank-faced organizer has got up his sleeve? he is going to build us a neat, up-to-date little city right here in the middle of our midst. if i hadn't made him believe that i was only a draughtsman, he would have had me out with a transit, running the lines for the streets." "a city?--in this reservoir bottom? i guess not. he was only stringing you to kill time, grizzy." "don't you fool yourself!" exclaimed the map-maker. "he's got the plans in his grip. we're going to be on a little reservation set apart for us by the grace of god and the kindness of these promoters. the remainder of the valley is laid off into cute little squares and streets, with everything named and numbered, ready to be listed in the brokers' offices. you may not be aware of it, but this palatial office building of ours fronts on chigringo avenue." "stuff!" said brouillard. "what has all this bubble blowing got to do with the building of a temporary power dam and the setting up of a couple of cement kilns?" grislow laid his pen aside and whirled around on his working-stool. "don't you make any easy-going mistake, victor," he said earnestly. "the cement and power proposition is only a side issue. these new people are going to take over the sawmills, open up quarries, build a stub railroad to the hophra mines, grade a practicable stage road over the range to quesado, and put on a fast-mule freight line to serve until the railroad builds in. wouldn't that set your teeth on edge?" "i can't believe it, murray. it's a leaf out of the book of bedlam! take a fair shot at it and see where the bullet lands: this entire crazy fake is built upon one solitary, lonesome fact--the fact that we're here, with a job on our hands big enough to create an active, present-moment market for labor and material. there is absolutely nothing else behind the bubble blowing; if we were not here the niquoia improvement company would never have been heard of!" grislow laughed. "your arguing that twice two makes four doesn't change the iridescent hue of the bubble," he volunteered. "if big money has seen a chance to skin somebody, the mere fact that the end of the world is due to come along down the pike some day isn't going to cut any obstructing figure. we'll all be buying and selling corner lots in hosford's new city before we're a month older. don't you believe it?" "i'll believe it when i see it," was brouillard's reply; and with this the matter rested for the moment. it was later in the day, an hour or so after the serving of the hearty supper in the engineers' mess tent, that brouillard was given to see another and still less tolerable side of his temporary guest. hosford had come into the office to plant himself solidly in the makeshift easy-chair for the smoking of a big, black, after-supper cigar. "i've been looking over your rules and regulations, brouillard," he began, after an interval of silence which brouillard had been careful not to break. "you're making a capital mistake in trying to transplant the old connecticut blue laws out here. your working-men ought to have the right to spend their money in any way that suits 'em." brouillard was pointedly occupying himself at his desk, but he looked up long enough to say: "whiskey, you mean?" "that and other things. they tell me that you don't allow any open gambling, or any women here outside of the families of the workmen." "we don't," was the short rejoinder. "that won't hold water after we get things fairly in motion." "it will have to hold water, so far as we are concerned, if i have to build a stockade around the camp," snapped brouillard. hosford's heavy face wrinkled itself in a mirthless smile. "you're nutty," he remarked. "when i find a man bearing down hard on all the little vices, it always makes me wonder what's the name of the corking big one he is trying to cover up." since there was obviously no peaceful reply to be made to this, brouillard bent lower over his work and said nothing. at every fresh step in the forced acquaintance the new-comer was painstakingly developing new antagonisms. sooner or later, brouillard knew, it would come to an open rupture, but he was hoping that the actual hostilities could be postponed until after hosford had worn out his temporary welcome as a guest in the engineers' mess. for a time the big man in the easy-chair smoked on in silence. then he began again: "say, brouillard, i saw one little girl to-day that didn't belong to your workmen's-family outfit, and she's a peach; came riding down the trail with her brother from that mine up on the south mountain--massingale's, isn't it? by jove! she fairly made my mouth water!" inasmuch as no man can read field-notes when the page has suddenly become a red blur, brouillard looked up. "you are my guest, in a way, mr. hosford; for that reason i can't very well tell you what i think of you." so much he was able to say quietly. then the control mechanism burned out in a flash of fiery rage and he cursed the guest fluently and comprehensively, winding up with a crude and savage threat of dissection and dismemberment if he should ever venture so much as to name miss massingale again in the threatener's hearing. hosford sat up slowly, and his big face turned darkly red. "well, i'll be damned!" he broke out. "so you're _that_ kind of a fire-eater, are you? lord, lord! i didn't suppose anything like that ever happened outside of the ten-cent shockers. wake up, man; this is the twentieth century we're living in. don't look at me that way!" but the wave of insane wrath was already subsiding, and brouillard, half ashamed of the momentary lapse into savagery, was once more scowling down at the pages of his note-book. further along, when the succeeding silence had been undisturbed for five full minutes, he began to realize that the hot brouillard temper, which he had heretofore been able to keep within prudent bounds, had latterly been growing more and more rebellious. he could no longer be sure of what he would say or do under sudden provocation. true, he argued, the provocation in the present instance had been sufficiently maddening; but there had been other upflashings of the murderous inner fire with less to excuse them. hosford finished his cigar, and when he tossed the butt out through the opened window, brouillard hoped he was going. but the promoter-manager made no move other than to take a fresh cigar from his pocket case and light it. brouillard worked on silently, ignoring the big figure in the easy-chair by the window, and striving to regain his lost equilibrium. to have shown hosford the weakness of the control barriers was bad enough, but to have pointed out the exact spot at which they were most easily assailable was worse. he thought it would be singular if hosford should not remember how and where to strike when the real conflict should begin, and he was properly humiliated by the reflection that he had rashly given the enemy an advantage. he was calling hosford "the enemy" now and making no ameliorating reservations. that the plans of the boomers would speedily breed chaos, and bring the blight of disorder and lawlessness upon the niquoia project and everything connected with it, he made no manner of doubt. how was he to hold a camp of several hundred men in decent subjection if the temptations and allurements of a boomers' city were to be brought in and set down within arm's reach of the work on the dam? it seemed blankly incredible that the department heads in washington should sanction such an invasion if they knew the full meaning of it. the "if" gave him an idea. what if the boomers were taking an unauthorized ell for their authorized inch? he had taken a telegraph pad from the desk stationery rack and was composing his message of inquiry when the door opened and quinlan, the operator, came in with a communication fresh from the washington wire. the message was an indirect reply to hosford's telegraphed appeal to the higher powers. brouillard read it, stuck it upon the file, and took a roll of blue-prints from the bottom drawer of his desk. "here are the drawings for your power installation, mr. hosford," he said, handing the roll to the man in the chair. and a little later he went out to smoke a pipe in the open air, leaving the message of inquiry unwritten. v symptomatic for some few minutes after the gray-bearded, absent-eyed old man who had been working at the mine forge had disappeared in the depths of the tunnel upon finishing his job of drill pointing, the two on the cabin porch made no attempt to resume the talk which had been broken by the blacksmithing. but when the rumbling thunder of the ore-car which the elder massingale was pushing ahead of him into the mine had died away in the subterranean distances brouillard began again. "i do get your point of view--sometimes," he said. "or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that i have had it now and then in times past. civilization, or what stands for it, does have a way of shrinking into littleness, not to say cheapness, when one can get the proper perspective. and your life up here on chigringo has given you the needful detached point of view." the trouble shadows in the eyes of the young woman who was sitting in the fish-net hammock gave place to a smile of gentle derision. "do you call _that_ civilization?" she demanded, indicating the straggling new town spreading itself, map-like, in the valley below. "i suppose it is--one form of it. at least it is civilization in the making. everything has to have some sort of a beginning." miss massingale acquiesced in a little uptilt of her perfectly rounded chin. "just the same, you don't pretend to say that you are enjoying it," she said in manifest deprecation. "oh, i don't know. my work is down there, and a camp is a necessary factor in it. you'd say that the more civilized the surroundings become, the less need there would be for me to sit up nights to keep the lid on. that would be the reasonable conclusion, wouldn't it?" "if you were really trying to make the fact fit the theory--which you are not--it would be a sheer, self-centred eye-shutting to all the greater things that may be involved," she continued. "don't you ever get beyond that?" "i did at first. when i learned a few weeks ago that the boomers had taken hold of us in earnest and that we were due to acquire a real town with all the trimmings, i was righteously hot. apart from the added trouble a wide-open town would be likely to give us in maintaining order in the camp, it seemed so crudely unnecessary to start a pigeon-plucking match at this distance from wall street." "but now," she queried--"now, i suppose, you have become reconciled?" "i am growing more philosophical, let us say. there are just about so many pigeons to be plucked, anyway; they'd moult if they weren't plucked. and it may as well be done here as on the stock exchange, when you come to think of it." "i like you least when you talk that way," said the young woman in the hammock, with open-eyed frankness. "do you do it as other men do?--just to hear how it sounds?" brouillard, sitting on the top step of the porch, leaned his head against the porch post and laughed. "you know too much--a lot too much for a person of your tender years," he asserted. "which names one more of the charming collection of contradictions which your father or mother or somebody had the temerity to label 'amy,' sweetest and most seraphic of diminutives." "if you don't like my name--" she began, and then she went off at another tangent. "please tell me why i am a 'collection of contradictions.' tig never says anything like that to me." "'tig,'" said brouillard, "'tig' smith. speaking of names, i've often wondered how on earth our breezy friend of the tri'-circ' ever got such a handle as that." "it's his own name--or a part of it. his father was a country preacher back in tennessee, and i imagine he had the smith feeling that the surname wasn't very distinctive. so he named the poor boy tiglath-pileser. just the same, it is not to laugh," she went on in friendly loyalty. "tig can't help his name, and, anyway, he's the vastest possible improvement on those old assyrian gentlemen who were the first to wear it." brouillard's gaze went past the shapely little figure in the string hammock to lose itself in the far timanyoni distances. "you are a bundle of surprises," he said, letting the musing thought slip into speech. "what can you possibly know about the assyrians?" she made a funny little grimace at him. "it was 'contradictions' a moment ago and now it is 'surprises.' which reminds me, you haven't told me why i am a 'collection.'" "i think you know well enough," he retorted. "the first time i saw you--down at the nick-wire ford with tig, you remember--i tried to recall which madonna it is that has your mouth and eyes." "well, did you succeed in placing the lady?" "no. somehow, i haven't cared to since i've come to know you. you're different--always different, and then--oh, well, comparisons are such hopelessly inadequate things, anyway," he finished lamely. "you are not getting on very well with the 'contradictions,'" she demurred. "oh, i can catalogue them if you push me to it. one minute you are the madonna lady that i can't recall, calm, reposeful, truthful, and all that, you know--so truthful that those childlike eyes of yours would make a stuttering imbecile of the man who should come to you with a lie in his mouth." "and the next minute?" she prompted. "the next minute you are a witch, laughing at the man's little weaknesses, putting your finger on them as accurately as if you could read his soul, holding them up to your ridicule and--what's much worse--to his own. at such times your insight, or whatever you choose to call it, is enough to give a man a fit of 'seeing things.'" her laugh was like a school-girl's, light-hearted, ringing, deliciously unrestrained. "what a picture!" she commented. and then: "i can draw a better one of you, monsieur victor de brouillard." "do it," he dared. "it'll hurt your vanity." "i haven't any." "oh, but you have! don't you know that it is only the very vainest people who say that?" "never mind; go on and draw your picture." "even if it should give you another attack of the 'seeing things'?" "yes; i'll chance even that." "very well, then: once upon a time--it was a good while ago, i'm afraid--you were a very upright young man, and your uprightness made you just a little bit austere--for yourself, if not for others. at that time you were busy whittling out heroic little ideals and making idols of them; and i am quite sure you were spelling duty with a capital 'd' and that you would have been properly horrified if a sister of yours had permitted an unchaperoned acquaintance like--well, like ours." "go on," he said, neither affirming nor denying. "also, at that time you thought that a man's work in the world was the biggest thing that ever existed, the largest possible order that could be given, and the work and everything about it had to be transparently honest and openly aboveboard. you would cheerfully have died for a principle in those days, and you would have allowed the enemy to cut you up into cunning little inch cubes before you would have admitted that any pigeon was ever made to be plucked." he was smiling mirthlessly, with the black mustaches taking the sardonic upcurve. "then what happened?" "one of two things, or maybe both of them. you were pushed out into the life race with some sort of a handicap. i don't know what it was--or is. is that true?" "yes." "then i'll hazard the other guess. you discovered that there were women in the world and that there was something in you, or about you, that was sufficiently attractive to make them sit up and be nice to you. for some reason--perhaps it was the handicap--you thought you'd be safer in the unwomaned wilderness and so you came out here to the 'wild and woolly.' but even here you're not safe. there is a passable trail over war arrow pass and at a pinch an automobile can cross the buckskin." when she stopped he nodded gravely. "it is all true enough. you haven't added anything more than a graceful little touch here and there. who has been telling you all these things about me?" she clapped her hands in delighted self-applause. "you don't deny them?" "i wouldn't be so impolite." in the turning of a leaf her mood changed and the wide-open, fearless eyes were challenging him soberly. "you _can't_ deny them." he tried to break away from the level-eyed, accusing gaze--tried and found it impossible. "i asked you who has been gossiping about me; not grizzy?" "no, not murray grislow; it was the man you think you know best in all the world--who is also the one you probably know the least--yourself." "good heavens! am i really such a transparent egoist as all that?" "all men are egoists," she answered calmly. "in some the ego is sound and clear-eyed and strong; in others it is weak--in the same way that passion is weak; it will sacrifice all it has or hopes to have in some sudden fury of self-assertion." she sat up and put her hands to her hair, and he was free to look away, down upon the great ditch where the endless chain of concrete buckets linked itself to the overhead carrier like a string of mechanical insects, each with its pinch of material to add to the deep and wide-spread foundations of the dam. across the river a group of hidden sawmills sent their raucous song like the high-pitched shrilling of distant locusts to tremble upon the still air of the afternoon. in the middle distance the camp-town city, growing now by leaps and bounds, spread its roughly indicated streets over the valley level, the yellow shingled roofs of the new structures figuring as patches of vivid paint under the slanting rays of the sun. far away to the right the dark-green liftings of the quadjenàï hills cut across from mountain to river; at the foot of the ridge the tall chimney-stacks of the new cement plant were rising, and from the quarries beyond the plant the dull thunder of the blasts drifted up to the chigringo heights like a sign from the mysterious underworld of navajo legend. this was not brouillard's first visit to the cabin on the massingale claim by many. in the earliest stages of the valley activities smith, the buckskin cattleman, had been amy massingale's escort to the reclamation camp--"just a couple o' lookers," in smith's phrase--and the unconventional altitudes had done the rest. from that day forward the young woman had hospitably opened her door to brouillard and his assistants, and any member of the corps, from leshington the morose, who commonly came to sit in solemn silence on the porch step, to griffith, who had lost his youthful heart to miss massingale on his first visit, was welcome. of the five original members of the staff and the three later additions to it, in the persons of the paymaster, the cost-keeper, and young altwein, who had come in as grislow's field assistant, brouillard was the one who climbed oftenest up the mountain-side trail from the camp--a trail which was becoming by this time quite well defined. he knew he went oftener than any of the others, and yet he felt that he knew amy massingale less intimately and was far and away more hopelessly entangled than--well, than grislow, for example, whose visits to the mine cabin came next in the scale of frequency and whose ready wit and gentle cynicism were his passports in any company. for himself, brouillard had not been pointedly analytical as yet. from the moment when amy and smith had reined up at the door of his office shack and he had welcomed them both, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to fall under the spell of enchantment. he knew next to nothing of the young woman's life story; he had not cared to know. it had not occurred to him to wonder how the daughter of a man who drilled and shot the holes in his own mine should have the gifts and belongings--when she chose to display them--of a woman of a much wider world. it was enough for him that she was piquantly attractive in any character and that he found her marvellously stimulating and uplifting. on the days when the devil of moroseness and irritability possessed and maddened him he could climb to the cabin on high chigringo and find sanity. it was a keen joy to be with her, and up to the present this had sufficed. "egoism is merely another name for the expression of a vital need," he said, after the divagating pause, defining the word more for his own satisfaction than in self-defense. "you may put it in that way if you please," she returned gravely. "what is your need?" he stated it concisely. "money--a lot of it." "how singular!" she laughed. "i need money, too--a lot of it." "you?" "yes, i." "what would you do with it? buy corner lots in niqoyastcàdjeburg?" "no, indeed; i'd buy a farm in the blue-grass--two of them, maybe." "what an ambition for a girl! have you ever been in the blue-grass country?" she got out of the hammock and came to lean, with her hands behind her, against the opposite porch post. "that was meant to humiliate me, and i sha'n't forget it. you know well enough that i have never been east of the mississippi." "i didn't know it. you never tell me anything about yourself." again the mood shutter clicked and her smile was the calm mask of discerning wisdom. "persons with well-developed egos don't care to listen to folk-stories," she rejoined, evading the tentative invitation openly. "but tell me, what would you do with your pot of rainbow gold--if you should find it?" brouillard rose and straightened himself with his arms over his head like an athlete testing his muscles for the record-breaking event. "what would i do? a number of things. but first of all, i think, i'd buy the privilege of telling some woman that i love her." this time her laugh was frankly disparaging. "as if you could!" she said, with a lip curl that set his blood afire--"as if any woman worth while would care two pins for your wretched pot of gold!" "oh, i didn't mean it quite that way," he hastened to explain. "i said: 'buy the privilege.' if you knew the conditions you would understand me when i say that the money must come first." she was silent for so long a time that he looked at his watch and thought of going. but at the deciding instant she held him with a low-spoken question. "does it date back to the handicap? you needn't tell me if you don't want to." "it does. and there is no reason why i shouldn't tell you the simple fact. when my father died he left me a debt--a debt of honor; and it must be paid. until it is paid--but i am sure you understand." "quite fully," she responded quickly, and now there was no trace of levity in the sweetly serious tone. "is it much?--so much that you can't----" he nodded and sat down again on the porch step. "yes, it is big enough to go in a class by itself--in round numbers, a hundred thousand dollars." "horrors!" she gasped. "and you are carrying that millstone? must you carry it?" "if you knew the circumstances you would be the first to say that i must carry it, and go on carrying it to the end of the chapter." "but--but you'll _never_ be free!" "not on a government salary," he admitted. "as a matter of fact, it takes more than half of the salary to pay the premiums on--pshaw! i'm boring you shamelessly for the sake of proving up on my definition of the eternal ego. you ought not to have encouraged me. it's quite hopeless--the handicap business--unless some good angel should come along with a miracle or two. let's drop it." she was looking beyond him and her voice was quick with womanly sympathy when she said: "if you could drop it--but you can't. and it changes everything for you, distorts everything, colors your entire life. it's heart-breaking!" this was dangerous ground for him and he knew it. sympathy applied to a rankling wound may figure either as the healing oil or the maddening wine. it was the one thing he had hitherto avoided, resolutely, half-fearfully, as a good general going into battle marches around a kennel of sleeping dogs. but now the under-depths were stirring to a new awakening. in the ardor of young manhood he had taken up the vicarious burden dutifully, and at that time his renunciation of the things that other men strove for seemed the lightest of the many fetterings. but now love for a woman was threatening to make the renunciation too grievous to be borne. "how did you know?" he queried curiously. "it does change things; it has changed them fiercely in the past few weeks. we smile at the old fable of a man selling his soul for a ready-money consideration, but there are times when i'd sell anything i've got, save one, for a chance at the freedom that other men have--and don't value." "what is the one thing you wouldn't sell?" she questioned, and brouillard chose to discover a gently quickened interest in the clear-seeing eyes. "my love for the--for some woman. i'm saving that, you know. it is the only capital i'll have when the big debt is paid." "do you want me to be frivolous or serious?" she asked, looking down at him with the grimacing little smile that always reminded him of a caress. "a little while ago you said 'some woman,' and now you say it again, making it cautiously impersonal. that is nice of you--not to particularize; but i have been wondering whether she is or isn't worth the effort--and the reservation you make. because it is all in that, you know. you can do and be what you want to do and be if you only want to hard enough." he looked up quickly. "do you really believe that? what about a man's natural limitations?" "poof!" she said, blowing the word away as if it were a bit of thistle-down. "it is only the woman's limitations that count, not the man's. the only question is this: is the one only and incomparable she worth the effort? would you give a hundred thousand dollars for the privilege of being able to say to her: 'come, dear, let's go and get married'?" he was looking down, chiefly because he dared not look up, when he answered soberly: "she is worth it many times over; her price is above rubies. money, much or little, wouldn't be in it." "that is better--much better. now we may go on to the ways and means; they are all in the man, not in the things, 'not none whatsoever,' as tig would say. let me show you what i mean. three times within my recollection my father has been worth considerably more than you owe, and three time she has--well, it's gone. and now he is going to make good again when the railroad comes." brouillard got up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his working-coat, and faced about as if he had suddenly remembered that he was wasting the government's time. "i must be going back down the hill," he said. and then, without warning: "what if i should tell you that the railroad is not coming to the niquoia, amy?" to his utter amazement the blue eyes filled suddenly. but the owner of the eyes was winking the tears away and laughing before he could put the amazement into words. "you shouldn't hit out like that when one isn't looking; it's wicked," she protested. "besides, the railroad _is_ coming; it's got to come." "it is still undecided," he told her mechanically. "mr. ford is coming over with the engineers to have a conference on the ground with--with the cortwright people. i am expecting him any day." "the cortwright people want the road, don't they?" she asked. "yes, indeed; they are turning heaven and earth over to get it." "and the government?" "the department is holding entirely aloof, as it should. every one in the reclamation service knows that no good can possibly come of any effort to force the region ahead of its normal and natural development. and, besides, none of us here in the valley want to help blow the cortwright bubble any bigger than it has to be." "then you will advise against the building of the extension?" instead of answering her question he asked one of his own. "what does it mean to you--to you, personally, and apart from the money your father might make out of it, amy?" she hesitated a moment and then met the shrewd scrutiny of his gaze with open candor. "the money is only a means to an end--as yours will be. you know very well what i meant when i told you that three times we have been obliged to come back to the mountains to--to try again. i dreaded the coming of your camp; i dread a thousand times more the other changes that are coming--the temptations that a mushroom city will offer. this time father has promised me that when he can make his stake he will go back to kentucky and settle down; and he will keep his promise. more than that, stevie has promised me that he will go, too, if he can have a stock-farm and raise fine horses--his one healthy ambition. now you know it all." he reached up from the lower step where he was standing and took her hand. "yes; and i know more than that: i know that you are a mighty brave little girl and that your load is heavier than mine--worlds heavier. but you're going to win out; if not to-day or to-morrow, why, then, the day after. it's written in the book." she returned his hand-grip of encouragement impulsively and smiled down upon him through quick-springing tears. "you'll win out, too, victor, because it's in you to do it. i'm sure of it--i _know_ it. there is only one thing that scares me." "name it," he said. "i'm taking everything that comes to-day--from you." "you are a strong man; you have a reserve of strength that is greater than most men's full gift; you can cut and slash your way to the thing you really want, and nothing can stop you. but--you'll forgive me for being plain, won't you?--there is a little, just the least little, bit of desperation in the present point of view, and----" "say it," he commanded when she hesitated. "i hardly know how to say it. it's just a little shudder--inside, you know--as you might have when you see a railroad train rushing down the mountain and think what would happen if one single, inconsequent wheel should climb the rail. there were ideals in the beginning; you admitted it, didn't you? and they are not as distinct now as they used to be. you didn't say that, but i know.... stand them up again, victor; don't let them fall down in the dust or in the--in the mud. it's got to be clean money, you know; the money that is going to give you the chance to say: 'come, girl, let's go and get married.' you won't forget that, will you?" he relinquished the hand of encouragement because he dared not hold it any longer, and turned away to stare absently at the timbered tunnel mouth whence a faint clinking of hammer upon steel issued with monotonous regularity. "i wish you hadn't said that, amy--about the ideals." "why shouldn't i say it? i _had_ to say it." "i can't afford to play with too many fine distinctions. i have accepted the one great handicap. i may owe it to myself--and to some others--not to take on any more." "i don't know what you mean now," she said simply. "perhaps it is just as well that you don't. let's talk about something else; about the railroad. i told you that president ford is coming over to have a wrestle with the cortwright people, but i didn't tell you that he has already had his talk with mr. cortwright in person--in chicago. he hasn't decided; he won't decide until he has looked the ground over and had a chance to confer with me." she bridged all the gaps with swift intuition. "he means to give you the casting vote? he will build the extension if you advise it?" "it is something like that, i fancy; yes." "and you think--you feel----" "it is a matter of absolute indifference to me, officially. but in any event, ford would ask for nothing more than a friendly opinion." "then it will lie in your hand to make us rich or to keep us poor," she laughed. "be a good god-in-the-car, please, and your petitioners will ever pray." then, with an instant return to seriousness: "but you mustn't think of that--of course, you won't--with so many other and greater things to consider." "on the contrary, i shall think very pointedly of that; pointedly and regretfully--because your brother has made it practically impossible for me to help." "my brother?" with a little gasp. "yes. he offered to buy my vote with a block of 'little susan' stock. that wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't talked about it--told other people what he was going to do. but he did that, as well." he felt rather than saw that she had turned quickly to face the porch post, that she was hiding her face in the crooking of an arm. it melted him at once. "don't cry; i was a brute to say such a thing as that to you," he began, but she stopped him. "no," she denied bravely. "the truth may hurt--it _does_ hurt awfully; but it can't be brutal. and you are right. stevie _has_ made it impossible." an awkward little silence supervened and once more brouillard dragged his watch from its pocket. "i'm like the awkward country boy," he said with quizzical humor. "i really must go and i don't know how to break away." then he went back to the closed topic. "i guess the other thing was brutal, too--what i said about your brother's having made it impossible. other things being equal----" again she stopped him. "when mr. ford comes, you must forget what stevie said and what i have said. good-by." * * * * * an hour later, when the afternoon shadow of jack's mountain was lying all across the shut-in valley and pointing like the angle of a huge gnomon to the quadjenàï hills, brouillard was closeted in his log-built office quarters with a big, fair-faced man, whose rough tweeds and unbrushed, soft hat proclaimed him fresh from the dust-dry reaches of the quesado trail. "it is your own opinion that i want, victor," the fair-faced man was saying, "not the government engineer's. can we make the road pay if we bring it here? that is a question which you can answer better than any other living man. you are here on the ground and you've been here from the first." "you've had it out with cortwright?" brouillard asked. and then: "where is he now? in chicago?" "no. he is on his way to the niquoia, coming over in his car from el gato. says he made it that way once before and is willing to bet that it is easier than climbing war arrow. but never mind j. wesley. you are the man i came to see." "i can give you the facts," was the quiet rejoinder. "while the cortwright boom lasts there will be plenty of incoming business--and some outgoing. when the bubble bursts--as it will have to when the dam is completed, if it doesn't before--you'll quit until the buckskin fills up with settlers who can give you crops to move. that is the situation in a nutshell, all but one little item. there is a mine up on chigringo--massingale's--with a good few thousand tons of pay ore on the dump. where there is one mine there may be more, later on; and i don't suppose that even such crazy boomers as the cortwright crowd will care to put in a gold reduction plant. so you would have the ore to haul to the red butte smelters." a smile wrinkled at the corners of the big man's eyes. "you are dodging the issue, victor, and you know it," he objected. "what i want is your personal notion. if you were the executive committee of the pacific southwestern, would you, or would you not, build the extension? that's the point i'm trying to make." brouillard got up and went to the window. the gnomon shadow of jack's mountain had spread over the entire valley, and its southern limb had crept up chigringo until its sharply defined line was resting upon the massingale cabin. when he turned back to the man at the desk he was frowning thoughtfully, and his eyes were the eyes of one who sees only the clearly etched lines of a picture which obscures all outward and visual objects ... the picture he saw was of a sweet-faced young woman, laughing through her tears and saying: "besides, the railroad _is_ coming; it's _got_ to come." "if you put it that way," he said to the man who was waiting, "if you insist on pulling my private opinion out by the roots, you may have it. _i'd_ build the extension." vi mirapolis during the strenuous weeks when camp niquoia's straggling street was acquiring plank sidewalks and getting itself transformed into chigringo avenue, with a double row of false-fronted "emporiums" to supplant the shack shelters, monsieur poudrecaulx bongras, late of the san francisco tenderloin, opened the camp's first counter-grill. finding monsieur's name impossible in both halves of it, the camp grinned and rechristened him "poodles." later, discovering his dual gift of past mastership in potato frying and coffee making, the camp gave him vogue. out of the vogue sprang in swift succession a café with side-tables, a restaurant with private dining-rooms, and presently a commodious hotel, where the food was excellent, the appointments luxurious, and where jack--clothed and in his right mind and with money in his hand--was as good as his master. it was in one of bongras's private dining-rooms that mr. j. wesley cortwright was entertaining brouillard, with miss genevieve to make a harmonizing third at the circular table up to the removal of the cloth and the serving of the cigars and a second cold bottle. the little dinner had been a gustatory triumph; miss genevieve had added the charm of lightness at moments when her father threatened to let the money clink become painfully audible; and the cigars were gold-banded. nevertheless, when miss cortwright had gone up-stairs, and the waiter would have refilled his glass, brouillard shook his head. if the millionaire saw the refusal he was too wise to remark it. altogether, brouillard was finding his first impressions of mr. cortwright readjusting themselves with somewhat confusing rapidity. it was not that there was any change in the man. charactering the genial host like a bachelor of hospitality, he was still the frank, outspoken money-maker, hot upon the trail of the nimble dollar. yet there was a change of some kind. brouillard had marked it on the day, a fortnight earlier, when (after assuring himself morosely that he would not) he had gone down to the lower canyon portal to see the cortwright touring-car finish its second race across the desert from el gato. "of course, i was quite prepared to have you stand off and throw stones at our little cob house of a venture, brouillard," the host allowed at the lighting of the gold-banded cigars. "you're the government engineer and the builder of the big dam; it's only natural that your horizons should be filled with government-report pictures and half-tones of what's going to be when you get your dam done. but you can't build your dam in one day, or in two, and the interval is ours. i tell you, we're going to make mirapolis a buzz-hummer while the daylight lasts. don't you forget that." "'mirapolis'?" queried brouillard. "is that the new name?" cortwright laughed and nodded. "it's gene's name--'miracle city.' fits like the glove on a pretty girl's arm, doesn't it?" "it does. but the miracle is that there should be any money daring enough to invest itself in the niquoia." "there you go again, with your ingrained engineering ideas that to be profitable a scheme must necessarily have rock-bottom foundations and a time-defying superstructure," chuckled the host. "why, bless your workaday heart, brouillard, nothing is permanent in this shuffling, growing, progressive world of ours--absolutely nothing. some of the biggest and costliest buildings in new york and chicago are built on ground leases. our ground lease will merely be a little shorter in the factor of time." "so much shorter that the parallel won't hold," argued brouillard. "the parallel does hold; that is precisely the point. every ground-lease investment is a gamble. the investor simply bets that he can make the turn within the time limit." "yes; but a long term of years----" "there you are," cut in the financier. "now you've got it down to the hard-pan basis: long time, small profits and a slow return; short time, big profits and a quick return. you've eaten here before; what do you pay bongras for a reasonably good dinner?" brouillard laughed. "oh, poodles. he cinches us, all right; four or five times as much as it's worth--or would cost anywhere else." "that's it. he knows he has to make good on all these little luxuries he gives you--cash in every day, as you might say, and come out whole before you stop the creek and drown him. let me tell you something, brouillard; san francisco brags about being the cheapest city in the country; they'll tell you over there that you can buy more for your money than you can anywhere else on earth. well, mirapolis is going to take the trophy at the other end of the speedway. when we get in motion we're going to have alaska faded to a frazzle on prices--and you'll see everybody paying them joyfully." "and in the end somebody, or the final series of somebodies, will be left to hold the bag," finished brouillard. "that's a future. what is it the good book says? 'let us eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' that's philosophy, and it's good business, too. not that i'm admitting your pessimistic conclusions for a single minute; don't mistake me on that point. there needn't be any bag holders, brouillard. let me put it in a nutshell: we're building a cement plant, and we shall sell you the output--at a good, round price, i promise you, but still at a lower figure than you're paying for the imported article now, or than you will pay even after the railroad gets in. when our government orders are filled we can afford to wreck the plant for what it will bring as junk. we'll be out of it whole, with a nice little profit." "that is only one instance," objected the guest. "well, bongras, here, is one more," laughed the host. "he gets a piece of his investment back every time anybody looks over his _menu_ card. and our power plant is another. you made your little kick on that to washington--you thought the government ought to control its own power. that was all right, from your point of view, but we beat you to it. now the reclamation service gets all the power it needs at a nominal price, and we're going to sell enough more to make us all feel happy." "sell it? to whom?" mr. cortwright leaned back in his chair and the sandy-gray eyes seemed to be searching the inner recesses of the querying soul. "that's inside information, but i don't mind taking you in on it," he said between leisurely puffs at his cigar. "we've just concluded a few contracts: one with massingale--he's going to put in power drills, electric ore-cars, and a modern equipment generally and shove the development of the 'little susan'; one with a new mining syndicate which will begin operations at once on half a dozen prospects on jack's mountain; and one with a lumber combination that has just taken over the sawmills, and will install others, with a planing-mill and sash factory." brouillard nodded. the gray eyes were slowly hypnotizing him. "but that isn't all," continued the promoter. "we are about to reincorporate the power plant as the niquoia electric power, lighting, and traction company. within a fortnight we'll be lighting mirapolis, and within a month after the railroad gets in we'll be operating trolley-cars." the enthusiast paused to let the information sink in, also to note the effect upon the subject. the noting was apparently satisfactory, since he went on with the steady assurance of one who sees his way clearly. "that brings us down to business, brouillard. i don't mind admitting that i had an object in asking you to dine with me this evening. it's this: we feel that in the reorganization of the power company the government, which will always be the largest consumer, should be represented in some effective way; that its interests should be carefully safeguarded. it is not so easy as it might seem. we can't exactly make the government a stockholder." "no," said brouillard mechanically. the under-depths were stirring again, heaving as if from a mighty ground-swell that threatened a tidal wave of overturnings. "we discussed that phase of it in the directors' meeting this morning," continued the hypnotist smoothly, "and i made a suggestion which, as president of the company, i was immediately authorized to carry out. what we need, and what the government needs, is a man right here on the ground who will be absolutely loyal to the government's interests and who can be, at the same time, broad enough and honorable enough to be fair to us." brouillard roused himself by a palpable effort. "you have found your man, mr. cortwright?" a genial smile twinkled in the little gray eyes. "i didn't have very far to go. you see, i knew your father and i'm not afraid to trust his son. we are going to make you the government director, with full power to investigate and to act. and we're not going to be mean about it, either. the capital stock of the company is ten millions, with shares of a par value of one hundred dollars each, full paid and non-assessable. don't gasp; we'll cut a nice little melon on that capitalization every thirty days, or my name isn't cortwright." "but i have no money to invest," was the only form the younger man's protest took. "we don't need your money," cut in the financier with curt good nature. "what we do need is a consulting engineer, a man who, while he is one of us and identified with us, will see to it that we're not tempted to gouge our good uncle samuel. it will be no sinecure, i warn you. we're all pretty keen after the dollar, and you'll have to hold us down good and hard. of course, a director and a consulting officer must be a stockholder, but we'll take care of that." brouillard smoked in silence for a full minute before he said: "you know as well as i do, mr. cortwright, that it is an unwritten law of the service that a civilian employee of the government shall not engage in any other business." "no, i don't," was the blunt reply. "that rule may be good enough to apply to senators and representatives--and it ought to; outside jobs for them might influence legislation. but in your case it would not only be unjust to apply it; it would be absurd and contradictory. supposing your father had left you a hundred thousand dollars to invest instead of a debt of that amount--you see, i know what a load your keen sense of honor is making you carry--suppose you had this money to invest, would your position in the reclamation service compel you to lock it up in a safety vault?" "certainly not. but----" "very good. your objection to taking part in our project would be that a man can't be strictly impartial when he has a stake in the game; some men couldn't, mr. brouillard, but you can; you know you can, and i know it. otherwise you wouldn't be putting half of your salary and more into life-insurance premiums to secure a debt that isn't even constructively yours." "yes; but if the department should learn that i am a stockholder in a company from which it buys its power----" "there wouldn't be a word said--not one single word. they know you in washington, brouillard, better, perhaps, than you think they do. they know you would exact a square deal for the department even if it cost you personal money. but this is all academic. the practical facts are that you'll come in as consulting engineer and that you'll hold us strictly up to the mark on the government power contract. it's your duty and part of your job as chief of construction. and we'll leave the money consideration entirely out of it if you like. you'll get a stock-certificate, which you may keep or tear up and throw into the waste-basket, just as you please. if you keep it and want to realize on it at any time before you begin to put the finishing forms on the dam, i'll do this: i'll agree to market it for you at par. now let's quit and go and find gene. she'll think we've tippled ourselves under the table." "one moment," said brouillard. "you have a way of taking a man off his feet, mr. cortwright; a rather pleasant way i'm bound to admit. but in this thing which you are proposing there are issues involved which----" "you want time to think it over? take it, man; take all the time you need. there's no special hurry." brouillard felt that in accepting the condition he was potentially committing himself. it was a measure of the distance he had already travelled that he interposed a purely personal obstacle. "i couldn't serve as your engineer, mr. cortwright, not even in a consulting capacity. call it prejudice or anything you please, but i simply couldn't do business in an associate relation with your man hosford." cortwright had risen, and he took his guest confidentially by the buttonhole. "do you know, brouillard, hosford gets on my nerves, too? don't let that influence you. we'll let hosford go. we needed him at first to sort of knock things into shape; it takes a man of his calibre in the early stages of a project like ours, you know. but he has outlived his usefulness and we'll drop him. let's go up-stairs." it was quite late in the evening when brouillard, a little light-headed from an after-dinner hour of purely social wit-matching with miss genevieve, passed out through the café of the metropole on his way to his quarters. there were a few late diners at the tables, and bongras, smug and complacent in evening regalia, was waddling about among them like a glorified head waiter, his stiffly roached hair and napoleonic mustaches striving for a dignity and fierceness which was cruelly negatived by a round, full-fed face and an obese little body. "ze dinnare--she was h-all right, m'sieu' brouillard?" he inquired, holding the engineer for a moment at the street door. "as right as the price you're going to charge mr. cortwright for it," joked brouillard. "_sacré!_" swore the amiable one, spreading his hands, "if you could h-only know 'ow eet is cost to bring dose dinnare on dis place! two dollare de 'undred pounds dat mule-freightare is charge me for bringing dose chip-pest wine from quesado! sommtime ve get de railroad, _n'est-ce pas_, m'sieu' brouillard? den ve make dose dinnare moz risson-able." "yes, you will!" brouillard scoffed jocosely. "you'll be adding something then for the uniqueness--for the benefit of the tourists. it'll be a great ad, 'the hotel metropole, the delmonico's of the lake bottom. sit in and dine with us before the heavens open and the floods come.'" "i'll been wanting to h-ask you," whispered the frenchman with a quick-flung glance for the diners at the nearest of the tables, "doze flood--when she is coming, m'sieu' brouillard?" "when we get the dam completed." "you'll bet money h-on dat?--h-all de money you got?" "it's a sure thing, if that's what you're driving at. you can bet on it if you want to." "i make my bet on de price of de dinnare," smiled bongras. "_mais_, i like to know for sure." "why should you doubt it?" "_moi_, i don't doubt nottings; i make de grass to be cut w'ile de sun is shine. but i'll been hearing somebody say dat maybe-so dis town she grow so fas' and so beeg dat de gover'ment is not going drown her." "who said that?" "i don't know; it is _bruit_--what you call rumaire. you hear it h-on de avenue, in de café, h-anyw'eres you go." brouillard laughed again, this time with his hand on the door-latch. "don't lower your prices on the strength of any such rumor as that, poodles. the dam will be built, and the niquoia will be turned into a lake, with the hotel metropole comfortably anchored in the deepest part of it--that is, if it doesn't get gay enough to float." "dat's juz what i'll been thinking," smiled the little man, and he sped the parting guest with a bow that would have graced the antechamber of a _louis le grand_. out in the crisp night air, with the stars shining clear in the velvet sky and the vast bulks of the ramparting mountains to give solidity and definiteness to the scheme of things, brouillard was a little better able to get his feet upon the stable earth. but the major impulse was still levitant, almost exultant. when all was said, it was mr. cortwright's rose-colored view of the immediate future that persisted. "mirapolis!" it was certainly a name to conjure with; an inspiration on the part of the young woman who had chosen it. brouillard saw the projected streets pointing away into the four quarters of the night. it asked for little effort of the imagination to picture them as the streets of a city--lighted, paved, and busy with traffic. would the miracle be wrought? and if it should be, was there any possibility that in time the building of the great dam and the reclamation of the buckskin desert would become secondary in importance to the preservation of mirapolis? it seemed highly incredible; before the little dinner and the social evening brouillard would have said it was blankly impossible. but it is only fools and dead men who cannot admit a changing angle in the point of view. at first brouillard laid it to the champagne, forgetting that he had permitted but a single refilling of his glass. not then, nor for many days, did he suspect that it was his first deep draught of a far headier wine that sent the blood laughing through his veins as he strode down chigringo avenue to his darkened office quarters--the wine of the vintner whose name is graft. vii the speedway it was in the days after he had found on his desk a long envelope enclosing a certificate for a thousand shares of stock in the niquoia electric power, lighting, and traction company that brouillard began to lose his nickname of "hell's-fire" among his workmen, with the promise of attaining, in due time, to the more affectionate title of "the little big boss." at the envelope-opening moment, however, he was threatened with an attack of heart failure. that mr. cortwright and his fellow promoters should make a present of one hundred thousand dollars of the capital stock of the reorganized company to a mere government watch-dog who could presumably neither help nor hinder in the money-making plans of the close corporation, was scarcely believable. but a hastily sought interview with the company's president cleared the air of all the incredibilities. "why, my dear brouillard! what in sam hill do you take us for?" was the genial retort when the young engineer had made his deprecatory protest. "did you think we were going to cut the melon and hand you out a piece of the rind? not so, my dear boy; we are not built on any such narrow-gauge lines. but seriously, we're getting you at a bargain-counter price. one of the things we're up against is the building of another dam higher in the canyon for an auxiliary plant. in taking you in, we've retained the best dam builder in the country to tell us where and how to build it." "that won't go, mr. cortwright," laughed brouillard, finding the great man's humor pleasantly infectious. "you know you can hire engineers by the dozen at the usual rates." "all right, blot that out; say that i wanted to do the right thing by the son of good old judge antoine; just imagine, for the sake of argument, that i wanted to pose as the long-lost uncle of the fairy-stories to a fine young fellow who hasn't been able to draw a full breath since his father died. you can do it now, victor, my boy. any old time the trusteeship debt your father didn't really owe gets too heavy, you can unload on me and wipe it out. isn't it worth something to realize that?" "i guess it will be, if i am ever able to get down to the solid fact of realizing it. but i can't earn a hundred thousand dollars of the company's stock, mr. cortwright." "of course you can. that's what we are willing to pay for a good, reliable government brake. it's going to be your business to see to it that the reclamation service gets exactly what its contract calls for, kilowatt for kilowatt." "i'd do that, anyhow, as chief of construction on the dam." "you mean you would try to do it. as an officer of the power company, you can do it; as an official kicker on the outside, you couldn't feaze us a particle. what? you'd put us out of business? not much, you wouldn't; we'd play politics with you and get a man for your job who wouldn't kick." "well," said the inheritor of sudden wealth, still matching the promoter's mood, "you won't get me fired now, that's one comfort. when will you want my expert opinion on your auxiliary dam?" "on _our_ dam, you mean. oh, any time soon; say to-morrow or friday--or saturday if that hurries you too much. we sha'n't want to go to work on it before monday." being himself an exponent of the modern theory that the way to do things is to do them now, brouillard accepted the hurry order without comment. celerity, swiftness of accomplishment that was almost magical, had become the mirapolitan order of the day. plans conceived over-night leaped to their expositions in things done as if the determination to do them had been all that was necessary to their realization. "you shall have the report to-morrow," said the newly created consulting engineer, "but you can't go to work monday. the labor market is empty, and i'm taking it for granted that you're not going to stampede my shovellers and concrete men." "oh, no," conceded the city builder, "we sha'n't do that. you'll admit--in your capacity of government watch-dog--that we have played fair in that game. we have imported every workman we've needed, and we shall import more. that's one thing none of us can afford to do--bull the labor market. and it won't be necessary; we have a train load of italians and bulgarians on the way to quesado to-day, and they ought to be here by monday." "you are a wonder, mr. cortwright," was brouillard's tribute to the worker of modern miracles, and he went his way to ride to the upper end of the valley for the exploring purpose. on the monday, as president cortwright had so confidently predicted, the train load of laborers had marched in over the war arrow trail and the work on the auxiliary power dam was begun. on the tuesday a small army of linemen arrived to set the poles and to string the wires for the lighting of the town. on the wednesday there were fresh accessions to the army of builders, and the freighters on the quesado trail reported a steady stream of artisans pouring in to rush the city making. on the thursday the grading and paving of chigringo avenue was begun, and, true to his promise, mr. cortwright was leaving a right of way in the street for the future trolley tracks. and it was during this eventful week that the distant thunder of the dynamite brought the welcome tidings of the pushing of the railroad grade over the mountain barrier. also--but this was an item of minor importance--it was on the saturday of this week that the second tier of forms was erected on the great dam and the stripped first section of the massive gray foot-wall of concrete raised itself in mute but eloquent protest against the feverish activities of the miracle-workers. if the protest were a threat, it was far removed. many things might happen before the gray wall should rise high enough to cast its shadow, and the shadow of the coming end, over the miraculous city of the plain. it was brouillard himself who put this thought into words on the sunday when he and grislow were looking over the work of form raising and finding it good. "catching you, too, is it, victor?" queried the hydrographer, dropping easily into his attitude of affable cynicism. "i thought it would. but tell me, what are some of the things that may happen?" "it's easy to predict two of them: some people will make a pot of money and some will lose out." grislow nodded. "of course you don't take any stock in the rumor that the government will call a halt?" "you wouldn't suppose it could be possible." "no. yet the rumor persists. hosford hinted to me the other day that there might be a congressional investigation a little further along to determine whether the true _pro bono publico_ lay in the reclamation of a piece of yellow desert or in the preservation of an exceedingly promising and rapidly growing young city." "hosford is almost as good a boomer as mr. cortwright. everybody knows that." "yes. i guess mirapolis will have to grow a good bit more before congress can be made to take notice," was the hydrographer's dictum. "isn't that your notion?" brouillard was shaking his head slowly. "i don't pretend to have opinions any more, grizzy. i'm living from day to day. if the tail should get big enough to wag the dog----" they were in the middle of the high staging upon which the puddlers worked while filling the forms and grislow stopped short. "what's come over you, lately, victor? i won't say you're half-hearted, but you're certainly not the same driver you were a few weeks ago, before the men quit calling you 'hell's-fire.'" brouillard smiled grimly. "it's going to be a long job, grizzy. perhaps i saw that i couldn't hope to keep keyed up to concert pitch all the way through. call it that, anyway. i've promised to motor miss cortwright to the upper dam this afternoon, and it's time to go and do it." it was not until they were climbing down from the staging at the jack's mountain approach that grislow acquired the ultimate courage of his convictions. "going motoring, you said--with miss genevieve. that's another change. i'm beginning to believe in your seven-year hypothesis. you are no longer a woman-hater." "i never was one. there isn't any such thing." "you used to make believe there was and you posed that way last summer. think i don't remember how you were always ranting about the dignity of a man's work and quoting kipling at me? now you've taken to mixing and mingling like a social reformer." "well, what of it?" half-absently. "oh, nothing; only it's interesting from a purely academic point of view. i've been wondering how far you are responsible; how much you really do, yourself, and how much is done for you." brouillard's laugh was skeptical. "that's another leaf out of your psychological book, i suppose. it's rot." "is it so? but the fact remains." "what fact?" "the fact that your subconscious self has got hold of the pilot-wheel; that your reasoning self is asleep, or taking a vacation, or something of that sort." "oh, bally! there are times when you make me feel as if i had eaten too much dinner, grizzy! this is one of them. put it in words; get it out of your system." "it needs only three words: you are hypnotized." "that is what you say; it is up to you to prove it," scoffed brouillard. "i could easily prove it to the part of you that is off on a vacation. a month ago this city-building fake looked as crazy to you as it still does to those of us who haven't been invited to sit down and take a hand in mr. cortwright's little game. you hooted at it, preached a little about the gross immorality of it, swore a good bit about the effect it was going to have on our working force. it was a crazy object-lesson in modern greed, and all that." "well?" "now you seem to have gone over to the other side. you hobnob with cortwright and do office work for him. you know his fake is a fake; and yet i overheard you boosting it the other night in poodles's dining-room to a tableful of money maniacs as if cortwright were giving you a rake-off." brouillard stiffened himself with a jerk as he paced beside his accuser, but he kept his temper. "you're an old friend, grizzy, and a mighty good one--as i have had occasion to prove. it is your privilege to ease your mind. is that all?" "no. you are letting genevieve cortwright make a fool of you. if you were only half sane you'd see that she is a confirmed trophy hunter. why, she even gets down to young griffith--and uses him to dig out information about you. she----" "hold on, murray; there's a limit, and you'll bear with me if i say that you are working up to it now." brouillard's jaw was set and the lines between his eyes were deepening. "i don't know what you are driving at, but you'd better call it off. i can take care of myself." "if i thought you could--if i only thought you could," said grislow musingly. "but the indications all lean the other way. it would be all right if you wanted to marry her and she wanted you to; but you don't--and she doesn't. and, besides, there's amy; you owe her something, don't you?--or don't you? you needn't grit your teeth that way. you are only getting a part of what is coming to you. 'faithful are the wounds of a friend,' you know." "yes. and when the psalmist had admitted that, he immediately asked the lord not to let their precious balms break his head. you're all right, grizzy, but i'll pull through." then, with a determined wrenching aside of the subject: "are you going up on chigringo this afternoon?" "i thought i would--yes. what shall i tell miss massingale when she asks about you?" "you will probably tell her the first idiotic thing that comes into the back part of your head. and if you tell her anything pifflous about me i'll lay for you some dark night with a pick handle." grislow laughed reminiscently. "she won't ask," he said. "why not?" "because the last time she did it i told her your scalp was dangling at miss genevieve's belt." they had reached the door of the log-built quarters and brouillard spun the jester around with a shoulder grip that was only half playful. "if i believed you said any such thing as that i'd murder you!" he exploded. "perhaps you'll go and tell her that--you red-headed blastoderm!" "sure," said the blastoderm, and they went apart, each to his dunnage kit. viii table stakes there were a dozen business blocks under construction in mirapolis, with a proportional number of dwellings and suburban villas at various stages in the race toward completion, when it began to dawn upon the collective consciousness of a daily increasing citizenry that something was missing. garner, the real-estate plunger from kansas city, first gave the missing quantity its name. the distant thunder of the blasts heralding the approach of the railroad had ceased between two days. there was no panic; there was only the psychoplasmic moment for one. thus far there had been no waning of the fever of enthusiasm, no slackening of the furious pace in the race for growth, and, in a way, no lack of business. with money plentiful and credit unimpaired, with an army of workmen to spend its weekly wage, and a still larger army of government employees to pour a monthly flood into the strictly limited pool of circulation, traffic throve, and in token thereof the saloons and dance-halls never closed. up to the period of the silenced dynamite thunderings new industries were projected daily, and investors, tolled in over the high mountain trails or across the buckskin in dust-encrusted automobiles by methods best known to a gray-mustached adept in the art of promotion, thronged the lobby of the hotel metropole and bought and sold mirapolis "corners" or "insides" on a steadily ascending scale of prices. not yet had the time arrived for selling before sunset that which had been bought since sunrise. on the contrary, a strange mania for holding on, for permanency, seemed to have become epidemic. many of the working-men were securing homes on the instalment plan. a good few of the villas could boast parquetry floors and tiled bath-rooms. one coterie of chicagoans refused an advance of fifty per cent on a quarter square of business earth and the next day decided to build a six-storied office-building, with a ground-floor corner for the niquoia national bank, commodious suites for the city offices of the power company, the cement company, the lumber syndicate, and the water company, and an entire floor to be set apart for the government engineers and accountants. and it was quite in harmony with the spirit of the moment that the building should be planned with modern conveniences and that the chosen building material should be nothing less permanent than monolithic concrete. in harmony with the same spirit was the enterprise which cut great gashes across the shoulder of jack's mountain in the search for precious metal. here the newly incorporated buckskin gold mining and milling company had discarded the old and slow method of prospecting with pick and shovel, and power-driven machines ploughed deep furrows to bed-rock across and back until the face of the mountain was zigzagged and scarred like a veteran of many battles. in keeping, again, was the energy with which mr. cortwright and his municipal colleagues laid water-mains, strung electric wires, drove the paving contractors, and pushed the trolley-line to the stage at which it lacked only the rails and the cars awaiting shipment by the railroad. under other conditions it is conceivable that an impatient committee of construction would have had the rails freighted in across the desert, would have had the cars taken to pieces and shipped by mule-train express from quesado. but with the railroad grade already in sight on the bare shoulders of the hophra hills and the thunder-blasts playing the presto march of promise the committee could afford to wait. this was the situation on the day when garner, sharp-eared listener at the keyhole of opportunity, missing the dynamite rumblings, sent a cipher wire of inquiry to the east, got a "rush" reply, and began warily to unload his mirapolitan holdings. being a man of business, he ducked to cover first and talked afterward; but by the time his hint had grown to rumor size mr. cortwright had sent for brouillard. "pull up a chair and have a cigar," said the great man when brouillard had penetrated to the nerve-centre of the mirapolitan activities in the metropole suite and the two stenographers had been curtly dismissed. "have you heard the talk of the street? there is a rumor that the railroad grading has been stopped." brouillard, busy with the work of setting the third series of forms on his great wall, had heard nothing. "i've noticed that they haven't been blasting for two or three days. but that may mean nothing more than a delayed shipment of dynamite," was his rejoinder. "it looks bad--devilish bad." the promoter was planted heavily in his pivot-chair, and the sandy-gray eyes dwindled to pin-points. "three days ago the blasting stopped, and garner--you know him, the little kansas city shark across the street--got busy with the wire. the next thing we knew he was unloading, quietly and without making any fuss about it, but at prices that would have set us afire if he'd had enough stuff in his pack to amount to anything." brouillard tried to remember that he was the reclamation service construction chief, that the pricking of the mirapolitan bubble early or late concerned him not at all,--tried it and failed. "i am afraid you are right," he said thoughtfully. "we've had a good many applications from men hunting work in the past two days, more than would be accounted for by the usual drift from the railroad camps." "you saw president ford after i did; what did he say when he was over here?" "he said very little to me," replied brouillard guardedly. "from that little i gathered that the members of his executive committee were not unanimously in favor of building the extension." "well, we are up against it, that's all. read that," and the promoter handed a telegram across the desk. the wire was from chicago, was signed "ackerman," and was still damp from the receiving operator's copying-press. it read: "work on p. s-w.'s buckskin extension has been suspended for the present. reason assigned, shrinkage in securities and uncertainty of business outlook in niquoia." brouillard's first emotion was that of the engineer and the economist. "what a bunch of blanked fools!" he broke out. "they've spent a clean million as it stands, and they are figuring to leave it tied up and idle!" mr. cortwright's frown figured as a fleshly mask of irritability. "i'm not losing any sleep over the p. s-w. treasury. it's our own basket of eggs here that i'm worrying about. let it once get out that the railroad people don't believe in the future of mirapolis and we're done." brouillard's retort was the expression of an upflash of sanity. "mirapolis has no future; it has only an exceedingly precarious present." for a moment the sandy-gray eyes became inscrutable. then the mask of irritation slid aside, revealing the face which mr. j. wesley cortwright ordinarily presented to his world--the face of imperturbable good nature. "you're right, brouillard; mirapolis is only a good joke, after all. sometimes i get bamfoozled into the idea that it isn't--that it's the real thing. that's bad for the nerves. but about this railroad fizzle; i don't relish the notion of having our little joke sprung on us before we're ready to laugh, do you? what do you think?" brouillard shook himself as one who casts a burden. "it is not my turn to think, mr. cortwright." "oh, yes, it is; very pointedly. you're one of us, to a certain extent; and if you were not you would still be interested. a smash just now would hamper the reclamation service like the mischief; the entire works shut down; no cement, no lumber, no power; everything tied up in the courts until the last creditor quits taking appeals. oh, no, brouillard; you don't want to see the end of the world come before it's due." it was the consulting engineer of the power company rather than the reclamation service chief who rose and went to the window to look down upon the morning briskness of chigringo avenue. and it was the man who saw one hundred thousand dollars, the price of freedom, slipping away from him who turned after a minute or two of the absent street gazing and said: "what do you want me to do, mr. cortwright? i did put my shoulder to the wheel when ford was here. i told him if i were in his place i'd take the long chance and build the extension." "did you?--and before you had a stake in the game? that was a white man's boost, right! have another cigar. they're 'poodles's pride,' and they're not half bad when you get used to the near-havana filler. think you could manage to get ford on the wire and encourage him a little more?" "it isn't ford; it is the new york bankers. you can read that between the lines in your man ackerman's telegram." the stocky gentleman in the pivot-chair thrust out his jaw and tilted his freshly lighted cigar to the aggressive angle. "say, brouillard, we've got to throw a fresh piece of bait into the cage, something that will make the railroad crowd sit up and take notice. by george, if those gold hunters up on jack's mountain would only stumble across something big enough to advertise----" brouillard started as if the wishful musing had been a blow. like a hot wave from a furnace mouth it swept over him--the sudden realization that the means, the one all-powerful, earth-moving lever the promoter was so anxiously seeking, lay in his hands. "the buckskin people, yes," he said, making talk as the rifleman digs a pit to hold his own on the firing-line. "if they should happen to uncover a gold reef just now it would simplify matters immensely for mirapolis, wouldn't it? the railroad would come on, then, without a shadow of doubt. all the bankers in new york couldn't hold it back." now came mr. cortwright's turn to get up and walk the floor, and he took it, tramping solidly back and forth in the clear space behind the table-topped desk. it was not until he had extended the meditative stump-and-go to one of the windows that he stopped short and came out of the inventive trance with a jerk. "come here," he called curtly, with a quick finger crook for the engineer, and when brouillard joined him: "can you size up that little caucus over yonder?" the "caucus" was a knot of excited men blocking the sidewalk in front of garner's real-estate office on the opposite side of the street. the purpose of the excited ones was not difficult to divine. they were all trying to crowd into the kansas city man's place of business at once. "it looks like a run on a bank," said brouillard. "it is," was the crisp reply. "garner has beaten everybody else to the home plate, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut. he's been talking, and every man in that mob is a potential panic breeder. that thing has got to be nipped in the bud, right now!" "yes," brouillard agreed. he was still wrestling with his own besetment--the prompting which involved a deliberate plunge where up to the present crisis he had been merely wading in the shallows. a little thing stung him alive to the imperative call of the moment--the sight of amy massingale walking down the street with tig smith, the triangle-circle foreman. it was of the death of her hopes that he was thinking when he said coolly: "you have sized it up precisely, mr. cortwright; that is a panic in the making, and the bubble won't stand for very much pricking. give me a free hand with your check-book for a few minutes and i'll try to stop it." it spoke volumes for the millionaire promoter's quick discernment and decision that he asked no questions. "do it," he snapped. "i'll cover you for whatever it takes. don't wait; that crowd is getting bigger every minute." brouillard ran down-stairs and across the street. it was no part of his intention to stop and speak to amy massingale and the ranchman, but he did it, and even walked a little way with them before he turned back to elbow his way through the sidewalk throng and into garner's dingy little office. "you are selling mirapolis holdings short to-day, garner?" he asked when he had pushed through the crowd to the speculator's desk. and when garner laughed and said there were no takers he placed his order promptly. "you may bid in for me, at yesterday's prices, anything within the city limits--not options, you understand, but the real thing. bring your papers over to my office after banking hours and we'll close for whatever you've been able to pick up." he said it quietly, but there could be no privacy at such a time and in such a place. "what's that, mr. brouillard?" demanded one in the counter jam. "you're giving garner a blank card to buy for your account? say, that's plenty good enough for me. garner, cancel my order to sell, will you? when the chief engineer of the government water-works believes in mirapolis futures and bets his money on 'em, i'm not selling." the excitement was already dying down and the crowd was melting away from garner's sidewalk when brouillard rejoined mr. cortwright in the second-floor room across the street. "well, it's done," he announced shortly, adding: "it's only a stop-gap. to make the bluff good, you've got to have the railroad." "that's the talk," said the promoter, relighting the cigar which the few minutes of crucial suspense had extinguished. and then, without warning: "you're carrying something up your sleeve, brouillard. what is it?" "it is the one thing you need, mr. cortwright. if i could get my own consent to use it i could bring the railroad here in spite of those new yorkers who seem to have an attack of cold feet." mr. j. wesley cortwright's hesitation was so brief as to be almost imperceptible. "i suppose that is your way of saying that your share in the table stakes isn't big enough. all right; the game can't stop in the middle of a bet. how much is it going to cost us to stay in?" "the cost isn't precisely in the kind of figures that you understand best, mr. cortwright. and as to my share in the profits ... well, we needn't mince matters; you may remember that you were at some considerable pains to ascertain my price before you made the original bid--and the bid was accepted. you've just been given a proof that i'm trying to earn my money. no other man in mirapolis could have served your turn over there at garner's as i did a few minutes ago. you know that." "good lord, man, i'm not kicking! but we are all in the same boat. if the railroad work doesn't start up again within the next few days we are all due to go to pot. if you've got the odd ace up your sleeve and don't play it, you stand to lose out with the rest of us." the door was open into the anteroom where the stenographers' desks were, and brouillard was staring gloomily into the farther vacancies. "i wonder if you know how little i care?" he said half musingly. then, with sudden vehemence: "it is altogether a question of motive with me, mr. cortwright; of a motive which you couldn't understand in a thousand years. if that motive prevails, you get your railroad and a little longer lease of life. if it doesn't, mirapolis will go to the devil some few weeks or months ahead of its schedule--and i'll take my punishment with the remainder of the fools--and the knaves." he was on his feet and moving toward the door of exit when the promoter got his breath. "here, hold on, brouillard--for heaven's sake, don't go off and leave it up in the air that way!" he protested. but the corridor door had opened and closed and brouillard was gone. two hours later mirapolis the frenetic had a new thrill, a shock so electrifying that the rumor of the railroad's halting decision sank into insignificance and was forgotten. the suddenly evoked excitement focussed in a crowd besieging the window of the principal jewelry shop--focussed more definitely upon a square of white paper in the window in the centre of which was displayed a little heap of virgin gold in small nuggets and coarse grains. while the crowds in the street were still struggling and fighting to get near enough to read the labelling placard, the _daily spot-light_ came out with an extra which was all head-lines, the telegraph-wires to the east were buzzing, and the town had gone mad. the gold specimen--so said the placard and the news extra--had been washed from one of the bars in the niquoia. by three o'clock the madness had culminated in the complete stoppage of all work among the town builders and on the great dam as well, and gold-crazed mobs were frantically digging and panning on every bar in the river from the valley outlet to the power dam five miles away. ix bedlam it was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon of the day in which mirapolis went placer mad when word came to the reclamation-service headquarters that the power was cut off and that there were no longer men enough at the mixers and on the forms to keep the work going if the power should come on again. handley, the new fourth assistant, brought the news, dropping heavily into a chair and shoving his hat to the back of his head to mop his seamed and sun-browned face. "why the devil didn't you fellows turn out?" he demanded savagely of leshington, anson, and grislow, who were lounging in the office and very pointedly waiting for the lightning to strike. "gassman and i have done everything but commit cold-blooded murder to hold the men on the job. where's the boss?" nobody knew, and grislow, at least, was visibly disturbed at the question. it was anson who seemed to have the latest information about brouillard. "he came in about eleven o'clock, rummaged for a minute or two in that drawer you've got your foot on, grizzy, and then went out again. anybody seen him since?" there was a silence to answer the query, and the hydrographer righted his chair abruptly and closed the opened drawer he had been utilizing for a foot-rest. he had a long memory for trifles, and at the mention of the drawer a disquieting picture had flashed itself upon the mental screen. there were two figures in the picture, brouillard and himself, and brouillard was tossing the little buckskin sack of gold nuggets into the drawer, where it had lain undisturbed ever since--until now. moreover, grislow's news of brouillard, if he had seen fit to publish it, was later than anson's. at one o'clock, or thereabout, the chief had come into the mapping room for a glance at the letters on his desk. one of the letters--a note in a square envelope--he had thrust into his pocket before going out. "it looks as if the chief had gone with the crowd," said leshington when the silence had grown almost portentous, "though that wouldn't be like him. has anybody found out yet who touched off the gold-mounted sky-rocket?" grislow came out of his brown study with a start. "levy won't tell who gave him those nuggets to put in his window. i tried him. all he will say is that the man who left the sample is perfectly reliable and that he dictated the exact wording of the placard that did the business." "i saw harlan, of the _spot-light_, half an hour ago," cut in anson. "he's plumb raving crazy, like everybody else, but there is something faintly resembling method in his madness. he figures it that we government people are out of a job permanently; that with the discovery of these placers--or, rather, with the practically certain rediscovery of them by the mob--mirapolis will jump to the front rank as a gold camp, and the reclamation service will have to call a halt on the buckskin project." leshington's long, plain-song face grew wooden. "you say 'practically certain.' the question is: will they be rediscovered? bet any of you a box of poodles's flor de near havanas that it's some new kind of a flip-flap invented by j. wesley and his boomers. what do you say?" "good lord!" growled handley. "they didn't need any new stunts. they had the world by the ear, as it was." "that's all right," returned leshington; "maybe they didn't. i heard a thing or two over at bongras's last night that set me guessing. there was a piece of gossip coming up the pike about the railroad pulling out of the game, or, rather, that it had already pulled out." once more silence fell upon the group in the mapping room, and this time it was grislow who broke it. "i suppose harlan is getting ready to exploit the new sensation right?" he suggested, and anson nodded. "you can trust harlan for that. he's got the valley wire subsidized, and he is waiting for the first man to come in with the news of the sure thing and the location of it. when he gets the facts he'll touch off the fireworks, and the world will be invited to take a running jump for the new tonopah." then, with sudden anxiety: "i wish to goodness brouillard would turn up and get busy on his job. it's something hideous to be stranded this way in the thick of a storm!" "it's time somebody was getting busy," snarled handley. "there are a hundred tons of fresh concrete lying in the forms, just as they were dumped--with no puddlers--to say nothing of half as much more freezing to solid rock right now in the mixers and on the telphers." grislow got up and reached for his coat and hat. "i'm going out to hunt for the boss," he said, "and you fellows had better do the same. if this is one of cortwright's flip-flaps, and brouillard happened to be in the way, i wouldn't put it beyond j. wesley to work some kind of a disappearing racket on the human obstacle." the suggestion was carried out immediately by the three to whom it was made, but for a reason of his own the hydrographer contrived to be the last to leave the mapping room. when he found himself alone he returned hastily to the desk and pulled out the drawer of portents, rummaging in it until he was fully convinced that the little buckskin bag of nuggets was gone. then, instead of following the others, he took a field-glass from its case on the wall and went to the south window to focus it upon the massingale cabin, standing out clear-cut and distinct in the afternoon sunlight on its high, shelf-like bench. the powerful glass brought out two figures on the cabin porch, a woman and a man. the woman was standing and the man was sitting on the step. grislow lowered the glass and slid the telescoping sun tubes home with a snap. "good god!" he mused, "it's unbelievable! he deliberately turns this thing loose on us down here and then takes an afternoon off to go and make love to a girl! he's crazy; it's the seven-year devil he talks about. and nobody can help him; nobody--unless amy can. lord, lord!" x epochal at the other extremity of the trajectory of grislow's telltale field-glass brouillard was sunning himself luxuriously on the porch step at the massingale house and making up for lost time--counting all time lost when it spelled absence from the woman he loved. but miss massingale was in a charmingly frivolous frame of mind. "that is the fourth different excuse you have invented for cutting me out of your visiting list, not counting the repetitions," she gibed, when he had finally fallen back upon the time demands of his work to account for his late neglect of her. "if i wanted to be hateful i might insist that you haven't given the true reason yet." "perhaps i will give it before i go," he parried. "but just now i'd much rather talk about something else. tell me about yourself. what have you been doing all these days when i haven't been able to keep tab on you?" "flirting--flirting desperately with tig, with lord falkland, with mr. anson, and mr. grislow, and that nice boy of yours, herbert griffith, and with--no, _not_ with mr. leshington; he scares me--makes a face like a wooden image and says: 'little girl, you need a mother--or a husband; i haven't made up my mind which.' when he _does_ make up his mind i'm going to shriek and run away." "who is lord falkland?" demanded brouillard, ignoring the rank and file. "o-o-h! haven't you met him? he is tig's boss. he isn't a real lord; he is only a 'younger son.' but we call him lord falkland because he has no sense of humor and is always trying to explain. 'beg pawdon, my _deah_ miss massingale, but i'm _not_ lord falkland, don't y' know. the--er--title goes with the--er--entail. i'm only the honorable pawcy grammont penbawthy trevawnnion.'" her mimicry of the englishman was delicious, and brouillard laughed like a man without a care in the world. "where does the honorable all-the-rest keep himself?" he wished to know. "he stays out at the ranch in the buckskin with tig and the range-riders most of the time, i think. it's his ranch, you know, and he is immensely proud of it. he never tires of telling me about the cattle on a thousand hills, or the thousand cattle on one hill, i forget which it is." "and you flirt with this--this alphabetical monstrosity!" he protested reproachfully. "honestly, victor, i don't; that was only an amiable little figure of speech. you simply _can't_ flirt with a somebody who is almost as brilliant as a lump of cornish tin ore and, oh, ever so many times as dense." "exit lord falkland, who isn't lord falkland," said brouillard. "now tell me about the 'little susan'; is the blue-grass farm looming up comfortably on the eastern edge of things?" in a twinkling her frivolous mood vanished. "oh, we are prosperous, desperately prosperous. we have power drills, and electric ore-cars, and a crib, and a chute, and a hoist, and an aerial tramway down to the place where the railroad yard is going to be--all the improvements you can see and a lot more that you can't see. and our pay-roll--it fairly frightens me when i make it up on the saturdays." "i see," he nodded. "all going out and nothing coming in. but the money is all here, safely stacked up in the ore bins. you'll get it all out when the railroad comes." "that is another thing--a thing i haven't dared tell father and stevie. when i was in mirapolis this morning i heard that the railroad wasn't coming, after all; or, rather, tig had heard it and he told me. we were digging for facts when you met us on chigringo avenue--trying to find out if the rumor were true." "did you find out?" he asked. "not positively. that is why i left the note at your office begging you to come up if you could spare the time. i felt sure you would know." "it means a great deal to you, doesn't it?" he said evasively. "it means everything--a thousand times more now than it did before." his quick glance up into the suddenly sobered eyes of the girl standing on the step above him was a voiceless query and she answered it. "we had no working capital, as i think you must have known. once a month father or stevie would make up a few pack-saddle loads of the richest ore and freight them over the mountains to red butte. that was how we got along. but when you sent me word by tig that the railroad company had decided to build the extension, there was--there was--a chance----" "yes," he encouraged. "a chance that the day of little things was past and the day of big things was come. mr. cortwright and some of his associates had been trying to buy an interest in the 'little susan.' father let them in on some sort of a stock arrangement that i don't understand and then made himself personally responsible for a dreadful lot of borrowed money." "borrowed of mr. cortwright?" queried brouillard. "no; of the bank. neither stevie nor i knew about it until after it was done, and even then father wouldn't explain. he has been like a man out of his mind since mr. cortwright got hold of him--everything is rose-colored; we are going to be immensely rich the minute the railroad builds its track to the mine dump. the ore is growing richer every day--which is true--and the railroad will let us into the smelters with train loads of it. he is crazy to build more cribs and put on night shifts of miners. but you see how it all depends upon the railroad." "not so much upon the railroad now as upon some other things," said brouillard enigmatically. "you say your father has borrowed of the bank--is mr. cortwright mixed up in the loan in any way?" "yes; he arranged it in some way for father--i don't know just how. all i know is that father is responsible, and that if the railroad doesn't come he will lose everything." brouillard gave a low whistle. "i don't wonder that the quitting rumor made you nervous." "it was, and is, positively terrifying. father has taken one of the new houses in town and we are to move down next week in spite of all i can do or say. that means more expense and more temptations. i can't tell you how i hate and dread mirapolis. it isn't like any other place i have ever known; it is cynical, vicious, wicked!" "it is," he agreed soberly. "it couldn't well be otherwise. you tell a dozen men they've got a certain definite time to live, and the chances are that two or three of them will begin to prepare to get ready to be sorry for their sins. the other nine or ten will speed up and burn the candle right down into the socket. we shall see worse things in mirapolis before we see better. but i think i can lift one of your burdens. what you heard in town this morning is a fact: the railroad people have stopped work on the buckskin extension. don't faint--they are going to begin again right away." "oh!" she gasped. "are you sure? how _can_ you be sure?" "i've given the order," he said gravely. "an order they can't disregard. let's go back a bit and i'll explain. do you remember my telling you that your brother had tried to bribe me to use my influence with mr. ford?" "as if i should ever be able to forget it!" she protested. "well, that wasn't all that he did--he threatened me--took me to one of the bars in the niquoia, and let me prove for myself that it was tolerably rich placer ground. the threat was a curious one. if i'd say the right thing to president ford, well and good; if not, your brother would disarrange things for the government by giving away the secret of the gold placers. it was ingenious, and effective. to turn the valley into a placer camp would be to disorganize our working force, temporarily at least, and in the end it might even stop or definitely postpone the building of the dam." she was listening eagerly, but there was a nameless fear in the steadfast eyes--a shadow which he either missed or disregarded. "naturally, i saw, or thought i saw, a good reason why he should hesitate to carry out his threat," brouillard went on. "the placer find, with whatever profit might be got out of it, was his only so long as he kept the secret. but he covered that point at once; he said that the 'little susan'--with the railroad--was worth more to him and to your father than a chance at the placer-diggings. the ore dump with its known values was a sure thing, while the sluice mining was always a gamble." "and you--you believed all this?" she asked faintly. "i was compelled to believe it. he let me pan out the proof for myself; a heaping spoonful of nuggets and grain gold in a few panfuls of the sand. it pretty nearly turned my head, amy; would have turned it, i'm afraid, if steve hadn't explained that the bar, as a whole, wouldn't run as rich as the sample." "it is dreadful--dreadful!" she murmured. "you believed him, and for that reason you used your influence with mr. ford?" "no." "but you did advise mr. ford to build the extension?" "yes." "believing that it was for the best interests of the railroad to come here?" "no; doubting it very much, indeed." "then why did you do it? i _must_ know; it is my right to know." he got up and took her in his arms, and she suffered him. "a few days ago, little girl, i couldn't have told you. but now i can. i am a free man--or i can be whenever i choose to say the word. you ask me why i pulled for the railroad; i did it for love's sake." she was pushing him away, and the great horror in her eyes was unmistakable now. "oh!" she panted, "is love a thing to be cheapened like that--to be sinned for?" "why, amy, girl! what do you mean? i don't understand----" "that is it, victor; _you don't understand_. you deliberately sacrificed your convictions; you have admitted it. and you did it in the sacred name of love! and your freedom--how have you made a hundred thousand dollars in these few weeks? oh, victor, is it clean money?" he was abashed, confounded; and at the bottom of the tangle of conflicting emotions there was a dull glow of resentment. "the 'sacrifice,' as you call it, was made for you," he said, ignoring her question about the money. "i merely told mr. ford what i should do if the decision lay wholly with me. that is what he asked for--my personal opinion. and he got it." "yes; but when you gave it ... did you say: 'mr. ford, there is a girl up at the "little susan" mine on chigringo mountain who needs your railroad to help her out of her troubles. because i love the girl'----" "of course i didn't say any such suicidal thing as that! but it is too late to raise the question of culpability in the matter of giving ford what he asked for. i did it, as i say--for love of you, amy; and now i have done a much more serious thing--for the same good reason." "tell me," she said, with a quick catching of her breath. "your brother put a weapon in my hands, and i have used it. there was one sure way to make the railroad people get busy again. they couldn't sit still if all the world were trying to get to a new gold camp, to which they already have a line graded and nearly ready for the steel." "and you have----?" he nodded. "i had levy put the spoonful of nuggets in his window, with a placard stating that it was taken out of a bar in the niquoia. when i left the office to come up here the whole town was blocking the street in front of levy's." she had retreated to take her former position, leaning against the porch post, with her hands behind her, and she had grown suddenly calm. "you did this deliberately, victor, weighing all the consequences? mirapolis is already a city of frenzied knaves and dupes; did you realize that you were taking the chance of turning it into a wicked pandemonium? oh, i can't believe you did!" "don't look at me that way, amy," he pleaded. then he went on, with curious little pauses between the words: "perhaps i didn't think--didn't care; you wanted something--and i wanted to give it to you. that was all--as god hears me, it was all. there was another thing that might have weighed, but i didn't let it weigh; i stood to lose the money that will set me free--i could have lost it without wincing--i told cortwright so. you believe that, amy? it will break my heart if you don't believe it." she shook her head sadly. "you have thrown down another of the ideals, and this time it was mine. you don't understand, and i can't make you understand--that is the keen misery of it. if this ruthless thing you tried to do had succeeded, i should be the most wretched woman in the world." "if it had succeeded? it has succeeded. didn't i say just now that the town was crazy with excitement when i left to come up here?" the girl was shaking her head again. "god sometimes saves us in spite of ourselves," she said gravely. "the excitement will die out. there are no placers in the niquoia. the bars have been prospected again and again." "they have been?----" brouillard turned on his heel and choked back the sudden malediction that rose to his lips. she had called mirapolis a city of knaves and dupes; surely, he himself was the simplest of the dupes. "i see--after so long a time," he went on. "your brother merely 'salted' a few shovelfuls of sand for my especial benefit. great heavens, but i was an easy mark!" "don't!" she cried, and the tears in her voice cut him to the heart--"don't make it harder for me than it has to be. i have told you only what i've heard my father say, time and again: that there is no gold in the niquoia river. and you mustn't ask me to despise my brother. he fights his way to his ends without caring much for the consequences to others; but tell me--haven't you been doing the same thing?" "i have," he confessed stubbornly. "my love isn't measured by a fear of consequences--to myself or others." "that is the hopeless part of it," she returned drearily. "yet you condone in your brother what you condemn in me," he complained. "my brother is my brother; and you are--let me tell you something, victor: god helping me, i shall be no man's evil genius, and yours least of all. you broke down the barriers a few minutes ago and you know what is in my heart. but i can take it out of my heart if the man who put it there is not true to himself." brouillard was silent for a little space, and when he spoke again it was as one awaking from a troubled dream. "i know what you would do and say; you would take me by the hand and tell me to come up higher.... there was a time, amy, when you wouldn't have had to say it twice--a time when the best there was in me would have leaped to climb to any height you pointed to. the time is past, and i can't recall it, try as i may; there is a change; it goes back to that day when i first saw you--down at the lower ford in the desert's edge. i loved you then, though i wouldn't admit it even to myself. but that wasn't the change; it was something different. do you believe in freiborg's theory of the multiple personality? i saw his book in your hammock one day when i was up here." "no," she said quite definitely. "i am i, and i am always i. for the purposes of the comedy we call life, we play many parts, perhaps; but back of the part-playing there is always the same soul person, i think--and believe." "i know; that is common sense and sanity. and yet freiborg's speculations are most plausible. he merely carries the idea of the dual personality--the doctor jekyll and mr. hyde notion--a step farther along. you may remember how he compares the human being to a ship changing commanders at every port. one captain makes her a merchantman; another makes her a tramp; a third turns her into a slaver or a pirate; under a fourth she becomes a derelict." "that is a terribly dangerous theory, if you take it seriously," was her comment. "i don't want to take it seriously. but facts are stubborn things. i am not the same man i was a few years or even a few months ago. i have lost something; i have not the same promptings; things that i used to loathe no longer shock me. new and unsuspected pitfalls open for me every day. for example, i am not naturally hot-headed--or rather, i should say, i am quick-tempered but have always been able to control myself. yet in the past few months i have learned what it means to fly into a rage that fairly makes me see red. and there is no cause. nothing different has broken into my life save the best of all things--a great love. and you tell me that the love is unworthy." "no, i didn't say that; i only meant that you had misconceived it. love is the truest, finest thing we know. it can never be the tool of evil, much less the hand that guides the tool. given a free field, it always makes for the wider horizons, the higher planes of thought and action; it may even breathe new life into the benumbed conscience. i don't say that it can't be dragged down and trampled in the dust and the mire; it can be, and then there is nothing more pitiful in a world of misconceptions." again a silence came and sat between them; and, as before, it was the man who broke it. "you lead me to a conclusion that i refuse to accept, amy; that i am dominated by some influence which is stronger than love." "you are," she said simply. "what is it?" "environment." "that is the most humiliating thing you have said to-day. is a man a mere bit of driftwood, to be tossed about in the froth of any wave that happens to come along, as freiborg says he is?" "not always; perhaps not often. and never, i think, in the best part of him--the soul ego. yet there is a mighty power in the wave, in the mere drift. however much others may be deluded, i am sure you can see mirapolis in its true light. it is frankly, baldly, the money-making scheme of a few unscrupulous men. it has no future--it can have none. and because it is what it is, the very air you breathe down there is poisoned. the taint is in the blood. mr. cortwright and his fellow bandits call it the 'miracle city,' but the poor wretches on lower chigringo avenue laugh and call it gomorrah." "just at the present moment it is a city of fools--and i, the king of the fools, have made it so," said brouillard gloomily. from his seat on the porch step he was frowning down upon the outspread scene in the valley, where the triangular shadow of jack's mountain was creeping slowly across to the foot of chigringo. something in the measured eye-sweep brought him to his feet with a hasty exclamation: "good lord! the machinery has stopped! they've knocked off work on the dam!" "why not?" she said. "did you imagine that your workmen were any less human than other people?" "no, of course not; that is, i--but i haven't any time to go into that now. is your telephone line up here in operation?" "no, not yet." "then i must burn the wind getting down there. by jove! if those unspeakable idiots have gone off and left the concrete to freeze wherever it happens to be----" "one moment," she pleaded, while he was reaching for his hat. "this new madness will have spent itself by nightfall--it must. and yet i have the queerest shivery feeling, as if something dreadful were going to happen. can't you contrive to get word to me, some way--after it is all over? i wish you could." "i'll do it," he promised. "i'll come up after supper." "no, don't do that. you will be needed at the dam. there will be trouble, with a town full of disappointed gold-hunters, and liquor to be had. wait a minute." she ran into the house and came out with two little paper-covered cylinders with fuses projecting. "take these, they are bengal lights--some of the fireworks that tig bought in red butte for the fourth. light the blue one when you are ready to send me my message of cheer. i shall be watching for it." "and the other?" he asked. "it is a red light, the signal of war and tumults and danger. if you light it, i shall know----" he nodded, dropped the paper cylinders into his pocket, and a moment later was racing down the trail to take his place at the helm of the abandoned ship of the industries. there was need for a commander; for a cool head to bring order out of chaos, and for the rare faculty which is able to accomplish herculean tasks with whatever means lie at hand. brouillard descended upon his disheartened subordinates like a whirlwind of invincible energy, electrifying everybody into instant action. gassman was told off to bring the indians, who alone were loyally indifferent to the gold craze, down from the crushers. anson was despatched to impress the waiters and bell-boys from the metropole; leshington was sent to the shops and the bank to turn out the clerks; grislow and handley were ordered to take charge of the makeshift concrete handlers as fast as they materialized, squadding them and driving the work of wreck clearing for every man and minute they could command, with gassman and bender to act as foremen. for himself, brouillard reserved the most hazardous of the recruiting expedients. the lower avenue had already become a double rank of dives, saloons, and gambling dens; here, if anywhere in the craze-depopulated town, men might be found, and for once in their lives they should be shown how other men earned money. "shove it for every minute of daylight there is left," he ordered, snapping out his commands to his staff while he was filling the magazine of his winchester. "puddle what material there is in the forms, dump the telpher buckets where they stand, and clean out the mixers; that's the size of the job, and it's got to be done. jump to it, grizzy, you and handley, and we'll try to fill your gangs the best way we can. leshington, don't you take any refusal from the shopkeepers and the bank people; if they kick, you tell them that not another dollar of government money will be spent in this town--we'll run a free commissary first. anson, you make bongras turn out every man in his feeding place; he'll do it. griffith, you chase mr. cortwright, and don't quit till you find him. tell him from me that we've got to have every man he can give us, at whatever cost." "you'll be up on the stagings yourself, won't you?" asked grislow, struggling into his working-coat. "after a bit. i'm going down to the lower avenue to turn out the crooks and diamond wearers. it's time they were learning how to earn an honest dollar." "you'll get yourself killed up," grumbled leshington. "work is the one thing you won't get out of that crowd." "watch me," rasped the chief, and he was gone as soon as he had said it. strange things and strenuous happened in the lower end of the niquoia valley during the few hours of daylight that remained. first, climbing nervously to the puddlers' staging on the great dam, and led by near-napoleon poodles himself, came the metropole quota of waiters, scullions, cooks, and porters, willing but skilless. after them, and herded by leshington, came a dapper crew of office men and clerks to snatch up the puddling spades and to soil their clothes and blister their hands in emptying the concrete buckets. mr. cortwright's contribution came as a dropping fire; a handful of tree-cutters from the sawmills, a few men picked up here and there in the deserted town, an automobile load of power-company employees shot down from the generating plant at racing speed. last, but by no means least in numbers, came the human derelicts from the lower avenue; men in frock-coats; men in cow-boy jeans taking it as a huge joke; men with foreign faces and lowering brows and with strange oaths in their mouths; and behind the motley throng and marshalling it to a quickstep, brouillard and tig smith. it was hot work and heavy for the strangely assorted crew, and brouillard drove it to the limit, bribing, cajoling, or threatening, patrolling the long line of staging to encourage the awkward puddlers, or side-stepping swiftly to the mixers to bring back a detachment of skulkers at the rifle's muzzle. and by nightfall the thing was done, with the loss reduced to a minimum and the makeshift laborers dropping out in squads and groups, some laughing, some swearing, and all too weary and toil-worn to be dangerous. "give us a job if we come back to-morrow, mr. brouillard?" called out the king of the gamblers in passing; and the cry was taken up by others in grim jest. "thus endeth the first lesson," said grislow, when the engineering corps was reassembling at the headquarters preparatory to a descent upon the supper-table. but brouillard was dumb and haggard, and when he had hung rifle and cartridge-belt on their pegs behind his desk, he went out, leaving unbroken the silence which had greeted his entrance. "the boss is taking it pretty hard," said young griffith to no one in particular, and it was leshington who took him up savagely and invited him to hold his tongue. "the least said is the soonest mended--at a funeral," was the form the first assistant's rebuke took. "you take my advice and don't mess or meddle with the chief until he's had time to work this thing out of his system." brouillard was working it out in his own way, tramping the streets, hanging on the outskirts of arguing groups of newsmongers, or listening to the bonanza talk of the loungers in the metropole lobby. soon after dark the gold-seekers began to drop in, by twos and threes and in squads, all with the same story of disappointment. by nine o'clock the town was full of them, and since the liquor was flowing freely across many bars, the mutterings of disappointment soon swelled to a thunder roar of drunken rage, with the unknown exhibitor of the specimen nuggets for its object. from threats of vengeance upon the man who had hoaxed an entire town to a frenzied search for the man was but a step, and when brouillard finally left the metropole and crossed over to his office quarters, the mob was hunting riotously for the jeweller levy and promising to hang him--when found--to the nearest wire pole if he should not confess the name and standing of his gold-bug. the shouts of the mob were ringing in brouillard's ears when he strode dejectedly into the deserted map room, and the cries were rising with a new note and in fresher frenzies a little later when grislow came in. the hydrographer's blue eyes were hard and his voice had a tang of bitterness in it when he said: "well, you've done it. three men have just come in with a double handful of nuggets, and mirapolis makes its bow to the world at large as the newest and richest of the gold camps." brouillard had been humped over his desk, and he sprang up with a cry like that of a wounded animal. "it can't be; grizzy, i tell you it can't be! steve massingale planted that gold that i washed out--played me for a fool to get me to work for the railroad. i didn't know it until--until----" "until amy massingale told you about it this afternoon," cut in the map-maker shrewdly. "that's all right. the bar steve took you to was barren enough; they tell me that every cubic foot of it has been washed over in dish pans and skillets in the past few hours. but you know the big bend opposite the quadjenàï hills; the river has built that bend out of its own washings, and the bulletin over at the _spot-light_ office says that the entire peninsula is one huge bank of gold-bearing gravel." at the word brouillard staggered as from the impact of a bullet. then he crossed the room slowly, groping his way toward the peg where the coat he had worn in the afternoon was hanging. grislow saw him take something out of the pocket of the coat, and the next moment the door opened and closed and the hydrographer was left alone. having been planned before there was a city to be considered, the government buildings enclosed three sides of a small open square, facing toward the great dam. in the middle of this open space brouillard stopped, kicked up a little mound of earth, and stood the two paper cylinders on it, side by side. the tempered glow from the city electrics made a soft twilight in the little plaza; he could see the wrapper colors of the two signal-fires quite well. a sharp attack of indecision had prompted him to place both of them on the tiny mound. with the match in his hand, he was still undecided. amy massingale's words came back to him as he hesitated: "light the blue one when you are ready to send me my message of cheer...." on the lips of another woman the words might have taken a materialistic meaning; the miraculous gold discovery would bring the railroad, and the railroad would rescue the massingale mine and restore the massingale fortunes. he looked up at the dark bulk of chigringo, unrelieved even by the tiny fleck of lamplight which he had so often called his guiding star. "take me out of your mind and heart and say which you will have, little girl," he whispered, sending the words out into the void of night. but only the din and clamor of a city gone wild with enthusiasm came to answer him. somewhere on the avenue a band was playing; men were shouting themselves hoarse in excitement, and above the shouting came the staccato crackling of pistols and guns fired in air. he struck the match and stooped over the blue cylinder. "this is your message of cheer, whether you take it that way or not," he went on, whispering again to the silent void. but when the fuse of the blue light was fairly fizzing, he suddenly pinched it out and held the match to the other. * * * * * up on the high bench of the great mountain amy massingale was pacing to and fro on the puncheon-floored porch of the home cabin. her father had gone to bed, and somewhere down among the electric lights starring the valley her brother was mingling with the excited mobs whose shoutings and gun-firings floated up, distance-softened, on the still, thin air of the summer night. though there was no pause in the monotonous pacing back and forth, the girl's gaze never wandered far from a dark area in the western edge of the town--the semicircle cut into the dotting lights and marking the site of the government reservation. it was when a tiny stream of sparks shot up in the centre of the dark area that she stopped and held her breath. then, when a blinding flare followed to prick out the headquarters, the commissary, and the mess house, she sank in a despairing little heap on the floor, with her face hidden in her hands and the quick sobs shaking her like an ague chill. it was brouillard's signal, but it was not the signal of peace; it was the blood-red token of revolution and strife and turmoil. xi the feast of hurrahs mirapolis the marvellous was a hustling, roaring, wide-open mining-camp of twenty thousand souls by the time the railroad, straining every nerve and crowding three shifts into the twenty-four-hour day, pushed its rails along the foot-hill bench of chigringo, tossed up its temporary station buildings, and signalled its opening for business by running a mammoth excursion from the cities of the immediate east. busy as it was, the city took time to celebrate fittingly the event which linked it to the outer world. by proclamation mayor cortwright declared a holiday. there were lavish displays of bunting, an impromptu trades parade, speeches from the plaza band-stand, free lunches and free liquor--a day of boisterous, hilarious triumphings, with, incidentally, much buying and selling and many transfers of the precious "front foot" or choice "corner." yielding to pressure, which was no less imperative from below than from above, brouillard had consented to suspend work on the great dam during the day of triumphs, and the reclamation-service force, smaller now than at any time since the beginning of the undertaking, went to swell the crowds in chigringo avenue. of the engineering staff grislow alone held aloof. early in the morning he trudged away with rod and trout-basket for the upper waters of the niquoia and was seen no more. but the other members of the staff, following the example set by the chief, took part in the hilarities, serving on committees, conducting crowds of sightseers through the government reservation and up to the mixers and stagings, and otherwise identifying themselves so closely with the civic celebration as to give the impression, often commented upon by the visitors, that the building of the great dam figured only as another expression of the mirapolitan activities. for himself, brouillard vaguely envied grislow the solitudes of the upper niquoia. but mr. cortwright had been inexorable. it was right and fitting that the chief executive of the reclamation service should have a part in the rejoicings, and brouillard found himself discomfortingly emphasized as chairman of the civic reception committee. expostulation was useless. mr. cortwright insisted genially, and miss genevieve added her word. and there had been only grislow to smile cynically when the printed programmes appeared with the chief of the buckskin reclamation project down for an address on "modern city building." it was after his part of the speechmaking, and while the plaza crowds were still bellowing their approval of the modest forensic effort, that he went to sit beside miss cortwright in the temporary grand-stand, mopping his face and otherwise exhibiting the after effects of the unfamiliar strain. "i didn't know you could be so convincing," was miss genevieve's comment. "it was splendid! nobody will ever believe that you are going to go on building your dam and threatening to drown us, after this." "what did i say?" queried brouillard, having, at the moment, only the haziest possible idea of what he had said. "as if you didn't know!" she laughed. "you congratulated everybody: us mirapolitans upon our near-city, the miners on their gold output, the manufacturers on their display in the parade, the railroad on its energy and progressive spirit, and the visitors on their perspicuity and good sense in coming to see the latest of the seven wonders of the modern world. and the funny thing about it is that you didn't say a single word about the niquoia dam." "didn't i? that shows how completely your father has converted me, how helplessly i am carried along on the torrent of events." "but you are not," she said accusingly. "deep down in your inner consciousness you don't believe a little bit in mirapolis. you are only playing the game with the rest of us, mr. brouillard. sometimes i am puzzled to know why." brouillard's smile was rather grim. "your father would probably tell you that i have a stake in the game--as everybody else has." "not mr. grislow?" she said, laying her finger inerrantly upon the single exception. "no, not grizzy; i forgot him." "doesn't he want to make money?" she asked, with exactly the proper shade of disinterest. "no; yes, i guess he does, too. but he is--er--well, i suppose you might call him a man of one idea." "meaning that he is too uncompromisingly honest to be one of us? i think you are right." gorman, mr. cortwright's ablest trumpeter in the real-estate booming, was holding the plaza crowd spellbound with his enthusiastic periods, rising upon his toes and lifting his hands in angel gestures to high heaven in confirmation of his prophetic outlining of the mirapolitan future. in the middle distance, and backgrounding the buildings on the opposite side of the plaza, rose the false work of the great dam--a standing forest of sawed timbers, whose afternoon shadows were already pointing like a many-fingered fate toward the city of the plain. but, though the face of the speaker was toward the shadowing forest, his words ignored it. "the snow-capped timanyonis," "the mighty chigringo," and "the golden-veined slopes of jack's mountain" all came in for eulogistic mention; but the massive wall of concrete, with its bristling parapet of timbers, had no part in the orator's flamboyant descriptive. brouillard broke the spell of the grandiloquent rantings, and came back to what miss genevieve was saying. "yes, murray is stubbornly honest," he agreed; adding: "he is too good for this world, or rather for this little cross-section of pandemonium named mirapolis." "which, inasmuch as we are making mirapolis what it is, is more than can be said for most of us," laughed miss cortwright. then, with a purposeful changing of the subject: "where is miss massingale? as the original 'daughter of the niquoia' she ought to have a place on the band-stand." "she was with tig smith and lord falkland when the parade formed," rejoined the engineer. "i saw them on the balcony of the metropole." "since you are the chairman of the reception committee, i think you ought to go and find her," said miss genevieve pointedly, so pointedly that brouillard rose laughing and said: "thank you for telling me; whom shall i send to take my place here?" "oh, anybody--lord falkland will do. by the way, did you know that he _is_ lord falkland now? his elder brother died a few weeks ago." "no, i hadn't heard it. i should think he would want to go home." "he does. but he, too, has contracted mirapolitis. he has been investing any number of pounds sterling. if you find him send him to me. i want to see how the real, simon-pure american brand of oratory affects a british title." brouillard went, not altogether unwillingly. loving amy massingale with a passion which, however blind it might be on the side of the higher moralities, was still keen-sighted enough to assure him that every plunge he made in the mirapolitan whirlpool was sweeping him farther away from her; he found himself drifting irresistibly into the inner circle of attraction of which genevieve cortwright was the centre. whether miss cortwright's influence was for good or for evil, in his own case, or was entirely disinterested, he could never quite determine. there were times, like this present instant of blatant rejoicings, when she was brightly cynical, flinging a mocking jest at all things mirapolitan. but at other times he had a haunting conviction that she was at heart her father's open-eyed ally and abettor, taking up as she might the burden of filial loyalty thrown down by her brother van bruce, who, in his short summer of mirapolitan citizenship, had been illustrating all the various methods by which a spoiled son of fortune may go to the dogs. brouillard faced the impossible brother and the almost equally impossible father when he thought of genevieve cortwright. but latterly the barriers on that side had been crumbling more and more. once, and once only, had he mentioned the trusteeship debt to genevieve, and on that occasion she had laughed lightly at what she had called his strained sense of honor. the laugh had come at a critical moment. it was in the height of the madness following the discovery of the placers, in an hour when brouillard would have given his right hand to undo the love-prompted disloyalty to his service, that cortwright, whose finger was on everybody's pulse, had offered to buy in the thousand shares of power company's stock at par. brouillard had seen freedom in a stroke of the millionaire's pen; but it was a distinct downward step that by this time he was coming to look upon the payment of his father's honor debt as a hard necessity. he meant to pay it, but there was room for the grim determination that the payment should forever sever him from the handicapped past. he had transferred the stock, minus a single share to cover his official standing on the power company's board, to cortwright and had received the millionaire's check in payment. it was in the evening of the same eventful day, he remembered, that genevieve cortwright had laughed, and the letter, which was already written to the treasurer of a certain indianapolis trust company, was not mailed. instead of mailing it he had opened an account at the niquoia national, and the ninety-nine thousand nine hundred dollars had since grown by speculative accretions to the rounded first eighth of a million which all financiers agree in calling the stepping-stone to fortune. he had regarded this money--was still regarding it--as a loan; his lever with which to pry out something which he could really call his own. but more and more possession and use were dulling the keen edge of accountability and there were moments of insight when the grim irony of taking the price of honor to pay an honor debt forced itself upon him. at such moments he plunged more recklessly, in one of them taking stock in a gold-dredge company which was to wash nuggets by the wholesale out of the quadjenàï bend, in another buying yet other options in the newest suburb of mirapolis. what was to come of all this he would not suffer himself to inquire; but two results were thrusting themselves into the foreground. every added step in the way he had chosen was taking him farther from the ideals of an ennobling love and nearer to a possibility which precluded all ideals. notwithstanding grislow's characterization of her as a trophy hunter, genevieve cortwright was, after all, a woman, and as a woman she was to be won. with the naïve conceit of a man who has broken into the heart of one woman, brouillard admitted no insurmountable obstacles other than those which the hard condition of being himself madly in love with another woman might interpose; and there were times when, to the least worthy part of him, the possibility was alluring. miss cortwright's distinctive beauty, her keen and ready wit, the assurance that she would never press the ideals beyond the purely conventional limits; in the course of time these might happily smother the masterful passion which had thus far been only a blind force driving him to do evil that good might ensue. some such duel of motives was fighting itself to an indecisive conclusion in the young engineer's thoughts when he plunged into the sidewalk throngs in search of the englishman, and it was not until after he had found falkland and had delivered miss genevieve's summons that the duel paused and immediate and more disquieting impressions began to record themselves. with the waning of the day of celebrations the temper of the street throngs was changing. it is only the people of the latinized cities who can take the carnival spirit lightly; in other blood liberty grows to license and the thin veneer of civilized restraints quickly disappears. from early dawn the saloons and dives had been adding fuel to the flames, and light-heartedness and good-natured horse-play were giving way to sardonic humor and brutality. in the short faring through the crowded street from the plaza to the metropole corner brouillard saw and heard things to make his blood boil. women, those who were not a part of the unrestrained mob, were disappearing from the streets, and it was well for them if they could find shelter near at hand. twice before he reached bongras's café entrance the engineer shouldered his way to the rescue of some badgered nucleus of excursionists, and in each instance there were frightened women to be hurriedly spirited away to the nearest place of seclusion and safety. it was in front of bongras's that brouillard came upon the reverend hugh castner, the hot-hearted young zealot who had been flung into mirapolis on the crest of the tidal wave of mining excitement. though hosford--who had not been effaced, as mr. cortwright had promised he should be--and the men of his clique called the young missionary a meddlesome visionary, he stood in the stature of a man, and lower chigringo avenue loved him and swore by him; and sent for him now and then when some poor soul, hastily summoned, was to be eased off into eternity. when brouillard caught sight of him castner was looking out over the seething street caldron from his commanding height of six feet of athletic man stature, his strong face a mask of bitter humiliation and concern. "brouillard, this is simply hideous!" he exclaimed. "if this devils' carnival goes on until nightfall we shall have a revival of the old roman saturnalia at its worst!" then, with a swift blow at the heart of the matter: "you're the man i've been wanting to see; you are pretty close in with the cortwright junta--is it true that free whiskey has been dealt out to the crowd over the bar in the niquoia building?" brouillard said that he did not know, which was true, and that he could not believe it possible, which was not true. "the cortwright people are as anxious to have the celebration pass off peaceably as even you can be," he assured the young missionary, trying to buttress the thing which was not true. "when riot comes in at the door, business flies out at the window; and, after all, this feast of hurrahs is merely another bid for business." but castner was shaking his head. "i can't answer for mr. cortwright personally. he and handley and schermerhorn and a few of the others seem to stand for respectability of a sort. but, mr. brouillard, i want to tell you this: somebody in authority is grafting upon the vice of this community, not only to-day but all the time." "the community is certainly vicious enough to warrant any charge you can make," admitted brouillard. then he changed the topic abruptly. "have you seen miss massingale since noon?" "yes; i saw her with smith, the cattleman, at the other end of the avenue about an hour ago." "heavens!" gritted the engineer. "didn't smith know better than to take her down there at such a time as this?" the young missionary was frowning thoughtfully. "i think it was the other way about. her brother has been drinking again, and i took it for granted that she and smith were looking for him." brouillard buttoned his coat and pulled his soft hat over his eyes. "i'm going to look for her," he said. "will you come along?" castner nodded, and together they put their shoulders to the crowd. the slow progress northward was nearly a battle. the excursion trains returning to red butte and brewster were scheduled to leave early, and the stream of blatant, uproarious humanity was setting strongly toward the temporary railroad station. again and again the engineer and his companion had to intervene by word and blow to protect the helpless in the half-drunken, gibe-flinging crush, and in these sallies castner bore his part like a man, expostulating first and hitting out afterward in a fashion that left no doubt in the mind of his antagonist of the moment. so, struggling, they came finally to the open square of the plaza. here the speechmaking was concluded and the crowd was thinning a little. there was a clamorous demonstration of some sort going on around the band-stand, but they left it behind and pushed on into the less noisy but more dangerous region of the lower avenue. in one of the saloons, as they passed, a sudden crackling of pistol-shots began, and a mob of terrorized reclamation-service workmen poured into the street, sweeping all obstacles before it in a mad rush for safety. "it was little less than a crime to turn your laborers loose on the town on such an occasion as this," said castner, dealing out his words as frankly and openly as he did his blows. brouillard shrugged. "if i hadn't given them the day they would have taken it without leave. you'll have to pass the responsibility on to some one higher up." the militant one accepted the challenge promptly. "it lies ultimately at the door of those whose insatiate greed has built this new gomorrah in the shadow of your dam." he wheeled suddenly and flung a long arm toward the half-finished structure filling the gap between the western shoulders of chigringo and jack's mountain. "there stands the proof of god's wisdom in hiding the future from mankind, mr. brouillard. because a little section of humanity here behind that great wall knows the end of its hopes, and the manner and time of that end, it becomes demon-ridden, irreclaimable!" at another time the engineer might have felt the force of the tersely eloquent summing up of the accusation against the mirapolitan attitude. but now he was looking anxiously for amy massingale or her escort, or both of them. "surely smith wouldn't let her stay down here a minute longer than it took to get her away," he said impatiently as a pair of drunken cornishmen reeled out of haley's place and usurped the sidewalk. "where was it you saw them, castner?" "they were in front of 'pegleg john's', in the next block. miss massingale was waiting for smith, who was just coming out of pegleg's den shaking his head. i put two and two together and guessed they were looking for stephen." "if they went there miss amy had her reasons. let's try it," said brouillard, and he was half-way across the street when castner overtook him. there was a dance-hall next door to pegleg john's barrel-house and gambling rooms, and, though the daylight was still strong enough to make the electrics garishly unnecessary, the orgy was in full swing, the raucous clanging of a piano and the shuffle and stamp of many feet drowning the monotonous cries of the sidewalk "barker," who was inviting all and sundry to enter and join the dancers. castner would have stopped to question the "barker"--was, in fact, trying to make himself heard--when the sharp crash of a pistol-shot dominated the clamor of the piano and the stamping feet. brouillard made a quick dash for the open door of the neighboring barrel-house, and castner was so good a second that they burst in as one man. the dingy interior of pegleg john's, which was merely a barrel-lined vestibule leading to the gambling rooms beyond, staged a tragedy. a handsome young giant, out of whose face sudden agony had driven the brooding passion of intoxication, lay, loose-flung, on the sawdust-covered floor, with amy massingale kneeling in stricken, tearless misery beside him. almost within arm's-reach van bruce cortwright, the slayer, was wrestling stubbornly with tig smith and the fat-armed barkeeper, who were trying to disarm him, his heavy face a mask of irresponsible rage and his lips bubbling imprecations. "turn me loose," he gritted. "i'll fix him so he won't give the governor's snap away! he'll pipe the story of the coronida grant off to the papers?--not if i kill him till he's too dead to bury, i guess." castner ignored the wrestling three and dropped quickly on his knees beside stephen massingale, bracing the misery-stricken girl with the needed word of hope and directing her in low tones how to help him search for the wound. but brouillard hurled himself with an oath upon young cortwright, and it was he, and neither the cattleman nor the fat-armed barkeeper, who wrenched the weapon out of cortwright's grasp and with it menaced the babbling murderer into silence. xii quicksands a short week after the reclamation service headquarters had been moved from the log-built offices on the government reservation to the commodious and airy suite on the sixth floor of the niquoia building brouillard received the summons which he had been expecting ever since the night of rioting and lawlessness which had marked the close of the railroad celebration. "mr. cortwright would like to see you in his rooms at the metropole," was the message the office boy brought, and brouillard closed his desk with a snap and followed the boy to bongras's. the shrewd-eyed tyrant of mirapolis was in his shirt-sleeves, busily dictating to two stenographers alternately, when the engineer entered the third room of the series; but the work was suspended and the stenographers were sent away as soon as brouillard was announced. "well," was the millionaire's greeting, "you waited to be sent for, didn't you?" "why not?" said brouillard shortly. "i have my work to do and you have yours." "and the two jobs are at opposite ends of the string, you'd say. never mind; we can't afford to throw each other down, and just now you can tell me a few things that i want to know. how is young massingale getting along?" "as well as could be expected. carruthers--the doctor--says he is out of danger." "h'm. it has been handed in to me two or three times lately that the old man is out gunning for van bruce or for me. any truth in that?" "i think not. massingale is a kentuckian, and i fancy he is quite capable of potting either one or both of you for the attack on his son. but so far he has done nothing--has hardly left steve's bedside." mr. j. wesley cortwright flung himself back in his luxurious swing chair and clasped his pudgy hands over the top of his head where the reddish-gray hair was thinning reluctantly. "i've been putting it off to see which way the cat was going to jump," he admitted. "if young massingale is out of danger, it is time to get action. what was the quarrel about, between him and van bruce?" "why do you ask me?" queried brouillard. "because you are pretty thick with the massingales, and you probably know," was the blunt accounting for the question. "it occurs to me that your son would be a better source of information," said brouillard, still evading. "van bruce has told me all he remembers--which isn't much, owing to his own beastly condition at the time. he says young massingale was threatening something--something in connection with the coronida grant--and that he got the insane idea into his head that the only way to stop the threat was by killing massingale." the sandy-gray eyes of the millionaire promoter were shifting while he spoke, but brouillard fixed and held them before he said: "why should massingale threaten your son, mr. cortwright?" "i don't know," denied the promoter, and he said it without flinching a hair's-breadth. "then i can tell you," was the equally steady rejoinder. "some time ago you lent david massingale, through the bank, a pretty large sum of money for development expenses on the 'little susan,' taking a mortgage on everything in sight to cover the loan." "i did." "massingale's obligation was in short-time, bankable paper, which he expected to take up when the railroad should come in and give him a market for the ore which he has already taken out of the mine." "yes." "but when the railroad was an assured fact he learned that the red butte smelters wouldn't take his ore, giving some technical reason which he knew to be a mere excuse." mr. cortwright nodded. "so far you might be reading it out of a book." "in consequence of these successive happenings, david massingale finds himself in a fair way to become a broken man by the simplest of commercial processes. the bank holds his notes, which will presently have to be paid. if he can't pay, the bank comes back on you as his indorser, and you fall back on your mortgage and take the mine. isn't that about the size of it?" "it is exactly the size of it." brouillard laughed quietly. "and yet you said a moment ago that you didn't know why young massingale should threaten your son." "and i don't know yet," blustered the magnate. "is it my fault that massingale can't pay his debts?" the engineer had stopped laughing when he said definitely and decidedly: "it is." it was the promoter's turn to laugh. "what sort of a bug have you got in your cosmos this morning, brouillard? why, man, you're crazy!" brouillard rose and relighted his cigar. "if that is your last word, mr. cortwright, i may as well go back to my office. you don't need me." "oh, hold on; don't go off in a huff. you're too thin-skinned for any common kind of use. i was only trying you to see how far you'd carry it. let it stand. assume, for the sake of argument, that i _do_ want the 'little susan' and that i've got a good friend or two in the red butte smelters who will help me get it. now, then, does that stand the band-wagon upon its wheels again?" brouillard's black eyes were snapping, but his voice was quite steady when he said: "thank you; now we shall go on better. you want the 'little susan,' and massingale naturally thinks you're taking an unfair advantage of him to get it. quite as naturally he is going to make reprisals if he can. that brings us down to the mention of the coronida grant and stephen massingale's threat--which your son can't remember." "right-o," said mr. cortwright, still with predetermined geniality. "what was the threat?" "i don't know, but the guessing list is open to everybody. there was once a grant of many square miles of mountain and desert somewhere in this region made to one don estacio de montarriba coronida. like those of most of the great spanish land grants, the boundaries of this one were loosely described and----" mr. cortwright held up a fat hand. "i know what you're going to say. but we went into all that at washington before we ever invested a single dollar in this valley. as you may or may not know, the reclamation service bureau tried to choke us off. but when it came down to brass tacks, they lacked a witness. we may be in the bed of your proposed lake, but we're safely on coronida land." "so you say," said brouillard quietly, "and on the strength of that you have been guaranteeing titles." "oh, no," protested the millionaire. "we have merely referred purchasers to the record. there is a clause in every deed." "but you have caused it to be believed that your title was good, that the government's claim to the land will not hold." "it won't hold if we're on coronida land." "ah! just there is where massingale comes in, i imagine. he has spent twenty years or more in this region, and he knows every landmark in it. what if he should be able to put a lighted match to your pile of kindling, mr. cortwright?" the promoter pulled himself erect with a grip on either arm of the chair. "brouillard, do you know what you are talking about?" he demanded. "no; it is only a guess. but as matters stand--with your son indictable for an attempted murder ... if i were you, mr. cortwright, i believe i'd give david massingale a chance to pay those notes at the bank." "and let him blackmail me? not in a month of sundays, brouillard! let him sell his ore and pay the notes if he can. if he can't, i'll take the mine." "all right," said the visitor placably. "you asked, and i've answered. now let's come to something more vital to both of us. there is a pretty persistent rumor on the street that you and your associates succeeded in getting a resolution through both houses of congress at the last session, appointing a committee to investigate this coronida claim right here on the ground. nobody seems to have any definite details, and it possibly hasn't occurred to any one that congress hasn't been in session since mirapolis was born. but that doesn't matter. the committee is coming: you have engaged rooms for it here in bongras's. you are expecting the private-car special next week." "well?" said the magnate. "you're a pretty good kindergartner. but what of it?" "oh, nothing. only i think you might have taken me in on the little side play. what if i had gone about town contradicting the rumor?" "why should you? it's true. the congressional party will be here next week, and nobody has made any secret of it." "still, i might have been taken in," persisted brouillard suavely. "you'll surely want to give me my instructions a little beforehand, won't you? just think how easily things might get tangled. suppose i should say to somebody--to garner, for example--that the town was hugely mistaken; that no congressional committee had ever been appointed; that these gentlemen who are about to visit us are mere complaisant friends of yours, coming as your guests, on a junketing trip at your expense. wouldn't that be rather awkward?" the mayor of mirapolis brought his hands together, fist in palm, and for a flitting instant the young engineer saw in the face of the father the same expression that he had seen in the face of the son when van bruce cortwright was struggling for a second chance to kill a man. "damn you!" said the magnate savagely; "you always know too much! you're bargaining with me!" "well, you have bargained with me, first, last, and all the time," was the cool retort. "on each occasion i have had my price, and you have paid it. now you are going to pay it again. shall i go over to the _spot-light_ office and tell harlan what i know?" "you can't bluff me that way, brouillard, and you ought to sense it by this time. do you suppose i don't know how you are fixed?--that you've got money--money that you used to say you owed somebody else--tied up in mirapolis investments?" brouillard rose and buttoned his coat. "there is one weak link in your chain, mr. cortwright," he said evenly; "you don't know men. put on your coat and come over to harlan's office with me. it will take just about two minutes to satisfy you that i'm not bluffing." for a moment it appeared that the offer was to be accepted. but when he had one arm in a coat sleeve, brouillard's antagonist in the game of hardihood changed his tactics. "forget it," he growled morosely. "what do you want this time?" "i want you to send a wire to red butte telling the smelter people that you will be glad to have them handle the 'little susan' ore." "and if i do?" "if you do, two things otherwise due to happen adversely will go over to your side of the market. i'll agree to keep out of the way of the sham washington delegation, and i think i can promise that harlan won't make a scare-head of the facts concerning the coronida land titles." mr. cortwright thrust the other arm into the remaining coat sleeve and scowled. but the rebound to the norm of brusque good-nature came almost immediately. "you are improving wonderfully, brouillard, and that's no joke. i have a large respect for a man who can outbid me in my own corner. you ought to be in business--and you will be, some time. i'll send the wire, but i warn you in advance that i can't make the smelter people take massingale's ore if they don't want to. all i can do is to give the old man a free field." "that is all he will ask--all i'll ask, except one small personal favor: don't rub your masquerading washington delegation into me too hard. a fine quality of non-interference is about all you are buying from me, and----" the interruption came in the form of a tap at the door opening into the hotel corridor, and brouillard, at a sign from the master of the precincts, turned the knob. it was miss genevieve who entered, bringing the sweet breeziness and audacity of youth and beauty and health with her. "how fortunate!" she exclaimed, with the charming smile that accorded so perfectly with her fresh, early-morning radiance. and while the hand of greeting still lay in brouillard's: "i have just been up to your office, and they told me they hadn't the smallest idea where you could be found. are you going to be _very_ busy this afternoon?" brouillard gave the required denial, and she explained her quest of him. there was to be an auto party to the newly opened casino at the upper power dam. would he go, if he might have the post of honor behind the pilot-wheel of the new sixty-horse, seven-passenger flyer? _please!_ mr. cortwright leaned heavily upon his desk while the asking and answering went on, and the shrewd, gray eyes were busy. when his daughter went out and brouillard was about to follow her, the genial web spinner stopped him. "tell me one thing, brouillard: what is your stake in the massingale game? are you a silent partner in the 'little susan'?" "no." "then why are you so anxious to make old david a rich man at my expense? are you going to marry the girl?" the engineer did not resent the question as he would have resented it a few weeks earlier. instead he smiled and said: "a little while ago, mr. cortwright, i told you that you didn't know men; now i'll add that you don't know women." "i know gene," said the web spinner cryptically, and this was the word that brouillard took with him when he went back to his offices in the niquoia building. xiii flood tide public opinion, skilfully formed upon models fashioned in mayor cortwright's municipal laboratory, dealt handsomely with the little group of widely heralded visitors--the "congressional committee"--penetrating to the wonder city, not by special train, to be sure, but still with creditable circumstance in president ford's private car "nadia," attached to the regular express from brewster. for example, when it was whispered about, some days before the auspicious arrival, that the visiting lawmakers wished for no public demonstration of welcome, it was resolved, both in the city council and in the commercial club, that the wish should be rigidly respected. later, when there filtered out from the same secret source of information a hint to the effect that the committee of investigation, for the better forming of an unbiassed opinion, desired to be regarded merely as a body of representative citizens and the guests of mayor cortwright, and not as national legislators, this desire, too, was respected; and even harlan, itching to his finger-tips for something definite to print in the _spot-light_, denied himself the bare, journalistic, bread-and-butter necessity of interviewing the lawmakers. safeguarded, then, by the loyal incuriosity of an entire city, the visitors went about freely, were fêted, dined, banqueted, and entertained as distinguished citizens of the greater america; were personally conducted over the government work, and were autoed to the quadjenàï placers, to the upper valley, and to the canal diggers' camps in the buckskin, all without prejudice to the official incognito which it was understood they wished to preserve. hence, after the farewell banquet at the commercial club, at which even the toasts had ignored the official mission of mayor cortwright's guests, when the "nadia," reprovisioned and tastefully draped with the national colors, was coupled to the outgoing train in the chigringo yards, tingling curiosity still restrained itself, said nothing and did nothing until the train had stormed out on the beginning of its steep climb to war arrow pass. then the barriers went down. in less than half an hour after the departure of the visitors, the _spot-light_ office was besieged by eager tip hunters, and the metropole café and lobby were thronged and buzzing like the compartments of an anxious beehive. harlan stood the pressure at the newspaper office as long as he could. then he slipped out the back way and prevailed upon bongras to smuggle him up to mr. cortwright's rooms. here there was another anxious deputation in waiting, but harlan's card was honored at once. "news!" gasped the editor, when he had broken into the privacies. "they're about to mob us over at the office, and the town will go crazy if it can't be given at least a hint of what the committee's report is likely to be. i tell you, mr. cortwright, it's panic, or the biggest boom we ever dreamed of!" "sit down, harlan," said the great man calmly, pushing the open box of cigars across the desk to the editor; "sit down and get a fresh grip on your nerves. there will be no panic; of that you can be absolutely certain. but, on the other hand, we mustn't kick the fat into the fire when everything is going our way. naturally, i am under bonds to keep my mouth shut until after the committee has made its report. i can't even give you the hint you want. but i will say this--and you can put it in an interview if you like: i'm not refusing anything in the shape of mirapolis realty at ruling prices. that's all i can say at present." harlan was hustled out, as he had been hustled in, half dazed and wholly in despair. there was a light in brouillard's office on the sixth floor of the niquoia building, and thither he went, hoping against hope, for latterly the chief of the reclamation service had been more than usually reticent. "what do you know, brouillard?" was the form his demand took when, finding that the elevator had stopped, he had dragged himself up the five flights of stairs. "i'm up against it good and hard if i can't print something in to-morrow's paper." "go to cortwright," suggested the engineer. "he's your man." "just come from him, and i couldn't get a thing there except his admission that he is buying instead of selling." "well, what more do you want? haven't you any imagination?" "plenty of it, and, by gad, i'm going to use it unless you put it to sleep! tell me a few correlative things, brouillard, and i'll make a noise like going away. is it true that you've had orders from washington within the past few days to cut your force on the dam one half?" the engineer was playing with the paper-knife, absently marking little circles and ellipses on his desk blotter, and the ash on his cigar grew a full quarter of an inch before he replied: "not for publication, harlan, i'm sorry to say." "but you have the order?" "yes." "do you know the reason why it was given?" "i do." "is it a good reason?" "it is a very excellent reason, indeed." "does the order cover more than the work on the dam?" "yes; it extends to the canal diggers in the buckskin." "good. then i'll ask only one more question, and if you answer it at all i know you'll tell me the truth: are you, individually, buying or selling on the real estate exchange? take your time, brouillard, but, for god's sake, don't turn me down." brouillard did take time, plenty of it. over and over the point of the paper-knife traced the creased circles and ellipses, and the ash on the slowly burning cigar grew longer. harlan was a student of men, but his present excitement was against him. otherwise he could not have stared so long and so intently at brouillard's face without reading therein the record of the soul struggle his final question had evoked. and if he had read, he would have interpreted differently the quick flinging down of the paper-cutter, and the sudden hardening of the jaw muscles when brouillard spoke. "i'm buying, harlan; when i sell it is only to buy again." the newspaper man rose and held out his hand. "you're a man and a brother, brouillard, and i'm your friend for life. with only a fraction of your chance at inside information, i've stayed on the up-hill side, straight through, myself. and i'll tell you why. i've banked on you. i've said to myself that it was safe for me to wade around in the edges if you could plunge out in the sure-enough swimming-hole. i'm going to stay until you give me the high sign to crawl out on the bank. is that asking too much?" "no. if the time ever comes when i have anything to say, i'll say it to you. but don't lose sight of the 'if,' and don't lean too hard on me. i'm a mighty uncertain quantity these days, harlan, and that's the truest thing i've told you since you butted in. good-night." mirapolis awoke to a full sense of its opportunities on the morning following the departure of its distinguished guests. though the _spot-light_ was unable to say anything conclusively definite, harlan had made the most of what he had; and, trickling in from a dozen independent sources, as it seemed, came jubilant confirmation of the _spot-light's_ optimistic editorials. in such a crisis all men are liars. now that the visiting delegation was gone, there were scores of witnesses willing to testify that the honorable tom, dick, or harry had dropped the life-giving word; and though each fictionist knew that his own story was a fabrication, it was only human to believe that of the man with whom he exchanged the whispered confidence. to the lies and the exaggerations was presently added a most convincing truth. by ten o'clock it was the talk of the lobbies, the club, and the exchanges that the reclamation service was already abandoning the work on the great dam. one half of the workmen were to be discharged at once, and doubtless the other half would follow as soon as the orders could come from washington. appealed to by a mob of anxious inquirers, brouillard did not deny the fact of the discharges, and thereupon the city went mad in a furor of speculative excitement in comparison with which the orgy of the gold discoverers paled into insignificance. "curb" exchanges sprang into being in the metropole lobby, in the court of the niquoia building, and at a dozen street corners on the avenue. word went to the placers, and by noon the miners had left their sluice-boxes and were pouring into town to buy options at prices that would have staggered the wildest plunger otherwhere, or at any other time. brouillard closed his desk at one o'clock and went to fight his way through the street pandemonium to bongras's. at a table in the rear room he found david massingale, his long, white beard tucked into the closely buttoned miner's coat to be out of the way of the flying knife and fork, while he gave a lifelike imitation of a man begrudging every second of time wasted in stopping the hunger gap. brouillard took the opposite chair and was grimly amused at the length of time that elapsed before massingale realized his presence. "pity a man has to stop to eat on a day like this, isn't it, mr. massingale?" he laughed; and then: "i wouldn't hurry. there's another day coming; or if there isn't, we'll all be in the same boat. how is steve?" massingale nodded. "the boy's comin' along all right now; he allows to be out in another week 'r two." then the inevitable question: "they're sayin' on the street that you're lettin' out half o' your men--that so?" brouillard laughed again. "i've heard it so often that i've come to believe it myself," he admitted, adding: "yes, it's true." after which he asked a question of his own: "have you been doing something in real estate this morning, mr. massingale?" "all i could," mumbled the old man between mouthfuls. "but i cayn't do much. if it ain't one thing, it's another. 'bout as soon as i got that tangle with the red butte smelter straightened out, the railroad hit me." "how was that?" queried brouillard, with quickening interest coming alive at a bound. "same old song, no cars; try and get 'em to-morruh, and to-morruh it'll be next day, and next day it'll be the day after. looks like they don't _want_ to haul any freight _out_ o' here." "i see," said brouillard, and truly he saw much more than david massingale did. then: "no shipments means no money for you, and more delay; and delay happens to be the one thing you can't stand. when do those notes of yours fall due?" "huh?" said massingale. he was a close-mouthed man, by breeding and by habit, and he was quite sure he had never mentioned the "little susan" entanglement to the young engineer. brouillard became more explicit. "the notes covering your indebtedness to the bank for the money you've been putting into development work and improvements--i asked when they would become due." the old man's heavy white eyebrows bent themselves in a perplexed frown. "amy hadn't ort to talk so much," he objected. "business is business." brouillard's smile was a tacit denial of the implication. "you forget that there were several other parties to the transaction and that any man's business is every man's in this crazy town," he suggested. "but you haven't answered my question about the due date. i didn't ask it out of idle curiosity, i assure you." massingale was troubled, and his fine old face showed it plainly. "i ain't much of a man to holler when i've set the woods afire myself," he answered slowly. "but i don't know why i shouldn't yip a little to you if i feel like it. to-day is the last day on them notes, and i'd about made up my mind that i was goin' up the spout on a sure thing for the fourth time since i hit the mount'ins, when this here new excitement broke out." "go on," said brouillard. "i saw a chance--about a one-to-a-hundred shot. i'd been to see hardwick at the bank, and he gave me the ultimaytum good and cold; if i couldn't lift the paper, the bank'd have to go back on my indorser, john wes. i had a little over five thousand left out o' the borray, and i took it and broke for the real estate exchange. been there for three solid hours, turnin' my little stake over like a flapjack on a hot griddle; but it ain't any use, i cayn't turn it fast enough, 'r often enough, betwixt now and three o'clock." one of bongras's rear-room luxuries was a portable telephone for every group of tables. brouillard made a sign to the waiter, and the desk set was brought to him. if david massingale recognized the number asked for, he paid no attention; and, since a man may spend his life digging holes in the ground and still retain the instincts of a gentleman--if he happens to have been born with them--he was equally oblivious to the disjointed half of the telephone conversation he might have listened to. "hello! is that boyer--niquoia national?... this is brouillard. can you give me my present figure?... not more than that?... oh, yes; you say the hillman check is in; i had overlooked it. all right, thank you." when the waiter had removed the desk set, the engineer leaned toward his table companion: "mr. massingale, i'm going to ask you to tell me frankly what kind of a deal it was you made with cortwright and the bank people." "it was the biggest tom-fool razzle that any livin' live man out of a lunatic 'sylum ever went into," confessed the prisoner of fate. "i was to stock the 'susan' for half a million--oh, she's worth it, every dollar of it; you might say the ore's in sight for it right now"--this in deference to brouillard's brow-lifting of surprise. "they was to put in a hundred thousand cash, and i was to put in the mine and the ore on the dump, just as she stood." the engineer nodded and massingale went on. "i was to have two thirds of the stock and they was to have one third. the hundred thousand for development we'd get at the bank, on my notes, because i was president and the biggest stockholder, with john wes. as indorser. then, to protect the bank accordin' to law, they said, we'd put the whole bunch o' stock--mine and their'n--into escrow in the hands of judge williams. when the notes was paid, the judge'd hand the stock back to us." "just a moment," interrupted brouillard. "did you sign those notes personally, or as president of the new company?" "that's where they laid for me," said the old man shamefacedly. "we made the money turn before we _was_ a company--while we was waitin' for the charter." "of course," commented brouillard. "and they rushed you into it on the plea of saving time. but you say the stock was to be released when the notes were paid--what was to happen if they were not paid?" "right there is where john wes.'s ten-dollar-a-bottle sody-pop stuff we was soppin' up must 'a' foolished me plumb silly; i don't just rightly recollect _what_ the judge was to do with the stock if i fell down. i know it was talked all 'round robin hood's barn, up one side and down the other, and they made it look like i couldn't slip up if i tried to. and they made the borray at the bank look fair enough, too." "well, why wasn't it fair?" brouillard wanted to know. "why, sufferin' moses! don't you see? it hadn't ort to 've been needed. _they_ was to put in a hundred thousand, and they wasn't doin' it. it figgered out this-a-way in the talk: they said, what's the use o' takin' the money out o' one pocket and puttin' it into the other? let the bank carry the development loan and let the mine pay it. then we could even up when it come to the dividends." "so it amounts to this: you have given them a clean third of the 'susan' for the mere privilege of borrowing one hundred thousand dollars on your own paper. and if you don't pay, you lose the remaining two thirds as well." "that's about the way it stacks up to a sober man. looks like i needed a janitor to look after my upper story, don't it? and i reckon mebby i do." "one thing more," pressed the relentless querist. "did you really handle the hundred-thousand-dollar development fund yourself, mr. massingale?" "well, no; not exactly. ten thousand dollars of what they called a 'contingent fund' was put in my name; but the treasurer handled most of it--nachurly, we bein' a stock company." "who is your treasurer?" "feller with just one share o' stock--parker jackson." "humph! cortwright's private secretary. and he has spent ninety thousand dollars on the 'little susan' in sixty days? not much! what has your pay-roll been?" "'bout five hundred a week." "that is to say between three and four thousand dollars for the two months--call it five thousand. now, let's see--" brouillard took out his pencil and began to make figures on the back of the _menu_ card. he knew the equipment of the "little susan," and his specialty was the making of estimates. hence he was able to say, after a minute or two of figuring: "thirty thousand dollars will amply cover your new equipment: power drills, electric transfers, and the cheap telpherage plant. have you ever seen any vouchers for the money spent?" "no. had i ort to?" "well, rather--as president of the company." massingale tucked the long white beard still farther into the buttoned coat. "i been tellin' you i need a mule-driver to knock a little sense into me," he offered. "it's a bad business any way you attack it," said brouillard after a reflective pause. "what you have really got for yourself out of the deal is the ten-thousand-dollar deposit to your personal account, and nothing more; and they'll probably try to make you a debtor for that. taking that amount and a fair estimate of the company's expenditures to date--say thirty-five thousand in round numbers, which is fairly chargeable to the company's assets as a whole--they still owe you about fifty-five thousand of the original hundred thousand they were to put in. if there were time--but you say this is the last day?" "the last half o' the last day," massingale amended. "i was going to say, if there were time, this thing wouldn't stand the light of day for a minute, mr. massingale. they wouldn't go within a hundred miles of a court of law with it. can't you get an extension on the notes?--but of course you can't; that is just the one thing cortwright doesn't want you to have--more time." "no; you bet he don't." "that being the case, there is no help for it; you'll have to take your medicine and pay the notes. do that, take an iron-clad receipt from the bank--i'll write it out for you--and get the stock released. after that, we'll give them a whirl for the thirty-three and a third per cent they have practically stolen from you." the old man's face, remindful now of his daughter's, was a picture of dismayed incertitude. "i reckon you're forgettin' that i hain't got money enough to lift one edge o' them notes," he said gently. brouillard had found a piece of blank paper in his pocket and was rapidly writing the "iron-clad" receipt. "no, i hadn't forgotten. i have something over a hundred thousand dollars lying idle in the bank. you'll take it and pay the notes." it was a bolt out of a clear sky for the old man tottering on the brink of his fourth pit of disaster, and he evinced his emotion--and the tense strain of keyed-up nerves--by dropping his lifted coffee-cup with a crash into his plate. the little accident was helpful in its way,--it made a diversion,--and by the time the wreck was repaired speech was possible. "are you--are you _plumb_ sure you can spare it?" asked the debtor huskily. and then: "i cayn't seem to sort o' surround it--all in a bunch, that way. i knowed j. wesley had me down; knowed it in less 'n a week after he sprung his trap. he wanted the 'little sue,' wanted it worse 'n a little yaller dog ever wanted his supper. do you know why? i can tell you. after you get your dam done, and every dollar of the make-believe money this cussed town's built on has gone to the bottom o' the dead sea, the 'susan' will still be joggin' along, forty dollars to the ton. it's the only piece o' real money in this whole blamed free-for-all, and j. wes. knows it." brouillard looked at his watch. "when you're through we'll go around to the bank and fix it up. there's no hurry. i've got to ride down to the buckskin camps, but i don't care to start much before two." massingale nodded, but his appetite was gone, and speech with it, the one grateful outburst having apparently drained the well. but after they had made their way through the excited sidewalk exchanges to the bank, and brouillard had written his check, the old man suddenly found his voice again. "you say you're goin' down to the buckskin right away? how 'm i goin' to secure you for this?" "we can talk about that later on, after i come back. the thing to do now is to get those notes cancelled and that stock released before bank-closing time." still david massingale, with the miraculously sent bit of rescue paper in his hand, hesitated. "there's one other thing--and i've got to spit it out before it's everlastedly too late. see here, victor brouillard--amy likes you--thinks a heap of you; a plumb blind man could see that. but say, that little girl o' mine has just natchurly _got_ to have a free hand when it comes to pairin' up, and she won't never have if she finds out about this. you ain't allowin' to use it on her, victor?" brouillard laughed. "i'll make a hedging bet and break even with you, mr. massingale," he said. "that check is drawn to my order, and i have indorsed it. let me have it again and i'll get the cash for you. in that way only the two of us need know anything about the transaction; and if i promise to keep the secret from miss amy, you must promise to keep it from mr. j. wesley cortwright. will you saw it off with me that way?--until you've made the turn on the ore sales?" david massingale shook hands on it with more gratitude, colored this time with a hearty imprecation. "dad burn you, victor brouillard, you're a man--ever' single mill-run of you!" he burst out. but brouillard shook his head gravely. "no, mr. massingale, i'm the little yellow dog you mentioned a while back," he asserted, and then he went to get the money. the check cashed and the transfer of the money made, brouillard did not wait to see massingale astonish the niquoia national cashier. nor did he remark the curious change that came into the old man's face at the pocketing of the thick sheaf of bank-notes. but he added a word of comment and another of advice before leaving the bank. "the day fits us like a glove," was the comment. "with all the money that is changing hands in the street, hardwick won't wonder at your sudden raise or at my check." then he put in the word of warning: "i suppose you'll be dabbling a little in mirapolis options after you get this note business out of the way? it's all right--i'd probably do it myself if i didn't have to leave town. but just one word in your ear, mr. massingale: buy and _sell--don't hold_. that's all. good-by, and good luck to you." left alone in the small retiring room of the bank where the business had been transacted, david massingale took the sheaf of bank-notes from his pocket with trembling hands, fondling it as a miser might. the bills were in large denominations, and they were new and stiff. he thumbed the end of the thick packet as one runs the leaves of a book, and the flying succession of big figures seemed to dazzle him. there was an outer door to the customers' room giving upon the side street; it was the one through which brouillard had passed. twice the old man made as if he would turn toward the door of egress, and the light in his gray-blue eyes was the rekindling flame of a passion long denied. but in the end he thrust the tempting sheaf back into the inner pocket and went resolutely to the cashier's counter window. expecting to have to do with hardwick, the brusque and business-like cashier, massingale was jarred a little aside from his own predetermined attitude by finding schermerhorn, the president, sitting at the cashier's desk. but from the banker's first word the change seemed to be altogether for the better. "how are you, mr. massingale? glad to see you. how is the boy getting along? first rate, i hope?" massingale was looking from side to side, like a gray old hawk disappointed in its swoop. it would have been some satisfaction to buffet the exacting hardwick with the fistful of money. but with schermerhorn the note lifting would figure as a mere bit of routine. "i've come to take up them notes o' mine with john wes.'s name on 'em," massingale began, pulling out the thick sheaf of redemption money. "oh, yes; let me see; are they due to-day?" said the president, running over the note portfolio. massingale nodded. "h'm, yes, here they are. brought the cash, did you? the 'little susan' has begun to pan out, has it? i didn't know you had commenced shipping ore yet." "we haven't." david massingale made the admission and regretted it in one and the same breath. "you've borrowed to meet these notes?" queried the president, looking up quickly. "that won't do, mr. massingale; that won't do at all. we can't afford to lose an old customer that way. what's the matter with our money? doesn't it look good to you any more?" massingale stammered out something about cashier hardwick's peremptory demand of a few hours earlier, but he was not permitted to finish. "of course, that is all right from hardwick's point of view. he was merely looking out for the maturing paper. how much more time will you need to enable you to get returns from your shipments? sixty days? all right, you needn't make out new notes; i'll indorse the extension on the back of these, and i'll undertake to get cortwright's approval myself. no; not a word, mr. massingale. as long as you're borrowing, you must be loyal and borrow of us. good afternoon. come again when we can help you out." david massingale turned away, dazed and confused beyond the power of speech. when the mists of astoundment cleared he found himself in the street with the thick wad of bank-notes still in his pocket. suddenly, out of the limbo into which two years of laborious discipline and self-denial had pushed it stalked the demon of the ruling passion, mighty, overpowering, unconquerable. the familiar street sights danced before massingale's eyes, and there was a drumming in his ears like the fall of many waters. but above the clamor rose the insistent voice of the tempter, and the voice was at once a command and an entreaty, a gnawing hunger and a parching thirst. "by gash! i'd like to try that old system o' mine jest one more time!" he muttered. "all it takes is money enough to foller it up and _stay_. and i've _got_ the money. besides, didn't brouillard say i was to get an extension if i could?" he grabbed at his coat to be sure that the packet was still there, took two steps toward the bank, stopped, turned as if in the grasp of an invisible but irresistible captor, and moved away, like a man walking in his sleep, toward the lower avenue. it was the doorway of haley's place, the monte carlo of the niquoia, that finally halted him. here the struggle was so fierce that the bartender, who knew him, named it sickness and led the stricken one to a card-table in the public bar-room and fetched him a drink. a single swallow of whiskey turned the scale. massingale rose, tossed a coin to the bar, and passed quickly to the rear, where a pair of baize doors opened silently and engulfed him. xiv the abyss it was at early candle-lighting in the evening of the day of renewed and unbridled speculation in mirapolis "front feet" that brouillard, riding the piebald range pony on which he had been making an inspection round of the nearer buckskin ditchers' camps, topped the hill in the new, high-pitched road over the chigringo shoulder and looked down upon the valley electrics. the immediate return to mirapolis was no part of the plan he had struck out when he had closed his office in the niquoia building at one o'clock and had gone over to bongras's to fall into the chance encounter with david massingale. he had intended making a complete round of all the ditch camps, a ride which would have taken at least three days, and after parting from massingale at the bank he had left town at once, taking the new road which began on the bench of the railroad yard. but almost immediately a singular thing had happened. before he had gone a mile a strange reluctance had begun to beset him. at first it was merely a haunting feeling of loss, as if he had left something behind, forgetting when he should have remembered; a thing of sufficient importance to make him turn and ride back if he could only recall what it was. farther along the feeling became a vague premonition of impending disaster, growing with every added mile of the buckskin gallopings until, at overton's camp, a few miles short of the triangle-circle ranch headquarters, he had yielded and had set out for the return. if the curious premonition had been a drag on the outward journey it became a spur to quicken the eastward faring. even the piebald pony seemed to share the urgency, needing only a loose rein and an encouraging word. across the yellow sands of the desert, through the lower ford of the niquoia, and up the outlet gorge the willing little horse tossed the miles to the rear, and at the hill-topping moment, when the electric lights spread themselves in the valley foreground like stars set to illuminate the chess-board squares of the wonder city, a record gallop had been made from overton's. brouillard let the pony set its own pace on the down-hill lap to the finish, and it was fast enough to have jolted fresh road weariness into a less seasoned rider than the young engineer. most curiously, the premonition with its nagging urgency seemed to vanish completely as soon as the city's streets were under hoof. brouillard left the horse at the reservation stables, freshened himself at his rooms in the niquoia building, and went to the metropole to eat his dinner, all without any recurrence of the singular symptoms. further, when he found himself at a table with murray grislow as his _vis-à-vis_, and had invented a plausible excuse for his sudden return, he was able to enjoy his dinner with a healthy wayfarer's appetite and to talk over the events of the exciting day with the hydrographer with few or none of the abstracted mental digressions. afterward, however, the symptoms returned, manifesting themselves this time in the form of a vague and undefined restlessness. the buzzing throngs in the metropole café and lobby annoyed him, and even grislow's quiet sarcasm as applied to the day's bubble-blowing failed to clear the air. at the club there was the same atmosphere of unrest; an exacerbating overcharge of the suppressed activities impatiently waiting for another day of excitement and opportunity. corner lots and the astounding prices they had commanded filled the air in the lounge, the billiard room, and the buffet, and after a few minutes brouillard turned his back on the hubbub and sought the quiet of the darkened building on the opposite side of the street. he was alone in his office on the sixth floor and was trying, half absently, to submerge himself in a sea of desk-work when the disturbing over-thought suddenly climaxed in an occurrence bordering on the supernatural. as distinctly as if she were present and at his elbow, he heard, or seemed to hear, amy massingale say: "victor, you said you would come if i needed you: i need you now." without a moment's hesitation he got up and made ready to go out. skeptical to the derisive degree of other men's superstitions, it did not occur to him to doubt the reality of the mysterious summons, or to question in any way his own broad admission of the supernatural in the prompt obedience. the massingale town house was one of a row of stuccoed villas fronting on the main residence street, which beyond the city limits became the highroad to the quadjenàï bend and the upper valley. brouillard took a cab at the metropole, dismissed it at the villa gate, and walked briskly up the path to the house, which was dark save for one lighted room on the second floor--the room in which stephen massingale was recovering from the effects of van bruce cortwright's pistol-shot. amy massingale was on the porch--waiting for him, as he fully believed until her greeting sufficiently proved her surprise at seeing him. "you, victor?" she said, coming quickly to meet him. "murray grislow said you had gone down to the buckskin camps and wouldn't be back for two or three days!" "grizzy told the truth--as it stood a few hours ago," he admitted. "but i changed my mind and came back. how is steve this evening?" "he is quite comfortable, more comfortable than he has been at all since the wound began to heal. i have been reading him to sleep, and when the night nurse came i ran down to get a breath of fresh air in the open." "no, you didn't come down for that reason," brouillard amended gravely. "you came to meet me." "did i?" she asked. "what makes you think that?" "i don't think; i _know_. you called me, and i heard you and came at once." "how absurd!" she protested. "i knew, or thought i knew, that you were miles away, over in the buckskin; and how could i call you?" brouillard pulled out his watch and scanned its face by the light of the roadway electric. "it is exactly twenty minutes since i left my office. what were you doing twenty minutes ago?" "as if i could tell! i don't believe i have looked at a clock or a watch all evening. after stevie had his supper i read to him--one of the creepy kipling stories that he is so fond of. you would say that 'bimi' would be just about the last thing in the world to put anybody to sleep, wouldn't you? but stevie dropped off, and i think i must have lost myself for a minute or two, because the next thing i knew the nurse was in the room." "i know what happened," said brouillard, speaking as soberly as if he were stating a mathematical certainty. "you left that room up-stairs and came to me. i didn't see you, but i heard you as plainly as i can hear you now. you spoke to me and called me by name." "what did i say? can you remember the words?" "indeed i can. the room was perfectly still, and i was working at my desk. suddenly, and without any warning, i heard your voice saying: 'victor, you said you would come if i needed you: i need you now.'" she shook her head, laughing lightly. "you have been overwrought about something, or maybe you are just plain tired. i didn't say or even think anything like that; or if i did, it must have been the other i, or one of the others, that herr freiborg writes about--and i don't believe in. this i that you are talking to doesn't remember anything about it." "you are standing me off," he declared. "you are in trouble of some sort, and you are trying to hide it from me." "no, not exactly trouble; only a little worry." "all right, call it worry if you like and share it with me. what is it?" "i think you know without being told--or you will know when i say that to-day was the day when the big debt to the bank became due. i am afraid we have finally lost the 'little susan.' that is one of the worries and the other i've been trying to call silly. i don't know what has become of father--as if he weren't old enough to go and come without telling me every move he makes!" "your father isn't at home?" gasped brouillard. "no; he hasn't been here since nine o'clock this morning. murray grislow saw him going into the metropole about one o'clock, but nobody that i have been able to reach by 'phone seems to have seen him after that." "i can bring the record down to two o'clock," was the quick reply. "he ate with me at bongras's, and afterward i walked with him as far as the bank. and i can cure part of the first worry--all of it, in fact; he had the money to take up the cortwright notes, and when i left him he was on his way to hardwick's window to do it." "_he had the money?_ where did he get it?" brouillard put his back against a porch post, a change of position which kept the light of the street electric from shining squarely upon his face. "it has been another of the get-rich-quick days in mirapolis," he said evasively. "somebody told me that the corner opposite poodles's was bought and sold three times within a single hour and that each time the price was doubled." "and you are trying to tell me that father made a hundred thousand dollars just in those few hours by buying and selling mirapolis lots? you don't know him, victor. he is totally lacking the trading gift. he has often said that he couldn't stand on a street corner and sell twenty-dollar gold pieces at nineteen dollars apiece--nobody would buy of him." "nevertheless, i am telling you that he had the money to take up those notes," brouillard insisted. "i saw it in his hands." she left him abruptly and began to pace back and forth on the porch, with her hands behind her, an imitative trait unconsciously copying her father in his moments of stress. when she stopped she stood fairly in the beam of the street light. the violet eyes were misty, and in the low voice there was a note of deeper trouble. "you say you saw the money in father's hands; tell me, victor, did you see him pay it into the bank?" "why, no; not the final detail. but, as i say, when i left him he was on his way to hardwick's window." again she turned away, but this time it was to dart into the house. a minute later she had rejoined him, and the minute had sufficed for the donning of a coat and the pinning on of the quaint cow-boy riding-hat. "i must go and find him," she said with quiet resolution. "will you go with me, victor? perhaps that is why i--the subconscious i--called you a little while ago. let's not wait for the quadjenàï car. i'd rather walk, and we'll save time." they set out together, walking rapidly townward, and there was no word to go with the brisk footing. brouillard respected his companion's silence. that the thing unspeakable, or at least unspoken, was something more than a woman's undefined fears was obvious; but until she should see fit to tell him what it was, he would not question her. from the moment of outsetting the young woman's purpose seemed clearly defined. by the shortest way she indicated the course to the avenue, and at the metropole corner she turned unhesitatingly to the northward--toward the region of degradation. as was to be expected after the day of frantic speculation and quick money changing, the lower avenue was ablaze with light, the sidewalks were passes of peril, and the saloons and dives were reaping a rich harvest. luckily, brouillard was well known, and his position as chief of the great army of government workmen purchased something like immunity for himself and his companion. but more than once he was on the point of begging the young woman to turn back for her own sake. the quest ended unerringly at the door of haley's place, and when david massingale's daughter made as if she would go in, brouillard protested quickly. "no, amy," he said firmly. "you mustn't go in there. let me take you around to the metropole, and then i'll come back alone." "i have been in worse places," she returned in low tones. and then, with her voice breaking tremulously: "be my good friend just a little longer, victor!" he took her arm and walked her into the garishly lighted bar-room, bracing himself militantly for what might happen. but nothing happened. dissipation of the western variety seldom sinks below the level of a certain rude gallantry, quick to recognize the good and pure in womankind. instantly a hush fell upon the place. the quartets at the card-tables held their hands, and a group of men drinking at the bar put down their glasses. one, a tri'-circ' cow-boy with his back turned, let slip an oath, and in a single swift motion his nearest comrade garroted him with a hairy arm, strangling him to silence. [illustration: "it's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!"] as if guided by the same unerring instinct which had made her choose haley's out of a dozen similar hells, amy massingale led brouillard swiftly to the green baize doors at the rear of the bar-room. at her touch the swinging doors gave inward, and her goal was reached. three faro games, each with its inlaid table, its impassive dealer, its armed "lookout," and its ring of silent players, lay beyond the baize doors. at the nearest of the tables there was a stir, and the dealer stopped running the cards. somebody said, "let him get out," and then an old man, bearded, white-haired, wild-eyed, and haggard almost beyond recognition, pushed his chair away from the table and stumbled to his feet, his hands clutching the air like those of a swimmer sinking for the last time. with a low cry the girl darted across the intervening space to clasp the staggering old man in her arms and draw him away. brouillard stood aside as they came slowly toward the doors which he was holding open for them. he saw the distorted face-mask of a soul in torment and heard the mumbling repetition of the despairing words, "it's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!" and then he removed himself quickly beyond the range of the staring, unseeing eyes. for in the lightning flash of revealment he realized that once again the good he would have done had turned to hideous evil in the doing, and that this time the sword thrust of the blind-passion impulse had gone straight to the heart of love itself. xv the setting of the ebb contrary to the most sanguine expectations of the speculators--contrary, perhaps, even to those of mr. j. wesley cortwright--the upward surge in mirapolis values, following the visit of the "distinguished citizens," proved to be more than a tidal wave: it was a series of them. the time was fully ripe for the breaking down of the final barriers of prudence and common-place sanity. day after day the "curb" markets were reopened, with prices mounting skyward; and when the news of how fortunes could be made in a day in the miracle city of the niquoia got abroad in the press despatches there was a fresh influx of mad money hunters from the east, and the merry game of buying and selling that which, inferentially at least, had no legal existence, went on with ever-increasing activity and an utterly reckless disregard of values considered as a basis for future returns on the investment. now, if never before, the croaker was wrathfully shouted down and silenced. no one admitted, or seemed to admit, the possible impermanence of the city. so far from it, the boast was made openly that mirapolis had fairly out-stripped the reclamation service in the race for supremacy, and that among the first acts passed by congress on its reassembling would be one definitely annulling the buckskin desert project, or, at any rate, so much of it as might be threatening the existence of the great gold camp in the niquoia valley. to the observer, anxious or casual, there appeared to be reasonable grounds for the optimistic assertion. it was an indubitable fact that brouillard's force had been cut down, first to one half, and later to barely enough men to keep the crushers and mixers moving and to add fresh layers of concrete to the huge wall of sufficient quantities to prevent the material--in technical phrase--from "dying." true, in the new furor of buying and selling and booming it was not remarked that the discharged government employees uniformly disappeared from the city and the valley as soon as they were stricken from the time rolls. true, also, was the fact that brouillard said nothing for publication, and little otherwise, regarding the successive reductions in his working force. but in such periods of insanity it is only the favorable indications which are marked and emphasized. the work on the great dam was languishing visibly, as every one could see. the navajos had been sent home to their reservation, the tepees were gone, and two thirds of the camp shacks were empty. past these material facts, plainly to be seen and weighed and measured by any who would take the time to consider them, there was a strictly human argument which was even more significant. it was known to everybody in the frenzied marketplace that brouillard himself was, according to his means, one of the most reckless of the plungers, buying, borrowing, and buying again as if the future held no threat of a possible _débâcle_. it was an object-lesson for the timid. those who did not themselves know certainly argued that there must be a few who did know, and among these few the chief of the reclamation service must be in the very foremost rank. "you just keep your eye on brouillard and steer your own boat accordingly," was the way editor harlan put it to one of the timid ones. "he knows it all, backward and forward, and from the middle both ways; you can bet your final dollar on that. and you mustn't expect him to talk. in his position he can't talk; one of the things he is drawing his salary for is to keep his mouth shut. besides, what a man may say doesn't necessarily count for much. it is what he does." thus harlan, speaking, as it were, in his capacity of a public dispenser of the facts. but for himself he was admitting a growing curiosity about the disappearing workmen, and this curiosity broke ground one evening when he chanced to meet brouillard at the club. "somebody was telling me that you let out another batch of your buckskin ditch diggers to-day, brouillard," he began. and then, without any bush beating, the critical question was fired point-blank: "what becomes of all these fellows you are dropping? they don't stay in town or go to the mines--not one of them." "don't they?" said brouillard with discouraging brevity. "you know mighty well they don't. and they don't even drift out like other people; they go in bunches." "anything else remarkable up your sleeve?" was the careless query. "yes; conlan, the railroad ticket agent, started to tell me yesterday that they were going out on government transportation--that they didn't buy tickets like ordinary folks; started to tell me, i say, because he immediately took it back and fell all over himself trying to renege." "you are a born gossip, harlan, but i suppose you can't help it. did no one ever tell you that a part of the government contract with these laborers includes transportation back to civilization when they are discharged?" "no, not by a jugful!" retorted the newspaper man. "and you're not telling me so now. for some purpose of your own you are asking me to believe it without being told. i refuse. this is the closed season, and the fish are not biting." brouillard laughed easily. "you are trying mighty hard to make a mountain out of a mole-hill. you say the men clear out when they are discharged--isn't that about what you'd do if you were out of a job?" "not with such unfailing unanimity if there were several hundred of me. mirapolis isn't such an infernally good place to go away from--not yet." brouillard's smile matched the easy-going laugh which had been its forerunner. "you are a most persistent gadfly, harlan. if i tell you one small, trifling, and safely uninflammable fact, can i trust you not to turn it into a house afire in the columns of the _spot-light_?" "you know well enough you can!" was the eager protest. "when have i ever bleated when i should have kept still?" "well, then, the fact is this: the men leaving the niquoia are not discharged from the service. they are merely transferred to the escalante project, which the department is trying to push through to completion before the northern winter sets in and freezes the concrete in the mixers." "ah!" said harlan with a quick indrawing of his breath. "that brings on more talk--about a thousand miles of it, doesn't it?" "for example?" suggested the engineer. "to put it baldly, is the government really quitting on the niquoia project, or is it merely transferring its force from a job that can wait to one that can't wait?" brouillard smiled again. "you see," he said; "it is second nature for you pencil-pushers to try to make two facts grow where only one grew before. honestly, now, harlan, what do you think about it yourself? you don't need any kindergartner of a construction man to help you solve a little problem like that, do you?" "i'm doing a little sum in simple equations," was the thoughtful answer--"putting this bit of information which you have just given me against what i have been believing to be a pretty straight tip from washington." "what is your tip?" "it's this: that congress does really propose to interfere in behalf of mirapolis." "how can any one predict that when congress is not in session?" "the tip asserts that the string-pulling is all done. it will be a quiet bit of special legislation smuggled through, i suppose, like the bills for private relief. all it will need will be the recommendation and backing of a handful of western members and senators. nobody else is very vitally interested, outside of your own department, and there are always plenty of clubs at hand for killing off department opposition--threats of cutting down the appropriations and so on. properly engineered, the mirapolis bill will go through like a greased pig under a gate. you know it will." "you say nobody else is vitally interested--that's a mistake big enough to be called a crime," said brouillard with emphasis. "the reclamation of the buckskin desert is a matter of moment to the entire nation. its failure would be a public disaster." harlan laughed derisively. "you are talking through your hat now--the salaried government engineer's hat. let your topographers go out and find some other stream to dam up. let them hunt up some other desert to reclaim. the supply of arid lands isn't exhausted yet by a good bit." brouillard appeared to be silenced even if he were not fully convinced. after a time, however, he dropped in another query. "how straight is your tip, harlan?" "so straight that i'd print it in to-morrow's _spot-light_ if i wasn't afraid of queering the deal by being too previous. the necessary backing has been secured, and the bill is already prepared. if you don't believe it, ask your own big bosses in washington." "you are certain that your information didn't originate right here in mirapolis--in mr. cortwright's office, to locate it more exactly?" "it didn't; it came from a purely personal source and direct from washington." "and the source couldn't possibly have become contaminated by the cortwright germs?" harlan's smile was the face-wrinkling of seasoned wisdom. "you are pushing me too hard," he protested. "i know that there are wheels within wheels. you'd say it would be a foxy move to have the local newspaper in mirapolis get such a tip from a strictly unprejudiced source. i'll have to admit that myself." brouillard looked at his watch and reached for his hat. "it's all right, harlan," he said at the leave-taking. "believe as much as you like, but take my advice in just one small matter. don't buy mirapolis dirt to hold; buy it to sell--and sell the minute you see your profit. i told you i'd give you a pointer if i didn't forget; you've got it." for the better part of a fortnight the tidal waves of prosperity, as evinced by increasing speculative values, kept on rolling in, each one apparently a little higher than its immediate predecessor. then the flood began to subside, though so slowly that at first it was only by a careful comparison of the daily transfers that the recession could be measured. causes and consequences extraneous to the city itself contributed to the almost imperceptible reactionary tendency. for one, the buckskin mining and milling company reluctantly abandoned its pastime of ploughing barren furrows on jack's mountain, and a little later went into liquidation, as the phrase ran, though the eastern bondholders probably called it bankruptcy. about the same time the great cement plant, deprived of the government market by the slackening of the work on the dam, reduced its output to less than one fourth of its full capacity. most portentous of all, perhaps, was the rumor that the placers at quadjenàï were beginning to show signs of exhaustion. it was even whispered about that the two huge gold dredges recently installed were not paying the expenses of operating them. quite naturally, the pulse of the wonder city beat sensitive to all these depressive rumors and incidents, responding slowly at first but a little later in accelerated throbbings which could no longer be ignored by the most optimistic bidder at the "curb" exchanges. still there was no panic. as the activities in local sales fell off and the mirapolitans themselves were no longer crowding the curbs or standing in line at the real estate offices for their turn at the listings, the prudent ones, with mr. cortwright and his chosen associates far in advance of the field, were placing mirapolis holdings temptingly on view in distant markets; placing them and selling them with a blazonry of advertising worthy of the envy of those who have called themselves the suburb builders of greater new york. it was after this invasion of the distant market was fully in train that cortwright once more sent for brouillard, receiving the engineer this time in the newest offices of the power company, on the many-times-bought-and-sold corner opposite bongras's. "hello, brouillard!" said the magnate jocosely, indicating a chair and the never-absent open box of cigars in the same gesture. "you're getting to be as much of a stranger as a man might wish his worst enemy to be. gene says you are neglecting her shamefully, but she seems to be making a pretty good jack-at-a-pinch of the english lord." "you sent for me?" brouillard broke in tersely. more and more he was coming to acknowledge a dull rage when he heard the call of his master. "yes. what about the dam? is your work going to start up again? or is it going off for good?" brouillard bit his lip to keep back the exclamation of astoundment that the blunt inquiry threatened to evoke. to assume that mr. cortwright did not know all there was to be known was to credit the incredible. "i told you a good while ago that i was only the government's hired man," he replied. "you doubtless have much better information than any i can give you." "you can tell me what your orders are--that's what i want to know." the young chief of construction frowned first, then he laughed. "what has given you the impression that you own me, mr. cortwright? i have often wondered." "well, i might say that i have made you what you are, and----" "that's true; the truest thing you ever said," snapped brouillard. "and, i was going to add, i can unmake you just as easily. but i don't want to be savage with you. all i'm asking is a little information first, and a little judicious help afterward. what are your orders from the department?" brouillard got up and stood over the stocky man in the office chair, with the black eyes blazing. "mr. cortwright, i said a moment ago that you have made me what i am, and you have. i am infinitely a worse man than you are, because i know better and you don't. it is no excuse for me that i have had a motive which i haven't explained to you, because, as i once told you, you couldn't understand it in a thousand years. the evil has been done and the consequences, to you, to me, and to every one in this cursed valley are certain. facing them as i am obliged to face them, i am telling you--but what's the use? you can't make a tool of me any longer--that's all. you must cook your meat over your own fire. i'm out of it." "i can smash you," said the man in the chair, quite without heat. "no, you can't even do that," was the equally cool retort. "no man's fate is in another man's hands. if you choose to set in motion the machinery which will grind me to a small-sized villain of the county-jail variety, it is i myself who will furnish every foot-pound of the power that is applied." he was moving toward the door, but cortwright stopped him. "one more word before you go, brouillard. it is to be war between us from this on?" "i don't say that: it would be awkward for miss genevieve. let it be armed neutrality if you like. don't interfere with me and i won't interfere with you." "ah!" said the millionaire. "now you have brought it around to the point i was trying to reach. you don't want to have anything more to do with me, but you are not quite ready to cash in and pull out of the game. how much money have you got?" the cool impudence of the question brought a dull flush to the younger man's face, but he would give the enemy no advantage in the matter of superior self-control. "that is scarcely a fair question--even between armed neutrals," he objected. "why do you want to know?" "i'm asking because you have just proposed the non-interference policy, and i'd like to know how fairly you mean to live up to it. a little while back you interfered in a small business matter of mine very pointedly. what became of the one hundred thousand dollars you gave old david massingale?" "how do you know i gave him a hundred thousand dollars?" "that's dead easy," laughed the man in the pivot chair, once more the genial buccaneer. "you drew a check for that amount and cashed it, and a few minutes later massingale, whose account had been drawn down to nothing, bobs up at schermerhorn's window with exactly the same amount in loose cash. what did he do with it--gamble it?" "that is his own affair," brouillard countered briefly. "well, the future--next month's future--is my affair. if you've got money enough to interfere again--don't. you'll lose it, the same as you did before. and perhaps i sha'n't take the second interference as good-naturedly as i did the first." "is that all you have to say?" brouillard asked impatiently. "not quite. i don't believe you were altogether in earnest a minute ago when you expressed your desire to call it all off. you don't want the mirapolis well to go dry right now, not one bit more than i do." "i have been trying pretty hard to make you understand that it is a matter of utter indifference to me." "but you haven't succeeded very well; it isn't at all a matter of indifference to you," the magnate insisted persuasively. "as things are shaping themselves up at the present speaking, you stand to lose, not only the hundred thousand you squandered on old david, but all you've made besides. i keep in touch--it's my business to keep in touch. you've been buying bargains and you are holding them--for the simple reason that with the present slowing-down tendency in the saddle you can't sell and make any money." "well?" "i've got a proposition to make that ought to look good to you. what we need just now in this town is a little more activity--something doing. you can relieve the situation if you feel like it." "how?" "if i tell you, you mustn't go and use it against me. that would be a low-down welcher's trick. but you won't. see here, your bureau at washington is pretty well scared up over the prospect here. it is known in the capital that when congress convenes there is going to be a dead-open-and-shut fight to kill this buckskin reclamation project. very well; the way for you fellows to win out is to hurry--finish your dam and finish it quick, before congress or anybody else can get action." for a single instant brouillard was puzzled. then he began to understand. "go on," he said. "what i was going to suggest is this: you prod your people at washington with a hot wire; tell 'em now's the time to strike and strike hard. they'll see the point, and if you ask for an increase of a thousand men you'll get it. make it two thousand, just for the dramatic effect. we'll work right along with you and make things hum again. we'll start up the cement plant, and i don't know but what we might give the buckskin m. & m. folks a small hypodermic that would keep 'em alive while we are taking a few snapshot pictures of mirapolis on the jump again." "let me get it straight," said brouillard, putting his back against the door. "you fully believe you've got us down; that eventually, and before the water is turned on, congress will pass a bill killing the niquoia project. but in the meantime, to make things lively, you'd like to have the reclamation service go ahead and spend another million or so in wages that can be turned loose in mirapolis. is that it?" "you've surrounded it very neatly," laughed the promoter. "once, some little time ago, i might have felt the necessity of convincing your scruples, but you've cut away all that foolishness. it's a little tough on our good old uncle samuel, i'll admit, but it'll be only a pin-prick or so in comparison to the money that is thrown away every time congress passes an appropriation bill. and, putting it upon the dead practical basis, brouillard, it's your one and only salvation--personally, i mean. you've _got_ to unload or go broke, and you can't unload on a falling market. you think about it and then get quick action with the wire. there is no time to lose." brouillard was looking past cortwright and out through the plate-glass window which commanded a view of the great dam and its network of forms and stagings. "it is a gambler's bet and a rather desperate one," he said slowly. "you stand to win all or to lose all in making it, mr. cortwright. the town is balancing on the knife-edge of a panic at this moment. would it go up, or down, with a sudden resumption of work on the dam?" "the careless thinker would say that it would yell 'fire!' and go up into the air so far that it could never climb down," was the prompt reply. "but we'll have the medicine dropper handy. in the first place, everybody can afford to stay and boost while uncle sam is spending his million or so right here in the middle of things. nobody will want to pull out and leave that cow unmilked. in the second place, we've got a mighty good antidote to use in any sure-enough case of hydrophobia your quick dam building may start." "you could let it leak out that, in spite of all the hurrah and rush on the dam, congress is really going to interfere before we are ready to turn the water on," said brouillard musingly and as if it were only his thought slipping into unconscious speech. "precisely. we could make that prop hold if you were actually putting the top course on your wall and making preparations to drop the stop-gate in your spillway." "i see," was the rejoinder, and it was made in the same half-absent monotone. "but while we are still on the knife-blade edge ... a little push.... mr. cortwright, if there were one solitary righteous man left in mirapolis----" "there isn't," chuckled the promoter, turning back to his desk while the engineer was groping for the door-knob--"at least, nobody with that particular brand of righteousness backed by the needful inside information. you go ahead and do your part and we'll do the rest." xvi the man on the bank brouillard, walking out of mr. cortwright's new offices with his thoughts afar, wondered if it were by pure coincidence that he found castner apparently waiting for him on the sidewalk. "once more you are just the man i have been wanting to see," the young missionary began, promptly making use of the chance meeting. "may i break in with a bit of bad news?" "there is no such thing as good news in this god-forsaken valley, castner. what's your grief?" "there is trouble threatening for the cortwrights. stephen massingale is out and about again, and i was told this morning that he was filling himself up with bad whiskey and looking for the man who shot him." brouillard nodded unsympathetically. "you will find that there is always likely to be a second chapter in a book of that sort--if the first one isn't conclusive." "but there mustn't be this time," castner insisted warmly. "we must stop it; it is our business to stop it." "your business, maybe; it falls right in your line, doesn't it?" "no more in mine than in yours," was the quick retort. "am i my brother's keeper?" said the engineer pointlessly, catching step with the long-legged stride of the athletic young shepherd of souls. "not if you claim kinship with cain, who was the originator of that very badly outworn query," came the answer shot-like. then: "what has come over you lately, brouillard? you are a friend of the massingales; i've had good proof of that. why don't you care?" "great heavens, castner, i do care! but if you had a cut finger you wouldn't go to a man in hell to get it tied up, would you?" "you mean that i have brought my cut finger to you?" "yes, i meant that, and the rest of it, too. i'm no fit company for a decent man to-day, castner. you'd better edge off and leave me alone." castner did not take the blunt intimation. for the little distance intervening between the power company's new offices and the niquoia building he tramped beside the young engineer in silence. but at the entrance to the niquoia he would have gone his way if brouillard had not said abruptly: "i gave you fair warning; i'm not looking for a chance to play the good samaritan to anybody--not even to stephen massingale, much less van bruce cortwright. the reason is because i have a pretty decent back-load of my own to carry. come up to my rooms if you can spare a few minutes. i want to talk to a man who hasn't parted with his soul for a money equivalent--if there is such a man left in this bottomless pit of a town." castner accepted the implied challenge soberly, and together they ascended to brouillard's offices. once behind the closed door, brouillard struck out viciously. "you fellows claim to hold the keys of the conscience shop; suppose you open up and dole out a little of the precious commodity to me, castner. is it ever justifiable to do evil that good may come?" "no." there was no hesitation in the denial. brouillard's laugh was harshly derisive. "i thought you'd say that. no qualifications asked for, no judicial weighing of the pros and cons--the evil of the evil, or the goodness of the good--just a plain, bigoted 'no.'" castner ran a hand through his thick shock of dark hair and looked away from the scoffer. "extenuating circumstances--is that what you mean? there are no such things in the court of conscience--the enlightened conscience. right is right and wrong is wrong. there is no middle ground of accommodation between the two. you know that as well as i do, brouillard." "well, then, how about the choice between two evils? you'll admit that there are times----" castner was shaking his head. "that is a lying proverb. no man is ever compelled to make that choice. he only thinks he is." "that is all you know about it!" was the bitter retort. "what can you, or any man who sets himself apart as you do, know about the troubles and besetments of ordinary people? you sit on the bank of the river and see the water go by; what do you know about the agonies of the fellow who is fighting for breath and life out in the middle of the stream?" "that is a fallacy, too," was the calm reply. "i am a man as other men, brouillard. my coat makes no difference, as you have allowed at other times when we have been thrown together. moreover, nobody sits on the bank in these days. what are your two evils?" brouillard tilted back in his chair and pointedly ignored the direct question. "theories," he said half contemptuously. "and they never fit. see here, castner; suppose it was clearly your duty, as a man and a christian and to subserve some good end, to plant a thousand pounds of dynamite in the basement of this building and fire it. would you do it?" "the case isn't supposable." "there you are!" brouillard broke out impatiently. "i told you you were sitting on the bank. the case is not only supposable; it exists as an actual fact. and the building the man ought to blow to high heaven contains not only a number of measurably innocent people but one in particular for whose life and happiness the man would barter his immortal soul--if he has one." the young missionary left his chair and began to walk back and forth on his side of the office desk. "you want counsel and you are not willing to buy it with the coin of confidence," he said at length, adding: "it is just as well, perhaps. i doubt very much if i am the person to give it to you." "why do you doubt it? isn't it a part of your job?" "not always. i am not your conscience keeper, brouillard. don't misunderstand me. i may have lived a year or so longer than you have, but you have lived more--a great deal more. that fact might be set aside, but there is another: in the life of every man there is some one person who knows, who understands, whose word for that man is the one only fitting word of inspiration. that is what i mean when i say that i am not your conscience keeper. do i make it clear?" "granting your premises--yes. go on." "i will. we'll paste that leaf down and turn another. though i can't counsel you, i can still be your faithful accuser. you have committed a great sin, brouillard, and you are still committing it. if you haven't been the leader in the mad scramble for riches here in this abandoned city, you have been only a step behind the leaders. and you were the one man who should have been like cæsar's wife, the one whose example counted for most." brouillard got up and thrust out his hand across the desk. "you are a man, castner--and that is better than being a priest," he asserted soberly. "i'll take back all the spiteful things i've been saying. i'm down under the hoofs of the horses, and it's only human nature to want to pull somebody else down. you are one of the few men in mirapolis whose presence has been a blessing instead of a curse--who hasn't had a purely selfish greed to satisfy." again castner shook his head. "there hasn't been much that i could do. brouillard, it is simply dreadful--the hard, reckless, half-demoniac spirit of this place! there is nothing to appeal to; there is no room or time for anything but the mad money chase or the still madder dissipation in which the poor wretches seek to forget. i can only try here and there to drag some poor soul out of the fire at the last moment, and it makes me sick--sick at heart!" "you mustn't look at it that way," said brouillard, suddenly turning comforter. "you have been doing good work and a lot of it--more than any three ordinary men could stand up under. i haven't got beyond seeing and appreciating, castner; truly i have not. and i'll say this: if i had only half your courage... but it's no use, i'm in too deep. i can't see any farther ahead than a man born blind. there is one end for which i have been striving from the very first, and it is still unattained. i'm past help now. i have reached a point at which i'd pull the whole world down in ruins to see that end accomplished." the young missionary took another turn up and down the room and then came back to the desk for his hat. at the leave-taking he said the only helpful word he could think of. "go to your confessor, brouillard--your real confessor--and go all the more readily if that one happens to be a good woman--whom you love and trust. they often see more clearly than we do--the good women. try it; and let me help where a man can help." for a long hour after castner went away brouillard sat at his desk, fighting as those fight who see the cause lost, and who know they only make the ruin more complete by struggling on. cortwright's guess had found its mark. he was loaded to break with "front feet" and options and "corners." in the latest speculative period he had bought and mortgaged and bought again, plunging recklessly with the sole object of wringing another hundred thousand out of the drying sponge against the time when david massingale should need it. there seemed to be no other hope. it had become plainly evident after a little time that cortwright's extorted promise to lift the smelting embargo from the "little susan" ore had been kept only in the letter; that he had removed one obstacle only to interpose another. the new obstacle was in the transportation field. protests and beseechings, letters to traffic officials, and telegrams to railroad headquarters were of no avail. in spite of all that had been done, there was never an ore-car to come over the range at war arrow, and the side-track to the mine was as yet uncompleted. brouillard had seen little of massingale, but that little had shown him that the old miner was in despair. it was this hopeless situation which had made brouillard bend his back to a second lifting of the "little susan's" enormous burden. at first the undertaking seemed easily possible. but with the drying of the speculative sponge it became increasingly difficult. more and more he had been compelled to buy and hold, until now the bare attempt to unload would have started the panic which was only waiting for some hedging seller to fire the train. sitting in the silence of the sixth-floor office he saw that cortwright had shown him the one way out. beyond doubt, the resumption in full force of the work on the dam would galvanize new life into mirapolis, temporarily, at least. after that, a cautious selling campaign, conducted under cover through the brokers, might save the day for david massingale. but the cost--the heaping dishonor, the disloyalty of putting his service into the breach and wrecking and ruining to gain the one personal end.... the sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead when he finally drew a pad of telegraph blanks under his hand and began to write a message. painstakingly he composed it, referring often to the notes in his field-book, and printing the words neatly in his accurate, clearly defined handwriting. when it was finished he translated it laboriously into the department code. but after the copy was made and signed he did not ring at once for a messenger. instead, he put the two, the original and the cipher, under a paper-weight and sat glooming at them, as if they had been his own death-warrant--was still so sitting when a light tap at the door was followed by a soft swishing of silken skirts, a faint odor of crushed violets, and genevieve cortwright stood beside him. xvii the circean cup while one might count ten the silence of the upper room remained unbroken, and neither the man nor the woman spoke. it was not the first time by many that genevieve cortwright had come to stand beside the engineer's desk, holding him with smiling eyes and a charming audacity while she laid her commands upon him for the afternoon's motoring or the evening's bridge party or what other social diversion she might have in view. but now there was a difference. brouillard felt it instinctively--and in the momentary silence saw it in a certain hard brilliance of the beautiful eyes, in the curving of the ripe lips, half scornful, half pathetic, though the pathos may have been only a touch of self-pity born of the knowledge that the world of the luxury-lapped has so little to offer once the cold finger of satiety has been laid upon the throbbing pulse of fruition. "you have been quarrelling with father again," she said, with an abruptness that was altogether foreign to her habitual attitude toward him. "i have come to try to make peace. won't you ask me to sit down?" he recalled himself with a start from his abstracted study of the faultless contour of cheek and chin and rounded throat and placed a chair for her, apologizing for the momentary aberration and slipping easily from apology into explanation. "it was good of you to try to bring the wine and oil," he said. "but it was scarcely a quarrel; the king doesn't quarrel with his subjects." "now you are making impossible all the things i came to say," she protested, with a note of earnestness in her voice that he had rarely heard. "tell me what it was about." "i am afraid it wouldn't interest you in the least," he returned evasively. "i suppose you are punishing me now for the 'giddy butterfly' pose which you once said was mine. isn't there a possibility, just the least little shadow of a possibility, that i don't deserve to be punished?" he had sat down facing her and his thought was quite alien to the words when he tried again. "you wouldn't understand. it was merely a disagreement in a matter of--a matter of business." "perhaps i can understand more than you give me credit for," she countered, with an upflash of the captivating eyes. "perhaps i can be hurt where you have been thinking that the armor of frivolity, or ignorance, or indifference is the thickest." "no, you wouldn't be hurt," he denied, in sober finality. "how can you tell? can you read minds and hearts as you do your maps and drawings? must i be set down as hopelessly and irreclaimably frivolous just because i have chosen to laugh when possibly another woman might have cried?" "oh, no," he denied again. then he tried to meet her fairly on the new ground. "you mustn't accuse yourself. you are of your own world and you can't very well help being of it. besides, it is a pleasant world." "but an exceedingly shallow one, you would say. but why not, mr. brouillard? what do we get out of life more than the day's dole of--well, of whatever we care most for? i suppose one ought to be properly shocked at the big electric sign monsieur bongras has put up over the entrance to his café; 'let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' he meant it as a cynical gibe at the expense of mirapolis, of course; but do you know it appeals to me--it makes me think." "i'm listening," said brouillard. "convert me if you can." "oh, i don't know how to say it, or perhaps even how to think it. but when i see monsieur bongras's cynical little fling i wonder if it isn't the real philosophy, after all. why should we be always looking forward and striving and trying foolishly to climb to some high plane where the air is sure to be so rare that we couldn't possibly breathe it?" brouillard's smile was a mere eye-lifting of grave reminiscence when he said: "some of us have quit looking forward--quit trying to climb--and that without even the poor hope of reaping the reward that poodles's quotation offers." miss cortwright left her chair and began to make an aimless circuit of the room, passing the blue-prints on the walls in slow review, and coming finally to the window looking out over the city and across to the gray, timber-crowned wall of the mighty structure spanning the gap between the niquoia's two sentinel mountains. "you haven't told me yet what your disagreement with father was about," she reminded him at length; and before he could speak: "you needn't, because i know. you have been getting in his way--financially, and he has been getting in your way--ethically. you are both in the wrong." "yes?" said brouillard, neither agreeing nor denying. "yes. father thinks too much of making money--a great deal too much; and you----" "well?" he prompted, when the pause threatened to become a break. "i am waiting to hear my indictment." "you puzzle me," she acknowledged frankly. "at first i thought you were going to be a thirsty money hunter like all the others. and--and i couldn't quite understand why you should be. now i know, or partly know. you had an object that was different from that of the others. you wanted to buy some one thing--not everything, as most people do. but there is something missing, and that is what puzzles me. i don't know what it is that you want to buy." "there have been two things," he broke in. "one of them you know, because i spoke of it to you long ago. the other----" "the other is connected in some way with the massingales; so much i have been able to gather from what father said." "since you know part, you may know all," he went on. "david massingale owes your father--technically, at least--one hundred thousand dollars, which he can't pay; which your father isn't going to let him pay, if he can help it. and if massingale doesn't pay he will lose his mine." "you interested yourself? would you mind telling me just why?" she asked. "that is one of the things you couldn't understand." she turned a calmly smiling face toward him. "oh, you are mistaken, greatly mistaken. i can understand it very well, indeed. you are in love with david massingale's daughter." once more he neither denied nor affirmed, and she had turned to face the window again when she went on in the same unmoved tone: "it was fine. i can appreciate such devotion even if i can't fully sympathize with it. everybody should be in love like that--once. every woman demands that kind of love--once. but afterward, you know--if one should be content to take the good the gods provide...." when she began again at the end of the eloquent little pause there was a new note in her voice, a note soothingly suggestive of swaying poppies in sunlit fields, of ease and peace and the ideal heights receding, of rose-strewn paths pleasant to the feet of the weary wayfarer. "why shouldn't we take to-day, the only day we can be sure of having, and use and enjoy it while it is ours? money?--there is money enough in the world, god knows; enough and to spare for anything that is worth the buying. i have money, if that is all--money of my own. and, if i should ask him, father would give me the 'little susan' outright, to do with it as i pleased." brouillard was leaning back in his chair studying her faultless profile as she talked, and the full meaning of what she was saying did not come to him at once. but when it did he sprang up and went to stand beside her. and all the honesty and manhood the evil days had spared went into what he said to her. "i was a coward a moment ago, miss genevieve, when you spoke of the motive which had prompted me to help david massingale. but you knew and you said the words for me. when you love as i do you will understand that there is an ecstasy in the very madness of it that is more precious than all the joys of a gold-mounted paradise without it. i must go on as i have begun." "you will marry her?" she asked softly. "there has never been any hope of that, i think; not from the very beginning. while i remained an honest man there was the insurmountable obstacle i once told you of--the honor debt my father left me. and when i became a thief and a grafter for love's sake i put myself out of the running, definitely and hopelessly." "has she told you so?" "not in so many words; there was no need. there can be no fellowship between light and darkness." miss cortwright's beautiful eyes mirrored well-bred incredulity, and there was the faintest possible suggestion of lenient scorn in her smile. "what a pedestal you have built for her!" she said. "has it never occurred to you that she may be just a woman--like other women? tell me, mr. brouillard, have you asked her to marry you?" "you know very well that i haven't." "then, if you value your peace of mind, don't. she would probably say 'yes' and you would be miserable forever after. ideals are exceedingly fragile things, you know. they are made to be looked up to, not handled." "possibly they are," he said, as one who would rather concede than dispute. the reaction was setting in, bringing a discomforting conviction that he had opened the door of an inner sanctuary to unsympathetic eyes. followed a little pause, which was threatening to become awkward when miss cortwright broke it and went back to the beginning of things. "i came to tender my good offices in the--the disagreement, as you call it, between you and father. can't you be complaisant for once, in a way, mr. brouillard?" brouillard's laugh came because it was summoned, but there was no mirth in it. "i have never been anything else but complaisant in the little set-tos with your father, miss genevieve. he has always carried too many guns for me. you may tell him that i am acting upon his suggestion, if you please--that the telegram to washington is written. he will understand." "and about this massingale affair--you will not interfere again?" brouillard's jaw muscles began to set in the fighting lines. "does he make that a command?" he asked. "oh, i fancy not; at least, i didn't hear him say anything like that. i am merely speaking as your friend. you will not be allowed to do as you wish to do. i know my father better than you do, mr. brouillard." "what he has done, and what he proposes to do, in massingale's affair, is little short of highway robbery, miss genevieve." "from your point of view, you mean. he will call it 'business' and cite you a thousand precedents in every-day life. but let it go. i've talked so much about business that i'm tired. let me see, what was the other thing i came up here for?--oh, yes, i remember now. we are making up a party to motor down to the tri'-circ' ranch for a cow-boy supper with lord falkland. there is a place in our car for you, and i know sophie schermerhorn would be delighted if you should call her up and tell her you are going." she had turned toward the door and he went to open it for her. "i am afraid i shall have to offer my regrets to you, and to miss schermerhorn as well, if she needs them," he said, with the proper outward show of disappointment. "is it business?" she laughed. "yes, it is business." "good-by, then. i'm sorry you have to work so hard. if miss massingale were only rich--but i forgot, the ideals would still be in the way. no, don't come to the elevator. i can at least do that much for myself, if i am a 'giddy butterfly.'" after she had gone brouillard went back to the window and stood with his hands behind him looking out at the great dam with its stagings and runways almost deserted. but when the westering sun was beginning to emphasize the staging timbers whose shadow fingers would presently be reaching out toward the city he went around to his chair and sat down to take the washington telegram from beneath its paper-weight. nothing vital, nothing in any manner changeful of the hard conditions, had happened since he had signed his name to the cipher at the end of the former struggle. notwithstanding, the struggle was instantly renewed, and once more he found himself battling hopelessly with the undertow in the tide-way of indecision. xviii love's crucible for half an hour after the motor-cars of the falkland supper party had rolled away from the side entrance of the hotel metropole, brouillard sat at his desk in the empty office with the momentous telegram before him, searching blindly for some alternative to the final act of treachery which would be consummated in the sending of the wire. since, by reason of cortwright's tamperings with the smelter people and the railroad, the "little susan" had become a locked treasure vault, the engineer, acting upon his own initiative, had tried the law. as soon as he had ascertained that david massingale had been given sixty days longer to live, solely because the buccaneers chose to take his mine rather than his money, brouillard had submitted the facts in the case to a trusted lawyer friend in the east. this hope had pulled in two like a frayed cord. massingale must pay the bank or lose all. until he had obtained possession of the promissory notes there would be no crevice in which to drive any legal wedge. and even then, unless some pressure could be brought to bear upon the grafters to make them disgorge, there was no chance of massingale's recovering more than his allotted two thirds of the stock; in other words, he would still stand committed to the agreement by which he had bound himself to make the grafters a present, in fee simple, of one third of his mine. brouillard had written one more letter to the lawyer. in it he had asked how david massingale could be unassailably reinstated in his rights as the sole owner of the "little susan." the answer had come promptly and it was explicit. "only by the repayment of such sums as had been actually expended in the reorganization and on the betterments--for the modernizing machinery and improvements--and the voluntary surrender, by the other parties to the agreement, of the stock in dispute," the lawyer had written; and brouillard had smiled at the thought of cortwright voluntarily surrendering anything which was once well within the grasp of his pudgy hands. failing to start the legal wedge, brouillard had dipped--also without consulting massingale--into the matter of land titles. the "little susan" was legally patented under the land laws, and massingale's title, if the mine were located upon government land, was without a flaw. but on a former reclamation project brouillard had been brought in contact with some of the curious title litigation growing out of the old spanish grants; and in at least one instance he had seen a government patent invalidated thereby. as a man in reasonably close touch with his superiors in washington, the chief of construction knew that there was a spanish-grant involvement which had at one time threatened to at least delay the niquoia project. how it had been settled finally he did not know; but after the legal failure he had written to a man--a college classmate of his own--in the bureau of land statistics, asking for data which would enable him to locate exactly the niquoia-touching boundaries of the great coronida grant. to this letter no reply had as yet been received. brouillard had cause to know with what slowness a simple matter of information can ooze out of a department bureau. the letter--which, after all, might contain nothing helpful--lingered on the way, and the crisis, the turning-point beyond which there could be no redemption in a revival of the speculative craze, had arrived. brouillard took up the draught of the washington telegram and read it over. he was cooler now, and he saw that it was only as it came from the hand of a traitor, who could and would deliberately wreck the train of events it might set in motion, that it became a betrayal. writing as the commanding officer in the field, he had restated the facts--facts doubtless well known in the department--the probability that congress would intervene and the hold the opposition was gaining by the suspension of the work on the dam. if the work could be pushed energetically and at once, there was a possibility that the opposition would become discouraged and voluntarily withdraw. would the department place the men and the means instantly at his disposal? "if i were the honest man i am supposed to be, that is precisely the message i ought to send," he mused reflectively. "it is only as the crooked devil in possession of me will drive me to nullify the effort and make it of no effect that it becomes a crime; that and the fact that i can never be sure that the cortwright gang hasn't the inside track and will not win out in spite of all efforts. that is the touchstone of the whole degrading business. i'm afraid cortwright has the inside track. if i could only get a little clear-sighted daylight on the damnable tangle!" obeying a sudden impulse, he thrust the two copies of the telegram under the paper-weight again, sprang up, put on his hat, and left the building. a few minutes later he was on the porch of the stuccoed villa in the quadjenàï road and was saying gravely to the young woman who had been reading in the hammock: "you are staying too closely at home. get your coat and hat and walk with me up to the 'little susan.' it will do you good." the afternoon was waning and the sun, dipping to the horizon, hung like a huge golden ball over the yellow immensities of the distant buckskin as they topped the final ascent in the steep trail and went to sit on the steps of the deserted home cabin at the mine. for a time neither spoke, and the stillness of the air contributed something to the high-mountain silence, which was almost oppressive. work had been stopped in the mine at the end of the previous week, massingale declaring, morosely, that until he knew whose ore he was digging he would dig no more. presumably there was a watchman, but if so he was invisible to the two on the cabin step, and the high view-point was theirs alone. "how did you know that i have been wanting to come up here once more before everything is changed?" said the girl at length, patting the roughly hewn log step as if it were a sentient thing to feel the caress. "i didn't know it," brouillard denied. "i only knew that i wanted to get out of gomorrah for a little while, to come up here with you and get the reek of the pit out of my nostrils." "i know," she rejoined, with the quick comprehension which never failed him. "it is good to be out of it, to be up here where we can look down upon it and see it in its true perspective--as a mere little impertinent blot on the landscape. it's only that, after all, victor. see how the great dam--your work--overshadows it." "that is one of the things i hoped i might be able to see if i came here with you," he returned slowly. "but i can't get your point of view, amy. i shall never be able to get it again." "you did have it once," she asserted. "or rather, you had a better one of your own. has gomorrah changed it?" "no, not gomorrah. i could shut the waste-gates and drown the place to-morrow for all that mirapolis, or anything in it, means to me. but something has changed the point of view for me past mending, since that first day when we sat here together and looked down upon the beginnings of the reclamation construction camp--before gomorrah was ever thought of." "i know," she said again. "but that dreadful city is responsible. it has robbed us all, victor; but you more than any, i'm afraid." "no," he objected. "mirapolis has been only a means to an end. the thing that has changed my point of view--my entire life--is love, as i have told you once before." "oh, no," she protested gently, rising to take her old place, with her back to the porch post and her hands behind her. and then, still more gently: "that is almost like sacrilege, victor, for love is sacred." "i can't help it. love has made a great scoundrel of me, amy; a criminal, if man's laws were as closely meshed as god's." "i can't believe that," she dissented loyally. "it is true. i have betrayed my trust. cortwright will make good in all of his despicable schemes. congress will intervene and the niquoia project will be abandoned." "no," she insisted. "take a good, deep breath of this pure, clean, high-mountain air and think again. mirapolis is dying, even now, though nobody dares admit it. but it is. tig smith hears everything, and he told father last night that the rumor about the quadjenàï placers is true. they are worked out, and already the men have begun to move up the river in search of new ground. tig said that in another week there wouldn't be a dozen sluice-boxes working." "i have known about the quadjenàï failure for the past two weeks," brouillard put in. "for at least that length of time the two steam dredges have been handling absolutely barren gravel, and the men in charge of them have had orders to go on dredging and say nothing. mirapolis is no longer a gold camp; but, nevertheless, it will boom again--long enough to let mr. j. wesley cortwright and his fellow buccaneers loot it and get away." "how can you know that?" she asked curiously. "i know it because i am going to bring it to pass." "you?" "yes, i. it is the final act in the play. and my part in this act is the judas part--as it has been in the others." she was looking down at him with wide-open eyes. "if any one else had said that of you ... but i can't believe it! i know you, victor; i think i must have known you in the other world--the one before this--and there we climbed the heights, in the clear sunlight, together." "there was one thing you didn't learn about me--in that other world you speak of," he said, falling in with her allegory. "you didn't discover that i could become a wretched cheat and a traitor for love of you. perhaps it wasn't necessary--there." "tell me," she begged briefly; and, since he was staring fixedly at the scored slopes of jack's mountain, he did not see that she caught her lip between her teeth to stop its trembling. "part of it you know: how i did what i could to bring the railroad, and how your brother's teaspoonful of nuggets was made to work a devil's miracle to hurry things along when the railroad work was stopped. but that wasn't the worst. as you know, i had a debt to pay before i could say: 'come, little girl, let's go and get married.' so i became a stockholder in cortwright's power company, knowing perfectly well when i consented that the hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock he gave me was a bribe--the price of my silence and non-interference with his greedy schemes." "but you didn't mean to keep it; you knew you _couldn't_ keep it!" she broke in; and now he did not need to look to know that her lips were trembling piteously. "i did keep it. and when the time was fully ripe i sold it back to cortwright, or, rather, i suppose, sold it through him to some one of his wretched gulls. i meant to pay my father's debt with the money. i had the letter written and ready to mail. then the tempter whispered that there was no hurry, that i might at least keep the money long enough to make it earn something for myself. also, it struck me that this same devil was laughing at the spectacle of a man so completely lost to a decent sense of the fitness of things as to be planning to pay an honor debt with graft money. and so i kept it for a while." she dropped quickly on the step beside him and a sympathetic hand crept into his. "you kept it until the unhappy day when you gave it to my father, and he--and he threw it away." she was crying softly, but his attempt to comfort her was almost mechanical. "don't cry about the money. it had the devil's thumb-prints on it, and he merely claimed his own and got it." then he went on as one determined to leave nothing untold. "cortwright had bought me, and i served him as only a man in my position could serve him. i became a promoter, a 'booster,' with the others. there have been times when a word from me would have pricked the bubble. i haven't said the word; i am not saying it now. if i should say it i'd lose at a single stroke all that i have been fighting for. and i am not a good loser, amy." for once the keen, apprehending perception failed. "i don't understand," she said, speaking as if she were groping in thick darkness. "i mean i don't understand the motive that could----" he turned to her in dumb astonishment. "i thought i had been making it plain as i went along. there has been but the one motive--a mad passion to give, give, never counting the cost. love, as it has come to me, seems to have neither conscience nor any scruples. nothing is too precious to be dragged to the sacrifice. you wanted something--you needed it--therefore it must be purchased for you. and the curious part of the besetment is that i have known all along that i was killing your love for me. if it wasn't quite dead before, it will die now--now that i have told you how i am flinging the last vestiges of uprightness and honor to the winds." "but how?" she queried. "you haven't told me." "you said a few minutes ago that mirapolis is dying. that is true; and it is dying a little too soon to suit the purposes of the cortwright gang. it must be revived, and i am to revive it by persuading the department to rush the work on the dam. you would say that this would only hasten the death of the city. but the plot provides for all the contingencies. mirapolis needs the money that would be spent here in the rushing of the government work. that was the real life-blood of the boom at first, and it could be made to serve again. am i making it plain?" she nodded in speechless disheartenment, and he went on: "with the dam completed before congress could intervene, mirapolis would, of course, be quite dead and ready for its funeral. but if the cortwright people industriously insist that the spending of another million or two of government money is only another plum for the city and its merchants and industries, that, notwithstanding the renewed activities, the work will still stop short of completion and the city will be saved by legislative enactment, the innocent sheep may be made to bleed again and the wolves will escape." she shuddered and drew a little apart from him on the log step. "but your part in this horrible plot, victor?" she asked. "it is as simple as it is despicable. in the first place, i am to set the situation before the department in such a light as to make it clearly a matter of public policy to take advantage of the present mirapolitan crisis by pushing the work vigorously to a conclusion. after thus turning on the spigot of plenty, i am expected to crowd the pay-rolls and at the same time to hold back on the actual progress of the work. that is all--except that i am to keep my mouth shut." "but you can't, you _can't_!" she cried. then, in a passionate outburst: "if you should do such a thing as that, it wouldn't kill my love--i can't say that any more; but it would kill me--i shouldn't want to live!" he looked around at her curiously, as if he were holding her at arm's length. "shall i do what you would have me do, amy? or shall i do what is best for you?" the opposing queries were as impersonal as the arm's-length gaze. "perhaps i might be able to patch up the ideals and stand them on their feet again--and you would pay the penalty all your life in poverty and privation, in hopes wrecked and ruined, and i with my hands tied. that is one horn of the dilemma, and the other is ... let me tell you, amy, it is worse than your worst fears. they will strip your father of the last thing he has on earth and bring him out in debt to them. there is one chance, and only one, so far as i can see. let me go on as i have begun and i can pull him out." the tears had burned out of the steadfast eyes which were resting, with the shining soul looking out through them, upon the crimsoning snow peaks of the distant timanyonis. "how little you know the real love!" she said slowly. "it neither weighs nor measures, nor needs to; it writes its own law in the heart, and that law can make no compromise with evil. it has but one requirement--the best good of the beloved. if the way to that end lies through sacrifice--if it asks for the life itself--so let it be. if you knew this, victor, you would know that i would gladly lose all--the mine, my father's chance of his reward for the years of toil, even my brother's better chance for reformation--and count myself happy in having found a love that was too great to do evil that good might come." he got up stiffly and helped her to her feet and together they stood looking down upon the city of the plain, lying now under the curved, sunset shadow cast by the mighty, inbending sweep of the great dam. "i don't know," he said after a time. "once, as i told you a few weeks ago, the best there was in me would have leaped up to climb the heights with you. but i've gone far since the going began. i am not sure that i could find my way back if i should try. let's go down. i mustn't keep you out on the mountain after dark. i haven't happened to meet her, but i suppose there is a mrs. grundy, even in gomorrah." she acquiesced in silence and they made the descent of the steep trail and walked across in the growing dusk from the foot of chigringo to the stuccoed villa in the suburb, misers of speech, since there were no deeper depths to which the spoken word could plunge. but at the villa steps brouillard took the girl in his arms and kissed her. "put me out of your mind and heart if you can," he said tenderly, repeating the words which he had once sent across the distances to her in another moment of despair, and before she could answer he was gone. * * * * * monsieur poudrecaulx bongras, rotund, smiling, and roached and waxed to a broad burlesque of second-empire fierceness, looked in vain among his dinner guests that evening for the chief of the reclamation service, and brouillard's absence held a small disappointment for the frenchman. rumor, the rumor which was never quiet and which could never be traced conclusively to its source, was again busy with exciting hints of a new era of prosperity about to dawn, and bongras had hoped to drop his own little plummet of inquiry into the reclamation service chief. the chance did not materialize. the lights in a certain upper office in the niquoia building were still turned on long after m. poudrecaulx had given up the hope of the deep-sea sounding for that night. some time after the lobby crowd had melted, and before the lower avenue had begun to order small-hour suppers of bongras, the two high windows in the niquoia building went dark and a few minutes later the man who had spent half the night tramping the floor or sitting with his head in his hands at the desk in the upper room came out of the street archway and walked briskly to the telegraph office across the plaza. "how is the line to-night, sanford--pretty clear?" he asked of the night manager, killing time while the sleepy night receiving clerk was making his third attempt to count the words in the closely written, two-page government cipher. "nothing doing; a little a. p. stuff drizzling in now and then," said the manager; adding: "but that's like the poor--always with us." "all right; there is no particular rush about this matter of mine, just so it is sure to be in the secretary's hands at the opening of business in the morning. but be careful that it goes straight--you'd better have it checked back before it is put on the through wire from denver." "sure, mr. brouillard. what you say in this little old shack goes as it lays. we'll look out and not bull your message. good-night." xix the sunset gun notwithstanding the preliminary rumors which bongras and many others had sought so anxiously to verify, the mirapolitan awakening to a realization that once more the tide had turned to bring new billows of prosperity tumbling into the valley of the niquoia came with a sudden and triumphant shock. the first of the quickening waves fell upon the government reservation. between sunrise and nightfall, on a day when the cloud of depression had grown black with panic threatenings, the apathy which had lately characterized the work on the great dam disappeared as if by magic. the city found its bill-boards posted with loud calls for labor; the idle mixers were put in commission; the quarries and crushers began to thunder again; and the stagings once more shook and trembled under the feet of a busy army of puddlers. while the revival was as yet only in the embryonic period, fresh labor began to come in gangs and in car loads and presently by special trains. swarming colonies of greeks, italians, and bulgarians were dumped upon the city through the gate of the railroad station, and once more chigringo avenue at night became a cheerful midway answering to the speech of all nations. change, revivification, reanimation instantly became the new order of the day; and again mirapolis flung itself joyously into the fray, reaping where it had not sown and sowing only where the quickest crop could be gathered. for now the dullest of the reapers saw that the government work was really the mirapolitan breath of life. neither the quickening of the city's industries nor the restarting of the gold dredges in the quadjenàï canals, the reopening of the real estate exchange nor the buckskin company's sudden resumption of the profitless prospecting on jack's mountain served to obscure the principal fact--that without the money the reclamation service was disbursing the new prosperity structure would collapse like a house of cards. this new and never-mentioned conviction wrought an eager change in men and in methods. credit vanished and spot cash was tacitly acknowledged to be the only way to do business in a live community. fortunes changed hands swiftly, as before, but now there was little bargaining and, with hot haste for the foreword, little time for it. to the western motto of "go to it and get the money" was added: "and don't come back without it." it was said with a laugh, but behind the laugh there was a menace. among the individual transformations wrought by the new conditions, the young chief of the reclamation service afforded the most striking example. from the morning when he had summarily cancelled the lease for the offices in the niquoia building and had returned his headquarters to the old log buildings on the government reservation and thence had issued his first series of orders for the resumption of full-force work on the dam and canals, those who had known him best discovered that they had not known him at all. even to grislow and the men of his staff he was curt, crisply mandatory, almost brutal. for one and all there was rarely anything beyond the shot-like sentence: "drive it, men; drive it; that's what you're here for--_drive it_!" the time he took to eat his hurried meals at bongras's could be measured in minutes, and what hours he gave to sleep no man knew, since he was the last to leave the headquarters at night and the first on the work in the morning. twice, after the renewed activities on the great wall had become a well-ordered race against time, and the concrete was pouring into the high forms in steady streams from the ranked batteries of mixers, mr. cortwright had sent for brouillard, and on each occasion the messenger had gone back with the brief word: "too busy during working hours." and when a third messenger came to inquire what mr. brouillard's working hours were, the equally blunt answer returned was: "all the time." in the face of such discouragements mr. cortwright was constrained to pocket his dignity as mayor, as the potentate of the exchanges, and as the unquestionable master of the surly young industry captain who refused to come when he was called, and to go in person. choosing the evening hour when he had been assured that he was likely to find brouillard alone and at work, he crossed the boundaries of the sacred reservation and made his way to the door of the log-built mapping room. "i came around to see what is eating you these days," was the pudgy tyrant's greeting for the young man sitting under the shaded desk lamp. "why don't you drop in once in a while and give me the run of things?" "i gave your clerk the reason," said brouillard laconically. "i'm too busy." "the devil you are!" snapped the great man, finding the only arm chair in the room and dropping heavily into it. "since when?" "since the first time you sent for me--and before." mr. cortwright recovered his working geniality only with a palpable effort. "see here, brouillard, you know you never make any money by being short with me. let's drop it and get down to business. what i wanted to say is that you are overdoing it; you are putting on too much steam. you've brought the boom, all right, but at the pace you're setting it won't last long enough. are you catching on?" "i'm listening," was the non-committal reply. "well, enough's enough, and too much of a good thing scalds the hog before you're ready to dress it and cut it up. it's all right for you to run men in here by the train load and scatter 'em out over your scaffolding--the more the merrier, and it's good for the town--but you needn't sweat the last shovelful of hurry out of them the way you're doing. it won't do to get your job finished too soon." "before congress convenes, you mean?" suggested brouillard. "that's just what i mean. string it out. make it last." brouillard sat back in his pivot chair and began to play with the paper-knife. "and if i don't choose to 'string it out'--if i even confess that i am straining every nerve to do this thing that you don't want me to do--what then, mr. cortwright?" the quiet retort jolted the stocky man in the arm chair as if it had been a blow. but he recovered quickly. "i've been looking for that," he said with a nervous twinkling of the little gray eyes. "you've no business being out of business, brouillard. if you'd quit puddling sand and cement and little rocks together and strike your gait right in ten years you'd be the richest man this side of the mountains. i'll be open-handed with you: this time you've got us where we can't wiggle. we've _got_ to have more time. how much is it going to cost us?" brouillard shook his head slowly. "odd as it may seem to you, i'm out of your market this time, mr. cortwright--quite out of it." "oh, no, you're not. you've got property to sell--a good bit of it. we can turn it for you at a figure that will----" "no; you are mistaken," was the quick reply. "i have no property in mirapolis. i am merely a squatter on government land, like every one else in the niquoia valley." "for heaven's sake!" the promoter burst out. "what's got into you? don't you go around trying to stand that corpse on its feet; it's a dead one, i tell you! the coronida titles are all right!" "there are no coronida titles. you have known it all along, and i know it--now. i have it straight from the bureau of land statistics, in a letter from a man who knows. the nearest boundary of the old spanish grant is latigo peak, ten miles south of chigringo. the department knows this and is prepared to prove it. and in the very beginning you and your associates were warned that you could not acquire homestead or other rights in the niquoia." "let it go!" snapped the gray-eyed king of the pack. "we've got to get out alive and we're going to get out alive. what's your price?" "i have answered that question once, but i'll make it a little plainer if you wish. it is beyond your reach; if you should turn your money-coining soul into cash you couldn't pay it this time, mr. cortwright." "that's guff--boy-talk--play-ranting! you want something--is it that damned massingale business again? i don't own the railroad, but if you think i do, i'll sign anything you want to write to the traffic people. let massingale sell his ore and get the money for it. he'll go gamble it as he did yours." brouillard looked up under the shaded electric globe and his handsome face wrinkled in a sour smile. "you are ready to let go, are you?" he said. "you are too late. mr. ford returned from europe a week ago, and i have a wire saying that to-night's through freight from brewster is chiefly made up of empty ore-cars for the 'little susan.'" the sandy-gray eyes blinked at this, but mr. cortwright was of those who die hard. "what i said still holds good. massingale or his son, or both of them, will gamble the money. and if they don't, we've got 'em tied up in a hard knot on the stock proposition." "i was coming to that," said brouillard quietly. "for a long time you have been telling me what i should do and i have done it. now i'll take my turn. you must notify your associates that the 'little susan' deal is off. there will be a called meeting of the directors here in this room to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, and----" "who calls it?" interrupted the tyrant. "the president." "president nothing!" was the snorted comment. "an old, drunken gambler who hasn't got sense enough to go in when it rains! say, brouillard, i'll cut that pie so there'll be enough to go around the table. just leave massingale out of it and make up your mind that you're going to sit in with us. we've bought the mine and paid for it. i've got the stock put away where it's safe. massingale can't touch a share of it, or vote it, either." brouillard shook his head. "you are stubbornly hard to convince, mr. cortwright, but i'll try one more time. you will come here to-morrow evening, with your confederates in the deal, prepared to take the money you have actually spent in betterments and prepared to release the stock. if you fail to do so you will get nothing. is that explicit enough?" "you're crazy!" shouted the promoter. "you talk as if there wasn't any law in this country!" "there isn't--for such men as you; you and your kind put yourselves above the law. but that is neither here nor there. you don't want to go into court with this conspiracy which you have cooked up to beat david massingale out of his property. it's the last thing on earth you want to do. so you'd better do the other thing--while you can." mr. cortwright sat back in his chair, and once more brouillard saw in the sandy-gray eyes the look which had been in the son's eyes when the derelict fought for freedom to finish killing stephen massingale. "it's a pretty dangerous thing to try to hold a man up unless you've got the drop on him, brouillard," he said significantly. "i've got you covered from my pocket; i've had you covered that way ever since you began to buck and rear on me a couple of months ago. one little wire word to washington fixes you for good and all. if i say the word, you'll stay on your job just as long as it will take another man to get here to supersede you." brouillard laughed. "the pocket drop is never very safe, mr. cortwright. you are likely to lose too much time feeling for the proper range. then, too, you can never be sure that you won't miss. also, your assumption that i'm taking an unarmed man's chance is wrong. i can kill you before you can pull the trigger of the pocket gun you speak of--kill you so dead that you won't need anything but a coroner's jury and a coffin. how long would it take you to get action in the washington matter, do you think?" "i've told you; you'd have just about a week longer to live, at the furthest." "i can better that," was the cool reply. "i have asked you to do a certain thing to-morrow night. if you don't do it, the _spot-light_ will print, on the following morning, that letter i spoke of--the letter from my friend in the bureau of land statistics. when that letter is printed everybody in mirapolis will know that you and your accomplices are plain swindlers, amenable to the criminal law, and from that moment there will never be another real-estate transfer in the niquoia valley." the promoter rose slowly out of his chair and stood leaning heavily with his fat hands, palms downward, on the flat-topped desk. his cheeks were puffed out and the bitten mustaches bristled like the whiskers of a gray old leader of the timber-wolves. "brouillard," he grated huskily, "does this mean that you're breaking with us, once for all?" "it means more than that; it means that i have reached a point at which i am ashamed to admit that there was ever anything to break." "then listen: you've helped this thing along as much as, or more than, anybody else in this town; and there are men right here in mirapolis--plenty of 'em--who will kill you like a rat in a hole if you go back on them as you are threatening to. don't you know that?" the younger man was balancing the paper-cutter across his finger. "that is the least of my worries," he answered, speaking slowly. "i am all sorts of a moral coward, i suppose; i've proved that often enough in the past few months, god knows. but i'm not the other kind, mr. cortwright." "then i'll take a hand!" snarled the tyrant at bay. "i'll spend a million dollars, if i have to, blacklisting you from one end of this country to the other! i'll fix it so you'll never build anything bigger than a hog-pen again as long as you live! i'll publish your record wherever there is a newspaper to print it!" he pounded on the desk with his fist--"i'll do it--money can do it! more than that, you'll never get a smell of that chigringo mine--you nor dave massingale!" brouillard tossed the paper-knife into a half-opened drawer and squared himself at the blotting-pad. "that is your challenge, is it?" he said curtly. "so be it. start your machinery. you will doubtless get me, not because you have money, but because for a time i was weak enough and wicked enough to climb down and stand on your level. but if you don't hurry, mr. cortwright, i'll get you first. are you going? one thing more--and it's a kindness; get your son out of town before this massingale matter comes up for adjustment. it will be safer." "is that all you have to say?" "pretty nearly all, except to tell you that your time is growing short, and you and those who are in with you had better begin to set your houses in order. if you'll come over here at eight o'clock to-morrow night prepared to do the square thing by david massingale, i'll withhold the publication of that letter which will stamp you and your associates as criminals before the law; but that is the only concession i shall make." "you've got to make at least one more!" stormed the outgoing magnate. "you don't have to set any dates or anything of that kind for your damned drowning act!" "in justice to a good many people who are measurably innocent, i shall have to do that very thing," returned the engineer firmly. "the notice will appear in to-morrow's _spot-light_." it was the final straw in the stocky promoter's crushing wrath burden. his fat face turned purple, and for a second or two he clawed the air, gasping for breath. brouillard sat back in his chair, waiting for the volcanic upheaval. but it did not come. when he had regained a measure of self-control, mr. cortwright turned slowly and went out without a word, stumbling over the threshold and slamming the door heavily as he disappeared. for a time after the promoter's wordless departure brouillard sat at his desk writing steadily. when the last of the memorandum sheets was filled he found his hat and street coat and left the office. ten minutes later he had penetrated to the dusty den on the second floor of the _spot-light_ office where harlan was grinding copy for his paper. brouillard took a chair at the desk end and laid the sheets of pencilled government paper under the editor's eyes. harlan's lean, fine-lined face was a study in changing emotions as he read. but at the end there was an aggrieved look in his eyes, mirroring the poignant regret of a newsman who has found a priceless story which he dares not use. "it's ripping," he sighed, "the biggest piece of fireworks a poor devil of a newspaper man ever had a chance to touch off. but, of course, i can't print it." "why 'of course'?" "for the same reason that a sane man doesn't peek down the muzzle of a loaded gun when he is monkeying with the trigger. i want to live a little while longer." brouillard looked relieved. "i thought, perhaps, it was on account of your investments," he said. "not at the present writing," amended harlan with a grin. "i got a case of cold feet when we had that little let-up a while back, and when the market opened i cleaned up and sent the sure-enough little round dollars home to ohio." "and still you won't print this?" "i'd like to; you don't know how much i'd like to. but they'd hang me and sack the shop. i shouldn't blame 'em. if what you have said here ever gets into cold type, it's good-by mirapolis. why, brouillard, the whole united states would rise up and tell us to get off the map. you've made us look like thirty cents trying to block the wheels of a million dollars--and that is about the real size of it, i guess." "then it is your opinion that if this were printed it would do the business?" "there isn't the slightest doubt about it." "thank you, harlan, that is what i wanted to find out--if i had made it strong enough. it'll be printed. i'll put it on the wires to the associated press. i was merely giving you the first hack at it." "gee--gosh! hold on a minute!" exclaimed the newsman, jumping up and snapping his fingers. "if i weren't such a dod-gasted coward! let me run in a few 'it is alleged's', and i'll chance it." "no; it goes as it lies. there are no allegations. it is merely a string of cold facts, as you very well know. print it if you like, and i'll see to it that they don't hang you or loot the office. i have two hundred of the safest men on my force under arms to-night, and we'll take care of you. i'm in this thing for blood, harlan, and when i get through, this little obstruction in the way of progress that cortwright and his crowd planned, and that you and i and a lot of other fools and knaves helped to build, will be cooling itself under two hundred feet of water." "good lord!" said the editor, still unable to compass the barbaric suddenness of it. then he ran his eye over the scratch sheets again. "does this formal notice that the waste-gates will be closed three weeks from to-morrow go as it stands?" he inquired. "it does. i have the department's authority. you know as well as i do that unless a fixed day is set there will be no move made. we are all trespassers here, and we've been warned off. that's all there is to it. and if we can't get our little belongings up into the hills in three weeks it's our loss; we had no business bringing them here." the editor looked up with the light of a new discovery in his eyes. "you say 'we' and 'our.' that reminds me; garner told me no longer ago than this afternoon that you are on record for something like a hundred thousand dollars' worth of choice mirapolis front feet. how about that?" brouillard's smile was quite heart-whole. "i've kept my salary in a separate pocket, harlan. besides that--well, i came here with nothing and i shall go away with nothing. the rest of it was all stage money." "say--by hen!" ejaculated the owner of the _spot-light_. then, smiting the desk: "you ought to let me print that. i'd run it in red head-lines across the top of the front page. but, of course, you won't.... well, here goes for the fireworks and a chance of a soaped rope." and he pushed the bell button for the copy boy. late as it was when he left the _spot-light_ office, brouillard waited on the corner for a quadjenàï car, and, catching one, he was presently whisked out to the ornate villa in the eastern suburb. there was a light in the hall and another in a room to the rear, and it was amy who answered his touch of the bell-push. "no, i can't stay," he said, when she asked him in. "but i had to come, if it was only for a minute. the deed is done. i've had my next-to-the-last round-up with mr. j. wesley cortwright, and to-morrow's _spot-light_ will fire the sunset gun for mirapolis. is your father here?" "no. he and stevie are up at the mine. i am looking for them on every car." "when they come, tell your father it's time to hike. are you all packed?" she nodded. "everything is ready." "all right. three of my teams will be here by midnight, at the latest. the drivers and helpers will be good men and you can trust them. don't let anything interfere with your getting safely up to the mountain to-night. there'll be warm times in gomorrah from this on and i want a free hand--which i shouldn't have with you here." "oh, i'm glad, glad!--and i'm just as scared as i can be!" she gasped with true feminine inconsistency. "they will single you out first; what if i am sending you to your death, victor! oh, please don't go and break my heart the other way across by getting killed!" he drew a deep breath and laughed. "you don't know how good it sounds to hear you say that--and say it in that way. i sha'n't be reckless. but i'm going to bring j. wesley and his crowd to book--they've got to go, and they've got to turn the 'little susan' loose." "they will never do that," she said sadly. "i'll make them; you wait and see." she looked up with the violet eyes kindling. "i told you once that you could do anything you wanted to--if you only wanted to hard enough. i believed it then; i believe it now." "no," he denied with a smile that was half sorrowful, "i can't make two hills without a valley between them. i've chased down the back track like a little man,--for love's sake, amy,--and i've burned all the bridges behind me as i ran; namely, the sham deeds to the pieces of reservoir bottom i'd been buying. but when it is all over i shall be just where i was when we began--exactly one hundred thousand dollars short of being able to say: 'come, girl, let's go and get married.'" "but father owes you a hundred thousand dollars," she said quickly. "not in a hundred thousand years, o most inconsistent of women! didn't we agree that that money was poisoned? it was the purchase price of an immortal soul, and i wouldn't touch it with a pair of tongs. that is why your father couldn't use it; it belonged to the devil and the devil wanted it back." "father won't take that view of it," she protested. "then you'll have to help me to bully him, that's all. but i must go and relieve grizzy, who is doing guard duty at the mixers.... tell your father--no, that isn't what i meant to say, it's this--" and his arms went suddenly across the hundred-thousand-dollar chasm. * * * * * a little deeper in the night, when he was tramping back through the sleeping town and up to the mixers on the high bench of jack's mountain, brouillard knew well enough that he was walking over a thin-crusted crater of volcanic possibilities. but to a man in the seventh heaven of love acknowledged without shame, and equally without shame returned,--nay, with the first passionate kiss of the love still tingling on his lips,--volcanic possibilities, or even the volcanoes themselves, figure lightly, indeed. xx the terror in the yellowstone national park there is an apparently bottomless pit which can be instantly transformed into a spouting, roaring vesuvius of boiling water by the simple expedient of dropping a bar of soap into it. the _spot-light_ went to press at three o'clock. by the earliest graying of dawn, and long before the sun had shown itself above the eastern timanyonis, brouillard's bar of soap was melting and the mirapolitan under-depths were beginning to heave. like wild-fire, the news spread from lip to lip and street to street, and by sunrise the geyser was retching and vomiting, belching débris of cries and maledictions, and pouring excited and riotous crowds into chigringo avenue. most naturally, the _spot-light_ office was the first point of attack, and harlan suffered loss, though it was inconsiderable. at the battering down of the doors the angry mob found itself confronting the young reclamation service chief and four members of his staff, all armed. brouillard spoke briefly and to the point. "i am the man who wrote that article you've been reading, and mr. harlan printed it as a matter of news. if you have anything to say to me you know where to find me. now, move on and let mr. harlan's property alone or somebody will get hurt." nobody stayed to press the argument at the moment. an early-morning mob is proverbially incoherent and incohesive; and, besides, loaded winchesters in the hands of five determined men are apt to have an eloquence which is more or less convincing. but with the opening of business the geyser spouted again. the exchanges were mobbed by eager sellers, each frenzied struggler hoping against hope that he might find some one simple enough to buy. at ten o'clock the bank closed--"temporarily," the placard notice said. but there were plenty to believe that it would never open again. by noon the trading panic had exhausted itself a little, though the lobby and café of the metropole were crowded, and anxious groups quickly formed around any nucleus of rumor or gossip in the streets. between one and two o'clock, while brouillard, leshington, and anson were hastily eating a luncheon sent over to the mapping room from bongras's, harlan drifted in. "spill your news," commanded leshington gruffly. "what's doing, and who's doing it?" "nobody, and nothing much," said harlan, answering the two queries as one. "the town is falling apart like a bunch of sand and the get-away has set in. two full trains went east this forenoon, and two more are scheduled for this afternoon if the railroad people can get the cars here." "'good-by, little girl, good-by,'" hummed grislow, entering in time to hear the report of the flight. but leshington was shaking his big head moodily. "laugh about it if you can, but it's no joke," he growled. "when the froth is blown away and the bubbles quit rising, there are going to be some mighty bitter settlings left in the bottom of the stein." "you're right, leshington," said harlan, gravely. "what we're seeing now is only the shocked surprise of it--as when a man says 'ouch!' before he realizes that the dog which has bitten him has a well-developed case of rabies. we'll come to the hydrophobic stage later on." by nightfall of this first day the editor's ominous prophecy seemed about to reach its fulfilment. the avenue was crowded again and the din and clamor was the roar of a mob infuriated. brouillard and leshington had just returned from posting a company of the workmen guard at the mixers and crushers, when grislow, who had been scouting on the avenue, came in. "harmless enough, yet," he reported. "it's only some more of the get-away that harlan was describing. just the same, it's something awful. people are fairly climbing over one another on the road up the hill to the station--with no possible hope of getting a train before some time to-morrow. teamsters are charging twenty-five dollars a load for moving stuff that won't find cars for a week, and they're scarce at the price." leshington, who was not normally a profane man, opened his mouth and said things. "if the cortwright crowd had one man in it with a single idea beyond saving his own miserable stake!" he stormed. "what are the spellbinders doing, grizzy?" the hydrographer grinned. "cortwright and a chosen few left this afternoon, hotfoot, for washington, to get the government to interfere. that's the story they'd like to have the people believe. but the fact is, they ran away from judge lynch." "yes; i think i see 'em coming back--not!" snorted the first assistant. then to brouillard: "that puts it up to us from this out. is there anything we can do?" brouillard shook his head. "i don't want to stop the retreat. i've heard from president ford. the entire western division will hustle the business of emptying the town, and the quicker it is done the sooner it will be over." for a tumultuous week the flight from the doomed city went on, and the overtaxed single-track railroad wrought miracles of transportation. not until the second week did the idea of material salvage take root, but, once started, it grew like jonah's gourd. hundreds of wrecking crews were formed. plants were emptied, and the machinery was shipped as it stood. houses and business blocks were gutted of everything that could be carried off and crowded into freight-cars. and, most wonderful of all, cars were found and furnished almost as fast as they could be loaded. but the second week was not without incidents of another sort. twice brouillard had been shot at--once in the dark as he was entering the mapping room, and again in broad day when he was crossing the avenue to bongras's. the second attempt was made by the broker garner, whom excitement or loss, or both, had driven crazy. the young engineer did nothing in either case save to see to it that garner was sent to his friends in kansas city. but when, two nights later, an attempt was made to dynamite the great dam, he covered the bill-boards with warning posters. outsiders found within the reclamation service picket-lines after dark would be held as intentional criminals and dealt with accordingly. "it begins to look a little better," said anson on the day in the third week when the army of government laborers began to strip the final forms from the top of the great wall which now united the two mountain shoulders and completely overshadowed and dominated the dismantled town. "if the avenue would only take its hunch and go, the agony would be over." but brouillard was dubious. the avenue, more particularly the lower avenue, constituted the dregs. bongras, whom brouillard had promised to indemnify, stayed; some of the shopkeepers stayed for the chance of squeezing the final trading dollar out of the government employees; the saloon-keepers stayed to a man, and the dives were still running full blast--chiefly now on the wages of the government force. "it will be worse before it is better," was the young chiefs prediction, and the foreboding verified itself that night. looting of a more or less brazen sort had been going on from the first, and by nine o'clock of the night of prediction a loosely organized mob of drink-maddened terrorists was drifting from street to street, and there were violence and incendiarism to follow. though the property destruction mattered little, the anarchy it was breeding had to be controlled. brouillard and leshington got out their reserve force and did what they could to restore some semblance of order. it was little enough; and by ten o'clock the amateur policing of the city had reduced itself to a double guarding of the dam and the machinery, and a cordoning of the metropole, the reclamation service buildings, and the _spot-light_ office. for harlan, the dash of sporting blood in his veins asserting itself, still stayed on and continued to issue his paper. "i said i wanted to be in at the death, and for a few minutes to-night i thought i was going to be," he told brouillard, when the engineer had posted his guards and had climbed the stair to the editorial office. then he asked a question: "when is this little hell-on-earth going to be finally extinguished, victor?" instead of answering, brouillard put a question of his own: "did you know that cortwright and schermerhorn and judge williams came back this evening, harlan?" "i did," said the newspaper man. "they are registered at the metropole as large as life. and miss genevieve and lord falkland and cortwright's ugly duckling of a son came with them. what's up?" "that is what i'd like to know. there's a bunch of strangers at the metropole, too, a sheriff's posse, poodles thinks; at least, there is a deputy from red butte with the crowd." harlan tilted back in his chair and scanned the ceiling reflectively. "this thing is getting on my nerve, old man. i wish we could clean the slate and all go home." "it is going to be cleaned. notices will be posted to-morrow warning everybody that the waste-gates will be closed promptly on the date advertised." "when is it? things have been revolving too rapidly to let me remember such a trivial item as a date." "it is the day after to-morrow, at noon." the owner of the _spot-light_ nodded. "let her go, gallagher. i've got everything on skids, even the presses. _au revoir_--or perhaps one should say, _au reservoir_." fresh shoutings and a crackling of pistols arose in the direction of the plaza, and brouillard got up and went to a window. the red glow of other house burnings loomed against the sombre background of jack's mountain. "senseless savages!" he muttered, and then went back to the editor. "i don't like this cortwright reappearance, harlan. i wish i knew what it means." "let's see," said the newsman thoughtfully; "what is there worth taking that they didn't take in the _sauve qui peut_? by jove--say! did old david massingale get out of j. wesley's clutches before the lightning struck?" "i wish i could say 'yes', and be sure of it," was the sober reply. "you knew about the thieving stock deal, or what you didn't know i told you. well, i had massingale, as president, call a meeting of directors--which never met. afterward, acting under legal advice, he went on working the mine, and he's been working it ever since, shipping a good bit of ore now and then, when he could squeeze it in between the get-away trains. of course, there is bound to be a future of some sort; but that is the present condition of affairs." "how about those notes in the bank? wasn't massingale personally involved in some way?" brouillard bounded out of his chair as if the question had been a point-blank pistol-shot. "great heavens!" he exclaimed. "to-day's the day! in the hustle i had forgotten it, and i'll bet old david has--if he hasn't simply ignored it. that accounts for the reunion at the metropole!" "don't worry," said harlan easily. "the bank has gone, vanished, shut up shop. at the end of the ends, i suppose, they can make david pay; but they can't very well cinch him for not meeting his notes on the dot." "massingale doesn't really owe them anything that he can't pay," brouillard asserted. "by wiring and writing and digging up figures, we found that the capitalizing stockholders, otherwise j. wesley cortwright, and possibly schermerhorn, have actually invested fifty-two thousand dollars, or, rather, that amount of massingale's loan has been expended in equipment and pay-rolls. three weeks ago the old man got the smelter superintendent over here from red butte, and arranged for an advance of fifty-two thousand dollars on the ore in stock, the money to be paid when the first train of ore-cars should be on the way in. it was paid promptly in new york exchange, and massingale indorsed the draft over to me to be used in the directors' meeting, which was never held." "well?" said the editor. brouillard took a pacing turn up the long, narrow room, and when he came back he said: "i guess i'm only half reformed, after all, harlan. i'd give a year or so out of my natural life if i had a grip on cortwright that would enable me to go across to bongras's and choke a little justice out of him." "go over and flash massingale's fifty-two thousand dollars at 'em. they'll turn loose. i'll bet a yellow cur worth fifteen cents that they're wishing there was a train out of this little section of sheol right now. hear that!" the crash of an explosion rattled the windows, and the red loom on the jack's mountain side of the town leaped up and became a momentary glare. the fell spirit of destruction, of objectless wreck and ruin, was abroad, and brouillard turned to the stairway door. "i'll have to be making the rounds again," he said. "the greeks and italians are too excitable to stand much of this. take care of yourself; i'll leave grif and a dozen of the trusties to look after the shop." when he reached the sidewalk the upper avenue was practically deserted. but in the eastern residence district, and well around to the north, new storm-centres were marked by the increasing number of fires. brouillard stopped and faced toward the distant and invisible timanyonis. a chill autumn breeze was sweeping down from the heights and the blockading wall of the great dam turned it into eddies and dust-pillared whirls dancing in the empty street. young griffith sauntered up with his winchester in the hollow of his arm. "anything new?" he asked. "no," said brouillard. "i was just thinking that a little wind would go a long way to-night, with these crazy house-burners loose on the town." then he turned and walked rapidly to the government headquarters, passed the sentry at the door of the mapping room; and out of the fire-proof vault where the drawings and blue-print duplicates were kept took a small tin despatch-box. he had opened the box and had transferred a slip of paper from it to the leather-covered pocket field book which served him for a wallet, when there was a stir at the door and castner hurried in, looking less the clergyman than the hard-working peace-officer. "more bedlam," he announced. "i want gassman or handley and twenty or thirty good men. the mob has gone from wrecking and burning to murdering. 'pegleg' john was beaten to death in front of his saloon a few minutes ago. it is working this way. there were three fires in the plaza as i came through." "see grislow at the commissary and tell him i sent you," said the chief. "i'd go with you, but i'm due at the metropole." "good. then miss amy got word to you? i was just about to deliver her message." "miss massingale? where is she, and what was the message?" demanded brouillard. "then you haven't heard? the 'little susan' is in the hands of a sheriff's posse, and david massingale is under arrest on some trumped-up charge--selling ore for his individual account, or something of that sort. miss amy didn't go into particulars, but she told me that she had heard the sheriff say it was a penitentiary offence." "but where is she now?" stormed brouillard. "over at the hotel. i supposed you knew; you said you were going there." brouillard snatched up the despatch-box and flung it into the fire-proof. while he was locking the door castner went in search of grislow, and when brouillard faced about, another man stood in the missionary's place by the mapping table. it was mr. j. wesley cortwright. the gray-faced promoter had lost something of his old-time jaunty assurance, and he was evidently well shaken and unnerved by the sights and sounds of the night of terror. the sandy-gray eyes advertised it as well as the fat hands, which would not keep still. "i didn't think i'd have to ask a favor of you again, brouillard, but needs must when the devil drives," he began, with an attempted assumption of the former manner. "we didn't know--the newspapers didn't tell us anything about this frightful state of affairs, and----" brouillard had suddenly lost his desire to hurry. "sit down, mr. cortwright," he said. "i was just coming over to see you--to congratulate you and mr. schermerhorn on your return to mirapolis. we have certainly missed the mayor, not to mention the president of the common council." "of course--yes," was the hurried rejoinder. "but that's all over. you said you'd get us, and you did. i don't bear malice. if you had given me one more day i'd have got you; the stuff that would have broken your neck with the washington people was all written and ready to put on the wires. but that's past and gone, and the next thing is something else. there is a lot of money and securities locked up in the niquoia bank vault. we've come to clean up, and we brought a few peace officers along from red butte for a guard. the miserable scoundrels are scared stiff; they won't stir out of the hotel. bongras tells me you've got your force organized and armed--can't you lend us fifty or a hundred huskies to keep the mob off while we open that bank vault?" brouillard's black eyes snapped, and the blood danced in his veins. the opportunity for which he would have bartered ormus treasure had come to him--was begging him to use it. "i certainly can," he admitted, answering the eager question and emphasizing the potentiality. "but will you? that's the point. we'll make it worth your while. for god's sake, don't say no, brouillard! there's pretty well up to a million in that vault, counting odds and ends and left-overs. schermerhorn oughtn't to have left it. i thought he had sense enough to stay and see it taken care of. but now----" "but now the mob is very likely to wreck the building and dynamite the vault, you were going to say. i think it is more than likely, mr. cortwright, and i wonder that it hasn't been done before this. it would have been done if the rioters had had any idea that you'd left anything worth taking. and it would probably wreck you and mr. schermerhorn if it should get hold of you; you've both been burned in effigy half a dozen times since you ran away." "oh, good lord!" shuddered the magnate. "make it two hundred of your men, and let's hurry. you won't turn us down on this, brouillard?" "no. it is no part of our duty to go and keep the mob off while you save your stealings, but we'll do it. and from the noise they are making down that way, i think you are wise in suggesting haste. but first there is a question of common justice to be settled. an hour ago, or such a matter, you sent a part of your sheriff's posse up to seize the 'little susan' and to arrest david massingale----" "it's--it's a lie!" stammered cortwright. "somebody has been trying to backcap me to you!" brouillard looked up, frowning. "you are a good bit older man than i am, mr. cortwright, and i sha'n't punch your head. but you'll know why i ought to when i tell you that my informant is miss amy massingale. what have you done with old david?" the man who had lost his knack of bluffing came down and stayed down. "he--he's over at the hotel," he stammered. "under guard?" "well--y-yes." brouillard pointed to the telephone on the wall. "go and call up your crowd and get it here. tell judge williams to bring the stock he is holding, and schermerhorn to bring the massingale notes, and your man jackson to bring the stock-book. we'll have that directors' meeting that was called, and wasn't held, three weeks ago." "oh, good heavens!" protested the millionaire, "put it off--for god's sake, put it off! it will be wasting time that may be worth a thousand dollars a minute!" "you are wasting some of the thousand-dollar minutes right now," was the cool reply, and the engineer turned to his desk and squared himself as if he were going to work on a bunch of foremen's reports. it was a crude little expedient, but it sufficed. cortwright tramped to the 'phone and cursed and swore at it until he had his man at the other end of the wire. the man was the lawyer, as it appeared, and cortwright abused him spitefully. "you've balled it--balled it beautifully!" he shouted. "come over here to brouillard's office and bring schermerhorn and the stock and the notes and jackson and the secretary's books and massingale and your infernal self! get a move, and get it quick! we stand to lose the whole loaf because you had to butt in and sweep up the crumbs first!" when the procession arrived, as it did in an incredibly short time, brouillard laid down the law. "we don't need these," he said curtly, indicating the two deputies who came to bring david massingale. and when they were gone: "now, gentlemen, get to work and do business, and the less time you waste the better chance there will be for your bank salvage. three requirements i make: you will turn over the stock, putting mr. massingale in possession of his mine, without encumbrance; you will cancel and surrender his notes to the bank; and you will give him a document, signed by all of you, acknowledging the payment in full of all claims, past or pending. while you are straightening things out, i'll ring up the yards and rally your guard." cortwright turned on the lawyer. "you hear what brouillard says; fix it, and do it suddenly." it was done almost before brouillard had made leshington, in charge at the yards, understand what was wanted. "now a note to your man at the mine to make him let go without putting us to the trouble of throwing him over the dump," said the engineer, when he had looked over the stock transfers, examined the cancelled notes, and read and witnessed the signatures on the receipt in full. cortwright nodded to the lawyer, and when williams began to write again the king of the promoters turned upon brouillard with a savage sneer. "once more you've had your price," he snarled bitterly. "you and the old man have bilked us out of what we spent on the mine. but we'll call it an even break if you'll hurry that gang of huskies." "we'll call it an even break when it is one," retorted brouillard; and after he had gathered up the papers he took the new york check from his pocketbook, indorsed it, and handed it to cortwright. "that is what was spent out of the hundred thousand dollars you had mr. massingale charged with, as nearly as we can ascertain. take it and take care of it; it's real money." he had turned again to the telephone to hurry leshington, had rung the call, and was chuckling grimly over the collapse of the four men at the end of the mapping table as they fingered the slip of money paper. suddenly it was borne in upon him that there was trouble of some sort at the door--there were curses, a blow, a mad rush; then.... it was stephen massingale who had fought his way past the door-guarding sentry and stood blinking at the group at the far end of the mapping board. "you're the houn' dog i'm lookin' for!" he raged, singling out cortwright when the dazzle of the electrics permitted him to see. "you'll rob an old man first, and then call him a thief and set the sheriff on him, will you----?" massingale's pistol was dropping to the firing level when brouillard flung away the telephone ear-piece and got between. afterward there was a crash like a collision of worlds, a whirling, dancing medley of colored lights fading to gray and then to darkness, and the engineer went down with the avenger of wrongs tightly locked in his arms. * * * * * after the period of darkness had passed and brouillard opened his eyes again upon the world of things as they are, he had a confused idea that he had overslept shamefully and that the indulgence had given him a bad headache. the next thought was that the headache was responsible for a set of singular hallucinations. his blanket bunk in the sleeping shack seemed to have transformed itself into a white bed with pillows and snowy sheets, and the bed was drawn up beside an open window through which he could look out, or seem to look out, upon a vast sea dimpling in the breeze and reflecting the sunshine so brightly that it made his headache a darting agony. when he turned his face to escape the blinding glare of the sun on the sea the hallucinations became soothingly comforting, not to say ecstatic. some one was sitting on the edge of the bed; a cool hand was laid on his forehead; and when he could again see straight he found himself looking up into a pair of violet eyes in which the tears were trembling. [illustration: brouillard got between.] "you are amy--and this is that other world you used to talk about, isn't it?" he asked feebly. the cool hand slipped from his forehead to his lips, as if to warn him that he must not talk, and he went through the motions of kissing it. when it was withdrawn he broke the silent prohibition promptly. "the way to keep me from talking is to do it all yourself; what happened to me last night?" she shook her head sorrowfully. "the 'last night' you mean was three weeks ago. stevie was trying to shoot mr. cortwright in your office and you got between them. do you remember that?" "perfectly," he said. "but it still seems as if it were only last night. where am i now?--not that it makes any difference, so long as i'm with you." "you are at home--our home; at the 'little susan.' mr. leshington had the men carry you up here, and mr. ford ran a special train all the way from denver with the doctors. stevie's bullet struck you in the head, and--and we all thought you were going to die." "i'm not," he asserted, in feebly desperate determination. "i'm going to live and get to work and earn a hundred thousand dollars, so i can say: 'come, little girl----'" again the restraining hand was laid upon his lips, and again he went through the motions of kissing it. "you _mustn't_ talk!" she insisted. "you said you'd let me." and when he made the sign of acquiescence, she went on: "at first the doctors wouldn't give us any hope at all; they said you might live, but you'd--you'd never--never remember--never have your reason again. but yesterday----" "please!" he pleaded. "that's more than enough about me. i want to know what happened." "that night, you mean? all the things that you had planned for. father got the mine back, and mr. leshington and the others got the riot quelled after about half of the city was burned." "but cortwright and schermerhorn--i promised them----" "mr. leshington carried out your promise and helped them get the money out of the bank vault before the mob sacked the niquoia building and dynamited it. but at the hotel they were arrested on the order of the bank examiner, and everything was taken away from them. we haven't heard yet what is going to be done with them." "and gomorrah?" he asked. she slipped an arm under his shoulders and raised him so he could look out upon the mountain-girt sea dimpling under the morning breeze. "there is where it was," she said soberly, "where it was, and is not, and never will be again, thank god! mr. leshington waited until everybody had escaped, and then he shut the waste-way gates." brouillard sank back upon the pillows of comfort and closed his eyes. "then it's all up to me and the hundred thousand," he whispered. "and i'll get it ... honestly, this time." the violet eyes were smiling when he looked into them again. "is she--the one incomparable she--worth it, victor?" "her price is above rubies, as i told you once a long time ago." "you wouldn't let pride--a false pride--stand in the way of her happiness?" "i haven't any; her love has made me very humble and--and good, amy, dear. don't laugh: it's the only word; i'm just hungering and thirsting after righteousness enough to be half-way worthy of her." "then i'll tell you something else that has happened. father and stevie have reorganized the 'little susan' mining company, dividing the stock into four equal parts--one for each of us. you must take your share, victor. it will break father's heart if you don't. he says you got it back for him after it was hopelessly lost, and that is true." he had closed his eyes again, and what he said seemed totally irrelevant. "'and after the man had climbed the fourth mountain through all its seven stages, he saw a bright light, and it blinded him so that he stumbled and fell, and a great darkness rose up to make the light seem far beyond his reach. then the light came near, and he saw that it was love, and that the darkness was in his own soul.' ... kiss me, amy, girl, and then go and tell your father that he is a simple-hearted old spendthrift, and i love him. and if you could wire castner, and tell him to bring a license along----" "o boy--foolish boy!" she said. "wait: when you are well and strong again...." but she did not make him wait for the first of the askings; and after a healing silence had fallen to show the needlessness of speech between those who have come through darkness into light, he fell asleep again, perhaps to dream that the quieting hand upon his forehead was the touch of love, angel of the bright and shining way, summoning him to rise up and go forward as a soul set free to meet the dawning day of fruition. the end * * * * * books by francis lynde published by charles scribner's sons the city of numbered days. illus. mo _net_ $ . the honorable senator sage-brush. mo _net_ $ . scientific sprague. illus. mo _net_ $ . the price. mo _net_ $ . the taming of red butte western. illus. mo _net_ $ . the king of arcadia. illus. mo _net_ $ . a romance in transit. mo _net_ . note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) lefty locke pitcher-manager by burt l. standish author of "lefty o' the bush," "lefty o' the big league," "lefty o' the blue stockings," "brick king, backstop," "the making of a big leaguer," etc. illustrated by charles l. wrenn [illustration: lefty had sprained his ankle so seriously that he required assistance to walk from the field. (_see page _)] publishers barse & co. new york, n. y.--newark, n. j. copyright, by barse & co. lefty locke, pitcher-manager printed in the united states of america contents chapter page i an unexpected offer ii something queer iii the federal policy iv the magnetized ball v a man of mystery vi peculiar behavior vii the test viii at necessity's demand ix torturing doubt x the only door xi burning speed xii too much temptation xiii the perplexing question xiv only one way xv signing the manager xvi the wrong stool pigeon xvii getting into action xviii the first deal xix a fleeting glimpse xx a riddle to solve xxi the man ahead xxii a doubtful victory xxiii all wrong xxiv wheels within wheels xxv hidden tracks xxvi not much show xxvii the suspended ax xxviii the gage of war xxix the jaws of the trap xxx one against three xxxi light on a dark spot xxxii one chance xxxiii one in a million xxxiv weegman's proposal xxxv the shattering stroke xxxvi the test of mysterious jones xxxvii the return of lefty lefty locke, pitcher-manager chapter i an unexpected offer lefty locke gave the man a look of surprise. the soft, bright moonlight was shining full on weegman's face, and he was chuckling. he was always chuckling or laughing outright, and locke had grown tired of it. it was monotonous. "what do you mean?" the pitcher asked. "tinware for kennedy! i don't believe i get you." weegman snapped his fingers; another little trick that was becoming monotonous and irritating. "that's poor slang perhaps," he admitted; "but you've been in the game long enough to understand it. collier is going to tie the can to old jack." lefty moved his chair round on the little vine-covered porch in order to face his visitor squarely. frogs were chorusing in the distance, and the dynamo in the electric power house on the edge of the town kept up its constant nocturnal droning. "i could scarcely believe you meant just that," said the star slabman of the blue stockings soberly. "being charles collier's private secretary, and therefore to a large extent aware of his plans, i presume you know what you're talking about." "you can bet on it," laughed weegman, leaning back and puffing at his cigar. "i'm the man collier left to carry out his orders regarding the team. i have full instructions and authority." "but i'm sure kennedy has no inkling of this. i correspond with him regularly, and i know he expected a new contract to sign before mr. collier went abroad. he wrote me that the contract was to be mailed him from new york, but that he supposed collier, being a sick man, forgot it at the last moment." weegman took the cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward on the arm of his chair. "a new manager of the right sort is hard to find," he stated confidentially, "and collier wasn't ready to let go all holds until he had some one else in view at least." locke uttered a smothered exclamation of incredulity. "do you mean to tell me that charles collier was handing old jack kennedy a deal as deceitfully crooked as that?" he cried. "i can't believe it. kennedy has been a faithful and loyal manager. three years ago, when collier secured the controlling interest in the club, his bad judgment led him to drop kennedy and fill his place with al carson. you know what happened. carson made a mess of it, and old jack was called back at the last moment to save the day. he did it and won the championship for the blue stockings by a single game. since then--" "come now!" chuckled weegman, snapping his fingers again. "you know you were the man who really won that championship by your air-tight pitching. why do you want to give somebody else the credit? kennedy merely went in as a pinch hitter--" "and pounded the only run of the game across the rubber. no matter how air-tight a pitcher's work may be, to win games the team behind him has got to hit. kennedy was there with the goods." "that's ancient history now. what has he done since then? as a player, he's a has-been. he's lost his eyes so that he can't even bat in the pinches now. his sun has set, and he may as well retire to his farm and settle down for old age." "he hasn't lost his brains," asserted locke warmly. "playing or pinch hitting is a small part of a manager's business. once since then he's copped the bunting for us, and last year it was hard luck and injury to players that dropped us into third position." "i don't blame you," said weegman good naturedly. "you ought to stand up for him. it shows the right spirit. he gave you your chance--practically plucked you from the brambles. but," he supplemented disparagingly, "he was desperately hard up for twirlers that season. you were sort of a lucky guess on his part. save for the fact that he's never been able to win a world's championship, old jack's been picking four-leaf clovers all his life. he's too soft and easy-going for a manager; not enough drive to him." it was lefty locke's turn to laugh, but his merriment held more than a touch of irony. "jack kennedy has won pennants or kept in the first division, at least, with teams that would have been fighting for the subcellar under any other manager. when meddlers have not interfered he's always been able to get the last ounce of baseball out of every man under him. while he has handled it the club has always been a big paying proposition. what he has done has been nothing short of miraculous considering the niggardly policy forced upon him by those in power. it's the lowest-salaried team in the league. we have men getting twenty-five hundred or three thousand who should be drawing down twice as much, and would be with any other winning big league club. only a man with kennedy's magnetism and tact could have kept them going at high pressure, could have kept them from being dissatisfied and lying down. what they've accomplished has been done for him, not for the owners. and now you tell me he's to be canned. there's gratitude!" "my dear man," chirruped weegman, "baseball is business, and gratitude never goes far in business. granting what you say may have been true in the past, it's plain enough that the old man's beginning to lose his grip. he fell down last season, and now that the feds are butting in and making trouble, he's showing himself even more incompetent. talk about gratitude; it didn't hold grist or orth, and now it's reported that dillon is negotiating with the outlaws. you know what that means; our pitching staff is all shot to pieces. if the players were so true to kennedy, why didn't they wait for their contracts?" "how could jack send them contracts when he hasn't one himself? if he had the authority now, perhaps he could save dillon for us even yet. billy orth is hot-headed and impulsive, and he thought he wasn't given a square deal. as for grist, old pete's days are numbered, and he knows it. he was wise to the talk about asking waivers on him. it was a ten-to-one shot he'd have been sent to the minors this coming season. with the federals offering him a three-year contract at nearly twice as much as he ever received, he'd have been a fool to turn it down. all the same, he had a talk with kennedy before he signed. jack couldn't guarantee him anything, so he jumped." "that's it!" exclaimed weegman triumphantly. "there's a sample of kennedy's incompetence right there. he should have baited grist along, and kept him away from the feds until the season was well under way, when they would have had their teams made up, and probably wouldn't have wanted pete. then, if he didn't come up to form, he could be let out to the minors." lefty's face being in the shadow, the other man did not see the expression of contempt that passed over it. for a few minutes the southpaw was too indignant to reply. when he did, however, his voice was level and calm, though a trifle hard. "so that would have been your way of doing it! grist has had hard luck with all his investments; i understand he's saved very little. he's a poor man." weegman lolled back again, puffing at his cigar. "that's his lookout. anyway, he's not much loss. but these confounded feds aren't through; they're after dirk nelson, too. what d'ye know about that! our best catcher! they seem to be trying to strip our whole team." "knowing something about the salaries our players get, probably they figure it should be easy stripping." suddenly the visitor leaned forward again, and gazed hard at locke. he was not laughing now. "have they been after you?" he asked. "yes." "i thought likely. made you a big offer?" "yes." "what have you done?" "nothing." "good!" exclaimed weegman. "it's a good thing for you that you kept your head. they're outside organized ball, and any man who jumps to them will be blacklisted. all this talk about the money they have behind them is pure bluff." "think so?" "i know it. they're plunging like lunatics, and they'll blow up before the season's over. they haven't got the coin." "then how does it happen they are signing players for three years, and handing over certified checks in advance for the first year, besides guaranteeing salaries by bank deposits for the full tenure of contracts?" "oh, they've got some money, of course," admitted weegman lightly; "but, as i say, they're spending it like drunken sailors. when the feds explode, the fools who have jumped to them will find themselves barred from organized ball for all time; they'll be down and out. the outlaws may hurt us a little this year, but after that--nothing doing. just the same, i own up we've got to put a check on 'em before they rip the blue stockings wide open. that's what brings me down here to fernandon to see you." "really!" said lefty interestedly. "you seem to be shouldering a lot of responsibility." "i am," chuckled charles collier's private secretary. "it was all arranged with mr. collier before he sailed. he left me with proper authority. i am to sign up the manager for the team." "is that right?" exclaimed locke, surprised. "then, according to your own statement, if you want to save the blue stockings from being riddled, you'd better be about it." "i am," said weegman. "that's why i've come to you." "for advice?" "oh, no!" he laughed heartily. "i don't need that. i know what i'm about. i've brought a contract. i want you to put your name to it. your salary will be advanced fifteen hundred dollars." "the feds offered to double it. as a pitcher--" "you're not getting this extra money on account of your pitching," interposed weegman promptly. "i'm offering you the increase of salary to assume the additional duties of manager." chapter ii something queer the expression of amazement that leaped into the eyes of lefty locke was masked by a shadow. he stiffened, and sat bolt upright, speechless. bailey weegman, having stated the business that had unexpectedly brought him down from the north to the florida town where the great left-hander of the blue stockings was spending the winter with his wife, once more settled back, taking a long, satisfied pull at the stump of his fragrant havana. he was chuckling beneath his breath. a gentle breeze crept into the leaves of the vine-covered porch and set them whispering like gossips. the dynamo droned drowsily in the distance. presently lefty found his voice. "what's the joke?" he asked a trifle harshly. "no joke," assured the jovial visitor. "i'm not given to joking. i'm a man of business." "but it's preposterous! a pitcher for manager!" "clark griffith isn't the only pitcher who has succeeded as a manager." "griffith's success came when he was on the decline as a pitcher." "what's the use to argue, locke? there's really no good reason why a pitcher shouldn't manage a ball team. you've been doing it with the little amateur club you've been running down here in fernandon this winter." "because necessity compelled. nobody else would take hold of it. i organized the team for a special reason. it's made up mainly of visitors from the north. no salaries are paid. i had located here for the winter, and i wanted to keep in trim and work my arm into shape for the coming season. i couldn't find anybody else to organize the club and handle it, so i had to. i have only three other players who have been with me from the start. the rest of the nine has been composed of changing players who came and went, college men, or just plain amateurs who have taken to the sport. we have played such teams as could be induced to come here from jacksonville, st. augustine, and other places. handling such a club has given me absolutely no reason to fancy myself qualified to manage one in the big league." "i've been keeping my eye on you," said weegman patronizingly, "and i am satisfied that you can fill the position of playing manager for the blue stockings." "you're satisfied--you! how about charles collier?" "as you know, he's a sick man, a very sick man. otherwise he'd never have dropped everything just at this time to go to europe along with a physician and trained nurses. he has been too ill to attend properly to his regular business outside baseball, and therefore his business has suffered. he has had heavy financial reverses that have worried him. and now the meddling of the feds has hurt the value of the ball club. the stock wouldn't bring at a forced sale to-day half what it should be worth. mr. collier trusts me. he was anxious to get some of the load off his shoulders. he has left me to straighten out matters connected with the team." "where is mr. collier now?" asked locke quietly. "he was taking the baths at eaux chaudes when last heard from, but he has since left there. i can't say where he is at the present time." "then how may he be communicated with in case of emergency?" chuckling, weegman lighted a fresh cigar, having tossed the remnant of the other away. the glow of the match fully betrayed an expression of self-satisfaction on his face. "he can't be," he said. "it was his doctor's idea to get him away where he could not be troubled by business of any nature. he may be in tunis or naples for all i know." "it's very remarkable," said lefty slowly. "oh, i don't know," purred the other man, locking his fingers over his little round stomach which seemed so incongruous for a person who was otherwise not overfat. "really, he was in a bad way. worrying over business reverses was killing him. his only salvation was to get away from it all." locke sat in thought, watching the serene smoker through narrowed lids. there was something queer about the affair, something the southpaw did not understand. true, collier had seemed to be a nervous, high-strung man, but when lefty had last seen him he had perceived no indications of such a sudden and complete breakdown. it had been collier's policy to keep a close and constant watch upon his baseball property, but now, at a time when such surveillance was particularly needed because of the harassing activities of the federals, having turned authority over to a subordinate, not only had he taken himself beyond the range of easy communication, but apparently he had cut himself off entirely from the sources of inside information concerning baseball affairs. furthermore, it seemed to locke that the man who claimed to have been left in full control of that branch of collier's business was the last person who should have been chosen. what lay behind it all the pitcher was curious to divine. presently weegman gave a castanet-like snap of his fingers. "by the way," he said sharply, "how about your arm?" "my arm?" said lefty. "you mean--" "it's all right, isn't it? you know there was a rumor that you hurt it in the last game of the season. some wise ginks even said you'd never pitch any more." "i've been doing some pitching for my team here in fernandon." "then, of course, the old wing's all right. you'll be in form again, the greatest left-hander in the business. how about it?" "i've never been egotistical enough to put that estimate on myself." "well, that's what lots of the sharps call you. the arm's as good as ever?" "if you stop over to-morrow you'll have a chance to judge for yourself. we're scheduled to play a roving independent nine known as the wind jammers, and i hear they're some team, of the kind. i shall pitch part of the game, anyhow." "you've been pitching right along?" "a little in every game lately. i pitched four innings against the jacksonville reds and five against the cuban giants. we've lost only one game thus far, and that was our second one. the eccentric manager and owner of the wind jammers, who calls himself cap'n wiley, threatens to take a heavy fall out of us. he has a deaf-mute pitcher, mysterious jones, who, he claims, is as good as walter johnson." weegman laughed derisively. "there's no pitcher as good as johnson anywhere, much less traveling around with a bunch of hippodromers and bushwhackers. but about your arm--is it all right?" "i hope to win as many games with it this year as i did last." "well, the team's going to need pitchers. the loss of orth is bound to be felt, and if dillon jumps--look here, locke, we've got to get busy and dig up two or three twirlers, one of top-notch caliber." "we!" "yes, you and i. of course we can't expect to get a first-stringer out of the bushes; that happens only once in a dog's age. but perhaps kennedy has some good youngsters up his sleeve. you should know about that. i'm wise that he has consulted you regularly. he's sought your advice, and listened to it; so, in a way, you've had considerable to do with the management of the team. you say you've corresponded with him right along. you ought to know all about his plans. that's one reason why i came to figure on you as the man to fill his place." "i wondered," murmured locke. "that's one reason. for another thing, you've got modesty as well as sense. you don't think you know it all. you're not set in your ways, and probably you'd listen to advice and counsel. old jack is hard-headed and stiff; when he makes up his mind there's no turning him. he takes the bit in his teeth, and he wants full swing. he's always seemed to feel himself bigger than the owners. he's butted up against mr. collier several times, and collier's always had to give in." "as i understand it," said lefty smoothly, "you think the manager should be a man with few fixed opinions and no set and rigid policy." "in a way, that's something like it," admitted weegman. "he mustn't go and do things wholly on his own initiative and without consulting anybody, especially those who have a right to say something about the running of the team. mr. collier has placed me in a position that makes it imperative that i should keep my fingers on the pulse of things. i couldn't conscientiously discharge my duty unless i did so. i know i could never get along with kennedy. the manager must work with me; we'll work together. of course, in most respects he'll be permitted to do about as he pleases as long as he seems to be delivering the goods; but it must be understood that i have the right to veto, as well as the right to direct, policies and deals. with that understanding to start with, we'll get along swimmingly." he finished with a laugh. lefty rose to his feet. "you're not looking for a manager, weegman," he said. "what you want is a putty man, a figurehead. under any circumstances, you've come to the wrong market." chapter iii the federal policy weegman was startled. "what--what's that?" he spluttered, staring upward at the towering figure in white. "what do you mean?" "just what i've said," replied the pitcher grimly. "under no circumstances would i think of stepping into old jack kennedy's shoes; but even if he were a perfect stranger to me you could not inveigle me into the management of the blue stockings on the conditions you have named. management!" he scoffed. "why, the man who falls for that will be a tame cat with clipped claws. it's evident, mr. weegman, that you've made a long journey for nothing." for a moment the visitor was speechless. lefty locke's modest, unassuming ways, coupled with undoubted ambition and a desire to get on, had led charles collier's secretary to form a very erroneous estimate of him. "but, man alive," said weegman, "do you realize what you're doing? you're turning down the chance of a lifetime. i have the contract right here in my pocket, with collier's name properly attached and witnessed. if you doubt my authority to put the deal through, i can show you my power of attorney from mr. collier. in case sentiment or gratitude is holding you back, let me tell you that under no circumstances will kennedy again be given control of the team. now don't be a chump and--" "if i were in your place," interrupted locke, "i wouldn't waste any more breath." weegman snapped his fingers, and got up. "i won't! i didn't suppose you were quite such a boob." "but you did suppose i was boob enough to swallow your bait at a gulp. you thought me so conceited and greedy that i would jump at the chance to become a puppet, a manager in name only, without any real authority or control. it's plainly your purpose to be the real manager of the team, for what reason or design i admit i don't quite understand. just how you hypnotized charles collier and led him to consent to such a scheme i can't say; but i do say that no successful ball team has ever been run in such a way. you're not fit to manage a ball club, and you wouldn't dare assume the title as well as the authority; probably you know collier wouldn't stand for that. yet you intend to force your dictation upon a pseudo-manager. such meddling would mean muddling; it would knock the last ounce of starch out of the team. if the blue stockings didn't finish a bad tailender it would be a miracle." bailey weegman was furious all the way through, but still he laughed and snapped his fingers. "you're a wise guy, aren't you?" he sneered. "i didn't dream you were so shrewd and discerning. now let me tell you something, my knowing friend: i've tried to save your neck, and you won't have it." "my neck!" exclaimed the pitcher incredulously. "you've tried to save my neck?" "oh, i know your old soup bone's on the blink; you didn't put anything over me by dodging and trimming when i questioned you about your arm. you knocked it out last year, and you've been spending the winter down here trying to work it back into shape. you can pitch a little against weak bush teams, but you can't even go the whole distance against one of them. that being the case, what sort of a figure do you expect to cut back in the big league? up against the slugging wolves or the hard-hitting hornets, how long would you last? i've got your number, and you know it." "if that's so, it seems still more remarkable that you should wish to hold me. certainly i'd be a great addition to a pitching staff that's smashed already!" "did i say anything about your strengthening the pitching staff? i offered to engage you in another capacity. think i didn't know why you declined to dicker with the feds when they made you a big offer? you didn't dare, for you know you couldn't deliver the goods. having that knowledge under my hat, i've been mighty generous with you." weegman descended to the top step, chuckling. "good night," said locke, longing to hasten the man's departure. "think it over," invited charles collier's representative. "now that i'm here, i'll stick around and watch you pitch against these bushwhacking wind jammers to-morrow. i imagine your efforts should be amusing. perhaps you'll change your mind before i catch the train north at yulee." his chuckling became open laughter. lefty turned and entered the cottage, while weegman walked away in the moonlight, the smoke of his cigar drifting over his shoulder. certain circumstances had led philip hazelton to enter professional baseball under the pseudonym of "tom locke," to which, as he was a left-hander, his associates had added the nickname of "lefty." these names had stuck when he abruptly moved upward into the big league. his rise having been rocketlike, the pessimistic and the envious had never wholly ceased to look for the fall of a stick. thus far, in spite of the fact that each year of his service with the blue stockings saw him shouldering more and more of the pitching load, until like jack coombs and ed walsh he had become known as "the iron man," they had looked in vain. and it came to pass that even the most prejudiced was forced to admit that it was lefty who kept his team "up there" fighting for the bunting all the time. toward the close of the last season, however, with the jinx in close pursuit of the blue stockings, locke had pushed himself beyond the limit. at one time the club had seemed to have the pennant cinched, but through the crippling of players it had begun to slip in the latter part of the season. in the desperate struggle to hold on, going against manager kennedy's judgment and advice, lefty did more pitching than any other two men on the staff, and with a little stronger team to support him his winning percentage would have been the highest of any pitcher in the league. it was not his fault that the blue stockings did not finish better than third. in the cozy living room of the little furnished cottage locke had leased for the brief winter months a remarkably pretty young woman sat reading by a shaded lamp. she looked up from the magazine and smiled at him as he came in. then she saw the serious look upon his face, and the smile faded. "what is it, phil?" she asked, with a touch of anxiety. "is anything wrong?" he sat down, facing her, and told her all about his interview with bailey weegman. as she listened, her mobile face betrayed wonderment, annoyance, and alarm. "it's a raw deal for kennedy," he asserted in conclusion; "and i believe it's wholly of weegman's devising. i'm sure, when the season ended, collier had no idea of changing managers. there isn't a more resourceful, astute man in the business than old jack." "you're always thinking of others, phil," she said. "how about yourself? what will happen to you if you don't come to weegman's terms?" "hard to tell," he admitted frankly. "in fact, i've been wondering just where i'd get off. if my arm fails to come back--" she uttered a little cry. "but you've been telling me--" "that it was growing better, janet, that's true. but still it's not what it should be, and i don't dare put much of a strain on it. i don't know that i'd last any time at all in real baseball. weegman is wise, yet he offered me a contract to pitch and to manage the team. on paper it would seem that he had retained one star twirler for the staff, but if i failed to come back we wouldn't have a single first-string slabman. as a manager, i would be sewed up so that i couldn't do anything without his consent. there's a nigger in the woodpile, janet." she had put the magazine aside, and clasped her hands in her lap. he went on: "it looks to me as if somebody is trying to punch holes in the team, though i don't get the reason for it. following jack kennedy's advice, i've invested every dollar i could save in the stock of the club. as weegman says, it's doubtful if the stock would bring fifty cents on the dollar at a forced sale to-day. collier has met with heavy financial reverses in other lines. he's sick, and he's in europe where no one can communicate with him. is somebody trying to knock the bottom out of his baseball holdings in order to get control of the club? it looks that way from the offing." "but you," said janet, still thinking of her husband, "you're not tied up with weegman, and the federals have made you a splendid offer. you can accept that and land on your feet." he smiled, shaking his head slowly. "there are several reasons why i don't care to follow that course. the first, and strongest, is my loyalty to jack kennedy, the man who gave me a square deal. then i don't care to bunko anybody, and unless my arm comes back i won't be worth the money the feds have offered for my services. lastly, i'm not sure the new league is going to be strong enough to win out against organized baseball." "but you've said that they seem to have plenty of money behind them. you've said, too, that their plan of dealing directly with players, instead of buying and selling them like chattels or slaves, was the only system that gave the players a just and honest deal." "that's right," affirmed lefty. "slavery in baseball is something more than a joke. the organization has been one of the biggest trusts in the country, and it has dealt in human beings. it has been so that when a man signed his first contract he signed away his right to say what he would do as long as he remained in the game. after that he could be bought, sold, or traded without receiving a dollar of the purchasing or trading price. he had to go where he was sent, regardless of his personal likes, wishes, or convenience. he had to accept whatever salary a manager chose to give him, or get out. even if his contract had expired with one manager, he couldn't go to another and make a bargain, no matter how much the other manager was willing to give him; the reserve clause held him chained hand and foot. to-day, if the powers chose, i could be sent down to the minors at any old salary the minors chose to pay. i could be sold, like a horse or a dog, and if i didn't like it i could quit the game. that would be my only recourse." "it's terribly unfair," said janet. "unfair? that's a tame word! on the other hand, the federals are dealing directly with the players. if they think he's worth it, they give a man a good salary and a bonus besides. the bonus goes to the player, not to the club owner. added to that, the federal contracts provide that a club must increase a player's salary at least five per cent. each year, or give him his unconditional release, thus making it possible for him to deal with any other club that may want him." "it's plain your sympathy is with the federals." "if they're not trying to jack up organized baseball and sell out," said lefty, "i hope they come through." chapter iv the magnetized ball "what are your plans?" asked janet, after they had discussed the situation in all its phases. "have you decided on anything?" the southpaw answered: "i'm going to put jack kennedy wise. i'm going to write him a letter to-night, and i shall send him a telegram as soon as the office opens in the morning. it's up to him to get in communication with collier if there's any way of doing it. you have not received a letter from virginia lately?" virginia collier, the charming daughter of the owner of the blue stockings, was janet's closest friend. "no, i have not heard from her in over three weeks, and i don't understand it," returned his wife. "she seems to have stepped off the map, along with her father. the whole business is mysterious. why don't you write her at once, explaining what is going on, and send the letter to her last address?" "i will." "it may not reach her, but there's no harm in trying. meanwhile, i'll get busy on mine to kennedy. there doesn't seem to be much chance to spike weegman's guns, but it's worth trying." locke had the knack of writing a succinct letter; the one he wrote old jack was concise, yet it was clear and complete. within two minutes after opening it, doubtless kennedy would know as much about the situation as did lefty himself. yet it was probable that, like the pitcher, the manager would be mystified by the surprising and seemingly sinister maneuvers of bailey weegman. following lefty's advice, janet wrote to virginia collier. locke rose early the following morning and posted the letters for the first outward mail. he sent a telegram also. returning past the magnolia hotel, to his surprise he perceived collier's private secretary sitting on the veranda, smoking. weegman beamed and chuckled. "morning," he cried, waving his cigar between two fingers. "the early bird, eh? been firing off a little correspondence, i presume. our communications will reach kennedy in the same mail; and i wired him, too. quite a little jolt for the old man, but it can't be helped. of course, he'll have the sense to bow gracefully to the inevitable, and that will clear the air. afterward, perhaps, you may change your mind regarding my offer." "perhaps so," returned lefty pleasantly. "but if i do, i shall be a fit subject for a padded cell." the agreeable look was wiped from weegman's face as locke passed on. some time after breakfast lefty returned to the magnolia to learn if cap'n wiley and his ball players had arrived. approaching, he perceived a queer assortment of strangers lounging on the veranda, and from their appearance he judged that they were members of the team. many of them looked like old stagers, veterans who had seen better days; some were youthful and raw and inclined to be cock-a-hoop. there was a german, an italian, an irishman, and a swede. one was lanky as a starved greyhound, and apparently somewhere near six feet and six inches tall from his heels to his hair roots. another was short and fat, and looked as if he had been driven together by some one who had hit him over the head with a board. in a way, these strangers in fernandon were most remarkable for their attire. with scarcely an exception, the clothes they wore were weird and fantastic samples of sartorial art; various, and nearly all, prevailing freaks of fashion were displayed. with colored shirts, flaring socks, and giddy neckties, they caused all beholders to gasp. they were most amazingly bejeweled and adorned. with difficulty locke suppressed a smile as his quick eyes surveyed them. near the head of the broad steps leading up to the veranda sat a somewhat stocky but exceptionally well-built man of uncertain age. he was almost as swarthy as an indian, and his dark eyes were swift and keen and shrewd. his black hair was graying on the temples. his coat and trousers, of extravagant cut, were made from pronounced black-and-white-striped material. his fancy waistcoat, buttoned with a single button at the bottom, was adorned with large orange-colored figures. his silk socks were red, his four-in-hand necktie was purple, and the band that encircled the straw hat cocked rakishly upon his head was green. he was smoking a cigar and pouring a steady flow of words into the ear of bailey weegman, who made a pretense of not noticing locke. "yes, mate," he was saying, "old man breckenridge was the most painfully inconsiderate batter i ever had the misfortune to pitch against. smoke, curves, twisters, slow balls, low balls, and high balls--they all looked alike to him. now i have a preference; i prefer a high ball, scotch and carbonic. but it made no difference to breck; when he put his fifty-five-ounce ash wand against the pill, said pill made a pilgrimage--it journeyed right away to some land distant and remote and unknown, and it did not stay upon the order of its going. when it came right down to slugging, compared with old breck your home-run bakers and honus wagners and napoleon lajoies are puny and faded shines. and he always seemed able to make connections when he desired; if he rambled forth to the dish yearning for a hit, there was no known method by which the most astute and talented pitcher could prevent him from hitting." "quite a wonder, i must admit!" laughed weegman, in high amusement. "rather strange the big leagues didn't get hold of such a marvelous batsman, isn't it?" "oh, he was on the roster of some class a team at various times, but he had one drawback that finally sent him away to the remote and uncharted bushes: 'charley horse' had him in its invidious grip. a spavined snail could beat breck making the circuit of the sacks, and cross the pan pulled up. yet, with this handicap, the noble old slugger held the record for home runs in the tall grass league. naturally i had heart failure and angie pectoris every time i was compelled to face him on the slab. likewise, naturally i began meditating with great vigor upon a scheme to circumvent the old terror, and at last my colossal brain concocted a plan that led me to chortle with joy." "i am deeply interested and curious," declared weegman, as the narrator paused, puffing complacently at his weed. "go on." locke had stopped near at hand, and was listening. others were hovering about, their ears open, their faces wreathed in smiles. "it was a simple matter of scientific knowledge and a little skulduggery," pursued the story-teller obligingly. "i possessed the knowledge, and i bribed the bat boy of old breck's team to perform the skulduggery. i sent to the factory and had some special baseballs manufactured for me, and in the heart of each ball was hidden a tiny but powerful magnet. then i secretly furnished the rascally bat boy with a specially prepared steel rod that would violently repel any magnet that chanced to wander around into the immediate vicinity of the rod. i instructed the boy to bore breck's pet bat surreptitiously when the shades of night had fallen, insert the steel rod, and then craftily plug the hole. and may i never sail the briny deep again if that little scoundrel didn't carry out my instructions with the skill of a cutthroat, or a diplomat, even! nature intended him for higher things. if he isn't hanged some day it won't be his fault. "well, the next time old breck brought his team to play against us upon our field, i used the magnetized baseballs. i was doing the hurling and in the very first inning the old swatter came up with the sacks charged and two out. he smiled a smile of pity as he bent his baleful glance upon me. 'you'd better walk me, walter,' says he, 'and force a run; for if you put the spheroid over i'm going to give it a long ride.' i returned his smile with one of the most magnanimous contempt. 'don't blow up, old boy,' says i. 'with the exception of your batting, you're all in; and i've a notion that your batting eye is becoming dim and hazy. let's see you hit this.' then i passed him a slow, straight one right over the middle of the rubber. he took a mighty swing at it, meaning to slam it over into the next county. well, mate, may i be keelhauled if that ball didn't dodge the bat like a scared rabbit! mind you, i hadn't put a thing on it, but the repulsion of that deneoutronized steel rod hidden in the bat forced the ball to take the handsomest drop you ever beheld, and the violence with which old breck smote the vacant ozone caused him to spin round and concuss upon the ground when he sat down. it was a tremendous shock to his nervous system, and it filled me with unbounded jubilance; for i knew i had him at my mercy, literally in the hollow of my hand. "he rose painfully, chagrined and annoyed, but still confident. 'give me another like that, you little wart!' he ordered savagely, 'and i'll knock the peeling off it.' beaming, i retorted: 'you couldn't knock the peeling off a prune. here's what you called for.' and i threw him another slow, straight one. "excuse these few tears; the memory of that hallowed occasion makes me cry for joy. he did it again, concussing still more shockingly when he sat down. it was simply an utter impossibility for him to hit that magnetized ball with his doctored bat. but, of course, he didn't know what the matter was; he thought i was fooling him with some sort of a new drop i had discovered. the fact that i was passing him the merry cachinnation peeved him vastly. when he got upon his pins and squared away for the third attempt, his face was the most fearsome i ever have gazed upon. he shook his big bat at me. 'one more,' he raged; 'give me one more, and drop flat on your face the moment you pitch the ball, or i'll drive it straight through the meridian of your anatomy!' "let me tell you now, mate, that breck was a gentleman, and that was the first and only time i ever knew him to lose his temper. under the circumstances, he was excusable. i put all my nerve-shattering steam into the next pitch, and, instead of dropping, the ball hopped over his bat when he smote at it. i had fanned the mighty breckenridge, and the wondering crowd lifted their voices in hosannas. yet i know they regarded it in the nature of an accident, and not until i had whiffed him three times more in the same game did either breck or the spectators arrive at the conviction that i had something on him. "after that," said the narrator, as if in conclusion, "i had him eating out of my hand right up to the final and decisive game of the season." weegman begged the fanciful romancer to tell what happened in the last game. "oh, we won," was the assurance; "but we never would have if breck had been wise the last time he came to bat. it was in the ninth inning, with the score three to two in our favor, two down, and runners on second and third. knowing it was breck's turn to hit, i was confident we had the game sewed up. but the confidence oozed out of me all of a sudden when i saw the big fellow paw the clubs over to select a bat other than his own. clammy perspiration started forth from every pore of my body. with any other swat stick beside his own, i knew he was practically sure to drive any ball i could pitch him over the fence. the agony of apprehension which i endured at that moment gave me my first gray hairs. "although i did not know it at the time, it chanced that breck had selected the bat of another player who had had it bored and loaded with an ordinary steel rod. this, you can clearly understand, made it more than doubly certain that he would hit the magnetized ball, which would be attracted instead of repelled. had i known this, i shouldn't have had the heart to pitch at all. "as the noble warrior stood up to the pan, i considered what i could pitch him. curves could not fool him, and he literally ate speed. therefore, without hope, i tossed him up a slow one. now it chanced that the old boy had decided to try a surprise, having become disheartened by his efforts to slug; he had resolved to attempt to bunt, knowing such a move would be unexpected. so he merely stuck out his bat as the sphere came sailing over. the magnet was attracted by the steel rod, and the ball just jumped at the bat, against which it struck--and stuck! i hope never to tell the truth again, mate, if i'm not stating a simple, unadulterated, unvarnished fact. the moment the ball touched the bat it stuck fast to it as if nailed there. breck was so astonished that he stood in his tracks staring at the ball like a man turned to stone. i was likewise paralyzed for an extemporaneous fraction of time, but my ready wit quickly availed me. bounding forward, i wrenched the ball from the bat and tagged old breck with it, appealing to the umpire for judgment. there was only one thing his umps could do. he had seen the batter attempt to bunt, had seen bat and ball meet, and had seen me secure the ball on fair ground and put it on to the hitter. he declared breckenridge out, and that gave us the game and the championship." bailey weegman lay back and roared. in doing so, he seemed to perceive lefty for the first time. as soon as he could get his breath, he said: "oh, i say, locke, let me introduce you. this is cap'n wiley, owner and manager of the wind jammers." chapter v a man of mystery the swarthy little fabulist rose hastily to his feet, making a quick survey of the southpaw. "am i indeed and at last in the presence of the great lefty locke?" he cried, his face beaming like the morning sun in a cloudless sky. "is it possible that after many weary moons i have dropped anchor in the same harbor with the most salubriously efficacious port-side flinger of modern times? pardon my deep emotion! slip me your mudhook, lefty; let me give you the fraternal grip." he grabbed locke's hand and wrung it vigorously, while the other members of the wind jammers pressed nearer, looking the big league pitcher over with interest. "in many a frozen igloo," declared wiley, "i have dreamed of this day when i should press your lily-white fingers. oft and anon during my weary sojourn in that far land of snow and ice have i pictured to myself the hour when we should stand face to face and exchange genuflections and greetings. and whenever a smooched and tattered months-old newspaper would drift in from civilization, with what eager and expectant thrills did i tremulously turn to the baseball page that i might perchance read thereon how you had stung the hornets, bitten the wolves, clipped the claws of the panthers, or plucked the feathers from the white wings!" "and i have been wondering," confessed lefty, "if you could be the original cap'n wiley of whom i heard so many strange tales in my boyhood. it was reported that you were dead." "many a time and oft hath that canard been circulated. according to rumor, i have demised a dozen times or more by land and sea; but each time, like the fabled phoenix, i have risen from my ashes. during the last few fleeting years i have been in pursuit of fickle fortune in far-off alaska, where it was sometimes so extremely cold that fire froze and we cracked up the congealed flames into little chunks which we sold to the chilkoots and siwashes as precious bright red stones. strange to say, whenever i have related this little nanny goat it has been received with skepticism and incredulity. the world is congested with doubters." "when you wrote me," admitted locke, "proposing to bring your wind jammers here to play the fernandon grays, i thought the letter was a hoax. at first i was tempted not to answer it, and when i did reply it was out of curiosity more than anything else; i wanted to see what the next twist of the joke would be." "let me assure you that you will find playing against the wind jammers no joke. i have conglomerated together the fastest segregation of baseball stars ever seen outside a major league circuit, and i say it with becoming and blushing modesty. look them over," he invited, with a proud wave of his hand toward the remarkable group of listeners. "it has always been my contention that there are just as good players to be found outside the big league as ever wore the uniform of a major. i have held that hard luck, frowning fate, or contumelious circumstances have conspired to hold these natural-born stars down and prevent their names from being chiseled on the tablet of fame. having gathered unto myself a few slippery shekels from my mining ventures in the land where baseball games begin at the hour of midnight, i have now set out to prove my theory, and before i am through i expect to have all balldom sitting up agog and gasping with wonderment." "i wish you luck," replied lefty. "if you don't do anything else, you ought to get some sport out of it. i presume you still ascend the mound as a pitcher?" "oh," was the airy answer, "on rare occasions i give the gaping populace a treat by propelling the sphere through the atmosphere. when my projector is working up to its old-time form, i find little difficulty in leading the most formidable batters to vainly slash the vacant ether. the weather seeming propitious, i may burn a few over this p.m. i trust you will pitch also." "i think i shall start the game, at least." bailey weegman butted in. "but he won't finish it, wiley. like yourself, he's not doing as much pitching as he did once." his laugh was significant. the owner of the wind jammers looked startled. "tell me not in mournful numbers that your star is already on the decline!" he exclaimed, looking at locke with regret. "that's what the big leagues do to a good man; they burn him out like a pitch-pine knot. i've felt all along that the blue stockings were working you too much, lefty. without you on their roster ready to work three or four times a week in the pinches, they never could have kept in the running." "you're more than complimentary," said locke, after giving weegman a look. "but i think i'll be able to shake something out of my sleeve this season, the same as ever." "then don't let them finish you, don't let them grind you to a frazzle," advised wiley. "for the first time in recent history you have a chance for your white alley; the federals are giving you that. if you're not already enmeshed in the folds of a contract, the feds will grab you and hand you a square deal." weegman rose, chuckling and snapping his fingers. "all this talk about what the feds can do is gas!" he declared. "they're getting nothing but the soreheads and deadwood of organized baseball, which will be vastly better off without the deserters. cripples and has-beens may make a good thing out of the feds for a short time. perhaps locke would find it profitable to jump." his meaning was all too plain. lefty felt like taking the insinuating fellow by the neck and shaking him until his teeth rattled, but outwardly he was not at all ruffled or disturbed. "mr. weegman," he said, "is showing pique because i have not seen fit to sign up as manager of the blue stockings. he professes to have authority from charles collier to sign the manager, collier having gone abroad for his health." "if anybody doubts my authority," shouted weegman, plunging his hand into an inner pocket of his coat, "i can show the documents that will--" the southpaw had turned his back on him. "i understand you have a clever pitcher in the man known as mysterious jones, wiley," he said. "a pippin!" was the enthusiastic answer. "i'll give you a chance to see him sagaciate to-day." "he is a deaf-mute?" "he couldn't hear a cannon if you fired it right under the lobe of his ear, and he does his talking with his prehensile digits. leon ames in his best days never had anything on jones." "strange i never even heard of him. our scouts have scoured the bushes from one end of the country to the other." "i never collided with any baseball scouts in alaska," said wiley. "oh! you found jones in alaska?" "pitching for a team in nome." "but baseball up there! i didn't know--" "oh, no; nobody ever thinks of baseball up there, but in the all too short summer season there's something doing in that line. why, even modern dances have begun to run wild in alaska, so you see they're right up to the present jiffy." "where did this jones originally hail from?" "ask me! i don't know. nobody i ever met knew anything about him, and what he knows about himself he won't tell. he's mysterious, you understand; but his beautiful work on the slab has caused my classic countenance to break into ripples and undulations and convolutions of mirth." "where is he? i'd like to give him the once over." "i think he's out somewhere prowling around the town and sizing up the citizens. that's one of his little vagaries; he has a combustable curiosity about strangers. every place we go he wanders around for hours lamping the denizens of the burg. outside baseball, strange people seem to interest him more than anything in the world; but once he has taken a good square look at a person, henceforth and for aye that individual ceases to attract him; if he ever gives anybody a second look, it is one of absolute indifference. oh, i assure you with the utmost voracity that jones is an odd one." "he must be," agreed lefty. "ay tank, cap'n," said oleson, the swede outfielder, "that yones now bane comin' up the street." wiley turned and gazed at an approaching figure. "yes," he said, "that's him. turn your binnacle lights on him, lefty; behold the greatest pitcher adrift in the uncharted regions of baseball." chapter vi peculiar behavior jones was rather tall and almost slender, although he had a fine pair of shoulders. his arm was as long as walter johnson's. his face was as grave as that of the sphinx, and held more than a touch of the same somber sadness. his eyes were dark and keen and penetrating; with a single glance they seemed to pierce one through and through. and they were ever on the move, like little ferrets, searching, searching, searching. as he approached the hotel, he met a man going in the opposite direction, and he half paused to give the man a sharp, lance-like stare. involuntarily the man drew aside a trifle and, walking on, turning to look back with an expression of mingled questioning and resentment. but jones had resumed his habitual pace, his appearance that of a person who, already overburdened, had received one more disappointment. barney o'reilley, the shortstop, laughed. "sure," said he, "it's a bit of a jump old jonesy hands any one he looks at fair and hard." lefty locke felt a throb of deep interest and curiosity. there was something about the deaf-mute pitcher of the wind jammers that aroused and fascinated him instantly. his first thought was that the man might be mentally unbalanced to a slight degree; but, though he knew not why, something caused him to reject this conviction almost before it was formed. apparently jones was well named "mysterious." "there's the bird, lefty," said cap'n wiley proudly. "there's the boy who'd make 'em sit up and take notice if ever he got a show in the big league. yours truly, the marine marvel, knew what he was doing when he plucked that plum in the far-away land of lingering snows." a queer sound behind him, like a hissing, shuddering gasp, caused locke to look around quickly. the sound had come from weegman, who, face blanched, mouth agape, eyes panic-stricken, was staring at the approaching pitcher. amazement, doubt, disbelief, fear--he betrayed all these emotions. even while he leaned forward to get a better view over the shoulder of a man before him, he shrank back, crouching like one ready to take to his heels. like a person pleased by the sound of his own voice, cap'n wiley rattled on in laudation of his mute pitcher. no one save locke seemed to notice weegman; and so wholly fascinated by the sight of jones was the latter that he was quite oblivious to the fact that he had attracted any attention. "smoke!" wiley was saying. "why, mate, when he uses all his speed, a ball doesn't last a minute; the calorie friction it creates passing through the air burns the cover off." "ya," supplemented shaeffer, the catcher, "und sometimes it sets my mitt afire." "some speed!" agreed lefty, as jones, his head bent, reached the foot of the steps. "he looks tired." "he's always that way after he tramps around a strange town," said the owner of the wind jammers. "afterward he usually goes to bed and rests, and he comes out to the games as full of fire and kinks as a boy who has stuffed himself with green apples. i'll introduce you, locke." the southpaw looked round again. weegman was gone; probably he had vanished into the convenient door of the hotel. cap'n wiley drew lefty forward to meet the voiceless pitcher, and, perceiving a stranger, mysterious jones halted at the top of the steps and stabbed him with a stare full in the face. lefty had never looked into such searching, penetrating eyes. wiley made some deft and rapid movements with his hands and fingers, using the deaf-and-dumb language to make jones aware of the identity of the famous big league pitcher. already the mute had lapsed into disappointed indifference, but he accepted locke's offered hand and smiled in a faint, melancholy way. "he's feeling especially downcast to-day," explained wiley, "and so he'll pitch like a fiend this afternoon. he always twirls his best when he's gloomiest; appears to entertain the delusion that he's taking acrimonious revenge on the world for handing him some sort of a raw deal. it would be a shame to use him against you the whole game, lefty; he'd make your grays look like a lot of infirm prunes." "spare us," pleaded locke, in mock apprehension. jones did not linger long with his teammates on the veranda. with a solemn but friendly bow to lefty, he passed on into the hotel, wiley explaining that he was on his way to take his regular daily period of rest. through the open door the southpaw watched the strange pitcher walk through the office and mount a flight of stairs. and from the little writing room locke saw bailey weegman peer forth, his eyes following the mysterious one until the latter disappeared. then weegman hurried to the desk and interviewed the clerk, after which he made an inspection of the names freshly written upon the hotel register. the man's behavior was singular, and lefty decided that, for some reason, weegman did not care to encounter jones. this suspicion was strengthened when, scarcely more than an hour later, charles collier's private secretary appeared at the little cottage occupied by locke and his wife, and stated that he had made a change from the magnolia hotel to the florida house, a second-rate and rather obscure place on the edge of the colored quarter. "couldn't stand for wiley and his gang of bushwhackers," weegman explained. "they made me sick, and i had to get out, even though i'm going to leave town at five-thirty this afternoon. that's the first through train north that i can catch. thought i'd let you know so you could find me in case you changed your mind about that offer." "you might have spared yourself the trouble," said locke coldly. weegman made a pretense of laughing. "no telling about that. mules are obstinate, but even they can be made to change their minds if you build a hot enough fire under them. don't forget where you can find me." lefty watched him walking away, and noted that his manner was somewhat nervous and unnatural. "i wonder," murmured the pitcher, "why you put yourself to so much discomfort to avoid mysterious jones." directed by locke, the grays put in an hour of sharp practice that forenoon. as lefty had stated, the team was practically comprised of winter visitors from the north. some of them had come south for their health, too. three were well along in the thirties, and one had passed forty. yet, for all such handicaps, they were an enthusiastic, energetic team, and they could play the game. at least five of them had once been stars on college nines. having never lost their love for the game, they had rounded into form wonderfully under the coaching of the big league pitcher. also, in nearly every game they pulled off more or less of the stuff known as "inside baseball." they had been remarkably successful in defeating the teams they had faced, but locke felt sure that, in spite of the conglomerate and freakish appearance of the wind jammers, it was not going to be an easy thing to take a fall out of cap'n wiley's aggregation of talent. the self-styled "marine marvel" had a record; with players culled from the brambles as he knocked about the country, he had, in former days, put to shame many a strong minor league outfit that had patronizingly and somewhat disdainfully consented to give him an engagement on an off date. unless the eccentric and humorously boastful manager of the wind jammers had lost much of his judgment and cunning during the recent years that he had been out of the public eye, the fastest independent team would have to keep awake and get a fair share of the breaks in order to trounce him. locke warmed up his arm a little, but, even though he felt scarcely a twinge of the lameness and stiffness that had given him so much apprehension, he was cautious. at one time, when the trouble was the worst, he had not been able to lift his left hand to his mouth. a massage expert in fernandon had done much for him, and he hoped that he had done not a little for himself by perfecting a new style of delivery that did not put so much strain upon his shoulder. still, until he should be forced to the test, he could never feel quite sure that he would be the same puzzle to the finest batsmen that he had once been. and it must be confessed that he had looked forward with some dread to the day when that test should come. suddenly he resolved that, in a way, he would meet the test at once. doubtless the wind jammers were batters of no mean caliber, for wiley had always got together a bunch of sluggers. "i'll do it," he decided; "i'll go the limit. if i can't do that now, after the rest i've had and the doctoring my arm has received, there's not one chance in a thousand that i'll ever be able to pitch in fast company again." chapter vii the test nearly all fernandon turned out to the game. many residents of the town, as well as a large number of the visitors from the north, came in carriages and automobiles. the covered reserved seats were filled, and, shielding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, an eager crowd packed the bleachers. on the sandy grass ground back of third base a swarm of chattering, grinning colored people sat and sprawled. holding themselves proudly aloof from the negroes, a group of lanky, sallow "poor whites," few of whom could read or write, were displaying their ignorance by their remarks about the game and the players. the mayor of the town had consented to act as umpire. at four o'clock he called "play." "now we're off!" sang cap'n wiley, waltzing gayly forth to the coaching position near third. "here's where we hoist anchor and get away with a fair wind." nuccio, the olive-skinned italian third baseman, selected his bat and trotted to the pan, grinning at locke. "oh, you lefty!" said he. "we gotta your number." "put your marlinespike against the pill and crack the coating on it," urged wiley. george sommers, catcher for the grays, adjusted his mask, crouched, signaled. locke whipped one over the inside corner, and nuccio fouled. "nicked it!" cried the marine marvel. "now bust it on the figurehead and make for the first mooring. show our highly steamed friend lefty that he's got to pitch to-day if he don't want the wind taken out of his sails." the southpaw tried to lead nuccio into reaching, but the batter caught himself in his swing. "puta the ball over, left," he pleaded. "don't givea me the walk." the pitcher smiled and handed up a hopper. the batter fouled again, lifting the ball on to the top of the covered seats. "i don't think you need worry about walking," said sommers, returning after having made a vain start in pursuit of the sphere. "you're in a hole already." nuccio smiled. "wait," he advised. "i spoil the gooda ones." another ball followed, then lefty warped one across the comer. nuccio drove it into right for a pretty single, bringing shouts of approval from the bench of the wind jammers. wiley addressed locke. "really," he said, "i fear me much that you undervalue the batting capacity of my players. one and all, individually and collectively, they are there with the healthy bingle. please, i beg of you, don't let them pound you off the slab in the first inning, for that would puncture a hard-earned reputation and bring tears of regret to my tender eyes. for fear that you may be careless or disdainful, i warn you that this next man can't touch anything down around his knees; his arms being attached to his shoulders at such a dim and distant altitude, he finds it difficult to reach down so far, even with the longest bat." luther bemis, the player referred to, was the marvelously tall and lanky center fielder of the wind jammers. he had a queer halting walk, like a person on stilts, and his appearance was so ludicrous that the spectators tittered and laughed outright. their amusement did not disturb him, for he grinned cheerfully as he squared away, waving his long bat. "don't you pay no 'tention to the cap 'n, lefty," he drawled, in a nasal voice. "i can hit um acrost the knees jest as well as anywhere else. he's tryin' to fool ye." "let's see about that," said locke, putting one over low and close on the inside. bemis smashed out a hot grounder and went galloping to first with tremendous, ground-covering strides. for all of his awkward walk and the fact that he ran like a frightened giraffe, it would have required an excellent sprinter to beat him from the plate to the initial sack. norris, the shortstop, got his hand on the ball and stopped it, but it twisted out of his fingers. it was an error on a hard chance, for by the time he secured the sphere there was no prospect of getting either runner. "now that's what i call misfortune when regarded from one angle, and mighty lucky if viewed from another," said wiley. "beamy carries a rabbit's foot; that's why he's second on our batting disorder. he does things like that when they're least expected the most." schaeffer was coaching at first. "is it lefty locke against us pitching?" he cried. "and such an easiness! took a lead, efrybody, and move along when the irisher hits." "i hate to do ut," protested barney o'reilley, shaking his red head as he walked into position. "it's a pain it gives me, lefty, but i have to earn me salary. no bad feelings, ould man. you understand." "just one moment," called wiley, holding up his hand. "sympathy impels me. i have a tender heart. lefty, i feel that i must warn you again. this descendant of the irish nobility can hit anything that sails over the platter. if it were not a distressing fact that schepps, who follows, is even a more royal batter, i would advise you to walk o'reilley. as it is, i am in despair." the crowd was not pleased. it began to beg locke to fan o'reilley, and when the irishman missed the first shoot the pleadings increased. "barney is sympathetic also," cried cap'n wiley; "but he'd better not let his sympathy carry him amain, whatever that is. i shall fine him if he doesn't hit the ball." locke had begun to let himself out in earnest, for the situation was threatening. it would not be wise needlessly to permit the wind jammers to get the jump. they were a confident, aggressive team, and would fight to the last gasp to hold an advantage. the southpaw realized that it would be necessary to do some really high-grade twirling to prevent them from grabbing that advantage in short order. tug schepps, a tough-looking, hard-faced person, was swinging two bats and chewing tobacco as he waited to take his turn. he was a product of the sand lots. "land on it, barney, old top!" urged tug. "swat it on der trade-mark an' clean der sacks. dis lefty boy don't seem such a much." locke shot over a high one. "going up!" whooped o'reilley, ignoring it. "get 'em down below the crow's nest," entreated wiley. "you're not pitching to bemis now." the southpaw quickly tried a drop across the batter's shoulders, and, not expecting that the ball had so much on it, barney let it pass. he made a mild kick when the mayor-umpire called a strike. "it's astigmatism ye have, mr. mayor," he said politely. the next one was too close, but o'reilley fell back and hooked it past third base. even though the left fielder had been playing in, nuccio might possibly have scored had he not stumbled as he rounded the corner. wiley started to grab the fallen runner, but remembered the new rule just in time, and desisted. "put about!" he shouted. "head back to the last port!" the italian scrambled back to the sack, spluttering. he reached it ahead of the throw from the fielder. cap'n wiley pretended to shed tears. "is it possible," he muttered, shaking his head, "that this is the great lefty locke? if so, it must be true that his star is on the decline. alas and alack, life is filled with such bitter disappointments." whether the regret of wiley was real or pretended, it was shared by a large part of the spectators, who were friendly to the local team; for locke had become very well liked in fernandon, both by the citizens of the place and the northern visitors. it must not be imagined that, with the corners crowded and no one down, locke was fully at his ease. he had decided to make this game the test of his ability to "come back," and already it looked as if the first inning would give him his answer. if he could not successfully hold in check this heterogeneous collection of bush talent, it was easy to understand what would happen to him the next time he essayed to twirl for the blue stockings. a sickening sense of foreboding crept over him, but his lips wore a smile, and he showed no sign of being perturbed. schepps was at the plate, having discarded one of the bats he had been swinging. he grinned like a cheshire cat. "always t'ought i could bump a real league pitcher," he said. "put one acrost, pal, an' i'll tear der cover off." locke hesitated. he had been using the new delivery he had acquired to spare his shoulder. in previous games it had proved effective enough to enable him to continue four or five innings, but now-- suddenly he whipped the ball to third, sending nuccio diving headlong back to the sack. the crafty little italian had been creeping off, ready to make a flying dash for the plate. he was safe by a hair. "not on your movie film!" cried cap'n wiley. "it can't be done!" lefty did not hear him. he was gazing past the marine marvel at the face of a man who, taking care to keep himself unobtrusively in the background, was peering at him over the shoulders of a little group of spectators--a grinning, mocking derisive face. it was weegman. and weegman knew! chapter viii at necessity's demand even after the ball was thrown back from third, and lefty had turned away, that grinning, mocking face continued to leer at him. wherever he looked it hovered before his mental vision like a taunting omen of disaster. he was "all in," and weegman knew it. the man had told him, with sneering bluntness, that his "old soup bone was on the blink." yet, entertaining this settled conviction regarding locke's worthlessness as a pitcher, weegman had made a long and wearisome journey in order that he might be absolutely sure, by putting the deal through in person, of signing the southpaw for the blue stockings at an increased salary. the very fact that he had been offered the position of manager, under conditions that would make him a mere puppet without any real managerial authority, gave the proposition a blacker and more sinister look. sommers was signaling. lefty shook his head to rid himself of that hateful chimera. misunderstanding, the catcher quickly changed the sign. the pitcher delivered the ball called for first, and it went through sommers like a fine shot through an open sieve. nuccio scored from third with ease, bemis and o'reilley advancing at the same time. the wind jammers roared from the bench. cap'n wiley threw up his hands. "furl every stitch!" cried the manager of the visitors. "batten the hatches! the storm is upon us! it's going to be a rip-sizzler. i'm afraid the wreck will be a total loss." covering the plate, lefty took the ball from sommers. "how did you happen to cross me?" asked the catcher. "it was my fault," was the prompt acknowledgment; "but it won't happen again." "i hope not," said sommers. he wanted to suggest that locke should retire at once and let matthews take up the pitching, but he refrained. the southpaw was doing some serious thinking as he walked back to the mound. however well his newly acquired delivery had seemed to serve him on other occasions, he was convinced that it would not do now; either he must pitch in his own natural way and do his best, or he must retire and let dade matthews try to check the overconfident aggressors. if he retired, he would prolong the uncertainty in his own mind; he would leave himself in doubt as to whether or not there was any prospect of his return to the big league as a twirler worthy of his hire. more than doubt, he realized, he would be crushed by a conviction that he was really down and out. "i've pampered my arm long enough," he decided. "i'm going to find out if there's anything left in it." perhaps the decision was unwise. the result of the game with the wind jammers was of no importance, but locke felt that, for his own peace of mind, he must know what stuff was left in him. and there was no one present with authority, no coach, no counselor, to restrain him. there was a strange, new gleam in his eyes when he once more toed the slab. his faint smile had not vanished, but it had taken lines of grimness. schepps tapped the plate with his bat. "come on, pal," he begged; "don't blow up. gimme one of der real kind, an' lemme have a swat at it." the crowd was silent; even the chattering darkies had ceased their noise. only the wind jammers jubilated on the bench and the coaching lines. poising himself, locke caught sommer's signal, and nodded. then he swung his arm with the old free, supple, whiplash motion, and the ball that left his fingers cut the air like a streak of white, taking a really remarkable hop. schepps' "swat" was wasted. "now, dat's like it!" cried the sandlotter. "where've you been keepin' dat kind, old boy? gimme a duplicate." lefty watched bemis, the long-legged ground coverer, working away toward the plate, and drove him back. but he seemed to have forgotten o'reilley, and the irishman was taking a lead on which he should have little trouble in scoring if schepps drove out a safety. farther and farther he crept up toward third. sommers tugged at his mask with an odd little motion. like a flash the southpaw whirled about and shot the ball to second, knowing some one would be there to take the throw. mel gates was the man who covered the bag, and o'reilley found himself caught between second and third. gates went after him, and the irishman ran toward third. but locke had cut in on the line, and he took a throw from gates that caused o'reilley to turn back abruptly. behind gates, norris was covering the cushion. tremain came down a little from third to back lefty up. colby had raced from first base to the plate in order to support sommers, for bemis was swiftly creeping down to make a dash. on the coaching line, cap'n wiley did a wild dance. the spectators were thrilled by the sudden excitement of the moment. lefty ran o'reilley back toward second, and he knew bemis was letting himself out in an attempt to score. swinging instantly, locke made a rifle-accurate throw to sommers, who jammed the ball on to the long-geared runner as he was sliding for the plate. the affair had been so skillfully managed that not only was o'reilley prevented from advancing, but also the attempt to sneak a tally while the irishman was being run down had resulted disastrously for the wind jammers. "dat's der only way dey can get us out," said schepps. "dis lefty person looks to me like a lemon!" cap'n wiley was philosophically cheerful. "just a little lull in the tornado," he said. "it's due to strike again in a minute." lefty looked the confident schepps over, and then he gave him a queer drop that deceived him even worse than the swift hopper. the spectators, who had been worried a short time before, now expressed their approval; and when, a minute later, the southpaw whiffed the sandlotter, there was a sudden burst of handclapping and explosions of boisterous laughter from the delighted darkies. "wh-who's dat man said lemon?" cried one. "dat lefty pusson sho' handed him one dat time!" "is it possible," said cap'n wiley, "that i'm going to be compelled to revise my dates regarding that wreck?" then he roared at the swede: "get into the game, oleson! it's your watch on deck, and you want to come alive. the wrong ship's being scuttled." "aye, aye, captain!" responded oleson. "mebbe ay do somethin' when ay get on the yob. yust keep your eye on me." believing himself a hitter superior to the men who had touched locke up so successfully at the beginning of the game, he strode confidently forth, for all of the failure of schepps. sizing up the swede, lefty tested him with a curve, but oleson betrayed no disposition to reach. a drop followed, and the batter fouled it. his style of swinging led the southpaw to fancy that he had a preference for drops, and therefore locke wound the next one round his neck, puncturing his weakness. not only did oleson miss, but he swung in a manner that made it doubtful if he would drive the ball out of the infield if he happened to hit one of that kind. "hit it where you missed it!" implored wiley. "don't let him bamboozle you with the chin wipers." then he turned on o'reilley. "cast off that mooring! break your anchor loose and get under way! man the halyards and crack on every stitch! you've got to make port when ole stings the horsehide." in spite of himself, lefty was compelled to laugh outright at the marine marvel's coaching contortions. "calm yourself, cap'n," he advised. "the hurricane is over." "how can i calm myself when calamity threatens?" was the wild retort. "you are a base deceiver, lefty. such chicanery is shameful! i don't know what chicanery means, but it seems to fit the offense." and now the spectators fell to laughing at the swarthy little man, who did not seem to be so very offensive, after all, and who was injecting more than a touch of vaudeville comedy into the game. oleson waited patiently, still determined to hit, although somewhat dismayed by his two failures to gauge the left-hander's slants. but when lefty suddenly gave him another exactly like the last, he slashed at it awkwardly and fruitlessly. the crowd broke into a cheer, and the swede turned dazedly from the plate, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. "that lefty he bane some pitcher," admitted oleson. "he got a good yump ball." chapter ix torturing doubt to a degree, locke had satisfied himself that he still had command of his speed and carves; but the experience had also taught him that his efforts to acquire a new delivery as effective as his former style of pitching, and one that would put less strain upon his shoulder, had been a sheer waste of time. working against batters who were dangerous, his artificial delivery had not enabled him to pitch the ball that would hold them in check. he had mowed them down, however, when he had resorted to his natural form. but what would that do to his shoulder? could he pitch like that and go the full distance with no fear of disastrous results? should he attempt it, even should he succeed, perhaps the morrow would find him with his salary wing as weak and lame and lifeless as it had been after that last heart-breaking game in the big league. involuntarily, as he left the mound, he looked around for weegman, who had disappeared. it gave lefty some satisfaction to feel that, for the time being, at least, he had wiped the mocking grin from the schemer's face. cap'n wiley jogged down from third, an expression of injured reproof puckering his countenance. "i am pained to the apple core," he said. "my simple, trusting nature has received a severe shock. just when i thought we had you meandering away from here, lefty, you turned right round and came back. if you handed us that one lone tally to chirk us along, let me reassure you that you made the mistake of your young life; i am going to ascend the hillock and do some volleying, which makes it extensively probable that the run we have garnered will be sufficient to settle the game." "don't be so unfeeling!" responded locke. "give us mysterious jones." "oh, perchance you may be able to get on the sacks with me pushing 'em over; but if jones unlimbered his artillery on you, he'd mow you down as fast as you toddled up to the pentagon. you see, i wish the assemblage to witness some slight semblance of a game." in action upon the slab, wiley aroused still further merriment. his wind-up before delivering the ball was most bewildering. his writhing, squirming twists would have made a circus contortionist gasp. first he seemed to tie himself into knots, pressing the ball into the pit of his stomach like a person in excruciating anguish. on the swing back, he turned completely away from the batter, facing second base for a moment, at the same time poising himself on his right foot and pointing his left foot toward the zenith. then he came forward and around, as if he would put the sphere over with the speed of a cannon ball--and handed up a little, slow bender. but he need not have troubled himself to put a curve on that first one, for fred hallett, leading off for the grays, stood quite still and stared like a person hypnotized. the ball floated over, and the umpire called a strike, which led hallett to shake himself and join in the laughter of the crowd. "what's the matter? what's the matter?" spluttered wiley. "was my speed too much for you? couldn't you see it when it came across? shall i pitch you a slow one?" hallett shook his head, unable to reply. "oh, vurry, vurry well," said the marine marvel. "as you choose. i don't want to be too hard on you." then, after going through with a startling variation of the former convulsions, he did pitch a ball that was so speedy that the batsman swung too slowly. and, a few minutes later, completing the performance to his own satisfaction, he struck hallett out with a neat little drop. "i preen myself," said he, "that i'm still there with the huckleberries. as a pitcher of class, i've got matty and a few others backed up against the ropes. bring on your next victim." charlie watson found the burlesque so amusing that he laughed all the way from the bench to the plate. the eccentric pitcher looked at him sympathetically. "when you get through shedding tears," he said, "i'll pitch to you. i hate to see a strong man weep." then, without the slightest warning, using no wind-up whatever, he snapped one straight over, catching watson unprepared. that sobered watson down considerably. "i'm glad to see you feeling better," declared the manager of the wind jammers. "now that you're quite prepared, i'll give you something easy." the slow one that he tossed up seemed to hang in the air with the stitches showing. watson hit it and popped a little fly into wiley's hands, the latter not being compelled to move out of his tracks. he removed his cap and bowed his thanks. doc tremain walked out seriously enough, apparently not at all amused by the horseplay that was taking place. with his hands on his hips, wiley stared hard at tremain. "here's a jolly soul!" cried the pitcher. "he's simply laughing himself sick. i love to see a man enjoy himself so diabolically." "oh, play ball!" the doctor retorted tartly. "this crowd isn't here to see monkeyshines." "then they won't look at you, my happy friend. and that's a dart of subtle repartee." wiley's remarkable wind-up and delivery did not seem to bother tremain, who viciously smashed the first ball pitched to him. it was a savage line drive slightly to the left of the slabman, but the latter shot out his gloved hand with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, and grabbed the whistling sphere. having made the catch, the marine marvel tossed the ball carelessly to the ground and sauntered toward the bench with an air of bored lassitude. there was a ripple of applause. "you got off easy that time, cap'n," said locke, coming out. "when are you going to let us have a crack at jones?" "a crack at him!" retorted wiley. "don't make me titter, lefty! your assemblage of would-bes never could get anything remotely related to a crack off jones. however, when ongwee begins to creep over me i'll let him go in and polish you off." "colonel" rickey, leading off for the wind jammers in the second, hoisted an infield fly, and expressed his annoyance in a choice southern drawl as he went back to the bench. peter plum, the fat right fielder, followed, poling out an infield drive which, to the amazement of the crowd, he nearly turned into a safety by the most surprising dash to first. impossible though it seemed, the chunky, short-legged fellow could run like a deer, and when he was cut down by little more than a yard at the hassock he vehemently protested that it was robbery. locke was taking it easy now; he almost seemed to invite a situation that would again put his arm to the test. there was a queer feeling in his shoulder, a feeling he did not like, and he wondered if he could "tighten" in repeated pinches, as he had so frequently done when facing the best batters in the business. but, though he grooved one to schaeffer, the catcher boosted an easy fly to watson in left field. wiley went through the second inning unharmed, although, with two down, colby landed on the horsehide for two sacks. coming next, gates bit at a slow one and lifted a foul to the third baseman. "now give me my faithful bludgeon," cried the marine marvel, making for the bats. "watch me start something! i'm going to lacerate the feelings of this man lefty. i hate to do it, but i hear the clarion call of duty." locke decided to strike wiley out. wiley picked out a smoking shoot, and banged it on a line for one sack. "nice tidy little bingle, wasn't it, mate?" he cried. "i fancied mayhap dame rumor had slandered you, but alas! i fear me you are easy for a real batter with an eye." nuccio was up again, and he also hit safely, wiley going to third on the drive. locke's teeth clicked together. was it possible that real batters could find him with such ease? if so, the big league would see him no more; he would not return to it. if so, his days as a pitcher were surely ended. for a moment bailey weegman's grinning face again rose vaguely before him. "i must know!" he muttered. "i must settle these infernal doubts that are torturing me." chapter x the only door luther bemis blundered. he had been given the signal to let nuccio steal, but he hit at the ball and raised a foul to colby, who stepped back upon first and completed a double play unassisted, the italian having made a break for second. nuccio was disgusted, and cap'n wiley made a few remarks to bemis that caused the lengthy center fielder to retire to the bench in confusion. "there has been a sudden addition to the bone crop," concluded the vexed manager of the wind jammers. "beamy, in order to avoid getting your dates mixed, you should carry a telescope and take an occasional survey of the earth's surface." "niver mind, cap'n," called o'reilley. "i'll put ye across whin i hit." with a twinge of apprehension, locke sought to trick the confident irishman into biting at a curve. and, even as he pitched, he was annoyed with himself because apprehension prevented him from bending the ball over. o'reilley stubbornly declined to bite. there was a sudden chorus of warning shouts as sommers returned the ball, and the pitcher was surprised to see cap'n wiley running for the registry station. the foxy old veteran was actually trying to steal home on the big league pitcher. laughing, lefty waited for the ball, aware that sommers was leaping into position to nail the runner. without undue haste, yet without wasting a second, the slabman snapped the sphere back to the eager hands of the catcher, who poked it into the sliding man's ribs. wiley was out by four feet, at least. "why didn't you wait for o'reilley to hit?" locke asked. "i wanted to spare your already tattered nerves," was the instant answer. "you see, sympathy may be found elsewhere than in the dictionary." still floundering in the bog of doubt, lefty was far from satisfied. he had told himself that he invited the test which would give him the answer he sought, yet he realized that, face to face with it, he had felt a shrinking, a qualm, akin to actual dread; and he was angry with himself because he drew a breath of relief when the blundering and reckless playing of the wind jammers postponed the ordeal, leaving him still groping in the dark. sommers led off with a hot grounder, which o'reilley booted. playing the game, locke bunted, advancing sommers and perishing himself at first. "cleverly done," admitted cap'n wiley, "but it will avail you naught. i shall now proceed to decorate the pill with the oil of elusion." a friend called to lefty in the crowd back of first, and the pitcher walked back to exchange a few words with him. he was turning away when a hand fell on his arm, and he looked round to find weegman there. the man's face wore a supercilious and knowing smile. "i didn't mean to attend this game," said weegman, "but, having the time, i decided to watch part of it, as it would give me a good chance to settle a certain point definitely in my mind. what i've seen has been quite enough. your arm is gone, locke, and you know it. you're laboring like a longshoreman against this bunch of bushers, and, working hard as you are, you couldn't hold them only for their dub playing. i admit that you struck out some of their weakest stickers, but you were forced to the limit to do it, and it made that injured wing of yours wilt. they had you going in the last round, and threw away their chance by bonehead playing." "weegman," said locke, "i'm tired of hearing you talk. the sound of your voice makes me weary." but instead of being disturbed the man chuckled. "the truth frequently is unpleasant," he returned; "and you know i am speaking the raw truth. now i like you, locke; i've always liked you, and i hate to see you go down and out for good. that's what it means if you don't accept my offer. as manager of the blue stockings, you can hold your job this season if you don't pitch a ball; it'll enable you to stay in the business in a new capacity, and you'll not be dependent on your arm. a pitcher's arm may fail him any time. as a manager, you may last indefinitely." "it would be a crime if the sort of a manager you want lasted a month." "if you don't come at my terms, you may kiss yourself good-by. the feds are going to learn that your flinger is gone; be sure of that." "that's a threat?" "a warning. if their crazy offer has tempted you, put the temptation aside. that offer will be withdrawn. every manager and magnate in the business is going to know that as a pitcher you have checked in. there's only one door for you to return by, and i'm holding it open." he laughed and placed his hand again ingratiatingly upon locke's arm. locke shook it off instantly. "were i as big a rascal as you, weegman," he said, with limitless contempt, "i'd make a dash through that door. thank heaven, i'm not!" the baffled man snapped his fingers. "you are using language you'll regret!" he harshly declared, although he maintained his smiling demeanor to such a degree that any one a few yards distant might have fancied the conversation between the two was of the pleasantest sort. lefty returned to the coaching line, taking the place of tremain; for wiley had issued a pass to hallett, watson was at bat, and the doctor followed watson. instantly sizing up the situation, the southpaw signaled for a double steal, and both runners started with the first movement of the pitcher's delivery. schaeffer's throw to third was not good, and sommers slid under. hallett had no trouble about reaching second. "what are you trying to pull off here?" cried the manager of the wind jammers. "such behavior is most inconsiderate, or words to that effect. however it simply makes it necessary for me to inject a few more kinks into the horsehide." admittedly he did hand up some peculiar curves to watson, but his control was so poor that none of the twisters came over and like hallett, the left fielder walked. this peopled the corners. "here," said wiley, still chipper and undisturbed, "is that jolly soul who obligingly batted an easy one into my fin the last time. i passed the last hitter in order to get at this kind party again." tremain let one pitch go by, but the next one pleased him, and he cracked the ball on the nose. it was a two-base drive, which enabled the runners already on to score. as the three raced over the plate, one after another, wiley was seen violently wigwagging toward the bench. in response to his signal, mysterious jones rose promptly and prepared to warm up with the second catcher. "i'm off to-day; perhaps i should say i'm awful," admitted the marine marvel. "a spazoozum like that is sufficient to open my eyes to the humiliating fact that i'm not pitching up to class. in a few minutes, however, you'll have an opportunity to see mr. jones uncork some of the real stuff." wiley dallied with the next batter for the purpose of giving the dummy pitcher time to shake the kinks out of his arm. apparently jones did not need much time in which to get ready, for when the sailor presently dealt out another pass the relief twirler signified his willingness to assume the burden. as jones walked out upon the diamond, locke looked around vainly for weegman. it was possible, of course, that collier's private secretary had departed at once following his last rebuff, but somehow lefty felt that he was still lingering and taking pains not to be seen by mysterious jones. suddenly the southpaw felt a desire to bring the two men face to face, wondering what would happen. there was more than a possibility that such a meeting might present some dramatic features. turning back, lefty's eyes followed jones. the interest and fascination he had felt at first sight of the man returned, taking hold upon him powerfully and intensely. there was something in the solemn face of the mute that spoke of shattered hopes, deep and abiding sorrow, despair, tragedy. he was like one who stood aloof even while he mingled with mankind. knowing other mutes, many of whom seemed happy and contented, locke could not believe that the peculiarities of mysterious jones were wholly due to resentment against the affliction which fate had placed upon him. behind it all there must lay a story with perhaps more than one dark page. chapter xi burning speed as a pitcher, jones displayed no needless flourishes. his style of delivery was simple but effective. into the swing of his long arm he put the throwing force of his fine shoulder and sinewy body. wiley had exaggerated in boasting of the mute's speed; nevertheless that speed was something to marvel at. norris, the clean-up man of the grays, who preferred smokers to any other kind, was too slow in striking at the first two pitched to him by jones. norris looked astounded and incredulous, and the spectators gasped. "that's his slow one, mates!" cried wiley. "pretty soon, when he gets loosened up, he'll let out a link or two and burn a few across. the daisies are growing above the only man he ever hit with the ball." although norris was not slow in swinging at the next one, the sphere took a shoot that deceived him, and the mute had disposed of the first hitter with three pitched balls. "and the wiseacres say there are no real heavers left in the bushes!" whooped cap'n wiley. locke was thrilled. could it be that here was a discovery, a find, a treasure like a diamond in the rough, left around underfoot amid pebbles? the big league scouts are the grubstakers, the prospectors, the treasure hunters of baseball; ceaselessly and tirelessly they scour the country even to the remote corners and out-of-the-way regions where the game nourishes in the crude, lured on constantly by the hope of making a big find. to them the unearthing of a ball player of real ability and promise is like striking the outcroppings of a comstock or a kimberly; and among the cheering surface leads that they discover, a hundred peter out into worthlessness, where one develops into a property of value. more and more the scouts complain that the ground has been raked over again and again and the prizes are growing fewer and farther between; yet every now and then, where least expected, one of them will turn up something rich that has been overlooked by journeying too far afield. the fancy that mysterious jones might be one of these unnoticed nuggets set locke's pulses throbbing. jones had appeared to be a trifle slender in street clothes, but now lefty could see that he was the possessor of fine muscles and whipcord sinews. there was no ounce of unnecessary flesh upon him anywhere; he was like an athlete trained to the minute and hardened for an enduring test by long and continuous work. there seemed little likelihood that protracted strain would expose a flaw. he had speed and stamina; if he possessed the required skill and brains, there was every reason to think that he might "deliver the goods." with the advent of the silent man upon the mound, locke's attention became divided between doubts about himself and interest in the performance of the mute. hampton, who followed norris, was quite as helpless against the dazzling speed of jones; he could not even foul the ball. "great smoke, locke!" he exclaimed, pausing on his way to center field. "that man's a terror! he seems to groove them all, but you can't see them come over." "perhaps he can't keep it up," said lefty. "i hope not. if he does, we've got to win on the runs we've made already; there'll be no more scoring for us. it's up to you to hold them down." the southpaw held them in the fourth, but he did so by working his head fully as much as his arm. by this time he had learned something of the hitting weaknesses of the wind jammers, and he played upon those weaknesses successfully. to his teammates and the spectators the performance was satisfactory; to him it proved only that his brain, if not his arm, was still in perfect condition. mysterious jones came back with two strikeouts; in fact, he struck sommers, the third man, out also; but the whistling, shooting sphere went through the catcher, and sommers raced to first on the error. this brought locke up, and he was eager to hit against jones. he missed the first one cleanly, but fouled the next two, which was better than any one else had done. then the silent man put something more on the ball, and lefty failed to touch it. "nice little pitcher, don't you think?" inquired cap'n wiley blandly. "he behaves well, very well," admitted the southpaw. the grays implored locke to keep the enemy in hand; the crowd entreated him. this was the game they desired to win. to them it was a struggle of vital importance, and the winning or losing of it was the only question of moment. they did not dream of something a thousand times more momentous involving lefty locke. loyal to the team and its supporters, the southpaw could not take needless chances of losing, no matter how much he longed to be put upon his mettle and forced to the last notch. therefore he continued to work his head while on the slab. schaeffer fouled out, jones fanned indifferently, and nuccio popped to shortstop. "lucky boy!" called wiley. "but things won't always break so well for you. you'll have to go your limit before the game is over." "i hope so," said lefty. hallett caught one of jones' whistlers on the end of his bat and drove it straight into the hands of the first baseman. "hooray!" laughed watson. "at least that shows that he can be hit." "a blind man might hit one in a million if he kept his bat swinging," scoffed wiley. "let's see you do as much." watson could not do as much; he fanned three times. then jones pitched four balls to tremain, and the doctor placed himself in watson's class. the game had become a pitchers' battle, with one twirler cutting the batters down with burning speed and shoots, while the other held them in check through the knowledge he had swiftly acquired regarding their shortcomings with the stick. in every way the performance of jones was the most spectacular, and in the crowd scores of persons were beginning to tell one another that the mute was the greater pitcher. the truth was, experience in fast company had taught lefty locke to conserve his energies; like mathewson, he believed that the eight players who supported him should shoulder a share of the defensive work, and it was not his practice to "put everything on the ball," with the cushions clean. only when pinches came did he tighten and burn them across. nor was he in that class of pitchers who are continually getting themselves into holes by warping them wide to lure batters into reaching; for he had found that a twirler who followed such a method would be forced to go the limit by cool and heady batters who made a practice of "waiting it out." having that prime requisite of all first-class moundmen, splendid control, he sought out an opponent's weakest spot and kept the ball there, compelling the man to strike at the kind from which he was least likely to secure effective drives. this had led a large number of the fans who fancied themselves wise to hold fast to their often-expressed belief that the southpaw was lucky, but they were always looking for the opposition to fall on him and hammer him all over the lot. therefore it was not strange that the crowd, assembled to watch the game in fernandon, should soon come to regard the mute, with his blinding speed and jagged shoots, as the superior slabman. apparently without striving for effect, jones was a spectacular performer; mechanical skill and superabundant energy were his to the limit. but locke knew that something more was needed for a man to make good in the big league. nevertheless, with such a foundation to build upon, unless the fellow should be flawed by some overshadowing natural weakness that made him impossible, coaching, training, and experience were the rungs of the ladder by which he might mount close to the top. loyal to the core, lefty was thinking of the pitching staff of the blue stockings, weakened by deflections to the federals, possibly by his own inability to return. for a little time, even weegman was forgotten. anyway, the southpaw had not yet come to regard it as a settled thing that bailey weegman would be permitted to undermine and destroy the great organization, if such was his culpable design; in some manner the scoundrel would be blocked and baffled. the sixth inning saw no break in the run of the game between the grays and the wind jammers. bemis, o'reilley, and schepps all hit locke, but none hit safely, while jones slaughtered three of the locals by the strike-out method. as wiley had stated was the silent man's custom, he seemed to be seeking revenge on the world for giving him a raw deal. when oleson began the seventh with a weak grounder and "got a life" through an error, lefty actually felt a throb of satisfaction, for it seemed that the test might be forced upon him at last. but the swede attempted to steal on the first pitch to rickey, and sommers threw him out. rickey then lifted a high fly just back of first base, and colby put him out of his misery. plum batted an easy one to second. "there's only one thing for me to do," thought locke. "i've got to work the strike-out stuff in the next two innings, just as if men were on bases, and see if i've got it. the game will be over if i wait any longer for a real pinch." when jones had polished off gates and sommers, locke stepped out to face the mute the second time. having watched the man and analyzed his performance, the southpaw felt that he should be able to obtain a hit. "if i can't lay the club against that ball," he told himself, "then that fellow's putting something on it beside speed and curves; he's using brains also." cap'n wiley jumped up from the bench and did a sailor's hornpipe. "this is the life!" he cried. "the real thing against the real thing! take soundings, lefty; you're running on shoals. you'll be high and dry in a minute." straight and silent, jones stood and looked at the big league player, both hands holding the ball hidden before him. wiley ceased his dancing and shouting and a hush settled on the crowd. to locke it seemed that the eyes of the voiceless pitcher were plumbing the depths of his mind and searching out his hidden thoughts; there came to lefty a ridiculous fancy that by some telepathic method the man on the slab could fathom his purposes and so make ready to defeat them. an uncanny feeling crept upon him, and he was annoyed. jones pitched, and the batsman missed a marvelous drop, which he had not been expecting. "perhaps i'll have to revise my theory about him not using brains," was the southpaw's mental admission. the next two pitches were both a trifle wide, and lefty declined to bite at either. for the first time, as if he knew that here was a test, jones appeared to be trying to "work" the batter. locke fouled the following one. "that's all there is to it," declared wiley, "and i'm excruciatingly surprised that there should be even that much. go 'way back, mr. locke!" again jones surveyed lefty with his piercing eyes, and for the third time he pitched a shoot that was not quite across. as if he had known it would not be over, the batsman made not even the slightest move to swing. "some guessing match!" confessed the marine marvel. "now, however, let me give you my plighted word of dishonor that you're going to behold a specimen of the superfluous speed jonesy keeps on tap for special occasions. hold your breath and see if you can see it go by." the ball did not go by; lefty hit it fairly and sent a safety humming to right. chapter xii too much temptation "is it poss-i-bill!" gasped cap'n wiley, staggering and clutching at his forehead. "i am menaced by a swoon! water! whisky! i'll accept anything to revive me!" fred hallett hurried to the pan with his bat. "it's my turn now," he said. "we've started on him, and we should all hit him." locke signalled that he would steal, and hallett let the first one pass. lefty went down the line like a streak, but schaeffer made a throw that forced him to hit the dirt and make a hook slide. he caught his spikes in the bag and gave his ankle a twist that sent a pain shooting up his leg. "safe!" declared the umpire. locke did not get up. the crowd saw him drag himself to the bag and sit on it, rubbing his ankle. schepps bent over him solicitously. "dat was a nice little crack, pal," said the sandlotter, "and a nifty steal. hope youse ain't hoited." but lefty had sprained his ankle so seriously that he required assistance to walk from the field. a runner was put in his place, although wiley informed them that they need not take the trouble. and wiley was right, for jones struck hallett out. it was impossible for locke to continue pitching, so matthews took his place. and the southpaw was left still uncertain and doubtful; the game had not provided the test he courted. weegman apparently had departed; there was no question in the mind of charles collier's representative, and, angered by the rebuff he had encountered, he was pretty certain to spread the report that the great southpaw was "all in." he had practically threatened to do this when he declared that every manager and magnate in the business would soon know that locke's pitching days were over. the wind jammers, spurred on by cap'n wiley, went after matthews aggressively, and for a time it appeared certain that they were going to worry him off his feet. with only one down, they pushed a runner across in the eighth, and there were two men on the sacks when a double play blighted their prospect of tying up, perhaps of taking the lead, at once. as jones continued invulnerable in the last of the eighth, the visitors made their final assault upon matthews in the ninth. but fortune was against them. the game ended with wiley greatly disappointed, though still cheerful. "a little frost crept into my elbow in the far-away regions of the north," he admitted. "i'll shake it out in time. if i'd started old jonesy against lefty, there would have been a different tale to tell." the wind jammers were booked to play in jacksonville the following afternoon, but they remained in fernandon overnight. seated on the veranda of the magnolia, wiley was enjoying a cigar after the evening meal, and romancing, as usual, when locke appeared, limping, with the aid of a cane. "it grieves me to behold your sorry plight," said the marine marvel sympathetically. "i cajole with you most deprecatingly. but why, if you were going to get hurt at all, weren't you obliging enough to do it somewhat earlier in the pastime? that would have given my faithful henchmen a chance to put the game away on ice." "you can't be sure about that," returned lefty. "you collected no more scores off matthews than you did off me." "but you passed us six nice, ripe goose eggs, while he dealt out only one. there was a difference that could be distinguished with the unclothed optic. nevertheless, it seems to me that jones had something on you; while he officiated, you were the only person who did any gamboling on the cushions, and what you did didn't infect the result. what do you think of jones?" "will you lend me your ear while i express my opinion privately?" "with the utmost perspicacity," said wiley, rising. "within my boudoir--excuse my fluid french--i'll uncork either ear you prefer and let you pour it full to overflowing." in the privacy of wiley's room, without beating around the bush, locke stated that he believed jones promising material for the big league, and that he wished to size up the man. "while i have no scouting commission or authority," said lefty, "if kennedy should manage the blue stockings this season, he'd stand by my judgment. the team must have pitchers. of course, some will be bought in the regular manner, but i know that, on my advice, kennedy would take jones on and give him a show to make good, just as he gave me a chance when i was a busher. i did not climb up by way of the minors; i made one clean jump from the back pastures into the big league." "mate," said wiley, "let me tell you something a trifle bazaar: jones hasn't the remotest ambition in the world to become a baseball pitcher." locke stared at him incredulously. the swarthy little man was serious--at least, as serious as he could be. "then," asked the southpaw, "why is he pitching?" "tell _me!_ i've done a little prognosticating over that question." "you say he does not talk about himself. how do you--" "let me elucidate, if i can. i told you i ran across jones in alaska. i saw him pitch in a baseball match in nome. how he came to ingratiate himself into that contest i am unable to state. nobody seemed able to tell me. all i found out about him was that he was one of three partners who had a valuable property somewhere up in the jade mountain region--not a prospect, but a real, bony-fido mine. already they had received offers for the property, and any day they could sell out for a sum salubrious enough to make them all scandalously wealthy. they had entered into some sort of an agreement that bound them all to hold on until two of the three should vote to sell; jones was tied up under this contraction. "i had grown weary of the vain search for the root of all evil. for me that root has always been more slippery than a squirming eel; every time i thought i had it by the tail it would wriggle out of my eager clutch and get away. i longed for the fleshpots of my own native heath. watching that ball game in nome, my blood churned in my veins until it nearly turned to butter. once more, in my well-fertilized fancy, i saw myself towering the country with my wind jammers; and, could i secure jonesy for my star flinger, i knew i would be able to make my return engagement a scintillating and scandalous success. with him for a nucleus, i felt confident that i could assemble together a bunch of world beaters. i resolved to go after jones. i went, without dalliance. i got him corralled in a private room and locked the door on him. "mate, i am a plain and simple soul, given not a jot or tittle to exaggeration, yet i am ready to affirm--i never swear; it's profane--that i had the tussle of my life with jones. parenthetically speaking, we wrestled all over that room for about five solid hours. i had supplied myself with forty reams of writing paper, a bushel basket full of lead pencils, and two dictionaries. when i finally subdued jones, i was using a stub of the last pencil in the basket, was on the concluding sheet of paper, had contracted writer's cramp, and the dictionaries were mere torn and tattered wrecks. in the course of that argument, i am certain i wrote every word in the english language, besides coining a few thousand of my own. i had practically exhausted every form of persuasion, and was on the verge of lying down and taking the count. then, by the rarest chance, i hit upon the right thing. i wrote a paregoric upon the joys of traveling around over the united states from city to city, from town to town, of visiting every place of importance in the whole broad land, of meeting practically every living human being in the country who was alive and deserved to be met. somehow that got him; i don't know why, but it did. i saw his eyes gleam and his somber face change as he read that last wild stab of mine. it struck home; he agreed to go. i had conquered. "now, mark ye well, the amount of his salary had not a whit to do with it, and he entertained absolutely no ambish to become a baseball pitcher. he was compelled to leave his partners up there running the mine, and to rely upon their honesty to give him a square deal. you have been told how he promulgates around over every new place he visits and stares strangers out of countenance. whether or not he's otherwise wrong in his garret, he's certainly 'off' on that stunt. that's how i'm able to keep him on the parole of this club of mine." "in short, he's a sort of monomaniac?" "perhaps that's it." lefty did a bit of thinking. "you've been touring the smaller cities and the towns in which an independent ball team would be most likely to draw. in the large cities of a big league circuit there are thousands upon thousands of persons jones has never met. he could work a whole season in such a circuit and continue to see hosts of strangers every time he visited any one of the cities included. under such circumstances he would have the same incentive that he has now. if he can be induced to make the change, i'll take a chance on him, and i'll see that you are well paid to use your persuasive powers to lead him to accept my proposition." "but you stated that you had no legal authority to make such a deal." "i haven't; but i am willing to take a chance, with the understanding that the matter is to be kept quiet until i shall be able to put through an arrangement that will make it impossible for any manager in organized ball to steal him away." wiley shook his head. "i couldn't get along without him, lefty; he's the mainsheet of the wind jammers. it would be like chucking the sextant and the compass overboard. we'd be adrift without any instrument to give us our position or anything to lay a course by." "if you don't sell him to me, some manager is going to take him from you without handing you as much as a lonesome dollar in return. you can't dodge the big league scouts; it's a wonder you've dodged them as long as you have. they're bound to spot jones and gobble him up. do you prefer to sell him or to have him snatched?" "what will you give for him?" "now you're talking business. if i can put through the deal i'm figuring on, i'll give you five hundred dollars, which, considering the conditions, is more than a generous price." "five hundred dollars! is there that much money to be found in one lump anywhere in the world?" "i own some blue stockings stock, so you see i have a financial, as well as a sentimental, interest in the club. i'm going to fight hard to prevent it from being wrecked. as long as it can stay in the first division it will continue to be a money-maker, but already the impression has become current that the team is riddled, and the stock has slumped. there are evil forces at work. i don't know the exact purpose these forces are aiming at, but i'm a pretty good guesser. the property is mighty valuable for some people to get hold of if they can get it cheap enough." "they're even saying that you're extremely to the bad. what do you think about it yourself, lefty?" locke flushed. "time will answer that." "you look like a fighter," said wiley. "i wish you luck." "but what do you say to my proposition? give me a flat answer." "five hundred dollars!" murmured the marine marvel, licking his lips. "i'm wabbling on the top rail of the fence." "fall one way or the other." heaving a sigh, the sailor rose to his feet, and gave his trousers a hitch. "let's interview jones," he proposed. chapter xiii the perplexing question the following morning lefty locke received two letters. one was from the federal league headquarters in chicago, urging him to accept the offer of the manager who had made such a tempting proposal to him. the position, it stated, was still his for the taking, and he was pressed to wire agreement to the terms proposed. the other letter was from locke's father, a clergyman residing in a small new jersey town. the contents proved disturbing. the reverend mr. hazelton's savings of a lifetime had been invested in a building and loan association, and the association had failed disastrously. practically everything the clergyman possessed in the world would be swept away; it seemed likely that he would lose his home. lefty's face grew pale and grim as he read this letter. he went directly to his wife and told her. janet was distressed. "what can be done?" she cried. "you must do something, lefty! your father and mother, at their age, turned out of their home! it is terrible! what can you do?" locke considered a moment. "if i had not invested the savings of my baseball career in blue stockings stock," he said regretfully, "i'd have enough now to save their home for them." "but can't you sell the stock?" "yes, for half what i paid for it--perhaps. that wouldn't he enough. you're right in saying i must do something, but what can i--" he stopped, staring at the other letter. he sat down, still staring at it, and janet came and put her arm about him. "here's something!" he exclaimed suddenly. "what, dear?" "this letter from federal league headquarters, urging me to grab the offer the feds have made me. twenty-seven thousand dollars for three years, a certified check for the first year's salary, and a thousand dollars bonus. that means that i can get ten thousand right in my hand by signing a federal contract--more than enough to save my folks." janet's face beamed, and she clapped her hands. "i had forgotten about their offer! why, you're all right! it's just the thing." "i wonder?" she looked at him, and grew sober. "oh, you don't want to go to the federals? you're afraid they won't last?" "it isn't that." "no?" "no, girl. if there was nothing else to restrain me, i'd take the next train for chicago, and put my fist to a fed contract just as soon as i could. i need ten thousand dollars now, and need it more than i ever before needed money." janet ran her fingers through his hair, bending forward to scan his serious and perplexed face. she could see that he was fighting a battle silently, grimly. she longed to aid him in solving the problem by which he was confronted, but realizing that she could not quite put herself in his place, and that, therefore, her advice might not come from the height of wisdom and experience, she held herself in check. should he ask counsel of her she would give the best she could. "i know," she said, after a little period of silence, "that you must think of your financial interest in the blue stockings." "i'm not spending a moment's thought on that now. i'm thinking of old jack kennedy and charles collier; of bailey weegman and his treachery, for i believe he is treacherous to the core. i'm thinking also of something else i don't like to think about." "tell me," she urged. he looked up at her, and smiled wryly. then he felt of his left shoulder. "it's this," he said. she caught her breath. "but you said you were going to give your arm the real test yesterday. the grays won, and the score was three to one when you hurt your ankle and were forced to quit. i thought you were satisfied." "i very much doubt if the grays would have won had not cap'n wiley insisted upon pitching the opening innings for his team. the man who followed him did not permit us to score at all. i was the only one who got a safe hit off him. the test was not satisfactory, janet." her face grew white. it was not like lefty to lack confidence in himself. during the past months, although his injured arm had seemed to improve with disheartening slowness, he had insisted that it would come round all right before the season opened. yet lately he had not appeared quite so optimistic. and now, after the game which was to settle his doubts, he seemed more doubtful than before. she believed that he was holding something back, that he was losing heart, but as long as there was any hope remaining he would try not to burden her with his worries. suddenly she clutched his shoulders with her slender hands. "it's all wrong!" she cried. "you've given up the best that was in you for the blue stockings. you've done the work of two pitchers. they won't let you go now. even if your arm is bad at the beginning of the season, they'll keep you on and give you a chance to get it back into condition." "old jack kennedy would, but i have my doubts about any other manager." "you don't mean that they'd let you go outright, just drop you?" "oh, it's possible they'd try to sell me or trade me. if they could work me off on to some one who wasn't wise, probably they'd do it. that's not reckoning on weegman. he's so sore and vindictive that he may spread the report that i've pitched my wing off. i fancy he wouldn't care a rap if that did lose collier the selling price that could be got for me." "oh, i just hate to hear you talk about being traded or sold! it doesn't sound as if you were a human being and this a free country. cattle are traded and sold." "cattle and ball players." "it's wrong! isn't there any way--" "the federals are showing the way." "your sympathy's with them. you're not bound to the blue stockings; you're still your own free agent." "under the circumstances what would you have me do?" at last he had asked her advice. now she could speak. she did so eagerly. "accept the offer the federals have made you." "my dear," he said, "would you have me do that, with my own mind in doubt as to whether or not i was worth a dollar to them? would you have me take the ten thousand i could get, knowing all the time that they might be paying it for a has-been who wasn't worth ten cents? would that be honest?" "you can be honest, then," she hurriedly declared. "no one knows for a certainty, not even yourself, that you can't come back to your old form. you can go to the manager and tell him the truth about yourself. can't you do that?" "and then what? probably he wouldn't want me after that at any price." "you can make a fair bargain with him. you can have it put in the contract that you are to get that money if you do come back and make good as a pitcher." lefty laughed. "i think it would be the first time on record that a ball player ever went to a manager who was eager to sign him up, and made such a proposition. it would be honest, janet; but if the manager believed me, if he saw i was serious, do you fancy he'd feel like coming across with the first year's salary in advance and the bonus? you see i can't raise the money i need, and be honest." she wrung her hands and came back to the first question that had leaped from her lips: "what can you do?" "i don't think i'll make any decisive move until i find out what sort of queer business is going on in the blue stockings camp. i could get money through kennedy if he were coming back. everything is up in the air." "how can you find out, away down here? you're too far away from the places where things are doing." "i've been looking for a telegram from old jack, an answer to mine. i feel confident i'll get a wire from him as soon as he reads my letter. meanwhile i'll write to my parents and try to cheer them up. it's bound to take a little time to settle up the affairs of that building and loan association. time is what i need now." that very day locke received a telegram from jack kennedy: meet me at the grand, indianapolis, the twenty-third. don't fail. a train carried lefty north that night. chapter xiv only one way the registry clerk stated that no mr. kennedy was stopping at the grand hotel. locke was disappointed, for he had expected old jack would be waiting for him. however, the veteran manager would, doubtless, appear later. lefty registered, and the clerk tossed a room key to the boy who was waiting with the southpaw's traveling bag. as the pitcher turned from the desk he found himself face to face with a man whom he had seen on the train. the man, locke believed, had come aboard at louisville. there was something familiar about the appearance of the stranger, yet lefty had not been able to place him. he had narrow hips, a rather small waist, fine chest development, and splendid shoulders; his neck was broad and swelling at the base; his head, with the hair clipped close, was round as a bullet; his nose had been broken, and there was an ugly scar upon his right cheek. he did not look to be at all fat, and yet he must have weighed close to one hundred and ninety. his hands, clenched, would have resembled miniature battering-rams. this person had not taken a look at the register, yet he addressed the pitcher by name. "how are you, locke?" he said, with a grin that was half a sneer, half a menace. "i guessed you'd bring up here." lefty knew mit skullen the moment he spoke. one-time prize fighter and ball player, skullen now posed as a scout employed by the rockets; more often he acted as the henchman and bodyguard of tom garrity, owner of the team, and the best-hated man in the business. garrity had so many enemies that he could not keep track of them; a dozen men had tried to "get" him at different times, and twice he had been assaulted and beaten up. skullen had saved him from injury on other occasions. garrity was the most sinister figure in organized baseball. once a newspaper reporter, he had somehow obtained control of the rockets by chicanery and fraud. sympathy and gratitude were sentiments unknown to him. he would work a winning pitcher to death, and then send the man shooting down to the minors the moment he showed the slightest symptom of weakness. he scoffed at regulations and bylaws; he defied restraint and control; he was in a constant wrangle with other owners and managers; and as a creator of discord and dissension he held the belt. and he snapped his fingers in the face of the national commission. the league longed to get rid of him, but could not seem to find any method of doing so. "been lookin' 'em over a little down south," explained skullen superfluously. "not much doin' this season, but i spotted one pitcher with a rovin' bunch o' freaks who had more smoke and kinks than you ever showed before you broke your arm, old boy. and he won't cost a cent when we get ready to grab him. nobody's wise to him but me, either. s'pose you've come on to meet weegman, hey?" "where'd you run across this find?" asked locke casually, endeavoring not to appear curious. skullen pulled down one corner of his mouth, and winked. "t'ink i'll tell youse, old boy. but then texas is a big bunch o' the map." texas! the wind jammers had come to florida from galveston. "did you have a talk with this unknown wizard?" questioned lefty. "he didn't talk much," returned the scout. "oh, you can't pump me! i know your old blue stocks ain't got a pitcher left that's worth a hoot in halifax, or hardly a player, for that matter; but i ain't goin' to help you out--you an' weegman. you gotter get together an' do your own diggin'." "weegman is in indianapolis?" "as if you didn't know! never had no use for that guy; but, all the same, i advise you to grab on with him. it's your only chanct for a baseball job; everybody in the game's wise that you'll never do no more hurlin'." boiling inwardly, locke permitted himself to be conducted to the elevator. while he was bathing he thought, with increasing wrath and dismay, of the insolent words of skullen. the question that perplexed him most was how the bruiser knew anything of weegman's business, especially the attempt to sign locke as a manager. and weegman was in indianapolis! coming down, lefty went again to the desk to inquire about kennedy. he was handed a telegram. tearing it open, he saw that it was from the federal manager who had offered him a three years' contract. it stated curtly that the offer was withdrawn. skullen was right; the story had gone forth that the star southpaw of the blue stockings would do no more pitching. weegman was getting in his fine work. lefty felt a hand grip his elbow. "locke!" a well-dressed, youngish man grasped his hand and shook it. it was franklin parlmee, who, for a long time, had evinced deep interest in virginia collier. parlmee, with family behind him, and a moderate income, had shown a distaste for business and a disposition to live the life of an idler. collier had refused to countenance his daughter's marriage to parlmee until the latter should get into some worthy and remunerative employment, and make good. for two years parlmee had been hustling, and he had developed into a really successful automobile salesman. "by jove!" said parlmee. "i didn't expect to run across you here, old man. i'm mighty glad to see you. perhaps you can tell me something about virginia. what has mrs. hazelton heard from her?" the man seemed worried and nervous, and his question surprised lefty. "if any one should know about miss collier, you are the person," returned the pitcher. "janet has scarcely heard from her since she sailed with her father. we supposed you were corresponding with her regularly." parlmee drew him toward a leather-covered settee. "i'm pegged out," he admitted, and he looked it. "business forced me to run on or i'd not be here now. i'm going back to new york to-night. do you know, i've received only two letters from virginia since she reached the other side, one from london, the other from eaux chaudes, in france. the latter was posted more than a month ago. it stated that virginia and her father were leaving eaux chaudes for italy. since then no letters have come from her." "do you mean to say you haven't an idea where miss collier and her father are at the present time?" parlmee lighted a cigarette. his hands were not steady. "i haven't an idea where charles collier is. as for virginia, she cabled me that she was sailing on the _victoria_, which reached new york four days ago. i was at the pier to meet her, but she didn't arrive, and her name was not on the passenger list." lefty uttered an exclamation. "that was strange!" the other man turned on the settee to face him. "the whole thing has been queer. i had practically overcome mr. collier's prejudice and won his entire approval. then he broke down; his health went to the bad, and his manner toward me seemed to change. i had an idea he went abroad more to take virginia away than for any other reason. anyway, i knew there was something wrong, and the two letters i got from her added to that conviction. her father was trying to get her to break with me! there was another man whom he preferred." "another!" "yes, bailey weegman." locke gave a great start, as if he had received an electric thrust. "weegman!" he cried guardedly. "that scoundrel! collier is crazy, parlmee!" "now you've said something! i believe the man's mind is affected. business reverses may have done it." "do you know that he left his baseball interests practically in the control of weegman?" "no; but it doesn't surprise me. in some way, that scoundrel has got a hold on him. weegman has tried hard to undermine me with virginia. i've always disliked him and his detestable laugh. who is he, anyway? where did he come from, and what are his antecedents?" "you'll have to ask somebody else." "it's virginia i'm worrying about now," said parlmee, tossing aside his half-smoked cigarette. "but if she was contemplating sailing for the united states with her father--" "her cablegram to me didn't mention her father. i got the impression that she was sailing alone." "alone! great scott!" "and she didn't sail! where is she? what happened to her? do you wonder i'm rattled? i've made arrangements so that i can have a month, if necessary, to dig into this business. if that isn't enough, i'll take all the time needed. it's the deuce to pay, locke, as sure as you're a foot high." "in more ways than one," agreed lefty. "i could tell you some other things, but you've got enough to worry about. we must arrange to keep in touch with each other. i presume i'll go back to fernandon when i get through here." "here's my new york address," said parlmee, handing over his card, and rising. five minutes after they separated old jack kennedy arrived, dusty and weary from his railroad journey. his shoulders were a trifle stooped, and he looked older by years, but his keen eyes lighted with a twinkle as he grasped locke's hand. "i knew you'd beat me to it, lefty," he said. "wouldn't have called on you to make the jaunt, but i had to chin with you face to face. let's talk first and feed our faces afterward." the veteran registered, and they took the elevator. carrying kennedy's traveling bag, a boy conducted them. a bar boy, bearing a tray that was decorated with drinks, was knocking on a door. within the room somebody called for him to enter, and he did so as locke was passing at old jack's heels. by chance lefty obtained a glimpse of the interior of that room before the door closed behind the boy. two men, smoking cigars, were sitting at opposite sides of a table on which were empty glasses. they were mit skullen and bailey weegman. left together in kennedy's room, locke told the old manager what he had seen, and immediately kennedy's face was twisted into a wrathful pucker. "you're sure?" "dead sure," replied locke. "well, it sorter confirms a little suspicion that's been creepin' inter my noddle. the blue stockings are up against somethin' more'n the feds, and the feds have chewed the team to pieces. within the last three days they've nailed temple, dayly, and hyland. there's only the remnants of a ball club left." locke was aghast. "gene temple, too!" he cried. "the boy i found! i thought he would stick." "money gets the best of 'em. why shouldn't it, when them lads ought to have been tied up before this with blue stockings contracts? the bars have been left down for the feds, and they've raided the preserves. seems just like they've been invited to come in and help themselves. why not, with a team without a manager, and everything left at loose ends? never heard of such criminal folly! but mebbe it ain't folly; mebbe it's plain cadougery. i've had an idea there was somethin' crooked behind it, but couldn't just quite nose it out. now, with weegman and mit skullen gettin' together private, i see a light. garrity's the man! you know how he got his dirty paws on the rockets. well, if he ain't workin' to gobble the blue stockings i'll eat my hat! i'll bet that right now tom garrity's gathered in all the loose stock of the club that he could buy, and he's countin' on havin' enough to give him control before the season opens. he saw his chance, with the feds reachin' for every decent player they could lay their hands on, and he went for it. what if the blue stockings do have a busted team this season? in three years the club might be built up again, and it's a sure money-maker just as long as it can keep in the first division. lynchin' is what a crook like garrity deserves!" kennedy's eyes were flashing, and he was literally quivering with wrath. despite the fact that he was tired, he strode up and down the room. "weegman must be garrity's tool, the creature who is helping him do the dirty work," said locke. "you've got his number! how he came to pick you for a mark, i don't know, unless it was because he thought you let me work you to death, havin' no mind of your own. he knew he couldn't put anythin' over with me, and so he decided to get rid of me; but he had to have somebody for a manager who would appear to be all right. he's got to be blocked. there's only one way." "how?" "you'll have to accept, and sign a contract to manage the team." lefty gasped. "but," he said, "i can't do that! you--" "i'm out. he wouldn't have me, even if i'd do the work for no salary." "but i can't agree to weegman's terms. i couldn't do anything of my own accord; i couldn't sign a player unless he agreed. he made that plain." "but he wouldn't dare put anything like that in the contract. it would be too barefaced. the minute you have the authority you can get to work savin' the remnants of the team by signin' up the players the feds haven't grabbed already. i have a line on a few good youngsters who went back to the minors last year because there wasn't room for them. put proof of weegman's treachery before collier, and weegman's done for! it's the one play that's got to be made in this here pinch." there was a knock on the door. "come in!" called kennedy. bailey weegman entered, smiling. chapter xv signing the manager weegman came in boldly. his manner was ingratiating, yet somewhat insolent, and he chuckled as he saw the look of surprise on the face of lefty locke. "well, well!" he said. "here we are! this is first rate. now we can get together and do things." to the southpaw's increasing astonishment, kennedy stepped forward quickly, seized weegman's hand, and shook it cordially and heartily. "i wired for locke," said the old manager. "i felt sure i could talk sense into his head. didn't like to see him make a fool of himself and let a great opportunity slip through his fingers just because of a false notion about loyalty to me. but i didn't expect you before to-morrow." lefty was a trifle bewildered. kennedy had known weegman was coming to indianapolis; in fact, had arranged to meet him there. collier's representative beamed on locke. "sorry i couldn't wait to see the finish of that game in fernandon," he said; "but i saw enough to satisfy me. you did well to beat the wind jammers with that bunch of half invalids behind you, and your own arm all to the bad. still, wiley sort of handed you the game." "the score was three to two," reminded lefty. "the wind jammers couldn't hit. they were a lot of freaks, a burlesque baseball team." weegman turned again to old jack. "if you can talk some sense into locke, you'll succeed where i failed. i wasted time, money, and breath on him; gave him up then. let me tell you a joke." he began to laugh, and the southpaw writhed inwardly. "who do you think wants to manage the blue stockings? you can't guess? well, it's skullen; yes, mit skullen. actually came after the job. got me cornered and gave me a great game of talk, trying to convince me that he could fill the bill. i was listening to his spiel when i caught a glimpse of you two passing the door of my room. called the desk and asked the number of your room. then i shook old mit and came around. the idea of mit skullen managing a big league club! isn't that funny?" his whole body shook with merriment as he spoke. kennedy seemed to be amused also, and joined in weegman's laughter. "wonder what tom garrity would say to that? skullen must have forgotten his old nemesis, john barleycorn. it was john that put him down and out as a prize fighter and a ball player." "he says he hasn't looked at the stuff for four months. you should have heard him trying to convince me that he had the makings of a great manager." lefty knew weegman was lying regarding the nature of the private consultation that had been held in a nearby room. but kennedy seemed to be unaware of this. "you wouldn't take skullen under any conditions, would you?" asked old jack. "i wouldn't have him if he was ready to pay to manage the team. collier would lift my scalp if i fell for anything like that. but i've got a line on a good man if--if--" he faltered, and looked at locke, smiling. "we'll settle that right here," declared kennedy, with a growl. "locke's the lad. i haven't had time to talk to him much, but i was telling him before you came in that he'd have to accept. as for me, a class aa team ain't so worse. you're dead sure i can hook up with st. paul?" "i wired you about the proposition from byers. he wants you, but he wasn't going to try to cut in on us. did you send him word?" "not yet. decided to have my talk with lefty first." "i've always liked you, kennedy," said weegman. "you've been a great man in your day. you're a good man now, but it needs younger blood, especially in this fight against the feds, confound them! about so often a team needs to change managers, especially when it begins to slip. the blue stockings began to slip last year, and the feds have given us a push. locke's young, and he's got the energy to build the team up. working together, we can put it on its feet again. he'll have the very best counsel and advice. he's a favorite with the fans, and he'll be tolerated where you would be blamed. he'll come through and win out. of that i am certain. the feds will blow before the season's over, and the woods will be full of first-class players begging for jobs. next season should see the stockings stronger than ever, and the man who's managing the team's bound to be popular. he'll get a lot of credit." lefty had taken a chair. he opened his lips to speak, but stopped when he caught a warning sign from old jack behind weegman's shoulder. "is that contract ready for the boy?" asked kennedy. "i've got it in my pocket." "then nail him right now. push it at him, and we'll make him sign. don't let him get away." weegman produced the document. then, for a moment, he seemed to hesitate, flashing old jack a look and giving locke a hard stare. "you understand the conditions?" he said, addressing the latter. "yes," answered lefty, "you made them plain enough for a child to understand when you talked to me in fernandon." "course he understands," cut in kennedy. "he told me, and i told him to grab on without makin' no further talk. just as you say, weegman, with proper advice he can swing the thing. it looks pretty big to him, and he's doubtful. let him look at that paper." he took it from weegman's hand and looked it over himself. it was practically the same sort of an agreement old jack had signed himself when he took control of the team, and the name of charles collier, properly witnessed, had already been affixed to it. with the contract in his possession, along with collier's power of attorney, weegman could sign up any one he chose to manage the blue stockings. for a fleeting instant kennedy's face was twisted into an expression of rage, which, however, collier's private secretary did not catch. locke saw that flash of anger and understood; old jack was playing the fox, and losing no time about it. "skullen will do for the other witness," said weegman, going to the room telephone. "he'll feel bad, of course, but i told him he didn't have a show in the world." he called the operator and gave the number of a room. while weegman was engaged, kennedy handed the agreement over to locke. "you sign it just as it is," he directed. "you've had your talk with mr. weegman, and you know what he said to you. you don't have to chin it over any more." by this time weegman had got skullen on the phone and asked him to come round to kennedy's room, giving him the number. locke sat grimly reading the contract until skullen knocked at the door. "maybe you'll feel bad, mit," said weegman, admitting the man, "but you know i told you there wasn't a show in the world of me signing you up as manager. it's settled with locke, and i want you to witness him put his autograph to the paper. now don't make a growl, but do as you're wanted." skullen kept still as directed, but he looked as if weegman's first words had surprised him a trifle. kennedy had produced a fountain pen and thrust it into locke's hand. "sign right here, son," he urged. "let's see how pretty you write." "wait!" cried weegman, his eyes on the southpaw, who had promptly moved up to the little table. "you haven't forgotten our talk? you understand?" "i haven't forgotten a thing," asserted lefty, boldly and swiftly writing his name. "there it is!" chapter xvi the wrong stool pigeon skullen and kennedy attached their names as witnesses. the thing was done; lefty locke--philip hazelton was the name he wrote on the contract--was now manager of the blue stockings. he received a duplicate copy, which he folded and slipped into his pocket. "now we're all set for business," said bailey weegman. "i congratulate you, locke. one time i was afraid you didn't have sense enough to welcome opportunity when she knocked. i'll see you later, mit, if you're around. we've got to square away now and have a little conference. don't cry because you didn't get the job." "cry--nothin'!" said skullen. "i wouldn't have taken it if you'd handed it to me with twice the salary." "old mit's disappointed," chuckled weegman, when the door closed behind him, "but he doesn't want anybody to know it. he'll deny he came looking for the position, of course." kennedy had seated himself, and weegman drew a chair up to the table, producing a packet of papers and running them over until he found the one he wanted. "here's a list of the men the feds have grabbed off us," he said. "grist, orth, temple, nelson, hyland, and lewis. grist is no particular loss, but temple and orth knock a hole in the pitching staff. nelson was our reliance behind the bat. with dayly and lewis gone, the whole side of the infield is wide open. we ought to be able to fill hyland's place in right garden." "it's a swell team that's left!" said locke. "and you told me that dillon was negotiating with the outlaws." "he hasn't jumped; he hasn't had the nerve," sneered weegman, snapping his fingers. "instead, he's been howling for a contract. you'd find him waiting if you didn't sign him until the first of april." for just a flicker he had actually seemed to betray annoyance because pink dillon had not followed the example of the deserters, but he ended with a laugh. "it seems to me," said the new manager, "that i'd better get busy and try to save the pieces. the men who haven't jumped should be signed up without delay." "of course," agreed weegman blandly. "you must send out the contracts. unluckily, i haven't any blanks with me, but i'll see that you are furnished with them to-morrow." "every day counts, perhaps every hour; by to-morrow we may lose another good man, or more." "not much danger, and you don't want to make the mistake of getting into a panic and trying to do things in too much of a hurry. we've been farming some clever youngsters, more than enough to make up a team; but you should consult with kennedy about them, and take only the right ones. you'll have the most trouble getting hold of pitchers." "youngsters," said locke, "are all right; but do you mean to suggest that we should stop the gaps wholly with men who lack big league experience? you know how much show that sort of a team would have in the race. we've got to make some deals that will give us some players who have ripened. it'll cost money, too." "right there," said weegman, "is where you're going to need the check-rein. charles collier won't stand for needless extravagance in that line, i know, and i shall not countenance the purchasing of high-priced men." the blood rose into lefty's face; he tingled to tell the rascal something, but again a warning flicker of kennedy's left eye restrained him. "there are lots of good youngsters coming on," said the veteran soothingly. "there were three or four i could have used last season if i'd had room for them. we'll run over the list and see how they'll fit in." for another hour they continued in conclave, and a dozen times weegman took occasion to impress upon locke that he should do nothing definite without receiving weegman's approval. when he seemed to feel that he had driven this into the new manager's head, he excused himself on the pretext of attending to a pressing matter, and departed, leaving old jack and lefty together. kennedy quietly locked the door. lefty jumped to his feet and began pacing the floor like a caged tiger. "never had such a job to keep my hands off a man!" he raged. "only for you, i'd--" "i know," said old jack, returning and sitting down heavily. "i wanted to kick him myself, and i think i shall do it some day soon. he's crooked as a corkscrew and rotten as a last year's early apple. but he ain't shrewd; he only thinks he is. he's fooled himself. you never agreed to his verbal terms, and, just as i said, he didn't dare put them in writing. according to that contract, you've got as much power as i ever had, and you can exercise it. it's up to you to get busy. don't wait for contract forms from weegman; they'll be delayed. i have plenty. wire the old players who are left that contracts will be mailed to them to-night." locke stopped by kennedy's chair and dropped a hand on the old man's shoulder. "and you're going to st. paul?" he said. "you've been handed a wretched deal." "nix on the st. paul business, son; there's nothing to it. that wolf thought i swallowed that guff. byers is garrity's friend, and it's plain now that garrity's mixed up in this dirty business. it was easy enough to ask if i'd consider hooking up with st. paul. by the time i got round to saying yes, byers could tell me it was off. this time, lefty, i'm out of the game for good." his voice sounded heavy and dull, and his shoulders sagged. the southpaw was silent, words failing him. after a few minutes old jack looked up into the face of his youthful companion, and smiled wryly. "you've got a little glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes in baseball," he said. "the fans that pay their money to see the games look on it, generally, as a fine, clean sport--which, in one way, it is. that part the public pays to see, the game, is on the level. there's a good reason: the crookedest magnate in the business--and, believe me, there's one who can look down the back of his own neck without trying to turn round--knows it would spell ruin to put over a frame-up on the open field. by nature the players themselves are like the average run of human critters, honest and dishonest; but experience has taught them that they can't pull off any double deals without cutting their own throats. people who talk about fixed games, especially in the world's series, show up their ignorance. it can't be done. "but when it comes to tricks and holdups, and highway robberies and assassination, there's always somethin' doing off stage. what you've seen is only a patch. the men who run things are out for the coin, and they aren't any better, as a rule, than the high financiers who plunder railroads and loot public treasuries. they'll smile in a man's face while they're whetting the knife for his back. some of them have put the knife into charles collier now, and they intend to sink it to the hilt. you've been picked as a cat's-paw to help them pull their chestnuts off the coals. they intend to fatten their batting average at your expense, and when it's all over you'll be knocked out of the box for good. you'll get the blame while they pluck the plums." "kennedy," said locke, his voice hard as chilled steel, "they've picked the wrong stool pigeon. my eyes aren't sewed up. with your help, i'm going to find a way to spoil their villainous schemes. i know you'll help me." the veteran sprang up, a bit of the old-time fire in his face. "you bet your life, son! that's why i wired for you to come on, and that's why i wanted you to pretend to take the hook and sign up with weegman. i knew we could work together, and it puts us in position to get the harpoon into them before they wise up to what's doing. let's get busy." chapter xvii getting into action locke was for open work and defiance of weegman, but kennedy argued against it. "you want to get the jump on that snake," said the old man, digging a package of contract forms for players out of his traveling bag. "he won't be looking for you to get into action so sudden, and you'll gain a lap before he knows it. when it comes to fighting a polecat, a wise man takes precautions. weegman's gone to send word to his pals of the slick job he's put over, and he'll be coming back to bother us pretty soon. we don't want to be here when he comes." so, for the purpose of conducting their private business, another room was engaged, and an arrangement made whereby no person, no matter how insistent he might be, should be told where to find them. then a telegraph messenger boy was summoned to that room, and telegrams were sent to the still loyal blue stockings players, stating that contracts were being mailed for their signatures. then the contracts were filled out, sealed, and dropped into the mail chute. a square meal was ordered and served in the private room, and for nearly three hours lefty and jack talked. they had many things to tell each other, but their principal topic was the filling of the frightful gaps made in the team by the federal raids, and both agreed that the time had come when the close-fisted financial policy of the blue stockings must be abandoned; players fully as good as the ones lost, or better, if possible, must be obtained at any cost. various team combinations that seemed to balance to a nicety were made up on paper, but how to get the men coveted was the problem. "we've got two catchers left," said kennedy, "but the best of the pair ain't in the same class as the man we've lost. we've got to have a backstop as good as nelson. and when it comes to pitchers--say, son, is it possible there ain't any show at all of your coming back?" "i wish i could answer that," confessed locke. "at any rate, we've got to have two more first-string men. if this mysterious jones i told you of is anywhere near as good as he looked to--" "not one chance in a hundred that he's good enough to carry a regular share of the pitching the first season, no matter what he might develop into with experience. the wolves have been hurt least by the feds, and you might pick something worth while off ben frazer if you paid his price. last fall he offered to trade me that youngster, keeper, for dayly, and since then he's bought red callahan from brennan. that'll put keeper on the bench. you know what keeper is, and i've always regretted letting frazer get him off me for five thousand, but it was collier's idea. the boy'd look well on our third cushion about now. but don't lose sight of the fact that it's pitchers we've _got_ to have." locke took the five-fifty train for new york, leaving weegman, whom he had succeeded in avoiding, frothing around the grand in search of him. kennedy knew how to reach frazer by wire, and he had received a reply to his telegram that the manager of the wolves would meet lefty at the great eastern the following night. between kennedy and frazer there had always existed a bond of understanding and friendship. despite the burden he had assumed, the new manager of the blue stockings slept well. it was this faculty of getting sleep and recuperation under any circumstances that had enabled him to become known as the "iron man." at breakfast the following morning he received a slight shock. three tables in front of him, with his back turned, sat a man with fine shoulders, a bull neck, and a bullet head. mit skullen was traveling eastward by the same train. lefty cut his breakfast short and left the diner without having been observed. "if he should see me, he'd probably take the first opportunity to wire back to weegman," thought locke, "and i'm going to follow old jack's advice about leaving weegman in the dark for a while." there was a possibility, of course, that skullen would come wandering through the train and discover him, but, to his satisfaction, nothing of the kind happened. all the long forenoon he was whirled through a snow-covered country without being annoyed by the appearance of garrity's henchman, and he had plenty of time to meditate on the situation and the plans laid by himself and kennedy. but it was necessary to eat again, and shortly before albany was reached he returned to the diner, hoping skullen had already had lunch. the man was not there when he sat down, but he had scarcely given his order when the fellow's hand dropped on his shoulder. "hully smokes!" exclaimed mit, staring down, wide-eyed, at the southpaw. "what's this mean? i can hardly believe me lamps. you must have left indianap' same time i did, and weeg asked me twice if i'd seen anything of you." "weegman?" said lefty, startled, but outwardly serene. "is he on this train?" "nix. last i know, he was tearing up the grand looking for you. how's it happened you skipped without dropping him word?" "i'm going to see my folks, who live in jersey," locke answered, truthfully enough. "but you'll stop in the big town to-night? where do you hang out?" "usually at the prince arthur." this was likewise true, although the southpaw had now no intention of putting up there on this occasion. mit looked at his watch. "we must be pulling into albany," he said. "i want to get a paper. see you later." "go ahead and shoot your telegram to weegman," thought locke. "any message sent me at the prince arthur is liable to remain unopened for some time." he had finished his lunch and was back in the pullman when skullen found him again. the man planted himself at lefty's side and passed over a newspaper, grinning as he pointed out an item on the sporting page: even though it was rumored that old jack kennedy was to be let out, the selection of locke as his successor is a surprise. as a pitcher locke has had an amazingly successful career and has made an enviable reputation, but he has had no managerial experience, having come to the big league directly from the bushes. whether or not he has the stuff of which capable managers are made is a matter of uncertainty; but, with the blue stockings badly chewed to pieces by the feds, collier might have been expected, had he decided to drop kennedy, to replace the veteran with a man of some practical knowledge in that line. the policy of the stockings for the last year or two has been rather queer, to say the least, and the effect upon the team can be seen in its present rating. that was the final paragraph. collier, sick and absent in europe, was credited with the deal; not a word about weegman. the rascal, pulling the wires, was keeping himself in the background. for a moment lefty thought of jack stillman, a reporter friend, and felt a desire to give him some inside information which, in cold type, would be pretty certain to make the interested public sit up and take notice. but the time was not ripe for a move like that, and he dismissed the thought. still grinning, skullen jammed his elbow into locke's ribs. "how do you like that?" he inquired gloatingly. "that's the way them cheap newspaper ginks pans you out when they get a chance." the southpaw was suddenly attacked by an intense distaste for the company of tom garrity's coarse hireling. he handed the paper back in silence. but the feeling of dislike and antagonism was evidently felt by skullen, for, after a few minutes' silence, he got up and walked out of the car; and, to his satisfaction, lefty saw no more of him during the remainder of the journey. an uncomfortable storm of rain and sleet was raging when new york was reached shortly after nightfall. a taxi bore locke to the great eastern, where he learned that frazer had not yet arrived. having registered, he took the elevator for his room on the seventh floor, and, as he was borne upward, a descending car, well filled with people, slipped silently past, and lefty caught a momentary glimpse of their faces through the iron grillwork. one face he saw quite plainly, that of a charming young woman in her early twenties--a face he recognized at once. "virginia collier!" gasped lefty, in astonishment. he did not leave the car; back to the main floor he went. after hastily looking around for the young woman he sought, he made inquiries at the desk. he was informed that no miss collier was stopping in the hotel. still confident that he had not been mistaken, and thinking it probable she was dining there with friends, he had her paged. even when the report came that no one answered to the name, he did not give up. from various vantage points, he spent at least twenty minutes looking over the people at dinner in the main dining room, the grill, and the palm room. at the end of that time he was confident that charles collier's daughter was not dining at the great eastern. "of course," he admitted to himself, "it's possible i was mistaken, but i would have sworn it was virginia." he went up to his room and prepared for dinner, burdened by the conviction that he had been baffled; that fate had played him a trick. he would have given much for fifteen minutes' conversation with the daughter of the big chief, and he was impressed with the belief that he had passed her almost within an arm's reach. this feeling was followed by one of uncertainty regarding frazer. old jack had assured him that the manager of the wolves would meet him at the great eastern, and he had relied on kennedy without attempting to get into direct communication with frazer, and perhaps, after all, he would not come. "then i'll have to run him down," considered lefty. "and i want to get to him before weegman can get to me. if i don't, he'll be sure to try to ball up any deal i attempt to put across." choosing to eat in the grill, he notified the desk where he could be found should any one ask for him. but he had scarcely begun on the first course when he heard his name spoken, and looked up to find ben frazer smiling down upon him. chapter xviii the first deal "just in time to get in on the eats, i see," said the manager of the famous wolves, shaking hands with locke. "it's a rotten night, my feet are wet, and i'm awfully hungry. only for kennedy's message i'd be on my way to chicago." a waiter placed a chair, and he sat down, took the menu card, and quickly gave his order. he was a short, thick-set, shrewd-faced man; his hair was turning gray on the temples, but he seemed to have lost little of the nervous energy and alertness that had been his in the old days when he had been called the swiftest second sacker in the business. he had been an umpire baiter then, but in later years his methods had changed, and never once since becoming a manager had he been given the gate. nevertheless, while he had gained in diplomacy, he had relaxed no whit in aggressiveness. led by old ben, the wolves fought to the last ditch. "now, tell me about it," he requested, turning to lefty. "how in thunder did you happen to let them rope you into such a mess?" "you mean--" "getting tied up as manager of the blue stockings. boy, you're the goat; you've been chosen for the sacrifice. somebody had to fall, of course, but it's a shame that you should be the victim. i'd thought you too wise to tumble into that trap." "then you think it is a trap?" asked the southpaw, feeling the blood hot in his cheeks. "of course it is! the stockings have been undermined and blown wide open. they've got as much show this year as a snowball would have in a baker's oven. they'll land in the subcellar with a sickening thud, and there's no way of stopping them." "no way--" "no way under heaven, take it from me! i've been in the business long enough to know what i'm talking about. it takes years to build up such a fighting machine, and, when it's torn to pieces, rebuilding is bound to be another job of years. the public won't understand. you'll get the kicks and the curses. as a successful pitcher you've been a favorite; as an unsuccessful manager you'll be about as popular as a rusty spike in an automobile tire. crowds are always fickle. when a man's winning they howl their heads off for him; but let him strike a losing streak and they scramble like mad to pelt him with mud and brick-bats." "but somebody has to build up a team." "somebody has to start it and get the blame. he's the goat. where's burkett, who managed the wolves before i came in? out in the border league. where's ashton and gerrish, who struggled with the blue stockings before kennedy stepped in on the turn of the tide? one's running a cigar store in kewanee, the other's drinking himself to death in muskegon; both left the game with busted reputations and broken hearts. where's mcconnell, who tried to make a ball team of the hornets before brennan's day? he took to the coke, and his friends are paying for his keep in a private bug-house. where's decker, who had a crack at the panthers--but what's the use! there's no surer way for a good man to ruin his career than to manage a losing ball team." "in that case," said locke, "i've got to manage a winner." frazer gazed at him pityingly. "swell chance you've got! about one in fifty thousand. you haven't got the makings of an ordinary second-division team left." "i know the feds have copped off some of our best men, but--" "some! some! i should so remark! but don't blame it all on the feds. they were practically invited to come in and take their pick. the bars were let down. all your players knew there was trouble. they heard all sorts of rumors that made them nervous and uncertain. they didn't see any contracts coming their way to be signed. they knew there was something the matter with collier. it was even said he'd gone crazy. they knew kennedy was going to get out from under. there was gossip about old men being shunted and new blood taken on. what they didn't know was where they were at. it was all nicely worked to get them to take the running long jump." "then you believe there was a plot to smash the team?" "you don't have to be a mind reader to get my opinion, but i'm saying this here private, man to man. i'm not goin' round talking for publication." "but you're wrong about kennedy getting out; he was dropped." "was he?" "sure." frazer twisted his face into a queer grimace. "old jack kennedy was too wise to stick on under any such conditions. he knew what it meant, and i'll guarantee that he wouldn't have managed the blue stockings this year for twice the salary he got last. what i've got against him is that he didn't put you wise before you tied up." "it was on his advice that i consented to manage the team," replied locke. "what?" exclaimed frazer. "is that straight? he advised you to--the infernal old scoundrel!" locke warmed immediately in defense of kennedy. the manager of the wolves listened, uncertain, shaking his head doubtfully. "he may not have meant it," he admitted presently, "but he's got you in bad, boy. you haven't got a show against the powers you'll have to buck, and the conditions that were fixed up for you in advance." "as to that, time will tell," said lefty. "i'm going to make one almighty try. first, i've got to plug the gaps. what have you got to sell that i want?" "nothing that you'll pay the price for. i know collier's policy." "collier is in europe, and i'm manager of the team, with full authority to make any deals i please. here's my contract." he placed it before old ben. "collier will have to stand for any trade i put through. i'll buy smoke jordan off you." "you won't! i won't sell him." "then how about jack keeper? you've got red callahan, and i need a third baseman." frazer finished his soup. "i won't sell you keeper," he said; "but i'll trade him. i need a center fielder in the place of courtney, who's retired. i'll trade keeper for herman brock." at first locke had no relish for a trade that would add to the blue stockings infield at the expense of the outfield, even though in his secret heart he knew brock had during last season shown vague symptoms of slowing down. then he remembered the list of reserves given him by kennedy, on which there was one fast, hard-hitting youngster who had been sent back to the western canada league, and had made a brilliant record covering the middle garden for medicine hat. "i don't want to trade, i want to buy," he persisted. then, as if struck by second thought: "i'll tell you what i will do; i'll give you brock for two men. that'll help. we need a catcher. after king broke his leg you found a great catcher in darrow. i'll trade you brock for keeper and king." "brick king!" exploded frazer indignantly. "what do you take me for?" "a business man. you've got three first-string catchers now; two are all you need. you don't even know that king's leg is all right. i'm willing to take a chance on him. brock batted over three hundred last season. he's the hitter you need to fill that vacancy." "not brick king," said the manager of the wolves. "if i didn't use him behind the bat for the whole season, he's a fancy pinch hitter. you've gotter have pitchers. how about o'brien?" but locke knew that chick o'brien, the veteran, had cracked already. even though on hot days, when he could get his wing to work, he showed flashes of his former brilliant form, and had, under such conditions, last year pitched three shut-out games for the wolves, chick's record for the season showed a balance on the wrong side. the southpaw held out for king. frazer offered one of the second-string catchers. lefty waved the offer aside. "hang it!" snapped frazer. "give me brock and ten thousand dollars, and you may have keeper and king." "you don't want much!" laughed locke. "i'll give you brock and five thousand." all the way through to the dessert they dickered and bargained. frazer wanted brock, and wanted him bad. sympathetic though he might feel toward lefty, he never permitted sympathy to interfere with business. brock was the man to fill the position left vacant by bob courtney, and he was sure the wolves would not be weakened by the loss of keeper. but brick king--"what salary are you paying king?" lefty suddenly asked. "five thousand. the feds got after him, and i had to make it that." the southpaw laughed. "with darrow doing most of the backstopping, and larson ready to fill in any moment he's needed, you're going to keep a five-thousand-dollar catcher on the bench for a pinch hitter! i just called you a business man, but i feel like taking it back. isn't madden likely to kick over a five-thousand-dollar pinch hitter?" madden owned the team. "madden be hanged!" rasped frazer, biting off the end of a cigar he had taken from his case. "i'm the manager! madden isn't always butting in and paring down expenses, like collier." he pulled vigorously at the cigar, while the attentive waiter applied a lighted match. lefty had declined a cigar. he smoked occasionally, and would have done so now, but to do so would indicate an inclination to settle down and continue the dickering, and he had decided to make a bluff at bringing the affair to an end. he called for the check, and insisted on paying the bill for both. "sorry i've put you to so much trouble, frazer," he said. "it was kennedy's idea that i might do business with you, but it's evident he was mistaken. i've got some other cards to play, and time is precious." he settled the bill and tipped the waiter. old ben sat regarding locke thoughtfully, rolling out great puffs of smoke. the younger man was about to rise. "hold on," requested the manager of the wolves. "you're a regular mule, aren't you? how do you expect to make a trade without compromising at all? you won't even meet me halfway, confound you! you--" "i'll own up that i was a bit hasty," said lefty, showing a nervous desire to get away. "i made that five-thousand offer without thinking much, but you understand i'm rather desperate. if collier were here, he'd probably put the kibosh on it--if he found out before the trade was closed. after that he'd have to stand for it, no matter how hard he kicked. let's forget it." then frazer showed that peculiar trait of human nature that makes a person doubly eager for something that seems to be on the point of slipping away. in his mind he had already fitted herman brock into that gap in center field that had given him more or less worry. the adjustment had pleased him; it seemed to balance the team to a hair. it would give him renewed assurance of another pennant and a slice of the world's series money. it was courtney's hitting in the last series that had enabled the wolves to divide the big end of that money; and, like courtney, brock was a terror with the ash. "you mule!" said frazer. "let's go up to your room and fix up the papers. it's a trade." chapter xix a fleeting glimpse locke betrayed no sign of the triumph that he felt. had frazer held out, he would have given the ten thousand asked, and considered himself lucky to get a catcher and a third sacker, both young men, and coming, in exchange for an outfielder who could not possibly last more than another season or two. collier might squirm when he learned of the trade, but perhaps he could be made to see the desperate necessity of it. the thought that bailey weegman would gnash his teeth and froth at the mouth gave lefty an added thrill of pleasure. the first move to circumvent weegman and the scheming scoundrel behind him, garrity, had been put through. "all right," he said, with something like a sigh. "if you hold me to my word, i suppose it's a trade. we may as well make out the papers." "what's that about a trade?" asked a voice at the southpaw's back. "what are you two ginks cooking up? i saw you chinnin', and thought there was something in the wind." skullen had entered the grill and come up without being observed. there was nothing thin-skinned about mit, and apparently he had forgotten the rebuff given him by locke on the train. "hello, mit!" said frazer. "you're just in time to be a witness. i've traded king and keeper for herm brock. we're going up to make out the papers now. come on!" locke rose, his eyes on the intruder, repressing a laugh as he noted the man's expression of incredulity. "traded!" exclaimed skullen. "with locke? say, who's backing locke in this deal? weeg told me--when i talked with him about being manager--that any trade that was made would have to be confirmed by him. has he agreed to this deal?" "he don't have to," said lefty. "there's nothing in my contract that gives him any authority to interfere with any deal i may choose to make." mit followed them from the room and to the elevator. he was bursting to say more, but he did not know just how to say it. when they were in locke's room he began: "keeper and king for that old skate brock! what's the matter with you, ben? you've got bats in your belfry! why, you've gone clean off your nut! you've--" frazer cut him short. "that'll be about enough from you, mit! don't try to tell me my business. i'm getting five thousand bones in the bargain." "hey?" shouted skullen, turning on the young manager of the blue stockings. "five thousand bucks! you're coughing up that sum without consulting anybody? say, you're going in clean over your head. you'd better hold up and wire weegman what you're thinking about. if you don't--" "when i want your advice i'll ask for it," interrupted locke sharply. "you seem to be greatly interested in this business, for an outsider." skullen was choked off, but he gurgled and growled while the papers were being filled out; he even seemed disposed to refuse to sign as a witness, but finally did so, muttering: "there's going to be the devil to pay over this, you can bet your sweet life on that!" lefty didn't care; it was settled, and neither collier nor his representative could repudiate the bargain. let the crooks rage. the only thing the southpaw regretted was that weegman would, doubtless, quickly learn what had been done; for it was a practical certainty that skullen would lose little time in wiring to him. in fact, mit soon made an excuse to take his departure, and, in fancy, locke saw him making haste to send the message. frazer was wise, also. "you're going to find yourself bucking a rotten combination, locke," he said. "they're bound to put it over you before you're through." "i should worry and lose my sleep!" was the light retort. "give me a cigar now, ben; i haven't felt so much like smoking in a month." locke slept that night in peace. in the infield there were two big holes left to be filled, short and second; but the reserve list afforded a dozen men to pick from, and it was lefty's theory that a certain number of carefully chosen youngsters, mixed in with veterans who could steady them, frequently added the needed fire and dash to a team that was beginning to slow down. herman brock was gone, but out in medicine hat jock sheridan had covered the middle garden like a carpet, and had batted four hundred and ten--some hitting! with welch and hyland on his right and left, sheridan might compel the big league fans to give him something more than a casual once over. but locke's great pleasure lay in the fact that he had secured a backstop he had not dared to hope for. even now he could not understand why frazer had been induced to part with brick king, the catcher whose almost uncanny skill in getting the very limit out of second-rate and faltering pitchers had lifted the wolves out of the second division two years ago, and made them pennant contenders up to the final game of the season. there was the possibility, of course, that old ben believed that king had not thoroughly recovered from the injury that had sent him to the hospital last august; but a broken leg was something that rarely put an athlete down and out indefinitely. "in my estimation," thought lefty serenely, as sleep was stealing over him, "king has got more brains and uses them better than any backstop in the league." the morning papers had something to say about the deal: the new manager of the blue stockings has been getting busy. by good authority we are informed that he has traded center fielder herman brock for two of ben frazer's youngsters, king and keeper. through this deal he has obtained a catcher and a third baseman, but has opened up a hole in the outfield big enough to roll an _imperator_ cargo of base hits through. of course, the gaping wounds of the stockings must be plugged, but it seems like bad surgery to inflict further mutilation in order to fill the gashes already made. and when it comes to driving in scores when they count, we predict that old herman and his swatstick are going to be lamented. keeper is more or less of an unknown quantity. it's true that brick king, in condition, is an excellent backstop and a good hitter, but it must not be forgotten that he has not played since he was injured last august. and, incidentally, it should be remembered that ben frazer has a head as long as a tape measure. an expert appraiser should be called in to inspect any property on which frazer shows a disposition to relinquish his grip. it is a good, even-money proposition that old ben and the wolves will get their hooks into the world's series boodle again this year. lefty smiled over this, his lips curling a bit scornfully. the opening of the real baseball season was yet a long distance away, but the newspaper writers were compelled to grind out a required amount of "dope" each day, and were working hard to keep up their average. some of them were clever and ingenious in their phrasing, but nearly all of them betrayed a lack of originality or courage in forming and expressing individual opinions. the wolves had won the pennant and the world's championship last season, and up to date they had been damaged less than any club in organized ball by the raids of the federals; some wise pen pusher had therefore predicted that the wolves would cop the bunting again, and was supported in this opinion by all the little fellows, who ran, bleating, after the wise one, like a flock of sheep chasing a bellwether. it was evident that, with no apparent exceptions, this bleating flock looked on the blue stockings as a drifting derelict that was due to be blown up and sunk. for locke they had only pity and mild contempt because he had permitted himself to be dragged into the impossible attempt to salvage the worthless hulk. even old ben frazer, than whom none was reckoned more keen and astute, had expressed such a sentiment without concealment. a weak man would have felt some qualms; lefty felt none. he had not sought the job; in a way, fate had thrust it upon him; and now the more unsurmountable the difficulties appeared the stronger he became to grapple with them. like a soldier going into battle, exulted and fired by a high and lofty purpose, his heart sang within him. before going to bed, lefty had wired kennedy concerning the deal with frazer, and he believed skullen had made haste to telegraph weegman. he rose in the morning fully expecting to get a red-hot message from collier's private secretary, and was surprised when nothing of the sort reached him. while at breakfast, however, he received an answer from old jack: good work! congratulations. keep it up. kennedy. weegman's silence led locke to do some thinking, and suddenly he understood. skullen had discovered him on the knickerbocker special just before the train had pulled into albany, and immediately mit had hastened away to buy a paper. of course he had then sent word to weegman, who was now on his way to new york. "but he can't get here before six o'clock to-night," thought lefty, "and my train for the south leaves at three-thirty-four." he did not relish running away from weegman, and it had gone against the grain when, upon the advice of kennedy, he had suddenly left indianapolis. but he knew old jack was wise, and the more he could accomplish without being interfered with by the rascal he despised, the stronger his position for open fighting would be when it became necessary to defy him to his face. his first duty that day was to visit his parents, and, shortly after breakfast, he took the tube for jersey. less than an hour's journey brought him to the hazelton home, and, after something like an hour spent with them, he left them in a much more cheerful and hopeful frame of mind. on returning to the city he called up the office of franklin parlmee. to his disappointment, he was informed that parlmee had not returned since leaving for indianapolis. he had expected the man could inform him whether or not virginia collier was in new york, and, if she were, how to find her and obtain the brief interview he desired. for he was sure that a short talk with charles collier's daughter would serve to clear away many of the uncertainties with which he was surrounded. but there were other things to be done, and lefty was kept on the jump, without time, even, to snatch a hasty lunch. when a person attempts to accomplish a great deal in a brief period in new york, he often finds he has shouldered a heavy load. by two o'clock in the afternoon he realized that it would be impossible for him to take the three-thirty-four southbound from the pennsylvania station. there was a slower train leaving at nine-thirty; that was the best he could do. he believed weegman would rush to the great eastern as soon as he arrived. locke had left the great eastern, and there was little chance of encountering the man elsewhere. once or twice he thought of skullen, and wondered if he had made an effort to keep track of him. "if so," laughed the southpaw, "he has been some busy person." at six o'clock he was appeasing a ravenous appetite in a quiet restaurant. with the exception of the fact that he had not been able to find virginia collier, he had done everything he had set out to do. and he had wired cap'n wiley that he would soon be on his way with a blue stockings contract for mysterious jones to sign. in order to pass the time and obtain a little diversion, he went to a motion-picture show after dinner, having first secured accommodations on the train, and checked his bag at the station. he left the theater shortly before nine o'clock, and had reached broadway and thirty-third street, when a lighted limousine, containing two persons besides the driver, drove past him. he obtained a good look at both passengers, a man, who was talking earnestly, and a woman, smiling as she listened. he knew he was not mistaken this time: the man was bailey weegman; the woman was virginia collier. chapter xx a riddle to solve locke stood still, staring after the swiftly receding car. he thought of pursuit, but, as a heavy rain was falling, there was no available taxi in the immediate vicinity. by the time he could secure one the limousine would have vanished, leaving no possible hope of tracing it. weegman and virginia collier together and on terms plainly more than usually friendly! what was the explanation? she had arrived in new york, after all, and it was apparent that weegman knew where to find her when he reached the city. that his company was distinctly agreeable to her was evident from the fleeting glimpse lefty had obtained. as parlmee's rival, the man held the favor of charles collier. had the baseball magnate at last succeeded in breaking down the prejudice and opposition of his daughter? was it possible that weegman, not parlmee, was the magnet that had drawn the girl back from europe? "impossible!" exclaimed lefty. "she'd never throw over frank for that chuckling scoundrel." but was it impossible? vaguely he recalled something like a change in the tone of virginia's last letters to janet; somehow they had not seemed as frank and confiding as former letters. and eventually, to janet's worriment and perplexity, virginia had ceased to write at all. before locke flashed a picture of parlmee as he had appeared in indianapolis, nervous, perplexed, and, by his own admission, greatly worried. parlmee had confessed that he had received only two very unsatisfactory letters from virginia since she had sailed for europe with her father, and more than a month had elapsed since the second of these had come to his hands. of itself, this was enough to upset a man as much in love with miss collier as parlmee undoubtedly was. but, at the time, lefty had vaguely felt that the automobile salesman was holding something back, and now he was sure. parlmee's pride, and his secret hope that he was mistaken, had prevented him from confessing that the girl had changed in her attitude toward him. true, virginia had cabled that she was sailing on the _victoria_, and had asked him to meet her, and although she had not sailed on that ship, yet she was now in new york. here was a riddle to solve. did the solution lie in the assumption that, having decided to break her tentative engagement in a face-to-face talk with parlmee, the girl's courage had failed her, leading her to change her plans? the fact that he was with her now seemed to prove that weegman's information regarding her movements and intentions had been more accurate than parlmee's. it did not appear plausible that such a girl could be persuaded, of her own free will, to throw over franklin parlmee for bailey weegman. but perhaps she was not exercising her own free will; perhaps some powerful and mastering influence had been brought to bear upon her. was it not possible, also, that her father, whose singular behavior had lately aroused comment and speculation, was likewise a victim of this mastering influence? while the idea was a trifle bizarre, and savored of sensational fiction, such things did happen, if reports of them, to be found almost daily in the newspapers, could be believed. but when locke tried to imagine the chuckling and oily weegman as a hypnotist, dominating both collier and his daughter by the power of an evil spell, he failed. it was too preposterous. one thing, however, was certain: evil powers of a materialistic nature were at work, and they had succeeded in making a decided mess of charles collier's affairs. to defeat them, the strategy and determination of united opposition would be required, and, in view of the task, the opposition seemed weak and insufficient. even parlmee, who might render some aid, was not to be reached. he had obtained a month's leave from business in order to settle his own suspicions and fears, but he had not returned to new york. where was he? lefty glanced over his shoulder as the _herald_ clock began to hammer out the hour of nine. then he set his face westward and made for the pennsylvania station at a brisk pace. reaching his destination, he wrote and sent to parlmee's office address a message that contained, in addition to the positive assurance that virginia was in town and had been seen with weegman, a statement of the southpaw's suspicions, which amounted almost to convictions, concerning the whole affair. there didn't seem to be much more that he could do. he had secured his accommodations on the florida mail, but he expected to be back on the field of battle in the north within the shortest possible time. before going aboard his train, he bought the latest edition of an evening newspaper, and, naturally, turned at once to the sporting page. almost by instinct his eyes found something of personal concern, a statement that manager garrity would strengthen the rockets by securing an unknown "dummy" pitcher who had been discovered by scout skullen, and was said to be a wizard. skullen, it was intimated, was off with a commission from garrity to sign up his find. there was no longer any doubt in locke's mind that skullen had watched the work of mysterious jones, and intended to nail the mute for the rockets. even now, he had departed on his mission. probably he had left at three-thirty-four on the very train lefty had meant to take. if so, he would reach florida many hours ahead of the southpaw, and would have plenty of time to accomplish his purpose. true, locke had made a fair and square bargain with wiley and jones, but, having been unable to get jones' signature on a blue stockings contract at the time, the deal would not be binding if the mute chose to go back on it. not a little apprehensive, lefty sent still another message to cap'n wiley. after which he went aboard the train, found his berth, and turned in. chapter xxi the man ahead locke was the first passenger to leap off the train when it stopped at vienna. he made for one of the two rickety carriages that were drawn up beside the station platform. the white-wooled old negro driver straightened on his seat, signaling with his whip, and called: "right dis way, sah; dis way fo' the lithonia house." "is there a baseball game in this town to-day, uncle?" asked lefty. "yes, sah, dere sho am. dey's gwine to be some hot game, so ever'body say. our boys gwine buck up against dem wind jabbers, an' dere'll be a reg'ler ruction out to de pahk." "what time does the game begin?" "free o'clock am de skaduled hour fo' de obsequies, sah. dey's out to de pahk now, sah, an' 'most ever'body could git dere has gone, too." locke looked at his watch. "thirty minutes before the game starts. how far is your park?" "'bout a mile, sah, mo' uh less." "two dollars, if you get me there in a hurry." "two dollahs, sah? yes, sah! step right in, sah, an' watch dis heah streak o' locomotion transpose yo' over de earth surface. set tight an' hol' fast." tossing his overcoat and bag into the rear of the carriage, lefty sprang in. the old negro gave a shrill yell, and cracked his whip with a pistol-like report. the yell and the crack electrified the rawboned old nag into making a wild leap as if trying to jump out of the thills. it was a marvel that the spliced and string-tied harness held. the southpaw was flung down upon the rear seat, and it was a wonder that he did not go flying over the low back of it and out of the carriage. he grabbed hold with both hands, and held fast. round the corner of the station spun the carriage on two wabbly wheels, and away it careened at the heels of the galloping horse, the colored driver continuing to yell and crack his whip. two dollars! the ride from the station to the baseball park was brief but exciting. the distance could not have been more than half a mile, and, considering the conveyance, it was made in record time. "whoa, yo' nancy hanks!" shouted the driver, surging back on the reins and stopping the animal so abruptly that lefty was nearly pitched into the forward seat. "did i heah yo' say you wanted to git heah in a hurry, sah?" locke jumped out. "that's the shortest mile i ever traveled," he said, handing over the price promised. "but then, when it comes to driving, barney oldfield has nothing on you." carrying his overcoat and bag, he hurried to the gate and paid the price of admission. a goodly crowd had gathered, and the local team was practicing on the field. over at one side some of the visitors were getting in a little light batting practice. mysterious jones was warming up with schaeffer. a short distance behind jones stood cap'n wiley, his legs planted wide, his arms folded, his ear cocked, listening to mit skullen, who was talking earnestly. lefty strode hastily toward the pair. "sell him!" said the marine marvel, in reply to the scout, as the southpaw approached behind them. "of course i will. but you made one miscue, mate; you should have come straight to me in the first place, instead of superflouing away your time seeking to pilfer him off me by stealth. what price do you respectfully tender?" locke felt a throb of resentful anger. regardless of a square bargain already made, wiley was ready to negotiate with skullen. however, mit had not yet succeeded in his purpose, and the southpaw was on hand to maintain a prior claim. involuntarily he halted, waiting for the scout's offer. "as you aren't in any regular league," said mit, "by rights i don't have to give you anything for him; but if you'll jolly him into putting his fist to a contract, i'll fork over fifty bones out of my own pocket. garrity won't stand for it, so i'll have to come through with the fifty myself." "your magnanimous offer staggers me!" exclaimed wiley. "allow me a moment to subdue my emotions. however and nevertheless, i fear me greatly that my bottom price would be slightly more than that." "well, what is your bottom price?" demanded skullen. "put it down to the last notch." "i will. i'll give you bed-rock figures. comprehend me, mate, i'll pare it right down to the bone, and you can't buy jones a measly, lonesome cent less. i'll sell him to you for just precisely fifty thousand dollars." the scout's jaw dropped, and he stared at the little man, who stared up at him in return, one eyelid slightly lowered, an oddly provocative expression on his swarthy face. slowly the look of incredulous disbelief turned to wrath. the purple color surged upward from mit's bull neck into his scarred face; his huge hands closed. "what are you trying to hand me, you blamed little runt?" he snarled. "where's the joke?" "no joke at all, i hasten to postulate," said wiley. "the scandalous fact is that i couldn't sell him to you at all without scuttling and sinking my sacred honor. but human nature is frail and prone to temptation, and for the sum of fifty thousand dollars i'd inveigle jones into signing with you, even though never again as long as i should dwell on this terrestrial sphere could i look my old college chump, lefty locke, in the countenance." skullen's astonishment was a sight to behold. he made strange, wheezing, gurgling sounds in his throat. presently one of his paws shot out and fastened on cap'n wiley's shoulder. "what's that you're saying about lefty locke?" he demanded. "what are you giving me?" "straight goods, mit," stated the southpaw serenely, as he stepped forward. "too bad you wasted so much time making a long and useless trip." skullen came round with something like his old deftness of whirling in the ring when engaged in battle. never in all his life had his battered face worn an uglier look. for a moment, however, he seemed to doubt the evidence of his eyes. "locke!" he gasped. "here!" "yes, indeed," returned the new manager of the blue stockings pleasantly. "i reckoned you would be ahead of me, mit; but, as a man of his word, wiley couldn't do business with you. and without his aid there was little chance for you to make arrangements with jones." skullen planted his clenched fists upon his hips and gazed at the southpaw with an expression of unrepressed hatred. his bearing, as well as his look, threatened assault. lefty dropped his traveling bag to the ground, and tossed the overcoat he had been compelled to wear in the north upon it. he felt that it would be wise for him to have both hands free and ready for use. chapter xxii a doubtful victory "who sent you here?" demanded the belligerent individual. "what business have you got coming poking your nose into my affairs? you'd better chase yourself sudden." instead of exhibiting alarm, lefty laughed in the man's face. "don't make a show of yourself, mit," he advised. "bluster won't get you any ball players; at least, it won't get you this one. i've already made a deal for jones." "you haven't got his name on a contract; you hadn't time. if you had, wiley'd told me." "i made a fair trade for him before i went north." into skullen's eyes there came a look of understanding and satisfaction. his lips curled back from his ugly teeth. "you didn't have any authority to make a trade then, for you weren't manager of the stockings. you can't put anything like that over on me. if you don't chase yourself, i'll throw you over the fence." sensing an impending clash, with the exception of the mute and the catcher, the wind jammers ceased their desultory practice and watched for developments. a portion of the spectators, also becoming aware that something unusual was taking place, turned their attention to the little triangular group not far from the visitors' bench. "you couldn't get jones if you threw me over into georgia," said locke, unruffled. "it won't do you any good to start a scrap." "permit me to impersonate the dove of peace," pleaded cap'n wiley. "lefty is absolutely voracious in his statement that he made a fair and honorable compact with me, by which jones is to become the legitimate chattel of the blue stockings. still," he added, shaking his head and licking his lips, "flesh is weak and liable to err. if i had seen fifty thousand simoleons coming my way in exchange for the greatest pitcher of modern times, i'm afraid i should have lacked the energy to side-step them. the root of all evil has sometimes tempted me from the path of rectitude. but now lefty is here, and the danger is over. it's no use, skully, old top; the die is cast. you may as well submit gracefully to the inveterable." muttering inaudibly, skullen turned and walked away. "i have a contract in my pocket ready for the signature of jones," said lefty. "will you get him to put his name to it before the game starts?" "it will give me a pang of pleasure to do so," was the assurance. there on the field, envied by his teammates, mysterious jones used locke's fountain pen to place his signature--a. b. jones was the name he wrote--upon the contract that bound him to the blue stockings. what the initials stood for not even wiley knew. for a moment the mute seemed to hesitate, but the marine marvel urged him on, and the deed was done. "if you cater to his little giddyocyncracies," said the sailor, "you'll find him a pearl beyond price. unless you're afraid skully may return and mar your pleasure, you may sit on the bench with us and watch him toy with the local bric-a-brac. it is bound to be a painfully one-sided affair." "skullen," laughed lefty, "has ceased to cause me special apprehension. the contract is signed now." so locke sat on the bench and watched his new pitcher perform. when he walked to the mound, jones seemed, if possible, more somber and tragic than usual, and he certainly had his speed with him. yet neither the ominous appearance of the mute nor his blinding smoke was sufficient to faze the vienna batters, who cracked him for three clean singles in the last half of the opening inning, and then failed to score because of foolish base running. "he seems to be rather hittable to-day," observed locke. "what's the matter, wiley? this vienna bunch doesn't look particularly good to me; just a lot of amateurs who never saw real players, i should say." "that's it; that's what ails them, for one thing," replied the manager of the wind jammers. "they have accumulated together no special knowledge of simon poor baseball talent, and so they don't know enough to be scared. even the great mathewson has confessed that the worst bumping he ever collided with was handed out by a bunch of bushers who stood up to the dish, shut their blinkers when he pitched, and swung blind at the pill. these lobsters don't realize that jonesy's fast one would pass right through a batter without pausing perceptibly if it should hit him, and so they toddle forth without qualms, whatever they are, and take a slam at the globule. next round i'll have to get out there on the turf and warn them; i'll put the fear of death into their hearts. get them to quaking and they won't touch the horsehide." but such a program didn't suit locke. "if all jones has is his speed and the fear it inspires, he won't travel far in fast company. you ought to know that, wiley. big league batters will knock the cover off the fast one unless a pitcher puts something else on it. sit still once, to please me, and let's see what jones can do without the assistance of your chatter." "it's hardly a square deal," objected the marine marvel. "the jinx has been keeping company with us ever since we struck fernandon. from that occasion up to the present date, anno domino, we haven't won a single consecutive game. such bad luck has hurt my feelings; it has grieved me to the innermost abscess of my soul." "do you mean to say that these country teams have been trimming you, with jones in the box?" "alas and alack! i can't deny it unless i resort to fabrication, which i never do. the euray browns tapped jonesy for seventeen heart-breaking bingles, and the pikeville greyhounds lacerated his delivery even more painfully. my own brilliant work in the box has been sadly insufficient to stem, the tide of disaster." locke frowned. what success, or lack of it, wiley had had as a pitcher was a matter of no moment; but the statement that amateur teams of no particular standing had found mysterious jones an easy mark was disturbing. was it possible that he had been led, with undue haste, to fritter away good money for a pitcher who would prove worthless in the big league? true, the mute had seemed to show something in the fernandon game, but in similar contests lefty had seen many a pinheaded, worthless country pitcher give a fine imitation of walter johnson in top-notch form. the test of the bush was, in reality, no test at all. throughout five innings the southpaw succeeded in restraining wiley, and during that portion of the game the viennas found jones for nine singles and two doubles, accumulating four runs. only for bad judgment on the paths they might have secured twice as many tallies. in the same period the local pitcher, using a little dinky slow curve, held the visitors to one score. the mute seemed to be trying hard enough, but he could not keep his opponents from hitting. with the opening of the sixth, wiley broke the leash of restraint. "i've got to get out and get under," he declared. "you can't expect me to sit still and watch my barkentine go upon the rocks. here's where we start something. get into 'em, schepps! begin doing things! we'll back you up, for in onion there is strength." schepps led off with a hit, and immediately the wind jammers, encouraged by wiley, leaped out from the bench, dancing wildly and tossing the bats into the air. locke smiled as he watched them. he had seen big league teams do the same thing in an effort to drive away the jinx and break a streak of bad luck. but although lefty smiled, he was not wholly happy. "if jones is a quince," he thought, "i've wasted my time trying to brace up our pitching staff. even mit skullen will have the laugh on me." his anxiety had led him to come straight from new york to vienna, without stopping at fernandon. he had sent a message to janet telling her that he would be home the following day. the wind jammers kept after the local twirler, and succeeded in pounding two men round to the registry station. then wiley did some wigwagging to jones, and the gloomy mute nodded assurance. after which he walked out and fanned three batters in a row. "you see, lefty!" exulted the marine marvel. "that's what he needs. give him proper encouragement, and he's there with the damsons." "temperamental or yellow, which?" speculated the southpaw. "either sort of a pitcher is worthless in pinches." the visitors failed to continue their hitting streak in the seventh. whether or not jones was disheartened by this, he let down in the last half of the inning, and vienna added another score, wiley's warnings having no impression upon them. nor did the mute show any remarkable form in the remainder of the game, which terminated with the score six to four in favor of the locals. "the old jinx is still with us," lamented the dejected manager of the wind jammers. "wouldn't it congeal your pedal extremities!" "it is enough to give one cold feet," admitted locke. "but with jones doing any real pitching to-day four tallies would have been sufficient for you." picking up his overcoat and traveling bag, he started to follow the well-satisfied crowd from the field. as he approached the gate, mit skullen stood up on the bleachers and singled him out. mit's face wore a leering grin. "you're welcome to that lemon, locke!" he cried. "i wouldn't take him now for a gift. you've got stung good and proper." lefty walked on without replying. chapter xxiii all wrong when locke reached fernandon, he found, as he expected, a furious message from weegman awaiting him. in it he was savagely reprimanded, and warned under no circumstances to make any further deals without consulting collier's private secretary. he was also commanded to report at the office of the blue stockings baseball club without unnecessary delay. lefty merely smiled over this, but he did not smile over a long telegram from franklin parlmee, stating that he had not seen virginia collier nor heard anything further from her. parlmee averred that he could not believe virginia was in new york; he expressed the conviction that locke had not seen her in the limousine with bailey weegman, but had been deceived by a resemblance. but if she were not in new york, where was she? and why had he received no word from her? janet watched lefty frowning and biting his lip over parlmee's message. her own face showed the anxiety she felt. "what do you think?" she asked. "it doesn't seem possible that virginia could have been with that man, as you thought. you must have been mistaken." he shook his head. "i'm positive, janet. i would be willing to wager anything that i made no mistake." "then what does it mean? i can't imagine virginia being in new york without letting frank know." "it's got me guessing," locke admitted. "there's a snarl that needs to be untangled." she grabbed his arm. "you don't suppose--" "what?" he asked, as she hesitated. "you don't suppose anything terrible could have happened to virginia? perhaps that villain has carried her off--shut her up somewhere! perhaps she is helpless in his power this minute. he may be trying to force her into marrying him." lefty laughed. "that sounds too much like a dime novel, my dear. scoundrel though he is, weegman would scarcely have the nerve to try anything like that with the daughter of charles collier. that's not the answer." "but something's wrong," insisted janet. "no doubt about that," her husband replied. "a lot of things seem to be wrong. somebody is dealing the cards under the table." "i know," said janet, "that virginia didn't care for mr. weegman, and the more her father sought to influence her the less she thought of him. she was proud of franklin because he had proved his business ability, and she thought mr. collier would give in soon. but i can't understand why she stopped writing to me. she hasn't written since arriving on this side." "we're not getting anywhere by speculating like this," said lefty. "can you be ready to go north with me to-morrow?" "you are going back so soon?" "just as soon as we can start. i'm thinking i ought to have remained there. i only came south at all in order to make sure of mysterious jones, and now it looks as though i wasted both time and money by doing so. perhaps i would have been better off if skullen had succeeded in getting jones away from me." "but the cottage--our lease runs another full month." "it can't be helped. we'll have to pay the rental and give it up." "and your arm--you thought another month down here might give you time to work it back into condition." "i've got plenty to worry about besides my arm. i've been told plainly that i've been picked to be the goat by a set of scoundrels who are trying to put over a dirty piece of work, and, if i fool them, i'll have to do it with my head, not my arm. i'm going to stake everything on my ability to put the kibosh on their crooked game, and to stand any chance of succeeding i must be on the field of battle. so we must leave fernandon to-morrow, my dear." to accomplish this necessitated no small amount of hustling, but janet did her part. with the assistance of her maid and a colored man, the work was speedily done. there were tears in janet's eyes when she looked back at the deserted little cottage, as they drove away in a carriage to catch the train. "it has been pleasant here," she said. "i'll never forget it. we were so quiet and so happy. now, somehow, i have a feeling that there's nothing but trouble ahead of us. you've taken a big contract, phil." "are you afraid?" he asked. she looked up at him and smiled proudly. "not a bit. you are not the sort of man who fails. i know you'll win out." his cheeks glowed and a light leaped into his eyes. "after hearing you say that, i couldn't fail, janet, dear," he said quietly but earnestly. "it's going to be some fight, but let it come--i'm ready." the journey northward was uneventful. locke had wired both kennedy and parlmee when he would arrive in new york, asking them to meet him at the great eastern. he did not stop off at the home town of the blue stockings, choosing to disregard for the present weegman's imperative order for him to report at once at the office of the club. by mail he had formally notified the secretary of the club of the trade with frazer and the purchase of mysterious jones, directing that checks be sent immediately to the manager of the wolves and to cap'n wiley. he had done this as a matter of formality, but he felt sure that weegman would interfere and hold up the payments, even though they could, sooner or later, be legally enforced. delay matters as he might, the rascal could not bring about the repudiation of business deals entered into by the properly authorized manager of the team. locke hoped to have the situation well in hand before he should find it necessary to beard the lion in all his fury. the showdown must come before long, but ere that time the southpaw hoped to fill his hand on the draw. when he had sent out the players' contracts from indianapolis he had instructed the men, after signing, to mail them directly to him in new york. he had made this request emphatic, warning each man not to return his signed contract to the office of the blue stockings. he had kennedy to thank for suggesting this procedure. "if the contracts go back to the club office," old jack had said, "weegman may get hold of them and hold out on you. that would leave you in the dark; you wouldn't know who had signed up and who hadn't, and so you couldn't tell where you stood. it would keep you muddled so you wouldn't know what holes were left to be plugged. if you undertook to find out how the land lay by wiring inquiries to the players, you'd make them uneasy, and set them wondering what was doing. some of them might even try belated dickering with the feds, and, while you could hold them by law, it would complicate things still more. if the newspapers got wise and printed things, the stock of the club would slump still more, which would help the dirty bunch that's trying to knock the bottom out of it." beyond question, kennedy was foxy and farseeing, and locke looked forward expectantly to another heart-to-heart talk with the old man at the great eastern. a big bundle of mail was delivered to lefty after he registered at the hotel. immediately on reaching his rooms he made haste to open the letters. "look, janet!" he cried exultantly, after he had torn open envelope after envelope. "here are the contracts--grant, welsh, hyland, savage, dillon, reilley, and lumley all have signed, as well as the youngsters who didn't attract special attention from the feds. not a man lost that the outlaws hadn't gobbled up before weegman so kindly forced the management upon me. we've got the makings of a real team left. some of the deadwood has been cleared away, that's all." with scarcely an exception, the players had sent, along with their contracts, brief, friendly letters congratulating locke and expressing confidence in his ability to manage the blue stockings successfully. he had won the regard of them all; in some cases that regard fell little short of genuine affection. with him as their leader they would fight with fresh spirit and loyalty. "it's fine, lefty!" exclaimed janet, as she read some of those cheery letters. "there was a time when i could not have believed professional ball players were such a fine lot of men." "i might have had some doubts myself before i was associated with them," he admitted; "but experience has taught me that they measure up in manhood as well as any other class. of course, black sheep may be found in every business." as he spoke, he hurriedly opened a letter that had just attracted his attention among those remaining. he read it aloud: my dear hazelton: i am writing in haste before sailing for liverpool on the _northumberland_. as i thought, you were wrong about having seen virginia in new york. she is in london, and in trouble. i've had a cablegram from her which, however, explains very little. she needs me, and i am going to her at once. if you should wish to communicate with me, my address will be the cecil. as i know that both you and mrs. hazelton feel some anxiety about virginia, i shall let you hear from me as soon as i have any news. wishing you the success and good fortune you deserve as a baseball manager, i remain, sincerely yours, franklin parlmee. when he had finished reading, he stood staring at the letter in surprise. chapter xxiv wheels within wheels "well, now, what do you know about that?" cried lefty. "sailed for liverpool! the man's crazy!" "but he says he has had a cable message from virginia," said janet. "she is in trouble in london. you were mistaken." "was i?" queried the southpaw, as if not yet convinced. "you must have been. all along i have thought it likely, but you persisted--" "i saw her distinctly in that passing limousine, which was brightly lighted. true, i obtained only one passing glance at her, but it was enough to satisfy me." "you are so persistent, phil! that's your one fault; when you think you're right, all the argument and proof in the world cannot change you." "in short, i'm set as a mule," he admitted, smiling. "well, there are worse faults. a mistake may prove costly or humiliating to an obstinate person who persists in his error, but, when he is right, such a person is pretty well qualified to win over all opposition. if i did not see virginia collier in that car, she has a perfect double in new york. i have great confidence in the reliability of my eyes." janet, however, thoroughly convinced that her husband had been deceived by a resemblance, made no reply. lefty had looked for some word from kennedy, but had found nothing from him in his bundle of mail. it was possible, of course, that old jack had found it inconvenient to make the trip to new york just then; but, naturally, if he could not come on he would have let locke know. lefty and janet had not dined on the train, preferring to do so after reaching their destination. as they were passing the desk on their way to the dining room, locke stopped short, staring at the back of a slender, well-dressed young man who was talking to one of the clerks. then the southpaw sprang forward and clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "jack stillman!" he exclaimed impulsively. the man turned quickly. "if it isn't lefty locke!" he cried, grabbing the pitcher's hand. "and you're the one man i've been palpitating to get hold of. you're like the nimble flea. but i've got you now!" "murder!" said the southpaw. "my joy at spotting you caused me to forget. i should have passed you by, old man. for the moment i completely forgot your profession, and your knack of digging a column or so of sacred secrets out of any old ball player who knows anything he shouldn't tell." stillman was the baseball man of the _blade_, a newspaper with a confirmed habit of putting over scoops. with the exception of phil chatterton, who was more of a special writer than reporter, stillman was almost universally acknowledged to be the best informed pen pusher who made a specialty of dealing with the national game. he possessed an almost uncanny intuition, and was credited with the faculty of getting wise in advance to most of the big happenings in the baseball world. "so you would have ducked me, would you?" said the reporter reprovingly. "well, i didn't think that of you!" "i believe i should, if i'd stopped to figure out the proper play in advance," confessed lefty. "i don't care to do much talking for the papers--at present." "hang you for an ungrateful reprobate!" exclaimed stillman, with a touch of earnestness, although he continued to laugh. "why, i made you, son! at least, i'm going to claim the credit. when you first emerged from the tangled undergrowth i picked you for a winner and persistently boosted you. i gave you fifty thousand dollars' worth of free advertising." "and made my path the harder to climb by getting the fans keyed up to look for a full-fledged wonder. after all that puffing, if i'd fallen down in my first game, rube marquard's year or two of sojourning on the bench would have looked like a brief breathing spell compared to what would have probably happened to me." "but you didn't fall down. i told them you wouldn't, and you didn't. let the other fellows tout the failures; i pick the winners." "modest as ever, i see," said locke. "here's mrs. hazelton waiting. we're just going to have a late dinner. won't you join us?" janet knew stillman well, and she shook hands with him. "mrs. hazelton!" he said, smiling. "by jove! i looked round to see who you meant when you said that, lefty. somehow i've never yet quite got used to the fact that your honest-and-truly name isn't locke. i'll gladly join you at dinner, but a cup of coffee is all i care for, as i dined a little while ago. shan't want anything more before two or three o'clock in the morning, when i'm likely to stray into john's, where the night owls gather." when they had seated themselves at a table in the almost deserted dining room, lefty warned janet. "be careful what you say before him, my dear," he said. "he's looking for copy every minute that he's awake, and nobody knows when he sleeps." stillman became serious. "locke," he said, "i've never yet betrayed a confidence. oh, yes, i'm a reporter! but, all the same, i have a method of getting my copy in a decent fashion. my friends don't have to be afraid of me, and close up like clams; you should know that." "i do," declared the southpaw promptly. "i didn't think you were going to take me quite so seriously. you have been a square friend to me, jack." "then don't be afraid to talk. i'll publish only what you're willing i should. you can tell me what that is. and if you've seen the _blade_ right along you must be aware that it's the one paper that hasn't taken a little poke at you since you were tagged to manage the blue stockings. nevertheless, here to your face i'm going to say that i'm afraid you've bitten off more than you can chew." lefty shrugged his shoulders. "as to that, time will tell. for once your judgment may be at fault." "i don't mean that you couldn't manage the team successfully if you were given a half-decent show," the reporter hastened to make clear. "i think you could. but i'm afraid you're going to find yourself in a mess that no man living could crawl out of with credit to himself." the southpaw gave the waiter the order. then he turned to stillman. "i thought i might hear something new from you, jack," he said, "but you're singing the same old song. to be frank with you, it's getting a bit tiresome. if i were dull enough not to know i'd been picked for a fall guy, i could have obtained an inkling of it from the newspapers. it's plain every baseball scribe knows the fact that there's a put-up job, although none of them has had the nerve to come out flat and say so." "they've said all they really dared to--without absolute proof of a conspiracy. if you know so much, take my advice, hand me the proof, and give me permission to publish it. but it must be real proof." "i can't do it yet. perhaps, when the time comes, i'll pass you what you're asking for. just now, considering your statement that you never double cross a friend, i'm going to talk freely and tell you how much i know." sipping his coffee, stillman listened to locke's story. that there was sufficient interest in it the attention of the reporter attested. janet watched the newspaper man closely, and once or twice she caught the flicker of an incredulous smile that passed over his face, giving her the impression that stillman had a notion that there were holes in lefty's narrative. "do you mind if i smoke?" asked the reporter, when dinner was over, and the dessert had been placed on the table. having received janet's permission, stillman lit a cigarette, and for a few moments said nothing, being apparently engrossed with his thoughts. presently he said: "i wonder." "wonder what?" lefty wanted to know. "what i've told you is the straight fact. weegman's the crook. kennedy knew it. i knew it when i took the position of manager. garrity's behind weegman. what ails collier, and why he was crazy enough to run away and bury himself while his team was wrecked, is the unexplained part of the mystery. but if we can block weegman we may be able to put the whole game on the fritz." "i wonder," repeated stillman, letting the smoke curl from his mouth. locke felt a touch of irritation. "what are you wondering over? i've talked; now i'm ready to listen." the reporter gave locke a steady look. "evidently the possibility hasn't occurred to you that you may not even suspect the real crook who is at the bottom of the affair." "weegman conceived it," replied lefty. "he knew garrity's reputation. he was sure garrity would jump at the chance to help, and to grab a fat thing at the same time, by stepping in and gobbling the stockings when the moment came. of course, weegman will get his, for without his undermining work in our camp the thing couldn't be pulled off. and weegman's looking to cop the big chief's daughter when he gets the chief pinched just where he wants him." "wheels within wheels," said stillman, "and weegman only one of the smallest of them. he's one of those egotistical scoundrels who can easily be flattered and fooled into doing scurvy work for a keener mind." "you mean garrity?" "i wasn't thinking of him when i spoke." "then who--" "i had a man named parlmee in mind," stated the reporter. chapter xxv hidden tracks his lips parted, his eyes wide and incredulous, locke sat up straight on his chair and stared at stillman. janet, who had been listening attentively, gave a little cry, and leaned forward, one slim, protesting hand uplifted. the reporter drew his case from his pocket and lit another cigarette. presently lefty found his voice. "you're crazy, jack!" he declared resentfully. "am i?" inquired stillman. "oh, it's impossible!" exclaimed janet. "absolutely ridiculous!" affirmed the southpaw. "very likely it seems so to you both," admitted the newspaper man, his calm and confident manner proclaiming his own settled conviction. "i listened to lefty's story, and i know he's wise to only a small part of what's been going on." "but parlmee--oh, it's too preposterous! for once in your career, at least, you're way off your trolley, jack." "prove it to me." "why, it isn't necessary. franklin parlmee is a white man, as square as there ever was, and as honest as the day is long." "there are short days in midwinter." "but his object--he couldn't have an object, even if he were scoundrel enough to contemplate such a thing." "couldn't he?" asked stillman, in that odd, enigmatical way of his. "why not?" "why, he's practically engaged to virginia collier." "but without the consent of her father." "yes, but--" "bailey weegman is said to have a great liking for miss collier. it was your theory that part of his object in seeking to wreck the blue stockings was to get old man collier in a tight place and force his hand. why couldn't parlmee make the same sort of a play?" the persistence of the reporter began to irritate locke, who felt his blood growing hot. was his life beginning to tell on stillman? was it possible the pace he had traveled had begun to weaken his naturally keen judgment? "even if parlmee had conceived such a foolish scheme, he was in no position to carry it out, jack. on the other hand, weegman was. furthermore, it's perfectly impossible to imagine weegman acting as the tool and assistant of his rival, whom he hates bitterly. forget it!" unmoved, stillman shook his head. "didn't i say that weegman was an egotistical dub, and an easy mark? he is naturally a rascal, and he thinks himself very clever, and so is just the sort to fall for a still cleverer rascal." janet's cheeks were hot and her eyes full of resentful anger. it was difficult for her to sit there and hear parlmee maligned, and she was confident that that was what she was doing. she could not remain quiet. "i know frank parlmee, mr. stillman," she asserted, "and lefty is right about him. there's not a squarer man living." "how is it possible for parlmee to use weegman as a tool?" asked locke. "through garrity," answered the reporter without hesitation. "but i don't see--" stillman leaned forward. "listen: i am not at liberty to disclose the sources of my information, but it has come to me that this idea of wrecking the blue stockings originated in parlmee's brain. he saw himself losing out in the fight for virginia collier, and he became desperate. conditions were ripe. collier had hit the toboggan, financially and otherwise. a man of considerable strength of will, he had begun to break down. parlmee knew of his plan to go abroad for his health, and of the arrangement to leave bailey weegman in charge of affairs. collier had a great deal of confidence in weegman's ability, and this would now be put to the test. if weegman should make a grand failure, as parlmee intended he should, collier would lose all faith in him; and probably, in his disappointment, he would hand him the g.b. that, above all things, was most to be desired by parlmee, as it would get out of the way the rival who threatened to defeat him. how to put the thing across was the question. i am willing to give parlmee the credit of a long-headed piece of work. he knew weegman must be kept in the dark, must never be permitted to suspect that he was being used as a tool by his hated enemy." "it sounds altogether too impossible," said locke. but, to his annoyance, in spite of his persistently expressed faith, a shadowy uncertainty, a tiny, nagging doubt, was creeping into his mind. stillman seemed so absolutely confident of his ground. "through his long association with miss collier," the reporter pursued calmly, "parlmee had learned much about inside conditions in baseball. he had plenty of opportunities to get at things entirely hidden from, or merely suspected by, the general public. he knew garrity was a grasping scoundrel, who had long regarded the blue stockings with a covetous eye, and that, being utterly unscrupulous, he would do anything, as long as he could keep in the background, to break collier's grip and get his own soiled paws on the property. therefore, garrity was the man to deal with, and to garrity parlmee went. they met under cover in chicago, and the deal was fixed up between them. then garrity got at weegman, the real stool pigeon and the fall guy of the whole plot." locke was listening without protest now. in spite of his desire not to believe, stillman's theory seemed possible; he would not yet admit, even to himself, that it was probable. janet, too, was silent. the color had left her face, and beneath the table her hands were tightly clenched. "weegman was just ass enough to fall for it," continued stillman contemptuously. "what garrity promised him i can't say, but certainly it must have been a satisfactory percentage of the loot--maybe an interest in the team when garrity got control; and weegman would sell his soul for money. the moment collier was out of the way he got to work. you know as well as i do what success he's had. in order to cover his tracks as far as possible, he has picked you for the goat, and he'll try to shunt all the blame on you." lefty's face was grim. he was endeavoring to look at the matter fairly and without bias. to himself he was compelled to admit that his knowledge of parlmee had been obtained through casual association with the man, not through business dealings, and in no small degree, he, as well as janet, had doubtless been influenced by the sentiments of virginia collier. a girl in love may be easily deceived; many girls, blinded by their own infatuation, have made heroes of thoroughbred scoundrels. it was practically impossible, however, for locke to picture parlmee as a scoundrel. "you have made a statement, jack," he said, "without offering a particle of corroborating proof. how do you know all this to be true?" "i have the word of a man i trust that parlmee and garrity had that secret meeting in chicago, just as i have stated. a few days ago parlmee made a flying trip to indianapolis, and--" "i know that," interrupted lefty. "i was in indianapolis at the time. i met him there and had a brief talk with him." "on his way back," resumed stillman, "he stopped off at cleveland to see garrity, who happened to be in that city." "how do you know that?" "my own business chanced to call me out to cleveland at that time, and i saw parlmee and garrity together at the american house." locke took a long breath, recalling the fact that parlmee, although professing to be in great haste when in indianapolis, had not returned to his new york office as soon as expected. "that may have been an accidental meeting," said the southpaw. "your proof has holes in it." the reporter lighted a fresh cigarette. "how does it happen," he asked, "that parlmee is buying up all the small blocks of the club stock that he can get hold of?" lefty started as if pricked by the point of a knife. parlmee, an automobile salesman, a man who had found it necessary to get out and show that he could make good in the business world, buying the stock of the club! "is he?" asked the pitcher. "he is," asserted stillman positively. "i know of three lots that he has purchased, and in each instance he has paid a little more than it was supposed to be worth." "he--he may have bought it as an investment," faltered janet. the reporter smiled at her. "as far as i can learn, franklin parlmee is not situated, financially, to invest much money in stock of any kind. with his stock depreciating, and bound to go lower in value, he would be a chump to purchase it as an investment. the man who pays more than its market value in order to get hold of it knows something about the doings behind the scenes that is not known to the general public. apparently that man is parlmee. who's furnishing him the money to buy the stock? my own guess is that it is the man who's looking to get control of the club, and that man is garrity." still janet protested that it was impossible, but she looked questioningly at lefty, the doubt that she was fighting against was now beginning to creep into her eyes. "parlmee," said the southpaw, "has gone to europe. i have a message from him stating that he would sail on the _northumberland_. if he's behind the plot to wreck the blue stockings, why should he leave the field of action at this time?" "if i've got his number," returned stillman, "he's a liar in various ways. perhaps he has sailed for europe; perhaps he hasn't. his message may be nothing more than a little dust for your eyes. but if he has sailed, there's only one answer to that." "out with it!" urged locke. "of course, you think it another move in the rotten game?" "sure as death and taxes. he believes the time is ripe to get at collier. he's gone across to get at him and twist the control of the club out of his hands. probably he'll appear before collier in the guise of a friend anxious to save him from complete financial disaster. he's got just about enough time to make the trip comfortably, get that business through with, and return before the regular meeting of the league magnates here in new york. then, at the meeting, tom garrity will bob up serenely as the real owner of the blue stockings." chapter xxvi not much show tired out, janet went to bed shortly after stillman left, but locke, knowing he could not sleep, sat up to think the situation over. the difficulties and problems of his own position seemed greater than ever. if the plot was as deep and intricate as the reporter believed, and if the men behind it were moving with haste and certainty to the accomplishment of their designs, there seemed scarcely a ghost of a chance for him, practically alone and unaided, to block them. for lefty now felt that, in a way, he was standing alone. even kennedy, having no power, could do little more than offer advice. and where was kennedy? the southpaw had fancied that he would be given more time to muster his opposing forces for the battle. he had even imagined, at first, that the man he would need to contend against and defeat was weegman. but now weegman, the blind tool of craftier creatures, looked insignificant and weak. in order to defeat him it would be necessary to strike higher. how was he to strike? that was the question. locke had suggested to stillman complete exposure of the plot by newspaper publicity. and right there the reporter, who had seemed so confident of his ground, had betrayed that, after his usual method, he was working by intuition, and had no positive and unassailable verification of his conclusions. it would not do for his paper to charge criminal conspiracy without proper evidence to back up such an indictment. recalling this, lefty remembered that stillman, having heard all the southpaw could tell, had ended by giving his own theory, and had offered proof to substantiate it. and then he had been compelled to acknowledge that the proof he had to offer was not sound enough to base exposure and open action upon. if stillman were right, doubtless parlmee had gone abroad with full knowledge of charles collier's whereabouts. that knowledge being denied lefty, he could not warn collier, and the plot would be carried through as arranged. then, as the reporter had predicted, at the annual meeting of the magnates, shortly to be held, garrity would appear as owner of the blue stockings. when that happened, the fight would be over, and the conspirators would be triumphant. with the door to janet's chamber closed, locke walked the floor, striving for a clear conception of what ought to be done. he felt like a man bound hand and foot. of course, he could go on with his project to strengthen the team, but the harvest of his success would be reaped by the plotters, if they, too, were successful. there was little uncertainty about what would happen to him, for he knew that his conscience would not permit him to become an understrapper for garrity. he had left fernandon with courage and high hope to do battle; but now the helplessness of the situation threatened to appall him. if there were only some way to get into communication with collier. again he thought of his somewhat shaken conviction that virginia was in new york. if that were true, some of her family or friends must know it, and, of course, virginia would know how to communicate without delay with her father. with this thought came the conviction that in virginia lay his only hope. if he had been mistaken, and she were not in the united states, his chance of doing anything to foil the conspirators was not one in a thousand. his work for the morrow was cut out for him; he must learn positively if charles collier's daughter was on american soil, and, if so, he must find her. the telephone rang, and when he answered it he was informed that kennedy was calling. the faithful old veteran had come, after all! lefty said that he was to be sent up at once. "well, son," said old jack, as he came in, "how are things moving?" "none too well," answered lefty, shaking his hand. "so?" grunted kennedy. "i wondered just what was up, and i came right along in answer to your call, but my train was delayed. what are the new developments?" "sit down," said locke, "and i'll tell you. since i sent you that message i've heard something that's got me guessing--and worried." "the contracts?" questioned old jack, sitting down. "the boys signed up, didn't they?" "every one of them. that's not the trouble. i've had a talk with jack stillman." "the only reporter i know with a noodle screwed on right," said kennedy. "his bean's packed with sound sense. when he gets an idea it's generally correct." "in that case, unless he's made a bobble this time, the situation's worse than we suspected, jack." "give me the dope," urged kennedy. the old man listened to locke without comment, and when lefty had finished, he sat thoughtfully plucking at his under lip with his thumb and forefinger. "well," he said, after a time, "stillman usually puts them in the groove when he shoots." "then you think he's hit it right in this case?" "i haven't said so. if anybody else had passed this one up, i'd have said it missed the plate by a rod. with stillman doing the pitching, i'm not so ready to give a decision against him. but you say he finished a lot more confident than he began?" "yes. instead of seeking information, he finished up by giving it." "just as though he had talked himself into a settled conviction as he went along?" "that's it." "then we won't accept his statement as fact until he gets some kind of proof, son. you know more about parlmee than i do, and you've always figured that gent on the level, haven't you?" "yes; but i'm compelled to admit that i haven't had sufficient dealings with him to feel certain that my estimation of his character is correct. furthermore, my first impression was unfavorable." "first impressions are sometimes the best." "but at that time, as you know, my judgment could hardly be unprejudiced. it was when collier first took over the team and i had trouble with carson, the manager he put in your place. everything seemed going wrong then." a grin broke over kennedy's face, and he chuckled softly, a reminiscent expression in his keen old eyes. "those were some stirring times, boy," he said. "collier fired me for al carson, and carson made a mess of it. he's managing a dub league team now. he thought he could get along without you, just as collier reckoned he could dispense with me; but at the finish it was you and me that came back and saved the day for the stockings. you pitched the game of your life that last day of the season. now it's up to you to come back again, and i've got a hunch that you will. you'll return, better than ever. you're going to make the wiseacres that think you're down and out look foolish." locke shook his head. "knowing what i do, do you suppose i could do that if garrity got hold of the team? i wouldn't have the heart to work for that scoundrel. back in the time we're speaking of, it was stillman's cleverness that straightened things out. not another newspaper man got wise to the real situation. with his usual uncanny intuition, he saw through it all, and, as usual, he made no mistake." "right you are," admitted old jack. "all the more reason to suppose he is right now. we can't dodge that fact. to-morrow i'm going to make every effort to find some method of getting into communication with charles collier. it's my only play in this game. if it fails--good night!" again lefty began pacing the floor; it seemed that he could not wait patiently for the coming day; he was burning with a desire to get to work at once. it had been his purpose to seek kennedy's advice on other matters, but these now seemed secondary and unimportant for the time being. his talk with stillman had led him to alter completely his plan of immediate action. to prevent the control of the team from falling into the clutches of the conspirators was now his sole purpose, as the problem of rebuilding it and restoring it to its former strength and prestige could be solved later. kennedy sat thinking, plucking at his under lip, as was the old man's habit when perplexed. "yes, son," he said, after a time, "that's what you're up against. old p. t. barnum had a show; but it doesn't look like you have." chapter xxvii the suspended ax all the next forenoon, locke kept the wires hot. he 'phoned and telegraphed to every one he could think of who might be able to give him the information he desired so desperately. he met with one disappointment after another. in each instance the reply came back that both charles collier and his daughter were somewhere in europe, but no one appeared to know just where. if his efforts established anything at all, it seemed to be the fact that lefty had been mistaken in thinking he had seen virginia in new york; for if she were there, surely some of these people would know of it. the feeling of helplessness, of fighting against greedy and remorseless forces too strong for him to checkmate, pressed upon him heavily. it was a little after noon when he called the office of the _blade_. he wanted to talk to stillman again. if anybody in new york could find a person wanted, the reporter was the man to do it, and locke believed that for friendship's sake stillman would attempt it. near the telephone switchboard in the hotel were two long shelves, situated a little distance apart, at which patrons could consult the different directories. at one of these, several persons were looking up numbers, so locke took his book to the other shelf and found the call for the editorial rooms of the _blade_. a man at the next shelf turned, saw the pitcher, and listened when lefty gave the number to the operator. instead of giving his own number, which he had found, the man noted down the southpaw's call on a card. it was the fourth time during the day that this same man had made a record of a number asked for by locke. returning the card to his pocket, the man pretended to busy himself again over one of the directories, keeping his back partly turned toward the pitcher. soon he heard the switchboard girl repeat lefty's number, and direct him to booth no. . the man closed his book and turned round slowly. the southpaw was disappearing into a booth at the end of one of the rows, and, in closing the door behind him, he unintentionally left it slightly open. the watching man moved quietly forward until he was close to this booth, through the glass of which he could see that lefty's back was partly turned toward him. there he paused, taking some letters and papers from his pocket and running them over as if searching for something. while appearing to be absorbed in his own affairs, he could hear every word that the pitcher spoke into the receiver. getting the editorial rooms of the _blade_, locke asked for stillman. after a slight delay, he was informed that the reporter was not there. no one could say just when he would be in. "this is important," stated lefty; "a matter in which he is greatly interested. i must talk with him as soon as possible. will you ask him, as soon as he comes in, to call philip hazelton at the great eastern? yes, hazelton; that's right. why, yes, i'm lefty locke. all right; don't fail to tell him immediately he arrives." the man outside slipped the letters and papers into his pocket, and turned away after the manner of a person who has suddenly decided upon something. he had not walked ten steps, however, before he turned back. the southpaw was paying for the call. the man watched him now without further effort to avoid notice, and when the pitcher turned from the switchboard he stepped forward deliberately to meet him. "hello!" said the man in a voice distinctly husky and unpleasant. "how are you, locke?" lefty stopped short and stared. it was garrity, coarse, complacent, patronizing. the owner of the rockets grinned, showing the numerous gold fillings in his teeth. his features were large, and his jaw was square and brutal. his clothes were those of a common race-track follower. "quite well, thank you," answered lefty coldly, thinking of the pleasure it would be to tell garrity his private opinion of him. "seems to me you look worried. i don't wonder, though, considering the job they've handed you. some job piecing together the tattered remnants, hey? it's going to make you a busy little manager." "i'm busy now," said the southpaw, moving as if to pass on; but garrity detained him. "you've got some positions to fill. the feds got at you hard. shame to see a team like the stockings shot to pieces. you've got three or four bad holes, and i'd like to help you." "_you_ would?" "sure. i've got the very lads you need, too--mundy and pendexter. both fast men. they work together like two parts of a machine. mundy covers the short field like maranville, and pendexter sure can play that keystone cushion. they're the boys for you." "how's it happen you are willing to let go of them?" asked locke, feeling some curiosity to know what lay behind this particular proposition. "well, this is between us, mind? i'd just about as soon give up an eye as part with either mundy or pendexter, but it's easier to lose them than dispense with pressly, my third sacker. that's been the trouble with my team. pressly loves mundy and pendexter as he loves aconite, and they reciprocate. you know what a feud like that means. it knocks the bottom out of any team. i can't fill pressly's place, but i've got a couple of youngsters that i can work in at short and second. i'm not going through another season with those three scrapping. you need the very players i'm willing to part with, and there we are." locke knew the man was not honest, and that he was holding something up his sleeve. in order to make him show his hand, the southpaw asked: "what do you want for mundy and pendexter?" garrity considered for a minute. "well," he answered slowly, "i'll trade them with you for spider grant--and cash." lefty stared at him in amazement. was it possible the man could think he was such a soft mark? he laughed loudly. "you don't want much, do you, garrity? the 'and cash' was a capper! man, i wouldn't trade you spider grant for your whole team--and cash!" the owner of the rockets scowled, glaring at locke, the corners of his thick-lipped mouth drooping. "oh, you wouldn't, hey?" he growled huskily. "i suppose you think that's a joke?" "not at all; it's serious. i couldn't use the players you offer, anyhow. mundy does cover the short field like rabbit maranville--sometimes; but he's got a yellow streak, and he quits. pendexter knows how to play second, and at the beginning of last season he hit like old sockalexis when the indian first broke into the league. but the pitchers all got wise to his weak spot, close and across the knees, and from a three-hundred-and-sixty batter he slumped into the two-hundred class. you were thinking of asking for waivers on him. spider grant--and cash--for that pair! i didn't imagine that even you could think me such a boob." as he listened, garrity's face showed his anger; his breath came short and quick; his eyes were blazing with the fury of a wild animal. "have you got that all out of your system?" he asked, when lefty stopped. "you're a wise gazabo, ain't you? you know all about baseball and players and such things! you've got a head bigger than a balloon. but it'll shrink, give it time. it's plain you think you really know how to manage a team. by the middle of the season, and maybe considerable before that, your head will be about the size of a bird shot. and you'll know a lot more then than you do now, believe me!" the southpaw laughed in his face. "don't lose your temper," he advised, "just because you couldn't put a raw one over on me. go ahead and ask waivers on pendexter. you'll get mine. i wouldn't carry him on my team if you agreed to pay his season's salary for me. my trade with frazer gave you the notion that you could pick another good man off me, and weaken the stockings still more. you fooled yourself that time, garrity. perhaps you'll find out before long that you are fooling yourself in other ways." "what do you mean by that?" "i'll let you guess. but just remember what bobby burns said about 'the best-laid plans o' mice and men.'" with this, locke passed on, leaving the wrathy owner of the rockets glaring after him. "you poor fool!" muttered garrity. "i'll have you whimpering like a whipped dog before i'm done with you. your head's liable to roll into the basket before the season opens. when the time comes, i'll lift my finger, and the ax'll fall." chapter xxviii the gage of war janet had let some friends know that she was in the city, and had been invited out to a matinée performance at one of the theaters. lefty urged her to go. "that's better than sitting around the rooms alone," he said, "and i'll be so busy that i can't be with you." so when, shortly after lunch, her friends appeared in a comfortable limousine, they had little trouble in persuading her to join them. kennedy dropped in a little later, and locke told him of garrity's proposed trade. "he sure did pick you for a mark," said the ex-manager. "you handed it to him straight about mundy and pendexter. you're going to need a pair of fast boys to stop the holes, but there's better men in the minors than those two. you've got better ones on the reserve list. besides that, i'm doin' a little free scouting on my own hook. i've got friends scattered all over the country. whenever an old player, gone to the scraps, has touched me up for a five or a ten, i've stood for the touch, asking him to keep his eyes open for anything good he might run across in the sticks. that way i've got a good deal of inexpensive scouting done for me. maybe it'll be worth something in this pinch. i'm going to interview an old friend over in jersey this afternoon." "i'm not worrying over players just now," said lefty. "i'm anxious to get hold of stillman." "you'll hear from him in time--and weegman, too. what garrity knows weegman knows, and so he's wise that you're right here. be ready for him when he shows up." kennedy had only just gone when weegman appeared. he laughed when he saw locke, but it was an ugly laugh. "what do you think you're trying to do?" he demanded. "didn't you get my telegram ordering you to report at the office of the club?" "yes." "well, why didn't you obey? what did you mean by coming right through without even sending me word?" "i had immediate business here in new york." "business! i had business for you to attend to. you've been doing a lot of things without consulting me. why didn't you wait until i gave you the contracts for the old players?" "there had been too much waiting, and time was precious. kennedy had plenty of blanks, so i got them from him, filled them out, and sent them to the boys without further delay. it was the proper thing to do." "don't tell me what's proper to do! i'll tell you. that was the distinct understanding, and you know it. sent out the contracts, did you? well, some of them ought to be coming back by this time." "they've all come back." "what?" "every one of them. the federals'll get no more players off us this year." weegman choked, and the sound that came from his lips was not a laugh. "i haven't seen anything of them. they didn't come to the office." "no, certainly not." "certainly not! then where--where are they?" "i have them in my pocket." lefty said it quietly, not at all disturbed by the wrath of the outraged schemer. it gave him much satisfaction to see bailey weegman shake and squirm. "in your pocket!" spluttered the rascal. "you had them returned to a different address? confound your crust! how'd you ever have the nerve to do a thing like that? let's see them. hand them over!" locke made no move to obey. "i think i'll keep them a while," he answered coolly. "i'll deliver them personally to be locked in the club safe." for a moment it seemed that weegman would lose all control of himself and attack the southpaw. "you fool!" he raged. "do you think you're going to get by with this stuff?" "i've made a pretty fair start at it." "so you never meant to stand by the private agreement between us when you signed as manager? that's it, eh?" "there never was any private agreement between us. i signed to handle the team, but i did not agree to become your puppet." "you did. you said that--" "that i understood the conditions you had proposed, but i did not say that i consented to them. i had no intention of letting you dictate to me." "fool! fool!" snarled weegman. "how long do you think you'll last? and you made that crazy trade with frazer! do you know what i've done? well, i've notified frazer that the deal was irregular, and won't be recognized by the club. not a dollar of that five thousand will he ever get." "you know better than that. the trade was legitimate, and it will stand. frazer can collect by law. any other deal that i make will go through, too, whether you are aware of it at the time or not. until charles collier himself takes away my authority, i'm manager of the team with the legal right to carry out my own plans, and i intend to do so. i shall ask no advice from you, and any suggestion you may make i shall look upon with distrust." they fought it out, eye to eye, and presently weegman's gaze wavered before that of the unawed southpaw. the man he had sought to make his blind tool was defying him to his face. "i see your finish!" he declared. "and i see yours," countered locke. "you think you're a clever crook. you're merely an instrument in the hands of a bigger and cleverer scoundrel who doesn't care a rap what happens to you if he can put his own miserable scheme over. your partnership with him will be your ruin, anyhow. if you had half the sense you think you possess, you'd break with him without losing any time." "what are you talking about? i've only planned to do my best to save a team that has been raided by the feds. you're killing the last chance for the blue stockings." "tell it to sweeny!" exclaimed lefty. "you're trying to deliver the team into the hands of tom garrity. deny it if you wish, but it isn't necessary to lie. you've played judas with collier." "be careful! better take that back!" lefty laughed. "i'm ready to add more to it. i haven't told you half what i know. if i were to do so, you'd realize what a dumb fool you have made of yourself. you think you're wise to all that was planned, but you've been let in on only a very little of it. you'll tear your hair when you get a squint at the foundation stone of this neat little conspiracy." "i--i don't know what you mean." "that's right, you don't; but you will know in time. you'll be kept in the dark as long as it suits tom garrity." "what's garrity got to do with it?" locke smiled on him pityingly. "don't be childish, weegman. that sort of a bluff is too thin. i was wise when i signed to manage the team." in vain the man stormed, threatened, coaxed, cajoled; he could not bend lefty in the least, and at last he realized that he had made a big blunder in estimating the character of the southpaw. "so it's war between us, is it?" he finally asked. "i have looked for nothing else," answered the pitcher. weegman snapped his fingers in locke's face. "all right!" he cried. "you would have it! just you wait! you're going to regret it! we'll see how long you last!" and, turning round, he strode away, muttering to himself. chapter xxix the jaws of the trap lefty had defied weegman. henceforth it was to be open war, and he was glad of it. what the rascal would attempt to do he did not know, and cared less. it did not seem likely that he could do much, if anything, that he had not already made preparations to do. of course, he might call collier into the affair, and that, should it bring the owner of the blue stockings back to his own country, was something earnestly to be desired. could he but get collier in private for twenty minutes, locke felt sure he could make him realize that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that his trusted private secretary had sought to sell him out into the hands of a rival owner. the telephone rang, and, thinking stillman was calling at last, he hastened to answer. it was not the reporter's voice that he heard, but he was informed that some one was speaking from the office of the _blade_, and that, after making a fruitless effort to get locke on the wire, stillman had found it necessary to hustle away to keep an important appointment. "but where can i find him?" asked the disappointed pitcher. "how can i get hold of him?" "he wants to talk to you as much as you do to him," was the answer. "said it was absolutely necessary. that's why he had me call you. says he has something to tell you, personally and privately. he'll try to be at mike's saloon, thompson street, near broome, at three o'clock. if you get there first, wait for him. and don't fail to come, for he'll have important information. got that straight?" "yes, but--" "all right. i've done my duty. good-by." there was a click, and the wire was silent. lefty looked at his watch as he left the phone. it was twenty-two minutes to three. "just about time enough to make it comfortably," he decided. "stillman must be on the track of something." the subway being convenient, he chose it instead of a taxi, getting off at spring street. five minutes ahead of time, he found mike's saloon, a somewhat disreputable-looking place when viewed from the exterior. the neighborhood, likewise, seemed sinister. however, a reporter's business, thought locke, carried him into all sorts of places. within the saloon a single patron, who looked like a vagrant, was picking at the crumbs of a sickly free lunch in a dark corner. a husky-looking, red-headed bartender was removing an emptied beer schooner and mopping up the counter. he surveyed the southpaw from head to foot with apparent interest. "i'm looking for a man named stillman who made an appointment to meet me here at three," explained lefty. "i was to wait for him if i got here first." "jack's here," stated the man behind the bar, in a manner that bespoke considerable familiarity with the reporter. "came in three or four minutes ago. reckon you're lefty locke?" "that's right." "he told me you might come round. he's in the back room. walk right in." the speaker jerked a heavy thumb toward a closed door at the far end of the bar. at the sound of locke's name the vagrant, who had been picking at the free lunch, turned to look the famous pitcher over with apparent curiosity and interest. "lefty locke," he mumbled huskily. "lemme shake han's. ruther shake han's with lefty locke than any man livin'." locke pushed past him and placed his hand on the knob of the door. the fellow followed, insisting upon shaking hands, and, as lefty opened the door, the vagrant staggered, lurched against the pitcher, and thrust him forward, the door closing behind him with the snap of a spring lock. it is remarkable how seldom any one ever heeds premonitions. even as he opened that door, lefty was aware that ever since the telephone call had come to him some subtle intuition, thus far wholly disregarded, had been seeking to sound a warning. it had caused him to hesitate at last. too late! the push delivered by the vagrant had pitched him forward into the snare, while the sound of the clicking spring lock notified him that his retreat was cut off. through a dirty skylight above another door that probably opened upon a back alley some weak and sickly rays of daylight crept into the room. a single gas jet, suspended from the center of the cracked and smoky ceiling, gave a feeble, flickering light, filling the corners with fluttering shadows. the furniture in the room consisted of a table and a few chairs. at the table three men were sitting, drinking and smoking. locke, recovering from the push he had received, stepped back against the closed door, and looked at them. "hello!" said mit skullen. "don't hurry away, lefty. folks that come in by that door sometimes go out by the other one." he was grinning viciously, triumphantly. the look upon his face was one of satisfaction and brutal anticipation, and amply proclaimed his purpose. skullen's companions were tough characters, fit associates and abettors of such a man. that they were thugs of the lowest type, who would not hesitate at any act of violence, there could be no question. one looked like a prize fighter who had gone to the bad, his drink-inflamed face and bleary eyes advertising the cause of his downfall. the other had the appearance of a "coke" fiend, and the criminally bent habitual user of that drug has neither scruples nor fear of consequences. locke regarded them in silence. his pulses were throbbing somewhat faster, yet he was cool and self-possessed, and his brain was keenly active. he knew precisely what he was up against. slipping one hand behind him, he tried the knob of the door; but, as he had expected, the door held fast. skullen continued to grin gloatingly, fancying that locke's inactivity was evidence that he was practically paralyzed by amazement and fear. "your friend stillman was too busy to come," he said, "and so i kept the appointment for him. maybe i'll do just as well. anyhow, i'll do--for you!" he had risen to his feet, and the light of the flickering gas jet played over his evil face. lefty flashed another look around, taking in the surroundings. to his ears came the distant, muffled sound of an elevated train rumbling along the trestle. behind him, in the front of the saloon, all was still. probably the door leading to the street was now also locked to prevent any one from entering and hearing any disturbance that might take place in the back room. the jaws of the trap held him fast. "oh, it ain't any use to think about runnin' away, lefty," croaked mit. "not a chance in the world. i fixed it so's we could have our little settlement without any one buttin' in to bother us. you remember i told you i had a score to settle with you?" as locke spoke, his voice was calm and steady. "and you engaged a pair of worthy pals to assist you! you're a brave man, skullen!" "aw, these lads are only here to see fair play, that's all. they won't mix in. they won't have to. last time we met you reckoned you put it all over me, didn't you? maybe i ought to thank you for keepin' me from gettin' a rotter on me hands, for that's what you got in dummy jones. you're welcome to that piece of cheese." the southpaw made no retort. he was measuring his chances against all three of the ruffians, having no doubt that he must soon find himself pitted against such odds. "some baseball manager, that's what you are!" scoffed mit, taking keen delight in prolonging the suspense that he fancied must be getting the nerve of the intended victim. "you're rattlin' around like a buckshot inside a bass drum. a busy little person, you are, but you won't be so busy after i finish with you. you'll find it convenient to take a nice long rest in a hospital." "you fight a lot with your mouth, mit," said locke contemptuously. "go ahead an' sail inter him, skully," urged the ruffian who looked like a broken-down prize fighter. "you been itchin' fer him to show up so you could get inter action. go to it!" "plenty of time, bill. i enjoy seein' him try to push that door down with his back. wasn't he a mut to walk right into this? i'm goin' to change the look of his face so that his handsome wife won't know him when she sees him next." he began to remove his coat, and lefty knew the time for action had come. for an instant his imagination had sought to unnerve him by presenting a vivid picture of himself as he would appear, battered, bleeding, beaten up, if the trio of thugs carried out their evil design; but he put the vision aside promptly. in cases where a smaller force is compelled to contend with a greater, the advantage is frequently obtained through swift and sudden assault. knowing this, locke did not wait to be attacked. he hurled himself forward with the spring of a panther and the force of a catapult. chapter xxx one against three skullen, in the act of removing his coat, was caught unprepared. before he could fling the garment aside locke was upon him, aiming a well-meant blow for the point of mit's jaw. skullen realized that it was no trifling thing to stop such a blow as that, and he jerked his head aside, as he dropped his coat. the blow caught him glancingly and sent him staggering, upsetting the chair from which he had recently risen. locke grabbed the edge of the table and pitched it against the ruffian's two companions, who had hastily started to get up. they fell over, with the table on top of them. lefty followed up his advantage, and kept right on after skullen. uttering a snarl of astonished rage, the latter sought to grapple, but the southpaw knew that he could not afford to waste time in that sort of a struggle. whatever he did must be done swiftly, effectively, and thoroughly. delay meant only disaster to him. avoiding the clutching hands of his antagonist, he struck mit on the neck, below the ear, staggering him again. skullen had not looked for such a whirlwind assault. he had fancied the trapped man would wait until set upon, and he had believed he would have little trouble in beating lefty to the full satisfaction of his revengeful heart. he was strong and ponderous, and he could still strike a terrible blow, but years had slowed him down, his lack of exercise had softened his muscles, his eye had lost its quickness, while indulgence in drink and dissipation had taken the snap and ginger out of him. he had not realized before how much he had deteriorated, but now, witnessing the lightning-like movements of lefty locke, he began to understand, and sudden apprehension overcame him. "bill! snuff!" he roared. "get into it! get at him, you snails! soak him!" his appeal to his companions was an unintentional admission that he suddenly realized he was no match for the man he had attempted to beat. the flickering gaslight had given him a glimpse of a terrible blazing look in locke's eyes. once, in the ring, he had seen a look like that in the eyes of an opponent who had apparently gone crazy. and he had been knocked out by him! scrambling up from beneath the capsized table, bill and snuff responded. lefty knew that in a moment they would take a hand in the fight, and then the odds would be three against one, and none of the three would hesitate at any brutal methods to smash the one. once he was beaten down, they would kick and stamp him into insensibility; and later, perhaps, he would be found outside somewhere in the back alley, with broken bones, possibly maimed and disfigured for life. the knowledge of what would happen to him, if defeated, made him doubly strong and fierce. he endeavored to dispose of skullen first, believing that by doing so he would have half the battle won. skullen's howls to his companions came to an abrupt termination. like an irresistible engine of destruction, locke had smashed through the defense of the ruffian, and, reaching him with a terrible blow, sent him spinning and crashing into a corner of the room. at the same instant, bill, joining in, was met by a back kick in the pit of his stomach, and, with a grunt, he doubled up, clutching at his middle with both hands. this gave the southpaw a chance to turn on snuff, who had not, so far, shown any great desire to help his pals. the creature had seemed physically insignificant, sitting at the table, but now, in action, he moved with the quickness of a wild cat, in great contrast to the ponderousness of skullen. and he had a weapon in his hand--a blackjack! the southpaw realized that, of his three antagonists, the creature springing at him like a deadly tarantula was the most to be dreaded. insanity blazed in the fellow's eyes. he struck with the blackjack, and lefty barely avoided the blow. locke snapped out his left foot, and caught the toe of the man plunging past him, sending him spinning to the floor. snuff's body struck a leg of the overturned table and broke it off short, but the shock of the fall seemed to have absolutely no effect upon him; for he rebounded from the floor like a rubber ball, and was on his feet again in a flash, panting and snarling. "get him, snuff--get him!" urged skullen, coming up out of the corner where he had been thrown. bill, recovering his breath, was straightening up. all three of the thugs would be at the southpaw again in another jiffy. lefty darted round the table, avoiding the blackjack, but realizing what a small chance he had with his bare hands. he could not keep up the dodging long. then he saw the broken table leg, and snatched it up. with an upward swing, he landed a blow on snuff's elbow, breaking his arm. the blackjack flew to the smoky ceiling, and then thudded back to the floor. feeling sure he had checked his most dangerous antagonist, lefty turned, swinging the table leg, and gave skullen a crack on the shoulder that dropped him to his knees. he had aimed at mit's head, but the fellow had partially succeeded in dodging the blow. another blow, and the cry of alarm that rose to bill's lips was broken short. bill went down, knocked senseless. but snuff, in spite of his broken arm, was charging again. he was seeking to get at the southpaw with his bare left hand! the pitcher, however, had no compunction, and he beat the madman down instantly. groaning and clinging to his injured shoulder, skullen retreated hastily to the wall, staring in amazement and incomprehension at the breathless but triumphant man he had lured into this trap. in all his experience he had never encountered such a fighter. there being no one to stop him now, lefty walked to the door leading into the alley, found the key in the lock and turned it. one backward look he cast at the two figures on the floor and the man who leaned against the wall, clutching at his shoulder. policemen seemed to be scarce in that neighborhood, and locke found one with difficulty. the officer listened incredulously to lefty's story. "mike's is a quiet place," he said. "didn't make a mistake about where this happened, did you? well, come on; we'll go round there and see about it." the saloon was open when they reached it. the red-headed bartender was serving beer to an italian and a swede. the vagrant had vanished. the man behind the bar listened with a well-simulated air of growing indignation when the policeman questioned him. he glared at the pitcher. "what are you tryin' to put across, bo?" he demanded fiercely. "you never were in here before in your life. tryin' to give my place a bad name? nothin' like what you say ever happened around here. nice little yarn about bein' decoyed here by some coves that tried to beat you up! say, officer, is this a holdup?" "i've told you what he told me," said the policeman. "in my back room!" raged the barkeeper. "there ain't been nobody in there for the last two hours. come here an' have a look." he walked to the door and flung it open. skullen and his partners were gone. even the broken table had been removed. there was nothing to indicate that a desperate encounter had taken place there a short time before. "you cleaned up in a hurry," said lefty. at this the barkeeper became still more furious, and was restrained by the officer, who scowled at the pitcher even as he held the other back. "you don't look like you'd been hitting the pipe, young feller," growled the representative of the law; "but that yarn about being attacked by three men looks funny. don't notice any marks of the scrap on you. they didn't do you much damage, did they? say, you must have had a dream!" locke saw the utter folly of any attempt to press the matter. "as long as you insist upon looking at it in that way, officer," he returned, with a touch of contempt that he could not repress, "we'll have to let it go at that. but i'll guarantee that there are three men somewhere in this neighborhood who'll have to have various portions of their anatomies patched up by a doctor as the aftermath of that dream." chapter xxxi light on a dark spot janet returned from the matinée in a state of great excitement. "she's here!" she cried, bursting in on lefty. "you were right about it! i've seen her!" the southpaw gazed in surprise at the flushed face of his charming wife. "you mean--" "virginia! i tell you i've seen her!" "when? where?" "as we were leaving the theater. the lobby was crowded, and we were in the back of the jam. suddenly i saw her over the heads of the people. she was just getting into an auto that was occupied by a handsome woman with snow-white hair. i wasn't mistaken; it was virginia. i couldn't get to her. i tried to call to her, but she didn't hear me. i'll never say you were mistaken again, lefty. somehow you seem always to be right." locke scarcely heard these final words. he was thinking rapidly. a sudden ray of hope had struck upon him. confound it! where was stillman? he sprang to the telephone and called the _blade_ office again. "jack is the one best bet in this emergency," he said, as he waited for the connections to be made. he got the reporter on the wire, and stillman stated that he had not been in the office ten minutes, and was about to call lefty. could he come up to the great eastern right away? sure. the feeling of depression and helplessness that had threatened to crush locke began to fall away. the door he had sought, the one door by which there seemed any chance of passing on to success, appeared to be almost within reach of his hand. in her excitement at the theater, janet had not possessed the presence of mind to call the attention of her friends to the snowy-haired woman, but he knew that she could describe her with some minuteness. "stillman knows everybody," lefty said. "it may be clew enough for him." there was a rap on the door. a messenger boy appeared with a telegram. locke ripped it open and read: jones sick. team busted. i'm busted. signal of distress. how about that five hundred? i knead the dough. don't shoot! wire cash. wiley. "trouble in another quarter," muttered lefty, handing the message over to janet. "how am i going to send him that money? i can't force weegman to do it. wiley has a right to demand it. if i don't come across, he'll have a right to call the deal off." "but jones is sick," said janet. "still it was a square bargain, and i mean to stand by it. jones is sick. he was sick that day in vienna; that was what ailed him. he showed flashes of form when he braced up, but he was too ill to brace up long. i've wondered what was the explanation, now i have it. get him on his feet again, and he'll be all right. i've got to hold my grip on jones somehow." kennedy and stillman appeared at the great eastern together. first, lefty showed them the message from cap'n wiley. over it the former manager screwed up his face, casting a sharp look at his successor. "if you can trust this wiley," he said, "send him two hundred, and tell him to bring jones north as soon as jones can travel. don't worry. wiley's outfit didn't come under the national agreement, and jones' name on a stockings contract ties him up." "but without drawing money from the club i haven't the two hundred to spare now. i can't draw." "i'll fix that. i've got two hundred or more that you can borrow. after the training season opens, you'll pretty soon find out whether or not you've picked a dill pickle in your dummy pitcher." janet told stillman about seeing virginia collier, and gave him a fairly minute description of the woman virginia was with. the reporter smoked a cigarette, and considered. "i think i can find that lady with the snow-white hair," he said, after a time. "leave it to me. you'll hear from me just as soon as i have something to tell." with a promising air of confidence, he took his departure, leaving kennedy and locke to attend to the matter of wiley and mysterious jones. of course, the southpaw told the old manager all about skullen's attempt at revenge, but he did not do so within the hearing of janet, whom he did not care to alarm. the veteran chuckled over the result of the encounter in the back room of mike's saloon. "right from the first," he said, "you was picked for something soft and easy. i knew you was a fighter, son, but weegman and his gang didn't know it. mebbe they'll begin to guess the fact pretty soon." a few minutes after eight that evening, stillman returned to the hotel and found locke waiting with what patience he could command. the reporter wore a smile, but he declined to answer questions. "mrs. james a. vanderpool's private car is waiting for us at the door," he said. "bring mrs. hazelton, lefty. we're going to make a call." "mrs. vanderpool? the widow of the traction magnate? why, what--" "now don't waste time! somebody else can gratify your curiosity a great deal better than i. in fact, i know so little about the facts at the bottom of this queer business that any explanations i'd make would be likely to ball things up." the magnificent residence of the late james vanderpool was on upper fifth avenue. they were ushered into a splendid reception room. in a few minutes an aristocratic-looking woman with white hair entered, her appearance bringing an involuntary exclamation to janet's lips. "it's the very one!" she breathed excitedly, her fingers gripping lefty's arm. stillman introduced them to mrs. vanderpool, who met them graciously. "virginia will be down in a minute or two," said the lady. "for reasons, she has been staying with me since she returned from abroad. i'll let her tell you about it." she regarded locke with frank interest, yet in a manner that was not at all embarrassing, for it plainly contained a great deal of friendliness. "virginia has told me much about you," she stated. "it has never before been my good fortune to meet a professional baseball player. my niece is very fond of mrs. hazelton." "your niece!" exclaimed lefty. "virginia is my niece, although i have scarcely seen her since she was a very small child. here she is now." virginia ran, laughing, to meet janet. after the manner of girl friends, they hugged and kissed each other. "really," said virginia, "i should give you a good shaking for not answering all my letters!" "your letters!" cried janet. "i've received only two letters from you in goodness knows how long! i answered them; and wrote you a dozen to which i got not a word of reply." they gazed at each other in blank uncertainty for a minute or two, and every trace of laughter died from miss collier's face. her blue eyes began to flash. "then," she said, "our letters were intercepted. i can't remember whether i posted any of mine or not, but i was so worried over father that it is doubtful if i did. i let my maid attend to that. she nearly always brought the mail to me, too. when i obtained positive proof that she was dishonest, i discharged her. even now it's hard to believe she was so treacherous." "but why should she intercept our letters? i don't understand, virginia." "there has been a dreadful plot to ruin my father. you'll hardly believe it when i tell you. i find it difficult to believe, even now." she shivered, some of the color leaving her face. "it was necessary to cut us off from any true information of what was happening to his business interests. letters from you might have given me an inkling, janet, and so they were secured and destroyed before they ever reached my hands. other letters met the same fate. mr. weegman declared he wrote several which i know my father never got." "weegman!" exclaimed locke incredulously. "why, he--" "doctor dalmers warned mr. weegman that father must not be disturbed or excited in the least over business matters. he said such a thing might have a fatal effect on his heart. still weegman says he wrote guardedly several times, mildly hinting that things were not going right." "the liar!" whispered lefty to himself. a bit in the background, jack stillman was listening with keen interest, thinking what a sensational special article the truth regarding this affair would make. "we were surrounded by wretches who had no compunction," declared virginia collier. "it was i who first suspected them. my father was too ill, and the doctor kept him under opiates almost all the time, so that his mind was dulled. after i discharged annette i became suspicious of the nurse. i spoke to doctor dalmers about her, but he insisted that she was all right. he insisted too earnestly. i began to watch him without letting him realize i was doing so. once or twice i found a chance to change father's medicine for harmless powders and clear water, and it seemed to me that he was better than when he took the medicine. he was very weak and ill, but his mind seemed clearer. i kept the medicine away from him for two days in succession, and got an opportunity to talk to him alone. i succeeded in convincing him that the change of climate, the baths, and the stuff the doctor had given him were doing him no good at all. in london there was a physician whom he knew and in whom he had confidence, doctor robert fitzgerald. i urged him to go to doctor fitzgerald, but not to tell doctor dalmers of his intention, and i begged him to refuse to take any more of doctor dalmers' medicine. we were in luchon, and all the way to london i had to watch like a hawk to keep that medicine from father, but i succeeded, although i became extremely unpopular with doctor dalmers. the minute we reached london, i went to doctor fitzgerald and told him all that i suspected. although he could not believe such a thing possible, he accompanied me at once to our hotel. doctor dalmers was taken by surprise, for he had not anticipated this move. when i discharged both him and the nurse, he gave me a terrible look. of course, i could not have carried this through, had not doctor fitzgerald been a close friend of my father. dalmers called fitzgerald's action unprofessional, and made threats, but we got rid of him." despite the fact that she was such a mere slip of a girl, it was evident that she possessed brains and the courage and resourcefulness to use them. mrs. vanderpool seemed very proud of her. lefty expressed his admiration. "i knew," virginia continued, "that there must be something behind such a plot. i did not believe dalmers had put it through merely to bleed my father while keeping him ill. i was worried over the fact that we knew so very little concerning how father's affairs were going over here. what information we could get by cable or otherwise might be unsatisfactory. so i determined to come home and investigate for myself. i got father's consent, and i left him in doctor fitzgerald's care. i intended to sail by the _victoria_, but there was a misunderstanding about accommodations, and i was forced to take a later ship. i find father's affairs involved, and i've sent a statement of conditions as they appear to be. "of course," she concluded, smiling a little, "i was greatly relieved to learn from mr. weegman that he felt sure he had blocked the contemptible efforts to smash the blue stockings. he felt highly elated over signing lefty locke as manager." "miss collier," said the pitcher, "did weegman offer an explanation of the raid on the team? did he say who was at the bottom of it?" instantly a little cloud came to her face, and an expression of regret appeared in her eyes. "yes," she answered. "he told me. at first i could not believe it." stillman leaned forward, listening, his lips slightly parted. locke turned toward him, but turned back quickly, with another question on his lips. virginia was speaking again, however. "i can scarcely believe it now," she said sadly. "it seems too utterly impossible! i can't imagine any one being such a scoundrel--much less him! but weegman has made sure; he has the proof. of course, he has told you all about it, lefty; it was necessary that you should know." her manner had grown deeply dejected. "what did weegman tell you?" asked the southpaw. "who did he say was responsible for what had happened to the blue stockings?" with an effort the girl answered: "franklin parlmee!" chapter xxxii one chance it was like a staggering blow. while it confirmed stillman's theory that parlmee was the chief rascal of the conspiracy, it shattered the supposition that weegman, a blind dupe, wholly unaware of the truth, was being cleverly manipulated as an unconscious tool. the foundation of that hypothesis melted away like sand before hydrolytic force. locke turned again and looked at the reporter. the latter, standing like an image of stone, was staring questioningly and incredulously at virginia collier. he, too, realized that this confirmation of his belief had brought a portion of the postulation fluttering down like a house of cards, and he was seeking a mental readjustment. janet, frozen with lips slightly parted and eyes wide, was aware of it also. she was about to speak impulsively when lefty detected her and made a repressing gesture. miss collier felt that she knew the reason for the sudden silence that had fallen on every one, and a faint flush crept back into her cheeks. she appeared to be humiliated and ashamed, as well as sorrowful. "i understand," she said, in a low tone, "how it must seem to you to hear me say such a thing about mr. parlmee. i have trusted him. i believed in him, even when my father was losing faith and confidence. i clung to my own faith, and it hasn't been easy to abandon it, even in the face of proof. my conscience or something taunts me occasionally. i--i've cried over it, and i've fought against it. i haven't dared see him since my return--since i found out the truth--for i knew i should listen to him and believe in him in spite of everything. i wanted to face him and accuse him, but weegman persuaded me to wait. he said it would merely hasten the crash if we let the scoundrels know they were suspected." "the scoundrels!" exclaimed locke. "then he told you that more than one was concerned?" "he claims that a man named garrity is operating in conjunction with franklin parlmee." another staggerer. to virginia, weegman had accused garrity. mutely the southpaw appealed to stillman. the reporter's forehead was puckered in a puzzled manner; he caught lefty's glance, and shook his head slowly. "when did he name garrity, miss collier?" he asked. "when he called on me to-day--this afternoon," was the answer. "he has been at work trying to get at the truth." locke improved the opportunity to whisper in janet's ear: "keep still! don't say a word--now." although she did not understand why he wished her to keep silent, she nodded. he had been right in other matters; it was best to let him have his way in this. "my niece has been very much upset," said mrs. vanderpool. "it has practically made her ill. she hasn't felt much like seeing people, and therefore mr. weegman's advice to keep quiet was easy to follow." weegman had urged virginia to remain in obscurity, not to let her friends know she was in new york; that was evident. he had convinced her that by doing so she could best assist him in his pretended task of trapping the conspirators. and while she kept quiet, those conspirators were hastening to carry through the work they had planned. "miss collier," said lefty, "do you think it would be possible for your father to come home at once? do you think he is strong enough to stand the voyage? if he can do so, he had better come. he should be here now." "i don't know," she replied. "give me his address and let me communicate with him," locke urged. "he should know something of the truth, at least." virginia was persuaded, for mrs. vanderpool agreed that it was the best course to pursue. the southpaw was elated; he felt that at last he was getting a grip that would enable him to accomplish something. if he could baffle the rascals now, it would be a feat worth while. mrs. vanderpool was called away to the telephone. "auntie has been very kind to me, in spite of her quarrel with father," said virginia, when the lady had left the room. "they have not spoken to each other for years. it is so ridiculous, so childish, for a brother and sister who have been devoted! both are stubborn. and yet aunt elizabeth is the kindest, gentlest woman in the world. she lost an only daughter, and she says i seem to fill the vacant place. she has made me feel very much at home." then she began chatting with janet about things of mutual interest. locke joined stillman, who had walked to the far end of the room. "this weegman is either a fool or much cleverer than we thought him," said the reporter swiftly, in a low tone. "i don't believe he's a fool." "how have you figured it out?" lefty questioned. "it was a mistake to think him not wise to parlmee. and why, if he is hand in glove with garrity, did he tell her that garrity was concerned in the miserable business?" "he told her that to-day?" "yes." "why didn't he tell her before? weegman is in town. have you seen him?" the pitcher told of his meeting with both weegman and garrity, and how he had defied them. stillman's face cleared a little. "look here, locke, that fellow weegman will double cross any one. you put him next to the fact that you were wise to garrity. the whole bunch must know that collier has fired his crooked doctor. of course, dalmers notified them. after talking with you, weegman began to realize that the whole plot might fall through. he lost no time in beginning to hedge his bets. he's trying to fix it so that he'll fall safe if the business blows up." "but why did he tell her of parlmee? we thought he didn't know about that." "i'm not as sure about parlmee as i was," admitted the reporter frankly. "weegman has been trying to blacken him to her right along. i'll own up now that it was an anonymous communication that first put me on the track of parlmee. there have been others of the same sort tending to incriminate him. i've wondered where they came from. now i think i know. weegman is the answer." "by jove!" exclaimed lefty. "you believe it was he who directed suspicion toward parlmee in the first place?" "you've got me. that being the case, instead of being a dupe, this weegman has put something over that we didn't suspect him of. he's after collier's daughter, and it would help him if he could turn her against his rival." locke's face cleared. his relief was evident. "this is all speculation," said the reporter hastily. "don't be too quick to accept it as a settled fact. parlmee's behavior has been suspicious enough to require some explaining from him. perhaps he can clear it up. we know weegman has tried to put the blue stockings on the blink, and we're dead certain he hasn't knowingly done so as the assistant of parlmee. now how do you figure on that?" "parlmee's innocent, as i fancied. weegman is the chief rascal." stillman smiled. "in which case he's beginning to find himself caught in a quicksand, and he's trying to save himself by climbing out over his pal, garrity. he'll swear he had no finger in it. garrity won't dare accuse weegman of being an accomplice, for by doing that he would acknowledge that there was a conspiracy. weegman is in no danger in that direction of anything further than such private revenge as garrity may seek to take." lefty turned back and approached virginia and janet, addressing the former: "miss collier, i want you to promise me that, for the present, at least, you'll say nothing to bailey weegman about having seen and talked with me." the girl looked surprised. "i was just proposing that janet should leave the hotel and stay here with me. i know my aunt will approve." "i approve anything you may wish, my dear," said mrs. vanderpool, reëntering the room. "it would give me great pleasure to have mrs. hazelton visit us and remain as long as possible." locke looked doubtful, for should that arrangement be carried out janet might easily be led into telling virginia more than it seemed advisable for her to know at the present time. but mrs. vanderpool made her invitation most cordial, and janet gave him a beseeching glance. he wavered. "weegman calls here. if he should--" janet's hand fell on his arm. "trust me," she urged significantly. "you can't hope to keep him long in the dark. for the present, if he calls, i'll not be in evidence. you're so busy that i see very little of you during the day, anyway." so he was won over. janet returned with him to the hotel to gather up the belongings she would need, and stillman accompanied them. lefty made his wife understand how desirous it was to keep weegman blinded as long as possible, explaining that he feared miss collier's indignation would lead her into betraying everything should she learn the whole truth regarding the two-faced schemer. "if you can get collier home quickly enough, locke," said stillman, "there's a chance that you may be able to spike the enemy's guns, even at this late hour." "i'm going to make a swift play for that chance," returned lefty. chapter xxxiii one in a million the clerk of the great eastern surveyed with interest the swarthy small man in the bright green suit and the plaid raglan overcoat, who leaned an elbow on the desk and jauntily twirled a light cane, puffing at an excellent havana cigar. "beyond a modicum of a doubt you have me, your excellency," said the stranger. "i'm the real thing, the only and original cap'n wiley. it is frequently embarrassing to be encumbered by fame, and my modesty often compels me to travel incog-nit-o; but just now, having a yearning desire to hobnob with my old college chump, lefty locke, i am blushingly compelled to reveal my identity. when lefty learns that i am here he will fly like a bird to greet me. notify one of yon brass-buttoned minions to inform him of my immediate proximity." "mr. locke is out at present," said the man behind the desk, winking slyly at a fellow clerk; "but if you will leave your card--" "if one isn't sufficient, i'll leave the whole pack of fifty-two. it is my habit to carry a deck with me for emergencies. perchance, however, you can tell me when lefty is liable to return." at that moment locke, coming in, saw the sailor, and hurried forward. the marine marvel teetered to meet him, beaming broadly. they shook hands, and locke drew the sailor toward two vacant chairs. "jones?" questioned lefty as they sat down. "where is he? how is he?" "he's right here in this little old burg," was the answer. "nothing short of his demise could have prevented me from keeping my agreement to deliver him to you. he is on the mend, and it is probable that he'll soon be as frisky and formidable as ever. but i have qualms. i fear greatly that something has happened to cause jonesy to lose interest in baseball forever and for aye. were i in his boots, i'd go on one long spree that would reach from here to hongkong, and even farther. hold your breath, lefty, and hold it hard. jones has come into a modest little fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars or thereabouts." "quite a joke!" said the pitcher. "i don't blame you for doubting me. in your place i'd have made a remark a shade more violent. but the seal of voracity is on my lips. i didn't know it when i saw you last, but at that time he had practically sold his interest in his alaska possessions. i have stated the sum he received for his share in that pretty bit of property." "enough to keep him in pin money for some time," replied lefty, still skeptical. "if he could be induced to use it for his own wants he could dodge becoming a pauper for quite a while. but, lefty, you can't guess what he's going to do with it. excuse me while i sigh. i have argued and pleaded until my fingers became tongue-tied; but i've failed to move him from his fixed determination. he is going to give every dollar of that money away!" of course, locke thought that wiley was drawing the long bow, as usual. "i hope he won't overlook his friends when he passes it around," he said, smiling. "his friends won't get a dollar!" declared wiley. "he's going to give it to his enemies." this was too much for the southpaw. "let's cut the comedy," he urged. the sailor gave him a chastening look. "it isn't comedy; it's tragedy, lefty. he believes it his duty. he believes he is bound, as a man of honor, to do it. listen and i will elucidate. did you ever hear of the central yucatan rubber company?" "i don't think so." "well, it was a fraudulent concern that flourished like a green bay tree some seven or eight years ago, and withered like a fragile plant when the government got after it for fraudulent use of the mails. like many such grafting stock-selling companies, it had a dummy board of officers who appeared to be in control, while the real rogues who were harvesting the coin kept in the background. jones was president of that company. he believed it to be on the level, and he had invested some of his own money--superficially all he had--in it. when the government got busy, jones was indicted as the head of the concern. he was thought to be the originator of the scheme. the real crook had fixed it so that he seemed to be one of the innocent victims, and he helped swear jones into prison. jones got five years. he served his time." at last locke was impressed. he had never seen wiley so serious. for once, the flippant and superficial manner of the swarthy little man had been discarded; his flamboyant style of speech had been dropped. ordinarily he gave one the impression that he was gleefully fabricating; now, of a sudden, the listener was convinced that he was hearing the naked truth. it explained the atmosphere of somber sadness, the appearance of brooding over a great injustice, which had infolded the mysterious dumb pitcher of the wind jammers. for jones lefty felt a throb of genuine sympathy. "with the unclothed eye i can perceive that you get me," the sailor continued. "you can imagine how you would feel if you had been sent to the jug for five years, as punishment for a crime perpetrated by somebody else. what if the one who concocted the scheme and benefited by it swore your liberty away and escaped scot-free himself?" "it was monstrous!" exclaimed the pitcher. "precisely so. in prison jones took a foolish oath. he registered a vow to pay back every dollar to those who had lost their good money in that fake rubber company. he didn't know how he was going to do it, but he was determined that he would. in a way, they were his enemies, for they had helped prosecute him; the courts had adjudged him guilty, and he felt that he could never hold up his head as an honest man until those who had been defrauded got the last cent of coin back. in some way he must acquire a huge amount of filthy lucre, and acquire it honestly. he dreamed of gold mines. when the prison spat him forth he made his way up into alaska. there his dream came true, for, with his partners, he located and developed a great mine. they could have sold out a dozen times, but never for a sum that would permit jones to accomplish his purpose with his share of the price. so he held on. and at last a syndicate made an offer that was sufficient. jones was notified by his partners. he accepted. but not until the deal was put through and he had the certified check for his interest in his clutches did he breathe a word of it to any one. then he told me. he was sick, but his success helped cure him. he was eager to hurry north and set into action the machinery for distributing that money to the rubber company's victims. at this very moment he is interviewing a reputable firm of lawyers and giving them instructions to proceed about the work. he can supply a full list of the persons defrauded. they'll get back what they lost, and jones will find himself poor again--but satisfied." lefty's eyes were shining. "in these days of the great american idea of grafting and fraud," he said, "a man with a conscience like jones' is one in ten thousand." "say, rather, one in a million, mate. i have reviled him extemporaneously. i have told him that he is a fool. i'm honest myself--when it's absolutely necessary. but to part with a scandalous sum like two hundred and fifty thousand without being positively compelled to do so--oh, pardon me while i sob!" "a man with such principles, and jones' ability to pitch, will not come to grief. he has a job before him with the blue stockings." wiley shook his head. "apprehension percheth upon me, lefty. jones has accomplished the great purpose of his life. it was what fired him and spurred him on. i regret to elucidate that since that money came to him he has displayed no interest whatever in baseball. when i sought to make him talk about it he wouldn't even wigwag a finger on the subject. something seems to tell me that he'll never again ascend the mound and shoot the horsehide over the pentagon." chapter xxxiv weegman's proposal for four days weegman had not troubled locke, four days during which lefty sought in vain to get some word from charles collier. his cablegrams remained unanswered. at the time when he had felt the most sanguine he seemed to find himself blocked again. he did not seek to delude himself with the belief that silence on the part of the conspirators meant they were inactive. doubtless they were at work harder than ever. what were they doing? he confessed that he would give a great deal to know. then weegman reappeared. his manner was ingratiating. his chuckle seemed intended to be genial and friendly. "a private room where we can talk without the slightest chance of being overheard, that's what we want," he said. "your own room should be all right, as long as your wife is stopping with miss collier and her aunt." he knew about that. how long he had known was a question. locke felt like turning the rascal down flatly. he was on the verge of doing so when something led him to decide differently. perhaps a little patience and cleverness would enable him to get an inkling of what the enemy was doing. he took weegman to his room, and shot the door bolt behind them when they had entered. "that's right," said collier's private secretary. "we don't want to be interrupted by anybody. i took a great deal of pains that no one who knew me should see me come here. garrity mustn't get wise. he ordered me to keep away from you." laughing, he flung himself down on a chair. "garrity!" cried lefty, astonished at the confession. "then you admit that you are taking your orders from him?" "he thinks i am," was the grinning answer. "perhaps he'll find himself fooled. if you and i can get together, i'm sure he will." locke stifled a sense of repulsion. the man was more detestable than ever. it did not appear possible, and yet he still seemed to think that locke would accept a proposal from him. "how do you mean?" asked the pitcher, with masterly self-control. "get together how?" "i hope you realize you can't do anything alone. the combination against you is too strong, and too much had been done before you began to get wise to the situation. let me tell you now that i didn't expect this affair would go as far as it has when i entered into it." the creature was shamelessly acknowledging his participation in the plot, chuckling as he did so. lefty waited. "of course," pursued weegman, "you've been aware for some time of my unbounded admiration and regard for miss collier. the old man favored me, but i couldn't bring her round. to do so, i decided, it would be necessary for me to accomplish a coup. if i could apparently save her father from ruin she might alter her views. out of gratitude she might marry me. i'm a man who gets what he wants, by hook or crook. garrity approached me with a scheme. i listened to it. i believed i saw a way to turn that scheme to my own advantage with virginia. but i'll tell you now that it never was my intention to put charles collier wholly on the blink. at that time even i didn't know how badly involved he was." even while he told the truth in a way, weegman was lying in the effort to palliate his act to some degree. his conscience was warped to such an extent that he seemed to believe there could be an excuse for the milder forms of conspiracy and crime. in a bungling way he was actually making a bid for locke's sympathy. "you must have known of the dastardly arrangement with a crooked doctor to keep mr. collier drugged into apparent illness and detain him in europe beyond reach of the friends who might tell him, weegman. who got to that doctor and bought him up?" "not i," was the denial. "i didn't have the money." "was it garrity?" "of course. garrity had something on dalmers, who was concerned in some mighty shady practices at one time. but he told me that dalmers was simply going to keep watch of the old man. i didn't know anything about the drugging business. when i found that out i was mad as blazes." the southpaw fought to prevent his lips from curling with scorn, and to suppress a look of triumph in his eyes. "what's your proposition to me, weegman?" the self-acknowledged rascal seemed to hesitate. "you're sure no one can hear us?" he asked, his eyes roving around the room. "you can see that we're quite alone." weegman drummed nervously on the arm of his chair. "i'm sorry this thing has gone so far," he protested. "i didn't look for it to, at first. i got involved and couldn't back out. in fact, garrity threatened me when i showed signs of holding back. that," he declared, with an attempt at indignant resentment, "made me sore. without my help in the beginning he never could have done a thing. now he thinks he's got me foul, he's going to gobble everything. we'll see about that! perhaps it isn't too late to stop him. maybe we can do it, you and i. i'd like to show him." so the rascals had quarreled over the division of the spoils, as rascals so often do. and now one of them was ready to betray the other, if he could do so without disaster to himself. at the same time, he hoped to make an alliance with lefty by which he might reap some actual benefit from his underhanded work. suddenly locke thought of another man who had been suspected of complicity. "how about parlmee?" he asked. "where does he fit in? did garrity send him over the pond to wrench the control of the blue stockings from collier?" "i don't know what garrity has been doing with parlmee," weegman confessed. "it was natural that i should want to turn virginia against parlmee, but i swear i didn't know he was in this thing when i got the idea of making her believe he was. that was an inspiration that came to me all of a sudden. i had to keep her away from him. i faked up some evidence. she refused to believe at first. then, by jove, i found out that garrity and parlmee were really up to something. they've had dealings." lefty's heart, which had bounded high for a moment, sank heavily. after all, could it be true that two cleverer scoundrels had combined to work weegman as a dupe? had the confirmation of this fact helped weegman to make up his mind to go back on garrity? was it not possible that this was the real cause of the quarrel between the worthy pair? the southpaw continued to lead the other on. "what is garrity's scheme? what has he told you that he proposed to do?" "unless collier receives outside assistance, garrity's got him cornered. collier has met reverses generally. garrity has got hold of a certain amount of blue stocking stock. collier still holds enough to keep the balance of power, but he won't hold it long. if he tries to his interest in the northern can company will go to glory. garrity has placed himself in a position to shake the old man out of that concern. if collier loses that, he's broke--a pauper. he can't hang on, because he hasn't the ready resources. he'll have to sell his blue stockings stock to save northern can. if he had a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in ready cash he could pull through. it'll take half of that to oust garrity from northern can, and the other half is needed for the team. garrity will put it up to him to-morrow. in the meantime, can you and i raise one hundred and fifty thousand?" "you and i!" cried lefty. "not a dollar! not a cent! how will garrity put it up to collier to-morrow? collier is in--" "philadelphia!" cut in weegman sharply. the southpaw stared, thunderstruck. "philadelphia! you mean that he's in this country?" "he arrived to-day, and took a train at once for philadelphia. i cabled him to come, and to keep his coming secret. those were garrity's orders." locke sat down heavily, still staring at weegman. chapter xxxv the shattering stroke that explained it. now lefty knew why he had received no answer to his cablegrams. before the first was sent, charles collier was on the high seas, bound for america. he was home, and garrity held him in the hollow of his hand. on the morrow the owner of the blue stockings was to feel the crushing grip of the triumphant schemer. weegman watched the southpaw's face, noting the look of consternation upon it. suddenly snapping his fingers, he began speaking again: "that's why i came to you, locke. what's done must be done quickly. after eleven o'clock to-morrow it will be too late. you know what that means for you. garrity hates you like poison, and you won't last any time after he gets control. you can raise that money." "a hundred and fifty thousand dollars! you're crazy!" "you can do it, and save yourself. if you'll do the right thing by me, i'll tell you how to raise the needful. together we'll hand garrity his bumps. what do you say? is it a go?" he sprang up and approached, his hand extended. locke rose and faced him. the scorn and contempt upon his face would have withered a man less calloused. weegman recoiled a little, and his hand dropped to his side. "weegman," lefty said, "you're the most treacherous scoundrel i ever had the bad fortune to meet. you're just about as trustworthy as a rattlesnake. heaven knows i need money, and i certainly want to hold my job, but not even to save my own father and mother from being turned out of the home that has sheltered them so long would i enter into any sort of partnership with you." a look of astonished wrath contorted weegman's features, and a snarling laugh broke from his lips. "you poor fool!" he cried. "you've thrown away your last chance! i did think you would know enough to save yourself, but i see you haven't an atom of sense in your head." there was something almost pitying in the smile lefty gave him. something, also, that caused the man a sudden throb of apprehension. "you're the fool, weegman," returned the southpaw. "you have confessed the whole rotten scheme. you have betrayed yourself and your fellow conspirator, garrity." "bah!" the rascal flung back, snapping his fingers again. "what good will it do you? i'll deny everything. you can't prove a thing. i was careful that there should be no witnesses, no one to hear a word that passed between us." locke grabbed him by the wrist, and snapped him round with a jerk, facing one wall of the room. "and i," he cried, "took care that every word we uttered should be heard by two reliable persons. i set the trap for garrity, but i have been unable to decoy him into it. you walked into it unbidden. look!" with two strides he reached a dresser that stood against the wall. he seized it and moved it aside. with one finger he pointed to a small, square, black object that clung to the wall two feet from the floor. "look!" he commanded again. weegman stared uncomprehendingly, yet with the perspiration of dread beginning to bead his forehead. "what is it?" he asked huskily. "a dictograph!" answered lefty. "i had it put in two days ago. when you met me a short time ago and asked for a private interview i started to turn you down. then i saw old jack kennedy and stillman, the reporter, in the background. they gave me a signal. thirty seconds after we entered this room they were in the room adjoining, listening by means of that dictograph to every word that passed between us. we've got you, weegman, and we've got garrity, too. criminal conspiracy is a rather serious matter." all the defiance had faded from bailey weegman's eyes. he trembled; he could not command even a ghost of a laugh. he started violently, and gasped, as there came a sharp rap on the door. "they want to take another good look at you to clinch matters so that they can make oath to your identity," said locke, swiftly crossing and flinging the door open. "come in, gentlemen!" kennedy and stillman entered. weegman cowered before them. they regarded him disdainfully. "you beaned him all right, lefty," said the ex-manager. "he wasn't looking for the curve you put over that time." the reporter paused to light a cigarette. "after your arrest, weegman," he said, "i advise you to make haste to turn state's evidence. it's your only chance to escape doing a nice long bit in the stone jug." he turned, closed the door behind him, and shot the bolt again. "in the meantime," he added, "i think we can persuade you to refrain from warning garrity regarding what is coming to him shortly after eleven o'clock to-morrow." looking feeble and broken, charles collier sat at his desk in the office of the blue stockings baseball club. on the desk before him lay the books of the club and a mass of letters and documents. at one end of the desk sat tom garrity, smoking a big cigar and looking like a napoleon who dreamed of no impending waterloo. he was speaking. his words and manner were those of a conqueror. "you can see how the land lies, collier. you should have sold out your interest in the team before going abroad. weegman made a mess of it. to-day you can't realize fifty cents on the dollar. i've offered you my northern can stock for your holdings. that's the best way out for you now. if you refuse you'll lose northern can and the team, both. better save one by sacrificing the other." collier wearily lifted a protesting hand. "you don't have to repeat it, garrity; i know you've got me cornered. i'm merely waiting for weegman. he promised to be here at eleven. it's past that hour." without asking permission, garrity reached for the desk phone. "i'll call in my lawyers," he said. "they'll be here in a few minutes." before he could lift the receiver from the hook the door swung open, and weegman came in, pale and shrinking. at his heels followed locke, kennedy, and stillman. with an astonished exclamation, garrity put the instrument down. "i hope we don't intrude," said lefty, smiling on the startled owner of the rockets. "having learned from weegman of this little business meeting, we decided to drop in. i'm very glad to see that you have arrived home in time, mr. collier." "too late!" sighed the hopeless man at the desk. "too late! you're just in time to witness the transference of the blue stockings to garrity." "on the contrary," returned the southpaw easily, "we have come to purchase mr. garrity's blue stockings stock at the prevailing price. likewise his interest in northern can." garrity rose, his face purple with wrath. a tremendously explosive ejaculation burst from his lips. "what in blazes do you mean?" he roared. "just what i have said," locke answered calmly. "since arriving in town i have made arrangements for this little business matter. i have opened an account with the new market national by depositing a certified check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which is more than enough to make the purchases mentioned. mr. collier's attorney will arrive in ten minutes or so to see that everything is done in a legal manner." "but you can't buy a dollar's worth of my holdings in either concern." "you may think so now. i'm sure you'll change your mind in a few moments. it is also reported that, for the good of the game, you'll get out of organized baseball. have you brought a copy of the second edition of the _morning blade_ with you, stillman? show it to mr. garrity, please." the reporter drew a newspaper from his pocket, opened it, passed it to garrity. one finger indicated a half-column article, with headlines. garrity to get out. will dispose of his interests in the rockets and abandon baseball. hints of a conspiracy to wreck the blue stockings. garrity's eyes glared. his breath whistled through his nostrils. his wrath was volcanic. "somebody'll pay for that!" he shouted, swinging his ponderous fist above his head like a sledge hammer. "what's it mean?" "it means," answered stillman, "that more will follow, giving complete details of the conspiracy--unless you decide to quit baseball for the good of the game." "i'll institute a suit for libel!" "no, you won't. you won't dare. we've got the goods on you. let me tell you how it happened." he did so with unrepressed satisfaction, and the man's air of bluster gradually evaporated as he listened. but he gave weegman a murderous look. the door swung open again, and a sharp-faced little man entered briskly. "here's mr. collier's attorney," said lefty. "now we can get down to real business." chapter xxxvi the test of mysterious jones the unscrupulous garrity had long been a menace to organized baseball, but such efforts as had been made to jar him loose from it had failed. at last, however, like a remorseless hunter, he was caught in a trap of his own setting. twist and squirm as he might, the jaws of that trap held him fast. even when the representatives of a syndicate met him by agreement to take the team over at a liberal price, he showed a disposition to balk. stillman was there. he handed garrity a carbon copy of a special article giving a complete and accurate statement of the conspiracy. "if you own the rockets to-morrow morning," said the reporter, "that will appear, word for word, in the _blade_. criminal action against you will be begun at the same time." upon the following day garrity was no longer interested in the rockets. the _blade_ had put over a scoop by being the first paper to announce that garrity would retire. it could have created a tremendous sensation by publishing the inside facts relative to the method by which he had been forced out. but organized baseball was under fire, and already the suspicious public was beginning to regard it askance. the menacing federals were making no end of trouble. the cry of "rottenness" was in the air. through the publication of the story thousands of hasty, unthinking patrons could be led to believe that, square and honest though it seemed to be on the field, the game was really rotten at the core. stillman knew how that would hurt, and he loved the game. he was tempted to the limit, but he resisted. not even his editor ever found out just how much he knew and suppressed. on the usual date the blue stockings went south for spring training. old jack kennedy was among the very first to arrive at the camp. he had been engaged as coach and trainer. the newspapers had a great deal to say about how the federals had taken the heart out of the once great machine collier controlled. few of them seemed to think that locke, the new manager, could repair the damages in less than a year or two. he would do well, they declared, if he could keep the club well up in the second division. for it was said that lefty himself would pitch no more, and the rest of his staff, filled out with new men and youngsters, must necessarily be weak and wabbly. occasionally a new deaf-mute pitcher, jones, was mentioned as showing great speed, but who had ever heard of jones? of course he would lack the experience and steadiness a pitcher must possess to make good in fast company. behind the bat the stockings seemed all right, for brick king would be there. still, it was strange that frazer had let king go. old ben was wise as the serpent, and he certainly had his reasons. the stockings were trying out a young fellow named sheridan in center field, but surely herman brock was worth a dozen ordinary youngsters. some of the papers had a habit of speaking of all youngsters as "ordinary." jack keeper, who seemed slated to hold down the far cushion for the stockings, was also a youngster frazer had not seen fit to retain. in the few games he had played with the wolves keeper had made a good showing, but the general impression was that the manager had not considered him quite up to big league caliber. various other youngsters who had been farmed out to the minors were being used at second and short, and two of them, blount and armstrong, from the cotton states league, seemed to be the most promising. but what an infield it would be, with three-fourths of the players "unripened"! the interest of the fans who read this sort of "dope" turned to the wolves, who were almost universally picked as probable pennant winners. all this was natural enough. the wolves had held together before the federal raids better than any team in the league. certainly no one who knew much about baseball would have chosen the blue stockings in advance for a come-back. but in baseball, and nearly everything else, there is no fixed rule of reckoning that can't be smashed. plenty of old-timers will say this is not so, just as men assert that there is nothing like luck in the game. the stockings continued to attract little attention during their tour north, although they won exhibition games regularly and with ease. jones pitched in some of these games. locke did not. all the same, no day passed that lefty failed to get out and warm up with his pitchers. dillon, reilley, lumley, and savage were the old flingers left with the staff. the "glass arm brigade," it was called. savage was regarded as the only one of the quartet who possessed the stamina to work through nine hard innings. counting him out, the team would have to depend on young twirlers. of course, locke warmed up merely from habit and as an example for the others. otherwise he would try to pitch sometimes in a game. the season opened with the blue stockings playing against the dodgers, away from home. mysterious jones pitched and shut the dodgers out, his team making five runs behind him. even that created no more than a slight flurry, for the dodgers were chronic subcellar champions. jones had speed, and it had dazzled them. but wait until he went up against real batters! reilley and lumley, taking turns on the mound, succeeded in handing the dodgers the second game by a one-sided score. savage went in and captured the third contest, but pink dillon dropped the fourth after making a fight for it up to the eighth inning. if that was the best the blue stockings could get, an even break, when facing the habitual tailenders, what would happen to them when they tackled the wolves in the series to follow? the crowd turned out loyally to witness the opening game on the home grounds, but even the most hopeful among the fans permitted their courage to be tinged with pessimism. they were in that state of mind that would lead their sympathies easily to turn to the opposition. true, they hailed lefty cheerfully and encouragingly from the stands and bleachers, but they could not have the faith in him as a manager that they had had as a pitcher. they were stirred, however, by the sight of old jack kennedy, and they gave him a rousing cheer. it warmed the cockles of the veteran's heart. he doffed his cap to them. frazer came over from the visitors' bench and shook hands with locke and kennedy. "i hope," said ben, "that you're going to give us a crack at that dummy speed merchant to-day, lefty. we want to see if he is a real pitcher." coming forth from the home team's dugout, a swarthy small man, who wore knickerbockers and a wrist watch, overheard these words. "bo-lieve me, frazy," said cap'n wiley, "you'll never ask for him again with any great avidity after you face him once. i hope you'll excuse me for butting in and making that statement without the polite formality of an introduction to you, but i am so impetuous! i'm the proud party who sold jonesy to lefty. shortly after that little transaction i was unnecessarily worried lest he should decide to abandon baseball, but he has just informed me that, having succeeded in giving away the last of an infinitesimal fortune of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he is now excruciatingly happy and ready to follow pitching as a profession." frazer looked the odd character over tolerantly. "so you're the party who bunkoed lefty, are you?" he laughed. "you're very much in evidence before the game begins, but i fancy it'll be difficult to find you with a microscope when it's finished--if locke has the nerve to pitch your dummy wonder." "i think i'll start him on the hill, at any rate," said the manager of the blue stockings. apparently wiley started to cheer, but checked himself abruptly. "i'll conserve my vocal cords," he tittered. "i doubt not that my voice will be frazzled to a husky whisper before the contest terminates. take a tip from me, mr. frazer, and send your premier twirler on to the firing line. smoke jordan's the only pitcher you have who can make the game interesting with jones pastiming for the stockings." "jordan has asked to pitch," returned ben, "but i have half a dozen others who would do just as well." locke was passing in front of the section occupied by the newspaper men when stillman called to him. "i don't see your wife here, nor miss collier," said the reporter. "i looked for both to be on hand for the opening game on the home grounds." "unfortunately neither was able to get here, although they planned to do so," explained lefty. "you know they have been spending the past eight weeks in southern california with virginia's aunt, who invited them to accompany her and would not take no for an answer. they'll be on hand to-morrow, however." stillman leaned toward the wire netting and lowered his voice. "has collier ever caught on to the fact that the sister with whom he had quarreled furnished the capital to save him from going to smash?" he questioned. "not yet. it's still a mystery to him how i was able to come forward at the psychological moment with that loan." the newspaper man laughed softly. "he came near passing away from heart failure that day. he was shocked almost as much as garrity, but in a different way." his manner changed to one of concern. "you're going to use jones to-day, aren't you? think you have any chance to win?" "unless i've made a mistake in estimating that man," replied locke, "it won't be his fault if we lose. but it'll be a test for the whole team as well as jones." it was truly a test. a pitcher who was merely a "speed merchant" could not have lasted three innings against the wolves, who "ate speed." it was not long, however, before the anxious crowd, and the visiting team as well, began to realize that the mute twirler had something more than speed. now and then he mixed in a sharp-breaking curve, and his hopper was something to wonder at, something that made the batters mutter and growl as they slashed at it fruitlessly. but, best of all, besides coolness and judgment, he had that prime essential of all pitchers, control. with never-failing and almost monotonous regularity, he seemed to put the sphere precisely where he tried to put it. in brick king, jones had a valuable aid. king knew his old associates; if any one of them had a batting weakness, he was aware of it. and not once during the game did jones question a signal given him by king. what brick called for he pitched, and put it just where it should be put. with such rifle accuracy, the work of the man behind the bat seemed easy, save for the fact that occasionally jones' smokers appeared almost to lift the backstop off his feet. but king held them as if his big mitt had been smeared with paste. smoke jordan was also in fine fettle. it was a pitcher's battle, with the crowd watching and gasping and waiting for "the break." it must not be imagined that the wolves did not hit the ball at all, but for a long time they could not seem to hit it safely, and for four innings they could not get a runner on. in the first of the fifth, however, a cracking single and two errors permitted them to score an unearned run. "if i know what i'm talking about," said ben frazer, "we had no license to get that tally. now, smoke, you've got to hold 'em. if that dummy don't crack, i'll acknowledge that he's a real pitcher." "i'll hold 'em," promised jordan. but he couldn't keep his promise. in the sixth, with one down, king beat out an infield hit, reaching the initial sack safely by an eyelash. he stole second on the catcher for whom he had been discarded, to the disgust of frazer. the crowd seemed to forget that jones was deaf and dumb, for it entreated him to smash one out, and cap'n wiley, from his place in a box, howled louder than any ten others combined. jones drove a long fly into left, but the fielder was there, and king was held at second. hyland followed. jordan, a bit unsteady, bored him in the ribs. then keeper, another wolf discard, came up and singled to right field. covering ground like a hundred yards' sprinter, king registered from second on that hit, tying the score up. the crowd went wild. the blue stockings and mysterious jones had the fans with them after that. constantly that great gathering rooted for another run--just one more. hyland perished on third when spider grant popped weakly. if possible, the wolves were fiercer than ever. in the first of the eighth they got jones into a hole again through another hit and errors which peopled the corners, with not a man down. then jones won a roaring ovation from the standing multitude by striking out three men in succession. the game was settled in the last of the ninth, and again jack keeper figured in the play. he had reached second, with one out, when grant hit into the diamond. the ball took an amazingly high bound. the shortstop went for it, at the same time seeing keeper scudding for third, and realizing that it would be impossible to get him at that sack. the moment he got the ball, the shortstop whipped it to first, catching grant by a foot. there was a shout of warning. keeper had not stopped at third. over the sack at full speed he had flashed, and on toward home. the first baseman lined the sphere to the catcher, who had leaped into position. keeper hit the dirt, twisting his body away from the catcher, who got the ball and jabbed at him--a fraction of a second too late. keeper had accomplished a feat that is the desire of every base runner's heart. he had scored from second on an infield out. and that performance gave the blue stockings the game. while the crowd was still shouting its rejoicing, cap'n wiley found frazer shaking hands with lefty. "i demand an apology!" croaked wiley, barely able to speak. "i apologize," said frazer. "your dummy _can_ pitch! but a team with one real pitcher is scarcely equipped to cut much figure in the race. who'll you use to-morrow, locke?" "i am thinking of trying out another one of our uncertainties," answered the southpaw, with an enigmatical smile. chapter xxxvii the return of lefty the work of patching up his team and whipping it into shape had kept lefty locke busy pretty nearly every minute of his time while awake, since the beginning of the training season. with that task before him, and knowing how little attention he could spare for janet, he had raised no objections when she had asked to accompany mrs. vanderpool and virginia on the california trip. while he was not foolish enough to believe that the reconstructed team could become a pennant contender that season, he did have hopes of finishing in the first division, which, under the circumstances, would be a triumph indeed. he had found janet's letters interesting enough, but his concentration on other matters had prevented him from giving them much thought once they were read through. she had told him of the rumor that bailey weegman, having been lucky in escaping prosecution for his part in the conspiracy, had started some sort of mail-order business and was said to be taking in money "hand over fist." far more interesting, however, although almost as quickly forgotten, was the gossip about virginia and franklin parlmee. having returned from his hasty and fruitless voyage across the pond, parlmee had felt not only injured but outraged by the treatment he had received. it was impossible for virginia honestly to deny that she had been led to distrust him--and by weegman! that cut the deepest. she had kept him ignorant of the fact that she had returned home, thus allowing him to go rushing off to europe in an attempt to find her. that had been his sole purpose; he had been in no way concerned with garrity in a scheme to wrest the control of the blue stockings from collier. it was true that, having come into a limited inheritance, he had purchased two or three small lots of the club's stock. his judgment had told him that the price to which it had dropped made it a good investment. garrity had been anxious to get hold of that stock. he had pursued parlmee and endeavored to buy the certificates at a price that would have permitted the holder of them to realize a good profit. but what garrity had wanted so badly parlmee had considered still more valuable, and he had refused to part with a single share. a sense of injury on one side and shame and false pride on the other had prevented complete reconciliation between parlmee and virginia. but janet wrote that miss collier was not happy, although she made a brave pretense of being so. once or twice janet had detected her alone, crying. lefty had practically forgotten about these things until, on that second day of battle with the wolves, only a few minutes before the game was to begin, he looked toward the club owner's box, occupied as he knew by virginia and janet, and made the discovery that franklin parlmee was likewise there. the southpaw stood still in his tracks, and stared, smiling; for he saw that parlmee and virginia were chatting and laughing, while janet watched them with an expression of complete satisfaction and pleasure. "patched it up at last, thank goodness!" muttered locke. "i think i'll keep away until after this game is over. plenty of time to congratulate them then." he had been warming up, as usual, but to-day it was observed that he did so alone with brick king. many of those who took note of this were led to speculate. jack stillman saw it, and smiled wisely to himself. a crowd, bigger than that of the previous day, had turned out. the blue stockings' unexpected opening victory over the wolves was the cause. perhaps that had been no more than a flash in the pan, but the fans wanted to see for themselves. deep down in the hearts of most of them was a sprouting hope that it presaged something more. practice was over. the home team was spreading out on the field and making ready. scrappy betts, first man up for the visitors, was swinging two bats, prepared to drop one of them and advance to the plate. the announcer lifted his megaphone, and, sitting forward on the edges of their seats, the crowd strained their ears to catch the names of the battery men. "who's going to pitch for us?" was the question they had been asking. through the megaphone came the usual hoarse bellow. for an instant it seemed to strike the great gathering dumb. then a wild yell of astonishment and delight went up. everywhere in the stands and on the bleachers fans turned to their neighbors and shouted: "locke! it's lefty! good old lefty! yow! ye-ee!" they rose as one person and roared at him in a mighty chorus when he walked out to the mound. if he believed in himself, if he had the courage to go in there against frazer's hungry wolves, they believed in him. the umpire adjusted his wind pad. betts dropped one bat and came forward, pausing a moment a few feet from the plate while locke sent two or three across to get the range. that good left arm swung free and unrestrained, without a single sign to indicate that there had ever been anything the matter with it. smiling, the southpaw nodded to betts as king pulled on the wire cage. "you can patch up crockery, lefty, old man," said scrappy as he stepped into the box, "but you never can make it as good as new." then, having tried to work the portsider to the limit, he finally whaled out a safety. "i knew it!" he cried from first. "bluff won't mend a busted wing, old boy!" whether or not locke was nervous, he passed the next man. the cheering of the crowd died away. disappointment and apprehension brought silence, save for the confident chattering of the wolf coachers and the attempted encouragement of the players behind the southpaw. hope began to sicken and wilt. cool and unruffled, brick king smiled. "an accidental hit and a pass won't count in the result to-day," he said. "show kipper the ball in your hand. he won't see it again." kipper whiffed three times without making as much as a foul tip. the crowd began to wake up again. herman brock sauntered out. frazer had given him bob courtney's position in the batting order, the "clean-up" place. no man knew herman better than lefty, and the efforts of the german were quite as futile as those of kipper. the crowd was cheering again as brock retired disgustedly. confidence had been restored suddenly. "oh, you lefty!" was the cry. "you're there!" locke easily forced the following batter to pop to the infield. he had settled into his stride. if he could keep it up, the shouting throng knew he had indeed "come back" as strong as ever. already they were telling one another what that meant. with three first-string pitchers like lefty and jones and savage, the team would have a fighting chance. the principal question was whether the southpaw could "go the distance." not only did lefty make it, but as the game progressed he seemed to take it more and more easily. the desperate wolves could not get at him effectively. he certainly had everything he had ever possessed; some claimed that he had more. his arm showed no sign of weakening. but he used his head quite as much as his arm. with the support of a catcher who also had brains, and who worked with him perfectly, he made the snarling, snapping wolves appear about as dangerous as tame rabbits. before the ninth inning was reached he knew that in brick king he had found the one catcher with whom he could do the best work of his career. the blue stockings won by a score of two to nothing. what fortune the season brought them in their fight for the pennant is told in the following volume of the big league series, which is entitled, "guarding the keystone sack." the moment it was over locke made a dash for the clubhouse, getting away from the furiously rejoicing fans who came pouring down upon the field. jones was there ahead of him. as he panted in, lefty saw the man of mystery standing in a peculiar attitude not far from the closed door of charles collier's office. he seemed to be _listening_. involuntarily the southpaw paused and listened himself. from beyond the door came the sound of voices. he heard a man speaking, and then, suddenly, another man who appeared to be both excited and distressed. then he saw jones spring like a panther toward that door and hurl it open. astonished, lefty quickly followed jones into the office. they burst in upon four persons. two of them, who looked like plain-clothes officers, seemed to have a third in charge. this man was desperately and wildly appealing to charles collier. it was bailey weegman. "it's an outrage, i tell you!" weegman was crying. "it's a lie! i haven't used the mails to defraud. i learned an hour ago that officers were after me on that charge, and i hurried to you, mr. collier. they followed me here. you must help me! i served you--" "you served me a crooked turn," interrupted collier coldly. "you have your nerve to come to me!" locke's eyes were on jones. the man's face was aflame with triumph and joy and fathomless satisfaction. he flung out his hand, his finger pointing like a pistol at weegman. "hanson gilmore!" he cried in a terrible voice. the mute had spoken! frozen with amazement, lefty saw weegman twist round, saw a light of terror come into his eyes, saw him cower and cringe, pale as death and shaking like an aspen. "you swore away my liberty, you dog!" the voice of jones rang through the room. "you were the scoundrel who conceived the central yucatan rubber company, and profited by it! when the prison doors closed upon me i swore i'd never speak again until every dollar you had taken from the victims of that concern was paid back--until you were brought to book for your crime. i've kept that vow. i've searched for you, determined to bring you to justice somehow. now you have brought justice upon yourself." crouching like a creature stung by the pitiless lashing of a whip, the accused wretch appealed chokingly to the officers who had arrested him: "don't let him touch me! look at his eyes! he's mad! keep him off! take me away!" "yes, take him away," said jones. "and if he doesn't get a prison sentence for this last piece of work, i'll keep after him until he's punished for his other crimes." "take him away!" said charles collier, with a wave of his hand. tottering weakly, the rascal who had met retribution at last was led out. the rejoicing players were stripping for their showers. locke and jones appeared among them. "boys," said lefty, "let me introduce martin bowman, whom you have hitherto known as jones. for reasons of his own, he made a vow never to speak until a certain thing should happen. happily, events now make it possible for him to talk." "for which i am very thankful," said martin bowman quietly. they stared at him in limitless astonishment. at last spider grant said: "well, this game to-day was enough to make a deaf-and-dumb man talk!" eph, the colored rubber, touched locke on the arm. "yo' wife and a pahty o' frien's am outside, sah," he said. "dey said as how dey'd wait fo' you." "tell them i'll join them as soon as possible," directed lefty. the end the next title in this series is "guarding the keystone sack." see reverse side of colored jacket for list of titles in this series and many other series for boys and girls of all ages. the big league series (trade mark registered) by burt l. standish endorsed by such stars as christy mathewson, ty cobb and walter johnson. an american boy with plenty of grit--baseball at its finest--and the girl in the case--these are the elements which compose the most successful of juvenile fiction. you don't have to be a "fan" to enjoy these books; all you need to be is really human and alive with plenty of red blood in your veins. the author managed a "bush league" team a number of years ago and is thoroughly familiar with the actions of baseball players on and off the field. every american, young or old, who has enjoyed the thrills and excitement of our national game, is sure to read with delight these splendid stories of baseball and romance. cloth--large mo. illustrated . lefty o' the bush. . lefty o' the big league. . lefty o' the blue stockings. . lefty o' the training camp. . brick king, backstop. . the making of a big leaguer. . courtney of the center garden. . covering the look-in corner. . lefty locke, pitcher-manager. . guarding the keystone sack. . the man on first. . lego lamp, southpaw. . the grip of the game. . lefty locke, owner. . lefty locke wins out. . crossed signals. publishers barse & co. new york, n. y.--newark, n. j. the store boy by horato alger, jr. author of "brave and bold," "bound to rise," "risen from the ranks," "erie train boy", "paul the peddler,", "phil, the fiddler,", "young acrobat," etc. chapter i ben barclay meets a tramp "give me a ride?" ben barclay checked the horse he was driving and looked attentively at the speaker. he was a stout-built, dark-complexioned man, with a beard of a week's growth, wearing an old and dirty suit, which would have reduced any tailor to despair if taken to him for cleaning and repairs. a loose hat, with a torn crown, surmounted a singularly ill-favored visage. "a tramp, and a hard looking one!" said ben to himself. he hesitated about answering, being naturally reluctant to have such a traveling companion. "well, what do you say?" demanded the tramp rather impatiently. "there's plenty of room on that seat, and i'm dead tired." "where are you going?" asked ben. "same way you are--to pentonville." "you can ride," said ben, in a tone by means cordial, and he halted his horse till his unsavory companion climbed into the wagon. they were two miles from pentonville, and ben had a prospect of a longer ride than he desired under the circumstances. his companion pulled out a dirty clay pipe from his pocket, and filled it with tobacco, and then explored another pocket for a match. a muttered oath showed that he failed to find one. "got a match, boy?" he asked. "no," answered ben, glad to have escaped the offensive fumes of the pipe. "just my luck!" growled the tramp, putting back the pipe with a look of disappointment. "if you had a match now, i wouldn't mind letting you have a whiff or two. "i don't smoke," answered ben, hardly able to repress a look of disgust. "so you're a good boy, eh? one of the sunday school kids that want to be an angel, hey? pah!" and the tramp exhibited the disgust which the idea gave him. "yes, i go to sunday school," said ben coldly, feeling more and more repelled by his companion. "i never went to sunday school," said his companion. "and i wouldn't. it's only good for milksops and hypocrites." "do you think you're any better for not going?" ben couldn't help asking. "i haven't been so prosperous, if that's what you mean. i'm a straightforward man, i am. you always know where to find me. there ain't no piety about me. what are you laughin' at?" "no offense," said ben. "i believe every word you say." "you'd better. i don't allow no man to doubt my word, nor no boy, either. have you got a quarter about you?" "no." "nor a dime? a dime'll do." "i have no money to spare." "i'd pay yer to-morrer." "you'll have to borrow elsewhere; i am working in a store for a very smell salary, and that i pay over to my mother." "whose store?" "simon crawford's; but you won't know any better for my telling you that, unless you are acquainted in pentonville" "i've been through there. crawford keeps the grocery store." "yes." "what's your name?" "ben barclay," answered our hero, feeling rather annoyed at what he considered intrusive curiosity. "barclay?" replied the tramp quickly. "not john barclay's son?" it was ben's turn to be surprised. he was the son of john barclay, deceased, but how could his ill-favored traveling companion know that? "did you know my father?" asked the boy, astonished. "i've heerd his name," answered the tramp, in an evasive tone. "what is your name?" asked ben, feeling that be had a right to be as curious as his companion. "i haven't got any visitin' cards with me," answered the tramp dryly. "nor i; but i told you my name." "all right; i'll tell you mine. you can call me jack frost." "i gave you my real name," said ben significantly. "i've almost forgotten what my real name is," said the tramp. "if you don't like jack frost, you can call me george washington." ben laughed. "i don't think that name would suit, he said. george washington never told a lie." "what d'ye mean by that?" demanded the tramp, his brow darkening. "i was joking," answered ben, who did not care to get into difficulty with such a man. "i'm going to joke a little myself," growled the tramp, as, looking quickly about him, he observed that they were riding over a lonely section of the road lined with woods. "have you got any money about you?" ben, taken by surprise, would have been glad to answer "no," but he was a boy of truth, and could not say so truly, though he might have felt justified in doing so under the circumstances. "come, i see you have. give it to me right off or it'll be worse for you." now it happened that ben had not less than twenty-five dollars about him. he had carried some groceries to a remote part of the town, and collected two bills on the way. all this money he had in a wallet in the pocket on the other side from the tramp. but the money was not his; it belonged to his employer, and he was not disposed to give it up without a struggle; though he knew that in point of strength he was not an equal match for the man beside him. "you will get no money from me," he answered in a firm tone, though be felt far from comfortable. "i won't, hey!" growled the tramp. "d'ye think i'm goin' to let a boy like you get the best of me?" he clutched ben by the arm, and seemed in a fair way to overcome opposition by superior strength, when a fortunate idea struck ben. in his vest pocket was a silver dollar, which had been taken at the store, but proving to be counterfeit, had been given to ben by mr. crawford as a curiosity. this ben extracted from his pocket, and flung out by the roadside. "if you want it, you'll have to get out and get it," he said. the tramp saw the coin glistening upon the ground, and had no suspicion of its not being genuine. it was not much--only a dollar--but he was "dead broke," and it was worth picking up. he had not expected that ben had much, and so was not disappointed. "curse you!" he said, relinquishing his hold upon ben. "why couldn't you give it to me instead of throwing it out there?" "because," answered ben boldly, "i didn't want you to have it." "get out and get it for me!" "i won't!" answered ben firmly. "then stop the horse and give me a chance to get out." "i'll do that." ben brought the horse to a halt, and his unwelcome passenger descended, much to his relief. he had to walk around the wagon to get at the coin. our hero brought down the whip with emphasis on the horse's back and the animal dashed off at a good rate of speed. "stop!" exclaimed the tramp, but ben had no mind to heed his call. "no, my friend, you don't get another chance to ride with me," he said to himself. the tramp picked up the coin, and his practiced eye detected that it was bogus. "the young villain!" he muttered angrily. "i'd like to wring his neck. it's a bad one after all." he looked after the receding team and was half disposed to follow, but he changed his mind, reflecting, "i can pass it anyhow." instead of pursuing his journey, he made his way into the woods, and, stretching himself out among the underbrush, went to sleep. half a mile before reaching the store, ben overtook rose gardiner, who had the reputation of being the prettiest girl in pendleton--at any rate, such was ben's opinion. she looked up and smiled pleasantly at ben as he took off his hat. "shall you attend prof. harrington's entertainment at the town hall this evening, ben?" she asked, after they had interchanged greetings. "i should like to go," answered ben, "but i am afraid i can't be spared from the store. shall you go?" "i wouldn't miss it for anything. i hope i shall see you there." "i shall want to go all the more then." answered ben gallantly. "you say that to flatter me," said the young lady, with an arch smile. "no, i don't," said ben earnestly. "won't you get in and ride as far as the store?" "would it be proper?" asked miss rose demurely. "of course it would." "then i'll venture." ben jumped from the wagon, assisted the young lady in, and the two drove into the village together. he liked his second passenger considerably better than the first. chapter ii ben and his mother ben barclay, after taking leave of the tramp, lost no time in driving to the grocery store where he was employed. it was a large country store, devoted not to groceries alone, but supplies of dry-goods, boots and shoes, and the leading articles required in the community. there were two other clerks besides ben, one the son, another the nephew, of simon crawford, the proprietor. "did you collect any money, ben?" asked simon, who chanced to be standing at the door when our hero drove up. "yes, sir; i collected twenty-five dollars, but came near losing it on the way home." "how was that? i hope you were not careless." "no, except in taking a stranger as a passenger. when we got to that piece of woods a mile back, he asked me for all the money i had." "a highwayman, and so near pentonville!" ejaculated simon crawford. "what was he like?" "a regular tramp." "yet you say you have the money. how did you manage to keep it from him?" ben detailed the stratagem of which he made use. "you did well," said the storekeeper approvingly. "i must give you a dollar for the one you sacrificed." "but sir, it was bad money. i couldn't have passed it." "that does not matter. you are entitled to some reward for the courage and quick wit you displayed. here is a dollar, and--let me see, there is an entertainment at the town hall this evening, isn't there?" "yes, sir. prof. harrington, the magician, gives an entertainment," said ben eagerly. "at what time does it commence?" "at eight o'clock." "you may leave the store at half-past seven. that will give you enough time to get there." "thank you, sir. i wanted to go to the entertainment, but did not like to ask for the evening." "you have earned it. here is the dollar," and mr. crawford handed the money to his young clerk, who received it gratefully. a magical entertainment may be a very common affair to my young readers in the city, but in a country village it is an event. pentonville was too small to have any regular place of amusement, and its citizens were obliged to depend upon traveling performers, who, from time to time, engaged the town hall. some time had elapsed since there had been any such entertainment, and prof. harrington was the more likely to be well patronized. ben, who had the love of amusement common to boys of his age, had been regretting the necessity of remaining in the store till nine o'clock, and therefore losing his share of amusement when, as we have seen, an opportunity suddenly offered. "i am glad i met the tramp, after all," he said to himself. "he has brought me luck." at supper he told is mother what had befallen him, but she tool a more serious view of it than he did. "he might have murdered you, ben," she said with a shudder. "oh, no; he wouldn't do that. he might have stolen mr. crawford's money; that was the most that was likely to happen." "i didn't think there were highwaymen about here. now i shall be worrying about you." "don't do that mother; i don't feel in any danger. still, if you think it best, i will carry a pistol." "no, no, ben! it might go off and kill you. i would rather run the risk of a highwayman. i wonder if the man is prowling about in the neighborhood yet?" "i don't think my bogus dollar will carry him very far. by the way, mother, i must tell yon one strange thing. he asked me if i was john barclay's son." "what!" exclaimed mrs. barclay, in a tone of great surprise. "did he know your name was barclay?" "not till i told him. then it was he asked if i was the son of john barclay." "did he say he knew your father?" "i asked him, but he answered evasively." "he might have seen some resemblance--that is, if he had ever met your father. ah! it was a sad day for us all when your poor father died. we should have been in a very different position," the widow sighed. "yes, mother," said ben; "but when i get older i will try to supply my father's place, and relieve you from care and trouble." "you are doing that in a measure now, my dear boy," said mrs. barclay affectionately. "you are a great comfort to me." ben's answer was to go up to his mother and kiss her. some boys of his age are ashamed to show their love for the mother who is devoted to them, but it a false shame, that does them no credit. "still, mother, you work too hard," said ben. "wait till i am a man, and you shall not need to work at all." mrs. barclay had been a widow for five years. her husband had been a commercial traveler, but had contracted a fever at chicago, and died after a brief illness, without his wife having the satisfaction of ministering to him in his last days. a small sum due him from his employers was paid over to his family, but no property was discovered, though his wife had been under the impression that her husband possessed some. he had never been in the habit of confiding his business affairs to her, and so, if he had investments of any kind, she could not learn anything about them. she found herself, therefore, with no property except a small cottage, worth, with its quarter acre of land, perhaps fifteen hundred dollars. as ben was too small to earn anything, she had been compelled to raise about seven hundred dollars on mortgage, which by this time had been expended for living. now, ben was earning four dollars a week, and, with her own earnings, she was able to make both ends meet without further encroachments upon her scanty property; but the mortgage was a source of anxiety to her, especially as it was held by squire davenport, a lawyer of considerable means, who was not overscrupulous about the methods by which he strove to increase his hoards. should he at any time take it into his head to foreclose, there was no one to whom mrs. barclay could apply to assume the mortgage, and she was likely to be compelled to sacrifice her home. he had more than once hinted that he might need the money but as yet had gone no further. mrs. barclay had one comfort, however, and a great one. this was a good son. ben was always kind to his mother--a bright, popular, promising boy--and though at present he was unable to earn much, in a few years he would be able to earn a good income, and then his mother knew that she would be well provided for. so she did not allow herself to borrow trouble but looked forward hopefully, thanking god for what he had given her. "won't you go up to the town hall with me, mother?" asked ben. i am sure you would enjoy it." "thank you, ben, for wishing me to have a share in your amusements," his mother replied, "but i have a little headache this evening, and i shall be better off at home." "it isn't on account of the expense you decline, mother, is it? you know mr. crawford gave me a dollar, and the tickets are but twenty-five cents." "no, it isn't that, ben. if it were a concert i might be tempted to go in spite of my headache, but a magical entertainment would not amuse me as much as it will you." "just as you think best, mother; but i should like to have you go. you won't feel lonely, will you?" "i am used to being alone till nine o'clock, when you are at the store." this conversation took place at the supper table. ben went directly from the store to the town hall, where he enjoyed himself as much as he anticipated. if he could have foreseen how his mother was to pass that evening, it would have destroyed all is enjoyment. chapter iii mrs. barclay's callers about half-past eight o'clock mrs. barclay sat with her work in her hand. her headache was better, but she did not regret not having accompanied ben to the town hall. "i am glad ben is enjoying himself," she thought, "but i would rather stay quietly at home. poor boy! he works hard enough, and needs recreation now and then." just then a knock was heard at the outside door. "i wonder who it can be?" thought the widow. "i supposed everybody would be at the town hall. it may be mrs. perkins come to borrow something." mrs. perkins was a neighbor much addicted to borrowing, which was rather disagreeable, but might have been more easily tolerated but that she seldom returned the articles lent. mrs. barclay went to the door and opened it, fully expecting to see her borrowing neighbor. a very different person met her view. the ragged hat, the ill-looking face, the neglected attire, led her to recognize the tramp whom ben had described to her as having attempted to rob him in the afternoon. terrified, mrs. barclay's first impulse was to shut the door and bolt it. but her unwelcome visitor was too quick for her. thrusting his foot into the doorway, he interposed an effectual obstacle in the way of shutting the door. "no, you don't, ma'am!" he said, with as laugh. "i understand your little game. you want to shut me out." "what do you want?" asked the widow apprehensively. "what do i want?" returned the tramp. "well, to begin with, i want something to eat--and drink," he added, after a pause. "why don't you go to the tavern?" asked mrs. barclay, anxious for him to depart. "well, i can't afford it. all the money i've got is a bogus dollar your rogue of a son gave me this afternoon." "you stole it from him," said the widow indignantly. "what's the odds if i did. it ain't of no value. come, haven't you anything to eat in the house? i'm hungry as a wolf." "and you look like one!" thought mrs. barclay, glancing at his unattractive features; but she did not dare to say it. there seemed no way of refusing, and she was glad to comply with his request, if by so doing she could soon get rid of him. "stay here," she said, "and i'll bring you some bread and butter and cold meat." "thank you, i'd rather come in," said the tramp, and he pushed his way through the partly open door. she led the way uneasily into the kitchen just in the rear of the sitting room where she had been seated. "i wish ben was here," she said to herself, with sinking heart. the tramp seated himself at the kitchen table, while mrs. barclay, going to the pantry, brought out part of a loaf of bread, and butter, and a few slices of cold beef, which she set before him. without ceremony he attacked the viands and ate as if half famished. when about half through, he turned to the widow, and asked: "haven't you some whisky in the house?" "i never keep any," answered mrs. barclay. "rum or gin, then?" i ain't partic'lar. i want something to warm me up." "i keep no liquor of any kind. i don't approve of drink, or want ben to touch it." "oh, you belong to the cold water army, do you?" said the tramp with a sneer. "give me some coffee, then." "i have no fire, and cannot prepare any." "what have you got, then?" demanded than unwelcome guest impatiently. "i can give you a glass of excellent well water." "[illegible] do you want to choke me?" returned the tramp in disgust. "suppose i mix you some molasses and water," suggested the widow, anxious to propitiate her dangerous guest. "humph! well, that will do, if you've got nothing better. be quick about it, for my throat is parched." as soon as possible the drink was prepared and set beside his plate. he drained it at a draught, and called for a second glass, which was supplied him. presently, for all things must have an end, the tramp's appetite seemed to be satisfied. he threw himself back in his chair, stretched his legs, and, with his hands in his pockets, fixed his eyes on the widow. "i feel better," he said. "i am glad to hear it," said mrs. barclay. "now, if you'll be kind enough, leave the house, for i expect ben back before long." "and you don't want him to get hurt," laughed the tramp. "well, i do owe him a flogging for a trick he played on me." "oh, pray, go away!" said mrs. barclay, apprehensively. "i have given you some supper, and that ought to satisfy you." "i can't go away till i've talked to you a little on business." "business! what business can you have with me?" "more than you think. you are the widow of john barclay, ain't you?" "yes; did you know my husband?" "yes; that is, i saw something of him just before he died." "can you tell me anything about his last moments?" asked the widow, forgetting the character of her visitor, and only thinking of her husband. "no, that isn't in my line. i ain't a doctor nor yet a minister. i say, did he leave any money?" "not that we have been able to find out. he owned this hone, but left no other property." "that you know of," said the tramp, significantly. "do you know of any?" asked mrs. barclay eagerly. "how did you happen to know him?" "i was the barkeeper in the hotel where he died. it was a small house, not one of your first-class hotels." "my husband was always careful of his expenses. he did not spend money unnecessarily. with his prudence we all thought he must have some investments, but we could discover none." "have you got any money in the house?" asked the tramp, with seeming abruptness. "why do you ask?" returned the widow, alarmed. "surely, you would not rob me?" "no, i don't want to rob you. i want to sell you something." "i don't care to buy. it takes all our money for necessary expenses." "you don't ask what i have to sell." "no, because i cannot buy it, whatever it may be." "it is--a secret," said the tramp. "a secret!" repeated mrs. barclay, bewildered. "yes, and a secret worth buying. your husband wasn't so poor as you think. he left stock and papers representing three thousand dollars, and i am the only man who can put you in the way of getting it." mrs. barclay was about to express her surprise, when a loud knock was head at the outer door. "who's that?" demanded the tramp quickly. "is it the boy?" "no, he would not knock." "then, let me get out of this," he said, leaping to his feet. "isn't there a back door?" "yes, there it is." he hurried to the door, unbolted it, and made his escape into the open beyond the house, just as the knock was repeated. confused by what she had heard, and the strange conduct of her visitor, the widow took the lamp and went to the door. to her surprise she found on opening it, two visitors, in one of whom she recognized squire davenport, already referred to as holding a mortgage on her house. the other was a short, dark-complexioned man, who looked like a mechanic. "excuse me the lateness of my call, mrs. barclay," said the squire smoothly. "i come on important business. this is mr. kirk, a cousin of my wife." "walk in, gentlemen," said mrs. barclay. "this is night of surprises," she thought to herself. chapter iv unpleasant business it was now nine o'clock, rather a late hour for callers in the country, and mrs. barclay waited not without curiosity to hear the nature of the business which had brought her two visitors at that time. "take seats, gentlemen," she said, with the courtesy habitual to her. squire davenport, who was disposed to consider that he had a right to the best of everything, seated himself in the rocking-chair, and signed his companion to a cane chair beside him. "mr. kirk," he commenced, "is thinking of coming to pentonville to live." "i am glad to hear it," said mrs. barclay politely. perhaps she would not have said this if she had known what was coming next. "he is a carpenter," continued the squire, "and, as we have none in the village except old mr. wade, who is superannuated, i think he will find enough to do to keep him busy." "i should think so," assented the widow. "if he does not, i can employ him a part of the time on my land." "what has all this to do with me?" thought mrs. barclay. she soon learned. "of course he will need a house," pursued the squire, "and as his family is small, he thinks this house will just suit him." "but i don't wish to sell," said the widow hurriedly. "i need this house for ben and myself." "you could doubtless find other accommodations. i dare say you could hire a couple of rooms from elnathan perkins." "i wouldn't live in that old shell," said mrs. barclay rather indignantly, "and i am sure ben wouldn't." "i apprehend benjamin will have no voice in the matter," said squire davenport stiffly. "he is only a boy." "he is my main support, and my main adviser," said mrs. barclay, with spirit, "and i shall not take any step which is disagreeable to him." mr. kirk looked disappointed, but the squire gave him an assuring look, as the widow could see. "perhaps you may change your mind," said the squire significantly. "i am under the impression that i hold a mortgage on this property." "yes, sir," assented mrs. barclay apprehensively. "for the sum of seven hundred dollars, if i am not mistaken." "yes, sir." "i shall have need of this money for other purposes, and will trouble you to take it up." "i was to have three months' notice," said the widow, with a troubled look. "i will give you three months' notice to-night," said the squire. "i don't know where to raise the money," faltered mrs. barclay. "then you had better sell to my friend here. he will assume the mortgage and pay you three hundred dollars." "but that will be only a thousand dollars for the place." "a very fair price, in my opinion, mrs. barclay." "i have always considered it worth fifteen hundred dollars," said the widow, very much disturbed. "a fancy price, my dear madam; quite an absurd price, i assure you. what do you say, kirk?" "i quite agree with you, squire," said kirk, in a strong, nasal tone. "but then, women don't know anything of business." "i know that you and your cousin are trying to take advantage of my poverty," said mrs. barclay bitterly. "if you are a carpenter, why don't you build a house for yourself, instead of trying to deprive me of mine?" "that's my business," said kirk rudely. "mr. kirk cannot spare the time to build at present," said the squire. "then why doesn't he hire rooms from elnathan perkins, as you just recommended to me?" "they wouldn't suit him," said the squire curtly. "he has set his mind on this house." "squire davenport," said mrs. barclay, in a softened voice, "i am sure you cannot understand what you ask of me when you seek to take my home and turn me adrift. here i lived with my poor husband; here my boy was born. during my married life i have had no other home. it is a humble dwelling, but it has associations and charms for me which it can never have for no one else. let mr. kirk see some other house and leave me undisturbed in mine." "humph!" said the squire, shrugging his shoulders; "you look upon the matter from a sentimental point of view. that is unwise. it is simply a matter of business. you speak of the house as yours. in reality, it is more mine than yours, for i have a major interest in it. think over my proposal coolly, and you will see that you are unreasonable. mr. kirk may be induced to give you a little more--say three hundred and fifty dollars--over and above the mortgage, which, as i said before, he is willing assume." "how does it happen that you are willing to let the mortgage remain, if he buys, when you want the money for other purposes?" asked the widow keenly. "he is a near relative of my wife, and that makes the difference, i apprehend." "well, madam, what do you say?" asked kirk briskly. "i say this, that i will keep the house if i can." "you needn't expect that i will relent," said the squire hastily. "i do not, for i see there is no consideration in your heart for a poor widow; but i cannot help thinking that providence will raise up some kind friend who will buy the mortgage, or in some other way will enable me to save my home." you are acting very foolishly, mrs. barclay, as you will realize in time. i give you a week in which to change your mind. till then my friend kirk's offer stands good. after that i cannot promise. if the property sold at auction i shouldn't he surprised if it did not fetch more than the amount of my lien upon it." "i will trust in providence, squire davenport." "providence won't pay off your mortgage, ma'am," said kirk, with a coarse laugh. mrs. barclay did not answer. she saw that he was a man of coarse fiber and did not care to notice him. "come along, kirk," said the squire. "i apprehend she will be all right after a while. mrs. barclay will see her own interest when she comes to reflect." "good-evening, ma'am," said kirk. mrs. barclay inclined her head slowly, but did not reply. when the two had left the house she sank into a chair and gave herself to painful thoughts. she had known that squire davenport had the right to dispossess her, but had not supposed he would do so as long as she paid the interest regularly. in order to do this, she and ben had made earnest efforts, and denied themselves all but the barest necessities. thus far she had succeeded. the interest on seven hundred dollars at six per cent. had amounted to forty-two dollars, and this was a large sum to pay, but thus far they had always had it ready. that squire davenport, with his own handsome mansion, would fix covetous eyes on her little home, she had not anticipated, but it had come to pass. as to raising seven hundred dollars to pay off the mortgage, or induce any capitalist to furnish it, she feared it would be quite impossible. she anxiously waited for ben's return from the town hall in order to consult with him. chapter v professor harrington's entertainment meanwhile ben barclay was enjoying himself at professor harrington's entertainment. he was at the town hall fifteen minutes before the time, and secured a seat very near the stage, or, perhaps it will be more correct to say, the platform. he had scarcely taken his seat when, to his gratification, rose gardiner entered the hall and sat down beside him. "good-evening, ben," she said pleasantly. "so you came, after all." ben's face flushed with pleasure, for rose gardiner was, as we have said, the prettiest girl in pentonville, and for this reason, as well as for her agreeable manners, was an object of attraction to the boys, who, while too young to be in love, were not insensible to the charms of a pretty face. i may add that rose was the niece of the rev. mr. gardiner, the minister of the leading church in the village. "good-evening, rose," responded ben, who was too well acquainted with the young lady to address her more formally; "i am glad to be in such company." "i wish i could return the compliment," answered rose, with a saucy smile. "don't be too severe," said ben, "or you will hurt my feelings." "that would be a pity, surely; but how do do you happen to get off this evening? i thought you spent your evenings at the store." "so i do, generally, but i was excused this evening for a special reason," and then he told of his adventure with the tramp. rose listened with eager attention. "weren't you terribly frightened?" she asked. "no," answered ben, adding, with a smile: "even if i had been, i shouldn't like to confess it." "i should have been so frightened that i would have screamed," continued the young lady. "i didn't think of that," said ben, amused. "i'll remember it next time." "oh, now i know you are laughing at me. tell me truly, weren't you frightened?" "i was only afraid i would lose mr. crawford's money. the tramp was stronger than i, and could have taken it from me if he had known i had it." "you tricked him nicely. where did he go? do you think he is still in town?" "he went into the woods. i don't think he is in the village. he would be afraid of being arrested." at that very moment the tramp was in ben's kitchen, but of that ben had no idea. "i don't know what i should do if i met him," said rose. "you see i came alone. aunt couldn't come with me, and uncle, being a minister, doesn't care for such things." "then i hope you'll let me see you home," said ben gallantly. "i wouldn't like to trouble you," said rose, with a spice of coquetry. "it will take you out of your way." "i don't mind that," said ben eagerly. "besides there won't be any need. you say the tramp isn't in the village." "on second thoughts, i think it very likely he is," said ben. "if you really think so--" commenced rose, with cunning hesitation. "i feel quite sure of it. he's a terrible looking fellow." rose smiled to herself. she meant all the time to accept ben's escort, for he was a bright, attractive boy, and she liked his society. "then perhaps i had better accept your offer, but i am sorry to give you so much trouble." "no trouble at all," said ben promptly. just then prof. harrington came forward and made his introductory speech. "for my first experiment, ladies and gentlemen," he said, when this was over, "i should like a pocket handkerchief." a countrified-looking young man on the front seat, anxious to share in the glory of the coming trick, produced a flaming red bandanna from his pocket and tendered it with outstretched hand. "you are very kind," said the professor, "but this will hardly answer my purpose. i should prefer a linen handkerchief. will some young lady oblige me?" "let him have yours, rose," suggested ben. rose had no objection, and it was passed to the professor. "the young lady will give me leave to do what i please with the handkerchief?" asked the professor. rose nodded assent. "then," said the professor, "i will see if it is proof against fire." he deliberately unfolded it, crushed it in his hand, and then held it in the flame of a candle. rose uttered a low ejaculation. "that's the last of your handkerchief, rose," said ben. "you made me give it to him. you must buy me another," said the young lady. "so i will, if you don't get it back safe." "how can i?" "i don't know. perhaps the professor does," answered ben. "really," said the professor, contemplating the handkerchief regretfully. "i am afraid i have destroyed the handkerchief; i hope the young lady will pardon me." he looked at rose, but she made no sign. she felt a little disturbed, for it was a fine handkerchief, given her by her aunt. "i see the young lady is annoyed," continued the magician. "in that case i must try to repair damages. i made a little mistake in supposing the handkerchief to be noncombustible. however, perhaps matters are not so bad as they seem." he tossed the handkerchief behind a screen, and moved forward to a table on which was a neat box. taking a small key from his pocket, he unlocked it and drew forth before the astonished eyes of his audience the handkerchief intact. "i believe this is your handkerchief, is it not?" he asked, stepping down from the platform and handing it back to rose. "yes," answered rose, in amazement, examining it carefully, and unable to detect any injury. "and it is in as good condition as when you gave it to me?" "yes, sir." "so much the better. then i shall not be at the expense of buying a new one. young man, have you any objections to lending me your hat?" this question was addressed to ben. "no, sir." "thank you. i will promise not to burn it, as i did the young lady's handkerchief. you are sure there is nothing in it?" "yes, sir." by this time the magician had reached the platform. "i am sorry to doubt the young gentleman's word," said the professor, "but i will charitably believe he is mistaken. perhaps he forgot these articles when he said it was empty," and he drew forth a couple of potatoes and half a dozen onions from the hat and laid them on the table. there was a roar of laughter from the audience, and ben looked rather confused, especially when rose turned to him and, laughing, said: "you've been robbing mr. crawford, i am afraid, ben." "the young gentleman evidently uses his hat for a market-basket," proceeded the professor. "rather a strange taste, but this is a free country. but what have we here?" out came a pair of stockings, a napkin and a necktie. "very convenient to carry your wardrobe about with you," said the professor, "though it is rather curious taste to put them with vegetables. but here is something else," and the magician produced a small kitten, who regarded the audience with startled eyes and uttered a timid moan. "oh, ben! let me have that pretty kitten," said rose. "it's none of mine!" said ben, half annoyed, half amused. "i believe there is nothing more," said the professor. he carried back the hat to ben, and gave it to him with the remark: "young man, you may call for your vegetables and other articles after the entertainment." "you are welcome to them," said ben. "thank you; you are very liberal." when at length the performance was over, ben and rose moved toward the door. as rose reached the outer door, a boy about ben's age, but considerably better dressed, stepped up to her and said, with a consequential air: "i will see you home, miss gardiner." "much obliged, mr. davenport," said rose, "but i have accepted ben's escort." chapter vi two young rivals tom davenport, for it was the son of squire davenport who had offered his escort to rose, glanced superciliously at our hero. "i congratulate you on having secured a grocer's boy as escort," he said in a tone of annoyance. ben's fist contracted, and he longed to give the pretentious aristocrat a lesson, but he had the good sense to wait for the young lady's reply. "i accept your congratulations, mr. davenport," said rose coldly. "i have no desire to change my escort." tom davenport laughed derisively, and walked away. "i'd like to box his ears," said ben, reddening. "he doesn't deserve your notice, ben," said rose, taking his arm. but ben was not easily appeased. "just because his father is a rich man," he resumed. "he presumes upon it," interrupted rose, good-naturedly. "well, let him. that's his chief claim to consideration, and it is natural for him to make the most of it." "at any rate, i hope that can't be said of me," returned ben, his brow clearing. "if i had nothing but money to be proud of, i should be very poorly off." "you wouldn't object to it, though." "no, i hope, for mother's sake, some day to be rich." "most of our rich men were once poor boys," said rose quietly. "i have a book of biographies at home, and i find that not only rich men, but men distinguished in other ways, generally commenced in poverty." "i wish you'd lend me that book," said ben. "sometimes i get despondent and that will give me courage." "you shall have it whenever you call at the house. but you mustn't think too much of getting money." "i don't mean to; but i should like to make my mother comfortable. i don't see much chance of it while i remain a 'grocer's boy,' as tom davenport calls me." "better be a grocer's boy than spend your time in idleness, as tom does." "tom thinks it beneath him to work." "if his father had been of the sane mind when he was a boy, he would never have become a rich man." "was squire davenport a poor boy?" "yes, so uncle told me the other day. when he was a boy he worked on a farm. i don't know how he made his money, but i presume he laid the foundation of his wealth by hard work. so, tom hasn't any right to look down upon those who are beginning now as his father began." they had by this time traversed half the distance from the town hall to the young lady's home. the subject of conversation was changed and they began to talk about the evening's entertainment. at length they reached the minister's house. "won't you come in, ben?" asked rose. "isn't it too late?" "no, uncle always sits up late reading, and will be glad to see you." "then i will come in for a few minutes." ben's few minutes extended to three-quarters of an hour. when he came out, the moon was obscured and it was quite dark. ben had not gone far when he heard steps behind him, and presently a hand was laid on his shoulder. "hello, boy!" said a rough voice. ben started, and turning suddenly, recognized in spite of the darkness, the tramp who had attempted to rob him during the day. he paused, uncertain whether he was not going to be attacked, but the tramp laughed reassuringly. "don't be afraid, boy," he said. "i owe you some money, and here it is." he pressed into the hand of the astonished ben the dollar which our hero had given him. "i don't think it will do me any good," he said. "i've given it back, and now you can't say i robbed you." "you are a strange man," said ben. "i'm not so bad as i look," said the tramp. "some day i may do you a service. i'm goin' out of town to-night, and you'll hear from me again some time." he turned swiftly, and ben lost sight of him. chapter vii the tramp makes another call my readers will naturally be surprised at the tramp's restitution of a coin, which, though counterfeit, he would probably have managed to pass, but this chapter will throw some light on his mysterious conduct. when he made a sudden exit from mrs. barclay's house, upon the appearance of the squire and his friend, he did not leave the premises, but posted himself at a window, slightly open, of the room in which the widow received her new visitors. he listened with a smile to the squire's attempt to force mrs. barclay to sell her house. "he's a sly old rascal!" thought the tramp. "i'll put a spoke in his wheel." when the squire and his wife's cousin left the house, the tramp followed at a little distance. not far from the squire's handsome residence kirk left him, and the tramp then came boldly forward. "good-evenin'," he said familiarly. squire davenport turned sharply, and as his eye fell on the unprepossessing figure, he instinctively put his hand in the pocket in which he kept his wallet. "who are you?" he demanded apprehensively. "i ain't a thief, and you needn't fear for your wallet," was the reply. "let me pass, fellow! i can do nothing for you." "we'll see about that!" "do you threaten me?" asked squire davenport, in alarm. "not at all; but i've got some business with you--some important business." "then call to-morrow forenoon," said davenport, anxious to get rid of his ill-looking acquaintance. "that won't do; i want to leave town tonight." "that's nothing to me." "it may be," said the tramp significantly. "i want to speak to you about the husband of the woman you called on to-night." "the husband of mrs. barclay! why, he is dead!" ejaculated the squire, in surprise. "that is true. do you know whether he left any property?" "no, i believe not." "that's what i want to talk about. you'd better see me to-night." there was significance in the tone of the tramp, and squire davenport looked at him searchingly. "why don't you go and see mrs. barclay about this matter?" he asked. "i may, but i think you'd better see me first." by this time they had reached the squire's gate. "come in," he said briefly. the squire led the way into a comfortable sitting room, and his rough visitor followed him. by the light of an astral lamp squire davenport looked at him. "did i ever see you before?" he asked. "probably not." "then i don't see what business we can have together. i am tired, and wish to go to bed." "i'll come to business at once, then. when john barclay died in chicago, a wallet was found in his pocket, and in that wallet was a promissory note for a thousand dollars, signed by you. i suppose you have paid that sum to the widow?" squire davenport was the picture of dismay. he had meanly ignored the note, with the intention of cheating mrs. barclay. he had supposed it was lost, yet here, after some years, appeared a man who knew of it. as mr. barclay had been reticent about his business affairs, he had never told his wife about having deposited this sum with squire davenport, and of this fact the squire had meanly taken advantage. "what proof have you of this strange and improbable story?" asked the squire, after a nervous pause. "the best of proof," answered the tramp promptly. "the note was found and is now in existence." "who holds it--that is, admitting for a moment the truth of your story?" "i do; it is in my pocket at this moment." at this moment tom davenport opened the door of the apartment, and stared in open-eyed amazement at his father's singular visitor. "leave the room, tom," said his father hastily. "this man is consulting me on business." "is that your son, squire?" asked the tramp, with a familiar nod. "he's quite a young swell." "what business can my father have with such a cad?" thought tom, disgusted. tom was pleased, nevertheless, at being taken for "a young swell." chapter viii squire davenport's financial operation squire davenport was a thoroughly respectable man in the estimation of the community. that such a man was capable of defrauding a poor widow, counting on her ignorance, would have plunged all his friends and acquaintances into the profoundest amazement. yet this was precisely what the squire had done. mr. barclay, who had prospered beyond his wife's knowledge, found himself seven years before in possession of a thousand dollars in hard cash. knowing that the squire had a better knowledge of suitable investments than he, he went to him one day and asked advice. now, the squire was fond of money. when he saw the ample roll of bank notes which his neighbor took from his wallet, he felt a desire to possess them. they would not be his, to be sure, but merely to have them under his control seemed pleasant. so he said: "friend barclay, i should need time to consider that question. are you in a hurry?" "i should like to get the money out of my possession. i might lose it or have it stolen. besides, i don't want my wife to discover that i have it." "it might make her extravagant, perhaps," suggested the squire. "no, i am not afraid of that; but i want some day to surprise her by letting her see that i am a richer man than she thinks." "very judicious! then no one knows that you have the money?" "no one; i keep my business to myself." "you are a wise man. i'll tell you what i will do, friend barclay. while i am not prepared to recommend any particular investment, i will take the money and give you my note for it, agreeing to pay six per cent. interest. of course i shall invest it in some way, and i may gain or i may lose, but even if i do lose you will be safe, for you will have my note, and will receive interest semi-annually." the proposal struck mr. barclay quite favorably. "i suppose i can have the money when i want it again?" he inquired. "oh, certainly! i may require a month's notice to realize on securities; but if i have the money in bank i won't even ask that." "then take the money, squire, and give me the note." so, in less than five minutes, the money found its way into squire davenport's strong box, and mr. barclay left the squire's presence well satisfied with his note of hand in place of his roll of greenbacks. nearly two years passed. interest was paid punctually three times, and another payment was all but due when the unfortunate creditor died in chicago. then it was that a terrible temptation assailed squire davenport. no one knew of the trust his neighbor had reposed in him--not even his wife. of course, if the note was found in his pocket, all would be known. but perhaps it would not be known. in that case, the thousand dollars and thirty dollars interest might be retained without anyone being the wiser. it is only fair to say that squire davenport's face flushed with shame as the unworthy thought came to him, but still he did not banish it. he thought the matter over, and the more he thought the more unwilling he was to give up this sum, which all at once had become dearer to him than all the rest of his possessions. "i'll wait to see whether the note is found," he said to himself. "of course, if it is, i will pay it--" that is, he would pay it if he were obliged to do it. poor barclay was buried in chicago--it would have been too expensive to bring on the body--and pretty soon it transpired that he had left no property, except the modest cottage in which his widow and son continued to live. poor mrs. barclay! everybody pitied her, and lamented her straitened circumstances. squire davenport kept silence, and thought, with guilty joy, "they haven't found the note; i can keep the money, and no one will be the wiser!" how a rich man could have been guilty of such consummate meaness i will not undertake to explain, but "the love of money is the root of evil," and squire davenport had love of money in no common measure. five years passed. mrs. barclay was obliged to mortgage her house to obtain the means of living, and the very man who supplied her with the money was the very man whom her husband had blindly trusted. she little dreamed that it was her own money he was doling out to her. in fact, squire davenport himself had almost forgotten it. he had come to consider the thousand dollars and interest fully and absolutely his own, and had no apprehension that his mean fraud would ever be discovered. like a thunderbolt, then, came to him the declaration of his unsavory visitor that the note was in existence, and was in the hands of a man who meant to use it. smitten with sudden panic, he stared in the face of the tramp. but he was not going to give up without a struggle. "you are evidently trying to impose upon me," he said, mentally bracing up. "you wish to extort money from me." "so i do," said the tramp quietly. "ha! you admit it?" exclaimed the squire. "certainly; i wouldn't have taken the trouble to come here at great expense and inconvenience if i hadn't been expecting to make some money." "then you have come to the wrong person; i repeat it, you've come to the wrong person!" said the squire, straightening his back and eying his companion sternly. "i begin to think i have," assented the visitor. "ha! he weakens!" thought squire davenport. "my good man, i recommend you to turn over a new leaf, and seek to earn an honest living, instead of trying to levy blackmail on men of means." "an honest living!" repeated the tramp, with a laugh. "this advice comes well from you." once more the squire felt uncomfortable and apprehensive. "i don't understand you," he said irritably. "however, as you yourself admit, you have come to the wrong person." "just so," said the visitor, rising. "i now go to the right person." "what do you mean?" asked squire davenport, in alarm. "i mean that i ought to have gone to mrs. barclay." "sit down, sit down!" said the squire nervously. "you mustn't do that." "why not?" demanded the tramp, looking him calmly in the face. "because it would disturb her mind, and excite erroneous thoughts and expectations." "she would probably be willing to give me a good sum for bringing it to her, say, the overdue interest. that alone, in five years and a half, would amount to over three hundred dollars, even without compounding." squire davenport groaned in spirit. it was indeed true! he must pay away over thirteen hundred dollars, and his loss in reputation would be even greater than his loss of money. "can't we compromise this thing?" he stammered. "i don't admit the genuineness of the note, but if such a claim were made, it would seriously annoy me. i am willing to give you, say, fifty dollars, if you will deliver up the pretended note." "it won't do, squire. fifty dollars won't do! i won't take a cent less than two hundred, and that is only about half the interest you would have to pay." "you speak as if the note were genuine," said the squire uncomfortably. "you know whether it is or not," said the tramp significantly. "at any rate, we won't talk about that. you know my terms." in the end squire davenport paid over two hundred dollars, and received back the note, which after a hasty examination, he threw into the fire. "now," he said roughly, "get out of my house, you--forger." "good-evening, squire," said the tramp, laughing and nodding to the discomfited squire. "we may meet again, some time." "if you come here again, i will set the dog on you." "so much the worse for the dog! well, good-night! i have enjoyed my interview--hope you have." "impudent scoundrel!" said the squire to himself. "i hope he will swing some day!" but, as he thought over what had happened, he found comfort in the thought that the secret was at last safe. the note was burned, and could never reappear in judgment against him. certainly, he got off cheap. "well," thought the tramp as he strode away from the squire's mansion, "this has been a profitable evening. i have two hundred dollars in my pocket, and--i still have a hold on the rascal. if he had only examined the note before burning it, he might have made a discovery!" chapter ix a prospect of trouble when ben returned home from the town hall he discovered, at the first glance, that his mother was in trouble. "are you disturbed because i came home so late?" asked ben. "i would have been here sooner, but i went home with rose gardiner. i ought to have remembered that you might feel lonely." mrs. barclay smiled faintly. "i had no occasion to feel lonely," she said. "i had three callers. the last did not go away till after nine o'clock." "i am glad you were not alone, mother," said ben, thinking some of his mother's neighbors might have called. "i should rather have been alone, ben. they brought bad news--that is, one of them did." "who was it, mother? who called on you?" "the first one was the same man who took your money in the woods." "what, the tramp!" exclaimed ben hastily. "did he frighten you?" "a little, at first, but he did me no harm. he asked for some supper, and i gave it to him." "what bad news did he bring?" "none. it was not he. on the other hand, what he hinted would be good news if it were true. he said that your father left property, and that he was the only man that possessed the secret." "do you think this can be so?" said ben, looking at his mother in surprise. "i don't know what to think. he said he was a barkeeper in the hotel where your poor father died, and was about to say more when a knock was heard at the door, and he hurried away, as if in fear of encountering somebody." "and he did not come back?" "no." "that is strange," said ben thoughtfully. "do you know, mother, i met him on my way home, or rather, he came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder." "what did be say?" asked mrs. barclay eagerly. "he gave me back the bogus dollar he took from me saying, with a laugh, that it would be of no use to him. then he said he might do me a service sometime, and i would some day hear from him." "ben, i think that man took the papers from the pocket of your dying father, and has them now in his possession. he promised to sell me a secret for money, but i told him i had none to give." "i wish we could see him again, but he said he should leave town to-night. but, mother, what was the bad news you spoke of?" "ben, i am afraid we are going to lose our home," said the widow, the look of trouble returning to her face. "what do you mean, mother?" "you know that squire davenport has a mortgage on the place for seven hundred dollars; he was here to-night with a man named kirk, some connection of his wife. it seems kirk is coming to pentonville to live, and wants this house." "he will have to want it, mother," said ben stoutly. "not if the squire backs him as he does; he threatens to foreclose the mortgage if i don't sell." ben comprehended the situation now, and appreciated its gravity. "what does he offer, mother?" "a thousand dollars only--perhaps a little more." "why that would be downright robbery." "not in the eye of the law. ben, we are in the power of squire davenport, and he is a hard man." "i would like to give him a piece of my mind, mother. he might be in better business than robbing you of your house." "do nothing hastily, ben. there is only one thing that we can do to save the house, and that is, to induce someone to advance the money necessary to take up the mortgage." "can you think of anybody who would do it?" mrs. barclay shook her head. "there is no one in pentonville who would be willing, and has the money," she said. "i have a rich cousin in new york, but i have not met him since i was married; he thought a great deal of me once, but i suppose he scarcely remembers me now. he lived, when i last heard of him, on lexington avenue, and his name is absalom peters." "and he is rich?" "yes, very rich, i believe." "i have a great mind to ask for a day's vacation from mr. crawford, and go to new york to see him." "i am afraid it would do no good." "it would do no harm, except that it would cost something for traveling expenses. but i would go as economically as possible. have i your permission, mother?" "you can do as you like, ben; i won't forbid you, though i have little hope of its doing any good." "then i will try and get away monday. to-morrow is saturday, and i can't be spared at the store; there is always more doing, you know, on saturday than any other day." "i don't feel like giving any advice, ben. do as you please." the next day, on his way home to dinner, ben met his young rival of the evening previous, tom davenport. "how are you, tom?" said ben, nodding. "i want to speak to you, ben barclay," said the young aristocrat, pausing in his walk. "go ahead! i'm listening," said ben. tom was rather annoyed at the want of respect which, in his opinion, ben showed him, but hardly knew how to express his objections, so he came at once to the business in hand. "you'd better not hang around rose gardiner so much," he said superciliously. "what do you mean by that?" demanded ben quickly. "you forced your attentions on her last evening at the town hall." "who told you so?" "i saw it for myself." "i thought rose didn't tell you so." "it must be disagreeable to her family to have a common grocer's boy seen with her." "it seems to me you take a great deal of interest in the matter, tom davenport. you talk as if you were the guardian of the young lady. i believe you wanted to go home with her yourself." "it would have been far more suitable, but you had made her promise to go with you." "i would have released her from her promise at once, if she had expressed a wish to that effect. now, i want to give you a piece of advice." "i don't want any of your advice," said tom loftily. "i don't want any advice from a store boy." "i'll give it to you all the same. you can make money by minding your own business." "you are impudent!" said tom, flushing with anger. "i've got something more to tell you. you'll be out on the sidewalk before three months are over. father is going to foreclose the mortgage on your house." "that remains to be seen!" said ben, but his heart sank within him as he realized that the words would probably prove true. chapter x ben goes to new york pentonville was thirty-five miles distant from new york, and the fare was a dollar, but an excursion ticket, carrying a passenger both ways, was only a dollar and a half. ben calculated that his extra expenses, including dinner, might amount to fifty cents, thus making the cost of the trip two dollars. this sum, small as it was, appeared large both to ben and his mother. some doubts about the expediency of the journey suggested themselves to mrs. barclay. "do you think you had better go, ben?" she said doubtfully. "two dollars would buy you some new stockings and handkerchiefs." "i will do without them, mother. something has got to be done, or we shall be turned into the street when three months are up. squire davenport is a very selfish man, and he will care nothing for our comfort or convenience." "that is true," said the widow, with a sigh. "if i thought your going to new york would do any good, i would not grudge you the money--" "something will turn up, or i will turn up something," said ben confidently. when he asked mr. crawford for a day off, the latter responded: "yes, ben, i think i can spare you, as monday is not a very busy day. would you be willing to do an errand for me?" "certainly mr. crawford, with pleasure." "i need a new supply of prints. go to stackpole & rogers, no. ---- white street, and select me some attractive patterns. i shall rely upon your taste." "thank you, sir," said ben, gratified by the compliment. he received instructions as to price and quantity, which he carefully noted down. "as it will save me a journey, not to speak of my time, i am willing to pay your fare one way." "thank you, sir; you are very kind." mr. crawford took from the money drawer a dollar, and handed it to ben. "but i buy an excursion ticket, so that my fare each way will be but seventy-five cents." "never mind, the balance will go toward your dinner." "there, mother, what do you say now?" said ben, on saturday night. "mr. crawford is going to pay half my expenses, and i am going to buy some goods for him." "i am glad he reposes so much confidence in you, ben. i hope you won't lose his money." "oh, i don't carry any. he buys on thirty days. all i have to do is to select the goods." "perhaps it is for the best that you go, after all," said mrs. barclay. "at any rate, i hope so." at half-past seven o'clock on monday morning ben stood on the platform of the pentonville station, awaiting the arrival of the train. "where are you going?" said a voice. ben, turning, saw that it was tom davenport who had spoken. "i am going to new york," he answered briefly. "has crawford discharged you?" "why do you ask? would you like to apply for the position?" asked ben coolly. "do you think i would condescend to be a grocer's boy?" returned tom disdainfully. "i don't know." "if i go into business it will be as a merchant." "i am glad to hear it." "you didn't say what you were going to new york for?" "i have no objection to tell you, as you are anxious to know; i am going to the city to buy goods." tom looked not only amazed, but incredulous. "that's a likely story," said he, after a pause. "it is a true story." "do you mean to say crawford trusts you buy goods for him?" "so it seems." "he must be getting weak-headed." "suppose you call and give him that gratifying piece of information." just then the train came thundering up, and ben jumped aboard. tom davenport looked after him with a puzzled glance. "i wonder whether that boy tells the truth," he said to himself. "he thinks too much of himself, considering what he is." it never occurred to tom that the remark would apply even better to him than the boy he was criticising. as a rule we are the last to recognize our own faults, however quick we may be to see the faults of others. two hours later ben stood in front of the large dry-goods jobbing house of stackpole & rogers, in white street. he ascended the staircase to the second floor, which was very spacious and filled with goods in great variety. "where is the department of prints?" he inquired of a young man near the door. he was speedily directed and went over at once. he showed the salesman in charge a letter from mr. crawford, authorizing him to select a certain amount of goods. "you are rather a young buyer," said the salesman, smiling. "it is the first time i have served in that way," said ben modestly; "but i know pretty well what mr. crawford wants." half an hour was consumed in making his selections. "you have good taste," said the salesman, "judging from your selections." "thank you." "if you ever come to the city to look for work, come here, and i will introduce you to the firm." "thank you. how soon can you ship the goods?" "i am afraid not to-day, as we are very busy. early next week we will send them." his business concluded, ben left the store and walked up to broadway. the crowded thoroughfare had much to interest him. he was looking at a window when someone tapped him on the shoulder. it was a young man foppishly attired, who was smiling graciously upon him. "why, gus andre," he said, "when did you come to town, and how did you leave all the folks in bridgeport?" "you have made a mistake," said ben. "isn't your name gus andre?" "no, it is ben barclay, from pentonville." "i really beg your pardon. you look surprisingly like my friend gussie." five minutes later there was another tap on our hero's shoulder, as he was looking into another window, and another nicely dressed young man said heartily: "why, ben, my boy, when did you come to town?" "this morning," answered ben. "you seem to know me, but i can't remember you." "are you not ben barclay, of pentonville." "yes, but----" "don't you remember jim fisher, who passed part of the summer, two years since, in your village?" "where were you staying?" asked ben. it was the other's turn to looked confused. "at--the smiths'," he answered, at random. "at mrs. roxana smith's?" suggested ben. "yes, yes," said the other eagerly, "she is my aunt." "is she?" asked ben, with a smile of amusement, for he had by this time made up his mind as to the character of his new friend. "she must be proud of her stylish nephew. mrs. smith is a poor widow, and takes in washing." "it's some other smith," said the young man, discomfited. "she is the only one by that name in pentonville." jim fisher, as he called himself, turned upon his heel and left ben without a word. it was clear that nothing could be made out of him. ben walked all the way up broadway, as far as twenty-first street, into which he turned, and walked eastward until he reached gramercy park, opposite which lexington avenue starts. in due time he reached the house of mr. absalom peters, and, ascending the steps, he rang the bell. "is mr. peters in?" he asked of the servant who answered the bell. "no." "will he be in soon?" "i guess not. he sailed for europe last week." ben's heart sank within him. he had hoped much from mr. peters, before whom he meant to lay all the facts of his mother's situation. now that hope was crushed. he turned and slowly descended the steps. "there goes our last chance of saving the house," he said to himself sadly. chapter xi the madison avenue stage ben was naturally hopeful, but he had counted more than he was aware on the chance of obtaining assistance from absalom peters toward paying off his mother's mortgage. as mr. peters was in europe nothing could be done, and them seemed absolutely no one else to apply to. they had friends, of course, and warm ones, in pentonville, but none that were able to help them. "i suppose we must make up our minds to lose the house," thought ben. "squire davenport is selfish and grasping, and there is little chance of turning him." he walked westward till he reached madison avenue. a stage approached, being bound downtown, and, feeling tired, he got in. the fare was but five cents, and he was willing to pay it. some half dozen other passengers beside himself were in the stage. opposite ben sat a handsomely dressed, somewhat portly lady, of middle age, with a kindly expression. next her sat a young man, attired fashionably, who had the appearance of belonging to a family of position. there were, besides, an elderly man, of clerical appearance; a nurse with a small child, a business man, intent upon the financial column of a leading paper, and a schoolboy. ben regarded his fellow-passengers with interest. in pentonville he seldom saw a new face. here all were new. our young hero was, though be did not know it, an embryo student of human nature. he liked to observe men and women of different classes and speculate upon their probable position and traits. it so happened that his special attention was attracted to the fashionably-attired young man. "i suppose he belongs to a rich family, and has plenty of money," thought ben. "it must be pleasant to be born with a gold spoon in your mouth, and know that you are provided for life." if ben had been wiser he would have judged differently. to be born to wealth removes all the incentives to action, and checks the spirit of enterprise. a boy or man who finds himself gradually rising in the world, through his own exertions, experiences a satisfaction unknown to one whose fortune is ready-made. however, in ben's present strait it is no wonder he regarded with envy the supposed young man of fortune. our hero was destined to be strangely surprised. his eyes were unusually keen, and enabled him after a while to observe some rather remarkable movements on the part of the young man. though his eyes were looking elsewhere, ben could see that his right hand was stealthily insinuating itself into the pocket of the richly-dressed lady at his side. "is it possible that he is a pickpocket?" thought ben, in amazement. "so nicely dressed as he is, too!" it did not occur to ben that he dressed well the better to avert suspicion from his real character. besides, a man who lives at other people's expense can afford to dress well. "what shall i do?" thought ben, disturbed in mind. "ought i not to warn the lady that she is in danger of losing her money?" while he was hesitating the deed was accomplished. a pearl portemonnaie was adroitly drawn from the lady's pocket and transferred to that of the young man. it was done with incredible swiftness, but ben's sharp eyes saw it. the young man yawned, and, turning away from the lady, appeared to be looking out of a window at the head of the coach. "why, there is jack osborne," he said, half audibly, and, rising, pulled the strap for the driver to stop the stage. then was the critical moment for ben. was he to allow the thief to escape with the money. ben hated to get into a disturbance, but he felt that it would be wrong and cowardly to be silent. "before you get out," he said, "hand that lady her pocketbook." the face of the pickpocket changed and he darted a malignant glance at ben. "what do you mean, you young scoundrel?" he said. "you have taken that lady's pocketbook," persisted ben. "do you mean to insult me?" "i saw you do it." with a half exclamation of anger, the young man darted to the door. but he was brought to a standstill by the business man, who placed himself in his way. "not so fast, young man," he said resolutely. "out of the way!" exclaimed the thief, in a rage. "it's all a base lie. i never was so insulted in my life." "do you miss your pocketbook, madam?" asked the gentleman, turning to the lady who had been robbed. "yes," she answered. "it was in the pocket next to this man." the thief seeing there was no hope of retaining his booty, drew it from his pocket and flung it into the lady's lap. "now, may i go?" he said. there was no policeman in sight, and at a nod from the lady, the pickpocket was allowed to leave the stage. "you ought to have had him arrested. he is a dangerous character," said the gentleman who had barred his progress. "it would have been inconvenient for me to appear against him," said the lady. "i am willing to let him go." "well, there is one comfort--if he keeps on he will be hauled up sooner or later," remarked the gentleman. "would your loss have been a heavy one?" he inquired. "i had quite a large sum in my pocketbook, over two hundred dollars. but for my young friend opposite," she said, nodding kindly at ben, "i should have lost it with very small chance of recovery." "i am glad to have done you a service, madam," said ben politely. "i know it is rather imprudent to carry so large sum about with me," continued the lady, but i have a payment to make to a carpenter who has done work in my house, and i thought he might not find it convenient use a check." "a lady is in more danger than a gentleman," observed the business man, "as she cannot so well hide away her pocketbook. you will need to be careful as you walk along the street." "i think it will be best to have a neighbor whom i can trust," said the lady. "would you mind taking this seat at my side?" she continued, addressing ben. "i will change with pleasure," said our hero, taking the seat recently vacated by the pickpocket. "you have sharp eyes, my young friend," said his new acquaintance. "my eyes are pretty good," said ben, with a smile. "they have done me good service to-day. may i know to whom i am indebted for such timely help?" "my name is benjamin barclay." "do you live in the city?" "no, madam. i live in pentonville, about thirty miles from new york." "i have heard of the place. are you proposing to live here?" "no madam. i came in to-day on a little business of my own, and also to select some goods for a country store in which i am employed." "you are rather young for such a commission." "i know the sort of goods mr. crawford sells, so it was not very difficult to make the selection." "at what time do you go back?" "by the four o'clock train." "have you anything to do meanwhile?" "no, madam," answered ben, a little surprised. "then i should like to have you accompany me to the place where i am to settle my bill. i feel rather timid after my adventure with our late fellow-passenger." "i shall be very happy to oblige you, madam," said ben politely. he had just heard a public clock strike one and he knew, therefore, that he would have plenty of time. chapter xii ben's luck "we will get out here," said mrs. hamilton. they had reached the corner of fourth street and broadway. ben pulled the strap, and with his new friend left the stage. he offered his hand politely to assist the lady in descending. "he is a little gentleman," thought mrs. hamilton, who was much pleased with our hero. they turned from broadway eastward, and presently crossed the bowery also. not far to the east of the last avenue they came to a carpenter's shop. mr. plank, a middle-aged, honest-looking mechanic, looked up in surprise when mrs. hamilton entered the shop. "you didn't expect a call from me?" said the lady pleasantly. "no, ma'am. fashionable ladies don't often find their way over here." "then don't look upon me as a fashionable lady. i like to attend to my business myself, and have brought you the money for your bill." "thank you, ma'am. you never made me wait. but i am sorry you had the trouble to come to my shop. i would have called at your house if you had sent me a postal." "my time was not so valuable as yours, mr. plank. i must tell you, however, that you came near not getting your money this morning. another person undertook to collect your bill." "who was it?" demanded the carpenter indignantly. "if there's anybody playing such tricks on me i will have him up before the courts." "it was no acquaintance of yours. the person in question had no spite against you and you would only have suffered a little delay." then mrs. hamilton explained how a pickpocket had undertaken to relieve her of her wallet, and would have succeeded but for her young companion. "oh they're mighty sharp, ma'am, i can tell you," said the carpenter. "i never lost anything, because i don't look as if i had anything worth stealing; but if one of those rascals made up his mind to rob me, ten to one he'd do it." mr. plank receipted his bill and mrs. hamilton paid him a hundred and eighty-seven dollars and fifty cents. ben could not help envying him as he saw the roll of bills transferred to him. "i hope the work was done satisfactory," said mr. plank. (perfect grammar could not be expected of a man who, from the age of twelve, had been forced to earn his own living.) "quite so, mr. plank," said the lady graciously. "i shall send for you when i have any more work to be done." there was no more business to attend to, and mrs. hamilton led the way out, accompanied by ben. "i will trouble you to see me as far as broadway," said the lady. "i am not used to this neighborhood and prefer to have an escort." "i didn't think this morning," said ben to himself, "that a rich lady would select me as her escort." on the whole, he liked it. it gave him a feeling of importance, and a sense of responsibility which a manly boy always likes. "i shall be glad to stay with you as long as you like," said ben. "thank you, benjamin, or shall i say ben?" "i wish you would. i hardly know myself when i am called benjamin." "as we are walking alone, suppose you tell me something of yourself. i only know your name, and that you live in pentonville. what relations have you?" "a mother only--my father is dead." "and you help take care of your mother, i suppose?" "yes; father left us nothing except the house we live in, or, at least, we could get track of no other property. he died in chicago suddenly." "i hope you are getting along comfortably--you and your mother," said mrs. hamilton kindly. "we have our troubles," answered ben. "we are in danger of having our house taken from us." "how is that?" "a rich man in our village, squire davenport, has a mortgage of seven hundred dollars upon it. he wants the house for a relative of his wife, and threatens to foreclose at the end of three months." "the house must be worth a good deal more than the mortgage." "it is worth twice as much; but if it is put up at auction i doubt if it will fetch over a thousand dollars." "this would leave your mother but three hundred?" "yes," answered ben despondingly. "have you thought of any way of raising the money?" "yes; i came up to the city to-day to see a cousin of mother's, a mr. absalom peters, who lives on lexington avenue, and i had just come from there when i got into the stage with you." "won't he help you?" "perhaps he might if he was in the city; though mother has seen nothing of him for twenty years; but, unfortunately, he just sailed for europe." "that is indeed a pity. i suppose you haven't much hope now?" "unless mr. peters comes back. he is the only one we can think of to call upon." "what sort of a man is this squire davenport?" "he is a very selfish man, who thinks only of his own interests. we felt safe, because we did not suppose he would have any use for a small house like ours; but night before last he called on mother with the man he wants it for." "he cannot foreclose just yet, can he?" asked mrs. hamilton. "no; we have three months to look around." "three months is a long time," said the lady cheerfully. "a good deal can happen in three months. do the best you can, and keep up hope." "i shall try to do so." "you have reason to do so. you may not save your house, but you have, probably, a good many years before you, and plenty of good fortune may be in store for you." the cheerful tone in which the lady spoke some how made ben hopeful and sanguine, at any rate, for the time being. "in this country, the fact that you are a poor boy will not stand in the way of your success. the most eminent men of the day, in all branches of business, and in all professions, were once poor boys. i dare say, looking at me, you don't suppose i ever knew anything of poverty." "no," said ben. "yet i was the daughter of a bankrupt farmer, and my husband was clerk in a country store. i am not going to tell you how he came to the city and prospered, leaving me, at his death, rich beyond my needs. yet that is his history and mine. does it encourage you? "yes, it does," answered ben earnestly. "it is for that reason, perhaps, that i take an interest in country boys who are placed as my husband once was," continued mrs. hamilton. "but here we are at broadway. it only remains to express my acknowledgment of your timely assistance." "you are quite welcome," said ben. "i am sure of that, but i am none the less indebted. do me the favor to accept this." she opened her portemonnaie, and taking from it a banknote, handed it to ben. in surprise he looked at it, and saw that it was a twenty-dollar bill. "did you know this was a twenty-dollar bill?" he asked in amazement. "certainly," answered the lady, with a smile. "it is less than ten per cent. of the amount i would have lost but for you. i hope it will be of service to you." "i feel rich with it," answered ben. "how can i thank you, mrs. hamilton?" "call on me at no. ---- madison avenue, and do it in person, when you next come to the city," said the lady, smiling. "now, if you will kindly call that stage, i will bid you good-by--for the present." ben complied with her request, and joyfully resumed his walk down broadway. chapter xiii a startling event though ben had failed in the main object of his expedition, he returned to pentonville in excellent spirits. he felt that he had been a favorite of fortune, and with good reason. in one day he had acquired a sum equal to five weeks' wages. added to the dollar mr. crawford had contributed toward his expenses, he had been paid twenty-one dollars, while he had spent a little less than two. it is not every country boy who goes up to the great city who returns with an equal harvest. if squire davenport had not threatened to foreclose the mortgage, he would have felt justified in buying a present for his mother. as it was, he feared they would have need of all the money that came in to meet contingencies. the train reached pentonville at five o'clock, and about the usual time ben opened the gate and walked up to the front door of his modest home. he looked so bright and cheerful when he entered her presence that mrs. barclay thought be must have found and been kindly received by the cousin whom he had gone up to seek. "did you see mr. peters?" she asked anxiously. "no, mother; he is in europe." a shadow came over the mother's face. it was like taking from her her last hope. "i was afraid you would not be repaid for going up to the city," she said. "i made a pretty good day's work of it, nevertheless, mother. what do you say to this?" and he opened his wallet and showed her a roll of bills. "is that mr. crawford's money?" she asked. "no, mother, it is mine, or rather it is yours, for i give it to you." "did you find a pocketbook, ben? if so, the owner may turn up." "mother, the money is mine, fairly mine, for it was given me in return for a service i rendered a lady in new york." "what service could you have possibly rendered, ben, that merited such liberal payment?" asked his mother in surprise. upon this ben explained, and mrs. barclay listened to his story with wonder. "so you see, mother, i did well to go to the city," said ben, in conclusion. "it has turned out so, and i am thankful for your good fortune. but i should have been better pleased if you had seen mr. peters and found him willing to help us about the mortgage." "so would i, mother, but this money is worth having. when supper is over i will go to the store to help out mr. crawford and report my purchase of goods. you know the most of our trade is in the evening." after ben had gone mrs. barclay felt her spirits return as she thought of the large addition to their little stock of money. "one piece of good fortune may be followed by another," she thought. "mr. peters may return from europe in time to help us. at any rate, we have nearly three months to look about us, and god may send us help." when the tea dishes were washed and put away mrs. barclay sat down to mend a pair of ben's socks, for in that household it was necessary to make clothing last as long as possible, when she was aroused from her work by a ringing at the bell. she opened the door to admit squire davenport. "good-evening," she said rather coldly, for she could not feel friendly to a man who was conspiring to deprive her of her modest home and turn her out upon the sidewalk. "good-evening, widow," said the squire. "will you walk in?" asked mrs. barclay, not over cordially. "thank you, i will step in for five minutes. i called to see if you had thought better of my proposal the other evening." "your proposal was to take my house from me," said mrs. barclay. "how can you suppose i would think better of that?" "you forget that the house is more mine than yours already, mrs. barclay. the sum i have advanced on mortgage is two-thirds of the value of the property." "i dispute that, sir." "let it pass," said the squire, with a wave of the hand. "call it three-fifths, if you will. even then the property is more mine than yours. women don't understand business, or you would see matters in a different light." "i am a woman, it is true, but i understand very well that you wish to take advantage of me," said the widow, not without excusable bitterness. "my good lady, you forget that i am ready to cancel the mortgage and pay you three hundred and fifty dollars for the house. now, three hundred and fifty dollars is a handsome sum--a very handsome sum. you could put it in the savings bank and it would yield you quite a comfortable income." "twenty dollars, more or less," said mrs. barclay. "is that what you call a comfortable income? how long do you think it would keep us alive?" "added, of course, to your son's wages. ben is now able to earn good wages." "he earns four dollars a week, and that is our main dependence." "i congratulate you. i didn't suppose mr. crawford paid such high wages." "ben earns every cent of it." "very possibly. by the way, what is this that tom was telling me about ben being sent to new york to buy goods for the store?" "it is true, if that is what you mean." "bless my soul! it is very strange of crawford, and i may add, not very judicious." "i suppose mr. crawford is the best judge of that, sir." "even if the boy were competent, which is not for a moment to be thought of, it is calculated to foster his self-conceit." "ben is not self-conceited," said mrs. barclay, ready to resent any slur upon her boy. "he has excellent business capacity, and if he were older i should not need to ask favors of anyone." "you are a mother, and naturally set an exaggerated estimate upon your son's ability, which, i presume, is respectable, but probably not more. however, let that pass. i did not call to discuss ben but to inquire whether you had not thought better of the matter we discussed the other evening." "i never shall, squire davenport. when the time comes you can foreclose, if you like, but it will never be done with my consent." "ahem! your consent will not be required." "and let me tell you, squire davenport, if you do this wicked thing, it won't benefit you in the end." squire davenport shrugged his shoulders. "i am not at all surprised to find you so unreasonable, mrs. barclay," he said. "it's the way with women. i should be glad if you would come to look upon the matter in a different light; but i cannot sacrifice my own interests in any event. the law is on my side." "the law may be on your side, but the law upholds a great deal that is oppressive and cruel." "a curious set of laws we should have if women made them," said the squire. "they would not bear so heavily upon the poor as they do now." "well, i won't stop to discuss the matter. if you come to entertain different views about the house, send word by ben, and we will arrange the details without delay. mr. kirk is anxious to move his family as soon as possible, and would like to secure the house at once." "he will have to wait three months at least," said mrs. barclay coldly. "for that time, i believe the law protects me." "you are right there; but at the end of that tine you cannot expect as liberal terms as we are now prepared to offer you." "liberal!" repeated the widow, in a meaning tone. "so i regard it," said the squire stiffly. "good-evening." an hour later mrs. barclay's reflections were broken in upon by the ominous clang of the engine bell. this is a sound which always excites alarm in a country village. "where's the fire?" she asked anxiously, of a boy who was running by the house. "it's crawford's store!" was the startling reply. "it's blazin' up like anything. guess it'll have to go." "i hope ben'll keep out of danger," thought mrs. barclay, as she hurriedly took her shawl and bonnet and started for the scene of excitement. chapter xiv ben shows himself a hero a fire in a country village, particularly where the building is a prominent one, is sure to attract a large part of the resident population. men, women, and children, as well as the hook and ladder company, hurried to the scene of conflagration. everybody felt a personal interest in crawford's. it was the great emporium which provided all the families in the village with articles of prime and secondary necessity. if paris can be called france, then crawford's might be called pentonville. "crawford's on fire!" exclaimed old captain manson. "bless my soul! it cannot be true. where's my cane?" "you don't mean to say you're goin' to the fire, father?" asked his widowed daughter in surprise, for the captain had bowed beneath the weight of eighty-six winters, and rarely left the domestic hearth. "do you think i'd stay at home when crawford's was a-burning?" returned the captain. "but remember, father, you ain't so young as you used to be. you might catch your death of cold." "what! at a fire?" exclaimed the old man, laughing at his own joke. "you know what i mean. it's dreadfully imprudent. why, i wouldn't go myself." "shouldn't think you would, at your time of life!" retorted her father, chuckling. so the old man emerged into the street, and hurried as fast as his unsteady limbs would allow, to the fire. "how did it catch?" the reader will naturally ask. the young man who was the only other salesman besides ben and the proprietor, had gone down cellar smoking a cigar. in one corner was a heap of shavings and loose papers. a spark from his cigar must have fallen there. had he noticed it, with prompt measures the incipient fire might have been extinguished. but he went up stairs with the kerosene, which he had drawn for old mrs. watts, leaving behind him the seeds of destruction. soon the flames, arising, caught the wooden flooring of the upper store. the smell of the smoke notified crawford and his clerks of the impending disaster. when the door communicating with the basement was opened, a stifling smoke issued forth and the crackling of the fire was heard. "run, ben; give the alarm!" called mr. crawford, pale with dismay and apprehension. it was no time then to inquire how the fire caught. there was only time to save as much of the stock as possible, since it was clear that the fire had gained too great a headway to be put out. ben lost no time, and in less than ten minutes the engine, which, fortunately, was housed only ten rods away, was on the ground. though it was impossible to save the store, the fire might be prevented from spreading. a band of earnest workers aided crawford in saving his stock. a large part, of course, must be sacrificed; but, perhaps, a quarter was saved. all at once a terrified whisper spread from one to another: "mrs. morton's children! where are they? they must be in the third story." a poor woman, mrs. morton, had been allowed, with her two children, to enjoy, temporarily, two rooms in the third story. she had gone to a farmer's two miles away to do some work, and her children, seven and nine years of age, had remained at home. they seemed doomed to certain death. but, even as the inquiry went from lip to lip, the children appeared. they had clambered out of a third story window upon the sloping roof of the rear ell, and, pale and dismayed, stood in sight of the shocked and terrified crowd, shrieking for help! "a ladder! a ladder!" exclaimed half a dozen. but there was no ladder at hand--none nearer than mr. parmenter's, five minutes' walk away. while a messenger was getting it the fate of the children would be decided. "tell 'em to jump!" exclaimed silas carver. "they'd break their necks, you fool!" returned his wife. "better do that than be burned up!" said the old man. no one knew what to do--no one but ben barclay. he seized a coil of rope, and with a speed which surprised even himself, climbed up a tall oak tree, whose branches overshadowed the roof of the ell part. in less than a minute he found himself on a limb just over the children. to the end of the rope was fastened a strong iron hook. undismayed by his own danger, ben threw his rope, though he nearly lost his footing while he was doing it, and with an aim so precise that the hook caught in the smaller girl's dress. "hold on to the rope, jennie, if you can!" he shouted. the girl obeyed him instinctively. drawing the cord hand over hand, the little girl swung clear, and was lowered into the arms of ebenezer strong, who detached the hook. "save the other, ben!" shouted a dozen. ben needed no spur to further effort. again he threw the hook, and this time the older girl, comprehending what was required, caught the rope and swung off the roof, scarcely in time, for her clothing had caught fire. but when she reached the ground ready hands extinguished it and the crowd of anxious spectators breathed more freely, as ben, throwing down the rope, rapidly descended the tree and stood once more in safety, having saved two lives. just then it was that the poor mother, almost frantic with fear, arrived on the ground. "where are my darlings? who will save them?" she exclaimed, full of anguish, yet not comprehending that they were out of peril. "they are safe, and here is the brave boy who saved their lives," said ebenezer strong. "god bless you, ben barclay!" exclaimed the poor mother. "you have saved my life as well as theirs, for i should have died if they had burned." ben scarcely heard her, for one and another came up to shake his hand and congratulate him upon his brave deed. our young hero was generally self-possessed, but he hardly knew how to act when he found himself an object of popular ovation. "somebody else would have done it if i hadn't," he said modestly. "you are the only one who had his wits about him," said seth jones. "no one thought of the rope till you climbed the tree. we were all looking for a ladder and there was none to be had nearer than mr. parmenter's." "i wouldn't have thought of it myself if i hadn't read in a daily paper of something like it," said ben. "ben," said mr. crawford, "i'd give a thousand dollars to have done what you did. you have shown yourself a hero." "oh, ben, how frightened i was when i saw you on the branch just over the burning building," said a well-known voice. turning, ben saw it was his mother who spoke. "well, it's all right now, mother," he said, smiling. "you are not sorry i did it?" "sorry! i am proud of you." "i am not proud of my hands," said ben. "look at them." they were chafed and bleeding, having been lacerated by his rapid descent from the tree. "come home, ben, and let me put some salve on them. how they must pain you!" "wait till the fire is all over, mother." the gallant firemen did all they could, but the store was doomed. they could only prevent it from extending. in half an hour the engine was taken back, and ben went home with his mother. "it's been rather an exciting evening, mother," said ben. "i rather think i shall have to find a new place." chapter xv ben loses his place ben did not find himself immediately out of employment. the next morning mr. crawford commenced the work of ascertaining what articles he had saved, and storing them. luckily there was a vacant store which had once been used for a tailor's shop, but had been unoccupied for a year or more. this he hired, and at once removed his goods to it. but he did not display his usual energy. he was a man of over sixty, and no longer possessed the enterprise and ambition which had once characterized him. besides, he was very comfortably off, or would be when he obtained the insurance money. "i don't know what i shall do," he said, when questioned. "i was brought up on a farm, and i always meant to end my days on one. perhaps now is as well any time, since my business is broken up." this came to the ears of squire davenport, who was always keen-scented for a bargain. his wife's cousin, mr. kirk, who has already been introduced to the reader, had, in his earlier days, served as a clerk in a country store. he had no capital, to be sure, but the squire had plenty. it occurred to him as a good plan to buy out the business himself, hire kirk on a salary to conduct it, and so add considerably to his already handsome income. he sent for kirk, ascertained that he was not only willing, but anxious, to manage the business, and then he called on mr. crawford. it is unnecessary to detail the negotiations that ensued. it was squire davenport's wish to obtain the business as cheaply as possible. the storekeeper, however, had his own estimate of its worth, and the squire was obliged to add considerable to his first offer. in the end, however, he secured it on advantageous terms, and mr. crawford now felt able to carry out the plan he had long had in view. it was in the evening, a week after the fire, that the bargain was struck, and ben was one of the first to hear of it. when he came to work early the next morning he found his employer in the store before him, which was not usual. "you are early, mr. crawford," he said, in evident surprise. "yes, ben," was the reply. "i can afford to come early for a morning or two, as i shall soon be out of business." "you haven't sold out, have you?" inquired ben quickly. "yes; the bargain was struck last evening." "how soon do you leave the store?" "in three days. it will take that time to make up my accounts." "i am sorry," said ben, "for i suppose i shall have to retire, too." "i don't know about that, ben. very likely my successor may want you." "that depends on who he is. do you mind telling me, or is it a secret?" "oh, no; it will have to come out, of course. squire davenport has bought the business." "the squire isn't going to keep the store, is he?" asked ben, in amazement. "no; though he will, no doubt, supervise it. he will employ a manager." "do you know who is to be the manager, mr. crawford?" "some connection of his named kirk." ben whistled. "do you know him?" the storekeeper was led to inquire. "i have not seen him, but he called with the squire on my mother," said ben significantly. "i shall be glad to recommend you to him." "it will be of no use, mr. crawford," answered ben, in a decided tone. "i know he wouldn't employ me, nor would i work for him if he would. neither he nor the squire is a friend of mine." "i did not dream of this, ben. i am sorry if the step i have taken is going to deprive you of employment," said mr. crawford, who was a kind-hearted man, and felt a sincere interest in his young clerk. "never mind, mr. crawford, i am not cast down. there will be other openings for me. i am young, strong, and willing to work, and i am sure i shall find something to do." "that's right, ben. cheer up, and if i hear of any good chance, rest assured that i will let you know of it." tom davenport was not long in hearing of his father's bargain. he heard it with unfeigned pleasure, for it occurred to him at once that ben, for whom he had a feeling of hatred, by no means creditable to him, would be thrown out of employment. "promise me, pa, that you won't employ ben barclay," he said. "i have no intention of employing that boy," said his father. "mr. kirk has a son of his own, about ben's age, and will, no doubt, put him into the store, unless you should choose to go in and learn the business." "what! i become a store boy!" exclaimed tom, in disgust. "no, thank you. i might be willing to become salesman in a large establishment in the city, but i don't care to go into a country grocery." "it wouldn't do you any harm," said the squire, who was not quite so high-minded as his son. "however, i merely mentioned it as something you could do if you chose." "bah! i don't choose it," said tom decidedly. "well, well; you won't have to do it." "it would put me on a level with ben barclay, if i stepped into his shoes. won't he be down in the month when he hears he has lost his place?" and tom chuckled at the thought. "that is no concern of mine," said the squire. "i suppose he can hire out to a farmer." "just the business for him", said tom, "unless he should prefer to go to new york and set up as a bootblack. i believe i'll suggest that to him!" "probably he won't thank you for the suggestion." "i guess not. he's as proud as he is poor. it's amusing to see what airs he puts on." squire davenport, however, was not so much interested in that phase of the subject as tom, and did not reply. "i think i'll go down street," thought tom. "perhaps i may come across ben. i shall enjoy seeing how he takes it." tom had scarcely walked a hundred yards when he met, not the one of whom he had thought, but another to whom he felt glad to speak on the same subject. this was rose gardiner, the prettiest girl in the village, who had already deeply offended tom by accepting ben as her escort from the magical entertainment in place of him. he had made advances since, being desirous of ousting ben from his position of favorite, but the young lady had treated him coldly, much to his anger and mortification. "good-morning, miss rose," said tom. "good-morning," answered rose civilly. "have you heard the news?" "to what news do you refer?" "crawford has sold out his business." "indeed!" said rose, in surprise; "who has bought it?" "my father. of course, he won't keep store himself. he will put in a connection of ours, mr. kirk." "this is news, indeed! where is mr. crawford going?" "i don't know, i'm sure. i thought you'd be more apt to inquire about somebody else?" "i am not good at guessing enigmas," said rose. "your friend, ben barclay," returned tom, with a sneer. "father won't have him in the store!" "oh, i see; you are going to take his place," said rose mischievously. "i? what do you take me for?" said tom, haughtily. "i suppose ben barclay will have to go to work on a farm." "that is a very honorable employment," said rose calmly. "yes; he can be a hired man when he grows up. perhaps, though, he will prefer to go to the city and become a bootblack." "ben ought to be very much obliged to you for the interest you feel in his welfare," said rose, looking steadily and scornfully at tom. "good-morning." "she feels sore about it," thought tom complacently. "she won't be quite so ready to accept ben's attentions when he is a farm laborer." tom, however, did not understand rose gardiner. she was a girl of good sense, and her estimate of others was founded on something else than social position. chapter xvi ben finds temporary employment "oh, ben, what shall we do?" exclaimed mrs. barclay, when she heard mr. crawford had sold out his business. "we'll get along somehow, mother. something will be sure to turn up." ben spoke more cheerfully than he felt. he knew very well that pentonville presented scarcely any field for a boy, unless he was willing to work on a farm. now, ben had no objections to farm labor, provided he had a farm of his own, but at the rate such labor was paid in pentonville, there was very little chance of ever rising above the position of a "hired man," if he once adopted the business. our young hero felt that this would not satisfy him. he was enterprising and ambitious, and wanted to be a rich man some day. money is said, by certain moralists, to be the root of all evil. the love of money, if carried too far, may indeed lead to evil, but it is a natural ambition in any boy or man to wish to raise himself above poverty. the wealth of amos lawrence and peter cooper was a source of blessing to mankind, yet each started as a poor boy, and neither would have become rich if he had not striven hard to become so. when ben made this cheerful answer his mother shook her head sadly. she was not so hopeful as ben, and visions of poverty presented themselves before her mind. "i don't see what you can find to do in pentonville, ben," she said. "i can live a while without work while i am looking around, mother," ben answered. "we have got all that money i brought from new york yet." "it won't last long," said his mother despondently. "it will last till i can earn some more," answered ben hopefully. ben was about to leave the house when a man in a farmer's frock, driving a yoke of oxen, stopped his team in the road, and turned in at the widow's gate. it was silas greyson, the owner of a farm just out of the village. "did you want to see mother?" asked ben. "no, i wanted to see you, benjamin," answered greyson. "i hear you've left the store." "the store has changed hands, and the new storekeeper don't want me." "do you want a job?" "what is it, mr. greyson?" ben replied, answering one question with another. "i'm goin' to get in wood for the winter from my wood lot for about a week," said the farmer, "and i want help. are you willin' to hire out for a week?" "what'll you pay me?" asked ben. "i'll keep you, and give you a cord of wood. your mother'll find it handy. i'm short of money, and calc'late wood'll be just as good pay." ben thought over the proposal, and answered: "i'd rather take my meals at home, mr. greyson, and if you'll make it two cords with that understanding, i'll agree to hire out to you." "ain't that rather high?" asked the farmer, hesitating. "i don't think so." finally silas greyson agreed, and ben promised to be on hand bright and early the next day. it may be stated here that wood was very cheap at pentonville, so that ben would not be overpaid. there were some few things about the house which ben wished to do for his mother before he went to work anywhere, and he thought this a good opportunity to do them. while in the store his time had been so taken up that he was unable to attend to them. he passed a busy day, therefore, and hardly went into the street. just at nightfall, as he was in the front yard, he was rather surprised to see tom davenport open the gate and enter. "what does he want, i wonder?" he thought, but he said, in a civil tone: "good-evening, tom." "you're out of business, ain't you?" asked tom abruptly. "i'm not out of work at any rate!" answered ben. "why, what work are you doing?" interrogated tom, in evident disappointment. "i've been doing some jobs about the house, for mother." "that won't give you a living," said tom disdainfully. "very true." "did you expect to stay in the store?" asked tom. "not after i heard that your father had bought it," answered ben quietly. "my father's willing to give you work," said tom. "is he?" asked ben, very much surprised. it occurred to him that perhaps he would have a chance to remain in the store after all, and for the present that would have suited him. though he didn't like the squire, or mr. kirk, he felt that he had no right, in his present circumstances, to refuse any way to earn an honest living. "yes," answered tom. "i told him he'd better hire you." "you did!" exclaimed ben, more and more amazed. "i didn't expect that. however, go on, if you please." "he's got three cords of wood that he wants sawed and split," said tom, "and as i knew how poor you were i thought it would be a good chance for you." you might have thought from tom's manner that he was a young lord, and ben a peasant. ben was not angry, but amused. "it is true," he said. "i am not rich; still, i am not as poor as you think." he happened to have in his pocketbook the money he had brought from new york, and this he took from his pocket and displayed to the astonished tom. "where did you get that money?" asked tom, surprised and chagrined. "i got it honestly. you see we can hold out a few days. however, i may be willing to accept the job you offer me. how much is your father willing to pay me?" "he is willing to give you forty cents a day." "how long does he expect me to work for that?" "ten hours." "that is four cents an hour, and hard work at that. i am much obliged to you and him, tom, for your liberal offer, but i can't accept it." "you'll see the time when you'll be glad to take such a job," said tom, who was personally disappointed that he would not be able to exhibit ben as his father's hired dependent. "you seem to know all about it, tom," answered ben. "i shall be at work all next week, at much higher pay, for silas greyson." "how much does he pay you?" "that is my private business, and wouldn't interest you." "you're mighty independent for a boy in your position." "very likely. won't you come in?" "no," answered tom ungraciously; "i've wasted too much time here already." "i understand tom's object in wanting to hire me," thought ben. "he wants to order me around. still, if the squire had been willing to pay a decent price, i would have accepted the job. i won't let pride stand in the way of my supporting mother and myself." this was a sensible and praiseworthy resolution, as i hope my young readers will admit. i don't think much of the pride that is willing to let others suffer in order that it may be gratified. ben worked a full week for farmer greyson, and helped unload the two cords of wood, which were his wages, in his mother's yard. then there were two days of idleness, which made him anxious. on the second day, just after supper, he met rose gardiner coming from the post office. "have you any correspondents in new york, ben?" she asked. "what makes you ask, rose?" because the postmaster told me there was a letter for you by this evening's mail. it was mailed in new york, and was directed in a lady's hand. i hope you haven't been flirting with any new york ladies, mr. barclay." "the only lady i know in new york is at least fifty years old," answered ben, smiling. "that is satisfactory," answered rose solemnly. "then i won't be jealous." "what can the letter be?" thought ben. "i hope it contains good news." he hurried to the post office in a fever of excitement. chapter xvii what the letter contained "i hear there is a letter for me, mr. brown," said ben to the postmaster, who was folding the evening papers, of which he received a parcel from the city by the afternoon train. "yes, ben," answered the postmaster, smiling. "it appears to be from a lady in new york. you must have improved your time during your recent visit to the city." "i made the acquaintance of one lady older than my mother," answered ben. "i didn't flirt with her any." "at any rate, i should judge that she became interested in you or she wouldn't write." "i hope she did, for she is very wealthy," returned ben. the letter was placed in his hands, and he quickly tore it open. something dropped from it. "what is that?" asked the postmaster. ben stooped and picked it up, and, to his surprise, discovered that it was a ten-dollar bill. "that's a correspondent worth having," said mr. brown jocosely. "can't you give me a letter of introduction?" ben didn't answer, for he was by this time deep the letter. we will look over his shoulder and read it with him. it ran thus: "no. ---- madison avenue, new york, october . "my dear young friend: "will you come to new york and call upon me? i have a very pleasant remembrance of you and the service you did me recently, and think i can employ you in other ways, to our mutual advantage. i am willing to pay you a higher salary than you are receiving in your country home, besides providing you with a home in my own house. i inclose ten dollars for expenses. yours, with best wishes, "helen hamilton" ben's heart beat with joyful excitement as he read this letter. it could not have come at a better time, for, as we know, he was out of employment, and, of course, earning nothing. "well, ben," said the postmaster, whose curiosity was excited, is it good news?" "i should say it was," said ben emphatically. "i am offered a good situation in new york." "you don't say so! how much are offered?" "i am to get more than mr. crawford paid me and board in a fine house besides--a brownstone house on madison avenue." "well, i declare! you are in luck," ejaculated mr. brown. "what are you to do?" "that's more than i know. here is the letter, if you like to read it." "it reads well. she must be a generous lady. but what will your mother say?" "that's what i want to know," said ben, looking suddenly sober. "i hate to leave her, but it is for my good." "mothers are self-sacrificing when the interests of their children are concerned." "i know that," said ben promptly; "and i've got one of the best mothers going." "so you have. every one likes and respects mrs. barclay." any boy, who is worth anything, likes to hear his mother praised, and ben liked mr. brown better for this tribute to the one whom he loved best on earth. he was not slow in making his way home. he went at once to the kitchen, where his mother was engaged in mixing bread. "what's the matter, ben? you look excited," said mrs. barkley. "so i am, mother. i am offered a position." "not in the store?" "no; it is in new york." "in new york!" repeated his mother, in a troubled voice. "it would cost you all you could make to pay your board in some cheap boarding house. if it were really going to be for your own good, i might consent to part with you, but--" "read that letter, mother," said ben. "you will see that i shall have an elegant home and a salary besides. it is a chance in a thousand." mrs. barclay read the letter carefully. "can i go, mother?" ben asked anxiously. "it will be a sacrifice for me to part with you," returned his mother slowly; "but i agree with you that it is a rare chance, and i should be doing wrong to stand in the way of your good fortune. mrs. hamilton must have formed a very good opinion of you." "she may be disappointed in me," said ben modestly. "i don't think she will," said mrs. barclay, with a proud and affectionate glance at her boy. "you have always been a good son, and that is the best of recommendations." "i am afraid you are too partial, mother. i shall hate to leave you alone." "i can bear loneliness if i know you are prospering, ben." "and it will only be for a time, mother. when i am a young man and earning a good income, i shall want you to come and live with me." "all in good time, ben. how soon do you want to go?" "i think it better to lose no time, mother. you know i have no work to keep me in pentonville." "but it will take two or three days to get your clothes ready." "you can send them to me by express. i shall send you the address." mrs. barclay was a fond mother, but she was also a sensible woman. she felt that ben was right, and, though it seemed very sudden, she gave him her permission to start the next morning. had she objected strenuously, ben would have given up his plan, much as he desired it, for he felt that his mother had the strongest claims upon him, and he would not have been willing to run counter to her wishes. "where are you going, ben?" asked his mother, as ben put on his hat and moved toward the door. "i thought i would like to call on rose gardiner to say good-by," answered ben. "quite right, my son. rose is a good friend of yours, and an excellent girl" "i say ditto to that, mother," ben answered warmly. i am not going to represent ben as being in love--he was too young for that--but, like many boys of his age, he felt a special attraction in the society of one young girl. his good taste was certainly not at fault in his choice of rose gardiner, who, far from being frivolous and fashionable, was a girl of sterling traits, who was not above making herself useful in the household of which she formed a part. on his way to the home of rose gardiner, ben met tom davenport. "how are you getting along?" asked tom, not out of interest, but curiosity. "very well, thank you." "have you got through helping the farmer?" "yes." "it was a very long job. have you thought better of coming to saw wood for father?" "no; i have thought worse of it," answered ben, smiling. "you are too proud. poor and proud don't agree." "not at all. i would have had no objection to the work. it was the pay i didn't like." "you can't earn more than forty cents a day at anything else." "you are mistaken. i am going to new york to-morrow to take a place, where i get board and considerable more money besides." "is that true?" asked tom, looking as if he had lost his best friend. "quite so. the party inclosed ten dollars to pay my expenses up to the city." "he must be a fool." "thank you. it happens to be a lady." "what are you to do?" "i don't know yet. i am sure i shall be well paid. i must ask you to excuse me now, as i am going to call on rose gardiner to bid her good-by." "i dare say she would excuse you," said tom, with a sneer. "perhaps so; but i wouldn't like to go without saying good-by." "at any rate, he will be out of my way," thought tom, "and i can monopolize rose. i'm glad he's going." he bade ben an unusually civil good-night at this thought occurred to him. chapter xviii farewell to pentonville "i have come to say good-by, rose," said ben, as the young lady made her appearance. "good-by!" repeated rose, in surprise. "why, where are you going?" "to new york." "but you are coming back again?" "i hope so, but only for a visit now and then. i am offered a position in the city." "isn't that rather sudden?" said rose, after a pause. ben explained how he came to be offered employment. "i am to receive higher pay than i did here, and a home besides," he added, in a tone of satisfaction. "don't you think i am lucky?" "yes, ben, and i rejoice in your good fortune; but i shall miss you so much," said rose frankly. "i am glad of that," returned ben. "i hoped you would miss me a little. you'll go and see mother now and then, won't you? she will feel very lonely." "you may be sure i will. it is a pity you have to go away. a great many will be sorry." "i know someone who won't." "who is that?" "tom davenport." rose smiled. she had a little idea why tom would not regret ben's absence. "tom could be spared, as well as not," she said. "he is a strong admirer of yours, i believe," said ben mischievously. "i don't admire him," retorted rose, with a little toss of her head. ben heard this with satisfaction, for though he was too young to be a lover, he did have a strong feeling of attraction toward rose, and would have been sorry to have tom step into his place. as ben was preparing to go, rose said, "wait a minute, ben." she left the room and went upstairs, but returned almost immediately, with a small knit purse. "won't you accept this, ben?" she said. "i just finished it yesterday. it will remind you of me when you are away." "thank you, rose. i shall need nothing to keep you in my remembrance, but i will value it for your sake." "i hope you will be fortunate and fill it very soon, ben." so the two parted on the most friendly terms, and the next day ben started for new york in the highest of spirits. after purchasing his ticket, he gave place to squire davenport, who also called for a ticket to new york. now, it so happened that the squire had not seen tom since the interview of the latter with our hero, and was in ignorance of his good luck. "are you going to new york, benjamin?" he asked, in surprise. "yes, sir." "isn't it rather extravagant for one in your circumstances?" "yes, sir; if i had no object in view." "have you any business in the city?" "yes, sir; i am going to take a place." squire davenport was still more surprised, and asked particulars. these ben readily gave, for he was quite elated by his good fortune. "oh, that's it, is it?" said the squire contemptuously. "i thought you might have secured a position in some business house. this lady probably wants you to answer the doorbell and clean the knives, or something of that sort." "i am sure she does not," said ben, indignant and mortified. "you'll find i am right," said the squire confidently. "young man, i can't congratulate you on your prospects. you would have done as well to stay in pentonville and work on my woodpile." "whatever work i may do in new york, i shall be a good deal better paid for than here," retorted ben. squire davenport shrugged his shoulders, and began to read the morning paper. to do him justice, he only said what he thought when he predicted to ben that he would be called upon to do menial work. "the boy won't be in so good spirits a week hence," he thought. "however, that is not my affair. there is no doubt that i shall get possession of his mother's house when the three months are up, and i don't at all care where he and his mother go. if they leave pentonville i shall be very well satisfied. i have no satisfaction in meeting either of them," and the squire frowned, as if some unpleasant thought had crossed his mind. nothing of note passed during the remainder of the journey. ben arrived in new york, and at once took a conveyance uptown, and due time found himself, carpet-bag in hand, on the front steps of mrs. hamilton's house. he rang the bell, and the door was opened by a servant. "she's out shopping," answered the girl, looking inquisitively at ben's carpet-bag. "will you leave a message for her?" "i believe i am expected," said ben, feeling a little awkward. "my name is benjamin barclay." "mrs. hamilton didn't say anything about expecting any boy," returned the servant. "you can come in, if you like, and i'll call mrs. hill." "i suppose that is the housekeeper," thought ben. "very well," he answered. "i believe i will come in, as mrs. hamilton wrote me to come." ben left his bag in the front hall, and with his hat in his hand followed the servant into the handsomely-furnished drawing room. "i wish mrs. hamilton had been here," he said to himself. "the girl seems to look at me suspiciously. i hope the housekeeper knows about my coming." ben sat down in an easy-chair beside a marble-topped center table, and waited for fifteen minutes before anyone appeared. he beguiled the time by looking over a handsomely illustrated book of views, but presently the door was pushed open and he looked up. the newcomer was a spare, pale-faced woman, with a querulous expression, who stared coldly at our hero. it was clear that she was not glad to see him. "what can i do for you, young man?" she asked in a repellent tone. "what a disagreeable-looking woman!" thought ben. "i am sure we shall never be friends." "is mrs. hamilton expected in soon?" he asked. "i really cannot say. she does not report to me how long she expects to be gone." "didn't she speak to you about expecting me?" asked ben, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. "not a word!" was the reply. "she wrote to me to come here, but perhaps she did not expect me so soon." "if you have come here to collect a bill, or with any business errand, i can attend to you. i am mrs. hamilton's cousin." "thank you; it will be necessary for me to see mrs. hamilton." "then you may as well call in the afternoon, or some other day." "that's pretty cool!" thought ben. "that woman wants to get me out of the house, but i propose to 'hold the fort' till mrs. hamilton arrives." "i thought you might know that i am going to stay here," said ben. "what!" exclaimed mrs. hill, in genuine surprise. "mrs. hamilton has offered me a position, though i do not know what the duties are to be, and am going to make my home here." "really this is too much!" said the pale-faced lady sternly. "here, conrad!" she called, going to the door. a third party made his appearance on the scene, a boy who looked so much like mrs. hill that it was clear she was his mother. he was two inches taller than ben, but looked pale and flabby. "what's wanted, ma?" he said, staring at ben. "this young man has made a strange mistake. he says mrs. hamilton has sent for him and that he is going to live here. "he's got cheek," exclaimed conrad, continuing to stare at ben. "tell him he'd better go!" "you'd better go!" said the boy, like a parrot. "thank you," returned ben, provoked, "but i mean to stay." "go and call a policeman, conrad," said mrs. hill. "we'll see what he'll have to say then." chapter xix a cool reception "this isn't quite the reception i expected," thought ben. he was provoked with the disagreeable woman who persisted in regarding and treating him as an intruder, but he was not nervous or alarmed. he knew that things would come right, and that mrs. hill and her promising son would see their mistake. he had half a mind to let conrad call a policeman, and then turn the tables upon his foes. but, he knew that this would be disagreeable to mrs. hamilton, whose feelings he was bound to consider. "before you call a policeman," he said quietly, "it may be well for you to read this letter." as he spoke handed mrs. hill the letter he had received from mrs. hamilton. mrs. hill took the letter suspiciously, and glared over it. as she read, a spot of red glowed in each pallid check, and she bit her lips in annoyance. "i don't understand it," she said slowly. ben did not feel called upon to explain what was perfectly intelligible. he saw that mrs. hill didn't want to understand it. "what is it, ma?" asked conrad, his curiosity aroused. "you can read it for yourself, conrad," returned his mother. "is he coming to live here?" ejaculated conrad, astonished, indicating ben with a jerk of his finger. "if this letter is genuine," said mrs. hill, with at significant emphasis on the last word. "if it is not, mrs. hamilton will be sure to tell you so," said ben, provoked. "come out, conrad; i want to speak to you," said his mother. without ceremony, they left ben in the parlor alone, and withdrew to another part of the house, where they held a conference. "what does it all mean, ma?" asked conrad. "it means that your prospects are threatened, my poor boy. cousin hamilton, who is very eccentric, has taken a fancy to this boy, and she is going to confer favors upon him at your expense. it is too bad!" "i'd like to break his head!" said conrad, scowling. "it won't do, conrad, to fight him openly. we must do what we can in an underhand way to undermine him with cousin hamilton. she ought to make you her heir, as she has no children of her own." "i don't think she likes me," said the boy. "she only gives me two dollars a week allowance, and she scolded me the other day because she met me in the hall smoking a cigarette." "be sure not to offend her, conrad. a great deal depends on it. two dollars ought to answer for the present. when you are a young man, you may be in very different circumstances." "i don't know about that," grumbled conrad. "i may get two dollars a week then, but what's that?" "you may be a wealthy man!" said his mother impressively. "cousin hamilton is not so healthy as she looks. i have a suspicion that her heart is affected. she might die suddenly." "do you really think so?" said conrad eagerly. "i think so. what you must try to do is to stand well with her, and get her to make her will in your favor. i will attend to that, if you will do as i tell you." "she may make this boy her heir," said conrad discontentedly. "then where would i be?" "she won't do it, if i can help it," said mrs. hill with an emphatic nod. "i will manage to make trouble between them. you will always be my first interest, my dear boy." she made a motion to kiss her dear boy, but conrad, who was by no means of an affectionate disposition, moved his head suddenly, with an impatient exclamation, "oh, bother!" a pained look came over the mother's face, for she loved her son, unattractive and disagreeable as he was, with a love the greater because she loved no one else in the world. mother and son were selfish alike, but the son the more so, for he had not a spark of love for any human being. "there's the bell!" said mrs. hill suddenly. "i do believe cousin hamilton has come. now we shall find out whether this boy's story is true." "let's go downstairs, ma! i hope it's all a mistake and she'll send me for a policeman." "i am afraid the boy's story is correct. but his day will be short." when they reached the hall, mrs. hamilton had already been admitted to the house. "there's a boy in the drawing room, mrs. hamilton," said mrs. hill, "who says he is to stay here--that you sent for him." "has he come already?" returned mrs. hamilton. "i am glad of it." "then you did send for him?" "of course. didn't i mention it to you? i hardly expected he would come so soon." she opened the door of the drawing room, and approached ben, with extended hand and a pleasant smile. "welcome to new york, ben," she said. "i hope i haven't kept you waiting long?" "not very long," answered ben, shaking her hand. "this is my cousin mrs. hill, who relieves me of part of my housekeeping care," continued mrs. hamilton, "and this is her son, conrad. conrad, this is a companion for you, benjamin barclay, who will be a new member of our small family." "i hope you are well, conrad," said ben, with a smile, to the boy who but a short time before was going for a policeman to put him under arrest. "i'm all right," said conrad ungraciously. "really, cousin hamilton, this is a surprise" said mrs. hill. "you are quite kind to provide conrad with a companion, but i don't think he felt the need of any, except his mother--and you." mrs. hamilton laughed. she saw that neither mrs. hill nor conrad was glad to see ben, and this was only what she expected, and, indeed, this was the chief reason why she had omitted to mention ben's expected arrival. "you give me too much credit," she said, "if you think i invited this young gentleman here solely as a companion to conrad. i shall have some writing and accounts for him to attend to." "i am sure conrad would have been glad to serve you in that way, cousin hamilton," said mrs. hill. "i am sorry you did not give him the first chance." "conrad wouldn't have suited me," said mrs. hamilton bluntly. "perhaps i may not be competent," suggested ben modestly. "we can tell better after trying you," said his patroness. "as for conrad, i have obtained a position for him. he is to enter the offices of jones & woodhull, on pearl street, to-morrow. you will take an early breakfast, conrad, for it will be necessary for you to be at the office at eight o'clock." "how much am i to get?" asked conrad. "four dollars a week. i shall let you have all this in lieu of the weekly allowance i pay you, but will provide you with clothing, as heretofore, so that this will keep you liberally supplied with pocket money." "conrad's brow cleared. he was lazy, and did not enjoy going to work, but the increase of his allowance would be satisfactory. "and now, ben, mrs. hill will kindly show you your room. it is the large hall bedroom on the third floor. when you have unpacked your valise, and got to feel at home, come downstairs, and we will have a little conversation upon business. you will find me in the sitting room, on the next floor." "thank you," said ben politely, and he followed the pallid cousin upstairs. he was shown into a handsomely furnished room, bright and cheerful. "this is a very pleasant room," he said. "you won't occupy it long!" said mrs. hill to herself. "no one will step into my conrad's place, if i can help it." chapter xx entering upon his duties when ben had taken out his clothing from his valise and put it away in the drawers of the handsome bureau which formed a part of the furniture of his room, he went downstairs, and found his patroness in a cozy sitting room, on the second floor. it was furnished, ben could not help thinking, more as if it were designed for a gentleman than a lady. in one corner was a library table, with writing materials, books, and papers upon it, and an array of drawers on either side of the central part. "come right in, ben," said mrs. hamilton, who was seated at the table. "we will talk of business." this ben was quite willing to do. he was anxious to know what were to be his duties, that he might judge whether he was competent to discharge them. "let me tell you, to begin with," said his patroness, "that i am possessed of considerable wealth, as, indeed, you may have judged by way of living. i have no children, unfortunately, and being unwilling, selfishly, to devote my entire means to my own use exclusively, i try to help others in a way that i think most suitable. mrs. hill, who acts as my housekeeper, is a cousin, who made a poor marriage, and was left penniless. i have given a home to her and her son." "i don't think mrs. hill likes my being here," said ben. "you are, no doubt, right. she is foolish enough to be jealous because i do not bestow all my favors upon her." "i think she will look upon me as a rival of her son." "i expected she would. perhaps she will learn, after a while, that i can be a friend to you and him both, though, i am free to admit, i have never been able to take any fancy to conrad, nor, indeed, was his mother a favorite with me. but for her needy circumstances, she is, perhaps, the last of my relatives that i would invite to become a member of my household. however, to come to business: my money is invested in various ways. besides the ordinary forms of investment, stocks, bonds, and mortgages, i have set up two or three young men, whom i thought worthy, in business, and require them to send in monthly statements of their business to me. you see, therefore, that i have more or less to do with accounts. i never had much taste for figures, and it struck me that i might relieve myself of considerable drudgery if i could obtain your assistance, under my supervision, of course. i hope you have a taste for figures?" "arithmetic and algebra are my favorite studies," said ben promptly. "i am glad of it. of course, i did not know that, but had you not been well versed in accounts, i meant to send you to a commercial school to qualify you for the duties i wished to impose upon you." "i don't think it will be necessary," answered ben. "i have taken lessons in bookkeeping at home, and, though it seems like boasting, i was better in mathematics than any of my schoolfellows." "i am so glad to hear that. can you write well?" "shall i write something for you?" "do so." mrs. hamilton vacated her place, and ben, sitting at the desk, wrote two or three copies from remembrance. "very well, indeed!" said his patroness approvingly. "i see that in engaging you i have made no mistake." ben's cheek flushed with pleasure, and he was eager to enter upon his new duties. but he could not help wondering why he had been selected when conrad was already in the house, and unemployed. he ventured to say: "would you mind telling me why you did not employ conrad, instead of sending for me?" "there are two good and sufficient reasons: conrad is not competent for such an office; and secondly, i should not like to have the boy about me as much as he would need to be. i have obtained for him a position out of the house. one question remains to be considered: how much wages do you expect?" "i would prefer to leave that to you, mrs. hamilton. i cannot expect high pay." "will ten dollars a week be adequate?" "i can't earn as much money as that," said ben, in surprise. "perhaps not, and yet i am not sure. if you suit me, it will be worth my while to pay you as much." "but conrad will only receive four dollars a week. won't he be angry?" "conrad is not called upon to support his mother, as i understand you are." "you are very kind to think of that, mrs. hamilton." "i want to be kind to you, ben," said his patroness with a pleasant smile. "when shall i commence my duties?" "now. you will copy this statement into the ledger you see here. before doing so, will you look over and verify the figures?" ben was soon hard at work. he was interested in his work, and the time slipped fast. after an hour and a half had passed, mrs. hamilton said: "it is about time for lunch, and i think there will be no more to do to-day. are you familiar with new york?" "no, i have spent very little time in the city." "you will, no doubt, like to look about. we have dinner at six sharp. you will be on tine?" "i will be sure to be here." "that reminds me--have you a watch?" ben shook his head. "i thought it might be so. i have a good silver watch, which i have no occasion for." mrs. hamilton left the room, and quickly returned with a neat silver hunting-case watch, with a guilt chain. "this is yours, ben," she said, "if you like it." "do you give it to me?" asked ben joyously. he had only expected that it would be loaned to him. "yes, i give it to you, and i hope you will find it useful." "how can i thank you, mrs. hamilton, for your kindness?" "you are more grateful than conrad. i gave him one just like it, and he was evidently dissatisfied became it was not gold. when you are older the gold watch may come." "i am very well pleased with the silver watch, for i have long wanted one, but did not see any way of obtaining it." "you are wise in having moderate desires, ben. but there goes the lunch bell. you may want to wash your hands. when you have done so come down to the dining room, in the rear of the sitting room." mrs. hill and conrad were already seated at the table when ben descended. "take a seat opposite conrad, ben," said mrs. hamilton, who was sitting at one end of the table. the lunch was plain but substantial, and ben, who had taken an early breakfast, enjoyed it. "i suppose we shall not have conrad at lunch to-morrow?" said mrs. hamilton. "he will be at the store." conrad made a grimace. he world have enjoyed his freedom better. "i won't have much of my four dollars left if i have to pay for lunch," he said in a surly tone. "you shall have a reasonable allowance for that purpose." "i suppose mr. barclay will lunch at home," said mrs. hill. "certainly, since his work will be here. he is to be my home clerk, and will keep my accounts." "you needn't have gone out of the house for a clerk, cousin hamilton. i am sure conrad would have been glad of the work." "it will be better for conrad to learn business in a larger establishment," said mrs. hamilton quietly. this was a new way of looking at it, and helped to reconcile mrs. hill to an arrangement which at first had disappointed her. "have you any engagements this afternoon, conrad?" asked mrs. hamilton. "ben will have nothing to do, and you could show him the city." "i've got an engagement with a fellow," said conrad hastily. "i can find my way about alone, thank you," said ben. "i won't trouble conrad." "very well. this evening, however, ben, i think you may enjoy going to the theater. conrad can accompany you, unless he has another engagement." "i'll go with him," said conrad, more graciously, for he was fond of amusements. "then we will all meet at dinner, and you two young gentlemen can leave in good time for the theater." chapter xxi at the theater after dinner, ben and conrad started to walk to the theater. the distance was about a mile, but in the city there is so much always to be seen that one does not think of distance. conrad, who was very curious to ascertain ben's status in the household, lost no time in making inquiries. "what does my aunt find for you to do?" he asked. it may be remarked, by the way, that no such relationship ever existed between them, but mrs. hill and her son thought politic to make the relationship seem as close as possible, as it would, perhaps, increase their apparent claim upon their rich relative. ben answered the question. "you'll have a stupid time," said conrad. "all the same, she ought to have given the place to me. how much does she pay you?" ben hesitated, for he knew that his answer would make his companion discontented. "i am not sure whether i am at liberty to tell," he answered, with hesitation. "there isn't any secret about it, is there?" said conrad sharply. no, i suppose not. i am to receive ten dollars a week." "ten dollars a week!" ejaculated conrad, stopping short in the street. "yes." "and i get but four! that's a shame!" "i shall really have no more than you, conrad. i have a mother to provide for, and i shall send home six dollars a week regularly." "that doesn't make any difference!" exclaimed conrad, in excitement. "it's awfully mean of aunt to treat you so much better than she does me." "you mustn't say that to me," said ben. "she has been kind to us both, and i don't like to hear anything said against her." "you're not going to tell her?" said conrad suspiciously. "certainly not," said ben indignantly. "what do you take me for?" "some fellows would, to set aunt hamilton against me." "i am not so mean as that." "i am glad i can depend on you. you see, the old lady is awfully rich--doesn't know what to do with her money--and as she has no son, or anybody nearer than me and mother, it's natural we should inherit her money." "i hope she will enjoy it herself for a good many years." "oh, she's getting old," said conrad carelessly. "she can't expect to live forever. it wouldn't be fair for young people if their parents lived to a hundred. now, would it?" "i should be very glad to have my mother live to a hundred, if she could enjoy life," said ben, disgusted with his companoin's sordid selfishness. "your mother hasn't got any money, and that makes a difference." ben had a reply, but he reflected it would be of little use to argue with one who took such widely different views as conrad. moreover, they were already within a block or two of the theater. the best seats were priced at a dollar and a half, and mrs. hamilton had given conrad three dollars to purchase one for ben and one for himself. "it seems an awful price to pay a dollar and a half for a seat," said conrad. "suppose we go into the gallery, where the seats are only fifty cents?" "i think mrs. hamilton meant us to take higher-priced seats." "she won't care, or know, unless we choose to tell her." "then you don't propose to give her back the difference?" "you don't take me for a fool, do you? i'll tell you what i'll do. if you don't mind a fifty-cent seat, i'll give you twenty-five cents out of this money." ben could hardly believe conrad was in earnest in this exhibition of meanness. "then," said he, "you would clear seventy-five cents on my seat and a dollar on your own?" "you can see almost as well in the gallery," said conrad. "i'll give you fifty cents, if you insist upon it." "i insist upon having my share of the money spent for a seat," said ben, contemptuously. "you can sit where you please, of course." "you ain't very obliging," said conrad sullenly. "i need the money, and that's what made me propose it. as you've made so much fuss about it, we'll take orchestra seats." this he did, though unwillingly. "i don't think i shall ever like that boy," thought ben. "he's a little too mean." they both enjoyed the play, ben perhaps with the most zest, for he had never before attended a city theater. at eleven o'clock the curtain fell, and they went out. "come, ben," said conrad, "you might treat a fellow to soda water." "i will," answered ben. "where shall we go?" "just opposite. they've got fine soda water across the street." the boys drank their soda water, and started to go home. "suppose we go in somewhere and have a game of billiards?" suggested conrad. "i don't play," answered ben. "i'll teach you; come along," urged conrad. "it is getting late, and i would rather not." "i suppose you go to roost with the chickens in the country?" sneered conrad. you'll learn better in the city--if you stay." "there is another reason," continued ben. "i suppose it costs money to play billiards, and i have none to spare." "only twenty-five cents a game." "it will be cheaper to go to bed." "you won't do anything a fellow wants you to," grumbled conrad. "you needn't be so mean, when you are getting ten dollars a week." "i have plenty to do with my money, and i want to save up something every week." on the whole the boys did not take to each other. they took very different views of life and duty, and there seemed to be small prospect of their becoming intimate friends. mrs. hamilton had gone to bed when they returned, but mrs. hill was up watching for her son. she was a cold, disagreeable woman, but she was devoted to her boy. "i am glad you have come home so soon," she said. "i wanted to play a game of billiards, but ben wouldn't," grumbled conrad. "if you had done so, i should have had to sit up later for you, conrad." "there was no use in sitting up for me. i ain't a baby," responded conrad ungratefully. "you know i can't sleep when i know you are out, conrad." "then you're very foolish. isn't she, ben?" "my mother would feel just so," answered ben. mrs. hill regarded him almost kindly. he had done her a good turn in bringing her son home in good season. "she may be a disagreeable woman," thought ben, "but she is good to conrad," and this made him regard the housekeeper with more favor. chapter xxii a mysterious letter from time to time, mrs. hamilton sent ben on errands to different parts of the city, chiefly to those who had been started in business with capital which she had supplied. one afternoon, he was sent to a tailor on sixth avenue with a note, the contents of which were unknown to him. "you may wait for an answer," said mrs. hamilton. he readily found the tailor's shop, and called for charles roberts, the proprietor. the latter read the note, and said, in a business like tone: "come to the back part of the shop, and i will show you some goods." ben regarded him in surprise. "isn't there some mistake?" he said. "i didn't know i was to look at any goods." "as we are to make a suit for you, i supposed you would have some choice in the matter," returned the tailor, equally surprised. "may i look at the letter?" asked ben. the tailor put it into his hands. it ran thus: "mr. roberts: you will make a suit for the bearer, from any goods he may select, and charge to the account of helen hamilton." "mrs. hamilton did not tell me what was in the note," said ben, smiling. "she is very kind." ben allowed himself to be guided by the tailor, and the result was a handsome suit, which was sent home in due time, and immediately attracted the attention of conrad. ben had privately thanked his patroness, but had felt under no obligation to tell conrad. "seems to me you are getting extravagant!" said conrad enviously. "i don't know but i am," answered ben good-naturedly. "how much did you pay for it?" "the price was thirty-five dollars." "that's too much for a boy in your circumstances to pay." "i think so myself, but i shall make it last a long time." "i mean to make aunt hamilton buy me a new suit," grumbled conrad. "i have no objection, i am sure," said ben. "i didn't ask your permission," said conrad rudely. "i wonder what he would say if he knew that mrs. hamilton paid for my suit?" ben said to himself. he wisely decided to keep the matter secret, as he knew that conrad would be provoked to hear of this new proof of his relative's partiality for the boy whom he regarded as a rival. conrad lost no time in preferring his request to mrs. hamilton for a new suit. "i bought you a suit two months since," said mrs. hamilton quietly. "why do you come to me for another so soon?" "ben has a new suit," answered conrad, a little confused. "i don't know that that has anything to do with you. however, i will ask ben when he had his last new suit." ben, who was present, replied: "it was last november." "nearly a year since. i will take care that you are supplied with new suits as often as ben." conrad retired from the presence of his relative much disgusted. he did not know, but suspected that ben was indebted to mrs. hamilton for his new suit, and although this did not interfere with a liberal provision for him, he felt unwilling that anyone beside himself should bask in the favor of his rich relative. he made a discovery that troubled him about this time. "let me see your watch, ben," he said one day. ben took out the watch and placed it in his hand. "it's just like mine," said conrad, after a critical examination. "is it?" "yes; don't you see? where did you get it?" "it was a gift," answered ben. "from my aunt?" "it was given me by mrs. hamilton." "she seems to be very kind to you," sneered conrad, with a scowl. "she is indeed!" answered ben earnestly. "you've played your cards well," said conrad coarsely. "i don't understand you," returned ben coldly. "i mean that, knowing her to be rich, you have done well to get on the blind side of her." "i can't accept the compliment, if you mean it as such. i don't think mrs. hamilton has any blind side, and the only way in which i intend to commend myself to her favor is to be faithful to her interests." "oh, you're mighty innocent; but all the same, you know how to feather your own nest." "in a good sense, i hope i do. i don't suppose anyone else will take the trouble to feather it for me. i think honesty and fidelity are good policy, don't you?" "i don't pretend to be an angel," answered conrad sullenly. "nor i," said ben, laughing. some days later, conrad came to ben one day, looking more cordial than usual. "ben," he said, "i have a favor to ask of you." "what is it?" "will you grant it?" "i want to know first what it is." "lend me five dollars?" ben stared at conrad in surprise. he had just that amount, after sending home money to his mother, but he intended that afternoon to deposit three dollars of it in the savings bank, feeling that he ought to be laying up money while he was so favorably situated. "how do you happen to be short of money?" he asked. "that doesn't need telling. i have only four dollars a week pocket money, and i am pinched all the time." "then, supposing i lent you the money, how could you manage to pay me back out of this small allowance?" "oh, i expect to get some money in another way, but i cannot unless you lend me the money." "would you mind telling me how?" "why, the fact is, a fellow i know--that is, i have heard of him--has just drawn a prize of a thousand dollars in a havana lottery. all he paid for his ticket was five dollars." "and is this the way you expect to make some money?" "yes; i am almost sure of winning." "suppose you don't?" "oh, what's the use of looking at the dark side?" "you are not so sensible as i thought, conrad," said ben. "at least a hundred draw a blank to one who draws a small prize, and the chances are a hundred to one against you." "then you won't lend me the money?" said conrad angrily. "i would rather not." "then you're a mean fellow!" "thank you for your good opinion, but i won't change my determination." "you get ten dollars a week?" "i shall not spend two dollars a week on my own amusement, or for my own purposes." "what are you going to do with the rest, then?" "part i shall send to my mother; part i mean to put in some savings bank." "you mean to be a miser, then?" "if to save money makes one a miser, then i shall be one." conrad left the room in an angry mood. he was one with whom prosperity didn't agree. whatever his allowance might be, he wished to spend more. looking upon himself as mrs. hamilton's heir, he could not understand the need or expediency of saving money. he was not wholly to blame for this, as his mother encouraged him in hopes which had no basis except in his own and her wishes. not quite three weeks after ben had become established his new home he received a letter which mystified and excited him. it ran thus: "if you will come at nine o'clock this evening to no. ---- west thirty-first street, and call for me, you will hear something to your advantage. james barnes." "it may be something relating to my father's affairs," thought ben. "i will go." chapter xxiii ben's visit to thirty-first street ben's evenings being unoccupied, he had no difficulty in meeting the appointment made for him. he was afraid conrad might ask him to accompany him somewhere, and thus involve the necessity of an explanation, which he did not care to give until he had himself found out why he had been summoned. the address given by james barnes was easy to find. ben found himself standing before a brick building of no uncommon exterior. the second floor seemed to be lighted up; the windows were hung with crimson curtains, which quite shut out a view of what was transpiring within. ben rang the bell. the door was opened by a colored servant, who looked at the boy inquiringly. "is mr. barnes within?" asked ben. "i don't know the gentleman," was the answer. "he sent me a letter, asking me to meet him here at nine o'clock." "then i guess it's all right. are you a telegraph boy?" "no," answered ben, in surprise. "i reckon it's all right," said the negro, rather to himself than to ben. "come upstairs." ben followed his guide, and at the first landing a door was thrown open. mechanically, ben followed the servant into the room, but he had not made half a dozen steps when he looked around in surprise and bewilderment. novice as he was, a glance satisfied him that he was in a gambling house. the double room was covered with a soft, thick carpet, chandeliers depended from the ceiling, frequent mirrors reflecting the brilliant lights enlarged the apparent size the apartment, and a showy bar at one end of the room held forth an alluring invitation which most failed to resist. around tables were congregated men, young and old, each with an intent look, watching the varying chances of fortune. "i'll inquire if mr. barnes is here," said peter, the colored servant. ben stood uneasily looking at the scene till peter came back. "must be some mistake," he said. "there's no gentleman of the name of barnes here." "it's strange," said ben, perplexed. he turned to go out, but was interrupted. a man with a sinister expression, and the muscle of a prize fighter, walked up to him and said, with a scowl: "what brings you here, kid?" "i received a letter from mr. barnes, appointing to meet me here." "i believe you are lying. no such man comes here." "i never lie," exclaimed ben indignantly. "have you got that letter about you?" asked the man suspiciously. ben felt in his pocket for the letter, but felt in vain. "i think i must have left it at home," he said nervously. the man's face darkened. "i believe you come here as a spy," he said. "then you are mistaken!" said ben, looking him fearlessly in the face. "i hope so, for your sake. do you know what kind of a place this is?" "i suppose it is a gambling house," ben answered, without hesitation. "did you know this before you came here?" "i had not the least idea of it." the man regarded him suspiciously, but no one could look into ben's honest face and doubt his word. "at any rate, you've found it out. do you mean to blab?" "no; that is no business of mine." "then you can go, but take care that you never come here again." "i certainly never will." "give me your name and address." "why do you want it?" "because if you break your word, you will be tracked and punished." "i have no fear," answered ben, and he gave his name and address. "never admit this boy again, peter," said the man with whom ben had been conversing; neither this boy, nor any other, except a telegraph boy." "all right, sah." a minute later, ben found himself on the street, very much perplexed by the events of the evening. who could have invited him to a gambling house, and with what object in view? moreover, why had not james barnes kept the appointment he had himself made? these were questions which ben might have been better able to answer if he could have seen, just around the corner, the triumphant look of one who was stealthily watching him. this person was conrad hill, who took care to vacate his position before ben had reached the place where he was standing. "so far, so good!" he muttered to himself. "master ben has been seen coming out of a gambling house. that won't be likely to recommend him to mrs. hamilton, and she shall know it before long." ben could not understand what had become of the note summoning him to the gambling house. in fact, he had dislodged it from the vest pocket in which he thrust it, and it had fallen upon the carpet near the desk in what mrs. hamilton called her "office." having occasion to enter the room in the evening, his patroness saw it on the carpet, picked it up, and read it, not without surprise. "this is a strange note for ben to receive," she said to herself. "i wonder what it means?" of course, she had no idea of the character of the place indicated, but was inclined to hope that some good luck was really in store for her young secretary. "he will be likely to tell me sooner or later," she said to herself. "i will wait patiently, and let him choose his own time. meanwhile i will keep the note." mrs. hamilton did not see ben till the next morning. then he looked thoughtful, but said nothing. he was puzzling himself over what had happened. he hardly knew whether to conclude that the whole thing was a trick, or that the note was written in good faith. "i don't understand why the writer should have appointed to meet me at such a place," he reflected. "i may hear from him again." it was this reflection which led him to keep the matter secret from mrs. hamilton, to whom be had been tempted to speak. "i will wait till i know more," he said to himself. "this barnes knows my address, and he can communicate with me if he chooses." of course, the reader understands that conrad was at the bottom of the trick, and that the object was to persuade mrs. hamilton that the boy she trusted was in the habit of visiting gambling houses. the plan had been suggested by conrad, and the details agreed on by him and his mother. this explains why conrad was so conveniently near at hand to see ben coming out of the gambling house. the boy reported the success of this plan to his mother. "i never saw a boy look so puzzled," he said, with a chuckle, "when he came out of the gambling house. i should like to know what sort of time he had there. i expected he would get kicked out." "i feel no interest in that matter," said his mother. "i am more interested to know what cousin hamilton will say when she finds where her model boy has been." "she'll give him his walking ticket, i hope." "she ought to; but she seems so infatuated with him that there is no telling." "when shall you tell her, mother?" "i will wait a day or two. i want to manage matters so as not to arouse any suspicion." chapter xxiv ben on trial "excuse my intrusion, cousin hamilton; i see you are engaged." the speaker was mrs. hill, and the person addressed was her wealthy cousin. it was two days after the event recorded in the last chapter. "i am only writing a note, about which there is no haste. did you wish to speak to me?" mrs. hamilton leaned back in her chair, and waited to hear what mrs. hill had to say. there was very little similarity between the two ladies. one was stout, with a pleasant, benevolent face, to whom not only children, but older people, were irresistibly attracted. the other was thin, with cold, gray eyes, a pursed-up mouth, thin lips, who had never succeeded in winning the affection of anyone. true, she had married, but her husband was attracted by a small sum of money which she possessed, and which had been reported to him as much larger than it really was. when asked if she wished to speak, mrs. hill coughed. "there's a matter i think i ought to speak of," she said, "but it is painful for me to do so." "why is it painful?" asked mrs. hamilton, eyeing her steadily. "because my motives may be misconstrued. then, i fear it will give you pain." "pain is sometimes salutary. has conrad displeased you?" "no, indeed!" answered mrs. hill, half indignantly. "my boy is a great comfort to me." "i am glad to hear it," said mrs. hamilton dryly. for her own part, mrs. hamilton thought her cousin's son one of the least attractive young people she had ever met, and save for a feeling of pity, and the slight claims of relationship, would not have been willing to keep him in the house. "i don't see why you should have judged so ill of my poor conrad," complained mrs. hill. "i am glad you are so well pleased with him. let me know what you have to communicate." "it is something about the new boy--benjamin." mrs. hamilton lifted her eyebrows slightly. "speak without hesitation," she said. "you will be sure not to misjudge me?" "why should i?" "you might think i was jealous on account of my own boy." "there is no occasion for you to be jealous." "no, of course not. i am sure conrad and i have abundant cause to be grateful to you." "that is not telling me what you came to tell," said mrs. hamilton impatiently. "i am afraid you are deceived in the boy, cousin hamilton." "in what respect?" "i am almost sorry i had not kept the matter secret. if i did not consider it my duty to you, i would have done so." "be kind enough to speak at once. you need not apologize, nor hesitate on my account. what has ben been doing?" "on tuesday evening he was seen coming out of a well-known gambling house." "who saw him?" "conrad." "how did conrad know that it was a gambling house?" "he had had it pointed out to him as such," mrs. hill answered, with some hesitation. "about what time was this?" "a little after nine in the evening." "and where was the gambling house situated?" "on thirty-first street." a peculiar look came over mrs. hamilton's face. "and conrad reported this to you?" "the same evening." "that was tuesday?" "yes; i could not make up my mind to tell you immediately, because i did not want to injure the boy." "you are more considerate than i should have expected." "i hope i am. i don't pretend to like the boy. he seems to have something sly and underhand about him. still, he needs to be employed, and that made me pause." "till your sense of duty to me overcame your reluctance?" "exactly so, cousin hamilton. i am glad you understand so well how i feel about the matter." mrs. hill was quite incapable of understanding the irony of her cousin's last remark, and was inclined to be well pleased with the reception her news had met with. "where is conrad?" "he is not in the house. he didn't want me to tell you." "that speaks well for him. i must speak to ben on the subject." she rang the bell, and a servant appeared. "see if master ben is in his room," said the lady. "if so ask him to come here for five minutes." ben was in the house and in less than two minutes he entered the room. he glanced from one lady to the other in some surprise. mrs. hamilton wore her ordinary manner, but mrs. hill's mouth was more pursed up than ever. she looked straight before her, and did not look at ben at all. "ben," said mrs. hamilton, coming to the point at once, "did you visit a gambling house in thirty-first street on tuesday evening?" "i did," answered ben promptly. mrs. hill moved her hands slightly, and looked horror-stricken. "you must have had some good reason for doing so. i take it for granted you did not go there to gamble?" "no," answered ben, with a smile. "that is not in my line." "what other purpose could he have had, cousin hamilton?" put in mrs. hill maliciously. ben eyed her curiously. "did mrs. hill tell you i went there?" he asked. "i felt it my duty to do so," said that lady, with acerbity. "i dislike to see my cousin so deceived and imposed upon by one she had befriended." "how did you know i went there, mrs. hill?" "conrad saw you coming out of the gambling house." "i didn't see him. it was curious he happened be in that neighborhood just at that time," said ben significantly. "if you mean to insinuate that conrad goes to such places, you are quite mistaken," said mrs. hill sharply. "it was not that i meant to insinuate at all." "you have not yet told me why you went there, ben?" said mrs. hamilton mildly." "because i received a mysterious letter, signed james barnes, asking me to come to that address about nine o'clock in the evening. i was told i would hear something of advantage to myself." "did you meet any such man there?" asked mrs. hill. "no." "have you got the letter you speak of?" asked mrs. hamilton. "no," answered ben. "i must have dropped it somewhere. i felt in my pocket for it when i reached the gambling house, but it was gone." mrs. hill looked fairly triumphant. "a very queer story!" she said, nodding her head. "i don't believe you received any such letter. i presume you had often been to the same place to misspend your evenings." "do you think so, mrs. hamilton?" inquired ben anxiously. "it is a pity you lost that letter, ben." "yes, it is," answered ben regretfully. "mrs. hill," said mrs. hamilton, "if you will withdraw, i would like to say a few words to ben in private." "certainly, cousin hamilton," returned the poor cousin, with alacrity. "i think his race is about run," she said to herself, in a tone of congratulation. chapter xxv conrad takes a bold step "i hope, mrs. hamilton, you don't suspect me of frequenting gambling houses?" said ben, after his enemy had left the room. "no," answered mrs. hamilton promptly. "i think i know you too well for that." "i did go on tuesday evening, i admit," continued ben. "i saw that mrs. hill did not believe it, but it's true. i wish i hadn't lost the letter inviting me there. you might think i had invented the story." "but i don't, ben; and, for the best of all reasons, because i found the note on the carpet, and have it in my possession now." "have you?" exclaimed ben gladly. "here it is," said the lady, as she produced the note from the desk before her. "it is singular such a note should have been sent you," she added thoughtfully. "i think so, too. i had no suspicion when i received it, but i think now that it was written to get to into a scrape." "then it must have been written by an enemy. do you know of anyone who would feel like doing you a bad turn?" "no," answered ben, shaking his head. "do you recognize the handwriting?" "no; it may have been written by some person i know, but i have no suspicion and no clew as to who it is." "i think we will let the matter rest for a short time. if we say nothing about it, the guilty person may betray himself." "you are very kind to keep your confidence in me, mrs. hamilton," said ben gratefully. "i trust you as much as ever, ben, but i shall appear not to--for a time." ben looked puzzled. "i won't explain myself," said mrs. hamilton, with a smile, "but i intend to treat you coolly for a time, as if you had incurred my displeasure. you need not feel sensitive, however, but may consider that i am acting." "then it may be as well for me to act, too," suggested ben. "a good suggestion! you will do well to look sober and uneasy." "i will do my best," answered ben brightly. the programme was carried out. to the great delight of mrs. hill and conrad, mrs. hamilton scarcely addressed a word to ben at the supper table. when she did speak, it was with an abruptness and coldness quite unusual for the warm-hearted woman. ben looked depressed, fixed his eyes on his plate, and took very little part in the conversation. mrs. hill and conrad, on the other hand, seemed in very good spirits. they chatted cheerfully, and addressed an occasional word to ben. they could afford to be magnanimous, feeling that he had forfeited their rich cousin's favor. after supper, conrad went into his mother's room. "our plan's working well, mother," he said, rubbing his hands. "yes, conrad, it is. cousin hamilton is very angry with the boy. she scarcely spoke a word to him." "he won't stay long, i'll be bound. can't you suggest, mother, that he had better be dismissed at once?" "no, conrad; we have done all that is needed. we can trust cousin hamilton to deal with him. she will probably keep him for a short time, till she can get along without his services." "it's lucky he lost the letter. cousin hamilton will think he never received any." so the precious pair conferred together. it was clear that ben had two dangerous and unscrupulous enemies in the house. it was all very well to anticipate revenge upon ben, and his summary dismissal, but this did not relieve conrad from his pecuniary embarrassments. as a general thing, his weekly allowance was spent by the middle of the week. ben had refused to lend money, and there was no one else he could call upon. even if our hero was dismissed, there seemed likely to be no improvement in this respect. at this juncture, conrad was, unfortunately, subjected to a temptation which proved too strong for him. mrs. hamilton was the possessor of an elegant opera glass, which she had bought some years previous in paris at a cost of fifty dollars. generally, when not in use, she kept it locked up in a bureau drawer. it so happened, however, that it had been left out on a return from a matinee, and lay upon her desk, where it attracted the attention of conrad. it was an unlucky moment, for he felt very hard up. he wished to go to the theater in the evening with a friend, but had no money. it flashed upon him that he could raise a considerable sum on the opera glass at simpson's, a well-known pawnbroker on the bowery, and he could, without much loss of time, stop there on his way down to business. scarcely giving himself time to think, he seized the glass and thrust it into the pocket of his overcoat. then, putting on his coat, he hurried from the house. arrived at the pawnbroker's, he produced the glass, and asked: "how much will you give me on this?" the attendant looked at the glass, and then at conrad. "this is a very valuable glass," he said. "is it yours?" "no," answered conrad glibly. "it belongs to a lady in reduced circumstances, who needs to raise money. she will be able to redeem it soon." "did she send you here?" "yes." "we will loan you twenty dollars on it. will that be satisfactory?" "quite so," answered conrad, quite elated at the sum, which exceeded his anticipations. "shall we make out the ticket to you or the lady?" "to me. the lady does not like to have her name appear in the matter." this is so frequently the case that the statement created no surprise. "what is your name?" inquired the attendant. "ben barclay," answered conrad readily. the ticket was made out, the money paid over, and conrad left the establishment. "now i am in funds!" he said to himself, "and there is no danger of detection. if anything is ever found out, it will be ben who will be in trouble, not i." it was not long before mrs. hamilton discovered her loss. she valued the missing opera glass, for reasons which need not be mentioned, far beyond its intrinsic value, and though she could readily have supplied its place, so far as money was concerned, she would not have been as well pleased with any new glass, though precisely similar, as with the one she had used for years. she remembered that she had not replaced the glass in the drawer, and, therefore, searched for it wherever she thought it likely to have been left. but in vain. "ben," she said, "have you seen my glass anywhere about?" "i think," answered ben, "that i saw it on your desk." "it is not there now, but it must be somewhere in the house." she next asked mrs. hill. the housekeeper was entirely ignorant of conrad's theft, and answered that she had not seen it. "i ought not to have left it about," said mrs. hamilton. "it may have proved too strong a temptation to some one of the servants." "or someone else," suggested mrs. hill significantly. "that means ben," thought mrs. hamilton, but she did not say so. "i would ferret out the matter if i were you," continued mrs. hill. "i intend to," answered mrs. hamilton quietly. "i valued the glass far beyond its cost, and i will leave no means untried to recover it." "you are quite right, too." when conrad was told that the opera glass had been lost, he said: "probably ben stole it." "so i think," assented his mother. "but it will be found out. cousin hamilton has put the matter into the hands of a detective." for the moment, conrad felt disturbed. but he quickly recovered himself. "pshaw! they can't trace it to me," he thought. "they will put it on ben." chapter xxvi mr. lynx, the detective the detective who presented himself to mrs. hamilton was a quiet-looking man, clad in a brown suit. except that his eyes were keen and searching, his appearance was disappointing. conrad met him as he was going out of the house, and said to himself contemptuously: "he looks like a muff." "i have sent for you, mr. lynx," said mrs. hamilton, "to see if you can help me in a matter i will explain to you," and then she gave him all the information she possessed about the loss of the opera glass. "how valuable was the glass?" inquired mr. lynx. "it cost fifty dollars in paris," said mrs. hamilton. "but you set a higher value upon it for other reasons? just so." "you are right." "will you favor me with an exact description of the article?" said the detective, producing his notebook. mrs. hamilton did so, and the detective made an entry. "have you ever had anything taken out of your house by outside parties?" he asked. "on one occasion, when my brother was visiting me, his overcoat was taken from the hatstand in the hall." "a sneak thief, of course. the glass, however, was not so exposed?" "no; it was not on the lower floor at all." "it looks, then, as if it was taken by someone in the house." "it looks so," said mrs. hamilton gravely. "have you confidence in your servants? or, rather, have you reason to suspect any of them?" "i believe they are honest. i don't believe they would be tempted by such an article." "not, perhaps, for their own use, but a glass like this may be pawned for a considerable sum. being of peculiar appearance, the thief would be hardly likely to use it himself or herself. detection would be too sure." "no doubt you are right." "how long has the glass been missing?" resumed the detective. "three days." "no doubt it has been pawned by this time. your course is clear." "and what is that?" "to make a tour of the pawnshops, and ascertain whether such an article has been brought to any one of them." "very well, mr. lynx. i leave the matter in your hands. i trust everything to your judgment." "thank you. i will try to deserve your confidence. and now, good-day. i may call upon you to-morrow." "mr. lynx left the presence of the lady, and went downstairs. he had just reached the bottom of the staircase, when a thin lady glided from the rear of the hall, and spoke to him. "are you the detective summoned by mrs. hamilton?" she asked. "yes, madam," answered mr. lynx, surveying housekeeper attentively. "i am mrs. hill, the housekeper," said she. "i may add that i am a cousin of mrs. hamilton's." mr. lynx bowed, and waited for further information. he knew who was addressing him, for he had questioned mrs. hamilton as to the different inmates of the house. "i stopped you," said mrs. hill, "because i have my suspicions, and i thought i might help you in this investigation." "i shall feel indebted to you for any help you can afford. do you mind telling me upon what your suspicions rest?" "i don't like to accuse or throw suspicions on anyone," said the housekeeper, but i think it is my duty to help my cousin in this matter." "undoubtedly," said mr. lynx, noticing that she paused. "proceed." "you may or may not be aware that my cousin employs a boy of about sixteen, whom, as i think, she engaged rather rashly, without knowing anything of his antecedents. he assists her in her writing and accounts--in fact, is a sort of secretary. "his name is benjamin barclay, is it not?" "yes." "do you know anything of his habits?" "he is very plausible. in fact, i think his appearance is in his favor; but i think he is sly. still water, you know, runs deep." mr. lynx bowed assent. "i was disposed," proceeded mrs. hill artfully, "to think well of the boy, and to approve my cousin's selection, until last week he was seen leaving a well-known gambling house in thirty-first street." "indeed! that is certainly suspicious." "is it not?" "who saw him leaving the gambling house, mrs. hill?" "my son, conrad." "curious that he should have been near at the time!" "he was taking a walk. he generally goes out in the evening." "of course your son would not visit such a place?" "certainly not," answered mrs. hill, looking offended at the suggestion. "by the way, are the two boys intimate? do they seem to like each other?" "my conrad always treats the other boy well, out of common politeness, but i don't think he likes him very well." "is your son in any situation?" "he is now." "was he at the time this benjamin was engaged by mrs. hamilton?" "no." "rather singular that she did not employ your son, instead of seeking out a stranger, isn't it?" "now that you mention it, i confess that i did feel hurt at the slight to my boy. however, i don't wish to interfere with cousin hamilton, or obtrude my son upon her." "strong jealousy there!" thought the detective. "so you think this ben barclay may have taken the glass?" he said inquiringly. "i do. since he visits gambling houses, he doubtless squanders money, and can find a market for more than he can honestly earn." "as you say, gambling often leads to dishonesty. does mrs. hamilton know that her protege visited a gambling house?" "yes." "mentioned it to him, i suppose?" "yes." "of course, he denied it?" "no; he admitted it, but said he received a letter from a stranger appointing to meet him there. it is rather curious that he couldn't show the letter, however. he pretended he had lost it." "did mrs. hamilton believe him?" "i don't know. i think not, for, though she has not discharged him, she treats him very coldly." "have you any further information to give me?" "no. i hope this will be of some service to you." "i think it will. thank you, and good-afternoon." "there! i've prejudiced him against ben," said mrs. hill to herself, with a satisfied smile. "these detectives are glad of a hint, sharp as they think themselves. if he finds out that it is ben, he will take all the credit to himself, and never mention me in the matter. however, that is just what i wish. it is important that i should not appear too active in getting the boy into trouble, or i may be thought to be influenced by interested motives, though, heaven knows, i only want justice for myself and my boy. the sooner we get this boy out of the house, the better it will be for us." as mr. lynx left the house, he smiled to himself. "that woman and her son hate ben barclay, that much is certain, and look upon him as an interloper and a rival. i rather sympathize with the poor fellow. i should be sorry to find him guilty, but i shall not stop short till i have ferreted out the truth." chapter xxvii the telltale ticket conrad still had the pawnbroker's ticket which he had received in return for the opera glasses, and did not quite know what to do with it. he didn't intend to redeem the glass, and if found in his possession, it would bring him under suspicion. now that a detective had the matter in charge, it occurred to him that it would be well to have the ticket found in ben's room. the two had rooms upon the same floor, and it would, therefore, be easy to slip into ben's chamber and leave it somewhere about. now, it chanced that susan, the chambermaid, was about, though conrad did not see her, when he carried out his purpose, and, instigated by curiosity, she peeped through the half-open door, and saw him place the ticket on the bureau. wondering what it was, she entered the room after conrad had vacated it, and found the ticket conrad had placed there. susan knew what a pawnbroker's ticket was, and read it with curiosity. she saw that it was made out to ben barclay. "how, then, did master conrad get hold of it?" she said to herself. "it's my belief he's trying to get master ben into trouble. it's a shame, it is, for master ben is a gentleman and he isn't." between the two boys, susan favored ben, who always treated her with consideration, while conrad liked to order about the servants, as if they were made to wait upon him. after conrad had disposed of the pawn ticket, he said carelessly to his mother: "mother, if i were you, i'd look into ben's room. you might find the opera glass there." "i don't think he'd leave it there. he would pawn it." "then you might find the ticket somewhere about." upon this hint, mrs. hill went up to ben's room, and there, upon the bureau, she naturally found the ticket. "i thought so," she said to herself. "conrad was right. the boy is a thief. here is the ticket made out to him by name. well, well, he's brazen enough, in all conscience. now shall i show it to cousin hamilton at once, or shall i wait until the detective has reported?" on the whole, mrs. hill decided to wait. she could delay with safety, for she had proof which would utterly crush and confound the hated interloper. meanwhile, the detective pursued his investigations. of course, he visited simpson's, and there he learned that the opera glass, which he readily recognized from the description, had been brought there a few days previous. "who brought it?" he asked. "a boy of about sixteen." "did he give his name?" the books were referred to, and the attendant answered in the affirmative. "he gave the name of ben barclay," he answered. "do you think that was his real name?" asked the detective. "that depends on whether he had a right to pawn it." "suppose he stole it?" "then, probably, he did not give his real name." "so i think," said mr. lynx quietly. "do you know if there is a boy by that name?" "there is; but i doubt if he knows anything about the matter." "i will call again, perhaps to-morrow," he added. "i must report to my principal what i have discovered." from simpson's he went straight to mrs. hamilton, who had as yet received no communication from the housekeeper. "well, mr. lynx," she asked, with interest, "have you heard anything of the glass?" "i have seen it," was the quiet reply. "where?" "at a well-known pawnshop on the bowery." "did you learn who left it?" asked mrs. hamilton eagerly. "a boy--about sixteen years of age--who gave the name of ben barclay." "i can't believe ben would be guilty of such a disgraceful act!" ejaculated mrs. hamilton, deeply moved. chapter xxviii mrs. hill's malice at this moment there was a low knock on the door. "come in!" said mrs. hamilton. mrs. hill, the housekeeper, glided in, with her usual stealthy step. "i really beg pardon for intruding," she said, with a slight cough, "but i thought perhaps i might throw light on the matter mr. lynx is investigating." "well?" said the detective, eying her attentively. "i had occasion to go into ben's room to see if the girl had put things in order, when my attention was drawn to a ticket upon the bureau. you can tell whether it is of importance," and she handed it, with an air of deference, to mr. lynx. "what is it?" asked mrs. hamilton. "it is a pawn ticket," answered mr. lynx attentively. "let me see it, please!" mrs. hamilton regarded it with mingled pain and incredulity. "i need not say," continued the housekeeper, "that i was surprised and saddened at this evidence of the boy's depravity. cousin hamilton has been so kind to him that it seems like the height of ingratitude." "may i ask, madam," said mr. lynx, "if your suspicions had fastened on this boy, ben, before you found the pawn ticket?" "to tell the truth, they had." "and what reason had you for forming such suspicions?" "i knew that the boy frequented gambling houses, and, of course, no salary, however large, would be sufficient for a boy with such habits." mrs. hamilton did not speak, which somewhat embarrassed mrs. hill. mr. lynx, however, was very affable, and thanked her for her assistance. "i felt it my duty to assist cousin hamilton," said she, "though i am sorry for that ungrateful boy. i will now withdraw, and leave you to confer together." mrs. hill would like to have been invited to remain, but such an invitation was not given. "what do you think, mr. lynx?" asked mrs. hamilton. "i think your housekeeper does not like ben barclay," he answered dryly. "and you don't think him guilty?" she asked eagerly. "no; the boy isn't fool enough, first, to give his own name at the pawnbroker's, and next, to leave the ticket exposed in his room." "how then did it come there?" mr. lynx was saved the trouble of answering by another tap on the door. "who is it now?" he said. he stepped to the door, and opening it, admitted susan. "what is it, susan," asked mrs. hamilton, in some surprise. "did mrs. hill bring you a pawn ticket, ma'am?" "and what do you know about it?" demanded mr. lynx brusquely. "and did she say she found it on master ben's bureau?" "yes, susan," said the mistress; "what can you tell us about it?" "i can tell you this, ma'am, that i saw master conrad steal into the room this morning, and put it there with his own hands." "ha! this is something to the purpose." said the detective briskly. "are you sure of this, susan?" asked mrs. hamilton, evidently shocked. "i can take my bible oath of it, ma'am; and it's my belief that he's tryin' to get master ben into trouble." "thank you, susan," said her mistress. "you have done not only ben, but myself, a valuable service. you can go. i will see that you do not regret it." "don't tell mrs. hill that i told you, or she'd be my enemy for life!" "i will see to that." as susan left the room, mr. lynx said: "you won't require my services any longer. it is clear enough who pawned the glass." "you mean--" "i mean the boy conrad, whose mother was so anxious to fix the guilt upon your young secretary. if you have the slightest doubt about it, invite the young gentleman to accompany you to simpson's to redeem the opera glass." "i will." chapter xxix some unexpected changes when conrad came home his first visit was to his mother. "has anything been found out about the stolen opera glass?" he asked, with a studied air of indifference. "i should say there had," she answered. "i followed the clew you suggested, and searched the boy's room. on the bureau i found the pawn ticket." "you don't say so! what a muff ben must have been to leave it around so carelessly! what did you do with it?" "i waited till mr. lynx was conferring with cousin hamilton, and then i carried it in and gave it to them." "what did they say?" asked conrad eagerly. "they seemed thunderstruck, and mr. lynx very politely thanked me for the help i had given them." "has ben been bounced yet?" "no; but doubtless he will be very soon. cousin hamilton doesn't want to think him a thief and gambler, but there seems no way of escaping from such a mass of proof." "i should say not. do you think she's told ben? does he look down in the mouth?" continued conrad. "i haven't seen him since." when they met at the table mrs. hamilton's manner toward ben was decidedly frigid, as conrad and his mother saw, much to their satisfaction. ben looked sober, but his appetite did not appear to be affected. "your course is about run, young man!" thought mrs. hill. "i should like to see you after supper, conrad," said mrs. hamilton. "come into my sitting room." "i wonder if she is going to give me ben's place," thought conrad, hardly knowing whether he wished it or not. with a jaunty air and a self-satisfied smile, he followed mrs. hamilton into her "private office," as she sometimes called it. "shut the door, conrad," she said. he did so. "i have heard news of the opera glass," she commenced. "mother gave me a hint of that," said conrad. "it was stolen and pawned at simpson's on the bowery." "it's a great shame!" said conrad, thinking that a safe comment to make. "yes, it was a shame and a disgrace to the one who took it." "i didn't think ben would do such a thing," continued conrad, growing bolder. "nor i," said mrs. hamilton. "after all you have done for him, too. i never liked the boy, for my part." "so i suspected," said mrs. hamilton dryly. "however, i will tell you what i want of you. i am going down to simpson's to-morrow to redeem the glass, and want you to go with me." "you want me to go with you!" ejaculated conrad, turning pale. "yes; i don't care to go to that part of the city by myself, and i will take you to keep me company." "but i must go to the office," faltered conrad. "i will send ben to say that you can't go to-morrow." "why don't you take ben to simpson's, or the detective?" suggested conrad, in great alarm, bethinking himself that it would hardly do to take ben, since the attendant would certify that he was not the one who pawned the glass. "because i prefer to take you. have you any objection to go!" "oh, no, of course not!" answered conrad, not daring to make any further objection. in the morning mrs. hill came to mrs. hamilton, and said: "poor conrad has a terrible toothache! he is afraid he won't be able to go with you to simpson's. will you kindly excuse him?" mrs. hamilton expected some such excuse. "i will take ben, then," she said. "are you going to keep that boy--after what be has done?" asked the housekeeper. "it is inconvenient for me to part with him just yet." "then--i hope you will excuse the suggestion--i advise you to keep your bureau drawers locked." "i think it best myself," said mrs. hamilton. is conrad's toothache very bad?" "the poor fellow is in great pain." when ben was invited by mrs. hamilton to go to the pawnbroker's he made no objection. "it is only fair to tell you, ben," said mrs. hamilton, that the person who pawned the opera glass gave your name." "then," said ben, "i should like to know who it is." "i think i know," said his patroness; "but when we redeem the glass we will ask for a description of him." an hour later they entered the pawnbroker's shop. mrs. hamilton presented the ticket and made herself known. "will you tell me," she asked, "whether you have ever seen the young gentleman that accompanies me?" "not to my knowledge," answered the attendant, after attentively regarding ben. "can you remember the appearance of the boy who pawned the opera glass?" "he was taller than this boy, and pale. he was thinner also. his hair was a light brown." a light dawned upon ben, and his glance met that of mrs. hamilton, so that she read his suspicions. "i think we both know who it was that took your name, ben," she said; "but for the present i wish you to keep it secret." "i will certainly do so, mrs. hamilton." "i am placed in difficult circumstances, and have not made up my mind what to do." "i hope you won't allow yourself to be prejudiced against me by any false stories." "no, i can promise you that. i have perfect confidence in you." "thank you for that, mrs. hamilton," said ben gratefully. "yet i am about to take a course that will surprise you." "what is that?" "i am going to let you leave me for a time, and put conrad in your place." ben looked bewildered, as well he might. there was nothing that would have surprised him more. "then i am afraid you don't find me satisfactory," he said anxiously. "why not?" "you discharge me from your service." "no" answered mrs. hamilton, smiling; "i have other work for you to do. i mean to give you a confidential commission." ben's face brightened up immediately. "you will find me faithful," he said, "and i hope i may repay your confidence." "i think you will. i will explain matters to you before you reach the house, as i don't want mrs. hill or conrad to know about the matter. indeed, for reasons of my own, i shall let them think that i discharged you." ben smiled; he was not averse to such a plan. "and now for the business. i own a farm in the western part of pennsylvania. i have for years let it for a nominal sum to a man named jackson. of late he has been very anxious to buy it, and has offered me a sum greater than i had supposed it to be worth. as i know him to be a close-fisted man, who has tried more than once to get me to reduce the small rent i charge him, this naturally excites my curiosity. i think something has been discovered that enhances the value of the farm, and, if so, i want to know it. you are a boy, and a visit to the neighborhood will not excite surprise. "i understand," said ben. "when do you wish me to start?" "this afternoon. i have prepared written instructions, and here is a pocketbook containing a hundred and fifty dollars for expenses." "shall i need so much?" "probably not; but i wish you to be amply provided. you will remove all your things from my house, but you may store anything you don't need to carry." when conrad heard that mrs. hamilton had taken ben with her, he was alarmed lest it should be discovered that the boy pawning the opera glass was not ben, but himself. when, upon mrs. hamilton's return, he was summoned to her presence, he entered with trepidation. "is your toothache better, conrad?" asked mrs. hamilton. "a little better, thank you." "i am going to make a change in your position. ben is to leave me, and you will take his place as my secretary." conrad's heart bounded with joy and surprise. "how can i thank you, cousin hamilton!" he said, with a feeling of great relief. "by serving me well." "all has turned out for the best, mother," said conrad joyfully, as he sought his mother's presence. "ben is bounced, and i am to take his place." "heaven be praised!" ejaculated mrs. hill. "i hope you'll soon find a place," said conrad mockingly, when ben left the house, valise in hand. "i think i shall," answered ben calmly. chapter xxx ben "goes west" undisturbed by the thought that his departure was viewed with joy by conrad and his mother, ben set out on his western journey. his destination was centerville, in western pennsylvania. i may as well say that this is not the real name of the place, which, for several reasons, i conceal. though ben was not an experienced traveler, he found no difficulty in reaching his destination, having purchased a copy of "appleton's railway guide," which afforded him all the information he required. about fifty miles this side of centerville he had for a seat companion a man of middle age, with a pleasant face, covered with a brown beard, who, after reading through a philadelphia paper which he had purchased of the train-boy, seemed inclined to have a social chat with ben. "may i ask your destination, my young friend?" he asked. ben felt that it was well for him to be cautious, though he was pleasantly impressed with the appearance of his companion. "i think i shall stop over at centerville," he said. "indeed! that is my destination." "do you live there?" asked ben. "no," said the other, laughing. "do i look like it? i thought you would read 'new york' in my face and manner." "i am not an experienced observer," said ben modestly. "centerville has a prosperous future before it," said the stranger. "has it? i don't know much about the place. i never was there." "you know, of course, that it is in the oil region?" "i didn't even know that." "a year ago," resumed the stranger, "it was a humdrum farming town, and not a very prosperous one either. the land is not of good quality, and the farmers found it hard work to get a poor living. now all is changed." ben's attention was aroused. he began to understand why mr. jackson wished to buy the farm he rented from mrs. hamilton. "this is all new to me," he said. "i suppose oil has been found there?" "yes; one old farm, which would have been dear at three thousand dollars, is now yielding hundreds of barrels daily, and would fetch fifty thousand dollars easily." ben began to be excited. if he could only sell mrs. hamilton's farm for half that he felt that he would be doing an excellent thing. "i suppose you are interested in some of the petroleum wells?" he said. "not yet, but i hope to be. in fact, i don't mind confessing that i represent a new york syndicate, and that my object in making this journey is to purchase, if i can, the jackson farm." "the jackson farm!" repeated ben, his breath almost taken away by his surprise. "yes; do you know anything about it?" asked his companion. "i have heard of a farmer in centerville named peter jackson." "that is the man." "and his farm is one of the lucky ones, then?" "it promises to be." "i suppose, then, you will have to pay a large sum for it?" said ben, trying to speak calmly. "jackson is very coy, and, i think, grasping. he wants fifty thousand dollars." "of course you won't pay so much?" "i should hardly feel authorized to do so. i may go as high as forty thousand dollars." ben was dazzled. if he could effect a sale at this price he would be doing a splendid stroke of business, and would effectually defeat the plans of mr. jackson, who, it appeared, had pretended that he was the owner of the farm, hoping to obtain it from mrs. hamilton at a valuation which would have been suitable before the discovery of oil, but now would be ludicrously disproportionate to its real value. "shall or shall i not, tell this gentleman the truth?" he reflected. he thought over the matter and decided to do so. the discovery must be made sooner or later, and there would be no advantage in delay. "i don't think jackson will sell," he said. "why not?" asked the stranger, in surprise. "do you know him?" "i never saw him in my life." "then how can you form any opinion on the subject?" ben smiled. "the answer is easy enough," he said. "mr. jackson can't sell what he doesn't own." "do you mean to say that he is not the owner of the farm which he proposes to sell us?" "that is just what i mean. he is no more the owner than you or i." "you speak confidently, young man. perhaps you can tell me who is the owner?" "i can. the owner is mrs. hamilton, of new york." "indeed! that is a genuine surprise. can you give me her address? i should like to communicate with her." "i will cheerfully give you her address, but it won't be necessary, for i represent her." "you!" exclaimed the stranger incredulously. "yes; and i am going out to centerville now as her agent. this jackson, who is her tenant, has been urging her to sell him the farm for some time. he has offered a sum larger than the farm would be worth but for the discovery of petroleum, but has taken good care not to speak of this." "how much does he offer?" "five thousand dollars." "the rascal!" he offers five thousand, and expects us to pay him fifty thousand dollars for his bargain. what an unmitigated swindle it would have been if he had carried out his scheme!" "perhaps you would like to see his last letter?" said ben. "i should. i want to see what the old rascal has to say for himself." ben took from his pocket the letter in question, and put it into the hands of his new acquaintance. it was dated at centerville, october . it was written in a cramped hand, showing that the farmer was not accustomed to letter-writing. it ran thus: "respected madam: "as i have already wrote you, i would like to buy the farm, and will give you more than anybody else, because i am used to living on it, and it seems like home. i am willing to pay five thousand dollars, though i know it is only worth four, but it is worth more to me than to others. i offer you more because i know you are rich, and will not sell unless you get a good bargain. please answer right away. "yours respectfully, peter jackson. "p.s.--my offer will hold good for only two weeks." "he seems to be very much in earnest," said ben. "he has reason to be so, as he hopes to make forty-five thousand dollars on his investment." "he will be bitterly disappointed," said ben. "i don't care anything about jackson," said the stranger. "i would just as soon negotiate with you. are you authorized to sell the farm?" "no," answered ben; "but mrs. hamilton will probably be guided by my advice in the mater." "that amounts to the same thing. i offer you forty thousand dollars for it." "i think favorably of your proposal, mr. ----" "my name is taylor." "mr. taylor; but i prefer to delay answering till i am on the ground and can judge better of the matter." "you are right. i was surprised at first that mrs. hamilton should have selected so young an agent. i begin to think her choice was a judicious one." chapter xxxi mr. jackson receives a call "suppose we join forces, ben," said mr. taylor familiarly. "how do you mean?" "we will join forces against this man jackson. he wants to swindle both of us--that is, those whom we represent. "i am willing to work with you" answered ben, who had been favorably impressed by the appearance and frankness of his traveling companion. "then suppose to-morrow morning--it is too late to-day--we call over and see the old rascal." "i would rather not have him know on what errand i come, just at first." "that is in accordance with my own plans. you will go as my companion. he will take you for my son, or nephew, and, while i am negotiating, you can watch and judge for yourself." "i like the plan," said ben. "when he finds out who you are he will feel pretty badly sold." "he deserves it." the two put up at a country hotel, which, though not luxurious, was tolerably comfortable. after the fatigue of his journey, ben enjoyed a good supper and a comfortable bed. the evening, however, he spent in the public room of the inn, where he had a chance to listen to the conversation of a motley crowd, some of them native and residents, others strangers who had been drawn to centerville by the oil discoveries. "i tell you," said a long, lank individual, "centerville's goin' to be one of the smartest places in the united states. it's got a big future before it." "that's so," said a small, wiry man; "but i'm not so much interested in that as i am in the question whether or not i've got a big future before me." "you're one of the owners of the hoffman farm, ain't you?" "yes. i wish i owned the whole of it. still, i've made nigh on to a thousand dollars durin' the last month for my share of the profits. pretty fair, eh?" "i should say so. you've got a good purchase; but there's one better in my opinion." "where's that?" "peter jackson's farm." here ben and mr. taylor began to listen with interest. "he hasn't begun to work it any, has he?" "not much; just enough to find out its value." "what's he waitin' for?" "there's some new york people want it. if he can get his price, he'll sell it to them for a good sum down." "what does he ask?" "he wants fifty thousand dollars." "whew! that's rather stiffish. i thought the property belonged to a lady in new york." "so it did; but jackson says he bought it a year ago." "he was lucky." ben and mr. taylor looked at each other again. it was easy to see the old farmer's game, and to understand why he was so anxious to secure the farm, out of which he could make so large a sum of money. "he's playing a deep game, ben," said taylor, when they had left the room. "yes; but i think i shall be able to put a spoke in his wheel." "i shall be curious to see how he takes it when he finds the negotiation taken out of his hands. we'll play with him a little, as a cat plays with a mouse." the next morning, after a substantial breakfast, ben and his new friend took a walk to the farm occupied by peter jackson. it was about half a mile away, and when reached gave no indication of the wealth it was capable of producing. the farmhouse was a plain structure nearly forty years old, badly in need of paint, and the out-buildings harmonized with it in appearance. a little way from the house was a tall, gaunt man, engaged in mending a fence. he was dressed in a farmer's blue frock and overalls, and his gray, stubby beard seemed to be of a week's growth. there was a crafty, greedy look in his eyes, which overlooked a nose sharp and aquiline. his feet were incased in a pair of cowhide boots. he looked inquiringly at taylor as he approached, but hardly deigned to look at ben, who probably seemed too insignificant to notice. he gave a shrewd guess at the errand of the visitor, but waited for him to speak first. "is this mr. jackson?" asked taylor, with a polite bow. "that's my name, stranger," answered the old man. "my name is taylor. i wrote to you last week." "i got the letter," said jackson, going on with his work. it was his plan not to seem too eager but to fight shy in order to get his price. besides, though he would have been glad to close the bargain on the spot, there was an embarrassing difficulty. the farm was not his to sell, and he was anxiously awaiting mrs. hamilton's answer to his proposal. "she can't have heard of the oil discoveries," he thought, "and five thousand dollars will seem a big price for the farm. she can't help agreeing to my terms." this consideration made him hopeful, but for all that, he must wait, and waiting he found very tantalizing. "have you decided to accept my offer, mr. jackson?" "waal, i'll have to take a leetle time to consider. how much did you say you'd give?" "forty thousand dollars." "i'd ought to have fifty." "forty thousand dollars is a big sum of money." "and this farm is a perfect gold mine. shouldn't wonder if it would net a hundred thousand dollars." "there is no certainty of that, and the purchasers will have to take a big risk" "there isn't much risk. ask anybody in centerville what he thinks of the jackson farm." "suppose i were ready to come to your terms--mind, i don't say i am--would you sign the papers to-day?" jackson looked perplexed. he knew could not do it. "what's your hurry?" he said. "the capitalists whom i represent are anxious to get to work as soon as possible. that's natural, isn't, it?" "ye-es," answered jackson. "so, the sooner we fix matters the better. i want to go back to new york to-morrow if i can." "i don't think i can give my answer as soon as that. wait a minute, though." a boy was approaching, jackson's son, if one could judge from the resemblance, holding a letter in his hand. "come right here, abner," he called out eagerly. abner approached, and his father snatched the letter from his hand. it bore the new york postmark, but, on opening it, jackson looked bitterly disappointed. he had hoped it was from mrs. hamilton, accepting his offer for the farm; but, instead of that, it was an unimportant circular. "i'll have to take time to think over your offer, mr. taylor," he said. "you see, i'll have to talk over matters with the old woman." "by the way," said taylor carelessly, "i was told in the village that you didn't own the farm--that it was owned by a lady in new york." "she used to own it," said the fanner, uneasily; "but i bought it of her a year ago." "so that you have the right to sell it?" "of course i have." "what have you to say to that, ben?" asked taylor quietly. "that if mrs. hamilton has sold the farm to mr. jackson she doesn't know it." "what do you mean, boy?" gasped jackson. "i mean that when i left new york mrs. hamilton owned the farm." "it's a lie!" muttered the farmer; but he spoke with difficulty. "i bought it a year ago." "in that case it is strange that you should have written a week ago offering five thousand dollars for the farm." "who says i wrote?" "i do; and i have your letter in my pocket," answered ben firmly. chapter xxxii ben sells the farm the farmer stared at ben panic-stricken. he had thought success within his grasp. he was to be a rich man--independent for life--as the result of the trick which he was playing upon mrs. hamilton. his disappointment was intense, and he looked the picture of discomfiture. "i don't believe you," he faltered after a pause. ben drew a letter from his inside pocket and held it up. "do you deny the writing?" he said. "give it to me!" said jackson, with a sudden movement. "no, thank you; i prefer to keep it. i shall make no use of it unless it is necessary. i called here to notify you that mrs. hamilton does not propose to sacrifice the farm. if it is sold at all it will be to someone who will pay its full value." "you can't sell it," said jackson sullenly. "i have a lease." "produce it." "at any rate, i shall stay till my year's out." "that will depend upon the new owner. if he is willing, mrs. hamilton will not object." "i think you've got him there, ben," said mr. taylor, with a laugh. "mr. jackson, i think it won't be worth while to continue our conversation. you undertook to sell what was not yours. i prefer to deal with the real owner or her representative." "that boy is an impostor!" muttered jackson. "why, he's only a school boy. what does he know about business?" "i think he has proved a match for you. good-morning, mr. jackson. ben, let us be going." "now," said taylor as they were walking toward the inn, "what do you say to my offer?" "please state it, mr. taylor." "i offer forty thousand dollars for the farm. it may be worth considerably more than that; but, on the other hand, the wells may soon run dry. i have to take the chances." "that seems a fair offer, mr. taylor," said ben frankly. "if i were the owner i would accept it; but i am acting for another who may not think as i do." "will you consult her and let me know?" "i will write at once." "why not telegraph? the delay would be too great if you trust to the mail." "i will do as you suggest," answered ben, "if there is an opportunity to telegraph from this place." "there is an office at the depot." "then i will take that on my way back to the hotel." at one corner of the depot ben found a telegraph operator. after a little consideration, he dashed off the following telegram: "no. ---- madison avenue, new york. "to mrs. hamilton: "oil has been discovered on your farm. i am offered forty thousand dollars for it by a responsible party. what shall i do? "ben barclay." "send answer to the hotel," said ben, to the operator. four hours later a messenger brought to ben the following dispatch: "your news is most surprising. sell at the figure named if you think it best. you have full powers. "helen hamilton." mr. taylor watched ben's face eagerly as he read the telegram, for he knew that it must relate to his offer. "what does your principal say?" he inquired. "you can read the telegram, mr. taylor." taylor did so. "so you have full powers?" he said. "mrs. hamilton must feel great confidence in you." there was a proud flush on ben's cheek as he replied: "i have reason to think that she does. i hope it is not misplaced." "i hope you won't drive a hard bargain with me, ben." "i don't mean to bargain at all. you have made a fair offer, and i will accept it." taylor looked pleased. "some boys in your position," he said, "would have stipulated for a present." "i shall do nothing of the kind," said ben promptly. "i should not think it honest." "your honesty, my boy, is of the old-fashioned kind. it is not the kind now in vogue. i like you the better for it, and if you were not in mrs. hamilton's employ i would try to secure your services myself." "thank you, mr. taylor. the time may come when shall remind you of your promise." "you will find i have not forgotten it. and now to business. we will go to a lawyer and have the necessary papers drawn up, which you shall sign in behalf of your principal." the business was speedily arranged, and by supper-time ben found that he had nothing further to detain him in centerville. he felt that he had done a smart stroke of business. mrs. hamilton had been surprised at receiving an offer of five thousand dollars for the farm, yet he had sold it for forty thousand! as they were returning from the lawyer's office they met farmer jackson just returning from the post office. "by the way, mr. jackson," said taylor, "you will perhaps be interested to learn that your farm has been sold." the farmer paused, and looked troubled. "are you going to turn me out of the house?" he asked. "not if you wish to live in it. i shall employ workmen at once to sink wells, and develop the property. they will need to board somewhere. are you willing to board them?" "yes; i shall be glad to," answered jackson. "i am a poor man, and it's hard work living by farming." "very well; we can no doubt make an arrangement. i am obliged to go to new york to complete arrangements for the transfer of the property, but i shall come back as soon as possible and commence operations." "i wouldn't mind workin' for myself," said jackson. "then you are the first man i engage." the old farmer brightened up. he was to make money out of the new discoveries after all, though not in the way he had comtemplated. "when are you going back to new york, ben?" asked taylor. "there is nothing to detain me here any longer." "we can go back together, then." "i shall be glad to travel in your company, sir." "do you expect to remain in mrs. hamilton's employ?" "i don't know," answered ben. "what were you doing?" "keeping accounts and acting as her private secretary." "do you like it?" "yes; i find it very pleasant, or would be but for one thing." "what is that?" "she has relatives living in the house who do not like me." "jealous, eh?" "perhaps so." "let me say frankly, that you are fitted for something higher. i am a good judge of men--" ben smiled. "boys, then; and i consider you a boy of excellent business capacity. after i have got my oil wells under way, i should like to engage you as superintendent." "i am flattered by your good opinion, mr. taylor, but it is a business i know nothing of." "you would make it your business to learn it, or i mistake you." "you are right there, sir." "however, there will be plenty of time to arrange about this matter. it would probably be two months before i felt justified in leaving another in charge." the two started for new york. about fifty miles before reaching the city, as ben was reading a magazine he had purchased from the train-boy, he felt a touch upon his shoulder. looking up, he recognized, to his amazement, the tramp with whom he had had an adventure some weeks before in pentonville. "i see you know me," said the tramp, with a smile. chapter xxxiii good news the tramp, as we may call him for want of a different name, certainly showed signs of improvement in his personal appearance. he looked quite respectable, in fact, in a business suit of gray mixed cloth, and would have passed muster in any assemblage. "i think i have met you before," answered ben, with a smile. "perhaps it would have been more of a compliment not to have recognized me. i flatter myself that i have changed." "so you have, and for the better." "thank you. i believe we rode together when we last met." "yes," said ben. "and you were not sorry to part copy with me--is it not so?" "i won't contradict you." "yet i am inclined to be your friend." "i am glad of it," said ben politely, though, truth to tell, he did not anticipate any particular benefit to accrue from the acquaintance of the speaker. "i see you don't attach much importance to my offer of friendship. yet i can do you an important service." mr. taylor, who had been occupying a seat with ben, here arose. "you have something to say to my young friend," he said. "take my seat." "don't let me deprive you of it," said the other with a politeness ben had not deemed him capable of. "by no means. i am going into the smoking car to smoke a cigar. ben, i will be back soon." "i didn't expect to meet you so far from pentonville," said ben's new companion, unable to suppress his curiosity. "i don't live in pentonville now." "where then?" "in the city of new york." "are you employed there?" "yes; but i am just returning from a trip to western pennsylvania." "did you go on business?" "yes." "well, you are getting on, for a country boy. what do you hear from home?" "my mother is well, but i fancy that is not what you mean." "yes, i am interested about your mother. has she yet paid off that mortgage on her cottage?" "how did you know there was a mortgage," asked ben, in surprise. "i know more than you suppose. what are the chances that she will be able to pay?" "they are very small," answered ben, gravely, "but the money is not yet due." "when will it be due?" "in about six weeks." "squire davenport will foreclose--i know him well enough for that." "so i suppose," said ben, soberly. "is there no friend who will oblige you with the money?" "i don't know of anyone i should feel at liberty to call on." it came into his mind that mrs. hamilton was abundantly able to help them, but she did not know his mother, and it would savor of presumption for him to ask so great a favor. true, he had effected a most profitable sale for her, but that was only in the line of his faithful duty, and gave him no claim upon his employer. "i thought, perhaps, the gentlemen you were traveling with--the one who has gone info the smoking-car--might--" "he is only a business acquaintance; i have known him less than a week." "to be sure, that alters matters. he is not your employer, then?" "no." "then i believe i shall have to help you myself." ben stared at his companion in amazement. what! this man who had robbed him of a dollar only four weeks before, to offer assistance in so important a matter! "i suppose you are joking," said he, after a pause. "joking! far from it. i mean just what i say. if squire davenport undertakes to deprive your mother of her home, i will interfere, and, you will see, with effect." "would you mind explaining to me how you would help us?" asked ben. "yes, in confidence, it being understood that i follow my own course in the matter." "that is fair enough." "suppose i tell you, then, that squire davenport--i believe that is the title he goes by in your village--owes your mother more than the amount of the mortgage." "is this true?" said ben, much surprised. "it is quite true." "but how can it be?" "your father, at his death, held a note of davenport's for a thousand dollars--money which he had placed in his hands--a note bearing six per cent. interest." ben was more and more surprised; at first he was elated, then depressed. "it will do me no good," he said, "nothing was found at father's death, and the note is no doubt destroyed." "so squire davenport thinks," said his companion quietly. "but isn't it true?" "no; that note not only is in existence, but i knew where to lay my hands on it." "then it will more than offset the mortgage?" said ben joyfully. "i should say. no interest has been paid on the note for more than five years. the amount due must be quite double the amount of the mortgage." "how can i thank you for this information?" said ben. "we shall not be forced to give up our little cottage, after all. but how could squire davenport so wickedly try to cheat us of our little property?" "my dear boy," said the tramp, shrugging his shoulders, "your question savors of verdancy. learn that there is no meanness too great to be inspired by the love of money." "but squire davenport was already rich." "and for that reason he desired to become richer." "when shall we go to see the squire and tell him about the note?" "i prefer that you should wait till the day the mortgage comes due. when is that?" "on the twentieth of december." "then on the nineteenth of december we will both go to pentonville and wait till the squire shows his hand." "you seem to be--excuse me--in better circumstances than when we last met." "i am. an old uncle of mine died last month, and considerately left me ten thousand dollars. perhaps if he had known more about my way of life he would have found another heir. it has led me to turn over a new leaf, and henceforth i am respectable, as befits a man of property. i even keep a card case." he drew out a card case and handed a card to ben. it bore the name of harvey dinsmore. "mr. dinsmore," said our young hero, i rejoice at your good fortune." "thank you. shall we be friends?" "with pleasure." "then i have more good news for you. your father owned twenty-five shares in a western railway. these shares are selling at par, and a year's dividends are due." "why, we shall be rich," said ben, fairly dazzled by this second stroke of good fortune. "i hope so; though this is only a beginning." "how can we prove that the railway shares belong to us?" "leave that to me. on the nineteenth of december you will meet me in pentonville. till then we probably shall not meet." at this moment mr. taylor made his appearance, returning from the smoking-car, and harvey dinsmore left them. "well, ben, has your friend entertained you?" asked taylor. "he has told me some very good news." "i am glad to hear it." in due time they reached new york, and ben started uptown to call upon mrs. hamilton. chapter xxxiv conrad goes into wall street when conrad succeeded ben as mrs. hamilton's private secretary, he was elated by what he considered his promotion. his first disappointment came when he learned that his salary was to be but five dollars a week. he did not dare to remonstrate with his employer, but he expressed himself freely to his mother. "cousin hamilton might afford to pay me more than five dollars a week," he said bitterly. "it is small," said his mother cautiously, "but we must look to the future." "if you mean till cousin hamilton dies, it may be twenty or thirty years. why, she looks healthier than you, mother, and will probably live longer." mrs. hill looked grave. she did not fancy this speech. "i don't think we shall have to wait so long," she said. "when you are twenty-one cousin hamilton will probably do something for you." "that's almost five years," grumbled conrad. "at any rate we have got ben barclay out of the house, that's one comfort." "yes, i am glad of that; but i'd rather be in my old place than this, if i am to get only five dollars a week." "young people are so impatient," sighed mrs. hill. "you don't seem to consider that it isn't alone taking ben's place, but you have got rid of a dangerous rival for the inheritance." "that's true," said conrad, "and i hated ben. i'd rather any other boy would cut me out than he." "do you know what has become of him?" "no; i expect that he has gone back to the country--unless he's blacking boots or selling papers downtown somewhere. by jove, i'd like to come across him with a blacking-brush. he used to put on such airs. i would like to have heard cousin hamilton give him the grand bounce." nothing could be more untrue than that ben putting on airs, but conrad saw him through the eyes of prejudice, and persuaded himself that such was the fact. in reality ben was exceedingly modest and unassuming, and it was this among other things that pleased mrs. hamilton. conrad continued to find his salary insufficient. he was still more dissatisfied after an interview with one of his school companions, a boy employed in a wall street broker's office. he was just returning from an errand on which mrs. hamilton had sent him, when he overtook fred lathrop on his way uptown. the attention of conrad was drawn to a heavy gold ring with a handsome stone on fred's finger. "where did you get that ring?" asked conrad, who had himself a fancy for rings. "bought it in maiden lane. how do you like it?" "it is splendid. do you mind telling me how much you paid?" "i paid forty-five dollars. it's worth more." "forty-five dollars!" ejaculated conrad. "why, you must be a millionaire. where did you get so much money?" "i didn't find it in the street," answered fred jocularly. "can't you tell a feller? you didn't save it out of your wages, did you?" "my wages? i should say not. why, i only get six dollars a week, and have to pay car fare and lunches out of that." "then it isn't equal to my five dollars, for that is all clear. but, all the same, i can't save anything." "nor i." "then how can you afford to buy forty-five dollar rings?" "i don't mind telling you," said fred. "i made the money by speculating." "speculating!" repeated conrad, still in the dark. "yes. i'll tell you all about it." "do! there's a good fellow." "you see, i bought fifty erie shares on a margin." "how's that?" "why i got a broker to buy me fifty shares on a margin of one per cent. he did it to oblige me. i hadn't any money to put up, but i had done him one or two favors, and he did it out of good nature. as the stock was on the rise, he didn't run much of a risk. well, i bought at and sold at - . so i made fifty dollars over and above the commission. i tell you i felt good when the broker paid me over five ten-dollar bills." "i should think you would." "i was afraid i'd spend the money foolishly, so i went right off and bought this ring. i can sell it for what i gave any time." conrad's cupidity was greatly excited by this remarkable luck of fred's. "that seems an easy way of making money," he said. "do you think i could try it?" "anybody can do it if he's got the money to plank down for a margin." "i don't think i quite understand." "then i'll tell you. you buy fifty shares of stock, costing, say, fifty dollars a share." "that would be twenty-five hundred dollars." "yes, if you bought it right out. but you don't. you give the broker whatever per cent. he requires, say a dollar a share--most of them don't do it so cheap--and he buys the stock on your account. if it goes up one or two points, say to fifty-one or fifty-two, he sells out, and the profit goes to you, deducting twenty-five cents a share which he charges for buying and selling. besides that, he pays you back your margin." "that's splendid. but doesn't it ever go down?" "i should say so. if it goes down a dollar a share, then, of course, you lose fifty dollars." conrad looked serious. this was not quite so satisfactory. "it is rather risky, then," he said. "of course, there's some risk; but you know the old proverb, 'nothing venture, nothing have.' you must choose the right stock--one that is going up." "i don't know anything about stock," said conrad. "i do," said fred. "if i had money i know what i'd buy." "what?" asked conrad eagerly. "pacific mail." "do you think that's going up?" "i feel sure of it. i overheard my boss and another broker talking about it yesterday, and they both predicted a bull movement in it." "does that mean it's going up?" "to be sure." "i should like to buy some." "have you got money to plank down as a margin?" conrad had in his pocketbook fifty dollars which he had collected for mrs. hamilton, being a month's rent on a small store on third avenue. it flashed upon him that with this money he could make fifty dollars for himself, and be able to pay back the original sum to mrs. hamilton as soon as the operation was concluded. "could you manage it for me, fred?" he asked. "yes, i wouldn't mind." "then i'll give you fifty dollars, and you do the best you can for me. if i succeed i'll make you a present." "all right. i hope you'll win, i am sure [illegible]" not giving himself time to think of the serious breach of trust he was committing, conrad took the money from his pocket and transferred it to his companion. "it won't take long, will it?" he asked anxiously. "very likely the stock will be bought and sold to-morrow." "that will be splendid. you'll let me know right off?" "yes; i'll attend to that." conrad went home and reported to mrs. hamilton that the tenant had not paid, but would do so on saturday. mrs. hamilton was a little surprised, for the third avenue tenant had never before put her off. something in conrad's manner excited her suspicion, and she resolved the next day to call herself on mr. clark, the tenant. he would be likely to speak of the postponement, and give reasons for it. chapter xxxv turning the tables "now conrad," said mrs. hamilton, "will you tell me by what authority you send away my visitors?" "i didn't suppose you would want to see ben," stammered conrad. "why not?" "after what he has done?" "what has he done?" "he stole your opera glass and pawned it." "you are mistaken. it was stolen by a different person." conrad started uneasily, and his mother, who was not in the secret, looked surprised. "i know who took the opera glass," continued mrs. hamilton. "who was it?" asked the housekeeper. "your son, i regret to say." "this is a slander!" exclaimed mrs. hill angrily. "cousin hamilton, that boy has deceived you." "my information did not come from ben, if that is what you mean." "my son would be incapable of stealing," continued mrs. hill. "i should be glad to think so. it can easily be settled. let conrad go with me tomorrow to the pawnbroker from whom i recovered the glass, and see if he recognizes him." "he would be sure to say it was me," stammered conrad. "at any rate he told me it was not ben, who made no opposition to accompanying me." "i see there is a plot against my poor boy," said mrs. hill bitterly. "on the contrary, i shall be glad to believe him innocent. but there is another matter that requires investigation. conrad, here is a letter which has come for you. are you willing i should open and read it?" "i don't like to show my letters," said conrad sullenly. "the boy is right," said his mother, always ready to back up her son. "i have good reason for wishing to know the contents of the letter," said mrs. hamilton sternly. "i will not open it, unless conrad consents, but i will call on the brokers and question them as to their motive in addressing it to a boy." conrad was silent. he saw that there was no escape for him. "shall i read it?" asked mrs. hamilton. "yes," answered conrad feebly. the letter was opened. it ran thus: "mr. conrad hill: "you will be kind enough to call at our office at once, and pay commission due us for buying add selling fifty shares pacific mail. the fall in the price of the stock, as we have already notified you, exhausted the money you placed in our hands as margin. "yours respectfully," "bird & brant." "i hope, cousin hamilton, you won't be too hard on the poor boy," said the housekeeper. "he thought he would be able to replace the money." "you and conrad have done your best to prejudice me against ben." "you are mistaken," said the housekeeper quickly, showing some evidence of agitation. "i have learned that the letter which lured ben to a gambling house was concocted between you. the letter i have in my possession." "who told you such a falsehood? if it is ben--" "it is not ben, mrs. hill. he is as much surprised as you are to learn it now. the letter i submitted to an expert, who has positively identified the handwriting as yours, mrs. hill. you were very persistent in your attempts to make me believe than ben was addicted to frequenting gambling houses." "i see you are determined to believe me guilty," said mrs. hill. "perhaps you think i know about the opera glass and this stock gambling?" "i have no evidence of it, but i know enough to justify me in taking a decisive step." mrs. hill listened apprehensively. "it is this: you and conrad must leave my house. i can no longer tolerate your presence here." "you send us out to starve?" said the housekeeper bitterly. "no; i will provide for you. i will allow you fifty dollars a month and conrad half as much, and you can board where you please." "while that boy usurps our place?" said mrs. hill bitterly. "that is a matter to be decided between ben and myself." "we will go at once," said the housekeeper. "i don't require it. you can stay here until you have secured a satisfactory boarding place." but conrad and his mother left the house the next morning. they saw that mrs. hamilton was no longer to be deceived, and they could gain nothing by staying. there was an angry scene between the mother and son. "were you mad, conrad," said his mother, "to steal, where you were sure to be found out? it is your folly that has turned cousin hamilton against us?" "no; it is that boy. i'd like to wring his neck!" "i hope he will come to some bad end," said mrs. hill malignantly. "if he had not come to the house none of this would have happened." meanwhile ben and his patroness had a satisfactory conversation. "i hope you are satisfied with my management, mrs. hamilton?" said our hero. "you have done wonderfully, ben. through you i am the richer by thirty-five thousand dollars at the very least, for the farm would have been dear at five thousand, whereas it was sold for forty thousand." "i am very glad you are satisfied." "you shall have reason to be glad. i intend to pay you a commission for selling the place." "thank you," said ben joyfully. he thought it possible mrs. hamilton might give him fifty dollars, and this would have been very welcome. "under the circumstances, i shall allow you an extra commission--say per cent. how much will per cent. amount to on forty thousand dollars?" "four thousand," answered ben mechanically. "consider yourself worth fourth thousand dollars, then." "but this is too much, mrs. hamilton," said ben, scarcely crediting his good fortune. "then give half of it to your mother," said mrs. hamilton, smiling. "now we can pay off the mortgage!" exclaimed ben, joyfully. "what mortgage?" ben told the story, and it aroused the lively sympathy of his patroness. "as soon as the purchase money is paid," she said, "you shall have you commission, and sooner if it is needed." chapter xxxvi a letter from rose gardiner ben resumed his place as the secretary and confidential clerk of mrs. hamilton. he found his position more agreeable when mrs. hill and conrad were fairly out of the house. in place of the first a pleasant-faced german woman was engaged, and there were no more sour looks and sneering words. of course ben kept up a weekly correspondence with his mother. he did not tell her the extent of his good fortune--he wished that to be a surprise, when the time came. from his mother, too, he received weekly letters, telling him not unfrequently how she missed him, though she was glad he was doing so well. one day beside his mother's letter was another. he did not know the handwriting, but, looking eagerly to the end, he saw the name of rose gardiner. "what would rose say," ben asked himself, "if she knew that i am worth four thousand dollars?" the money had been paid to ben, and was deposited in four different savings banks, till he could decide on a better investment. so he was quite sure of having more than enough to pay off the mortgage and redeem the cottage. "since mother is worrying, i must write and set her mind at rest," he decided. he wrote accordingly, telling his mother not to feel anxious, for he had wealthy friends, and he felt sure, with their help, of paying off the mortgage. "but don't tell anybody this," he continued, "for i want to give the squire and mr. kirk a disagreeable surprise. i shall come to pentonville two days before, and may stay a week." he had already spoken to mrs. hamilton about having this week as a vacation. chapter xxxvii ben's visit to pentonville on the eighteenth of december ben arrived in pentonville. it was his first visit since he went up to new york for good. he reached home without observation, and found his mother overjoyed to see him. "it has seemed a long, long time that you have been away, ben," she said. "yes, mother; but i did a good thing in going to new york." "you are looking well, ben, and you have grown." "yes, mother; and best of all, i have prospered. squire davenport can't have the house!" "you don't mean to say, ben, that you have the money to pay it off?" asked his mother, with eager hope. "yes, mother; and, better still, the money is my own." "this can't be true, ben!" she said incredulously. "yes, but it is, though! you are to ask me no questions until after the twentieth. then i will tell you all." "i am afraid i shall have to send you to the store, for i am out of groceries." a list was given, and ben started for the store. mr. kirk looked up in surprise as he entered. "you're the barclay boy, ain't you?" "yes, sir." "i thought you were in new york." "i was, but i have just got home." "couldn't make it, go, hey?" ben smiled, but did not answer. "i may give you something to do," said kirk, in a patronizing tone. "you've been employed in this store, i believe." "yes, i was here some months." "i'll give you two dollars a week." "thank you," said ben meekly, "but i shall have to take a little time to decide--say the rest of the week." "i suppose you want to help your mother move?" "she couldn't move alone." "very well; you can begin next monday." when ben was going home, he met his old enemy, tom davenport. tom's eyes lighted up when he saw ben, and he crossed the street to speak to him. it may be mentioned that, though ben had a new and stylish suit of clothes, he came home in the old suit he had worn away, and his appearance, therefore, by no means betokened prosperity. "so you're back again!" said tom abruptly. "yes." "i always said you'd come back." "are you going to look for something to do?" tom asked. "mr. kirk has offered me a place in the store." "how much pay?" "two dollars a week." "you'd better take it." "i hardly think i can work at that figure," said ben, mildly. "kirk won't pay you any more." "i'll think of it. by the way, tom, call around and see me some time." "i hardly think i shall have time," said tom haughtily. "he talks as if i were his equal!" he said to himself. "well, good afternoon. remember me to your father." tom stared at ben in surprise. really the store boy was getting very presumptuous he thought. chapter xxxviii conclusion on the evening of the nineteenth of december, ben stood on the piazza of the village hotel when the stage returned from the depot. he examined anxiously the passengers who got out. his eyes lighted up joyfully as he recognized in one the man he was looking for. "mr. dinsmore," he said, coming forward hastily. "you see i have kept my word," said harvey dinsmore, with a smile. "i feared you would not come." "i wished to see the discomfiture of our friend squire davenport. so to-morrow is the day?" "yes." "i should like to be on hand when the squire calls." "that will be at twelve o'clock. my mother has received a note from him fixing that hour." "then i will come over at half-past eleven if you will allow me." "come; we will expect you." "and how have you fared since i saw you, my young friend?" "i have been wonderfully fortunate, but i have kept my good fortune a secret from all, even my mother. it will come out to-morrow." "your mother can feel quite at ease about the mortgage." "yes, even if you had not come i am able to pay it." "whew! then you have indeed been fortunate for a boy. i suppose you borrowed the money?" "no; i earned it." "evidently you were born to succeed. will you take supper with me?" "thank you. mother will expect me at home." at half-past eleven the next forenoon the stranger called at door of mrs. barclay. he was admitted by ben. "mother," said ben, "this is mr. harvey dinsmore." "i believe we have met before," said dinsmore, smiling. "i fear my first visit was not welcome. to-day i come in more respectable guise and as a friend." "you are welcome, sir," said the widow courteously. "i am glad to see you. i should hardly have known you." "i take that as a compliment. i am a tramp no longer, but a respectable and, i may add, well-to-do citizen. now i have a favor to ask." "name it, sir." "place me, if convenient, where i can hear the interview between mr. davenport and yourself without myself being seen." ben conducted dinsmore into the kitchen opening out of the sitting room, and gave him a chair. at five minute to twelve there was a knock at the outer door, and ben admitted squire davenport. "so you are home again, benjamin," said the squire. "had enough of the city?" "i am taking a vacation. i thought mother would need me to-day." "she will--to help her move." "step in, sir." squire davenport, with the air of a master, followed ben into the sitting room. mrs. barclay sat quietly at the table with her sewing in hand. "good-day, widow," said the squire patronizingly. he was rather surprised at her quiet, unruffled, demeanor. he expected to find her tearful and sad. "good-day, squire davenport," she said quietly. "is your family well?" "zounds! she takes it coolly," thought the squire. "very well," he said dryly. "i suppose you know my business?" "you come about the mortgage?" "yes; have you decided where to move?" "my mother does not propose to move," said ben calmly. "oho! that's your opinion, is it? i apprehend it is not for you to say." "that's where we differ. we intend to stay." "without consulting me, eh?" "yes, sir." "you are impudent, boy!" said the squire, waxing wrathful. "i shall give you just three days to find another home, though i could force you to leave at once." "this house belongs to my mother." "you are mistaken. it belongs to me." "when did you buy it?" "you are talking foolishly. i hold a mortgage for seven hundred dollars on the property, and you can't pay it. i am willing to cancel the mortgage and pay your mother three hundred dollars cash for the place." "it is worth a good deal more." "who will pay more?" demanded the quire, throwing himself back in his chair. "i will," answered ben. "ho, ho! that's a good joke," said the squire. "why, you are not worth five dollars in the world." "it doesn't matter whether i am or not. my mother won't sell." "then pay the mortgage," said the squire angrily. "i am prepared to do so. have you a release with you?" squire davenport stared at ben in amazement. "enough of this folly!" he said sternly. i am not in the humor for jokes." "squire davenport, i am not joking. i have here money enough to pay the mortgage," and ben drew from his pocket a thick roll of bills. "where did you get that money?" asked squire davenport, in evident discomfiture. "i don't think it necessary to answer that question; but there is another matter i wish to speak to you about. when will you be ready to pay the sum you owe my father's estate?" squire davenport started violently. "what do you mean?" he demanded hoarsely. harvey dinsmore entered the room from the kitchen at that point. "i will answer that question," he said. "ben refers to a note for a thousand dollars signed by you, which was found on his father's person at the time of his death." "no such note is in existence," said the squire triumphantly. he remembered that he had burned it. "you are mistaken. that note you burned was only a copy! i have the original with me." "you treacherous rascal!" exclaimed the squire, in great excitement. "when i have dealings with a knave i am not very scrupulous," said dinsmore coolly. "i won't pay the note you have trumped up. this is a conspiracy." "then," said ben, "the note will be placed in the hands of a lawyer." "this is a conspiracy to prevent my foreclosing the mortgage. but it won't work," said the squire angrily. "there you are mistaken. i will pay the mortgage now in the presence of mr. dinsmore, and let the other matter be settled hereafter. please prepare the necessary papers." suddenly the squire did as requested. the money was paid over, and ben, turning to his mother, said: "mother, the house is ours once more without incumbrance." "thank god!" ejaculated the widow. "mr. dinsmore," said squire davenport, when the business was concluded, "may i have a private word with you? please accompany me to my house." "as you please, sir." when they emerged into the street squire davenport said: "of course this is all a humbug. you can't have the original with you?" "but i have, sir. you should have looked more closely at the one you burned." "can't we compromise this matter?" asked the squire, in an insinuating tone. "no sir," said dinsmore with emphasis. "i have got through with rascality. you can't tempt me. if i were as hard up as when i called upon you before, i might not be able to resist you; but i am worth over ten thousand dollars, and--" "have you broken into a bank?" asked squire davenport, with a sneer. "i have come into a legacy. to cut matters short, it will be for your interest to pay this claim, and not allow the story to be made known. it would damage your reputation." in the end this was what the squire was forced very unwillingly to do. the amount he had to pay to the estate of the man whose family he had sought to defraud was nearly fifteen hundred dollars. this, added to ben's four thousand, made the family very comfortable. mr. kirk was compelled to look elsewhere for a house. no one was more chagrined at the unexpected issue of the affair than tom davenport, whose mean and jealous disposition made more intense his hatred of ben. * * * * * * * * * several years have elapsed. ben is in the office of a real estate lawyer in new york, as junior partner. all mrs. hamilton's business is in his hands, and it is generally thought that he will receive a handsome legacy from her eventually. mrs. barclay prefers to live in pentonville, but ben often visits her. whenever he goes to pentonville he never fails to call on rose gardiner, now a beautiful young lady of marriageable age. she has lost none of her partiality for ben, and it is generally understood that they are engaged. i have reason to think that the rumor is correct and that rose will change her name to barclay within a year. nothing could be more agreeable to mrs. barclay, who has long looked upon rose as a daughter. tom davenport is now in the city, but his course is far from creditable. his father has more than once been compelled to pay his debts, and has angrily refused to do so again. in fact, he has lost a large part of his once handsome fortune, and bids fair to close his life in penury. success has come to ben because he deserved it, and well-merited retribution to tom davenport. harvey dinsmore, once given over to evil courses, has redeemed himself, and is a reputable business man in new york. mrs. hamilton still lives, happy in the success of her protege. conrad and his mother have tried more than once to regain their positions in her household, but in vain. none of my young readers will pity them. they are fully rewarded for their treachery. transcriber's comments: typographical errors have been left as in the original book. specifically, meaness, companoin's, housekeper repeated or incorrect words have been left as in the original book. for example how do do, turn to looked, worth fourth thousand in a couble of places, the original material is illegible. this is marked in the text. occassional missing quote marks have been fixed. accented characters have been replaced with plain ones in matinee and protege. rockhaven by charles clark munn author of "pocket island" and "uncle terry" _illustrated by_ _frank t. merrill_ boston lee and shepard mcmii published march, . copyright, , by lee and shepard. _all rights reserved._ rockhaven. norwood press j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith norwood mass. u.s.a. to all who despise hypocrisy and deception who admire manly courage and womanly devotion whose hearts yet vibrate to the chords of romance and who respect simple faith in and gratitude to god this book is respectfully dedicated by the author [illustration: the old tide-mill.] contents i. on rockhaven ii. winn hardy iii. the rockhaven granite company iv. where the sea-gulls come v. jess hutton vi. the bud of a romance vii. sunday on rockhaven viii. the hand of fate ix. a friendly hand x. mona hutton xi. the devil's oven xii. the parting of the ways xiii. wild roses xiv. j. malcolm weston xv. a matter of business xvi. the growth of a bubble xvii. in the path of moonlight xviii. in a fog xix. a philosopher xx. a cloud over rockhaven xxi. the mood of the bells xxii. two rascals xxiii. the starting of a "corner" xxiv. the progress of a "corner" xxv. a summer day xxvi. a climax xxvii. severing the ties xxviii. on 'change xxix. the bubble rises xxx. the bubble bursts xxxi. two dogs and a bone xxxii. the aftermath of a swindle xxxiii. a touch of heroism xxxiv. a woman's wiles xxxv. the wheel of fortune xxxvi. going, going, gone! xxxvii. a social cynic xxxviii. the end of an idyl xxxix. a gray-haired romance xl. a good send-off xli. ein wunderbares fraulein xlii. the road to the temple xliii. the cynic's shadow xliv. only a mood xlv. the old home xlvi. a new star xlvii. love eternal xlviii. conclusion illustrations the old tide-mill mona jess hutton, philosopher the devil's oven the bubble bursts rockhaven rockhaven chapter i on rockhaven "it ain't more'n onct in a lifetime," said jess hutton to the crowd of friends in his store, "that luck comes thick 'n' fat to any on us 'n' so fer that reason i sent over to the mainland fer suthin' o' a liquid natur; 'n' now take hold, all hands, 'n' injie yerselves on jess." with that he began setting forth upon the counter, in battle array, dozens upon dozens of bottles filled with dark brown liquid and interspersed with boxes of cigars. for jess hutton, the oracle, principal storekeeper, first selectman, school committeeman, prize story teller, philosopher and friend to everybody on rockhaven island, had sold a few acres of granite ledge he set no value upon, for two thousand dollars, half cash down; and being a man of generous impulses, had invited the circle of friends most congenial, to "drop round ternight 'n' i'll set 'em up." it is true that the cigars he passed out so freely were not imported, still they were the best he kept, and not the cheap brand most in demand on rockhaven, and the bottles contained the vintage of hops and malt instead of "extra dry," but both were urged upon all in a way that left refusal impossible. and of that unique gathering of men, with sea-tanned faces, garbed mainly in shirt, trousers, and sailor caps, some wearing boots, some slippers, some barefoot, nearly all addressed one another as "cap" or "cap'n," for to own a fishing sloop or jigger on rockhaven meant distinction. "i dunno how it all come about," said jess, when the popping of corks had ceased and the incense of cabbage leaves began to arise, "but i was sorter dozin' on the counter that day when this bloomin' freak, with white duck pants, 'n' cap, 'n' shirt, 'n' gray side whiskers, blew in, 'n' the fust i know'd, i heerd him say, 'come, wake up, rip van winkle! i want ter buy yer quarry!' "then i sot up 'n' rubbed my eyes 'n' looked at him, sure he must be one o' them make-believe sailors off a yacht i'd seen run in the night afore, 'n' had come ashore with skates on. "'want ter buy what?' i sez. 'want ter buy yer quarry,' he sez again. 'i heerd ye owned the one t'other side o' the harbor, 'n' if ye want ter sell it cheap, i'll buy it.' then i looked at him harder'n ever; sure he had a jag 'n' was makin' game o' me. "'yes,' i sez, 'i'll sell ye the quarry, or the hull island, if ye ain't sure ye own it already. better go into the back o' the store 'n' lay down on a pile o' old sails ye'll find thar, 'n' sleep it off. things'll look more nat'ral to ye by that time.' with that he laffed fit ter split. 'you're all right, old sport,' he sez, 'but i ain't drunk, 'n' if ye'll set the price low enough, i'll buy yer quarry and pay ye cash fer't.' "'wal,' i sez, thinkin' i'd set the price high 'nough ter knock him galley west, 'i'll take three thousand dollars fer't.' "'i'll give ye two,' he said, ''n' pay yer half down.' 'hev ye got it with ye?' i sed. 'i hev,' he said, 'aboord the boat, or i'll give ye a check.' 'checks don't go here,' i said, 'but if ye've got real money, 'n' mean business, it's yourn at that figger.' then he went off, 'n' i was so sure i'd never set eyes on him ag'in i went ter sleep. it didn't seem five minutes till he blew in ag'in. 'how many acres o' that ledge do ye own,' he said, 'an' how many goes with the quarry?' 'wall,' i said, 'there's about a hundred, 'n' if that ain't nuff ter keep ye busy blastin' the rest o' yer nateral life, i'll throw in the hull o' norse hill jist ter bind the bargain,' fer i didn't no more s'pose he meant bizniss than i s'posed i'd got wings. 'wal,' he says, pullin' out a roll o' bills bigger'n my arm. 'here's the kale seed, an' when ye'll show me what i'm buyin' 'n' a deed on't, it's yourn.' "wal, i jist pinched myself, ter see if i was 'wake, an' jumpin' off the counter, fished a deed out o' my safe 'n' took it 'long, an' showed him round the ledge, believin' all the time when he'd seen it, he'd tell me ter go soak my head, er suthin' o' that sort. but he didn't, an' arter i got hold o' the money 'n' counted it, wonderin' if it wasn't all bogus, 'n' give him a receipt, 'n' he'd gone off, i went 'n' stuck a pin into my leg, jist ter be sure i was awake, after all. that was a week ago," continued jess, lighting one of the cigars he had set forth, "but i didn't say nuthin' 'bout it till i'd gone ashore with the money an' the bank folks hed said it was all right, 'n' now i think i've lost jist a thousand dollars by not askin' four for't. why, the loonytic acted as though he owned a printin' press that made money, an' was goin' all the time." "wish i'd been ashore," observed captain moore, who was one of the group, "i'd a tackled him ter buy the _nancy jane_. she's been lyin' inside o' the harbor, half full o' bilge water, fer more'n a year, an' ain't wuth scuttlin'. ye'd orter 'a thought on't, jess, an' persuaded him he could 'a used 'r to carry stun in." "an' if i'd a-knowed it," put in cap'n jet doty, another of the group, "i'd a tried him on 'bout a hundred kit o' mackerel we've got that's a trifful rusty. he cud a-used 'em somehow. ye'd orter think o' yer neighbors, jess, in such a case, an' let 'em in on't." "i dunno but ye're right," responded jess; "but i wus caught nappin', 'n' i cac'late that if any o' ye hed been woke up by sech a lubber with gray whiskers, like stun'sls, an' dude cloes like these jackdaw yachters wear, an offerin' ye two thousand dollars fer what ye'd sell fer fifty, an' no takers, ye'd a-bin sot back, so ter speak. if i'd a hed time ter think an' knowed what an easy mark the cuss was, i'd a-laid ter sell him the hull island 'n' divided it up all round." and be it said that if all the landowners of rockhaven had obtained even what they valued their holdings at, they would have sold cheerfully, for out of the eighty odd square miles of the island, not one quarter was of soil, and much of that so sandy that only bayberry bushes and wild roses grew on it, or else thickets of stunted spruce. the only means of livelihood to most was the sea, and if nature had not endowed the island with a capacious land-locked harbor and a few acres of productive soil beyond it, and shut in by wall-like shores, rockhaven would have been left to the sea-gulls that infested its cliffs, or the fish-hawks that found its harbor good fishing ground. "what'd ye s'pose he's goin' ter do with it, now he's got it?" put in cap'n doty, when jess had finished his recital, and having in mind his stock of rusty mackerel. "will he come down here 'n' go ter quarryin'?" "mebbe he wants it fer ballast fer a new boat," interposed young dave moore. "or fer buildin' a house," put in dave's brother, sam. "cheer up, uncle, we may sell him the _nancy jane_ yit. he'll hev ter hire or buy suthin' ter carry stun 'way from the island. he can't make a raft on't." "an' if he does," asserted cap'n moore, addressing cap'n doty, who sat opposite him on a cracker barrel, "ye'd git a chance to work off them mackerel." "i dunno what he's goin' ter do with it," asserted jess, when a pause came, "nor care, so long's i git t'other thousand as is comin' when deeds is passed. i ain't sure i'll git that, either," he added candidly, "but if i don't the quarry's still mine 'n' a cool thousand o' that freak's good money's gone out o' circulation anyhow, which is some comfort." then came a lull in conversation, and in place the popping of more corks and "here's to yer good luck, jess," as bottles were elevated and pointed downward. "come, jess," said dave moore, when this second libation had been indulged in, and who was in a mood for hearing yarns, "tell 'em 'bout old bill atlas." now this tale, antedating the day and generation of most of jess hutton's auditors, was nevertheless a favorite with him and one he always enjoyed telling. "wal," he said, "if ye want ter hear 'bout old bill, i'll tell ye, though some o' ye here hez heerd 'bout him afore, i reckon. it's been a good many years since bill took to his wings, humsoever, 'n' so his hist'ry may be divartin'. bill used ter live all 'lone in a little shack he'd built out o' drift, half way 'tween here and northaven. that is, he slept thar nights when he was ashore, fer he was away fishin' most o' the time. he were the worst soaker on the island, an' from the time he sot foot ashore 'n' got his pay until every cent was spent, he didn't draw a sober breath. thar wan't no use arguin' with bill, or doin' anything to reform him. jist the moment he got a dollar, jist that moment he started in ter git drunk 'n' allus succeeded. even parson bush, who hed jist come here then 'n' anxious ter do good, failed on bill. no 'mount o' argufyin' 'bout the worm that never dies or the fate o' sinners hed a mite o' influence on bill. "'parson,' he'd say, 'thar ain't no use a-talkin' ter me. licker was made ter be drunk, else why was it made at all, 'n' if the lord almighty didn't cac'late fer me ter drink it, why did he make me hanker for't? ye jist preach ter them as is like ter mind it an'll foller it. i ain't, an' it'll do no good.' an' then bill'd roll away an' fill up. he wa'n't a quarrelsome cuss, jist a good-natured soaker who meant ter git drunk, 'n' done it, an' never meant ter bother nobody when he was. "but some on us young folks in them days sot out to hev fun with bill once upon a time, an' we did, an' more'n that, we joggled him so he quit drinkin' fer most a year. he'd had one er two fits o' tremens afore that time, 'n' had sorter got skeery 'bout seein' things, so our trick worked fust rate. one o' the smacks hed jist brought in a hogfish that day, an' it was the worst lookin' critter that ever growed in the sea. it weighed 'bout fifty poun' 'n' was 'most all mouth 'n' teeth. bill was up in the corner o' a fish house sleepin' off a jag when the critter was h'isted onto the dock, 'n' the moment we spied it we said we'd try it on bill. we told everybody ter keep quiet 'n' then we went at it. fust we lugged the hogfish over ter bill's shack, which was out on the end o' a little pint 'n' sorter shut in 'tween the rocks, 'n' then we got an old bit o' sail and went ter work. we sot the critter up on stuns, right in front o' the shack, 'n' made a tail 'bout forty feet long out o' the sail, an' stuffed it nat'ral like, 'n' then rigged lines running over the shanty to work the critter's mouth 'n' tail up 'n' down when the time come. it was 'long in the arternoon when we sot about 'n' we cac'lated bill 'd wake up sometime arter dark 'n' come to his shack in jist the mood ter 'preciate the good thing that we hed waitin' fer him. then to sorter liven up matters, we took a handful o' matches, an' dampenin' 'em, rubbed the ends round the eyes an' mouth o' the critter, 'n' in spots 'long the tail, where we was to hist it a little. it was clear dark afore we got the trap all sot 'n' baited, 'n' then five on us took the lines and tried the joke. it worked pretty slick, 'n' ter see that critter's mouth, more'n a foot long 'n' full o' teeth, 'n' eyes with rings of phosphorus round 'em, a-workin' up an' down, to say nothin' 'bout the tail, would a-skeered a sober man into fits arter dark, let alone one who 'spected snakes. when bill's welcome home was all ready, we sot a watch on bill, who was still asleep, 'n' the rest on us went home ter supper. then we got together, 'bout two dozen on us that knew bill best, 'n' gittin' sheets ter wrap up in, to sorter stiffen the hogfish effect, all hands hid round his shanty an' inside on't. it was purty late 'fore bill showed up, but he came 'long finally, kind o' wobblin' some and hummin':-- "'i'm a gallant lass as ever you see, and the roving sailor winked at me.' "bill was allus feelin' that way when half full 'n' now jist happy 'n' comfortable like. there was a new moon that sorter lit up the path, 'n' jist as he got to where it made a turn, 'bout ten feet from the shanty, i made a signal by squeakin' like a gull, an' the boys begun workin' the lines, 'n' 'bout two dozen white figgers rose up from behind the rocks or stepped out o' the cabin. i never knew which skeered bill the worst, the awful critter snappin' at him thar in the path, or the ghosts, for bill gave one screech that could a' been heard five mile, 'n' ye never seen a man run the way he did. he didn't stop ter keep in the path either, but jist went right over the rocks anywhere. he tumbled two or three times 'fore he got out o' sight, 'n' you'd a-thought he was made o' rubber, the way he got up 'n' yelled, 'help, help, o lord,' all the time. i'll 'low it was the fust time he'd ever called on the lord fer help, but it wa'n't the last, fer he made straight fer the parson's house 'n' begun pummellin' on the door. "'o lord, take me in,' he said when the parson opened it, 'i'm come fer at last 'n' the divil's arter me. pray fer me, parson, an' for god's sake, do it quick!' an' then he went down on his knees, 'n' sayin', 'lordy, lordy, i'll never drink 'nother drop's long's i live!' parson bush was a good deal took back, fer he didn't know the joke, 'n' 'lowed bill had the tremens. 'better go back to yer shanty, ye sot,' he said, 'an' when you git sober come here 'n' i'll talk with ye,' an' with that he shet the door 'n' bill jist laid down 'n' bellowed like a calf. 'n' he didn't go back to his shanty, either, that night, not by a jugful; he'd seen 'nough o' that spot ter last him quite a spell. 'n' when he did thar warn't nuthin' out o' ordinary, fer we'd chucked the hogfish off the rocks, 'n' 'twas more 'n a year 'fore bill found out the trick we played, 'n' in all that time he kept sober. he did find out arter a spell, fer a joke like that can't be kept allus, 'n' when bill did, he took ter drink agin, 'n' finally jumped off the dock one night in a fit o' the jims 'n' that was the last o' him. it's hard to larn an old dog new tricks." for an hour the little crowd of jess hutton's friends lingered, wondering and speculating on what the outcome of this investment in a granite ledge would be. to most it seemed a piece of folly or the act of a madman. these worthless rocks had stared them in the face so many years, had so interfered with house building, or the convenient placing of fish racks, or road making, that they had one and all come to hate their very sight. in their estimation they were a nuisance and a curse, and for any sane man to buy twenty acres of ledge to quarry and transport five hundred miles, seemed worse than folly. then, having given due expression to this common sentiment, and congratulating jess upon his good luck, they shook hands with him and went their way. and when the sound of their footsteps upon the one narrow plank walk of rockhaven had ceased, and only the murmur of the near-by ocean was heard, jess, as was his wont when lonesome, drew his old brown fiddle from its hiding place and sought consolation from its strings. and also, as usual, the melodies were the songs of bonnie scotland. chapter ii winn hardy winn hardy, born and reared where the tinkle of the cow bells on the hillside pastures, or the call of the village church bell on sunday was the most exciting incident, and a crossroads schoolhouse the only temple of learning, reached the age of fourteen as utterly untainted by knowledge of the world as the birds that annually visited the old farm orchards. and then came a catastrophe in his life which ended in two freshly made graves in the village cemetery, and he was thrust into the whirl of city life, to make his home with a widowed aunt, a mrs. converse, who felt it her duty to complete his education by a two years' course at a business college. it was a scant educational outfit with which to carve his way to fame and fortune, but many a man succeeds who has less, and winn might have been worse off. he had one unfortunate and serious fact to contend with, however, and that was a mercurial disposition. when the world and his associates seemed to smile, he soared amid the rosy clouds of optimism, and when things went wrong, he lost his courage. his first step in wage-earning (a menial position in a store, with scanty pay which scarce sufficed to clothe him) soon convinced him how hard a task earning a livelihood was, and that no one obtained a penny unless he fought for it. then through the influence of his aunt, he obtained an easier berth as copy clerk in the office of weston & hill, whose business was the investing of other people's money, and while his hours of service were less, his pay was no better. three years of this resulted in slow advancement to a junior bookkeeper's desk and better pay. it also broadened his list of acquaintances, for he joined a club, the membership of which was decidedly mixed, and not all of the best kind of associates for winn. his aunt, a shallow though well-meaning woman, devoted to church work, gossip, and her pet poodle, considering winn an unfortunate addition to her cares, held but scant influence over him. she furnished him a home to sleep and eat in without cost, urged him to attend church with her, cautioned him against evil associates; but beyond that she could not and did not go. so winn drifted. he saved a little money, realizing that he must, or be forever helpless and dependent; he learned the slang of the town and its ways, and forgot for a time the wholesome lessons of his early life. he also grew more mercurial, and, worse than that, he grew cynical. on all sides, and go where he would, the arrogance of wealth seemed to hedge him about and force upon him the realization that he was but a poorly paid bookkeeper, and not likely to become aught else. and then a worse mishap befell him--he met and became attached to jack nickerson. there is in every club, and in every walk in life, wherever a young man's feet may stray, some one it were better he never met--a mephistopheles in male garb, whose wit and ways of pleasure-taking are alluring, whose manners are perfect, whose pockets are well filled; and alas, whose morals are a matter of convenience. that winn, honest and wholesome-minded country-born fellow that he was, should be attracted by this product of fast city life is not strange. it is the attraction that allures the moth toward the flame, the good toward evil. follow nickerson in that course, winn would not and did not; he merely admired him for his wit, felt half tempted to emulate his vices, absorbed his scepticism--for jack nickerson in addition to his vices was a cynic of the most implacable sort. with him all religion was hypocrisy, all virtue a folly, and all truth a farce. he had income sufficient to live well upon, gambled for a pastime, was at the race tracks whenever chance offered, was cheek by jowl with the sporting fraternity, a man about town and hail fellow well met with all. per contra, he was generous to a fault, laughed most when he uttered his sharpest sneers, was polished and refined in his tastes and a gentleman always. one distinguished novelist has deified such a man, and made him a hero of her numerous tales. to winn he appealed more as a fascinating, world-wise sceptic, whose shafts of satire were gospel truths, and whose sybarite sort of existence was worthy of emulation, if one only had the money to follow it. then, as if to cap the climax and winn's cynical education, he fell in love with ethel sherman, a beauty and a natural-born flirt, whose ideas of life and maternal training had convinced her that marriage was a matter of business, and a means by which to obtain position and wealth. her family were people of moderate means, living near neighbors to winn's aunt and attending the same church. she had an elder sister, grace, who had, in her estimation, wrecked her life by marrying a poor man. and when winn hardy, young, handsome and callow, first met her, she was just home from boarding-school, ready to spread her social wings, and ripe for conquest. winn's aunt was also somewhat to blame in the matter, for she, like many good women, loved to dabble in match-making, and in her simple mind fancied it a wise move to bring one about between ethel and winn. its results were disastrous to his peace of mind, for, after dancing attendance for a year and spending half he earned on flowers and theatre tickets, his suit was laughed at and he was assured that only a rich young man was eligible to her favor. then he went back to jack nickerson, and, though he outgrew his folly, his impulsive nature became more pronounced and he a more bitter cynic than ever. for two years he was but a cipher in business and social life, a poorly paid bookkeeper in the office of weston & hill, a drop in the rushing, pushing, strenuous life of the city; and then came a change. chapter iii the rockhaven granite company "please step into my private office, mr. hardy," said j. malcolm weston, head of weston & hill, bankers, brokers, and investment securities, as stated on the two massive nickel plates that flanked their doorway, "i have a matter of business to discuss with you." ordinarily mr. j. malcolm weston would have said, "you may step into my private office, mr. hardy," when, as in this case, he addressed his bookkeeper, for mr. weston never forgot his dignity in the presence of a subordinate. it may be added that he never forgot to address a possible customer as though he owned millions, for j. malcolm weston was master of the fine art of obsequious deference, and his persuasive smile, cordial hand grasp, and copious use of flowery language had cost many a cautious man hundreds of dollars. mr. weston can best be described as unctuous, and belonged to that class of men who part their names and hair in the middle, but make no division in money matters, merely taking it all. when winn hardy had obeyed his employer's suave invitation and was seated in his presence, he was made to feel that he had suddenly stepped into a sunnier clime. "it gives me great pleasure, mr. hardy," continued weston, "to inform you that we have decided to enlarge your sphere of duty with us, and i may say, responsibilities. mr. hill and myself have considered the matter carefully, and, in view of your faithful and efficient services, we shall from now on confide to you the management of an outside matter of great importance. please examine this prospectus, which will appear to-morrow in all the papers of this city." winn took the typewritten document tendered him and carefully scanned its contents. to show its importance it is given in full, though with reduced headlines:-- the rockhaven granite company. capital, $ , , . . stock non-assessable. shares $ . each. par value, $ . . president, j. malcolm weston. board of directors: j. malcolm weston of weston & hill. william m. simmons, member of stock exchange. william b. codman, president national bank of discount. samuel h. wiseman, real estate broker. l. orton brown, secretary board of trade. office of company: weston & hill, bankers, brokers, and investments. prospectus this company has purchased and now owns the finest granite quarries in the world, over one mile in length and half that in width, fronting upon the land-locked harbor on the island of rockhaven. it has a full and perfect equipment of steam drills, engines, derricks, an excellent wharf, vessels for transporting freight, and all modern appliances for carrying on the business of quarrying. it is well known that the rapid growth of architectural taste produces an ever increasing demand for this, the best of all building stone, and as we furnish the finest quality of granite, having that beautiful pink tint so much admired by architects, you can readily see that our advantages and prospects are limitless. this is no delusive scheme for gold mining or oil boring, but a solid and practical business that guarantees sure returns and certain dividends. our supply of granite is exhaustless, the market limitless, and all that we need to develop this quarry and obtain lucrative returns is a little additional capital. for this purpose fifty thousand shares of the capital stock are now offered for sale at one dollar per share, so that the investor may receive the benefit of the advance to par which will follow, as well as the liberal dividends which will surely accrue. the price of stock will be advanced from time to time, as it is taken up. subscription books now open at the office of weston & hill, financiers. "it reads well," observed winn, after he had perused this alluring advertisement, "and i should imagine an investment in a granite quarry might seem a safe one." "yes, decidedly safe as well as secure," replied j. malcolm weston, with a twinkle in his steely blue eyes not observed by winn. "i wrote that ad with the intention of attracting investors who desire a solid investment for their money, and fancy i have succeeded. you noticed, perhaps, my allusion to gold mines and oil wells that have recently proved so elusive." then taking a box of cigars, and passing them to winn, and elevating his feet to a desk, as if to enjoy the telling of a pleasant episode, mr. weston continued: "that prospectus (which i pride myself is an artistic piece of work) will attract just the class of men who have grown suspicious of all sorts of schemes. it is this element of solidity and certainty that we shall elaborate upon. now i will tell you about our plan and how you are to assist us in carrying it out. as you may recall, i was away last summer with simmons on his yacht, and while on our trip we landed upon an island called rockhaven, up the north coast. it is sort of a double island, half cut in two by a safe harbor, and populated by a few hundred simple fisher-folk. we remained there a few days looking over the island, and i noticed that some one had started quarrying the granite of which the island is composed. that, and the location of the quarry, which faced this harbor, set me thinking. it ended in my inquiring out the owner, an eccentric old fellow who kept a small store and fiddled when he hadn't any customers, and finally buying the quarry. i paid him one thousand down, and we are to pay him one thousand more when deeds are passed. we are now going to send you up there to complete the purchase, paying him the balance, if you can, in stock; then hire men, improve the dock, set up the machinery we shall send you, and begin quarrying operations. that will be one of your duties. the other, and principal, one will be to get the natives interested in this home industry, and sell stock to them. to this end it may be necessary for you to give a little away to those whose influence may be of value. we have already booked several orders for building stone, which you will get out as per specifications and shipments. it will be necessary for you to hire one or two vessels for this purpose, or else contract for delivery of stone to us at so much per cargo. there is a small steamer which makes regular trips to this island, so we can reach you by mail. "now there is another matter, also of great importance. in order to stimulate your interest in the success of this enterprise, we shall make you a present of five hundred shares of this stock provided you can raise the money to purchase, at one dollar per share, another block of five hundred, or, what would answer as well, induce your aunt to do so." it was the glittering bait, intended by the wily weston to catch and hold his dupe, winn hardy. "i have some money laid away," answered winn, his sense of caution obscured by this alluring offer, "and with a little help from my aunt, i feel sure i can manage it; at least, i will try." "we do not need this investment of five hundred dollars on your part, mr. hardy," continued weston, in a grandiloquent tone; "as you must be aware, it is but a drop in the bucket, and we only wish it to induce your more hearty coöperation in pushing this enterprise to a successful ending. if we make money, as we are sure to do, you will also share in it. it is needless for me to tell you that this is the golden opportunity of your life, and if you take hold with a will, and not only manage this quarry with good business discretion, but, what is of more importance, sell all the stock you can, you will reap a small fortune. this enterprise is sure to be a money-maker and we expect inside of a year to see rockhaven go to ten, twenty, or possibly thirty dollars per share." and winn hardy, though sophisticated in a minor degree, believed it, and true to his nature, leaped at once into the clouds, where sudden riches and all that follows seemed within his grasp. not only did he easily persuade his excellent, though credulous, aunt, to lend him the money he needed, but when he left for his new field of labor, he had so impressed her with his newly acquired delusion that she made haste to call upon weston & hill and invest a few thousand herself. how disastrous that venture proved and how much woe and sorrow followed need not be specified at present. true to her feminine nature, she told no one, not even winn, of her investment; and until the meteoric career of rockhaven had become ancient history on the street, only the books of those shrewd schemers and her own safe deposit box knew her secret. chapter iv where the sea-gulls come like a pair of titanic spectacles joined with a bridge of granite, the two halves of rockhaven faced the atlantic billows, as grim and defiant as when leif ericson's crew of fearless norsemen sailed into its beautiful harbor. with a coast line of bold cliffs, indented by occasional fissures and crested with stunted spruce, the interior, sloping toward the centre, hears only the whisper of the ocean winds. rockhaven has a history, and it is one filled with the pathos of poverty, from that day, long ago, when captain carver first sailed into its land-locked harbor to split, salt, and dry his sloop load of cod on the sunny slope of a granite ledge, until now, when two straggling villages of tiny houses, interspersed with racks for drying cod, a few untidy fishing smacks tied up at its small wharves, and a little steamboat that daily journeys back and forth to the main land, thirty miles distant, entitles it to be called inhabited. in that history also is incorporated many ghastly tales of shipwreck on its forbidding and wave-beaten shores, of long winters when its ledges and ravines were buried beneath a pall of snow, its little fleet of fishermen storm-stayed in the harbor, and food and fuel scarce. it also has its romantic tales of love and waiting to end in despair, when some fisher boy sailed away and never came back; and one that had a tragic ending, when a fond and foolish maiden ended years of waiting by hanging herself in the old tide mill. and, too, it has had its religious revival, when a wave of bible reading and conversion swept over its poorly fed people, to be followed by a split in its one baptist church on the merits and truths of close communion or its opposite, to end in the formation of another. it also had its moods, fair and charming when the warm south wind barely ripples the blue sea about, the wild roses smile between its granite ledges, and the sea-gulls sail leisurely over them; or else gloomy and solemn when it lies hid under a pall of fog while the ocean surges boom and bellow along its rock-ribbed shore. on the inner and right-hand shore of the secure harbor, a small fishing village fringes both sides of a long street, and at the head of the harbor, one mile away, stands another hamlet. the first and larger village is called rockhaven, the other northaven. each has its little church and schoolhouse, also used for town meetings, its one or two general stores, and a post-office. those in rockhaven, where fishing is the sole industry, are permeated with that salty odor of cured fish, combined with tar, coffee, and kerosene; and scattered over the interior are a score of modest farmhouses. at one end of the harbor, and where the village of northaven stands, a natural gateway of rock almost cuts off a portion of the harbor, and here was an old tide mill, built of unhewn stone, but now unused, its roof fallen in, its gates rotted away, and the abutments that once held it in place now used to support a bridge. on one of the headlands just north of rockhaven village, and known as norse hill, stands a peculiar structure, a circular stone tower open at the top and with an entrance on the inner or landward side. tradition says this was built by the norsemen as a place of worship. beyond this hill, at the highest point of the island, is a deep fissure in the coast, ending in a small open cave above tidewater and facing the south. this is known as the devil's oven. on either side of this gorge, and extending back from it, is a thicket of stunted spruce. the bottom and sides of this inlet, semicircular in shape, are coated thick with rockweed and bare at low tide. on the side of the harbor opposite rockhaven, and facing it, is a small granite quarry owned and occasionally operated by one of the natives, a quaint old bachelor named jesse hutton. in summer, and until late in the fall, each morning a small fleet of fishing craft spread their wings and sail away, to return each night. on the wharves and between most of the small brown houses back of them, are fish racks of various sizes, interspersed with tiny sheds built beside rocks, old battered boats, piles of rotting nets, broken lobster pots, and a medley of wrack of all sorts and kinds, beaten and bleached by the salty sea. in summer, too, a white-winged yacht, trim and trig, with her brass rails, tiny cannon, and duck-clad crew, occasionally sails into the harbor and anchors, to send her complement of fashionable pleasure-seekers ashore. here they ramble along the one main street, with its plank walk, peeping curiously into the open doors and windows of the shops, at the simply clad women and barefooted children who eye them with awe. each are as wide apart from the other as the poles in their dress, manners, and ways of living, and each as much a curiosity to the other. of the social life of the island there is little to be said, for it is as simple as the garb of its plain people, who never grow rich and are seldom very poor. each of the two villages is blessed with a diminutive church, baptist in denomination, the one at rockhaven the oldest and known as hard-shell; that at northaven as free-will. each calls together most of the womenkind and grown-up children, as well as a few of the men, every sunday, while the rest of the men, if in summer, lounge around the wharves smoking and swapping yarns. there is no great interest in religion among either sex, and church attendance seems more a social pleasure than a duty. occasionally a few of the young people will get together, as young folks always do, to play games; and though it is in the creed of both churches that dancing is to be abjured, nevertheless old jess hutton, whose fiddle was his wife, child, and sole companion in his solitude, was occasionally induced to play and call off for the lads and lasses of the town, with a fringe of old folks around the walls as spectators. "i like to see 'em dance," he always said, "fer they look so happy when at it; 'sides, when they get old they won't want to. dancin's as nat'ral to young folks as grass growin' in spring." every small village has its oracle, whose opinion on all matters passes current as law and gospel, whose stories and jokes are repeated by all, and who is by tacit consent chosen moderator at town meetings, holds the office of selectman and chairman of the school committee for life, is accepted as referee in all disputes, and the friend, counsellor, and adviser of all. such a man in rockhaven was jesse hutton. though he argued with the rev. jason bush, who officiated at rockhaven on sundays, about the unsocial nature of close communion, and occasionally met and had a tilt with the northaven minister, he was a friend to both. "goin' to church and believin' in a futur'," he would say, "is jest as necessary to livin' and happiness as sparkin' on the part of young folks is necessary to the makin' o' homes." for jesse hutton, or simply jess, as old and young called him, was in his way a bit of a philosopher, and his philosophy may be summed up by saying that he had the happy faculty of looking upon the dark side of life cheerfully. it also may be said that he looked upon the cheerful side of life temperately. and here it may be prudent to insert a little of jess hutton's history. he was the elder of two brothers, schoolboys on the island when its population numbered less than one hundred, and one small brown schoolhouse served as a place of worship on sundays as well as a temple of learning on week-days. here the two boys jesse and jethro, received scant education, and at the age of fourteen and sixteen, respectively, knew more about the sailing of fishing smacks and the catching and curing of cod and mackerel than of decimal fractions and the rule of three. and then the civil war came on, and when its wave of patriotism reached far-off rockhaven, jess hutton, then a sturdy young man, enlisting in the navy under farragut, served his country bravely and well. then jess came back, a limping hero, to find his brother jethro deeply in love with pretty letty carver, for whom jess had cherished a boyish admiration, and in a fair way to secure a home, with her as a chief incentive. jess made no comment when he saw which way the wind blew in that quarter, but, philosopher that he was, even then, quietly but promptly turned his face away from the island and for a score of years rockhaven knew not of his whereabouts. gossips, recalling how he and letty, as grown-up school children, had played together along the sandy beach of the little harbor or by the old tide mill, then grinding its grist, asserted that jess had been driven away by disappointment; but beyond surmise they could not go, for to no one did he impart one word of his reasons for leaving the island and the scenes of his boyhood. twenty years later, letty carver, who had become mrs. jethro hutton, was left a widow with one child, a little girl named mona, a small white cottage on rock lane, and, so far as any one knew, not much else. and then jess hutton returned. once more the gossips became busy with what jess would or should do, especially as he seemed to have brought back sufficient means to at once build a respectable dwelling place, the upper half fitted for a domicile and the lower for a store. but all surmise came to naught, together with all the well-meant and excellent domestic paths mapped out by the busybodies for jess and the widow to follow, for when the combination house was done and the store stocked, jess hutton attended regularly to the latter and kept bachelor's hall in the former; and though he was an occasional caller at the cottage in rock lane and usually walked to church with the widow and little mona on sundays, the store and its customers by day or night were his chief care, and his solitary home merely a place to sleep in. and yet not; for beyond that, during his many years of wandering on the mainland, he had contracted the habit of amusing himself with the violin when lonesome, and jess, the eccentric old bachelor, as some termed him, and his fiddle became a curiosity among the odd and yet simple people of rockhaven. then, too, the little girl, mona, his niece, became, as she grew up, his protégée and care, and he her one inseparable friend and adviser. chapter v jess hutton like one of the spruces that towered high above others on rockhaven, like one of the granite cliffs bidding defiance to storm and wave, so did jess hutton tower above his fellow-men. not from stature, though he stood full six feet, or that he was impressive in other ways--far from it. he was like a child among men in simplicity, in tenderness, in truth and kindly nature--a man among children in strict adherence to his conscience, to justice and right living. and all on rockhaven knew it, and all had the same unvarying confidence in his good sense and justice, his truth and honor, conscience and kindness. what he predicted nearly always came true; what he promised he always fulfilled, and no one ever asked his aid in vain. others quarrelled, made mistakes, repented of errors, lost time in fruitless ventures; but jess--never. he was like a great ship moving majestically among boats, a lighthouse pointing to safe harbor, a walking conscience like a compass, a giant among pigmies in scope of mind, keenness of insight, and accurate reading of others' moods and impulses. and so he towered above all on rockhaven. beyond that he was a philosopher who saw a silver lining behind all clouds, laughed at all vanities, and made a jest of all follies. to him men were grown-up children who needed to be amused and directed; and women the custodians of life and morals, home, and happiness. they deserved the mantle of charity and patience, love, and tenderness. he was not religious. he had never felt a so-called change of heart, and yet he was a walking example of the best that religion encourages, for he governed himself, set the pace of right living, and illustrated the golden rule. he believed in that first and foremost, and in setting a good example as far as lay in his power, but not in any professions. "ye mustn't feel i ain't on yer side," he said once to parson bush, who had urged him to join the church, "for i am, only it's agin my natur ter 'low i've had a special dispensation o' the lord's grace in my behalf. i'm a weak vessel, like all on us, an' my impulses need caulkin'. i do the best i kin, 'cordin' to my light, 'n' that's all any man kin. the lord won't go back on us fer not gittin' dipped, an' if there's a heaven beyond, our only chance o' a seat is by startin' an annex right here on airth. sayin' you've joined the lord's army's well enough, but doin' what ye feel the lord's tryin' to, is better. "ez sally harper used ter say in meetin', 'we're all on us poor critters, an' if we jine, there's no tellin' when we'll backslide.'" it was perhaps the consciousness of inherent human weakness that kept jess out of the fold. "a man may do right 'n' keep on doin' right 'most all his life long," he said, "an' some day up pops a temptation, when he's least prepared for't, and over he goes like a sailboat 'thout ballast in a gale o' wind. an' then what becomes o' all yer 'lowin' the lord's opened yer eyes 'n' gin ye extra grace? ye only get laughed at by the scoffers 'n' yer influence gone fer good. human nature's brittle stuff, an' them as does right 'thout any change o' heart, come purty near bein' leaders in the percession toward the throne." his philosophy, broad as infinite mercy and humble as a child's happiness, permeated all his thoughts and tinged all his speeches. "no joy's quite so comfortin' as we cac'late," he would say, "an' no sorrer quite so worryin'. we go through life anticipatin' happy termorrers and glorious next days, and when we git to 'em, somehow they've sorter faded away, and it's to be the next day and the next as is ter be the bright uns. then, we are all on us like boys, chasing jack o' lanterns over a swamp medder, an' if we 'low they're clus to an' jest ready to grab, the next we know we've stumbled inter a ditch. "and then we borrer trouble, heaps on't, all through life. from the day we git scared at thought o' speakin' pieces at school, till the doctor shakes his head an' asks us if we've got our will made, we are dreadin' suthin'. if 'taint sickness or bein' robbed, it's worryin' 'bout our nabors havin' more'n we do. the feller courtin' worries for fear the gal won't say 'yes,' an' when she does he is likely to see the time he wishes she hadn't, an' worries 'cause he's got her. we worry ourselves old 'n' wrinkled 'n' gray, an' then, more'n all this world, worry 'bout the next. an' thar's whar the parson 'n' i allus split tacks. he says the lord made the brimstone lake fer sinners, 'n' i say the lord made conscience as a means o' torture, an' here or hereafter it's hot 'nuff." and here it must be inserted that jess was to a certain extent a thorn in the parson's side, from the fact that his influence and following were stronger than that worthy man's. it was what jess believed and said that was quoted rather than the parson's assertions; and although jess seldom failed to be one of his listeners, and contributed more than any five or ten others toward his scant salary, there were times when he was made to feel that if jess occupied the pulpit the church would be packed. and so it would, humiliating as that fact was to him. and here also may be related an incident in rockhaven history which illustrates how slim a hold the parson and his preaching had upon those islanders. as it happened that year, mackerel were late in reaching the coast. the price was correspondingly high, and rockhaven's band of fishermen eager to make the first haul. most of them attended church, but now, while the suspense was on, when sunday came, two or three watchers were stationed on convenient cliffs with orders to report to the church if a school was sighted. this was kept up for three weeks, and then, one sunday, just as the first morning hymn in long metre had been sung, and the parson, with closed eyes, had got well started in his prayer, down through the village street bounded one of those sentinels, yelling, "mack'rel, mack'rel, millions on 'em!" and in less than five minutes there wasn't a man, woman, or child left in the church except jess hutton and the parson. and when that good man had said "amen," jess arose and suggested they too follow the crowd. "ye might's well," said jess, with a twinkle in his eye, "the model o' all christianity sot the example, 'cordin' to scriptur', an' ye might do good by follerin' it." but the worthy leader of that flock who had thus deserted him failed to see the humor of the situation and sadly shook his head. he remained in the sanctuary and jess joined the fishermen. it was such a peculiar, sympathetic, and broad understanding of these fisher-folk's carnal as well as spiritual needs that made jess the oracle and leader of the island. "thar wa'n't no need o' gettin' fussy over it," he said later to the good dominie, with a laugh, "religion's good 'nuff when mack'rel's fetchin only a dollar a kit; but when three's offered 'n' scace at that, prayers hain't got their usual grip. and ye oughtn't ter 'spect it, parson. the way to reach 'em's to be one with 'em and sorter feel thar needs, and make em feel they're yer own. if ye'd gone with 'em that day and helped 'em make a haul, an' then invited 'em to join ye in a prayer o' thankfulness, thar want one but 'ud a-kneeled down at yer bidding and said 'amen.'" and that was jess hutton and partially the secret of his supremacy on rockhaven. another point--he had always believed and practised the sterling rule of "paying scot and lot as you go." while jess forgot injuries, he always remembered favors. if an unwashed, uncombed, and even unnamed child brought him but a sea-shell, jess never failed to reward the act. and so on, upward, to each and all he returned all favors, paid all debts, and rewarded all kindnesses. and how they trusted him! a fisher lad, saving up for a new suit of clothes or a boat of his own, would, before starting on a trip, leave his money with jess for safe keeping. the owner of a smack or schooner, ready for another cruise, would ask jess to take charge of the quintals and kits of fish just landed, sell them to best advantage, and hold the proceeds till he returned, or longer. not only was jess selling agent for most of them, but the safe in his store was a bank of deposit for them also. what he did not keep to supply their needs, they told him to get without bargaining, sure it would be what they wanted, and at right, or lowest price. and this trust was mutual. "if i ain't here, help yourselves," while not a sign over his door, was understood by all to be the rule; and every one in the island, from a child wanting a stick of candy to the skipper needing a dozen suits of oilers, followed it. jess had habits, and one was to devote all the time his dearly loved niece, mona hutton, claimed to her amusement; and when she asked that he accompany her flower or shell hunting of a summer afternoon, the store could run itself for all that he cared. it may be surmised that children exposed to the temptation of candy, oranges, and nuts in his store, would pilfer, and some did; but that did not annoy him. "hookin' things allus carries its own whip," he would say, "an' if they wanter try it, let 'em. it's bound to be found out, one way or 'nother, and when i've shamed 'em once or twice, they'll larn it's cheaper to ask for 'em." children were seldom refused in his store, for he was like a boy baiting squirrels with nuts in his desire to lure children there. they were his chief solace and companions by day, for he kept bachelor's hall over his store, and to have a crowd of them around was the company he best enjoyed. and what a godsend and wellspring of delight jess and his store were to all rockhaven's progeny. in summer they came in barefooted bunches, even to the toddlers who could scarce lisp their own names. they played hide and seek behind his barrels and beneath his counter; they hid in empty boxes and under piles of old sails in his back room. they littered his piazza with crabs, starfish, long strips of kelpie and shells, they had gathered among the rocks and on the beach, and left the few poor toys and rag babies they possessed there. they ran riot over him and his store; and as a climax to the happy after-school hour, jess would produce his old fiddle, and if there is any music that will reach a child's heart, it is that. and while jess played they leaped, danced, crowed, and shouted as insanely happy children will. to him it was also supreme delight. to them he was a perpetual santa claus, a wonder among men, a father bountiful, whose welcome never failed, whose smile was always cordial, and whose love seemed limitless. and they would obey a shake of his head even. and when the frolic had lasted long enough and he said, "run home now," off they scampered. it is small wonder jess hutton was chief man of rockhaven. but jess had a vein of satire as well as philosophy. "it's human natur," he would say, "for all of us to think our own children's brighter'n our neighbor's, an' our own joys and sorrers o' more account, and 'specially our aches and pains, 'n' them we never get tired o' tellin' 'bout. "there was the widder bunker, fer instance; she had a heap o' trouble and the only comfort she got was tellin' on't. she had rumatiz 'n' biles 'n' janders 'n' liver complaint, ever since she was left a widder, an' all she could talk 'bout was what ailed her an' how long it had lasted an' what the symptoms were an' what she was doin' fer 'em. she'd run on fer hours 'bout all her ailin's till folks 'ud go off 'n' leave her. she got so daft on this subject, finally, everybody'd run fer safety and hide when they saw her comin'. she used ter talk in meetin' onct in a while, 'n' arter a spell her aches got sorter mixed up with her religion, an' as nobody else 'ud listen to her 'bout 'em, the first we knowed, she 'gan tellin' the lord how her asmer bothered her and how her rumatiz acted. she enjied it so much, an' the lord seemed to listen so well, she kept at it over an hour, until the parson had to ask her to quit. "it was sorter rough on the widder, an' as i told the parson arterward, it really wa'n't any wuss fer the lord to hev to listen to her bodily aches and pains than the spiritual ones the rest allus told him 'bout; 'sides it gin a spice o' variety ter the meetin'. "but he said her tellin' the lord how she'd hump herself to get breath, and how the rumatiz had started in her big toe and skipped from one jint to 'tother, 'ud set the boys in the back seats to titterin' 'n' break up the meetin'. "i allus felt sorry for the widder bunker, fer she had considerable hair on her upper lip an' a hair mole on her chin, 'sides bein' poorer'n a church mouse, an' sich unfortunate critters hez to take back seats at the lord's table." chapter vi the bud of a romance the little steamer _rockhaven_ was but a speck on the southern horizon, the fishermen that had earlier spread their wings were still in sight that june morning, and jess hutton, having swept his store, sat tilted back in an arm-chair on his piazza, smoking while he watched the white sails to the eastward, when a tall, well-formed, and city-garbed young man approached. "my name's hardy," he said, smiling as his brown eyes took in jess and his surroundings at a glance, "and i represent weston & hill and have come to open and manage the quarry they own here. you are mr. hutton, i believe?" jess rose and extended a brown and wrinkled hand. "that's my name," he said, "'n' i'm glad ter see ye. but ter tell ye the truth, i never 'spected ter. it's been most a year now since yer boss landed here and bought my ledge o' stun, and i've made up my mind he did it jist fer fun, 'n' havin' money ter throw 'way. hev a cheer, won't ye?" and stepping inside he brought one out. winn seated himself, and glancing down at the row of small, brown houses and sheds that fringed the harbor shore below them, and then across to where the ledge of granite faced them, replied, "oh, mr. weston is not the man to throw away money, but it takes time to organize a company and get ready to operate a quarry;" and pausing to draw from an inside pocket a red pocketbook, and extracting a crisp bit of paper, he added, "the first duty, mr. hutton, is to pay the balance due you, and here is a check to cover it." jess eyed it curiously. "it's good, i guess," he said as he looked it over, "but out here we don't use checks; it's money down or no trade." then without more words he arose, and limping a little as he entered the store, handed winn a long, yellow envelope. "here's the deed; an' the quarry's yourn, an' ye kin begin blasting soon's ye like." "i cannot do anything for a few days," replied winn, "for the tools and machinery have not yet arrived, and in the meantime i must look about and hire some men. in this matter i must ask you to aid me, and in fact, i must ask your help in many ways." "i'll do what i kin," answered jess, "an' it won't be hard ter git men. most on 'em here ain't doin' more'n keepin' soul an' body together fishin' an'll jump at the chance o' airnin' fair wages quarryin'. "where did yer put up, if i may ask? i heerd last night a stranger had fetched in on the steamer." "i found lodging with a mrs. moore," answered winn; "the boat's skipper showed me where she lived; and now, if you will be good enough, i would like to have you show me the quarry and then i will look around for men to work it." "ye don't come here cac'latin' to waste much time," observed jess, smiling, "but as fer hirin' men, ye best let me do it." "i should be grateful if you will," answered winn, "i feel i must ask you to aid me in many ways. what we want," he continued, having in mind his instructions, "is to establish a permanent and paying industry here, and enlist the interest of those who have means to invest. we want to make it a sort of coöperative business, as it were." "i don't quite ketch yer drift," replied jess. "i mean," responded winn, "that we want to make this a home industry, and to get all those here who have means to take stock in it and share in the profits." jess made no immediate answer, evidently thinking. "wal, we'll see 'bout that bimeby," he said finally. "it's a matter as won't do ter hurry. folks here are mighty keerful, 'n' none on 'em's likely ter do much bakin' till their oven's hot. 'sides, there ain't many as own more'n the roof that shelters 'em, and not over well shingled, at that. money's skeercer'n hen's teeth here, mr. hardy." "i shall be guided by your opinion," answered winn, realizing the truth of what jess had said, "and we will let that matter rest for the present. now if you will show me the quarry, i will look it over and let you see what can be done in the way of getting men to work it. whatever you do for us we shall insist on paying you for." "queer old fellow," mused winn to himself two hours later, after he had parted from jess, "but i doubt if he buys much of this quarry stock." it is likely that surmise would have been a positive certainty if jess hutton, with horse sense as hard as this granite ledge and wits as keen as the briars that grew on top of it, had known that the quarry he had sold for two thousand dollars and considered it well paid for, was the sole basis for a stock company capitalized at one million dollars. but he did not, and neither does many another blind fool who buys "gilt-edged" stock in gold mines, oil wells, and schemes of all sorts, know that his investment rests on as insecure and trifling a basis; for the world is full of sharpers who continually set traps for the unwary and always catch them, and, although their name is legion, their dupes are as the sands of the sea. but of winn hardy, who had come to rockhaven, as he honestly believed and felt, to carry out a legitimate business enterprise, it must not be thought that he for one moment understood the deep-laid schemes of j. malcolm weston, for he did not. while the ratio of value between the capitalization of the rockhaven granite company and the original cost of the quarry seemed absurd, it did not follow but that weston & hill might not intend actually to put capital into it sufficient to warrant such an issue of stock. all of which would go to show that winn hardy had not as yet entirely escaped the trammels of his inherited honesty and bringing up, which insensibly led him to judge others by himself. and that afternoon, having nothing to do, and curious to explore this rock-ribbed island that was like to be his home for some months, he started out on a tour of exploration. first he followed the seldom-used road that connects the two villages, up to northaven, and looked that over. there was a little green in the centre where stood the small church, and grouped about, a dozen or two houses and two or three stores, while back of this, and below an arm of the harbor, it narrowed down to where the roadway crossed it. beside this stood an old stone mill, or what was once the walls of one, for the roof was gone. he examined it carefully, peering into its ghostly interior and down to where the ebb tide had left its base walls bare. to this, and to the piles that had once held the tide gates, were clinging masses of black mussels, with here and there a pink starfish nestled among them. then, following this arm of the sea until it ended, he crossed a half mile of billowing ledges of rock between which were grass-grown and bush-choked dingles, and came to the ocean. then, following the coast line as well as possible, owing to the jutting cliffs, he reached a deep inlet with almost precipitous sides, and, turning inland, found its banks ended in a dense thicket of spruce. through this wound a well-defined path, shadowy beneath the canopy of evergreen boughs, and velvety with fallen needles. following this a little way, he came to an opening view of the ocean once more. the day was wondrously fair, the blue water all about barely rippled by a gentle breeze, while here and there and far to seaward gleamed the white sails of coasters. below him, where the rock-walled gorge broadened to meet the ocean, the undulating ground swells leisurely tossed the rockweed and brown kelpie upward, as they swept over the sloping rocks. for a few moments he stood spellbound by the silent and solemn grandeur of the limitless ocean view and the colossal pathway to the water's edge below him, and then suddenly there came to his ears the faint sound of a violin. now low and soft, hardly above the rhythmic pulse of the sea, and again clear and distinct, it seemed to come up out of the rocks ahead, a strange, weird, ghostly harmony that, mingling with the whisper of the distant wave-wash, sounded exquisitely sweet. breathless with astonishment now, he crept forward slowly, step by step, until at the head of this deep chasm, and down beneath him, he heard the well-recognized strains of "annie laurie" played by invisible hands. the sun was low in the west, the sea an unruffled mirror, the coast line a fretwork of foam fringe where the ground swells met it, and above its murmur, trilling and quivering in the still air, came that old, old strain:-- "and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee," repeated again and again, until winn, enraptured, spellbound, moving not a finger but listening ever, heard it no more. then presently, as watching and wondering still whence and from whose hand had come this almost uncanny music, he saw, deep down amid the tangle of rocks below him, a slight, girlish figure emerge, with a dark green bag clasped tenderly under one arm, and slowly pick her way up the sides of the defile and disappear toward the village. chapter vii sunday on rockhaven for a few days winn hardy was so occupied with the cares of his new position that he thought of little else. it was a pleasing freedom, for never before had he known what it was to be his own master; but now the hiring of men and directing operations gave him a sense of power and responsibility that was exhilarating. jess hutton aided him in many ways and, in fact, seemed anxious to assist in this new enterprise that was likely to be of material benefit to rockhaven. winn wisely let the stock matter rest, feeling that a practical demonstration of the rockhaven granite company's enterprise and intentions would in due time establish confidence. he wondered many times who the girl was that had hid herself in that weird cluster of rocks to play the violin, and marvelled that any maid, born and reared amid the half-starved residents of rockhaven, should even have that laudable ambition; but he asked no questions. in a way, the romance of it also kept him from inquiries. "i will bide my time," he thought, "and some day i will go over and surprise this maid of the gorge." he had noticed a rather immaturely formed girl with dark, lustrous eyes once or twice in the dooryard of a little white house in the same lane where he had found lodgment, and had met her once on the village street and half surmised she might be this mysterious violinist. he gave little thought to it, however, for his new position and the open path to success and possible riches that seemed before him was enough to put cave-seeking maids, however charming, out of his mind. then, too, he had not quite recovered from ethel sherman. when sunday came, a new, and in a way pleasurable, experience came with it. his landlady, mrs. moore, a widow whose two sons were away on a long fishing voyage, and who seemed so afraid of her solitary boarder as to no more than ask if he wanted this or that during his lonely meals, now appeared to gain courage with the advent of the lord's day. "i'd be pleased, sir," she said humbly, "if ye'd attend sarvice with me at the meetin'-house this morning." and though winn had planned to turn his back on the coop-like houses that composed the town, and take a long stroll over the island, there was such an appealing hope in this good woman's invitation that he could not resist it, and at once consented to attend "sarvice" with her. and he was not sorry he did, for when the little bell began calling the piously inclined together, and he issued forth with mrs. moore, who was dressed in a shiny black silk and a "bunnit" the like of which his grandmother used to wear, and looking both proud and pleased, he felt it a pleasant duty. on the way to the small brown church which stood just beyond the steamer landing and at the foot of a sloping hill dotted thick with tombstones, he felt that he was the observed of all observers, and when seated in mrs. moore's pew, cushioned with faded green rep, whichever way he looked some one was peeping curiously at him. in a way it made him feel unpleasant, and he wondered if his necktie was awry; then as he looked around at the worn and out-of-date garb of the few men and almost grotesque raiment of the women and girls, what jess had said of the people recurred to him in a forcible way. the usual service that followed, similar in kind to any country church, was interesting to winn mainly because it recalled his boyhood days. when the minister, a thin, gray-haired man, began his sermon, winn grew curious. he was accustomed to pulpit oratory of a high class, and wondered now what manner of discourse was like to emanate from this humble desk. the text was the old and time-worn "the lord will provide," that has instilled courage and hope into millions of despondent hearts, and now used once more to encourage this little band of simple worshippers. the preacher made no new deductions, in fact, seemed to, as usual, lay stress upon the need of faith that the lord would provide, come what might. to this end he quoted freely from scripture, and winn was beginning to lose interest and look around the bare and smoky walls and out of one window that commanded a view of the rippled harbor, when suddenly his attention was arrested by a direct reference to himself, or rather, his errand to rockhaven. "we have," asserted the minister, in slow and solemn voice, "a certain and sure proof that the lord watches over and cares for us, and that we on this lonely island, striving to live righteously, are not forgotten by him. our acres fit to till are few and lack fertility; our winters dreary and full of the menace of storm and shipwreck to those who must pursue their calling abroad; and yet it seems that he who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand, realizing our needs, has turned the minds of moneyed men toward our barren home, and through them blessed us with a new source of livelihood. through them heretofore worthless ledges of granite are to be reared into dwellings, or perhaps churches in the great city. it is to me a certain and signal proof that the good lord watches over us here, as well as over others who dwell in more favored spots, and that we have a new and greater cause for thankfulness. many times we have repined at our hard lot, at our scanty stores of sustenance and the bitterness of poverty; many times, too, some of us have felt the burden of our lives hard to bear, and almost doubted the good lord's watchfulness and care over all who believe in his word. it is this lack of faith, and this lesson of his goodness, even unto us, that i wish to impress upon your minds to-day, for, although we are but poor and humble, illy fed and thinly clad, yet we are not forgotten by him, the great ruler of the universe." this peculiar and unusual reference to a mere matter of business and winn's mission to rockhaven did not end his discourse, but it kept that young man's attention away from all else until the minister closed and bowed his head in prayer, and, when the inevitable and long-handled collection box was passed, winn felt he must, perforce, contribute liberally, which he did. when the congregation was dismissed and he and mrs. moore reached the porch, there was jess with two ladies, one elderly, and the girl winn had noticed in rock lane, seemingly awaiting him. an introduction to mrs. and miss hutton followed, and then all five walked homeward together. it is said that trifles determine our course in life, that, like chips floating down the stream, we are moved hither and yon by imperceptible forces. if it is so with one, it is with all, and was so with the people of rockhaven, and their estimate and subsequent opinion of winn hardy. he attended that poor little church that day out of kindly regard for mrs. moore's wishes, he listened patiently to services and the sermon, only a few sentences of which interested him, and, of course, conducted himself as any well-behaved and well-bred young man would. and yet that trivial act was the starting-point in the good will and confidence of those people, the worth of which he realized not at all then and never fully until long afterward. neither was he entitled to special credit for his self-sacrifice, except it be that his desire to please that worthy matron, mrs. moore, overcame his selfishness. but whether or not, it led to immediate, though minor reward, for late that afternoon, and upon his return from a short stroll over norse hill, he found her on the porch of the white cottage next to her home, chatting with the two ladies he met at church, and he was invited to join them. how cordially the two elderly ladies endeavored to interest him and what a soft witchery the dark eyes of the younger one held for him need not be enlarged upon. it mattered not that mrs. moore and mrs. hutton were neither cultured nor fashionable; they were at least sincere in their enjoyment of his society and meant what they uttered, which is more than can be said of many women of position. he learned that the girl's name was mona, that she had never been away from the island, and, as might be expected, was somewhat bashful and a little afraid of him. he had a mind to ask her if she played the violin, but a romantic desire to surprise her, or whoever the mysterious violinist was, restrained him. the stars were out, a perfect quietude had fallen upon the little village, and only the ceaseless murmur of the near-by ocean whispered in the still air, when mrs. moore arose to go, and, much against his will, winn felt compelled to follow. in his room he smoked for an hour in solitude, buoyant with hope for his own future, amply satisfied with the business and social progress he had so far made, and mentally contrasting the life he had left behind him with the new one he had entered upon; and into these meditations, it must be stated, came the faces of ethel sherman and mona hutton. and so ended winn's first sunday on rockhaven. chapter viii the hand of fate for a few days winn hardy was the busiest man on rockhaven. what with setting up the steam drill that had been sent him, finding a man to work it, adjusting the derricks, and laying out work for the dozen men jess had secured, he had no more time than occasionally to think of who the mysterious violin-playing maid might be. he arose early, worked late, and evenings wrote his firm a detailed statement of his progress, or discussed matters with jess at the store. by tacit consent that had become a sort of office for the rockhaven granite company, and evening lounging place for not only the men who were at work for winn, but others interested in the new enterprise, and, in fact, all who were not away on fishing trips. here, also, winn met the rev. jason bush, a worthy, if attenuated, parson and pedagogue, who had so astonished winn that first sunday and who seemed more interested than any one else in the quarry. it was all the more pleasant experience to winn, thus to feel that he was bringing a business blessing to these hard-working and needy people, and the barometer of his hopes and spirits was at top notch when friday came and with it funds from the firm to pay the men. he felt, indeed, that his mission was bearing excellent fruit. then, too, he received a letter of praise from his employers, congratulating him on the progress he was making, and reminding him that, as soon as advisable, he should endeavor to interest those who had means and induce them to invest in rockhaven stock. it was all right, of course, and a part of his mission there; and winn, guileless of the cloven hoof hidden beneath it, assured himself that he must carry out their wishes as soon as possible. it was while speculating on this part of his duty the next afternoon, and wondering who except jess was likely to have money to invest in this stock, that he felt an unaccountable impulse to visit the gorge again and at once. it was as if some invisible voice was calling him and must be answered, and yet he could not explain what it was and how his thought, at that particular moment, had turned to this spot. he was not a believer in fate; he was just an ambitious and practical young man, with good common sense and wholesome ideas, and though a little embittered by the treatment he had received at the hands of ethel sherman and not likely to fall in love easily with another girl, yet he was the last person who would admit that fate was playing, or would play, any part in his movements, as it did; and more than that, it led him that balmy june afternoon, when the sea and sky were in perfect accord, to the gorge and to the very spot where, ten days before, he had been mystified. and now he was more so, for not only did he hear the same low, sweet strains mingling with the ocean's murmur, but he began to realize that some invisible influence, quite beyond his understanding, had brought him hither. what it was he could not tell, or where, or from whence it came, only that he felt it and obeyed. and so forcibly did this uncanny sense of helplessness oppress him, that the weird strains of music, issuing from the rocks below, seemed ten times more so. for one instant he could not help feeling almost scared, and thought it well to pinch himself to see if he were awake, and the music and his presence there not a dream. then he sat down. surely, if it were a dream, it was a most exquisite one, for away to the eastward and all around, a half-circle, the boundless ocean, with here and there a white-winged vessel, and white-crested waves flashing in the sunlight, lay before; while beneath him and sloping v-shaped a hundred feet below, and to where the billows leaped over the weed-clad rocks, lay this chasm. back of him, and casting their conical shadows over the chaos of boulders in the gorge, was a thicket of spruce, and to add a touch of heaven to this desolate but grand vision, the faint whisper of music mingling with the monotone of the waves and the sighing of winds in the spruces. and then the wonder of it all, and what a romantic and singular fancy of this fisher maid to thus hide herself where only the mermaids of old might have come to sing sad ditties while they combed their sea-green tresses. that it was mona hutton he felt almost certain, and his first impulse was to descend into the chasm at once and surprise her. then he thought, if perchance it were not, would that be the act of a gentleman? doubtless whoever it was had come there to find seclusion, and for him to thus intrude would certainly be rude. the next thought, and the one he acted upon, was to go back a little of the way he came, hide himself, and, when she appeared, advance to meet her. the way to the village was over a rounded hill a full mile in length, with scattered clusters of bayberry bushes between. back over this a hundred rods winn retreated, and not thinking how his presence there would affect this unknown girl, hid himself behind a rock. he had not long to wait, and soon saw the same lithe figure, and under her arm the same bundle, emerge from the gorge, and, as she advanced rapidly, saw that it was mona. still unthinking, he stepped out into view and forward to meet her. in one instant he saw her halt, turn back a step, then around, facing him, and stand still; and as he neared her and she saw who it was, she sank to the earth. then, as he reached her side and saw her, half reclining against a small ledge, and looking up at him, her face and lips ashen white, he realized for the first time what a foolish thing he had done. "i beg your pardon, miss hutton," he said earnestly, and removing his hat on the instant, "i see that i have scared you half to death and i am sorry; i didn't mean to." and as she sat up, still looking at him with pitiful eyes, a realizing sense of his own idiotic action came to him, and he told her, a little incoherently, perhaps, but truthfully how he had come there both days, and for what reason. frankness is said to be a virtue, and in this case it was more, for it saved the reputation of winn hardy as a man of honor and a gentleman, in the eyes of mona hutton. "yes, i was frightened," she said at last, in response to his repeated plea for forgiveness, after he had told her his story, "and i almost fainted. it is foolish of me to go there, i know, for mother has told me it is not safe." then as she picked up the green bag that had fallen at her feet and started to rise once more, winn's wits came to his rescue, and in an instant he grasped her hand and arm and almost lifted her to her feet. "i shall never forgive myself for this day's stupidity," he said, "but i have wondered a hundred times since that day who on earth it could be that hid herself in that forbidding spot. i heard you play only one air then, and that the sweetest ever composed by mortal man. i have heard it many, many times, but never once when it reached my heart as it did that day. what blind intuition brought me here i cannot say; but some impulse did, and if you will believe what i say and that your playing has wrought a spell over me, i shall be grateful." to simple and utterly unsophisticated mona hutton words like these were as new as life to a babe, and while she could not and did not believe he meant them all, as uttered, nevertheless they were sweet to her. it is likely, also, they were colored by the plight winn found himself in and his desire to set himself right in the eyes of mona. "i do not know why it is," she responded, "but when i go there i seem to enjoy my practice better, and then i feel that no one can hear me. mother says that no one will ever want to," she added naïvely. winn smiled. "but i want to," he said, "i want to go there with you some day and hear you play 'annie laurie' again; will you let me?" "i won't promise," she replied, and perhaps mindful of her mother's opinion added: "mother doesn't approve of my playing a fiddle. she says it's not graceful." this time winn laughed. "i don't believe you could do anything and not be graceful," he said. "as for that, i have seen camilla urso playing one before an audience of thousands, and no one thought her ungraceful." "who is camilla urso?" asked mona. "she was a wonderful violinist," answered winn, "and charmed the whole world, years ago. if you will let me come to this spot with you, i will tell you all about her." mona turned her face away. "i don't go there very often," she replied evasively; "and if you have heard such wonderful playing, i wouldn't dare let you hear me. i don't know anything except what uncle jess has taught me." then as she started onward she added, "you must ask him to play for you some time; he knows how." "but it is you i want to hear," winn asserted, and then, as an intuition came to him, he added: "i think it best you go on home alone, miss hutton; it might cause comment if we go on together. i passed a most delightful hour with you and your mother last sunday evening, and, with your permission, i shall repeat it." and then, having delivered this polite speech, so utterly unlike what mona was accustomed to hear, he raised his hat and turned away. on the brink of the gorge he halted, and, turning again, watched her rapidly nearing the top of the hill. reaching its crest, she faced about and looked back. chapter ix a friendly hand the suggestion jess had made regarding the scarcity of money on rockhaven was plainly evident to winn, now that he had become acquainted. it made him feel that his firm's enterprise was almost a godsend to the island, and that first saturday night when his men gathered, as requested, at jess hutton's store, and secured their pay, winn, who in his time had also felt the need of more money, found it a keen pleasure to pay these needy men their earnings. when they had departed and he and jess were alone, the worthy man who seemed to feel a share of the general satisfaction, beamed with good nature. "money makes the mar' go," he said, "an', as the irishman said, 'it's swate saturday night and sour monday morning.' ye've made a fine start, mr. hardy, an' if things go well an' this 'ere company o' yourn don't bust up, ye'll cum pretty near bein' the hull thing here. there's an old saying here that 'it's time to dry fish when the sun shines,' an' now with your sun shinin' it's purty good wisdom for ye to dry all the fish ye kin. things are onsartin in this world, an' there's no tellin' when a sunny day's comin'. i'm goin' ter help yer all i kin, an' out o' good will toward ye, 'n' hope things'll turn out all right. i'm sartin it won't be yer fault if they don't." "i'm glad to feel i've won your confidence, mr. hutton," answered winn, "and i feel sure there is no need of fearing any collapse of this company. they are reputable business men, and have ample means; granite is in good demand in the city, and certainly they would not have invested in the quarry and set out to develop it, unless it was to make money." "wal, mebbe," answered jess, after a long pause, "an' i'm goin' to think so. distrustin' don't help matters, an' for the sake o' those men who hev gone home happy to-night, i hope things'll turn out as ye 'spect." winn looked depressed, and for reason. to have the one man in rockhaven whose confidence he valued most express a word of distrust hurt. "oh, i ain't doubtin' you a mite," continued jess, "an' no reason to mistrust yer consarn, only i've had squalls hit me when least 'spectin' 'em, 'n' so got into the habit o' watchin' out fer 'em. it's jist as well in this world, 'n' then ye ain't quite so likely to be caught nappin'. now t'other day ye mentioned the matter o' sellin' stock to us folks here, an' that is all right, only it sorter 'curred to me if this consarn o' yourn 'spected to make money quarryin' here, thar wa'n't no real reason why they should want ter divide it with us folks, which is what sellin' us stock 'mounts to in the end, an' as old cap'n doty would say, 'hence my 'spicions.' i've hed a good many ups 'n' downs in this world," he continued, in a philosophic tone, "an' while i allus try to look on the bright side o' trouble, an' when it comes am glad 'tain't any wuss, i've larned to be keerful--mighty keerful. human natur's slippery stuff, an' money a dum sight more so, an' every storeman allus puts the best apples on top o' the basket. i've bought and paid for a mighty lot o' 'sperience 'bout mankind, an' all i've got to show for most on't is the 'sperience. i've picked up a little money, too, 'tween times, but the only reason i hev, was 'cause i got sight on't 'fore the other feller did. i like you, mr. hardy, fust-rate, on so short acquaintance, an' know yer honest 'n' all right, but the side-whiskered feller who blew in here last summer 'n' bought this yer quarry offhand--wal, i mean no disrespect to yer firm, but in my humble 'pinion he'd bear watchin'. now i'm goin' ter stand by ye in this matter 'n' do all i ken to help you make a go on't, an' if ye'll trust me all the time, ye won't regret it." it was a pleasant assurance, but the cloud on winn's face remained. he had from the outset hoped to interest this old man, who he realized held the key of rockhaven, as it were, and whose opinion of his mission there, and the merits of rockhaven stock as an investment, would without doubt be accepted by others as final. his own belief in it was optimistic, and beyond that it meant to him a success in business and an avenue to prosperity that included all wealth meant to any one. so far in life he had been but a mere menial, a poorly paid drudge, a slave to so many hours a day. now he was at once elevated to the management of men and money, and assumed that it would be to his credit and necessary that he interest the people and induce them to invest their money. for these reasons the lack of confidence on jess hutton's part meant discouragement. "ye mustn't mind my notions," jess said at last, reading winn's face; "i mean to help ye, 'n' i will, only as i said i'm a leetle skeery o' yer consarn. ef things go on right fer a spell, i most likely'll feel different. i've got pinched in schemes afore, an' grown cautious. faith, ez the parson says, is a mustard seed 'n' needs time to sprout. we'll watch thet air mustard seed o' yourn, 'n' gin it time ter sprout. now, to sorter drive away your blues an' mine, i'm goin' to fiddle a spell; ye won't mind, will ye?" "i should be delighted," answered winn, with sudden eagerness, "i have heard you were an expert with a violin. mr. weston said you were." he did not deem it wise just then to say who else had stated that fact. without further comment, jess brought out his violin. "fiddlin's to me," he said, as he turned it up, "a good deal ez licker used to be to old bill atlas, a cure-all fer everything from death to the toothache. bill was quite a case in his day, an' said licker was made fer the purpose o' drownin' sorrow. he drowned his purty stiddy in't anyhow, an' finally was driv' to his death by the tremens." then he began and fiddled away for an hour, his eyes closed, his kindly face glowing with the pleasure of his own art, and one foot keeping time on the floor. and, to winn's surprise, his selections were all of scotch origin, and the liveliest of those best of all harmonies. from one to another he skipped, a medley of those old tunes that have lived as no other nation's music ever did or ever will live, because none other has quite the same life and soul. and winn, listening as that quaint old man fiddled away, forgot his troubles, carried to fair scotland's banks and braes, where wallace bled, prince charlie fought, and bonnie dundee rallied his henchmen to give battle, and, too, winn heard the love plaint of many a scotch lad and lassie, centuries old, and yet reaching his heart as they always did and always will all human kind. and as, entranced, he lived once more in the olden days of chivalry and love faithful unto death, he thought of mona and how she had touched the same chord in his heart only a few hours before. and when jess had tired of his pastime, and winn, on his way to his solitary room in rock lane, passed the white cottage next to it, he halted a moment, wondering if mona was asleep, or if not, was she thinking of him. for such is man, and so do the rose petals of love first unclose. [illustration: mona.] chapter x mona hutton mona hutton was, as winn instinctively felt that sunday when he first glanced into her well-like eyes, a girl but little akin to her surroundings--a child of the island, full of strange moods and fancies, sombre as the thickets of spruce that grew dense and dark between the ledges of granite, and solemn as the unceasing boom of ocean billows below its cliffs. even as a barefoot schoolgirl she had found the sea an enticing playmate, and to watch its white-crested waves lifting the rockweed and brown kelpie, as they swept over the rocks and into the gorges and fissures, was of more interest than her schoolmates. she would hide between the ledges and watch the sea-gulls sailing over them for hours, build playhouses in out-of-the-way spots with lone contentment, filling them with shells, starfish, and crabs, dig wells in the sandy margin of the harbor, and catch minnows to put in them. she loved to watch the fishing boats sailing away, the coasters pass the island, the current sweeping in and out beneath the old tide mill, and as she grew up and gained in courage roamed over the entire island at will. the devil's oven, out of sight and sound of everybody, became a charming spot for her; and here she would sit for hours watching the waves leap into the gorge and wondering why they never sounded twice alike. and so on, as she developed, she absorbed the mood of the ocean, its grandeur shaped her thoughts, its mystery tinged her emotion, and its solemnity, like the voice of eternity, gave expression to her eyes. companions of her own age she had none, leaving them to play as they chose while she sought solitude, and found contentment on the lonely shores. uncle jess only was akin to her, and if she could lead him away as playmate, then was she happy. and so she grew up. with only a limited education, such as the island schools afforded, a scant knowledge of books, since but few ever reached rockhaven, a love of music that amounted to a passion, no knowledge of the world except that gleaned from uncle jess, a deep religious feeling, partially shaped by the "hardshell" baptist teachings of the rev. jason bush, and more by the ocean billows that forever thundered against the island shores, she was at twenty a girl to be pitied by those capable of understanding her nature or realizing how incompatible to it was her environment. of music she knew but little, and that taught her by the genial old soul who, since her babyhood, had been father, uncle, and companion. his constant assistance had been hers through her pinafore days at school; his genial philosophy and keen insight into human impulse had done more to develop her mind afterward than the three r's she mastered there. his gentle hand had taught her the scales on his old brown fiddle, and now that she had reached that mystic line where girlhood ends and womanhood begins, her future was of more concern to him than all else in his life. that she must and would, in the course of human nature, love and marry, he fully expected; that it was like to be a mateship with some of the simple and hard-working fishermen's sons, he expected; and yet, with dread for her far more than any one else, even her mother, he realized that such an alliance would be but a lifelong slavery for mona. to mate a poetic soul like hers, that heard the voice of eternity in the white-crested billows, the footsteps of angels in the music he drew from his violin, and the whisper of god in the sea winds that murmured through the spruce thickets they visited, as he knew she did, seemed as unnatural as confining one of the white gulls that circled about the island in a coop with the barnyard fowls. to mona herself no thought of this had come. though the young men with whom as schoolmates she had studied, and who now as fishermen, with ill-smelling garb and sea-tanned hands and faces, often sought her, to none did she give encouragement, and with none found agreeable companionship. what her future might be, and with whom spent, gave her no concern. each day she lived as it came, helping her mother in the simple home life and the making of their raiment, stealing away occasionally to spend a few hours with uncle jess, or in summer to hide herself in the devil's oven, and play on the violin he had given her, or practise with him as a teacher. this violin and its playing, it must be stated, had been and was the only bone of contention between mona and her mother, and just why that mother found it hard to explain, except that it was a man's instrument and not a woman's. their humble parlor boasted a small cottage organ. "let mona learn to play on that," she had said when jess first began to teach mona the art of the bowstrings, "it's more graceful for a girl to do that than sawing across a fiddle stuck under her chin." and this matter of grace, so vital to that mother's peace of mind, was the only point of dispute between them. but uncle jess sided with mona, and the mother gave in, for with her, for many potent reasons, the will and wishes of uncle jess must not be thwarted, even if wrong. however, the dispute drove mona and the fiddle out of the house, and when she had finally mastered it (at least in a measure), it stayed out. in this connection, it may be said, there was also a difference in opinion between mrs. hutton and jess regarding the future of mona, and though never discussed before her, for obvious reasons, it existed. with mrs. hutton the measure of her own life, or what it had been, as well as that of her neighbors, was broad enough for mona. "it's going to spoil her," she asserted on one of these occasions, "this getting the idea into her head that those she has been brought up with are not good enough for her. they may not be, but we are here and likely to stay here, and once a girl gets her head full o' high notions and that she's better than the rest, it's all day with her." "thar ain't no use interferin'," jess responded, "whatever notions mona's got, she's got, an' ye can't change 'em. if she likes the smell o' wild roses better'n fishin' togs, she does; and if she turns up her nose at them as don't think 'nough o' pleasin' her ter change togs when they come round, i 'gree with her. wimmin, an' young wimmin 'specially, air notional, an' though most on 'em 'round here has ter work purty hard, it ain't no sign their notions shouldn't be considered. i've stayed in houses whar wimmin wa'n't 'lowed to lift a finger an' had sarvants ter fan 'em when 'twas hot, an' though that ain't no sign mona'll git it done for her, i hope i'll never live ter see her drudgin' like some on 'em here." "if you'd had the bringing o' mona up," mrs. hutton had responded rather sharply, "you would a-made a doll baby out o' her, an' only fit to have servants to fan her." at which parting shot, jess had usually taken to his heels, muttering, "it's a waste o' time argufyin' with a woman." but mrs. hutton was far from being as "sot" in her way as might be inferred, as she always had, and still desired, to rear her only child in the way she considered best, and in accordance with her surroundings. to be a fine lady on rockhaven, as mrs. hutton would put it, was impossible; and unless mona was likely to be transplanted to another world, as it were, it seemed wisest to keep her from exalted ideas and high-bred tastes. but back of that, and deep in the mother's love, lay the hope of better things for her child than she had known, though how they were to come, and in what way, she could not see. mere pebbles of chance shape our destiny, and so it was in the life of winn hardy, and the trifle, light as air, that turned his footsteps, was the sound of church bells that sunday morning in rockhaven. had they not recalled his boyhood, he would have spent the day in roaming over the island as he had planned, instead of accepting mrs. moore's invitation to accompany her to church, with the sequence of events that followed. and the one most potent was the accent of cordiality in mrs. hutton's neighborly invitation to call. it may be supposed, and naturally, that the expressive eyes of her daughter were the real magnets; but in this case they were not. instead it was the mother with whom he desired to visit, and when he called that first evening it was with her he held most converse. out of the medley of subjects they chatted about, and what was said by either, so little is pertinent to this narrative, it need not be quoted. winn gave a brief account of his early life and more of the latter part, since he had been a resident of the city, together with a full explanation of how the rockhaven granite company was likely to affect the island, and his mission there. this latter recital, he felt, would be a wise stroke of policy, as apt to be repeated by mrs. hutton, as in truth it was, later on. while she was not inquisitive, he found she was keenly interested in the new industry he had established there, and discerning enough to see that, if successful, it would be a great benefit to the island. winn discovered also that in addition to being a most excellent and devoted mother, she was fairly well posted in current events, had visited relatives on the mainland many times, and in the city once, and was far from being narrow-minded. with mona, who sat a quiet listener, he exchanged but a few words, and those in connection with the church and social life of the village. in truth, he found her disinclined to say much and apparently afraid of him. his call was brief and not particularly interesting, except that it made him feel a little more at home on the island, and when he rose to go, he received the expected invitation to call again; and when he had reached his room, the only features of the call that remained in his mind were that mrs. hutton seemed interested in his mission there, and her daughter had eyes that haunted him. chapter xi the devil's oven the time-worn saw that two is company and three a crowd never struck winn so forcibly as that evening when he called again on mrs. hutton. on the first occasion he had only felt interested to make the acquaintance of that excellent lady, who, in many ways, reminded him of his own departed mother; but now it was the daughter. but mona was shy as before, perhaps more so, and hardly ventured a remark, while the mother was as cordial and chatty as ever. once winn came near speaking of the little episode that had occurred the day before, but some quick intuition prevented, and after an hour's visit he bade the two good night and left them. it was evident mona had not confided the incident to her mother, and until she had winn thought it his place to keep silent. he did not know that the girl's secrecy was solely due to fear of a scolding, and that between her mother and herself existed that foolish, but often dangerous barrier. it was several days after before winn obtained a suitable chance to speak with mona alone, and then he met her just coming from the store of jess hutton. "when am i to hear you play again?" he asked pleasantly, "i wanted to ask you the evening i called, but in view of what you said about your mother's dislike of it, decided not to." "i am glad you did," she replied, coloring a little. "i am going over to that gorge this afternoon," continued winn boldly, "and i want you to promise to come and bring your violin. will you?" "i won't promise," she replied timidly, and all unconscious that his proposal was not in strict propriety, "i may come, but if i do i shall not dare play before you." "oh, i am harmless," he replied lightly, "and if you knew how anxious i am to hear you, you would favor me, i am sure." and that afternoon winn betook himself once more to what was now likely to be a trysting place, only instead of going directly, the way mona would naturally, over norse hill, he walked a mile extra around through worthaven. and this to protect the good name of a girl with a face like a marguerite and eyes like deep waters. she was not there when he arrived, and in truth mona was having a hard struggle to decide whether to go or not, for this man, with earnest brown eyes, blond mustache, stylish garb, ways and manners so utterly unlike any that had come under her ken, was one to awe her. then, would it be right, and what would her mother and uncle jess, and all the good people of rockhaven, say if it were known she met him thus? for mona, wise as only rockhaven was, and pure as the flowers her face resembled, was yet conscious what evil tongues might say, and dreaded lest they be set wagging. but a lurking impulse, first implanted in mother eve's heart, and budding in mona's since the hour she saw winn's kindly eyes looking down into her own, won the day, and taking her dearly-loved, old, brown fiddle and bow safe in their green bag, she walked rapidly to the edge of the gorge, with throbbing heart and flushed face. winn was there waiting, as full well she knew he would be, lazily puffing a cigar while he leaned against a sloping bank and watched the ocean below. when he saw mona he threw the weed away and sprung to his feet. "i'm very glad you came, miss hutton," he said, raising his hat, "yet i did not dare hope you would," and then extending one hand to take the bag and the other to assist her, he added, "it's a risky place to come down into, and you had best let me assist you." "i'll go first," she replied quickly, "for i know the way and can go alone, and you can follow me." and follow her he had to, but not easily, for with steps as fearless and leaps as graceful as an antelope, she led the way down into the chaos of boulders and then up through them, until she paused in a sheltering embrasure. when winn reached her side he was out of breath, and as he handed her the bag and looked about, he was almost speechless at the wild, rocky grandeur of the spot. and well he might be, for seldom had he seen one like it. he had looked down into the gorge from above, but now he was in a half-circular, wide-open cave the size of a small room, far below where he had stood, and looking out upon cliff-like walls down to where the ocean waves were beating. "and so this is the devil's oven," he said when he had looked all about, and finally at mona seated upon a jutting ledge and watching him. "i think it a shame to have given such a hideous name to a place so grand and picturesque. rather should it have been called the mermaid's grotto. i dislike this idea of naming all the beautiful bits of natural scenery after his satanship. it's not fair." then seating himself as far away from mona as possible he added gently, "now, miss hutton, i am ready for my treat. please don't think or feel that i am here, but play to yourself and for yourself, just as you did the day i first heard you." and mona, charmed a little by his gentle, courteous ways and speech, and her sense of fear lulled by his entirely respectful manner, drew her violin from its case. it may have been the spot that inspired her, or the tender admiration she saw in his eyes, or a little of both, but from the first moment she drew the bow across the strings of her violin, a wondrous sweetness and feeling graced her playing, and strange to say, all the melodies she rendered bore the scotch flavor. most of them had been heard by winn at one time or another, but never played upon an instrument that seemed so sweet or with such an exquisite touch as now. when "bonnie dundee" came, he could almost see that gallant chieftain with waving plume and tartan plaid, and hear him say:-- "come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; come saddle my horses and call up my men." and when "the campbells are coming" echoed out of that rock-walled cave, winn could hear the bagpipes in the distance and see the dauntless hosts of fair scotland marching to battle. when after an hour, during which mona sat with lithe body swaying to the measure of her music, rounded cheek pressed tenderly to her instrument, and her eyes closed, as if lost to the world, she came to that old utterance of love, sweet "annie laurie," winn was enthralled as never in his life before. and when the last exquisite note had floated out of the cave and into the sad monotone of the ocean, and mona paused, his eyes were dimmed with tears. "miss hutton," he said earnestly, brushing them away, "no words of mine can tell you how much i have enjoyed this treat or with what rare feeling you have played. if you could play as you have here before an audience they would bury you under flowers and lavish wealth upon you." these were warm words, and without doubt at the moment winn felt all they meant, but he little realized what an influence they would instil into the heart of mona hutton or what fruit they were destined to bear. "who was that wonderful woman you told me about the other day?" asked mona, making no response to his flattering words. "i did not know women ever played in public." "oh, yes, they do," answered winn, "and there are many like her who have gained fame and riches. you could if you would set about it and had the courage to do it. you would have to study, of course, under a teacher and learn to play classical music." "and what is classical music?" asked mona. "it is what no one understands, though many claim to; or perhaps better described as soulless sound," answered winn. "i do not care for it. there is no feeling, no pulse, no heart in it." "then why is the world willing to pay for it?" she asked. "the world is ready to buy anything that comes high," he answered, "and the more in proportion to its value that is asked, the quicker they will buy it. but do not ask about the world, miss hutton. it is not in harmony with this spot. we are out of it here." mona looked at him curiously. "you are a queer man," she said suddenly, "and at first i was very much afraid of you." winn laughed. "you need not be," he replied, "i never harmed man, woman, or child." then as a sudden thought came to him he added, "did you tell your mother you met me here the other day?" "no," she replied, looking confused and coloring. it was on her lips to say that she dreaded a scolding if she did, but she restrained herself. "it is time you were starting home," he said suddenly, looking at his watch, "and i am so sorry," and rising he added, "you must pardon me for saying so, but i think you had best mention to your mother you met me here, by accident of course. if you do not, and if she hears of it, she will think it strange." when he had assisted her down the rocky pathway and up the steep sides, the while carrying her precious violin, and they reached the brink of the chasm, he paused. the gorge was all in shadow, the wind fallen away, and only the long sweeping ground swells caught and mirrored the red glow of the sun now almost at the horizon line. for a moment winn looked out over the broad ocean and then turned to the girl beside him. "little one," he said gently, "i thank you for the confidence you have placed in me by coming here and for the pleasure you have given me. i shall never forget it. there are two favors i want you to grant me, the first to let me call you mona, the next to come here some day again and play for me. will you?" "i will unless mother forbids," she answered simply. and then as they turned toward the village, he carrying the green bag and still retaining the hand he clasped to assist her out of the chasm, and guiding her footsteps along the way, a new and exalted sense of happiness came to her. but little was said by either, for she like a timid child waited for him to speak, and he was so hushed by the mood of the afternoon in the gorge, and the blessed unity of sea and sky and sunset here, he enjoyed silence best. when they came in sight of the village he released her hand, and when her home was reached handed her the bag, and with a whispered "good night, mona," passed on. chapter xii the parting of the ways when winn passed out of rockhaven the next morning, mona was in her dooryard kneeling beside a bed of flowers, her face shaded by a checked calico sunbonnet. at the gate he paused. "good morning, little girl," he said pleasantly, "do i get a flower for my good looks this morning?" had mona been a cultured society girl she would have replied in the same coin, instead she merely answered his greeting and plucking one each of a half dozen kinds, still moist with the dew, handed them to him. and he looked into the wondrous eyes raised to his, saw a new light lingering in them, and smiling softly as he took the flowers he thanked her and went his way. and strange to say, when he reached the quarry, he hid that little nosegay in a shaded nook beside the ledge where a tiny spring dripped out, and when he returned that noon, carried them wrapped in a wet handkerchief to his room and left them in a glass of water. and that night when the vexation and cares of the day had passed, he, a little homesick and with the charm of mona's playing still lingering in his mind, held communion with himself. and the cause was the following missive which had reached him:-- "dear mr. hardy: "i was surprised a few days ago when your aunt told me you had left the city to be manager of the rockhaven granite co., and had gone away to some unheard of island. i had missed seeing you for a week, and when you were not at church with your aunt, asked her what had become of you. when she told me where you were it seemed likely you would be glad to hear from home, and as i am aware your worthy aunt hates letter writing, i thought i would be good to you. there isn't a bit of news to write, and the city is getting positively unbearable. "mother and i are getting ready to go to the mountains; we shall start early in july and your aunt goes with us. i presume from what she said you will remain where you are this summer. i almost envy you, for it certainly must be cool there, and no doubt you have or will find some sweet fishermaid to flirt with. grace is not going with us for she says a baby is a nuisance at a hotel and then 'hubby' can't afford it. i saw jack (your chum) the other evening at the bijou with a girl who was stunning, also mabel weston and her mother. "i do not know of anything else that will interest you except my address for the summer, which i enclose, and the hope that you won't forget us all before your return. "yours sincerely, "ethel sherman." and this from the girl who two short years before had laughed his marriage proposal to scorn. and he was like to find some simple fishermaid to flirt with, was he? and the cool indifference to that fact; and the covert, yet openly expressed invitation for him to write to her. now winn hardy was not blind, and in spite of the two years, during which he had never met or thought of ethel sherman without a pin-prick in his heart, clear and distinct in his mind was the alluring glance of her blue eyes that had led him to make a fool of himself, and the red ripe temptation of her lips he had once stolen kisses from. and now she was inviting him to write to her. and not two rods away was a girl as simple and sweet as the daisies that bloomed in a meadow, as utterly unsophisticated as though reared within convent walls, with eyes like deep waters, and a soul trembling with passionate music! for one hour winn communed with himself, glancing attentively at the little knot of flowers on a small table near him, and the letter beside them, and then arose and putting on his hat, left the house. it was a still summer evening with the crescent of a new moon glinting in the waters of rockhaven harbor and outlining the spectral shape of the tower on norse hill. to this winn turned his steps, and seating himself where he could look over the undulating ocean, continued his meditation. all his life, since the day he first entered the office of weston & hill, came to him. all the many snubs he had received, all the disappointments he had met, all the weeks, months, and years of monotonous drudgery in that office, all the "fool's paradise" hours he had passed with ethel sherman, all the harsh bitterness he had heard from the lips of jack nickerson--and now the new life, new ambition, and new influence that had come to him--passed in review. and as he leisurely puffed his cigar, looking the while out upon the boundless expanse that, like an eternity, lay before him, he saw himself as he was, and knew that as a man of honor and for his own peace of mind, he must choose between two ways. that he could not escape the island for months and perhaps for years, he saw clearly, and if he remained, as remain he must if he were to win success in this new project, he must inevitably become one and a part of the social and hard-working life of the people with whom he mingled, sharing their hopes and encouraging their ambitions. and if he did, could he go on holding himself aloof from all tender impulses, living the life of a recluse, as inflexible as the granite he quarried, and as void of sentiment? winn hardy besides being impulsive was endowed with a vein of romance, and saw and felt the poetic side of all things. the whispers of winds in the pine trees, flowers that grew wild in out of the way nooks, birds singing, bees gathering honey, squirrels hiding their winter store of nuts, the sea in all its moods, clouds sailing across a summer sky and all that was beautiful in nature appealed to him. this island whose frowning cliffs faced the ocean billows so defiantly, the placid harbor with its rippled sandy shore, the old tide mill an ancient ruin, the dark thickets of spruce between the rolling ledges of granite, and the weird gorge where this girl had hid herself, each and all seemed to him as so many bits of poetry. then the peculiar and romantic fact of her going to such a picturesque spot, out of sight and sound of even the island people, and beyond that the wonderful sweetness and pathos of her simple music, all appealed to him as to but few. it was as if he felt in her a kinship of soul, an echo of his own poetic nature, a response to his own ideals in life, with a face like a flower, lips like two rosebuds, and eyes like a madonna. for a long time he sat there in communion with his own needs and nature, sobered by the silence of night and eternity so near him. when he arose, turning back toward the village, he paused on the brow of the hill, looking down upon it still and silent in the faint moonlight. away to the right and pointing skyward, he saw the little spire of the church whose bell had recalled his early boyhood days and all the sweet and pure influences they had contained, even the face of his own mother, he knew he should never look upon again. and with that recollection came the half-pitiful words he had heard in that church that seemed like a plea for help from starvation. winn was not religious. he had never been drawn toward an open profession of faith. he had at first felt church going and sabbath-school lessons an irksome task, and later a social custom, useful because it bound together congenial people. he believed in god but not in prayer. his heart was in sympathy with all the carnal needs of humanity, but not the spiritual; those he considered figments of the imagination, useful, maybe, when old age came, but needless during healthy, active life. to the customary observance of them he always yielded respectful attention, but felt not their influence. and musing there it came to him that perhaps some divine power had directed his footsteps and brought him into the lives of these simple honest people for a purpose not understood. when he reached his room it was fragrant with the flowers mona had given him that morning, and beside them lay the letter of ethel sherman. chapter xiii wild roses it has been said of the modern young lady that the more of her home life a gentleman saw, the less likely he was to fall in love with her; but as the days sped by and winn saw more of mona's, he felt that that truism was likely to be reversed. then another natural result was attained, for finding his mission there a practical one and the money he distributed each saturday night a powerful argument in his favor, the islanders, from rev. jason bush downward, began to show their cordial interest in his presence. on sundays when he with jess, mrs. hutton, and mrs. moore and mona usually formed a little group that walked together to church, in that modest sanctuary he was the one most observed. all to whom he had been introduced seemed to seek an opportunity to bow, and many of the men, whose names he had not learned, showed the same courtesy. when he walked out after the service, old and young would stand aside for him to pass. the rev. jason bush perhaps showed the most interest, and in a purely business way, for when he had opportunities (and he found many) it was the quarry and its management and prospects which he was desirous of discussing, instead of the spiritual welfare of winn, as might be expected. in fact, the latter was never mentioned, and although mr. bush lamented that rockhaven was divided into two sects, and that neither church had a following sufficient to support it, it was here again the business side of the matter which seemed uppermost in that worthy parson's mind. but it was the cordiality shown by mrs. hutton on all possible occasions that interested winn most, because it appealed to the domestic and home-loving side of his nature. he had never known much of home life since maturity, for his aunt was not a home-maker, leaving that to her servants and scolding because they failed, and to see what thought and care could do in that direction, even though in a modest way, attracted him. and since her door appeared always open to him and an unfailing welcome waiting, he would have been less than human had he not availed himself of the opportunity. hardly an evening passed that he did not see or speak with either mother or daughter, and occasionally made one at their table. it was here that jess was often in evidence, usually eating his dinner there--always on sunday. then again, as the grass-grown dooryard of his domicile adjoined the flower-filled one of mrs. hutton, by some occult process a freshly cut bunch of roses, sweet peas or pinks, found its way to his room each day. it was a trifle, perhaps, but it is such trifles that make up home life. and mona herself, now that her timidity had worn away to a certain extent, began to grow upon him. he had, from the evening when he communed with himself in solitude, continually treated her with a sort of big brother consideration; but as he saw more of her and realized the limitations of her life, so small in comparison with her aspirations; how day by day she lived, feeling herself a prisoner on the island, with no one there who understood her except jess, a little bud of pity started in winn's heart, and the temptation that assailed him that day in the cave grew stronger. "if i should feel the witchery of her playing in that romantic spot a few times," he said to himself, "i should fall in love with her, and couldn't help it." but temptations of that nature are hard to resist, and like sweet potations, once tested, we desire to sip again. so it came about that one morning winn said to her: "mona, i am going to treat myself to a half day away from the quarry, and if your mother is willing, i want you to visit the gorge with me this afternoon and bring your violin. i would rather you asked her consent," he added pointedly, "i shall enjoy it better." as this perfect june afternoon and its enjoyment had much to do with shaping the heart histories of these two young people, considerable space can well be devoted to it, and especially to their exchange of ideas and feelings. "i will let you carry the violin now," said winn, when they had left the village out of sight, "i want to gather a few wild roses to decorate your trysting place. i have odd fancies about such things and believe, as the greeks did, that every cave and grotto is inhabited by some nymph or gnome. from the way your playing there has affected me each time, i am sure it is some beautiful nymph who has chosen the devil's oven for her abode, so i am going to present her with a nosegay." "i have read about fairies," responded mona, artlessly, "but i do not believe such creatures ever existed." "but they do," asserted winn, smiling, as he gathered his roses, "and if your imagination is strong enough, you can feel their presence many times. i made sure there was one hid somewhere, that day i first heard you playing." "and did you think so when you hid behind the rock and scared me half to death?" she queried. "no," he responded, "i knew it was a real flesh and blood fairy then, for i had seen you come out of the gorge." "and so you came back to scare me," she said playfully, "that wasn't nice. if you wanted to know who it was, why didn't you ask uncle jess? he would have told you." "yes, and spoiled all the romance of it," answered winn. "it's like detecting the presence of nymphs and fairies. if you go to a grotto or cave alone and listen for them, you will feel or hear them always, in some way." "if i believed that," replied mona, seriously, "i would never go to the cave alone again. i should feel it to be haunted." "but you admit you can play better there, and feel more of the spirit of your music," asserted winn; "tell me why that is." "because i am alone, and feel myself to be so," she answered firmly. "i do not believe it is due to any unseen creature." "but you played with wondrous feeling the day i came there with you," he replied, "you weren't alone then." "i am glad you think so," she answered, turning away, "i tried to, but was so afraid of you, i trembled." winn smiled at her candor. "you don't know how to flirt, do you, mona?" he asked pointedly, "you utter the truth always." "does flirting consist of deception?" she asked, looking earnestly at him. "yes," he answered, "and of the most adroit kind. it's the weapon that all world-wise women use to enslave men, and the more skilled they are at it, the more assured is their success." "do men ever deceive?" she queried, her fathomless eyes still on him. "yes, little girl," he answered, looking away and out over the ocean and resolving to be sincere, "men are the same as women in that respect; some do it in self-defence, and others out of selfishness. then once in a while, one will never do it, except out of kindness. such men are usually imposed upon." when they reached the brink of the chasm he took her hand. "i am so afraid you will slip in going down," he said, "and if you were hurt, i should never forgive myself." he retained it down the steep path and up the devious way to the cave. when it was reached she seated herself and said, smiling at him, "now you are here, let me see you give your flowers to the fairy." for answer he gallantly touched them with his lips and handed them to her. "you are the fairy who lives here," he said, "for i shall never think of this spot without seeing you in it." mona colored a little and then a shade crossed her face. "isn't that deception?" she said. "you do not mean it." "i mean to say every nice thing i can think of to-day," he answered, "and do all i can to make you enjoy it. a truly happy hour is a rare experience in life, and i want to find one for you." then, taking his cigar case out and stretching himself on one side of the cave, he added: "i wish we had brought some cushions. i will, the next time we come." "i do not think how hard the rock is," she answered; "when i am playing i forget where i am, even." "well, forget it quick," he said, "so i can. only do not play 'annie laurie' till the last thing. you brought a mist to my eyes with it the other day. it's a sweet bit, full of tears." and then, not heeding his pleasantries, many of which she did not understand, mona drew her dearly loved brown fiddle out of its case, and once more that uncanny den in the rocks echoed to its magic. a medley of old-time ballads, jigs, reels, and dance music came forth in succession, while winn, forgetting his cigar, yielded to her music and watched her lissom body encased in blue flannel, open at the throat, swaying slightly as she played, her winsome face turned from him in profile and eyes closed at times. once only, when a certain air recalled the past, did he think of the woman who had scorned him, and whose letter was still unanswered. "do not play any more now," he said finally, when mona paused, "you must be tired." "i must have tired you of it," she answered bluntly, "and i am glad. i want to hear you talk and tell me about fairies and the great city where you lived, and about that woman who played before people. i wish i could learn to play as you say she did." "oh, there's not much to tell about fairies," he answered, smiling at her earnestness, "they are merely imaginary and used to amuse children. many years ago, when the world was young, people believed in and worshipped them as gods and goddesses; now they are poetic fancies." "what are poetic fancies?" she asked, understanding him only partially. "well, for instance," he answered, "a poet would describe this gorge as a way through the cliff carved by neptune, and this cave a shelter the mermaids sought to comb their tresses and sing the songs of the sea. of old every cascade and grotto was believed to be inhabited by nymphs and gnomes, every grove by wood sprites and brownies. if they saw a brook rippling over the pebbles in the sunlight, they said it was elfins dancing; and in autumn when the fallen leaves blew over the hilltops, it was the brownies holding carnival." "i do not believe such creatures ever did exist," she replied, "but i shall enjoy coming here all the better for having heard about them." then as if she already looked to him as a source of all information, she added, "tell me about the women in your city who ride in carriages and wear beautiful dresses." a shade of annoyance crossed his face. "i would rather tell you about the fairies, little girl," he answered bitterly; "the women in my world are mostly charming liars. they live to outshine each other in dress, they utter pretty speeches that are false, they go to church to show off their raiment and come back to sneer at what others wear, they consider a man as eligible for a husband solely because he has money, and if he tells them the truth, call him a fool. i do not admire them much, mona, and the less you know of them the better woman you will grow to be, and the better wife you will make some man." mona flushed slightly and raising her eyes and looking full at him, responded, "do all the men in your world despise women as you do, and is there not among them one who is good and tender and truthful?" winn remained silent a moment, for the delicate reproach of her words was unexpected. "there may be some," he answered evasively at last, "but i have never met them and a man is apt to judge all women by those he has known." "and if there is now and then one among them who is not false-hearted," continued mona, "is she not respected and loved for it?" "she might be by some," he answered doubtfully, "but most would call her stupid." "would the men call her stupid?" persisted mona. "some of them would," he answered, smiling at her earnestness, "but most of them would take advantage of it. world-wise men grow to be selfish." then, as if the subject was distasteful, or her inquiries too pointed, he added, "do you know what love is, mona, and have you never had a lover among the young fishermen here?" "t have read about it," she answered with perfect sincerity, and smiling at her own thought, "but i've never had much for any of the boys i've known; they smell too fishy." this time winn laughed heartily. "and is your nose the by-road to your heart?" he asked. "it may be," she replied, also laughing, "if i have one." it was the first coquettish word she had so far uttered, and winn did not like it. "that does not sound like you, mona," he replied soberly, "your greatest charm, and it is a charm, is sincerity. when you speak that way you remind me of the ladies in my world, and i do not like them." "and if i am always truthful," she said, "you will call me simple, won't you?" "no, i told you i admired that in you," he said, "but you have not answered my question, mona. have you never had a lover?" "i have had two or three," she replied again, looking sober, "at least they said they loved me, but i did not return it." and as winn looked at the girlish figure, just showing the rounded curves of womanhood beneath its close-fitting blue flannel gown, and at the pansy face with eyes like one of those purple petals, fixed on him, he, manlike, thought how sweet it would be to moisten them with the dew of love's light and feel the touch of her velvety lips. but should he try for that prize, and did he want it, if he could win it? the lowering sun had thrown the shadows of the spruce trees adown the gorge, the wind scarce ruffled the ocean and only the low lullaby of its undulations crept up the ravine. it was the parting of day and night, the good-by of sunshine, the peace of summer twilight. "now, mona," he half whispered, as if fearing to scare the mermaids away, "play 'annie laurie'!" and lost to the world, he watched her bending over and caressing that old brown fiddle, even as a mother would press her baby's face to her own, again and once again came that whisper of a love that never dies, a refrain that holds the pathos of life and parting in its chords, a love cry centuries old, as sweet as heaven, as sad as death. "come, little girl," he said, rising suddenly when only the ocean's whisper reached his ears, "it's time to go home." and as, clasping her hand, and in silence leading her out of the gorge, he noticed when one of the roses she carried from the cave fell among the rocks, she stooped and picked it up. chapter xiv j. malcolm weston there is in this land of the free, where all men are created equal (on paper), a class of financial sharpers, whose ambition and sole occupation is to secure for themselves the wealth of others by the most occult and far-reaching scheming ever evolved by human brain. they toil not, neither do they produce, yet satan with all his archness is not equipped like one of these. there is no taint of illegality in their methods, they are outwardly the best of men, heralded by the press as great financiers, railroad magnates, oil, copper, and iron kings, praised by the rich and toadied to by the poor. they are envied by many, lauded by editors who seek advertisements, and (if they contribute liberally) praised by college presidents and preachers alike. political fortunes are turned by their nod, laws enacted in their aid, the code of morals shaded in their favor, club doors opened, and society bowing low whichever way they turn. only the toiling millions whose lives are one long fight against poverty think or speak ill of them, and such are not considered. those magnates of extortion so colossal that it is legal, have one trite expression that contains their contempt for the millions who envy, and that is, "the public be d----d." of their operation on the chess board of finance little need be said. it is known, or at least its results are, to high or low, rich or poor. these octopuses, or rather human sharks, organize trusts, corner every necessity of life where conditions will permit; buy bankrupt railroads, inflate their stock, boom it by systematic deception and then unload it at top prices on the countless flocks of lambs ever ready to buy what is dear, and who never by any known process can be induced to buy what is cheap. and those are financiers! there is another class, usually with less money, but equal in brains and audacity, who have come to be known as promoters. relatively speaking they should be called dogfish. they would be financiers if they could, but lacking capital to buy railroads, or corner everything on the earth, except water, they merely organize schemes and sell stock. how many, and how varied those are, it is waste of space to specify. all that the patient reader need do is consult the pages of any or all city dailies and read the tempting list of schemes there to be found. all are alike in the main, for all offer safe investments, sure and ample returns, indorsed by names that glitter, and promise everything under the sun,--except to return your money if you do not get value promised. of this class was j. malcolm weston. he had organized two or three glittering bubbles before the firm of weston & hill was established, but from lack of capital failed to reap the hoped-for reward. then along came hill, a retired manufacturer, whose history shall be given in due time, who had more money than brains and more conceit than either. weston, a shrewd and smooth-tongued schemer, reading hill at a glance, was not long in flattering that gullible man into a partnership and taking him and his money into camp, as it were. for a time, and while winn hardy was serving apprenticeship, the firm conducted a fairly honest and respectable business. they bought and sold stocks and bonds of all kinds, that is, they sold and then bought to fill orders only,--a species of commission business perfectly safe, but not satisfying to weston. he longed to soar, to organize a great scheme, a glittering bubble, to see his name in print as a king of finance, and do it on other people's money--and hill's. then one day, while off with his broker, simmons, on the latter's steam yacht, visiting various north coast islands, the impulse culminated. "why not buy one of these islands," said simmons, "and start a quarry company? you can buy one for a song and a granite-quarrying industry _sounds_ safe and will catch the cautious. i am intending to build a fine residence in the near future, and you can furnish me the stone. in return, i'll market stock enough to pay for it. we can find an island with a harbor and buy it, or a part, which is all that is needful, and you can do the rest." and thus the scheme was hatched, and when j. malcolm weston, the to-be great financier, returned to the city, he was sole owner of jess hutton's unused quarry and the rockhaven granite company was born. it took time, however, for hill was a cautious man, holding on to his purse-strings with the grip of death, and weston must needs approach him circuitously. then there were outsiders to warm up, as it were, men of some financial standing whose names were of value, to interest; a charter to be obtained, and all the legal and business detail necessary to the carrying out of a scheme to be attended to. it also needed all of weston's plausible arguments to perfect the plot, and summer came around again before the conspiracy was ready to be launched. then "the street" was cautious, and knowing weston's reputation in the past, was not eager, or even willing, to buy this stock. at first, a few credulous people like winn's aunt and two or three others who believed in weston bought small lots, and the men whose names appeared on the prospectus were each and all given stock in due ratio to their prominence. and then simmons began his fine work. he knew, and so did weston, that every share they had given away would be offered for sale as soon as a price for it had been established "on 'change" and then the scheme would fall flat. but simmons had ideas of his own. "we must wait," he said, "until your man hardy has shipped us one or two loads of granite, then herald that fact repeatedly in the papers until the dear confiding public don't know whether one or ten shiploads have arrived, and then--declare a dividend!" it was not long after, and when winn hardy, the honest dupe that he was, was either zealously striving to push the rockhaven granite company interests toward success, or thinking about what fine eyes mona hutton had, that the _market news_ contained the following item:-- "the first load of granite destined for the new and palatial residence which richard simmons, the well-known broker, is about to build, has arrived. it came from the rockhaven granite company's quarries on an island they own, which produces the finest quality of building stone obtainable." a week later this item also appeared in the same financial sheet:-- "it is rumored that all the treasury stock of the rockhaven granite company has been subscribed for and that this enterprising corporation is overwhelmed with orders for their excellent product. this is due to the rapid growth of our beautiful city and the consequent demand for building materials." and j. malcolm weston, after reading them in the privacy of his office, stroked his abundant side whiskers with an admiring caress, while a smile of satisfaction spread over his genial face. it was the beginning of his long-cherished ambition to pose as a great financier and it filled his soul with joy. "a dozen or more of such items will start the ball rolling in glorious shape," he said to hill, "and boom rockhaven to beat the cards." but hill, the narrow-minded and close-fisted man that he was, only looked cross, and sourly asked, "what did they cost?" chapter xv a matter of business as the days passed on winn noticed that more and more interest came to be felt in the rockhaven granite company and his management. and when the first schooner he had chartered to load with quarried stone came into the harbor and alongside the little wharf in front of the quarry, almost a breeze of excitement seemed to ripple through the village. the women whose husbands were working there came down to see the loading, children wanted to climb aboard the vessel, and even the rev. jason bush spent hours watching the massive blocks as they were swung on board. old jess hutton left his store, and the people to help themselves, every afternoon, and perched on a convenient outpost, looked on. only mona kept away, and when one evening winn asked her why, she colored slightly and replied, "it hurts me a little to see that old ledge uncle jess used to own being blasted and carried off." it wasn't her only reason, though a part of it; the rest was of such a nature that mona kept it locked in her breast. for the good natives of rockhaven, as well as others, had noticed that winn always walked with her going and coming from church and had commented upon it, and mona had heard of their comments. winn was not her lover as yet, she felt, and not likely to be. she could not and would not avoid walking and talking with him, but she could avoid seeming to pursue him over to the quarry. it was all due to a remark mrs. moore had made in a neighborly way. "i like mr. hardy, right well," she had said one morning when mona brought in a fresh bunch of june roses and asked that she put them in his room, "an' if i was a young gal like you, i'd set my cap for him. it looks as if you had, a-bringin' him fresh posies, an' if ye keep it up the right way, an' don't let him make too free with ye, ye kin. it 'ud be a great catch for ye if ye did." after that mona brought no more flowers for winn's room, but her mother, observant ever, and world-wise in a way, did so, and winn never knew the difference. when the second load of stone had been shipped, and the july sun had begun to shrivel the scanty grass in mrs. moore's dooryard, her two sons sailed into the harbor one day to spend a sunday there. they were browned by the sea-winds and redolent of its crisp odors, and when winn came back from the quarry at supper time he found them there. "i hear ye're blowin' up an' carryin' off our island," said david, the oldest, on being introduced, "an' it's a good thing. the rock ain't o' much account an' most on't is in the way. thar ain't room 'nough 'longside o' the water here to dry fish, let alone settin' up houses." and that saturday evening, when winn, as usual, repaired to the store of jess hutton to pay off his men, this swarthy sailor was sitting upon the doorstep of mrs. hutton's home, chewing tobacco vigorously and talking to mona. the next day, too, dressed in a suit of new clothes that, to use a slang phrase, "could be heard across the island," he boldly and with an air of proprietorship walked beside her to church and seated himself in the same pew. winn, who had never taken this liberty, and who sat with mrs. moore just to the rear, watched mona industriously and noticed that once when the young fisherman leaned over to whisper she edged away. all that day not once did winn exchange a word with her except the "good morning" that was his early greeting, and when evening came he once more lit his cigar and strolled up norse hill to commune with himself, for the sight of that swaggering son of neptune making himself agreeable to mona was not pleasant. in this respect men are all alike, and whether they want a woman or not, a shadow of the old instinct that existed among the cave dwellers is latent. it was two days after when the brothers sailed away, and by that time winn had decided that no matter how interested young moore was in mona, she reciprocated no part of it. and then another, and totally unexpected success in his new life came to him, and that from jess. "i've been layin' back 'n' watchin' how things was goin' on," observed that philosopher one evening when they were alone in the store, "an' how ye have behaved yerself, an' i'm goin' to be plain spoken with ye. in the fust place i've made up my mind ye're a good, honest and well-meanin' young man, an' if 'twas goin' ter help ye any, an' if ye are likely to make it yer home here a year or two, i'd buy a few shares of this stock jist ter show ye 'n' yer folks rockhaven appreciates the wages ye're payin' out. i'm goin' ter ask ye a few questions, an' if matters is all right, i'll take five hundred on't an' mebbe i cud git cap'n moore an' cap'n roby n' one or two others to buy a leetle. they would if they knew i had." to say that winn was surprised was to put it mildly. "i will gladly answer any question you may ask, mr. hutton, and truthfully," he replied. "i know how you feel in regard to this enterprise and how much any one would hate to lose a dollar they invested in our stock. it is because of this that i have not so far asked a soul, not even you, to invest a cent with us, though we are ready and shall be glad to have you. as to how long i shall stay here, that is a matter over which i have no control. i am only a manager for the company. i own some of the stock and draw a fair salary, and if this quarry pays (and i shall do my best to make it) i may stay here for life." "is this here weston wuth a good deal o' money," queried jess in response, "an' what sort o' man is he reckoned in the city? is he counted as square an' honest, or a sharper?" "so far as i know," responded winn, "he is an honorable business man; and although this quarrying company is like any other enterprise--a venture--i do not think mr. weston would have gone into it unless he felt sure of making money." jess asked a good many other questions which, with their answers, not being pertinent to the thread of this narrative, need not be quoted. when winn left him that night, after he had gone over in detail all he knew regarding weston & hill and their business, it was with the feeling that he had conquered rockhaven and its oracle without an effort. he little realized that a far more subtile influence than dividends had interested jess hutton, and a desire to conserve matters to the end that mona might be made the happier, was the motive force that governed him. "i've noticed," he said a little later to mrs. hutton, "that this young man sorter takes to mona n' she kinder cottons to him. i think it 'ud be a good idee if ye'd jest caution her not to be free with him 'n' kinder hold herself off as it were. these city chaps have a winnin' way with 'em to a gal, n' i'd hate to see her git a heartache out on't." he did not tell mrs. hutton he had bought five hundred shares of rockhaven stock and insisted that winn also keep the matter a secret. a week later winn received the following missive from jack nickerson, only a portion of which it is necessary to quote. "... i hear," he wrote, "that you have captured an island and are sending it here in shiploads according to the _market news_ (two clippings of which i enclose). they show the fine italian hand of weston or simmons. i hope you are enjoying yourself and drawing your per annum with promptness and regularity. the street is growing curious as to what deep-laid scheme weston & hill are preparing to spring upon it, and rockhaven stock is not as yet selling to any extent. i saw the gay and festive weston out driving yesterday and simmons was with him. they are a pair that will bear watching. i hope they won't play you for a tenderfoot in this new deal. last week i took a run up to the mountain where ethel sherman and her mother are spending the summer. ethel was, as might be expected, deep in a flirtation with a young idiot in golf clothes and hardly noticed me. incidentally i heard that he was possible heir to millions." "what an inveterate scoffer jack is," was winn's mental comment on this missive. "he sees no good motive in any one;" and then he re-read the long and flowery letter from weston received the same time and congratulating him on his excellent work. also notifying him they had as usual anticipated his pay-roll and expressed sufficient currency to meet it. and of the two letters the one from weston seemed to him just then to be honest and business-like, and jack's as but the sneering of a confirmed cynic. "they wouldn't be putting good money into this quarry if they did not see a safe and sure return," he thought, and then he took ethel sherman's letter that had been lying for weeks unanswered on his table and tore it into shreds. a few days later he received instructions to make a present of fifty shares of stock to the minister of rockhaven church, and to assure him that the company donated it for the good of the cause and to show their cordial interest in the religious welfare of the island. and the rev. jason bush, who never in his life owned more than the humble roof that sheltered him, and whose patient wife turned and dyed her raiment until worthless, marvelled much. and more than that, twenty-four hours had not passed ere every man, woman, and child on the island had been told it, for such unexpected, such astounding liberality seemed nothing short of a miracle. chapter xvi the growth of a bubble "young hardy's making his mark down on the island," observed j. malcolm weston to his partner that morning when they had received notice of the stock purchase made by jess, "and if the fellow keeps on as he has started the quarry won't stand us out a penny." "i doubt if he does," responded mr. hill, who, be it said, fulfilled the part of a balance wheel to weston. "from what you have told me there aren't many on the island who have any spare money." "oh, you can't always tell by the clothes such jays wear how much they have hid away in old stockings," responded weston. "those mossbacks never spend a cent and once they grasp a dollar it passes out of circulation." "i am surprised hardy landed this man hutton for five hundred," said hill, "and so early in the game." "i am also," replied weston, "and if i felt sure that hardy could be trusted with our plans, i would tell him what our next move is, but i am not. the trouble with him is, he is too honest, and when we begin to throw out bait in the way of advance dividends, he will suspect our game and i am not sure how he will take it." "do not think of that yet," replied hill, "so long as we keep all the cards in our own hands, we know where the joker is, but never afterward." "i am a good mind to take a ran down to rockhaven," continued weston meditatively, "and get better acquainted with this old duffer hutton and the rest. also make some of them a present of a little stock, just to interest them. it's the way to catch mackerel and those few shares will return us good results when we declare a dividend." "better not," replied the more cautious of the two, "those old fishermen are not fools, and will conclude that if you are willing to give stock away, it's of no value. when we do pay a dividend this hutton will not keep it a secret and hardy can then reap the harvest. besides, he and his honesty must be considered. it won't do to alarm him. he believes the scheme is legitimate, and as he has a finger in the pie, will work for his own end and sell all the stock he can. what i should advise is that we notify him the price is now two dollars per share and let that leaven work as it will. how much stock have we sold already?" "about six thousand shares," replied weston, "counting that bought by hardy." "and two per cent on the par value of that," continued hill, figuring on a slip of paper, "would be twelve hundred dollars. i think one per cent enough as a starter and that we should pay it now." "no," replied the more liberal weston, "it's not best to pinch in the matter of chum, as the fishermen say, and do things by halves. if we must bait them now let us bait them well." and bait them well they did, for the next day's issue of the _market news_ contained the following:-- "it is with pleasure we announce that the rockhaven granite company has declared a dividend of two per cent on the par value of the stock, payable at the office of weston & hill. as we stated a short time ago in these columns, this well-known and reliable firm, whose enterprise is now so agreeably proven, do nothing by halves and are only too glad to distribute all profits as soon as accrued. the stock has already doubled in price and we predict will reach par in the near future." and when jess hutton received by mail a check for one hundred dollars as his share of the dividend upon the par value of five hundred shares and the parson one for ten, rockhaven began to get excited, and all who had a dollar to invest made haste to call upon winn. captain doty bought one hundred shares, captain moore, uncle to david the irrepressible, the same, a few others lesser amounts, and to cap the climax, poor hard-working mrs. moore, winn's landlady, came to him. "i've got a little money laid away in the savin's bank ashore," she said, "an' it's only drawin' four cents a dollar, which ain't much. if you thinks it's safe mebbe i'd best take some out an' buy some o' this stock. they all tell me it's payin' and like to go up." and that night, in the seclusion of his own room, as winn hardy thought matters over, and realized how this speculative excitement was starting on rockhaven, just a faint suspicion that the golden apple might be rotten at the core came to him. as was his way when he wanted to think and think hard, he at once betook himself out of sight and sound of even that quiet village, and hied away to the top of norse hill. here he lit a cigar and planted himself beside the strange structure there, the history of which no one knew. and how solemn and silent the still summer evening seemed, and how like eternity the boundless ocean faintly visible in the starlight. only its low murmur at the foot of the cliff and just a faint breeze redolent of its salty zest reached him. and of weston & hill and this new outcome? he had worked and talked to this end; he had hoped for it, striving to bring it about, and now that the quarry was each day a busy hive of workers, the third vessel load of quarried stone nearly all on board and ready to ship, the entire island agog over this new industry, and not only willing but anxious to invest their hard-earned savings in rockhaven stock, and a prosperous outcome to his ambition in sight, winn hesitated. and the more he ground the grist of weston & hill's scheme in his mind there beside the old stone tower, the less he liked it and the deeper the germ of suspicion took root. and the cause of it all was the two per cent dividend! winn hardy, though a country-born boy and lacking in worldly experience, as well as education, was no fool. he knew that two shiploads of granite, though sold at a fabulous price, would not pay a profit equal to half the cost the quarry had so far been, to say nothing of a dividend, and the only conclusion was not flattering to his firm's honesty. then one by one, every little detail of the entire affair; every instruction they had given; the stock they had presented to him; the letters they had written; the donation to the parson; jack nickerson's innuendoes; and now this unreasonable payment of dividends which he knew were not earned,--all passed in review. honest himself, he was slow to suspect dishonesty in others, but the longer and more carefully he weighed these facts in his mind the plainer he saw the word "fraud" written on each one of them. and he had put every dollar of the few he had saved into this stock and borrowed some besides! and worse than that; this honest old fellow jess, out of good will to him had put five hundred in and persuaded others to invest also! suspicion is like sailing in a fog; we cannot tell where clear air ends and fog begins, only the first we know the air seems damp and chill, the sun obscured and danger near. and so with winn, there on rockhaven, with his vocation and paths in life all mapped out, these people looking toward him as a benefactor and ready to trust him with their money and the sun of success shining! and all at once the air seemed chill with the fog of deceit and fraud, and he knew not where he was. to refuse those who would buy more stock, he dare not, since it would awaken suspicion; to accept it was as bad, for it compromised him the deeper. for a long hour he tried to think a way for himself out of this fog, and the more he thought the more positive his suspicion grew, and then he returned to his abode. and there in rock lane and as if to increase his burden of responsibility, was mona sitting in the porch of her humble home alone. "why, little girl," he said softly, pausing at the gate, "are you not abed and asleep?" and mona, unconscious of how or in what way it would strike him, and in the utter innocence of her heart, came quickly out to where he was standing. "i was lonesome," she said simply, "and waiting for you to come back. i saw you go up the hill and wondered what for." and winn, despondent and worried as he was, and looking down into the sweet face and earnest eyes upraised to him, felt their tender sympathy wondrously sweet. "i went up there to think," he said, "and to be alone. it is a way i have when business troubles me." and bidding her "good night" he left her. chapter xvii in the path of moonlight for a few weeks winn worried over the suspicions of weston & hill's honesty that seemed like a cloud of danger, and then, to a certain extent, it passed away. to no one, not even jess, did he dare confide them, but just drifted on, day by day, doing the duty he was paid to do. each week came his pay-roll and salary remittance, and an assuring and pleasant letter from the firm. it also contained a request or hope that he would not forget to sell stock when he could. this latter, however, made no impression on winn. collectively, he had sold about one thousand shares to these islanders, and that he felt was enough. in fact, believing, as he had almost come to do, that the entire scheme was a gigantic swindle, it was certainly all he intended to sell, and more than he wished he had sold. then there was another matter of serious interest, and that was mona. between her and himself, these summer days, there had come a little bond of feeling, deep-rooted in her simple but passionate nature, and more lightly in his. to her it was a new wonder-world, and as each evening when he chanced to linger by the gate watching her, as she cared for the sweet williams, pinks, and peonies that grew in her dooryard, or later when he sat with her in the vine-hid porch, chatting of commonplaces or relating incidents of the great world outside, his earnest eyes, the melodious tones of his voice, and the careless, half cynical, half tender way he had of expressing himself, only increased the charm. occasionally, on thursday evenings, when her mother, as usual, made one of the little band who gathered in the church, they two would stroll over to the cliff beyond norse hill or up the road to northaven to the old tide mill. on two occasions he had persuaded her to take her violin and visit the gorge with him, where she played at his bidding, her heart gladdened by the thought that he cared to hear her. but she preferred his poetic fancies and world-taught sayings to the violin, and since she was so charming and interested a listener, it was inevitable that he talked much. another matter also troubled him seriously. he had, at the beginning of their acquaintance, and from a desire to utter pleasant words to mona, assured her that she was gifted with a remarkable talent for playing, and if she would but make the effort, the world would bow before her. it was a kindly speech, and charmed as he was by time, place, and the power of the old love songs she rendered with such exquisite feeling, he really meant it, little realizing its effect on her. now that he did realize it, and could not fail to see that every word he uttered was considered by her as authoritative, he wished that he had been more cautious. then again, he understood her better and saw what an ardent child of nature she was, and how her heart and soul vibrated to every pulse of the ocean and the mystic romance of the wild gorge she sought so often. to him now she seemed like a veritable nymph of old, or a mermaid, whose soul was attuned to the wild voice of wind and wave sighing through the rock-walled ravine and the thicket of spruce above it. for such a creature of moods and fancies to thrust herself into a merciless world, where sentiment was a jest and romance an illusion, seemed a sacrilege. and he was to blame for her wish to do so! then again, he felt that if the world could but see and hear her, it must, perforce, crown her with the laurel wreath. true to his impulsive nature, in this as in all things, he alternated in his own opinions as to what was best for her. and so the summer days passed, and winn, half conscious that she was learning the sad lesson of love, and yet stifling his conscience with the feeling that he was only playing the rôle of big brother, which he had decided to adopt, allowed the (to him) pleasant pastime to continue. it may be said that it was unfair for him, a polished man of the world, and knowing full well that there could be but one result to this delightful intimacy, to allow it to continue, and yet he did. and it must also be asserted, that under the same circumstances and like provocation, few men there are who would not do likewise. one surprise came to him, however, for he had sent to the city for a book of instructions on the violin and a supply of new music, only to find, when he gave them to her, that she was unable to read a note. "i told you," she said plaintively, "that i knew nothing about music except what uncle jess has taught me, and i wonder how you can think i play so well. if only i could go away and learn even a little, i should be so happy." "yes," he responded, smiling at her, for he had come to speak as he thought and felt, "and learn also that men admired you, and grow vain of your looks, and become one of the artful women of society, instead of sweet and pure-minded mona. you are better off where you are, for here you are happy and care-free." then one evening came another, and more serious, revelation to him. they had strolled up to the old tide mill, and sat watching the moon high overhead, outlining its path of silver sheen upon the rippled waters of the harbor, while he, as usual, was giving utterance to some of his delicately worded sayings. "i do not understand," she said in response to one more pointed than the rest, "why you think so badly of womankind in the great world. are they all so selfish, and artful, and deceitful, as you say? i have seen some who came here in their beautiful yachts, and they looked so nice in their white dresses, and so sweet and gentle, i envied them." winn looked at her and smiled. "i have no doubt, little girl, you admired and envied them, and that they looked to you as beautiful and charming as so many fairies. that was the principal reason they came ashore--just to be seen and admired by you people here, who, they knew, never were, and, most likely, never would be, clad as they were. that is all these butterflies of fashion live for--to show off their beautiful plumage and be envied by others." "maybe you know them best," she responded regretfully, as if sorry he had spoiled an illusion, "but i thought them so beautiful and sweet and so like pictures in books, it seemed to me they must be as described there and never wicked or deceitful." "and so you have been believing all you read in books, have you, little one?" he said, smiling again, "and that those show birds who lit on the island flew out of the pages of story books? and yet, the other day, when i told you about the nymphs and elfins, you did not believe me, mona!" "i have never seen those creatures," she replied, "and i have seen these." "neither have you seen god, or the saviour, or the angels," he said, "and yet you believe they exist." "i do," she answered firmly, "and i should go crazy with fear if i didn't. but your wonderful creatures, who lived so long ago, did not make this world, as god did." "people believed they did in those days," he replied quietly, "and just as firmly as we believe god did." she made no answer, for the subject was beyond her, but silently watched the beauteous moonlight picture before her. "i should like to go into the great world," she said at last, as if that fascinated her, "and wear beautiful dresses and see those others wear, and hear that wonderful woman you told about play the violin, and watch them throw flowers at her. i should like to be one with the rest just for a little while, and then come back." "if you did that you would never come back," he answered, "or if you did you would be miserable ever after." "i should have to," she said, as another side of the question presented itself to her, "if i couldn't earn my living there." "you would have to, surely," he answered slowly, thinking of some phases of city existence, but allowing no hint of them to escape him. "it is foolish to dream of these things, little girl," he continued, "for they are impossible. even if you had the means to join the great throng of city revellers, you would, with your disposition, be wounded deep on all sides. the women would say spiteful things about you, and scratch you every way they could, as is their nature; and the men would fill your ears with subtle flattery, and each one spread before you the most insidious net ever woven by mortal brain. no, little sister, be content where you are, and if you are lonely, go to the cave and listen to the whisper of the fairies. they will never stab you to the heart, as the worldly women will. you are like a wild rose now, and as sweet and innocent. you say what you think and mean what you say. your heart is tender and true and your thoughts pure and simple. you deceive no one, and would not, if you could." "but might i not learn to play as the wonderful woman did," she asked stoutly, "and could i not earn my own living if i did? i need not know, nor care, what these spiteful women said about me, need i?" winn looked at her in surprise. "and so this is the bee that has crept into the heart of my wild rose, is it?" he said. "you thirst for fame and the laurel wreath, do you, mona? i thought i had come to know you well, little one," he continued tenderly, "but this surprises me. do you know what it means, and that to win the world's applause you must study your art for years, and step by step win your way up the ladder, and that already ahead of you are hundreds who will miss no chance to push you backwards? and who will pay for all the cost of tuition and training you must go through, mona?" "uncle jess will," she answered simply, "if i ask him. he loves me." winn was silent, conscious that beside him was a creature as tender as a flower and as innocent, with a will to do and dare, or strive to do, what few women would, and in her heart was an ambition that, like the bee in the flower, would rob her of all life's sweetness. "i am sorry," he said at last, "that you have this ambition. it is creditable to you, but hopeless. put it out of your mind before it destroys your peace. be your own sweet self here on the island, and some day you will learn to love one of its hardy sons, like david moore, perhaps, and he will make you a home and strive for your happiness." "i do not care for him, or any of the others," she answered, "and never shall." it was not the first time he had mentioned young moore to her, but never before in so serious a way, and it hurt. "i am sorry," she continued, "that i told you what i have, but somehow i thought you understood me better than any one else. it is all right, however, and no doubt what you say is true." he noticed there was a little quiver in her voice, and realized he had hurt her. he had, but not in the way he thought. for a long time they sat in silence, watching the whitened ledges that bordered the island, the spectral spruces that grew to the right of where they were, the twinkling gleam of the lighthouse in the distance, and the shimmering path of moonlight across the harbor that ended at their feet. "it's a beautiful night," said winn at last, "and i hate to leave this spot, but i think it's time you were home." and as he spoke he stooped, and, putting his hand under her arm, lifted her to her feet. as he did so, a single tear fell upon his hand. chapter xviii in a fog men are very much alike in this respect: if one finds fortune or a path that seems to lead that way, all who suspect it will try to crowd in. the same instinct may be seen among a flock of fowl, only we do not pursue so openly. and so, when news of the unexpected and early dividend on rockhaven stock circulated--as it was quick in doing--everybody on the island who had a few dollars laid away made haste to seek winn, anxious to invest. the leaven worked as that shrewd swindler, weston, knew full well it would, and had winn's suspicions not been aroused, and he too honest to take advantage of these people, he might have sold five thousand shares, and as the sequel proved, bankrupted the island. for these hard-working people, though living in hovels and wearing clothing a tramp would almost disdain, were frugal, and each and all had something saved for a rainy day. the wisest had, from time to time, sent their savings ashore by captain roby to deposit in a savings bank; others kept a few dollars hid in bedticks or similarly secreted; but now, solely because jess hutton, the oracle of the island, was known to have invested in this stock and received such fabulous returns, all were anxious to follow his lead. a little spice of envy crept in also at his good luck, and mrs. moore, in chatting with a neighbor, voiced it. "it's allus the way," she said plaintively, "when jess bought that ledge o' stun from gad baker an' gin him a hundred dollars for't, 'most everybody thought he was a fool, and now 'long comes this city man and gives him two thousand for't, an' on top o' that jess buys some o' this stock an' gets a hundred dollars profit fust go-off. here i've been cookin' an' washin', year in an' year out, an' jist keepin' soul 'n' body together, an' the boys spendin' every cent they airned--not thet i'm complainin' on them, only if i had five hundred laid away i might put in as much as jess did. it don't seem right, that it don't! howsoever, it's the way o' the world, an' them as has, gits." little did hard-working widow moore realize when dame fortune was good to her! but winn was the most worried person on the island, and his burden the heavier to bear since he dared not hint his suspicions to any one. to all who came and almost begged him to take their savings in exchange for stock he made only one reply, "we have no more to sell," and had there been a stock exchange on the island, rockhaven would have soared to twenty dollars a share, so eager were those credulous people to invest. then another incident of life began to interest them, and, though winn knew it not, his attentions to mona began to create gossip, more especially as he was the actual and present representative of a rich corporation. his walking to and from church with her, the hours he had spent in her home, and more than these, the summer evening strolls up to the old tide mill, to linger and watch the moonlight on the water, had all been noticed and commented upon. for these people, albeit they worked hard and lived poorly, intuitively knew where cupid hid himself and how and when he shot his arrows. it was all right, of course, and though other less fortunate maids envied mona, and many of the good mothers voiced their congratulations to mrs. hutton, there was no opposition to this summer idyl. one thing winn noticed, however, and that was the pertinent fact that when he "dropped in" at mona's home, as he so often did, her mother usually found some excuse to absent herself and leave the young couple alone. had he been desirous of wooing this winsome maid nothing would have pleased him better, but he hardly felt that way. it was true she interested him, for what young man could resist her sweet and tender ways, her patience with her mother's implacable dislike of her violin playing and the beautiful soul her truthful eyes bespoke? then the hours with her in the romantic spot in which she had chosen to seek the goddess of music were more than charming. in a way this trysting place began to seem sacred to him, and the secret hours he had passed with her there a tender bond between them. all these sweet motive forces that move man's nature, like so many little hands, began to entwine themselves in his. he had no thought of marrying. he realized that he had yet to carve his way upward to independence before thinking of a home and wife, and beyond that the lesson of distrust ethel sherman had taught him still held sway. he was not a model of discretion; he was an unthinking young man with the germs of fine honor and sturdy honesty latent within him, and in spite of the cynicism he had imbibed from jack nickerson he was sure in the end to commit no folly, nor wrong man, woman, or child. and yet, insensibly, he was doing mona hutton the greatest wrong in his power--almost. some realizing sense of this came to him after that evening beside the old tide mill, when his words had caused a single tear to fall upon the hand that helped her to arise, and yet he could not tell what he had said that hurt her so. there is, perhaps, nothing so fascinating in this wide world to a young man as the first signs of a sweet maid's budding love for him, and it must be stated, nothing is harder to turn away from, and winn was no exception to young men in general. and now that he was conscious of it, that fact, coupled with the business dilemma confronting him, created a double burden. he saw whither he was drifting with her and seeing, had not the heart to turn away. on the other hand, the rockhaven granite company began to seem a quagmire of fraud in which he and all who had trusted in him might any day become entangled, their investments swept away, the men he had hired left without pay, and he stranded on this island. it may seem that winn was borrowing needless worriment, and yet once the canker spot of suspicion fastens itself upon a man's mind, it grows until it turns all things green. one thing he tried to do--avoid mona. and yet he could not to any extent, for since she dwelt next door he must needs meet her and speak almost daily. and strange to say, now that it was in his heart to act indifferent, her appealing eyes and winsome face began to seem a reproach, and his conscience troubled him. for a week he passed each evening alone in his room trying to read one of the books he had brought with him, or else in jess hutton's store, listening to the gossip of the men who gathered there, interspersed with an occasional bit of quaint philosophy from the lips of jess himself, and then a bombshell in the way of a letter to him reached the island. it was as follows:-- "dear winn, "have been back to the city now for two weeks and watching the trend of the market. i was satisfied, as i wrote you, that weston & hill were preparing to launch a skyrocket--now i know it. what with printer's ink and that walking tombstone, simmons, they have managed to get rockhaven among the unlisted but active stocks, and by some chicanery, worked the price up to six dollars. page, my broker, says it's a wildcat of the most pronounced stripe. a good many are short of it at below its present price and yet it holds firm. i've unloaded half i bought, so i am on easy street, and am watching out. it may go up with a whoop or down with a thud. one guess is as good as another, but what you best do is send me your stock and let page sell it. also if you have sold any to your friends, give them the tip. i know you believe in weston and think, as you have said, that i am a perpetual scoffer. they may be all right, but i don't believe it, and now as you have a chance to unload and make a good thing, better do it. "yours ever, "jack. "p.s.--i forgot to mention that ethel sherman is still up in the mountains and the belle of all occasions. she asked a lot of questions about you and in such a way i was almost tempted to believe they were sincere. she has failed to land the golf dude, for his mother scented danger and, like a hen, led him away to safety." chapter xix a philosopher winn had felt it best to keep silent regarding his suspicions of weston & hill, but this new development forced him to unbosom himself to some one and he went to jess. he waited until the usual evening gathering of callers had left the store, and then he told the story of his distrust from the beginning and ended by reading a portion of jack's letter. to his surprise jess received it all as unmoved as a granite ledge. "i ain't a mite s'rprised," he said, "i sorter felt all 'long that this 'ere boss o' yourn was a swindler 'n' foolin' ye, an' the only reason i took any stock was jist to help ye." "i know it," responded winn, "and it's that and because you have influenced others to do so, that worries me." but jess only smiled. "keep cool," he said, "an' let yer hair grow. i ain't in it so deep but i kin 'ford to lose all i've put in 'n' take keer o' the rest on 'em here. what we want to do now is ter cac'late. when the wind gets squally, the fust thing's to shorten sail. i'll 'low yer friend knows his business, 'n' we'd best send this stock to him 'n' let him sell it if he kin find fools to buy it at the price it's goin', an' then we'd best lay the men off at the quarry 'n' let 'em go fishin'. we might keep two or three on 'em goin'," he added as an afterthought, "jist to keep up 'pearances 'n' lay low till the wind shifts." "it may be you are right," asserted winn, "but i do not know what to do and the situation worries me." "no sorter use 'n' worryin'," said jess tersely, "ye'r healthy, ain't ye?" and then winn laughed. "yes," he said, "i am, and no worse off than when i came here, but it disturbs me to find i've been deceived." "you'll git used to that," replied jess, "i hev. i cac'late in my time i hev hed more'n a hundred pounds o'wool pulled into my eyes 'n' i ain't blind yit. the only cause i've hed fer blamin' myself is 'most every time i got skinned it was 'cause i was too dum good-hearted." "and that is just why i feel so bad," put in winn; "you bought this stock to help me, and if you lose, it's on me." jess laughed heartily. "well, you're shakin' hands with the divil a good ways off," he said, "up to date i'm ahead o' the game a cool hundred 'n' a middlin' good chance o' gittin' more'n double my money back. i cac'late, of course, this stock ain't wuth a cuss, but if by some hocus-pocus they're sayin' it's wuth what your friend says 'tis, i stand a fair chance o' gittin' square. better tell him he kin let it go fer a dollar 'n' not hang on fer more. i'll be satisfied if i git my hat back." then jess, the big-hearted, thought of winn. "it's none o' my bizness," he said, "but ez you've made free to trust me, how air ye fixed on this stock? hev ye put much money into it?" "i've put five hundred, part borrowed," answered winn candidly, "and they made me a present of five hundred shares besides." "wal, that's a credit to ye, anyhow," responded jess with an approving look, "an' ye kin feel ye come higher'n the parson." then after a few minutes' silent meditation during which he closed his eyes and stroked his chin affectionately, he added: "as a gineral thing i'd be slow in advisin' anybody to go crooked, but when ye feel ye're in the hands o' sharpers, it's the only way. now what i'd advise ye to do is to keep on reportin' the same pay-roll right 'long 'n' lay most o' the men off fer a week or two till ye find what yer friend's done with the stock. what they send ye extra may come handy 'fore this cat's skinned and buried. then ye kin kinder take it easy for a spell 'n' look the island over so long's yer time 'n' wages is goin' on. let 'em do the fiddlin' while you dance this time. they cac'late ter make ye do all the fiddlin' an' turn about is fair play." [illustration: jess hutton, philosopher.] "i'll take your advice and do just what you say," replied winn eagerly, his spirits once more raised to their normal level by this quaint philosopher, and as it was late in the evening and the mention of fiddle recalled jess hutton's hobby, he added: "you have lifted a load off my mind, and now please give me a few tunes, mr. hutton. i feel like hearing some music." and jess the genial, to whom his fiddle was wife, child, friend, and companion, once more drew it forth, and as winn lighted a fresh cigar and leaned back to enjoy it, again as before was he charmed by the old man's art. and that spell wrought by "money musk," "fisher's hornpipe," "the devil's dream" and such old-time dance tunes that followed in quick succession carried winn back to his boyhood days and out of the turmoil and strife of city life, and once more he felt himself in the old farm barn with lanterns swinging aloft and a score of country lads and lassies keeping step with him to the same lively measures. he could see their happy faces and the sparkle of their eyes as "balance and swing," "do-see-do" and "all promenade" echoed from the rafters. he could even feel the supple waist and warm handclasp of the willing maid who danced with him, and when the evening of simple but unalloyed delight was over, came the long walk home with that same farmer's daughter while the moonlight silvered the landscape and the rustling leaves in the maple lane, tinkling like tiny bells beneath their feet. gone were all the hectic years of city life, the stab of ethel sherman, the distrust of jack nickerson, and the humiliation of the years with weston & hill. gone, too, all his present dread and the fog that for weeks had obscured his course. once more he felt full of young courage with success and riches almost within his grasp. then as the evening waned and jess hutton's fingers strayed to the old sweet love songs of scotland and "robin adair" and "annie laurie" whispered the burden of their affection, the tender eyes of mona and the wild rock-walled gorge where he had first heard her play the same songs touched his heart. with this memory, so sweet in a way, came a heartache. when the evening was ended and he, having thanked jess for the good cheer in words and music, betook himself to rock lane, he paused a moment in front of mona's home. not a light was visible, not a sound except the low murmur of the distant sea. only a few seconds he stood there, looking and thinking, and then kept on to his room. the mood of the church bells was with him still. chapter xx a cloud over rockhaven a man is happiest when he has most to do, and though a woman's face intrudes upon his thoughts and he feels her smiles are all for him, it is life and action and the push forward toward success that interest him most. and so with winn. he had come to rockhaven to upbuild his fortune, believing himself in a fair way to do so. he had taken up his new life and care with earnestness and energy, putting his best thought into it, and not only carrying out his employer's instructions in letter and spirit, but in addition trying to make friends of those honest islanders and interest them in this new enterprise. the latter was not hard since jess, the oracle of rockhaven, was on his side, and, in a way, sponsor for him. then, too, he had adopted their simple homely ways and, though not a believer, attended church each sunday. how much of this was due to the occult influence of mona's eyes, and how much to sympathy and interest in the spiritual life of the island, is hard to say. most of the men considered sunday as a day of rest, and to some extent, recreation. a few accompanied their families to the little church, but more spent the day lounging about the wharves, smoking and swapping yarns, and if a boat needed caulking, a net mending, or a new sail bending, they did not hesitate to do it. while all had sufficient reverence for the lord's day not to actually start out fishing, most were willing to get ready. and perhaps for good reason, for a livelihood on rockhaven was not easy to obtain and with them, as with most hard-working people, the necessities of life displaced spiritual influences. "it is a hard field to labor in," asserted the rev. jason bush to winn one day, "and i've grown old and gray in the work. we have a little church that has not been painted but twice since i came here forty-odd years ago, or shingled but once. we have no carpet, and the cushions in the pews are in rags. i have taught this generation almost all they know of books, and laid most of their parents away in the graveyard back of the meeting-house, and my turn will come before many years. we are poor here, and we always have been and most likely always shall be, and at times it has seemed to me the lord was indifferent to our needs. your coming here and this new industry has seemed to me a special providence." and winn, thinking of the fifty shares of stock he had given this poor old minister, and the ten dollars dividend that must have seemed a godsend, felt his heart sink, for he had by this time come to realize why he had been told to donate this stock. and perhaps that fact gave added force to the parson's words. and when, after jess had advised him to lay off some of the men and he had done so, a sort of gloom seemed to spread over the island. a few of the men took to their boats and fishing once more, and though winn gave out the plausible excuse that lack of demand for granite was the cause, the rest who were out of work now seemed a constant reproach. then, too, since his own ambition and hope received a setback he was not content. the growing distrust was a thorn in his side, in fact it was more than that; it was almost a certainty that his mission there was nearing its end. to leave, he could not; to go ahead, he dared not, for any day he might be left in the lurch with no money to pay his men. and friday, when he usually received his remittances, was awaited with keen anxiety. when it came and a letter, slightly fault-finding in tone because he had sold no more stock for some weeks, and insisting that he must go about it at once, winn was not only irritated but disgusted. "i am but a mere tool in their hands," he thought, "and they pay me to do their bidding, be it work or to rob honest people." and then winn had a bad half-hour. "don't ye mind 'em," said jess consolingly, when winn had told him what they wrote, "but keep cheerful 'n' let 'em keep on sendin' money. it's a long lane ez hez no turns 'n' ours'll come bimeby. better write yer friend 'n' git posted on what's doin'." but this excellent advice had scant effect on winn, for his ambition had been chilled, his hopes seemed like to be thwarted, his mental sun in a cloud, and the barometer of his spirits at low tide. then the honest people here who had trusted him implicitly and who could ill afford to lose became a burden to his mind. honest himself in every impulse, to realize that in the near future he might be cursed as a rascal only added to his gloom. he dreaded to meet them lest they read the worriment in his face, and especially the patient and hard-working mrs. moore, who daily prepared his meals. to her the hundred dollars she had invested was a small fortune, and then the kindly old minister whose long life of patient work for starvation pay had made him pathetic, and who had considered this gift as coming from the hand of god--to feel that he also might join the rest in sorrowing hurt winn. he dared not say a word to any one except jess, and what to do he knew not. at times he thought of going to them, one and all, explain the situation, and ask them to intrust him with their stock, when he would send it to the city to be sold if possible. he even confided this impulse to jess. "no," replied that philosopher, "it ain't my idee to cross bridges till ye come to 'em, 'n' we'd best wait till we see which way the cat's goin' to jump. if wuss comes to wuss, an' 'fore i'd see ye blamed, i'll stand the loss o' every share ye've sold here." this was some consolation to winn, but did not remove his gloom. then mona became a factor in his perplexity. he had tried to avoid her to a certain extent, but he could not avoid his thoughts, and deep in his heart he knew that whatever bond of sympathy had come between them was due to his own seeking. he had praised her playing, passed hours in delightful exchange of poetic thoughts and recital of old-time lore, pathetic, romantic, and altogether alluring, and this thrusting his personality, as it were, into the thoughts and life of this untutored island girl could have but one ending, and full well winn knew what that was. the next sunday chance threw them together, for winn, to escape his mood, if possible, had taken a long stroll over the island and up to the north village. returning late in the afternoon, he found her sitting by the old mill watching the tide slowly ebbing between its mussel-coated foundations. it was a spot romantic in its isolation, out of sight from any dwelling and, in addition, of somewhat ghostly interest. winn had heard its history. it had been built a century ago and made useful for the island's needs, but finally it fell into disuse and decay, its roof gone, its timbers and floor removed, its windows but gaping openings in the stone walls and akin to the eyeless sockets and mouth of a skull. then, too, the half-demented girl who years before had been found hanging lifeless from one of its cross beams added an uncanny touch. winn had felt its grewsome interest and once or twice had visited it with mona. and now, coming to it just as the lowering sun had reached the line of spruce trees fringing the western side of the harbor, he found mona sitting where they had sat one moonlight evening, idly watching the motionless harbor stretching a mile away. she was not aware of his approach, but sat leaning against an abutting stone, looking at the setting sun's red glow on the harbor, a lonely, pathetic figure. for a moment winn watched her, and watching there beside this uncanny old ruin, lived the past two months over again like a momentary dream, and then drew nearer. "why, mona," he said, "what are you doing here?" "nothing," she answered, straightening up and turning to face him, "only i did not know what else to do, and so came here." she did not disclose the impulse which brought her to this spot, for of that no man, certainly not winn, should be told. "well," he continued, with assumed cheerfulness, "i'm glad to have come across you, for i too have been lonesome and trying to walk it off. i've had the blues for a week or more now," he added, feeling that some sort of apology was due her, "and am not myself." "and why?" she asked interestedly, turning her fathomless eyes upon him; "are you getting tired of us here, and wanting to go back to the city?" "no, little girl," he replied, assuming his usual big-brother's tone and address, "i hate the city, as i've told you many times; but business matters vex me, and as you may have heard, i've had to lay off some of my men." "yes, i have heard," she answered quietly, her eyes still on him, "nothing happens here that all do not know in a few hours." and winn, with the burden of dread that like a pall oppressed him just then, wondered how long it would take for all to hear what he or jess could utter in five words. "why did you come here, mona, if you were lonesome?" he said, anxious to change the subject. "it's the last spot on the island you should visit if lonely." mona colored slightly; "i always go to some lonely spot when i feel sad," she said, unwilling to admit the real reason for her coming here. "and that is where you are wrong," put in winn, forcing a laugh and seating himself beside her. "when i am blue i go to jess or else take a tramp as i did to-day," he added hastily. mona still watched him furtively and with an intuitive feeling that he was concealing something. "i wish i knew how to play the violin," he continued, looking across the harbor to where a dory had just started toward the village, "it must be, as your uncle says, 'a heap o' comfort' when one is lonesome." "it has been to him all his life long," she answered a little sadly, "and is now." "and to you as well," he interposed, "it has helped you pass many a long hour, i fancy. do you know," he continued, anxious to talk about anything except his present mood, "i've thought so many times of that day i first heard you playing in the 'devil's oven,' and what a strange place it was to hide yourself in. you are a queer girl, mona, and unlike any one i ever knew. i wish i were an artist, i'd like to make a picture of you in that cave." mona looked pleased. "you would make a picture," he added, smiling at her, "that the whole world would look at with interest; i'd have you holding your violin and looking out over the wide ocean with those sphinx-like eyes of yours, just as if the world and all its follies had no interest for you." "and what is a sphinx?" asked mona. "a woman that no man understands," he answered carelessly. "there are a few such, and they are the only ones who interest men any length of time." "and am i like one of them?" queried the girl. "oh, no," he answered, "except your eyes, and they are absolutely unreadable. beyond them you are as easily understood as a flower that only needs the sun's smiles." it was a bit of his poetic imagery faintly understood by mona. "you must not mind my odd comparison," he continued, noticing her curious look, "it's only a fancy of mine, and then, you are an odd stick, as they used to say up in the country where i was born." "and so you were not born in the city," she said with sudden interest. "what uncle jess has told me and what you have said has made me hate the city." "i thought you said once you envied the city girls who came here in yachts," laughed winn. "i might like to dress as they do," she answered, a little confused, "but not to live where they do." "and what has that to do with where i came from," he persisted, "and why are you glad i am country-born?" "because," she replied bluntly, "uncle jess says country-born people are usually honest and can be trusted." winn was silent, and as he looked at this simple island girl, so unaffected and winsome, a new admiration came for her. "give her a chance," he thought, "and she would hold her own with ethel sherman even." "that is true," he said aloud, after a pause, thinking only of his own business experience, "and the longer i remain here, the less i wish to return to the city. i feel as your worthy uncle does, and for good reasons. with the exception of an aunt, who has made a home for me, the women whom i met there were not to be trusted, nor the men either. when i left the old farm i was too young to understand people, but now that i do, i often long for the old associates of my boyhood, and if my business here becomes successful, i shall never go back to the city." a look of gladness lit up the girl's face. "i feel vexed over my business," continued winn, longing to confide his troubles to mona and looking down into the dark mussel-coated chasm left by the ebbing tide close by where they sat, "but i presume i shall come out all right." then, as he glanced up at the roofless wall of the old mill just back of them, its window openings showing the dark interior, he thought of the girl who, a century ago, had come there to end her heartache and whose story was fresh in his mind. "come, mona," he said tenderly, as a sigh escaped him, "it's time we returned to the village, for i am going to meeting to-night with you and your mother." and all the long mile of sandy roadway that lay between the mill and rockhaven was traversed in almost unbroken silence. though far apart as yet, they were nearer to one another than ever before. chapter xxi the mood of the bells there were two church bells on rockhaven, one at each village, and every sunday evening, year in and out, they called the piously inclined together, always at the same time. that at northaven sounded the sweeter to winn, since its call came over a mile of still water, like an echo to the one in rockhaven. he had noticed them, one answering the other, many times before, each time to return in thought to the hillside home where he was born and to the same sweet sound that came on sunday from the village two miles away. it had been to him what seemed long years since he heard them, yet now, this evening, while he waited in the little porch of mona's home for her and her mother to join him churchward, and this call came sweetly through the still evening air, it carried a new peace to his vexed spirit, and the threatened upset of his mission to rockhaven faded away. once more he was a boy again, and for a time without a care. and when mona appeared, dressed in a simple white muslin, a white hood of knitted wool half hiding the coiled masses of her jet black hair, her eyes filled with tender light, winn, in spite of his moroseness and the bitter lessons in love he had learned, felt it a proud privilege to walk beside her. the usual number, mostly womankind, were emerging from the scattered houses along the way to the church, and as winn and mona, together with her mother and mrs. moore, followed the one plank walk which led to the church, the last call of the bells came at longer intervals. when the church was reached the lamps had been lighted, but the white headstones, dotting the upward slope just back of it, still showed faintly in the twilight. the services were simple as usual, the few dozen who gathered all joined in the same hymns of praise their ancestors had sung in the same church. what the minister said was not new or eloquent; and yet the prayer he uttered seemed to winn to contain an unusually touching strain. it was the mood of the bells still on him, for he had never known what church believers call a change of heart; and while the devotions of the people were pathetic in their very simplicity, they seemed more like a plea for pity than an expression of thanks. when the services were ended, and all rising joined in "the sweet by and by," never before had it voiced such a plaintive appeal as it did then in winn's estimation. when he and mona, loitering behind the rest, reached her little dooryard where the scent of many blooming flowers saluted him, they paused a moment. mrs. moore had seated herself on the porch for a social chat with mrs. hutton, the faint disk of a new moon showed in the western sky, and in spite of the resolution taken weeks before, winn could not resist the temptation of longer privacy with his companion. "let us walk up to the top of norse hill," he said, "and look out over the harbor. i feel like it to-night." "here is where i come to be alone," he observed when they had reached the ancient beacon and were looking down over the village. "i wonder who built this odd tower and for what use; do you know?" "i have been told it was built by leif ericson," she replied, "ever so many years ago, to prove he first discovered this country. uncle jess says it was, and that is why this is called norse hill." there was a jutting ledge around its base, and they seated themselves upon it. winn drew out his cigar case. "you won't mind my smoking, will you, mona?" he said in a familiar tone, as he lighted his cigar. "why, no," she answered, in the same tone, "i love to see you enjoy yourself." for a time they silently scanned the peaceful picture that lay before them. the sheltered harbor across which the faint path of moonlight quivered in the undulating ground swell that reached in from the sea; the old mill sombre and solemn and barely outlined to the right; beyond it northaven with its scattered lights, and below them the few that twinkled in rockhaven. not a sound reached them except the low wave-wash at the foot of the cliff just back of where they sat. they were alone with their hopes and troubles, their joys and heartaches. it was not a time or place for immediate converse, and winn quietly contemplated the peaceful scene while mona covertly watched him. to her he was an unsolved enigma, and yet his earnest, honest brown eyes, his open, frank way, and his half-tender, half-cynical speeches had been for many weeks her daily thought. what oppressed him now was an added mystery. she had heard that most of his men working in the quarry had been laid off, but not for worlds would she seem so inquisitive as to ask why. and so she watched him, half hoping, half expecting, he would confide in her. "i have been out of sorts, little girl," he said suddenly, with an intuitive feeling that she expected an explanation of his silence; "and as i told you this afternoon i took a long tramp to drive my mood away. it did not do it, but something else has, and that was your church bells." "i am very glad," she responded with sudden interest, "i wish they would ring every evening." "yes," he continued, not heeding her delicate sympathy, "they have carried me back to my boyhood and the country village near where i was born. i wish i could go back to those days and feel as i did then," he added, a little sadly, "but one can't. life and its ambitions sweep us on, and youth is forgotten or returns only in thought. if one could only feel the keen zest of youth and enjoy small pleasures as children do, all through life, it would be worth living. i should be grateful if i were as happy and care-free as you are, mona." "i am not very happy," she answered simply. "did you think i was?" "you ought to be," he asserted; "you have nothing to worry about unless it is your ambition to become a great artist, and as i have told you, you had better put that out of your thoughts. you could be, but it would bring you more heartaches than you can imagine. put it away, mona, and live your simple life here. to struggle out of your orbit is to court unhappiness. i was thrust out of mine by death and poverty," he added sadly, "when an awkward and green country boy, knowing absolutely nothing of city ways and manners, and placed among those who think all who come from the farms must be but half civilized and stupid. it is the shallow conceit of city-bred people always and the greatest mistake they make. my aunt sent me to a business college, and for a year my life there was a burden. the other fellows made game of my clothes, my opinions, and, worse than that, a jest of all the moral ideas in which my good mother had instructed me. later on, when i began to get out into the world, i found the same disposition to sneer at all that is pure and good in life. the young men i became acquainted with called me a goody-good because i acted according to conscience and refused to drink or gamble. they seemed to take a pride in their ability to pour down glass after glass of fiery liquor, and when i asserted that to visit gambling dens and all other resorts of vice was to demean one's self, and positively refused to follow them, they laughed me to scorn. they seemed to take a pride in their vices in a way that was disgusting to me. then, as if to prove what a stupid greenhorn i was, they pointed out men who stood well socially, attended church, had wives and families, and yet led lives that were a shame and disgrace in my estimation. they proved to me what they asserted in various ways, so i could not doubt it. it was all a revelation, and for a time upset all my ideas and led me to think my early training in the way i should walk a stupid waste of opportunity. "beyond that, and perhaps the worst of all, i was made to think that religious belief was arrant nonsense and used as a cloak for evil doings; that none except silly old women and equally silly young girls were sincere in pious professions; that belief in god was an index to shallowness, and prayer a farce. "it began to seem to me that i really had been brought up wrong and trained in absurd ways, and that unless i threw my moral scruples to the winds, i should be a jest and a laughing-stock to all city people. we grow to feel, and think, and live like those we meet daily, and when i came here, among you whose lives and morals were so unlike city folks and so like those of the people among whom i was reared, it seemed as if i had gone back to my boyhood home. "i think the sound of your church bells, mona, was an influence more potent than all else to carry my thoughts and feelings home again." he paused a moment to look out seaward and along the broadening path of moonlight as if it led into a new life and a new world, while mona watched his half-averted face. all this was a revelation to her of his inner self, his nature and impulses. she had thought tenderly of him before; now he seemed the embodiment of all that was good and true and manly--a hero she must fain worship. "life is a puzzle-board, dear," he said at last, as if that sparkling roadway had been followed into a better one; "we all strive for happiness in it and know not where or how it may be found. we wish to please ourselves first, and to share it with those who seem akin to us. few really desire to annoy others or give them pain. then again we are selfish, and our own needs and hungers seem all important. we are a little vain ofttimes, carnal always, unthinking, and seldom generous. we forget that it is more blessed to give than to receive, that a clear conscience is as necessary to happiness as good digestion is to health, and that we cannot walk alone through life. we must depend upon others for about all the happiness we receive, and they on us. then again we had best remain with those we understand and who know us best. they and they only can or will seem near to us. your bells have carried me back to those with whom i am allied by nature; and among them and in the pure and simple life they live, i feel that peace and contentment may be found. with you it is the same, my dear, and it is to keep you here among those akin to you that i say what i have of the great world. do not wish to enter it; do not imagine you will find happiness there, for you cannot. here you are loved and understood, here are those you know and can trust, and here every cliff, and gorge, and grove, every flower, and bird, and ocean voice, contains a childish memory. were you to leave them behind every call of the church bells at eventide would carry your heart back to these scenes again, as it has mine to those of my youth. no, dear, be warned in time and remain content." he meant it for her good, but she thought only of a similar bit of advice he had given her once before, and one that wounded her to the heart. for a little longer they sat and watched the moonlight scene; winn unconscious that beside him was a girl whose ennobling ambition and sweet, patient nature was a prize any man might feel proud to win, and mona quivering with an unaccountable heartache; and then he rose to go. "it is getting late, dear," he said in his familiar way, "and we'd best go home. you may catch cold if we stay here longer." and cupid, hovering on the old stone tower, turned away in sorrow for a wasted opportunity. but winn held out his hand to assist mona, and be it said to his credit, he retained hers in a warm clasp until her gate was reached. "good night, dear," he said then as he opened it for her to enter, "and sweet dreams." chapter xxii two rascals there are genial, liberal, and companionable rascals and mean, contemptible, sneaking ones. the former attract by their apparent honesty and cordial expressions, and are the more dangerous; the latter repel by every look, act, and word. of the first class j. malcolm weston was a pertinent example, while carlos b. hill was of the latter. on "the street" and among his associates weston was considered a jovial, good-natured man, liberal in small things, a pleasant associate, but lacking in morality and without principle. he paid for one of the best pews in the church winn's aunt attended, which was always occupied by his wife and family, and by him occasionally; he contributed for charitable and missionary work in an ostentatious way, always insisting that it be known how much he gave; belonged to a club where gambling was the chief amusement and the members of which were mostly stock brokers, speculators, and fast men about town; he wore the latest and most fashionable raiment, and drove a dashing turnout. before the firm of weston & hill had been established he had been the manager of what is known as a bucket shop, and when that failed (as they always do, soon or late) he began his career as a promoter. in this he was not over-successful, mainly from lack of funds to carry out his schemes; but when the conceited, shallow-minded hill was induced to walk into his parlor, weston began to soar. hill was a retired manufacturer and bigoted church member who had saved a small fortune by miserly living, stealing trade marks, copying designs, making cheap imitations of other manufacturers' goods, and cutting prices. he thirsted for fame as a great financier and longed to be a power in the stock market. weston, whose business arguments usually contained equal parts of religion and possible profit-making, in due proportion to the credulity and piety of his victims, and who could time a horse race, play a game of poker, or utter a fervid exhortation with equal facility, easily led hill into the investment and brokerage business, and so the firm was established. this was j. malcolm weston. of hill, though his counterpart exists, but not in plenty, an explicit description shall be given. he was of medium size with a sharp hawklike nose, retreating forehead, deep-set fishy eyes, ears that stood out like small wings, and a handclasp as cold and lifeless as a pump-handle. his sole object of conversation was himself; he had pinched pennies, denied himself all luxuries, and lived to be hated, till he grew rich. it was one of his kind of whom the story is told that, having died rich (as usual), a stranger passing the church on the day of the funeral asked of the sexton at the door, "what complaint?" and received the reply, "none whatever; everybody satisfied." weston, liberal rascal that he was, was not long in learning to hate his mean-natured partner, and by the time the rockhaven granite company was duly organized and well on toward success, had conceived another and perhaps more excusable swindle (if any swindle is excusable), it being not only to rob the investors in rockhaven, but hill as well, and then leave for a foreign clime. but the launching of rockhaven necessitated outlay. hill really held the purse-strings, so weston, the plausible, shrewd schemer, bided his time. but the road to success became difficult. each successive outlay was whined about and opposed by hill, who, shallow in his conceit, lacked the courage of his rascality. when winn was sent to rockhaven, and money to pay men must follow, and each successive item and advertisement in the _market news_ (both high-priced) only made him wince the more, it required all of weston's optimistic arguments to keep him from backing out. but when returns from the sale of this absolutely worthless stock came in, hill smiled, and when some thirty thousand shares had been sold and, by reason of simmons' manipulation, it was quoted on 'change at six dollars per share, his eyes glittered like those of a hungry shark. no thought of the honest and confiding men and women who had contributed to swell the total, and would share in the inevitable loss, came to him. no qualms of conscience, no sense of guilt, no fear of retribution! only the miser's lust of gain and the swelling of his abnormal self-esteem. and so gratified was he in this partial success, and so eager to pocket its results, that, had weston now proposed dividing receipts and absconding, he would have consented with alacrity. of those who were to be the dupes of this precious pair a word will now be said. they comprised a varied list, from poorly paid clerks who had caught the gambling fever to winn's aunt who, since she believed in weston, and being baited on by the deceptive dividend, had invested almost her entire fortune. there was one cashier in a bank who had "utilized" about three of the many thousands he had access to, an innocent and underpaid stenographer in weston & hill's office who persuaded her widowed mother to draw her all from the savings bank and buy rockhaven, and scores of small investors, trustees for estates; and even sane business men, lured by the early and unexpected dividend and anxious to share in the rapid advance, bought, what they at heart feared was worthless. and so the bubble grew apace, and weston and his henchman, simmons, in the privacy of their offices, smiled and congratulated one another, and plotted and planned. they discussed the items to be paid for in the _market news_, how long it would be necessary to continue the farce of quarrying carried on by winn, and how much stock was really being tossed back and forth among the gamblers on 'change, and how much held by honest investors. of the quarried stone shipped by winn, enough had been received to build the palatial residence simmons had under way and some toward another and smaller contract, taken at a price below market rates. to these consultations hill was seldom invited, for the best of reasons,--he was in the end to be made the dupe of all. of this latter and final iniquity not even simmons was informed. chapter xxiii the starting of a "corner" there are always two parties in every stock exchange, well known as bulls and bears. those who believe in an advance, or what is to the same end, manipulate a stock to increase its price, are said to be "bulling it"; while those who honestly think it quoted above its worth and sell it, or plot to depress its price, are said to "bear it." like the ever varying hues of the kaleidoscope, so the opinions and actions of each individual among those men constantly change, and a bull to-day may be a bear to-morrow. then cliques and pools take up one little joker of values, and seek by force of number and capital to toss it up or down. to this end they fill the press with columns of false reports, fictitious statements, and items of apparent news for one purpose--to deceive. when the wildcat, rockhaven, started on its career, the bulls and bears, glad of a fresh toy, began to toss it back and forth. none believed it of any actual value, but merely one of the many dice in the speculative box. all united in asserting that it was the _avant courier_ of a scheme; it might be pushed up to a fabulous price and it might any day go down with a crash. it was this very certainty of being an uncertainty--the fact that its future was an open gamble, a positive chance--that made it interesting. none of these astute speculators were deceived by the early dividend, even for one moment; and when simmons, well known as weston's mouthpiece, openly bid two dollars for five thousand shares or any part of it, and really obtained one hundred, and that the identical hundred originally given a prominent man for the use of his name, all knew that the fresh toy was on its way toward the roof or the cellar. it may seem strange after the countless schemes which have come to naught, that any remain who could be inveigled into a new one, but as a wise showman once said, "the world loves to be humbugged," and the early dividend worked its inevitable result among the real investors, while the gamblers' chance stimulated "the street"; and between the two rockhaven was pushed upward. and the _market news_, as well as other city papers anxious to sell space, helped to swell the bubble until rockhaven became one of the loaded dice all speculators love to play with. it started at two dollars a share, bid by simmons, who the next day offered three for it and had two hundred more sold him by a too-confident bear who didn't own a share, and who later on bought it in at a higher price, pocketing his loss with a smile. and so it kept on, now up a point and back a half, then up two and down one, to go back again when some nervous bear sought to cover. some who owned it at the subscription price of one dollar sold, and quadrupled their money, to see it go still higher, and catching the fever, bought it in again; while others who were short of it at three, bid it in at five, and distrustful of it as ever, went short again, and so the definite stock value in this case, as in all others, became a guess. in the meantime weston, the spider in his web, and simmons, his trusty spokesman, watched the market and were not idle. they had sold some thirty thousand shares, the _market news_ kept printing items (at a cost of fifty cents per word), the street was all guessing, and rockhaven bade fair to become a sensation "on 'change." then a few far-seeing bulls, believing the natural sequence of stock manipulation in this case would end in a "corner," began bidding it up, while simmons, quick to feel the pulse of the situation and really holding the key to it, aided them by spreading a report to that effect, and when the price showed weakness, buying a few hundred. as most of "the street" asserted that the stock was valueless, his object was to create a short interest, if possible, and in time so manipulate matters as to scare the shorts, knowing full well what the result would be. the only danger he knew lay in the action of winn hardy and what he might do. if that duped young man scented the game and, returning, alarmed his aunt, who had bought ten thousand shares and locked them up, the game would be balked. "we must keep your man hardy on the island all summer," he said to weston, "and let him quarry stone, at whatever cost. if ever he hears what rockhaven is quoted at and isn't a fool, he will hurry back and not only unload his thousand shares, but tell his aunt, and she will do the same." "i doubt that he will," answered weston; "he has few friends in the city, and those are not posted on the market, and as for his aunt, i have assured her that if she hopes to sell out her stock at the top price, she must keep her investment an absolute secret. i gave her the tip on sunday as we were walking home from church together, and in such a way that i feel sure she will heed it. the good woman is wrapped up in church work and putting the matter in the way i did, and at that time, insures her secrecy. some people must be handled with religious gloves," he added, smiling urbanely, "and some hit with a club." he thought of hill in this connection. and in the case of winn hardy, he reckoned without jack nickerson. chapter xxiv the progress of a "corner" there are honest and honorable stock brokers, and page, a friend of nickerson's and acting broker for him, was one of them. he knew simmons well, and had at one time or another come in sharp conflict with the latter in some stock deal. he had watched the bubble, rockhaven, ever since its inception, and accustomed as he was to the endless variety of tricks resorted to by others of his class, had an intuitive conception of how the general partnership of weston & hill and simmons would be carried to its culmination. "it's a swindle, pure and simple," he said in confidence to nickerson, "and while weston is willing to dupe the confiding investors he has persuaded to buy the stock, the real end and aim of his scheme is to get the street short of it and, by some sort of scare, start the bears to bidding against each other, and when the right time comes simmons will appear on the scene and unload rockhaven at top price. how soon that time will come and how far up they will push the stock before the shorts take fright, is a guess. it is now steady at six and not much interest in it. then again it's an open question how much stock is owned on the street and how great a short interest has been created. no one has any confidence in it, and yet many are ready to take a flyer in it for a turn. my idea is to handle it as one would a hot horseshoe. i am long a thousand or two, you are ditto for five hundred, and we hold fifteen hundred in trust for your friend hardy and this islander, hutton. whether to unload now and make four points or hold for a big stake, is the question. it's a gamble either way." and this, be it said, fairly represented the situation. but simmons, who really held the key to this well-set trap, knew very well that he had the street all guessing, and more than that, was just the man to keep them at it. he sold and he bought a little stock each day, just to keep it active and quoted. he could have bought every share on the street if necessary, but that was not his game. what he did want was to aid the bull pool that had been formed, for every share they bought meant one more short of that share, and when the time came, one more scared bear to bid it up. it was an unscrupulous scheme, but one continually being worked in one way or another by these legalized gamblers. then, as if the devil came to simmons's aid, rockhaven began to be quoted in the bucket shops, and the crowd there, as usual, were all bulls. it is a strange fact, but true, that every lamb who goes into one of these wool-shearing offices is always sure to buy, expecting an advance. with him, stocks are bound to advance--never go down. if they do, he feels it's only for the time being, and they must go up again, and so he foolishly puts up more margins, and still more, and the crafty thief who manages this robber's den assures him he is right; they are bound to go up, and in privacy smiles at the innocence of his victim. and so the shearing goes on. in this case it helped the arch-plotter, simmons, and his backer, weston, for as the stock held firm, those who were short of it at two, three, and four, had no chance to cover. then as it began to creep up a little, to even up their shortage they sold still more, and every few days a paid item in the _market news_ helped matters on. what they were need not be stated. they were all to the same purpose, and that to create confidence in rockhaven, and as usual every bear on the street discounted these statements and felt more certain that rockhavens were without substantial value. and they were right. meanwhile weston, the great financier, as he now felt himself to be, rubbed his hands with satisfaction and concocted more news items; and simmons hobnobbed with the street, assuring one and all of the other speculative liars what a safe investment rockhavens were, and how sure to advance. "we have not sold much stock and do not care to," he said, "we know a good thing when we see it, and in this quarry we have a certain money-maker. it costs us a mere nothing to quarry the stone, the market absorbs all our product at a good price, and the ledge we own is limitless. then we have an excellent manager in whom the firm trusts implicitly." he always used "we" in speaking of the stock, that pronoun carrying a certain assurance, as he well knew, for simmons, who had grown old and gray on the street, was a shrewd money-maker and well known to be worth a million or more. but while weston was happy in his prospective success, hill was not. he was too greedy, and, narrow-minded as he was, could not wait content until the rockhaven plum was ripe. he wanted to grasp it at once, even to ruin its fruition entirely. he railed and groaned whenever a dollar was put out, and had from the start. in his narrow vision it was so much thrown away. every item in the press that called for outlay, the use of the thousands held by simmons to manipulate the market, and especially the hundred or more that each week had to be sent to the island, each and all added to hill's misery. weston, the liberal rascal, had for a long time felt disgusted with his partner's miserly instincts; now he positively hated him and longed for the day when he could deal him a crushing blow. both were unscrupulous schemers and thieves at heart, but of the two hill was the worse. not only did weston come to hate hill more and more each day, but he grew tired of the sight of his pinched and hypocritical face, his sunken eyes and clammy handshake--for shake hands with him occasionally he must. then hill was so unlike weston in other ways it added to the feeling of disgust; he never used tobacco or drank, and held up his hands in holy horror at any lapse from the code of morality, and worse than that, if weston let slip any word of profanity, as he occasionally did, hill exclaimed against it. to have one's small vices made a daily text for short sermons is unpleasant, even to the best of us. but while weston's hate and disgust grew apace, no hint of it leaked out, and since he was the master spirit in the rockhaven granite company and in that scheme held the reins, it moved on to culmination, unaffected by hill's whining. chapter xxv a summer day the life of suspense now forced upon winn was not agreeable. he had too much inborn ambition and energy of character, and once he had come to feel himself his own master, as his mission to rockhaven allowed, never again could he fill a menial position and be satisfied, and the possibility of it once more seemed degradation. then again his present dilemma was galling. he had followed jess hutton's advice, but no word came from the city except the weekly remittance from his firm and letters urging him to sell stock. he would not do so now, not even if those honest people had offered any price, and what he had sold was a source of dread. but no one wanted more, for the partial cessation of work in the quarry was handwriting on the wall. and so the summer days sped by, and winn's longing for a better understanding with mona grew stronger. in a way he stood in a false position toward all these people except jess, and the longer it remained so the worse it seemed, so one evening he resolved to confide in mona. "let us go over to the cave to-morrow afternoon," he said, "i've something to tell you." it was the first step toward the right, and he felt better for having taken it. when they were crossing the mile of undulating ledges separating the village from this lonely gorge, winn, carrying the little green bag and leading mona like a child around the rocks, experienced a strangely sweet feeling of protection and care for her, and with it came the determination to utter no more of the cutting speeches so natural to him. "i may not be here much longer," he thought, "and it shall be a pleasant afternoon for her to recall when i am gone." and be it said here that when a man feels that way toward a woman, love's silken cord has been knotted about his heart. when they reached the niche, at the head of the gorge, a surprise awaited winn, for its floor was carpeted thick with freshly gathered ferns, and bunches of wild roses and clusters of red berries were thrust into each crevice. "what good fairy has been here ahead of us?" exclaimed winn as he looked at the charming nook. "was it you, mona?" "it must have been one of your mermaids," she answered prettily, "and our coming has frightened her away." "one who plays the violin, i imagine," he answered smiling, "and has raven tresses instead of sea-green." but when mona was seated and he opposite reclined on the fresh green carpet, he was in no hurry to tell his story, and for reason. the spot, with its wild grandeur of cliff wall on one side, the other gently sloping and broadening down to where the white-crested billows leaped in among the weed-draped rocks, was beyond all question the most picturesque bit of coast scenery he had ever seen. and now it seemed endowed with a newer charm. here he was, hidden away from all the wide world and almost from himself, with nature at her grandest and the limitless ocean voicing eternity at his feet. for a little time he watched the white-crested billows tossing the rockweed and brown kelpie aloft as they swept into the gorge with a solemn roar. somehow, just then, it seemed to him as if he and mona were alone with god, and the world was young, and life all before him. and at this moment he forgot all his troubles, and the price of rockhaven stock seemed of less account than the ferns he sat upon. "this spot makes a better man of me, mona," he said at last, "and to-day it lifts me into the frame of mind that the church bells always do at eventide. i am not a believer such as you people here are who join the church. i am only of the world, worldly, embittered somewhat by experience and therefore rather distrustful. and yet here it all disappears, and only god seems good to me." then he paused, looking out on the wide ocean once more while mona watched him with wistful eyes, wondering what odd speech would fall from his lips next. "i asked you to come here to-day, little girl," he said at last, "to tell you the story of my life and what has made me as i am. you have been kind and tender and patient with my whims, your mother has opened her door to me, your uncle has trusted me and been my friend, your minister and many others have been kind to me also, and in all ways a welcome to me and my errand here has been extended. and now i will tell my story." and tell it all he did, not even omitting ethel sherman. all the years he had been a menial in weston & hill's office, his associates the while and their influence, and then this new departure in life with all its hopes and ambitions, to end in a fog of doubt and suspense. when the recital was ended he felt better; how mona felt her words can best indicate. "i am glad you trust me so much," she said, "and i wish i could say a word that would help you. uncle jess's advice must be for the best." and then an intuition that all this meant winn's leaving the island soon brought a shadow over her face. for a little time the two sat in silence, unconscious of the wild romance of the nook or the ceaseless monotone of the ocean just below. "i have worked hard to make this venture a success," he said at last, in a dejected tone, "and hoped for much, but now it all seems likely to vanish, and worse than that, the good people here who have bought stock will lose by it and blame me. i cannot tell them how matters stand, or even leave here at present, and yet any day i may hear that the company has dissolved. i've lost all confidence in them now, and to protect myself am forced to act a dishonorable part and let them send money i do not need. i have a friend to whom i sent our stock, but no word comes from him, and so, little girl, you see why i am so disheartened." but mona scarcely understood all he had said--some of it not at all. the matter of stock values and how the present dilemma came about was quite beyond her. what she did understand was that some grave danger threatened winn and he must leave the island. she had, impelled by a sweet girlish impulse, come to the cave early that day, bringing ferns and flowers to deck it and surprise this man whose every word and smile seemed of so much value. she had brought her violin, glad if he cared to hear her play; she had hoped the little outing, away from all others in this trysting place, would be charming to him; and in her girlish heart meant to make it so, and now the little plan had come to naught, and instead she had heard what caused a heartache. the ferns were fast wilting and the violin remained in its case. "come, dear," said winn, speaking freely and seeing the cloud on her face, "let us forget this trouble and enjoy this afternoon. we may not have another one here. please play for me now." but her muse had fled, and she only turned away to hide the pain in her face. "i will by and by," she said faintly; "i want to think now." and winn, conscious of the blow he had dealt her, felt a strange sense of guilt. he had known for many weeks that his every word and look and smile was a joy to her, and while not for one instant had she overstepped the bounds of maidenly reserve, her thoughts were of him. and then as he looked at her with face half turned away and lips tightly closed as if to keep back the tears, a sudden impulse to gather her close in his arms and whisper fond and loving words came to him. but he put it away. "i wish you would play for me, dear," he said very gently, "and drive away my blues. play something lively." and the boy god, ever hovering where hearts are tender, sheathed his arrow and flew away. many times afterward winn thought of that moment and always with regret. a little longer mona waited, and then, like an obedient child, drew her violin from its case. our moods are our masters, and be it untutored girl or world-wise man or woman, they shadow or brighten all expression. and though mona played at his bidding one and another of the lively airs she knew, a minor chord of sadness ran through them all. then, to his surprise, she began one of the late light operas he had sent for and given her weeks before. she did not play it with ease, a halt came now and then, but she played it all through and then paused. "i am surprised," he said; "when and how did you learn that? you told me you could not read a note of music." "i have been learning to read," she answered quietly, "and uncle jess has helped me." and then winn, wishing to encourage her in some way, or at least lead her thoughts out of their present gloom, uttered a bit of foolish advice. "mona, my dear," he said earnestly, "some day i hope you may have a chance to study music in the city. if you have, and i would advise it, you will win a name for yourself." "would you come to hear me if i did?" she answered sadly. "most assuredly," he said, "and shower you with choicest flowers." when the lowering sun had left the gorge in shadow, and twilight had crept into the cave, mona picked up her violin, and, as if to utter her own heartache, softly played the old love song winn had first heard whispering out of that wild gorge. watching her and listening thus to what seemed the quivering of that girl's heart, his eyes grew misty. "come, dear," he said, when the sad song ended, "it's time to go home." and all the way back he held her arm and gently guided her steps among the rocks. chapter xxvi a climax when winn reached his room that evening, a letter from jack nickerson and a clipping from the _market news_ was awaiting him. the letter said: "come at once to the city, but keep shady when you arrive. go to a hotel and send for me. rockhaven is up to ten, the street is all short of it, and a bear panic may come any day. have held your stock to unload at top price. may do it to-morrow, but come anyway." the clipping was as follows: "as we predicted weeks ago, rockhaven, in spite of countless rumors put forth by the bears, has crept steadily upward. most of it is in the hands of conservative investors who know its value, and some day those who sold it so freely for five and six will be bidding fifteen and twenty for it. it is a safe purchase now on any weak spot, and good for ten points more." and winn, fresh from the spell of mona's eyes and the tender mood of that afternoon, felt that he had reached a turning-point in his life and that independence and the end of his suspense were in sight. go to the city he must, and at once, that was certain, and perhaps a small fortune was almost within his grasp! the thought made his pulses leap. all his life long he had been hardly more than a cipher, a poorly paid menial, and now possible freedom and escape from serfdom was near. then another impulse came, which was a natural sequence of the others. he had never, since boyhood days, felt that he had a home. his aunt's was but a free boarding place, and irksome at that; the city and its ways were not congenial to him--even the thought of going there now was obnoxious; and as this realization grew, there came to him, much like the sound of church bells, the sincerity, the honest friendship, the simple truth of those people he had for three months lived among. and into this appreciation also entered--mona. like all men, he aspired to some wealth and the protection it means; and now, when a little of it seemed within his grasp, there followed a nobler impulse, and that the home-building one. then when he thought of the city once more, with its social hypocrisy, its vain display of wealth, its cold, heartless life, where none seemed ready to extend a hand to him, he felt more than ever it never was and never could be a home for him. and then in sharp contrast to one city product, ethel sherman, came a thought of the girl who that morning had decked the cave with ferns and flowers, that it might seem more worthy of him. and now herself and her life passed in review. he saw her at home, patient with her mother's whims, helping when and where she could; at church bowing in reverence to the simple devotions and joining in the singing; and in the wild gorge where she hid herself away to practice. this last touch of romance seemed to affect him more than all else, and as he thought of those eyes, into which no shadow of falsehood ever entered, and how all that was beautiful in nature, from the roses that grew between the granite ledges of the island to the boundless ocean beating against its cliffs, appealed to her as to him; insensibly, and quite beyond his power to check, came the sweet illusion of love. gone for the moment was the memory of ethel sherman and the bitterness she had meted out to him, and in its place opened a new world. gone, too, was the influence of the one man who, above all others, had forced his cynicism upon winn and taught him distrust of womankind. almost, but not quite, did this gentle thraldom win, and then--the reaction came. "i will tell mona, as a big brother should," he thought, "all she has a right to know, and leave the island as i came. i may return and i may not." but winn, of wayward impulse and changeful nature, now buoyant, now despondent, knew not his own heart nor its needs, and understood not at all how some straw, some pebble of chance, would inevitably swerve him in spite of all resolution. it is thus with us all. and now came the business side of his dilemma. "it goes without sayin' ye best do as yer friend says," advised jess, when winn had read the letters to him, "'n' the sooner the better. sell yer own stock fust, if ye kin, an' then mine if ye hev the chance, but don't worry if ye can't. i'll take keer o' matters here while ye're gone, an' when ye git back, we'll haul in the net 'n' see whar we stand." "but how about the others here?" queried winn, who had worried about them fully as much as about himself. "i must see that they are taken care of." "wal," answered jess, slowly, "ye go ahead 'n' see how the land lays, 'n' mebbe i'll follow ye if ye send me word; 'n' if ye don't, an' things go to smash, i'll see none on 'em here is loser." and this was jess hutton, the man above all others whom j. malcolm weston had urged his dupe to sell stock to! never before did winn feel so ashamed that he came there as manager for the rockhaven granite company. "mr. hutton," he said earnestly, "i shall always be thankful that i told you from the start how matters stood, and if the worst comes, you will know it was no fault of mine." "i knowed ye war honest, the fust time i sot eyes on ye," responded jess, cordially, "an' now ez ye're goin' soon, it won't do ye no harm to tell ye. an' more'n that, i'll tell ye i never doubted from the start this boss o' yourn was a rascal, an' the only reason i bought a little stock was 'cause i liked ye 'n' wanted to help ye." winn felt more ashamed than ever. when he returned to his room late that evening, the moon, now a few days past its full, was just rising over norse hill and silvering the dark and silent houses along the way. no one was up, and so still was the village that his footsteps on the plank walk seemed to echo across the island. when he came to where rock lane joined the street, he paused. just beyond he could see the little church and back of it the silent village of the dead, each stone distinct and ghostly in the moonlight, to the left the motionless harbor, a glittering field of silver, and beyond the old tide mill, spectral and solemn. and faintly whispered in the stilly night the ocean voice. many times afterward that picture returned to his memory. chapter xxvii severing the ties the next day seemed to winn almost like preparing for a funeral. "i wish you would go over to the gorge with me this afternoon," he said to mona that morning, "i must leave here to-morrow, and i want to bid the spot good-by." and she, busy among the sweet williams, pinks, and marigolds that were her daily care, felt her heart sink. and winn, believing it his last day on the island, went his way, first to the quarry that had been his everyday duty for almost three months. only four men were retained, and those were to be kept at work until he returned, or until jess ordered otherwise. to no one could he say his departure was final. then he wandered about among the wharves that had so interested him the first day on the island, and spoke with the few fishermen busy there. all knew him, and each had a pleasant word and nod. he watched them at their work, salting the fish they had split and were packing, one upon another, in a large tank, or spreading cured ones on racks to dry, and packing up in bundles those that were dried. he sniffed the pungent odor and looked out seaward, where the fishing craft, with all sail set, were departing. then he strolled inward to where the little steamer made landing. she had left for that day and her wharf was deserted. winn thought that on her next trip he would be a passenger leaving the island for good. strange to say, as he passed on he noticed with peculiar interest the sign, "coffins and caskets" on a small shop just back of a house. then he followed the sandy shore of the inner harbor past an old, dismantled fishing smack, beached high and dry, on the stern of which the name "nancy jane" was still legible, and then on up to the tide mill. here he paused again, looking into the dark interior where only the sills remained, and below them a space through which the tide ebbed. and he thought of the girl who had ended her life there. somehow, all that morning these sad reminders of life and death on the island seemed to thrust themselves before him. the mood they engendered was with him when that afternoon he, with mona for companion, started for the gorge. and she was almost as silent as the old mill. "i've been bidding good-by to the island all the morning," he said, when they reached the top of norse hill, "and i hate to go away." "but you are coming back, aren't you?" she asked, with a note of pain. "oh, yes," he said cheerfully, "i hope so, but i can't tell. you know why i go, and my business here may be at its end. but if it is, i shall visit the island next summer, if i live. [illustration: the devil's oven.] "come, dear," he added, when the gorge was reached and he had assisted her down, "let's leave the violin here and hunt for sea-shells. i want some to carry away." and like two children they clambered over the rocks the tide had left bare, picking up the starfish, chill to the touch, sea-urchins, snail shells, sailors' money purses, tossed above the tide level and dried black and hard, and watching the anemones and crabs left prisoners in pools between the rocks. overhead the gulls circled and far to seaward the white sails of coasters and fishermen gleamed in the sunlight, and beside winn, following wherever he went, mona, with her appealing eyes. they talked of nothings, as usual, and he stole covert looks at her face, noting how the sea winds played havoc with her loosened hair. later they sought the cave where the ferns and flowers she had brought the day before lay withered. "i am going to leave all but one each of the starfish and shells we have gathered," he said, "here in our little nook, and see if we will find them when i come back." "we shall," she replied, "for no one ever comes here but me, and i will watch them." it was a child's thought, but there are moments in our lives when to act like children is a relief. "i hope you will come here often," he added, "and feel this is our playhouse, and when i think of you i shall always see you as you are now and in this cave. and you must keep up your practice and i shall send you some new music and write to you, and if you have a picture of yourself, i should like it." "i have only one, taken when i was a little girl," she answered, "but you shall have it." he could have had her heart, and soul even, had he asked it. "now play for me, dear," he said very gently, "some of the old songs you play best." and once again, as many times before, winn visited the banks of "bonnie doon" and the fields of heather over which the tartan-clad ranks marched to the tune of "the blue bells of scotland" and "the campbells are coming." and he heard the pipes droning and saw "bonnie dundee" with waving plume and the sweet lassie "comin' thro' the rye," and heard the love plaint of "robin adair," "auld robin grey," and the undying heart-cry of sweet "annie laurie." and into these was blended the low lullaby of the ocean. when it was all ended and the twilight had come, without a word he held out his hand, and slowly and in silence gently guided her footsteps out of the gorge. along the devious way among the ledges he led her, a drooping flower, thirsting for one drop of the water of life, one word of love, ay, one word of pity! the purple shade of coming night had crept in from the wide ocean ere they reached the old stone tower, and here he paused. full well he knew what every impulse of his own heart called upon him to utter, and yet his lips were dumb. full well he knew how the girl who stood beside him felt, and the heartache that was her portion. and still he was silent! the chill night breeze from the sea swept over the hill. suddenly the girl shivered. and then, as he looked out upon the darkening sea and heard the solemn requiem sounding below the cliff, the voice of eternity and life and death speaking there unsealed his lips. the next moment mona was clasped in his arms. "god help me, little girl," he said, "i love you." later, the moon, smiling approval, rose out of the ocean, and when the two, now one, turned to go, once more he gathered her close to his heart. "you will come back now, won't you?" she said. and looking into the tear-wet eyes upraised to his, he kissed her once, twice, thrice. "surely," he answered, "my heart is here now." chapter xxviii on 'change in wall street, the most gigantic gambling mecca the world knows, where millions change hands every hour of the five of howling delirium that constitute a stock-exchange day, the two parties, "bulls" and "bears," wage a financial war. each has its general, recognized leader as well as a dozen lesser ones, who organize pools and cliques, manipulate news, issue statements that are pure fiction, pay for items in the press that are fairy tales, gather their moneyed forces into aggregation for practical robbery of others, and bend all energies of brain, experience, and knowledge of conditions to one focal point, and that either to depress or enhance the value of securities. each main army has its general method, controls its banks, pays enormous tolls to telegraph companies, fixes rates of interest at will, pays for and colors the daily utterances of its own newspapers, and buys truth and falsehood with equal readiness at so much per line. this describes the two parties generally; yet the men who constitute them are daily changing, and out of a thousand who may be among the bears to-day, half might be found with the bulls a week hence. some may be on both sides at once, pushing one stock up and another down, a kaleidoscopic jumble of half insane human beings, whose statements as to value, conditions, and their own intentions bear no relation to the truth and are not expected to do so. it is a contest of cunning, a war of falsehood, a battle of deception. and those who fall by the wayside excite no pity, receive no consideration, and if they rise not by their own exertion, they are kicked out of the way. professionally speaking, lawyers have been called legal liars, but compared to stock manipulators they are walking examples of truth and veracity. a lawyer may lie and can if necessary, but a stock operator lies all the time; from sheer force of habit. a lawyer might lie to judge, jury, or his own client, but there is some chance that he may tell the truth to a brother lawyer; while stock brokers will lie to each other on all occasions, and if necessary swear to it. and this is business in wall street! a few other great cities have their lesser wall streets, and where weston & hill, like a deadly upas tree, flourished for a time, a mimic wall street existed. it had its clique of bulls and bears, its _market news_, its leaders, large and small, its daily contest of lies and money power, and though weston & hill were not among its members, their broker, simmons, was--an active and unscrupulous mouthpiece, ready to fleece all fellow-brokers, or the firm he acted for, if necessary. he had bought or sold rockhaven stock, as its prime mover, weston, directed; circulated lies galore for three months; and by the occult process of manipulation had slowly worked the price up from one to ten dollars per share, and had so colored his lies and so managed the deal--now selling a thousand shares quietly, then buying them back ostentatiously--that, as the phrase goes, "the street was kept guessing all the time." some believed it was a good investment; more felt sure it was a "wildcat," and that soon or late the bubble would burst and the stock go down to rise no more. only simmons and weston knew what was to be the outcome, but neither was likely to tell. more than that, they knew how much stock was in actual circulation or held by the street, and beyond that, a close approximation of how great a short interest had accrued. each day since rockhaven had been quoted at all, simmons had made entry of all recorded sales, and knowing how much had been issued and how much bought in by himself, endeavored to keep track of it. it was fallacious, for the same stock might be bought and sold a hundred times, and the long and short disparity remain the same. one thing he knew,--how much had actually been sold, and out of this (a matter of thirty thousand) fully twenty thousand, he believed, would never be heard of on the street. but he reckoned without winn hardy. rockhaven had been jeered and sneered at by the bear party; its backers, weston & hill, were known to be sharpers; their broker, simmons, bore the same reputation; prediction that it was a wildcat and they unloading it on to the street had been repeated a thousand times; the _market news_ items were considered unreliable, and on the strength of all this hotbed of lies the knowing ones had sold the stock all the way up. some had covered it at a loss, and smarting from that had sold again at a higher price, firmly believing it must fall some day; and when poor duped winn, unconscious of the situation, was steaming toward the battleground, a dozen growling bears were selling rockhaven at every point advance. only bears sold to bears, however; for those who held what was out owned it at a lower price, and so long as it kept up they parted with none. it had opened that morning at ten and one-half, by noon rose to twelve and one-quarter, and at the delivery hour of two was firm at fourteen. simmons had bought a few hundred when it had dropped a half point, just to cheer up the game, and knowing those who sold had none to deliver. a few bulls who owned it at five and six started a story that a corner had been engineered, and predicted that it would go to thirty inside a week. and when the gong sounded that day, and the market closed with rockhaven at fifteen and one-quarter bid and sixteen asked, a few of the fur-coated liars looked askance at one another and went out and drank liberally to keep their courage up. and that night weston and simmons held another conference. it was a vital one; for before it closed some ten thousand shares of general securities weston & hill either owned or held in trust passed into simmons's possession, and when the two conspirators separated, one was richer by nearly two hundred thousand dollars, based on the market price of these securities, and the other gloating over the prospective robbery of his hated partner. but a halt came the next day, for simmons bid sixteen for a block of rockhaven, a few conservative bulls unloaded and the price dropped two points, while the bears took courage. chapter xxix the bubble rises it was early dawn when winn stepped from his train and into the ceaseless babel of the city. market wagons were crowding the streets, the army of workers hurrying in every direction, newsboys shouting, humanity elbowing and pushing, draymen seemingly ready to run over him,--and this was his welcome back into the monster hive he had left three months before. what a contrast to rockhaven! then to a hotel, a bath, a barber; and, finally, when he had made himself somewhat more in keeping with the well-groomed if heartless city folk that he must now meet, he secluded himself in a corner of a dining room, where he breakfasted behind a morning paper. he first turned to the stock page, fully expecting to see the name "rockhaven" staring him in the face; but he did not. then his eye ran down the column of quotations until, among the unlisted securities, it rested on "rockhaven," thirteen bid and fourteen asked. and strange to say, the thirteen seemed significant; and now he looked elsewhere, feeling sure that he would find the rockhaven granite's company's advertisement, but failed. there were others equally alluring, and to his mind equally deceptive,--oil, mining, development, building, and every other sort of scheme confronting him, each promising safe and sure returns and assuring the reader in fervid language that "now is the time to invest." and so eager were these swindlers to catch the unwary, that some offered stock for five cents a share, and non-assessable at that. never before had winn realized that schemers could descend to such pitiful methods as to issue, sign, and keep record of stock at a nickel a share! a trap to catch even newsboys! turning in disgust to the column of market gossip, he read the following: "out of the multiplicity of investment organizations now crowding each other on all sides, a late one, the rockhaven granite company, has forged to the front, its stock having crept up from one to fourteen dollars per share. but little is known of this company, and conservative investors believe the unusually rapid advance in its stock solely due to manipulation." in this great human hive and on the pages of this leading newspaper the million-dollar scheme of weston & hill was only entitled to one line in the list of quotations and a five-line news item. and winn thought himself and his troubles to be of small concern. but his troubles enlarged rapidly when jack nickerson came to his room later on. "well, old man," said that cheerful sceptic, looking winn over, "you don't seem to have the odor of fish or any barnacles about you. you have had a hair cut, i see; and now if you will visit a tailor, you will soon be one of us again." "yes," laughed winn, sarcastically, "i'm back where clothes make the man and put thieves and honest men on the same footing. but how is rockhaven coming on?" "it's not only coming, but it is here,--at least its only honest supporter is," answered jack. "where is your old fiddling friend, hutton? i expected you would bring him along to look us swindlers over." "no, i left him down at rockhaven at peace with all the world and philosophizing on human depravity," answered winn; "he would be as much out of place here as you would be there." "well, you'd best send for him, or else all the stock you sold on the island," asserted nickerson, "and do it now. matters have reached a climax, as i wrote you, and page wants to 'do' old simmons. we have held your stock for that purpose, and we want all we can get besides. the street is all short of it; and when they get scared, as they will soon, and simmons tries to unload on them, we propose to be in the dance. can't you wire the island?" and winn, once more in touch with the active life of the city, paused to collect himself. "i might wire captain roby," he said, "and reach the island to-night. but roby has bought one hundred of this stock, and if he realized the situation, he'd faint." "well, let him," answered jack, "he'll come to quick enough when he understands his stock is worth fourteen dollars to-day and may not be worth one cent to-morrow. my belief is, if you wired him the price now, he'd point his old boat for the city and shovel coal under the boiler all the way himself." "he wouldn't do that," replied winn, "but he'd start for the island at once, and in ten minutes every one would know it." "well, wire him," said jack, "and do it now. tell him to see your philosopher." and winn obeyed. "now," said jack, "you are a prisoner here in this room until page says otherwise. if ever simmons or weston learns you are in the city, it will upset our plans. when your old barnacle arrives, we'll lock him up also until the crash comes, and then take you both into the exchange and let you see the fun. he will be all the safer anyway. some one might sell him a gold brick." "not much," answered winn, stoutly. "jess hutton can't be buncoed. he was keen enough to see through weston the moment he set foot in his store, while it took me three months to do it." "well, you're getting you eye teeth cut slowly," laughed jack, "and in a year or two you'll know sheep from goats. i'm sorry you can't go to call on ethel sherman this evening, but you can't. it's just as well, for when she hears you have come out on top of rockhaven and are worth a few thousand, she'll receive you with more warmth. she is back from the mountains, brown as an autumn leaf and looking out of sight. if i didn't know she was the most heartless and selfish hypocrite ever clad in petticoats, i'd make love to her myself." and jack nickerson, the inveterate scoffer at all things, took himself away. that day rockhaven was bid up to twenty, the short interest more than doubled, and the two arch conspirators, weston and simmons, in the privacy of the latter's office that night, held a love feast, nudged each other in the ribs, and laughed and joked while they smoked costly cigars, feeling sure a small fortune was within sight. "i think it's best to let 'em bid it up to about forty," said simmons, in a self-confident tone, and as though the street were within his grasp, "and then i'll feed those hungry bears granite chips by the shovelful." "i flatter myself," he continued, "that i have engineered this deal as but few could; and if this pious old hen, mrs. converse, attends strictly to foreign missions a few days longer, all will go well." "no need to worry about her," responded weston, whose spirits had also risen. "i, too, am fairly smooth, and have persuaded her to leave her stock with me to sell when the right time comes; and i have also subscribed five hundred toward a home for old ladies she is interested in. that's the way i _converse_ with her." and the two laughed at this poor pun. little did either realize that nemesis, with three thousand shares in reserve, lurked in broker page's office, and that another thousand in the pocket of the "fossil who fiddled," as weston had once called jess hutton, would be added to that avenging club, inside of twenty-four hours. chapter xxx the bubble bursts in response to winn's summons, dressed in a somewhat faded and nondescript garb, with bell-crowned silk hat of ancient style, jess hutton reached the city. and he was a picture! his coat, a surtout with small gilt buttons, a reddish brown vest, trousers of gray mixed stuff, a high collar with black satin stock, and his ruddy brown face with fringe of gray beard and keen twinkling blue eyes made him conspicuous. he carried a cane, limping a little as always, and when he greeted winn on the station platform, the latter felt that all rockhaven had arrived. "ain't this a _leetle_ sudden?" he said, when the two had shaken hands. "i sorter cac'lated ye'd send fer me, an' when i got the message i thought o' old abner tucker's tombstone. he'd allus been skeered o' lightnin', an' when he got hit his widder had his stun sot up 'n' put on't, 'i 'spected this, but not so soon.'" "i'm glad you came," said winn, heartily, "and hope you have brought all the stock i sold on the island." "oh, i fetched it all, even the parson's, 'n' he told me a blessin' went with hisn," responded jess. and then winn, more light-hearted than ever before in his life, hurried the old man into a carriage. "we are to keep in hiding," he said, "until my friends say the word, and then i'll take you to the stock exchange and we will see our stock sold." "i don't see no use in hidin' in this 'ere jumble o' humanity," asserted jess, as their vehicle became entangled in a street blockade, "the puzzle on't here 'ud be to find anybody ye wanted." "it's best that we hide, however," replied winn. "if weston caught sight of either of us, he would know our errand here at once." "i don't cac'late he'd 'member me," said jess, "though i'd recklect them gray stun'sls o' hisn out o' a million." and winn, contrasting the old man's present raiment with what he usually wore, concluded he was right. but that evening, when page and nickerson were ushered into the room where jess was held in (to him) durance vile, there was a scene. "i'm powerful glad to meet ye, gentlemen," jess asserted, shaking the hand of each in a way that made them wince, "i'd a sorter cac'lated brokers had horns 'n' claws the way ye're spoken on, but ye look purty harmless. i suppose ye air brokers," looking from one to the other, "an' which sort air ye, bulls or bears?" "either one or the other, as occasion serves," answered page, laughing heartily. "we get together and toss or claw one another, according to the market, and when the fracas is over, count our cash and go out and drink to each other's good luck." and this, be it said, fairly expresses the financial warfare daily waged "on 'change." "i've read 'bout yer doin's," continued jess, "an' i allus cac'lated ye were all a purty slick crowd o' deceivers, an' best ter steer clear on. i'm a sort o' an old barnacle livin' on an island, 'n' when this 'ere weston woke me up one day, i made a fairly good dicker with him, an' 'long come this young man, 'n' i'll own up i kinder took ter him, bein's i hadn't chick nor child 'n' nothin' fer company but an old fiddle, 'n' just ter help him out, bought a leetle stock. i got a few o' the rest to buy some, 'greein' i'd see they wasn't to lose by it. i fetched it 'long, 'n' i tell ye, mr. hardy, yer message has stirred up quite a fuss. i'll bet yer landlady, the widder moore, hain't slept a wink sense, 'n' if roby hadn't been obligated to uncle sam, he'd 'a' started fer the mainland that night." "you are just in time, mr. hutton," observed page, interested in this honest old man at once, "and unless all signs fail, i'll sell your stock to-morrow at ten or twenty times its cost. how would you like to carry back five thousand dollars for yourself and double that to distribute among your friends?" "they'd all hev fits," answered jess, "an' 'ud quit fishin' an' start to quarryin' right away. but i don't cac'late ye will, mr. page, an' we'll all on us be satisfied to git our hats back. hope ye may, though; but thar's no use in countin' chickens till they're hatched." and jess hutton, the cool and collected philosopher that he was, did not for one moment hope even that he would more than receive his money back. in his understanding of the matter, this quoted price for the stock was a mere fiction, and he felt sure that when it was actually offered for sale, no one would buy. to him it seemed like selling so much air. never in his life had he set foot in a stock exchange, and when the next day, just as the great clock in the exchange marked nine-fifty, and he with winn and nickerson took seats in the gallery, no hint of the coming turmoil came to jess, and fortunately no suspicion of his or hardy's presence in the city had reached weston or simmons. then the gong sounded and bedlam ensued. [illustration: the bubble bursts.] in an instant, a hundred men who had been chatting with one another in the pit, and as many more, as if by magic, leaped out of hiding, and a howl went up. they gathered in knots around the poles, pushing, pulling, yelling like demons, waving their arms aloft with fingers open, closed, or separated--a deaf mute alphabet used by these delirious men to buy or sell; and as they screamed and screeched and pushed and swore in a mad scramble, fortunes melted away or were created. and on one side of that fiscal arena, tall, gaunt, with a fringe of gray hair about his poll, and watching with eyes as merciless as a lynx ready to spring, stood simmons. on the other, as alert, but younger, with the easy _sang froid_ of one skilled in this battle of values, stood page. full well he knew what his enemy's tactics would be, and that when the crowd began to rally around the rockhaven pole, he would creep up like a panther, and at the right moment overbid the highest. none were buyers, for none wanted rockhaven at its present price, except frightened bears seeking to cover, and well simmons knew it. and so did page, with his four thousand shares, waiting for the bear panic sure to come. rockhaven's turn now came. it opened at sixteen, then up to seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, without a halt; a breathless trio in the balcony attentively watched the dial where its price was recorded, or page, who held their fortunes in his hand. and then came the panic; for it had reached twenty, and simmons, like a spectre, advanced, bidding twenty-one for ten thousand shares! then two bears, short as much each at five and six, lost their heads. up, up it went by leaps of two, three, and five points, bid by these half-crazed speculators, while page eyed simmons. two tigers of finance, cool, calculating, merciless! the jam about the pole grew worse. a screaming, pushing, mad mass of beings, insane with greed! some on top, some under, and all cursing, yelling, a writhing monster, all heads and hands, the like of which can nowhere else be found. thirty was bid, then thirty-two, four, six, eight! then forty! and then page, calculating to a nicety, leaped in! in an instant, almost, the price fell twenty points, for simmons, quick to see his enemy's offer to sell, lost his nerve and offered blocks of ten and twenty thousand shares down, down at any price! and the scared bears, as quick as he to see the tide had turned, joined the downward bidding. but page had sold! winn and jess were saved! the bubble had burst! conscience, as in all great climaxes of human feeling, was a factor in the crash; for simmons, knowing that he had once wronged and robbed page, intuitively felt that a revenge was coming, and to save what he could out of the wrecked plot, joined the insane selling. for once in his life he played the coward. after the financial delirium was over, there was a scene between him and weston, over which it were best to draw the veil. a more hilarious episode, however, occurred in page's office, when all met there after the exchange closed. "i didn't win out as i hoped," page said to the rest, "for the market broke like an egg-shell. i unloaded the four thousand at an average of twenty, however, and had the pleasure of seeing simmons gnash his false teeth and shake his fist at me, which was worth as much more." then turning to jess he added: "how did you enjoy the pow-wow?" jess smiled. "i've seen a passel o' hungry hogs squealin' an' pawin' over a trough, an' two dogs fightin' over a bone. i've seen a cage o' monkeys all mad an' makin' the fur fly, an' if the whole kit 'n' boodle had been put in a pen 'n' sot a-goin', it wouldn't 'a' ekalled the fracas i've seen to-day. how any on 'em got out 'thout broken bones is more'n i kin see. i'd 'a' gin a hundred to 'a' held the nozzle o' a fire-engine hose 'n' squirted water on 'em." "how would you have enjoyed being among them?" put in nickerson, to whom the old man with his grotesque raiment and speech was a source of merriment. "i wouldn't 'a' sot foot 'mong that crowd o' loony-tics fer a hundred dollars," answered jess. "i cac'late they'd 'a' turned to 'n' bit me, same ez mad dogs." "they'd have played foot-ball with your hat," responded jack, who knew the ways of brokers, "and in two minutes you wouldn't have had a whole garment on you. i've seen them tie a man's legs and drag him around the room with a rope, then toss him in a blanket for a wind-up. they are a tough lot, and a stranger who gets into their hands meets hard usage." "that's about the idee i had on 'em," said jess; "they're wuss'n injuns, an' ain't satisfied with takin' a man's money, they want his hair, hide, 'n' toe nails. if ever one on 'em comes ashore on rockhaven 'n' i'm around, he'll think he's run into a hornet's nest. we'll use him wuss'n we did abe winty. he was a shiftless cuss that got out into the island somehow 'bout ten year ago, an' begun beggin' for a livin'. he 'lowed he had asmer an' heart troubles an' a tech o' liver complaint, 'n' jest couldn't do no liftin' or any sort o' hard work. he fooled us a spell, till we began missin' things 'n' found they were gittin' into the hands o' a low-down fellar who sold rum on the sly, 'n' then we held a sort o' indignation caucus, 'n' abe wa'n't invited. we had diskivered by this time that abe's heart 'n' liver was doin' business 'bout ez usual, 'n' the only thing that ailed him was downright laziness. we sorter compared idees at the meetin', an' the upshot on't was we concluded the island wa'n't big 'nuff for him. we'd tried all manner o' talk to shame him, but callin' names an' 'busin' him didn't hev no more 'fect than rain on a duck's back. we'd tried coaxin' an' cussin' to git him to work, but him 'n' work wus mortal enemies, 'n' when he couldn't beg 'nuff to eat he'd steal it. suthin' had to be did, 'n' we did it. fust we ketched 'n' shackled him 'n' locked him up in a fish-house fer two days, feedin' him on bread 'n' water,--mostly water at that,--an' when he'd got good 'n' hungry we sarved him a meal cooked with drug stuff, 'nuff in it to turn the stomach o' a digger injun. he was that starved he et it middlin' quick, an' then, to make the preceedin's more interestin' to abe, the man that took the vittles to him told him pizen had been put in 'em 'n' he hadn't more'n an hour to live. then we gathered round, peekin' in the door 'n' winders ez if cac'latin' to enjie abe's dyin' agonies. it wa'n't long 'fore the drug stuff began workin', an' abe, he got more scared than old bill atlas was when we sot the sea sarpint up to meet him. he hollered for mercy, an' when his vittles started to worry him he began prayin' an' took on woful, an' we just lookin' at him sober-like, ez if his end was clus to. the perceedin's lasted 'bout two hours, 'n' by that time abe wus so weak he couldn't hold up his head. then we straddled him on a rail 'n' carried him to the boat, 'n' cap'n roby sot him ashore." "how would you like to serve weston that way?" put in winn when the story was ended. "i wouldn't mind," answered jess, chuckling at the thought, "though i cac'late we've come purty near gettin' square with him. i'd like to see him humsoever, jist about now, 'n' tell him old rip van winkle hez woke up, 'n' if he wants any more quarries i'll 'commodate him if he'll come to rockhaven." then when page had made up the accounts of all three whose stock he had sold, handing each a check for their dues, all shook hands and separated. and so warm was winn's heart toward the old man who had "sorter took to him on sight" that he escorted him to the hotel and remained with him until he left for rockhaven the next morning. chapter xxxi two dogs and a bone when the market closed that afternoon there was a scene in simmons's office and an exchange of lurid language and mutual recrimination between weston and himself unfit for publication. weston cursed simmons for an arrant coward and a doddering old idiot, and simmons abused weston for a stupid fool who believed his dupe, hardy, was blindly quarrying granite and selling stock to other dupes, when, instead, he had kept posted, come to the city in the nick of time, and tipped over their stock dish. "the next time you pose for a great financier," said simmons, with biting sarcasm, "and try to engineer a corner, you had better place half your stock in the hands of your office boy and tell him to attend the ball games each afternoon. then advertise what your intentions are in the papers. it would be on a par with what you have done. you may be able to pray with a stupid old woman and hoodwink her, but as for doing business with men, you have mistaken your calling. you can't even deceive boys!" and j. malcolm weston, realizing how he had failed on winn, who he now knew was in the city, and had been in the exchange that day, hung his head in shame. he even forgot to stroke his "stun'sls," as jess called his side whiskers. but there was one solace left him, and he proceeded to carry it out. in fact, he had made preparation to do so already. "we will close up our business now, mr. simmons," he said in a dejected tone, when the tirade of abuse had ceased, "and in future i will employ another broker." "yes, and you are d----d welcome to do it," asserted simmons, whose wrath had not cooled. "you made a holy show of me to-day and let that upstart, page, turn the tables on me, and i've had enough of you. you had better go and hold a prayer service with mrs. converse. with rockhavens at nothing bid, she will be in a suitable mood for prayers. you might ring the changes on 'the lord giveth and the lord taketh away' with her, but you won't bear any resemblance to the lord in her estimation. take your business and your schemes and hide yourself somewhere. i would suggest you go to rockhaven and ask your 'old fossil fiddler' to play the 'rogues' march' for you." and, having thus relieved his mind, simmons, turned to his desk, and after a half-hour of careful computation handed weston a statement and check for one hundred and ten thousand dollars, which represented the net results of the securities weston had turned over to him, after deducting the actual loss they had made on rockhaven. for the money received from the sale of some thirty thousand shares at one dollar each, had more than been consumed in buying back stock at various prices to affect the market, in the quarrying operations, in _market news_ items, and various other outgoes. what weston did receive after over a year of scheming was less than the original capital hill had put into the firm. weston had previously checked out and pocketed the firm's own bank balance, and now he went the way he had for months planned to go, and that night left the city. and his wife, who had shrewdly insisted that their residence be deeded to her, in case of business reverses, shed no tears. it was a fitting climax to the life of a j. malcolm weston. but there was another episode of equal interest, and that the outcome of weston's robbery of hill. and when that has been told, no more shall either of these despicable men taint this narrative. all that day while rockhaven was first shooting skyward and then downward, hill sat in his office watching the ticker. he couldn't go on to the floor of the exchange; he knew weston was with simmons; and so, like a human hyena, he lurked in his own den, waiting for his share of the plunder. and when the tape recorded forty for rockhaven and then down to nothing in less time than it can be told, hill was the happiest of men. he knew the plan was for simmons to sell at forty, and supposed that he had done so. and in his greedy joy he began figuring how much his share of the street's robbery would be. no thought of the poor widow, whose child was even then at her work in his outer office, came to him. he knew this confiding woman had, at his suggestion, invested her all in rockhaven, and that now it had been swept away. it mattered not. neither did he think of mrs. converse, more especially weston's dupe, and whose stock, now worthless, was locked in their safe. no thought of young winn hardy, their faithful helper, and his loss came. no thought of anybody who had lost by them and must suffer entered his narrow and backward-sloping cranium. he only thought of himself. and his deep-set eyes gleamed with the miser's joy, and his shallow conceit swelled with pride. now he was a great financier! now he was a power "on 'change"! when the market closed and the now beggared stenographer and other office help had gone home, he still waited. weston would surely come soon and acquaint him with the results of their great achievement. but weston came not. and hill still waited. and as one hour and then another was ticked off by the office clock, he ceased computing his share of the coming gains, and an intuitive sense that all was not right came to him. he was naturally suspicious, and being a thief at heart himself, quick to suspect others. and now he suspected weston! little by little his distrust increased as hill watched the office door and listened to the clock tick. trifling remarks that weston had made, half-concealed sneers he had let escape, returned to hill as he watched and waited. certainly he should come and divide, as any honorable thief ought to. but he did not! never before had weston failed to return at the close of the exchange, where he was usually closeted with simmons. why not now? and so the demon of suspicion grew. when another hour had passed and the daily workers in stores were hurrying homeward, hill could stand the suspense no longer, and taking his hat almost ran to simmons's office. as might be expected, it was closed. then in a frenzy he hurried back to his own office and rang up weston's home on the telephone. weston was not there. then he tried simmons's home, with the same result. then he went home. from gloating over the prospective fortune he expected to share, he had in a few hours become almost insane with a dread suspicion. his supper was but half eaten; he wouldn't answer his patient wife's question; he couldn't read, or think of but one thing, and that the horrible doubt and suspicion consuming him. that night his sleep was filled with fiendish dreams, and he saw weston running away and leering back at him over his shoulder. when morning came, he hurried to his office an hour earlier than usual. only the office boy was there, sweeping out. hill went to his desk, where the morning mail was left. but one letter was there, and that from winn hardy, dated in the city the night before and enclosing a check for two hundred and thirty dollars, with the information that it belonged to the firm and that he had severed his connection with them. true to his nature, even in despair, hill put it in his pocket, resolving to say nothing to weston about it. then, to kill time till weston came, he opened the morning paper. on the front page was the staring headlines:-- the rockhaven granite company gone to smash the president, weston, said to have skipped and then cold beads of sweat gathered on the face of carlos b. hill! all the horrible suspicion of the day before was now proven true! he waited to read no more, but with a groan of despair rushed, hatless, out of the office and ran to that of simmons. that icicle of a man was there, calmly reading his mail. "where is weston," almost screamed the half-insane hill, "and what does all this mean?" "i haven't the least idea where mr. weston is," replied simmons, calmly. "neither do i care. i balanced our account with him yesterday at the close of business, at his request, and beyond that have no interest." "but where is he? tell me quick, for god's sake!" shouted hill, now trembling with excitement and fear. "i must know! oh, what does this mean!" "you had better go back to your own office and read the papers," answered the imperturbable simmons, in a tone of disgust. "and when you go out again, put your hat on. as for weston, i've done with him, and good riddance. he made a mess of his scheme, an ass of me 'on 'change' yesterday, and i hope i'll never see him again." and the always cool simmons turned to his mail. nothing short of a panic on the street or an earthquake ever disturbed him. "but where is all the money we made yesterday?" came from hill, in strident voice. "i want it, and i want it now!" and he did want it more than he wanted good name, fame, wife, home, life, health, or god even! "we made no money out of rockhaven," answered simmons, too disgusted even to be polite; "and i told you once, i have squared my account with weston and paid him all i owe him. if that is not enough, i'll sing it to you." and hill, too agonized to feel an insult even, turned away. back to the office he ran and read the long account of how rockhaven had gone up like a rocket and down like a stick. he also read how simmons had, at the critical moment, been worsted by page, and even a description of jess hutton, who was present to see the fiasco. for page, not satisfied with his triumph, had called up a reporter, and it is small wonder that simmons was thoroughly incensed. there was sarcastic reference to him in the article: weston was ridiculed, and even hill did not escape, for this sacrilegious scribe had suggested that he could cool his rage at being baffled by fanning himself with his own ears. it was a malicious thrust, for the one feature about himself that hill was ashamed of was his enormous ears. in the midst of this added agony, in walked a clerk from their bank to inform him the account of weston & hill was overdrawn ten thousand dollars, and to make it good inside an hour or legal proceedings would follow. then hill, with a groan, staggered to their safe and opened the till where securities were kept. it was empty! then ruined, robbed, insulted, and in utter despair, he who in all his long life of grasping greed never had had one kindly thought for others, or of their needs, locked himself in his private office. and when, an hour later, an officer knocked upon the door, demanding admittance in the name of the law, a pistol's report was the only answer. and carlos b. hill, a cowardly sneak in life, died a coward's death. but the minister of his church uttered an eulogy over him, for so much had he bought and amply paid for, and a small cortège followed him to his last resting place. and among those few there was not a single sincere mourner. not even his wife! chapter xxxii the aftermath of a swindle out of all the many confiding investors who were robbed by weston & hill, only a few need be mentioned. winn's aunt, mrs. converse, was the most flagrant case of pure theft, for she was deceived through the vilest of all methods, a religious one. weston, a merciless wolf in sheep's clothing, a pew-holder in her church and plausible hypocrite, who talked the golden rule, but belonged to satan's host, easily duped her by his professions, and worse than that, gave her no possible chance of escape. the widow whose only aid in the battle for existence was the scanty earnings of her child in the office of those two sharpers, was perhaps the most pitiful one, for she lost every dollar that stood between her and the poorhouse. there were others entitled to less consideration,--clerks in stores who, bitten by the gambling instinct, hazarded one or two months' wages and lost them; cashiers in two or three banks, tempted as usual, to use money not their own to speculate with; and men about town on the watch for a good chance to "take a flyer." most of these latter lost their money in the bucket shops, and by almost as culpable methods as weston & hill, for those who were buyers of rockhaven on a margin when it went up to forty and down to nothing in a few hours were not present in these robbers' dens to take their profits, and when the fiasco was over, were merely told its sudden fall had wiped them out. those of more experience in the way of speculation, and who had "gone short of it," as the phrase goes, were of course sold out or closed out in rockhaven's wild leap upward, and like most who trust their money in a bucket-shop keeper's hands, knew nothing about it until informed that they had lost all they invested. and here and now it seems a duty to interpose a word of warning against bucket shops. we enact and try to enforce laws against all forms of gambling; we claim the right to invade the privacy of homes, even, where card playing for money is an occasional evening's pastime, and the law says that a gambling debt is no debt at all. we even assist the loser in gambling by allowing him to sue and recover his loss, when, as a matter of morals, he is just as guilty as the one who wins; and yet we allow these stock-gambling offices to open on all sides. there is not a city of ordinary size where half a dozen do not flourish, and hardly a country village that has not one or more, ready to tempt incipient speculators to invest in the gambler's chance. they all do business on the same basis, viz., bet against the fool who buys or sells on a margin. they do not actually buy or sell a share of stock; their managers are merely like the dealers in a faro bank, paid to run the game. their sole stock in trade is a leased wire over which to receive quotations, a handsomely fitted office bearing the legend, "bankers and brokers" (it should be, bankers and breakers), a gilt-lettered fiction of capital invested--and unlimited nerve! they know full well that the lambs who stray into their den, and by good luck secure a small profit, will at once grow vain of their speculative skill and invest again. even if these dupes win twice or thrice, it only results in a greater exultation, and the end is the same--they lose. it is as inevitable as the tides or the sun to the majority, and while now and then one by sheer luck may win at this great gambling game, nine out of ten will lose, and the keeper of the shop rides in an automobile while they walk! if these parlors of temptation were open only to men who realized the chances they were taking and could afford to lose, it would be a different matter; but all who wish to gamble may enter, and the cashier of your bank, paid a pittance that is but a premium on dishonesty, is liable to be the first one. and when he, lured on and on by that elusive hope that next time his guess may be right, has falsified books and made ducks and drakes of your money, you wake up some fine morning to read the old, old story, and learn that he has journeyed abroad. and the bucket-shop keeper across the way smiles softly to himself and says nothing. and puck, looking down upon us human ants, also smiles and says, "what fools these mortals be." the great rockhaven granite company, only one out of a thousand others of similar end and aim, was but a mere ripple on the sea of speculation. it was active while it lasted, it brought sorrow and tears to many, a small fortune to a few, transferring to them the money of others, and left dishonor and disgrace in its wake. on "the street" it was a nine days' wonder how so colossal a scheme could be foisted upon them and carried so near a successful culmination, and then, as usual, it was forgotten. others as transparent took its place, and so the mad wave of speculation rolled on in the city. but on rockhaven there was rejoicing. chapter xxxiii a touch of heroism when winn bade good-by to jess hutton he realized for the first time how closely his life had become linked to rockhaven. the old man, burdened with the responsibility of twenty thousand dollars safely tucked under his pillow the night before, had not closed his eyes in sleep. he seemed as much cast down as winn. in truth, he was more so, for the hand of time had swept him beyond the influence of dollars, and human sympathy and his own feelings were of more account. "we, all on us, owe ye more'n we kin ever pay back," he said when the moment of parting came, "an' if ye realize how ye stand with us on the island 'n' how glad we'll all be to hev ye back with us, ye won't be long in comin'. ye had the chance to rob us, an' ye didn't. instid ye did the best ye could to save our money 'thout thinkin' much about yer own, an' that, 'long o' what ye did for the men ez needed work 'n' wages, will give ye a warm welcome back. if we could know when ye was comin' (ez i hope ye will soon), thar ain't a man, woman, or child in rockhaven ez wouldn't be on the dock to meet ye, 'n' the parson'd want 'em all to make for the church at onct and jine in singin' hymns." "i am glad you will all think so kindly of me," answered winn, his heart rising to his throat at this unexpected tribute, "and i hope soon to be with you. what i shall do now, i do not know. i have a good sum of money now that i can call my own, thanks to luck and mr. page, but as for future business or occupation, have no plans." "ye might come to rockhaven an' start the quarry on yer own hook," responded jess. "there's 'nuff on us ez'll be more'n glad to put money in, an' ye needn't be feared they won't hev confidence in ye. the hull island comes purty near bein' yourn now, fer the askin'." and then the "all aboard," that ends so many partings, came. "don't forgit us, 'n' what i've told ye," said jess, with a slight tremble in his voice, as he once more shook winn's hand, while his eyes grew moist; "don't forgit--any on us." then the train bore him away. and winn, conscious now that a friend as good and true as his own father had once been, had opened his heart to him, turned away, his own eyes also misty. and for days, weeks, and months after, the last words of jess hutton were tender in his memory. but the consciousness that he had now twenty thousand dollars safely on deposit, soon lifted him into a cheerful mood again, and when he reached his aunt's home, his spirits were at top notch. the most surprised and elated person in the city was that same worthy and excellent aunt. not a hint, even, had she received of winn's arrival in the city, and the great fiasco "on 'change" the day before was also unknown to her. when winn, using his own latch-key, walked into the sitting room, she sat by her little table reading the latest _zion's herald_, while near by her pet lap-dog slumbered in a rocking chair. "why, winn," she exclaimed, springing to her feet and kissing him fondly, "what has brought you to the city, and why didn't you tell me you were coming? or did you want to surprise the old lady?" and winn, a little proud of his financial success, answered: "i came here two days ago to surprise weston & hill, and succeeded. so much so that weston has left for parts unknown, and i am twenty thousand dollars richer for the surprise. i had to keep in hiding two days to do it, however." and then a greater surprise came to winn. "mr. weston run away," gasped his aunt, growing pale and oblivious to winn's twenty-thousand-dollar assertion. "what do you mean, winn?" "i mean," he answered coolly, "just what i say. weston has robbed his partner and left the town! the rockhaven granite company gone to smash! stock not worth a copper, and there you are! but i'm all right, auntie," he added cheerfully, "you can't lose me." and then a scene came. for a moment winn's aunt looked at him, her eyes dilated, mouth open. "the--company--gone--to--smash!" she exclaimed slowly, as the awful news forced its way into her brain. then she seemed to reel a moment, and the next sank to her knees beside a chair, her face in the cushion. "oh, my god," she moaned, "i am ruined, ruined, ruined!" and winn, half guessing the cause of his aunt's despair, was beside her in an instant. "what do you mean, auntie?" he begged. "what do you mean?" "all my money," she sobbed, "all my money has gone! twenty thousand, all i had, gone, gone, gone!" and she moaned again. winn, rising, glanced at the table where only magazines and religious papers lay, and at his aunt, still sobbing at his feet, and then a light came to him. and it must be recorded, a curse as hearty as it was profane rose to his lips, and the name of j. malcolm weston was linked with it. for winn had known how his aunt had trusted and believed in weston, and now the outcome of it was plain. a moment more only did he look at the woe-begone woman at his feet, and then he turned and left the room, and went to his own upstairs. many of us in this world do selfish things, a few of us do mean ones; but not to one in a thousand does the chance come to do a heroic one, and when it comes, not one in ten is equal to it. we think, we excuse, we evade, we haggle with our conscience and selfish impulses, and in the end self wins the day. but winn, fresh from the island, where simple good will to all men ruled supreme, and the heart-offering of jess hutton still warming his own, was in the spirit for heroism. as he sat down to think in his own room, all the years that this good aunt had been a mother to him came back. she was simple, she was over-pious, she believed all to be like herself,--good, kind, and true. and to winn she had been all that a motherly woman could be. only for a moment did he hesitate, and then he wrote a check for the small fortune he owned for a day, and descending the stairs, handed it to his aunt. "come, auntie," he said cheerfully, "don't shed any more tears over that accursed weston. you have been a good mother to me for many years, and here is your money back." then he swallowed a lump in his own throat and turned away. over the scene that followed a veil shall be drawn. that evening at the tea-table, winn, almost beyond praise now in his aunt's estimation, told the story of his summer on rockhaven and what manner of people he found there, their ways of living, and all about them, even to their dress. the little church and its poorly paid minister, whose simple and touching prayers had reached winn's heart as none had before, were also mentioned; even the two bells answering one another across the island at eventide, and the new influence upon his life and thoughts they had wrought, were spoken of. quaint old jess with his fiddle came in for a share, and the ancient tide mill and its history as well. the old tower, the bold, frowning cliffs, and the gorge with the devil's oven opening into it were described. all the island, in fact, and all it contained, except--mona. and when, late that evening, winn's aunt kissed him good night and retired to her room, she knelt down and thanked god, who had opened her heart to care for this son of her dead sister. in a different mood when he reached his room, and conscious that his life's fortunes had yet to be wrought, winn sat down and wrote to mona. and so strange a love letter was it, and so misunderstood by her, that it must be given here. "dear little sweetheart," he wrote, "my life and hopes seem to have come to a full stop and i do not know what to say to you. my summer's work, and all my ambitions, as i feared, have ended in one grand crash. out of this i saved your uncle and those on the island who bought stock. i also saved myself, or, as it turned out, my aunt's fortune, for unbeknown to me she had been led to invest in rockhaven stock and lost all. as she has given me all that i have known of home since boyhood, i should have been more than ungrateful had i not taken care of her. "what my future plans are, i cannot say. the world is wide, and some place in it for me will be found. where it is, or what doing, i know not. "it is but a few days since i left the island, hoping soon to return, and now it seems months. i recall all the charming hours we have passed together with keen interest, and yet they seem to-night like an old, old memory, returning even as the scenes of my boyhood return when i am despondent." more than this he wrote, but it need not be quoted, being merely tender phrases and without point. mona, trying to read between the lines, as well she might, imagined it to be a farewell message and a good-by to herself. reading thus, and a false reading at that, she betook herself to the old tower, and there, all alone with her heartache, while the stars looked down in pity and the ocean moaned close by, she cast herself upon the cold stones and cried her heart agony away. and the letter was never answered. chapter xxxiv a woman's wiles the bubble of rockhaven, the flight of weston, the suicide of hill furnished a few items for the city press, a little gossip among interested ones for a week, then passed into history, to be forgotten by most people. page, lionized for a day by other brokers whose scalps he had saved, resumed his operations as usual with an increased clientele; while simmons, the defeated one in this battle of values, was seldom seen on the floor of the exchange. jack nickerson returned to his wonted existence, speculating a little, gambling in the club when congenial spirits gathered, and, as usual, sneering at the weaknesses of all human kind; while winn, growing more despondent day by day at the turn in the tide of affairs, hardly knew what to do with himself. occasionally he walked past the door of weston & hill's office, now closed by the hand of law, and glancing at the legal paper pasted inside it, muttered a curse and went his way. sometimes he visited the exchange to watch the unceasing tossing of stock dice for an hour, to kill time; then to page's office to chat with him, and then to the club, feeling himself less and less in touch with this grind of city life as the days went by. he lived, too, in daily expectation of a letter from mona, and receiving none, that added to his gloom. just why, he could not understand; and then a species of pride crept into his feelings, and he imagined she might have been cautioned by her mother not to answer him. he began to feel a little hurt at the thought that this timid girl might feel afraid of him; and although swayed by emotions and seemingly his own when they parted, he feared that on reflection she had decided it best to end the matter thus. to one who is despondent, all things seem awry, and winn was now so low down in spirits that he was ready to believe himself of no account to any one--even this simple child of nature whose soul was attuned to her violin. that jess was his cordial friend he felt sure; but a timid girl, utterly lacking in worldly wisdom and as wayward in feelings as the varying sounds of the waves beating against her island home, was another matter. winn's thoughts now were full of bitterness. one sunday, coming out of church ahead of his aunt who had paused to chat with some one, he encountered in the vestibule, dressed in faultless fall costume, a picture of beauty and good taste,--ethel sherman! "why, winn," she said, advancing and extending a gloved hand, "i am very glad to see you back again. i've heard all about you and the fame you have achieved and how good you have been to your aunt. i must insist that you call this evening and tell me all about it. i've a bone to pick with you also, you naughty boy, for not answering my letter." and winn, moved as any man would be by such captivating words uttered by a young goddess in fashionable raiment, forgot all his old-time resentment for a moment, and answered as any well-bred and susceptible young man would. "i am very glad to see you, ethel," he said cordially, "and it's nice of you to say such pleasant things. if you haven't any better amusement for this evening, i will call." and call he did, to find this imperious beauty arrayed in an exquisite evening gown, in his honor, fairly exhaling sweet smiles and graceful words. and with them came back, also, all the old-time charm of her siren voice, her keen wit, her polished sarcasms, her devil-may-care _bon camaraderie_. for two years ethel sherman had been a daily thorn in winn's side. he had met her occasionally, when he simply bowed and exchanged the civilities of polite society, but nothing more. occasionally his aunt, a born match-maker, had let fall a word of praise for ethel, the intent of which was palpable to winn, but in spite of which he had determined to put her out of his thoughts. when her letter reached him on the island, he mentally contrasted her with mona and to the former's detriment, more than ever thinking of her as the type of a fashionable young woman sneered at by nickerson. his illusions regarding her had all vanished and he saw her as she was,--a beautiful, heartless, ambitious circe, conscious of her power, and enjoying it. and this evening, seated in her daintily furnished parlor, and facing the most exquisite adornment it contained, he regarded her as he did the marble copy of the greek slave, perched on a pedestal in one corner. but ethel sherman was not the girl to be long considered marble, whether she was or not; and was just now piqued by winn's coolly polite indifference. "well, my dear friend," she said eagerly, when the first commonplaces had been exchanged, "tell me all about this unheard-of island where you have been buried all summer, and this queer old fellow you brought up in the city, and the barefooted fisher maids you met there, and which one caught your fancy. i've just been dying to hear." "you seem to want an entire chapter of a novel in one breath," answered winn, smiling. "how did you find out i brought any one to the city?" "oh, i am still able to read the papers," she laughed, "and jack called the other evening. it's all over the city, as well as your firm's collapse and the part you played in it. oh, you have become famous in a day, as it were, and people who have never set eyes on you are talking about you." winn smiled, for what man could resist such subtile flattery. "i wasn't aware that i was a mark for gossip," he said, "though weston & hill must have been, and deservedly. i'm not sorry for hill, however, for i despised him, but i rather liked weston, even after i discovered he was a rascal, he was such a jolly, good-natured one." "so jack says," answered ethel, "and happily indifferent as to whom he swindled. it was first come, first served, with him." "he served hill the worst dose," said winn, "and it looks as if hill were the ultimate object of his plot, and the rest of us only pawns in his game." "you at least called 'checkmate' to him," answered ethel, smiling admiration, "but tell me about the island. that is of more interest to me. the city end of this affair is now ancient history." "oh, the island is a poem," replied winn, earnestly, "a spot to forget the world on and learn a new life. its people are poor, but honest, kind, and truthful; their houses turkey coops, their customs ancient, their religion sincere, their livelihood gained by fishing, and the island a wild spruce-clad ledge of granite with bold sea-washed cliffs and an interior harbor that is a dream of peace, seldom rippled. there is an ancient beacon built by the norsemen on a hill nine centuries ago, a ravine surpassingly grand with a cave called the devil's oven, and an old tide-mill at the head of their harbor, where a love-lorn girl once hanged herself." "a charming spot, truly," said ethel, "and if i had known all this last july, and there had been a comfortable hotel there, we should have summered on this delightful island instead of on the mountains." "it would have amused you a week," replied winn, smiling, "but not longer. there were no golf links or young dudes to flirt with there." ethel colored slightly. "that is the worst of having friends," she said, "they are bound to gossip about one. i don't mind," she added gayly; "i am a flirt and admit it cheerfully, but what else are men good for?" "not much, i admit," answered winn, sarcastically, "especially if they have money or prospects of it; and if not, they are good to practise on." "now, winn, my dear fellow, don't emulate jack nickerson," she responded suavely, "the rôle doesn't become you. you can be an adorable bear, but not a barking puppy." "jack's not a puppy," asserted winn. "i never said he was," answered ethel. "he can be worse than that; he can be a gossipy old maid, always sneering, and that is more abominable than a puppy any day. but tell me about the people on the island, and which fisher maid you fell in love with." "why should you imagine i looked twice at any island maid?" answered winn. "oh, you were bound to," asserted ethel, laughing. "you wouldn't be the delightful man you are unless you did, so tell me all about her. did she wear her flaxen hair in a braid and ask from beneath a sunbonnet, 'what are the wild waves saying?' while she stood barefoot beside you on the beach?" "oh, yes, and chewed spruce gum at the same time," he responded, also laughing. "even when you kissed her?" queried ethel. "it must have lent a delightfully aromatic flavor." winn made no answer to this pointed sally. instead he stroked his moustache musingly, while his thoughts flew back to rockhaven and mona. ethel eyed him keenly. "quit mooning," she said at last, "and come back to erin. i do not expect you to admit you kissed this fair fisher maid. it wouldn't be gallant. but you can at least describe her. is she dark or fair?" "i haven't the least idea," he said, "she was so sweet and charming; her eyes might have been sea-green for all i can tell." "you evade fairly well," rejoined his tormentor, "but not over well. you still need practice. now tell me about this old fellow jack described as a 'barnacled curiosity.'" "oh, jess hutton," replied winn, relieved; "he is a curiosity, and of the salt of the earth. if there was any one i fell in love with on the island, it was he." "that was fairly well done," laughed ethel; "you are improving and in time may hope to deceive even me." "never," responded winn, sarcastically; "you are too well skilled in the fine art of dissembling. you almost persuaded me to-day that you were really glad to see me, instead of anxious to find out all about rockhaven and its fisher maids." "that is unkind," replied ethel, in a hurt tone, "and you know it. didn't i write you a nice letter, and have i shown the least resentment at your failure to answer it? come now, be nice and like your old dear self, you big bear. i don't care if you did fall in love with an island girl. you certainly would have been stupid not to if there was one worth it, and i respect you the more for protecting her. your friend nickerson wouldn't." and winn, mollified by this occult flattery, came near admitting--mona and all the summer's illusion--for that was winn hardy's way. only one thing saved her name from passing his lips,--the fact that no answer had come to his letter. he began to feel that none was likely to, and that the summer's idyl was destined to be but a memory like to the sound of church bells in his boyhood days. then, while his thoughts went back to the island and all it contained, he told the story of his sojourn there, of jess and his fiddle, of the little church and its parson, the quarry and his men, of mrs. moore and captain roby and the fishermen who each day sailed away to return at night. only mona was omitted. and ethel, listening, became entranced at his recital. "your stay there has done you good," she said, when it was ended, "and made a broader man of you. you are not the callow boy you were, and the heroism you have shown toward your poor aunt proves it. when she told me, the tears almost came to my eyes; and while i bow to the noble impulse you displayed, it was foolish after all. it would have been wiser to have kept the money in your own hands and taken care of her. she may be led again to make ducks and drakes of her money by another weston. the world is full of them." "it didn't occur to me then," answered winn. "i did it on a sudden impulse, and now i think you are right." and be it said parenthetically that this worldly yet sincere assertion of ethel sherman elevated her greatly in winn's estimation. "come, ethel," he said after a pause, "i want to forget all this business; now don't say any more about it. most likely i acted foolishly--it isn't the first time, and may not be the last. if you want to cheer me up, play and sing for me. i've not heard a piano since i left the city." ethel, glad of the chance so to entertain him, complied. strange to say the song she selected and rendered, as she well could, with exquisite feeling, was "robin adair." then followed another of the same nationality. "i've taken to the old scotch songs lately," she said, when she turned from the piano, "and they are quite a fad with me now. they have so much more heart and soul in them than modern compositions." "give me 'annie laurie' now," suggested winn, a shade on his face. and listening well while the graceful, ring-glittering fingers of ethel sherman leaped lightly over the ivory keys, her sweet voice gave new power to the immortal ballad of olden time, while he thought only of one summer day in the cave at rockhaven and--mona. when he was taking his leave, and ethel, unconscious of the mood she had evoked, stood beside him in the dimly lighted hall, she held out her hand. her red, ripe lips were upraised, as if in temptation, and her eyes were tender with the spirit of her songs. "i hope you have had a pleasant evening, winn," she said tenderly, "and will call again soon. i'll promise not to mention the fisher maid any more if you will." and winn, glancing into the bright eyes that had once lured him to a heartache, held her hand a moment and then bade her good night. chapter xxxv the wheel of fortune for weeks winn lived an aimless life without occupation, which to him meant misery. he walked the streets to be jostled by people in a hurry, and wished that he also was. he looked into shop windows where dummies stood clad in beautiful garments, and wondered how mona would look if robed in such. he met people hurrying home from their work at night and almost envied them. in his club he felt so ill at ease that games, conversation, and even the raillery of jack nickerson bored him. he had a pleasant home, where his aunt always thought of his comfort; he escorted her to church with regularity; read the daily papers; called on ethel occasionally, to find her always the same sweet temptation. she neither allured nor repelled, but was always the same piquant and yet sympathetic friend, well poised and sensible, who judged all men and spoke of them as a mixture of nobility and selfish conceit in unequal parts, with the latter predominating. to winn she sometimes talked as though he were still a big boy who needed guidance, and then again as if he were more than mortal and out of place in a bad world. "you are discontented," she said to him one evening, "and out of your sphere among the city men. you take right and wrong too seriously and are like an eagle caged with jackdaws. city men are such in the main, thinking more about the cut of their coats, the fit of their linen, and color of their ties than of aught else. you are as unlike them as when you came here a big boy with countryisms clinging to you and the scent of new mown hay perfuming your impulses; you were always out of place here, and the three months on that island has made you more so." it was a truthful and yet somewhat flattering portrayal of winn as he really did seem to her, but it only added to his discontent. "what you say may be true enough," he answered, "but what shall i do? i can't go into an office again and be content, the taste of being my own master on the island has spoiled me for that. i would go into some business if only i had the capital, but i haven't; and i wouldn't ask my aunt to loan me any, even under the existing circumstances." "i wish i could advise you," she replied in the sympathetic tone so easily at her command. "i certainly would if i could. but whatever you do, don't go into the stock gambling. i respect you now, and i might not then." the time came when she wished that she had refrained from that expression. but a different trend of advice came to winn later from jack nickerson. "why don't you open a bucket shop, my boy," said that cynic, "and make some money? i'll back you for a few thousand to start, since you were foolish enough to part with all page made for you out of the rockhaven flurry, and it's a dead sure thing. then again you have won quite a little notoriety out of this weston & hill fiasco, and men on the street say you have a cool, level head. i tell you, open up one of those joints and let these smart alecs who want to get rich quick come in and lose their money. if you keep moping around another month you will go daft, or fall in love with ethel sherman over again, which means the same. i hear you are a frequent caller there." "i've got to spend my time somewhere," answered winn, rather doggedly, "and ethel's good company." jack eyed him curiously. "how the moth will flutter around the candle," he said. "i'm in no danger there," asserted winn, "so don't worry. once bit, twice shy; and as for the bucket shop, i'll have none of it. i'd as soon open a faro bank." "and why not?" queried jack. "all the world loves to gamble, and most of them do in one way or another. even the good people who pray can't resist grab bags and fish ponds, and until a few ultra prudes guessed it was gambling, they were all the rage at church fairs. even now, in society of the best, bridge whist and whist for prizes, afternoon and evening, flourishes on all sides. oh, it's gamble, my boy, go where you will; and you might as well take a hand in it and make money." "but a bucket shop is disreputable," replied winn, "or has that reputation, and on par with gambling dens in fact, though protected by law. it is worse than those in one way, for men who go in feel forced to put up margins to save themselves, and in the end go broke. look at the embezzlements that crop out almost daily, and nine out of ten traceable to a bucket shop. the law ought to force them to put up a sign, 'all ye who enter here will lose.'" "you have matured rapidly since you came from the island, my boy," laughed nickerson, "and now you are fit to do business. put your new scruples in your pocket and join the crowd. only those who make money are considered anybody. and how they make it matters little. make it you must, or walk in this world; and those who walk, get kicked." and winn, conscious that a bitter truth lurked in his friend's words, went his way more disconsolate than ever. but the memory of rockhaven was still strong in him, and the eyes of mona and the heart-burst that marked their parting an ever present memory. and no answer had yet come to his letter. one evening a little later, when a november storm, half rain, half sleet, made the street miserable, winn was pushing his way homeward when he saw a girl, poorly clad, a thin summer wrap her only extra garment, looking wistfully into a store window where tropical fruits tempted the passers. he recognized her at once as the stenographer who had served weston & hill. "why, mamie," he said, halting, "how are you and what are you doing here in the storm?" "i was just wishing i could afford a basket of grapes for mother," she answered, smiling at the sight of a friendly face, "but i can't. i've been out of work now since the firm failed, you see." "i've wondered what became of you," said winn, his sympathy aroused at once, "and how you were getting on. where are you working now?" "nowhere," she answered. "i've been looking for a place for two months and can't find one. mother gave the firm all her money to invest, and it's gone, and she is very ill. i am completely discouraged." then once more a righteous curse aimed at weston almost escaped winn's lips. "i am very sorry for you, mamie," he said, "and i wish i could help you." "if you could only find me a place," she replied eagerly, catching at the straw of hope, "i should be so grateful. we are very poor now." "i'll do what i can for you," he said kindly, "and maybe i can help you. i, too, was left stranded by that thief weston;" and without another word he stepped inside the store and, buying a good supply of fruit, joined the girl outside. "i am going home with you, mamie," he said cheerfully, "and take your mother some grapes. i've an idea of writing up a history of the weston & hill swindle, and i want her story." it was the first time he had thought of it, but it served as a ready excuse. then with one hand and arm loaded with bundles, and linking the other around the shivering girl's as if she were a child, the two started toward her home. "we have had to move," said the girl, as she directed their way toward the poorer quarters of the city, "and i am ashamed to take you to my home. we have only two rooms now." "oh, you mustn't mind me," answered winn, briskly. "i am a fellow-sufferer with you now, you know." when her home was reached in a narrow side street and up three flights of stairs at that, poverty and a woman coughing her life away beside the kitchen stove told the tale. winn noticed that the supper awaiting the girl was of bread, butter, and tea only. "it was very kind of you to come, mr. hardy," said the mother, in an almost tearful voice, when he was introduced; "and if you can find a place for mamie, it will help us very much." and then she told her story. it need not be repeated--its counterpart may be found by the score in any city where legalized thieving like weston's scheme ever dupes the credulous, and is as common as the annals of simple drunks. to winn it was new, for he had no idea his former employer could be so vile as to induce a poor widow to invest her all to meet inevitable loss. and be it said here, that if the world at large could realize how many sharks are ready to prey upon them with the tempting bait of countless schemes, promising sure and rich returns, big interest for their money, guarantees of all kinds (on paper), and flanked by long lists of names, they would look at "farm-mortgage bonds," "gold-mining stocks," "oil stocks," "cumulative gold-bearing bonds," and the whole list of traps set for the unwary, as so many financial perils. and be it said also, that if the securities held as collateral by half the banks could be scrutinized, and the foundations they rested upon understood by all the confiding depositors in these banks, a panic would ensue that would sweep this land of credulity like a typhoon. winn hardy, who by sheer good luck had saved his aunt's fortune, listening to this poor widow's tearful recital of her woes, gnashed his teeth at the departed j. malcolm weston and vowed that he would show him up in the press. when he bade good-by to the girl and her mother, promising to look out for a place for the former, he stopped on his way home at a market and paid for an ample supply of necessaries to be sent them on the morrow. more than that, he went to page and, telling the tale, insisted that he give the girl a chance to earn a livelihood. and to no one, not even his aunt, did he tell what he had done. chapter xxxvi going, going, gone! winn hardy, agentle child when the hand of want was stretched out to him, but a lion in wrath at all iniquity and injustice, was not long in carrying out his thought to write the history of the rockhaven granite company, and for the sole purpose of a warning. to do so, came as an excuse to protect the pride of the poor girl who had been his co-worker; and when it was done, the editor to whom he took it gladly used it and, more than that, praised its writer editorially. winn, as was his nature, wrote with candor, sparing not even himself or the way he was duped, and it is needless to say that his article was widely read. winn looked for no compensation, but the editor, keen to discover talent, at once offered him a position as city news reporter on the paper. and so his reward came. it was not over ample, so far as salary goes, but it was at least an occupation--what he just now needed. one morning, when passing the closed office of weston & hill, he saw on the door a notice that, at two o'clock that afternoon, all the office fixtures and other assets of this bankrupt firm would be sold at public auction. as winn stood there that wintry morning, with the hurrying stream of people jostling him as they passed, while he read this business epitaph posted upon the massive doors, what a grim travesty it seemed! he looked at the two nickel plates flanking them, once kept bright, but now tarnished, upon which the firm's name in bold black letters still stared at him, at the drawn curtains where "investment securities" in gold still uttered their lie; and gazing at these outward signs of deception and fraud, all the varying changes in his own hopes, plans, and opinions for a six months passed in review. and in fancy he leaped back to rockhaven. he peeped into the store where quaint jess hutton fiddled in lieu of company; he was one of the little gathering each sunday at church there; he saw the quarry with the men at work, the tiny dooryard with mona watering her flowers, the grand old gorge where the sea waves leaped in, and the cave once carpeted with ferns in his honor, and (most touching of all) the moment he had parted from a timid girl, while the moon, rising out of a boundless ocean, smiled at them. now, it was a memory of the past, and he, sore at heart, with only a few hundred dollars in the bank, was hunting for news items at so much a line, and the "so much" a mere pittance. truly, the whirligig of time had made a toy of him! for full five minutes he stood, with sinking spirits, and then passed on. "i'll be at this auction," he thought, "and maybe bid in my old office chair for a keepsake. besides, it will make an item." he was there on time and found that a considerable crowd had gathered. most of them were brokers or their clerks who had been in business touch with this defunct firm, and now came to witness its obsequies. nearly all had been losers in rockhaven but, as stock gamblers are wont to do, took it good-naturedly and joked one another about being "easy marks" and "good things," and looked at this auction as an excellent object lesson. the auctioneer, quick to catch the spirit of his audience, saw his opening, and with ready wit made the most of it. the office fittings--chairs, desks, tables, etc.--were put up first, and winn bought his old chair for fifty cents. then came the pictures; and a framed photograph of weston, holding the reins over a fine pair of horses, brought a quarter; another of simmons's steam yacht, a dollar; and then a crayon portrait of weston, in massive gilt frame, was handed to the auctioneer. "here we have," he said, "a costly painting of j. malcolm weston himself, and how much am i offered? it is, as you observe, an excellent picture of this napoleon of finance, and certainly cost a hundred dollars. how much for it?" an offer of thirty cents was heard. "thirty cents, did i hear?" he continued, in a disgusted tone, "thirty cents for this magnificent portrait! you can't mean it! thirty cents for a picture of one who cost some of you many thousands! thirty cents! ye gods, how have the mighty fallen! look at his winning smile, his websterian brow, his eagle eye that saw rockhaven afar! and his whiskers! and i am offered but thirty cents! why, gentlemen, the frame cost as many dollars, and think what an awful warning this picture will be to most of you. think of the beautiful tales he told, the great industry he started, the money he spent--your money, gentlemen, and i am offered but thirty cents! why, it's worth a thousand dollars as an object lesson in finance. come, don't let this master of the stock exchange be sold for thirty cents! it's a shame! thirty cents, thirty cents once, thirty cents twice, thirty cents three times, and sold for thirty cents!" and the broker who bought it didn't want it at that. the safe, with all the books it contained, was sold next, and then the auctioneer, holding aloft an open deed with its red seal attached said:-- "i now offer for sale the only real, tangible asset the great rockhaven granite company ever had, a deed of its quarry on rockhaven island. this property originally cost two thousand dollars, and was the sole basis of this gigantic scheme capitalized at one million! how much am i offered?" a wag bid ten cents, another a dollar. then came a bid of fifty. and then winn, who up to this time had been a silent spectator of the comedy, felt a sudden intuition that here and now was his chance. he thought of the island, still dear to his memory, of the men to whom his coming had been a godsend, of jess hutton who, at parting, had offered hand and heart, and of mona and the little knot of flowers he had once kept fresh in a tiny spring that bubbled out of this same quarry. and thinking thus, he bid one hundred dollars. but the auctioneer knew not of the fine sentiment prompting the offer, and continued his burlesque:-- "one hundred dollars," he said, "one hundred offered for this property, cheap at two thousand! what are you thinking of?" then, after a pause, while he waited another bid, he continued: "one hundred i'm offered for this splendid piece of real estate, with all its improvements; for this matchless quarry of pink granite, once called worth a million! why, gentlemen, have you gone daft? don't you know a good thing when you see it? it wasn't so long ago when i heard some of you eagerly bidding thirty and forty dollars for a single share in this immense property, and now you won't raise a bid of one hundred dollars for its total valuation! is this business? is this finance? come, gentlemen, wake up and buy this rich ledge of valuable granite, going for a song! think of what it has seemed to you; what might again be made out of it! think of the thousands of dupes still anxious to buy fairy tales and pay money for them! think of the money you have lost in this one! "and i am offered one hundred dollars for it! one hundred once, one hundred twice, one hundred three times, and--sold!" and that auctioneer, really disgusted this time, stepped down and handed the deed to winn. winn wrote a check for that amount, and utterly unconscious of how valuable a purchase he had made, put the deed in his pocket, and left the crowd. in a way, the whole affair had seemed much like a burlesque on a funeral, and he a mourner. when the rest had laughed at the auctioneer's sallies, no smile came to him, and he bid feeling that he was likely to obtain a white elephant. that night, in the solitude of his room, he came near writing a farewell letter to mona and enclosing this deed as a keepsake. only pride restrained him. chapter xxxvii a social cynic one evening, a few weeks after the auction, winn, in his new occupation, was detailed to report one of those affairs in high life where wealth gathered to display its gowns, and fops, in evening dress, uttered flattering nothings to beauty in undress. a crush of fashionable people who ate, drank, danced, simpered, and smirked until the wee small hours and then went home to curry one another's reputation and conduct. winn, not in the swim, was made duly welcome by virtue of his errand there, and, furnished with a list of the ladies' names and costumes by the hostess (not forgetting her own), was about to depart when he was accosted by ethel sherman. he had noticed her first, surrounded by gentlemen, and feeling he might be one too many, kept away. "why, winn," she said, coming to his side and smiling graciously as she extended her hand, "i am glad to see you. how do you happen to be here?" "business," he answered laconically; "i am a reporter now." "yes, i heard so from your aunt. you have not favored me with a call now for weeks," she said, "and you are a naughty boy to neglect me." "you are looking charming, as usual," he answered, glancing at her exquisite costume, very décolleté, and feeling that it was what he must say. "of course," she replied, "every man feels that he must say that, but you needn't. compliments are like perfume, to be inhaled, not swallowed; so let the rest utter them, and you can spare me. i'd rather know how you are getting on." "fairly well," he answered coolly, for he had really kept away from her for weeks from a lurking sense of danger to his own feelings. "it is an occupation that keeps me busy and makes a living, that is all. it may lead to something better." "i read your splendid _exposé_ of weston & hill," she continued, still smiling admiration, "and it did my heart good. i wish weston could see it. and that poor widow whose plight you described--it was pitiful." "only a sample case of the evil wrought by such as weston," winn answered modestly. "i wish i knew where he is; i'd mail him a marked copy of the paper." then, as some one came up to claim her for a dance, she said hurriedly, "i must leave you now, but please promise to call to-morrow evening, i've lots i want to ask you." and winn, yielding to the magic of her luring eyes, promised and went his way. it was after midnight before he finished his column account of this affair, and turning it over to the night editor, left the newspaper office. the streets were deserted, only now and then some late worker like himself hurrying homeward; and as he pushed on, his footsteps echoed between the brick walls of the narrow street he was following. somehow their clatter carried his thoughts back to rockhaven and one night when they had sounded so loud on the plank walk there. when his room was reached he lighted a cigar, and as once before, when he had gone to the tower on norse hill to commune with himself, he fell into a revery. now, as then, it was to balance in his mind one woman's face and one woman's influence against another's. he saw mona as she was then, as she had been to him for months, a sweet, simple, untutored girl, with the eyes of a madonna and the soul of a saint. he saw her in the cave, once fern-carpeted by her tender thought, and once again heard the notes from her violin quivering in that rock-walled gorge. and now it was all ended! then came this other woman's face and form,--a brilliant, self-contained, self-poised, cultured exotic, knowing men's weaknesses and keen to reach and sway them. a social sun, where the other was but a pale and tender moon. but winn's heart was still true to rockhaven, and the ecstatic moment, when he had held mona close in his arms, still seemed a sacred bond. "i'll never believe it is to end thus," he thought, "until i go there and hear it from her lips." but he kept his promise and called on ethel the next evening. she had been charming always; now she was fascinating, for somehow it had come to this conquest-loving woman, that winn's heart was elsewhere, and that was a spur. then beyond was a better thought, for the very indifference that piqued her also awoke respect, and he seemed to her, as she had told him, an eagle among jackdaws. "i am glad you have found an occupation," she said, as he once more sat in her parlor, "but i wish it were less menial. you have outgrown servitude since you went to the island. what has wrought the change? was it the sea winds?" "maybe," answered winn, "or constantly looking out upon a boundless ocean. that always dwarfs humanity to me. but i have some business to take up my mind. i was sadly discontented until this opening came." "i wish you had kept that money in your own hands," she said confidentially, "and used it to buy an interest in a paper. when i read your description of the reception this morning, it seemed to me that was your forte." "thanks for your compliment," he answered, "and i only wish you edited the paper now. but if you did, my pencil-pushing wouldn't strike you that way." "but it really did," she continued, "and the best of it was what you didn't say, knowing, as i do, how you regard such affairs. hiding your own opinion so well was fine art." "i wasn't expected to express my views," he asserted, "but to flatter you all judiciously; that's what makes a paper popular." "and do you think i wanted to be flattered?" she asked. "certainly," he replied, "you are a woman." ethel laughed. "personally, you are wrong; in general, right. i receive so much of it, it wearies me, knowing as i do how insincere it all is, but most of my sex, i'll admit, feel otherwise. but tell me why you haven't called for three weeks?" it was a question he could not answer truthfully, and like all the polite world he evaded it. "my work is my excuse," he said; "and then i've not been in a mood for sociability." ethel looked at him long and earnestly, reading him, as she read most men, like an open book. "winn, my dear old friend," she said at last, in the open-your-heart tone so natural to her, "i made you a promise long ago and i shall keep it, so forgive my question. but you needn't fear me. i want to be your friend and feel you are mine, in spite of the old score and this new influence. and when you are ready to trust me, no one in the world shall be more worthy of it." then they drifted to commonplaces: she, as all women will, relating the gossip of her set and chatting of the latest opera, what was on at the theatres and the like. now and then she let fall a word of quiet flattery, or what was more potent, one by inference; for ethel sherman was past-mistress in that art. and all the while she looked at winn, smiling deference to his opinions and pointing hers about others with a keen wit so natural to her. she played and sang, selecting as once before (and unfortunately, perhaps) the songs that carried his thoughts to rockhaven. so charming was she in all this, when she chose, that the evening sped by while winn was unconscious of its lapse. "i wish you would be more neighborly," she said, when he rose to go; "there are so few men in my set whom i can speak to as freely as you, and besides i want to watch your progress toward an editorial chair. forget your old grudge, and let us be good friends once more." and when he was gone, and she ready to retire, she looked long and earnestly at a photograph of him she had scarce glanced at thrice in three years. "i wish he were rich," she sighed; "what a delightful lover he would make!" chapter xxxviii the end of an idyl rockhaven, a colony by itself, had slowly increased from its one family starting-point until more than two hundred called it home. in doing this it had, to a certain extent, sustained the individuality of its progenitor, captain carver; a strictly honest, god-fearing descendant of the puritans; baptist in denomination, who regarded work and economy as religious precepts, home building as a law of god, and strict morality and total immersion the only avenues to salvation. long before the little church was built he gathered the few families about him each sunday, while he read selections and then led them in prayer. it was his indomitable religious will, as well as money, that erected the small church, and for years he led services there, praying that the time might come, and population as well, sufficient to induce a regularly ordained minister to officiate instead. it did, for he lived to a ripe old age and the satisfaction of his hopes, and to be buried on the sloping hillside back of it. also to the glory of having "founder of rockhaven" inscribed on his tombstone. he was of scotch descent, which accounted for a certain latent taste in his great-granddaughter, mona hutton. though stern as the granite cliffs of the island in his religious connections, regarding works without faith and morality, without conviction as of little value, the shadow of his mantle in time gave way to a more charitable christianity. and though the offshoot of his church, the free will baptist of northaven, was never recognized by the elect of rockhaven, intermarriages and a mutuality of interests reduced its separation in creed to one in name only. then, too, the isolation of the island resulted in the growth of the feudal instinct and a tacit leadership, vested in one man whose opinion and advice was by common consent accepted as law and gospel, and to whom all disputes were left for final settlement. captain carver had been this authority at the start, others had succeeded him, and when winn hardy came to the island jess hutton held the sceptre. all this is but history, pertinent merely to show how it came about that winn won his way so easily, and those otherwise hard-headed islanders followed jess hutton's lead without question. winn won him at the start, and the rest without effort. but a community, like a family, is upset by an unusual event, and the starting of the quarry, the investment in its stock, and the final return of jess from the city, to distribute among them sums so out of proportion to their original investments, were like so many stones thrown into a placid mill pond. and had winn hardy returned with jess, or come later, his reception would have been like that of a conquering hero. all this formed the sole topic of conversation for weeks, and hearing winn lauded to the skies as a benefactor, before whom all should bow, had a peculiar effect on mona. she, poor child, having little in common with any other and feeling herself of small account to them or even to her mother, felt herself still less so as this wave of universal applause for winn swept over the village. then another point of pride arose in her mind. while winn had sought her society often, it was as a next-door neighbor and by force of situation, rather than as a suitor, she felt; and even his visits to the cave with her were due to a romantic taste and his wish to hear her play. all this was, in a way, both right and wrong, and yet to mona, keenly imaginative, it seemed entirely true. then, too, her mother had made her feel that her violin playing was no credit; no one else, except jess, ever expressed a word of interest in her one talent, and poor mona readily felt it more a discredit than otherwise. winn only had seemed to appreciate it, and to winn her heart had opened like the petals of a wild rose. for a few days after his departure, she lived in a seventh heaven of sweet illusions with this one king among men as her ideal--his every word and smile and thought, all that life held for her. and then came his letter which, to her tender heart and timid nature, seemed but a cold farewell message. he had no plans, was uncertain of his future, and of hers had no concern. this much she read between the lines, and reading thus, her heart was broken, her courage crushed. how many tears she shed no one knew; how many hours she passed alone in utter misery of mind, no one guessed. for mona was proud as well as tender, and not even uncle jess should know that she suffered. now the waning summer, the nearing of chill autumn, and desolate ice-bound winter added to her gloom. her mother was not a sympathetic companion, mates among the other island girls of her own age she had none; only uncle jess, her violin, the cave, the flowers, and the sea. in summer she had company, in winter none, except jess. and now summer was gone and winter nearing, and poor, timid, tender, friendless mona was broken-hearted. for only a few days more did she go to the cave, and these visits increased her grieving; it was like visiting the grave of a dead love. when the november gales swept the island, mona was made a prisoner, the store and jess her only escape. here she kept her violin, and here she came to brood over her sorrow and fight her own heartache. and here, be it said, in the company of jess only did she find any consolation. he had such genial philosophy, such a happy faculty for looking upon the bright side of all troubles,--his own as well as others,--that it made him a well spring of good cheer. he was not long in guessing the cause of mona's despondency, though with his cheerful optimism, feeling sure that in good time all would come out right. he also discovered the new ambition that had come to her that summer, as well as love, and in his own peculiar way set out to solve the problem. and here it must be stated that a girl in love and separated from her heart's choice, having an ambition to go out into the world and earn fame as a musical artist, was a more complex problem than jess had previously attempted. then another factor entered into mona's troubles; for young david moore, who for years had cherished an open and loudly voiced admiration for her and between voyages always sought to woo her, now came home and, finding the coast clear, renewed his attentions. he was outspoken and assertive, full of enthusiasm and conceit. he lacked refinement, but he was frugal and owned a third interest in his uncle's fishing schooner and was very much in love with mona. worse than that, her mother secretly favored his suit. it may seem strange that the same practical sense of utility that governed her girlhood's impulses and led her to accept a ready-at-hand love, instead of waiting for an absent one, now shaped her desires toward her daughter. romance had no place in mrs. hutton's nature, neither had love of music. in her calendar, also, one man was as good as another if he behaved himself as well, and a present lover for mona, if he meant business and could provide a home, was far better than an absent one, even if the entire island cried his praises. so she favored young moore and, in the many ways a mother can, gave him opportunities. but to mona, sensitive, half heart-broken, and unable to escape this new infliction, it was inexpressible misery. so the days and weeks went by, and the snow came to whiten rockhaven ledges, the billows thundered unceasingly against them, and the little harbor became frozen over. and sometimes, in the hours of bitterest desolation, mona thought of the old tide mill and the girl who had once gone there to end her heart hunger. chapter xxxix a gray-haired romance there had been a time in the long ago of rockhaven's history when jess, then a bashful young man, had loved pretty letty carver, now the widow hutton. it had started in her school days, when they romped barefoot along the sandy shore of the harbor, played about the old tide mill, whose wheels then rumbled with each ebb and flow, or gathered shells on the bits of beach between the island cliffs. when the epoch of spelling school and walk home from thursday evening prayer meetings came, it was letty whom jess always singled out, and though she now wore shoes, he was not always so fortunate. but the little bond of feeling was none the less entrancing; and when later jess sailed away to the banks on his first fishing trip, he carried a lock of letty's jet-black hair as a token, and her sweet face was ever present in his thoughts. when he returned, browned but successful, her welcome seemed to grow in warmth; and after two or three voyages, and he could now afford a sunday suit when he visited her, gossip whispered they were likely to make a match. by this time he had begun to build the usual air-castles of youth, and though his took the shape of a humble dwelling, nestling amid the abutting cliffs in front of which rockhaven stood, it was none the less a palace to him, with letty to be its future queen. and then the war came on and jess, partly from patriotism, a little from love of adventure, and more to earn the liberal bounty his country offered, enlisted in the navy. had he been a trifle less bashful and secured the promise which letty was then willing to give, this history might never have been written; but jess, a splendid young fellow, in spite of his surroundings, lacked assurance, and all the bond that joined them, when he sailed away, was the hope on his part of what might be if he ever came back. he did in four years, covered with glory, but with a leg maimed by a bit of shell when under farragut, and before vicksburg he forgot even letty amid the inferno of war. in the meantime, his younger brother, jethro, had discovered letty, and she, practical as always, was not long in deciding that a suitor with good legs and a cottage already achieved was preferable to a hero with a lame leg and no cottage. jess bore his discomfiture philosophically, as was his nature, not even reproaching letty by word or look; and though disposed to see a silver lining back of all clouds, this one he thought best to avoid, and so took himself away. he remained away, a rolling stone for fifteen years, and though he gathered some moss, it failed to efface--letty. and then a change came; for one day the smart new fishing schooner his brother had just built with his aid sailed away on her second voyage and never came back, and practical letty was left a widow with one child, a modest home on rockhaven, and naught else. as might be expected, she sent at once for jess, and to him only imparted the facts of the situation. whether it was the smouldering embers of his boyhood illusion or the winsome ways of the child mona, now four years old, that influenced him, no one ever knew, but he at once announced that he had decided to abide in rockhaven for the future and open a store. there was one already there, but the slow growth of the village allowed a fair excuse for another, and jess established it. once more the gossips, who take cognizance of all matters, recalled the youthful attentions of jess to letty, and asserted that she would, in suitable time, discard her widow's weeds and become another mrs. hutton. she did put on more cheerful habiliments in due time, but remained a widow still; and though jess was a frequent caller, usually walking to church with her and mona on sundays, he continued, as he had started, to live by himself over his store. neither were the gossips enlightened as to the financial standing of the widow, or how much had been laid away by her husband, or her means of a livelihood. jess knew, however, and jess only; but he was the last person to impart such data to a curious public. what they did see was that he at once assumed a fatherly protectorship over his little niece, and she became his sole charge and care in life. though she ate and slept at home, tripped alone to school, and to church each sunday hand in hand with uncle jess, his store was her playhouse and his love her happiness until girlhood was reached. often on summer days he left the store, utterly disregarding trade, and with her took long rambles over the island, hunting gulls' eggs and gathering shells, flowers, or berries. he built her a boat and taught her to row it in the little harbor, talked to her for hours of the great world and its people, of the planets and their motions, of right and wrong, of religion and god. he aided her in her lessons, teaching her more and faster than she learned at school; and when her fingers could reach across the strings of his old brown violin, he taught her the lore of its wondrous voice. and so the happy years of her girlhood passed, until now, a woman grown, she had learned the lesson of loving, and had come to him with her unspoken plea for help. never had she appealed to him in vain, and never would, so long as his keen mind was active and heart normal. for weeks he pondered over this most difficult of all problems, and then he acted. "i've got a leetle matter to talk over with yer mother to-night, mona," he said, "an' if ye don't mind ye might go an' make a call on one of the neighbors. it's a sorter peculiar business 'n' it's better we're 'lone till it's settled." and it was "peculiar," and so much so that jess talked for one hour with mrs. hutton in an absent-minded way, while he studied the cheerful open fire, cogitating, meanwhile, how best to utter what he had to say, while she sat sewing diligently, on the opposite side of the sitting-room table. "letty," he said at last, "hev ye noticed mona hain't been overcheerful the last three months, an' seems to be sorter broodin' over suthin'?" "i have, jess," replied mrs. hutton, looking up; "and it's all due to notions that mr. hardy's put into her head 'bout her playin' an' praisin' her so much. i've knowed all 'long her wastin' time fiddlin' wouldn't serve no good purpose in the long run." it wasn't an auspicious opening to the subject uppermost in the mind of jess, but he paid no heed to it. "letty," he continued calmly, "fiddlin' hain't nothin' to do with the state o' mona's mind, 'n' if ye'd watched her as clus as i hev, ye'd know it. do ye 'member when ye was a gal how hitty baker, ez used ter live up to the north village, got crossed in love 'n' kept broodin' on't until one day she was missin', an' 'bout a week arter they found her hangin' in the old mill? thar's no tellin' what a gal'll do an' when she'll do it, if she gits to broodin' over sich matters." "i hope you don't think mona, brought up as she has been, will be such a fool as hitty baker was," rejoined mrs. hutton, sharply. "mona's got more sense." "'tain't a matter o' sense," jess retorted quickly, "it's a matter o' nater 'n' 'magination, 'n' the more o' them peculiarities a gal's got, the more onsartin she is apt to be, 'n' ez i said, mona ain't herself these days, 'n' unless suthin's done to change the current o' her mind, fust thing you'll find, some day, she's a missin'." "that's all your notion, jess," answered mrs. hutton, now more aroused than she was willing to admit; "an' if mona'd listen to dave moore, as i want her to, he'd soon cure such whims." "did yer mother ever make ye take catnip tea when ye was a gal, letty," responded jess, laconically, "an' how did ye injie the dose?" then, not waiting for an answer, he continued, "dave's catnip tea to mona, 'n' i tell ye it's better ye quit dosin' her with dave, 'n' purty soon, too. she's nobody to go to but me, an' i know how she feels, 'n' i don't think ye do." "have you any better medicine to advise?" came the query, as mrs. hutton laid aside her sewing and looked at jess. "i hev," replied jess, firmly, "only it'll take both on us to give it, 'n' that's what i come here for, letty. ye know how i feel 'bout mona, an' one o' these days she'll come into all i've laid by. but that's no savin' grace jist now." "an' what'll savin' grace jist now be, i'd like to know," queried the mother. "ain't helping me and having company when she likes, all that's needful to take up her mind? she's whimsical, an' that young feller hardy's put notions into her head she'd be better off without." jess was making scant progress toward his ultimate object, and realized it--also that sentiment was a matter quite beyond mrs. hutton's ken. "letty," he said at last, almost in desperation, "i've stood by ye 'n' mona purty middlin' well fer quite a spell now, hain't i? an' ye'll 'low i kin see a hole in a grinstun if thar is one, 'n' what i've sot my mind on doin' for mona'll be the best fer her in the long run, an' that is, we take her away from here 'n' give her a chance in the world." mrs. hutton looked at him in amazement, realizing not at all what he had in mind. "how can we do that?" she questioned. "thar's only one way," he answered hastily, with a now-or-never determination; "i know i'm gittin' 'long in years 'n' one o' my legs ain't workin' well, an' the only thing ye kin bank on, letty, is my heart's in the right place 'n' my feelin's toward ye hain't changed a mite in forty year, an'--an' if ye're willin' to chance it, letty, i'll do all i kin to make ye happy." a woman is seldom surprised by a proposal, but mrs. hutton was. for fifteen years now, since she had been a widow, jess had seemed like a good brother, which in truth he had been in all ways, and never once had she surmised he cared for a nearer kinship. then, as she looked at him, his kindly face aglow with earnest feeling, his keen eyes beneath their shaggy eyebrows questioning her, for one instant her heart quivered. then backward over the flight of time her memory leaped, until she saw herself a laughing, care-free girl once more, with life opening before her, and this same good friend and brother, grateful for her every word and smile of favor. then, too, came a little nagging of conscience at the way she had ignored him on his return, a limping hero, and how he had never once reproached her for it. and following that, the heaping of coals upon her head when he, coming to her rescue in the hour of poverty and bereavement, had been the only friend she had to lean upon. all the years of his tender thought and care, all his wise counsel, all his unselfish giving, all his countless deeds of love and forethought came back now in an instant, like a mighty wave of feeling, sweeping all her pride and will before it. and as she bowed her face, covering her eyes with one hand to hide the tears she could not control, once more he spoke. "letty," he said, "ye needn't mind answerin' jist now. think on't, an' to-morrow or next day tell me. thar ain't no need o' hurry. i've waited quite a spell now, an' a day or two more won't matter." "it's absurd," she said at last, when the tide of feeling ebbed, "and everybody will say so." "'tain't their funeral or weddin' either, is it?" he answered. "an' mark my words, letty, thar's more on 'em here ez'll wish us well than ye think." but when he came to go she said, "why didn't you ask me forty years ago, jess?" "'cause i was a durned fool 'n' dassent," he answered, "but i've outgrowed it now." chapter xl a good send-off out of the many weddings inevitably occurring on rockhaven but few ever attained to the importance of a trip to the mainland. the sense of utility among them, the need of every dollar toward home furnishing, and the practical side of life always uppermost in the minds of all left no place for sentiment and honeymoon. but when it became known, as it soon did, that the youthful romance of jess hutton and letty carver had finally culminated, and that the universal opinion and expectation of what they would do when jess returned to the island was about to be realized a wave of enthusiasm and friendly interest swept over rockhaven. and, furthermore, when it was learned that jess was to sell his store to captain doty, and that he and his bride and mona were to spend a few months in the city, the excitement knew no bounds, and when sunday came and the three, now conspicuous ones, walked to church as usual, it was to receive an ovation of good wishes and congratulations, and so persistent were all in good will that, when church was out, the entire congregation crowded around them. to mona it came as the surprise of her life, and went far to change the current of her thoughts and make her forget her own troubles. "i can call you papa now, can't i, uncle jess?" she had said, when he had told her; and hugging him like a child she had thus made his heart glad. it all seemed as a matter of course to young and old alike, and as the days went by it began to dawn on jess that he had not only been a "durned fool" forty years ago, but continued to be one for the past fifteen. it had been decided by them to have a quiet wedding at home, and the day set barely long enough ahead to give mrs. doty, the dressmaker, time to do her part; but rockhaven, hearing of it, objected, and the next sunday evening a committee, headed by captain roby, invaded the privacy of mrs. hutton's home. "we hev cum," said the jolly master of the island steamer, addressing jess in particular, and mrs. hutton and mona in general, "to convey the good wishes o' everybody here to you folks an' ask ye to hev yer weddin' in church so ter give us all a chance to show our good will and how much we think o' ye by bein' present. it air the univarsal feelin' here," he continued, waving his arm, as if to include the entire island, "that ye both desarve it, an' we ain't goin' to 'low ye two ter jist git hitched an' sneak off quietly. my boat's at yer sarvice, an' we feel the best's none too good fer ye both, and we hev come to ask ye to let us all jine in and gin ye the right sort o' a send-off. i might as well tell ye now, jess," he added, looking at that worthy, "jist how ye stand 'mong us and how 'tarnally grateful we all feel fer all yer good deeds toward young and old. we hain't forgot nothin' from the day ye first come back to be one on us, up till last summer when ye saved us our money on that stock bizness. we don't blame the young feller neither, and if ever he cums back, we'll all jine in givin' him a welcome as well. but now we absolutely insist we be 'lowed to start ye fair, and in style, in the new step ye two air takin'." and "start them fair" they did; for although the snow lay thick on the granite ledges of rockhaven, when the day came, and cheerless winter reigned, there was no lack of cheer in all that was said and done. first, a hundred pairs of willing hands transformed the church into a bower of green, and since flowers were not to be had, wreaths of spruce twigs, tied with white ribbon and ropes of ground pine, were used. then an arch of green, wound with strips of white silk, was erected over the gate, and the walk up to the church was carpeted with spruce boughs. the only pleasure vehicle on the island, an ancient carryall, also decked with green and white, was pressed with service to convey the honored couple and mona to church, now heated to suffocation and packed solid with the island population, while some unable to get in waited outside. then, while the rev. jason bush was uniting the happy pair, a dozen young men, unable to curb their enthusiasm, unhitched the horse from the carryall, and when they came out drew them back to the house. and then, after the two hours of reception and hand-shaking had expired, full fifty men were in line to draw that unique chariot to the boat. "it is a wonder ye didn't set out to take us on yer backs," asserted jess to the crowd on the wharf, when he alighted; "but all this fuss has warmed our feelings toward ye all more'n words'll tell." and when three times three cheers had echoed back from the now deserted quarry, the little steamer sailed away into the mist-hidden winter sea and the crowd dispersed; for weeks after the sole topic around rockhaven firesides was what object took jess hutton and his bride and mona away from the island and how long they would stay away. jess had said, "we want ter give mona a little change o' scene 'n' chance to see the world, 'n' jist when we'll cum back is no tellin'. cum back we shall some day, 'n' most likely glad ter git back tew." and then when the affairs of the hutton family no longer furnished food for gossip, the island settled down once more into its monotonous winter existence. twice a week only now the _rockhaven_ made her trip to the mainland; but few people gathered for the thursday evening prayer meeting, for extra religion was at a discount during cold weather, and only the most hardy of the fishermen ventured out. the tower on norse hill, now coated with frozen sleet, looked like a gigantic monument; the tides ebbed in and out the half-iced over harbor; the waves beat with sullen roar into the gorge that no one visited, and life among the shut-in islanders partook of the solemnity of the ocean's voice. the crowd that had made jess hutton's store their club-room still gathered there to swap yarns and discuss fish and fishing; also whether his all-winter's absence was likely to result in the opening of the quarry or not. then, too, in this news bureau, winn hardy and mona came in for a share of gossip, and many a surmise as to their future was exchanged. for they had been noticed many times together, and mona's visit to the city might mean much. no one had any data as to jess hutton's future intentions or whether hardy was likely to return; and yet, so well did he stand with them, and so hopeful were they that he would once more open the quarry when spring came, that they readily believed it would come about. of the rockhaven granite company collapse they knew not, for daily papers never reached the island, and jess for reasons of his own kept silent. the only unhappy one, however, was david moore; and he recited his woes in characteristic fashion to all who would listen. he had little idea of the proprieties, and as he had almost shouted his love from the house-tops, so now he declared his disappointment as loudly. "it's my private 'pinion," he asserted, "they lugged mona off just to spite me and get her out o' my sight. i think it's a darn mean trick, and i don't care who knows it! i kin see through the game, and they calculated takin' her to the city 'nd give that feller hardy a chance to spark her," and he chewed his quid with an increased vigor, suggestive of how he would like to serve his rival. chapter xli ein wunderbares fraulein fritz geisling, who for many years had lived in two rooms, second floor, no. amity place, was short, fat, and bald. each morning he arose at seven, went out to an adjoining cafe where german cookery was served "twenty-one meals for three dollars," as stated on its bill of fare, and returned to his domicile, glancing at the small sign, "violin lessons," placed above the upper bell, and mounting the two flights of stairs, awaited in his office, sitting room and parlor combined, the few pupils who came his way. at noon he absorbed another of the "twenty-one for three dollar" productions of culinary art, washed down with a stein of foaming beer, and then, if it were matinée day at the alhambra temple of vaudeville, betook himself thither, where he played second violin. each evening, from the opening in september until closing time in june, he was at his post, sawing away like the machine he was and as devoid of sentiment. when he escaped the alhambra, it was to join his cronies in a convenient saloon where pinocle, beer, and choice teutonic gossip relieved the monotony of his existence. year in and year out he was the same phlegmatic, good-natured dutchman, and lived the same unvarying and emotionless existence. of the great rockhaven stock scheme he had never heard, and would not have understood it if he had. of "the street" and its multiplicity of deals where "to do" the other fellow and not let him "do" you was the golden rule, he was equally innocent--a drop in the throbbing artery of human existence. and then, one winter morning, fritz returned to his lair to find awaiting him a strangely clad man and a young half-scared girl. "i'm told ye gin lessons on the fiddle," said the man, "an' if ye do, i've come to engage ye fer this ere gal." fritz bowed low, conscious that a pair of magnificent eyes were watching him. "it vash mine broveshion," he answered, "und von tollar each ish de brice. ish de lady to be de pupils?" "she's the one," came the answer; "an' i want ye to teach her all the frills, 'n' yer money's ready an' waitin' any time." "ish she von peginner?" came from fritz. "wal, sorter, 'n' sorter not," replied the man; "my name's hutton, an' this ere's my niece, miss hutton, an' i've larnt her to saw just a leetle to start her off, ez it war. if ye'd like, she'll show ye what she kin do with a bow. play suthin' slow, mona, fust," he added as a violin was handed her, "till ye kinder ketch yerself, an' then suthin' lively." mona somewhat nervously complied, and gaining courage as she forgot where she was, skipped over a half-dozen of the familiar scotch airs she could play best, while the eyes of fritz twinkled. "she vash no peginner," he said elated; "she vash blain' alretty yet very mooch." and seizing a music-rack and spreading a late composition upon it, he added, "ef de lady vill blease blay dot, ve'll see vot she can do." "ye've got'r now, perfessor," interposed jess, "she can't read that music." but a surprise was awaiting him, for though half-scared mona hesitated and made a few slips, she played the piece through to the end without a halt. "why, girlie," exclaimed jess, "i'm proud o' ye. i didn't think ye cud do so well. now, perfessor, ye kin take her in hand; 'n' mind ye don't let up on her till she's larned the hull biznes, fer fiddlin's goin' to be her futur' perfession." that night, when fritz had once more escaped the crowded theatre and was quaffing his foaming stein, could any native american translate the rapid fire jargon with which he related his morning experience, he would have heard a marvellous tale. "mein gott in himmel!" fritz exclaimed, after the fourth glass had been emptied, "but she blayed mit such feelin's und such eyes dot mit me made such strangeness feels. ach, but she vas a vonder!" and as time passed on, each of the two days a week when mona came to take her lesson only served to increase that "vonder," for now that her timidity had worn away, the genius that lurked in her fingers asserted itself. in technical art she was as yet a pupil, but in the far more impressive art of inspiration and expression, so natural to her, she had naught to learn. "she blays mit her heart und all ofer, und vorgets all i tells her of bosition und oxecution," explained fritz to his cronies, "und ven she looks at me i forgets meinself." then as the weeks went by, a new idea came to fritz, who seldom had any; and straightway he began to nurse it. "ef she so blays mit mein violin, ven i haf heard dat music all mein life, vot vill beoples dinks who vash to hear her on de stage?" he said to himself. "i vill say nodding und make some surbrises by and by." that mona had the same secret ambition he knew not, and most likely it were as well he did not. but the long upward path to her goal was not an easy one, for if fritz had lacked emotion, he excelled in detail; and each time mona forgot, as she so often did, it provoked expressions from him that tinged her cheeks with humiliation. "i have much to learn," she answered almost pitifully, whenever her uncle asked of her progress, "and so much to unlearn, it seems discouraging." "it'll come easier bimeby, girlie," he would respond cheerfully, "the fust lesson in anything is allus the hardest." but the vexations of tuition were only a small part of mona's burden; for as the weeks went by, and she became accustomed to her new life and surroundings, the old heartache returned, and as her uncle often insisted that she and her mother go out to some evening entertainment as a break in the quiet boarding-house life they led, a new fear assailed her. what if on street car or in theatre lobby she should suddenly meet winn hardy! his name had not been mentioned for many months, and it was as if he were dead. and now mona was unlearning the sad lesson of loving, and in its place came a new inspiration, an ambition so broad, so uplifting, so full of possibilities, that even the voice of love was stilled. at times the face of winn would return to her, however, and always bringing a thorn. "he is what he said all his world were," she would say to herself, "selfish, fickle, and heartless. he wished to flatter and amuse me and himself as well, but that was all." and then the moment he had held her in his arms would return to give the lie to all such thoughts. at times she hoped that she might meet him some day, just to give one look of reproach and pass on without a word; and then she dreaded to do so, believing herself powerless to resist her own longings. feeling thus a sense of the wrong he had done her, the tender looks and words he had uttered, and at last that one sweet moment,--all came back again. put him out of her mind she could not, nor his face either. by night, thoughts of him haunted her pillow, and whenever she set foot out of their temporary home, no matter where she went, and until she was safe in it again, that peculiar dread was with her. she did not know that during all these months of her suspense, winn hardy, discouraged at the utter failure of his ambition and hopeless of his future, was not only doing his best to put her out of his thoughts, but battling for another foothold in life. forget her, or the obligation whispered on rockhaven's wave-washed cliff, he could not and did not; but in the hard grind of life and competition of wage-earning, love plays only a minor part. even less so with winn than most, for he distrusted all sentiment, even in himself. few have the scope to judge another from that person's own viewpoint of needs and impulses; and mona, untutored in the ways of man, was less competent than many. to her, the words "i love you" were a sacred obligation, far above all selfish needs and vulgar money making and, like the glittering star of fame, an inspiration. it had been sweet to her in those summer days, but the real star of fame was now rising in her horizon, and the lesser one slowly fading away. she was fast losing her old timidity, and as each day she felt herself gaining a better mastery over her violin, the darling wish of her new ambition grew stronger. and then another influence came to her aid, for phlegmatic fritz, in whose life the mechanical duty of each evening's playing and the convivial hours with his cronies had measured his ambition, became imbued with a broader one, and that to train his pupil for public playing, and so, when thus fitted and launched in this new life under his tuition, to pose as the discoverer of a genius. and more than that, as her eyes began to work their spell upon him, the hope of love entered his heart. "ah, mees hutton," he would say to her, when her lesson had been rendered, "you haf der spirit, der soul of der blaying alretty yet, and some day you haf him and der vorld vill listen entranced;" and his little eyes would twinkle and rotund face glow with an enthusiasm that was like wine to mona. and now another brand of fuel was added to the fire of her ambition, for a great singer's appearance in the city was heralded in the press and jess, already warped into the world's ways of dress and amusement, took mona and her mother to hear this operatic star. they had already visited most of the theatres, and though mona had felt a constant dread of meeting one, the sight of whose face she knew would seem like a knife thrust, she was gradually overcoming that. at first a timid girl and stranger to the city ways, her keen and ready observation of them had made rapid change in her self-possession. then, too, the difference in her own and her mother's wardrobe had been a help, for jess had spared no money in his new rôle of husband and father, and so far as dress went with all three, no observer would realize that they came from an out-of-the-way island, where garb and deportment were unknown factors in life. but that evening at the opera, with all its attendant excitement of richly gowned womankind whose décolleté costumes and sparkling jewels became a revelation to mona, the handsome men, the exquisite music, the wonderful singing, and the chief star, ablaze with diamonds, bowing and smiling as wreaths and baskets of costly flowers were passed over the footlights to her, wrought a spell upon mona as nothing else could have done. she was amazed, entranced, overwhelmed, intoxicated; and when the seclusion of her own home was reached, the reflective heart-burst of feeling came. "father," she whispered, her face aglow, when she was about to give him the usual good-night kiss, "if i could stand before an audience, as that singer did, and thrill them, as she did to-night, i would be willing to lie down and die." "that's a good speerit," he answered, smiling, his eyes a-twinkle; "but if ye cud do it, ye'd a durn sight better feel ye'd like to live 'n' keep on doin' it, 'n' make 'em pay ye good money, an' pass up flowers on top o' that." which sage observation perhaps best illustrates the difference between a genius and a philosopher. that night, sleep was slow in reaching mona's pillow, and when it came she dreamed that she was standing before a vast throng and suddenly, impressed by the fear of them, sinking into unconsciousness. chapter xlii the road to the temple to mona, reared beyond the world of wealth and social custom, the great city she was now in seemed a monster hive. an endless tangle of crowded streets, of pushing humanity, and towering buildings. the ceaseless din of street cars and rumbling teams, the people who elbowed her aside as they hurried on, the vehicles that halted not when she crosses a street, the grand ladies alighting from their carriages and sweeping by her as if she was without right; and worse than all these, the apes who ogled at her on the street, and even followed her to her home,--each and all became a teacher that taught her self-reliance. she grew to look at the great city as it did at her, without feeling and without interest. they cared not for her right, or her life even; why should she for them? it was the best education possible, and imparted a certain indifference toward everybody and everything, and hardened her, in a way. then fritz, with his little scheme, entered into her education, and one day, after he had asked her to play some of her best selections, a stranger stepped out from an inner room to be introduced to her as the manager of the alhambra theatre. "my friend geisling has told me about you, miss hutton," he said, "and i wished to hear you play as you naturally would, so i asked to be kept in hiding to hear you. you have a decided talent, and if you have the courage, i think you could do a musical turn and do it well. if you will come to the alhambra to-morrow at ten with my friend here, we will give you a rehearsal." and mona felt as if she were at that moment facing an audience! "i have an ambition to play well, and some day in public," she said faintly, and hardly realizing how it all came about, "but not yet. oh, no, i wouldn't dare," and she looked helplessly at her teacher. "ah, mees hutton, but you vill," he said excitedly, "und your fader said you vill, und dat eet vas to be you broveshion, und you vill to blease me try, i dinks," and he placed one hand upon his heart and bowed low. "oh, not yet, no! no!" exclaimed mona, her heart sinking, as she stood face to face with her longed-for opportunity. "i am not ready yet and haven't the courage." "that is but a mere trifle, miss hutton," answered the manager, looking at her saintlike eyes, her sweet face, rounded shoulders, and swelling bosom; and calculating their commercial value for stage purposes to a nicety. "a mere trifle; you have the face and form, you play with exceeding grace and delicate expression, no doubt due to your native talent, and are sure to please. all you need is to forget that you are playing to an audience, and you will win a storm of hands." then, like a shrewd man of business, he began politely to question her. where she came from, who taught her first, and how she came to wish to play in public? in ten minutes he had grasped her entire history. "it is not necessary," he said finally, to reassure her, "that you make your first appearance at once. come to the theatre to-morrow and look us over. i feel sure you will succeed and win for yourself a great name. and, by the way, i'd like a photograph of you in evening dress cut low." then, as if the matter were all settled, and this new attraction for his vaudeville stage already engaged, he bowed himself out. and fritz beamed. "ein grand chance, mees hutton, an' der great luck you haf, und it vas mein alretty yet," he said, "und you vill got de people crazy mit your blayin', und i vas your teacher!" and he came near then and there going down on his knees and declaring his passion. when mona reached her home she was flushed and trembling with excitement. "oh, father," she said to jess, "they want me to play at the theatre, and to come to-morrow to try it with no one there; and he wants my picture, and i am scared half to death," which incoherent speech can easily be excused. "i don't approve on't an' never have," said her mother, severely. "it ain't a girl's place to be fiddlin', an' 'fore people at that. i don't believe in it." "now, letty," answered jess, pleasantly, "don't go to discouragin' the gal first go-off. we've threshed that straw all over long 'go, 'n' don't say no more. the time'll cum, 'n' soon, too, when ye'll feel mighty proud of mona. we'll fix ye up, girlie," he added, addressing her, "with one of them low-cut gowns,--not too low, but jist nice 'n' modestlike,--'n' we'll both o' us be thar to take keer on ye an' fetch flowers home fer ye." and that subject was disposed of. but mona scarce closed her eyes in sleep that night, and when, with jess and her teacher to care for her, she entered the stage door of the alhambra at ten the next day, a new world opened before her. its entrance was a tangle of painted scenery, beautiful on one side, dirty and tobacco-stained on the other. a dozen stage carpenters and helpers were at work with hats on, and never even looked at her. the stage seemed a cold, cheerless barn, as large as the seating part, and a chaos of stage properties of all sorts and shapes. a flat, painted tree leaned against a piano, on top of which was a wooden rock. a roll of carpet lay across a desk, and a coil of dirty rope and an imitation fireplace were on top of an elegant sofa. then the manager appeared, coatless, but with hat on. "ah, good morning, miss hutton," he said, not even noticing fritz or her uncle; "glad to see you, though it's a little early. look around and make yourself at home, or i'll show you to a dressing room. we will hear you play presently." and glad to escape from the cheerless spot, mona signified that she would wait his bidding in a private room. it was a half-hour ere he appeared, and mona's stage training began. she was instructed how to step out from the wings, where to halt on the stage, how to bow, to step side-wise and backward; and when these lessons had been learned, the manager with a few friends and jess and her teacher took seats in front, and she walked out once more with her violin. she had expected to be badly scared, but it was all so matter-of-fact, and her deportment considered as of more importance than her playing, that when it came to that it was the easiest of all. twice she played the two selections fritz had decided upon, the first, a medley of scotch airs, and for an encore, the gem of all she knew--"annie laurie." when she concluded each time, a sincere ripple of applause from the group of men composing her audience encouraged her. "she'll win 'em," asserted the manager, tersely, when mona had retired, "if only she can go on once and not wilt." "i want you to come here daily for a week," he said to mona, when she was ready to leave, "and get used to this matter. your playing is excellent, and if you can forget the audience for ten minutes and do as well, you are made!" but warmer encouragement came from jess when home was reached that day. "i'm proud o' ye, girlie," he said, his face glowing and his eyes alight, "i'm proud o' ye, 'n' if ye'll fiddle as ye kin 'n' hold yer head 'fore 'em, i'll shed tears o' joy. we'll rig ye up," he continued, "right away, an' all ye need to do is jist to say to yerself, 'i kin do it,' an' feel it, an' ye will." how easy to say, but alas, how hard to do! for a week mona lived in a trance with only one thought, and that of the awful moment when she must perforce stand alone before that hydra-headed monster--an audience. sometimes her heart failed for a moment, and it seemed she could never do it; then a strain of the indomitable will that had come down to her from her carver ancestors arose, and she said to herself, "i will." then back of that lay another point of pride. "perhaps _he_ will be there to see me," she thought. for all these months, while she had silently fought her own heartache, winn hardy's face and words had been ever present. all the covert flatteries he had spoken in the cave, all the praises of her playing, the description of the wonderful woman before whom the world bowed, the tender words of love he had uttered, to end with one cold letter of dismissal, and she left to rise above and conquer her own pain alone and unaided, came back now. it was well that they did. and when the supreme moment of her trial came, and robed in spotless white, without an ornament, save her matchless eyes, her perfect throat, her rounded arms, she stepped into view of that audience, not for one instant did she falter. the alhambra was filled that evening with its usual gathering in search of pleasure. a few hundred blasé men and women who had seen everything on the boards of the regular theatres now drifted into this, hoping for a new sensation. twice as many more store girls whose escorts had brought them there because admission was cheap, and a medley of all sorts, old and young. the saucy balladist in short skirts had sung her song, the soloist in black had picked off his banjo act, the acrobats had leaped and twisted and turned, the magician pulled a stock of worsted balls, a hoopskirt, and a rabbit out of a silk hat borrowed from the audience, and then, after frying an egg in it, returned it unharmed; and the usual vaudeville program was nearing its end when those listless people saw mona step out from the wings and, without once lifting her eyes to them, bow slightly, and raising her violin, begin playing. and even as winn's heart had been touched by the wonderful sweetness of her simple music that day in the cave, so were theirs reached now. it was not classic, or new, or unheard before--just a medley of old-time scotch airs that carried the mirth of a merry dance and the mood of tender love. but the mirth and the mood were there, thrilling, quivering, whispering, even as a human voice would speak. and when the yearning of that medley ended its final appeal, and mona for the first time raised her eyes to them as she bowed, a storm of applause that fairly shook the building greeted her. again and again was it repeated, until, bending her queenlike head, she once more raised her violin. and now came "annie laurie." slowly caressing her violin with her face, even as a mother would her babe, mona played. and every whispered heartache, every pulse of undying love that that old, old song contains, came forth to reach and thrill the hearts of that audience as naught else could. when it was ended and mona bowed low, what a storm came! men rose and cheered and women, too, while they brushed the tears away. again and again did that wave of stamping and voiced applause arise, till the very roof quivered, and still once again. and mona, the poor child, whose will, stronger than love, had carried her through that awful ordeal without a break, now out of sight, lay sobbing in the arms of jess. she had won her fame without a flaw, and then, womanlike, had collapsed. chapter xliii the cynic's shadow the doubt and distrust of all humanity, first implanted in winn hardy's mind by his friend and adviser, nickerson, was now working its inevitable injury. much of it had been brushed away during winn's association with the simple and honest people of rockhaven and especially jess; but now that he was back again in the city and in touch with its pushing, selfish life, once more cynicism ruled him. his vocation as reporter paid poorly; he was in daily contact with unscrupulous and suspicious men, saw poverty begging in alleyways and arrogant wealth riding in carriages, men obsequiously bowing before the rich and snubbing the poor, and on all sides and in all ways he was made to realize that money was the god the city worshipped, and show, its religion. on sunday, when the usual morning chimes answered each other, his thoughts flew to rockhaven and the two bells there; but when with his aunt, in church, he listened to the operatic singing and classic sermon, it all seemed to lack heart and sincerity, and not one solitary note of supplication entered the minister's prayer. then the elegantly dressed ladies who greeted one another as at a reception, the men who looked bored and at the close of the service seemed relieved, each and all seemed to winn to be there on exhibition. then, too, his moral safeguards were in daily danger, and the sneering nickerson, their assailant. "well, old boy," he said to winn one evening at the club, "how do you like penny-a-lining these cold winter days? is an editorship any nearer in sight?" "nothing in sight for me except one demnition grind," replied winn, disconsolately; "i get discouraged sometimes and think i am no good on earth." nickerson looked at him with a sarcastic smile. "winn, my dear fellow," he said at last, "i'm going to be very candid with you, so don't be angry with me. to begin with you are too honest and too good-hearted. you think of others first and yourself last, and then you have scruples. now scruples don't go here in the city, and whoever cultivates them gets left. in the first place, weston & hill played you for a dupe, and if i hadn't come to the rescue, you'd have been stranded on the island and out five hundred, and the natives would have been ready to ride you on a rail. then when we saved your bacon and you knew they were two thieves, you even returned them the little extra money they had sent you to pay the men. i won't say anything about the heroic way you made your aunt's loss good. it was heroic, but it wasn't sense. "now, after all this eye-opening experience, and you on your uppers, so to speak, i offered to start you in a lawful business, you won't have it, simply because it smacks of gambling! winn, you are one of the best fellows in the world, and i like you, but you are a fool--net!" "well, i'll keep on being one," answered winn warmly (for no man enjoys plain truth), "before i'll open a bucket shop and knowingly rob people." "yes, and walk while the rest ride," asserted jack, tersely, "you know the old deacon's advice to his son just starting out in life,--'make money, my son, honestly if you can, but make it!'" "all very good," replied winn, "but old. i doubt whether you can change my fool ideas, if you talk till doomsday; but you may mellow them. and that reminds me of another fool thing i've done. i bought the sole right, title, and deed of the rockhaven granite company's quarry a few weeks ago." "the wisest buy you ever made, my boy," answered jack, quickly; "and now if you will hustle around and get some men to put money into a new company, you will be in luck once more." then, as another idea came to this quick-witted man of the world, he added, "what's the matter with jess hutton and all the money we made for him?" but winn was silent, while a tide of memory swept over his feelings. and in it was mona, with her tender love, and jess, with the heart and hand he offered at parting, and all the good people on the island whom winn knew to be his friends. and as all the possibilities rockhaven contained came back to him, now it suddenly dawned upon him that jack nickerson had named him rightly. "i see i've put you to sleep," continued jack, after the long pause while he watched winn, "and now i'll wake you up. i saw ethel sherman in a box at the theatre last night, with our mutual friend, simmons. he must have reached his second childhood!" then winn did wake up. and more than that, a few unconsidered trifles connected with this same vivacious ethel assumed index shape. he recalled that she had for the past six weeks specified the evenings she would be at home to him, for a week ahead. he also recalled that a plenitude of choicest flowers had always graced her parlor lately. "and why not," he answered coolly, "old simmons is a widower worth a million, has just built an elegant new residence of the granite we quarried, and ethel's in the market. i think she shows good sense--at least your kind of good sense, jack." "yes, and of all experienced people," asserted nickerson, defiantly. "sentiment is a fine thing in books or on the stage, it may influence silly girls or callow boys, but it's out of date in this age." and winn, recalling his own early episode with ethel, and the lesson in life that for weeks had been forced upon him, was more than half inclined to believe his friend to be right. and yet, as he thought of this prospective january and may affair, and a fossil like simmons, with dyed hair, false teeth, and certainly sixty years wrinkling his face, he felt disgusted with ethel. and the more he thought of the groove he was in, of the cold, selfish, grasping city life where mammon was king and sentiment a jest, the more his heart turned to rockhaven. then the thought of mona came back to him, and a yearning for her, impossible to resist. and with it, self-reproach that he had let his own discouragement control his actions so long. a few days more did he waver, and then his heart's impulse won. the winter had nearly passed and the days were lengthening when this impulse came, but he waited no longer. "i'm going to rockhaven," he said to his aunt that night, "and shall be gone a few days. i've obtained a week's leave of absence from the paper, and start to-morrow. i want to see jess hutton and some of my old friends there. i've also an idea that possibly the quarry can be started again. if i can bring it about," he added, after a pause, "how would you feel about loaning me a few thousand dollars, auntie?" then the motherly side of mrs. converse spoke out. "i'll do it gladly, winn," she responded. "i've felt all along that the money you saved me was more yours than mine, and you shall have all of it that you need." and when winn left the city, as once before, a new courage and new hopes tinged his horizon. and first and foremost in them was the flowerlike face and soulful eyes of mona. the wisest of us, however, are but mere bats in this world, blindly flying hither and thither. at times one may, by sheer good luck, fly free; and then again we strike our heads against a wall. yet we think we are very wise. and so, winn hardy, full of hope and love, found, when he reached the coast town where the steamer _rockhaven_ made landing, that her trips were but twice a week now and he had a full day to wait. how slowly it passed while he chafed at the delay! how his eagerness to be with mona grew! how his longing increased as he counted the hours he must wait! and with all mingled a self-reproach, need not be specified. for it had dawned upon winn that his conclusions regarding mona might have been wrong, and once we feel that we have made a mistake, we soon feel sure that it must be so. and winn was now certain. but he would and could repair it easily. all that was necessary was to assure mona that he had been discouraged or he would have written again, and to reproach her gently for neglecting to answer his letter. how easily we plan excuses for our own conduct, and how like a child's toy we are apt to consider a woman's heart! when, after a day's wait that seemed a week to winn, the _rockhaven_ made landing, he leaped aboard to grasp captain roby's hand almost as he would a father's. but a half gale was blowing outside, the captain nervously anxious to unload, and start back; and only a word of greeting did winn receive until the steamer was well under way toward rockhaven. then, feeling privileged, he entered the little pilot house. "well, captain roby," he said, "how are you and how's the island?" "oh, it's thar yit," answered that bronze-faced skipper, shifting the wheel a point and heading seaward, "an' likely to stay thar. it seems sorter nat'rel to see ye, mr. hardy," he added cheerfully, "an' i'm right glad to git the chance. we've been wonderin' what become o' ye an' how the quarryin' business was comin' out. ye ain't thinkin' o' startin' it up agin, air ye?" "possibly," answered winn, "in fact, that is a part of my errand here, and to make you all a visit. the old company failed, as, i presume, you know, and i've bought the quarry myself now." "i'm mighty glad on't," replied the captain cordially, "an' so'll all on us be. we've sorter took to ye, mr. hardy." "and how is my old friend, jess?" asked winn, unable to withhold that query longer, "and mrs. hutton and her daughter and mrs. moore?" "wal, jess an' the widder hutton took a notion to git hitched long 'fore christmas," answered the captain slowly, "an' they're gone to the city 'n' taken mona with 'em. we gin 'em a great send-off, and i run ashore jist a purpose for 'em. it's curus ye haint seen jess up thar. i'd a-s'posed ye would." winn's heart sank. "when do you go back, captain?" he said finally, trying to hide his bitter disappointment. "i supposed you made daily trips as usual." "only tuesdays and fridays," he answered; "thar ain't much need o' runnin' oftener." and this was friday! and winn, the now ardent romeo, had three full days and four nights to spend on rockhaven, and juliet was not there! there are many of the fair sex who will say that it served him right. and what a picture of cheerless desolation was this sea-girt island when winn neared it! a half gale was blowing, the waves leaping high against the snow-topped cliffs, and as the _rockhaven_, rolling, pitching, and half coated with frozen spray, turned into the little harbor and neared her dock, only one man, shivering in oil skins, was there to meet her. "i wish ye'd put up with me," said captain roby to winn, when the steamer's plank was shoved out. "we'd be more'n glad to hev ye, an'll make ye welcome." and winn, dreading the empty white cottage next to mrs. moore's fully as much as that excellent woman's curiosity, accepted the captain's offer. that evening, in spite of winn's disappointment, was a pleasant one to him, for the news of his arrival had flown like the wind, and a constant stream of callers came to the captain's house. it seemed as if all rockhaven was desirous of extending a welcome hand, and from parson bush down to men whose names winn had never known, they kept coming. never before had he been so lionized or made to feel that he had so many friends, and so cordially did they one and all greet him that, had the rev. bush suggested that they all join in a hymn of thankfulness, winn would not have been more surprised. it recalled the parting words of jess, and in a forcible way. but alas! that genial philosopher was absent! winn, however, saw his opening, and with a little natural pride, stated that he now owned the quarry, and, if some capital could be furnished by these island people, he was in a position to put in a matter of five or ten thousand dollars, and the industry would be started anew. then as a climax to this proposition, he read to them the history of the rockhaven granite company and gave a description of the auction of its assets. but he did not mention the price he had paid for the quarry. it was midnight ere the crowd dispersed and winn, proud and happy, was shown to his room. but the next day a reaction came; for when he called upon mrs. moore, as he felt he must, the closed white cottage next door and the little dooryard, now under snow, where mona had reared her flowers, seemed like a tomb. his worthy landlady was overjoyed to see him, however, and gave an explicit account of the wedding that had occurred, of mrs. hutton's dress, how pretty mona looked and how happy all were. she, too, supposed winn must have heard of it, and marvelled greatly that the hutton family could have been in the city now three months, and winn not meet them. where they were stopping, what doing, and when they were to return, she knew not. so winn left her, as much in the dark as ever. and then, though the snow lay thick on the ledges swept by the ocean's winds, like a love-lorn swain he must visit norse hill and go over to the gorge to peer into its interior, and the cave, then back to the old tide mill and to the village. when sunday came he was really glad to attend church, and by evening was so disconsolate that he wished for wings to fly to the mainland. in spite of cordiality, rockhaven was now a desolate spot. and when tuesday came and he sailed away, the sole passenger over the misty ocean with captain roby, winn was a wiser and sadder man. when he reached the city he felt that if he could but find mona, to kneel at her feet and beg for her love would be a blessed privilege. chapter xliv only a mood when winn reached home, he found two messages awaiting him, one from ethel sherman asking him to call, and another bidding him journey to the home of his boyhood and attend to a business matter at once. his birthplace, an almost worthless hillside farm, had been leased to strangers, but they had scarce obtained a living and, finally, having denuded it of about everything except the stones and the old weather-beaten farmhouse, had deserted it, leaving three years' taxes unpaid. and winn, the sole heir, was now asked to come and pay them, or allow his boyhood home to be sold for that purpose. this, following the bitter disappointment of his rockhaven trip, seemed the last straw; and when he called upon ethel, as perforce he felt he must, he was in an unenviable frame of mind. but she was sweetness personified. "why, winn, my dear friend," she said, "what have i done to you that you should desert me so? it's been three weeks since i've set eyes upon you except at church, and then you would not look at me." "i don't imagine that you have suffered much," replied winn, savagely, looking at an immense bunch of american beauty roses on the centre-table, and thinking of simmons. "i am a worker in the hive these days, and 'sassiety' isn't for me." ethel looked at him and laughed. "my dear boy," she said sweetly, "you ought to send your temper to the laundry and feel grateful i wanted to see you. i refused an invitation to the opera this eve just to have a visit with you, and you come cross as two sticks." "i'm sorry," he answered, "but i have troubles of my own, and life isn't all a picnic. for instance, i've got to take a two-hundred-mile ride into the country to-morrow, pay up the taxes, and find a tenant for the old farm. i've just returned from a business trip, away five days, and the editor told me this afternoon if i wanted more time off now i'd better resign." "he's a brute," said ethel. "no, he's a business man," replied winn, "and i'm his servant, that is all. i don't intend to be much longer, or any man's for that matter." "i'm so glad," she asserted, in the cooing, sympathetic tone a woman knows so well how to use; "you are capable of better things, winn, and i shall welcome the day when you are your own master." then winn, his vexed spirit soothed by this woman's gentle sympathy, his self-respect restored by her praise, looked at her admiringly. "ethel," he said, "you can mark the two extremes of womankind--angel or devil--with equal facility. if ever i attempt a novel, you shall be the heroine." "better not," she laughed. "i've no sentiment, and a heroine without a heart would be a flat failure. no," she continued musingly, "i've not even a little one. i used to think i had, but i've outgrown it. sentiment on a woman's part these days is a weakness for men to trample upon. sister grace had sentiment. now she lives in four rooms and tends baby, while hubby escapes to the club. no, thanks. no sentiment in mine, please." "i begin to think it's folly on either side," asserted winn, soberly, "and especially in business. jack says 'be good and you'll be lonesome,' and calls me a fool for being honest. you say i am out of my groove here and that a woman with a heart is a stupid. i am inclined to think that there is no such thing as truth, honor, and sentiment except among old fogies and children." "there isn't and there is," responded ethel, philosophically; "no one is all bad, or at least but few are, while not many are all good. only, in matters of the heart, a woman who has one is bound to suffer, unless she meets and weds a young god, and gods are scarce in this day and generation." "but is she likely to be the happier by marrying for money and position?" queried winn, pointedly. "to the best of my observation--yes," she answered, understanding perfectly well what he meant. "and it's to obtain your opinion on that very subject i asked you to call." winn looked at her long and fixedly. once he had thought this girl the incarnation of all that was lovely and lovable. young, handsome, and yet not of the dresden china order, but warm, passionate, full of life and good spirits. she was all that now, but hard-hearted, cool-headed, a diamond among her sex, but not a pansy. and so far as he could judge, one who would seek and accept only a golden setting. once he had loved her madly, now he enjoyed her keen wit, her veiled flatteries, her perfect poise, her polished sarcasm, realizing that she was likely to be an ornament to the man who won her, but never a heart companion. and now he admired her intensely, but loved her not at all. "winn," she said at last, smiling, "have you analyzed me sufficiently to answer my question now?" "no," he replied evasively, "and i never can. i've learned one thing, and learned it well, and that is, it's folly to tell a woman truth in such matters. they prefer lies that are flattering." "men never do, i suppose," she said, with a tinge of sarcasm. "oh, yes, they do," he admitted candidly; "men positively thirst for flattery--especially from a woman. but it is safer to tell them the truth. they will in time forgive that, even if it hurts, but a woman never will." "that's a man's estimate," she asserted, "not a woman's. my belief is, truth is an unsafe knife to use in either case. but you have not answered my question." "it's hard to do that," he responded, "for it all depends upon what a woman's idea of happiness is. you, who assert that you are without heart and believe sentiment a folly, would be miserable, if mated to a poor man, be he never so faithful in love. you want luxuries, fine gowns, and plenty of them, since you have beauty; you move in a circle where show is religion and extravagance a necessity. to you and your associates, these wants have become habits and rule you all." ethel sighed. "we are a hollow set, i'll admit," she said, "and leave the price tag on all we give away; but still you do not answer my question." "no, and no man or woman can," he responded. "as they say on the street, 'it's a gamble either way.' if you marry for love and secure a cottage, you will sigh for a mansion. if you obtain the mansion and miss the love, you will sigh for the cottage." then looking at the vase of roses standing near, as if they exhaled a revelation, he added slowly, "you will be true to your surroundings, ethel, and whoever buys you will pay your price." she flushed slightly. "you put it into unvarnished words," she answered, laughing to conceal the hurt, "but i can't complain. i asked you for the truth." then, in self-defence, she added, a little sadly, "it's not my fault, winn, that i am for sale; it's the fault of society and its dictum. i say at times, as i said to-night, that sentiment is folly; and then again comes a yearning for something sweeter, something better than this life of show and shallow platitudes. occasionally i feel it all a mistake, and envy grace. last summer, when i was up in the mountains, we went driving one day and stopped at a farmhouse to buy a glass of milk. the house was a hovel almost; two little children barefooted and bareheaded played under a tree, and inside a woman was singing. when she brought us the milk, she, too, was barefoot. we passed that way later, on our return, and she was still singing at her work. and, in spite of her surroundings, there was something in her voice that awoke my envy. her life was poverty personified; there wasn't another house in sight, and yet she was happy." and winn, wondering what this all meant and marvelling that this imperative beauty, this leader of fashion, courted, flattered, and sought by all, could have one such touch of human feeling, looked at her in utter astonishment. "ethel," he said, "almost am i persuaded that you have a heart." "you had better not," she answered, with a laugh that was a sneer, "you might pity me, and then i should despise myself;" and, pulling out one of the roses that drooped toward the table, she slowly picked it to pieces. "life is but a succession of moods, winn," she continued, after a pause; "and some contain the rustle of angels' wings and some the clicking of devils' teeth. at times i hate the whole world and envy the nuns i meet in the street, and then again i think them fools." then she arose and seated herself at the piano. for a full ten minutes she lightly touched the keys, now a few chords of dreamy waltz music, then a low, plaintive love song, and finally a bit of sousa, while winn quietly studied her. suddenly she turned. "winn," she said, looking him full in the face, "i am going to be very rude. tell me what made you go to rockhaven?" his eyes fell. "to see jess hutton," he answered, "and the quarry. i bought it at the auction a month ago." it was fairly well said, but not over well. "thanks," she replied, "and forgive my query. there is no need of repeating it." and it was weeks after before it dawned on him what she wished to find out. chapter xlv the old home there was nothing that could depress winn just now any more than to visit his boyhood home. it had been twelve years since he left the hillside farm, and to return to it, even for a few days and on the errand that called him, was melancholy in the extreme. then his trip to rockhaven had not helped his feelings. he had gone there expecting to find mona, and believing that a few words of explanation would set matters right. he had even planned what to say and how to say it, and in the fulness of his faith in himself and her, believed that she would easily overlook what he now knew was a cruel neglect on his part. just why he had let his own discouragement rule him so long and in such a way, he could not now understand. and the more he thought of it and saw his own conduct as it was, the worse it seemed. perhaps she had never received the letter! perhaps also she had written, and it had failed to reach him. and when he recalled the parting, and that all her happiness and life, almost, seemed to rest on his promise to return, he almost cursed his own stupidity. verily, a pearl of great price had been cast at his feet, and he had been too witless to pick it up. and now she was here in the city, and had been for months. and other men might be looking into her winsome eyes, and whispering of love! and with these self-reproaches and jealous surmises for company, winn sped onward toward his boyhood home. it was dark ere a slow-moving stage landed him at the village tavern and a cheerless supper. and the next day's visit to the spot! the only redeeming feature seemed to be that it was warm and the sun shone--one of those first spring days that come the last of march, and with it the early-arriving bluebirds. they were there when winn reached the now deserted farmhouse, where a snow-drift still lingered against its northern side and patches of the same winter pall draped each stone wall. the brook which crossed the meadow in front was a brimming torrent; the barn shed across the road was filled with a confusion of worn-out vehicles, broken and rusted farming tools half buried in snow, a drift of which remained in the empty barn, the door of which had fallen to earth: the fences had great gaps in them; gates were missing; and ruin and desolation were visible on all sides. the house that had once been "home, sweet home," to winn was the most lugubrious blotch of all. it had grown brown and moss-covered with time and the elements, missing window-panes were replaced with rags, bushes choked the dooryard, and, as he peered into what had once been the "best room," snow lay on the floor and strips of paper hung from the walls. how small the house seemed to what it once had! the old well-sweep had been used to patch the garden fence, the woodshed roof had fallen in, and a silence that seemed to crawl out of that old ruin brooded over it. this was his boyhood home, and on it lay the burden of three years' taxes and a mortgage! and as winn looked into windows and then entered, crossing floors gingerly, lest they give way and pitch him into the cellar, he felt that it would be a mercy to the world to set the old rookery on fire and remove it from human sight. the solitary note of joy about it was a bluebird piping away in the near-by orchard, and for that bird's presence there, winn felt grateful. then he wandered over the orchard, searching for the tree that had borne seek-no-further apples, and another where he had once met a colony of angry hang-legs while climbing to rob a bird's nest. he failed to reach the nest, but those vicious wasps reached him easily enough, and as winn recalled the incident he smiled--the first time that day. for two hours he roamed about the farm, now hunting for the tree where he had shot his first squirrel, and then the thicket in which he had once kept a box-trap set for rabbits. he followed the brook up to the gorge, sauntered through the chestnut grove and back to where a group of sugar maples and a sap house stood, thankful that the familiar rocks yet remained and that the trees had not been cut away, and for the bluebirds, chirping a welcome. then he left the scenes of his boyhood days, so happy in memory, and as he drove away, turned for a last look at the old brown house, feeling much as one does after visiting an ancient graveyard where ancestors lie buried. he had a week's leave of absence from his duties, now ahead of him, and he went cousining. he also hunted up a few old schoolmates, putting himself in touch with their rustic lives and talking over school days. then he returned to the city, feeling that luck had dealt unfairly by him and that he was more out of place than ever. and now began a period in winn's life which he never afterward recalled without a chill of dread. to no one did he confide his feelings, for no one, he felt, could understand them. it was not exactly a love-lorn fit of despondency, and yet it was, for mona was ever present in his thoughts. he avoided jack nickerson, hating to listen to his inevitable sneering, and kept away from ethel sherman. he hunted for news items, as duty called him, visiting the stock exchange, the theatre, the court rooms, and the morgue. and while he looked for news, recording simple drunks and their penalties, suicides and their names and history, and the advent of theatrical stars with equal indifference, he scanned the crowded streets and all public places, ever on the watch for one fair face. often he would stand on a corner for an hour, watching the passing throng, and then at a theatre entrance until all had departed. and though he was one of that busy throng of pushing people, a spectator of careless, laughing humanity crowding into and out of playhouses, he was not of them. instead was he a disappointed, discouraged man, whose ambitions had come to naught and whose hopes were in shadow. he was moody and silent at home and aimless at his work, and as the days went by with never one glimpse of the face he now longed to see more than all else in the world, he grew utterly hopeless. how many times had he lived over those summer days on rockhaven, how often fancied himself in the cave listening to the artless words and simple music of that child of nature, and how he cursed his own stupidity and lack of appreciation, need not be specified. with him, as with us all, the blessings that had been his seemed to brighten and grow dearer as they took flight. and of mona or her whereabouts, not one word or hint had reached him. chapter xlvi a new star to that city, surfeited with pleasure, a new sensation had come, and while winn hardy was aimlessly gathering news items, too disconsolate to read the amusement notes even, and caring not at all what happened in stage-land, it was slowly spreading. a little ripple at first, when the few who could appreciate the exquisite nature of mona's simple music, heard her to go away charmed and come again, the while telling all whom they knew of it, until the "alhambra" was packed each night and "mlle. mona in scotch melodies," as the sign that flanked either side of the stage read, was all the rage. then the papers picked it up and the musical critics exhausted their vocabularies about her. they extolled her pose, expression, and inflection; they went into raptures over technique, time, and timbre; they lauded her classic profile, her arm, her throat, her eyes; while mona, unmindful of all their clatter, forgot herself each night as she threw her very heart and soul into her playing. and fritz grew mad with love! she practised still, hours each day on new and classic music; he insisted that she should, and when some soulless sonata, some delirious composition full of leaps and quivers and trills was learned, she executed it at night. but it was the simple and sweet old songs of bonnie scotland that won applause. and when, as happened almost nightly, some admirer gave a basket or bouquet of costly flowers to an usher to be passed up over the footlights to her, they were usually tied with tartan ribbon. and the little german teacher had almost lost his reason. twice he had been on his knees before her, and with hand on heart and in broken english, disclosed his love for "mein fraulein liebchen." but mona only shook her head. he wept, he raved, he smote his breast, and would have kissed the shoes she wore, if she would have but stood still and allowed it. there were others who sent her notes tucked in baskets of flowers, they begged for an interview, for just one word of reply. they covered pages with wild declarations of love, they sent her costly jewels tied to love missives, in the vain hope of an answer, and gathered at the stage door to see her pass in and out. but jess, like an old watch dog, was always on guard. he went with her to the "alhambra" each night and waited until she had "done her turn," and after she had changed her garb, helped her into a carriage and rode home with her. he well might care for her, for each week the manager paid for her "act" what would have been regarded on rockhaven as a small fortune, and considered it cheap at that price. and mona, growing accustomed now to the sea of faces she had once feared, watched them covertly each evening, hoping and yet dreading to catch sight of a certain one among them. it was all a new wonder world, a strange, sweet intoxication, and like a dream to her. she rejoiced in her power, conscious, as well she might be, how she could sway the thousands to wild applause and some to tears. and when it was all over and she away from the scene of her triumph each time, she wondered if _he_ had made one in that audience. and what would he say and think, if he was? and what would he do? had he quite forgotten the simple child who amused him one summer, or would he seek her out? and when she thought of how like a silly girl she had raised her lips to him at the moment of parting, and the tears she had shed, her face burned. then pride came forth, and she felt that, if he ever did seek her again, he would have to beg forgiveness on his knees, protesting even as fritz had, before she would extend a hand even. for mona was growing proud and conscious of her own power at this time. the weeks during which she had nightly reigned as a queen over thousands, the storms of applause she had heard when bowing and smiling before them, and all the flatteries of flowers and words that had been showered upon her, had wrought its inevitable change. only to uncle jess was she the same. and he? well, never in his life had so much happiness come as now. he seemed to grow younger each day, for in the new joy that had come to mona he found his own. then, too, a change came to mona's mother. no longer did she consider "fiddlin' a man's business," and frown at her child. in their temporary home that daughter ruled supreme, her every wish gratified, her every whim considered just right. "we'll go back 'n' visit the island fer a spell," jess said, when the season at the "alhambra" was nearing its close; "an' then we'll take ye 'round, girlie, an' let ye see the world. i kin 'ford it now, 'n' the best is none too good fer ye." but the current of fate twists and turns us at will, while adown the stream of life we float, and sometimes we drift into smooth waters and again we are dashed against the rocks. with our will or against our will, no matter, we are swept on. and a power quite beyond our ken is ever in control. and one evening, despondent, aimless, and feeling life a hopeless fight and fate against him, winn hardy drifted into the "alhambra." no knowledge of the star that nightly blazed there had reached him, and if he had read of her, it was as of others who were noticed by the press and unknown to him. he came in, as he entered other theatres, on a reporter's pass, privileged to take a seat if not occupied, or else stand. in this case, it seemed the latter, for the house was packed and a fringe of men circled the foyer. the boxes were also filled; and as winn glanced across to them, there in one, dressed in evening gown, her arms and shoulders bare, and slowly fanning herself, sat ethel sherman. and with her--simmons! it was nothing to winn, of course, and yet it awoke disgust. the usual vaudeville acts were on in turn, and winn, somewhat weary with life, and watching one particular box more than the stage, was about to leave when suddenly a wild burst of applause swept over the house, and there, just tripping on to the stage, bowing and smiling as she came was--mona! for one instant his heart stopped beating. great heavens, could it be possible, or was this some insane dream! he gasped for breath. the house seemed to twist and turn. and then, as he leaned against a pillar to steady himself, a hush came. and what a picture stood before him! not the half-developed, ill-clad girl who had sat with him in the cave! not the timid child with wondering eyes, looking up to him as a superior being! not the gentle mona, the sweet flower, awaiting his hand. oh, no! instead, a proud and beautiful woman, erect and smiling, with conscious power. a stately creature with rounded arms, dimpled throat, and perfect shoulders like marble, emerging from the soft white silk that trailed upon the stage. and in the crowning coils of hair, black as night, a single pink rosebud, half open, and in her hand the same old brown violin! then bowing to right and left, as she swept that vast audience with her eyes, while the storm of applause continued, she raised it to her chin. not a breath, not a whisper now, as the matchless voice of her music rippled forth, tinkling like tiny bells on a mountain side, murmuring like a brook in forest stillness, sweet as a bird singing in the sunlight. and when she had held that vast throng spellbound, entranced, breathless, until the last exquisite note had vibrated in their hearts, and bowed again once more, a tornado of sound burst forth. while they cheered and shouted, adown each aisle ushers hurried with costly flowers and wreaths, and baskets and bunches of them were tossed upon the stage like so many leaves. then winn saw ethel sherman rise in her box and throw the great bunch of orchids she had held into the pile at mona's feet. and then that queen in white raised her violin once more. and once again, as many times before, the old love song that has thrilled the world for centuries carried winn's heart back to the cave on rockhaven and the twilight hour when its voice of undying love had mingled with the ocean requiem. lost was he now to the time and place and that spellbound audience; lost to the burst of applause that again shook the very building, to the men who cheered, the women who wept. lost to all and everything except his own heartache. and as he brushed his eyes free from the mist that had gathered, and turned away, it was in utter despondency and humiliation, believing his love hopeless now, and forgiveness from mona impossible. the next morning, reading the double-leaded headlines announcing the farewell appearance of this peerless queen of melody and the columns of fulsome praise that followed, only increased that feeling. her laurels had been won, her crown secured, and now his love would be a worthless toy in her estimation. all that was left was to see her, if he could, and beg her forgiveness. but even this was denied him. "i'm a friend of miss hutton's," he said to the "alhambra" manager early that day, "and i wish to obtain her address." "i've no doubt of it," replied the man, in a sneering tone; "lots of her admirers have wanted it, and kept on wanting it for all me." "but i am a friend of hers," persisted winn, his ire rising, "and i wish to see her." "well, go hunt for her," came the insolent answer. "she's in the city; but her address is her private property, and you don't learn it from me." and he turned away. and winn did likewise, too angry for further parley. and that night, impelled a little by penitence and more by despondency, he called on ethel sherman. "how did you enjoy scotch melodies last evening?" he said gently, not wishing to seem inquisitive; "i saw you in a box at the 'alhambra.'" "enjoy hardly expresses it," she answered earnestly; "i was spellbound, enraptured, and moved to tears. it was silly, i know, but i couldn't help it. did you see me throw my flowers at the girl?" "i did," he replied, his heart throbbing; "and you were not alone in your enthusiasm. she seemed to carry the house by storm. it was her farewell appearance, i noticed by the papers this morning." he was trying to speak indifferently, but it was not easy. "i am sorry," she responded, eyeing him keenly; "i've heard her five times in the past two weeks, and yesterday learned she was from rockhaven. did you ever hear her before?" then winn knew that his secret was a secret no longer. "i have," he admitted modestly; "she is the niece of jess hutton." "and it was to see her that you went to the island two weeks ago," pursued ethel, smiling; "i thought as much then." for a moment she tapped the carpet with one dainty slipper, while her lips were pressed tightly together, and then she continued:-- "i knew last summer," she said, in a cool and even voice, "that you had left your heart on the island when you came back. permit me to congratulate you. the girl is a marvel." "it is very kind of you to say so," he responded dejectedly, "but useless. i didn't find her when i went there, and it's all over between us, i presume." then ethel laughed, but it was unnatural, and like the rattle of dry bones. "not a bit of it," she said briskly; "women with such eyes as hers do not unlearn the lesson of love easily. you may have to beg forgiveness for your neglect on your knees, but you will receive it. it is such souls as hers that give the lie to all our worldly philosophy." "have you such a one?" he queried thoughtlessly. her eyes flashed. "no," she answered bitterly; "no one ever accused me of such folly. i have no heart, and am for sale to the highest bidder." "i beg your pardon, ethel," he said humbly, "i was only thinking of the long ago, and forgot what i was then." "you need not," she replied, turning away. "i only am to blame, but--it hurt--from you." then, covering her eyes with one hand, she added slowly, as if the words came hard: "it's all past and gone, winn, but--but i did not know myself then, and now it's too late. god help me!" at the door she laid a detaining hand on his arm. "i wish you well," she said, with a quiver in her voice; "i wish you all that's best and holiest in life. go to your island girl, and at once. she is worthy of you, and you of her. we have been good friends, and i hope always will be. love is only an illusion, but friendship endless. and now, good-by, and god bless you!" and winn, going out into the night, knew that the proud girl was reaping the pain she had sown. chapter xlvii love eternal the first warm days of spring had come to rockhaven ere mona and her parents returned. the sunny slopes back of the village were growing green, the tulips and daffodils in mona's dooryard just peeping out, the gulls on the cliffs nest-building, the fishermen painting their boats and mending nets, parson bush, with two helpers, thanks to rockhaven stock, shingling the church, and life on the island budding forth into vernal activity. no hint of mona's proud life in the city and wonderful triumph had reached those people, and the hutton family were welcomed back as returning from a pleasure trip. it was mona's expressed wish that no mention be made of her musical ambition and its success, and as her desires were now law with jess and her mother, she was obeyed. captain roby had told them of winn's astonishing and unexpected visit before they set foot on the island; and it was repeated by many others with sundry comments, all converging to one end, mrs. moore's being the most pointed, perhaps, and therefore best to quote. "i think," said that well-intentioned gossip-monger to mona, "he come here to make ye a visit, more 'speshly, though he said he wanted to see what could be done 'bout settin' the quarry a-goin'. he called on me, and the only thing he seemed to listen to with any sort o' interest was 'bout you goin' away and when you was like to come back. i never seen a feller act more love-struck than he was, an' more out o' sorts. he even went a wandering over the island in the snow, like as if he was demented." all this was a revelation to mona, and unaccountable. at first it provoked her silent derision and increased the bitterness and almost hatred which she had come to feel toward this erstwhile lover. mona hutton was what country people would call a strange compound: a product of a lone sea island, of its storms and the unceasing booming of billows; of days, weeks, and months spent alone, where only the ocean voiced eternity; of the whispers of winds in spruce thickets, of the gorge and the cave where she hid herself; of her own moods, sad, solemn, and contemplative. she had grown up close to god, but distant from man. the flowers blooming in her dooryard, the wild roses clinging to life between the granite ledges, the sea-gulls sailing over the cliffs, the inward rush of the white-crested waves tossing the rockweed and kelpie upward, and the starfish and anemones left by the tide had been her playmates. she had learned to depend on these and her violin for company. lovers she had none, neither were other island young folk akin to her. between her mother and herself, also, was a chasm. it had been opened when that unsympathetic mother forbade the violin in her house, and was never afterward bridged. jess only understood her. jess, with his quaint philosophy, tender heart, unselfish impulses, and love of nature, had been her spiritual and moral mentor. to him had she gone with her moods, and upon him lavished her childhood and girlhood love. and then had come a new and strangely sweet illusion, a glow of new sunshine warming her heart and adding a roseate hue to her thoughts. it was unaccountable but charming, and seemed to lend a sparkle to the sea waves, a more impressive grandeur to the limitless ocean, a tenderer beauty to the moonlight. the gorge and the cave seemed an enchanted nook in fairyland, and the old tide mill a romantic ruin. then had come the climax of this strange intoxication, the one ecstatic moment when this magician over her thoughts, this prince perfect, had entwined his arms about her and whispered, "i love you." repel him she could not, neither did she care to do so. it was to her as if the gates of another world were opened; and in the wondrous thrill of his lips she forgot herself, life, and god, even. and then the cold and cruel message that said to her, "forget me as i must you." it was a summer-day dream, with no hope of renewal. then came the long fight against her own heart's desire, the months of hopeless hope, and, at last, the will to win her way to the world's applause. he was there! he might, must, see or hear of her! he had said the world would listen entranced if she had but the courage to stand before them! and the old carver will that was in her now nerved her to her trial. and in the days and weeks of the strange new life while she hoped, and yet feared, to meet him, that one thought was her staff. it was with her by day and by night, a silent defiance of love, a revenge for her pain. when the supreme moment of her trial came and she stood before that sea of faces, only her young, trembling body was there, her every thought, her heart and soul even, were back in the cave, and he was listening. and it was because this cry of love, this thrill of longing, leaped out of her fingers and spoke in every note of the songs she played, that she won her triumph. for the applause she heard, the flowers showered upon her, the money received, she cared not at all. to reach him, show him what she could do, ay, defy him even with the skill of her art, the majesty of her courage, was everything. and this was mona hutton, and now it was all over. she had won her crown, fame was hers, the world of his city had bowed before her, but he was not there, or if he had been, she knew it not. for days this defiance of her own love lasted, and then a change came. little by little the leaven of his coming there softened her heart. perhaps he had been ill, or not in the city at all? perhaps he had been, as he wrote, discouraged and hopeless? perhaps she had not understood his letter? when love once sought excuses, they came in plenty, and she began to upbraid herself. why had she not sent him one word of love, one message of faith? and then this strange child of impulses, this girl of moods and fancies, sombre as twilight in the gorge and sad as a whisper of sea winds in the pine trees, betook herself away from even jess to nurse her heart-sickness again. she had been proud and defiant when she faced the world, scornful while pride lasted; now she was a contrite child, pitiful in her self-reproaches. each day she went to the tower to live over that parting in tears and heartache, and then to the cave, striving to recall every word, and look, and smile of his. a pilgrimage to the shrine of love! a journey to the grave of hope! sometimes she carried her violin, but its strings remained mute. sometimes she fondled and kissed the sea-shells and starfish, now dry and hard, which his hand had carried to this trysting-place. sometimes--yea, often, had tears fallen upon the cold stone floor of that nook, even as our tears fall upon the grass-grown graves of those we have lost. and then, one day, just as the twilight had darkened the gorge, and she, hopeless and heart-broken, leaned against the cave's cold wall, she saw him enter the ravine. step by step he climbed upward until the cave was reached, and then he knelt before her. "forgive me, mona," he said gently, extending his hands, "i have loved you always," and as he gathered her close in his arms, god's whisper of life and love eternal spoke from those granite walls. chapter xlviii conclusion the ocean billows still beat unceasingly against rockhaven's granite cliffs and toss the rockweed and kelpie aloft. the tide still ebbs and flows beneath the old mill, and the fishermen still mend their nets and sail away. parson bush is getting old and feeble, and his hair white as snow. he still utters fervent thanks, however, for the many blessings that have come to this far-off island, including the new church jess and winn were instrumental in building. the same old bell still hangs in its tower, and sunday evenings always answers the one in northaven. its sound is sweet to winn, for it always recalls his boyhood days and marks a turning-point in his life-history. he is president of the new rockhaven granite company now, and prosperous. a beautiful residence of granite stands back of the old tower on norse hill, and there winn and mona abide in summer, though the city claims them winters. mona often entertains her friends with her violin, but no money would tempt her again to play in public. jess still fiddles when he is "lunsum," which is not often, for a little girl with eyes like mona's thinks "gampa" the most wonderful man who ever lived. a boy, two years older, would cut that fiddle open to find what made the noise, if he got the chance. they both pursue him from morn till eve and, in spite of their mother's protest, give him no rest. [illustration: rockhaven.] "let 'em have all the fun they kin," he says, when mona tries to call them off; "they won't be young but once, an' when they git old they'll hev' trouble 'nuff to make up." winn and mona often visit the gorge on pleasant sunday afternoons, for the exquisite chords of romance still vibrate in their hearts. occasionally she takes her violin along, and once more the old sweet love songs whisper out of the cave. and hidden away in one corner of it, never disturbed, are a few sea-shells and dried starfish. the end [illustration: the girls sat on the broad piazza.] the automobile girls at palm beach or proving their mettle under southern skies by laura dent crane author of the automobile girls at newport, the automobile girls in the berkshires, the automobile girls along the hudson, the automobile girls at chicago, etc. illustrated philadelphia henry altemus company copyright, , by howard e. altemius printed in u. s. a. contents i. the land of dreams ii. a west indian squall iii. the fair unknown iv. the compact v. the daughter of mrs. de lancey smythe vi. the countess sophia vii. tea in the cocoanut grove viii. the warning ix. a case of mistaken identity x. the secret signals xi. wheels within wheels xii. maud refuses to be rescued xiii. a surprise party xiv. the plot thickens xv. caught napping xvi. welcome and unwelcome guests xvii. the midnight intruder xviii. the water fête xix. red dominos xx. conclusion the automobile girls at palm beach chapter i the land of dreams "i don't believe anything could be more lovely than this," exclaimed mollie thurston, leaning back in a wicker chair on the piazza of one of the largest hotels at palm beach. "right you are!" replied her friend, ruth stuart, as she gazed across the still blue waters of lake worth dotted with pleasure boats. "i can't decide whether i should like to ride in the automobile, or sail, or just sit in the cocoanut grove and listen to the music. life seems so easy under a blue sky like this, and there are so many things to do that it is hard to make a choice." "what do people usually do at this hour?" grace carter asked. "a woman i talked with on the train told me there was a programme of amusements for every hour at palm beach." "well, my dear, you have only to gaze about you and see for yourself. it is now high noon," answered ruth, consulting her watch. grace glanced quickly about her. all along the broad piazza, and under awnings on the lawn, a gay company of men, women and young people were sipping delicious iced fruit drinks in tall, thin glasses. "it is undoubtedly the witching hour for pineapple lemonades," said ruth. "and we must be in the fashion immediately. papa," she called to her father, who was immersed in the pages of a new york newspaper several days old, "you are not doing your duty by us. we are getting awfully thirsty." mr. stuart, clad in white, and looking the picture of comfort, smiled lazily over his paper at his daughter. "order what you like, my dear. am i not always at the command of the 'automobile girls'? what do you wish, little lady?" he asked, turning to barbara thurston, who had been lost in a day-dream and had heard nothing of the conversation. "i haven't any wish," responded barbara. "i am too happy to be troubled with wishes." "then suppose i wish for you, bab?" suggested ruth. "go back to your own sweet dreams. i'll wake you when the wish comes true." presently the four girls were sipping their fruit lemonades like the rest of the world at palm beach. on the breeze the sound of music was wafted to them from a morning concert in the distance. "where is aunt sallie?" ruth suddenly asked, again interrupting her father's reading. "this place has bewitched me so that i have forgotten even my beloved aunt. this is the land of dreams, i do believe. we are all spirits from some happy world." "here comes your spirit aunt," returned mr. stuart, smiling. "she has evidently been spirited away by some other friendly spirits." the girls laughed as they saw the substantial figure of miss sallie stuart strolling down the piazza. she was walking between two other persons, one a tall, middle-aged man with dark hair slightly tinged with gray, the other a young woman. they were all three talking animatedly. "girls, look!" exclaimed ruth, in suppressed excitement. "aunt sallie is with that maud warren. you remember we met her at lenox, bab, and she tried to ride you down in the famous race. delightful creature--to keep away from." ruth gave a contemptuous sniff, then added. "that nice looking man must be her father." "she looks as haughty as ever, and then some more," said mollie aggressively. the girls giggled softly, then straightened their faces for the trio was almost upon them, and it was not safe to indulge in further conversation. after seeing that his charges were supplied with lemonade, mr. stuart had returned to his paper. "robert," broke in miss sallie's dignified voice, "this is mr. warren and his daughter miss warren. they----" but at the first word mr. stuart had risen and the two men were enthusiastically shaking hands. "why, warren," exclaimed mr. stuart, "i had no idea that you were in this part of the world. the last time i saw you, you were ranching out in idaho." "quite true," replied mr. warren, smiling, "but that was ten years ago. a great many things have happened since then." he sighed and looked out over the blue lake. "mrs. warren died the next year," he said slowly. "maud and i are alone." "i am deeply sorry to hear of your great loss," sympathized mr. stuart and his fine face saddened. he too had known that loss. turning to maud who had been exchanging rather distant greetings with the four girls, he said pleasantly. "so this is maud. she was a little girl in short dresses when last i saw her. how these children do grow up." maud smiled frigidly and for the fraction of a second allowed her hand to touch that of mr. stuart. "one must grow up some time, you know," she murmured. "i should like to stay eighteen forever," exclaimed ruth, with enthusiasm. "would you indeed?" remarked maud warren, raising her eyebrows. "how odd!" there was a brief silence. the four girls stared straight ahead and tried to control their desire to laugh. during their stay at lenox the year before the circumstances of which having been fully told in the "automobile girls in the berkshires," they had not been impressed with maud warren, on account of her disagreeable and overbearing manner. but the blasé air that she now affected, was in their candid eyes extremely ridiculous, and her remark to ruth had filled them all with unseemly mirth. maud warren, however, serenely unconscious of what was passing through their minds, sank into a wicker chair, and deliberately turning her back upon the "automobile girls," began a conversation with miss sallie. the "automobile girls" dated their organization back to almost two years before, when barbara thurston had bravely stopped a runaway team of horses driven by ruth stuart, a rich western girl, summering in kingsbridge, the home town of the thurstons. a warm friendship had sprung up between ruth stuart, barbara and mollie thurston, that resulted in a journey to newport in ruth's red motor car, familiarly known as mr. a. bubble. grace carter, a kingsbridge girl, had been asked to complete the quartette of adventurous damsels, while miss sallie stuart, ruth's aunt had gone along as chaperon. after a series of remarkable events their trip ended with the capture of a society "cracksman," known to the police as the "boy raffles." the "automobile girls" then returned to kingsbridge, where several weeks later, mr. a. bubble once more bore them away to the heart of the berkshires. there they spent a delightful month, in a little log cabin, roughing it. in "the automobile girls in the berkshires," the story of the little indian "ghost" that haunted "lost man's trail," and who afterwards turned out to be an indian princess is charmingly related. after a winter of hard study, the "automobile girls" were again reunited, and in "the automobile girls along the hudson," their journey through the beautiful sleepy hollow country is narrated. the eventful weeks spent in the ancestral home of major ten eyck, an old friend of miss sallie stuart's, ending with their brave fight to save the beautiful old house from destruction by forest fires, made the "automobile girls" stand out as true heroines. the best work since their initial adventure, however, had been done in chicago, and the record of it, set down in "the automobile girls at chicago," was not yet three months old. while on a holiday visit to ruth, at her chicago home, they had been the guests of the presbys, relatives of the stuarts, at their country place "treasureholme." owing to imprudent speculation in wheat, both mr. stuart and mr. presby had become heavily involved and were facing financial ruin. through the efforts of barbara thurston, aided by the other "automobile girls" the rich treasure, buried by one of the ancestors, was discovered in time to save the presby estate. before leaving chicago, mr. stuart had promised his daughter and her friends a sojourn at palm beach during the month of march. now the "automobile girls" had actually arrived in the "land of flowers" eager for any pleasure that sunny florida might yield them. the four young girls were unusually quiet as they sat idly looking out over the water. maud warren's arrival had cast a chill over them. it had been an enchanted land, barbara reflected rather resentfully, now the enchantment was broken. ruth sat covertly taking stock of miss warren's elaborate white lace gown and wondering why young girls ever insisted on aping so called "society" fashions. while mollie and grace speculated as to how long a call the warrens were going to make. maud, totally oblivious that she had been weighed in the balance by four stern young judges, and found wanting, languidly conversed with miss stuart, in her most grown-up manner. "have you met the de lancey smythes, miss stuart?" she drawled. "they are too utterly charming. mrs. de lancey smythe belongs to an old, old southern family. she is a widow, with one daughter, marian, a most delightful young woman. it was only through them that i was persuaded to come here." "indeed," replied miss sallie. "we arrived yesterday. therefore we have met no one, as yet." "of course not," agreed maud. "you really must meet them!" "i should be pleased to meet any friends of yours, miss warren," replied miss stuart courteously. "by the way, stuart," said mr. warren, "what do you say to a sail in my launch, this afternoon? i should like to entertain some one besides the de lancey smythes. they are too fine for me. i am just a plain blunt man, and can't stand too many extra frills. maud, see to it that you don't invite them. i absolutely refuse to be bothered with them, to-day." maud flushed hotly at her father's contemptuous allusion to the de lancey smythes. but restraining her feelings she turned to miss stuart with a forced attempt at graciousness. "won't you come for a sail? it will be awfully good of you." "we should be delighted, i am sure," replied mr. stuart, looking gravely at maud. he then turned a compassionate gaze toward his friend, mr. warren. "that is, i mean we shall go with you, provided my sister has made no other plans." "are you sure your launch won't pitch, mr. warren?" inquired miss stuart. "i am perfectly certain, miss stuart," replied the millionaire. "the lake is like a mill pond to-day. there is not a ripple on it." while they had been making their plans for the afternoon, a man had been leaning idly against the railing of the piazza. he now strolled quietly away, without having appeared to notice any one of them, or to have overheard any of their conversation. but barbara had observed him. she had an unquenchable curiosity concerning faces. and this man appeared indefinably interesting. was it the foreign cut of his dark suit, conspicuous among the crowds of white ones worn by most of the men at palm beach? or was it his strong, clean-shaven face with its rather heavy bull-dog jaw, its square chin, and keen gray eyes, a little too narrow for bab's taste? bab did not know, then. but she took in the man's whole expression, and the adverse opinion she silently formed, at that time, she never had occasion to change. as the party was about to separate for luncheon two women appeared in a nearby doorway and stood looking up and down the piazza. "oh, there are dear marian and her mother!" cried maud, hurrying over to greet her friends. "dear mrs. de lancey smythe," exclaimed maud, with a defiant look toward her father, "i do so want you to go out with us in our launch this afternoon. won't you let me introduce some new friends to you, who are going to sail with us?" mr. warren turned red. a look of disappointment, verging on anger crept into his good-natured brown eyes as his daughter deliberately defied him. the de lancey smythes glanced toward the stuart party, with bored indifference. mrs. de lancey smythe made some low-voiced remark to maud who nodded her head slightly. whereupon mother and daughter moved toward miss stuart with an air of haughty condescension. mrs. de lancey smythe might have been anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five. she was tall, well-proportioned and a decided brunette. at a glance one would have decided her to be very handsome, but close observers would have noted a hard expression about the eyes and mouth that completely destroyed the effect of beauty. as for her daughter, marian, she was a small, slender insignificant young woman who seemed entirely overshadowed by her mother's personality. both mother and daughter were dressed perhaps a shade too elaborately for good taste, and there was something about them that immediately aroused a sense of vague disapproval in the minds of the stuart party. "maud is always so thoughtful of her friends," murmured mrs. de lancey smythe, turning to miss sallie with well simulated appreciation. "she knows how fond we are of sailing." miss sallie looked sharply at the speaker. the de lancey smythes were evidently unaware of mr. warren's animosity toward them. she was about to frame some polite excuse for not going on the launch, hoping to thus nip in the bud the proposed sail, when suddenly meeting mr. warren's eyes, she saw an expression of entreaty in them that made her hesitate. "i hope you and your 'automobile girls' will not disappoint me," he said pleadingly. "thank you," responded miss stuart. "we shall be pleased to go." with a formal bow to mrs. de lancey smythe and her daughter, miss sallie marshaled her little force and left the piazza. "very charming people," remarked mrs. de lancey smythe, to maud warren, after they had disappeared. but there was an unpleasant light in her eyes, and a certain tightening of her lips that showed resentment at the manner of her reception by the stuart party. "we shall be obliged to play our cards very carefully," she warned marian, when in the privacy of their own apartment. "that miss stuart seems already inclined to be hostile. as for those girls----" "i think they're the nicest looking girls i've seen for a long time. ever so much nicer than maud warren," exclaimed marian. "hold your tongue," commanded her mother angrily. "don't let me hear any more remarks of that kind, or you'll have cause to regret them." marian relapsed into sulky silence. she knew her mother only too well. nevertheless she made up her mind to try honestly to make a good impression upon the first girls with whom she had ever wished to be friends. mr. stuart and mr. warren did not at once follow their respective charges in to luncheon, but sat down on a wide settee in one corner of the piazza for a long talk. one topic of conversation followed another, until at last mr. warren lowered his voice and said: "stuart, i am going to ask a favor of you because i need your help more than i can say. you see," he went on, his face flushing painfully with embarrassment, "i have tried to give my daughter the proper sort of care. i have certainly spared no money in the effort. but what can money, alone, do for a motherless girl?" his voice choked a little. "perhaps i should have married again, if only on maud's account. but i tell you, bob, i couldn't. my wife's memory is still too dear to me. no other woman has ever interested me." he paused a moment, then looked away, while mr. stuart patted his shoulder sympathetically. "and now," went on poor mr. warren, shaking his head sadly, "my girl has fallen in with a lot of society people who are doing her more harm than good--for instance, these people you have just seen are among the number. you wonder, perhaps, why i don't like the de lancey smythes. no one can deny that they make a good appearance but there's something about the mother that i distrust. she's not genuine, and although she tries to conceal it she's not well-bred. maud won't believe it, and can't be made to see it. but i can. now i believe, if she goes about with your four nice, wholesome girls and a fine woman like miss stuart, she'll open her eyes a trifle. and i want to ask you, old man, to stand by me and help me out. ask your girls to help me save my girl from her own foolishness and the influence of just such people as these de lancey smythes. will you help me stuart, for 'auld lang syne'?" "why of course i will, tom," replied good-natured mr. stuart warmly, grasping mr. warren's hand. "i'll tell my sister, sallie, too. she'll know just what to do with maud." "but you understand, bob, we shall be obliged to go at this business tactfully," protested poor mr. warren. "i am afraid my daughter is a difficult proposition at times, poor child. but she'll come through all right. she is only nineteen. there's a lot of time yet." "oh, sallie will manage. trust maud to her, my friend. and now, let's go in to luncheon," returned mr. stuart. at luncheon, mr. stuart repeated his conversation with mr. warren to miss sallie and the "automobile girls." "i am afraid maud will be exceedingly difficult to manage," miss sallie demurred. "she is a law unto herself. as for those de lancey smythes, i shall endeavor to find out something about their social position." miss sallie looked about her with the air of a duchess. "but, since you have given your promise to your friend, we will do what we can for maud." the girls also promised their aid. and so, for the time being, the matter was settled. chapter ii a west indian squall by half past two that afternoon mr. warren's launch with its party of pleasure seekers was well under way. the "automobile girls" had gathered in one end, and were enthusiastically commenting on the beauty of the scenery. miss sallie had been conscientiously trying to cultivate maud warren, and rather than antagonize her in the beginning had exerted herself to be agreeable to the de lancey smythes. mrs. de lancey smythe, however, had other views afoot than the cultivation of miss sallie, and had immediately engaged in conversation with mr. stuart. hardly had the launch put out from shore, before she beckoned him to one side of the little deck, and complacently kept him there until ruth, far from pleased with this turn of affairs, called to her father to join them. but mrs. de lancey smythe proved equal to the occasion, for rising gracefully, she calmly strolled by mr. stuart's side to the end of the launch where the four girls were seated. here they were joined by miss sallie, who had been watching the manoeuvres of the other woman with well-veiled contempt, and the conversation became general. "do you know many people here, mrs. smythe?" asked miss sallie, turning to the other woman. "only a few," replied mrs. de lancey smythe indifferently. "most of the people i know have been abroad all winter. many of my dearest friends are among the peerage. two people i know well, arrived to-day, however. the young count de sonde and his friend, monsieur duval." she pronounced the two names with a faultless accent that was not lost upon the practised ears of ruth, who had spoken french fluently since she was a child and had had a french nursery governess for years. whatever were her shortcomings, mrs. de lancey smythe could at least speak french. "a real count!" exclaimed mollie. "how interesting!" "oh, we know lots of titled people," marian interposed. "there were two countesses and a marquis at our hotel in newport last summer." "isn't all this lovely?" cried barbara. she was not interested in counts and titles. she was keenly alive to the beauty of the scenery about them. "i can't decide which out-blues the other, the lake or the sky." "but aren't there a great many clouds in the sky?" questioned ruth. "see how they have piled up over there? do you suppose, by any chance, that we shall have rain? we were told that it never rained down here. it simply isn't tolerated." the launch was now running far out from the shore, which was lined with pretty villas, set here and there in the midst of cocoanut palms and oleander trees. following the boat's path of rippling waves came another launch much smaller than mr. warren's. it was manned by two men who had apparently not observed them. the men were deep in earnest conversation. "oh, marian, there is the count de sonde with his friend!" exclaimed her mother. "how fortunate that we should run across them, just now." "which one is the count?" asked maud warren. she had taken very little interest in anything before. "i hope he is not the older man." "no; he is the slender, dark-haired one," returned mrs. smythe. "he is dressed in white." in the meantime mr. stuart had changed his seat. he had come to palm beach to enjoy his four "automobile girls." no fascinating widow should swerve him from his original plans. like most hard-working successful men he loved a holiday like a schoolboy and resented deeply any interference with his pleasure. "are my girls having a good time?" he queried, smiling into four charming faces. "yes, indeed!" exclaimed four voices in chorus. "we thought the scenery beautiful in the berkshires and along the hudson river, mr. stuart. but this is the most beautiful of all!" cried mollie, clasping her small hands ecstatically. "do you suppose people ever really work here?" inquired grace. "it is like fairy land. everything happens by magic." "you are right, grace. this is a land of pleasure," returned mr. stuart. "the only people who work are the employés in the hotels and the servants in the cottages." "palm beach is dedicated to pleasure," explained ruth, "because it was by accident that it came to be here at all. so it can just as well be spared for an earthly paradise." "why is palm beach an accident?" queried mollie. "years ago this was just a wild, desolate coast," ruth went on. "even now the wilderness is only a mile away. there was a wreck out there, somewhere, on the other side of the peninsula," she pointed toward the ocean. "a ship was loaded with cocoanuts, which were washed ashore. by and by the cocoanuts sprouted and grew into tall palm trees. so this barren shore was transformed into one of the most beautiful palm groves in the world." mr. stuart pinched his daughter's cheek. "you've been stealing a march on us, mistress ruth," he said. "you have been reading a guide book." just then a shadow clouded the brilliant sunshine. the engineer of the launch glanced up uneasily. "you don't think it is going to rain, do you?" asked mr. warren. "it would be a very unusual thing if it did, sir," replied the man, without committing himself. a fresh wind had come up, bearing with it the fragrance of many flowers. it seemed to have blown over miles of lily beds and orange groves. barbara closed her eyes as she breathed in the warm, scented air. "how easy to forget all responsibilities, in an enchanted place like this!" she thought. "how easy just to drift along." "papa, do tell the man to turn back," said maud in a voice that broke unpleasantly into bab's reflections. "it's getting a little chilly. and besides, we must have tea this afternoon in the cocoanut grove." "very well, my dear," replied her father, turning to give his order to the engineer. the launch swung around. immediately the whole party spied another boat bobbing helplessly on the water. one of the men in it was leaning over examining the machinery of the frail craft. the other one, in white, stood at the side of the boat, scanning the water. no other launches were in sight. the many pleasure boats which had dotted the lake with flecks of white, only a few minutes before, had now put in to shore. a black cloud had spread itself over the whole sky, casting a dark and ominous shadow over the lake. as all the world knows--at least the part of the world which lives on pleasure waters--a strict etiquette prevails among these small boats. one boat always helps another in distress. the engineer of mr. warren's launch did not wait for orders. he turned at once toward the drifting craft. "is your engine broken?" he asked, as the boats touched sides. the young man in white was the count de sonde himself. he looked decidedly relieved at the appearance of the rescuers. he removed his panama hat with a flourish and bowed low to the women. the other man answered the boatman. "we are quite helpless, you see," the count ejaculated, shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows at the same time. "my friend can do nothing." in the meantime the friend had arisen from the engine. he was examining the boatload of people with guarded interest. "how do you do, count? how are you, monsieur duval?" called mrs. de lancey smythe. it was not a time for conventional introductions. the boatman made a line fast from the small craft to the larger one. he meant to tow the smaller launch toward home. but mrs. de lancey smythe persisted. mr. warren and his friends must meet the count de sonde and monsieur duval. suddenly the heavens were shaken by a terrific clap of thunder. mrs. smythe gave a little scream. "i am always frightened during a storm," she averred. "mr. stuart, would it be too much to ask you to assist me into the cabin?" miss sallie glanced rather contemptuously at the other woman, and wondered if her fright were real. mr. stuart rose and courteously assisted mrs. de lancey smythe into the tiny cabin, just as a driving sheet of rain bore down upon them. the "automobile girls" crouched in the centre of the boat. maud and marian followed mrs. smythe. "make for the nearest boathouse!" called mr. warren to his engineer. "we can't get back to the hotel in such a storm as this." the storm now burst in all its west indian fury. the waters were churned into foam. the wind whistled and roared. the two small boats tossed about on the water like chips. "we are just in time!" exclaimed mr. warren, as they at last reached the boathouse. "in another five minutes i believe we should have been swamped." he helped the women from the boat to the pier. "what an escape!" gasped mrs. smythe. "marian, my darling, are you all right?" "perfectly, mama," replied her daughter rather scornfully. it was plain to the four "automobile girls" that marian did not entirely approve of her mother's display of fear, and the tone in which she had answered told its own story. the little company sought the shelter of the boathouse. the two foreigners went with them. in one of the men, bab recognized the stranger she had noticed that morning on the hotel piazza. mrs. de lancey smythe introduced him as monsieur duval. "we were very lucky to have met you, sir," mr. duval said to mr. stuart. bab noticed that he spoke very good english, with only a slight foreign accent. "i am afraid our boat would have sunk if you had not come to our rescue." mr. stuart bowed politely, but coldly. he was wondering if his girls and miss sallie would have bad colds from their wetting. they were standing apart from the others, laughing at their plight. the young count de sonde had joined marian and her mother, as soon as he entered the boathouse, but maud was with them. it was upon maud that the count immediately bestowed his attention. he smiled upon her, until maud's foolish head began to flutter. just think of capturing the attentions of a real count so quickly! mr. warren saw his daughter's delight and frowned slightly. maud must not get any foolish ideas about foreigners in her head. he would put an end to that nonsense. he was about to stride over and take charge of affairs when a man servant in plain livery appeared on the path near the boathouse door. he had come from the pretty villa, which was only a hundred yards back from the boathouse, set in a thick grove of palms. the man carried a large bundle of wraps and umbrellas. he paused respectfully when he reached the steps leading to the pavilion. "my lady would be glad if you would seek shelter from the storm in her house," he said in broken english to mr. warren. it was great fun to scamper through the pouring rain to the pretty villa. the foreign coats and capes kept everyone dry. now that they were on land mr. warren's boat party had begun to regard their adventure somewhat lightly. once on the porch of the villa they were ushered into a large, low-ceilinged room at one end of which a fire of pine knots was burning brightly. the room was empty. the newcomers clustered about the blaze to dry their soaked shoes. the room held very little furniture. yet it appeared to bab as one of the most beautiful rooms she had ever seen. a grand piano stood at one end, and a few graceful wicker chairs were scattered about the apartment. the room had an indescribable look of elegance. was it the bare highly polished floor, with only the persian rug to break its shining surface? or was it the enormous bunch of daffodils in a cut glass bowl on the table that lent the place its charm? bab did not know. on the mantelpiece between two tall brass candle-sticks stood a beautiful marble bust. barbara afterwards learned that it was known as "the head of an unknown lady." a handsome leather writing-case lay open on the table. it displayed on the inner side a large crest picked out in dull gold. the firelight shone on the gold outlines and threw them into dull relief. bab saw the frenchman, monsieur duval, walk over to this table. he examined the crest intently for a moment, then turned away. at this instant two women came in through the open door. the one, who was quite old, supported herself with a gold-headed mahogany cane. the other was young and very beautiful. the older woman was rather terrifying in aspect. she had a hooked nose and her bright, beady little eyes regarded the company with a look of amused tolerance. the younger woman came forward to meet her unknown guests without the slightest embarrassment or affectation. the "automobile girls" held their breath. surely she was the most exquisite creature they had ever beheld. chapter iii the fair unknown "i am afraid you must be very cold and wet," the young woman said, in a clear sweet voice, with an accent that the girls had never heard before. she was graceful with an elegance of manner that to imaginative bab seemed almost regal. mr. stuart went forward. "it is most kind and hospitable of you to take us in like this," he declared. "we would certainly have been very uncomfortable if we had stayed in the boathouse for such a length of time. we are deeply grateful to you." "do sit down," the young woman answered. "and won't you have some tea? it may warm you." she pressed an electric bell in the wall. a man servant appeared, and she gave him her orders in german. the "automobile girls" clustered together in the window seat. their unknown hostess sank into a low chair near them. miss sallie and mrs. de lancey smythe were left to the mercy of the old lady with the beaked nose. maud and the count withdrew to one corner of the room, where they chatted softly, the latter bent on displaying all his powers of fascination. "are these your four daughters?" asked the young mistress of the villa, turning to mr. stuart, after a friendly glance at the "automobile girls." "no," mr. stuart replied, laughing and shaking his head. "i am sorry to say i can boast of only one daughter. the three other girls are her friends. but they are all my girls. at least i call them my 'automobile girls'!" "ah," replied the young woman apparently puzzled. "how is it that you call them the 'automobile girls'? do young girls run motor cars in your country? their independence is quite wonderful, i think." "ruth is our chauffeur," explained bab, who was looking closely at the beautiful face of her hostess. the latter's dark brown hair was arranged in a braid and wound about her head like a coronet but it broke into little soft curls around her face. she had a small straight nose and the curve of her red lips was perfect. the coutour of her face was oval and her large dark eyes were touched with an undefinable sadness. she was tall and slender, and she wore a plain, white woolen frock that emphasized the lines of her graceful figure. the simplicity of her costume was not marred by a single ornament. even her long, slender fingers were bare of rings. she turned to pretty mollie, taking one of her small hands in her own cool fingers. "do these little hands also run a motor car?" the hostess asked. mollie looked long into the beautiful face. somehow its hidden sadness touched her. mollie's blue eyes filled with tears. she felt strangely timid. "why, you must not be afraid of me, dear one," said the young woman. she gazed into mollie's blue eyes appealingly, and softly pressed her hand. "i'm a girl like yourself, only i am much older. but i love younger girls very dearly. you must let me be your friend." to the amazement of the other girls this exquisite stranger bent over and kissed mollie on the lips. "i should be very happy to have you for my friend," returned mollie, a smile quivering through her tears. "and i wasn't the least bit frightened. i think perhaps it was the storm that made me so silly. bab sometimes calls me a cry baby." "which one of you is bab? and what a pretty name that is!" exclaimed the young hostess. barbara stepped forward with a friendly smile. mr. stuart then presented grace and ruth. but still their new friend did not reveal her identity. she was a foreigner. there was no doubt of that. she had spoken in german to her servant. perhaps she was german? she confessed that this was her first visit to america. the climate of new york had driven her south. yet she did not mention her name or her country. presently the man servant returned to the room carrying a tea service. he was followed by a comely german maid, who carried a tray laden with buttered toast and a large dish of german cookies. the man lit the candles and a lamp covered with a yellow shade. a soft, mellow glow pervaded the beautiful room. there was a pleasant silence and all eyes were turned to their lovely young hostess, whose slender white hands busied themselves with the tea things. "a friendly cup of tea on a day like this, makes the whole world kin," she said, smiling brightly at her guests. "it banishes sad thoughts and one grows cheerful, even though the weather behaves itself so badly." "we have a proverb," laughed ruth, "that says 'it's an ill wind that blows no one good.' we should really thank the weather for misbehaving." "ah, that is broad flattery," cried their hostess with a silvery laugh. "but oh so charming." "do you not find it dull staying at an out-of-the-way place like this?" broke in mrs. de lancey smythe, looking about her with a patronizing air. "i am quite sure i have never seen you at the beach." the "automobile girls" exchanged lightning glances. mrs. smythe's abrupt remark jarred upon them, and simultaneously it occurred to them that she was distinctly underbred. marian's face flushed, and she bit her lip. "i think this quiet place must be enchanting," she said almost defiantly. "i hate hotels." "really, marian," said her mother coldly. "your opinion has not been solicited." "they're going to quarrel," thought barbara. "how disagreeable that woman is. she is so snippy, and calculating and deceitful. i rather like marian, though." but their hostess averted any domestic altercation by saying sweetly. "i am indeed a stranger, here, but i came for rest and quiet, therefore i have little desire to frequent the beach or its hotels." "quite true," responded mrs. de lancey smythe, and hastily turning her attention to the imposing looking old woman with the gold headed cane she said, "you are german, i presume." "why german?" replied the old lady, observing her questioner with a dangerous glitter in her small black eyes. mrs. de lancey smythe showed signs of confusion. "i thought you were germans because you spoke german to your servant," she said, trying to look haughty and thus carry off what promised to be an unpleasant situation. "ah, yes," returned her antagonist. "but does it follow that one is of the same country as one's servants? we have also employed both french and english maids." mrs. de lancey smythe did not deem it wise to continue the conversation. she therefore turned her attention to mr. duval who had been listening to the conversation with a curious smile on his clever face. miss sallie was delighted with the strange old woman. her abruptness was amusing. miss stuart began discussing a number of current topics with her in an impersonal, well-bred manner, neither woman showing the slightest curiosity about the other's personal affairs. "count de sonde!" called mrs. de lancey smythe suddenly. there was an immediate lull in the conversation. the young mistress of the villa stared at the "automobile girls." her face turned pale. she leaned back in her chair. "count de sonde!" she whispered to herself. mollie was at her new friend's side in an instant. "i am afraid you are ill," she suggested. "can i do anything for you?" "no, no, dear child," replied the other. "it was only a momentary faintness. but did i not hear some one call the count de sonde? is he here?" "oh, yes," returned mollie politely. "he is that young man in white, who is now talking with mrs. de lancey smythe." her hostess turned quickly. she looked a long time at the young count. "who is the other man near him?" she next asked. mollie was again her informant. "he is a mr. duval," she explained. "he and the count de sonde are at the same hotel together." at this moment, maud warren, who had noted her father's displeased look, decided to join the "automobile girls," who were grouped around their hostess. "do you know," she said with an air of triumph, "the count de sonde has invited papa and me and the de lancey smythes to visit him at his chateau in france next summer?" the tea-cup of their hostess crashed to the floor. it broke into small pieces. "don't trouble to pick up the pieces," she protested to mr. stuart. "johann will do it. i am very careless. so you expect to visit france next summer?" she continued, turning her attention to maud. "yes, papa and i shall go," maud replied. "it would be quite novel to visit a chateau." "delightful. but where is the chateau of the de sonde family?" inquired the other young woman. maud hesitated. "i am not sure that i know," she replied. "i believe the count said it was in brittany. the count's family is one of the oldest in france." "i have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the count," suggested maud's hostess. "perhaps you will present him to me." in a few moments the young count was leaning gracefully against the mantelpiece. he was talking with the beautiful stranger, whose name was still withheld from her visitors. a little later monsieur duval joined them. "oh, yes, i hasten to assure you, it is quite, quite old," the count explained. he was talking of his family in brittany. "how far back does your family go?" went on his unknown questioner. the count cleared his throat and choked over his fresh cup of tea. "my friend's family goes back to the eleventh century," answered duval quietly. the count was still coughing violently. "and you are the last of your line?" continued his hostess. she was addressing the count. "it is a pity for such an illustrious race to die out. i suppose you will marry?" she looked at the young man with such grave sweetness that he smiled uneasily and shifted his gaze. "i hope to marry some day, mademoiselle," he mumbled. "you have some very old families in germany also, have you not?" inquired monsieur duval, looking searchingly at the young woman. did she pause a moment before she answered? bab and ruth both thought so. "in what european country are there not old families, monsieur?" she replied courteously. "in italy the old families trace their lineage to the gods of mythology. but i am interested in a young country like this america." "then you should go to chicago, if you wish to see a really american city," cried ruth. "of course, aunt sallie and father and i think our chicago is greater than new york, because it is our home." "de lancey hall, in virginia, is my family home," drawled mrs. de lancey smythe, with a little insolent air of pride. "the de lanceys were a titled french family before they came to this country." "how very interesting!" exclaimed the youthful hostess, in an enigmatic tone. "do people drop their titles in this great free country of yours? it is much better, i think. titles mean but little anywhere." she ended her words with a little, serious frown. "the best heritage that i can lay claim to is that of being an american," exclaimed ruth, with enthusiasm. "america for the americans! three cheers for the red, white and blue!" "you are a true patriot. is it not so?" laughed the hostess, patting ruth's shoulder. "your great free country is so wonderful. its liberty is boundless." she sighed, and for a moment seemed wrapped in thought. then turning to mr. stuart and mr. warren asked if they would have more tea. "no thank you," replied mr. stuart. "in fact i believe we had better begin to think about getting back to our hotel. the rain has stopped, and we need trespass upon your hospitality no further." "it has been a pleasure to meet you and your 'automobile girls,'" the young woman replied. then she added very softly so that mr. stuart and mollie who stood with her hand clasped in that of the stranger, alone, heard: "won't you bring them to see me in the near future?" "oh how lovely!" breathed mollie. "we shall be very happy, indeed to come," mr. stuart replied. "i thank you for your charming hospitality, mademoiselle," broke in the suave tones of mr. duval, who with the count at his heels had stepped unnoticed to the young woman's side. "am i presumptuous in venturing to ask if it is your pleasure that we should know to whom we are indebted?" "ah to be sure. i have been what you call, very stupid," laughed the unknown. "pray pardon me." gliding over to the side of the stern old woman, she took her hand. "permit me to present my very dear friend, madame de villiers. i am the countess sophia von stolberg." chapter iv the compact "girls!" exclaimed ruth, who lay curled up on the foot of her bed in a pale blue silk kimono. "i feel like offering a libation to the storm king to-night for sending us that squall." "why?" inquired grace, who was not gifted with an oriental imagination. "because, if there had been no storm, there would have been no countess sophia," replied her friend. "she is hard to understand, but she is so beautiful, so gentle and so noble," observed barbara. "and she kissed me!" cried mollie. "as, yes, mollie darling, she had a fearful crush on you," laughed ruth. "we are already green with jealousy. it's those golden baby curls of yours that do the business, i suppose. first, it was the lovely mrs. cartwright you won from us at newport. now your cerulean eyes have hypnotized the countess sophia. what shall we do to her, girls?" "destroy her beauty!" cried barbara. "cut off her curls and give her two black eyes." the three girls pounced on mollie. there was a real tom-boy romp which ended in a burst of joyous laughter. for miss sallie's familiar rap-tap was heard on the door. her voice was raised in mild protest: "children, remember that this is a hotel." the girls subsided. "do you suppose it would be good form to call on the countess to-morrow, when we met her only this afternoon?" asked ruth, as soon as she had regained her breath. "it would be rather rushing things," answered barbara. "if you will be good, and promise not to lay violent hands on me again, i will tell you something," mollie volunteered. "we promise," cried three voices in unison. "the countess is going to ask us to luncheon to-morrow. she whispered it to me just before we left her villa this afternoon." "oh, joy!" exclaimed ruth. "do you mean that she intends to invite the entire party--the de lancey smythes and all that aggregation?" "no," mollie declared, answering ruth's previous question. "the countess intends to invite only miss sallie, mr. stuart and the 'automobile girls.'" "but what are we to do about maud warren?" queried ruth. "father has promised mr. warren we would help him out with maud. here we are already trying to shake her off. if we are going to see a great deal of the countess, how shall we manage? i am sure the stern old dowager would never endure maud's grown up manner for a moment. and maud won't give up those de lancey smythes." "i think it would be a good idea to take the countess sophia into our confidence, if we have an opportunity," suggested barbara. "it would not be a betrayal of trust. because what we wish to accomplish is to persuade maud warren to see the difference between really well-bred people like the countess and those who pretend to be. i think the smythes are pretenders, the mother at least. she seems to be continually on the alert. i watched her yesterday, and that high and mighty air that she assumes is a cloak to hide her real character. it seems to me that she and that duval man have some sort of secret understanding. i think----" barbara paused. "well, sherlock, what do you think?" queried ruth impertinently. "and when you unearth her family skeleton may i go along and play doctor watson?" "how ridiculous you are, ruth," returned barbara, laughing. "i suppose i deserve to be teased. i'm always suspecting people's motives. but really i do believe that that mrs. smythe has a hurtful influence over maud. mr. warren doesn't like to have maud with her, either. you heard the way he spoke this morning." "yes," exclaimed ruth. "we also heard miss maud defy him. she is dreadfully spoiled, and we shall be obliged to handle her very carefully. if she even suspects we are trying to reform her, she will shun our beneficial society as she would the plague." "i believe i could bear that misfortune," sighed mollie. but barbara was serious. "i am truly sorry for maud warren," she declared. "i think she is just like a blind person. she can't see anything that is good and true. she thinks of nothing but money, titles and sham society. i don't see how we can do her any good." "well, her father thinks we can," grace added. "he told me on our way back from the launch party, that he hoped we would be friends with maud, for she needed the companionship of sensible girls. he said that he hoped she would take more interest in outdoor sports, and drop some of the newfangled society ideas she has adopted." "i'll tell you a secret," said barbara slowly. "i think that maud was impressed with the count de sonde, or rather his title." "and the count seemed to be equally impressed with maud," interposed ruth. "i believe he is one of those foreigners with no money, and plenty of title that one reads about in the sunday papers." "some of them don't have even the title," said mollie with a worldly air that contrasted oddly with her baby face. "they are just waiters who pretend that they are real counts." "hear, hear," cried ruth, "mollie the worldly wise is holding forth!" "well, you needn't make fun of me, ruth," said mollie stoutly. "it's all true. i read about one last week who married a rich american girl. she fell in love with his title. after she had married him she found out that his name was jean, something or other, that he had been a waiter, and was wanted by the police for forgery. just think girls how dreadfully she must have felt!" "i should say so," averred grace, who always championed mollie's cause. "what's your opinion of the count de sonde, barbara?" asked ruth. "he didn't impress me favorably," replied bab. "he's too artificial, and too conceited. he reminds me of a comic opera frenchman. he looks as though he were ready to run about on his toes and shrug his shoulders at the slightest pretext." "that exactly describes him," ruth agreed. "i imagine him trilling a silly french song: "'bonjour, mesdames! bonjour, messieurs! je suis le comte de sonde!'" ruth bowed low, first to mollie and then to grace. she shrugged her dainty shoulders in a perfect imitation of the count. "but what about monsieur duval?" queried mollie. "he's the backbone of the little count," said barbara. "he's the brains and strength of the company. if there is any little game to be played at palm beach--look out for mr. duval!" "but do you suppose they really have a game to play?" persisted ruth. bab shook her head. "i don't know. i suppose i am only joking," she answered. "but did you notice how often mr. duval came to the count's rescue? he helped him out of a number of tight places. of course it is ridiculous to suppose those men have any scheme afoot. they are certainly not thieves, like harry townsend at newport. i wonder what they are after?" "oh, nothing, bab. you are too mysterious," protested mollie. "i thought we were talking about maud warren and how we could best make friends with her." "girls, let's enter into a solemn compact," ruth suggested, lowering her voice to a whisper in order to persuade the other girls to listen. "what kind of compact, child?" bab demanded. "a compact to do our best for maud warren," said conscientious ruth. "i tell you, girls, it won't be easy, for maud isn't our kind. and you know how we like to keep together and don't care much for any outside girl. i know we shall have to make a good many sacrifices. but maud must not run around with the smythes and that little french count all the time. let's make a compact to do our best for maud. come, join hands." the four girls clasped hands. they could not foresee into what difficulties this compact would lead them. tap! tap! miss sallie knocked again at the door. "go to bed at once; it is very late," she ordered. ruth dreamed that night that the four girls were sitting in a circle with the countess sophia von stolberg. they had hold of one another's hands. they were repeating their vow about maud. suddenly they were interrupted. monsieur duval appeared in their midst. the countess sophia saw the frenchman. she gave a cry of terror and fainted. ruth awakened with a start. the night was still. the moon shone brightly through the open windows and the air was filled with the perfume of magnolia blossoms. "i wonder what the countess sophia's history is?" thought ruth sleepily, as she dropped into slumber once more. at her villa, looking across the moonlit lake, the beautiful young countess was at that moment writing a letter. it was a long letter, penned in close fine handwriting. when she had finished she slipped the letter into an envelope, which she addressed carefully to "m. le comte frederic de sonde." chapter v the daughter of mrs. de lancey smythe breakfast was hardly over next morning before a note on thin foreign paper was handed to miss sallie stuart. she read it aloud: it asked for the pleasure of their company at luncheon. it was signed "sophia von stolberg." the messenger would wait for the answer. mr. stuart was included in the invitation. "there's only one answer to that note," laughed mr. stuart, scanning the four eager faces of the "automobile girls." "shall i translate your expressions into a single word? it is 'yes,' my hearties." "did you think they would fail to accept?" teased miss sallie. "look at the foolish young things! they have all fallen in love with the countess at first sight, and can hardly wait for one o'clock to arrive. but i will send our acceptance at once, so as not to keep the man waiting." miss stuart hurried off to the writing room of the hotel. so the girls were alone when they were joined on the piazza by mrs. de lancey smythe and marian. "good morning, my dears," said mrs. de lancey smythe, with an attempt at affability. "isn't it delightful after the storm?" "very," answered ruth, rather shortly. "have you seen dear maud and her father this morning?" pursued mrs. smythe, ignoring ruth's lack of cordiality. "no," replied ruth. "have you?" "i saw them a few minutes ago, and they were engaged in a family discussion," replied the older woman. "such discussions are most disagreeable to me. marian and i never have them. for some stupid reason, mr. warren is opposed to his daughter's receiving attentions from the count de sonde. i have assured him that i know the count well. he belongs to an old and illustrious family. but tell me, what is your opinion of the countess sophia von stolberg? do you think she is an impostor?" "an impostor!" exclaimed ruth indignantly. "i think she is simply perfect. i never met any one in my life who impressed me so much." "beware, my dear, that your feelings do not run away with you," warned mrs. de lancey smythe with asperity. "i have heard rumors, since i saw you last night. there are suspicious circumstances connected with this countess. she may very possibly be an impostor." "who told you such a dreadful falsehood?" demanded ruth. she was almost choking with anger. but barbara had joined her. bab's firm fingers on ruth's arm warned her to be careful. "the man who told me is in a position to know the truth. he is a clever man of the world, a foreigner himself," replied mrs. smythe triumphantly. "i am afraid i cannot credit his story," replied ruth, with more composure. "i cannot forget that we accepted the countess's hospitality yesterday and we are to have the pleasure of accepting more of it to-day. my father and aunt sallie, and we four girls, are to have luncheon with the countess von stolberg and madame de villiers." ruth drew barbara's arm through hers. they moved away from mrs. de lancey smythe. but mrs. de lancey smythe had said her say and left a sting, and she smiled maliciously as the two girls walked away. "i can't endure that woman, barbara," exclaimed ruth. "i'll lose my head completely if she attacks our beautiful countess again." "she is too disagreeable to notice," answered bab vehemently. "here comes maud warren. shall we ask her to take a walk with us along the beach?" "i suppose so," assented ruth, whose enthusiasm had somewhat cooled over night. "i don't want her. but we ought to be polite." the two girls greeted maud warren cordially. there was a discontented line across that young woman's brow, and an angry look in her pale blue eyes. "i am looking for the count," she declared defiantly. the girls instinctively knew that maud was disobeying her father. mr. warren had just finished lecturing maud and had commanded that she cut the count's acquaintance. "i saw the count a few minutes ago. he was starting off with his friend for a walk," explained bab gently. "won't you take a stroll on the beach with us, maud? it is such a perfect morning." "oh, do come, maud," begged ruth, with a charming, cordial smile. ruth's sweet nature was again asserting itself. "yes, do," cried mollie and grace, who had just joined the little group of girls. maud's face softened. "you are awfully nice," she said. maud was a little taken aback by so much friendliness. she had been spoiled all her life, and had never had real friends among young girls. people had thought her disagreeable and overbearing, and she had held herself aloof, displaying a degree of hauteur that admitted of no friendship. "let's get our hats and go immediately. it will soon be time to go in bathing," suggested bab. barbara never missed a swim if she could help it. "all right, old water dog," ruth agreed. "meet us on the piazza looking toward the ocean, maud. we will be back in ten minutes." the girls were back on the piazza at the appointed time. maud was there. but with her were marian de lancey smythe, and the count de sonde. "what a nuisance!" exclaimed ruth under her breath. but there was nothing to be done; therefore the girls decided to accept this undesired addition to their number with the best possible grace. the entire party started down the avenue of palms toward the ocean. the "automobile girls" were thrilled with the beauty of the great stretch of blue water. marian de lancey smythe, too, had a soul stirring within her. it had been choked by the false principles and ostentations that her mother had taught her. but marian was not a stupid girl. her wits had been sharpened by years of managing and deceit. she had the sense to see the difference between herself and the four sweet, unaffected "automobile girls," and she knew the difference was in their favor. under her fashionable exterior a really simple heart beat in marian's bosom, and she was filled with a wild desire to shake off her mother's despotic rule, and for once let her real self come to the surface. as she strolled moodily along beside barbara she reflected bitterly that while others had been given all, she had received nothing. she contrasted the hand to mouth existence that she and her mother led with the full, cheerful life of the "automobile girls," and a wave of shame swept over her at the deceptions and subterfuges that were second nature to her mother, which she felt reasonably certain that no really honest person would practise. her life was a sham and a mockery, and behind it was the ever present fear that her mother would some day overstep all bounds, and do something to bring the crushing weight of the law down upon them. there were so many things that marian did not understand. her mother never said more about her affairs than was absolutely necessary. she only knew that they were always poor, always struggling to appear to be that which they were not. she had been commanded to dissemble, to lie, to do without a murmur, whatever her mother asked of her, and her better self sometimes rose in a revolt against her mother, that was almost hatred. as she walked gloomily along wrapped in her own bitter reflections, she sighed deeply. bab who was walking with her glanced quickly at marian, then with one of her swift impulses, she put out her hand and clasped that of the other girl. "are you unhappy, marian?" she asked. "no," replied marian. but her emotions got the better of her and she choked back her sobs with an angry gulp. then feeling the pressure of bab's sympathetic hand she said brokenly, "i mean, yes. at least, i don't know exactly what is the matter with me. i think i am homesick--homesick for the things i have never had, and never expect to have." "i'm sorry," said bab, still holding marian's hand, yet looking away, so she should not see marian's rebellious tears. "but why do you think you won't have the things you want? if you keep on wishing for a thing the wish is sure to come true some day." marian's set face softened at these words. "do you really think that?" she asked. "do you suppose that things will ever be any different for me? oh, if you only knew how i hate all this miserable pretense." "why, marian!" exclaimed bab. "what is the matter? i had no idea you were so unhappy." "of course you hadn't," replied marian. "because i never dare let any one know my real feelings. i never have hated my life as i do since i have known you girls. you are just girls. that's the beauty of it, and you have folks who love you and want you to stay girls and not ape grown up people all the time. i'd like to wear my hair in one braid, and run and romp and have a good time generally. look at me. i look as though i were twenty-two at least, and i'm only seventeen. i have to wear my hair on top of my head and pretend to be something remarkable when i want to be just a plain every day girl. it's intolerable. i won't stand it any longer. i don't see why i was ever born." "poor marian," soothed bab. "don't feel so badly. it will all come right some day. let me be your friend. i believe i understand just how you feel. perhaps your mother may----" "don't speak of my mother!" ejaculated the girl passionately. "sometimes i hate her. do you know, barbara, i often wonder if she is really my mother. away back in my mind there is the memory of another face. i don't know whether i have only dreamed it, or where it came from, but i like to think of that sweet face as belonging to my mother." bab looked at marian in a rather startled way. what a strange girl she was, to be sure. suppose mrs. de lancey smythe were not her mother. suppose that marian had been stolen when a baby. bab's active brain immediately began to spin a web of circumstances about marian smythe. "marian," she began. but she never finished for just then a piercing cry rang out. nursemaids with children began running along the sands. another nurse had run out into the water. she was wildly waving her arms and pointing to a small object well out on the waves. barbara saw it for just an instant. then it disappeared. she and marian both recognized what it was. a child's curly head had risen to the surface of the water, and then had sunk out of sight. quick as a flash barbara kicked off her white canvas pumps and threw hat and linen coat on the ground. extending her hands before her, she ran out into the water. marian ran blindly after her. the count de sonde was the only man near that part of the beach. he was behaving in a most remarkable manner. entirely forgetful of the blood of scores of noble ancestors that ran in his veins, he had taken to his heels and his small figure was seen flying up the beach away from the water. however, bab was not thinking of aid. she made straight for the little head, which rose for the second time above the waves. when barbara reached the spot where she had last seen the child's head she dived beneath the surface of the water. marian thought that barbara, too, had lost her life. she began wringing her hands and calling for help. in her excitement she had waded to her neck in the water and was clinging to the life rope. she did not know how to swim, but she had a wild idea that she ought to follow in barbara's lead, and now she clung to the rope and anxiously watched barbara's movements. bab in the meantime, had dived into deep water and was groping blindly for the little figure. at last she seized the child by the arm and with lungs bursting rose to the top of the water, when suddenly she was struck a fearful and unlooked for blow. she had not reckoned with the life line and with the little fellow in her arms had come in violent contact with it. she reeled and would have gone under but a hand grasped her firmly by the arm and pulled her from under the treacherous rope. she had just sense enough to hand the child over to marian smythe and seize the rope herself. then she filled her exhausted lungs with the fresh air. on the shore grace and mollie were running up and down the sands imploring some one to save bab. ruth wished to rush out into the water. but she knew she could not reach the two exhausted girls. as for the count de sonde, he was nowhere to be seen, while maud warren stood on the shore helplessly wringing her hands. in a short time the beach was crowded with people. marian and bab had brought the little boy in to his nurse. the hotel physician soon took the nurse and the baby both away, and the crowd followed them. bab flung herself down in the warm sand. mollie, ruth and grace hung over her anxiously. "i'll just rest here a moment," bab said faintly. "i want to get my breath. but do see to marian. she is a brave girl. she saved my life. i struck against the life rope, and would have gone under with the little boy had she not caught my arm and held me up." "you dear, dear girl," said mollie with a half sob. "how splendid of you!" then the three girls surrounded marian and hugged her until they were almost as wet as she was. "i didn't do anything remarkable," she averred, almost shyly. "i went into the water after barbara before i realized what i was doing. i just had to catch hold of her arm, because i saw that she was going under. you girls are perfectly sweet to me and i am happier to-day than i've ever been before." "marian," called the cold tones of her mother. "go up to the hotel at once and change your clothing. your appearance is disgraceful." mrs. de lancey smythe stalked majestically over to the little group, frowning her displeasure. "whatever possessed you and miss thurston to rush madly into the water after a child you never saw before?" she said to marian, whose happy face had darkened at her mother's first word. "really, marian, dear, you are at times past understanding." "mrs. smythe," said barbara coldly. "we could never have been so heartless as to stand on the shore and wait for some one else to rescue that little child. i felt it my duty to make some effort and i am sure that marian did." "really, miss thurston," retorted mrs. smythe, "i addressed my remark to marian." "yes," said bab, her eyes flashing, "but you included me in it, therefore i felt justified in answering it." for a moment there was a tense silence. bab stood looking composedly into the angry eyes of mrs. de lancey smythe. then ruth said, with superb indifference. "oh, come on, girls, don't waste your whole morning, here. bab, you'll catch cold. hurry right up to the hotel with marian. good-bye, marian, we'll see you later." utterly ignoring mrs. smythe, ruth turned on her heel and accompanied by grace and mollie continued the stroll along the beach. "my i'd hate to meet mrs. de lancey smythe alone on a dark night," remarked mollie, with a giggle. "didn't she look ready to scratch bab's eyes out, though." "she found her match in mistress barbara," observed grace. "she can't intimidate our bab." bab hurried along the beach toward the hotel full of sympathy for the luckless marian, and vowing within herself to be a true friend to the girl who had been cheated of her girlhood. chapter vi the countess sophia to be at luncheon with a real countess? what bliss! not one of the "automobile girls" doubted, for an instant, the genuineness of the countess sophia von stolberg. mrs. de lancey smythe's calumnies carried no weight with the "automobile girls." to-day the countess was more gentle, more beautiful than she had seemed at first. and there was less formality in her manner. mollie, who sat at her left at the luncheon table, quite lost the feeling of awe that had taken possession of her the afternoon before. opposite the countess, at the other end of the table, sat the formidable madame de villiers, the old lady with the hooked nose and the bird-like eyes. she, too, seemed to feel more amiable, for she watched her young guests with an amused smile. "do you know what i believe madame de villiers was thinking all the time we were at luncheon?" ruth asked her friends, when they were discussing their visit the following day. "the amused look on her face seemed to say: 'this is just another of the countess's pranks, asking these strangers to luncheon. but if they amuse her--why not!'" madame de villiers, however, found miss sallie stuart much to her liking. perhaps this was because miss sallie was not in the least afraid of her, nor inclined to shrink from her, as so many people did. the story of the morning's adventure had been told. the countess leaned admiringly over the great bunch of yellow daffodils in the centre of the table and smiled at bab. barbara's brown curls were still damp from their recent wetting. "were there no men on that part of the beach when the baby was drowning? why did you have to risk your life in that way?" the countess asked. "there were no men near," ruth replied. "you see, it was very early in the morning. only the nurse girls and children were abroad." "there was one man present!" exclaimed mollie, with a spark of anger in her usually gentle blue eyes. "but he was a coward and ran away." "the count de sonde! oh, yes," continued ruth, "i had forgotten him." the countess look startled. "the count de sonde!" she repeated in a puzzled fashion. "he refused to help? he ran away?" an expression of incredulity crossed her face. "he most certainly did run," mollie declared firmly. "i almost fell on my knees to beg him to save bab. but he did not even take time to refuse me. he simply ran away, so as to live to fight another day, i suppose." "the count de sonde!" the young countess returned. "ah, yes, he is the young frenchman who was here yesterday. then he is not a friend of yours?" "certainly not, countess sophia," explained mr. stuart. "the young man is only a chance acquaintance, whom my friend mr. warren rescued from a difficulty yesterday." "i, also, am but a chance acquaintance," smiled the young countess. "only you were the rescuer, and he was the rescued!" exclaimed mollie quickly, looking fondly at her pretty hostess, who pressed her hand under the table. "we are not in the least interested in the count," ruth remarked bluntly. "we are civil to him because we are trying to help some one." the countess looked puzzled. mr. stuart laughed. "my dear countess," he explained, "the 'automobile girls' are not exactly knights of the round table, but they have a kind of league of their own. i think they have formed a sort of helping hand society. they have a pretty good theory that there is no reason why boys should enjoy all the adventures and thrilling experiences. if there is anything to be done, why, do it! isn't that the motto, girls? i think the countess would be amazed if she knew what you have been through in the way of adventure. now, they have undertaken to look after a misguided maiden. and i think they are rather piling on the horrors in her case." "now, father, you've no right to tease," protested ruth. "you are the very person who made us promise to stand by maud warren through thick and thin." "so i did," agreed mr. stuart. "but i had no romantic notions that maud was to be protected from the count de sonde. i only consented to have you persuade maud from certain undesirable associates by showing her how much more desirable you are. now, i plainly see the object of your protective association has changed." "now, father, you are teasing," exclaimed his daughter. "how can you accuse me of any such thing?" replied mr. stuart, his eyes twinkling. "he always teases," ruth explained to the countess and madame de villiers. "it's second nature to him. he can't help it. but putting aside all jesting, i am going to speak very plainly about several things. i am sorry to be obliged to backbite, but really and truly we don't like mrs. de lancey smythe. she is the most disagreeable person we know, and we are going to try gradually to wean maud warren from her. maud thinks that she is wonderful and a great society leader, but i think if one made careful inquiry into the matter, one would find her name among those missing from the social world." "ruth, my dear," expostulated miss stuart. "you are entirely too impetuous!" "do allow her to go on, miss stuart," begged madame de villiers. "she is one after my own heart. it is refreshing to find some one who is not afraid to speak plainly." "well," continued ruth, highly elated at receiving the approbation of the stern old woman. "we are going to checkmate mrs. d. l. s. at her own game. she is trying to throw maud in line with her own schemes. enter the 'automobile girls.' exit the enemy. the first battle was fought on the beach this morning, and the situation was strongly defended to the last word by general barbara thurston." "what do you mean, ruth?" interrupted her father gravely. then ruth launched forth with the account of mrs. de lancey smythe's rudeness to bab and bab's reply. "marian is all right," concluded ruth, "but her mother is an entirely different proposition." "so it would seem," murmured the countess thoughtfully. "but suppose the count is really an eligible person, and has fallen in love, in earnest with miss warren, and suppose that miss warren truly loves him, what then? would mr. warren still be opposed to the marriage?" "i don't know," replied ruth doubtfully. "but you see maud is a girl, and mr. warren feels that she is too young to know her own mind. he is afraid that the count's title has dazzled her, and he does not like foreigners. he thinks we may be able to disabuse maud of some of her sentimental ideas. last night we four girls organized a secret society for the suppression of fortune hunters, and we thought perhaps you might help us----" "ruth, my dear child!" protested miss sallie greatly shocked. but old madame de villiers' eyes gleamed with amusement. "indeed, i shall be most happy to become a member of your secret society," rejoined the countess. "how exciting! it must be a real secret society, if we are to be serious. let me see? we should arrange signals and plan a campaign. if i am right, miss maud warren needs to be treated very delicately and carefully, or she is likely to rebel. is this not so?" "that is just what we agreed last night," ruth confessed. "but how are we going to prove that count de sonde is a fortune-hunter?" argued mollie. "for all we know, he may be immensely rich as well as illustrious." "oh, we shall have to prove that the count is not really in love with mademoiselle warren," answered the countess, pinching mollie's cheek. she was entering into their little game with a curious zest. "or you might prove that he is not a count," interposed madame de villiers, with an inscrutable expression on her grim old face. "do you believe that he is an impostor, madame de villiers?" inquired miss sallie. for a brief instant the countess's eyes met those of madame de villiers. the old lady shrugged her shoulders and lifted her eyebrows in answer to miss sallie's question: "the world is so full of impostors, and europe so full of counts," she said. the countess blushed hotly. there was an awkward silence. miss sallie was sorry she had spoken. but why should such an idle question cause annoyance? the young count was surely a stranger to her two hostesses. there was nothing to indicate that the young man was in earnest about maud warren. he had simply paid her casual attentions for the past few days. "shall you and i become members of this secret society, madame de villiers?" inquired miss stuart, to divert the conversation. "i suppose we had better be content with the posts of confidential agents. because i assure you there is no limit to what this society may do." "and i should prefer to be scout, guardsman, or messenger," agreed mr. stuart. "i, too, shrink from being an active member of such a vigorous organization." "then let us leave these faithless people behind, girls," proposed the young countess. "let us run away to the old boathouse and plan our campaign. we are not sure that we may safely confide to you our secret signals, our hand clasps and our code," she protested to the older people. madame de villiers now led the way into the drawing room. but the young countess ran lightly out of the house, followed by her four girl guests. "we'll arrange our secrets while our elders take their coffee on the balcony," she suggested. when the countess and the "automobile girls" had disappeared, madame de villiers smiled a little apologetically at miss stuart and her brother. "the countess is only a girl herself," she explained. "of course, she is several years older than your girls. yet, in many ways, she is still simply a child." "she is very beautiful and charming," replied miss sallie cordially. "you see how she has fascinated our girls." "so she does everyone," replied madame de villiers, shaking her head somewhat sadly. in the meantime the five conspirators were absorbed in devising their signals. they were only joking, of course. yet, somehow, the young countess entered so seriously into their make-believe that the girls almost forgot they were not in earnest. one thing they conscientiously agreed upon--maud warren was to be constantly invited to share their pleasures with, or without, her objectionable friends. "must the count de sonde be permitted always to come along with us and maud?" grace queried. she had been taking little part in the conversation, for she had been industriously writing down a list of signals for their new organization. "we must have him, if maud won't come without him," replied ruth. "maud must be won over to our side by flattering attentions. suppose we start out being friends with her, by having another luncheon at our hotel. will you come, countess?" the countess shook her head gently. "i am sorry," she replied a little soberly. "i--" she hesitated a moment. "i fear you will think me rude. but i have made it a rule never to appear at the hotels. i will do anything else. suppose we give a picnic? is not that what you call it in english?" "a picnic would be delightful," agreed ruth politely. but she could not help wondering why the countess was not willing "to appear," as she expressed it, at the hotels. "the signals are ready!" cried grace. "there are two handshakes. the one which denotes danger is like this: press the forefinger of one hand into the palm of the other person's hand when you shake hands." "that is very clever!" exclaimed the countess. she clasped mollie's little hand. "now, mademoiselle mollie, when you feel my finger press your palm like this, you will know that i am greatly in need of your help." "a white ribbon bow worn on the left shoulder, means that a secret meeting must be called at once!" grace declaimed. "and a blue ribbon bow, worn instead of a white one, proclaims: 'i have important information to communicate,'" added the countess sophia. "but i should have a special signal by which to summon you. let me see. i must be able to signal you from a distance. if i fasten a red flag to one of these posts in the day time you must know that i want to see you very much." "but what about a night signal?" asked grace, who was taking the signals very seriously. the countess laughed. "if ever you should happen to see a bright light shining in the tower of my villa, come to me at once. i shall be in great danger. now, is not that exciting?" she cried, clasping her hands and smiling at the little company. at this moment there came a sound of oars dipping in the water. a boat glided from under the pavilion, which was built out over the water. the boat must have been hugging the shore until it reached the boathouse. then it made for the open water. in the boat was one man. and immediately the countess and the four "automobile girls" recognized him. he was the frenchman, monsier duval! "i wonder if he has been eavesdropping?" asked ruth indignantly. "oh well, he has heard nothing but make-believe," the countess replied lightly, as she led her guests back to the villa. chapter vii tea in the cocoanut grove their beloved red automobile, companion in so many adventures and faithful friend in time of need, did not accompany the "automobile girls" to palm beach. but mr. stuart engaged another larger motor car with a chauffeur to run it, as soon as he arrived at the famous southern resort. he preferred ruth to have a chauffeur at her command in case she needed him. there was room in the new automobile for ten persons, and mr. stuart, miss sallie, the four "automobile girls," the countess sophia and madame de villiers seated themselves in its cavernous depths. then the car spun out along the famous shell road, lined on each side with the tall, delicate yucca plants. a fragrant southern breeze fanned the faces of the happy party. the sunlight was dazzling, the sky a deep blue. all about were masses of tropical vegetation that glittered in the sunshine. "this place is truly heavenly," exclaimed the countess sophia von stolberg. she leaned back in the automobile and closed her eyes. "how could one help being happy, surrounded by all this beauty? i am indeed very happy to-day. are you not happy, cousine?" she murmured, taking madame de villiers's hand and looking at her with a tender, loving expression. the older woman's stern face softened. "very happy, my dear," she declared. "this is not a place to remember one's troubles." the countess's face clouded at the word "troubles." she began to say something in german, but checked herself. she was far too well-bred to speak any language but english before her new friends. "yes; this is a small sized heaven," agreed bab. "a kind of oasis in a desert, for over there are the everglades." "and what are the everglades?" inquired the countess. "the guide-book says they are trackless jungle," explained bab. "they are full of wild animals; wild cats, and panthers, and deer. they have poisonous snakes in them, too. very few white men ever venture in the everglades, but the indians have trails through them. they often kill deer in the jungle and sell them at the hotel." "it would not be pleasant to be lost in such a place," suggested mollie. she was thinking of her own experience when she was lost in the forest in the berkshire hills. "and it would not be easy to find you in the everglades either, little sister," rejoined bab. "so please beware! never go into the everglades alone." "oh, don't worry," laughed mollie. "being lost once was enough for me." "if you ever do disappear, mademoiselle mollie, the secret society will never rest until it finds you. we must be very faithful to each other, dear fellow members?" laughed the countess. "i am sure we agree to that," declared ruth. walking along the road ahead of them, barbara espied two figures. "do you know," she demanded, "i believe those two people just in front of us are maud warren and her count." it really was maud loitering along the road accompanied by the count. "stop our car, robert," ordered miss sallie. maud explained that her motor car had broken down some distance up the road. she and the count had decided to walk on. they hoped to be picked up by friends. "do you mean you were out motoring alone with the count de sonde?" inquired miss stuart severely. "why not?" answered maud, looking insolently at miss sallie. "ah it is in this free america that one needs no chaperons," said madame de villiers innocently, but with a gleam of mischief in her eyes. maud made no reply. two angry spots glowed in her cheeks. the countess now made up her mind to intercede. she did not wish maud to fly into a rage. "i have had a visit from your friends, the 'automobile girls', miss warren," she said graciously. "perhaps you will join them when they come to see me again." maud favored the countess with a chilly stare. could it be that mrs. de lancey smythe had been whispering tales about the countess in maud's ears? and had this stupid girl believed what she had heard? ruth felt her heart thump with the embarrassment of the situation. what was maud going to say? strangely enough madame de villiers' face held the same look of fear that ruth's did. why should madame de villiers look frightened instead of angry? but maud never uttered the insult her lips were trying to frame. spoiled and undisciplined child that she was, when she turned her sneering face toward the countess the words suddenly failed her. for the first time maud felt that money, after all, counted for little. there was something about this plainly dressed woman that suddenly made her feel mean and ashamed. maud looked deep into the countess's beautiful eyes, then answered with unaccustomed meekness. "thank you so much. i should like to come to see you." in the meantime naughty mollie was taking a slight revenge upon the count. "you are quite athletic, are you not?" she asked him innocently, her baby blue eyes fastened on his. "i, athletic?" exclaimed the little count in surprise. "not very, mademoiselle. why do you ask?" "because you run so well," mollie answered, with a far-away look. "you refer to this morning, i perceive, mademoiselle," expostulated the count. "i do not swim; therefore i ran for help. but there was no danger. your sister was never in deep water. yet it was a most effective scene. doubtless the young lady will enjoy being a heroine." mollie flushed. "barbara would have been in danger if marian had not helped to pull her and the child out of the water. and, by the way, marian does not swim either." "ah, mademoiselle marian? i saw her later," laughed the count. "how droll was her appearance and that of your sister also." mollie heartily disgusted with the little count turned her back on him. "get into the motor car, both of you," ordered miss sallie firmly. a few minutes later their automobile reached the entrance to the cocoanut grove. "papa, let us stop here and have tea?" asked ruth. "a good idea, ruth," agreed mr. stuart, giving the chauffeur the order. "i am very sorry," interrupted the countess. "but i fear i cannot stop this afternoon." "oh, please do, countess!" urged ruth and her friends. even maud's voice was heard to join in the general chorus. the countess hesitated. she looked at madame de villiers with questioning eyes. it was evident that the young countess also yearned for the pleasure of drinking tea under the cocoanut trees. madame de villiers shrugged her shoulders. she said something softly, so that no one else could hear. the countess dropped her white chiffon veil down over her face. "after all, i cannot resist your invitation, mr. stuart," the young woman agreed. "but may i ask you not to stay long?" presently mr. stuart's party was seated around a large, rustic table in the beautiful cocoanut grove. hundreds of other people, clad in white and light clothes, were seated at other tables. in the distance a band played. during the intermissions the listeners could hear the twittering and singing of multitudes of birds, which also sojourn for the winter at palm beach. the countess was the object of many glances from the people near her, although she had not lifted the heavy chiffon veil from her face. she was a woman of rarely beautiful presence. there was something regal in the set of her small head on her graceful shoulders. her gown and hat were extremely plain and she wore no jewels; but an atmosphere surrounded the lovely countess like an aura of sunlight, ruth thought. she was very gentle and sweet, though there was something about her that suggested she could be equally stern if the situation required it. ruth hoped never to incur her displeasure. when tea was served the countess was obliged to throw back her veil. madame de villiers looked at her disapprovingly. then the old woman cast hurried glances about her, but was apparently satisfied. as for the young countess, she took in a deep breath of the warm, soft air laden with the scent of the orange blossoms. she let her eyes wander over the grove and smiled as a burst of music floated across to her. "i am fascinated, enchanted!" she exclaimed. "mr. stuart, i thank you for the pleasure of this afternoon." there was always a slight formality in the young countess's manner which kept people at a distance. "do not thank me, countess," protested mr. stuart. "you and madame de villiers are conferring an honor upon us." "madame de villiers and i are two lonely women," continued the countess. "we have not seen the beauties of this place, except from our piazza. how exquisite this grove is! truly, it is like paradise." again the young woman's gaze swept the tea garden. suddenly her face turned white. she bit her lips, and sat as if turned to stone. her eyes were fastened on a group of three men at a nearby table. madame de villiers had not noticed them. the men had not yet noticed the stuart's guests. the countess dropped her veil quickly. ruth and mollie, sitting on each side of the countess, were the only members of the party who felt that something had happened, and they were wise enough to be absolutely silent. only the girls' eyes followed the direction of the countess's. they, too, saw the three men, one of whom they recognized as mr. duval. the other two were strangers, foreign-looking men with waxed mustaches and light hair. all at once mollie felt her hand seized convulsively under cover of the table. but the little girl was not prepared for the special mark of confidence that the countess was now to bestow on her. as mollie held the countess's hand in her own, she felt a tap, tap in the centre of her palm. like a flash mollie remembered. the countess had given her the danger signal they had agreed upon the day before. mollie looked quickly over at maud warren. she presumed the signal indicated that there was something the matter with maud. but maud was sitting quietly between barbara and grace carter. then what could the countess mean? could she be jesting? mollie did not think so. through the meshes of her white veil the face of the countess looked out very white and grave. mollie's heart was beating fast. what could she say? what must she do? of one thing she now felt sure. the beautiful countess sophia von stolberg was threatened with trouble. she should have all the aid that the "automobile girls" could give. "i understand," mollie now whispered back to her in a low voice. "what shall i do?" "i must leave the tea garden at once," replied the countess quietly. "but i do not wish to be observed. madame de villiers must go with me, but i do not wish the party to break up. that would make us conspicuous." "ruth and i will go with you. don't be worried; we will go quietly. wait, i must speak to her." "ruth," mollie spoke softly to her friend. "the countess wishes to go home without disturbing any one else. shall we slip out with her, and see her home?" "why, of course," answered ruth politely, although she was somewhat mystified. they were about to arise quietly from the table when they were interrupted. a waiter handed a note to mr. stuart. mr. stuart read it. his face turned very red. now, if there was one thing in particular that robert stuart loathed it was an anonymous letter. the message he had just received was not signed, and it read: "beware of the countess. she is an impostor." mr. stuart crushed the paper in his hand. "mr. stuart," said the low voice of the countess, just at this moment, "forgive my leaving so soon. but i must go at once. mollie and ruth are coming with me." as the countess rose from her chair she glanced hastily at the three men at the table near them. these men had also risen. but they were not looking at the countess. the young woman started hurriedly toward the gate. madame de villiers quickly followed her. so did ruth, mollie and mr. stuart. "please wait here until we come back for you," ruth said to her aunt. monsieur duval had now crossed the space intervening between the two tables. he had seated himself next to miss sallie. the other two foreigners were moving toward the gate. ruth hurried on. she gave her order to the chauffeur. the man was soon cranking up the machine. the four women had taken their seats in the motor car. at this moment one of the strangers approached mr. stuart. the other took off his hat and bowed low to the countess. he spoke to her in german, but her reply was given in english. it was very plain. "i do not know you," she said. the man spoke again. this time his manner was insolent. madame de villiers's face grew dark with rage. "hurry!" called ruth to her chauffeur. mr. stuart sprang into the automobile. the machine sped on leaving the two strangers standing alone in the road. "do not worry, cousine," the countess murmured in the course of their ride. "the man who spoke to me made a mistake. you will frighten our friends if you are so angry." madame de villiers said nothing. but there was fire in her small shining black eyes. her beaked nose looked as though it might peck at the next offender. mr. stuart and the two girls left the countess and her companion at their villa. the two women were now composed. indeed, the countess made ruth and mollie promise that the "automobile girls" would come to see her again the next day. mollie and ruth could not help puzzling over the countess as they rode back to the cocoanut grove. mr. stuart kept his own counsel. "i am certain there is some mystery about the countess," ruth avowed. "but, whatever the mystery is, the 'automobile girls' are on her side!" chapter viii the warning in the meantime mr. duval was making himself exceedingly entertaining to miss sallie, grace and barbara in the tea garden. maud and the count de sonde had withdrawn to a seat near the music, and were engrossed in a tête-à-tête. mr. duval had traveled widely. he told his little audience about chinese and japanese tea gardens. he told tales of many lands and gave accounts of numerous adventures in which he had participated. barbara and grace listened fascinated. they hardly knew how the time passed. at last mr. stuart came back with ruth and mollie. mr. warren and mrs. de lancey smythe had joined them, without marian. mr. warren was looking for maud. but bab wondered how poor marian had weathered the storm that must have broken when mrs. de lancey smythe returned to the hotel that morning. "where is marian?" ruth asked the widow abruptly, looking her straight in the eyes. mrs. de lancey smythe's eyes dropped before ruth's clear gaze. she twirled her parasol, looked annoyed then said frigidly: "marian has a headache this afternoon." "i trust the wetting she got this morning had nothing to do with it." "marian is an impulsive and reckless girl," snapped her mother. "she is entirely too fond of disregarding all conventions." "has any one seen my daughter?" mr. warren's deep voice was now heard above the hum of conversation. mrs. de lancey smythe joined him and together they strolled over toward maud and the count. mrs. de lancey smythe seized this opportunity to say a few words in favor of the count de sonde, for it was evident that mr. warren had taken a violent dislike to the young man. had some one persuaded the widow to make this appeal, or was she genuinely attracted by the young french nobleman? mr. stuart found himself agreeably surprised by monsieur duval. when the sun began to sink, and the tea drinkers prepared to return to their hotel, mr. duval occupied a seat in the stuart automobile. moreover, when he said good-bye on the hotel veranda, he carried with him two invitations. one was to dine with the stuart party that very evening, the other, to go with them the next day on a picnic. no sooner was bab out of the automobile than she determined to run up to marian's room. she knew the widow had not yet returned. bab found the number of marian's room from the hotel clerk. then she got in the elevator and went up to the top floor of the hotel. she knocked at a door in the middle of a long narrow passage, and a faint voice said: "come in." bab entered a small bed room situated under the eaves of the hotel roof. there were three trunks in the tiny chamber which overlooked a court yard. the room was very close and hot. marian was on the bed. she had cried herself to sleep. at bab's knock she opened her heavy eyes. "why, barbara!" she exclaimed. "it is awfully good of you to come up to see me, but mama would have three fits if she knew you had seen this room. i am glad you have come, because i have something special to tell you. i----" poor marian hesitated and stopped. barbara looked at her with questioning eyes. "i am afraid it is dreadfully disloyal of me to say another word." marian pressed her hands to her temples. "and i haven't anything really definite to tell you. but, oh barbara, i have a suspicion that something may happen soon! will you remember that i had nothing to do with it, and that i mean to prevent it if i can?" barbara, completely mystified, hardly knew what to reply. "do you mean to warn me, marian?" she asked her new friend. "do you mean that something is going to happen that may concern us?" "no; not exactly," marian answered. then she made an impetuous movement. "please don't question me," she begged. "there is a reason why i dare not answer your questions. forget what i have said, if you can. but for goodness' sake, don't mention to mama that i have talked with you. i sometimes wonder what will become of us. things can't go on much longer. there is sure to be a grand crash. but please go, now, barbara, mama might come in and she would be very angry to find you here. i will see you to-night." barbara did not meet mrs. de lancey smythe as she left marian's room, but she did run across her in the evening. the widow was hurrying through a side corridor in the hotel. she was wrapped in a long dark cloak, and appeared to be trying to leave the hotel by stealth. bab drew back into one end of the corridor until the widow had disappeared, then she walked slowly out on the piazza. marian's warning was ringing in her ears. what was it that marian had feared might happen, and why did her mother leave the hotel in that stealthy mysterious manner? on the piazza bab found her own friends enjoying the beauty of the night. maud and the count de sonde were talking just outside the group. "do you know what i heard to-day?" remarked mr. stuart. "i understand that there is a swindler abroad at palm beach. a woman at that." "you don't mean it," exclaimed miss sallie. "how dreadful!" "it seems," continued mr. stuart, "that the detectives have been on the watch for her for some time, but so far she has been too clever for them. however, they have traced her to the beach, but among the hundreds of tourists they have lost their clue. they do not despair of finding her yet, and a strict watch is being kept. she may be apprehended at any moment." "well, let's hope she doesn't attempt to swindle us," commented ruth. "by the way where is monsieur duval? he disappeared mysteriously the moment dinner was over." "he had an engagement, and begged to be excused," replied mr. stuart. "he said he would return in a little while." "speaking of angels," remarked mollie, "here he comes now." "yes, and he's towing along our pet aversion mrs. d. l. smythe," said grace. bab looked toward the approaching pair. monsier duval and mrs. de lancey smythe not yet aware that they were under the observation of the stuart party, were deeply engaged in conversation. barbara, watching closely, saw the frenchman glance up, then he quickly dropped his eyes, and an expression of cautious cunning flitted over his face. his lips moved, the widow gave a half frightened look, then her expression of absorption changed to one of languid indifference. as the two neared the steps, from their demeanor, one would have concluded them to be mere acquaintances. what was the meaning of it all? barbara wondered. and what secret understanding was there between those two people? bab's observant eye noted that monsieur duval carried over one arm the heavy cloak in which she had seen the widow wrapped a short time before. had mrs. de lancey smythe gone to meet the frenchman, and, if so why did she not do so openly? suppose mrs. de lancey smythe were an impostor, with a game to play. suppose mr. duval were--barbara sighed impatiently. she was letting her imagination run riot. she resolved to dismiss the whole tiresome business from her mind, and enjoy herself. at that moment maud warren came languidly forward, the little count at her heels. "miss stuart," she announced, "i have persuaded papa to let me give a masked ball before we go back to new york. there are a number of smart people here at palm beach, and i want the count to see one of our american balls. we shall wear our masks until midnight, and then have a cotillon afterwards." "that will be delightful, maud!" replied ruth. "and that reminds me. father and i have never arranged about our picnic to-morrow. don't you think it would be fun to motor over to the big ostrich farm and have our luncheon there under the trees?" "very delightful," agreed maud. "don't you think so, count?" "i shall be charmed," replied the little count, with an exaggerated bow. "but we shan't," whispered mollie, naughtily to barbara, under cover of general conversation. "in order to cure, we must endure," returned bab in an undertone. whereupon the sisters both chuckled softly. at this juncture marian appeared at the end of the piazza, and came slowly toward the group. her eyes still showed traces of tears, and she looked ill and wretched. mr. stuart greeted marian kindly, and immediately invited her to ruth's picnic. and the invitation, of course, had to include marian's mother. "i am sorry you have been ill," he said courteously, interrupting his conversation with mr. duval. monsieur duval's eyes rested curiously on marian. his look searched her face. "perhaps the climate of palm beach does not agree with your health," he suggested. "you do not like it here?" "it is not a question of what i like or dislike, mr. duval," said marian curtly. "but what do you prefer?" persisted the frenchman with a shade of interest in his manner. "to mind my own affairs," returned marian coldly, turning her back on monsieur duval. chapter ix a case of mistaken identity early the next afternoon the picnickers sallied forth in two automobiles, going first to the villa for the countess sophia and madame de villiers, then the two cars sped along the country road in the direction of the ostrich farm. marian, mollie, mrs. de lancey smythe, miss stuart, barbara, maud and the count de sonde were in the foremost car, while the remainder of the party occupied the car first rented by mr. stuart, with ruth as chauffeur. "why don't you start a song?" called ruth over her shoulder. "grace, sing something. sing 'my old kentucky home.'" grace sang the plaintive old melody in her sweet, high soprano voice. the countess sophia was enchanted. "what a charming song!" she declared. "what an exquisite melody. i have not heard it before. is it not one of your old southern songs?" "won't you sing, countess?" begged mr. stuart. the countess shook her head and smiled. "i do not care to sing alone," she avowed. "but i am sure monsieur duval has the throat of a singer. will you not sing a song of your country, monsieur?" "if you will sing a song of your land in return," answered the frenchman quickly. could it be that he, too, was curious to discover to a certainty the countess sophia von stolberg's nationality? the countess dropped her eyes under mr. duval's steady gaze. "i do not sing without an accompaniment, monsieur," she said briefly. madame de villiers looked annoyed. grace and ruth wondered why the countess should be so secretive. she spoke french, german and english almost equally well. on her library table ruth had discovered a number of italian books. monsieur duval did not press his request. the frenchman had very polished manners. instead in a full baritone voice he sang the "marseillaise." his audience was profoundly stirred. "you are a patriot, mr. duval," mr. stuart remarked. monsieur duval's expression changed. but he said nothing. it was impossible to translate his peculiar look. "do sing for us, countess," begged grace later. "i know you have a wonderful voice." "remember, you are to give us a song of your country," mr. duval persisted. the countess made no reply to him. but in a voice clear as a bell she sang: "thou art like unto a flower." "but that is an english song," expostulated mr. duval when the countess had finished. "yes, but it was written first by a german poet: du bist wie eine blume," sang the countess, this time in german. "shall i try it in french and italian for you? the little song has been translated into every tongue." it was evident to her listeners that the countess sophia von stolberg was proficient in half a dozen languages. grace thought she caught a glimpse of concealed amusement on madame de villiers's face. but the stately old woman said nothing. the motor party had now arrived at the ostrich farm. mollie, the countess and bab ran on ahead. ruth slipped her arm through maud warren's. the count joined them, but ruth did not withdraw her arm. maud did not seem to mind ruth's "playing gooseberry." maud was really becoming fond of the "automobile girls." it was plain, however, that the count de sonde had eyes only for maud. the count de sonde, who wore high heeled shoes to make him look taller, walked with the two girls. he talked constantly, using his hands and shoulders to emphasize his remarks. "you see, mademoiselle maud," he explained. "my parents died when i was a mere infant. most of my life i have spent in paris. i do not often go to the chateau de sonde. but i love dearly the home of my ancestors." "how much land have you around your castle, count?" asked ruth. the count looked annoyed at the question. "it is a very large estate," he answered vaguely. but ruth was determined to secure definite information. "is your chateau on a hill or in a valley?" she next inquired. the count shrugged his shoulders. "it is on the side of a mountain, overlooking a valley," he declared. the picnic party had now arrived in front of the cages containing the ostriches. the great birds were strolling about in fine disdain. but ruth's mind dwelt on the chateau de sonde. she was frankly curious about it. "have you ever visited the count de sonde at his chateau, mr. duval?" inquired ruth, who happened to be standing next the frenchman. [illustration: the count walked with the two girls.] "a number of times, miss stuart," answered monsieur duval. "the count and i are old friends." "is it built on a mountain or in a valley?" queried ruth. she did not know herself exactly why she repeated her question. "the chateau de sonde nestles in the heart of a valley," was monsieur duval's prompt answer. he caught ruth's eyes fixed on him with an expression of wonder. but it was ruth, not monsieur duval, who blushed furiously. the man's eyes were gray and inscrutable. "why do you ask, mademoiselle?" he inquired. "i don't know," ruth answered lamely. the man frightened her. he seemed so brilliant, so traveled, so strong, so dangerous. and yet, he had just told ruth a lie. why should he pretend he had visited at the chateau de sonde? "come, everybody; it is time for luncheon," called mr. stuart an hour later, when his guests had finished their survey of the ostrich cages. the "automobile girls" opened their immense lunch basket, which the chauffeur had set under the trees. the countess sophia insisted on helping the girls. she was all radiant smiles and gayety. she hummed a song to herself full of delicious, bird-like trills, in a voice that had been wonderfully trained. in every way the countess showed what pleasure she felt in the picnic. so much so that she was easily the central figure of the party. finally the entire company seated themselves in a circle on the ground, maud warren and her father with flushed faces. they had evidently been having a private altercation about the count de sonde. the count however looked serenely unconscious of the fact. a sense of tranquility and cheerfulness soon stole over every one. the day was enchanting. the chicken and nut sandwiches and other eatables tasted unusually good, and the party did full justice to the tempting luncheon the stuarts had provided. all the guests laughed and talked at the same time. suddenly the countess began to sing again in a low voice: "knowest thou the land?" from "mignon." the others listened with delight. down the avenue a vehicle was heard approaching. there was a cloud of dust enveloping it. it was impossible for the picnic party to distinguish the occupants of the carriage. the countess's back was turned toward the equipage. she did not look around. mollie and ruth were glad that she did not turn, for they recognized the two foreigners who had frightened the young countess sophia in the tea garden the afternoon before. the men drove up to a palm tree near the spot where mr. stuart's guests were eating. they hitched their horse. then they walked deliberately over to the picnickers. without a word one of the men reached down. he touched the countess sophia von stolberg on the arm. undoubtedly he was german. his face looked threatening and his manner was insulting. his companion waited near him. the countess sophia shuddered as the stranger touched her. she trembled and turned pale like a frightened child. "madame," said the german, "you are wanted by the police. we have been sent to arrest you." mrs. de lancey smythe gave a hysterical laugh of triumph. but the young countess quickly recovered her self-control. "you have made a mistake," she returned quietly, to the man, whose hand still rested on her arm. "what have i done to be arrested? you have no right to annoy me." "you are the notorious swindler wanted by the police of two continents," accused the german. "i am here to take you back to france where you are wanted." madame de villiers now arose. she lifted her great mahogany cane, her face dark with anger. "you will regret this day's work," she announced. "be gone!" but she had hardly finished her speech, before mr. stuart was on his feet. he seized the intruder by the collar, and before the man could more than raise his hand from the countess sophia's arm, he was hurled several feet away, landing in a heap on the ground. "you foreign idiot," cried mr. stuart, forgetting his women guests in his anger. "how dare you come here and create a disturbance among my friends. you are without a warrant or a policeman. the countess sophia von stolberg is our friend. you shall pay dearly for your insolence. leave this place without a second's delay or i shall lay violent hands on you." the two strangers did not dare defy mr. stuart. mr. warren had also risen and hurried to his friend's aid and the two americans looked thoroughly capable of enforcing their commands. the foreigners went back to their carriage. after a slight delay they drove off, still muttering veiled threats. when they had disappeared down the avenue, countess sophia gave mr. stuart her hand. "i thank you, monsieur," she said. "madame de villiers and i are alone. it is good to have a protector. i do not know why those men attempted to arrest me without a warrant. i assure you they had not just cause. i believe they were sent by an enemy." "perhaps, countess," replied mr. stuart, "those two men think you are some one else. i know there is a notorious swindler at large at palm beach. it is probably a case of mistaken identity." the countess sophia made no answer. barbara, who was watching her closely, saw a look of unmistakable fear leap into her dark eyes at the mention of the word "swindler." bab glanced quickly about her and encountered the eyes of monsieur duval. in them was an expression of cruel triumph that made bab feel certain that he was in some way responsible for the late unpleasant scene. chapter x the secret signals ruth was stretched out on a steamer rug on the warm sands, lazily looking out over the blue waters. barbara was disporting herself in the waves like a water sprite who had dared to show herself among mortals. many of the bathers stopped to watch with admiration the figure of the young girl plunging gracefully through the waves. but ruth was not watching barbara. she was thinking deeply. why had the countess sophia von stolberg refused to prosecute the two foreigners who had deliberately insulted her? immediately after their return from the picnic mr. stuart had written the young countess a note. he suggested that he have the two strangers put out of their hotel, even driven away from palm beach. but the countess's reply had been polite, but firm. no; she did not wish to prosecute her annoyers. the men had simply made a mistake. there would be less notoriety if she let the matter drop. mr. stuart was not satisfied. he assured the countess that he and mr. warren had sufficient influence to have the two men sent away without the least publicity attending their dismissal. still the decision of the countess remained unchanged. she graciously thanked mr. stuart for his kindness, but she really preferred to let the whole matter drop. there was nothing more to be said. ruth now observed these same two men. they were seated not far from her, watching barbara with stolid admiration. so far as ruth knew they had not repeated their attempt to arrest the countess. but they had not confessed their error, nor offered to apologize either to mr. stuart or to the countess. the story that there was a notorious woman swindler at large at palm beach was now common gossip. "it is absurd to suspect the countess," ruth thought as she reviewed the recent disagreeable incident. "if the scandal goes any further i shall side with her, no matter what may be the consequences." ruth ended her reverie by making this last statement aloud. but she was sorry a second later. a voice spoke at her elbow. "do you think, mademoiselle ruth," it inquired, "that suspicion of a certain person will reach a point where you will be required to take sides?" ruth started. she had been in a brown study, and was embarrassed and annoyed at having been caught speaking aloud. the voice belonged to monsieur duval. he had come dripping from his swim in the ocean, and had laid himself in the sand directly behind ruth without her noticing him. "to what suspicion do you refer, mr. duval?" ruth asked haughtily. she knew this clever frenchman could read her mind like an open book. but she did not intend to confess that her remark had referred to the young countess. monsieur duval smiled. "i am afraid i listened at the door of your thoughts," he said. "i think i can guess with whom you intend to take sides. but i promise not to betray your secret. i am sorry i overheard your last remark. yet i do not see why you think the countess sophia may be accused of being this notorious woman criminal. it is true she allows herself to be persecuted without reason. she will not appear at this, or any other hotel, and keeps herself as much in seclusion as possible. also she will not tell us the country of her birth, nor does she refer to any friends, but----" monsieur duval stopped. ruth was indignant at the array of evidence that this monsieur duval was able to present against the young countess. she flushed guiltily, but wisely refrained from answering the frenchman. mr. duval was obliged to continue the conversation. "do you wish to help your friend?" he asked ruth quietly. "of course," ruth replied warmly. the frenchman leaned over. "then watch everything, but say nothing. and, above all things, do not have a too accurate memory." ruth was about to make an angry retort, when mr. duval skilfully changed the subject of their conversation. he praised bab's wonderful diving. it reminded him of neapolitan boys he had seen diving for pennies. mr. duval next told ruth of a walking trip he had once made through southern italy. she listened very much against her will to the entertaining frenchman and it was with distinct relief that she saw miss sallie approaching them, dressed in an imported lavender linen and carrying a parasol and a book. maud and her count appeared from the opposite direction. they also came forward to join ruth and monsieur duval. bab ran up the beach, shaking the drops of water from her blue bathing suit, her wet curls sparkling in the sun. mr. duval did not wish to remain with so large a party. his words had been for ruth's ears alone. as miss stuart approached he bowed ironically to ruth and strolled away. "how glad i am that we are not in the cold, sleet and blizzards of chicago, child," miss stuart remarked, bringing ruth back to earth again. "the countess sophia was right in saying our american climate in the north is unbearable in the winter time. i never felt so well in my life as i do in this delightful place." "aunt sallie," asked ruth thoughtfully, ignoring the weather, and going back to the idea that was uppermost in her mind. "do you think the countess sophia could be in need of money?" "how can i tell, child?" replied miss sallie. "the countess dresses plainly, but her gowns are in excellent taste. they are made by a modiste in vienna, who, i happen to know, is one of the most expensive in europe. on the other hand madame de villiers and the countess live very quietly. they keep only two servants. but the countess has the air of a woman of wealth and culture." "are we going to dine with the countess to-morrow night?" asked ruth impetuously. "certainly, child," miss sallie replied, her serenity undisturbed. "it is true your father may not have returned from his fishing trip, but there is no reason why we should not go without him." ruth closed her eyes. could it be possible that they might be invited to eat food paid for by money gained dishonestly? surely monsieur duval could not have spoken the truth! "here comes that mrs. de lancey smythe," remarked miss sallie with sudden energy. "i do wish that woman would keep away from us." "aunt sallie," said ruth, "what do you dislike most about mrs. de lancey smythe?" "don't ask me, my dear," returned miss stuart rather impatiently. "everything i should say. i must confess that the very sight of her irritates me." "there is something peculiar about her, at any rate," said ruth, "i have seen her face grow hard as rock and look positively wicked when she thought no one was noticing her. marian is afraid of her, too." "nonsense, ruth," replied miss sallie severely. "you and barbara let your imaginations have too free rein. i don't approve of the woman and dislike her intensely, but i am not going to make her out an ogre." "she is, though," persisted ruth. "that's why you don't like her, only you don't know it yourself. some day you'll see i am right. oh, here come mollie and grace. what's new, chilluns?" and springing to her feet ruth called to bab then hurried toward the approaching girls. mollie and grace had been out in a boat all morning with some new friends they had made at the hotel. as ruth walked toward them she noticed that mollie's cheeks were very red, and that she wore a look of suppressed excitement. grace seemed almost equally agitated. before she could reach them, however, she was hailed by a crowd of young people who were strolling on the beach, and she and bab were obliged to stop and hold conversation. mollie felt that it was imperative to summon bab and ruth. how could she manage without being observed? a sudden thought came to her. putting her hand back to her curls she hastily untied the ribbon that bound them. the ribbon was blue. in an instant mollie twisted it into a bow knot and pinned it on her left shoulder. would barbara and ruth remember what the secret signal meant? mollie need not have wondered. hastily separating themselves from the crowd of talkers bab and ruth sped up the beach to join mollie and grace. "what is it, mollie?" cried bab out of breath. "i remember the blue ribbon. it was to signify: 'i have important news to communicate!' what has happened?" "as we passed the countess's villa on the launch, this morning," mollie whispered mysteriously, "we saw a red flag tied to one of the posts of her pavilion. the countess wishes to see us on important business!" chapter xi wheels within wheels "shall we go to the countess at once, ruth?" asked barbara. ruth hesitated. "the chauffeur has gone away for the day," she replied. "and we have no one to take us by boat to the villa." mollie's blue eyes filled with tears. she had feared that ruth suspected their lovely countess. now she was sure of it. how absurd for ruth to suggest they could not use the automobile because her chauffeur was away. the "automobile girls" had traveled for days at a time, with ruth as her own chauffeur, while the trip to the countess's villa represented only a few miles. "how can you be so cruel, ruth?" mollie cried. "you just don't want to go to the countess's aid because you have listened to tales about her from that horrid mrs. smythe." "i haven't listened to mrs. smythe, mollie," ruth answered soothingly. "but i have been thinking. you can't deny that there is a good deal of mystery surrounding the countess sophia. there are many things that it seems to me she might explain. i don't wish to be hateful, and of course i can drive our car over to the countess's, though i have never taken out such a big car alone before. come; let's get ready." barbara hesitated. "mollie," she protested, "i don't think it is right for us to make ruth take us to see the countess, if she would rather not go." mollie bit her lips. "ruth stuart," she said, "you talk about the countess explaining things. what have you ever asked her to explain? if there is anything you want to know about her, ask her to tell you. it is not fair to keep silent, and still not to trust her." ruth had a sudden conviction that she would as soon approach the queen of england to inquire into her private affairs as to ask questions of the countess sophia von stolberg. "well, mollie, i will say this much," ruth conceded. "i never doubt our countess when i am with her. she is so beautiful and sweet that i forget to be suspicious. but, when i am away from her, i have just wondered a little, that's all! now, don't be cross, barbara, but come with me. i am going to get out the automobile. grace, will you and mollie explain to aunt sallie where we are going?" "i'll tell you what, ruth," bab suggested. "let us make up our minds not to suspect the countess because of any gossip we hear. there seems to be a great deal of talking going on, but nobody makes any definite charges. the countess has been delightful to us. i am afraid i am on her side as much as mollie. the countess, right or wrong, but still the countess!" "loyal bab!" cried ruth, patting barbara's hand. "see, i cast all my suspicions away!" ruth waved her other hand. "the cause of the countess is my cause also. i shall fight for her, through thick and thin." ruth looked as though she meant what she said. the "automobile girls" were soon on their way to the countess's pretty villa. mollie still held herself apart from the other three girls. she felt that no one of them had risen to the defence of her adored countess with the ardor she expected. ruth was running the car slowly. it was only a few miles to the villa. ruth was a cautious chauffeur, and was not in the habit of managing so large an automobile. as her car moved quietly and steadily toward its destination, another small automobile dashed past it. ruth glanced about quickly. the man who drove the small car was exceeding the speed limit. he was alone. he wore a long dust coat with the collar turned up to his ears; he had a cap pulled low over his face, and he wore an immense pair of green goggles. but ruth's quick eyes recognized him. her three companions paid little attention to the man. "bab," said ruth, at almost the same instant that the small car swept by them, "it is monsieur duval who is driving that car!" "well," replied bab, "what of it? i did not know mr. duval was a motorist. but i am not surprised, for he seems to know almost everything." "bab, i think he is on his way to see the countess sophia von stolberg," ruth announced with conviction. "he does not know the countess, does he?" grace inquired. "i think he was introduced to her only through us." "i don't know what monsieur duval knows and what he doesn't know," explained ruth. "but i should like to find out. anyhow, i am going to beat him to the countess's house. if she has something important to tell us, monsieur duval shall not keep us from hearing it." ruth put on full speed and started her car in pursuit of the flying automobile in front of her. in a few seconds she drew near the automobile. the little car was on the right side of the road and making its best speed. ruth sounded her horn. she swerved her great car to the left in order to pass the smaller one. bab uttered a cry of terror. mollie and grace both screamed. ruth's face turned white, but she had no time to scream. the small motor car just in front of her immense automobile turned like a flash. it swept across the road immediately in the path of ruth's on-coming car, and not more than a few paces ahead of her. it was either a mad piece of foolishness on the part of the chauffeur, or a magnificent dare. at the moment ruth did not stop to wonder whether the man ahead of her had deliberately risked his life and theirs in order to accomplish some purpose. all her ability as a driver was needed to meet the situation. ruth's hands never left the steering wheel of her car. in less than a half second, she put on the full stop brake. with a terrific wrench her great automobile settled back. it stopped just one foot this side of the car that had crossed their path. ruth was white with anger. she saw, a moment later, that the driver ahead of her had accomplished his design. for no sooner had ruth's car stopped, than the other motorist forged ahead. ruth resumed the chase, but she was obliged to be careful. she dared not risk the lives of her friends by driving too close to the other car. the man ahead might repeat his trick. ruth could not be sure that she could always stop her motor in so brief a space of time and distance. so the smaller of the two automobiles arrived first at the countess's villa. the countess sophia von stolberg evidently expecting a visit from the "automobile girls," sat at her piano in her drawing-room, playing one of chopin's nocturnes. at the sound of the automobile outside on the avenue the countess left her music and ran out on her veranda to meet her young visitors. but instead of the four girls a heavy, well-built man in a long dust coat and goggles approached the countess. the countess did not recognize him at once. a suave voice soon enlightened her. "madame," it said. "i have come to see you on an important matter of business. i must see you alone." "what business can you have with me, monsieur duval?" asked the young countess coldly. but her voice trembled slightly. "i bring you news of a friend," declared mr. duval quietly. "i have no friends whom you could know, monsieur," answered the countess sophia. "no?" her visitor replied, shrugging his shoulders and speaking in a light bantering tone. "shall i inform you, then, and your young friends, whom i now see approaching?" ruth's motor car was now in plain sight. the four girls rushed forward to join the countess. at the same moment the tap-tap of a stick was heard inside the house. madame de villiers appeared, followed by johann with a tray of lemonade. the countess spoke quickly. "no, no, you must say nothing to me, now. i cannot listen to you. please go away." bab noticed that the countess was trembling when she took her hand. monsieur duval bowed courteously to ruth. "mademoiselle," he declared, "i owe you an apology. i fear i am but a poor chauffeur. my car swerved in front of yours on the road. it was unpardonable. i offer you many thanks for your skill. you saved us from a bad smash-up." ruth colored. hot words rose to her lips. but she feared to say too much. she looked at mr. duval gravely. "i think, mr. duval," she remarked, as suavely as the frenchman could have spoken, "it will be wise for you not to run a motor car unless you learn how to handle it better. you are right. we were exposed to great danger from your carelessness." madame de villiers now gazed sternly at monsieur duval. "have i the pleasure of your acquaintance?" she inquired coldly, turning her lorgnette on the frenchman. monsieur duval lost some of his self-assurance in the presence of this beak-nosed old lady. "i met you at mr. stuart's picnic, madame," he explained. "good-bye, ladies." monsieur duval bowed low. then he turned to the countess. "i will deliver my news to you, countess sophia, whenever you are pleased to hear it." a moment later the frenchman disappeared. but on his way back to his hotel he smiled. "if life were not a lottery it would be too stupid to endure. yet this is the first time in my career that a group of young girls have tried to beat me at my own game." when the frenchman had finally gone the countess turned to mollie, and kissed her. then she looked affectionately at bab, grace and ruth. "you saw my signal, didn't you?" she asked, smiling. "what an energetic society to come to me in such a hurry! i really have something to tell you. it is something serious. yet i must ask you to trust me, if i tell you only part of a story. i cannot tell you all. as it is much too beautiful to stay indoors, suppose we go to my pavilion down by the water." on the way to the boathouse, ruth stopped to embrace mollie. "mollie, darling, forgive me!" she whispered. "i promise you never to doubt our lovely countess again. she is perfect." when the countess sophia and the four "automobile girls" were safely in the boathouse, the young hostess sighed. "i am sorry to talk about disagreeable things to-day," she murmured. "you cannot understand what a pleasure it is to me to know four such charming young girls. i have had so few companions in my life. indeed i have been lonely, always." the "automobile girls" were silent. they hardly knew what to reply. "i must try to tell you why i sent for you," the countess went on. "i want to warn you----" "about the count de sonde?" cried mollie, who had never gotten over her first prejudice. "yes," replied the countess slowly. "i think i promised to help you save your girl friend maud warren. i am afraid she and the count are more interested in each other than you girls imagine." the countess faltered and looked fearfully about her. "you must not let miss warren marry the count de sonde," she murmured. "you must stop such a wedding at all hazards. the count de sonde is----" "is what?" asked barbara. the countess shook her head. again she blushed painfully. "i cannot tell you now," explained the countess. "but i know this. if miss warren marries the count de sonde she will regret it all her life." "but how can we prevent maud's marrying the count if she wishes to do so?" queried practical bab. "unless you can tell us something definite against the count, we cannot go to mr. warren or maud. mr. warren has already forbidden maud to have anything to do with the count de sonde, but maud continually disobeys her father." "i am sorry," said the young countess hesitatingly. "i wish i dared tell you more. but i can explain nothing. only i warn you to be careful." "need we to fear the frenchman, monsieur duval?" ruth asked thoughtfully. the countess was silent for a moment. then she said slowly, "you must fear him most of all!" chapter xii maud refuses to be rescued when the "automobile girls" chaperoned by miss sallie, descended to the hotel ball room that evening, where a hop was in progress, the orchestra was playing the "blue danube" and maud and the count de sonde were waltzing together. the spectators seated along the wall smiled in spite of themselves for the count's style of dancing was far from graceful. his idea of waltzing consisted in whirling his partner round and round, and as maud was at least four inches taller than the count and very thin, the effect was indescribably ridiculous. "how absurd the count looks!" bab exclaimed to ruth. "just look at those high heels and that strutting walk! do you suppose maud warren can really care for him?" "no; i don't think she cares for him at all," ruth returned. "it is the lure of his title that has fascinated maud. the title, 'count de sonde' is like music in her ears." "do you think mr. warren would disinherit maud, if she married the count?" asked bab. ruth shook her head. "mr. warren gave maud half a million dollars in her own name a year ago," ruth explained. "so, you see, she is an heiress already. besides, mr. warren would never forsake maud. he simply adores her. i think he went off on that fishing trip with father just to keep from seeing maud carry on. he thinks aunt sallie may be able to influence her while he is gone. but do look at miss sarah stuart, bab!" miss sallie swept down the ball-room floor in a handsome black satin and jet evening gown, with mrs. de lancey smythe in her wake. there was the fire of battle in miss stuart's eye. on the widow's cheeks burned two flaming signals of wrath. "maud warren was left in my care by her father, mrs. smythe," declared miss sallie. "in mr. warren's absence i forbid maud's going about unchaperoned with the count de sonde." "miss warren is not a child, miss stuart," replied mrs. de lancey smythe angrily. "if she chooses to go about with the count i hardly see how you can prevent it. the count de sonde is a noble, trustworthy young man." "miss warren shall not go with him against my wishes," replied miss stuart quietly, "and i fail to see how the matter can possibly interest you." mrs. de lancey smythe's voice trembled with rage. "you appear to be excessively strict with miss warren, miss stuart," she returned, "yet you allow your niece and her friends to associate, every day, with a woman who is entirely unknown to you, a woman about whom this entire hotel is talking." "whom do you mean?" miss sallie demanded. she was exceedingly angry. "mean?" mrs. de lancey smythe laughed mockingly. "i mean this so called countess sophia von stolberg. she is no more a countess than i am. she is a fugitive and a swindler. she will be arrested as soon as there is sufficient evidence against her." the "automobile girls" had moved up close to miss sallie. they waited to hear what she would say in regard to the countess. "i do not believe the countess to be an impostor. she is our friend," replied miss stuart. "i think we need have no further conversation. miss warren will do as i request." without answering the other woman moved away with flashing eyes and set lips, leaving miss sallie in triumphant possession of the situation. in a few moments maud warren came over to where miss sallie and the "automobile girls" were still standing. "maud, won't you come up to our room to-night after the dance?" ruth urged. "we thought it would be jolly to make some fudge in a chafing dish." "can you cook?" laughed maud. "how funny! it is awfully good of you to ask me to join you, but i have another engagement for this evening." "maud," said miss sallie firmly, "your father left you in my charge. i cannot permit you to keep an engagement with the count de sonde." maud was speechless with astonishment. no one had ever forbidden her to do anything in her life. her father had always tried persuasion and argument. ruth's eyes twinkled as she saw the effect miss sallie's firmness had upon maud. greatly to her surprise maud warren answered quite meekly: "very well, miss stuart. i will not see him if you do not wish it." the "automobile girls" breathed a sigh of relief. they had feared another battle between miss sallie and maud. "this is jolly!" exclaimed maud warren, an hour later. the five girls were in ruth's sitting-room. they were eating delicious squares of warm chocolate fudge. "i am glad you are enjoying yourself," replied ruth. "we would be glad to see you often, but you always seem to be busy." maud tried to look unconscious. "it's the count's fault. the poor fellow has a dreadful crush on me," she sighed. "do you care for him?" asked barbara bluntly. maud simpered. "i really don't know," she replied. "i think the count de sonde has a beautiful soul. he tells me i have a remarkable mind--such sympathy, such understanding!" ruth choked over a piece of fudge. the other girls seemed to regard her accident as a tremendous joke. maud was entirely unconscious that she had anything to do with their merriment. "then you really like the count very much!" exclaimed mollie, opening her pretty blue eyes so wide that maud was amused. "you dear little innocent thing!" returned miss warren. "of course i think the count a very interesting man. i don't deny he has taken my fancy. but as for being in love with him--well, that is another thing." "do you really know anything about the count, maud?" asked ruth. "your father doesn't approve of him, and don't you think he knows best?" "oh, father never approves of any of my friends," complained maud warren impatiently. "but mrs. de lancey smythe is on my side. she likes the count." "but do you know much about mrs. de lancey smythe?" ruth went on. maud was nettled. "mrs. de lancey smythe is a virginian, and belongs to an old southern family," she returned. the "automobile girls" looked uncomfortable. it was ruth who finally spoke. "i hope you won't be angry, maud. it is only because we like you that i am going to tell you something you ought to know. some one told me to warn you to be careful." "careful about what?" cried maud, though her flushed face betrayed the answer she expected. "the count de sonde," replied ruth. "but what have you heard against him?" demanded maud indignantly. it was ruth's turn to flush. what had she heard? if only the countess had been a little less vague in her accusations against the count. "i am afraid i don't know anything very definite to tell you," ruth confessed, in an embarrassed tone. "yet we have heard rumors about the count. foreign noblemen are often fortune-hunters, you know." "my dear ruth, the count de sonde is not in need of money," protested maud. "he is very wealthy. only the other day he showed me a letter from his lawyer. it spoke of two hundred thousand francs. it is true the letter was written in french. but the count translated it for me. and then, of course, i know a little french myself." "oh, well," sighed ruth, "perhaps we have no right to suspect him. but, maud, i beg of you to go slowly. you may be mistaken in the count. think how you would regret it if you were to marry him and find afterwards that he had deceived you." "marry the count!" maud's tones expressed great astonishment, then she gave a satisfied laugh. "don't worry about my affairs. the count is a real nobleman," she declared. a knock sounded at the door, and a bellboy handed ruth a note. it was addressed to miss warren. ruth gave it to her. maud opened it. a gratified smile overspread her face, then turning to the "automobile girls" she said: "will you please excuse me, girls, i want to go up to my room for a little while. i will be back in a few minutes." the girls ate their fudge in silence for a time. maud did not return. "i wonder if maud is coming back?" remarked barbara, after a little. "somehow, i am sorry for maud. it must be dangerous to be so rich and so silly at the same time." "i am afraid maud is hopeless," ruth contended. "i don't believe it is going to do the slightest good for us to warn her against the count. i wonder if we could manage to save her in any other way?" miss sallie came into the room. "where is maud warren?" she demanded immediately. the "automobile girls" could only explain maud had gone to her room. miss sallie rang the bell, and sent a maid to inquire for maud. the answer came back a few moments later. "miss warren had left the hotel for the evening with several friends." miss stuart said nothing. but the "automobile girls" knew miss sallie would never forgive maud warren for her disobedience. the four girls were almost ready to say good night, when another light tap sounded at their door. the girls lowered their voices. perhaps maud had lost heart, and had returned to them after all. barbara went to the door. it was marian de lancey smythe who had knocked. she wished to speak with bab for a moment. five minutes later barbara returned to her friends, looking considerably mystified. "now, barbara thurston, what did marian smythe have to say to you?" demanded mollie. "it is not fair, your having secrets with her from the rest of us." "oh, marian asked me if we were going to the countess's to dinner to-morrow night," bab replied. "what a strange question!" exclaimed grace carter. "i don't see why she should care where we go to dinner." "perhaps she had some plan or other on hand herself that she wanted us to take part in," suggested mollie. bab was silent. "by the way," exclaimed ruth, "did you know i received a letter to-day from darling olive prescott? she and jack have arrived in paris, and have set up housekeeping in the dearest little flat in the rue de varennes. they live on the top floor, and jack has the front room for his studio. of course olive declares jack is the best husband in the world. he is painting olive's portrait for the paris salon, and working desperately hard so as to have it finished by april. come, let's go to bed." just as barbara was dropping off to sleep ruth gave her a little shake. "tell me barbara thurston, what marian de lancey smythe said to you in the hall!" "i told you, child," murmured bab hesitatingly. "honor bright, did you tell us everything, bab thurston?" "no-o-o, not everything," admitted bab. "this is exactly what marian said: 'barbara are you going to dine with the countess to-morrow night?' 'yes,' i replied. then she said: 'you had better not go. but if you do go, come home early, and don't ask me the reason, why." "we'll go, sure as fate!" exclaimed ruth. "no matter what marian says." chapter xiii a surprise party it had been a long day of uninterrupted pleasure for the "automobile girls"--one of those sparkling, brilliant days that seem to belong peculiarly to florida in the early spring. all morning the girls had cruised around the lake in a launch. later in the day they had bathed in the salt water of the atlantic. after luncheon they had played several sets of tennis; and, later miss sallie had taken them to the cocoanut grove to drink lemonade and listen to the music. miss sallie had not spoken either to maud warren or to mrs. de lancey smythe since the evening before. the two women had carefully avoided miss stuart. once inside the cocoanut grove bab's sharp eyes soon discovered maud, mrs. smythe and marian seated at a table concealed by an enormous cluster of palms. they were deep in conversation. mrs. smythe was pouring wholesale flattery into maud's ears to which the foolish girl was listening eagerly. marian espied barbara and came over to greet miss sallie and the "automobile girls." she knew nothing of her mother's difficulty with miss sallie. "marian," whispered bab, as her new friend sat down next to her, "why did you wish to know whether we were going to the countess's to dinner to-night?" "why do you ask?" said marian, looking a little frightened. "why it sounded to me as though you must have a reason for what you said," argued bab. "were you trying to warn me about anything? or, is it simply that you do not like the countess?" "i think the countess is very fascinating," was marian's only reply. "won't you even tell me why you told us to come home early if we did go?" persisted barbara. marian gave a forced laugh. "oh, i was only giving you a little good advice about sitting up late. but just the same, i'm a very wise person and you had better take my advice." "what are you two girls whispering about?" asked ruth gayly. "never have secrets from your little friends. it hurts their feelings, dreadfully." "we aren't having secrets," responded barbara. "that is not exactly. i'm only trying to persuade marian to tell me something. but she's a regular sphinx." "which would you rather be, a sphinx or a chatterbox?" inquired marian. "and if you would, why would you, and if thus, why, therefore and whereupon?" "fine!" exclaimed ruth. "i never dreamed you could reel off nonsense like that, marian." marian laughed then rising said, "i suppose i shall have to go back to mama. i only came over for a minute." her eyes again met barbara's, and she shook her head slightly, then nodding good-bye to the girls she crossed over to where her mother was still conversing with maud. "why did she shake her head at you, bab?" "she says again that we must come home early from the villa, to-night, but she won't tell me why," replied bab. "she evidently knows something that we don't. she was even more mysterious to-day than she was last night. do you think we had better go?" "go! of course we will," cried ruth. "i don't believe marian has anything very serious on her mind." "really, children," interposed miss sallie in an annoyed tone, "if you begin to conjure up mystery over so simple a matter as a dinner invitation i shall feel obliged to keep you all at home. one would think i was chaperoning a party of young sleuths, instead of four normal girls out for a holiday." this remark was received with discreet silence, on the part of the four girls, and whatever their thoughts on marian's warning were they sternly repressed uttering them aloud during the remainder of the time spent in the grove. * * * * * at eight o'clock that night miss sallie and the "automobile girls" were seated about the countess's table with only their hostess and her chaperon. there were no other guests at dinner. "how delightful not to be bored by stupid men!" exclaimed the countess, smiling at her circle of guests. "and what a charming picture the young girls make, madame de villiers, do they not? there is not a black coat in our midst to mar the effect of our pretty light frocks. let me see, miss stuart wears violet, dear madame, gray. and the 'automobile girls' might represent the four seasons. ruth, you may be spring, in your pale green silk frock; little mollie will have to play summer in her corn colored gown; bab's scarlet frock makes me think of october; and grace is our snow maiden in her white frock." the countess wore a beautiful gown of white messaline. her exquisite face was radiant with child-like pleasure. during the dinner the room rang with her gay laughter. she had never seemed so young, so gracious, and so innocent as she appeared to the "automobile girls" that night. at each plate the countess herself had placed a small bunch of freesias, whose delicate perfume filled the room. "they are my favorite flowers," the hostess explained gently, "because they remind me of my beloved italy." at the close of dinner a bowl of bon-bons was passed around the table. there was a good deal of noise and confusion. the girls popped the crackers, drew out the mottoes and read them, and decorated themselves with the fancy paper caps. they were too absorbed in their own pleasure to think, or hear, or see, anything that might have been taking place outside the dining-room. madame de villiers, a military cap on her gray hair, looked as fierce and terrifying as a seasoned warrior. dinner over, the countess led the way into her drawing-room, where the laughter and gayety continued. madame de villiers played brilliantly on the piano. the young people danced until they were exhausted. suddenly the young countess caught her train up over her arm, and ran out into the centre of the floor. at a nod from her, madame de villiers began to play the wild, passionate music of the russian mazurka. then the countess danced. again and again she went through the intricate and dramatic figures. her audience was spellbound. no one noted the flight of time. finally bab whispered to ruth: "don't you think we had better go upstairs for our wraps? it is growing late." the two girls slipped quietly away without a word. ascending the stairs to the countess's sleeping room they gathered their arms full of evening coats and scarfs. on a little balcony just outside the window of the sleeping room crouched the figure of a man. his keen eyes watched bab and ruth intently as they made ready to leave the room and join their friends downstairs, entirely unconscious of the figure hiding so near to them. on the first landing of the stairs, bab stopped. ruth was ahead. "go on, ruth," barbara called down to her. "i have left my handkerchief on the dressing table. i will be with you in a minute." bab ran quickly back to the room she had just left. her soft satin slippers made no sound on the floor. it was almost impossible to hear her approach. bab paused at the half-open door of the bedchamber in horrified surprise. inside the room that she and ruth had just left a man bent over the countess's desk. her russian leather writing-case was wide open. the man was running through her papers with a practised hand. bab could have turned and run downstairs again. the intruder would never have heard her. but, although barbara shook with fear for a moment, she placed her wraps softly on the floor and stepped noiselessly back into the room. the man was still unaware of her presence. bab's eyes roved about the room in search of a weapon. her hand resting for an instant on the dressing table, came in touch with something metallic and cold. it was a silver shoe horn, but barbara gripped it eagerly, then she fastened her gaze upon the intruder. he was an old man with a shock of gray hair and a thick beard, that partially concealed the outline of his face. his lips were drawn back until his teeth showed and in his bent attitude he reminded bab of a gigantic ape. under the concentration of her gaze the strange apparition looked up and saw her as she stood unflinching, watching with alert eyes his slightest movement. without uttering a sound the man began to move slowly toward her, his fierce eyes never for a moment leaving her face. "what are you doing here?" bab demanded bravely. "you are a thief!" instead of running away from him the girl started toward the man. as she did so she raised the shoe horn and pointed it at him. had the light in the room not been turned low he must have discovered the trick. as it was the faint light, glinting on the polished metal gave it the appearance of a revolver. the ape-like figure began backing slowly toward the balcony. at the window he paused, as if debating whether he dared take the chance of leaping upon her. bab settled the question for him by making a threatening move with the supposed weapon. the thief whirled, sprang out on the balcony and dropped to the ground. barbara ran to the window. she saw that he had disappeared, then the room began to whirl about her. she thought she was going to faint, for she felt her strength rapidly leaving her. with a great effort she threw off the weakness that was overcoming her and looked out across the lawn. during the early part of the evening a large motor boat cruiser, after having put her owner ashore at palm beach had dropped down and come to anchor for the night hard by the boathouse belonging to the villa occupied by countess sophia. lights were twinkling from the port holes of the boat and her anchor light swayed listlessly at the stern. there were no other signs of life aboard the boat on the bow of which one at close range might have made out the word "restless" in raised gold letters. barbara wondered if their terrible visitor had come from the boat lying there quietly on the moonlit waters. just then the buzz of excited voices was borne to her ears. she heard the countess sophia's clear tones, then an excited little scream, mingled with the deep voice of madame de villiers raised in angry expostulation. still gripping her shoe horn bab raced down the stairs, and parted the portières that hung between the drawing room and hall. what she saw was like the tableau from a melodrama. crowded close to the piano stood the countess sophia, while directly in front of her stood madame de villiers, thoroughly enraged and brandishing her gold-headed cane at two men who seemed about to seize the young countess. clustered in a frightened group at one side of the room stood miss stuart, mollie and grace. ruth was nowhere to be seen. one of the men made a sudden stealthy move toward the countess. "stand back," commanded madame de villiers. just then ruth's clear tones were heard outside the villa. "they're in that room! oh, hurry please!" there was a sound of running feet and into the room darted two young men clad in white yachting clothes, and wearing officers' caps. "we're just in time," called one of the newcomers. "this is something in our line of sport. stand aside, girls. we'll soon have these fellows on the run." with this he grasped one of the men by the collar and dragging him to the open hall door, picked him up and threw him off the veranda onto the drive where he landed with a thud. a moment later his companion had disposed of the other offender in like manner. "watch them, joe," ordered the taller of the two yachtsmen. "if they try to enter the house again, call me. i guess we can give them all they're looking for. i'm going inside to see if there are any more rascals who need attention." "oh you brave boys!" exclaimed madame de villiers as the young man entered the drawing-room where the women were huddled together talking excitedly. "i think the credit belongs to the young woman who had the presence of mind to go for help," smiled the youth, bowing to ruth. "i had to do something!" exclaimed ruth. "i saw your boat early in the evening, and when those two men came in here and began threatening the countess i felt that the only thing to do was to see if some one on the yacht would help us." "did you see the other man?" asked barbara anxiously. "he was old and white-haired and looked exactly like an ape. he was upstairs on the balcony, while i was in the countess's room getting our wraps. then i forgot my handkerchief. when i went back for it he was in the room. i frightened him away with a shoe horn. he thought it was a revolver. he dropped to the ground from the balcony and ran towards the yacht. i thought perhaps he belonged on the boat." "not with us," declared the yachtsman. "allow me to introduce myself. i am captain tom halstead and my friend out there on the veranda, is joseph dawson, engineer of the motor yacht 'restless' which lies at anchor just off the shore. we belong to the 'motor boat club' boys, but i doubt if you have ever heard of us before." although tom halstead and joe dawson were strangers to the "automobile girls" they are well known to the majority of our readers. born and brought up on the maine coast the ocean was their play ground from early boyhood and their fondness for the sea led them to later perfect themselves in the handling of motor boats. these two youths with a number of other sturdy young men comprised the famous club of young yacht skippers and engineers, organized by a boston broker and headed by halstead as fleet captain, with dawson as fleet engineer. the reason for the appearance of the yacht "restless" at this particular place and time is set forth in "the motor boat club in florida," the fifth volume of the "motor boat club series." that the two young men had responded instantly to ruth's call for help was in itself the best proof of the manliness and courage of the "motor boat" boys. the countess who in the meantime had recovered from the first shock of the recent disturbance now presented miss stuart, madame de villiers and the "automobile girls" to tom halstead. a moment later joe dawson entered the room, and more introductions followed. "well, they've gone," declared dawson. "they picked themselves up very slowly and painfully and fairly slunk down the drive. i don't imagine they will trouble you again to-night. however we'd better appoint ourselves as special watchmen about the grounds until morning. i do not wish to seem inquisitive but was the motive of these rascals common robbery?" "the men did not wish money," replied the countess slowly. "they wished to steal a certain paper i have in my possession in order to destroy it. that is why the old man was searching my writing case. but he did not find the paper, for i carry it about my person. forgive me for being so mysterious, and believe that my reason for secrecy is one of grave importance." "there is nothing to forgive, madam," replied captain halstead courteously. "we are only too glad to have been of service to you and beg that you will continue to accept our services at least until to-morrow. then i would advise you to procure a special officer to remain at the villa in case you should be annoyed further by these villains." "thank you," exclaimed the countess, with evident agitation. "i hardly think we shall be troubled again. i do not wish an officer to come here." "we must return to the hotel, countess," said miss stuart. "it is growing late and my brother will become uneasy about us." this time the women were assisted with their cloaks by the "motor boat" boys and no startling interruption occurred. ruth ran down the drive a little ahead of the party to where her automobile stood. then she uttered a sudden cry of dismay. all four tires had been cut. "oh the rascals!" she exclaimed. "how dared they do such a contemptible thing? we'll have to go back to the villa and telephone for another car. father will be so worried!" an indignant babble of feminine voices ensued broken by the deeper tones of the two young men as the party turned to go back to the villa. just then a familiar sound was borne to their ears. it was the chug! chug! of a rapidly approaching automobile. a moment later the car rolled up the drive. "it's father!" ruth exclaimed. "oh, i'm so glad." "what seems to be the trouble, sallie?" queried mr. stuart, springing from the car. "it's after midnight. i grew worried when you didn't return to the hotel at eleven, so decided i had better come out after you. i rather think we exceeded the speed limit too," he laughed, turning to the chauffeur. then ruth burst forth with an excited account of the night's adventure. mr. stuart looked grave. "i shall send you an officer in the morning, countess," he said. "these are the two young men who came so gallantly to our rescue, mr. stuart," said the countess, turning to the "motor boat" boys who stood modestly in the background. mr. stuart shook hands with both young men, thanking them for their prompt response to the call for help. "we should be pleased to have you dine with us to-morrow evening," he said. "thank you," responded the young captain, "but we shall weigh anchor in the morning." after bidding farewell to the two young men and good night to madame de villiers and the countess sophia, the "automobile girls" and miss sallie stepped into the car in which mr. stuart had driven to the villa. "i'll send a man out to put that other car in shape to-morrow," he said to ruth as they sped down the drive. "but, hereafter when this valiant band, known as the 'automobile girls' pays a visit to the countess sophia i shall insist upon accompanying them whether or not i am invited." chapter xiv the plot thickens maud warren apologized to miss sallie. mr. warren had been greatly displeased when he heard of his daughter's disobedience, and had reprimanded her in such severe terms, that she anxiously endeavored to conciliate miss stuart at the earliest opportunity. miss sallie, however received her effusive apology very coldly, and it was some time before maud felt in the least comfortable in her society. one evening soon after the eventful dinner with the countess, the "automobile girls" started out for a moonlight stroll accompanied by miss stuart, mr. stuart, mr. warren and maud. just as they were leaving the hotel marian smythe appeared on the veranda and was asked to join them. "where have you been keeping yourself, marian?" asked ruth. marian flushed. "i've been very busy," she said hastily. then as if anxious to change the subject: "have you been to the countess's villa lately?" "no," replied ruth quickly. "not since the dinner there. have you heard anything about her?" "no," answered marian shortly, and relapsed into moody silence. as they strolled leisurely along barbara who had been walking ahead with miss stuart, dropped behind with marian. "i want to ask you something, marian," she began. "little girls should never ask questions," said marian lightly, but barbara felt that her apparent unconcern was forced. "have you heard about what happened at the villa the night we dined there?" persisted bab. "i have heard something about it," admitted marian, in a low voice. "it was an attempt to rob the countess, was it not?" "you could hardly call it robbery," replied barbara. "the men took nothing. but they acted in a very mysterious manner, and there was one perfectly hideous old man who was a real burglar for i caught him going through the things in the countess's sleeping room, when i went up stairs after our wraps. i drove him from the room." "how did you ever do it, bab?" asked marian. there was an expression of absolute terror in her eyes. "you'll laugh when i tell you," replied bab. "i drove him away with a shoe horn." "a shoe horn?" repeated marian questioningly. "i don't understand." "he thought from the way i held it that i had a revolver in my hand," explained barbara. "you see it was silver and as the light in the room was turned low it looked like polished steel. at any rate it answered the purpose." "you are very brave, bab," said marian admiringly. "considering the man with whom you had to deal you showed wonderful courage." "what do you mean, marian, by 'the man with whom i had to deal'? who is that frightful old man?" asked barbara, looking searchingly at the other girl. "why did you warn us not to dine with the countess? did you know what was to happen? you must tell me, marian, for i must know. if the countess or any of us is in danger it is your duty to tell me. can't you trust me with your secret, marian?" marian shook her head. her lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. barbara waited patiently for her to regain her self-control. "bab," she said in a choked voice. "i can't answer your questions. i dare not. i am a miserable victim of circumstances, and all i can say is that your danger is in being friendly with the countess. she has an enemy who will stop at nothing to gain his own end, and he will crush you, too, if you stand in his way." "tell me, marian," said bab eagerly. "do you know anything about the countess?" "very little," was the reply, "and that little i may not tell. but this i promise you, that no matter what may be the consequences to myself, i will warn you in time should any special danger threaten you girls or her. that is, if i have the slightest opportunity to do so." marian stretched out her hand and bab clasped it. "thank you, dear marian," she said. "i know you will keep your word." after an hour's stroll the party repaired to the hotel veranda, where ices and cakes were served to them. every one, with the exception of maud warren, was in high good humor. even marian emerged from the gloom that had enveloped her earlier in the evening, laughing and talking merrily with the "automobile girls." maud, however was in a distinctly rebellious state of mind. during their walk they had encountered the count de sonde and monsieur duval, and although mr. stuart and mr. warren had exchanged polite civilities with the two frenchmen, they had not invited them to join the party. while maud, still smarting inwardly from her father's recent sharp censure, had not dared to brave mr. warren's certain anger by doing so. her only means of retaliation lay in sulking, and this she did in the most approved fashion, refusing to take part in the conversation, and answering in monosyllables when addressed. ruth and barbara vainly tried to charm away her sulks by paying her special attention, but she merely curled her lip scornfully, and left the veranda soon after on plea of headache. mr. warren sighed heavily as he looked after her retreating figure, but made no comment. yet his friends knew instinctively what was passing in his mind, and the "automobile girls" solemnly vowed each in her own heart to watch over maud and save her if possible from the schemes of fortune-hunting nobility. "is there anything more perfect than this florida moonlight!" asked ruth, during a lull in the conversation, as she leaned back in her chair and gazed with half closed eyes at the silvery tropical world before her. "positively, i could sit out here all night!" "it looks as though we were in a fair way to do so," replied her father, glancing at his watch. "half-past eleven. time all children were in bed." "really, robert, i had no idea it was so late," said miss sallie, stifling a yawn. "i believe i am sleepy. come, girls, it is time for us to retire." "oh, aunt sallie!" exclaimed ruth. "how can you be so cruel?" "'i must be cruel to be kind,'" quoted miss stuart. "if i allow you to moon out here until unseasonable hours, you will never get started on your picnic to-morrow, at seasonable ones." "she speaks the truth," said ruth dramatically, "i will arise and hie me to the hay, for come what may, i swear that i will picnic with the rosy morn." "i thought you were going to picnic with us," said grace flippantly. "so i am," replied ruth calmly. "that statement was mere poetical license." "first find your poet," said bab slyly. whereupon there was a chorus of giggles at ruth's expense, in which she good-naturedly joined. "i'm really more tired than i thought i was," she yawned, a few moments later as she sat curled up in a big chair in the room adjoining miss stuart's which she and barbara occupied. "i'm tired and sleepy, too," responded barbara. "it's almost midnight. we'll never get up early to-morrow morning. oh, dear!" she exclaimed a second later, "i've left my pink scarf down on the veranda. it's hanging over the back of the chair i sat in. i'll go down this minute and get it, before any one has had time to see it or take it away." suiting the action to the word bab hurried out of the room, and along the corridor. she did not stop for an elevator but ran lightly down the two flights of stairs and out to the veranda. it was but the work of a moment to secure her scarf, which hung over the back of the chair, just as she had left it. the veranda was deserted except for a group of three people who stood at the far end in the shadow. their backs were toward bab and they were talking earnestly in low voices. barbara stood petrified with astonishment, scarcely able to believe the evidence of her own eyes, for the group consisted of monsieur duval, mrs. de lancey smythe and--enveloped in the pale blue broadcloth cloak bab had often seen her wear was the countess sophia. chapter xv caught napping the following morning barbara awoke with the feeling of one who has experienced a disagreeable dream. was it a trick of her imagination, or had she really seen their beautiful young countess deep in conversation with monsieur duval and mrs. de lancey smythe? true bab had not seen her face, but her height, and carriage--the blue cloak--were unmistakable. on her return to their room bab had not mentioned her unpleasant discovery to ruth. she could not bear to voice any actual charge against the countess sophia. "perhaps it will all be explained yet," she told herself, and with a wisdom far beyond her years, she resolved to be silent, at least for the present, about what she had seen. when the launch which mr. stuart had chartered, with its freight of picnickers, had put out from shore and headed for the villa, where they were to pick up the countess and madame de villiers, barbara had loyally decided to let not even the evidence of her own eyes sway her into condemning the countess unheard. on their arrival at the villa they found the countess and madame de villiers ready and waiting for them, and the sailing party was soon comfortably seated in the roomy launch. madame de villiers occupied a wicker chair opposite miss sallie, while the young countess and the "automobile girls" had stretched a steamer rug over the roof of the small cabin, and lay upon it in picturesque attitudes under their sunshades. there was a churning of the propeller, a shrill toot from the whistle, and the launch glided out over the water as smoothly as a canoe rides down stream. "we're off!" cried mr. stuart joyously. "i believe you are just a great boy still, robert," smiled miss sallie indulgently. the day's excursion had been arranged by mr. stuart. he was an enthusiastic fisherman, and on his return from the fishing expedition with mr. warren he at once began to plan a similar excursion for the "automobile girls," extending his invitation to the countess and madame de villiers. it was an ideal day for a picnic. the sun shone brilliantly down on palm beach, making it look like an enchanted land. the bathers were out in full force. a little farther up the beach countless flower-trimmed hats and many-hued parasols made gorgeous blots of color along the white sands. overhead the sky was an intense blue, and the water reflected the blueness in its depths. "you can never understand how happy this makes me," declared the countess, bestowing an enchanting smile upon the little company. "mr. stuart, we thank you for the many pleasures you have given cousine and me. someday i hope i may be able to do something for you." "wait until the picnic is over before you thank me, countess," replied her host. "the fishing may bore you, especially if the fish don't bite." "ah, well," laughed the countess, "i could fish patiently all day, under a sky like this without complaining, if i were to catch nothing but a minnow." mr. stuart's fishing party had made an early start. they were to land some miles up the coast, where those who were not of a mind to fish could make themselves comfortable on shore. the journey was not a short one. it was well past eleven o'clock when they landed on a hard shell beach, broken here and there by patches of marsh grass. "you are especially privileged to be allowed to set foot on these shores," mr. stuart assured his guests, as he handed them out of the launch. "the location of this place has been kept a secret; otherwise it would be overrun with tourists and excursionists." "is it so beautiful?" ruth inquired. "wait until you see it!" was mr. stuart's reply. the beach sloped upward so as to form a wall that completely hid the land behind it from view. ruth and barbara ran on ahead. "oh, father," cried ruth excitedly. "this is a surprise!" the two girls were looking down into a beautiful little dell. it was like a tiny oasis, with a sand wall on one side of it, and a mass of palmettoes, oak trees and cocoanut palms encircling it on the other three sides. the ground was carpeted thickly with violets. yellow jasmine and elder flowers gleamed through the foliage. the branches of the oak trees were draped with gray spanish moss, which made quite a sombre background for the gay tropical scene. "this is to be your drawing-room and dining-room, madame," declared mr. stuart, as he helped madame de villiers over the sandy hillock. "you may do whatever you like here. you may pull the violets, or walk on them. there are no park rules." "was there ever such a place in the world!" exclaimed countess sophia. "i shall not leave it until we sail for home. the most wonderful of sea trout could not lure me from this enchanting spot." "we shall stay here, too," agreed mollie and grace. "i would rather gather violets than catch gold fish," mollie assured mr. stuart. the wicker chairs were brought from the launch, so that madame de villiers and aunt sallie could be comfortable in their sylvan retreat. ruth and barbara went off with mr. stuart on the quest for fish, while the young countess, mollie and grace gathered wild flowers and made wreaths of the sweet-smelling yellow jasmine. grace ran with her crown of wild jasmine and placed it on miss sallie's soft white hair. the countess placed her wreath on madame de villiers's head. "oh, happy day, oh, day so dear!" sang countess sophia as she stuck one of the beautiful yellow flowers into her dark hair and danced with mollie over the sands. it was a happy day indeed--one that the little party would never forget! mysteries and unanswered questions were banished. even bab forgot for the time being all disquieting thoughts. the lovely young countess, with her eyes full of an appealing tenderness, had driven away all ugly suspicion. several hours later the fishing party returned. "see what we've got!" ruth exclaimed proudly, as she ran up the sand hill flourishing a string of speckled sea trout. "miss am sho a lucky fisherman," agreed the old colored man in whose boat mr. stuart and the two girls had been fishing. "but where are your fish, barbara?" grace inquired. mr. stuart laughed. "bab is the unluckiest fisherman that ever threw out a line," he explained. "shall i tell them, bab?" barbara flushed. "oh, go ahead," she consented. "well," mr. stuart continued, "miss barbara thurston caught a tarpon a yard long this morning." "where is it?" cried the waiting audience. "back in the sea, whence it came, and it nearly took mistress bab along with it," mr. stuart answered. "when barbara caught her tarpon, she began reeling in her line as fast as she could. but the tarpon was too heavy for it, and the line broke. then bab prepared to dive into the ocean after her fish." "i was so excited i forgot i did not have on my bathing suit," bab explained. "i thought, if i could just dive down into the water, i could catch my tarpon, and then mr. stuart could pull us both back into the boat." "reckless, barbara!" cried miss stuart. "what will you do next!" "don't scold, aunt sallie," ruth begged. "it was too funny, and father and i caught hold of bab's skirts before she jumped. then old jim, the colored man, got the fish. so we had a good look at him without bab's drowning herself. but when we found that the catch was a tarpon, and not good to eat, father flung it back in the water." while mr. stuart and the girls were talking, jim and the engineer from the launch built a fire. they were soon at work frying the fish for luncheon. nobody noticed that a small naphtha launch had been creeping cautiously along the coast. it was sheltered from view by the bank of sand. and it managed to hide itself in a little inlet about a quarter of a mile away from mr. stuart's larger boat. after a hearty luncheon no one had much to say. the "automobile girls" were unusually silent. finally they confessed to being dreadfully sleepy. there is something in the soft air of florida that compels drowsiness. miss sallie and madame de villiers nodded in their chairs. mr. stuart, the countess and the four girls stretched themselves on the warm sand. jim slept under the lea of his small fishing boat, and the engineer of the launch went to sleep on the sand not far from the water's edge. for nearly an hour the entire party slumbered. all at once mr. stuart awoke with a feeling that something had happened. he rubbed his eyes, then counted the girls and his guests. miss sallie was safe under the shadow of her parasol, which had been fixed over her head. madame de villiers sat nodding in her chair. the afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen; a fresh breeze was stirring the leaves of the palm trees. but, except for the occasional call of a mocking bird, not a sound could be heard. mr. stuart waited. did he not hear a faint noise coming from the direction of his launch. "the engineer has probably gone aboard!" mr. stuart thought. "it is high time we were leaving for home," said he to himself. but as he stepped to the edge of the embankment he saw his engineer still lying on the ground sleeping soundly. a small boat like a black speck disappeared around a curve in the shore. "what on earth does that mean?" cried mr. stuart. leaping over the sandy wall he ran toward his engineer. mr. stuart shook him gently. the man opened his eyes drowsily, yawned then raising himself to a sitting position, looked stupidly about. "a strange boat has just put out from here," said mr. stuart quietly. "we had better go out to the launch and see if all is well." the engineer rose to his feet, and still stupid from his heavy sleep, followed mr. stuart to the dinghy. the sound of voices aroused old jim who clambered to his feet blinking rapidly. mr. stuart and the engineer pushed off toward the launch, each feeling that he was about to come upon something irregular. their premonitions proved wholly correct. the engine room of the pretty craft was a total wreck. the machinery had been taken apart so deftly, it seemed as though an engineer alone could have accomplished it, while the most important parts of the engine were missing. "whose work is this?" ejaculated mr. stuart, clenching his fists in impotent rage. suddenly it dawned upon him what the wrecking of his launch meant. he was on an uninhabited shore with seven women, his engineer, and colored servant, with no prospect of getting away that night. he felt in his pockets. a pen-knife was his only tool or weapon. mr. stuart rowed back to shore to break the disagreeable news to the members of his party. but the sleepers were awake on his return. they had seen mr. stuart row hurriedly out to the launch with the engineer, and surmised instantly that something had happened. "oh, dear, oh, dear!" wailed the countess, when mr. stuart had explained their plight. "must i always bring ill-luck to you?" "nonsense!" expostulated mr. stuart. "how could the wrecking of our engine have any connection with you, countess?" old jim who still stood blinking and stretching now began to vaguely grasp the situation. "'scuse me ladies," he mumbled. "i spects i'se jest been nappin' a little. i ain't been 'zactly asleep." the "automobile girls" laughed, in spite of the difficulties which confronted them. "oh no, you haven't been asleep," mr. stuart assured him, "but that nap of yours was a close imitation of the real thing." jim grinned sheepishly and hung his woolly head. "i 'low nothin' bad ain't happened, suh." "something bad certainly has happened. in fact about as bad as it well could be, jim," declared mr. stuart. "some wretch has tampered with the engine of our launch and left us high and dry on this lonely shore. we must do something and that something quickly. it's getting late, and we don't want to spend the night here, lovely as the place is. where's the nearest house or village?" "lor', suh," exclaimed old jim. "this am a lonesome spot. there ain't no village no wheres round heah!" "but where is the nearest house, then?" demanded mr. stuart. the darkey scratched his head reflectively. "ole miss thorne might take you in, massa. her place am about two miles from here. she's my old missis. i live thar. i jest comes down here and helps fishin' parties to land and takes them out in my boat in the daytime. nights i sleeps at my old missis's place. she comes of a fine family she do. but she's a little teched in the head, suh." "all right, jim; show us the way to the house. but how are we to find a horse and wagon? my sister and madame de villiers will not care to walk that distance." "i got an old horse and wagon hitched near here, massa," jim returned. "i come over in it this morning." mr. stuart finally installed miss sallie, madame de villiers, and the young countess in the bottom of jim's old wagon. he also stored their lunch baskets away under the seats. food might be precious before they found their way back to their hotel. then jim started his patient old horse, while mr. stuart and the "automobile girls" followed the wagon which led the way along a narrow road through the heart of the jungle. but before leaving the deserted shore, mr. stuart went back to the launch. he tacked a note on the outside of the cabin. the note explained the accident to their engine. it also stated that mr. stuart and his party had gone to seek refuge at the home of a miss thorne, two miles back from the shore. mr. stuart did not believe the wrecker would return to the boat. he had accomplished his evil purpose. but mr. stuart did hope that another launch might visit the coast either that evening or in the early morning. therefore he requested that any one who discovered his letter would come to miss thorne's home for his party. chapter xvi welcome and unwelcome guests the sun was just sinking when mr. stuart's weary cavalcade stopped in front of a great iron gate. the gate was covered with rust and hung loose on its hinges. it opened into a splendid avenue of cypress trees. as far as the eye could see on each side of the road, ran overgrown hedges of the rose of sharon. the bushes were in full bloom and the masses of white blossoms gleamed in the gathering shadows like lines of new fallen snow. "how beautiful!" exclaimed the four "automobile girls" in chorus. mr. stuart looked anxiously up the lonely avenue as his party stumbled along the rough road and peered cautiously into the hedge first on one side then on the other. it would have been easy for an army to hide itself in the cover of the thicket, which hemmed them in on all sides in an impenetrable wall of green. "i feel extremely uneasy, robert," declared miss sallie, her face pale under the stress of the day's experiences. old madame de villiers smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "i have no fear for myself," she said. "my husband is a soldier. i have followed him through two great wars. what comes must come. it is all in the day's business. but the countess, she is different. she is in my charge; nothing must happen to her. i assure you, mr. stuart, it is of the utmost importance that the countess sophia be protected." miss sallie held her head very high. madame de villiers was their guest, so miss stuart would say nothing. but why should madame de villiers think the safety of the countess sophia of more importance than that of the four "automobile girls?" miss sarah stuart had other ideas. she was equally determined that no harm should overtake any one of her charges. the narrow avenue finally broadened into a lawn overgrown with flowers and vines. back of it stood an old house that had once been a fine colonial mansion. the house seemed to frown on the intruders, who had come to destroy its sacred quiet. "i should think anybody might be 'teched' in the head, who lived alone in a queer place like this," whispered ruth to bab, as the two girls stood with their arms about each other, staring ahead of them. "will you see miss thorne first, jim, and explain our plight to her?" mr. stuart asked the old colored man. "or do you think it would be better to have me make matters clear?" "i'll do the 'splainin', massa," returned old jim. "my missis will allus listen to me. i done tole you she wasn't jes' like other folks." "is your mistress insane, jim?" inquired miss sallie anxiously. "no-o, ma'am," returned the old man. "miss thorne she ain't crazy. she's puffectly quiet, suh, and she's all right on every subject 'cept one. i hates to tell you what that thing is." "out with it, jim. what is the lady's peculiarity?" "she imagines, suh, that her fambly is still with her, her own ma and pa, and young massa, and her sister missy lucy. missy rose ain't never been married." "where is her family, jim?" ruth asked. "they lies yonder in the buryin' ground, missy," replied the old darkey, pointing toward a clearing some distance from the house, where a few white stones gleamed in the twilight. miss sallie shuddered. grace and mollie huddled close to her, while ruth and bab gave each other's hands re-assuring pressures. "do you look after this miss thorne?" mr. stuart inquired further. "yes, suh; me and my wife chloe looks after her. chloe cooks and i works about the place when i'se not down to the beach with my boat. but my missus ain't so poor. she's got enough to git along with. i jest likes to earn a little extra." by this time jim had climbed down from his shaky old wagon. he now opened the front door. "walk right in," he said hospitably, making a low bow. "i'll go find miss rose." mr. stuart's party entered a wide hall that seemed shrouded in impenetrable gloom. on the walls hung rows of family portraits. the place was inexpressibly dismal. the "automobile girls" kept close to mr. stuart. in silence they waited for the appearance of the mistress of the house. two candles flickered in the dark hallway. out of the gloom emerged an old lady, followed by her two servants, who were bearing the lights. she was small and very fragile. she wore a gray silk gown of an old fashioned cut. her dress was ornamented with a bertha and cuffs of duchess lace. the old lady advanced and held out her small hand. "i am pleased to offer you shelter," she declared to mr. stuart. "jim has explained your predicament to me. we shall be only too happy to have you stay with us for the night." at the word "we," the "automobile girls" exchanged frightened glances. their hostess was alone. but that one word "we" explained the situation. did she mean that all the ghosts of her past still waited in the house to welcome unexpected visitors? "it has been many years since we have had guests in our home," continued miss thorne. "but i think we have rooms enough to accommodate you." chloe conducted miss sallie, madame de villiers, the countess sophia and the four "automobile girls" into a great parlor. the room was furnished with old fashioned elegance. candles burned on the high mantel shelves. but the dim lights could not dispel the shadow of desolation that pervaded the great room. a few minutes later miss thorne entered the room. "you must tell me your names," she inquired sociably. "i wish to run upstairs and tell mama about you. poor mama is an invalid or she would come down to see you." then calling chloe to her, she said in a loud whisper: "notify miss lucy and master tom at once. papa can wait. he is busy in the library." an uncanny silence followed miss thorne's speech. every one of the seven women looked unhappy and mr. stuart tried vainly to conceal a sense of uneasiness. but chloe quietly beckoned the party from the room. "i'll jes' show the ladies upstairs," she explained gently and her mistress made no objection. miss sallie would on no account sleep alone in such a dismal house. she shared a large chamber with ruth and bab. the countess asked to spend the night with mollie and grace, and madame de villiers, who was afraid of nothing, had a room to herself. mr. stuart went up to the third floor. "let us talk and laugh and try to be cheerful, girls," proposed the countess. "this poor old soul is quite harmless, i believe, and she seems very sad. perhaps we may be able to cheer her a little." "all right, my lovely countess," replied mollie. "ghosts or no ghosts, we will do our best. but don't count on me for much merriment. i'm a dreadful coward." mollie looked over her shoulder with a shudder. the countess and grace laughed, but quickly their laugh died. the sound of weird music floated up through the dark hall. their hostess, miss thorne, was playing the tall harp that stood in the parlor. "goodness!" cried miss sallie, "what will that poor soul do next? i should not be in the least surprised if the entire departed family were given places at supper to-night." which was exactly what happened. four empty chairs were left at the table. "miss thorne," said mr. stuart, when they were all seated, "could you not be persuaded to visit the outer world? it would give my sister and me much pleasure if you would spend a few days with us at palm beach." a spark of pleasure lit up the hostess's faded eyes for an instant. then she shook her head sadly. "you are most kind, sir, but i am much needed at home. lucy, my sister, is quite delicate, you see. and mama is an invalid." miss sallie touched her brother's foot under the table, as a signal to keep away from dangerous topics. but what topic was not dangerous? "how charmingly you play the harp, miss thorne," ventured the countess, when they had somewhat recovered themselves. "ah," exclaimed the poor woman, smiling archly, "you must praise the right person, my dear. it was my sister lucy who was playing." miss sallie dropped her fork with a loud clatter, while mollie slipped her hand into the countess's and the other three girls linked their feet under the table, girl fashion. jim, who, in an old black coat, was waiting on the table, smiled grimly and mumbled to himself. "but, young ladies," cried miss thorne, "you are not eating." as a matter of fact the supper was delicious; biscuits as light as snow flakes, broiled sea trout, potatoes roasted in their jackets and preserves in delicate cut glass bowls. but who could enjoy a banquet under such conditions? the two candles seemed to accentuate the blackness of the shadows which gathered at the edges of the room. the guests tried to laugh and talk, but gradually gloomy silence settled upon them. miss thorne appeared to have forgotten where she was and mr. stuart observing the uneasiness of the whole party remarked that as they had had a long day it would be well to retire early. as they were about to rise from the table a sudden exclamation from the countess who sat at the lower end of the table caused all eyes to turn toward her in startled inquiry. she was staring at the open window in fascinated terror, unable for the moment to do anything save point to the opening which was swathed in shadows. "a horrible old man!" she at last managed to articulate. "i saw him looking in at us!" "what old man?" demanded mr. stuart. "he was white haired and looked like a great ape," she gasped. "why that's the man whom i drove out of your room the other night, countess," exclaimed bab. "what can his object be in following you?" "come, my man," commanded mr. stuart, turning to the engineer who sat beside him, "and you too, jim, we'll search the grounds. i believe that this formidable old man can tell us something about the wrecking of the engine. let's get after him at once!" old jim lost no time in procuring lanterns, and a thorough search of the grounds was made. the women meantime remained in the dining room, but now that the first effects of their fright had worn off, they prepared to give their fearsome intruder a warm reception should he again show himself. madame de villiers moved her chair to one side of the open window, her heavy cane in both hands, ready for instant use. while barbara took up her station at the other side grasping firmly the heavy silver teapot that had been in the thorne family for generations. ruth guarded the door at one end, brandishing ferociously a heavy carving knife she had appropriated from a set on the old fashioned side-board, while mollie, bravely, held the fort, at the other door with the fork. the countess half laughing, half shuddering, clung to a heavy cut glass water bottle, while miss sallie had prepared to meet the enemy with a huge bottle of cayenne pepper, which she had taken from the old-fashioned silver castor. [illustration: the countess pointed toward the open window.] "there is nothing like being prepared," said ruth with a hysterical laugh, after ten minutes had passed, and the enemy had not shown himself. "i'm going to get a chair and be comfortable." mollie followed suit, and the watchers sat valiantly alert, as the minutes dragged by. miss thorne chattered voluably to and about her family, paying very little attention to her strangely-behaved guests, while chloe, the old servant, huddled in one corner, her eyes rolling with fright at every sound she heard. at last the welcome sound of men's voices was heard and mr. stuart, followed by the engineer and old jim, entered at mollie's door. "what kind of desperado organization is this?" he exclaimed, laughing in spite of himself at the ludicrous appearance this feminine vigilant committee made. "it's war to the knife," cried ruth. "and the fork, too, i should say," laughed her father, "also the teapot, and--what on earth are you cherishing so fondly, sallie?" "cayenne pepper," responded miss sallie, "and i consider myself well armed, at that." "i should rather think so," agreed her brother. "however you are all safe in laying down your arms, for we have searched diligently, and can find no trace of the intruder. he evidently heard the countess and made a quick get away. you must pardon us, madam, for stirring up your quiet home in this manner," he said, bowing to miss thorne. "i trust we shall meet with no further disagreeable adventures." "you have not disturbed either lucy or me in the least," declared the demented old woman graciously. "as for papa and mama they dearly love to have visitors." she smiled sweetly and at once began a one-sided conversation with her departed parents. "do take us away from her," whispered ruth to her father. "she has been addressing the shades of her family ever since you left us, and it's getting on our nerves." "with your kind permission, miss thorne, we shall retire," said mr. stuart, and the seven tired women gladly followed him through the shadowy hall and up the wide stairs, to their respective sleeping rooms. chapter xvii the midnight intruder once in their rooms the drooping spirits of the picnickers revived, somewhat. it was a fine night, the air warm and fragrant. the windows of the sleeping rooms were wide open and the moonlight streamed across the floor, filling the whole place with its soft radiance. "oh look!" cried grace, going over to the open window. "what a darling balcony! i believe the other rooms all open out on it too. good-bye," she called to mollie and the countess, as she stepped nimbly over the sill. "i'm going to make a call." grace had hardly disappeared, before the countess went quickly to the door, closed it, then came back to mollie, her finger on her lip. drawing mollie over to one corner of the room, where they could not be observed from the outside, the countess whispered. "mademoiselle mollie, i believe you love me and trust me, even more than do your friends, and because of this i am going to ask you to do me a very great favor." mollie's blue eyes looked lovingly up into the dark eyes of the countess. so fervent was her feeling of adoration for this fascinating stranger that she was prepared to grant any favor that lay within her power. "i should dearly love to help you in any way i can," she said earnestly. "you make me very, very happy." the countess kissed her. "dear child," she continued, "the thing i am going to ask seems simple enough, but some day you will understand how much it means to me. wait a moment," she added almost under her breath. "there is some one whom i hold in such dread that, even in this desolate and far-away place, he or his confederate might be listening." she looked about her cautiously, then went to the window and anxiously scanned the balcony. it was quite empty. her eyes searched the long avenue leading to the grove that looked like a huge black spot in the moonlight. then she returned to mollie and said softly, "i am not afraid of ghosts, and neither are you, mollie, i am sure, because there are no such things; but this place fills me with foreboding. it is so lonesome, so utterly dismal. what was that? i thought i heard a noise below. did you hear anything?" "perhaps it was jim closing up for the night," replied mollie, pressing close to the countess for comfort. "but what was the favor? i will do anything for you." "this is it," answered the countess, her voice again dropping to a whisper. "will you, for a few days, carry a paper for me? it is a very dangerous paper, dangerous, that is, because some one else wishes it, but it is a very valuable one to me because i may need it, and if you will keep it safely hidden until i do need it, you will not only be doing me a service but mademoiselle warren also." mollie looked puzzled. the countess's words were shrouded in mystery. "does it concern the count de sonde, too?" she asked breathlessly. "yes," replied the countess; "it concerns him very intimately. will you do this for me, little mollie? i know now that the paper is not safe either in my house or on me. it would be quite safe with you, however. even my enemy would never think of that, and, if anything should happen to me, you may produce the paper at once. give it to mr. stuart. he will know what should be done." the countess took from her dress a square, flat chamois bag which fastened with a clasp and evidently contained a document of some sort. "fasten it into your dress with this pin," she said, "and keep the pin as a memento of our friendship." and the pin, as mollie saw later, was no ordinary affair, but a broad gold band on which was a beautifully enameled coat of arms. "is this another secret session?" cried ruth's voice gayly from the window. the two conspirators started nervously. "come into our room," ruth continued. "papa has sent up the luncheon hamper. there are still some sandwiches and fruit left; likewise a box of candy. we were too frightened to have appetites at supper, but i think a little food, now, will cheer us mightily." "this looks quite like a boarding-school spread," exclaimed miss sallie as they gathered around the feast. "but it is really a good idea. i feel that this little midnight luncheon might help me keep up my courage until i get to sleep." "what a jolly little feast," cried the countess sophia. "i am quite beginning to take heart again after that fearful ordeal below. i had a feeling all the time that the chairs were not really empty." "goodness me!" cried grace, "do change the subject, or we shall be afraid to go to bed at all." "and i move that we take to our couches at once," said ruth, "while we have the courage to do so. madame de villiers, are you not afraid to sleep alone?" "not in the least, my dear. i am not afraid of the most courageous ghost that ever walked. i believe i will retire at once. i am very tired." taking one of the candles which stood in a row on the mantel, making a cheerful illumination, the stately old woman bade them good night, and the tapping of her stick resounded through the empty hall. soon after grace, mollie and the countess stepped through the window, and down the balcony to their room. "you'd better close your shutters," called grace over her shoulder. "we're going to." "and lose all this glorious moonlight?" asked ruth. "never. this balcony is too high from the ground for any one to climb up, easily, and besides, old jim is going to be on guard to-night. aunt sallie thinks we had better try to make ourselves comfortable without doing much undressing. even if we don't sleep very well to-night, we can make up for it when we get back to the hotel." with these words ruth blew out the candles and five minutes later, their shoes and outer clothing removed, she and barbara and miss sallie were fast asleep. grace and mollie, however, struggled vainly with the heavy wooden shutters, but try as they might they could not succeed in closing them tightly. after some subdued laughter and many exclamations they abandoned their task in disgust, and blowing out their candles prepared themselves for sleep. at midnight ruth awoke with a start. she had a distinct sensation that some one had been looking into her face. but the room was still flooded with moonlight, and she could see plainly that, except for her sleeping companions, no one was there. she turned over and closed her eyes again, but the sudden waking had driven sleep away. was that a noise? ruth held her breath and listened. there was not a sound except the regular breathing of miss sallie. ruth lay with every nerve strained to catch the lightest footfall. in a moment it came again, very faint but still distinct. something--some one--moved somewhere. she sat up in bed and touched barbara lightly on the cheek. barbara opened her eyes slowly then sat up. ruth pointed to the next room. the two girls listened intently. again there was the sound, a soft, a very soft footfall on a creaking board. cautiously the two girls climbed from the bed and crept over to the door between the two rooms. on a small bed at the far side of the room lay the countess, sleeping soundly. grace and mollie also were fast asleep in the other bed. suddenly ruth gripped bab's arm. the eyes of both girls were riveted on the old fashioned dressing table in one corner of the room. before it stood the same terrible old man that bab had seen at the villa. he was examining minutely every thing on the dresser. next he turned his attention to the girls' walking suits which hung over the backs of the chairs. he searched the pockets of the coats, the linings, and even the hems of the skirts. "he is certainly looking for a paper," barbara thought, as she watched him make his systematic search, "and he certainly has something to do with the countess's affairs." barbara's mind reverted to the group she had seen on the hotel veranda, the night before. what was the explanation of it all? was the countess really an impostor and why, when she evidently feared monsieur duval and ignored mrs. de lancey smythe, did she hold interviews late at night with them? she had distinctly refused the "automobile girls'" invitations to the hotel, yet she had not refused to meet others there. and what part could this ferocious looking old man possibly have in the drama? all this passed rapidly through bab's mind as with her hand clasped tightly in ruth's the two girls watched the intruder with bated breath. to bab there was something strangely familiar about him, his movements suggested some one she had seen before, yet she could find no place in her memory for him. failing to find what he desired, the old man again turned toward the countess a look of indescribable menace on his face. he took a step toward her then--a sudden burst of weird music floated up from the gloomy drawing room. with a smothered exclamation the intruder whirled and making for the window swung himself over the ledge. ruth clutched barbara for support. she was trembling with fear. "don't be frightened, dear," soothed bab bravely. "that isn't ghost music. it's only miss thorne playing the harp. it's an unearthly hour for music, but she couldn't have begun to play at a more opportune moment, either. i believe that frightful old man thought it was ghost music. just listen to it. it's enough to give any one the creeps." the demented old woman played on in a wailing minor key, and presently footsteps were heard coming down the hall. by this time mollie, grace and the countess were wide awake and seeing bab and ruth in their room demanded to know what had happened. a moment later madame de villiers and miss sallie, both fully dressed, entered the room. "no more sleep for me to-night," announced miss stuart firmly. "i feel that the sooner morning comes and we get out of this house the better pleased i shall be." at that instant a melancholy strain like the wail of a lost soul rose from down stairs. then all was silent. "i begin to believe it is the departed spirit of her sister lucy that executed that last passage," shuddered the countess. "come, my dears let us finish dressing. it will soon be morning and then surely some way will be provided for us to go back to palm beach." "shall we tell her?" whispered ruth to bab. "we'd better," nodded bab. "then she will be constantly on her guard." "listen, everyone," commanded ruth. "we are going to tell you something but you mustn't feel frightened. we think the countess should know it at once. you tell them about it, bab." bab obediently began a recital of what had transpired after she and ruth had been so suddenly wakened. the others listened in consternation to her story. the countess who turned very pale while bab was speaking, looked appealingly at madame de villiers. the stern old woman was apparently much agitated. "he shall not harm the countess sophia," she muttered, forgetful of those about her. "i will protect her even from him." "aunt sallie, shall i call father?" asked ruth a few moments later. the seven women were seated about the room in silent dejection. "no, ruth," responded her aunt. "we will not waken him. a man that can sleep through a concert such as we were favored with deserves to be left in peace. it is after four o'clock now. i think we'll let him sleep until six, at least. then after breakfast, perhaps, he will be able to devise some means by which we may return to the hotel." it was a very tired and sleepy band of picnickers that gathered around the thorne breakfast table that morning, and breakfast was not over when the honk of an automobile horn was heard and a large touring car rolled up the avenue. "hurrah!" shouted ruth. "it's mr. warren. oh, but i'm glad to see him." it was indeed mr. warren, who, when the party did not return that night, had taken the fastest launch he could find and made for the picnic ground. he had discovered the note, as mr. stuart had hoped, had returned to the hotel where the history of thorne house and its mistress was not unknown and had come for them himself after a few hours sleep. "i should be happy and honored if you would all come again," said miss thorne as she waved adieu to her guests from the front piazza, while jim and chloe bobbed and bowed and chuckled over the generous present they had each received from mr. stuart. as the automobile rolled down the avenue they caught a last glimpse of the mistress of thorne house still waving her handkerchief, and in every heart was a feeling of tender sympathy for the little old woman whose present was so irrevocably linked to the past. chapter xviii the water fÊte "roll along, roll along, o'er the waters so blue, we're afloat, we're afloat in our birch bark canoe," sang grace's high sweet voice as their boat bobbed gayly up and down with the little rippling waves of the lake. "that is a pretty song, my dear child," exclaimed miss sallie stuart, from a cushioned seat in the stern of the boat, "but you should substitute 'naphtha launch' for canoe. nothing would induce me to ride in one." "the count de sonde is going to be at the fête in a canoe," observed maud warren in the tone of one imparting a piece of valuable information. "he asked me to go with him, but papa was unreasonable, as usual." "in a canoe with that little foreigner!" cried miss sallie in amazement. "does he know how to paddle?" "the count is an expert boatman," replied maud stiffly. she had mixed sensations of fear and dislike for miss sallie, although fear was the stronger sentiment of the two. "i imagine his swimming and his canoeing are about alike," said ruth aside to barbara; "just paddling in shallow water." the "automobile girls" were busily engaged in decorating their launch for the venetian fête, which was to take place that evening. the lake dotted with numbers of boats looked like an immense flower bed. hundreds of craft of every land were anchored near the shore, each filled with gay parties of young people who were stringing up rows of japanese lanterns, bunting and flags. "there's not a boat on the lake that can compare with ours," cried mollie proudly, as she tacked the end of a festoon of small banners to the awning-pole, while barbara gave a finishing touch by crossing the silk flags of the "automobile girls" on the bow. "if only the lanterns don't catch fire this evening," said miss sallie. "what a pessimist you are, auntie, dearest!" exclaimed ruth. "we can easily pitch them in the water if they do, and still be very handsome with our banners and things." "here comes the count," cried maud, who had ignored the conversation of the others and was busily scanning the multitudes of boats in search of her admirer. her friends politely controlled a desire to laugh when they saw the count presently emerge from the boats along the shore in a small canoe that was decorated with one lantern hung from a bamboo stick in the bow, while the french flag waved triumphantly from the stern. the count, in white flannels, was working laboriously with the paddle. his little mustache twitched in an agony of exertion and occasionally he paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow. "the count is quite an athlete, isn't he, maud?" asked mollie wickedly. "i should think he might lead the parade to-night." but maud was not listening. her whole attention was concentrated on the canoe, which was making straight for the launch. "here i am, count," she cried, waving her handkerchief to the young frenchman, who, as soon as he espied the boat full of girls, had begun to paddle with a grand flourish, at the same time casting melting glances in the direction of maud. but he had not calculated on the distance between the canoe and the launch, and a final, fancy stroke with the paddle, sent the frail little boat scurrying over the water. it collided with the larger boat, and in an instant turned turtle, dragging the flag of the french ignominiously into the depths while the discomfited son of france, clung to the side of his boat, and wildly called for help. at first the girls were speechless with laughter and the last of the de sondes received neither sympathy nor aid. even maud joined in the merriment, while the enraged nobleman sputtered angrily in french and denounced america and everything in it as fit only for pigs. presently barbara wiped the tears from her eyes and threw out a life preserver to the unfortunate man. "there, count," she called, "you can't sink as long as you hold on to that. we'll see if we can't right your boat, and you can paddle back to shore." "i'm sorry we can't offer you the hospitality of our boat," said miss sallie, "but we are anchored, you see, and the engineer is ashore. besides, i am afraid your wet clothing would spoil our decorations." the count, however, was too enraged to remember any english. he shook his fist at the upturned canoe and poured forth a perfect torrent of maledictions against it. just then a passing launch paused and gave the needed assistance, taking the count on board and towing the canoe to shore. as the little boat was righted an envelope that had evidently fallen from the count's pocket, floated past them in the current. "you dropped something," called barbara, but the launch had already started for shore and the count did not hear her. using the crook of her parasol ruth tried to fish it out. as she drew it to the side of the boat it sank out of sight but not before she had read the inscription on it, written in an angular foreign-looking handwriting: "to madame la comtesse sophia von stolberg." barbara, too, saw it, and so did mollie, whose face flushed crimson with the memory of what her beloved countess had said to her that night on the balcony of thorne house. at that very moment, pinned inside of mollie's white silk blouse, was the dangerous paper which "concerned the count very intimately." was it about that mysterious document that he was now writing to the countess? for the first time mollie felt the shadow of a doubt cross her mind. it was only a tiny speck of a doubt, but it left its impression, try as she would to shake it off. ruth and barbara exchanged glances, but said nothing. they had seen enough to know that some sort of correspondence was being secretly carried on between the countess von stolberg and the count de sonde. if maud were to marry the count she would deeply regret it, the countess sophia had said. strangely enough, this speech came back to each of the three girls at the same moment. ruth felt that perhaps they had rushed too quickly into an intimacy with the countess. for the first time mollie was inclined to be a little suspicious. while barbara who had even more evidence against the countess sophia tried vainly to fit together the pieces of this most mysterious puzzle. * * * * * "well, fair and beautiful ladies, are you quite ready for a sail on the grand canal? have you your wraps and bonnets? is grace's guitar on hand?" called mr. stuart that evening, after dinner, rapping on three doors one after the other. "in a minute!" called a chorus of voices from the three rooms, while mr. stuart put on a look of resigned patience and waited for the girls to appear. at length, tired of waiting, he strolled toward the elevator when marian de lancey smythe hurried along the corridor. she averted her face when she saw mr. stuart, for marian had sedulously kept out of sight for a number of days, and they had wondered not a little at it. "why, miss marian," called the kind-hearted man, who had always felt an interest in the strange young girl, "aren't you going to see the water fête to-night?" "i'm afraid not, mr. stuart," she replied, her lips trembling a little, partly from loneliness and partly because people were not often kind to her. "mama is going with mr. duval and some friends, but i didn't care to go with them." "very well, miss marian; you must go with us, then. get your wraps and meet us on the piazza." and ten minutes later, her eyes alight with pleasure, marian made one of the party of girls who presently found themselves floating in the long procession of illuminated boats on the lake. all the hotels had emptied themselves upon the lake front, and hundreds of boats had already filled and were forming in line for the water. the moon would not be up until very late, but the place was aglow with japanese lanterns, which decorated the launches and rowboats and hung in festoons along the boat landings. the girls had hardly got their lanterns lit when there was a burst of music, and the procession began to wind its sinuous way about the lake. "the fireworks will begin in a moment, girls," said mr. warren, "and then you will be a part of a wonderful spectacle to those on shore." certainly the stuart boat was one of the most picturesque of all the craft that floated in the parade. the glow of the lanterns made a soft illumination about the four young girls, each of whom wore a long broadcloth cape, a final gift from mr. stuart before leaving chicago. barbara's was her favorite dark red, ruth's was pink, mollie's her own particular blue and grace's a delicate lavender. "daughter," continued mr. warren, turning to maud who in an elaborate white silk evening wrap, was leaning languidly back in her seat, "aren't you feeling well to-night?" "oh, perfectly well, papa," replied maud, resting her chin on her hand and looking out across the fleet of boats moving slowly along the shore. "but spectacles of this sort are so childish and tiresome, i think. they do bore me--oh, there's the count," she cried, interrupting herself. her father looked so grieved and annoyed that mr. stuart's heart was filled with compassion for his old friend. "see what a good time the other girls are having," went on mr. warren, in a pleading tone. "look how jolly they are in their bright capes. i wish you would get one, daughter. these grown-up things make you look so much older than you really are." he pressed the girl's hand but she drew away with a petulant expression. "please don't, papa. you know how i detest public demonstrations." "oh-h-h!" cried the others. a sky rocket had exploded and thousands of stars hung for an instant suspended in mid-air. then an entire artillery of roman candles seemed to be let loose at once. there was a blare of trumpets, a grand burst of music and the gorgeous water pageant was outlined against the sky like an illuminated picture. other boats began dropping out of line after the music had stopped, and mr. stuart ordered the engineer to run farther out into the lake where the illumination could be seen to better advantage. grace struck a chord on her guitar and began to sing: "'tis night on venice waters," when marian, to the surprise of the others, suddenly joined in with a sweet contralto voice. "why, marian, i never dreamed you could sing like that," exclaimed ruth, when the song was done. marian blushed, but said nothing. she had hardly spoken during the whole evening. the air was full of music that night and the sound of laughter and singing floated across the lake from scores of other boats. the strains of the "marseillaise" came to them from a launch that maud had been watching for some time. "i know whose voice that is," said barbara. "it's monsieur duval's." "it is, i think," replied ruth, "although the boat is too far away for us to see him plainly." marian drew a scarf over her head and crouched down in her seat. "could she be afraid of her own mother?" wondered barbara, for mrs. de lancey smythe was easily recognized as one of the occupants of the boat. the count, who was playing on a tinkling little mandolin, sat beside her. as the boat drew nearer they noticed another figure wrapped in a long blue broadcloth cape. it was that of a woman, sitting with her back to them. a scarf concealed her head and face. "barbara," whispered ruth, "are we dreaming or is it the countess sophia?" barbara strained her eyes to distinguish the figure. mollie and grace also had seen the familiar wrap and poor little mollie's face burned with something very like mortification. the boat skimmed lightly over the water and in a moment only the lantern at its bow could be seen swinging in the blackness. "it looks like the countess," whispered barbara briefly in reply. "marian," she said, turning to the other girl who had closed her eyes as though she wished to shut out the sight of the other boat, "we just saw your mother go past with monsieur duval and the count, and we thought--we were almost certain we recognized the other person in the boat. did you notice who it was?" marian opened her eyes and looked straight into barbara's. "i am sorry, barbara," she said sadly, "but i can't answer that question to-night." chapter xix red dominos the water fête a thing of the past, the warrens' domino ball became the excitement of the hour. the "automobile girls" were talking over their costumes when there came a rap on their door. grace responded, to find the corridor empty; but at her feet lay a sealed envelope addressed to barbara, who hastily tore it open and read aloud the enclosed note. "maud and the count have planned to elope during the domino ball. at midnight maud and her chaperon will steal out of the side entrance of the hotel. the chaperon will wear a black domino, but will remain in her room until ten minutes before midnight, when she will go to the veranda, meet maud, and the two will go to the east entrance of the hotel grounds, where they will be met by the count with an automobile. they will go to the village and be married there. arrangements have been made and the license secured. maud will wear a red silk domino and a black mask. just over her heart will be a small black silk heart the size of the one enclosed. i promised to warn you should anything serious arise, and have done so at great personal risk. stop the elopement if you can without outside aid. some day i will explain why. "m. s." "'m. s.' marian smythe. she is a good scout, girls," said ruth. "but i didn't think that maud would go so far as this." "this pattern for the heart--i imagine that marian is suggesting that we all wear dominos exactly like maud's. but why?" put in barbara. "we'll take that step in the dark, for father is waiting now to telegraph for the silk to make our dominos, and discuss details later." "i did want a pink domino," sighed mollie. "but you're right, ruth; and the count will be a dizzy man before we're through with him!" "won't the count be suspicious on seeing five mauds and change his plans?" asked grace. "he'll not see five mauds. there will be a big crowd at the ball, and four of the mauds will carefully keep out of one another's way," explained ruth. it was after the girls had gone to bed that night that the full answer came to ruth, so she aroused barbara to tell her of the plan. "i have it, bab! we'll switch couples on the count! i'm sorry, but you'll have to take the risk, for you're the only one tall enough to represent maud. i'm sure that mrs. de lancey smythe is to be the chaperon on the occasion, and if we can persuade aunt sallie--and i think we can--to take her place, our count de sonde will find himself with the wrong pair on his hands--and, oh, bab, shan't we have fun seeing the count rage!" it was a brief statement of the plan, but barbara understood. "maud will not be easy to fool, and what if the count gets the right pair?" "just before the hour set, one of us will get a note to mrs. smythe changing the place of meeting. there--at the new place--maud and her chaperon will wait in vain for her count, who will be eloping with the wrong couple." "it leaves many loopholes for failure, but i can think of no better way; so i'm for it if your aunt sallie consents." "monsieur duval is the unknown x of the problem," stated ruth slowly, "but that's one of the many chances we'll have to take." at last it was the night of the ball. "how lovely!" one of the five red dominos paused on the threshold of the ball room, almost breathless with admiration. glowing lights, exotic decorations, swaying, brilliantly clad figures moving to perfect dance music, made indeed an entrancing scene. "yes, lovely, but lovelier outside. shall we go into the garden?" whispered a voice in the ear of the little red domino. "not yet," she responded, and sped away among the dancers. "mademoiselle," whispered a voice that made the blood of a second red domino tingle, "is it all arranged?" "yes," she answered under her breath. "you won't fail us?" whispered the other. "no," she replied quietly, but there was a threat in his tone that boded evil. then this red domino slipped away in the crowd. meanwhile, a third red domino was peering from behind a screen of palms when she felt her arm seized and, turning, encountered the angry little mask that had been pursuing red dominos until his brain reeled. "mademoiselle," he hissed, "you are cruel! why do you avoid me so?" "ah, count, can't you wait so short a time?" and the third red domino was lost in the crowd. the fourth red domino had been amusing herself like a wilful butterfly on a summer's day. but it was getting late, and she paused at length to look about her. as she passed a grotto in the garden, formed by palms and orange trees, she heard the low chatter of voices speaking french. a vine-covered trellis screened her from view. one of the voices she recognized as monsieur duval's. she heard him say: "in three quarters of an hour we shall start. the maid tells me the officer is asleep. she saw to that. the young one is on the veranda with the older one, and they never retire until after midnight. we must have that paper to-night, even though we use violence." the fourth red domino did not wait for more. "i must find father," she told herself. "how shall i ever get him in time? they're talking of the countess, and monsieur duval intends to go to the villa!" but what of the fifth red domino, the hostess of the great ball? time had hung rather heavily on her hands. no one recognized her, and, not being a graceful dancer, she was somewhat neglected. chapter xx conclusion at about half-past eleven barbara concluded that she had better deliver the letter to mrs. de lancey smythe. summoning a bellboy, she went to the woman's room. on the way she showed the boy a dollar bill. "this will be yours," she said, "if you do exactly as i tell you. if, when you deliver this note, the recipient should ask who gave it to you, say 'some one in a domino,' then come away quickly. do you understand?" "yes, ma'am," replied the boy, his eyes on the dollar bill. in a few minutes the room was reached. mrs. de lancey smythe, in a black silk domino and mask, responded to the knock on the door. "now," whispered barbara, who kept out of sight, and the boy delivered the note which read: "meet me at the casino gate. same time. have found it necessary to change meeting place." "who gave you this, boy?" "some one in a domino," he replied, turning away. "wait! what did the person say?" "just 'take this note to room and give it to the lady there.'" "it's from the count," and, satisfied, she reentered the room. meanwhile, ruth, forgetting maud warren, searched frantically for her father. in and out of corridors, smoking and supper rooms, ball room, verandas, and garden she hurried. the recollection of maud returned, however, when over the hum of talk and laughter the strains of the "marseillaise" floated out. "in honor of de sonde," thought ruth contemptuously. some one began to sing, and the place soon rang with the notes of the stirring french song. people began throwing confetti, and the air was flecked with the bright-colored stuff. it was midnight. no one noticed two red dominos, each accompanied by one in black, steal from different doors of the hotel and disappear in the dark. ruth finally found her father standing in a doorway, talking to a little red domino. "father! i overheard mr. duval and some accomplices planning to rob the countess of a valuable paper to-night! do send help at once!" "paper! oh, mr. stuart, it must be the one the countess entrusted to me," and mollie pulled from her bosom a chamois bag. mr. stuart took a paper from the bag and glanced through it. only a few minutes later he and four officers were speeding toward the villa of the countess. meanwhile, miss stuart and barbara had been assisted into an automobile waiting at the east entrance. as they neared the station barbara became nervous. was the chauffeur a confederate of the plotters or had he been hired to make the run knowing nothing of the details? before the car had come to a full stop the count leaped out and turned to help his companions alight. barbara leaned forward and said sharply to the chauffeur: "return at once to the hotel without the gentleman. ask no questions. you will be answerable to mr. stuart for any treachery." the car disappeared in the darkness, leaving the count dancing and gesticulating in anger. when mr. stuart and the officers entered the drawing room of the countess's villa they saw the old man who had before menaced the two women standing threateningly in front of them. behind him was another man, evidently ready to respond to any command of the old man. "the paper you seek is not here, monsieur," said the countess proudly. "i say it is here! give it to me at once!" "officers, this is your man! take him!" shouted mr. stuart. two of the officers seized and handcuffed the second man, but the old man with surprising agility leaped from the room, and the officers could find not the slightest trace of him. "ah, mr. stuart," said the countess, "i do not know what chance brought you to my rescue, but help was greatly needed and i am grateful." "ruth overheard a talk this evening and sent us here to see if we could serve you. the plot was instigated by monsieur duval." "that old man was monsieur duval himself. he is a very dangerous enemy to have." "that i already know, countess. after we learned of your danger, mollie gave me the paper you had put in her care. it was hardly prudent to give such a document to a young girl. i think we are entitled to an explanation." "ah, please not to-night, monsieur! but may i ask you to bring miss stuart and the girls here to-morrow afternoon? then i shall be glad to tell you my story." "very well," replied mr. stuart stiffly, displeased at the countess' lack of frankness. on mr. stuart's return to the hotel the girls overwhelmed him with questions and called eagerly for a glimpse of the mysterious paper. mr. stuart unfolded the document. it was signed by the prefect of police of paris and stamped with the official seal. two photographs were pasted to the sheet and under each was a description of the man. "the count and monsieur duval!" gasped ruth. from the paper the girls learned that duval was a french criminal who had served several terms in prison, but who was usually clever enough to escape detection. his real name was jacques dupin. the "count," whose name was latour, was merely a tool of dupin's. "this says," cried ruth excitedly, scanning the paper, "that dupin can assume any disguise he wishes. he is a linguist and a trained actor and is known as gentilhomme jacques, or gentleman jack. he plays only for big stakes." "how did the countess become involved in this, mr. stuart?" asked barbara, and at the question mollie's pretty face clouded. "the countess has asked us to the villa to-morrow afternoon to offer an explanation," replied mr. stuart shortly. at noon the next day ruth rushed up to her companions with exciting news. "girls, the count, or latour, was arrested this morning when about to board a train and has confessed that he had plotted to marry maud, obtain control of her fortune, and then desert her! duval was the brains of the plot. mrs. smythe was helping them, and, listen girls, she's been arrested as a professional swindler!" "oh, poor marian!" exclaimed mollie sympathetically, to be echoed by the others. but just at that moment marian came up to them, her face radiant. "oh, girls, such news! mrs. smythe accused me last night of spoiling her plans, and in her anger she let out that she's not my mother! my mother, who died when i was a baby, was her neighbor. some money was left me and mrs. smythe was made my guardian. she used the money, of course, and kept the truth from me. my name is marian dale. i'm poor, but i'm free for the first time in my life, and i'll work!" mr. stuart had come up and heard the last part of the tale; so he now broke in: "you are not friendless, my girl. you must stay here as my guest with my other girls for a while, then we'll discuss your future." "you are kind, mr. stuart. but i can't be a burden. i must find work at once. but, oh, i'm grateful to you!" and her eyes were misty. "i must turn my other girls on you, i see." maud warren was a changed girl when she realized the danger her headstrong conduct had placed her in. her father, feeling that a real reformation had begun, asked marian dale to come to them as maud's companion and encourage her in a saner view of life. this appealed to maud, and the two girls became close friends, much to the happiness of both. that afternoon when the "automobile girls" arrived at the countess's villa they were introduced to the baron von lichtenberg, who, the countess told them, bore a message from her father. to the girls' amazement and fluttered delight, the countess was in reality the princess sophia adele von nichtenstern. the princess wished to marry the count de sonde; and when her father insisted that she marry instead a noble of advanced years for reasons of state, she fled to america under the protection of her cousin and second mother, the baroness von lichtenberg, whom the girls knew as madame de villiers. "but since then, my friends, my father has met the count de sonde and he has also learned how greatly the man for whom he intended me has persecuted me, so he has given his consent to my marriage with the count. you can imagine my consternation when i met the false count de sonde and learned that he was trying to marry your friend maud. i then sent to paris and learned the identity of these two men. i wish to tell you, too, that both monsieur duval and my other persecutors have been using my maid, and that on several occasions she has taken my clothes and impersonated me. "mr. stuart, i did wrong to involve the pretty mollie in my affairs; but my father had not then forgiven me and i feared to have him learn at that time of my whereabouts. will you forgive me?" the princess was to start for home almost immediately under the protection of the baron and baroness von lichtenberg, but before leaving florida she exacted a promise from each of the "automobile girls" and from maud warren as well that they would visit her when she should become the wife of the count de sonde. after the princess had left palm beach a package was handed to miss stuart. in it was a gift for each of the automobile girls. mollie received a handsome bracelet beautifully ornamented and set with jewels. inside was inscribed "s von n.--f. de s." "oh," cried mollie, "the count gave her this! how she must have loved it, and she gave it to me!" barbara's gift was a gold filigree star of exquisite workmanship; ruth's a splendid oriental scarf embroidered in gold and silver threads, and grace's a beautiful gold chain. the "automobile girls" spent two more gay and happy weeks at palm beach, then turned their faces northward once more, each going to her own home. it was not until the next winter that they were together again, and what befell them then is told in the sixth and last volume of "the automobile girls series" under the title, "the automobile girls at washington; or, checkmating the plots of foreign spies." the end none a little journey by ray bradbury illustrated by thorne [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction august . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] she'd paid good money to see the inevitable ... and then had to work to make it happen! there were two important things--one, that she was very old; two, that mr. thirkell was taking her to god. for hadn't he patted her hand and said: "mrs. bellowes, we'll take off into space in my rocket, and go to find him together." and that was how it was going to be. oh, this wasn't like any other group mrs. bellowes had ever joined. in her fervor to light a path for her delicate, tottering feet, she had struck matches down dark alleys, and found her way to hindu mystics who floated their flickering, starry eyelashes over crystal balls. she had walked on the meadow paths with ascetic indian philosophers imported by daughters-in-spirit of madame blavatsky. she had made pilgrimages to california's stucco jungles to hunt the astrological seer in his natural habitat. she had even consented to signing away the rights to one of her homes in order to be taken into the shouting order of a temple of amazing evangelists who had promised her golden smoke, crystal fire, and the great soft hand of god coming to bear her home. none of these people had ever shaken mrs. bellowes' faith, even when she saw them sirened away in a black wagon in the night, or discovered their pictures, bleak and unromantic, in the morning tabloids. the world had roughed them up and locked them away because they knew too much, that was all. and then, two weeks ago, she had seen mr. thirkell's advertisement in new york city: come to mars! stay at the thirkell restorium for one week. and then, on into space on the greatest adventure life can offer! send for free pamphlet: "nearer my god to thee." excursion rates. round trip slightly lower. "round trip," mrs. bellowes had thought. "but who would come back after seeing _him_?" and so she had bought a ticket and flown off to mars and spent seven mild days at mr. thirkell's restorium, the building with the sign on it which flashed: thirkell's rocket to heaven! she had spent the week bathing in limpid waters and erasing the care from her tiny bones, and now she was fidgeting, ready to be loaded into mr. thirkell's own special private rocket, like a bullet, to be fired on out into space beyond jupiter and saturn and pluto. and thus--who could deny it?--you would be getting nearer and nearer to the lord. how wonderful! couldn't you just _feel_ him drawing near? couldn't you just sense his breath, his scrutiny, his presence? "here i am," said mrs. bellowes, "an ancient rickety elevator, ready to go up the shaft. god need only press the button." now, on the seventh day, as she minced up the steps of the restorium, a number of small doubts assailed her. "for one thing," she said aloud to no one, "it isn't quite the land of milk and honey here on mars that they said it would be. my room is like a cell, the swimming pool is really quite inadequate, and, besides, how many widows who look like mushrooms or skeletons want to swim? and, finally, the whole restorium smells of boiled cabbage and tennis shoes!" she opened the front door and let it slam, somewhat irritably. she was amazed at the other women in the auditorium. it was like wandering in a carnival mirror-maze, coming again and again upon yourself--the same floury face, the same chicken hands, and jingling bracelets. one after another of the images of herself floated before her. she put out her hand, but it wasn't a mirror; it was another lady shaking her fingers and saying: "we're waiting for mr. thirkell. _sh!_" "ah," whispered everyone. the velvet curtains parted. mr. thirkell appeared, fantastically serene, his egyptian eyes upon everyone. but there was something, nevertheless, in his appearance which made one expect him to call "hi!" while fuzzy dogs jumped over his legs, through his hooped arms, and over his back. then, dogs and all, he should dance with a dazzling piano-keyboard smile off into the wings. mrs. bellowes, with a secret part of her mind which she constantly had to grip tightly, expected to hear a cheap chinese gong sound when mr. thirkell entered. his large liquid dark eyes were so improbable that one of the old ladies had facetiously claimed she saw a mosquito cloud hovering over them as they did around summer rain-barrels. and mrs. bellowes sometimes caught the scent of the theatrical mothball and the smell of calliope steam on his sharply pressed suit. but with the same savage rationalization that had greeted all other disappointments in her rickety life, she bit at the suspicion and whispered, "this time it's _real_. this time it'll work. haven't we got a _rocket_?" mr. thirkell bowed. he smiled a sudden comedy mask smile. the old ladies looked in at his epiglottis and sensed chaos there. before he even began to speak, mrs. bellowes saw him picking up each of his words, oiling it, making sure it ran smooth on its rails. her heart squeezed in like a tiny fist, and she gritted her porcelain teeth. "friends," said mr. thirkell, and you could hear the frost snap in the hearts of the entire assemblage. "no!" said mrs. bellowes ahead of time. she could hear the bad news rushing at her, and herself tied to the track while the immense black wheels threatened and the whistle screamed, helpless. "there will be a slight delay," said mr. thirkell. in the next instant, mr. thirkell might have cried, or been tempted to cry, "ladies, be seated!" in minstrel-fashion, for the ladies had come up at him from their chairs, protesting and trembling. "not a very long delay." mr. thirkell put up his hands to pat the air. "how long?" "only a week." "a week!" "yes. you can stay here at the restorium for seven more days, can't you? a little delay won't matter, will it, in the end? you've waited a lifetime. only a few more days." _at twenty dollars a day_, thought mrs. bellowes, coldly. "what's the trouble?" a woman cried. "a legal difficulty," said mr. thirkell. "we've a rocket, haven't we?" "well, ye-ess." "but i've been here a whole month, waiting," said one old lady. "delays, delays!" "that's right," said everyone. "ladies, ladies," murmured mr. thirkell, smiling serenely. "we want to see the rocket!" it was mrs. bellowes forging ahead, alone, brandishing her fist like a toy hammer. mr. thirkell looked into the old ladies' eyes, a missionary among albino cannibals. "well, now," he said. "yes, _now_!" cried mrs. bellowes. "i'm afraid--" he began. "so am i!" she said. "that's why we want to see the ship!" "no, no, now, mrs.--" he snapped his fingers for her name. "bellowes!" she cried. she was a small container, but now all the seething pressures that had been built up over long years came steaming through the delicate vents of her body. her cheeks became incandescent. with a wail that was like a melancholy factory whistle, mrs. bellowes ran forward and hung to him, almost by her teeth, like a summer-maddened spitz. she would not and never could let go, until he died, and the other women followed, jumping and yapping like a pound let loose on its trainer, the same one who had petted them and to whom they had squirmed and whined joyfully an hour before, now milling about him, creasing his sleeves and frightening the egyptian serenity from his gaze. "this way!" cried mrs. bellowes, feeling like madame lafarge. "through the back! we've waited long enough to see the ship. every day he's put us off, every day we've waited, now let's see." "no, no, ladies!" cried mr. thirkell, leaping about. they burst through the back of the stage and out a door, like a flood, bearing the poor man with them into a shed, and then out, quite suddenly, into an abandoned gymnasium. "there it is!" said someone. "the rocket." and then a silence fell that was terrible to entertain. there was the rocket. mrs. bellowes looked at it and her hands sagged away from mr. thirkell's collar. the rocket was something like a battered copper pot. there were a thousand bulges and rents and rusty pipes and dirty vents on and in it. the ports were clouded over with dust, resembling the eyes of a blind hog. everyone wailed a little sighing wail. "is that the rocket ship _glory be to the highest_?" cried mrs. bellowes, appalled. mr. thirkell nodded and looked at his feet. "for which we paid out our one thousand dollars apiece and came all the way to mars to get on board with you and go off to find him?" asked mrs. bellowes. "why, that isn't worth a sack of dried peas," said mrs. bellowes. "it's nothing but junk!" _junk_, whispered everyone, getting hysterical. "don't let him get away!" mr. thirkell tried to break and run, but a thousand possum traps closed on him from every side. he withered. everybody walked around in circles like blind mice. there was a confusion and a weeping that lasted for five minutes as they went over and touched the rocket, the dented kettle, the rusty container for god's children. "well," said mrs. bellowes. she stepped up into the askew doorway of the rocket and faced everyone. "it looks as if a terrible thing has been done to us," she said. "i haven't any money to go back home to earth and i've too much pride to go to the government and tell them a common man like this has fooled us out of our life's savings. i don't know how you feel about it, all of you, but the reason all of us came is because i'm eighty-five, and you're eighty-nine, and you're seventy-eight, and all of us are nudging on toward a hundred, and there's nothing on earth for us, and it doesn't appear there's anything on mars either. we all expected not to breathe much more air or crochet many more doilies or we'd never have come here. so what i have to propose is a simple thing--to take a chance." she reached out and touched the rusted hulk of the rocket. "this is _our_ rocket. we paid for our trip. and we're going to _take_ our trip!" everyone rustled and stood on tiptoes and opened an astonished mouth. mr. thirkell began to cry. he did it quite easily and very effectively. "we're going to get in this ship," said mrs. bellowes, ignoring him. "and we're going to take off to where we were going." mr. thirkell stopped crying long enough to say, "but it was all a fake. i don't know anything about space. he's not out there, anyway. i lied. i don't know where he is, and i couldn't find him if i wanted to. and you were fools to ever take my word on it." "yes," said mrs. bellowes, "we were fools. i'll go along on that. but you can't blame us, for we're old, and it was a lovely, good and fine idea, one of the loveliest ideas in the world. oh, we didn't really fool ourselves that we could get nearer to him physically. it was the gentle, mad dream of old people, the kind of thing you hold onto for a few minutes a day, even though you know it's not true. so, all of you who want to go, you follow me in the ship." "but you can't go!" said mr. thirkell. "you haven't got a navigator. and that ship's a ruin!" "you," said mrs. bellowes, "will be the navigator." she stepped into the ship, and after a moment, the other old ladies pressed forward. mr. thirkell, windmilling his arms frantically, was nevertheless pressed through the port, and in a minute the door slammed shut. mr. thirkell was strapped into the navigator's seat, with everyone talking at once and holding him down. the special helmets were issued to be fitted over every gray or white head to supply extra oxygen in case of a leakage in the ship's hull, and at long last the hour had come and mrs. bellowes stood behind mr. thirkell and said, "we're ready, sir." he said nothing. he pleaded with them silently, using his great, dark, wet eyes, but mrs. bellowes shook her head and pointed to the control. "takeoff," agreed mr. thirkell morosely, and pulled a switch. everybody fell. the rocket went up from the planet mars in a great fiery glide, with the noise of an entire kitchen thrown down an elevator shaft, with a sound of pots and pans and kettles and fires boiling and stews bubbling, with a smell of burned incense and rubber and sulphur, with a color of yellow fire, and a ribbon of red stretching below them, and all the old women singing and holding to each other, and mrs. bellowes crawling upright in the sighing, straining, trembling ship. "head for space, mr. thirkell." "it can't last," said mr. thirkell, sadly. "this ship can't last. it will--" it did. the rocket exploded. mrs. bellowes felt herself lifted and thrown about dizzily, like a doll. she heard the great screamings and saw the flashes of bodies sailing by her in fragments of metal and powdery light. "help, help!" cried mr. thirkell, far away, on a small radio beam. the ship disintegrated into a million parts, and the old ladies, all one hundred of them, were flung straight on ahead with the same velocity as the ship. as for mr. thirkell, for some reason of trajectory, perhaps, he had been blown out the other side of the ship. mrs. bellowes saw him falling separate and away from them, screaming, screaming. _there goes mr. thirkell_, thought mrs. bellowes. and she knew where he was going. he was going to be burned and roasted and broiled good, but very good. mr. thirkell was falling down into the sun. _and here we are_, thought mrs. bellowes. _here we are, going on out, and out, and out._ there was hardly a sense of motion at all, but she knew that she was traveling at fifty thousand miles an hour and would continue to travel at that speed for an eternity, until.... she saw the other women swinging all about her in their own trajectories, a few minutes of oxygen left to each of them in their helmets, and each was looking up to where they were going. _of course_, thought mrs. bellowes. _out into space. out and out, and the darkness like a great church, and the stars like candles, and in spite of everything, mr. thirkell, the rocket, and the dishonesty, we are going toward the lord._ and there, yes, _there_, as she fell on and on, coming toward her, she could almost discern the outline now, coming toward her was his mighty golden hand, reaching down to hold her and comfort her like a frightened sparrow.... "i'm mrs. amelia bellowes," she said quietly, in her best company voice. "i'm from the planet earth." http://www.archive.org/details/youngwallingford chesiala young wallingford by george randolph chester author of the early bird the making of bobby burnit with illustrations by f. r. gruger & henry raleigh indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company press of braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n. y. [illustration: fannie] contents chapter page i wix begins to think ii easy money iii young wix takes a hand iv the easiest way v wix disappears forever vi a sad disappointment vii a green-goods playlet viii the double cross ix spoiling the egyptians x eating cake and having it xi a brief character bit xii wallingford is frozen out xiii beauty in the spot-light xiv an old score evened up xv taking his money xvi enjoying themselves xvii j. rufus seeks investment xviii speculation in real estate xix a great art center xx etruscan black mud xxi the great vittoreo matteo xxii the surprise of his life xxiii still another surprise xxiv a straight business xxv the sciatacata company xxvi a delusion and a snare xxvii laugh at that woozy feeling young wallingford chapter i wherein jonathan reuben wix begins to think "a natural again!" exulted jonathan reuben wix, as the dice bounded from his plump hand and came to rest upon the billiard-table in leiniger's select café, with a five and a deuce showing. "somebody ring the bell for me, because i'm a-going to get off." he was a large young man in every dimension, broad of chest and big and pink of face and jovial of eye, and he chuckled as he passed the dice to his left-hand neighbor. there was a hundred dollars on the table and he gathered it up in a wad. "good-by, boys, and many merry thanks for these kind contributions," he bantered as he stuffed the money into his pocket. "it's me for bunkville-amidst-the-ferry-boats, on the next limited." he was back in less than three days, having spent just twenty-four hours in new york. the impulsively decided journey was nothing unusual for him, but it had an intimate bearing upon his future in that it forced upon him the confidence of secretive clifford gilman, who lived next door. "home so soon?" inquired gilman in surprise. "they must have robbed you!" "robbed!" laughed wix. "i should say not. i didn't waste a cent. railroad ticket, sleepers, meals and extra fare on the limited cost twenty-five each way. that left fifty. my room at the hotel cost five dollars. breakfast was two dollars; morning drive through central park, four; lunch, three-fifty; matinée ticket, with cab each way, five; dinner, eight, with the ordinary champagne of commerce; theater and cab hire, five-fifty; supper, twelve, including a bottle of real champagne at eight dollars, and the balance in tips." clifford gasped as he hungrily reviewed these luscious items. young gilman was not one of those who had been in the game by which wix had won a hundred. he never played dice, did young gilman, nor poker, nor bet on a horse race, nor drank, nor even smoked; but wore curly, silken sideburns, and walked up the same side of main street every morning to the bank, with his lunch in a little imitation-leather box. he walked back down the same side of main street every evening. if he had happened to take the other side on any morning, before noon there would have been half a dozen conservative depositors to ask old smalley, who owned the bank, why clifford had crossed over. young gilman was popularly regarded as a "sissy," but that he had organs, dimensions and senses, and would bleed if pricked, was presently evidenced to mr. wix in a startling proposition. "look here, wix," said gilman, lowering his voice to a mystery-fraught undertone, "i'm going to take a little trip and i want you to come along." "behave!" admonished wix. "it would be awful reckless in me to go with a regular little devil like you; and besides, sarsaparilla and peanuts tear up my system so." "i've got three hundred dollars," stated gilman calmly. "does that sound like sarsaparilla and peanuts?" "i'm listening," said wix with sudden interest. "where did you get it, mister?" gilman looked around them nervously, then spoke in an eager whisper, clutching wix by the arm. "saved it up, but like you do. i saw the wisdom of your way long ago. old smalley makes me put half my salary in the bank, but i pinch out a little more than that, and every time i get twenty dollars on the side, i invest it in margin wheat, by mail. most often i lose, but when i do win i keep on until it amounts to something. of course, i'm laying myself open to you in this. if old smalley found it out he'd discharge me on the spot." wix chuckled. "i know," he agreed. "my mother once wanted me to apply for that job. i went to see old smalley, and the first thing he did was to examine my fingers for cigarette stains. 'you won't find any,' i told him, 'for i use a holder,' and i showed him the holder. of course, that settled my case with smalley; but do you know that he smokes after-dinner cigarettes away from home, and has beer and whisky and three kinds of wine in his cellar? i've got his number, all right, but i didn't have little clifford's. where do you hide it?" "in the bank and here at home," returned gilman with a snarl; "and i've been at it so long i'm beginning to curdle. you've worked in every mercantile establishment, factory and professional office in town, and never cared to hold a job. yet everybody likes you. you drink, smoke, gamble and raise the dickens generally. you don't save a cent and yet you always manage to have money. you dress swell and don't amount to a tinker's cuss, yet you're happy all day long. come along to the putnam county fair and show me how." "the putnam county fair!" repeated wix. "two hundred miles to get a drink?" "i can't take one any closer, can i?" demanded gilman savagely. "but the real reason is that uncle thomas lives there. i can go to visit uncle thomas when i wouldn't be allowed to 'go on the cars alone' anywhere else. but uncle is a good fellow and his wife don't write to my mother. he tells me to go ahead; and i don't need go near him unless i'm in trouble." "some time i'll borrow your uncle tom," laughed wix. "he sounds good to me." mrs. gilman came to the door. she was a thin, nervous, little woman, with a long chin and a narrow forehead. "come in, cliffy," she urged in a shrill, wheedling voice. "you must have a good, long night's rest for your trip in the morning." in reality she was worried to have her clifford talking with the graceless wix--though secretly she admired jonathan reuben. "i must go in now," said gilman hastily. "go down to the train in the morning and get in on the other side, so mother won't see you. and don't tell your mother where you've gone." "she won't ask," responded wix, laughing. "nothing ever worries mother except our name. i don't like it myself, but i don't worry over it. it isn't my fault, and it was hers." if wix felt any trace of bitterness over his mother's indifference he never confessed it, even to himself. mrs. wix, left a sufficient income by the late unloved, lived entirely by routine, with a separate, complacent function for every afternoon of the week. she was very comfortable, and plump, and placid, was mrs. wix, and jonathan reuben was merely an excrescence upon her scheme of life. jonathan reuben, however, had no lack of feminine sympathy. quite a little clique of dashing young matrons, with old or dryly preoccupied husbands, vied with the girls to make him happy. in the present instance, young wix was quite right about his mother's indifference. he called to her as he went down to early breakfast that he might not be back for a few days, and she sleepily answered. "all right." so clifford and his instructor went to the fair, and the more experienced spendthrift showed the amateur how to get rid of his money, to their mutual gratification. back of the streets of cairo, on the closing day, wix and gilman, hunting a drink, found a neat young man with piercing black eyes and black hair, who upon the previous days had been making a surreptitious hand-book on the races. just now he was advising an interested group of men that money would not grow in their pockets. "if your eye is quicker than my hand you get my dollars," he singsonged as he deftly shifted three english walnut shells about on a flimsy folding stand. "if my hand is quicker than your eye, i get your dollars. here they go, three in a row. they're all set, and here's a double sawbuck for some gentleman with a like amount of wealth and a keen eye and a little courage. where, oh, where, is the little pea?" the location of the little pea was so obvious that it seemed a shame to take the black-eyed young man's money, for just as he had stopped moving the shells, wix and gilman, pressing up, saw that the edge of the left-hand shell had rested upon the rubber "pea" and had immediately closed over it. notwithstanding this slip on the part of the operator, there seemed some reluctance on the part of the audience to invest; instead, with what might have seemed almost suspicious eagerness, they turned toward the new-comers. gilman, flushed of face and muddy of eye, and hiccoughing slightly--though wix, who had drunk with him drink for drink, was clean and normal and his usual jovial, clear-eyed self--hastily pressed in before any one else should take advantage of the golden chance. "don't, gilman," cautioned wix, and grabbed him by the arm, but clifford, still eager, jerked his arm away; and it was strange how all those who had been packed around the board made room for him. "here's the boy with the nerve and the money," commented the black-eyed one as he took mr. gilman's twenty and flaunted it in the air with his own. "now lift up the little shell. if the little pea is under it you get the twin twenties. lovely twins!" he laughed and kissed them lightly. "it's only a question," he shouted loudly, as gilman prepared to make his choice, "of whether your eye is quicker than my hand." confidently mr. gilman picked up the left-hand shell, and a ludicrously bewildered look came over his face as he saw that the pellet was not under it. there was a laugh from the crowd. they had been waiting for another victim. gilman looked hastily down at the trampled mass of straw and grass and muddy, black earth. "the elusive little pea is not on the ground," explained the brisk young man. "the elusive little pea is right here on the board in plain sight." to prove it he lifted up the center shell and displayed the pellet! there was another laugh. not one person in that crowd had seen the dexterous movement of his little finger, so quick and certain that it was scarcely more than a quiver; but, to make sure that his "quickness of hand" had not been detected, he scanned every face about him swiftly and piercingly. in this inspection his eye happened to light on that of jonathan reuben wix, and met a wink so knowing, and withal so bubbling with gleeful appreciation, that he was himself forced to grin. "how you've wasted your young life," commented wix as he led away his still dazed companion. "i thought everybody knew that trick by this time, but i guess postmasters and bank clerks are always exempt." "but how did he do it?" protested gilman. "i saw that little ball under the left-hand shell as plain as day." "that's what he meant you to see," returned wix with a grin. "he let that one stop under the edge as if he were awkward, then he flipped it into the crook of his little finger. when he lifted the middle shell he shoved the ball under it. at the time you picked yours up there wasn't a ball under any of the three shells. there never is." "i guess it's too late for me to get an education," sighed the other plaintively. "smalley won't give me a chance. i don't even dare buy a new suit of clothes too often. i'd never see a bit of life if it wasn't for this wheat speculation." wix turned to him slowly. "you want to let that game alone," he cautioned. "oh, i'm cautious enough," returned gilman. "you're almost in full charge at the bank now, aren't you?" observed wix carelessly. "smalley's over at his new bank in milton a good deal." "about half the time," admitted gilman uneasily. "he keeps a big cash reserve, doesn't he? done up in bales, i suppose, and never looks at it except to count the mere bundles." "of course." gilman was extremely nonchalant about it. the other let him change the subject, but he found himself studying clifford speculatively every now and then. this day was another deciding step in the future of wix. chapter ii the black-eyed young man discourses of easy money it was to jonathan reuben that the waiters in the dining-car paid profound attention, although gilman had the money. there was something about young wix's breadth of chest and pinkness of countenance and clearness of smiling eye which marked him as one with whom good food agreed, whom good liquor cheered, and whom good service thawed to the point of gratitude and gratuities: whereas clifford gilman, take him any place, was only background, and not much of that. "say, general jackson," observed wix pleasantly to the waiter, "put a quart of bubbles in the freezer while we study over this form sheet. then bring us a dry martini, _not_ out of a bottle." "i reckon you're going to have about what you want, boss," said the negro with a grin, and darted away. he talked with the steward, who first frowned, then smiled, as he looked back and saw the particular guest. a moment later he was mixing, and clifford gilman gazed upon his friend with most worshipful eyes. here, indeed, was a comrade of whom to be proud, and by whom to pattern! they had swallowed their oysters and had finished their soup, with a quart of champagne in a frosty silver bucket beside them and the entrée on the way, when the "captain" was compelled to seat a third passenger at their table. it was the black-eyed young man of the walnut shells. at first, as with his quick sweep he recognized in mr. gilman one of his victims, he hesitated, but a glance at the jovial mr. wix reassured him. "we're just going to open a bottle of joy," invited wix. "shall i send for another glass?" "surest thing, you know," replied the other. "i'm some partial to headache water." "this is on the victim," observed wix with a laugh, as the cork was pulled. "you see he has coin left, even after attending your little party." "pity i didn't know he was so well padded," grinned the black-eyed one, whereat all three laughed, gilman more loudly than any of them. gilman ceased laughing, however, to struggle with his increasing tendency toward cross-eyes. wix turned to him with something of contempt. "he don't mind the loss of twenty or so," he dryly observed. "he's in a business where he sees nothing but money all day long. he's a highly trusted bank clerk." instead of glancing with interest at mr. gilman, the black-eyed young man sharply scrutinized mr. wix. then he smiled. "and what line are you in?" he finally asked of wix. "i've been in everything," confessed that joyous young gentleman with a chuckle, "and stayed in nothing. just now, i'm studying law." "doing nothing on the side?" "not a thing." "he can't save any money to go into anything else," laughed gilman, momentarily awakened into a surprising semblance of life. "every time he gets fifty dollars he goes out of town to buy a fancy meal." "you were born for easy money," the black-eyed one advised wix. "it's that sort of a lip that drives us all into the shearing business." wix shook his head. "not me," said he. "the law books prove that easy money costs too much." the black-eyed one shrugged his shoulders. "in certain lines it does," he admitted. "i'm going to get out of my line right away, for that very reason. besides," he added with a sigh, "these educated town constables are putting the business on the bump-the-bumps. they've got so they want from half to two-thirds, and put a bookkeeper on the job." mr. gilman presently created a diversion by emitting a faint whoop, and immediately afterward went to sleep in the bread-platter. wix sent for the porter of their sleeping-car, and between the two they put mr. gilman to bed. before wix returned to the shell expert he carefully extracted the money from his friend clifford's pocket. "he won't need it, anyhow," he lightly explained, "and we will. i'll tell him about it in the morning." "i guess you can do that and make him like it all right," agreed the other. "he's a born sucker. he can get to the fat money, can't he?" wix shook his head. "no," he declared; "parents poor, and i don't think he has enough ginger in him ever to make a pile of his own." the other was thoughtful and smiling for a time. "he'll get hold of it some way or other, mark what i tell you, and you might just as well have it as anybody. somebody's going to cop it. i think you said you lived in filmore? suppose i drop through there with a quick-turn proposition that would need two or three thousand, and would show that much profit in a couple of months? if you help me pull it through i'll give you a slice out of it." wix was deeply thoughtful, but he made no reply. "you don't live this way all the time, and you'd like to," urged the other. "there's no reason you shouldn't. why, man, the bulk of this country is composed of suckers that are able to lay hands on from one to ten thousand apiece. they'll spend ten years to get it and can be separated from it in ten minutes. you're one of the born separators. you were cut out for nothing but easy money." easy money! the phrase sank into the very soul of jonathan reuben wix. every professional, commercial and manufacturing man who knew him had predicted for him a brilliant future; but they had given him false credit for his father's patience to plod for years. heredity had only given him, upon his father's side, selfishness and ingenuity; upon his mother's side, selfishness and a passion for luxurious comfort, and now, at twenty-six, he was still a young man without any prospect whatsoever. easy money! he was still dreaming of it; looking lazily for chance to throw it his way, and reading law, commercial law principally, in a desultory fashion, though absorbing more than he knew, when one day, about six months afterward, the black-haired young man landed in filmore. he was growing a sparse, jet-black mustache now, and wore a solemn, black frock-coat which fitted his slender frame like a glove. he walked first into the filmore bank, and by his mere appearance there nearly scared clifford gilman into fits. "i guess you don't remember me," said the stranger with a smile. "my name is horace g. daw, and i had the pleasure of doing a little business with you at the putnam county fair." "yes, i--i--remember," admitted gilman, thankful that there were no depositors in, and looking apprehensively out of the door. "what can i do for you?" "i have a little business opportunity that i think would about suit you," said mr. daw, reaching toward his inside coat pocket. "not here; not here!" gilman nervously interrupted him. "somebody might come in at any minute, even mr. smalley himself. he's started for the train, but he might come back." "when, then, can i see you?" demanded daw, seeing that gilman was afraid of him. he had intended to meet the young man upon terms of jovial cordiality, but this was better. "any time you say, out of hours," said gilman. "then suppose you come down to the grand hotel at from seven-thirty to eight o'clock." "all right," gulped gilman. "i'll be there." under the circumstances mr. daw changed his plans immediately. he had meant to hunt up mr. wix also, but now he most emphatically did not wish to do so, and kept very closely to his hotel. mr. gilman, on the contrary, did wish to find mr. wix, and hunted frantically for him; but wix, that day, obeying a sudden craving for squab, had gone fifty miles to dine! alone, then, gilman went in fear and trembling to the grand hotel, and was very glad indeed to be sheltered from sight in mr. daw's room. what would mr. gilman have to drink? nothing, thank you. no, no wine. a highball? no, not a highball. some beer? not any beer, thank you. nevertheless, mr. daw ordered a pitcher of draft beer with two glasses, and mr. gilman found himself sipping eagerly at it almost before he knew it: for after an enforced abstinence of months, that beer tasted like honey. also, it was warming to the heart and exhilarating to the brain, and it enabled him to listen better to the wonderful opportunity mr. daw had to offer him. it seemed that mr. daw had obtained exclusive inside information about the red mud gold mine. three genuine miners--presumably top-booted, broad-hatted and red neck-kerchiefed--had incorporated that company, and, keeping sixty per cent. of the stock for themselves, had placed forty per cent. of it in the east for sale. as paying ore had not been found in it, after weary months of prospecting, one of the three partners brought his twenty per cent. of the stock east, and mr. daw had bought it for a song. a song, mind you, a mere nothing. mr. daw, moreover, knew where the other forty per cent. had been sold, and it, too, could be bought for a song. but now here came the point. after the departure of the disgruntled third partner the others had found gold! the two fortunate miners were, however, carefully concealing their good luck, because they were making most strenuous endeavors to raise enough money to buy in the outstanding stock before the holders realized its value. mr. gilman, pouring another amber glassful for himself, nodded his head in vast appreciation. smart men, those miners. mr. daw had been fortunate enough to glean these facts from a returned miner whom he had befriended in early years, and fortunate enough, too, to secure samples of the ore, all of which had happened within the past week. here was one of the samples. _look at those flecks!_ those were gold, virgin _gold_! mr. gilman feasted his eyes on those flecks, their precious color richly enhanced when seen through four glasses of golden beer. that was actually gold, in the raw state. he strove to comprehend it. here was the certified report of the assay, on the letter-head of the chemist who had examined the ore. it ran _a hundred and sixty-three dollars to the ton_! marvelous; perfectly marvelous! mr. daw himself, even as he showed the assay, admired it over and over. as for mr. gilman, words could not explain how he was impressed. a genuine assay! now, here is what mr. daw had done. immediately upon receiving the report upon this assay he had scraped together all the money he could, and had bought up an additional ten per cent. of the stock of that company, which left him holding thirty per cent. also, he had secured an option upon the thirty per cent. still outstanding. that additional thirty per cent. could be secured, if it were purchased at once, for three thousand dollars. now, if mr. gilman could invest that much money, or knew any one who could, by pooling their stock mr. gilman and mr. daw would have sixty per cent. of the total incorporated stock of the company, and would thus hold control. mr. gilman certainly knew what that meant. mr. gilman did, for mr. smalley's filmore bank had been started as a stock company, with mr. smalley holding control, and by means of that control mr. smalley had been able to vote himself sufficient salary to be able to buy up the balance of the stock, so that now it was all his; but mr. gilman could not see where it was possible for him to secure three thousand dollars for an investment of this nature. an investment? mr. daw objected. this was not an investment at all. it was merely the laying down of three thousand dollars and immediately picking it up again fourfold. why, having secured this stock, all they had to do was to let the secret of the finding of the hundred-and-sixty-three-dollar-a-ton gold be known, and, having control to offer, they could immediately sell it, anywhere, for four times what they had paid for it. the entire transaction need not take a week: it need not take four days. now, here is what mr. daw would do--that is, after he had ordered another pitcher of beer. he had the thirty per cent. of stock with him. he spread it out before mr. gilman. it was most beautifully printed stock, on the finest of bond paper, with gold-leaf letters, a crimson border and green embellishments, and was carefully numbered in metallic blue. it was also duly transferred in the name of horace g. daw. mr. daw would do this: in order that mr. gilman might be protected from the start, mr. daw would, upon taking mr. gilman's three thousand, make over to mr. gilman this very stock. he would then take mr. gilman's three thousand and purchase the other thirty per cent. of stock in his, mr. daw's, own name, and would, in the meantime, sign a binding agreement with mr. gilman that their stock should be pooled--that neither should sell without the consent of the other. it was a glorious opportunity! mr. daw was sorry he could not swing it all himself, but, being unable to do so, it immediately occurred to him that mr. gilman was the very man to benefit by the opportunity. mr. gilman looked upon that glittering sample of ore, that unimpeachable certified assay, those beautifully printed stock certificates of the red mud gold mining company, and he saw yellow. nothing but gold, rich, red mud gold, was in all his safe, sane and conservative vision. here, indeed, was no risk, for here were proofs enough and to spare. besides, the entire transaction was so plausible and natural. "by george, i'll do it!" said mr. gilman, having already, in those few brief moments, planned what he would do with nine thousand dollars of profits. mr. daw was very loath to let mr. gilman go home after this announcement. he tried to get him to stay all night, so that they could go right down to the bank together in the morning and fix up the matter; for it must be understood that a glittering opportunity like this must be closed immediately. mr. gilman, as a business man of experience, could appreciate that. but there were weighty reasons why mr. gilman could not do this, no matter how much he might desire it, or see its advisability. very well, then, mr. daw would simply draw up that little agreement to pool their stock, so that the matter could be considered definitely settled, and mr. daw would then wire, yet that night, to the holders of the remaining stock that he would take it. with much gravity and even pomp the agreement was drawn up and signed; then mr. gilman, taking the sage advice of mr. daw, drank seltzer and ammonia and ate lemon peel, whereupon he went home, keeping squarely in the center of the sidewalk to prove to himself that he could walk a straight line without wavering. young mr. daw, meanwhile, clinging to that signed agreement as a mariner to his raft, sat upon the edge of his bed to rejoice and to admire himself; for this was mr. daw's first adventure into the higher and finer degrees of "wise work," and he was quite naturally elated over his own neatness and despatch. chapter iii young wix takes a hand in the black-eyed one's game the glowing end of a cigar upon the porch of the adjoining house told gilman that young wix was at home, and, full of his important enterprise, he stopped in front of the wix gate to gloat. "hello, gilman," said wix, sauntering down. "out pretty late for a mere infant of twenty-four?" "little matter of business," protested mr. gilman pompously, glancing apprehensively at the second-story window, where a shade was already drawn aside. "business!" repeated wix. "they put midnight business in jail at daylight." "hush!" warned gilman, with another glance at the window. "this is different. this is one of those lucky strokes that i have read about but never hoped would come my way," and enthusiastically, in an undertone which wix had to strain to hear, he recited all the details of the golden opportunity. it was not so much experience as a natural trend of mind paralleling mr. daw's which made mr. wix smile to himself all through this recital. he seemed to foresee each step in the plan before it was told him, and, when mr. gilman was through, the only point about which his friend was at all surprised, or even eager, was the matter of the three thousand. "do you mean to say you can swing that amount?" he demanded. "i--i think i can," faltered mr. gilman. "in fact, i--i'm very sure of it. although, of course, that's a secret," he hastily added. "where would you get it?" asked wix incredulously. "well, for a sure thing like this, if you must know," said gilman, gulping, but speaking with desperately businesslike decision, "i am sure mr. smalley would loan it to me. although he wouldn't want it known," he again added quickly. "if you'd speak to him about it he'd deny it, and might even make me trouble for being so loose-tongued; so, of course, nobody must know." "i see," said wix slowly. "well, cliff, you just pass up this tidy little fortune." "pass it up!" "yes, let it slide on by. look on it with scorn. wriggle your fingers at it. let somebody else have that nine thousand dollars clean profit from the investment of three, all in a couple of days. i'm afraid it would give you the short-haired paleness to make so much money so suddenly. ever hear of that disease? the short-haired paleness comes from wearing horizontal stripes in a cement room." for a moment young gilman pondered this ambiguous reply in silence, then out of his secret distress he blurted: "but, wix, i've _got_ to do something that will bring me in some money! i've run behind on my wheat trades. i've--i've _got_ to do something!" wix, in the darkness, made a little startled movement, the involuntary placing of his finger-tips behind his ear; then he answered quietly: "i told you to keep away from that game. i tried it myself and know all about it." "i know, but i did it just the same," answered gilman. wix chuckled. "of course you did. you're the woolly breed that keeps bucket-shops going. i'd like no better lazy life than just to run a bucket-shop and fill all my buckets with the fleeces of about a dozen of your bleating kind. it would be easy money." the front door of the gilman house opened a little way, and the voice of a worried woman came out into the night: "is that you, cliffy?" "yes, mother," answered clifford. "good night, old man. i want to be sure to see you before i go to the bank in the morning. i want to talk this thing over with you," and young gilman hurried into the house. wix looked after him as he went in, and stood staring at the glowing second-story window. then he suddenly went back up to his own porch and got his hat. fifteen minutes later he was at the desk of the grand hotel. "mr. daw," he said to the clerk. "i think mr. daw's probably gone to bed by this time, wix," the clerk protested. "we'll wake him up, then. what's the number of his room? i'll do it myself." the clerk grinned. "if he kicks, you know, wix, i can't blame you for it. i'll have to stand it myself." "he won't kick. what's his room?" "number one," and again the clerk grinned. nobody ever point-blank refused young wix a favor. there was that in his bigness, and in the very jollity with which he defied life and its pretended gravity, which opened all doors to him. his breadth of chest had much to do with it. "the bridal chamber, eh?" he chuckled. "in that case, send up a bottle of champagne and charge it to mr. daw's account. yes, i know the bar's closed, but you have a key. go dig it out yourself, joe, and do it in style." unattended, mr. wix made his way to room one and pounded on the door. mr. daw, encased in blue pajamas and just on the point of retiring, opened cautiously, and was quite crestfallen when he recognized his visitor. nevertheless, he thawed into instant amiability. "glad to see you, old scout," he cried, and shaking hands with wix, pulled him into the room. "i felt as if the old homestead was no longer home when i didn't find you here to-day. sit down. what'll you have to drink?" "wine, thanks," replied wix. "they're getting it ready now. i gave them your order before i came up." mr. daw gasped and batted his eyes, but swallowed quickly and had it over with. "you see," explained wix, as they seated themselves comfortably. "i thought, since we wouldn't have time for many drinks, that we might just as well make it a good one. i brought up this timetable. there's a train leaves for the east at five-thirty-seven this morning, and one leaves for the west at six-ten. which are you going to take?" "why, neither one," said daw in some surprise. "i have some business here." "yes," admitted wix dryly; "i just saw gilman. which train are you taking?" "neither, i said," snapped daw, frowning, "i don't intend to leave here until i finish my work." "oh, yes, you do," wix informed him. "you're going about the time gilman is washing his face for breakfast; and you won't leave any word for him." "how do you know so well?" retorted daw. "look here, mr. wix, this proposition i'm offering gilman is a fair and square--" "you say that again and i'll bite you," interrupted wix pleasantly. "i've got a pretty good left-handed punch of my own," flared daw, advancing a threatening step. wix, though much the larger man, betrayed his touch of physical cowardice by a fleeting shade of pallor, and moved over next the door. the grand hotel had not installed a room telephone service, still relying upon the convenient push-button. to this, wix, affecting to treat the entire incident as a joke, called attention. "one ring, ice water," he read from the printed card above it; "two rings, bell boy; three rings, maid. i think about six rings will bring the clerk, the porter and the fire department," he observed; "but i don't see where we need them in a quiet little business talk like ours." "oh, i see!" said daw in the sudden flood of a great white light, and he smiled most amiably. "i promised you a rake-off when i spoke about this on the train, didn't i? and, of course, i'm willing to stick with it. if i pull this across there's a thousand in it for you." "no. it won't do," said wix, shaking his head. "say fifteen hundred, then." once more wix shook his head. he, also, smiled most amiably. "i guess you want it all?" charged daw with a sneer. "possibly," admitted wix, then suddenly he chuckled so that his big shoulders heaved. "to tell you the truth," he stated, "i didn't know gilman could put up so big a prize as all that nice money, or he wouldn't have had it loose to offer you by now. as soon as i get over the shock i'll know what to do about it. just now, all i know is that he's not going into this real silky little joke of yours. i don't want to see the money go out of town." "i saw it first," daw reminded him. "i don't care where he gets it, you know, just so i get it." "wherever he gets it," said wix impressively, "it will be secured in a perfectly legitimate manner. i want you to understand that much." "oh, yes, i understood that, anyhow," acknowledged daw, and the two young men looked quite steadily into each other's eyes, each knowing what the other thought, but refusing to admit it. it was daw who first broke the ensuing silence. "suppose i can't decide to wing my onward way?" he suggested. "then i'll have you looking out on court-house square through the big grill." "on what charge?" "general principles," chuckled wix. "i suppose there's a heavy stretch for that if they prove it on me," returned daw thoughtfully. there was no levity whatever in the reply. he had read the eyes of wix correctly. wix would have him arrested as sure as breakfast, dinner and supper. "just general principles," repeated wix; "to be followed by a general investigation. can you stand it?" "i should say i can," asserted daw. "what time did you say that train leaves? the one going east, i mean." "five-thirty-seven." "then, if you don't mind, you may leave me a call for five o'clock;" and mr. daw nonchalantly yawned. there came a knock at the door. "i'm sorry you have to leave us so soon, mr. daw," said wix, admitting the clerk with the wine, and speaking with much regret in his tone. "i'll clink glasses with you, anyhow, old sport," offered daw, accepting the inevitable gracefully, after the clerk had gone. "i don't know what your game is, but here's to it! always remember, though, that i located this three thousand for you. i hate to leave it here. it was such easy money." "easy money!" again that phrase rang in the ears of young wix, as he walked home, as he stood at his gate looking over at the second-story window of the gilman house, and as he lay upon his pillow. to dwell in perpetual ease, to be surrounded with endless luxury, to spend money prodigally in all the glitter and pomp of the places that had been built at the demand of extravagance: these things had become an obsession with him--yet, for them, he was not willing to work and wait. gilman felt that he had lost vast estates, when, upon calling at the hotel in the morning, he found that mr. daw had left upon an early train. he was worried, too, that he had not been able to see wix before he started down-town. most opportunely, however, wix sauntered out of sam glidden's cigar store, opposite the hotel, as gilman emerged upon the street. "when's the funeral?" asked wix. "you look like a sick-headache feels." "daw has gone, and without leaving me any word," quavered gilman. "i suppose he'll--he'll probably write to me, though." "i'm betting that he has writer's cramp every time he tries it," asserted wix. "but i signed an agreement with him last night. he must write." "does this look anything like that agreement," asked wix, and from his pocket drew the document, torn once across each way. gilman gazed at the pieces blankly. "i got it away from him, and tore it up myself, last night," continued wix. "also, i ran the gentleman out of town on the five-thirty-seven this morning, headed due east and still going." "what do you mean?" gasped gilman. "why, man, you've taken away the only chance i had to get even. i _have_ to make money, i tell you!" "be calm, little cliffy," admonished wix soothingly. "i'm going to get it its money. look here, gilman, this man was a fake and i made him say so, but his coming here gave me an idea. i'm going to open a bucket-shop, and you're going to back it." "not a bucket-shop!" objected gilman, aghast at the very name. "yes, a bucket-shop. do you know how they operate? of course not, merely having played against them. well, suppose you gamble a thousand bushels of wheat on a two-cent margin, holding for a two-cent advance. what happens to your twenty dollars? the bucket expert takes out his buying commission of one-fourth cent a bushel. a straight broker takes off one-eighth cent, but your man milks you for a nifty little total of two dollars and a half, because you're a piker. if wheat goes down one and three-fourths cents you lose the other seventeen-fifty, don't you?" "yes," admitted gilman. "if it goes up two cents the man closes the deal and takes out another one-fourth cent a bushel for closing. that's another two-fifty. you get back thirty-five dollars. your bucket-shop man is practically betting fifteen dollars of his money against twenty of yours on worse than an even break. pretty good game for the bucket-shop man, isn't it? but there's more. he doesn't take as much risk as matching pennies on a three-to-four shot. suppose he has one man betting that wheat will go up and another that it will go down. each man puts up twenty, and one must lose. the man with the bucket runs no chances, and every time he takes in forty dollars he pays out only thirty-five of it. twelve and one-half per cent. of all the money that passes through his hands stays there. moreover, the winner puts his right back into the game, and the loser rakes up more, to win back what he lost. pretty syrupy, eh? the only trouble with you is that you have been playing this game from the wrong end. now, you're going to play it from the inside. i'm going to rent an office to-day. you're to back me to the extent of three thousand dollars, and we'll split the profits." gilman's eyes glistened. he was one who did his thinking by proxy, and reflected enthusiasm with vast ease. "do you suppose it would take the three thousand all at once?" he asked with some anxiety. "no, we won't need it in a lump," wix decided, after some sharp thought over gilman's nervousness; "but it must be where we can get all or any part of it at a minute's notice." gilman drew such an obvious breath of relief that wix became once more thoughtful; but it was a thoughtfulness that brought with it only hardening of the jaw and steeling of the eyes. chapter iv which shows the easiest way to make a bucket-shop pay within three days, wix, who was a curious blend of laziness and energy, had fitted up an office in a sample-room leading off the lobby of the grand hotel. over the name on the door he puzzled somewhat, and it was only his hatred for every component syllable of "jonathan reuben wix" that caused the sign finally to appear as "la salle grain and stock brokerage company." the walls were freshly papered in deep red, a thick, red carpet was put upon the floor, a resplendent cashier's wicket and desk were installed, fine leather-padded chairs faced a neatly ruled blackboard; and the speculative element of filmore walked right into its first real bucket-shop and made itself at home. it was a positive pleasure to lose money there, and it was a joy to have young wix take it. he did it so jovially. punctually every evening wix handed to gilman his half of the profits on the trades closed that day, and each week the profits became larger. gilman was thrown into a constant state of delight; wix bought him a horse and buggy. gilman saw fortune just ahead of him; wix saw possible disaster. it pained him to note that filmore was optimistic. there were many more bulls than bears, which was not the ideal condition. there should have been a bear to offset every bull, in which case the la salle grain and stock brokerage company would have run no risk whatever. of course, the inevitable happened. all the wheat and stock gamblers of filmore got in on a strong bull market and stayed in. when the market finally turned back and the "longs" were frightened out, the crash came, and every dollar was lost of the original three thousand. wix, having anticipated the possibility of such an event, was disappointed but "game." gilman, having more at stake and being at best a cheerful winner only, was frantic. "what shall i do? what shall i do?" he moaned, over and over. "dig up more money," wix cheerfully advised him. "i can't!" cried gilman. "i've gone now even deeper than i dared." he was silent for a long time. great beads of perspiration came on his brow. his hair was wet. "wix," he finally burst out, "i've got to tell you something; something that no living creature knows but me." "no, you don't!" wix sharply stopped him. "if you have any secrets, keep them to yourself. i am stone deaf." gilman's eyes widened with a look of positive terror. for the first time in his life he had met that glare in the eyes of a supposed friend which denied friendship, sentiment or emotion of any sort; which told only of cold self-interest. two or three times he essayed to speak, but he could not. he only stood with his sides heaving, like a spent dog. "there is no use whining about this thing," wix went on sharply. "we've got to raise money, and that's all there is to it. how about your profits that i've been handing you? i've spent mine." there was no answer. "you said something about owing four hundred dollars before we began," wix went on. "i suppose you repaid that--that loan." gilman dumbly nodded. "i've paid you over a thousand dollars rake-off. i suppose you saved the rest of it?" again gilman nodded his head. "well, bring me that six hundred or whatever it is." gilman mechanically produced it, all in one-hundred-dollar bills folded very flat. that morning wix faced the business anew with six hundred dollars, and felt keenly his limited capital. his severe losses had been a good advertisement, and every man who had won a dollar was prepared to put it back. wix, with a steady hand at the helm, stood through this crisis most admirably, refusing trades from buyers until he had sellers enough to offset them, and refusing excess trades from sellers until he had buyers to balance. within two weeks he had a comfortable little sum, but now the daily division of spoils brought no balm to gilman. he was suddenly old, and upon his face were appearing lines that would last him throughout his life. upon the florid countenance of wix there was not even the shadow of a crease. "good money, boy," said he to gilman, upon the day he handed over the completion of five hundred dollars. "this business is like a poker game. if the players stick at it long enough the kitty will have all the money." "i don't want it all," replied gilman wearily. "wix, if i ever get back the twenty-five hundred dollars that it will take to make me square, i swear before my maker," and he held up his trembling, white hand, "never to touch another investment outside the bank as long as i live." "your liver must be the color of a sick salmon," retorted wix, but nevertheless he was himself disillusioned. the bucket-shop business was not what he had imagined it to be. it was not "easy money!" it had fluctuations, must be constantly watched, was susceptible to bankruptcy--and meant work! the ideal enterprise was one which, starting from nothing, involved no possible loss; which yielded a large block of cold cash within a short time, and which was then ended. daw's idea was the most ideal that had come under his observation. that was really an admirable scheme of daw's, except for one very serious drawback. it was dangerous. now, if as clever a plan, and one without any menace from the law, could only be hinged upon some more legitimate business--say a bucket-shop concern.... there is no analyzing a creation, an invention. it is not deliberately worked out, step by step. it is a flash of genius. at this moment young wix created. the principle he evolved was, in fact, to stand him in good stead in a score of "safe" operations, but, just now, it was a gaudy new thing, and its beauty almost blinded him. the same idea had been used by many men before him, but wix did not know this, and he created it anew. "sam," he said to the cigar-store man next morning, "i want you to invest in the la salle grain and stock brokerage company." "not any," declared sam. "you have two hundred of my money now." "not the entire roll," denied wix. "i only got twelve and one-half per cent." "if you'd take twelve and a half per cent. eight times you'd have it all," retorted sam. "that's why i quit. i stood to lose two hundred dollars on a seven-point drop, or win a hundred and seventy-five on an eight-point raise. when i finally figured out that i had the tweezers into my hair going and coming, i didn't wish any more." "but suppose i'd offer you a chance to stand on the other side of the counter and take part of the change?" "i'd let you stand right here and talk a while. what's the matter?" "haven't capital enough," explained wix. "i think i refused to take a trade of yours one time, just because i had to play safe. i had to be in position to pay off all my losses or quit business." "how much are you increasing?" asked glidden, interested. "a twenty-five-thousand-dollar stock company: two hundred and fifty shares at a hundred dollars each." "i might take a share or two," said sam. "you'll take twenty," declared wix, quite sure of himself. "i want four incorporators besides myself, and i want you to be one of them." "is that getting me the stock any cheaper?" "fifty per cent.; two thousand dollars' worth for a thousand. after we five incorporators are in we'll raise the price to par and not sell a share for a cent less." "how much do you get out of this?" sam asked, with a leer of understanding. "ten per cent. for selling the stock, and have the new company buy over the present one for ten thousand dollars' worth of shares." [illustration: "sam," he said, "i want you to invest"] "i thought so," said glidden with a grin. "fixtures, established business and good will, i suppose." wix chuckled. "you put it in the loveliest words," he admitted. "you're a bright young man," said glidden admiringly. "you'd better pay for those fixtures and put in the whole business at five hundred." "what do you suppose i'm enlarging the thing for, except to increase my income?" wix demanded. "with ten thousand dollars' worth of stock i'd get only two-fifths of the profit, when i've been getting it all heretofore. as a matter of fact, i'm doing pretty well not to try to capture the majority." they both laughed upon this, and glidden capitulated. within forty-eight hours wix had his four directors, all ex-traders who would rather make money than gamble, and each willing to put in a thousand dollars. as soon as they were incorporated they paid wix his hundred shares for the old business, and that developing financier started out to sell the balance of the stock, on commission. it was an easy task, for his fellow-directors did all the advertising for him. practically all he had to do was to deliver the certificates and collect. it was while he was engaged in this pleasant occupation that he went to gilman with a blank certificate for twenty-five shares. "i think you said, gilman, that if you could get your remaining twenty-five hundred dollars out of the la salle you'd be satisfied, didn't you?" "satisfied!" gasped gilman. "just show me how it can be done!" "here's twenty-five hundred dollars' worth of stock in the new company i've incorporated from the old one, and it's selling--at par--like beer at a german picnic." "that would ruin me," gilman protested in a panic. "you must sell it for me or i'm gone. why, wix, this new state bank inspection law has just gone into effect, and there may be an inspector at the bank any day." "i see," said wix slowly, looking him straight in the eye, "and they may object to smalley's having loaned you that money on insufficient security. well, i'll see what i can do." nevertheless, he let gilman's stock lie while he sold the treasury shares, and, the market being still so eager that it seemed a shame not to supply it, _he sold his own_! there was now time for gilman, and wix, with an artistic eye for dramatic propinquities, presented his proposition to no less a person than smalley, grinning, however, as he went in. "i couldn't think of such a thing, sir," squeaked that gentleman. "i'll have nothing to do with gambling in any way, shape or form." "no," agreed wix, and carefully closed the door of smalley's private office. "well, this isn't gambling, mr. smalley. it's only the people outside who gamble. the la salle doesn't propose to take any chances; it only takes commissions," and he showed to mr. smalley, very frankly, a record of his transactions, including the one disastrous period for the purpose of pointing out the flaw which had brought it about. smalley inspected those figures long and earnestly, while wix sat back smiling. he had penetrated through that leathery exterior, had discovered what no one else would have suspected: that in smalley himself there ran a long-leashed gambling instinct. "but i couldn't possibly have my name connected with a matter of this sort," was smalley's last citadel of objection. "why should you?" agreed wix, and then a diabolical thought came to him, in the guise of an exquisite joke. he had great difficulty in repressing a chuckle as he suggested it. "why not put the stock in gilman's name?" "it might be a very bad influence for the young man," protested smalley virtuously, but clutching at the suggestion. "he is thoroughly trustworthy, however, and i suppose i can explain it to him as being a really conservative investment that should have no publicity. i think you said, mr. wix, that there are only twenty-five shares remaining to be sold." "that's all," wix assured him. "you couldn't secure another share if you wanted it." "very well, then, i think i shall take it." "i have the certificate in my pocket," said wix, and he produced the identical certificate that he had offered gilman some days before. it had already been signed by the complacent sam glidden as secretary. "make this out to gilman, shall i?" asked wix, seating himself at smalley's desk, and poising his pen above the certificate. "i believe so," assented smalley, pursing up his lips. with a smile all of careless pleasure with the world, wix wrote the name of clifford m. gilman, and signed the certificate as president. "now, your check, mr. smalley, for twenty-five hundred, and the new la salle company is completely filled up, ready to start in business on a brand-new basis." with his lips still pursed, smalley made out that check, and wix shook hands with him most cordially as he left the room. outside the door he chuckled. he was still smiling when he walked up to the cashier's wicket, where young gilman sat tense and white-faced. wix indorsed the check, and handed it through the wicket. "here's your twenty-five hundred, cliff," said he. "you can turn it over on the books of the bank as soon as you like." gilman strove to voice his great relief, but his lips quivered and his eyes filled, and he could only turn away speechless. wix had gone out, and gilman was still holding in his nerveless fingers the check that had saved him, when smalley appeared at his side. "ah," said smalley; "i see you have the check i gave mr. wix. did he deposit?" "no, sir," replied gilman, in a low voice; "he took currency." mr. smalley visibly winced. "a bill of exchange might have done him just as well," he protested. "no non-employing person has need of actual currency in that amount. i'm afraid young wix is very extravagant--very. by the way, mr. gilman, i have been forced, for protection and very much against my will, to take some stock in an enterprise with which i can not have my name associated for very obvious business reasons; so i have taken the liberty of having the stock made out in your name," and, before young gilman's eyes, he spread his twenty-five-share certificate of the la salle grain and stock brokerage company. gilman, pale before, went suddenly ghastly. the blow of mockery had come too soon upon the heels of his relief. "i can't have it," he managed to stammer through parched lips. "i must refuse, sir. i--i can not be connected in any way with that business, mr. smalley. i--i abhor it. never, as long as i live--" suddenly the fish-white face and staring eyes of gilman were not in the line of mr. smalley's astonished vision, for gilman had slid to the floor, between his high stool and his desk. sam glidden, coming into the bank a moment after, found smalley working feverishly over the prostrate form of his feebly reviving clerk. chapter v jonathan reuben wix casts aside his only handicap and disappears for ever just as jonathan reuben wix reached his home, a delivery man was taking in at the front door a fine dresser trunk. on the porch stood a new alligator traveling-bag, and a big, new suit-case of thick sole leather, trimmed profusely with the most expensive knobs and clamps, and containing as elaborate a toilet set as is made for the use of men. in the hall he found five big pasteboard boxes from his tailor. he had the trunk and the suit-case and the traveling-bag delivered up to his room; the clothing he carried up himself. that morning he had dressed himself in new linen throughout. now he took off the suit he wore and put on one of the new business suits. he opened half a dozen huge bundles of haberdashery which he had purchased within the past week, and began packing them in his trunk: underwear, shirts, socks, collars, cravats, everything brand new and of the choicest quality. he packed away the other new business suit, the prince albert, the tuxedo, the dress suit--the largest individual order his tailor had ever received--putting into his trunk and suit-case and traveling-bag not one thing that he had ever worn before; nor did he put into any of his luggage a single book or keepsake, for these things had no meaning to him. when he was completely dressed and packed he went to his mother's room and knocked on the door. it was her afternoon for the women journalists' club, and she was very busy indeed over a paper she was to read on _the press: its power for evil_. naturally, interruptions annoyed her very much. "well, what is it, son?" she asked in her level, even tone as he came into the room. her impatience was very nicely suppressed, indeed. "i'm going to new york on the six-thirty," he told her. "really, i don't see how i can spare any money until the fifteenth," she objected. "i have plenty of money," he assured her. "oh," she replied with evident relief, and glanced longingly back at her neatly written paper. "i can even let you have some if you want it," he suggested. "no, thank you. i have sufficient, i am sure, portioned out to meet all demands, including the usual small surplus, up to the fifteenth. it's very nice of you to offer it, however." "you see," he went on, after a moment's hesitation, "i'm not coming back." she turned now, and faced him squarely for the first time. "you'd better stay here," she told him. "i'm afraid you'll cost me more away from home than you do in filmore." "i shall never cost you a cent," he declared. "i have found out how to make money." she smiled in a superior way. "i am a bit incredulous; but, after all, i don't see why you shouldn't. your father at least had that quality, and you should have inherited something from him besides"--and she paused a trifle--"his name." she sighed, and then continued: "very well, son, i suppose you must carve out your own destiny. you are quite old enough to make the attempt, and i have been anticipating it for some time. after all, you really ought to have very little trouble in impressing the world favorably. you dress neatly," she surveyed him critically, "and you make friends readily. shall i see you again before you go?" "i scarcely think so. i have a little down-town business to look after, and shall take dinner on the train; so i'll just say good-by to you now." he shook hands with her and stooped down, and they kissed each other dutifully upon the cheek. mrs. wix, being advanced, did not believe in kissing upon the mouth. after he had gone, a fleeting impression of loneliness weighed upon her as much as any purely sentimental consideration could weigh. she looked thoughtfully at the closed door, and a stirring of the slight maternal instinct within her made her vaguely wistful. she turned, still with that faint tugging within her breast which she could not understand, and it was purely mechanical that her eyes, dropping to the surface of the paper, caught the sentence: "mental suggestion, unfit for growing minds, is upon every page." the word "mental" seemed redundant, and she drew her pen through it, neatly changing the "s" in "suggestion" to a capital. a cab drove past wix as he started down the street and he saw smalley in it. he turned curiously. what was smalley doing there? he stopped until he saw the cab draw up in front of gilman's house. he saw smalley assist young gilman out of the cab, and gilman's mother run out to meet them. he was thoughtful for a moment over that, then he shrugged his shoulders and strode on. on the train that night as he swaggered into the dining-car, owning it, in effect, and all it contained, he saw, seated alone at a far table, no less a person than horace g. daw, as black and as natty as ever, and with a mustache grown long enough to curl a little bit at the ends. "hello, old pal," greeted daw. "where now?" "i'm going out alone into the cold, cold world, to make fortunes and spend them." "half of that stunt is a good game," commented mr. daw. wix chuckled. "both ends of it look good to me," he stated. "i've found the recipe for doing it, and it was you that tipped off the plan." "i certainly am the grand little tipper-off," agreed daw, going back in memory over their last meeting. "you got to that three thousand, did you?" "oh, no," said wix. "i only used it to get a little more. our friend gilman has his all back again. of course, i didn't use your plan as it laid. it was too raw, but it gave me the suggestion from which i doped out one of my own. i've got to improve my system a little, though. my rake-off's too small. in the wind-up i handled twenty-one thousand dollars, and only got away with eight thousand-odd of it for myself." "you haven't it all with you?" asked daw, a shade too eagerly. wix chuckled, his broad shoulders heaving and his pink face rippling. "no use, kind friend," said he. "just dismiss it from your active but greedy mind. if anybody gets away unduly with a cent of this wad, all they need to do is to prove it to me, and i'll make them a present of the balance. no, my dark-complected brother, the bulk of it is in a safe place in little old new york, where i can go get it as i need it; but i have enough along to buy, i think. it seems to me you bought last," and they both grinned at the reminiscence. "i wasn't thinking of trying to annex any of that coin," lied mr. daw glibly, and changing entirely his attitude toward mr. wix as his admiration grew; "but i was thinking that we might cook up something together. i'll put up dollar for dollar with you. i've just been harvesting, myself." again wix chuckled. "declined with thanks," he returned. "i don't mind trailing around a bit with you when we get to new york, and also meeting the carefully assorted selection of dead-sure-thing geniuses who must belong to your set, but i'll go no further. for one thing, i don't like the idea of a partner. it cramps me to split up. for another thing, i wouldn't like to hook up in business with you. you're not safe enough; you trifle too much with the law, which is not only foolish but unnecessary." "yes?" retorted daw. "how about this eight thousand or so that you committed mayhem on filmore to get?" "good, honest money," asserted wix. "i hate to boast about your present companion, but i don't owe filmore a cent. i merely worked up a business and sold my share in it. of course, they didn't know i was selling it, but they'll find out when they go over the records, which are perfectly straight. if, after buying the chance to go into business, they don't know what to do with it, it isn't my fault." a traveling man who had once been in the office of the la salle grain and stock brokerage company for an afternoon's flyer, and who remembered the cordial ease with which wix had taken his money, came over to the table. "hello, wix; how's tricks?" he hailed. wix looked up at him blankly but courteously. "beg pardon," he returned. the face of the traveling man fell. "aren't you mr. wix, of filmore?" "i'm afraid not," replied wix, smiling with great cordiality. "sorry to disappoint you, old man." "really, i beg your pardon," said the traveling man, perplexed. "it is the most remarkable resemblance i ever saw. i would have sworn you were wix. he used to run a brokerage shop in the grand hotel in filmore." "never was in the town," lied wix. the man turned away. daw looked after him with an amused smile. "by the way, wix, what is your name now?" "by george, i haven't decided! i was too busy getting rid of my only handicap to think up a substitute. i'll tell you in a minute," and on the spur of the moment he invented a quite euphonious name, one which was to last him for a great many years. "wallingford," he announced. "how does that hit you? j. rufus wallingford!" chapter vi j. rufus proves a sad, sad disappointment to some clever people they were glad to see blackie daw back on broadway--that is, in the way that broadway is glad; for they of the great white way have no sentiments and no emotions, and but scant memories. about blackie's companion, however, they were professionally curious. "who is this large, pink wallingford person, and where did you get it?" asked mr. phelps, whose more familiar name was green-goods harry. mr. daw, standing for the moment with mr. phelps at the famous old cheese-and-crackers end of the fifth avenue bar, grinned. "he's an educated hick," he responded, "and i got him out of the heart of the hay-fever district, right after he'd turned a classy little trick on the easy producers of his childhood home. sold 'em a bankrupt bucket-shop for eight thousand, which is going _some_!" mr. phelps, natty and jaunty and curly-haired, though shifty of eye, through long habit of trying to watch front and back doors both at once, looked with a shade more interest across at the imposing white vest of young j. rufus where he stood at the bar with fat and somber badger billy. there was a cocksure touch to the joviality of young wallingford which was particularly aggravating to an expert like mr. phelps. young wallingford was so big, so impressive, so sure of pleasing, so certain the world was his oyster, that it seemed a shame not to give his pride a tumble--for his own sake, of course. "has he got the eight thousand on him, do you think?" asked the green-goods one, his interest rapidly increasing. "not so you could notice it," replied daw with conviction. "he's a wise prop, i tell you. he's probably lugging about five hundred in his kick, just for running expenses, and has a time-lock on the rest." "we might tinker with the lock," concluded harry, running his fingers through his hair to settle the curls; "it's worth a try, anyhow." "you'll bounce right off," declared mr. daw. "i tried to put a sweet one over in his home town, and he jolted the game so quick he made its teeth rattle." "then you owe him one," persisted mr. phelps, whom it pained to see other people have money. "do you mean to say that any pumpkin husker can't be trimmed?" "enjoy yourself," invited mr. daw with a retrospective smile, "but count me out. i'm going to boston next week, anyhow. i'm going to open a mine investment office there. it's a nice easy money mining district." "for pocket mining," agreed his friend dryly. young wallingford, in his desire for everybody to be happy, looked around for them at this juncture, and further conversation was out of the question. the quartet lounged out of the fifth avenue bar and across broadway in that dull way peculiar to their kind. at the hoffman house bar they were joined by a cadaverous gentleman known to the police as short-card larry, whose face was as that of a corpse, but whose lithe, slender fingers were reputed to have brains of their own, and the five of them sat down for a dull half-hour. later they had dull dinner together, strolled dully into four theaters, and, still dull, wound up in the apartments of daw and j. rufus. "what do you think of them?" asked blackie in their first aside moment. "they give me the pip," announced j. rufus frankly. "why do they hate themselves so? why do they sit in the darkest corners and bark at themselves? can't they ever drink enough to get oiled happy?" "not and do business with strangers on broadway," daw explained. "phelps has been shy about thin glassware for five years, ever since he let an indiana come-on outdrink him and steal his own money back; billy banting stops after the third glass of anything, on account of his fat; the only time larry teller ever got pinched was for getting spifflicated and telling a reporter what police protection cost him." "if i wasn't waiting to see one of them bite himself and die of poison i'd cut 'em out," returned mr. wallingford in the utmost disgust. "any one of them would slung-shot the others for the price of a cigarette. don't they ever get interested in anything?" "nothing but easy marks," replied mr. daw with a grin. "the way they're treating you is a compliment. they're letting you just be one of them." "one of them! take it back, blackie!" protested wallingford. "why, they're a bunch of crooks!" in deep dejection young wallingford, rejoining his guests, ordered three lemonades and a quart of champagne. there was a trifle more of animation among them now, however, since they had been left alone for a few moments. they told three or four very hilarious stories, in each of which the nub of the joke hinged on an utter disregard of every human decency. then, quite casually and after a lull, badger billy smoothed down his smart vest and cleared his throat. "what do you fellows say to a little game of stud?" he proposed. "sure!" agreed wallingford with alacrity. "that's the first live noise i've heard to-day," and he went to the 'phone at once to order up some cards and chips. with his back turned, the three lemonade drinkers exchanged pleased smiles. it was too easy! mr. daw let them smile, and reposed calmly upon the couch, entirely disinterested. professional ethics forbade mr. daw to interfere with the "trimming" of the jovial mr. wallingford, and the instincts of a gentleman, with which, of course, they were all perfectly provided, prevented him from taking any part in that agreeable operation. to his keen amusement the game was very brief--scarcely more than twenty minutes. it was short-card larry who, with a yawn, discovered suddenly how late it was and stopped the game. as he rose to go, young wallingford, chuckling, was adding a few additional bills to the plethoric roll in his pocket. "what made you chop the game, larry?" asked green-goods harry in impatient wonder. "we'd ought to strung it along a while. what made you let him have that hundred and fifty so quick?" "let him!" retorted larry savagely. "he took it! twice i gave him aces back to back on my deal, and he turned them down without a bet. on his own deal he bet his head off on a pair of deuces, with not one of us three able to draw out on him; and right there he cops that hundred and fifty himself. he's too fresh!" "well," said badger billy philosophically, "he'll come for more." "not of mine, he won't," snorted the dexterous one. "i can't do any business against a man that's next. i hope he chokes." "there you go again, letting your temper get the best of you," protested mr. phelps, himself none too pleased. "this fresh lollop has coin, and it ought to be ours." "ought to be? it _is_ ours," growled larry. "we'll get it if we have to mace him, at noon, on madison square." in the meantime j. rufus was chuckling himself to sleep. he rose at eleven, breakfasted at one, and was dressing and planning to besiege new york upon his own account, when the telephone advised him that mr. phelps was down-stairs with a parched throat, and on the way up to get a drink! "fine business!" exclaimed j. rufus with a cordiality which had nothing whatever to do with the puzzled expression on his brow. "what'll you have? i'll order it while you're on your way up." "nothing stronger than a scotch highball," was the reply, whereupon young wallingford, as soon as the telephone was clear, ordered the materials therefor. "fine business," he repeated to himself musingly as he stood with his hand still on the receiver after he had hung it up; "also rough work. this thirst is too sudden." he was still most thoughtful when mr. phelps knocked at the door, and had yet more food for contemplation when the caller began talking with great enthusiasm about his thirst, explaining the height and breadth and thickness thereof, its atomic weight, its color and the excellent style of its finish. "if i just had that thirst outside of me where i could get at it, i could make an airship of it," he imaginatively concluded. "gas or hot air?" inquired young mr. wallingford, entirely unmoved, as he poured the highballs and dosed both quite liberally with the scotch, whereat mr. phelps almost visibly winced, though gamely planning to drink with every appearance of enjoyment. "where's daw?" he asked, after two sips which he tried to make seem like gulps. "gone out to a print-shop to locate a couple of gold mines," announced wallingford dryly, holding his own opinion as to the folly of mr. daw's methods. they were so unsanctioned of law. "sorry for that," said mr. phelps, who was nevertheless relieved to hear it, for mr. daw was rather in the way. "we've got a great game on; a reuben right from reubensville, with five thousand of pa's money in his jeans. i wanted you fellows to come and look him over." "what's the use?" returned wallingford. "come down to the lobby and i'll show you a whole procession of them." "no, but they're not so liberal as this boy," protested phelps laughing. "he just naturally hones and hones and hones to hand us this nice little bundle of kale, and we're going to accommodate him. you can get in on the split-up if you want to. daw would have first choice, of course, if he was here, but since he isn't you might as well come in. five thousand iron men are hardly worth bending to pick up, i guess." "oh, i don't know," objected wallingford condescendingly. "it would make cigarette money, anyhow, if there are not too many to tear it apart." "it takes just four," phelps informed him: "look-out, spieler, panel-man and engraver." wallingford shook his head, refusing even to speculate on the duties of the four named actors in the playlet. "four makes it hardly union wages," he objected. green-goods harry cast at him a look of quick dislike. "i know, but wait till you see the sample," he insisted. "the fun's worth more than the meat. he's the rawest you ever saw; wants green goods, you know; thinks there really is green-goods, and stands ready to exchange his five thousand of the genuine rhino for twenty of the phoney stuff. of course you know how this little joke is rimmed up. we count out the twenty thousand in real money and wrap it up in bales before both of his eyes, then put it in a little satchel of which we make mr. alfred alfalfa a present. while we're giving him the solemn talk about the po-lice badger billy switches in another satchel with the same kind of looking bales in it, but made out of tissue-paper with twenties top and bottom; then we all move, and henry whiskers don't dare make a holler because he's in on a crooked play himself; see?" "i see," assented wallingford still dryly. "i've been reading the papers ever since i was a kid. what puzzles me is how you can find anybody left in the world who isn't hep." "there's a new sucker born every minute," returned mr. phelps airily, whereat wallingford, detecting that mr. phelps held his intelligence and education so cheaply as to offer this sage remark as original, inwardly fumed. "come on and look him over, anyhow," insisted phelps, rising. wallingford arose reluctantly. "what's the matter with your highball?" he demanded. "it's great scotch!" said mr. phelps enthusiastically, and drank about a tablespoonful with great avidity. "come on; the boys are waiting," and he surged toward the door. wallingford finished his own glass contemplatively and followed with a trace of annoyance. chapter vii wallingford helps in a green-goods playlet purely for accommodation into the back room of a flashy saloon just off broadway mr. phelps led the way, after pausing outside to post wallingford carefully on all their new names, and here they found billy banting and larry teller in company with a stranger, one glance at whom raised wallingford's spirits quite appreciably, for he was so obviously made up. he was a raw-boned young fellow who wore an out-of-date derby, a cheap, made cravat which rode his collar, a cheap suit of loud-checked clothes that was entirely too tight for him, and the trousers of which, two inches too short, were rounded stiffly out below the knees, like stove-pipes, by top-boots which were wrinkled about the ankles. moreover, the stranger spoke with a nasal drawl never heard off the stage. wallingford, with a wink from phelps, was introduced to mr. pickins as mr. mombley. then, leaning down to mr. pickins with another prodigious wink at wallingford, phelps said in a stage-whisper to the top-booted one: "mr. mombley is our engraver. used to work in the mint." "well, i'll swan!" drawled mr. pickins. "i'd reckoned to find such a fine gove'ment expert a older man." with a sigh wallingford took up his expected part. "i'm older than i look," said he. "making money keeps a man young." "i reckon," agreed mr. pickins, and "haw-hawed" quite broadly. "and did you really make this greenback?" he asked, drawing from his vest pocket a crinkled new ten-dollar-bill which he spread upon the table and examined with very eager interest indeed. "this is one of that last batch, joe," short-card larry negligently informed wallingford, with a meaning wink. "i just gave it to him as a sample." "by jingo, it's scrumptious work!" said mr. pickins admiringly. "yes, they'll take that for a perfectly good bill anywhere," asserted wallingford. "just spend it and see," and he pushed the button. "bring us a bottle of the best champagne you have in the house," he directed the waiter, and with satisfaction he noted the startled raising of heads all around the table, _including the head of mr. pickins_. "i don't like to brag on myself," continued wallingford, taking on fresh animation as he began to see humor in the situation, "but i think i'm the grandest little money-maker in the city, in my special line. i don't go after small game very often. a ten is the smallest i handle. peters," he suddenly commanded phelps, "show him one of those lovely twenties." "i don't think i have one of the new ones," said phelps, moistening his lips, but nevertheless reaching for his wallet. "i think the only twenties i have are those that we put through the aging process." wallingford calmly took the wallet from him and as calmly leafed over the bills it contained. "no, none of these twenties is from the new batch," he decided, entering more and more into the spirit of the game, "but this half-century is one that we're all proud of. just examine that, mr. pickins," and closing the wallet he handed it back to phelps, passing the fifty-dollar bill to the stranger. "billy, give me one of those twenties. i'm bound to show mr. pickins one of our best output." badger billy, being notorious even among his fellows as a tight-wad, swallowed hard, but he produced a small roll of bills and extracted the newest twenty he could find. during this process it had twice crossed billy's mind to revolt; but, after all, wallingford was evincing an interest in the game that might be worth while. "that's it," approved wallingford, running it through his fingers and passing it over to pickins. he got up from his place and took the vacant chair by that gentleman. "i just want you to look at the nifty imitation of engine work in this scroll border," he insisted with vast enthusiasm, while mr. pickins cast a despairing glance, half-puzzled and half-bored, at the others of the company, themselves awed into silence. he was still explaining the excellent work in the more intricate portions of the two designs when the waiter appeared with the wine, and wallingford only interrupted himself long enough nonchalantly to toss the ten-dollar bill on the tray after the glasses were filled. then, with vast fervor, he returned to the counterfeiting business, with the specimens before him as an inspiring text. the waiter brought back two dollars in silver. "just keep the change," said wallingford grandly, and then, as the waiter was about to withdraw, he quickly handed up the fifty and the twenty-dollar bills to him. "just take this twenty, george," said he to the waiter, "and run down to the cigar-store on the corner and buy some of those dollar cigars. you might as well get us about three apiece. then take this fifty and get us a box for _the prince of pikers_ to-night. hustle right on, now," and he gave the waiter a gentle but insistent shove on the arm that had all the effect of bustling him out of the room. "we'll show mr. pickins a good time," he exultantly declared. "we'll show him how easy it is to live on soft money like this." [illustration: "just keep the change," said wallingford grandly] wallingford had held the floor for fifteen solid minutes. now he paused for some one else to offer a remark, his eager eye glowing with the sense of a duty not only well, but brilliantly, performed, as it roved from one to the other in search of approval. but feeble encouragement was in any other eye. four men could have throttled him, singly and in company. wallingford was too enthusiastic an actor. he was taking the part entirely too well, and a vague doubt began to cross the minds of the other gentlemen in the party as to whether he would do or not. it was short-card larry who first recovered his poise and broke the dismal silence. "show him one or two of those new hundreds, mombley," he invited wallingford with almost a snarl. wallingford merely smiled in a superior way. "you know i never carry any but the genuine," he said in mild reproach. "it wouldn't do, you know. anyhow, are we sure that mr. pickins wants to invest?" mr. pickins drew a long breath and once more plunged into the character which he had almost doffed. "invest? well, i reckon!" he nasally drawled. "if i can get twenty thousand dollars as good money as that for five, i'd be a blame fool not to take it. and i got the five thousand, too." things were coming back to a normal basis now, and the others cheered up. "look here," mr. pickins went on, and, reaching down, he drew off with much tugging one of the high boots, in the top of which had reposed a package of greenbacks: ten crisp, nice-looking five-hundred-dollar bills. for just a moment wallingford eyed that money speculatively, then he picked up one of the bills and slid it through his fingers. "it's good money, i suppose," he observed. "you can hardly tell the good from the bad these days, except by offering to spend it. we might break one of these--say for an automobile ride." "no, you don't," hurriedly interposed mr. pickins, losing his nasal drawl for the moment and reaching for the bill, which he put back in the package, snapping a weak rubber band around it. "i reckon i don't let go of one of these bills till i see something in exchange. i--i ain't no greenhorn!" his nasal drawl had come back, and now seemed to be the cue for all the others to affect laughter. "to be sure he's not," said mr. phelps, reaching over to slap him on the back in all the jovial heartiness with which a greenhorn is supposed to be encouraged. "you're wise, all right, pickins. we wouldn't do business with you if you weren't. you see, we're putting ourselves in danger of the penitentiary and we have to be careful. more than that, wise people come back; and, with a dozen or so like mr. pickins shoving the queer for us, we put out about all we can make. nobody in the business, mr. pickins, gets as high a price for green-goods as we do, and nobody in the business keeps all their customers as we do. that's because our output is so good." this, which was one of the rehearsed speeches, went off very well, and they began to feel comfortable again. "that's me, by jinks!" announced pickins, slapping his leg. "i'll be one of your steady customers, all right. when'll i get this first twenty thousand?" "right away," said mr. phelps, rising. "just wait a moment till i talk it over with the engraver and see if he has the supply ready." "the supply's all right," declared wallingford. "these boys will 'tend to the business with you, mr. pickins. i'm very glad to have met you. i'll probably see you to-night at the show. i have to go back and look after a little more engraving just now." and, shaking hands cordially with mr. pickins, he rose to go. "wait a minute, mombley," said phelps amidst a general scowl, and he walked outside with wallingford. "fine work, old man," he complimented, keeping his suavity with no little effort. "we can go right in and pick our bunch of posies any minute." "go right ahead!" said wallingford heartily. "i'm glad to have helped you out a little." mr. phelps looked at him in sour speculation. "of course you're in on it," he observed with a great air of making a merely perfunctory remark. "me?" inquired wallingford in surprise. "not on your life. i only played engraver for accommodation. i thought i did a grand little piece of work, too." "but we can't go through without you," insisted mr. phelps desperately, ignoring the other's maddening complacency and sticking to the main point. "it takes twenty thousand and we only have five thousand apiece. we're looking to you for the other five." wallingford looked him squarely in the eyes, with an entire change of manner, and chuckled. "there are four reasons, phelps, why i won't," he kindly explained. "the first is, i never do anything in partnership; second, i never pike; third, i won't take a fall out of any game that has the brown-and-white-striped clothes at the end of it; fourth, billy might not get the satchels switched right; _extra, i won't fool with any farmer that strikes a match on the sole of his boot_!" the fifth and extra reason was so unexpected and was laid before mr. phelps with such meaning emphasis that that gentleman could only drop his jaw and gape in reply. wallingford laid both hands on his shoulders and chuckled in his face. "you're a fiercely unimaginative bunch," he said. "let's don't try to do any more business together. just come up to my room to-night and have a friendly game of stud poker." at last green-goods harry found his tongue. "you go to hell!" said he. back in their common sitting-room, wallingford found daw studying some gaudy samples of stock certificates. "blackie, did you tell this gang of yours that they didn't drink enough to suit me?" wallingford demanded. blackie grinned. "they wanted to know why you wouldn't warm up," he admitted. "i see the pretty, pretty lights at last," wallingford chuckled. "i was sure there was something doing when curly harry came up here claiming a thirst, and went so far as to drink champagne on top of a highball." "he's taking stomach and liver dope right now," blackie guessed. "you see, these broadway boys are handicapped when they run across a man who still has a lining. they lost theirs years ago." "they lost everything years ago. i'm disappointed in them, blackie. i had supposed that these people of the metropolis had herman the great looking like a bowery waiter when it came to smooth work; but they've got nothing but thumbs." "you do them deep wrong, j. rufus wallingford wix," admonished blackie. "i've trailed with this crowd four or five years. they're always to be found right here and they always have coin--whether they spend it or not." "they get it gold-bricking new yorkers, then," declared wallingford contemptuously. "they couldn't cold deck anybody on the rural free delivery routes. they wear the lemon sign on their faces, and when one of their kind comes west of the big hills we padlock all our money in our pockets and lock ourselves in jail till they get out of town." "what have they been doing to you?" asked blackie. "you've got a regular matteawan grouch." "they had the nerve to try to ring me in for the fall guy on a green-goods play, baited up with a stage farmer from one hundred and sixtieth street," asserted wallingford. "don't they ever spring a new one here?" mr. blackie daw only laughed. "i'm afraid they don't," he confessed. "they take the old ones that have got the money for years, and work in new props and scenery on them, just like they do in the theaters; and that goes for broadway." "it don't go for me," declared wallingford. "if they come after mine again i'll get real peevish and take their flash rolls away from them." "go to it," invited blackie. "they need a trimming." "i think i'll hand it to them," said wallingford savagely, and started to walk out. "where are you going?" asked the other. "i don't know," said wallingford, "but i am going to scare up some excitement in the only way possible for a stranger, and that is go out and hunt for it by myself. no new yorker knows where to go." in the bar wallingford found a convivial gentleman from georgia, lonesome like himself, with whom he became firm friends in an hour, and it was after midnight when, their friendship still further fixed by plenty of liquid cement, he left the georgian at one of the broad, bright entrances in charge of a door-man. it being but a few blocks to his own hotel, he walked, carrying with complacent satisfaction a burden of assorted beverages that would have staggered most men. it was while he was pausing upon his own corner for a moment to consider the past evening in smiling retrospection, that a big-boned policeman tapped him on the shoulder. he was startled for a moment, but a hearty voice reassured him with: "why, hello, wix, my boy! when did you come to town?" a smile broke over wallingford's face as he shook hands with the bluecoat. "hello, harvey," he returned. "i never would have looked for you in this make-up. it's a funny job for the ex-secretary of the filmore coal company." "forget it," returned harvey complacently. "there's three squares a day in this and pickings. where are you stopping?" wallingford told him, and then looked at him speculatively. "come up and see me when you go off watch," he invited. "but don't ask for me under the name of wix. it's wallingford now, j. rufus wallingford." "no!" said harvey. "what did you do at home?" "not a thing," protested wallingford. "i can go right back to filmore and play hop-scotch around the county jail if i want to. i just didn't like the name, that's all. but i want to talk with you, harvey. i think i can throw about a hundred or so in your way." "not me," returned harvey with a grin. "that's the price of a murder in this town." "come up, and i'll coax you," laughed wallingford. he walked away quite thoughtfully. harvey willis, who had left filmore on account of his fine sense of honor--he had embezzled to pay a poker debt--seemed suddenly to fit an empty and an aching void. chapter viii a third arm to the old-fashioned double cross "the fresh hick!" observed mr. pickins savagely. "i'd like to hand him a bunch of knuckles." mr. pickins was not now in character, but was clad in quite ordinary good clothes; his prominent cheek-bones, however, had become two white spots in the midst of an angrily red countenance. "i don't know as i blame him so much," said phelps. "the trouble is we sized him for about the intelligence of a louse. anybody who would stand for your hoop-pole county line of talk wouldn't need such a careful frame-up to make him lay down his money." "there's something to that," agreed short-card larry. "i always did say your work was too strong, pick." "there ain't another man in the crowd can play as good a rube," protested mr. pickins, touched deeply upon the matter of his art. "i don't know how many thousands we've cleaned up on that outfit of mine." "ye-e-es, but this wallingford person called the turn," insisted phelps. "the only times we ever made it stick was on the kind of farmers that work in eleven-story office buildings. you can fool a man with a stuffed dog, but you can't fool a dog with it; and you couldn't fool yap wallingford with a counterfeit yap." "well," announced mr. pickins, with emphatic finality, "you may have my part of him. i'm willing to let him go right back to oskaloosa, or oshkosh, or wherever it is." "not me," declared phelps. "i want to get him just on general principles. he's handed me too much flossy talk. you know the last thing he had the nerve to say? he invited us up to play stud poker with him." "why don't you?" asked pickins. "ask larry," said phelps with a laugh, whereat larry merely swore. badger billy, who had been silently listening with his eyes half closed, was possessed of a sudden inventive gift. "yes, why don't you?" he repeated. "if i read this village cut-up right, and i think i do, he'll take a sporting chance. get him over to the forty-second street dump on a proposition to play two-handed stud with harry there, then pull off a phoney pinch for gambling." "no chance," returned phelps. "he'd be on to that game; it's a dead one, too." "not if you work it this way," insisted billy, in whom the creative spirit was still strong. "tell him that we're all sore at harry, here; that harry threw the gang last night and got me put away. i'll have mcdermott take me down and lock me up on suspicion for a couple of hours, so you can bring him down and show me to him. tell him you've found a way to get square. harry's supposed to have a grouch about that stud poker taunt and wants to play wallingford two-handed, five thousand a side. tell him to go into this game, and that just when they have the money and the cards on the table, you'll pull off a phoney pinch and have your fake officer take the money and cards for evidence, then you'll split up with him." billy paused and looked around with a triumphant eye. it was a long, long speech for the badger, and a vivid bit of creative work of which he felt justly proud. "fine!" observed larry in deep sarcasm. "then i suppose we give him the blackjack and take it all away from him?" "no, you mutt," returned billy, having waited for this objection so as to bring out the clever part of his scheme as a climax. "just as we have dan pull off the pinch, in jumps sprig foles and pinches dan for impersonating an officer. then sprig cops the money and the cards for evidence, while we all make a get-away." a long and thoughtful silence followed the exposition of this great scheme of billy's. it was phelps who spoke first. "there's one thing about it," he admitted: "it's a new one." "grandest little double cross that was ever pulled over," announced billy in the pride of authorship. it was a matter of satisfaction, to say nothing of surprise, to short-card larry to note the readiness, even the alacrity, with which young wallingford fell into the trap. would he accept the traitorous mr. phelps' challenge if guaranteed that he would win? he would! there was nothing young wallingford detested so much as a traitor. moreover, he had a grouch at mr. phelps himself. short-card larry had expected to argue more than this, and, having argument still lying heavily upon his lungs, must rid himself of it. it must be distinctly understood that the crowd wanted nothing whatever out of this. they merely wished to see the foresworn mr. phelps lose all his money, so that he could not hire a lawyer to defend him, and when he was thus resourceless they intended to have him arrested on an old charge and "sent over." they were very severe and heartless about mr. phelps, but they did not want his money. they would not touch it! wallingford could have it all with the exception of the two hundred and fifty dollars he would have to pay to the experienced plain-clothes-man impersonator whom larry, having a wide acquaintance, would secure. mr. wallingford understood perfectly. he appreciated thoroughly the motives that actuated mr. larry teller and his friends, and those motives did them credit. he counted himself, moreover, highly fortunate in being on hand to take advantage of the situation. still moreover, after the trick was turned he would stand a fine dinner for the entire crowd, including mr. pickins, to whom mr. teller would kindly convey his, mr. wallingford's, respects. accepting this commission with some inward resentment but outward pleasure, mr. teller suggested that the game be played off that very afternoon. mr. wallingford was very sorry. that afternoon and evening he had business of grave importance. to-morrow evening, however, say at about nine o'clock, he would be on hand with the five thousand, in bills of convenient denomination. mr. teller might call for him at the hotel and escort him to the room, although, from having had the location previously pointed out to him, mr. wallingford was quite sure he could find mr. teller's apartment, where the contest was to take place. left alone, mr. wallingford, in the exuberance of his youth, lay back in his big chair and spent five solid minutes in chuckling self-congratulation, to the great mystification of the incoming mr. daw, whom j. rufus would not quite trust with his reason for mirth. feeling the need of really human companionship at this juncture, young wallingford called up his convivial friend from georgia and they went out to spend another busy and pleasant afternoon and evening, amid a rapidly widening circle of friends whom these two enterprising and jovial gentlemen had already managed to attach to them. with an eye to business, however, wallingford carefully timed their wanderings so that he should return, alone, on foot, to his own hotel a trifle after midnight. as mr. teller and mr. wallingford, on the following evening at a few minutes before nine, turned into the house on forty-second street, they observed a sturdy figure helping a very much inebriated man up the stone steps just before them, but as the sturdy figure inserted a latch-key in the door and opened it with one hand while supporting his companion with the other arm, the incident was not one to excite comment. just inside the door the inebriated man tried to raise a disturbance, which was promptly squelched by the sturdy gentleman, who held his charge firmly in a bearlike grip while mr. teller and mr. wallingford passed around them at the foot of the stairs, casting smiling glances down at the face of the perpetually-worried landlady, who had come to the parlor door to wonder what she ought to do about it. in the second floor back room mr. phelps and mr. badger already awaited them. mr. badger's greeting to larry was the ordinary greeting of one man who had seen the other within the hour; his greeting to mr. wallingford was most cordial and accompanied by the merest shade of a wink. mr. phelps, on the other hand, was most grim. while not denying the semblance of courtesy one gentleman should bestow upon another, he nevertheless gave mr. wallingford distinctly to understand by his bearing that he was out for mr. wallingford's financial blood, and after the coldest of greetings he asked gruffly: "did you bring cards?" "one dollar's worth," said wallingford, tossing four packs upon the table. "ordinary drug-store cards, bought at the corner." "you see them bought, larry?" inquired phelps. "they're all right, phelps," mr. teller assured him. "good," said mr. phelps. "then we might just as well get to work right away," and from his pocket he drew a fat wallet out of which he counted five thousand dollars, mostly in bills of large denomination. in the chair at the opposite side of the little table wallingford sat down with equal grimness, and produced an equal amount of money in similar denominations. "i don't suppose we need chips," said phelps. "the game may not last over a couple of deals. make it table stakes, loser of each hand to deal the next one." they opened a pack of cards and cut for the deal, which fell to wallingford, and they began with a mutual five-dollar ante. upon the turn card of the first deal each placed another five. upon the third card, phelps, being high, shoved forward a five-dollar bill, which wallingford promptly raised with fifty. scarcely glancing at his hole-card, phelps let him take the pot, and it became phelps' deal. it was a peculiar game, in that phelps kept the deal from then on, betting mildly until wallingford raised, in which case wallingford was allowed to take down the money. by this means wallingford steadily won, but in such small amounts that mr. phelps could have kept playing for hours on his five thousand dollars in spite of the annoyance of maudlin quarreling from the next room. it was not necessary to enter such a long test of endurance to gain mere time, however, for in less than a half-hour the door suddenly burst open, its latch-bar losing its screws with suspicious ease, and a gaunt but muscular-looking individual with a down-drooping mustache strode in upon them, displaying a large shining badge pinned on his vest underneath his coat. "every man keep his seat!" commanded this apparition. "the place is pinched as a gambling joint." mr. phelps made a grab for the money on the table. "drop that!" said the new-comer, making a motion toward his hip pocket, and mr. phelps subsided in his chair. the others had posed themselves most dramatically, and now they sat in motionless but trembling obedience to the law, while the man with the tin badge produced from his pocket a little black bag into which he stuffed the cards and all the money on the table. "it's a frame-up!" shouted mr. phelps. loud voices and the overturning of chairs from the room just ahead interrupted them at this moment, and not only mr. badger and mr. teller and mr. phelps looked annoyed, but the man with the shining badge glanced apprehensively in that direction, especially as, added to the sudden uproar, there was the unmistakable clang of a patrol-wagon in the street. simultaneously with this there bounded into the room a large gentleman with a red face and a husky voice, who whipped a revolver from his pocket the minute he passed the threshold and leveled it at the man with the badge, while all the others sprang from their chairs. "hands up!" said he, in a hurried but businesslike manner, himself apparently annoyed with and apprehensive of the adjoining disturbance and the clanging in the street. "this is a sure-enough pinch, but it ain't for gambling, you can bet your sweet life! you're all pulled for a bunch of cheap sure-thing experts, but this guy has got the lock-step comin' to him for impersonating an officer. you've played that gag too long, dan blazer. give me that evidence!" and he snatched the black bag from the hand of the man with the badge. short-card larry, standing near what was apparently a closet door, now took his cue and threw it open, and, grabbing wallingford by the arm, suddenly pulled him forward. "this is the real thing," he said in a hoarse whisper. "we've got to make a get-away or go up. they're fierce on us here if the pinch once comes." "hello, boys," broke in a third new voice, and then the real shock came. the third new voice was not in the play at all, and the consternation it wrought was more than ludicrous. wallingford, drawing back for a moment, was nearly knocked off his feet by fat badger billy's dashing past him through that door to the back stairway, closely followed by mr. phelps, and mr. phelps was trailed almost as closely by the gaunt man of the badge. glancing toward the door, mr. wallingford smiled beatifically. the cause of all this sudden exodus was huge harvey willis, in his blue suit and brass buttons and helmet, with a club in his hand, who, making one dive for the husky red-faced man as he, too, was bent on disappearing, whanged him against the wall with a blow upon the head from his billy; and as the red-faced man fell over, harvey grabbed the black bag. the crash of a breaking water-pitcher from the adjoining room, the shrill voice of a protesting and frightened landlady as she came tearing up the stairs, and the clamor of one of those lightning-collected mobs in front of the house around the patrol-wagon, created a diversion in the midst of which harvey willis started out into the hall, a circumstance which gave the dazed red-faced man an opportunity to stagger down the back stairway and out through the alley after his companions, whom wallingford had already followed. they were not waiting for him, by any means, but this time were genuinely interested in getting away from the law, each man darkly suspicious of all the others, and wallingford, alone, serene in mind. in the hall, willis, with a grin, thrust the black bag into his big pocket, and turned his attention to the terrified landlady and his brother officer of the wagon, who was just then mounting the stairs. "case of plain coke jag," he explained, and burst into the noisy room, from which the two presently emerged with the shrieking and inebriated man who had been brought up-stairs but a short while before. in wallingford's room that night, blackie daw was just starting for boston when harvey willis, now off duty, came up with the little black bag, which he dropped upon the table, sitting down in one of the big chairs and laughing hugely. "mr. daw, shake hands with mr. willis, a friend of mine from filmore," said wallingford. "order a drink, daw." as he spoke, he untied the bag, and, taking its lower corners, sifted the mixture of cards and greenbacks upon the table. daw, in the act of shaking hands, stopped with gaping jaws. "what in moses is that?" he asked. "merely a little contribution from your broadway friends," wallingford explained with a chuckle. "harvey, what do i owe out of this?" "well," said harvey, sitting down again and naming over the cast of characters on his fingers, "there's seven dollars for the room, and the tenner i gave sawyer to go down on park row and hunt up a coke jag. sawyer gets fifty. we ought to slip a twenty to the wagon-man. sawyer will have to pay about a ten-case note for broken furniture, and i suppose you'll want to pay this poor coke dip's fine. that's all, except me." "ninety-seven dollars, besides the fine," said wallingford, counting it up. "suppose we say a hundred and fifty to cover all expenses, and about three hundred and fifty for you. how would that do?" "fine!" agreed harvey. "stay right here and keep me busy at the price." "not me," said wallingford warmly. "i only did this because i was peevish. i don't like this kind of money. it may not be honest money. i don't know how phelps and banting and teller got this money." blackie daw came solemnly over and shook hands with him. "stay amongst our midst, j. rufus," he pleaded. "we need an infusion of live ones on broadway. our best workers have grown jaded and effete, and our reputation is suffering. stay, oh, stay!" "no," refused j. rufus positively. "i don't want to have anything more to do with crooks!" chapter ix in which j. rufus hears of some egyptians worth spoiling it was in a spirit of considerable loneliness that wallingford came back from seeing blackie daw to the midnight train, for he had grown to like blackie very well indeed. moreover, his friend from georgia was gone, and quite disconsolate, for him, he stood in front of the hotel wondering about his next move. fate sent him a cab, from which popped a miniature edition of the man from georgia. the new-comer, who had not waited for the cab door to be opened for him, immediately offered to bet his driver the price of the fare that the horse would eat bananas. he was a small, clean, elderly gentleman, of silvery-white hair and mustache, who must have been near sixty, but who possessed, temporarily at least, the youth and spirits of thirty; and he was one of that sort of looking men to whom one instinctively gives a title. "can't take a chance, governor," said the driver, grinning. "i might as well go jump off the dock as go back to the stand without them four dollars. i'm in bad, anyhow." "i'll bet you the tip, then," offered the very-much-alive elderly gentleman, flourishing a five-dollar bill. "all right," agreed the driver, eying the money. "nothing or two dollars." "no, you don't! not with silas fox, you don't!" promptly disputed that gentleman. "first comes out of the dollar change two bits for bananas, and then the bet is nothing or a dollar and a half that your horse'll eat 'em. why, any horse'll eat bananas," he added, turning suddenly to wallingford. with the habit of shrewdness he paused for a thorough inspection of j. rufus, whose bigness and good grooming and jovial pinkness of countenance were so satisfactory that mr. fox promptly made up his mind the young man could safely be counted as one of the pleasures of existence. "i'll bet _you_ this horse'll eat bananas," he offered. "i'm not acquainted with the horse," objected wallingford, with no more than reasonable caution. "i don't even know its name. what do you want to bet?" "anything from a drink to a hundred dollars." j. rufus threw back his head and chuckled in a most infectious manner, his broad shoulders shaking and his big chest heaving. "i'll take you for the drink," he agreed. two strapping big fellows in regulation khaki came striding past the hotel, and mr. fox immediately hailed them. "here, you boys," he commanded, with a friendly assurance born of the feeling that to-night all men were brothers; "you fellows walk across the street there and get me a quarter's worth of real ripe bananas." the soldiers stopped, perplexed, but only for an instant. the driver of the cab was grinning, the door-man of the hotel was grinning, the prosperous young man by the curb was grinning, and the well-dined and wined elderly gentleman quite evidently expected nothing in this world but friendly complaisance. "all right, senator," acquiesced the boys in khaki, themselves catching the grinning contagion; and quite cheerfully they accepted a quarter, wheeled abreast, marched over to the fruit stand, bought the ripest bananas on sale, wheeled, and marched back. selecting the choicest one with great gravity and care, mr. silas fox peeled it and prepared for the great test. the driver leaned forward interestedly; the two in khaki gathered close behind; the large young man chuckled as he watched; the horse poked forward his nose gingerly, then sniffed--then turned slowly away! mr. fox was shocked. he caught that horse gently by the opposite jaw, and drew the head toward him. this time the horse did not even sniff. it shook its head, and, being further urged, jerked away so decidedly that it drew its tormentor off the curb, and he would have fallen had not wallingford caught him by the arm. "i win," declared the driver with relief, gathering up his lines. "not yet," denied mr. fox, and stepping forward he put his arm around the horse's neck and tried to force the banana into its mouth. this time the horse was so vigorous in its objection that the man came near being trampled underfoot, and it was only on the unanimous vote of the big man and the two in khaki that he profanely gave up the attempt. "not that i mind losing the bet," announced mr. fox in apology, "but i'm disappointed in the be damned horse. that horse loves bananas and i know it, but he's just stubborn. here's your money," and he gave the driver his five-fifty; "and here's the rest of the bananas. when you get back to the barn you try that horse and see if he won't eat 'em, after he's cooled down and in his stall." "all right," laughed the driver, and started away. as he turned the corner he was peeling one of the bananas. the loser looked after the horse reluctantly, and sighed in finality. "come on, young man, let's go get that drink," he said. delighted to have found company of happy spirit, wallingford promptly turned with the colonel into the hotel bar. "can you beat it?" asked one big soldier of the other as both looked after the departing couple in pleased wonder. at about the same second the new combination was falling eagerly and vigorously into conversation upon twelve topics at once. "you can't do anything without you have a pull," was silas fox's fallacious theory of life, as summed up in the intimate friendship of the second bottle. "that's why i left new jersey. i had a national building and loan association organized down there that would have been a public benefactor and a private joy; in business less than six months, and already nine hundred honest working-men paying in their dollar and a quarter a week; eleven hundred and fifty a week for us to handle, and the amount growing every month." "that's a pretty good start," commented j. rufus, considering the matter carefully as he eyed the stream of ascending bubbles in his hollow-stemmed glass. "no matter what business you're in, if you have a package of clean, new, fresh dollars every week to handle, some of it is bound to settle to the bottom; but there mustn't be too many to swallow the settlings." "six of us on the inside," mused the other. "doc turner, who sells real estate only to people who can't pay for it; ebenezer squinch, a lawyer that makes a specialty of widows and orphans and damage claims; tom fester, who runs the nicest little chattel-mortgage company that ever collected a life income from a five-dollar bill; andy grout, who has been conducting a prosperous instalment business for ten years on the same old stock of furniture; and jim christmas, who came in from the farm ten years ago to become a barber, shaving nothing but notes." young wallingford sat lost in admiration. "what a lovely bunch of citizens to train a growing young dollar; to teach it to jump through hoops and lay down and roll over," he declared. "and i suppose you were in a similar line, judge?" he ventured. "nothing like it," denied the judge emphatically. "i was in a decent, respectable loan business. collateral loans were my specialty." "i see," said j. rufus, chuckling. "all mankind were not your brothers, exactly, but your brothers' children." "making me the universal uncle, yes," admitted mr. fox, then he suddenly puffed up with pride in his achievements. "and i do say," he boasted, "that i could give any jew cards and spades at the game and still beat him out on points. i reckon i invented big casino, little casino and the four aces in the pawn brokerage business. let alone my gage of the least a man would take, i had it fixed so that they could slip into my place by the front door, from the drug-store on one side, from the junk-yard on the other, from the saloon across the alley in the rear, and down-stairs, from the hall leading to doc turner's office." lost in twinkling-eyed admiration of his own cleverness he lapsed into silence, but j. rufus, eager for information, aroused him. "but why did you blow the easy little new company?" he wanted to know. "i could understand it if you had been running a local building-loan company, for in that the only salaried officer is the secretary, who gets fifty cents a year, and the happy home-builders pile up double compound interest for the wise members who rent; but with a national company it's different. a national building-loan company's business is to collect money to juggle with, for the exclusive benefit of the officers." "you're a bright young man," said mr. fox admiringly. "but the business was such a cinch it began to get crowded, and so the lawmakers, who were mostly stock-holders in the three biggest companies, had a spasm of virtue, and passed such stringent laws for the protection of poor investors that no new company could do any business. we tried to buy a pull but it was no use; there wasn't pull enough to go round; so i'm going to retire and enjoy myself. this country's getting too corrupt to do business in," and mr. fox relapsed into sorrowful silence over the degeneracy of the times. when his sorrow had become grief--midway of another bottle--a house detective prevailed upon him to go to bed, leaving young wallingford to loneliness and to thought--also to settle the bill. this, however, he did quite willingly. the evening had been worth much in an educational way, and, moreover, it had suggested vast, immediate possibilities. these possibilities might have remained vague and formless--mere food for idle musing--had it not been for one important circumstance: while the waiter was making change he picked some folded papers from the floor and laid them at wallingford's hand. opened, this packet of loose leaves proved to be a list of several hundred names and addresses. there could be no riddle whatever about this document; it was quite obviously a membership roster of the defunct building-loan association. "the judge ought to have a duplicate of this list; a single copy's so easy to lose," mused wallingford with a grin; so, out of the goodness of his heart, he sat up in his room until very late indeed, copying those pages with great care. when he sent the original to mr. fox's room in the morning, however, he very carelessly omitted to send the duplicate, and, indeed, omitted to think of remedying the omission until after mr. fox had left the hotel for good. oh, well, a list of that sort was a handy thing for anybody to have around. the names and addresses of nine hundred people naive enough to pay a dollar and a quarter a week to a concern of whose standing they knew absolutely nothing, was a really valuable curiosity indeed. it was pleasant to think upon, in a speculative way. another inspiring thought was the vision of doc turner and ebenezer squinch and tom fester and andy grout and jim christmas, with plenty of money to invest in a dubious enterprise. it seemed to be a call to arms. it would be a noble and a commendable thing to spoil those egyptians; to smite them hip and thigh! chapter x introducing a novel means of eating cake and having it too doc turner and ebenezer squinch and tom fester, all doing business on the second floor of the old turner building, were thrown into a fever of curiosity by the tall, healthy, jovial young man with the great breadth of white-waistcoated chest, who had rented the front suite of offices on their floor. his rooms he fitted up regardless of expense, and he immediately hired an office-boy, a secretary and two stenographers, all of whom were conspicuously idle. doc turner, who had a long, thin nose with a bluish tip, as if it had been case-tempered for boring purposes, was the first to scrape acquaintance with the jovial young gentleman, but was chagrined to find that though mr. wallingford was most democratic and easily approachable, still he was most evasive about his business. nor could any of his office force be "pumped." "the people's mutual bond and loan company" was the name which a sign painter, after a few days, blocked out upon the glass doors, but the mere name was only a whet to the aggravated appetites of the other tenants. turner and fester and squinch were in the latter's office, discussing the mystery with some trace of irritation, when the source of it walked in upon them. "i'm glad to find you all together," said young wallingford breezily, coming at once to the point of his visit. "i understand that you gentlemen were once a part of the directorate of a national building and loan company which suspended business." ebenezer squinch, taking the chair by virtue of his being already seated with his long legs elevated upon his own desk, craned forward his head upon an absurdly slender neck, which much resembled that of a warty squash, placed the tips of his wrinkled fingers together and gazed across them at wallingford quite judicially. "suppose we were to admit that fact?" he queried, in non-committal habit. "i am informed that you had a membership of some nine hundred when you suspended business," wallingford went on, "and among your effects you have doubtless retained a list of that membership." "doubtless," assented lawyer squinch after a thoughtful pause, deciding that he might, at least partially, admit that much. "what will you take for that list, or a copy of it?" went on mr. wallingford. mr. turner, mr. squinch and mr. fester looked at one another in turn. in the mind of each gentleman there instantly sprang a conjecture, not as to the actual value of that list, but as to how much money young wallingford had at his command. both mr. fester and mr. turner sealing their mouths tightly, mr. fester straightly and mr. turner pursily, looked to mr. squinch for an adequate reply, knowing quite well that their former partner would do nothing ill-considered. "m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m," nasally hesitated mr. squinch after long cogitation; "this list, mr. wallingford, is very valuable indeed, and i am quite sure that none of us here would think of setting a price on it until we had called into consultation our other former directors, mr. grout and mr. christmas." "let me know as soon as you can, gentlemen," said mr. wallingford. "i would like a price by to-morrow afternoon at two o'clock, at least." another long pause. "i think," stated mr. squinch, as deliberately and as carefully as if he were announcing a supreme court decision--"i think that we may promise an answer by to-morrow." they were all silent, very silent, as mr. wallingford walked out, but the moment they heard his own door close behind him conjecture began. "i wonder how much money he's got," speculated fish-white doc turner, rubbing his claw-like hands softly together. "he's stopping at the telford hotel and occupies two of the best rooms in the house," said blocky mr. fester, he of the bone-hard countenance and the straight gash where his lips ought to be. "he handed me a hundred-dollar bill to take the change out of for the first month's rent in advance," supplemented doc turner, who was manager of the turner block. "he wears very large diamonds, i notice," observed squinch. "i imagine, gentlemen, that he might be willing to pay quite two thousand dollars." "he's young," assented mr. turner, warming his hands over the thought. "and reckless," added mr. fester, with a wooden appreciation that was his nearest approach to a smile. their estimate of the youth and recklessness of the lamb-like mr. wallingford was such that they mutually paused to muse upon it, though not at all unpleasantly. "suppose that we say twenty-five hundred," resumed mr. squinch. "that will give each of the five of us five hundred dollars apiece. at that rate i'd venture to speak for both grout and christmas." "we three have a majority vote," suggested doc turner. "however, it's easy enough to see them." "need we do so?" inquired mr. squinch, in slow thought. "we might--" and then he paused, struck by a sudden idea, and added hastily: "oh, of course, we'll have to give them a voice in the matter. i'll see them to-night." "all right," assented doc turner, rising with alacrity and looking at his watch. "by the way, i have to see a man. i pretty near overlooked it." "that reminds me," said mr. fester, heaving himself up ponderously and putting on the hat which should have been square, "i have to foreclose a mortgage this afternoon." mr. squinch also rose. it had occurred to all three of them simultaneously to go privately to the two remaining members and buy out their interest in the list for the least possible money. j. rufus found the full board in session, however, when he walked into mr. squinch's office on the following afternoon. mr. grout was a loose-skinned man of endless down-drooping lines, the corners of his eyelids running down past his cheek-bones, the corners of his nose running down past his mouth, the corners of his mouth running down past his chin. mr. christmas had over-long, rusty-gray hair, bulbous red ears, and an appalling outburst of scarlet veins netted upon his copper-red countenance. notwithstanding their vast physical differences, however, wallingford reflected that he had never seen five men who, after all, looked more alike. and why not, since they were all of one mind? by way of illustrating the point, mr. grout and mr. christmas, finding that the list in question had some value, and knowing well their former partners, had steadfastly refused to sell, and the five of them, meeting upon the common ground of self-interest, had agreed to one thing--that they would ask five thousand dollars for the list, and take what they could get. when the price was named to him, mr. wallingford merely chuckled, and observed, as he turned toward the door: "you are mistaken, gentlemen. i did not want to buy out your individual businesses. i am willing to give you one thousand dollars in stock of my company, which will be two shares each." the gentlemen could not think of that. it was preposterous. they would not consider any other than a cash offer to begin with, nor less than twenty-five hundred to end with. "very well, then," said j. rufus; "i can do without your list," which was no matter for wonder, since he had a duplicate of it in his desk at that very moment. * * * * * henry smalzer was the first man on that defunct building and loan company list, and him wallingford went to see. he found mr. smalzer in a little shoe repair shop, with a shoe upturned on his knee and held firmly in place by a strap passing under his foot. mr. smalzer had centrifugal whiskers, and long habit of looking up without rising from his work had given his eyes a coldly suspicious look. moreover, socialistic argument, in red type, was hung violently upon the walls, and mr. wallingford, being a close student of the psychological moment and man, merely had a loose shoe-button tightened. the next man on the list was a barber with his hair parted in the middle and hand-curled in front. in the shop was no literature but the police gazette, and in the showcase were six brands of stogies and one brand of five-cent cigars. here mr. wallingford merely purchased a shave, reflecting that he could put a good germicide on his face when he returned to the hotel. he began to grow impatient when he found that his third man kept a haberdashery, but, nevertheless, he went in. a clerk of the pale-eyed, lavender-tie type was gracing the front counter, but in the rear, at a little standing desk behind a neat railing, stood one who was unmistakably the proprietor, though he wore a derby hat cocked on his head and a big cigar cocked in the opposite corner of his mouth. tossed on the back part of the desk was a race-track badge, and the man was studying a form sheet! "mr. merrill, i believe," said wallingford confidently approaching that gentleman and carelessly laying his left hand--the one with the three-carat diamond upon the third finger--negligently upon the rail. mr. merrill's keen, dark-gray eyes rested first upon that three-carat ring, then upon the three-carat stone in mr. wallingford's carmine cravat, then upon mr. wallingford's jovial countenance with the multiplicity of smile wrinkles about the eyes, and mr. merrill himself smiled involuntarily. "the same," he admitted. "mr. merrill," propounded wallingford, "how would you like to borrow from ten dollars to five thousand, for four years, without interest and without security?" mr. merrill's eyes narrowed, and the flesh upon his face became quite firm. "not if i have to pay money for it," he announced, and the conversation would have ended right there had it not been for wallingford's engaging personality, a personality so large and comprehensive that it made mr. merrill reflect that, though this jovial stranger was undoubtedly engineering a "skin game," he was quite evidently "no piker," and was, therefore, entitled to courteous consideration. "what you have to pay won't break you," said wallingford, laughing, and presented a neatly engraved card conveying merely the name of the people's mutual bond and loan company, the fact that it was incorporated for a hundred thousand dollars, and that the capital was all paid in. "a loan bond," added mr. wallingford, "costs you one dollar, and the payments thereafter are a dollar and a quarter a week." mr. merrill nodded as he looked at the card. "i see," said he. "it's one of those pleasant little games, i suppose, where the first man in gets the money of the next dozen, and the last five thousand hold the bag." "i knew you'd guess wrong," said wallingford cheerfully. "the plan's entirely different. everybody gets a chance. with every payment you sign a loan application and your receipt is numbered, giving you four numbered receipts in the month. every month one-fourth of the loan fund is taken out for a grand annual distribution, and the balance is distributed in monthly loans." "oh!" exclaimed mr. merrill, the firmness of his facial muscles relaxing and the cold look in his eyes softening. "a lottery? now i'm listening." "well," replied wallingford, smiling, "we can't call it that, you know." "i'll take a chance," said mr. merrill. mr. wallingford, with rare wisdom, promptly stopped argument and produced a beautifully printed "bond" from his pocket, which he made out in mr. merrill's name. "i might add," said j. rufus, after having taken another careful inspection of mr. merrill, "that you win the first prize, payable in the shape of food and drink. i'd like to have you take dinner with me at the hotel this evening." mr. merrill, from force of habit, looked at his watch, then looked at mr. wallingford speculatively. "don't mind if i do," said he, quite well satisfied that the dinner would be pleasant. in his own carpenter-shop wallingford found mr. albert wright at a foot-power circular-saw, with his hair and his eyebrows and his mustache full of the same fine, white wood dust that covered his overalls and jumper; and up over the saw, against the wall, was tacked the time-yellowed placard of a long-since-eaten strawberry festival. with his eyes and his mind upon this placard, mr. wallingford explained his new boon to humanity: the great opportunity for a four-year loan, without interest or security, of from ten dollars to five thousand. "but this is nothing more nor less than a lottery, under another name," objected mr. wright, poising an accusing finger, his eyes, too, unconsciously straying to the strawberry festival placard. "not a bit of it," denied wallingford, shocked beyond measure. "it is merely a mutual benefit association, where a large number of people pool their small sums of money to make successive large ones. for instance, suppose that a hundred of you should band together to put in one dollar a week, the entire hundred dollars to go to a different member each week? each one would be merely saving up a hundred dollars, but, in place of every one of the entire hundred of you having to wait a hundred weeks to save his hundred dollars, one of you would be saving it in one week, while the longest man in would only have to pay the hundred weeks. it is merely a device, mr. wright, for concentrating the savings of a large number of people." mr. wright was forcibly impressed with wallingford's illustration, but, being a very bright man, he put that waving, argumentative finger immediately upon a flaw. "half of that hundred people would not stay through to the end, and somebody would get left," he objected, well pleased with himself. "precisely," agreed mr. wallingford. "that is just what our company obviates. every man who drops out helps the man who stays in, by not having any claim upon the redemption fund. the redemption fund saves us from being a lottery. when you have paid in two hundred and fifty dollars your bond matures and you get your money back." "out of--" hesitated mr. wright, greatly perplexed. "the redemption fund. it is supplied from returned loans." again the bright mr. wright saw a radical objection. "half of those people would not pay back their loans," said he. "we figure that a certain number would not pay," admitted wallingford, "but there would be a larger proportion than you think who would. for instance, you would pay back your loan at the end of four years, wouldn't you, mr. wright?" mr. wright was hastily sure of it, though he became thoughtful immediately thereafter. "so would a large majority of the others," wallingford went on. "honesty is more prevalent than you would imagine, sir. however, all our losses from this source will be made up by lapsation. _lapsation!_" mr. wallingford laid emphatic stress upon this vital principle and fixed mr. wright's mild blue eyes with his own glittering ones. "a man who drops a payment on his bond gets nothing back--that is a part of his contract--and the steady investor reaps the benefit, as he should. suppose you hold bond number ten; suppose at the time of maturity, bonds number three, five, six, eight and nine have lapsed, after having paid in from one-fourth to three-fourths of their money; that leaves only bonds one, two, four, seven and ten to be paid from the redemption fund. i don't suppose you understand how large a percentage of lapsation there is. let me show you." from his pocket mr. wallingford produced a little red book, showing how in industrial and fraternal insurance the percentage of lapsation amounts to a staggering percentage, thus reducing by forfeited capital the cost of insurance in those organizations. "so you see, mr. wright," concluded wallingford, snapping shut the book and putting it in his pocket, "this, in the end, is only a splendid device for saving money and for using it while you are saving it." on this ground, after much persuasion, he sold a bond to the careful mr. wright, and quit work for the day, well satisfied with his two dollars' commission. at a fifteen-dollar dinner that evening mr. merrill found him a good fellow, and, being interested not only in wallingford's "lottery" but in wallingford himself, gave him the names of a dozen likely members. later he even went so far as to see some of them himself on behalf of the company. two days after that mr. wallingford called again on his careful carpenter, and from that gentleman secured a personal recommendation to a few friends of mr. wright's particular kind. chapter xi wherein blackie daw plays a brief character bit andy grout came into doc turner's office in a troubled mood, every down-drooping line in his acid countenance absolutely vertical. "we've made a mistake," he squeaked. "this young wallingford is a hustler, and he's doing some canvassing himself. in the past week he's taken at least forty members for his loan company, and every man jack of them are old members of ours." doc turner began rubbing his frosted hands together at a furious rate. "squinch has sold us out!" he charged. "he's let wallingford copy that list on the sly!" "no, i don't think so," said grout, more lugubrious than ever. "i made some inquiries. you know, a lot of these fellows are customers of mine, and i find that he just happened to land on some of them in the first place. one recommends him to the others, just as we got them. if we don't sell him that list right away he won't need it." together they went to squinch and explained the matter, very much to that gentleman's discomfiture and even agitation. "what's his plan of operation, anyhow?" complained squinch. "i don't understand it," returned andy. "i found out this much, though: the members all expect to get rich as soon as the company starts operating." mr. squinch pounded his long finger-tips together for some time while he pondered the matter. "it might be worth while to have a share or two of stock in his company, merely to find out his complete plan," he sagely concluded. "if he's getting members that easy it's quite evident there is some good money to be made on the inside." this was the unanimous opinion of the entire five members of the board of directors, and as each member was in positive pain on the subject of "good money on the inside," they called a meeting that very afternoon in mr. squinch's office, inviting mr. wallingford to attend, which he did with inward alacrity but outward indifference. "mr. wallingford," said mr. squinch, "we have about decided to accept your offer for our list, but before doing so we will have to ask you to explain to us the organization of your company." "very simple," wallingford told them cheerfully. "it's incorporated for a hundred thousand dollars; a thousand shares of a hundred dollars each." "all paid in?" mr. squinch wanted to know. "all paid in," replied mr. wallingford calmly. "indeed!" commented mr. squinch. "who owns the stock?" "my four office assistants own one share each and i own the balance." a smile pervaded the faces of all but one of the members of the board of directors of the defunct national building and loan association. even tom fester's immovable countenance presented a curiously strained appearance. strange as it may seem, the dummy-director idea was no novelty in new jersey. "i take it, then, that the paid-in capitalization of the company is not represented in actual cash," said mr. squinch. "no," admitted wallingford cheerfully. "as a matter of fact, at our first meeting the directors paid me ninety-five thousand dollars for my plan of operation." again broad smiles illuminated the faces of the four, and this time tom fester actually accomplished a smile himself, though the graining might be eternally warped. "then you started in business," sagely deduced mr. squinch, with the joined finger-tip attitude of a triumphant cross-examiner, "having but a total cash capitalization of five thousand dollars." "exactly," admitted wallingford, chuckling. there was no reservation whatever about mr. wallingford. he seemed to regard the matter as a very fair joke. "you are a very bright young man," mr. squinch complimented him, and that opinion was reflected in the faces of the others. "and what is your plan of loans, mr. wallingford?" "also very simple," replied the bright young man. "the members are in loan groups, corresponding to the lodges of secret societies, and, in fact, their meetings are secret meetings. each member pays in a dollar and a quarter a week, and the quarter goes into the expense fund." the five individually and collectively nodded their heads. "expense fund," interpolated doc turner, his blue-tipped nose wrinkling with the enjoyment transmitted from his whetting palms, "meaning yourself." "exactly," agreed wallingford. "the dollar per week goes into the loan fund, but at the start there will be no loans made until there is a thousand dollars in the fund. ten per cent. of this will be taken out for loan investigations and the payment of loan officers." "meaning, again, yourself," squeaked andy grout, his vertical lines making obtuse bends. "exactly," again agreed wallingford. "twenty-five per cent. goes to the grand annual loan, and the balance will be distributed in loans as follows: one loan of two hundred and fifty dollars, one loan of one hundred, one of fifty, four of twenty-five and fifteen of ten dollars each. these loans will be granted without other security than an unindorsed note of hand, payable in four years, without interest, and the loans will be made at the discretion of the loan committee, meeting in secret session." mr. squinch drew a long breath. "a lottery!" he exclaimed. "hush!" said j. rufus, chuckling. "impossible. every man gets his money back. each member takes out a bond which matures in about four years, if he keeps up his steady payments of a dollar and a quarter a week without lapsation beyond four weeks, which four weeks may be made up on additional payment of a fine of twenty-five cents for each delinquent week, all fines, of course, going into the expense fund." doc turner's palms were by this time quite red from the friction. "and how, may i ask, are these bonds to be redeemed?" asked mr. squinch severely. "in their numbered order," announced mr. wallingford calmly, "from returned loans. when bond number one, for instance, is fully paid up, its face value will be two hundred and fifty dollars. if there is two hundred and fifty dollars in the redemption fund at that time--which the company, upon the face of the bonds, definitely refuses to guarantee, not being responsible for the honesty of its bond-holders--bond number one gets paid; if not, bond number one waits until sufficient money has been returned to the fund, and number two--or number five, say, if two, three and four have lapsed--waits its redemption until number one has been paid." a long and simultaneous sigh from five breasts attested the appreciation of his auditors for mr. wallingford's beautiful plan of operation. "no," announced mr. squinch, placing his finger-tips ecstatically together, "your plan is not a lottery." "not by any means," agreed doc turner, rubbing his palms. jim christmas, who never committed himself orally if he could help it, now chuckled thickly in his throat, and the scarlet network upon his face turned crimson. "i think, mr. wallingford," said mr. squinch, "i think that we will accept your offer of two shares of stock each for our list." mr. wallingford, having succeeded in giving these gentlemen a grasping personal interest in his profits, diplomatically withheld his smile for a private moment, and, turning over to each of the five gentlemen two shares of his own stock in the company, accepted the list. afterward, in entering the item in his books, he purchased for the company, from himself, ten shares of stock for one thousand dollars, paying himself the cash, and charged the issue of stock to the expense fund. then he sat back and waited for the next move. it could not but strike such closely calculating gentlemen as the new members that here was a concern in which they ought to have more than a paltry two shares each of stock. each gentleman, exercising his rights as a stock-holder, had insisted on poring carefully over the constitution and by-laws, the charter, the "bonds," and all the other forms and papers. each, again in his capacity of stock-holder, had kept careful track of the progress of the business, of the agents that were presently put out, and of the long list of names rapidly piling up in the card-index; and each made hints to j. rufus about the purchase of additional stock, becoming regretful, however, when they found that the shares were held strictly at par. in this triumphant period wallingford was aggravatingly jovial, even exasperating, in the crowing tone he took. "how are we getting along? fine!" he declared to each stock-holder in turn. "inside of six months we'll have a membership of ten thousand!" and they were forced to believe him. probably none of the ex-members of the defunct loan association was so annoyed over the condition of affairs as ebenezer squinch, nor so nervously interested. "i thought you intended to begin collecting your weekly payments when you had two hundred and fifty members," he protested to wallingford, "but you have close to five hundred now." "that's just the point," explained wallingford. "i'm doing so much better than i thought that i don't intend to start the collections until i have a full thousand, which will let me have four thousand in the very first loan fund, making two hundred and fifty a week to the expense fund and a hundred a week for the loan committee, besides one thousand dollars toward the grand annual distribution. that will give me twenty-six hundred to be divided in one loan of a thousand, one of five hundred, one of two hundred and fifty, two of a hundred, four of fifty, ten of twenty-five, and twenty of ten dollars each; a grand distribution of thirty-nine loans in all. that keeps it from being a piker bet; and think what the first distribution and every distribution will do toward getting future membership! and they'll grow larger every month. i don't think it'll take me all that six months to get my ten thousand members." mr. squinch, over his tightly pressed finger-tips, did a little rapid figuring. a membership of ten thousand would make a total income for the office, counting expense fund and loan committee fund, of three thousand five hundred per week, steadily, week in and week out, with endless possibilities of increase. "and what did you say you would take for a half interest?" he asked. "i didn't say," returned wallingford, chuckling, "because i wouldn't sell a half interest under any consideration. i don't mind confessing to you, though, that i do need some money at once, so much so that i would part with four hundred and ninety-nine shares, right now, and for spot cash, for a lump sum of twenty-five thousand dollars." "bound to keep control himself," mr. squinch reported to his _confrères_, after having reluctantly confessed to himself that he could not take care of the proposition alone. "i don't blame him so much, either, for he's got a vast money-maker." "money without end," complained andy grout, his mouth stretching sourly down to the shape of a narrow croquet wicket; "and the longer we stay out of this thing the more money we're losing. it's better than any building-loan." there was a curious hesitation in andy grout's voice as he spoke of the building-loan, for he had been heartbroken that they had been compelled to give up this lucrative business, and he was not over it yet. doc turner rubbed his perpetually lifeless hands together quite slowly. "i don't know whether we're losing money or not," he interjected. "there is no question but that wallingford will make it, but i suppose you know why he won't sell a half interest." "so he won't lose control," said squinch, impatient that of so obvious a fact any explanation should be required. "but why does he want to keep control?" persisted doc turner. "why, so he can vote himself a big salary as manager. no matter how much he made we'd get practically no dividends." it was shrewd andy grout whose high squeak broke the long silence following this palpable fact. "it seems to me we're a lot of plumb idiots, anyhow," he shrilled. "he wants twenty-five thousand for less than fifty per cent. of the stock. that's five thousand apiece for us. i move we put in the five thousand dollars apiece, but start a company of our own." mr. grout's suggestion was a revelation which saved jim christmas from bursting one of his red veins in baffled cupidity. negotiations with mr. wallingford for any part of his stock suddenly ceased. instead, within a very short time there appeared upon the door of the only vacant office left in the turner block, the sign: "the people's coöperative bond and loan company." mr. wallingford did not seem to be in the slightest degree put out by the competition. in fact, he was most friendly with the new concern, and offered doc turner, who had been nominated manager of the new company, his assistance in arranging his card-index system, or upon any other point upon which he might need help. "there's room enough for all of us," he said cheerfully. "of course, i think you fellows ought to pay me a royalty for using my plan, but there's no way for me to compel you to do it. there's one thing we ought to do, however, and that is to take steps to prevent a lot of other companies from jumping in and spoiling our field. i think i'll get right after that myself. i have a pretty strong pull in the state department." they were holding this conversation three days after the sign went up, and mr. squinch, entering the office briskly to report a new agent that he had secured, frowned at finding mr. wallingford there. business was business with mr. squinch, and social calls should be discouraged. before he could frame his objection in words, however, another man entered the office, a stranger, a black-haired, black-eyed, black-mustached young man, of quite ministerial appearance indeed, as to mere clothing, who introduced himself to doc turner as one mr. clifford, and laid down before that gentleman a neatly folded parchment, at the same time displaying a beautiful little gold-plated badge. "i am the state inspector of corporations," said mr. clifford, "and this paper contains my credentials. i have come to inspect your plan of operation, and to examine all printed forms, books and minutes." mr. wallingford rose to go, but a very natural curiosity apparently led him to remain standing, while doc turner, with a troubled glance at ebenezer squinch, rose to collect samples of all the company's printed forms for the representative of the law. mr. wallingford sat down again. "i might just as well stay," he observed to doc turner, "because my interests are the same as yours." mr. clifford looked up at him with a very sharp glance, as both mr. turner and mr. squinch took note. at once, however, mr. clifford went to work. in a remarkably short space of time, seeming, indeed, to have known just where to look for the flaw, he pointed out a phrase in the "bond," the phrase pertaining to the plan of redemption. "gentlemen," said he gravely, "i am very sorry to say that the state department can not permit you to do business with this bond, and that any attempt to do so will result in the revoking of your charter. i note that this is bond number one, and assume from this fact that you have not yet sold any of them. you are very lucky indeed not to have done so." a total paralysis settled upon messrs. turner and squinch, a paralysis which was only relieved by the counter-irritant of wallingford's presence. to him mr. squinch made his first observation, and it was almost with a snarl. "seems to me this rather puts a spoke in your wheel, too, wallingford," he observed. "is this mr. wallingford?" asked mr. clifford, suddenly rising with a cordial smile. "i am very glad indeed to meet you, mr. wallingford," he said as he shook hands with that gentleman. "they told me about you at the state department. as soon as i've finished here i'll drop in to look at your papers, just as a matter of form, you know." "if you refuse to let us operate," interposed mr. squinch in his most severely legal tone, "you will be compelled to refuse mr. wallingford permission to operate also!" "i am not so sure about that," replied mr. clifford suavely. "the slightest variation in forms of this sort can sometimes make a very great difference, and i have no doubt that i shall find such a divergence; no doubt whatever! by the way, wallingford," he said, turning again to that highly pleased gentleman, "jerrold sent his respects to you. he was telling me a good story about you that i'll have to go over with you by and by. i want you to take dinner with me to-night, anyhow." [illustration: "i shall be very much pleased," said wallingford] jerrold was the state auditor. "i shall be very much pleased," said wallingford. "i'll just drop into the office and get my papers laid out for you." "all right," agreed mr. clifford carelessly. "i don't want to spend much time over them." other fatal flaws mr. clifford found in the turner and company plan of operation, and when he left the office of the people's coöperative bond and loan company, the gentlemen present representing that concern felt dismally sure that their doom was sealed. "we're up against a pull again," said doc turner despondently. "it's the building-loan company experience all over again. you can't do anything any more in this country without a pull." "and it won't do any good for us to go up to trenton and try to get one," concluded mr. squinch with equal despondency. "we tried that with the building-loan company and failed." in the office of the people's mutual bond and loan company there was no despondency whatever, for mr. wallingford and the dark-haired gentleman who had given his name as mr. clifford were shaking hands with much glee. "they fell for it like kids for a hoky-poky cart, blackie," exulted wallingford. "they're in there right this minute talking about the cash value of a pull. that was the real ready-money tip of all the information i got from old colonel fox." they had lit cigars and were still gleeful when a serious thought came to mr. clifford, erstwhile mr. daw. "this is a dangerous proposition, though, j. rufus," he objected. "suppose they actually take this matter up with the state department? suppose they even go there?" "well, they can't prove any connection between you and me, and you will be out of the road," said wallingford. "i don't mind confessing that it's nearer an infraction of the law than i like, though, and hereafter i don't intend to come so close. it isn't necessary. but in this case there's nothing to fear. these lead-pipe artists are scared so stiff by their fall-down on the building-loan game that they'll take their medicine right here and now. they'll come to me before to-morrow night, now that i've got them, to collect their money in a wad in the new company. they might even start work to-night." he rose from the table in his private office and went to the door. "oh, billy!" he called. a sharp-looking young fellow with a pen behind his ear came from the other room. "billy, here's a hundred dollars for you," said wallingford. "thank you," said billy. "who's to be thugged?" "nobody," replied wallingford, laughing. "it's just a good-will gift. by the way, if doc turner or any of that crowd back there makes any advances to you to buy your share of stock, sell it to them, and you're a rank sucker if you take less than two hundred for it. also tell them that you can get three other shares from the office force at the same price." billy, with great deliberation, took a pin from the lapel of his coat and pinned his hundred-dollar bill inside his inside vest pocket, then he winked prodigiously, and without another word withdrew. "he's a smart kid," said blackie. chapter xii wallingford is frozen out of the management of his own company in the old game of "pick or poe" one boy held out a pin, concealed between his fingers, and the other boy guessed whether the head or point was toward him. it was a great study in psychology. the boy who held the pin had to do as much guessing as the other one. having held forward heads the first time, should he reverse the pin the second time, or repeat heads? in so far as one of the two boys correctly gaged the elaborateness of the other's mental process he was winner. at the age when he played this game wallingford usually had all the pins in school. now he was out-guessing the doc turner crowd. he had foreseen every step in their mental process; he had foreseen that they would start an opposition company; he had foreseen their extravagant belief in his "pull," knowing what he did of their previous experience, and he had foreseen that now they would offer to buy up the stock held by his office force, so as to secure control, before opening fresh negotiations for the stock he had offered them. that very night doc turner called at the house of billy whipple to ask where he could get a good bird-dog, young whipple being known as a gifted amateur in dogs. billy, nothing loath, took doc out to the kennel, where, by a fortunate coincidence, of which mr. turner had known nothing, of course, he happened to have a fine set of puppies. these mr. turner admired in a more or less perfunctory fashion. "by the way, billy," he by and by inquired, "how do you like your position?" "oh, so-so," replied billy. "the job looks good to me. wallingford has started a very successful business." "how much does he pay you?" billy reflected. it was easy enough to let a lie slip off his tongue, but turner had access to the books. "twenty-five dollars a week," he said. "you owe a lot to wallingford," observed mr. turner. "it's the best pay you ever drew." "yes, it is pretty good," admitted billy; "but i don't owe wallingford any more than i owe myself." in the dark mr. turner slowly placed his palms together. "you're a bright boy," said mr. turner. "billy, i don't like to see a stranger come in here and gobble up the community's money. it ought to stay in the hands of home folks. i'd like to get control of that business. if you'll sell me your share of stock i might be able to handle it, and if i can i'll advance your wages to thirty-five dollars a week." "you're a far pleasanter man than wallingford," said billy amiably. "you're a smarter man, a better man, a handsomer man! when do we start on that thirty-five?" "very quickly, billy, if you feel that way about it." and the friction of mr. turner's palms was perfectly audible. "then i can have your share of stock?" "you most certainly can, and i'll guarantee to buy up three other shares in the office if you want them." "good!" exclaimed turner, not having expected to accomplish so much of his object so easily. "the minute you lay me down those four shares i'll hand you four hundred dollars." "eight," billy calmly corrected him. "those shares are worth a hundred dollars apiece any place now. mine's worth more than two hundred to me." "nonsense," protested the other. "tell you what i'll do, though. i'll pay you two hundred dollars for your share and a hundred dollars apiece for the others." "two," insisted billy. "we've talked it all over in the office, and we've agreed to pool our stock and stand out for two hundred apiece, if anybody wants it. as a matter of fact, i have all four shares in my possession at this moment," and he displayed the certificates, holding up his lantern so that turner could see them. the sight of the actual stock, the three other shares which the astute billy had secured on the promise of a hundred and fifty dollars per share immediately after wallingford's pointer, clenched the business. it was scarcely as much a shock to wallingford as the turner crowd had expected it to be when those gentlemen, having purchased four hundred and ninety-nine shares of wallingford's stock at his own price, sat in the new stock-holders' meeting, at the reorganization upon which they had insisted, with five hundred and three shares, and j. rufus made but feeble protest when the five of them, voting themselves into the directorate, decided to put the founder of the company on an extremely meager salary as assistant manager, and mr. turner on a slightly larger salary as chief manager. "there's no use of saying anything," he concluded philosophically. "you gentlemen have played a very clever game and i lose; that's all there is to it." he thereupon took up the burden of the work and pushed through the matter of new memberships and of collections with a vigor and ability that could not but commend itself to his employers. the second week's collections were now coming in, and it was during the following week that a large hollow wheel with a handle and crank, mounted on an axle like a patent churn, was brought into the now vacated room of the defunct people's coöperative bond and loan company. "what's this thing for?" asked wallingford, inspecting it curiously. "the drawing," whispered doc turner. "what drawing?" "the loans." "you don't mean to say that you're going to conduct this as a lottery?" protested wallingford, shocked and even distressed. "sh! don't use that word," cautioned turner. "not even among ourselves. you might use it in the wrong place some time." "why not use the word?" wallingford indignantly wanted to know. "that's what you're preparing to do! i told you in the first place that this was not by any means to be considered as a lottery; that it was not to have any of the features of a lottery. moreover, i shall not permit it to be conducted as a lottery!" doc turner leaned against the side of the big wooden wheel and stared at wallingford in consternation. "what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "have you gone crazy, or what?" "sane enough that i don't intend to be connected with a lottery! i have conscientious scruples about it." "may i ask, then, how you propose to decide these so-called loans?" inquired turner, with palm-rubbing agitation. "examine the records of the men who have made application," explained wallingford; "find out their respective reputations for honesty, reliability and prompt payment, and place the different loans, according to that information, in as many different towns as possible." doc turner gazed at him in scorn for a full minute. "you're a damned fool!" he declared. "why, you yourself intended to conduct this as a secret society, and i had intended to have representatives from at least three of the lodges attend each drawing." to this wallingford made no reply, and turner, to ease his mind, locked the door on the lottery-wheel and went in to open the mail. it always soothed him to take money from envelopes. a great many of the letters pertaining to the business of the company were addressed to wallingford in person, and turner slit open all such letters as a matter of course. half-way down the pile he opened one, addressed to wallingford, which made him gasp and re-read. the letter read: dear jim: they have found out your new name and where you are, and unless you get out of town on the first train they'll arrest you sure. i don't need to remind you that they don't hold manslaughter as a light offense in massachusetts. let me know your new name and address as soon as you have got safely away. your old pal. doc turner's own fingers were trembling as he passed this missive to wallingford, whose expectant eyes had been furtively fixed upon the pile of letters for some time. "too bad, old man," said turner, tremulously aghast. "couldn't help reading it." "my god!" exclaimed wallingford most dramatically. "it has come at last, just as i had settled down to lead a quiet, decent, respectable life, with every prospect in my favor!" he sprang up and looked at his watch. "i'll have to move on again!" he dismally declared; "and i suppose they'll chase me from one cover to another until they finally get me; but i'll never give up! please see what's coming to me, mr. turner; you have the cash in the house to pay me, i know; and kindly get my stock certificates from the safe." slowly and thoughtfully turner took from the safe wallingford's four hundred and ninety-seven shares of stock, in four certificates of a hundred shares each, one of fifty and one of forty-seven. wallingford hurried them into an envelope, sitting down to write the address upon it. "what are you going to do with those?" asked turner with a thoughtful frown. "send them to my friend in boston and have him sell them for what he can get," replied wallingford with a sigh. "if the purchasers send any one here to find out about the business, you'll, of course, give them every facility for investigation." "to be sure; to be sure," returned turner. "but, say--" he paused a moment, and wallingford, in the act of writing a hasty note to go with the stock certificates, hesitated, his pen poised just above the paper. "what is it?" he asked. "you'll probably have to sell those shares at a sacrifice, wallingford." "i have no doubt," he admitted. doc turner's palms rubbed out a slow decision while wallingford scratched away at his letter. "um-m-m-m-m-m-m--i say!" began turner gropingly. "rather than have those shares fall into the hands of strangers we might possibly make you an offer for them ourselves. wait till i see squinch." he saw squinch, he saw tom fester, he telephoned to andy grout, and the four of them gathered in solemn conclave. the consensus of the meeting was that if they could secure wallingford's shares at a low enough figure it was a good thing. not one man among them but had regretted deeply the necessity of sharing any portion of the earnings of the company with wallingford, or with one another, for that matter. moreover, new stock-holders might "raise a rumpus" about their methods of conducting the business, as wallingford had started to do. gravely they called wallingford in. "wallingford," said mr. squinch, showing in his very tone his disrespect for a criminal, "mr. turner has acquainted us with the fact that you are compelled to leave us, and though we already have about as large a burden as we can conveniently carry, we're willing to allow you five thousand dollars for your stock." "for four hundred and ninety-seven shares! nearly fifty thousand dollars' worth!" gasped wallingford, "and worth par!" "it is a debatable point," said mr. squinch, placing his finger-tips together, and speaking with cold severity, "as to whether that stock is worth par or not at the present moment. i should say that it is not, particularly the stock that _you_ hold." "even at a sacrifice," insisted wallingford, "my friend ought to be able to get fifty dollars a share for me." "you must remember, mr. wallingford," returned the severe voice, "that you are not so free to negotiate as you seemed to be an hour or so ago. in a word, you are a fugitive from justice, and i don't know, myself, but what our duty, anyhow, would be to give you up." not one man there but would have done it if it had been to his advantage. "you wouldn't do that!" pleaded wallingford, most piteously indeed. "why, gentlemen, the mere fact that i am in life-and-death need of every cent i can get ought to make you more liberal with me; particularly in view of the fact that i made this business, that i built it up, and that all its profits that you are to reap are due to me. why, at twenty thousand the stock would be a fine bargain." this they thoroughly believed--but business is business! "utterly impossible," said mr. squinch. the slyly rubbing palms of mr. turner, the down-shot lines of andy grout's face, the compressed lips of tom fester, all affirmed mr. squinch's decided negative. "give me fifteen," pleaded wallingford. "twelve--ten." they would not. to each of these proposals they shook emphatic heads. "very well," said wallingford, and quietly wrote an address on the envelope containing his certificates. he tossed the envelope on the postal scales, sealed it, took stamps from his drawer and pasted them on. "then, gentlemen, good day." "wait a minute," hastily protested mr. squinch. "gentlemen, suppose we confer a minute." heads bent together, they conferred. "we'll give you eight thousand dollars," said squinch as a result of the conference. "we'll go right down and draw it out of the bank in cash and give it to you." there was not a trace of hesitation in wallingford. "i've made my lowest offer," he said. "ten thousand or i'll drop these in the mail box." they were quite certain that wallingford meant business, as indeed he did. he had addressed the envelope to blackie daw and he was quite sure that he could make the shares worth at least ten thousand. once more they conferred. "all right," agreed mr. squinch reluctantly. "we'll do it--out of charity." "i don't care what it's out of, so long as i get the money," said wallingford. in new york, where wallingford met blackie daw by appointment, the latter was eager to know the details. "the letter did the business, i suppose, eh, wallingford?" "fine and dandy," assented wallingford. "a great piece of work, and timed to the hour. i saw the envelope in that batch of mail before i made my play." "manslaughter!" shrieked blackie by and by. "on the level, j. rufus, did you ever kill anything bigger than a mosquito?" "i don't know. i think i made quite a sizable killing down in doc turner's little old town," he said complacently. "i don't think so," disputed blackie thoughtfully. "i may be a cheese-head, but i don't see why you sold your stock, anyhow. seems to me you had a good graft there. why didn't you hold on to it? it was a money-maker." "no," denied wallingford with decision. "it's an illegal business, blackie, and i won't have anything to do with an illegal business. the first thing you know that lottery will be in trouble with the federal government, and i'm on record as never having conducted any part of it after it became a lottery. another thing, in less than a year that bunch of crooks will be figuring on how to land the capital prize for themselves under cover. no, blackie, a quick turn and legal safety for mine, every time. it pays better. why, i cleaned up thirty thousand dollars net profit on this in three months! isn't that good pay?" "it makes a crook look like a fool," admitted blackie daw. chapter xiii beauty phillips steps into the spot-light for her grand specialty of course blackie got his "bit" out of the spoils and hurried away to pursue certain fortune-making plans of his own, while young wallingford, stopping in new york, prepared as elaborately to spend one. it was some trouble at first to find the most expensive things in new york, but at last he located them in the race-track and in beauty phillips, the latter being the moderately talented but gorgeous "hit" of _the pink canary_; and the thoroughbreds and beauty made a splendid combination, so perfect in their operations that one beautiful day wallingford awoke to the fact that the time had almost arrived to go to work. at the moment he made this decision, the beauty, as richly colored and as expressionless as a wax model, was sitting at his side in the grand-stand, with her eyes closed, jabbing a hole at random in the card of the fifth race. "bologna!" exclaimed wallingford, noting where the fateful pin-hole had appeared. "it's a nice comic-supplement name; but i'll go down to the ring and burn another hundred or so on him." the band broke into a lively air, and the newest sensation of broadway, all in exquisite violet from nodding plume to silken hose, looked out over the sunlit course in calm rumination. her companion, older but not too old, less handsome but not too ill-favored, less richly dressed but not too plainly, nudged her. "there goes your money and moonshine song again, dearie," she observed. still calmly, as calmly as a digestive cow in pleasant shade, the star of _the pink canary_ replied: "don't you see i'm trying not to hear it, mother?" the eyes of "mrs. phillips" narrowed a trifle, and sundry tiny but sharp lines, revealing much but concealing more, flashed upon her brow and were gone. j. rufus glanced in perplexity at her as he had done a score of times, wondering at her self-repression, at her unrevealed depths of wisdom, at her clever acting of a most difficult rôle; for beauty phillips, being a wise young lady and having no convenient mother of her own, had hired one, and by this device was enabled to remain as placidly platonic as a plate of ice-cream. well, it was worth rich gifts merely to be seen in proprietorship of her at the supper places. wallingford rose without enthusiasm. "bologna won't win!" he announced with resigned conviction. "sure not!" agreed beauty phillips. "bologna will stop to think at the barrier, and finish in the road of the next race." "bologna has to win," wallingford rejoined, disputing both her and himself. "there's only a little over a thousand left in your uncle jimmy's bank-roll." "and you had over forty thousand when sammy harrison introduced us," said the beauty with a sigh. "honest, pinky, somebody has sure put a poison curse on you. you're a grand little sport, but on the level, i'm afraid to trail around with you much longer. i'm afraid i'll lose my voice or break a leg." "old pal," agreed j. rufus, "the hex is sure on me, and if i don't walk around my chair real quick, the only way i'll get to see you will be to buy a gallery seat." "i was just going to talk with you about that, jimmy," stated the beauty seriously. "you've been a perfect gentleman in every respect, and i will say i never met a party that was freer with his coin; but i've got to look out for my future. i won't always be a hit, and i've got to pick out a good marrying proposition while the big bouquets grow with my name already on 'em. of course, you know, i couldn't marry you, because nothing less than a million goes. if you only had the money now--" she looked up at him with a certain lazy admiration. he was tremendously big; and rather good-looking, too, she gaged, although the blue eyes that were set in his jovial big countenance were entirely too small. in reply to her unfinished sentence j. rufus chuckled. "don't you worry about that, little one," said he. "i only wear you on my arm for the same reason that i wear this tungsten-light boulder in my necktie: just to show 'em i'm the little boy that can grab off the best there is in the market. of course it'd be fine and dandy to win you for keeps, but i know where you bought your ticket for, long ago. you'll end by getting your millionaire. in six months he'll go dippy over some other woman, and then you'll get your alimony, which is not only a handy thing to have around the house, but proves that you're perfectly respectable." "you've got some good ideas, anyhow," she complimented him, and then she sighed. "the only trouble is, every time one lines up that i think'll do, i find he's got a wife hid away some place." "and it isn't set down in her lines to fix up alimony for some other woman," commented the pseudo mrs. phillips. a couple of men, one nattily dressed and with curly hair, and the other short and fat and wearing a flaming waistcoat, passed on their way down to the betting-shed and carelessly tipped their hats. "do you know those two cheaps?" she inquired, eying their retreating backs with disfavor. again wallingford chuckled. "know them!" he replied. "i should say i do! green-goods harry phelps and badger billy banting? why, they and their friends, short-card larry teller and yap pickins, framed up a stud poker game on me the first week i hit town, with the lovely idea of working a phoney pinch on me; but i got a real cop to hand them the triple cross, and took five thousand away from them so easy it was like taking four-o'clock milk from a doorstep." "i'm glad of it," she said, with as much trace of vindictiveness as her beauty specialist would have permitted. "they're an awful low-class crowd. they came over to my table one night in shirley's, after i'd met them only once, and butted in on a rich gentleman friend of mine from washington. they run up an awful bill on him and never offered even to buy cigars, and then when he was gone for a minute to pick out our wagon, they tried to get fresh with me right in front of mother. i'm glad somebody stung 'em." a very thick-set man, with an inordinately broad jaw and an indefinable air of blunt aggressiveness, came past them and nodded to j. rufus with a grudging motion toward his shapeless slouch hat. "who's that?" she asked. "jake block," he replied. "a big owner with so much money he could bed his horses in it, and an ingrowing grouch that has put a crimp in his information works. he's never been known to give out a tip since he was able to lisp 'mamma.' he eats nothing but _table d'hôte_ dinners so he won't have to tell the waiters what he likes." jake block, on some brief errand to the press box, returned just as j. rufus was starting down to the betting-shed, and he stopped a moment. "how are you picking them to-day, wallingford?" he asked perfunctorily, with his eye on beauty phillips. "same way," confessed wallingford. "i haven't cashed a ticket in the meeting. i have the kind of luck that would scale john d. rockefeller's bank-roll down to the size of a dance-program lead pencil." "well," said jake philosophically, his eyes still on the beauty, "sometimes they come bad for a long time, and then they come worse." at this bit of wisdom j. rufus politely laughed, and the silvery voice of beauty phillips suddenly joined his own; whereupon j. rufus, taking the hint, introduced mr. block to miss phillips and her mother. mr. block promptly sat down by them. "i've heard a lot about you," he began, "but i've not been around to see _the pink canary_ yet. i don't go to the theater much." "you must certainly see my second-act turn. i sure have got them going," the beauty asserted modestly. "what do you like in this race, mr. block?" "i don't like anything," he replied almost gruffly. "i never bet outside of my own stable." "we're taking a small slice of bologna," she informed him. "i suppose he's about the--the wurst of the race. guess that's bad, eh? i made that one up all by myself, at that. i think i'll write a musical comedy next. but how do you like bologna?" she hastily added, her own laugh freezing as she saw her feeble little joke passed by in perplexity. "you never can tell," he replied evasively. "you see, miss phillips, i never give out a tip. if you bet on it and it don't win you get sore against me. if i hand you a winner you'll tell two or three people that are likely to beat me to it and break the price before i can get my own money down." beauty phillips' wide eyes narrowed just a trifle. "i guess it's all the same," remarked j. rufus resignedly. "if you have a hoodoo over you you'll lose anyhow. i've tried to pick 'em forty ways from the ace. i've played with the dope and against it and lost both ways. i've played hunches and coppered hunches, and lost both ways. i've played hot information straight and reverse, and lost both ways. i've nosed into the paddock and made a lifetime hit with stable boys, jockeys, trainers, clockers and even owners, but every time they handed me a sure one i got burned. any horse i bet on turns into a crawfish." the saddling bell rang. "you'd better hurry if you want to get a bet on sausage," admonished the beautiful one, and j. rufus, excusing himself, made his way down to the betting-shed, where he was affectionately known as the big pink, not only on account of his complexion but on account of the huge carnation beauty phillips pinned on him each day. at the first book he handed up three one-hundred-dollar bills. "a century each way on bologna," he directed. "welcome to our city!" greeted the red-haired man on the stool, and then to the ticket writer: "twelve hundred to a hundred, five hundred to a hundred, and two hundred to a hundred on bologna for the big pink. johnnie, you will now rub prices on bologna and make him fifteen, eight and three; then run around and tell the other boys that the big pink's on bologna, and it's a pipe for the books at any odds." wallingford chuckled good-naturedly. in other days he would have called that bit of pleasantry by taking another hundred each way across, at the new odds, but now his funds were too low. "some of these days, sunset," he threatened the man on the stool, "i'll win a bet on you and you'll drop dead." "i'll die rich if your wad only holds out till then," returned sunset, laughing. with but very little hope j. rufus returned to the grand-stand, where royalty sat like a warm and drowsy garment upon beauty phillips; for beauty was on the stage a queen, and outside of working-hours a princess. jake block was still there, and making himself agreeable to a degree that surprised even himself, and he was there yet when bologna, true to form, came home contentedly following the field. he joined them again at the close of the sixth race, when carnation, a horse which the beauty had picked because of his name, was just nosed out of the money, and he walked with them down to the carriage gate. as block seemed reluctant to leave, he was invited to ride into the city in the automobile j. rufus had hired by the month, and accepted that invitation with alacrity. he also accepted their invitation to dinner, and during that meal he observed: "i think, miss phillips, i'll go around and see _the pink canary_ to-night, and after the show i'd like to have you and your mother and wallingford take supper with me, if you have no other engagement." "sure," said beauty phillips, too eagerly for wallingford's entire comfort; and so it was settled. wallingford, although he had seen the show until it made him deathly weary, went along and sat with block in a stage box. during one of the dull spots the horseman turned to his companion very suddenly. "this beauty phillips could carry an awful handicap and still take the derby purse," he announced. "she beats any filly of her hands and age i ever saw on a card." "she certainly does," assented j. rufus, suave without, but irritated within. "i see you training around with her all through the meet. steady company, i guess." "oh, we're very good friends; that's all," replied wallingford with such nonchalance as he could muster. "nothing in earnest, then?" "not a thing." "then i believe i will enter the handicap myself, that is if you don't think you can haul down the purse." "go in and win," laughed j. rufus, concealing his trace of self-humiliation. he had no especial interest in beauty phillips, but he did not exactly like to have her taken away from him. it was too much in evidence that he was a loser. however, he was distinctly "down and out" just now, for beauty phillips quite palpably exerted her fascinations in the direction of that box, and jake block was most obviously "hooked;" so much so that at supper he revealed his interest most unmistakably, and parted from them reluctantly at the curb, feeling silly but quite determined. wallingford made no allusion to miss phillips' capture of the horseman, even after they had reached the flat, where he had gained the rare privilege of calling, and where the beauty's "mother" always remained in the parlor with them, awake or asleep. rather sheepishly, j. rufus produced from his pocket a newspaper clipping of the following seductive advertisement, which he passed over to the beauty: boston. yesterday we slipped across, for the benefit of our happy new york and brooklyn subscribers, that juicy watermelon, _breezy_, a ten to one shot and the play on this section of hot dog was so strong it put a crimp in the bookies as deep as the water jump. to-morrow we have another lallapalooza at long odds that will waft under the wire and have the blanket on about the time the field is kicking dust at the barrier. this peacherino has been under cover throughout the meeting, but to-morrow it will be ripe and you want to get in on the killing. will wire you the name of this pippin for five dollars; full service twenty dollars a week. national clockers' association. "i fell for this," he explained, after she had read it with a sarcastic smile; "poked a fi'muth in a letter cold, and let 'em have it." the beautiful one regarded him with pity. "honest, pinky," she commented, "your soft spot's growing. if you don't watch out the specialists'll get you. do you suppose that if these cheap touts had such hot info. as that, they'd peddle it out, in place of going down to the track and coming back with all the money in the world in their jeans?" "sure not," said he patiently. "they don't know any more about it than the men who write the form sheets; but we've tried everything from stable-dope to dreaming numbers and can't get one of them to run for us. so i'm taking a chance that the national strong arm association might shut their eyes in the dark and happen to pass me the right name without meaning it." "there's some sense to that," admitted the beauty reflectively. "you'll get the first wire to-morrow morning, won't you? just my luck. it's matinée day and i'd like to see you try it." "that's all right," said j. rufus. "i'll have the money to show you as a surprise at dinner." the beauty hesitated. "i--i'm engaged for dinner to-morrow," she stated, half reluctantly. he was silent a moment. "block? that means supper, too." "yes. you see, jimmy, i've just got to give 'em all a try-out." "of course," he admitted. "but he won't do. i'll bet you a box of gloves against a box of cigars." "i won't bet you," she replied, laughing. "i've got a hunch that i'd lose." chapter xiv wherein the broadway quartet evens up an old score at his hotel the next day, about noon, j. rufus got the promised wire. it consisted of only one word: "razzoo." alone, j. rufus went out to the track, and on the race in which razzoo was entered at average odds of ten to one, he got down six hundred dollars, reluctantly holding back, for his hotel bill, three hundred dollars--all he had in the world. then he shut his eyes, and with large self-contempt waited for razzoo to finish by lamplight. to his immense surprise razzoo won by two lengths, and with a contented chuckle he went around to the various books and collected his winnings, handing to each bookmaker derogatory remarks calculated to destroy the previous _entente cordiale_. on his way out, puffed with huge joy and sitting alone in the big automobile, he was hailed by a familiar voice. "well, well, well! our old friend, j. rufus!" exclaimed harry phelps, he of the natty clothes and the curly hair. with mr. phelps were larry teller and billy banting and yap pickins. "jump in," invited j. rufus with a commendable spirit, forgiving them cheerfully for having lost money to him, and, despite the growl of protest from lean short-card larry, they invaded the tonneau. "you must be hitting them up some, wallingford," observed mr. phelps with a trace of envy. "i know they're not furnishing automobiles to losers these days." "oh, i'm doing fairly well," replied wallingford loftily. "i cleaned 'em up for six thousand to-day." the envy on the part of the four was almost audible. "what did you play?" asked badger billy, with the eager post-mortem interest of a loser. "only one horse in just one race," explained wallingford. "razzoo." "razzoo!" snorted short-card larry. "was you in on that assassination? why, that goat hasn't won a race since the day before adam ate the apple, and the jockey he had on to-day couldn't put up a good ride on a street car. how did you happen to land on it?" blandly wallingford produced the telegram he had received that morning. "this wire," he condescendingly explained, "is from the national clockers' association of boston, massachusetts, united states of america, who are charitable enough to pass out long-shot winners, at the mere bag-o'-shells service-price of five dollars per day or twenty per week." they looked from the magic word "razzoo" to the smiling face of j. rufus more in sorrow than in anger. "and they happened to hand you a winner!" said the cadaverous mr. teller, folding the telegram dexterously with the long, lean fingers of one hand, and passing it back as if he hated to see it. "winner is right," agreed j. rufus. "i couldn't pick 'em any other way, and i took a chance on this game because it's just as good a system as going to a clairvoyant or running the cards." there was a short laugh from the raw-boned mr. pickins. "i don't suppose they'll ever do it again," he observed, "but i feel almost like taking a chance on it myself." "go to it," advised j. rufus heartily. "go to it, and come home with something substantial in your pocket, like this," and most brazenly, even in the face of what he knew of them, young wallingford flaunted before their very eyes an assorted package of orange-colored bank-bills, well calculated to excite discord in this company. "lovely little package of documents," he said banteringly; "and i suppose you burglars are already figuring how you can chisel it away from me." they smiled wanly, and the smile of larry teller showed his teeth. "no man ever pets a hornet but once," said billy, the only one sturdy enough to voice his discomfiture. wallingford beamed over this tribute to his prowess. "well, you get a split of it, anyhow," he offered. "i'll take you all to dinner, then afterward we'll have a little game of stud poker if you like--with police interference barred." they were about to decline this kind invitation when short-card larry turned suddenly to him, with a gleam of the teeth which was almost a snarl. "we'll take you," he said. "just a little friendly game for small stakes." j. rufus elevated his eyebrows a trifle, but smiled. inwardly he felt perfectly competent to protect himself. "fine business," he assented. "suppose we have dinner in my rooms. i'm beginning to get them educated at my hotel." at the hotel he stopped for a moment at the curb to give his chauffeur some instructions, while the other four awaited him on the steps. "how'd you come to fall for this stud game, larry?" inquired phelps. "i can't see poker merely for health, and this willy wisdom won't call any raise of over two dollars when he's playing with us." "i know he won't," snapped larry, setting his jaws savagely, "but we're going to get his money just the same. billy, you break away and run down to joe's drug-store for the k.o." they all grinned, with the light of admiration dawning in their eyes for larry teller. "k.o." was cipher for "knock-out drops," a pleasant little decoction guaranteed to put a victim into fathomless slumber, but not to kill him if his heart was right. "how long will it be until dinner's ready, wallingford?" asked billy, looking at his watch as j. rufus came up. "oh, about an hour, i suppose." "good," said billy. "i'll just have time. i have to go get some money that a fellow promised me, and if i don't see him to-night i may not see him at all. besides, i'll probably need it if you play your usual game." "nothing doing," replied wallingford. "i only want to yammer you fellows out of a hundred apiece, and the game will be as quiet as a peddler's pup." j. rufus conducted the others into the sitting-room of his suite and sent for a waiter. there was never any point lacking in wallingford's hospitality, and by the time billy came back he was ready to serve them a dinner that was worth discussing. the dinner despatched, he had the table cleared and brought out cards and chips. it was a quiet, comfortable game for nearly an hour, with very mild betting and plenty to drink. it was during the fifth bottle of wine, dating from the beginning of the dinner, that short-card larry, by a dexterous accident, pitched wallingford's stack of chips on the floor with a toss of the deck. amid the profuse apologies of larry, mr. phelps, who was at wallingford's left, stooped down to help that gentleman pick up his chips, and in that moment badger billy quietly emptied the colorless contents of a tiny vial in wallingford's glass. j. rufus never was able to remember what happened after that. * * * * * silk pajama clad, but still wearing portions of his day attire, he awoke next day with a headache, and a tongue that felt like a shredded-wheat biscuit. he held his head very level to keep the leaden weight in the top of it from sliding around and bumping his skull, and opened the swollen slits that did him painful duty for eyelids wide enough to let him find the telephone, through which instrument he ordered a silver-fizz. of the butler who brought it he asked what time it was. "one o'clock, sir," replied the butler with the utmost gravity. one o'clock! j. rufus pondered the matter slowly. "morning or afternoon," he huskily asked. "afternoon, sir," and this time the butler permitted himself the slightest trace of a smile as he noted the electric lights, still blazing in sickly defiance of the bright sunshine which crept in around the edges of the double blinds. "huh!" grunted j. rufus, and pondered more. half dozing, he stood, glass in hand, for full five minutes, while the butler, with a lively appreciation of tips past and to come, stood patiently holding his little silver tray, with check and pencil waiting for the signature. at the expiration of that time, however, the butler coughed once, gently; once, normally; the third time very loudly. these means failing, he dropped the tray clattering to the floor, and with a cheerful "beg your pardon, sir," picked it up. not knowing that he had been asleep again, wallingford took a sip of the refreshing drink and walked across to a garment which lay upon the chair, feeling through the pockets one after the other. in one pocket there was a little silver, but in the others nothing. he gave a coin to the butler and signed the check in deep thoughtfulness, then sat down heavily and dozed another fifteen minutes. awakening, he found the glass at his hand on the serving-bench, and drank about a fourth of the contents very slowly. "spiked!" he groaned aloud. he had good reason to believe that his wine had been "doctored," for never before had anything he drank affected him like this. another glance at the garment of barren pockets reminded him to look about for the coat and vest he had worn the night before. they were not visible in his bedroom, and, still carrying the glass of life-saving mixture with him, he made his way into his sitting-room and surveyed the wreck. on the table was a confusion of cards and chips, and around its edge stood five champagne glasses, two of them empty, two half full, one full. against the wall stood a row of four empty quart bottles. in an ice pail, filled now with but tepid water, there reposed a fifth bottle, neck downward. five chairs were grouped unevenly about the table, one of them overturned and the others left at random where they had been pushed back. the lights here, also, were still burning. heaped on a chair in the corner were the coat and vest he sought, and he went through their pockets methodically, reaching first for his wallet. it was perfectly clean inside. in one of the vest-pockets he found a soiled, very much crumpled two-dollar bill, and the first stiff smile of his waking stretched his lips. "i wonder how they overlooked this?" he questioned. again his eyes turned musingly to those five empty bottles, and again the conviction was borne in upon him that the wine had been drugged. under no circumstances could his share, even an unequal share, of five bottles of champagne among five persons have worked this havoc in him. "spiked," he concluded again in a tone of resignation. "at last they got to me." the silver-fizz was flat now, but every sip of it was nevertheless full of reviving grace, and he sat in the big leather rocker to think things over. as he did so his eye caught something that made him start from his chair so suddenly that he had to put both hands to his head. under the table was a bit of light orange paper. a fifty-dollar bill! in that moment--that is, after he had painfully stooped down to get it and had smoothed it out to assure himself that it was real--this beautifully printed government certificate looked to him about the size of a piano cover. an instant before, disaster had stared him in the face. this was but thursday morning, and, having paid his hotel bill on monday, he had the balance of the week to go on; but for that week he would have been chained to this hotel. now he was foot-loose, now he was free, and his first thought was of his only possible resource, blackie daw, in boston! it took two hours of severe labor on the part of a valet, two bell-boys and a barber to turn the wallingford wreck into his usual well-groomed self, but the hour of sailing saw him somnolently, but safely ensconced on a boston packet. chapter xv the broadway quartet continues to take wallingford's money blackie daw's most recent boston address had been: "yellow streak mining company, seven hundred and ten marabon building," and yet when j. rufus paused before number seven hundred and ten of that building he found its glass door painted with the sign of the national clockers' association. worried by the fact that blackie had moved, yet struck by the peculiar coincidence of his place being occupied by the concern that had given him the tip on razzoo, he walked into the office to inquire the whereabouts of his friend. he found three girls at a long table, slitting open huge piles of envelopes and removing from them money, postal orders and checks--mostly money, for the sort of people who patronized the national clockers' association were quite willing to "take a chance" on a five- or a twenty-dollar bill in the mails. behind a newspaper, in a big leather chair near a flat-top mahogany desk, with his feet conveniently elevated on the waste-basket, sat a gentleman who, when he moved the paper aside to see whom his visitor might be, proved to be blackie daw himself. "hello, none other than the friend of me childhood!" exclaimed blackie, springing to his feet and extending his hand. "what brings you here?" "broke," replied wallingford briefly. "they cleaned me. got any money?" mr. daw opened the top drawer of his desk, and it proved to be nearly full of bills, thrown loosely in, with no attempt at order or sorting. "money's the cheapest thing in boston," he announced, waving his hand carelessly over the contents of the drawer. "help yourself, old man. the new york mail will bring in plenty more. they've had two winners there this week, and when it does fall for anything, n'yawk's the biggest yap town on earth." wallingford, having drawn up a chair with alacrity, was already sorting bills, smoothing them out and counting them off in hundreds. "and all on pure charity--picking out winning horses for your customers!" laughed wallingford. "this is a real gold mine you've hit at last." "pretty good," agreed blackie. "i'd have enough to start a mint of my own if i didn't lose so much playing the races." "you don't play your own tips, i hope," expostulated wallingford, pausing to inspect a tattered bill. "i should say not," returned daw with emphasis. "if i did that i'd have to play every horse in every race. you see, every day i wire the name of one horse to all my subscribers in philadelphia, another to baltimore, another to washington, and so on down the list. one of those horses has to win. suppose i pick out the horse roller skate for philadelphia. well, if roller skates home that day i advertise in the philadelphia papers the next morning, and, besides that, every fall-easy that got the tip advertises me to some of his friends, and they all spike themselves to send in money for the dope. oh, it's a great game, all right." "it's got yegging frazzled to a pulp," agreed wallingford. "but i oughtn't to yell police. i got the lucky word my first time out. i played razzoo and cleaned up six thousand dollars on the strength of your wire." "go on!" returned blackie delightedly. "you don't mean to say you're sorting some of your own money there?" "i sure am," laughed wallingford, picking up a five-dollar bill. "i think this must be it. what's the new york horse to-day?" blackie consulted a list that lay on his desk. "whipsaw," he said. "whipsaw! by george, blackie, if there's any one thing i'd like to do, it'd be to whipsaw some friends of yours on broadway." whereupon he told blackie, with much picturesque embellishment, just how messrs. phelps, teller, banting and pickins had managed to annex the razzoo money. blackie enjoyed that recital very much. "the broadway syndicate is still on the job," he commented. "well, j. rufus, let this teach you how to take a joke next time." "i'm not saying a word," replied wallingford. "any time i let a kindergarten crowd like that work a trick on me that was invented right after noah discovered spoiled grape juice, i owe myself a month in jail. but watch me. i'll make moccasins out of their hides, all right." "go right ahead, old man, and see if i care," consented blackie. "slam the harpoon into them and twist it." "i will," asserted wallingford confidently. "i don't like them because they're grouches; i don't like them because they're cheap; i don't like their names, nor their faces, nor the town they live in. making money in new york's too much like sixteen hungry bulldogs to one bone. the best dog gets it, but he finishes too weak for an appetite. what kind of a horse is this whipsaw you're sending out to-day?" "i don't know. where's the dope on whipsaw, tillie?" a girl with a freckled face and a keen eye and a saucy air went over to the filing-case and searched out a piece of cardboard a foot square. blackie glanced over it with an experienced eye. "maiden," said he; "been in four races, and the best he ever did was fourth in a bunch of goats that only ambled all the way around the track because that was the only way they could get back to the stable." the mail carrier just then came in with a huge bundle of letters. "new york mail," observed blackie. "after that razzoo thing it ought to be rich pickings." "pickings!" exclaimed j. rufus, struck by a sudden idea. "see if pickins or teller or any of that crowd have contributed. pickins said they were going to try it out, just to see if lightning could really strike twice in the same place." blackie wrote a number of names on a slip of paper and handed it to tillie. "look for these names in the mail," he directed, "and if a subscription comes in from any one of them let me know it." wallingford had idly picked up the card containing whipsaw's record. it was a most accurate typewritten sheet, giving age, pedigree, description and detailed action in every race; but the point that caught wallingford's eye was the name of the owner. "one of jake block's horses, by george!" he said, and fell into silent musing from which he was interrupted by the girl, who was laughing. "here's your party," she said to blackie, handing him an envelope. "this twenty's in it, and i think it's bad money." blackie passed the bill to wallingford, who slipped it through experienced fingers. "you couldn't pass this one on an organ-grinder's monkey," he said, chuckling. "but that's all right; just put 'em on the wiring-list, anyhow. make 'em lose their money. it's the only way you can get even." the girl looked to blackie for instructions, and he nodded his head. "who sent it?" asked wallingford idly. "peters is the name signed here," replied blackie. "that means harry phelps. i gave tillie all the aliases this bunch of crimples carry around with them, knowing they'd probably send it in that way." wallingford nodded comprehendingly. "they'd rather do even the square thing crooked. well, you know what to do." "i'll send them special picks," declared blackie with a grin. "nothing but a list of crabs that would come in third in a two-horse race. but come on outside; we're too far from cracked ice," and grabbing an uncounted handful of bills from the drawer of his desk, blackie stuffed them in his pocket and led the way out. it was at luncheon that blackie made his first protest. "what's the matter with you, j. rufus?" he demanded. "i never saw you insult food and drink before." "i'm thinking," returned wallingford solemnly. "i hate to do it, for it interferes with my appetite; but here's a case where i must. i have got to put one over on that broadway bunch or lose my self-respect." that evening, on the way down to the boat, their feet cocked comfortably on the opposite seat of a cab, wallingford formulated a more or less vague plan. "tell you what you do, blackie," he directed; "you send to phelps and to me, until i give you the word, a daily tip on sure losers. in the meantime, bank all your money, and don't make a bet on any race." "what are you going to do?" asked blackie curiously. "land a sure winner for us and a loser for the broadway syndicate. hold yourself ready when i wire you to take a quick train for my hotel, loaded down with all the money you can grab together." "fine!" returned blackie. "you wire me that it's all fixed, and when i start for new york there'll be a financial stringency in boston." returning to new york, wallingford caught beauty phillips at breakfast about noon, and in a most charming morning gown, for the beauty was consistent enough to be neat even when there was none but "mother" to see. "hello, mr. mark, from easyville," she hailed him. "i heard all about you." "you did!" he demanded, surprised. "who told you?" "phelps and banting," she said. "they had the nerve to come up in the grand-stand yesterday and tell mr. block and me all about it; told me how much you won and how they got it away from you at poker." "did they tell you they put knock-out drops in my wine?" demanded wallingford. "they didn't do that!" she protested. "exactly what they did. whether we played poker afterward, i don't know. i'd just as soon as not believe they went through my pockets." "i wouldn't put it past them a bit," she agreed, and then her indignation began to grow. "say, ain't it a shame! now, if i hadn't gone out to dinner with mr. block, you'd have been with me. i'd have had that lovely diamond brooch you promised me out of your first winnings, and we'd have had all the rest of it to bet with for a few days. honest, pinky, i feel as if it were my fault!" "don't you worry about that," wallingford cordially reassured her. "it was my own fault; but i wasn't looking for anything worse than a knife in my back or a piece of lead pipe behind the ear. there's no use in crying over spilled milk. the thing to do now is to get even, and i want you to help me." "don't you mix in, beauty," admonished the hired mother, but the beauty was thoughtful for a while. "mother" was there to give good advice, but the beauty only took it if she liked it. "i really can't afford it," she said, by and by; "but i've got some principles about me, and i don't like to see a good sport like you take a rough dose from a lot of cheaps like them; so you show me how and i'll mix in just this once." wallingford hesitated in turn. "how do you like block?" he inquired. beauty phillips sniffed her dainty nose in disdain. "he won't do," she announced with decision. "i've found out all about him. he's got enough money to star me in a show of my own for the next ten years, but he's not furnished with the brand of manners i like. i'll never marry a man i can't stand. i've got a _few_ principles about me! why, yesterday he tried to treat me real lovely, but do you know, he wouldn't give me the name of a horse, even when he put a hundred down for me in the third race? there i sat, with a string of 'em just prancing around the track, and not one to pull for. then after the race is over he comes and tosses me five hundred dollars. 'i got you four to one on the winner,' says he. why, it was just like _giving me money_! jimmy, i'm going out to dinner with him to-night, then i'm going to turn him back into the paddock, and you can pal around with me again until i find a man with plenty of money that i could really love." "don't spill the beans," advised wallingford hastily. "block thinks you're about the maple custard, don't he?" "he's crazy about me," confessed the beauty complacently. "fine work. well, just you string him along till he gives you the name of a sure winner in advance; jolly it out of him." "not on your three-sheet litho!" negatived the beauty. "i never yet worked one mash against another. i guess you'd expect to play even on that tip, eh?" "sure, we'll play it," admitted wallingford; "but better than that, i'll shred this harry phelps crowd so clean they'll have to borrow car fare." she thought on this possibility with sparkling eyes. she was against the "phelps crowd" on principle. also--well, wallingford had always been a perfect gentleman. "are you sure you can do it?" she wanted to know. "it's all framed up," he asserted confidently; "all i want is the name of that winner." the beauty considered the matter seriously, and in the end silently shook hands with him. the _pro tem_. mrs. phillips sniffed. this was on a saturday, a matinée day, and wallingford went out to the track alone, contenting himself with extremely small bets, merely to keep his interest alive. the day's racing was half over before he ran across the broadway syndicate. they were heartily glad to see him. they greeted him with even effervescent joy. "where have you been, j. rufus?" asked phelps. "we were looking for you all over yesterday. we thought sure you'd be out at the track playing that boston gouge company's tips." "your dear chum was in the country, resting up," replied wallingford, with matter-of-fact cheerfulness. "by george, i never had wine put me down and out so in my life"--whereat the cadaverous short-card larry could not repress a wink for the benefit of yap pickins. "what was the good-thing they wired yesterday?" "whipsaw!" scorned phelps. "say, do you see that horse out there?"--and he pointed to a selling-plater, up at the head of the stretch, which was being warmed up by a stable-boy. "well, that's whipsaw, just coming in from yesterday's last race." wallingford chuckled. "they're bound, you know, to land on a dead one once in a while," he grunted; "but i'm strong for their game, just the same. you remember what that razzoo thing that they tipped off did for me the other day." "yes?" admitted phelps with a rising inflection and a meaning grin. "nice money you won on him. it spends well." "enjoy yourselves," invited wallingford cordially. "i've no kick coming. i'm through with stud poker till they quit playing it with a hole-card." "i don't blame you," agreed short-card larry solemnly. "anybody that would bet a four-flush against two aces in sight, the way you did when billy won that three-thousand-dollar pot from you, ought never to play anything stronger than ping-pong for the cigarettes." wallingford nodded, with the best brand of suavity he could muster under the irritating circumstances. "i suppose i did play like a man expecting his wife to telephone," he admitted. "excuse me a minute; i want to get a bet down on this race." "whom do you like?" asked pickins. "rosey s." the four began to laugh. "that's the hot boston tip," gasped phelps. "say, wallingford, don't give your money to the mets. let us make a book for you on that skate." "you're on," agreed j. rufus, delighted that the proposition should come from them, for he had been edging in that direction himself. "i'll squander a hundred on the goat at the first odds we see." they went into the betting-shed. rosey s. was quoted at six to one. even as they looked the price was rubbed, and ten to one was chalked in its place. the laughter of the quartet was long and loud as they pulled money from their pockets. "the first odds goes, big pink," banting reminded him. wallingford produced his hundred dollars, and quietly noted that the eyes of the quartet glistened as they saw the size of the roll from which he extracted it. they had not been prepared to find that he still had plenty of money. jake block passed near them, and wallingford hailed him. "hold stakes for us, jake, on a little private bet?" he asked. "sure thing," acquiesced jake. "what is it?" "these fellows are trying to win out dinner-money on me. they're giving me six hundred to one against rosey s." block glanced up at the board and noted the increased odds, but it was no part of his policy to interfere in anything. "all right," he said, taking the seven hundred dollars and stuffing the money in his pocket. "you don't want to lay a little more, do you, at that odds?" "no," declined wallingford. "i'm unlucky when i press a bet." rosey s. put up a very good race for place, but dropped back in the finish to a chorus of comforting observations from the quartet, who, to make matters more aggravating, had played the winner for place at a good price. jake block came to them right after the race and handed over the money. he was evidently in a great hurry. wallingford started to talk to him, but block moved off rapidly, and it dawned upon j. rufus that the horseman wanted to "shake" him so as not to have to invite him to dinner with himself and beauty phillips. sunday morning he went around to that discreet young lady's flat for breakfast, by appointment. "mrs. phillips" met him with unusual warmth. "i've been missing you," she stated with belated remembrance of certain generous gifts. "say," she added with sudden indignation, "you may have my share of block for two peanuts. what do you suppose he did? offered me five dollars to boost him with beauty. _five dollars!_" "the cheap skate!" exclaimed wallingford sympathetically. the beauty came in and greeted him with a flush of pleasure. "well," she said, "i got it, all right. the horse runs in the fourth race friday, and its name is whipsaw." "whipsaw!" exclaimed wallingford. "he's stringing you." "no, he isn't," she declared positively. "it was one o'clock last night before i got him thawed out enough to give up, and i had to let him hold my hand, at that," and she rubbed that hand vigorously as if it still had some stain upon it. "he told me all about the horse. he says it's the one good thing he's going to uncover for this meeting. he tried whipsaw out on his own breeding-farm down in kentucky, clocking him twice a week, and he says the nag can beat anything on this track. block's been breaking him to run real races, entering against a lot of selling-platers, with instructions to an iron-armed jockey to hold in so as to get a long price. friday he intends to send the horse in to win and expects to get big odds. i'm glad it's over with. we promised to go out to claremont this afternoon with block, but that settles him. to-morrow i'm going out with you." j. rufus shook his head. "no, you mustn't," he insisted. "you must string this boy along till after the race friday. he might change his mind or scratch the horse or something, but if he knows you have a heavy bet down, and he's still with you, he'll go through with the program." "i can't do it," she protested. he turned to her slowly, took both her hands, and gazed into her eyes. "yes, you can, beauty," he said. "we've been good pals up to now, and this is the last thing i'll ever ask of you." she looked at him a moment with heightening color, then she dropped her eyes. "honest, pinky," she confessed, "sometimes i do wish you had a lot of money." chapter xvi in which wallingford and blackie daw enjoy themselves on monday, nearing noon, wallingford dropped into a flashy café just off broadway, where he knew he would be bound to find some one of his quartet. he found short-card larry there alone, his long, thin fingers clasped around a glass of buttermilk. "hello, wallingford," he said, grinning. "going out to the track to-day?" "i'm not going to miss a race till the meeting closes," asserted wallingford. "i've a good one to-day that i'm going to send in a couple of hundred on." "what is it?" asked larry. "governor." "governor!" snorted larry. "who's in the race with him?" he drew a paper to him and turned to the entries. "why," he protested, "there isn't a plug in that race that can't come back to hunt him." "that's all right," said wallingford. "i'm for the national clockers' association, and i'm going to play their picks straight through." "here's a match," offered larry scornfully. "set fire to your money and save yourself the trouble of the trip." "maybe you'd like to save it from the flames. what odds will you give me?" this being an entirely different proposition, larry began to think much better of the horse. "five to one," he finally decided, after studying over the entries again. "don't know whether that's the track odds or not. but you can take it or leave it." "i'll take it," agreed wallingford, and tossed his money on the bar. mr. teller drew a check-book from his pocket, and wallingford, glancing at the top of the stub as larry filled out the blank for a thousand, noted with satisfaction the splendid balance that was there. evidently the gang was well in funds. they had, no doubt, been quite busy of late. "of course you'll cash that," requested wallingford, not so much on account of this particular bet as to establish a precedent. "sure," agreed teller; "although i'll only have to deposit it again." "i'm betting the two hundred you don't, remember," said wallingford, and they signed a memorandum of the bet, which they deposited with the rock-jawed proprietor, after that never-smiling gentleman had nonchalantly opened his safe and cashed larry's check. on tuesday morning, governor having lost and short-card larry having imprudently exulted to his friends over the two-hundred-dollar winning, mr. teller came around to wallingford's hotel with his pocket full of money to find there badger billy and mr. phelps, both of whom had come on similar business. "i suppose you got his coin on to-day's sure thing," observed larry with a scowl, he being one to whom a bad temper came naturally. "three hundred of it," said fat badger billy triumphantly. "to-day he has a piece of brie _fromage_ by the name of handicass." "which ought to be called handcase," supplemented phelps, and the two threw back their heads and roared. "the cheese is expected to skipper home about the time the crowd realizes they're off." and they all enjoyed themselves in contemplation of what was going to happen to handicass. "got any more?" demanded larry. "not this morning," returned wallingford, accepting his rôle of derided "come-on" with smiling fortitude. "i want to save some for to-morrow's bet." "you see," explained billy banting, purring up his red cheeks with laughter, "wallingford's playing a system of progression. he hikes the bet every day, expecting to play even in the finish." "i see," said larry, grinning; "but don't you fellows hook all this easy money. count me in for a piece of to-morrow's bet." he had a chance. handicass ran to consistent form with all the other "picks"--except the one accident, razzoo--of the national clockers' association, and on wednesday, wallingford bet four hundred on the "information" which that concern wired to him and to mr. phelps. on that day, too, having received at breakfast-time a report from beauty phillips that the whipsaw horse was still "meant," he wrote careful instructions to blackie daw, then held his thumbs and crossed his fingers and touched wood and looked at the moon over the proper shoulder, and did various other things to keep fate from sending home one of those tips as an accidental winner on either wednesday or thursday. nothing of that disastrous sort happened, however, and his pet enemies, the quartet, having won from j. rufus on saturday, monday, tuesday, wednesday and thursday, had by this time pooled their interests and constituted themselves wallingford's regular bookmaking syndicate. their only fear on friday morning, after phelps had received his wire from boston, was that wallingford would not care to bet that day, since the horse which had been given out was that notorious tail-ender, whipsaw! they invaded j. rufus' apartments as soon as they got the wire, and were relieved to find that wallingford was still firm in his allegiance to the national clockers' association. they were a little surprised, however, to find blackie daw at breakfast with wallingford, but they greeted that old comrade with great cordiality, coupled with an inward fear that he might interfere with their designs upon wallingford. "you haven't been making a book against j. rufus on the day's races, have you?" inquired phelps. "not yet," said blackie, laughing, "but i'm willing. what's he on?" "whipsaw," interposed wallingford. blackie laughed softly. "i don't know the horse," he said, "but i just seem to remember that he's the joke of the track." "no," explained larry; "he's too painful to be a joke." "what odds do you expect to get, wallingford?" asked blackie, reaching for his wallet. "hold on a minute," said phelps hastily. "you don't want to butt in on this, daw. we've been making book for j. rufus all week, and it's our money. you hold stakes." "don't you worry," snapped wallingford, suddenly displaying temper; "there will be enough to go around. i'll cover every cent you four have or can get," and he pushed his chair back from the table. "this is my last day in the racing game, and i'm going to plunge on whipsaw. i've turned into cash every resource i had in the world. i've even soaked my diamonds and watch to get more. now come on and cover my coin." from his pocket he produced a thick bundle of bills of large denomination. "what odds do i get? the last time whipsaw was in a race he opened at twelve to one and i ought to get fifteen at least to-day. here's a thousand at that odds." "not on your life!" said short-card larry. "i wouldn't put up fifteen thousand to win one on any game." "what'll you give me, then? come on for this easy money. give me ten?" no, they would not give him ten. "give me eight?" they hesitated. he immediately slid the money in his pocket. "you fellows are kidding. you don't want to make book for me. i'll take this coin out to the track and get it down at the long odds." his display of contemptuous anger decided them. "i'll take my share," asserted short-card larry, he of the quick temper, and among them the four made up the money to cover wallingford's bet. "here's the stakes, blackie," said wallingford, passing over the money toward him. "you're all willing he should hold the money?" they were. they knew blackie. "moreover," observed yap pickins meaningly, "we'll keep close to him." "here's another thousand that you can cover at five to one," offered wallingford, counting out the money. now they were as eager as he. "we'll take you," said teller, "but i'll have to go out and get more mezuma." "all right. bring all you can scrape together and i'll cover the balance of it at two to one." for just one moment they were suspicious. "look here," said billy banting, "do you know something about this horse?" "if i did i wouldn't tell. don't you know that i can get from fifteen to twenty at the track? why do you suppose i want to make such a sucker bet as this? it's because i'd rather have your money than anybody else's; because i want to _break_ you!" he was fairly trembling with simulated anger now. "if that's the case you'll be accommodated," said teller with an oath. "come on, boys; we'll bring up a chunk of money that'll stop all this four-flush conversation." mr. phelps, having already "produced to his limit," stayed with wallingford while the others went out. first of all, they dropped in at a quiet pool-room where they were known, and made inquiries about whipsaw. they were answered by a laugh, and an offer to "take them on for all they wanted at their own odds," and, reassured, they scattered, to raise all the money they could. they returned in the course of an hour and counted down a sum larger than wallingford had thought the four of them could control. he was to find out later that they had not only converted their bank accounts and all their other holdings into currency, but had borrowed all their credit would stand wherever they were known. wallingford, covering their first five thousand with one, calmly counted out an amount equal to one-half of all the rest they had put down, passed it over to blackie to hold, then flaunted more money in their faces. "this is at evens if you can scrape up any more," he offered sneeringly. "go soak your jewelry." before making that suggestion he had noted the absence of larry's ring and of billy's studded watch-charm. phelps was the only one who still wore anything convertible, a loud cravat-pin, an emerald, set with diamonds. "give you two hundred against your pin," said he to phelps, and the latter promptly took the bet. "are you all in?" asked wallingford. they promptly acknowledged that they were "all in." "all right, then; we'll have a drink and go out to the track. you'll want to see this race, _because i win_!" they were naturally contemptuous of this view, even hilariously contemptuous, and they offered to lend wallingford money enough, after the race, "to sneak out of town and hide." while they were taking the parting drink blackie daw slipped into wallingford's bedroom for just one moment "to get a handkerchief." there he found, mopping his brow, a short, thick-set chap known as shorty hampton, a perfectly reliable and discreet betting commissioner. "i was just goin' to duck," growled shorty in a gruff whisper. "i've got two or three other parties to see. i've been suffocating in this damned little room for the last hour, waitin'." "all right. here's the money," said blackie, and handed him _half the stakes which had just been intrusted to his care_. "spread this in as many pool-rooms as you can; get it all down on whipsaw." "three ways?" asked shorty. "straight, every cent of it," insisted daw. "no place or show-money for us to-day." at the track they saw beauty phillips alone in the grand-stand, and joined her. wallingford introduced blackie, and they chatted with her a few moments, then wallingford took him away. he did not care to have jake block see them with her until after the fourth race. as they moved off she gave wallingford a quick, meaning little nod. true to pickins' threat the quartet kept very close indeed to daw, but, during the finish of the rather exciting third race, blackie, manoeuvering so that wallingford was just behind him, slipped from his pocket the remaining half of the stake-money. "well, boys," said wallingford blandly, the money safely tucked away in his own pocket. "i still have a little coin to wager on whipsaw. do you want it?" "no; we're satisfied," returned larry dryly. "all right, then," said wallingford. "i'm going down and get it on the books." harry phelps sighed. "it's too bad to see that easy money going away from us, pink," he confessed. jake block spent but little time that afternoon in the grand-stand by the side of beauty phillips and her mother. from the beginning of the racing he was first in the stables and then in the paddock with an anxious eye. he was lined up at the fence opposite the barrier for the start of the fateful fourth, and he stood there, after the horses had jumped away, to watch his great little whipsaw around the course. but beauty phillips was not without company. wallingford sauntered up at the sound of the mounting bell and sat confidently by her. "did you get it all down, jimmy?" she asked. "every cent," said he, wiping his brow nervously. "did you?" "mother and i are broke if whipsaw don't win," she confessed with dry lips. "what do you suppose makes mr. block look up here with such a poison face every two or three minutes?" wallingford chuckled hugely. "the odds," he explained. "i've cut them to slivers. i bet all mine and blackie's money with the phelps crowd, then turned around and bet all ours and theirs again. say, it's murder if i lose. not even a fancy murder, either." blackie daw, attended by three of his guard, came over to join them, blackie evidencing a strong disposition to linger in the rear, for he was taking a desperate chance with desperate men. if whipsaw lost he had his course mapped out--down the nearest steps of the grand-stand and out to the carriage-gate as fast as his legs would carry him. there, j. rufus' automobile was to be waiting, all cranked up and trembling, ready to dart away the moment blackie should jump in. just as blackie and the others joined wallingford and beauty phillips, larry teller came breathlessly up from the betting-shed. "there's something doing on that whipsaw horse," he declared excitedly. "he opened at twenty to one--and in fifteen minutes of play--either somebody that knows something--or a wagonload of fool-money--had backed him down to evens. think of it! evens!" there was a sudden roar from the crowd, more like a gigantic groan than any other sound. they were off! one horse was left at the post, but it was not whipsaw. two others trailed behind. the other five were away, well bunched. at the quarter, three horses drew into the lead, whipsaw just behind them. at the half, one of the three was dropping back, and whipsaw slowly overtaking it. now his nose was at her flanks; now at the saddle; then the jockeys were abreast; then the white jacket and red sleeves of whipsaw's rider could be seen to the fore of the opposing jockey, with the two leaders just ahead. at the three-quarters, three horses were neck and neck again, but this time whipsaw was among them. down the stretch they came pounding, and then, and not until then, did whipsaw, a lithe, shining little brown streak, strike into the best stride of which he was capable. a thousand hoarse watchers, as they came to the seven-eighths, roared encouragement to the horses. whipsaw's name was much among them, but only in tones of anger. men and even women ran down to the rail and stood on tiptoe with red faces, shrieking for fashion to come on, begging and praying fashion to win, for fashion carried most of the money; and the shrieking became an agony as the horses flashed under the wire, whipsaw a good, clean half length in the lead! [illustration: beauty phillips discovered she was on her feet] as the roaring stopped in one high, abrupt wail, beauty phillips, who never knew emotion or excitement, suddenly discovered, to her vast surprise, that she was on her feet! that she was clutching her throat for its hoarseness! that she was dripping with perspiration! that she was faint and weak and giddy! that her blood was pounding and her eyeballs hurt; and that she had been, from the stretch down, jumping violently up and down and shrieking the name of whipsaw! whipsaw! whipsaw! whipsaw! a frenzied hand grabbed blackie daw by the elbow. "duck, for god's sake, blackie!" implored the shaking voice of billy banting. "go down to the old joint on thirty-third street and wait for us. we'll split up that stake and all make a get-away." "not on your life!" returned blacked calmly, and pulled wallingford around toward him by the shoulder. "i shall have great pleasure in turning over to mr. wallingford the combined bets of the broadway syndicate against that lovely little record-breaker, whipsaw." "it's a good horse," said wallingford with forced calmness, and then he began to chuckle, his broad shoulders shaking and his breast heaving; "and it was well named. i fawncy the broadway syndicate book will now go out of business--and with no chance to welch." "all we wise people knew about it," blackie condescendingly explained to the quartet. "you see, i am running the national clockers' association." before the voiceless broadway syndicate was through gasping over this piece of news, jake block came stalking through the grand-stand. though elated over his victory and flushed with his winnings, he nevertheless had time to cast a bitter scowl in the direction of beauty phillips. "the next time i hand any woman a tip you may cut my arm off!" he declared. "i'm through with you!" "who's that?" asked larry teller, glaring after the man who had mentioned the pregnant word "tip." "jake block, the owner of whipsaw," wallingford was pleased to inform him. "it's a frame-up!" shouted billy banting. a strong left hand clutched desperately at blackie daw's coat and tore the top button off, and an equally strong right hand grabbed into blackie daw's inside coat-pocket. it was empty, pickins found, just as a stronger hand than his own gripped him until he winced with pain. "what have you done with the stakes?" shrieked pickins, trying to throw off that grip, but not turning. "what's it your business? but, if you want to know, all that stake-money was bet in the shed and in the books about town--on whipsaw to win!" the broad-shouldered man who had edged up quite near to them during the race, and who had interfered with pickins, now stepped in front of the members of the defunct broadway syndicate. they only took one good look at him, and then fell back quite clamily. in the broad-shouldered giant they had recognized harvey willis, the quite capable broadway policeman and friend of wallingford, off for the day in his street clothes. "run along, little ones, and play tricks on the ignorant country folks from harlem and flatbush," advised beauty phillips as she took wallingford's arm and turned away with him. "you've been whipsawed!" she was exceptionally gracious to j. rufus that evening, but for the first time in many days he was extremely thoughtful. a vague unrest possessed him and it grew as the beauty became more gracious. he guessed that he could marry her if he wished, but somehow the idea did not please him as it might have done a few weeks earlier. he liked the beauty perhaps even better than before, but somehow she was not quite the type of woman for him, and he had not realized it until she brought him face to face with the problem. "by the way," he said as he bid her good night, "i think i'll take a little run about the country for a while. i'm a whole lot tired of this man's town." chapter xvii j. rufus seeks for profitable investment in the country a rattling old carryall, drawn by one knobby yellow horse and driven by a decrepit patriarch of sixty, stopped with a groan and a creak and a final rattle at the door of the weather-beaten atlas hotel, and a grocery "drummer," a beardless youth with pink cheeks, jumped hastily out and rushed into the clean but bare little office, followed as hastily by a grizzled veteran of the road who sold dry-goods and notions and wore gaudy young clothes. wallingford emerged much more slowly, as became his ponderous size. he was dressed in a green summer suit of ineffable fabric, wore green low shoes, green silk hose, a green felt hat, and a green bow tie, below which, in the bosom of his green silk negligee shirt, glowed a huge diamond. richness and bigness were the very essence of him, and the aged driver, recognizing true worth when he saw it, gave a jerk at his dust-crusted old cap as he addressed him. "'tain't no use to hurry now," he quavered. "them other two'll have the good rooms." j. rufus, from natural impulse, followed in immediately. there was no one behind the little counter, but the young grocery drummer, having hastily inspected the sparse entries of the preceding days, had registered himself for room two. "there ain't a single transient in the house, billy," he said, turning to the dry-goods and notion salesman, "so i'll just put you down for number three." a buxom young woman came out of the adjoining dining-room, wiping her red hands and arms upon a water-spattered gingham apron. "three of us, molly," said the older salesman. "hustle up the dinner," and out of pure friendliness he started to chuck her under the chin, whereat she wheeled and slapped him a resounding whack and ran away laughing. this vigorous retort, being entirely expected, was passed without comment, and the two commercial travelers took off their coats to "wash up" at the tin basins in the corner. the aged driver, intercepting them to collect, came in to wallingford, who, noting the custom, had already subscribed his name with a flourish upon the register. "two shillin'," quavered the ancient one at his elbow. wallingford gave him twice the amount he asked for, and the old man was galvanized into instant fluttering activity. he darted out of the door with surprising agility, and returned with two pieces of wallingford's bright and shining luggage, which he surveyed reverently as he placed them in front of the counter. two more pieces, equally rich, he brought, and on the third trip the proprietor's son, a brawny boy of fifteen, clad in hickory shirt, blue overalls and plow shoes, and with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, helped him in with wallingford's big sole-leather dresser trunk. "gee!" said the boy to wallingford, beaming upon this array of expensive baggage. "what do you sell?" "white elephants, son," replied wallingford, so gravely that the boy took two minutes to decide that the rich stranger was "fresh." it was not until dinner was called that any one displayed the least interest in the register, and then the proprietor, a tall, cowboy-like man, with drooping mustaches and a weather-browned face, came in with his trousers tucked into his top boots. "hello, joe! hello, billy!" he said, nodding to the two traveling men. "how's business?" "rotten!" returned the grocery drummer. "fine!" asserted the dry-goods salesman. "our house hasn't done so much business in five years." _sotto voce_, he turned to the young drummer. "never give it away that business is on the bum," he said out of his years of experience. the tall proprietor examined the impressively groomed wallingford and his impressive luggage with some curiosity, and went behind the little counter to inspect the register. "i'd like two rooms and a bath," said wallingford, as the other looked up thoughtfully. "two! two?" repeated jim ranger, looking about the room. "some ladies with you? mother or sister, maybe?" "no," answered wallingford, smiling. "a bedroom and sitting-room and a bath for myself." "sitting-room?" repeated the proprietor. "you know, you can sit in this office till the 'leven-ten's in every night, and then the parlor's--" he hesitated, and, seeing the unresponsive look upon his guest's face, he added hastily: "oh, well, i reckon i can fix it. we can move a bed out of number five, and i'll have the bath-tub and the water sent up as soon as you need it. this is wash-day, you know, and they've got the rinse water in it. i reckon you won't want it before to-night, though." "no," said j. rufus quietly, and sighed. immediately after lunch, j. rufus, inquiring again for the proprietor, was told by molly that he was in the barn, indicating its direction with a vague wave of her thumb. wallingford went out to the enormous red barn, its timbers as firm as those of the hotel were flimsy, its lines as rigidly perpendicular as those of the hotel were out of plumb, its doors and windows as square-angled as those of the hotel were askew. across its wide front doors, opening upon the same wide, cracked old stone sidewalk as the hotel, was a big sign kept fresh and bright: "j. h. ranger, livery and sales stable." here wallingford found the proprietor and the brawny boy in the middle of the wide barn floor, in earnest consultation over the bruised hock of a fine, big, draft horse. "i'd like to get a good team and a driver for this afternoon," observed wallingford. "you've come to the right place," declared jim ranger heartily, and when he straightened up he no longer looked awkward and out of place, as he had in the hotel office, but seemed a graceful part of the surrounding picture. "bob, get out that little sorrel team and hitch it up to the new buggy for the gentleman," and as bob sprang away with alacrity he turned to wallingford. "they're not much to look at, that sorrel team," he explained, "but they can go like a couple of rats, all day, at a good, steady clip, up hill and down." "fine," said wallingford, who was somewhat of a connoisseur in horses, and he surveyed the under-sized, lithe-limbed, rough-coated sorrels with approval as they were brought stamping out of their stalls, though, as he climbed into his place, he regretted that they were not more in keeping with the handsome buggy. "which way?" asked bob, as he gathered up the reins. "the country just outside of town, in all directions," directed wallingford briefly. "all right," said bob with a click to the little horses, and clattering out of the door they turned to the right, away from the broad, shady street of old maples, and were almost at once in the country. for a mile or two there were gently undulating farms of rich, black loam, and these wallingford inspected in careful turn. "seems to be good land about here," he observed. "best in the world," said the youngster. "was you thinkin' of buyin' a farm?" wallingford smiled and shook his head. "i scarcely think so," he replied. "'twouldn't do you any good if you was," retorted bob. "there ain't a farm hereabouts for sale." to prove it, he pointed out the extent of each farm, gave the name of its owner and told how much he was worth, to all of which wallingford listened most intently. they had been driving to the east, but, coming to a fork in the road leading to the north, bob took that turning without instructions, still chattering his local bradstreet. along this road was again rich and smiling farm land, but wallingford, seeming throughout the drive to be eagerly searching for something, evinced a new interest when they came to a grove of slender, straight-trunked trees. "old man mescott gets a hundred gallons of maple syrup out of that grove every spring," said bob in answer to a query. "he gets two dollars a gallon, then he stays drunk till plumb the middle of summer. was you thinkin' of buyin' a maple grove?" wallingford looked back in thoughtful speculation, but ended by shaking his head, more to himself than to bob. they passed through a woods. "good timber land, that," suggested wallingford. "good timber land! i should say it was," said bob. "there's nigh a hundred big walnut trees back in there a ways, to say nothing of all the fine oak an' hick'ry, but old man cass won't touch an ax to nothing but underbrush. he says he's goin' to will 'em to his grandchildren, and by the time they grow up it'll be worth their weight in money. was you thinkin' of buyin' some timber land?" wallingford again hesitated over that question, but finally stated that he was not. "here's the north road back into town," said bob, as they came to a cross-road, and as they gained the top of the elevation they could look down and see, a mile or so away, the little town, its gray roofs and red chimneys peeping from out its sheltering of green leaves. just beyond the intersection the side of the hill had been cut away, and clean, loose gravel lay there in a broad mass. wallingford had bob halt while he inspected this. "good gravel bank," he commented. "i reckon it is," agreed bob. "they come clear over from highville and from appletown and even from jenkins corners to get that gravel, and tom kerrick dresses his whole family off of that bank. he wouldn't sell it for any money. was you thinkin' of buying a gravel bank, mister?" instead of replying wallingford indicated another broken hillside farther on, where shale rock had slipped loosely down, like a disintegrated slate roof, to a seeping hollow. "is that stone good for anything?" he asked. "nothing in the world," replied bob. "it rots right up. if you was thinkin' of buyin' a stone quarry now, there's a fine one up the north road yonder." wallingford laughed and shook his head. "i wasn't thinking of buying a stone quarry," said he. bob ranger looked shrewdly and yet half-impatiently at the big young man by his side. "you're thinkin' o' buyin' somethin'; i know that," he opined. wallingford chuckled and dropped his big, plump hand on the other's shoulder. "elephant hay only," he kindly explained; "just elephant hay for white elephants," whereat the inquisitive bob, mumbling something to himself about "freshness," relapsed into hurt silence. in this silence they passed far to the northwest of the town, and a much-gullied highway led them down toward the broader west road. here again, as they headed straight in to blakeville with their backs to the descending sun, were gently undulating farm lands, but about half a mile out of town they came to a wide expanse of black swamp, where cat-tails and calamus held sole possession. before this swamp wallingford paused in long and thoughtful contemplation. "who owns this?" he asked. "jonas bubble," answered bob, recovering cheerfully from his late rebuff. "gosh! he's the richest man in these parts. owns three hundred acres of this fine farmin' land we just passed, owns the mill down yander by the railroad station, has a hide and seed and implement store up-town, and lives in the finest house anywhere around blakeville; regular city house. that's it, on ahead. was you thinkin' o' buyin' some swamp land?" to this wallingford made no reply. he was gazing backward over that useless little valley, its black waters now turned velvet crimson as they caught the slant of the reddening sun. "here's jonas bubble's house," said bob presently. it was the first house outside of blakeville--a big, square, pretentious-looking place, with a two-story porch in front and a quantity of scroll-sawed ornaments on eaves and gables and ridges, on windows and doors and cornices, and with bright brass lightning-rods projecting upward from every prominence. at the gate stood, bare-headed, a dark-haired and strikingly pretty girl, with a rarely olive-tinted complexion, through which, upon her oval cheeks, glowed a clear, roseate under-tint. she was fairly slender, but well rounded, too, and very graceful. "hello, fannie!" called bob, with a jerk at his flat-brimmed straw hat. "hello, bob!" she replied with equal heartiness, her bright eyes, however, fixed in inquiring curiosity upon the stranger. "that's jonas bubble's girl," explained bob, as they drove on. "she's a good looker, but she won't spoon." wallingford, grinning over the fatal defect in fannie bubble, looked back at the girl. "she would make a casino chorus look like a row of hallowe'en confectionery junk," he admitted. "fannie, come right in here and get supper!" shrilled a harsh voice, and in the doorway of the bubble homestead they saw an overly-plump figure in a green silk dress. "gosh!" said bob, and hit one of the little sorrel horses a vindictive clip. "that's fannie's stepmother. jonas bubble married his hired girl two years ago, and now they don't hire any. she makes fannie do the work." chapter xviii wallingford speculates in the cheapest real estate procurable that evening, after supper, wallingford sat on one of the broad, cane-seated chairs in front of the atlas hotel, smoking a big, black cigar from his own private store, and watched the regular evening parade go by. they came, two by two, the girls of the village, up one side of maple street, passed the atlas hotel, crossed over at the corner of the livery stable, went down past the big store and as far as the campbellite church, where they crossed again and began a new round; and each time they passed the atlas hotel they giggled, or they talked loudly, or pushed one another, or did something to enlarge themselves in the transient eye. the grocery drummer and the dry-goods salesman sat together, a little aloof from j. rufus, and presently began saying flippant things to the girls as they passed. a wake of giggles, after each such occasion, frothed across the street at the livery-stable corner, and down toward the campbellite church. molly presently slipped out of the garden gate and went down maple street by herself. within twenty minutes she, too, had joined the parade, and with her was fannie bubble. as these passed the atlas hotel both the drummers got up. "hello, molly," said the grocery drummer. "i've been waiting for you since hector was a pup," and he caught her arm, while the dry-goods salesman advanced a little uncertainly. "you 'tend to your own business, joe cling," ordered molly, jerking her arm away, but nevertheless giving an inquiring glance toward her companion. that rigid young lady, however, was looking straight ahead. she was standing just in front of wallingford. "come on," coaxed the grocery drummer; "i don't bite. grab hold there on the other side, billy." miss bubble, however, was still looking so uncompromisingly straight ahead that billy hesitated, and the willing enough molly, seeing that the conference had "struck a snag," took matters into her own vigorous hands again. "you're too fresh," she admonished the grocery drummer. "let go my arm, i tell you. come on, fannie," and she flounced away with her companion, turning into the gate of the hotel garden. miss fannie cast back a curious glance, not at the grocery drummer nor the veteran dry-goods salesman, but at the quiet j. rufus. the discomfited transients gave short laughs of chagrin and went back to their seats, but the grocery drummer was too young to be daunted for long, and by the time another section or two of the giggling parade had passed them he was ready for a second attempt. one couple, a tall, thin girl and a short, chubby one, who had now made the circuit three times, came sweeping past again, exchanging with each other hilarious persiflage which was calculated to attract and tempt. "wait a minute," said the grocery drummer to his companion. he dashed straight across the street, and under the shadow of the big elm intercepted the long and short couple. there was a parley in which the girls two or three times started to walk away, a further parley in which they consented to stand still, a loud male guffaw mingled with a succession of shrill giggles, then suddenly the grocery salesman called: "come on, billy!" the dry-goods man half rose from his chair and hesitated. "come on, billy!" again invited the grocery drummer. "we're going down to wade in the creek." a particularly high-pitched set of giggles followed this tremendous joke, and billy, his timid scruples finally overcome, went across the street, a ridiculous figure with his ancient body and his youthful clothes. nevertheless, wallingford felt just a trifle lonesome as he watched his traveling companions of the afternoon go sauntering down the street in company which, if silly, was at least human. while he regretted broadway, bob ranger, dressed no whit different from his attire of the afternoon, except that his sleeves were rolled down, came out of the hotel and stood for an undecided moment in front of the door. "hello, bob!" hailed wallingford cordially, glad to see any face he knew. "do you smoke?" "reckon i do," said bob. "i was thinkin' just this minute of walkin' down to bud hegler's for some stogies." "sit down and have a cigar," offered wallingford, producing a companion to the one he was then enjoying. bob took that cigar and smelled it; he measured its length, its weight, and felt its firmness. "it ain't got any band on it, but i reckon that's a straight ten-center," he opined. "i'll buy all you can get me of that brand for a quarter apiece," offered wallingford. "so?" said bob, looking at it doubtfully. "i reckon i'd better save this for sunday." "no, smoke it now. i'll give you another one for sunday," promised wallingford, and he lit a match, whereupon bob, biting the end off the cigar with his strong, white teeth, moistened it all over with his tongue to keep the curl of the wrapper down. with vast gratification he sat down to enjoy that awe-inspiring cigar, and, by way of being entertaining, uttered comment upon the passing parade--frank, ingeniously told bits of personal history which would have been startling to one who had imbibed the conventional idea that all country folk are without guile. wallingford was not so much shocked by these revelations, however, as he might have been, for he had himself been raised in a country town, though one not so small as blakeville. it was while bob was in the midst of this more or less profane history that molly and fannie bubble came out of the gate. "come here, molly," invited bob; "i want to introduce you to a friend of mine. he's going to stop here quite a long time. mr. wallingford--molly; miss bubble--mr. wallingford. come on; let's all take a walk," and confidently taking molly's arm he started up the crossing, leaving miss bubble to wallingford. "it's a beautiful evening, isn't it?" said fannie, as wallingford caught step with her. wallingford had to hark back. time had been when the line of conversation which went with miss bubble's opening remark had been as familiar to him as his own safety razor, but of late he had been entertaining such characters as beauty phillips, and conversation with the beauty had consisted of lightning-witted search through the ends of the earth and the seas therein for extravagant hyperbole and metaphor. harking back was so difficult that j. rufus gave it up. "lovely evening," he admitted. "i've just been thinking about this weather. i've about decided to build a factory to put it up in boxes for the chicago market. they'd pay any price for it there in the fall." miss fannie considered this remark in silence for a moment, and then she laughed, a quiet, silvery laugh that startled j. rufus by its musical quality. "i don't see why you should laugh," protested wallingford gravely. "if a man can get a monopoly on weather-canning it would be even better than the sleep-factory idea i've been considering." "what was that like?" asked fannie, interested in spite of the fact that these jokes were not at all the good old standards, which could be laughed at without the painful necessity of thought. "well," wallingford explained, "i figured on building an immense dormitory and hiring about a thousand fat hoboes to sleep for me night and day. then i intended to take that sleep and condense it and put it up in eight-hour capsules for visitors to new york. there ought to be a fortune in that." again a little silence and again that little silvery laugh which wallingford found himself watching for. "you're so funny," said miss fannie. "for a long time i was divided between that and my anti-bum serum as a permanent investment," he went on, glancing down at her as he extended himself along the line which had seemed to catch her fancy. she was looking up at him, her eyes shining, her lips half parted in an anticipatory smile, and unconsciously her hand had crept upon his arm, where it lay warm and vibrant. "you know," he explained, "they inoculate a guinea-pig or a sheep or something with disease germs, and from this animal, somehow or other, they extract a serum which cures that disease. well, i propose to get a herd of billy-goats boiling spifflicated, and extract from them the jag serum, and with that inoculate all the rounders on broadway at so much per inoc. then they can stand up in front of an onyx bar and guzzle till it oozes out of their ears, without any worse effects than a lifting pain in the right elbow." this time the laugh came more slowly, for here was a lot of language which, though refreshing, was tangled in knots that must be unraveled. nevertheless, the laugh came, and at the sound of it wallingford involuntarily pressed slightly against his side the hand that lay upon his arm. they were passing hen moozer's general merchandise emporium and post-office at the time, and upon the rickety porch, its posts, benches, and even floors whittled like a huge rosetta stone, sat a group of five young men. just after the couple had cleared the end of the porch a series of derisive meows broke out. it was the old protest of town boy against city boy, of work clothes against "sunday duds," of native against alien; and again j. rufus harked back. it only provoked a smile in him, but he felt a sudden tenseness in the hand that lay upon his arm, and he was relieved when bob and molly, a half block ahead of them, turned hastily down a delightfully dark and shady cross street, in the shelter of which bob immediately slipped his arm around molly's waist. j. rufus, pondering that movement and regarding it as the entirely conventional and proper one, essayed to do likewise; but miss fannie, discussing the unpleasant habit of her young townsmen with some indignation but more sense of humor, gently but firmly unwound j. rufus' arm, placed it at his side and slipped her hand within it again without the loss of a syllable. wallingford was surprised at himself. in the old days he would have fought out this issue and would have conquered. now, however, something had made this bold young man of the world suddenly tame. he himself helped miss fannie to put him back upon grounds of friendly aloofness, and with a gasp he realized that for the first time in his life he had met a girl who had forced his entire respect. it was preposterous! unaccountably, however, they seemed to grow more friendly after that, and the talk drifted to j. rufus himself, the places he had seen, the adventures he had encountered, the richness of luxury that he had sought and found, and the girl listened with breathless eagerness. they did not go back to maple street just now, for the maple street parade was only for the unattached. instead, they followed the others down to the depot and back, and after another half-hour _détour_ through the quiet, shady street, they found bob and molly waiting for them at the corner. "good night, fannie," said molly. "i'm going in. to-morrow's ironing day. good night, mr. wallingford." "good night," returned miss fannie, as a matter of course, and again wallingford harked back. he was to take miss fannie home. quite naturally. why not? it was a long walk, but by no means too long, and when they had arrived at the big, fret-sawed house of jonas bubble, j. rufus was sorry. he lingered a moment at the gate, but only a moment, for a woman's shrill voice called: "is that you, fannie? you come right in here and go to bed! who's that with you?" "you'd better go right away, please," pleaded fannie in a flutter. "i'm not allowed to be with strangers." this would have been the cue for a less adroit and diplomatic caller to hurry silently back up the street, and, as a matter of fact, this entirely conventional course was all that mrs. bubble had looked for. she was accordingly shocked when the gate opened, and in place of fannie coming alone, j. rufus, in spite of the girl's protest, walked deliberately up to the porch. "is mr. bubble at home?" he asked with great dignity. mrs. bubble gasped. "i reckon he is," she admitted. "i'd like to see him, if possible." there was another moment of silence, in which mrs. bubble strove to readjust herself. "i'll call him," she said, and went in. mr. jonas bubble, revealed in the light of the open door, proved to be a pursy man of about fifty-five, full of importance from his square-toed shoes to his gray sideburns; he exuded importance from every vest button upon the bulge of his rotundity, and importance glistened from the very top of his bald head. "i am j. rufus wallingford," said that broad-chested young gentleman, whose impressiveness was at least equal to mr. bubble's importance, and he produced a neatly-engraved card to prove the genuineness of his name. "i was introduced to your daughter at the hotel, and i came down to consult with you upon a little matter of business." "i usually transact business at my office," said mr. bubble pompously; "nevertheless, you may come inside." he led the way into a queer combination of parlor, library, sitting-room and study, where he lit a big, hanging gasolene lamp, opened his old swinging top desk with a key which he carefully and pompously selected from a pompous bunch, placed a plush-covered chair for his visitor, and seated himself upon an old leather-stuffed chair in front of the desk. "now, sir," said he, swinging around to wallingford and puffing out his cheeks, "i am ready to consider whatever you may have to say." mr. wallingford's first action was one well-calculated to inspire interest. first he drew out the desk slide at mr. bubble's left; then from his inside vest pocket he produced a large flat package of greenbacks, no bill being of less than a hundred dollars' denomination. from this pile he carefully counted out eight thousand dollars, and put the balance, which mr. bubble hastily estimated at about fifteen hundred, back in his pocket. this procedure having been conducted with vast and impressive silence, mr. wallingford cleared his throat. "i have come to ask a great favor of you," said he, sinking his voice to barely above a whisper. "i am a stranger here. i find, unfortunately, that there is no bank in blakeville, and i have more money with me than i care to carry about. i learned that you are the only real man of affairs in the town, and have come to ask you if you would kindly make room for this in your private safe for a day or so." mr. bubble, rotating his thumbs slowly upon each other, considered that money in profound silence. the possessor of so much loose cash was a gentleman, a man to be respected. "with pleasure," said mr. bubble. "i don't myself like to have so much money about me, and i'd advise you, as soon as convenient, to take it up to millford, where i do my banking. in the meantime, i don't blame you, mr. wallingford, for not wanting to carry this much money about with you, nor for hesitating to put it in jim ranger's old tin safe." "thank you," said wallingford. "i feel very much relieved." mr. bubble drew paper and pen toward him. "i'll write you a receipt," he offered. "not at all; not at all," protested wallingford, having gaged mr. bubble very accurately. "between gentlemen such matters are entirely superfluous. by the way, mr. bubble, i see you have a large swamp on your land. do you intend to let it lie useless for ever?" "what else can i do with it?" demanded mr. bubble, wondering. that swamp had always been there. naturally, it would always be there. "you can't do very much with it," admitted wallingford. "however, it is barely possible that i might see a way to utilize it, if the price were reasonable enough. what would you take for it?" this was an entirely different matter. mr. bubble pursed up his lips. "well, i don't know. the land surrounding it is worth two hundred dollars an acre." wallingford grinned, but only internally. he knew this to be a highly exaggerated estimate, but he let it pass without comment. "no doubt," he agreed; "but your swamp is worth exactly nothing per square mile; in fact, worth less than nothing. it is only a breeding-place of mosquitoes and malaria. how many acres does it cover?" "about forty." "i suppose ten dollars an acre would buy it?" "by no means," protested mr. bubble. "i wouldn't have a right of way split through my farm for four hundred dollars. couldn't think of it." it was wallingford's turn to be silent. "tell you what i'll do," he finally began. "i think of settling down in blakeville. i like the town from what i've seen of it, and i may make some important investments here." mr. bubble nodded his head gravely. a man who carried over eight thousand dollars surplus cash in his pocket had a right to talk that way. "the matter, of course," continued wallingford, "requires considerable further investigation. in the meantime, i stand ready to pay you now a hundred dollars for a thirty-day option upon forty acres of your swamp land, the hundred to apply upon a total purchase price of one thousand dollars. moreover, i'll make it a part of the contract that no enterprise be undertaken upon this ground without receiving your sanction." mr. bubble considered this matter in pompous silence for some little time. "suppose we just reduce that proposition to writing, mr. wallingford," he finally suggested, and without stirring from his seat he raised his voice and called: "fannie!" in reply two voices approached the door, one sharp, querulous, nagging, the other, the younger and fresher voice, protesting; then the girl came in, followed closely by her stepmother. the girl looked at wallingford brightly. he was the first young man who had bearded the lioness at bubble villa, and she appreciated the novelty. mrs. bubble, however, distinctly glared at him, though the eyes of both women roved from him to the pile of bills held down with a paper weight on mr. bubble's desk. mr. bubble made way for his daughter. "write a little agreement for mr. wallingford and myself," directed mr. bubble, and dictated it, much to the surprise of the women, for jonas always did his own writing. they did not understand that he, also, wished to make an impression. with a delicate flush of self-consciousness in her occupation fannie wrote the option agreement, and later another document, acknowledging the receipt of eight thousand dollars to be held in trust. in exchange for the first paper j. rufus gravely handed mr. bubble a hundred-dollar bill. "to-morrow," said he, "i shall drop around to see you at your office, to confer with you about my proposed enterprise." as wallingford left the room, attended by the almost obsequious bubble, he caught a lingering glance of interest, curiosity, and perhaps more, from the bright eyes of fannie bubble. her stepmother, however, distinctly sniffed. meanwhile, wallingford, at the gate, turned for a moment toward the distant swamp where it lay now ebony and glittering silver in the moonlight, knitted his brows in perplexity, lit another of his black cigars, and strolled back to the hotel. what on earth should he do with that swamp, now that he had it? something good ought to be hinged on it. should he form a drainage company to restore it to good farming land? no. at best he could only get a hundred and fifty dollars an acre, or, say, six thousand dollars for the forty. the acreage alone was to cost him a thousand; no telling what the drainage would cost, but whatever the figure there would not be profit enough to hypothecate. and it was no part of wallingford's intention to do any actual work. he was through for ever with drudgery; for him was only creation. what should he do with that swamp? as he thought of it, his mind's eye could see only its blackness. it was, after all, only a mass of dense, sticky, black mud! still revolving this problem in mind, wallingford went to his bedroom, where he had scarcely arrived when bob ranger followed him, his sleeves rolled up again and a pail of steaming water in each hand. "the old man said you was to have a bath when you come in," stated bob. "how hot do you want it?" "i think i'll let it go till morning and have it cold," replied wallingford, chuckling. "all right," said bob. "it's your funeral and not mine. i'll just pour this in now and it'll get cool by morning." in the next room--wherein the bed had been hastily replaced by two chairs, an old horsehair lounge and a kitchen table covered with a red table-cloth--wallingford found a huge tin bath-tub, shaped like an elongated coal scuttle, dingy white on the inside and dingy green on the outside, and battered full of dents. "how'd you get along?" asked bob, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his brow after he had emptied the two pails of water into the tub. "all right," said wallingford with a reminiscent smile. "old mrs. bubble drive you off the place?" "no," replied wallingford loftily. "i went in the house and talked a while." "go on!" exclaimed bob, the glow of admiration almost shining through his skin. "say, you're a peach, all right! how do you like fannie?" "she's a very nice girl," opined wallingford. "yes," agreed bob. "she's getting a little old, though. she was twenty her last birthday. she'll be an old maid pretty soon, but it's her own fault." then bob went after more water, and wallingford, seating himself at the table with paper and pencil, plunged into a succession of rambling figures concerning jonas bubble's black swamp; and he figured and puzzled far into the night, with the piquant face of miss fannie drifting here and there among the figures. chapter xix wherein blakeville has opportunity to become a great art center the next morning wallingford requisitioned the services of bob and the little sorrel team again, and drove out to jonas bubble's swamp. arrived there he climbed the fence, and, taking a sliver of fence rail with him, gravely prodded into the edge of the swamp in various places, hauling it up in each case dripping with viscid black mud, which he examined with the most minute care, dropping tiny drops upon the backs of clean cards and spreading them out smoothly with the tip of his finger, while he looked up into the sky inquiringly, not one gesture of his conduct lost upon the curious bob. when he climbed back into the buggy, bob, finding it impossible longer to restrain his quivering curiosity, asked him: "what's it good for?" "i can't tell you just yet," said wallingford kindly, "but if it is what i think it is, bob, i've made a great discovery, one that i am sure will not only increase my wealth but add greatly to the riches of blakeville. do you know where i could find jonas bubble at this hour?" "down at the mill, sure." "drive down there." as they drove past jonas bubble's house they saw miss fannie on the back porch, in an old wrapper, peeling potatoes, and heard the sharp voice of the second mrs. bubble scolding her. "say," said bob, "if that old rip was my stepmother i'd poke her head-first into that swamp back yonder." wallingford shook his head. "she'd turn it black," he gravely objected. "why, it is black," protested bob, opening his eyes in bewilderment. in reply to this wallingford merely chuckled. bob, regarding him in perplexity for a while, suddenly saw that this was a joke, and on the way to the mill he snickered a score of times. queer chap, this wallingford; rich, no doubt, and smart as a whip; and something mysterious about him, too! wallingford found jonas bubble in flour-sifted garments in his office, going over a dusty file of bills. "mr. bubble," said he, "i have been down to your swamp and have investigated its possibilities. i am now prepared, since i have secured the right to purchase this land, to confide to you the business search in which i have for some time been engaged, and which now, i hope, is concluded. do you know, mr. bubble, the valuable deposit i think i have found in my swamp?" "no!" ejaculated bubble, stricken solemn by the confidential tone. "what is it?" wallingford took a long breath, swelling out his already broad chest, and, leaning over most impressively, tapped his compelling finger upon jonas bubble's knee. then said he, with almost tragic earnestness: "_black mud!_" jonas bubble drew back astounded, eying wallingford with affrighted incredulity. he had thought this young man sane. "black--" he gasped; "black--" and then hesitated. "_mud!_" finished wallingford for him, more impressively than before. "high and low, far and near, mr. bubble, i have searched for a deposit of this sort. wherever there was a swamp i have been, but never until i came to blakeville did i find what i believe to be the correct quality of black mud." "black mud," repeated jonas bubble meaninglessly, but awed in spite of himself. "_etruscan_ black mud," corrected wallingford. "the same rare earth out of which the world famous etruscan pottery is manufactured in the little village of etrusca, near milan, italy. the smallest objects of this beautiful jet-black pottery retail in this country from ten dollars upward. with your permission i am going to express some samples of this deposit to the world-famous pottery designer, signor vittoreo matteo, formerly in charge of the etruscan pottery, but who is now in boston waiting with feverish impatience for me to find a suitable deposit of this rare black mud. if i have at last found it, mr. bubble, i wish to congratulate you and blakeville, as well as myself, upon the acquisition of an enterprise which will not only reflect vast credit on your charming and progressive little town, but will bring it a splendid accession of wealth." mr. bubble rose from his chair and shook hands with young wallingford in great, though pompous, emotion. "my son," said he, "go right ahead. take all of it you want--that is," he hastily corrected himself, "all you need for experimental purposes." for, he reflected, there was no need to waste any of the rare and valuable etruscan black mud. "i think i'll go with you." "i'd be pleased to have you," said wallingford, as, indeed, he was. on the way, wallingford stopped at hen moozer's general merchandise emporium and post-office, where he bought a large tin pail with a tight cover, a small tin pail and a long-handled garden trowel which he bent at right angles; and seven people walked off of hen moozer's porch into the middle of the street to see the town magnate and the resplendent stranger, driven by the elated bob ranger, whirl down maple street toward jonas bubble's swamp. arrived there, who so active in direction as jonas bubble? "bob," he ordered, protruding his girth at least three inches beyond its normal position, "hitch those horses and jump over in the field here with us. mr. wallingford, you will want this sample from somewhere near the center of the swamp. bob, back yonder beyond that clump of bushes you will find that old flatboat we had right after the big rainy season. hunt around down there for a long pole and pole out some place near the middle. take this shovel and dig down and get mud enough to fill these two buckets." bob stood unimpressed. it was not an attractive task. "and bob," added wallingford mildly, "here's a dollar, and i know where there's another." "sure," said bob with the greatest of alacrity, and he hurried back to where the old flatboat, water-soaked and nearly as black as the swamp upon which it rested, was half submerged beyond the clump of bushes. when, after infinite labor, he had pushed that clumsy craft afloat upon the bosom of the shallow swamp, mr. bubble was on the spot with infinite direction. he told bob, shouting from the shore, just where to proceed and how, down to the handling of each trowelful of dripping mud, and even to the emptying of each small pailful into the large pail. "i don't know exactly how i'll get this boxed for shipping," hinted wallingford, as bob carried the pail laboriously back to the buggy. "right down at the mill," invited mr. bubble with great cordiality. "i'll have my people look after it for you." "that's very kind of you," replied wallingford. "i'll give you the address," and upon the back of one of his own cards he wrote: sig. vittoreo matteo, marabon building, boston, mass., u. s. a., care horace g. daw. that night he wrote a careful letter of explanation to horace g. daw. two weeks to wait. oh, well, wallingford could amuse himself by working up a local reputation. it was while he was considering this, upon the following day, that a farmer with three teeth drove up in a dilapidated spring-wagon drawn by a pair of beautiful bay horses, and stopped in front of jim ranger's livery and sales stable to talk hay. wallingford, sitting in front of the hotel in lazy meditation, walked over and examined the team with a critical eye. they were an exquisite match, perfect in every limb, with manes and tails and coats of that peculiar silken sheen belonging to perfect health and perfect care. "very nice team you have," observed wallingford. "finest match team anywhere," agreed abner follis, plucking at his gray goatee and mouthing a straw, "an' i make a business o' raisin' thoroughbreds. cousins, they are, an' without a blemish on 'em. an' trot--you'd ought to see that team trot." "what'll you take for them?" asked wallingford. the response of abner follis was quick and to the point. he kept a careful appraisement upon all his live stock. "seven hundred and fifty," said he, naming a price that allowed ample leeway for dickering. it was almost a disappointment to him that wallingford produced his wallet, counted over the exact amount that had been asked, and said briefly: "unhitch them." "well!" said abner, slowly taking the money and throwing away his straw in petulance. it was dull and uninteresting to have a bargain concluded so quickly. wallingford, however, knew what he was about. within an hour everybody in town knew of his purchase. speculation that had been mildly active concerning him now became feverish. he was a rich nabob with money to throw away; had so much money that he would not even dicker in a horse deal--and this was the height of human recklessness in blakeville. wallingford, purchasing jim ranger's new buggy and his best set of harness, drove to the bubbles', the eyed of all observers, but before he had opened the gate mrs. bubble was on the porch. "jonas ain't at home," she shrilled down at him. "yes, i know," replied wallingford; "but i came to see miss fannie." "she's busy," said mrs. bubble with forbidding loftiness. "she's in the kitchen getting dinner." wallingford, however, strode quite confidently up the walk, and by the time he reached the porch miss fannie was in the door, removing her apron. "what a pretty turnout!" she exclaimed. "it's a beauty," agreed wallingford. "i just bought it from abner follis." she smiled. "i bet he beat you in the bargain." "so long as i'm satisfied," retorted wallingford, smiling back at her, "i don't see why we shouldn't all be happy. come on and take the first ride in it." she glanced at her stepmother dubiously. "i'm very busy," she replied; "and i'd have to change my dress." "you look good enough just as you are," he insisted. "come right on. mrs. bubble can finish the dinner. i'll bet she's a better cook, anyhow," and he laughed cordially. the remark was intended as a compliment, but mrs. bubble took distinct umbrage. this was, without doubt, a premeditated slur. of course he knew that she had once been mr. bubble's cook! "fannie can't go," she snapped. wallingford walked straight up to mrs. bubble, beaming down upon her from his overawing height; and for just one affrighted moment fannie feared that he intended to uptilt her stepmother's chin, or make some equally familiar demonstration. instead, he only laughed down into that lady's belligerent eyes. "yes, she can," he insisted with large persuasiveness. "you were young once yourself, mrs. bubble, and not so very long ago." it was not what he said, but his jovial air of secret understanding, that made mrs. bubble flush and laugh nervously and soften. "oh, i reckon i can get along," she said. miss fannie, with a wondering glance at wallingford, had already flown up-stairs, and j. rufus set himself deliberately to be agreeable to mrs. bubble. when fannie came tripping down again in an incredibly short space of time, having shaken herself out of one frock and into another with an expedition which surprised even herself, she found her stepmother actually giggling! and when the young couple drove away in the bright, shining new rig behind the handsome bays, mrs. bubble watched after them with something almost like wistfulness. she had been young herself, once--and not so very long ago! opposite the bubble swamp wallingford stopped for a moment. "i hope to be a very near neighbor of yours," said he, waving his hand out toward the wonderful deposit of genuine etruscan black mud. "did your father tell you about the pottery studios which may be built here?" "not a thing," she confessed with a slightly jealous laugh. "papa never tells us anything at home. we'll hear it on the street, no doubt, as we usually do." "your father is a most estimable man, but i fear he makes a grave mistake in not telling you about things," declared wallingford. "i believe in the value of a woman's intuition, and if i were as closely related to you as your father i am sure i should confide all my prospects to you." miss fannie gave a little inward gasp. that serious tide in the talk, fraught with great possibilities, for which every girl longs and which every girl dreads, was already setting ashore. "you might get fooled," she said. "father don't think any woman has very much gumption, and least of all me, since--since he married again." "i understand," said wallingford gently, and drove on. "just to show you how _much_ differently i look at things from your father, i'm going to tell you all about the black pottery project and see what you think of it." thereupon he explained to her in minute detail, a wealth of which came to him on the spur of the moment, the exact workings of the etruscan pottery art. he painted for her, in the gray of stone and the yellow of face brick and the red of tiling, the beautiful studio buildings that were to be erected yonder facing the swamp; he showed her through cozy, cheerfully lighted apartments in those studios, where the best trained artists of europe, under the direction of the wizard, vittoreo matteo, should execute ravishments of etruscan black pottery; he showed her, as the bays pranced on, connoisseurs and collectors coming from all over the country to visit the blakeville studios, and carrying away priceless gems of the ceramic art at incalculable prices! the girl drank in all these details with thirsty avidity. "it's splendid! perfectly grand!" she assured him with vast enthusiasm, and in her memory was stored every precious word that this genius had said; and they were stored in logical order, ready to reproduce on the slightest provocation, which was precisely the result which wallingford had intended to produce. it was nearing noon now, and making a _détour_ by the railway road they drove up in front of the mill with the spanking bays just as jonas bubble was coming out of his office to go to dinner. hilariously they invited him into the carriage, and in state drove him home. wallingford very wisely kept away from the bubble home that afternoon and that evening, and by the next morning every woman in town had told all her men-folk about the vast etruscan black pottery project! chapter xx wallingford begins to utilize the wonderful etruscan black mud wallingford was just going in to dinner when a tall, thin-visaged young lady, who might have been nearing thirty, but insisted on all the airs and graces of twenty, came boldly up to the atlas hotel in search of him, and, by her right of being a public character, introduced herself. she was miss forsythe, principal over one other teacher in the blakeville public school; moreover, she was president of the women's culture club! "it is about the latter that i came to see you, mr. wallingford," she said, pushing back a curl which had been carefully trained to be wayward. "the women's culture club meets this coming saturday afternoon at the residence of mrs. moozer. it just happens that we are making an exhaustive study of the italian renaissance, and we have nothing, _positively nothing_, about the renaissance of italian ceramics! i beg of you, mr. wallingford, i plead with you, to be our guest upon that afternoon and address us upon etruscan pottery." wallingford required but one second to adjust himself to this new phase. this was right where he lived. he could out-pretend anybody who ever made pretensions to having a pretense. he expanded his broad chest and beamed. he knew but little about art, being only the business man of the projected american etruscan black pottery studios, but he would be more than pleased to tell them that little. he would, in fact, be charmed! "you don't know how kind, how good you are, and what a treat your practical talk will be, i am sure," gurgled miss forsythe, biting first her upper lip and then her lower to make them redder, and then, still gurgling, she swept away, leaving wallingford chuckling. immediately after lunch he went over to the telegraph office and wired to the most exclusive establishment of its sort in new york: express three black pottery vases etruscan preferred but most expensive you have one eighteen inches high and two twelve inches high am wiring fifty dollars to insure transportation send balance c. o. d. not the least of j. rufus' smile was that inserted clause, "etruscan preferred." he had not the slightest idea that there was such pottery as etruscan in the world, but his sage conclusion was that the big firm would think they had overlooked something; and his other clause, "most expensive you have," would insure proper results. that night he wrote to blackie daw: whatever you do, don't buy vase either twelve or eighteen inches high. send one about nine. saturday morning the package came, and the excess bill was two hundred and forty-five dollars, exclusive of express charges, all of which j. rufus cheerfully paid. he had that box delivered unopened to the residence of mrs. henry moozer. that afternoon he dressed himself with consummate care, his gray frock suit and his gray bow tie, his gray waistcoat and his gray spats, by some subtle personality he threw about them, conveying delicately the idea of an ardent art amateur, but an humble one, because he felt himself insufficiently gifted to take part in actual creation. was miss forsythe there? miss forsythe was there, in her pink silk, with cascade after cascade of ruffled flounces to take away the appalling height and thinness of her figure. was mrs. moozer there? dimly discernible, yes, backed into a corner and no longer mistress of her own house, though ineffectually trying to assert herself above a determined leadership. also were there mrs. ranger, who was trying hard to learn to dote; mrs. priestly, who prided herself on a marked resemblance to madame melba, and had a high c which shattered chandeliers; and mrs. hispin, whose troublesome mustache in nowise interfered with her mad passion for the collection of antiques, which, fortunately consisting of early chromos, could be purchased cheaply in the vicinity of blakeville; and mrs. bubble, whose specialty was the avoidance of all subjects connected with domestic science. many other equally earnest and cultured ladies flocked about j. rufus, as bees around a buckwheat blossom, until the capable and masterly president, by a careful accident arranging her skirts so that one inch of silken hose was visible, tapped her little silver gavel for order. there ensued the regular reports of committees, ponderous and grave in their frivolity; there ensued unfinished business--relating to a disputed sum of thirty-nine cents; there ensued new business--relating to a disputed flaw in the constitution; there ensued a discussion of scarcely repressed acidity upon the right of the president to interfere in committee work; and then the gurgling president--with many a reference to the great masters in italian art, with a wide digression into the fields of ceramics in general and of italian ceramics in particular, with a complete history of the plastic arts back to the ooze stage of geological formation--introduced the speaker of the day. j. rufus, accepting gracefully his prominence, bowed extravagantly three times in response to the chautauqua salute, and addressed those nineteen assembled ladies with a charming earnestness which did vast credit to himself and to the italian ceramic renaissance. he invented for them on the spot a history of etruscan pottery, a process of making it, a discovery of the wonderful etruscan under-glaze, and the eye-moistening struggles and triumphs of the great vittoreo matteo from obscurity as a poor little barefooted italian shepherd boy who was caught constructing wonderful figures out of plain mud. he regretted very much that he had been unable to secure, at such short notice, samples of the famous etruscan pottery which this same vittoreo matteo had made famous, but he had secured the next best thing, and with renewed apologies to mrs. moozer, who had kindly consented to have a litter made upon her carpet, he would unpack the vases which had come that morning. with a fine eye for stage effect, wallingford had had the covers of the boxes loosened, but had not had the excelsior removed. now he had the box brought in and placed it upon the table, and then, from amid their careful wrappings, the precious vases were lifted! "ah!"--"how _ex_-quisite!"--"bee-yewtiful!" such was the chorus of the enraptured culture club. wallingford, smiling in calm triumph, was able to assure the almost fainting worshipers that these were but feeble substitutes for the exquisite creations that were shortly to be turned out in the studios that were to make blakeville famous. yes, he might now promise them that definitely! the matter was no longer one of conjecture. that very morning he had received an epoch-making letter from the great vittoreo matteo! this letter he read. it fairly exuded with tears--warm, emotional, latin tears of joy--over the discovery of this priceless, this glorious, this beatific black mud! already the great vittoreo was at work upon the sample sent him, modeling a vase after one of his own famous shapes of etrusca. it would soon be completed, he would have it fired, and then he would send it to his dear friend and successful manager, so that he might himself judge how inexpressibly more than perfect was the wonderful mud of blakeville. [illustration: "how _ex_-quisite!"--"bee-yewtiful!" chorused the culture club] mr. wallingford was himself transported to nearly as ecstatic heights over the prospect as the redoubtable vittoreo matteo, and as a memento of this auspicious day he begged to present the largest of these vases to the women's culture club, to be in the keeping of its charming president. one of the smaller vases he begged to present to the hostess of the afternoon in token of the delightful hour he had spent in that house. the other he retained to present to a very gracious matron, the hospitality of whose home he had already enjoyed, and with whose eminent husband he had already held the most pleasant business relations; whereat mrs. jonas bubble fairly wriggled lest her confusion might not be seen or correctly interpreted. close upon the frantic applause which followed these graceful gifts, pale tea and pink wafers were served by the misses priestly, hispin, moozer and bubble, and the function was over except for the fluttering. inadvertently, almost apparently quite inadvertently, when he went away, j. rufus left behind him the crumpled c. o. d. bill which he had held in his hand while talking. that night blakeville, from center to circumference, was talking of nothing but the prices of etruscan vases. why, these prices were not only stupendous, they were impossible--and yet there was the receipted bill! to think that anybody would pay real money in such enormous dole for mere earthen vases! it was preposterous; it was incredible--and yet there was the bill! visions of wealth never before grasped by the minds of the citizens of blakeville began to loom in the immediate horizon of every man, woman and child, and over all these visions of wealth hovered the beneficent figure of j. rufus wallingford. on sunday j. rufus, in solemn black frock-coat and shiny top hat, attended church. from church he went to the bubble home, by the warm invitation of jonas, for chicken dinner, and in the afternoon he took miss fannie driving behind the handsome bays. while she was making ready, however, he took jonas bubble in the rig and drove down to the swamp, where they paused in solemn, sober contemplation of that vast and beautiful expanse of etruscan black mud. mr. bubble had, of course, seen the glowing letter of vittoreo matteo shortly after its arrival, and he was not unprepared for j. rufus' urgency. "to-morrow," said j. rufus, as he swept his hand out over the swamp with pride of possession, "to-morrow i shall exercise my option; to-morrow i shall begin drainage operations; to-morrow i shall order plans prepared for the first wing of the blakeville etruscan studios," and he pointed out a spot facing the bubble mansion. "only one thing worries me. in view of the fact that we shall have a large pay-roll and handle considerable of ready cash, i regret that blakeville has no bank. moreover, it grates upon me that the thriving little city of my adoption must depend on a smaller town for all its banking facilities. why don't you start a bank, mr. bubble, and become its president? if you will start a subscription list to-morrow i'll take five thousand dollars' worth of stock myself." to become the president of a bank! that was an idea which had not previously presented itself to the pompous mr. bubble, but now that it had arrived it made his waistband uncomfortable. well, the town needed a bank, and a bank was always profitable. his plain civic duty lay before him. president bubble, of the blakeville bank; or, much better still, the bubble bank! why not? he was already the most important man in the community, and his name carried the most weight. president bubble, of the bubble bank! by george! it was a good idea! meanwhile, a clean, clear deed and title to forty acres of jonas bubble's black mud was recorded in the blake county court-house, and j. rufus went to the city, returning with a discreet engineer, who surveyed and prodded and waded, and finally installed filtration boxes and a pumping engine; and all blakeville came down to watch in solemn silence the monotonous jerks of the piston which lifted water from the swamp faster than it flowed in. for hours they stood, first on one foot and then on the other, watching the whir of the shining fly-wheel, the exhaust of the steam, the smoke of the stack, and the gushing of the black water through the big rubber nozzle to the stream which had heretofore merely trickled beneath the rickety wooden road culvert. it watched in awed silence the slow recession of waters, the appearance of unexpected little lakes and islands and slimy streams in the shining black bottom of that swamp. on the very day, too, that this work was installed, there came from vittoreo matteo, in boston, the etruscan vase. wallingford, opening it in the privacy of his own room, was intensely relieved to find that blackie had bought one of entirely different shape and style of decoration from those he had already shown, and he sent it immediately to the house of mrs. hispin, where that week's meeting of the women's culture club was being held. he followed it with his own impressive self to show them the difference between the high-grade etruscan ware and the inferior ware he had previously exhibited. he placed the two pieces side by side for comparison. though they had been made by the same factory, the ladies of the women's culture club one and all could see the enormous difference in the exquisiteness of the under-glaze. the etruscan ware was infinitely superior, and just think! this beautiful vase was made from blakeville's own superior article of black mud! up in hen moozer's general merchandise emporium and post-office wallingford arranged for a show window, and from behind its dusty panes he had the eternal pyramid of fly-specked canned goods removed. in its place he constructed a semi-circular amphitheater of pale blue velvet, bought from moozer's own stock, and in its center he placed the priceless bit of etruscan ware, the first splendid art object from the to-be-famous blakeville etruscan studios! in the meantime, jonas bubble had found willing subscribers to the stock of the bubble bank, and already was installing an impregnable vault in his vacant brick building at the intersection of maple avenue and blake street. by this time every citizen had a new impulse of civic pride, and vast commercial expansion was planned by every business man in blakeville. even the women felt the contagion, and it was one of the sorrows of miss forsythe's soul that her vacation arrangements had already been made for the summer, and that she should be compelled to go away even for a short time, leaving all this inspiriting progress behind her. it would be just like mrs. moozer to take advantage of the situation! mrs. moozer was vice-president of the women's culture club. the bubble county bank collected its funds, took possession of its new quarters and made ready for business. jonas bubble, changing his attire to a frock suit for good and all, became its president. j. rufus had also been offered an office in the bank, but he declined. a directorship had been urged upon him, but he steadfastly refused, with the same firmness that he had denied to jonas bubble a share in his pottery or even his drainage project. no, with his five thousand dollars' worth of stock he felt that he was taking as great a share as a stranger might, with modesty, appropriate to himself in their municipal advancement. let the honors go to those who had grown up with the city, and who had furnished the substantial nucleus upon which their prosperity and advancement might be based. he intended, however, to make free use of the new banking facilities, and by way of showing the earnestness of that intention he drew from his new york bank half of the sum he had cleared on his big horse-racing "frame up," and deposited these funds in the bubble bank. true enough, three days after, he withdrew nearly the entire amount by draft in favor of one horace g. daw, of boston, but a week later he deposited a similar amount from his new york bank, then increased that with the amount previously withdrawn in favor of horace g. daw. a few days later he withdrew the entire account, replaced three-fourths of it and drew out one-half of that, and it began to be talked about all over the town that wallingford's enterprises were by no means confined to his blakeville investments. he was a man of large financial affairs, which required the frequent transfer of immense sums of money. to keep up this rapid rotation of funds, wallingford even borrowed money which blackie daw had obtained in the same horse-racing enterprise. sometimes he had seventy-five thousand dollars in the bubble bank, and sometimes his balance was less than a thousand. in the meantime, j. rufus allowed no opportunities for his reputation to become stale. in the atlas hotel he built a model bath-room which was to revert to jim ranger, without money and without price, when wallingford should leave, and over his bath-tub he installed an instantaneous heater which was the pride and delight of the village. it cost him a pretty penny, but he got tenfold advertising from it. by the time this sensation had begun to die he was able to display drawings of the quaint and pretty vine-clad etruscan studio, and to start men to digging trenches for the foundations! chapter xxi the great vittoreo matteo, master of black mud, arrives! brava! he departs! brava! one day a tall, slender, black-haired, black-mustached and black-eyed young man, in a severely ministerial black frock suit, dropped off the train and inquired in an undoubted foreign accent for the atlas hotel. even the station loungers recognized him at once as the great and long-expected artist, signor vittoreo matteo, who, save in the one respect of short hair, was thoroughly satisfying to the eye and imagination. even before the spreading of his name upon the register of the atlas hotel, all blakeville knew that he had arrived. in the hotel office he met j. rufus. instantly he shrieked for joy, embraced wallingford, kissed that discomfited gentleman upon both cheeks and fell upon his neck, jabbering in most broken english his joy at meeting his dear, dear friend once more. in the privacy of wallingford's own room, wallingford's dear italian friend threw himself upon the bed and kicked up his heels like a boy, stuffing the corner of a pillow in his mouth to suppress his shrieks of laughter. "ain't i the regular buya-da-banan dago for fair?" he demanded, without a trace of his choice italian accent. "blackie," rejoiced wallingford, wiping his eyes, "i never met your parents, but i've a bet down that they came from naples as ballast in a cattle steamer. but i'm afraid you'll strain yourself on this. don't make it too strong." "i'll make salvini's acting as tame as a jointed crockery doll," asserted blackie. "this deal is nuts and raisins to me; and say, j. rufus, your sending for me was just in the nick of time. just got a tip from a post-office friend that the federal officers were going to investigate my plant, so i'm glad to have a vacation. what's this new stunt of yours, anyhow?" "it's a cinch," declared wallingford, "but i don't want to scramble your mind with anything but the story of your own life." to his own romantic, personal history, as vittoreo matteo, and to the interesting fabrications about the world-famous etruscan pottery, in the village of etrusca, near milan, italy, blackie listened most attentively. "all right," said he at the finish; "i get you. now lead me forth to the merry, merry villagers." behind the spanking bays which had made fannie bubble the envied of every girl in blakeville, wallingford drove blackie forth. already many of the faithful had gathered at the site of the blakeville etruscan studios in anticipation of the great matteo's coming, and when the tall, black-eyed italian jumped out of the buggy they fairly quivered with gratified curiosity. how well he looked the part! if only he had had long hair! the eyes of the world-famous italian ceramic expert, however, were not for the assembled denizens of blakeville; they were only for that long and eagerly desired deposit of etruscan soil. he leaped from the buggy; he dashed through the gap in the fence; he rushed to the side of that black swamp, the edges of which had evaporated now until they were but a sticky mass, and said: "oh, da g-r-r-a-a-n-da mod!" forthwith, disregarding his cuffs, disregarding his rings, disregarding everything, he plunged both his white hands into that sticky mass and brought them up dripping-full of that precious material--the genuine, no, better than genuine, etruscan black mud! a cheer broke out from assembled blakeville. this surely was artistic frenzy! this surely was the emotional temperament! this surely was the manner in which the great italian black-pottery expert _should_ act in the first sight of his beloved black mud! "da gr-r-r-r-r-a-a-n-da mod!" he repeated over and over, and drew it close to his face that he might inspect it with a near and loving eye. one might almost have thought that he was about to kiss it, to bury his nose in it; one almost expected him to jump into that pond and wallow in it, his joy at seeing it was so complete. it was j. rufus wallingford himself who, catching the contagion of this superb fervor, ran to the pail of drinking-water kept for the foundation workmen, and brought it to the great artist. j. rufus himself poured water upon the great artist's hands until those hands were free of their etruscan coating, and with his own immaculate handkerchief he dried those deft and skilful fingers, while the great italian potter looked up into the face of his business manager with almost tears in his eyes! it was a wonderful scene, one never to be forgotten, and in the enthusiasm of that psychological moment mrs. moozer rushed forward. mrs. moozer, acting president of the women's culture club in the absence of miss forsythe, saw here a glorious opportunity; here was where she could "put one over" upon that all-absorptive young lady. "my dear mr. wallingford, you must introduce me at once!" she exclaimed. "i can not any longer restrain my impatience." his own voice quavering emotions of several sorts, wallingford introduced them, and mrs. moozer shook ecstatically the hand which had just caressed the dear swamp. "and so this is the great matteo!" she exclaimed. "signor, as acting president of the women's culture club, i claim you for an address upon your sublime art next saturday afternoon. let business claim you afterward." "i hav'a--not da gooda englis," said blackie daw, with an indescribable gesture of the shoulders and right arm, "but whata leetle i cana say, i s'alla be amost aglad to tella da ladees." never did man enjoy himself more than did blackie daw. blakeville went wild over this gifted, warmly temperamental foreigner. they dined him and they listened to his soul-satisfying, broken english with vast respect, even with veneration; the women because he was an artist, and the men because he represented vast money-earning capacity. even the far-away president of the women's culture club heard of his advent from a faithful adherent, an anti-moozer and pro-forsythe member, and on saturday morning j. rufus wallingford received a gushing letter from that enterprising lady. my dear mr. wallingford: i have been informed that the great event has happened, and that the superb artist has at last arrived in blakeville; moreover, that he is to favor the women's culture club, of which i have the honor to be president, with a talk upon his delightful art. i simply can not resist presiding at that meeting, and i hope it is not uncharitable toward mrs. moozer that i feel it my duty to do so; consequently i shall arrive in time, i trust, to introduce him; moreover, to talk with him in his own, limpid, liquid language. i have been, for the past month, taking phonograph lessons in italian for this moment, and i trust that it will be a pleasant surprise to him to be addressed in his native tongue. wallingford rushed up-stairs to where blackie was leisurely getting ready for breakfast. "old scout," he gasped, "your poor old mother in italy is at the point of death, so be grief-stricken and hustle! get ready for the next train out of town, you hear? look at this!" and he thrust in front of blackie's eyes the fatal letter. blackie looked at it and comprehended its significance. "what time does the first train leave?" he asked. "i don't know, but whatever time it is i'll get you down to it," said wallingford. "this is warning enough for me. it's time to close up and take my profits." the next east-bound train found blackie daw and wallingford at the station, and just as it slowed down, blackie, with wallingford helping him carry his grips, was at the steps of the parlor car. he stood aside for the stream of descending passengers to step down, and had turned to address some remark to wallingford, when he saw that gentleman's face blanch and his jaw drop. a second later a gauzy female had descended from the car and seized upon j. rufus. even as she turned upon him, blackie felt the sinking certainty that this was miss forsythe. "and this is signor matteo, i am sure," she gushed. "you're _not_ going away!" "yes," interposed wallingford, "his grandmother--i mean his mother--in genoa is at the point of death, and he must make a hasty trip. he will return again in a month." "oh, it is too bad, too bad indeed!" she exclaimed. "i sympathize with you, _so_ deeply, signor matteo. signor,..." the dreaded moment had come, and wallingford braced himself as miss forsythe, cocking her head upon one side archly, like a dear little bird, gurgled out one of her very choicest bits of phonograph italian! blackie daw never batted an eyelash. he beamed upon miss forsythe, he displayed his dazzling white teeth in a smile of intense gratification, he grasped miss forsythe's two hands in the fervor of his enthusiasm--and, with every appearance of lively intelligence beaming from his eyes, he fired at miss forsythe a tumultuous stream of utterly unintelligible gibberish! as his flow continued, to the rhythm of an occasional, warm, double handshake, miss forsythe's face turned pink and then red, and when at last, upon the conductor's signal, blackie hastily tore himself away and clambered on board, waving his hand to the last and erupting strange syllables which had no kith or kin, miss forsythe turned to wallingford, nearly crying. "it is humiliating; it is _so_ humiliating," she admitted, trapped into confession by the suddenness of it all; "but, after all my weeks of preparation, i wasn't able to understand one word of that beautiful, limpid italian!" chapter xxii in which j. rufus gives himself the surprise of his life wallingford had kept his finger carefully upon the pulse of the bubble bank by apparently inconsequential conversations with president bubble, and he knew its deposits and its surplus almost to the dollar. twice now he had checked out his entire account and borrowed nearly the face of his bank stock, on short time, against his mere note of hand, replacing the amounts quickly and at the same time depositing large sums, which he almost immediately checked out again. on the saturday following blackie daw's departure all points had been brought together: the drainage operation had been completed; walls had been built about the three springs which supplied the swamp; the foundation of the studio had been completed, and all his workmen paid off and discharged; and the surplus of the bubble bank had reached approximately its high-water mark. on sunday wallingford, taking dinner with the bubbles, unrolled a set of drawings, showing a beautiful colonial residence which he proposed to build on vacant property he had that day bought, just east of jonas bubble's home. "good!" approved jonas with a clumsily bantering glance at his daughter, who colored deliciously. "going to get married and settle down?" "you never can tell," laughed wallingford. "whether i do or not, however, the building of one or several houses like this would be a good investment, for the highly paid decorators and modelers which the pottery will employ will pay good rents." jonas nodded gravely. "how easily success comes to men of enterprise and far-sightedness," he declared with hearty approbation, in which there was mixed a large amount of self-complacency; for in thus complimenting wallingford he could not but compliment himself. on monday wallingford walked into the bubble bank quite confidently. "bubble, how much is my balance?" he asked, as he had done several times before. mr. bubble, smiling, turned to his books. "three thousand one hundred and sixty-two dollars and fifty-eight cents," said he. "why, i'm a pauper!" protested wallingford. "i never could keep track of my bank balance. well, that isn't enough. i'll have to borrow some." "i guess we can arrange that," said jonas with friendly, one might almost say paternal, encouragement. "how much do you want?" "well, i'll have to have about forty-five thousand dollars, all told," replied wallingford in an offhand manner. he had come behind the railing, as he always did. he was leaning at the end of mr. bubble's desk, his hands crossed before him. from his finger sparkled a big three-carat diamond; from his red-brown cravat--price three-fifty--sparkled another brilliant white stone fully as large; an immaculate white waistcoat was upon his broad chest; from his pocket depended a richly jeweled watch-fob. for just an instant jonas bubble was staggered, and then the recently imbibed idea of large operations quickly reasserted itself. why, here before him stood a commercial napoleon. only a week or so before wallingford's bank balance had been sixty thousand dollars; at other times it had been even more, and there had been many intervals between when his balance had been less than it was now. here was a man to whom forty-five thousand dollars meant a mere temporary convenience in conducting operations of incalculable size. here was a man who had already done more to advance the prosperity of blakeville than any one other--excepting, of course, himself--in its history. here was a man predestined by fate to enormous wealth, and, moreover, one who might be linked to mr. bubble, he hoped and believed, by ties even stronger than mere business associations. "pretty good sum, wallingford," said he. "we have the money, though, and i don't see why we shouldn't arrange it. thirty-day note, i suppose?" "oh, anything you like," said wallingford carelessly. "fifteen days will do just as well, but i suppose you'd rather have the interest for thirty," and he laughed pleasantly. "yes, indeed," jonas replied, echoing the laugh. "you're just in the nick of time, though, wallingford. a month from now we wouldn't have so much. i'm making arrangements not to have idle capital on hand." "idle money always yells at me to put it back into circulation," said wallingford, looking about the desk. "where are your note blanks?" "er--right here," replied mr. bubble, drawing the pad from a drawer. "by the way, wallingford, of course we'll have to arrange the little matter of securities, and perhaps i'd better see the directors about a loan of this size." "oh, certainly," agreed wallingford. "as for security, i'll just turn over to you my bank stock and a holding on the etruscan property." for one fleeting instant it flashed across mr. bubble's mind that he had sold this very property to wallingford for the sum of one thousand dollars; but a small patch of stony ground which had been worth absolutely nothing before the finding of gold in it had been known to become worth a million in a day, as wallingford had once observed when looking across the great swamp, and now the mine he had sold to wallingford for a song was worth almost any sum that might be named. hen moozer, when consulted, was of that opinion; jim ranger was of that opinion; bud hegler was of that opinion; the other directors were of that opinion; every one in blakeville was of that opinion; so wallingford got his forty-five thousand dollars, and the bubble bank held in return a mortgage on wallingford's bank stock, and on forty acres of genuine etruscan black mud. "by the way, mr. bubble," said wallingford, tucking the bills of exchange into his pocket, "i'm going to take a little run into new york to-day. would you mind putting the plans for my new house into the hands of the two contractors here for them to figure on?" "with pleasure. hope you have a good trip, my boy." * * * * * well, it was all over, but he was not quite so well satisfied as he had been over the consummation of certain other dubious deals. heretofore he had hugely enjoyed the matching of his sharp wits against duller ones, had been contemptuous of the people he out-manoeuvered, had chuckled in huge content over his triumphs; but in this case there was an obstacle to his perfect enjoyment, and that obstacle was fannie bubble. he was rather impatient about it. he started early for the train, instructing bob ranger to be there to drive back the bays, and drove around by way of jonas bubble's house. as he was about to hitch his horses the door opened, and fannie, dressed for the afternoon, but hatless, came flying out, her head bent and her hands back over it. she was crying, and was closely pursued by mrs. bubble, who brandished a feather duster, held by the feather end. wallingford ran to open the gate as fannie approached it, closing it and latching it in time to stop her stepmother. "what's the matter?" he asked. "she's a lazy, good-for-nothing, frivolous huzzy!" declared mrs. bubble in hot wrath. "i've been looking for just that kind," asserted wallingford. "she'll do for me. fannie, get into the buggy. i came down to take you for a ride to the depot." "if she goes away from this house she don't come back till she gets down on her knees and begs my forgiveness!" shrieked the woman. "if she does that i'll have her sent to a bugitorium," declared wallingford. "she don't need to come back here. i'll take care of her myself. you'll go with me, won't you, fannie?" "anywhere," she said brokenly. "then come on." turning, he helped her into the buggy and they drove away, followed by the invectives of mrs. bubble. the girl was in a tumult of emotion, her whole little world clattering down about her ears. bit by bit her story came out. it was sordid enough and trivial enough, but to her it was very real. that afternoon she had planned to go to the country for ferns with a few girls, and they were to meet at the house of one of her friends at one o'clock. her stepmother had known about it three days in advance, and had given her consent. when the time came, however, she had suddenly insisted that fannie stop to wash the dishes, which would have made her a half-hour late. there followed protest, argument, flat order and as flat refusal--then the handle of the feather duster. it was not an unusual occurrence for her stepmother to slap her, fannie admitted in her bitterness. her father, pompous enough outside, was as wax in the hands of his termagant second wife, and, though his sympathies were secretly with the girl, he never dared protect her. they had driven straight out the west road in the excitement, but wallingford, remembering in time his train schedule, made the straightest _détour_ possible to the depot. he had barely time to buy his tickets when the train came in, and he hurried fannie into the parlor car, her head still in a whirl and her confusion heightened by the sudden appreciation of the fact that she had no hat. the stop at blakeville was but a brief one, and as the train moved away fannie looked out of the window and saw upon the platform of the little depot, as if these people were a part of another world entirely, the station agent, the old driver of the dilapidated 'bus, bob ranger and others equally a part of her past life, all looking at her in open-mouthed astonishment. turning, as the last familiar outpost of the town slipped by, she timidly reached out her hand and laid it in that of wallingford. the touch of that warm hand laid on his electrified wallingford. many women had loved him, or thought they did, and he had held them in more or less contempt for it. he had regarded them as an amusement, as toys to be picked up and discarded at will; but this, somehow, was different. a sudden and startling resolve came to him, an idea so novel that he smiled over it musingly for some little time before he mentioned it. "by george!" he exclaimed by and by; "i'm going to marry you!" "indeed!" she exclaimed in mock surprise, and laughed happily. "the way you said it sounded so funny." she was perfectly content. chapter xxiii wallingford gives himself still another stupendous surprise mrs. wallingford, gowned and hatted and jeweled as fannie bubble had never been, and had never expected to be, tried the luxurious life that j. rufus affected and found that she liked it. she was happy from day's end to day's end. her husband was the most wonderful man in the world, flawless, perfect. immediately upon their arrival in the city he had driven in hot haste for a license, and they were married before they left the court-house. then he had wired the news to jonas bubble. "we start on our honeymoon at once," he had added, and named their hotel. by the time they had been shown to the expensive suite which wallingford had engaged, a reply of earnest congratulation had come back from jonas bubble. the next day had begun the delights of shopping, of automobile rides, of the races, the roof gardens, the endless round of cafés. this world was so different, so much brighter and better, so much more pleasant in every way than the world of blakeville, that she never cared to go back there--she was ashamed to confess it to herself--even to see her father! blackie daw, still keeping out of the way of federal officers who knew exactly where to find him, met j. rufus on the street a week after his arrival, and, learning from him of his marriage to fannie, came around to wallingford's hotel to "look her over." fannie marveled at signor matteo's rapid advance in english, especially his quick mastery of the vernacular, but she found him very amusing. "you win," declared blackie with emphasis, when he and wallingford had retired to a cozy little corner in the bar café. fannie had inspired in him the awed respect that men of his stamp always render to good women. "you certainly got the original prize package. you and i are awful skunks, jim." "she makes me feel that way, too, now and then," admitted wallingford. "i'd be ashamed of myself for marrying her if i hadn't taken her from such a dog's life." "she seems to enjoy this one," said blackie. "you're spending as much money on her as you used to on beauty phillips." "just about," agreed wallingford. "however, papa-in-law is paying for the honeymoon." "does he know it?" asked blackie. wallingford chuckled. "not yet," he admitted. "i'd like to see him when he finds it out." blackie also grinned. "that little blakeville episode was the happiest period of my life," he declared. "by the way, j. rufus, what was your game down there? i never understood." "as simple as a night-shirt," explained wallingford. "i merely hunted through the postal guide for the richest little town i could find that had no bank. then i went there and had one started so i could borrow its money." blackie nodded comprehendingly. "then you bought a piece of property and raised it to a fictitious value to cover the loan," he added. "great stunt; but it seems to me they can get you for it. if they catch you up in one lie they can prove the whole thing to have been a frame-up. suppose they find out?" wallingford swelled up with righteous indignation. "vittoreo matteo," he charged, "you are a rascally scoundrel! i met you in new york and you imposed upon me with a miserable pack of lies. i have investigated and i find that there is no etrusca, near milan, italy, no etruscan black pottery, no vittoreo matteo. you induced me to waste a lot of money in locating and developing a black mud-swamp. when you had gained my full confidence you came to me in blakeville with a cock-and-bull story that your mother was dying in genoa, and on the strength of that borrowed a large sum of money from me. you are gone--i don't know where. i shall have to make a clean breast of this matter to jonas bubble, and tell him that if i can not pay that note when it falls due he will have to foreclose. you heartless villain! waiter, ice us another bottle of that ninety-three." when wallingford returned to his wife he found her very thoughtful. "when are we going to blakeville, jim?" she asked. he studied her curiously for a moment. she would have to know him some time or other. he had hoped to put it off while they were leading this unruffled existence, but now that the test had come he might as well have it over with. "i'm not going back," he declared. "i'm through with blakeville. aren't you?" "yes," she admitted, pondering it slowly. "i could be happy here always, or, if not here, wherever you are. but your business back there, jim?" he chuckled. "i have no business there," he told her. "my business is concluded. i borrowed forty-five thousand dollars on that forty acres of sticky mud, and i think i'll just let the bank foreclose." she looked at him a moment, dry-eyed and dry-lipped. "you're joking," she protested, in a low voice. "not at all," he seriously assured her. they looked at each other steadily for some moments, and gradually wallingford saw beneath those eyes a spirit that he might conquer, but, having conquered, would always regret. "it's--it's a swindle!" she gasped, as the true situation began to dawn upon her. "you don't mean, jim, that you are a swindler!" "no, i wouldn't call it that," he objected, considering the matter carefully. "it is only rather a shrewd deal in the game of business. the law can't touch me for it unless they should chase down vittoreo matteo and find him to be a fraud, _and prove that i knew it_!" she was thoughtful a long time, following the intricate pattern of the rug in their sitting-room with the toe of her neatly-shod foot. she was perfectly calm, and he drew a sharp breath of relief. he had expected a scene when this revelation should come; he was more than pleased to find that she was not of the class which makes scenes. presently she looked up. "have you thought of what light this puts me in at home? have you thought how i should be regarded in the only world i have ever known? why, there are a thousand people back in blakeville who know me, and even if i were never to meet one of them again--jim, it mustn't be! you must not destroy my self-respect for ever. have you spent any of that money?" "well, no," he reluctantly replied. "i have plenty of money besides that." "good!" said she with a gasp of relief. "write father that, as you will be unable to carry out your projects, you are sending him the money to take up that note." wallingford was silent a long time. wonderful the influence this girl had over him. he was amazed at himself. "i can't remember when i ever gave up any money," he finally said, with an attempt at lightness; "but, fannie, i think i'll do it just this once--for you--as a wedding present." "you'll do it right away, won't you?" "right this minute." he walked over and stooped down to kiss her. she held up her lips submissively, but they were cold, and there was no answering pressure in them. silently he took his hat and started down-stairs. "by the way," he said, turning at the door, "i'm going to make your father a present of that bay team." he scarcely understood himself as he dictated to the public stenographer a letter to jonas bubble, so far different from the one he had planned to write. it was not like him to do this utterly foolish thing, and yet, somehow, he felt that he could not do otherwise. when he came back up-stairs again, the letter written and a check inclosed in it and the whole mailed, he found her in the same chair, but now she was crying. he approached her hesitantly and stood looking down at her for a long, long time. it was, perhaps, but one minute, but it seemed much longer. now was the supreme test, the moment that should influence all their future lives, and he dreaded to dissolve that uncertainty. he knelt beside her and put his arm about her. still crying, she turned to him, threw both arms around his neck and buried her head on his shoulder--and as she cried she pressed him more tightly to her! chapter xxiv casting about for a straight business, patent medicine provides the answer that was a glorious honeymoon! they traveled from one gay summer resort to another, and when fannie expressed the first hint of fatigue, wallingford, who had grown to worship her, promptly provided her with complete and unique rest, by taking her to some one of the smaller inland cities of the type which he loved, installing her in a comfortable hotel, and living, for a week or so, a quiet, lazy existence consisting largely of mere eating and sleeping, and just enough exercise to keep in good health. in all this time there was not one jarring thought, one troubled moment, nor one hint of a shadow. j. rufus took his wife into all sorts of unique experiences, full of life and color and novelty, having a huge pride in her constant wonder and surprise. it happened, while upon one of these resting sojourns, that they one night paused on the edge of a crowd which stood gaping at a patent medicine faker. suddenly recognizing an old acquaintance in the picturesque orator with the sombrero and the shoulder-length gray hair, wallingford drew closer. standing behind the "doctor," upon the seat of his carriage where the yellow light of a gasolene torch flared full upon it, was a gaudy, life-size anatomical chart, and with this as bait for his moths he was extolling the virtues of quagg's peerless sciatacata. "here, my friends," he declared, unfolding one of the many hinged flaps of the gory chart, "you _bee_-hold the intimate relation of the stomach with all the _inn_-ternal organs, and above all with the blood, which, pumped by the heart through these _abb_-sorbing membranes, takes up that priceless tonic, doctor quagg's peerless sciatacata. this, acting _dii_-rectly upon the red corpuscles of the vital fluid, _stimm_-ulates the circulation and carries its germ-destroying properties to every atom of the human frame, casting off _imm_-purities, _clean_-sing the syst-_em_, bringing _ee_-lasticity to the footsteps, hope to the heart, the ruddy glow of bounding health to pale cheeks, and the sparkle of new life to tired and jaded eyes!" wallingford turned to his wife with a chuckle, "just stand here a minute, fannie," said he. "i must wade in and speak to the old scout. we stopped a week at the same hotel over in new jersey and got as chummy as two cell-mates." fannie smiled doubtfully in response, and watched her husband with a slight trace of concern as he forced his way through the crowd and up to the wheel of the carriage. "how are you, doctor?" said he, holding up his plump palm. "where are you stopping?" the doctor's wink at j. rufus was scarcely perceptible to that large young gentleman himself, much less to the bystanders, as with professional gravity he reached down for a hearty handshake. "benson house. come around and see me to-morrow morning." then, with added gravity and in a louder voice: "i scarcely knew you, friend, you are so changed. how many bottles of the sciatacata was it you took?" "four," replied j. rufus clearly, with not even a twinkle in his eye. "only four bottles," declaimed doctor quagg. "my friends, this is one of my most marvelous cures. when i met this gentleman in columbus, ohio, he was a living skeleton, having suffered for years from sciatic rheumatism. he bought from me one night at my carriage, just as he is standing now, six bottles of the peerless sciatacata. he took but four bottles, and look at him to-day!" with one accord they looked. there was some slight tittering among them at first, but the dignity and gravity with which the towering j. rufus, hale and hearty and in the pink of condition, withstood that inspection, checked all inclination to levity. moreover, he was entirely too prosperous-looking to be a "capper." "i owe you my life, doctor," said wallingford gratefully. "i never travel without those other two bottles of the sciatacata," and with the air of a debt of honor paid, he pressed back through the crowd to the sidewalk. his wife was laughing, yet confused. "i don't see how you can make yourself so conspicuous," she protested in a low voice. "why not?" he laughed. "we public characters must boost one another." "and the price," they heard the doctor declaiming, "is only one dollar _per_ bottle, or six for five dollars, guar-_an_-teed not only to drive sciatic rheumatism from the sys-_tem_, but to cure the most ob-_stin_-ate cases of ague, bright's disease, cat-a-lepsy, coughs, colds, cholera, _dys_-pepsia, ery-_sip_-_e_-las, fever _and_ chills, _gas_-tritis"-- "and so on down to x y z, etc.," commented wallingford as they walked away. his wife looked up at him curiously. "jim, did you honestly take four bottles of that medicine?" she wanted to know. "take it?" he repeated in amazement. "certainly not! it isn't meant for wise people to take. it wouldn't do them any good." "it wouldn't do anybody any good," she decided with a trace of contempt. "guess again," he advised her. "that dope has cured a million people that had nothing the matter with 'em." at the hotel deriche in the adjoining block they turned into the huge, garishly decorated dining-room for their after-theater supper. they had been in the town only two days, but the head waiter already knew to come eagerly to meet them, to show them to the best table in the room, and to assign them the best waiter; also the head waiter himself remained to take the order, to suggest a delicate, new dish and to name over, at wallingford's solicitation, the choice wines in the cellar that were not upon the wine-list. this little formality over, wallingford looked about him complacently. a pale gentleman with a jet-black beard bowed to him from across the room. "doctor lazzier," observed wallingford to his wife. "most agreeable chap and has plenty of money." he bent aside a little to see past his wife's hat, and exchanged a suave salutation with a bald-headed young man who was with two ladies and who wore a dove-gray silk bow with his evening clothes. "young corbin," explained wallingford, "of the corbin and paley department store. he had about two dollars a week spending money till his father died, and now he and young paley are turning social flip-flaps at the rate of twenty a minute. he belongs to the mark family and he's great pals with me. looks good for him, don't it?" "jim," she said in earnest reproval, "you mustn't talk that way." "of course i'm only joking," he returned. "you know i promised you i'd stick to the straight and narrow. i'll keep my word. nothing but straight business for me hereafter." he, too, was quite serious about it, and yet he smiled as he thought of young corbin. another man, of a party just being shown to a table, nodded to him, and mrs. wallingford looked up at her husband with admiration. "honestly, how do you do it?" she inquired. "we have only been here a little over forty-eight hours, and yet you have already picked up a host of nice friends." "i patronize only the best saloons," he replied with a grin; then, more seriously: "this is a mighty rich little city, fannie. i could organize a stock company here, within a week, for anything from a burglar's trust to a church consolidation." "it's a pretty place," she admitted. "i like it very much from what i have seen of it." he chuckled. "looks like a spending town," he returned; "and where they spend a wad they're crazy to make one. give me one of these inland society towns for the loose, long green. new york's no place to start an honest business," and again he chuckled. "by the way, fannie," he added after a pause, "what do you think of my going into the patent medicine line?" "how do you mean?" she inquired, frowning. "oh, on a big scale," he replied. "advertise it big, manufacture it big." she studied it over in musing silence. "i don't mind what you do so long as it is honest," she finally said. "good. i'll hunt up quagg to-morrow and spring it on him." "you don't mean that dreadful quack medicine he's selling on the street, do you?" she protested. "why not? i don't know that it's worthless, and i do know that quagg has sold it on street corners for twenty years from coast to coast. he goes back to the same towns over and over, and people buy who always bought before. looks like a good thing to me. quagg was a regular doctor when he was a kid; had a real diploma and all that, but no practice and no patience. joke. giggle." the oysters came on now, and they talked of other things, but while they were upon the meat doctor lazzier, having finished, came across to shake hands with his friend of a day, and was graciously charmed to meet mrs. wallingford. "sit down," invited j. rufus. "won't you try a glass of this? it's very fair," and he raised a practised eyebrow to the waiter. the doctor delicately pushed down the edge of the ice-wet napkin until he could see the label, and he gave an involuntary smile of satisfaction as he recognized the vintage. the head waiter had timed the exact second to take that bottle out of the ice-pail, had wrapped the wet napkin about it and almost reverently filled glasses. occasionally he came over and felt up inside the hollow on the bottom of the bottle. "delighted," confessed the doctor, and sat down quite comfortably. "you may smoke if you like, doctor," offered mrs. wallingford, smiling. "i don't seem to feel that a man is comfortable unless he is smoking." "to tell the truth, he isn't," agreed the doctor with a laugh, and accepting a choice cigar from wallingford he lit it. the waiter came with an extra glass and filled for all three of them. "by the way, doctor," said wallingford, watching the pouring of the wine with a host's anxiety, "i think of going into the patent medicine business on a large scale, and i believe i shall have to have you on the board of directors." "couldn't think of it!" objected the doctor hastily. "you know, professional ethics--" and he shrugged his shoulders. "that's so," admitted wallingford. "we can't have you on the board, but we can have you for a silent stock-holder." "open to the same objection," declared the doctor, with another dubious shrug, as he took up his glass. he tasted the wine; he took another sip, then another--slow, careful sips, so that no drop of it should hasten by his palate unappreciated. wallingford did not disturb him in that operation. he had a large appreciation himself of the good things of this world, and the proper way to do them homage. the doctor took a larger sip, and allowed the delicate liquid to flow gently over his tongue. wallingford was really a splendid fellow! "what sort of patent medicine are you going to manufacture?" asked the doctor by way of courtesy, but still "listening" to the taste of the wine. wallingford laughed. "i haven't just decided as yet," he announced. "the medicine is only an incident. what we're going to invest in is advertising." "i see," replied the doctor, laughing in turn. "advertising is a great speculation," went on wallingford, with a reminiscent smile. "take hawkins' bitters, for instance; nine per cent. cheap whisky flavored with coffee and licorice, and the balance pure water. hawkins had closed a fifty-thousand-dollar advertising contract before he was quite sure whether he was going to sell patent medicine or shoe polish. the first thing he decided on was the name, and he had to do that in a hurry to get his advertising placed. hawkins' bitters was familiar to ten million people before a bottle of it had been made. it was only last summer that hawkins sold out his business for a cool two million and went to europe." "his decoction is terrible stuff," commented the doctor, more in sorrow than in anger; "but it certainly has a remarkable sale." "i should say it has!" agreed wallingford. "the drug-stores sell it to temperance people by the case, and in the dry states you'll find every back yard littered with empty hawkins' bitters bottles." a half-dozen entertaining stories of the kind wallingford told his guest, and by the time he was through doctor lazzier began himself to have large visions of enormous profits to be made in the patent medicine business. somehow, the very waistcoat of young j. rufus seemed, in its breadth and gorgeousness, a guarantee of enormous profits, no matter what business he discussed. but the doctor's very last remark was upon the sacredness of medical ethics! when he was gone there was a conspicuous silence between wallingford and his wife for a few minutes, and then she asked: "jim, are you actually going to start a patent medicine company?" "certainly i am," he replied. "and will doctor lazzier take stock in it?" "he certainly will," he assured her. "i figure him for from ten to twenty-five thousand." chapter xxv in which wallingford organizes the doctor quagg peerless sciatacata company at the benson house j. rufus found doctor quagg with a leg propped up on a chair, and himself in a state of profound profanity. "what's the matter, doc?" asked wallingford. "sciatic rheumatism!" howled the martyr. "it's gettin' worse every year. every time i go on the street for a night i know i'm goin' to suffer. that's why i keep it up so late and spiel myself hoarse in the neck. i jumped into town just yesterday and got a reader from these city hall pirates. they charged me twenty-five iron men for my license for the week. i go out and make one pitch, and that's all i get for my twenty-five." "sciatic rheumatism's a tough dose," commiserated wallingford. "why don't you take five or six bottles of the peerless sciatacata?" the answer to this was a storm of fervid expletives which needed no diagram. wallingford, chuckling, sat down and gloated over the doctor's misery, lighting a big, fat cigar to gloat at better ease. he offered a cigar to quagg. "i daresn't smoke," swore that invalid. "and i suppose you daresn't drink, either," observed wallingford. "well, that doesn't stop me, you know." wearily the doctor indicated a push-button. "you'll have to ring for a boy yourself," said he. when the boy came wallingford ordered a highball. "and what's yours, sir?" asked the boy, turning to the doctor. "lithia, you bullet-headed nigger!" roared the doctor with a twinge of pain in his leg. "that's twice to-day i've had to tell you i can't drink anything but lithia. get out!" the boy "got," grinning. "seriously, though, old man," said wallingford, judging that the doctor had been aggravated long enough, "your condition must be very bad for business, and i've come to make you a proposition to go into the manufacture of the peerless on a large scale." the doctor sat in silence for a moment, shaking his head despondently. "you can't get spielers," he declared. "i've tried it. once i made up a lot of the sciatacata and sent out three men; picked the best i could find that had made good with street-corner pitches in other lines, and their sales weren't half what mine would be; moreover, they got drunk on the job, didn't pay for their goods, and were a nuisance any way you took 'em." wallingford laughed. "i didn't mean that we should manufacture the priceless remedy for street fakers to handle," he explained. "i propose to start a big factory to supply drug-stores through the jobbing trade, to spend a hundred thousand dollars in advertising right off the bat, give you stock in the company for the use of your formula, and a big salary to superintend the manufacture. that will do away with your exposure to the night air, stop the increase of your sciatica, and make you more money. why, doc, just to begin with we'll give you ten thousand dollars' worth of stock." it took doctor quagg some time to recover from the shock of that much money. "i've heard of such things," said he gratefully, "but i never supposed it could happen to me." "you don't need to put up a cent," went on wallingford. "and i don't need to put up a cent. we'll use other people's money." "where are you going to get your share?" asked the doctor suspiciously. "are you going to have a salary, too?" "no," said wallingford. "we'll pay you thirty-five dollars to start with as superintendent of the manufacturing department, but i won't ask for a salary; i'll take a royalty of one cent a bottle as manager of the company. i'll take five thousand dollars' worth of stock for my services in promotion, and then for selling the stock i'll take twenty-five per cent. of the par value for all i place, but will take it out in stock at the market rate. we'll organize for half a million and begin selling stock at fifty cents on the dollar, and i'll guarantee to raise for us one hundred and twenty-five thousand net cash--twenty-five thousand for manufacturing and one hundred thousand for advertising." the doctor drew a long breath. "if you can do that you're a wonder," he declared; "but it don't seem to me you're taking enough for yourself. you're giving me ten thousand dollars and you're only taking five; you're giving me thirty-five dollars a week and you're only taking a cent a bottle. it seems to me the job of organizing and building up such a company is worth as much as the sciatacata." "don't you worry about me," protested j. rufus modestly. "i'll get along all right. i'm satisfied. we'll organize the company to-day." "you can't get all that money together in a day!" exclaimed the doctor in amazement. "oh, no; i don't expect to try it. i'll put up all the money necessary. we want five directors, and we have three of them now, you and my wife and i. do you know anybody around the hotel that would serve?" the doctor snorted contemptuously. "nobody that's got any money or responsibility," he asserted. "they don't need to have any money, and we don't want them to have any responsibility," protested wallingford. "anybody of voting age will do for us just now." "well," said the doctor reflectively, "the night clerk's a pretty good fellow, and the head dining-room girl here has always been mighty nice to me. she's some relation to the proprietor and she's been here for five years." "good," said wallingford. "i'll telephone out for a lawyer." there was no telephone in the room, but down-stairs wallingford found a pay 'phone and selected a lawyer at random from the telephone directory. within two hours wallingford and his wife, doctor quagg, albert blesser and carrie schwam had gravely applied for a charter of incorporation under the laws of the state, for the doctor quagg peerless sciatacata company, with a capital stock of one thousand dollars, fully paid in. as he signed his name the doctor laughed like a school-boy. "now," said he, "i'm going to get my hair cut." wallingford stopped him in positive fright. "don't you dare do it!" he protested. "is that hair necessary to the business?" asked the doctor, crestfallen. "absolutely," declared wallingford. "why, man, that back curtain of yours is ten per cent. dividends." "then i'll wear it," agreed the doctor resignedly; "but i hate to. you know i've honed for years to quit this batting around the country, and just ached to wear short hair and a derby hat like a white man." wallingford looked at the weather-bronzed face and shook his head. "what a pity that would be!" he declared. "however, doc, your wanderings cease from this minute, and your salary begins from to-day." "fine," breathed the doctor. "i say, wallingford, then suppose you order me about three gross of bottles and some fresh labels. i'll get the drugs myself and start in making a supply of the sciatacata." "you just nurse your leg," advised wallingford. "why, man, when we start manufacturing the peerless it will be in vats holding a hundred gallons, and will be bottled by machinery that will fill, cork and label a hundred bottles a minute. you're to superintend mixing; that's your job." it took many days, days of irksome loafing for the doctor, before they had their final incorporation papers. immediately they elected themselves as directors, made quagg president, wallingford secretary and albert blesser treasurer, and voted for an increase of capitalization to one-half million dollars. they gave quagg his hundred shares and wallingford his fifty; they voted quagg his salary and wallingford his royalty; also they voted wallingford an honorarium of twenty-five per cent., payable in stock, for disposing of such of the treasury shares as they needed issued, and immediately wallingford, who had spent the interim in cultivating acquaintances, began to secure investors. he sold more than mere stock, however. he sold doctor quagg's hair and sombrero; he sold glowing word pictures of immense profits, and he sold the success of all other patent medicine companies; he sold his own imposing height and broad chest, his own jovial smile and twinkling eye, his own prosperous grooming and good feeding--and those who bought felt themselves blessed. first of all, he sold fifty thousand dollars' worth for twenty-five thousand to young corbin, whereupon mr. blesser, as per instructions, resigned from the treasurership and directorate in favor of mr. corbin. wallingford got fifteen thousand dollars from doctor lazzier, and ten from young paley, and with fifty thousand dollars in the treasury sent for an advertising man and gave out a hundred-thousand-dollar contract. "for the first half of this campaign," he explained to the advertising man, "i want this one ad spread everywhere: 'laugh at that woozy feeling.' this is to cover the top half of the space in good, plain, bold letters. in place of leaving the bottom blank for kids to scribble reasons of their own why you should laugh at that woozy feeling, we'll put gray shadow-figures there--grandpa and grandma and pa and ma and albert and henry and susan and grace and little willie, all laughing fit to kill. and say, have it a real laugh. have it the sort of a laugh that'll make anybody that looks at it want to be happy. of course, later, i want you to cover up the bottom half of that advertisement with: 'use doctor quagg's peerless sciatacata,' or something like that, but i'll furnish you the copy for that when the time comes. it will be printed right over the laughing faces." "it should make a very good ad," commented the agent with enthusiasm, writing out the instructions wallingford gave him, and willing to approve of anything for that size contract. wallingford went home to his wife, filled with a virtuous glow. "you know, there's something i like about this straight business, fannie," said he. "it gives a fellow a sort of clean feeling. i'm going to build up a million-dollar business and make everybody concerned in it rich, including myself. already i've placed one hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock, have fifty thousand dollars cash in the treasury, and fifty-five thousand dollars' worth of stock for myself." she looked puzzled. "i thought you were to get only twenty-five per cent. for selling the stock." he chuckled; shoulders, chest and throat, eyes and lips and chin, he chuckled. "twenty-five per cent. of the par value," said he, "payable in stock at the market price." "i don't see the difference," she protested. "i'm sure i thought it was to be straight twenty-five per cent., and i'm sure all the members of the company thought so." he patiently explained it to her. "don't you see, if i sell one hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock, i get the same as twenty-five thousand dollars for it, and with that buy fifty thousand dollars' worth of stock? of course i get it at the same price as others--fifty per cent." "did they understand you'd get fifty thousand instead of twenty-five thousand?" she asked. he chuckled again. "if they didn't they will," he admitted. she pondered over that thoughtfully for a while. "is that straight business?" she inquired. "of course it's straight business or i wouldn't be doing it. it is perfectly legitimate. you just don't understand." "no," she confessed, "i guess i don't; only i thought it was just twenty-five per cent." "it is twenty-five per cent.," he insisted, and then he gave it up. "you'd better quit thinking," he advised. "it'll put wrinkles in your brow, and i'm the one that has the wrinkles scheduled. i've just contracted for one hundred thousand dollars' worth of advertising, and i've got to go out to sell enough stock to bring in the cash. also, i've rented a factory, and to-morrow i'm going to let out contracts for bottling machinery, vats and fixtures. i've already ordered the office furniture. you ought to see it. it's swell. i'm having some lithographed stationery made, too, embossed in four colors, with a picture of doctor quagg in the corner." "how much stock has the doctor?" she asked. "ten thousand." "is that all he's going to have?" she wanted to know. "why, certainly, that's all he's going to have. i made the bargain with him and he's satisfied." "ten thousand dollars' worth out of a half-million-dollar corporation? why, jim, for his medicine, upon which the whole business is built, he only gets--how much is that of all of it?" "one fiftieth, or two per cent.," he told her. "two per cent.!" she gasped. "is that straight business, jim?" "of course it's straight business," he assured her. "of course," and he smiled, "doc didn't stop to figure that he only gets two per cent. of the profits of the concern. he figures that he's to draw dividends on the large hunk of ten thousand dollars' worth of stock, and he's satisfied. why aren't you?" "i don't know," she replied slowly, still with the vague feeling that something was wrong. "really, jim, it don't seem to me that straight business is any more fair than crooked business." wallingford was hugely disappointed. "and that's all the appreciation i get for confining myself to the straight and narrow!" he exclaimed. "oh, i didn't mean that, jim," she said, with instant contrition. "you don't know how glad i am that now, since we're married, you have settled down to honorable things; and you'll make a fortune, i know you will." "you bet i will," he agreed. "in the meantime i have to go out and dig up seventy-five thousand dollars more of other people's money to put into this concern; _which will give me another seventy-five thousand dollars' worth of stock_! straight business pays, fannie!" chapter xxvi doctor quagg proves that straight business is a delusion and a snare within a short time wallingford had the satisfaction of seeing bill-boards covered with his big sign ordering the public to "laugh at that woozy feeling," but not yet telling them how to do it, and he heard people idly wondering what the answer to that advertisement was going to be. some of them resented having puzzles of the sort thrust in front of their eyes, others welcomed it as a cheerful diversion. wallingford smiled at both sorts. he knew they would remember, and firmly link together the mystery and the solution. cards bearing the same mandate stared down at every street-car rider, and newspaper readers found it impossible to evade the same command. all this advertising, for the appearance of which wallingford had waited, helped him to sell the stock to pay for itself, and, in the meantime, he was busy putting into his new factory a bottling plant, second in its facility if not its capacity, to none in the country. he installed magnificent offices and for the doctor prepared an impressive private apartment, this latter being a cross between an alchemist's laboratory and a fortune-teller's oriental _salon_; but alas and alack! the first day the doctor walked into his new office he had his hair close-cropped and wore a derby, with such monstrous effect that even wallingford, inured as he was to most surprises, recoiled in horror! from that moment the doctor became a hard one to manage. his first protest was against the benson house, the old-fashioned, moderate-rate hotel which he had always patronized and had always recommended wherever he went. thereafter he changed boarding-houses and family hotels about every two weeks; but he never had his hair cut after the once. the big mixing vats that wallingford installed he grew to hate. he was used to mixing his sciatacata in a hotel water-pitcher and filling it into bottles with a tin funnel; and to mix up a hundred gallons at a time of that precious compound seemed a cold, commercial proposition which was so much a sacrilege that he went out and "painted the town," winding up in a fight with a cigar-store indian. he left such a train of fireworks in his wake that wallingford heard of it for weeks afterward. to j. rufus the affair was a good joke, but to the other gentlemen of the company, corbin, paley and doctor lazzier and the others who had social reputations to maintain as well as business interests to guard, the affair was tragic, not merely because one of their number had become intoxicated, but that it should be this particular one, and that he should make himself so conspicuous! the doctor repeated his escapade within a week. this time he took a notion to "circulate" in a cab, and as he got more mellow, insisted upon sitting up with the driver, where he whooped sonorously every time they turned a corner. this time he finished in the hands of the police, and wallingford was called upon at three o'clock in the morning to bail him out. friends of corbin and paley and the other exclusives whom wallingford had selected as his stock-holders began to drop in on them with pleasant little remarks about their business associate. the doctor had been bragging widely about his connection with them! his crowning effort came when he continued his celebration of one night through the next day, and drove around to make a few party calls. he appeared like a specter of disgrace in corbin's private office with: "hello, old pal, come out and have a drink!" and gave corbin a hearty slap on the back. corbin gave a helpless glance across at the three prim young ladies on the other side of his open screen. back of him a solemn-visaged old bookkeeper, who was both a deacon and sunday-school superintendent, looked on in shocked amazement. "couldn't begin to think of it, doctor," protested corbin nervously, pulling at his lavender cravat, while the perspiration broke out upon his bald spot. "i must attend to business, you know." "never mind the business!" insisted the doctor. "wait till our sciatacata factory is shipping in car-loads, partner, and you can afford to give this junk-shop away." paley, happening in to speak to corbin, created a diversion welcome to corbin but unwelcome to himself, for the doctor immediately pounced upon paley and insisted upon taking him out to get a drink, and the only way that narrow-framed young man could get rid of him was to go along. he rode around in the cab with him for a while, and tried to dissuade him from calling upon doctor lazzier and the other stock-holders, but quagg was obdurate. to wind up the evening's performance he appeared on a prominent street corner about nine o'clock, in a carriage with the gasolene torch and the life-size anatomical chart, and began selling the peerless sciatacata, calling upon the names of wallingford, lazzier, corbin and paley--his "partners"--as guarantees of his sincerity and standing, and as sureties of the excellence of the priceless compound. wallingford heard about him quickly, for the picturesque quagg had become a public joy and all the down-town crowd knew well about him. wallingford went down to the corner with the intention of putting a stop to the exhibition, but, as he looked at the doctor, whose hair now dropped beneath his sombrero to nearly its old-time length, a new thought struck him and he went quietly away. the next day corbin withdrew from the treasurership and paley from the directorate, and every one of the directors who had taken the places of the original incorporators did likewise. intimate relationship with the doctor was productive of too much publicity for peaceful enjoyment. it was just at this time that the agent of the advertising concern began to bother wallingford for "copy" on the last half of his contract. wallingford, to placate him, finished paying for the contract and took the cash discount, but held the agent off two or three days in the matter of the "copy." he was not quite satisfied about the wording of the advertisement. he sat up late one night devising the most concise and striking form in which to present the merits of doctor quagg's peerless sciatacata, and in the morning he went down to the office prepared to mail the result of his labor. he found upon his desk this note from the restless doctor quagg: spring's here. i never stayed in one place so long in my life. you can have my salary and you can have my ten thousand dollars' worth of stock. i don't want it. my hair's out good and long again and i've gone back on the road to sell the sciatacata. yours truly, quagg. it was the last straw, and the stock-holders' meeting which wallingford hastily called wore the greenish pallor peculiar to landlubbers in their first sea storm. "we don't need quagg," wallingford protested. "our contract with him covers any rights he has in the title of the medicine, and the mere fact that he is not with us does not need to prevent our going ahead." "have you the formula for his preparation?" asked doctor lazzier quietly. "oh, no," replied wallingford carelessly. "i don't see that that need stop us." "why not?" protested young corbin. "our whole business is built upon that formula." wallingford smiled. "we simply must stick to the sciatacata," resumed wallingford. "we have all this fine stationery printed, with the full name of the peerless dope; we have elaborate booklets and circulars about it, and the first delivery of ten thousand labels is here. there will be no trouble in getting up another peerless sciatacata which will at least be harmless, but i think that we can do even better than that. i think that doctor lazzier can furnish us a good, handy, cheap prescription for sciatic rheumatism." "certainly not," protested doctor lazzier with vast professional indignation; but he nevertheless winked at wallingford. "never mind," said wallingford to corbin; "i'll get the formula all right." "for my part i'm willing to sell my stock at ten per cent.," said corbin with infinite disgust. he was thinking at that very moment of a gaudy "function" he was to attend that night, one marking quite an advance in his social climb, and he almost dreaded to go. "i don't like to lose money, but, in this case, i'd really rather. this is a dreadful experience." the rest of them agreed with young corbin in attitude, if not in words, and it was with considerable sadness that they dispersed, after having decided, somewhat reluctantly, that wallingford should go ahead with the sciatacata. pursuing this plan wallingford sent away the copy for the bottom half of the great woozy-feeling advertisement. the following afternoon, however, came the death-blow, in the shape of a most hilarious article in the local papers. in a neighboring city doctor quagg had gone out to sell the peerless sciatacata, had been caught in a drizzle of spring rain and had been sent, raving angry, to the hospital with a most severe case of sciatic rheumatism. the joke of it was too good. the local papers, as a mere kindly matter of news information, published a list of the stock-holders of the doctor quagg peerless sciatacata company. wallingford, with that item before him, sat and chuckled till the tears quivered on his eyelashes; but, even in the midst of his appreciation of the fun in the case, he wired to the agent of the advertising company to cancel his previous letter of instructions, and to secure him at least a week's grace before forfeiture of the contract; then he proceeded quietly to telephone the stock-holders. he found great difficulty in getting the use of his line, however, for the stock-holders were already calling him up, frantically, tearfully, broken-heartedly. they were all ruined through their connection with the sciatacata! "i'll tell you, fannie," said he at dinner, after pondering over a new thought which would keep obtruding itself into his mind, "this thing of training a straight business down to weight is no merry quip. it's more trouble and risk than my favorite game of promoting for revenue only." "you keep right on at it, jim," she insisted. "you'll find there is ever so much more satisfaction in it in the end." he was moody all through dinner. they had tickets for the theater that night and they went, but here, too, wallingford was distrait, and he could not have remembered one incident of the play until during the last act, when his brow suddenly cleared. when they went back to the hotel he led his wife into the dining-room, and, excusing himself for a moment, went to the telegraph desk and sent a telegram to horace g. daw, of boston. chapter xxvii in which you are told how to laugh at that woozy feeling two days later wallingford called a conclave of the stock-holders to meet one hamilton g. dorcas, of boston, who had come to consider taking over the property of the doctor quagg peerless sciatacata company. quite hopefully doctor lazzier, young corbin, young paley and the others attended that meeting for the disposal of the concern which had already eaten up one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in good cash; but when they began talking with mr. dorcas they were not quite so extravagantly hopeful. mr. h. g. dorcas was a tall, thin, black-haired, black-eyed and black-mustached young man in ministerial clothing, who looked astonishingly like horace g. daw, if any one of them had previously known that young gentleman. "i have been through your factory," said mr. dorcas in a businesslike manner, "and all i find here of any value to me is your second-hand bottling machinery and vats and your second-hand office furniture. for those i am prepared to pay you a reasonable second-hand price; say, about fifteen thousand dollars." it was young corbin who put up the loudest protest. "why, man, such an offer is preposterous! besides the twenty-five thousand invested in the machinery, fixtures and other expenses, we have spent exactly a hundred thousand dollars in advertising." mr. dorcas shrugged his shoulders. "what good will that do me?" he retorted. "it's wasted." deep silence followed. the stock-holders knew that a hundred thousand had actually been paid out for advertising which, of course, was now of no value whatever. only wallingford knew that, the contract not being completed, part of it could be rebated, though only a small part, but he was not saying anything. temptation had caught up with wallingford, had wrestled with him and overthrown him! "yes," admitted young paley with a long, long sigh, "all that advertising money is wasted." young corbin was figuring. "mr. dorcas," said he, "if you will increase your offer by two thousand dollars i am inclined to accept it and get out of this muddle once and for all." mr. dorcas himself figured very carefully. "it is stretching a point with you," said he, "but i'll give it to you. understand, though, that is the last cent." "i am not in favor of it," declared wallingford, thereby putting himself upon the proper side for future reference. "it leaves us with a net cash loss of one hundred and eight thousand dollars. i'm in favor of rigging up some other patent medicine and going right ahead with the business. a slight assessment on our stock, or an agreement to purchase _pro rata_, among ourselves, a small amount of the treasury stock in order to raise about twenty-five thousand dollars more, will put us in shape to go ahead." if he intended to encourage them he had gone the wrong way about it. they recoiled as one man from that thought. young corbin jumped to his feet. "you may count me out," he declared. "doctor lazzier," pleaded wallingford, "you are in favor of this course?" "by no means," said he. "a lot of my friends are 'on,' and some of my patients are laughing at me. i can't afford it. take this man's offer. wait just a minute." he rose to his feet. "i'll make that a formal motion," and he did so. with no dissenting voice, except wallingford's, that motion was carried through, and wallingford spread it upon the minute-books at once. also a committee was appointed formally to close the business with mr. dorcas, and to transfer to that gentleman, at once, all the properties, rights and good-will of the company. "gentlemen, i am very sorry," said wallingford, much crestfallen in appearance. "i still protest against giving up, but i blame myself for coaxing you into this unfortunate affair." "don't mention it," protested doctor lazzier, shaking hands. "you meant to do us a favor." they all agreed with the doctor, and young corbin felt especially sorry for wallingford's contrition. immediately after the dispersal of the meeting mr. wallingford and "mr. dorcas" shook hands ecstatically. "blackie, you're handier than a hollow cane in drytown," exulted wallingford. "here's where i clean up. i own over one third of this stock. i have invested only one cheap thousand dollars over and above my expenses since i got here, and i'll get a third of this seventeen thousand right back again, so the company, up to date--and i own it all--stands me just a little less than what's left of my winnings on that noble little horse, whipsaw. just wait a minute till i send this off to the advertising company," and he wrote rapidly a lengthy telegram. after he sent away the telegram he remained at his desk a few moments, sketching on one of the proofs of a newspaper "ad" and filling in the lower part. "here," said he to blackie, "is the complete advertisement." blackie picked up the proof sheet and glanced over it in evident approval. taken altogether, it read: laugh at that woozy feeling drink gingeree! it puts the ginger in you ten cents at all soda fountains "within a week," exulted wallingford, "everybody in the middle states will know all about gingeree. before that time i'll have gingeree invented, and the gingeree company organized for half a million dollars. i'll put in the plant and the advertising at one hundred and fifty thousand, sell about twenty-five thousand dollars of treasury stock to start the business, then sell my hundred and fifty thousand and get out." "you'll have to go out of town to sell your stock," observed blackie. "out of town!" repeated wallingford. "i should say not! with the good introduction i have here? not any. i'll sell stock to doctor lazzier and young corbin and young paley and the rest of the bunch." blackie looked at his friend in gasping awe. "great guns!" he exploded. "j. rufus, if you have nerve enough even to figure on that stunt, i believe you can pull it off!" the door of the office opened and mrs. wallingford came in. "blackie daw!" she exclaimed. "and so you are in town and mixed up in jim's affairs! jim wallingford, now i know you are not conducting a straight business!" blackie only grinned, but mr. wallingford was hurt. "you're mistaken, fannie," said he. "you sit right down there, and i'll explain." he did so. when wallingford rejoined her in their rooms that evening she had had time to think it all over. she had found no arguments to combat wallingford's statement of the case. she could not find words to overturn his words, and yet there was a flaw some place that she could not put her finger upon. knowing this, then, and condoning it, was she not a part sharer in his guilt? yes, and no. for a solid hour she searched her heart and she could find but one satisfactory answer. no matter what he had done in the past or might do in the future, she knew that she loved him, and whatever path his feet might tread, she knew that she would walk along with him. she had thought at first that she might guide his footsteps into better ways, but now she feared! she knew, too, that in remaining with him she must take him as he was. and so, when he came to her, she was ready with her customary kiss, in which there was no lack of warmth; nor was there in her eyes any troubled look. he was delighted to find her in this mood. "i guess you've thought it all over, fannie," said he, "and can see that at least this one business deal is a dead straight game, just as any good business man would play it." "yes," she reluctantly admitted. "i am afraid that business, even straight business, is sometimes conducted along such lines." but down in her heart of hearts she knew better. * * * * * transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. https://archive.org/details/goldgoldincaribo philuoft "gold, gold, in cariboo!" [illustration: corbett seizes his one chance for life.] gold, gold, in cariboo! a story of adventure in british columbia by clive phillipps-wolley author of "snap" "a sportsman's eden" &c. illustrated by godfrey c. hindley new edition blackie and son limited london glasgow and dublin contents. chap. page i. the gold fever, ii. a "gilt-edged" speculation, iii. a little game of poker, iv. the mother of gold, v. "is the colonel 'straight?'" vi. the wet camp, vii. facing death on the stone-slide, viii. their first "colours," ix. under the balm-of-gilead tree, x. the shadows begin to fall, xi. "jump or i'll shoot," xii. a sheer swindle, xiii. the bullet's message, xiv. what the wolf found, xv. in the dance-house, xvi. the price of blood, xvii. chance's gold-fever returns, xviii. on the colonel's trail again, xix. "good-bye, lilla," xx. the accursed river, xxi. pete's creek, xxii. gold by the gallon! xxiii. the hornet's nest, xxiv. drowning in the forest, xxv. in the camp of the chilcotins, xxvi. rampike's winter quarters, xxvii. the search for phon, xxviii. the king of the big-horns, xxix. phon's return, xxx. cruickshank at last! illustrations page corbett seizes his one chance for life _frontis._ "with a scream of fear the chinaman sprang out" lilla accosts the colonel in the dance-house "gold--gold in flakes, and lumps, and nuggets" chapter i. the gold fever. in the april of , victoria, british columbia, was slowly recovering from what her inhabitants described as a serious "set back." from the position of a small hudson bay station she had suddenly risen in ' to the importance of a city of , inhabitants, from which high estate she had fallen again with such rapidity, that in there were only left in her to mourn the golden days of the "frazer river humbug." in ' the gold fever broke out in california, and for ten years, in the words of an eye-witness, , adventurers of every hue, language, and clime were drifting up and down the slopes of the great sierra, in search of gold, ready to rush this way or that at the first rumour of a fresh find. in ' california's neighbour, british columbia, took the fever. the cry of "gold, gold!" was raised upon the frazer, and the wharves of san francisco groaned beneath the burden of those who sought to take ship for this fresh eldorado. in a year most of these pilgrims had returned from the new shrine, poorer by one year of their short lives, beaten back by the grim canyons of the frazer river, or cheated of their reward by those late floods, which kept the golden sands hidden from their view. in ' and ' the miner cursed victoria as a city of hopes unfulfilled, and left her to dream on undisturbed of the greater days to come. she looked as if, on this april day of ' , her dreams were of the fairest. the air, saturated with spring sunshine, was almost too soft and sweet to be wholesome for man. there was a languor in it which dulled the appetite for work; merely to live was happiness enough; effort seemed folly, and if a man could have been found with energy enough to pray, he would have prayed only that no change might come to him, that the gleam of the blue waters of the straits and the diamond brightness of the distant snow-peaks might remain his for ever, balanced by the soft green of the island pine-woods: that the hollow drumming of the mating grouse and the song of the meadow lark, and the hum of waking nature might continue to caress his ear, while only the scent of the fresh-sawn lumber suggested to him that labour was the lot of man. and yet, in spite of this seeming dreaminess in nature, the old earth was busy fashioning new things out of the old, and the hearts of men all along the pacific slope were waking and thrilling in answer to the new message of mammon--"gold! gold by the ton, to be had for the gathering in cariboo!" the reports which had come down from quesnel, of the fortunes made in ' upon such creeks as antler and williams, had restored heart to the victorians, and even to those californian miners who still sojourned in their midst, so that quite half the people in the town, old residents as well as new-comers, were only waiting for the snows to melt, ere they rushed away to the mining district beyond the bald mountains. but the snows tarry long in the high places of british columbia, and the days went on in spite of the men and their desire, and bread had to be earned even in such an elysium as vancouver island, with all the gold which a man could want, as folks said, within a few weeks' march of them; so that hands and brains were busy, in spite of the temptations of hope and the spring sunshine. moreover, there were dull dogs even then in victoria, who believed more in the virtue of steady toil than in gold-mining up at cariboo. thus it happened, then, that a big, yellow-headed axeman, and a ray of evening sunlight, looking in together through an open doorway upon wharf street, found a man within in his shirt sleeves, still busily engaged upon his daily task. "hullo, corbett, how goes it? come right in and take a smoke." the voice, a cheery one with a genuine welcome in it, came from the inside of the house, and in answer the axeman heaved his great shoulder up from the door-post and loafed in. in every movement of this man there was a suggestion of healthy weariness, that most luxurious and delightful sensation which comes over him who has used his muscles throughout the day in some one of those outdoor forms of labour which earn an appetite, even if they do not gain a fortune. as he stood in the little room looking quizzically at his friend's work, ned corbett, in his old blue shirt and overalls, with the axe lying across one bare brown forearm, might have served an artist as a model for labour; but the artist into whose studio he had come had no need for such models. there was no money in painting such subjects, and steve chance painted for dollars, and for dollars only. round the room at the height of a man's shoulder was stretched a long, long strip of muslin (not canvas, canvas would cost six bits a picture), and this strip had been sized and washed over with colour. when corbett entered, chance had just slapped on the last patch of this preliminary coat of paint, so that now there was nothing more to be done until the morrow. "well, steve, how many works of art have you knocked off to-day?" asked corbett. "works of art be hanged!" replied his friend. "i've covered about twenty feet of muslin, and that at five dollars a picture isn't a bad day's work. what have you done?" "let me see, i've cut down a tree or two and earned an appetite, and--oh, yes, a couple of dollars to satisfy the same. isn't that enough?" "all depends upon the way you look at things. i call it fooling your time away." "and i call this work of yours a waste of talent worse, fifty times worse, than my waste of time. look at that thing, for instance;" and ned pointed to a large canvas, bright with all the colours of the rainbow. "that! well, you needn't look as if the thing might bite, ned. that is the new map of ophir, a land brimming 'ophir'--forgive the joke--with coarse gold, and, what is more important, bonded by those immaculate knights of the curbstone, messrs. dewd and cruickshank." "an advertisement, is it? well, it is ugly enough even for that. how much lower do you mean to drag your hapless art, you vandal? 'auctioning pictures,' as you call it, is bad enough, but this is simple sign-painting!" "well, and why not, if sign-painting pays? you take my advice, ned; get the 'sugar' first, the fame will come at its leisure. sign-painting is honest anyway, and more remunerative than felling trees, you bet." "that may be," replied the younger man, balancing his axe in his strong hands, "and more intellectual, i suppose; but, by george, there's a pleasure in every ringing blow with the axe, and the scent of the fresh pine-wood is sweeter than the smell of your oil-paints." "pot-paints, ned, two bits a pot. we don't run to tube-paints in this outfit." "well, pot-paints if you like; but even so you are not making a fortune. we can't always sell those panoramas of yours, you know, even at a dollar a foot." "that's _your_ fault, ned; you've no eye for the latent merits of my pictures, and therefore make a shocking mess of the auctioneer's department. however, i am not wedded to my art. if lumbering and painting don't pay, what do you say to real estate?" and as he spoke, chance put his "fixins" together and proceeded to lock up the studio for the night. "real estate! why, fifty per cent of the inhabitants of the queen city are real estate agents professionally, and most of the others are amateurs. be a little original, outside your art anyway, old fellow. i don't want anything to do with real estate, except in acre blocks beyond the city limits, and a jolly long way beyond at that!" "is that so?" asked a mellow voice from behind the last speaker. "then, my dear sir, messrs. dewd and cruickshank can fix you right away. what do you say to a little farm on the gorge, fairly swarming with game, and admirably suited for either stock raising or grain growing?" "viticulture, market-gardening, or a gentleman's park! better go the whole hog at once, cruickshank," laughed chance, turning round to greet the new-comer, a dark, stout man with an unlit cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. "you must have your joke, mr. chance; but the farm is really a gem for all that, and with the certainty of a large advance in price this summer, a man could not do better than buy." "what, is the farm better than a claim in ophir?" laughed chance. "ah, well, that is another matter!" said cruickshank. "the farm is a gilt-edged investment. there is, of course, just a suspicion of speculation in all gold-mining operations, though i can't see where the risk is in such claims as those you mention. by the way, have you finished the map?" "yes, here it is," replied the artist, producing a roll from under his arm, and partly opening it to show it to his questioner. "i call it rather a neat thing in sign-boards, don't you? i know i've used up all my brightest colours upon it." "yes, it will do; and though i don't suppose williams creek is quite that colour," laughed cruickshank, "i am happy to say that our reports are not over-coloured, even if our map is. do you know the duke of kent, mr. corbett?" "no. who is the duke of kent? i'd no idea that we had any aristocrats out here." "oh, the duke's is only a fancy title; most titles are that way in the far west." "my sentiments exactly, colonel cruickshank," replied corbett; and anyone inclined to quarrel with him might have thought that corbett dwelt just a thought too long upon the "colonel." but cruickshank was not inclined to quarrel with a man who stood six feet two, and girthed probably forty inches round the chest, and who was reported, moreover, to be master of quite a snug little sum in good english gold. "the duke of kent has a claim alongside those which we bonded last fall, and he tells me that he has already refused a hundred thousand dollars for a half share in it." "a hundred thousand dollars for a half share! great cæsar's ghost, why, you could buy half victoria for the money!" cried chance. "well, not quite, but a good deal of it, and yet i've no doubt but that we have quite as rich claims amongst those we offer for sale. how can it be otherwise? they lie side by side on the same stream." "have you seen any of these claims yourself, colonel?" asked corbett. "every one of them, my good sir. my clients are for the most part my own countrymen, and you may bet that i won't let them be done by any beastly yank." "civil to you, steve," laughed corbett. "i beg your pardon, mr. chance, but there are americans _and_ americans; and you can understand that a man who has spent the best years of his life wearing the queen's uniform feels hotly about some of the frauds practised upon tender-feet by californian bilks." "why, certainly; don't apologize. i suppose there are a few honest men and a good many rogues in every nation. did you say you had seen the claims yourself? i thought you were in victoria in the fall." "no; dewd and i were up together. i came down and he stayed there. there is big money in them. change your minds, gentlemen, and give up art for gold-mining." "no, thanks; i think not," replied corbett. "no! well, you know best. good-day to you. you won't take a drink, will you?" "no, i won't spoil my appetite even for a cock-tail." "so long, then!" and with a flourish of his gold-headed cane, which was meant to represent a military salute, the somewhat florid warrior dived through a swing-door, over which was written in letters of gold, "the fashion bar." "say, corbett," remarked chance as cruickshank disappeared, "don't you make yourself so deuced disagreeable to my best customers. cruickshank's orders keep our firm in bread and cheese, and i can see you want to kick the fellow all the time he is in your company." "all right, old chap; but i didn't say anything rude, did i? if he would only drop the 'british army' and 'we english' i wouldn't even want to be rude. what the deuce does he care whether he gets his dollars from a britisher or a yank?" "not much, you bet! but here we are. hullo, phon, have you got the muck-a-muck ready?" "you bet you! soup all ready. muck-a-muck heap good to-day you see;" and laughing and chattering phon dived into the tent, and rattled about the tin plates and clucked as if he were calling chickens to be fed. phon was a character in his way, and a good one at that; a little wizen, yellow body, with an especially long pig-tail coiled up on his head like a turban; eyes and tongue which were in perpetual motion, and a great affection for the two white men, who treated him with the familiarity of old friendship. "what are you in such a deuce of a hurry for to-night, phon?" asked corbett a little later, when the chinaman rushed in to take away the remains of dinner. "s'pose i tell you, you no let me go?" replied the fellow, half interrogatively. "go! of course i'll let you go. i couldn't help myself, i suppose. where are you going to--the hee-hee house?" "no, no. hee-hee house no good. no makee money there. pay all the time. me go gamble." "gamble, you idiot! what, and lose all your pay for a month?" "'halo' (_anglice_ not) lose. debbil come to me last night; debbil say, 'phon, you go gamble, you win one hundred dollars.' i go win, you see." "please yourself. you'll see as much of that hundred dollars as you did of the devil. who's that calling?" phon went out of the tent for a moment and then returned, and holding up the tent flap for someone to enter, said: "colonel cruickshank want to see you. me go now?" "all right! go to blazes, only don't expect us to pay you any more wages if you lose. come in, colonel." "won't you come out instead, mr. corbett? it's better lying on the grass outside than in to-night." "guess he is right, ned. come along, you lazy old beggar!" cried chance. and the three men in another minute were all lying prone on a blanket by the embers of a camp-fire, smoking their pipes and chatting lazily. corbett's tent--a marvel of london make, convertible into anything from a turkish bath to a suit of clothes, and having every merit except the essential one of portability--stood upon the very edge of the encampment, commanding a view of the sea and the olympic range on the farther shore. the encampment itself was a kind of annexe of the town of victoria, standing where james bay suburb now stands, although what is to-day covered with villas and threatened by an extension of the electric tramway was in ' a place of willows and wild rosebushes. here lived part of the floating population of victoria, miners _en route_ to cariboo, remittance-men sent away from home to go to the dogs out of sight of their affectionate relatives, and a good many other noisy good-fellows who liked to live in their shirt sleeves in the open air. corbett and chance were the aristocrats of this quarter, thanks to the magnificence of their abode and the general "tonyness" of their outfit. in their own hearts they knew that they were victims to their outfitter--that they were living where they were instead of in a house merely out of regard for their tent, and for those mysterious camp appliances which all fitted into one another like chinese puzzles. that was where the shoe pinched. in a moment of pride they had pitched their tent (according to written instructions) and unpacked their "kitchen outfits," and _they had never been able to repack them_. it was all very well to advertise the things as packing compactly into a case two feet by one foot six inches, but it required an expert to pack them; and so, unless they were minded to abandon their "fixings," they had to stay by them. therefore they stayed, and said they preferred the open air, even when it rained, as it sometimes does even on vancouver island. later on they learnt better, and were consoled for their losses by the sight of the hundred and one "indispensable requisites of a camp life" cast away by weary pilgrims all along the frazer river road. it is a pity that the gentlemen who sell camp outfits cannot be compelled to pass one year in prospecting before they enter upon their trade. but an april evening by the straits of fuca, with a freshly-lit pipe between your teeth, will put you in charity even with a london outfitter. the warm air was full of the scent of the sea and the sweet smoke of the camp-fires, while the chorus of the bull-frogs sounded like nature's protest against the advent of man. as the darkness grew the forest seemed to close in round the intruding houses, and for a while even the estate agent was silent, oppressed by the majesty of night and nature. it was corbett who broke the silence at last. "do you know that long, blue valley, steve--you can hardly see it now,--the one that goes winding away back into the mountains from the gate of the angels?" steve nodded. he was too lazy to answer. "that valley is my worst tempter. i know i ought to settle here and work: keep a store and grow up with the country; but i can't do it. that valley haunts me with longings to follow it through the blue mists to--" "to the place where the gold comes from--eh, ned? to the place where it lies in lumps still, not worn into dust by its long journey down stream from the heart of its parent mountain. old sobersides, you have been reading your _colonist_ too much lately." ned smiled, and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, began to refill it. "how much of all these yarns about gold up at antler and williams creek do you believe, colonel?" he asked, turning to cruickshank. "do you really think anyone ever took out fifty ounces in a day with a rocker?" "i know it, my good sir. i have seen it. when antler was found in the bed-rock was paved with gold, and you could not wash a shovelful of dirt that had not from five to fifty dollars' worth of dust in it." "oh, there's gold up in cariboo, ned, but it wants finding. you've only got to go into the saloons to know that there is plenty of dust for the lucky ones. fellows pay with pinches of dust for liquors whose names they did not know a year ago." "_paid_, you mean, chance," corrected cruickshank. "they are all pretty near stone-broke by now. but are you longing to go and bail up gold in your silk hat, mr. corbett?" "i am longing to be doing something new, colonel. i've taken the prevalent fever, i think, and want to make one in this scrimmage. i can't sit still and see band after band of hard-fists going north any longer. town life may be more profitable, perhaps, but i want to be with the men." "bully for you, ned! english solidity of intellect for ever! why, you villain, you're as bad a gambler as yankee chance." "worse, i expect, mr. chance," remarked cruickshank, eyeing the two young men critically. "you would play to win, he would play for the mere fun of playing." "which would give me the advantage," retorted corbett; "because in that case i should stop when i was tired of the game." "never mind the argument," broke in chance; "gambler or no gambler, if you go i go. i'm sick of that picture of the pines and the waterfall, anyway." "so is victoria. 'bloomin' red clothes'-props and a mill-race,' one chap called the last copy i tried to sell," muttered corbett. "well, why not buy a couple of those claims of mine?" suggested cruickshank. "i always like to do a fellow-countryman a good turn, and it would really be a genuine pleasure to me to put you two into a good thing." "how many have you left, colonel cruickshank?" he could not help it for the life of him, but the moment cruickshank became more than ordinarily affectionate and open-hearted corbett put on the colonel, and, as it were, came on guard. he was angry with himself directly afterwards for doing so, but he could no more help it than a man can help pulling himself together when he hears the warning of the rattlesnake. "only three, mr. corbett; and i doubt whether i can hold those till to-morrow morning. i am to meet a man in town at nine about them." "what do you want for the three?" "as a mere matter of curiosity?" put in chance. "well, let me see. they are ' -foot' claims, right alongside the places where the big hauls were made last year; but they are the last, and as you are an englishman and a friend--" "oh, please be good enough to treat this as a purely business matter," ejaculated corbett, blushing up to the temples, whilst anyone looking at cruickshank might for the moment have thought that his speech had had exactly the effect he intended it to have. "well, say two thousand dollars apiece; that is cheap and fair." "two thousand dollars apiece! what a chap you are to chaff, cruickshank!" cried chance, breaking in. "do you take us for millionaires?" "in embryo if you buy my shares, certainly, my dear sir." "perhaps. but look here, say a thousand dollars apiece, half cash, and half when we make our pile." "can't do it; but i'll knock off a hundred dollars from each claim, as we are friends." "the market value is two thousand dollars, you say, colonel cruickshank (my dear chance, do leave this to me), and you have yourself inspected these claims?" "certainly." "and they are good workable claims, adjoining those you spoke of?" "undoubtedly, that gives them their principal value." "very well then, i'll buy the three. here is a hundred dollars to bind our bargain. we'll settle the rest to-morrow. now, let me give you a drink." "thank you. are the claims to stand in your name?" "in chance's, phon's, and mine. how will that do, steve?" "settle it your own way; if you have gone crazy i suppose i must humour you. but there is a good deal owing to our firm from yours, colonel, isn't there?" "of course. that can be set off against a part of the sum due as payment for the claims. good-night, mr. corbett. thank you for the confidence you show in me. treat a gentleman like a gentleman, and an honest man like an honest man, say i." "and a thief or a business man like a thief or a business man," muttered chance, as cruickshank walked away. "oh, ned, ned! what a lot nature wasted on your muscles which she had much better have put into your head!" chapter ii. a "gilt-edged" speculation. "ned, were you drunk last night, or am i dreaming?" asked chance next morning, as the two sat over their breakfast, while the canoes of the early indian fishers stole out along the edges of the great kelp beds. it was a lovely scene upon which corbett's tent looked out, but chance at the moment had no eyes for the blue water, or the glories of the snow range beyond, all he could think of was "three claims at two thousand dollars apiece." "neither, that i am aware of, steve. you eat as if you had all your faculties about you, and i've no head ache." "then you did not buy three claims from cruickshank at two thousand dollars apiece?" "yes, i did; and why not?" "where is the money to come from?" "i'll see to that," replied corbett. "i am quite aware that six thousand dollars is twelve hundred pounds; but if you don't want to take a share in my speculation, i propose to invest that much of my capital in the venture, and even if i lose it all i shall still have something left, besides my muscles, thank god. you two, phon and yourself, can work for me on wages if you like, or we'll make some other arrangement to keep the party together." for a minute or two chance said nothing, and then he began laughing quietly to himself. "say, ned, you took scarlatina pretty bad when you were a kiddy, didn't you?" "i don't remember, old chap. why do you ask?" "and whooping-cough, and measles, and chicken-pox, and now its gold fever, and my stars isn't it a virulent attack?" and chance broke out laughing afresh. "i don't see," began corbett, growing rather red in the face. "oh, no; you don't see what all this has to do with me," interrupted chance, "and it's infernal impertinence on my part to criticise your actions, and if i wasn't so small you would very likely punch my head. i know all that. but, you see, we two are partners, and i am not going to dissolve partnership because i think you are taking bigger risks than you ought to. if you put up three thousand dollars i will put up as much, and part of it can come out of the money owing to the firm." "but why do this if you think the risk too big?" asked corbett. "why ask questions, ned? i feel like taking the risk; i am a yankee, and therefore a natural gambler. you of course are not, are you? and then it's spring-time, and from twenty-three to the other end of threescore years and ten is a long, long time; and even if we 'bust,' there'll be lots of time to build again. so we will go halves, the third claim to be held in phon's name, and phon to work on wages." "let us have old phon in. phon! phon!" shouted corbett. the chinaman, who was cleaning the tin plates by a creek hard by, came slowly towards them. "well, phon, did you lose all your dollars last night?" asked his master. "me tell you debbil say me win--debbil know, you bet," replied phon coolly. "and did you win?" "me win a hundred dollars--look!" and the little man held out a roll of dirty notes, amounting to something more than the sum named. "you were in luck, phon. 'spose i were you, i no go gamble any more," remarked corbett, dropping into that pigeon english, which people seem to think best adapted to the comprehension of the chinaman. "oh yes, you go gamble too. debbils bodder me very bad last night. they say you go gamble, chance he go gamble, phon he go gamble too. all go gamble togedder. and then debbil he show me gold, gold,--so much gold me no able to carry it. where you goin' now?" "i guess your friends, the devils, might have told you that too," remarked chance. "don't you know?" "no, me no savey. you tell me." "corbett and myself are going up to cariboo mining, and if you like you can come as cook, or you can come and work on wages in our claims. how would you like that?" "me come, all-lite me come; only you give me one little share in the claims--you let me put in one hundred dollars i win last night." "better keep what you've got and not gamble any more," replied corbett kindly. "halo! halo keep him. 'spose you not sell me share i go gamble again to-night." "better let him have his way, ned. let the whole crowd go in together, 'sink or swim.'" "very well, phon, then you will come." "you bet you, misser corbett. who you 'spose cook for you 'spose i no come?" and having proposed this final conundrum, phon retired again to his kitchen. "rum, the way in which he seemed to know all about our movements, ned," remarked chance, when the chinaman had done. "oh, he overheard what we said last night, or at breakfast this morning," replied corbett. "he wasn't here last night, and he was down by the stream whilst we were at breakfast." "all right, old man, perhaps his 'debbil' told him. it doesn't much matter anyway. did you see this piece in the _colonist_?" "about us? no. read it out." "'we understand that colonel cruickshank, the napoleon of victorian finance, the mammoth hustler of the pacific coast, has determined to conduct those gentlemen who have bought his bonded claims to the fortunes which await them. this additional proof of the colonel's belief in the property which he offers for sale should ensure a keen competition for the one claim still left upon his hands, which we understand will be raffled for this afternoon at p.m. at smith's saloon. tickets, ten dollars each. we are informed that amongst the purchasers of claims in the cruickshank reserve are an english gentleman largely interested in the lumber business, and an american artist rapidly rising into public notice.'" "what cheer, my lumber king!" laughed chance as corbett laid down the paper. "these journalists are wonderful fellows, but i suspect most of that paragraph was inspired and paid for by the 'mammoth hustler.' by the way, if it is true that he means to personally conduct a party to williams creek, it does really look as if he had some belief in the claims." "yes, if he means to; but i expect that is simply to draw people to his raffle this afternoon." "probably; but if he were to go up to williams creek we might as well go up with him. you see, he has travelled along the trail before." "well, i'll see about that, and make any arrangements i can for getting up to cariboo, if you will try to get our accounts settled up, steve. i'm no good at figures, as you know." "that's what!" replied chance laconically; and the two young men got upon their legs and prepared to start on their day's business. it will be as well here to enter upon a short explanation of the law as it then stood in british columbia with regard to the bonding of claims. experience had shown that in the upper country, early winters and late springs, with their natural accompaniment of deep snows, made mining impossible for about half the year. in consequence of this a law had been passed enabling miners to "bond" claims taken up late in the fall until the next spring. upon claims so bonded it was not necessary to do any work until the st of june of the ensuing year, so that from november to june the claims lay safe under the wing of the law; but should their owners neglect to put in an appearance or fail to commence work upon the st of june, they forfeited all right to the claims, which could then be "jumped" or seized upon by the first comer. it was under this law that corbett and chance had bought, so that it was imperatively necessary that they should reach their claims by the st of june; and although there was still ample time in which to make the journey, there was no time to waste. the cariboo migration had already begun, and every day saw fresh bands of hard-fists leave victoria for the mines. already the gamblers had gone, the whisky trains and other pack trains had started, and the drain upon the stock of full-grown manhood in victoria was easily noticeable. it was no vain boast which the miners made that the men of cariboo were the pick of the men of their day. physically, at any rate, it would have been hard indeed to find a body of men tougher in fibre and more recklessly indifferent to hardships than the pioneers who pushed their way through the frazer valley to the gold-fields beyond. in that crowd there was no room for the stripling or the old man. the race for gold upon the frazer was one in which only strong men of full age could live even for the first lap. and this was the crowd which corbett and chance sought to join. to some men the mere idea of a railway journey, entered upon without due consideration and ample forethought, is fraught with terrors. luckily neither corbett nor chance were men of this sort. chance was a yankee to the tips of his fingers, and had therefore no idea of distance or fear of travel. the world was _nearly_ big enough for him, and he cared just as little about "crossing the herring-pond" as he did about embarking on a ride in a 'bus. as for corbett, nature had made him a nomad--one of those strangely restless beings, who, having a lovely home, and knowing it to be lovely, still long for constant change, and circle the world with tireless feet, only to bring home the report that "after all england is the only place fit for a fellow to live in." the odd part of it all is, that that being their conviction, most of these wanderers contrive to live out of england for three parts of their lives. it was no wonder, then, that when corbett and chance met again at dusk everything had been, as chance said, "fixed right away." "it's a true bill about cruickshank, old man," corbett said. "and if you can get the bills paid and our kit packed he wants us to start with him on the _umatilla_ for westminster the day after to-morrow." "i don't know about getting the bills paid," replied chance. "a good many fellows who owe us money appear to have gone before to cariboo, but i reckon we must look upon that as the opening of an account to our credit in the new country." "not much of an account to draw upon; but i suppose it can't be helped. i believe, though, that to do the thing properly we ought both to get stone-broke before starting," remarked corbett. "that will come later. hullo, cruickshank! what is in the wind now?" cried steve, turning to the new-comer. "gold, gold, nothing but gold, chance. but i say, gentlemen, are those your packs?" asked the colonel, pointing to two small mountains of luggage which nearly filled the interior of the tent. "yes. that is chance's pack, and this is mine. there will be a sort of joint-stock pack made up to-morrow of the kitchen stuff and the tent. and i think that will be all." "and you think that will be all, mr. corbett?" repeated cruickshank. "you are a strong man; can you lift that pack?" and he pointed to the biggest of the two. "oh yes, easily; carry it a mile if necessary," replied corbett, swinging the great bundle up on to his shoulders. "you _are_ a stout fellow," admitted cruickshank admiringly; "but hasn't it occurred to you that you may have to carry all you want for a good many miles? and even if you can do that, who is to carry the joint-stock pack? not phon, surely?" "well, but won't there be any pack ponies?" asked corbett. "for hire on the road, do you mean? certainly not." "all right, then," replied corbett, after a minute or two spent in solemnly and somewhat sadly contemplating all the neatly-packed camp equipage. "i can do with two blankets and a tin pannikin if it comes to that. can't you, steve?" "a tin pannikin and blanket goes," answered chance. "to blazes with all english outfits anyway!" "well, i don't know about that," put in cruickshank, who seemed hardly as well pleased at his comrade's readiness to forswear comfort as might have been expected. "i thought that you fellows might like to take a few comforts along with you, so i had mentally arranged a way in which we might combine pleasure with profit." "pleasure with profit by all means, my boy. unfold your scheme, colonel; we are with you," cried chance. "well, stores are terribly high up in cariboo. whisky is about the only thing these packers think of packing up to the mines, and if you fellows had the coin i could easily buy a little train of cayuses down at westminster pretty cheap, and load them up with stuff which would pay you cent per cent, and between us the management of a little train like that would be a mere nothing." "how about packing? you cain't throw a diamond hitch by instinct," remarked chance, who knew a little from hearsay of the life of the road. "oh, i can throw the hitch, and so i guess can your heathen, and we'll deuced soon teach both of you to take the on-side if you are wanted to." "how much would such a train cost?" "the ponies ought not to cost more than fifty dollars apiece; as to the stores, of course it depends upon what you choose to take. the ponies will carry about two hundred pounds apiece, if they are good ones." "what do you say to it, steve?" asked ned. "seems a good business," replied chance, "and we may as well put our last dollars into a pack-train as leave them in the bank or chuck them into the frazer. a pack-train goes." and so it was settled that the two friends should invest the balance of their funds in a pack-train and stores for cariboo. the venture looked a promising one, with no possibility of failure or loss, and even if things went wrong the boys would only be stone-broke; and who cares whether he is stone-broke or not at twenty-three, in a new country with no one dependent upon him? it was only eighteen months before that edward corbett had left home, a home in which it was part of the duty of about five different human beings to see that master edward wanted for nothing. at about the same time one of the finest houses in new york would have been disturbed to its very foundations if it were suspected that mr. steve chance wanted for any of the luxuries of the nineteenth century, and yet here were steve chance and ned corbett, their last dollar invested in a doubtful venture, their razors abandoned, their toilet necessaries reduced to one cake of soap and a towel between two (cruickshank condemned the habit of washing altogether upon the road), and their whole stock of household goods reduced to two light packs, to be carried mile after mile upon their own strong shoulders. there was daily labour ahead of them such as a criminal would hardly have earned for punishment at home, there was a certainty before them of bad food, restless nights, thirst, hunger, and utter discomfort, and yet this life was of their own choosing, and a smile hovered round the lips of each of them as the pipes dropped out of their mouths and they turned over to sleep. as for "gold," the prize which both of them appeared to be making all these sacrifices for, neither of the boys, oddly enough, had thought of it that night. with phon it was different, but then he was a celestial. he played for the stakes. both the whites played, though in different ways, for the fun of the game. chapter iii. a little game of poker. "well, ned, how do our fellow-passengers strike you? this is a pretty hard crowd, isn't it?" asked chance, as his eyes wandered over the mob of men of every nationality, who were jostling one another on board the steamer _umatilla_, ten minutes after she had left victoria for new westminster. "yes, they look pretty tough, most of them," assented corbett; "but a three-weeks' beard, a patch in the seat of your pants, and a coat of sun-tan, will bring you down to the same level, steve. civilized man reverts naturally to barbarism as soon as he escapes from the tailor and the hair-dresser." "that's what, sonny! and i believe the only difference between a white man and a siwash, is that one has had more sun and less soap than the other." "oh, hang it, no! i draw the line there," cried corbett. "but look, there go the gamblers already;" and ned pointed to a little group which had gathered together aft, the leading spirit amongst them appearing to be a dark, overdressed person, who was inviting everybody at the top of his voice to "chip in and take a drink." "they don't mean to lose much time, do they?" remarked chance. "and, by the way, do you see that the 'mammoth hustler,' our own colonel, is among them?" "and seems to know every rascal in the gang," muttered corbett. "come and look on, ned, and don't growl. you don't expect a real-estate agent to be a saint, do you?" remonstrated chance. "not i. i don't care a cent for cards. you go if you like. i'll just loaf and look at the scenery." "as you please. i don't take much stock in scenery unless i have painted it myself, and even that sours on me sometimes;" and with this frank and quaintly expressed confession, steve chance turned and pushed his way through the crowd to a place behind cruickshank, who welcomed him effusively, and introduced him to his friends. ned saw the artist gulp down what looked like a doctor's prescription, and light up a huge black cigar, and then turning his back upon the noisy expectorating crowd, he leant upon the bulwarks and forgot all about it. before his eyes stretched a vast field of blue water; blue water without a ripple upon it, save such as the steamer made, or the diving "cultus" duck, which the boat almost ran down, before the bird woke and saw its danger. here and there on this blue field were groups of islands, wooded to the water's edge, and inhabited only by the breeding ducks and a few deer. as yet no one owned these islands, and, except for an occasional fishing indian, no one had ever set foot on most of them. everything spoke of rest and dreamful ease. what birds there were, were silent and asleep, rocked only in their slumbers by the swell from the passing boat, or else following in her wake on gliding wings which scarcely seemed to stir. there was no wind to fret the sea, or stir an idle sail. nature was asleep in the spring sunlight, her calm contrasting strangely with the noise, and passion, and unrest on board the tiny boat which was puffing and churning its way through the still waters of the straits. as for ned, his ears were as deaf to the oaths and noise behind him as his eyes were blind to the calm beauty beneath them. his eyes were wide open, but his mind was not looking through them. as a matter of fact ned corbett, the real ned corbett, was just then day-dreaming somewhere on the banks of the severn. "can you spare me a light, sir?" this was the first sound that broke in upon his dreams, and ned felt instinctively in his waistcoat pocket, and handed the intruder the matches which he found there. "thank you. i was fairly clemmed for a smoke." "_clemmed_" for a smoke! it was odd, but the dialect was the dialect of ned's dream still, and as he looked at the speaker, a broad burly fellow, who evidently had made up his mind to have a chat, a pouch of tobacco was thrust out to him with the words: "won't you take a fill yourself. it's pretty good baccy, and it ought to be. i had it sent to me all the way from the wyle cop." "the wyle cop!" ejaculated ned. "i thought there was only one wyle cop. where do you come from, then?" the stranger's face broadened into an honest grin. "what part do i come from? surely you ought to guess. dunno yo' know a shropshire mon, when yo' sees un?" he added, dropping into his native dialect, and holding out to corbett a hand too broad to get a good grip of, and as hard as gun-metal. ned took the proffered hand eagerly. the sound of the home dialect stirred every chord in his heart. "how did you know i was shropshire?" he asked, laughing. "how did i know? well, i heard your friend call you corbett, and that and your yellow head and blue eyes were enough for me. but say," he continued, resuming the yankee twang which he had acquired in many a western mining camp, "if that young man over there is any account to you, you'd better go and see after him. they'll skin him clean in another half hour unless he owns the bank of england." corbett's eyes involuntarily followed those of his newly-found friend, and he started as they rested upon steve chance, who now sat nervously chewing at the end of an unlit cigar in the middle of the poker players. "your friend ain't a bad player, but he ain't old enough for that crowd," remarked roberts; and so saying he pushed a way for himself and his brother salopian through the crowd to the back of chance's chair. except for the addition of chance, and another youngish man who appeared to be at least half-drunk, the party of poker players was the same which sat down to play when the _umatilla_ left the victoria wharf. cruickshank faced chance, and the same noisy dark fellow, who had been anxious to assuage everyone's thirst in the morning, appeared to be still ready to stand drinks and cigars. but the little crowd was quieter than it had been in the morning. the players had settled down to business. "how deuced like cruickshank that fellow is!" whispered corbett to roberts. "which?" answered his friend. "there are two cruickshanks playing--dan and bub." "but is the colonel any relation to the other?" "i do not know which you call the colonel: never heard him called by that name before; but that's bub" (pointing to the ringleader of the party), "and that's dan" (pointing to the colonel). "some say they are brothers, some say they are cousins. anyway, i know _one_ is a scoundrel." "the deuce you do. which of them?" but his inquiries were cut short and his attention diverted by the action of a new-comer, who just then pushed past him with a curt, "'scuse _me_, sir." "let him through," whispered roberts. "i tipped him the wink, and if you let him alone he'll fix them." ned was mystified, but did as he was bid. indeed it was too late to attempt to do otherwise, for the last-joined in that little crowd, a withered gray man, whose features looked as if they had been hardened by a hundred years of rough usage, had quietly forced his way to the front until he had reached a seat at steve chance's elbow. it was noticeable that though the crowd was by no means tolerant of others who tried to usurp a front place amongst them, it gave way by common consent to the new-comer, who was moreover specially honoured with a nod and a smile from each of the cruickshanks. steve only seemed inclined to resent the old man's familiarity, and for any effect it had he might as well have hidden his resentment. "pretty new to this coast, ain't you, sir?" remarked mr. rampike, after he had watched the game in silence for some minutes. "yes, i've only been out from the east a year," replied steve shortly, as he examined his hand. "bin losing quite a bit, haven't you?" persisted his tormentor. steve growled out that he _had_ lost "some," and turned his back on old rampike with an emphatic rudeness which would have silenced most men. "'scuse me, sir, one moment," remarked rampike utterly unabashed, and half rising to inspect steve's hand over his shoulder. a glance seemed to satisfy him. "who cut those cards?" he sung out. "dan cruickshank," answered a voice from the crowd. "who dole those cards?" he persisted. "bub cruickshank," replied the voice. "then, young man, you pass;" and without stirring a muscle of his face he coolly took from the astounded steve four queens, and threw them upon the table. for a moment steve sat open-mouthed, utterly astounded by his adviser's impudence, and when he tried to rise and give vent to his feelings, corbett's heavy hand was on his shoulder and kept him down. meanwhile an angry growl rose from the gamblers, but it was drowned at once in the laugh of the crowd, as without a sign of feeling of any kind, or a single comment, old rampike slowly pulled from a pocket under his coat-tails an old, strangely-fashioned six-shooter, which he began to overhaul in the casual distrait manner of one who takes a mild interest in some weapon of a remote antiquity. one by one, as the old hard-fist played with his ugly toy, those who objected to his intervention found that they had business elsewhere, so that when at last he let down the hammer, and replaced his "gun" under his coat-tails, steve and the two shropshiremen alone remained near him. glancing round for a moment, the old man came as near smiling as a man could with features such as his, and then recovering himself he turned to steve and remarked: "this ain't no concern of mine, mister, but my pardner there, roberts, i guess he takes some stock in you and he called me, so you'll 'scuse my interfering, but ef you should happen to play agen with california bilks, you mout sometimes go your pile on a poor hand, but pass four aces, quicker nor lightning, if bub cruickshank deals 'em," with which piece of advice the old man retired again into his shell, becoming, as far as one could judge, an absolutely silent machine for the chewing of tobacco. chance, now that he had had time to pull himself together, would gladly have had a talk with his ally; but old rampike would have none of him, and corbett, in obedience to a sign from roberts, put his arm through his friend's and carried him off to another part of the ship. "let the old man alone," remarked roberts, "talking isn't in his line. that is my share of the business. i sing and he fiddles." "all right, as you please; but i say, mr. roberts," said chance, "what in thunder did your partner mean by making me throw down four queens?" "mean! why, that bub cruickshank had four kings or better. you don't suppose that those chaps are here for their health, do you?" "here for their health?" "well, you don't suppose that they have come all the way to british columbia to play poker on the square?" "then who are the cruickshanks?" demanded chance. "that is more than i know. bub cruickshank is just about as low-down a gambler as there is on the coast; not a chap who pays up and stands drinks when he is bust, like the count and that lot." "and is the colonel his brother?" "some say he is, some say he isn't. but i never knew him regularly on the gambling racket before, though he won a pile of money up at williams creek last fall. "then you have been in cariboo," corbett remarked. "in cariboo? rather! i was there when williams creek was found, and for all that had to sing my way out with a splinter in my hand, and not a nickel in my pocket." "how do you mean 'sing your way out?'" "i mean just what i say. my hand went back on me and swelled, so that i couldn't work, and i just had to sing for my grub as i went along. old rampike had a fiddle and used to play, and i used to make up the songs and sing 'em. perhaps you've heard the 'old pack mule.' it's a great favourite at the mines: "ted staked and lost the usual way, but his loss he took quite cool; he was near the mines, and he'd start next day riding on his old pack mule." "riding, riding, riding on his old pack mule," sang chance. "oh, you know it, do you? seems to me it suits your case pretty well. well, _i_ made that;" and so saying the poet protruded his portly bosom three inches further into space, with the air of one who had done well by his fellow-men and knew it. "are you coming up to cariboo this spring?" asked corbett. "no, we haven't dust enough to pay our way so far, more's the pity." "why not come with us? i'll find the dollars if you'll lend a hand with our pack-train," suggested corbett. "well, i don't know, perhaps i might do worse; and as to that, if you are taking a pack-train along i daresay i could pretty nearly earn my grub packing. but i must talk it over with rampike." "all right, do you fix it your own way," put in chance; "but mind, if you feel at all like coming, there need be no difficulty about the dollars either for you or your partner. i am pretty heavily in your debt anyway." "not a bit of it. those bilks owe us something perhaps, and if they get a chance they won't forget to pay their score. but i guess they'll hardly care to tackle rampike, or me either for the matter of that;" and whistling merrily his favourite tune, "riding, riding, riding on the old pack mule," the cariboo poet went below for refreshment. chapter iv. "the mother of gold." from victoria to the mouth of the frazer river is about seventy miles, and thence to new westminster is at least another sixteen. as the steamers which used to ply between the two young cities in ' were by no means ocean racers, none of the passengers on board the s.s. _umatilla_ were in the least degree disappointed, although the shadows of evening were beginning to fall before they passed the sandheads, and ran into the yellow waters of the frazer. very few of those on board had eyes for scenery. a rich-looking bar or a wavy riband of quartz high up on a mountain-side would have attracted more attention from that crowd than all the beauties of the yosemite, and even had they been as keen about scenery as cook's tourists, there was but little food for their raptures in the delta they were entering. the end of a river, like the end of a life, is apt to be ugly and dull, and the frazer exhibits no exception to this rule. child as she is of the winter's snows and the summer's sun, she loses all the purity of the one and the gleam of the other long before she attains her middle course, and at her mouth this "mother of gold" is but a tired, dull, old river, sordid and rich with golden sands, glad, so it seems, to slip by her monotonous mud-banks and lose herself and her yellow dross in the purifying waters of the salt sea. as corbett gazed upon the wide expanse of dun-coloured flood, he saw no sign even of that savage strength of which he had heard so much, except one. far out, and looking small in the great waste of waters, was a stranded tree--a great pine, uprooted and now stranded on a sunken bank, its roots upturned, its boughs twisted off, and its very bark torn from its side by the fury of the riffles and whirlpools of the upper canyons. to corbett there was something infinitely sad in this lonely wreck, though it was but the wreck of a forest tree. had he known the great sullen river better he would have known that she brought down many sadder wrecks in those early days--human wrecks, whose wounds were not all of her making, though the river got the evil credit of them. as it was, the first sight of the frazer depressed him, and his depression was not dispelled by the sight of new westminster. the idea of a new city hewed by man out of the virgin forest is noble enough, and whilst the sun is shining and the axes are ringing, the life and energy of the workers makes some compensation for the ugliness of their work. but it is otherwise when the sun is low and labour has ceased. then "stump-town" seems a more appropriate title than new westminster, and a new-comer may be forgiven for shuddering at the ugliness of the new frame-houses, at the charred stumps still left standing in the main streets, at the little desolate forest swamps still left undrained within a stone's-throw of the grand hotel, and at all the baldness and beggarliness of the new town's surroundings. to ned corbett it looked as if nature had been murdered, and civilization had not had time to throw a decent pall over her victim's body. certainly in new westminster might be, as its citizens alleged, an infant prodigy, but it was not a picturesque city. however, as the s.s. _umatilla_ ran alongside her wharf, a voice roused corbett from his musings, and turning he found cruickshank beside him. "what do you think about camping to-night, corbett?" asked the colonel. "it will be rather dark for pitching our tent, won't it?" now, since the poker-playing incident corbett had not spoken to cruickshank. indeed he had not seen him, and he had hardly made up his mind how to treat him when they met. that cruickshank had a good many objectionable acquaintances was clear, but on the other hand there was nothing definite which could be alleged against him. moreover, for the next month ned and the estate-agent were bound to be a good deal together, and taking this into consideration, ned decided on the spur of the moment to let all that had gone before pass without comment. cruickshank had evidently calculated upon corbett taking this course, for though there had been a shade of indecision in his manner when he came up, he spoke quietly, and as one who had no explanations to make or apologies to offer. "yes, it is too dark to make a comfortable camp to-night," assented corbett. "what does chance want to do?" "oh, i vote for an hotel," cried steve, coming up at the moment. "let us be happy whilst we may, we'll be down to bed-rock soon enough." "all right, 'the hotel goes,' as you would say, steve;" and together the young men followed the crowd which streamed across the gangway to the wharf. there the arrival of the s.s. _umatilla_ was evidently looked upon as the event of the day, and a great crowd of idlers stood waiting for the disembarkation of her passengers; and yet one man only seemed to be there on business, the rest were merely loafing, and would as soon have thought of lending a hand to carry a big portmanteau to the hotel as they would have thought of touching their hats. this one worker in the crowd was an old man in his shirt sleeves, who caught ned by the arm, as he had caught each of his predecessors, as soon as his foot touched the wharf, and in a tone of fatherly command bade him "go up to the mansion house. best hotel in the city. it's the miners' house," he added. "three square meals a day every time, and don't you forget it." ned laughed. the last recommendation was certainly worthy of consideration, and as no one else seemed anxious for his patronage he turned to cruickshank with, "is it to be the mansion house?" "oh yes," replied the latter, "all the hard-fists stay with mike." "how long do you mean to stay here anyway?" asked chance. "four or five days,--perhaps a week," replied cruickshank. "there is a boat for douglas to-night, but we could not buy the horses and the stores so as to be ready in less than a couple of days." "that is so. we shall have to stay a week then?" asked steve. "unless you like to intrust me with the purchase of your train. i could hire a man to help me and come on by the next boat if you want particularly to catch this one--" the eyes of corbett and chance met, and unluckily cruickshank saw the glance, and interpreted it as correctly as if the words had been spoken. corbett noticed the flush on the man's face and the ugly glitter in his eye, and hastened to soothe him. "oh no, colonel, it is deuced good of you," he said; "but we would rather wait and all go together. we are looking to you to show us a good deal besides the mere road in the next six weeks. but what are we to do with our packs now?" "we can't leave them here, can we?" asked chance, pointing to where their goods lay in a heap on the wharf. "i don't see why not," growled cruickshank; and then added significantly, "murder or manslaughter are no great crimes in the eyes of some folk around here, but miners are a bit above petty larceny;" and so saying he turned on his heel and left chance and corbett to shift for themselves. "better take care what you say to that fellow," remarked corbett, looking after the retreating figure; "although i like him better in that mood than in his oily one." "oh, i think he is all right; at any rate you won't want my help to crush him, ned, if he means to cut up rough." "not if he fights fair, steve; but i don't trust the brute--i never did." "just because he plays cards and calls himself a colonel? why, everyone is a colonel out here. but to blazes with cruickshank anyway. come and get some grub." and so saying steve chance entered the principal hotel of new westminster, down the plank walls of which the tears of oozing resin still ran, while the smell of the pine-forest pervaded the whole house. the "newness" of these young cities of the west is perhaps beyond the imagination of dwellers in the old settled countries of europe. it is hard for men from the east to realize that the hotel, which welcomes them to all the comforts and luxuries of the nineteenth century, was standing timber a month before, that the walls covered with paper in some pretty french design, and hung with mirrors and gilt-framed engravings, were the homes of the jay and the squirrel, and that the former tenants have hardly had time yet to settle in a new abode. and yet so it is: we do our scene-shifting pretty rapidly out west, and though there may not be time to perfect anything, the general effect is wonderful in the extreme. the westminster hotel was a gem of its class, and even ned and steve, who had become fairly used to western ways, were a little aghast at the contrast between the magnificence of some of the new furniture and the simplicity of the sleeping accommodation, as illustrated by the rows of miners' blankets neatly laid out along the floor. luckily cruickshank had cautioned them to take their bedding with them, or they might have been obliged to pass a cheerless night in one of the highly-gilded arm-chairs, which looked as comfortless as they were gaudy. the old tout upon the wharf, who owned what he advertised, had not misrepresented his house. as he had said, the meals were square enough even for the hungry miners who swarmed around his board, and though it was dull to lie upon their oars and wait, steve and ned might have found worst places to wait in than the mansion house. for at westminster a delay arose, as delays will the moment a man begins packing or touches cayuses out west. of course there were a few horses to be bought, but equally, of course, everyone in the city and its suburbs seemed to know by instinct that corbett & co. were cornered, and must buy, however bad the beasts and however high the prices. an old indian, one captain jim, who with the assistance of all his female relatives used to pack liquor and other necessaries to the mines, had part of an old train to sell, horses, saddles, and all complete, and for the first three days of their stay at westminster corbett & co. expected every minute to become owners of this outfit. but the business dragged on, until the noble savage upon whom they had looked as the type of genial simplicity had become an abomination in their eyes, and they had decided to leave the management of him to cruickshank, resolving that if the train was not bought and ready to be shipped on the next boat to douglas that they would go without a pack-train altogether. in the meanwhile they had to get through the time as best they could, assisted by the cariboo poet, who had stayed on like themselves at westminster. to chance this was no hardship; what with a little sketching, a little poker, and a great deal of smoking, he managed to get through the days with a good deal of satisfaction to himself. as to ned, the delay and inaction disgusted him and spoilt his temper, which may account in some measure for an unfortunate incident which occurred on the second day of his stay at the mansion house. as the day was hot and he had nothing to do, the big fellow had laid out his blankets in a shady corner and prepared to lie down and sleep the weary hours away. before doing so he turned for a minute or two to watch a game of piquet, in which roberts appeared to be invariably "piqued, repiqued, pooped, and capoted," as his adversary, a red-headed irishman, announced at the top of his voice. tired of the game, ned turned and sought his couch, upon which two strangers had taken a seat. going up to them, ned asked them to move, and as they did not appear to hear him he repeated his request in a louder tone. perhaps the heat and the flies had made him irritable, and a tone of angry impatience had got into his voice which nettled the men, one of whom, turning towards him, but not attempting to make room, coolly told him "to go to blazes." as the man turned, ned recognized him as bub cruickshank, the brother or cousin of the colonel; but it needed neither the recognition nor the laugh that ran round the room to put ned's hackles up. without stopping to think, he picked up the fellow by the scruff of his neck and the slack of his breeches and deposited him with the least possible tenderness upon an untenanted piece of the floor. before he had time to straighten himself, the dislodged bub aimed a furious kick at ned, and in another minute our hero was in the thick of as merry a mill as any honest young englishman could desire. time after time ned floored his man, for though bub knew very little of the use of his hands he was a determined brute, and kept rushing in and trying to get a grip of his man at close quarters, and, moreover, it was a case of one down the other come on, for as soon as ned had floored one fellow and put him _hors de combat_ for a short time, his companion took up the battle. "take care, corbett,--take care of his teeth!" shouted roberts all at once; and ned felt a horrible faint feeling come over him, robbing him for the moment of all his strength, as bub fastened on his thumb. for a moment the shropshireman almost gave up the battle. those only who have suffered from this dastardly trick of the lowest of yankee roughs, can have any idea of the effect it has upon a man's strength. but corbett was almost as mad with rage at what he considered unsportsman-like treatment as he was with pain, so that he managed to wrench himself free and send his man to earth again with another straight left-hander. meanwhile the red-haired irishman, who had been playing piquet with roberts, had lost all interest in his game since the fight began, and was fairly writhing in his seat with suppressed emotion. at last flesh and blood (or at least _irish_ flesh and blood) could endure it no longer, so that, jumping up from his seat, he took ned just by the shoulders and lifted him clean out of the way as if he had been a baby, remarking as he did so-- "you stay there, sonny, and let me knock 'em down awhile." but the poor simple celt was doomed to disappointment. the truth was that ned had been greedy, and taken more than his share of this innocent game of skittles, so that, as mr. o'halloran remarked sorrowfully at supper, he did but get in "one from the shoulther, and thin them two murtherin' haythens lit right out." when the scrimmage was over roberts took ned on one side, and after looking at the bitten thumb and bandaging it up for his friend, he gave ned a little advice. "fighting is all very well, mr. corbett, where people fight according to rules, but you had better drop it here. if you don't, some fellow will get level on you with the leg of a table or a little cold lead. if you must fight, you had better learn to shoot like old rampike." "where is old rampike now?" asked ned, anxious to turn the conversation, and feeling a little ashamed of his escapade. "rampike went right on by the boat that met the _umatilla_. he got a job up at williams creek, and will be there ahead of us." "then you mean to come up too, roberts, that's right," said corbett genially. "yes, i am coming up with your crowd. i met the count in town last night and borrowed the chips from him. i am thinking that if you make a practice of quarrelling with cruickshank and all his friends you will need someone along to look after you." "but who is the count, and why could you not have borrowed the money from us?" asked corbett in a tone of considerable pique. "the count! oh, the count is an old friend, and lends to most anyone who is broke. it's his business in a way. you see, he is the biggest gambler in the upper country. skins a chap one day and lends him a handful of gold pieces the next. he'll get it back with interest from one of us even if i don't pay him, so that's all right;" and honest roberts dismissed all thought of the loan from his mind, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a professional gambler to lend an impecunious victim a hundred dollars on no security whatever. luckily for ned his fellow countryman took him in hand after this, and what with singing and working managed to keep him out of mischief. for roberts found corbett work in westminster which just suited his young muscles, though it was as quaint in its way as roberts' own financial arrangements in their way. it seemed that in the young city there was no church and no funds to build one, but there was a sturdy, energetic parson, and a mob of noisy, careless miners, who rather liked the parson; not, perhaps, _because_ he was a parson, but because he had in some way or other proved to them that he was a "man." had they been on the way down with their pockets full of "dust" the boys would soon have built him anything he wanted, whether it had been a church or a gin-shop. i am afraid it would have mattered little. as it was they were unluckily on their way up, and their pockets were empty. but as the will was there the parson found the way, and all through that week of waiting ned and a gang of other strong hardy fellows like himself made their axes glitter and ring on the great pines, clearing a site, and preparing the lumber for the first house of god erected in new westminster. who shall say that their contribution had not as much intrinsic value as the thousand-dollar cheque which croesus sends for a similar object. a good deal more labour goes to the felling of a pine ten feet through than to the signing of a cheque, anyway. chapter v. "is the colonel 'straight?'" at the very last moment, when all corbett's party, except cruickshank, had yielded to despair, the indian jim gave in, and sold his animals as they stood for sixty dollars a head. this included the purchase of pack-saddles, cinches, and other items essential to a packer's outfit. the steamer for douglas started at p.m., and it was long after breakfast on the same day that the eyes of corbett and chance, who were smoking outside their inn, were gladdened by the sight of phon and cruickshank driving ten meek-looking brutes up to the front of the mansion house. having tied each pony short by the head to the garden rail, cruickshank began to organize his forces. there were the ponies, it was true, but their packs and many other things had still to be bought. there was much to be done and very little time to do it in. then it was that cruickshank showed himself to the greatest advantage. for days he had appeared to dawdle over his bargaining with jim, until ned almost thought that indian and white together were in league against him; now he felt miserable at the mere memory of his former suspicions. cruickshank knew that no man can hurry an indian, and therefore abstained from irritating jim by attempting the impossible. the result of this was that at the end of the time at his disposal cruickshank had by his indifference convinced jim that he cared very little whether he got the horses or not, so that now the indian was in a hurry to sell before the steamer should carry cruickshank and his dollars away to douglas. so cruickshank bought the ponies, bought them cheap, and, moreover, just in time to catch the boat. this was all he had struggled for. but now that he had white men to deal with his tactics changed. these men knew the value of time and could hurry, therefore cruickshank hurried them. to every man he gave some independent work to do. no one was left to watch another working. whilst one dashed off to buy stores another took the horses to the forge to be shod, and old phon was left to repair the horse furniture and overhaul the outfit generally. cruickshank himself went off to buy gunny sacks, boxes, ropes, and such-like, rendered necessary by the absence of _aparejos_, needing the knowledge of an expert in their selection. it was already late in the afternoon, and ned, hot and dusty, and as happy as a schoolboy, was helping the smith to shoe the last of the ponies, when roberts, who had done his own work, walked into the forge. for a minute or two roberts stood unnoticed, observing his fellow-countryman with eyes full of a sort of hero-worship, commoner at a public school than in the world. but ned was one of those fellows who win men's hearts without trying to do so; a young fellow who said what he thought without waiting to pick his words, who did what he liked, and luckily liked what was good, and honest, and manly, and who withal looked the man he was, upstanding, frank, and absolutely fearless. ned had been in the forge for perhaps half a day or more, and had already so won the heart of the smith that that good man with his eyes on the boy's great forearm had been hinting that there was "just as much money in a good smithy as there was in most of them up-country claims." but ned was bent on gold-mining and seeing life with the hard-fists, so though he loved to swing the great smith's hammer he was not to be tempted from his purpose, though he was quite ready to believe that a smith in new westminster could earn more by his hands than many a professional man by his brains in westminster on the thames. "hullo, rob! have you got through with your work?" cried ned, catching sight of his friend at last. "yes. i've done all i've got to do; can i lend you a hand?" "why, no, thanks; my friend here is putting on the last shoe. but what is the matter? you look as if you had got 'turned round' in the bush, and were trying to think your way out;" and ned laid his hand laughingly on his friend's shoulder. roberts laughed too, but led the younger man outside, and once there blurted out his trouble. "look here, corbett, ever since that gambling row i've had my eye on cruickshank, and i thought that i knew him for a rascal, but blow me if he hasn't got beyond me this time." "how so, rob?" "well, i'm half-inclined to think he's honest after all. he is a real rustler when he chooses anyway," added the poet admiringly. "oh, i expect he is as honest as most of his kind. why shouldn't he be? all men haven't the same ideas of honesty out here; and if he isn't honest it doesn't matter much to us, does it?" asked ned carelessly. "doesn't it? ain't you trusting him with a good many thousand dollars?" asked roberts with some asperity. "no, i don't think so. you see, rob, if he is, as you thought, a card-sharper and a bogus estate-agent, my money is lost already; he can't clear out with the claims or the packs even if he wants to. but why do you think he is a rogue?" "i tell you i'm beginning to think that he isn't." "bully for you, that's better!" cried ned approvingly; "but what has worked this change in your opinions, rob?" "well, last night that scoundrelly siwash, captain jim, tried to work a swindle with those pack-ponies, and cruickshank wouldn't have it. jim was to sell you a lot of unsound beasts at eighty dollars a head. you would never have noticed that they had healed sores on their backs, and if cruickshank had held his tongue he was to have had twenty dollars a pony, and the way he 'talked honest' to that indian was astonishing, you bet." "how did you find all this out?" asked ned. roberts looked a little uncomfortable and flushed to the roots of his hair, but at length made the best of it, and admitted that he had followed the two men and overheard their conversation. "you see, ned," he added, "it's not very english, i know, but you must fight these fellows with their own weapons." for a while ned said nothing, though he frowned more than roberts had ever seen him frown before, and his fingers tugged angrily at his slight moustache. "roberts," he said at last, "i agree with you, this sort of thing isn't very english, i'm hanged if it is; but i've been pretty nearly as suspicious as you have, so i can't afford to talk. once for all, do you know anything against the colonel?" "no," hesitated roberts, "i don't know anything against dan, but bub--." "oh, to blazes with bub!" broke in corbett angrily. "a man cannot be responsible for every one of his cousins and kinsmen. from to-day i mean to believe in cruickshank as an honest man, until i prove him to be a knave. you had better do the same, rob; spying after a fellow as we have been doing is enough to make an honest man sick;" and ned corbett made a wry face as if the mere thought of it left a bad taste in his mouth. "all right, that's a-go then. he was honest about these cayuses anyway, and if he does go back on us we'll fire him higher than a sky-rocket;" and so saying roberts lent ned a hand to collect the said cayuses. these at the first glance would have struck an english judge of horseflesh as being ten of the very sorriest screws that ever stood upon four legs; but at least they showed to roberts' practised eye no signs of old sore backs, none of those half-obliterated scars which warn the _cognoscenti_ of evils which have been and are likely to recur. taken in a body, they were a little too big for polo ponies, and a little too ragged, starved, and ill-shaped for a respectable costermonger's cart. there was one amongst them, a big buckskin standing nearly . hands, which looked fairly plump and able-bodied, but atoned for these merits by an ugly trick of laying back her ears and showing the whites of her eyes whenever she got a chance. the most typical beast of his class was one job, a parti-coloured brute (or pinto as they call them in british columbia), with one eye brown and the other blue, and a nose of the brightest pink, as if he suffered from a chronic cold and a rough pocket-handkerchief. job's bones stared at you through his skin, his underlip protruded and hung down, giving him an air of the most abject misery, and even a yorkshire horse-dealer could not have found a good point to descant upon from his small weak quarters to his ill-shaped shoulder. but though job's head was fiddle-shaped there was a good deal in it, as those were likely to discover who had given sixty dollars for him, and expected to get sixty dollars' worth of work out of him. he had not been packing since the days when he trotted as a foal beside a "greasers'" train for nothing. at present he was the meekest, most ill-used-looking brute on the pacific coast, and corbett was just remarking to roberts "that that poor devil of a pony would never be able to carry a hundred and fifty pounds let alone two hundred over a bad road," when the buckskin let out, and caught the bay alongside of him such a kick on the stifle as made that poor beast go a little lame for days. no one noticed that the bite which set the buckskin kicking was given by old job, who moved his weary old head sadly, just in time, however, to let the kick go by and land on the unoffending body of his neighbour. an hour later all the horses were up again at the hotel, and the bill having been settled phon and roberts drove the train down to the wharf, where the steamer for douglas, a small stern-wheeler, was waiting for her passengers and her cargo. with the exception of job, all the cayuses were put on board at once and secured, but seeing that there was still a good deal of luggage in small parcels up at the hotel, chance kept "that quiet old beast job, just to carry down the odds and ends;" and job, with a sigh which spoke volumes to those who could understand, plodded away to do the extra work set aside as of right for the meek and long-suffering. it is an aggravating employment under any circumstances, the employment of packing. many men, otherwise good men, swear naturally (and freely) as soon as they engage in it; but then, why i know not, the very presence of a horse makes some men swear. steve knew very little about packing anyway, and had he known more he would not have found it easy to fasten his bundles on to the back of a beast which shifted constantly from one leg to another, and always seemed to be standing uphill or downhill, with one leg at least a foot shorter than the other three. when steve spoke to him (with an angry kick in the stomach), job would lift his long-suffering head with an air of meek dejection, and shifting his leg as required plant a huge hoof solidly upon steve's moccasined foot. if i could paint the look on that great ugly equine head as it turned with leering eye and projecting nether lip, and looked into the anguished face of steve chance, i should be able to teach my reader more of cayuses (the meanest creatures on god's earth) than i can ever hope to do. but even with job to help him, steve got his load down to the boat at last, and put all aboard except a new pack-saddle, which he had taken off the pack-horse and laid down on the ground beside him. with lowered head and half-shut eyes job stood for some minutes patiently waiting, and then, as steve came over the side to drive him on board with his fellows, the old horse heaved a long, long sigh, and before steve could reach him lay down slowly and gently upon that pack-saddle. of course when he got up, the pack-saddle was demolished, and as the last whistle had sounded, there was no time to get another before leaving westminster. a new saddle would have to be bought at douglas, and that would cost money, or made upon the road, and that would mean delay, so job, with a cynical gleam in his wall-eye, trotted meekly and contentedly on board. he had entered his first protest against extra work. five minutes later the steamer _lillooet_ cast loose from her moorings, the gangway was taken in, and the gallant little stern-wheeler went cleaving her way up through the yellow frazer, on her forty-mile run to the mouth of harrison river, steaming past long mud-flats and many a mile of heavy timber. a day and a half was the time allowed for the journey from new westminster to douglas, but corbett and chance could hardly believe that they had taken so long when they came to their moorings again at the head of the harrison lake. to them the hours had seemed to fly by, for their eyes and thoughts were busy, intent at one moment upon the bare mud-banks, watching for game or the tracks of the game, the next straining to catch a glimpse of deer feeding at dawn upon the long gray hills--hills which were a pale dun in the light of early morning, but which became full of rich velvety shadows as the day wore on. overhead floated the fleecy blue and white sky of spring-time; on the hills patches of wild sunflower mingled with the greenish gray of the sage brush, and here and there, even on the arid barren banks of the frazer itself, occurred little "pockets" of verdure--hollows with fresh-water springs in them, where the tender green of the young willows, and the abundant white bloom of the choke cherries and olali bushes, made edens amongst the waste of alkaline mud-banks, edens tenanted and made musical by all the collected bird-life of that barren land. the only difficult bit of water for the little steamer was the seven miles of the harrison river, a rapid, turbulent stream, up which the s.s. _lillooet_ had to fight every inch of the way; but beyond that lay the lake, a broad blue lake, penned in by steep and heavily-timbered mountains, and beyond the one-house town of douglas, at which ned and his fellow-passengers disembarked about noon of the second day out from westminster. from douglas the ordinary route was by river and lake, with a few short portages to _lillooet_ on the frazer; and in there were steamers upon all the lakes (lillooet, anderson, and seton), and canoes (with a certainty of a fair breeze in summer) for such as preferred them. but ned and his friends had decided that as they had a pack-train, and would be compelled to pack part of the way in any case, they might just as well harden their hearts and pack the whole distance, more especially since they had ample time to make their journey in, and not too much money to waste upon steamboat fares. so at douglas cruickshank bought another pack-saddle for about twice what it would have cost at westminster (freight was high in the early days), and suggested that as the one house (half store, half hotel) was full to overflowing, they might as well strike out for themselves, and as it was only mid-day make a few miles upon their road before camping for the night. "you see," argued cruickshank, "it's no violet's camping where so many men have camped before, and a good many of them greasers and indians." corbett and chance were new to the discomforts of the road, and had still to learn the penalty for camping where indians have camped; but for all that they took the colonel's advice and assented to his proposal, though it meant bidding good-bye to their fellow-men a day or two sooner than they need have done. once the start had been decided upon cruickshank lost no time in getting under weigh. the diamond hitch had no mysteries for him, the loops flew out and settled to an inch where he wanted them to, every strand in his ropes did its share of binding and holding fast; his very curses seemed to cow the most stubborn cayuse better than another man's, and when he cinched the unfortunate beasts up you could almost hear their ribs crack. job alone nearly got the better of the colonel, but even he just missed it. cruickshank cinched this wretched scarecrow a little less severely than the rest, but when later on he saw old job with his cinch all slack, a malevolent grin came over his face, and he muttered, "oh, that's your sort, is it, an old-timer? so am i!" and after giving job a kick which would have knocked the wind out of anything, he cinched him up again before he could recover himself, and then led him to drink. as the horse sucked down the water greedily cruickshank muttered to himself, "_bueno_, i guess your load will stick now until you are thirsty again." after this job and the colonel seemed to have a mutual understanding, and as long as he was within hearing of cruickshank's curses there was no better pack-pony on the road than old job. it seems as if men who have been used to packing, and have had a spell of rest from their ordinary occupation, itch to handle the ropes again; at least, it is only in this way that i can explain the readiness displayed by so many of ned's fellow-passengers to lend a hand in fixing his packs for him. in an hour from the time of disembarkation the train was ready to start, and the welcome cry of "all set!" rang out, after which there was a little hand-shaking, a lighting of pipes, and the procession filed away up the river, cruickshank leading the first five ponies, then roberts plodding patiently along on foot, then another five ponies, and then, as long as the narrow train would permit of it, ned and steve trudging along, chatting and keeping the ponies on the move. cruickshank was already some distance ahead, and even steve and ned were almost outside the little settlement, when a big red-headed irishman, whom corbett remembered as his fighting friend at westminster, came running after him. "say," asked mr. o'halloran, rather out of breath from his run. "say, are you and that blagyard partners?" "which?" asked ned in amaze. "my friend chance?" "no, no, not this boy here--that fellow riding ahead of the train." "cruickshank? yes, we are partners in a way," replied ned. "and you know it was his brother you laid out? faith, you laid him out as nate as if it was for a berryin'," he added with a grin. "i've heard men say that the colonel is bub cruickshank's brother," admitted ned; "but the colonel is all right, whatever bub is." "and you and he ain't had no turn-up along of that scrimmage down at westminster?" persisted o'halloran. "not a word. i don't think he knew about it." "oh yes, he did. i saw bub and him talking it over, and you may bet your boots the only reason he didn't bark is that he means to bite--yes, and bite hard too. it's the way with them dark, down-looking blagyards," added the honest irishman, in a tone of the deepest scorn. "ah, well, i don't think cruickshank is likely to try his teeth on me," laughed ned. "if he does i must try that favourite rib-bender of yours upon him," and ned gripped o'halloran's hand and strode gaily after his train. for a moment the red-headed one stood looking after his friend, and then heaving a great sigh remarked: "indade and i'd like a turn wid you mesilf, but if that black-looking blagyard does a happorth of harm to you, it's kornaylius o'halloran as 'll put a head on him." chapter vi. the wet camp. as his pack-train wound away along the trail from douglas, ned corbett gave a great deep sigh as if there was something which he fain would blow away from him. and so there was. as he left the last white man's house between douglas and lillooet, he hoped and believed that he left behind him towns and townsmen, petty delays, swindlings, and suspicions of swindlings. he was going to look for gold, and give a year at least of his young life to be spent in digging for it, and yet this absurd young englishman was actually thanking his stars that now, at last, he was rid of dollars and dollar hunters, business and business men, for at least a month. there was food enough on the beasts in front of him to last his party for a year. he was sound in wind and limb, his rifle was not a bad one, and he had seen lots of game tracks already, and that being so he really cared very little whether he reached his claims in time or not. but of course, as cruickshank said, there was ample time to make the journey in, time indeed and to spare, as every one he had met admitted, so that no doubt steve and he would reach williams creek in time, find the claims as cruickshank had represented them, and make no end of money. that would just suit steve; and after all a lot of money would be a good thing in its way. it would make a certain old uncle at home take back a good many things he had once said about his nephew's "great useless body and ramshackle brains," and besides, he would like a few hundred pounds himself to send home, and a bit in hand to hire a boat to go to alaska in. that had been ned's day-dream ever since he had seen a certain cargo of bear-skins which had come down from that ice-bound _terra incognita_ to victoria. so ned sighed a great sigh of relief and contentment, took off his coat and slung it on his back, opened the collar of his flannel shirt and let the soft air play about his ribs, turned his sleeves up over his elbows, tied a silk handkerchief turban-wise on his yellow head, and having cut himself a good stout stick trudged merrily along, sucking in the glorious mountain air as greedily as if he had spent the last six months of his life waiting for briefs in some grimy fog-haunted chamber of the temple. he would have liked the ponies to have moved along a little faster, because as it was he found it difficult to keep behind them, five miles an hour suiting his legs better than two. but this was his only trouble, and as every now and then he got a breather, racing up some steep incline to head back a straggler to the path of duty, ned managed to be perfectly happy in spite of this little drawback. as for the others, cruickshank, who had seemed restless and nervous as long as he had been with the crowd of miners on the boat and at douglas, had now relapsed into a mere automaton, which strode on silently ahead of the pack-train, emitting from time to time little blue jets of tobacco smoke. steve seemed buried in calculations, based on a miner's report that the dirt at williams creek had paid as much as fifty cents to the shovelful, an historical fact which phon and the young yankee discussed occasionally at some length; and old roberts, having agreed to leave his suspicions behind him, shared his tobacco cheerily with cruickshank, and from time to time startled the listening deer with scraps of his favourite ditties. it was the refrain of the old pack mule, "riding, riding, riding on my old pack mule," which at last roused steve chance's indignation against the songster. "confound the old idiot!" growled the yankee; "i wish he wouldn't remind me of the unattainable. i shouldn't mind riding, but i am getting pretty sick of tramping. isn't it nearly time to camp, ned?" "nearly time to camp? why, we haven't made eight miles yet," replied corbett. "oh, that be hanged for a yarn! we have been going five solid hours by my watch, and five fours are twenty." "that may be, but five twos are ten, and what with stoppages to fix packs, admire the scenery, and give you time to munch a sandwich and tie up your moccasins, i don't believe we have been going two miles an hour. but are you tired, steve?" "you bet i am, ned. if there really is no particular hurry let us camp soon." "all right, we will if you like. hullo, cruickshank!" cruickshank turned. "steve is tired and wants to camp--what do you say?" cruickshank hesitated a moment and then agreed to the proposition, beginning at once to loosen the packs upon the beasts nearest to him. "here, i say, steady there!" cried corbett; "you take me too literally. steve can go another mile if necessary. we'll stop at the next good camping-ground." "i'm afraid you won't get anything better than this," replied the colonel. "why, what is the matter with this? you didn't expect side-walks and hotels on the trail, did you, corbett?" even in his best moods there was a nasty sneering way about cruickshank, which put his companions' backs up. "no, but i did think we might find a flat spot to camp on." "did you? then i'm sorry to disappoint you. you won't find anything except a swamp meadow flatter than this for the next ten miles or so, and the swamps are a little too wet for comfort at this time of year." "do you mean to say, cruickshank, that we can't find a flatter spot than this? why, hang it, man, you couldn't put a tea-cup down here without spilling the contents," remonstrated corbett. "well, if you think you can better this, let us go on; perhaps you know best. what is it to be, camp or 'get?'" "oh, if you are certain about it i suppose we may as well stay here; but, by jove, we shall have to tie ourselves up to trees when we go to sleep to prevent our straying downhill." and ned laughed at the vision he had conjured up. a minute later a bale,--bigger, heavier, and more round of belly than its fellows,--escaped from steve chance's grip and fell heavily to the earth. steve was not a strong man, certainly not a man useful for lifting weights, besides he was a careless fellow, and tired. for a moment steve stood looking at the bale as it turned slowly over and over. twice it turned round and steve still looked at it. the next moment it gathered way, and before steve could catch it was hopping merrily downhill, in bounds which grew in length every time it touched the hillside. steve, assisted by phon, had the pleasure of recovering that bale from the group of young pines amongst which it eventually stuck, and brought it with many sobs and much perspiration to the point from which it originally started. it took steve and phon longer to get over that two hundred feet of hillside than it had taken the bale. that first camp of theirs has left an impression upon ned's mind and steve's which years will not efface. ned was too tough to look upon it as more than a somewhat rough practical joke, likely to pall upon a man if repeated too often, but to chance that camp was a camp of misery and a place of tears. there was water, but it was a long way downhill; there was, as cruickshank said, timber enough to keep a mill going for a twelvemonth, but whatever was worth having for firewood was either uphill or downhill--you had to climb for everything you happened to want; and to wind up with, you absolutely had to dig a sort of shelf out of the hillside upon which to pitch your tent. it was here, too, that steve had his first real experience of camping out. he helped to unpack the horses, but he took so long to retrieve the bale which had gone downhill that some one had to lend him a hand even with the one beast which he unpacked. he volunteered to cook, but when on investigation it was discovered that he would have fried beans without boiling them, a community unduly careful of its digestion scornfully refused his assistance. in despair he seized an axe, and went away as "a hewer of wood and a drawer of water." by and by the voice of his own familiar friend came to him again and again in tones of cruel derision: "where is that tree coming down, steve?" "i don't know and don't care, but it's got to come somewhere," replied the operator angrily, as he hewed blindly at the tough green pine. "but it won't do for firewood anyway, steve, this year, and if you don't take care you will never need firewood again. don't you know how to make a tree fall where you want it to?" and ned took the tool from his hand, and completing what his companion had so badly begun, laid the tree out of harm's way. "well, it seems that i can't do anything to please you," grumbled steve, now thoroughly angry. "when there is anything that you and cruickshank reckon you want my help in you can call me, corbett. i'll go and smoke whilst you run this show to your own satisfaction." "no you won't, old man, and you won't get riled either. just be a good chap and go and cut us some brush for bedding. see, this is the best kind," and ned held out to his friend a branch of hemlock. although an hour later ned noticed that there was every kind of brush _except_ hemlock in the pile which steve had collected, he wisely complimented him on his work, and said nothing about his mistake. a man does not become a woodsman in a week. meanwhile the tent had been pitched; cruickshank was just climbing up the hill again after driving the ponies to a swamp down below, and old phon was handling a frying-pan full of the largest and thickest rashers of bacon on record. little crisp ringlets of fried bacon may serve very well for the breakfast of pampered civilization, but if you did not cut your rashers thick out in the woods you would never stop cutting. lucky would it have been for steve and ned if rough fare and a rocky camp had been the worst troubles in store for them, but unluckily, even as they lit their post-prandial pipes, the storm-clouds began to blow up the valley, ragged and brown, and whilst poor steve was still tossing on a sleepless pillow, vexed by the effects of black tea on his nerves, and crawling beasts upon his sensitive skin, the first great drops of the coming storm splashed heavily on the sides of the tent. of course the tent was new. everything the two young miners had was new, brand-new, and made upon the most recent and improved lines. none of the old, time-tried contrivances of practical men are ever good enough for beginners. so the fourth or fifth drop of rain which hit that tent came through as if it had been a sieve, and when well-meaning steve rubbed his hand over the place "feeling for the leak," the water came in in a stream. when the next morning broke, the wanderers looked out upon that most miserable of all things, a wet camp in the woods. the misery of a wet camp is the one convincing argument in favour of civilization. it was still early in the year, and the season was a late one even for british columbia, amongst whose mountains winter never yields without a struggle. on the dead embers of last night's camp-fire were slowly melting snowflakes, and a chill wet wind crept into ned's bosom, as he looked out upon the morning, and made him shudder. but ned was hard, so that careless of rain and puddles he splashed out past the camp-fire, and after a good many failures kindled a little comparatively dry wood, over which to make the morning tea, and then drew upon himself the scorn of that old campaigner cruickshank by washing. what work they could find to do the men did, but even so the hours went wearily by. cruickshank was opposed to making a start, for fear lest the rain should damage the packs, which now lay all snug beneath their _manteaux_. so they waited until cruickshank was tired of smoking, and roberts of hearing himself sing; until corbett could sleep no more, and steve was hoarse with grumbling. only phon, lost in thought which white men cannot fathom, and the pack animals full of sweet young grass, seemed content. for three whole days the party stopped in the same camp, gazing hour after hour upon a limited view of stiff burnt pines, with the melting snow drifting down through them, and the fog wrapping them and hiding away all the distance. even the fire of piled logs shone, _not_ with heat but with damp, and the monotonous splash of the drops as they fell from a leak in the tent into the frying-pan set to catch them, combined with phon's harsh cough, to break the silence. at last, when even ned was beginning to think of rheumatism, and to long for a glass of hot toddy and a turkish bath, the sun came back again, and cast long rich shadows from the red stems of the bull-pines across the trail, over which steve nearly ran, in his anxiety to leave the wet camp as far behind him as possible. but even the wet camp was only the beginning of troubles. three days they lost waiting for the sun, and in the next camp they waited three more days for their horses. at the first camp cruickshank had been careful to hobble the horses, which would not have strayed had he left them free in a small naturally inclosed pasture, like that swamp at the foot of the side hills. but at the second camp, where the feed was bad and the ways open, he neglected to hobble any of them, and, oddly enough, old packer though he was, he overlooked the whole band in his first day's search, so that no one went that way to look for them again, until it occurred to corbett to try to puzzle out their tracks in that direction for himself. there he found them, in the very meadow in which they had pastured the first night, all standing in a row behind a bush no bigger than a cabbage, old job at their head, every nose down, every ear still, even job's blue eye fixed in a kind of glassy stare, and the bell round job's neck dumb, for it was full of mud and leaves. it was deuced odd, ned thought, as he drove the beasts home. cruickshank didn't seem to know as much of packing and the care of horses as he appeared to know at first; but if he knew too little, that wall-eyed fiend, job, knew too much. anyway, they had taken eight days to do two days' travel, up to that time. it was well that they had ample time in which to make their journey to cariboo. chapter vii. facing death on the stone-slide. it was the last day of corbett's journey between the harrison and the frazer, and a boiling hot day at that. with the exception of corbett himself, and perhaps cruickshank, whose back alone was visible as he led the train, the whole outfit had relapsed into that dull mechanical gait peculiar to packers and pack animals. to chance it seemed that he was in a dream--a dream in which he went incessantly up and up or down, down day after day without pause or change. to him it seemed that there was always the same gray stone-slide under foot, the same hot sun overheard, and the same gleaming blue lake far below; like the pack animals, he was content to plod along hour after hour, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, unless it was of that blessed hour when the camp would be pitched and the tea made, and the soothing pipe be lighted. but though chance had no eyes for it, the end of this first part of his journey was near at hand. fourteen miles away the great grisly mountains came together and threw a shadow upon seton lake, building a wall and setting a barrier over or through which there seemed no possible way of escape. as corbett looked at it, he could see the trees quite plainly on the narrow rim of grass between that mountain wall and the lake, and though he could not see that too, he knew that through them ran a trail which led to lillooet on the frazer. even ned longed to reach that trail and catch a glimpse of the little town, in which he and his weary beasts might take at least one day's rest and refreshment. since leaving douglas, cruickshank and corbett had been upon the best of terms. cruickshank knew how everything ought to be done, and corbett was quick and tireless to do it, so that between them these two did most of the work of the camp; and though ned noticed that his guide was not as anxious to get to lillooet as he had been to get away from douglas, he made allowances for him. cruickshank was hardly a young man, and no doubt his strength was not equal to his will. as to the straying of the horses at the second camp, there could be but one opinion. it was a bad mistake to leave them unhobbled; but after all everyone made mistakes sometimes, and though that mistake had involved the loss of a great deal of time, it was the only one which could be laid to cruickshank's account. so far not one single thing, however unimportant, had been left behind in camp or lost upon the trail; there had been no accidents, no lost packs, nor any sign of sore backs. day after day cruickshank himself had led the train, choosing the best going for his ponies, and seeing them safely past every projecting rock and over every _mauvais pas_. on this day for the first time cruickshank proposed to give up his position in front of the train to ned. stopping at a place where there was room to shunt the rear of his column to the front, the colonel hailed ned, and suggested that they should change places. "come on and set us a quick step, corbett. even if you do overtire the ponies a bit, it doesn't matter now that we are so near lillooet. they can rest there as much as they like." "very well. i expect _you_ must want a change, and i'll bet old steve does. why, you have hardly had anyone to speak to for a week," replied corbett good-naturedly. "that's so, but i must save my breath a little longer still. if roberts will go behind with phon and chance, i'll keep the first detachment as close to your heels as i can; and, by the way, we had better make a change with the horses whilst we are about it." "why?" asked ned. "what is the matter with them?" "not much, but if we are to have any more swimming across places where the bridging is broken down, we may as well have the horses that take kindly to water in front, and send that mean old beast to the rear;" and the colonel pointed to job, which with its head on one side and an unearthly glare in its blue eye, appeared to be listening to what was being said. "all right, we can do that here if you will lend a hand. which shall we put the bell on?" and ned took the bell off job, and turned that veteran over to the second half of the train. "put it on this fellow; he takes to the water like an otter, and he will make a good leader. wherever his packs can go, any of the others can follow;" and cruickshank pointed to the great bulging bales upon the back of the buckskin. "i expect steve and roberts packed him, didn't they?" cruickshank added. "well, they aren't pretty to look at, but i guess they'll stick;" and so saying, he gave the buckskin a smack on his quarters which sent that big star-gazing brute trotting to the front, where ned invested him with the order of the bell. "is it all right now, cruickshank?" asked corbett. "all right." "forrard away then!" cried ned, and turning he strode merrily along a narrow trail, which wound up and up across such sheer precipitous side hills as would make some men dizzy to look at. a slip in some places would have meant death to those who slipped, long before their bruised bodies could reach the edge of the lake glittering far below; but neither men in moccasins nor mountain ponies are given to slipping. after the rain had come the sunshine and the genial warmth of spring, under the influence of which every hill was musical with new-born rivulets, and every level place brilliant with young grass. the very stone-slides blossomed in great clumps of purple gentian, and over even the stoniest places crept the tendrils of the oregon vine, with its thorny shining leaves and flower-clusters of pale gold. now and again the trail rose or fell so much that it seemed to ned as if he had passed from one season of flowers to another. down by the lake, where the pack animals splashed along the bed of a little mountain stream, the first wild rose was opening, a mere speck of pink in the cool darkness made by the overhanging bushes. here by the lake side, too, were numerous butterflies--great yellow and black "swallow tails," hovering in small clouds over the damp stones, or camberwell beauties in royal purple, floating through sun and shadow on wings as graceful in flight as they were rich in colour. higher up, where the sun had heated the stone-slides to a white heat, were more butterflies (fritillaries and commas and tortoise-shells), while now and again a flash of orange and a shrill little screech told ned that a humming-bird went by. in the highest places of all, where the snow still lingered in tiny patches, the red-eyed spruce-cocks hooted from the pines, the ruffed grouse strutted and boomed in the thickets, and the yellow flowers of lilies gave promise of many a meal for old ephraim, when their sweet bulbs should be a few weeks older. to ned, merely to swing along day after day in the sunshine and note these things, was gladness enough, and it was little notice he took of heat, or thirst, or weariness. unfortunately he became too absorbed, and as often happens with men unused to leading out, forgot his train and walked right away from his ponies. when this fact dawned upon him it was nearly mid-day, and he found himself at the highest point which the path had yet reached, from which, looking back, he could see the train crawling wearily after him. he could see, too, that cruickshank was signalling him to stop, so nothing loth ned sat down and waited. the path where he sat came out to a sharp promontory, and turning round this it began to pass over the worst stone-slide ned had yet seen. most of those he had hitherto encountered had been mere narrow strips of bad going from fifty to a hundred yards across, but this was nearly five hundred yards from side to side, and except where the trail ran, there was not foothold upon it for a fly. properly speaking it was not, as the natives called it, a stone-slide at all, but rather the bed or shoot, by which, century after century, some hundreds of stone-slides had gone crashing down into the lake below. as soon as ned had assured himself that the train was once more as near to him as it ought to be, he knocked off as much of the projecting corner as he could, and passed round it on to the slide. looking up from the narrow trail, the young englishman could see the great rocks which hung out from the cliffs above; rocks whose fellows had been the makers of this slide, letting go their hold up above as the snows melted and the rains sapped their foundations, and then thundering down to the lake with such an army of small stones and debris that it seemed as if the whole mountain-side was moving. when this stone-avalanche crashed into the water a wave rolled out upon the lake big as an ocean swell from shore to shore. looking down, a smooth shoot sloped at an angle from him to the blue water. "well, that is pretty sheer," muttered ned, craning his neck to look down to where the lake glistened a thousand feet below, "and if one of our ponies gets his feet off this trail, there won't be anything of him left unbroken except his shoes;" and so saying, he turned to see how the leader would turn the awkward corner which led on to this _via diabolica_. as he did so the report of a pistol rang out sharp and clear, followed by a rush and the clatter of falling stones, and the next moment ned saw the leading pony dash round the overhanging rocks, its ropes all loose, its packs swinging almost under its belly, its bell ringing as if it were possessed, and its eyes starting from its head in the insanity of terror. at every stride it was touch-and-go whether the brute would keep its legs or not. each slip and each recovery at that flying pace was in itself a miracle, and ned hardly hoped that he could stop the maddened beast before it and the packs went crashing down to the lake. stop the pony! he might as well have tried to stop a stone-slide. and as he realized this, the danger of his own position flashed across him for the first time. coming towards him, now not fifty yards away, was the maddened horse, which probably could not have stopped if it wanted to in that distance, and on such a course. behind ned was four hundred yards of such a trail as he hardly dared to run over to escape death, and even if he had dared, what chance in the race would he have had against the horse? above him there was nothing to which even his strong fingers could cling, and below the trail--well, he had already calculated on the chances of any living thing finding foothold below the trail. instinctively ned shouted and threw up his hands. he might as well have tried to blow the horse back with his breath. in another ten seconds the brute would be upon him; in other words, in another ten seconds horse and packs and ned corbett would be the centre of a little dust-storm bounding frantically down that steep path to death! in such a crisis as this men think fast, or lose their wits altogether. some, perhaps, rather than face the horror of their position shut their eyes, mental and physical, and are glad to die and get it over. ned was of the other kind: the kind that will face anything with their eyes open, and fight their last round with death with eyes that will only close when the life is out of them. there was just one chance for life, and having his eyes open, ned saw it and took it. twenty yards from him now was that hideous maddened brute, with its ears laid back, its teeth showing, the foam flying from its jaws, and its great blood-shot eyes almost starting from their sockets. twenty yards, and the pace the brute was coming at was the pace of a locomotive! and yet, though corbett's face was gray as a march morning, and his square jaws set like a steel trap, there was no blinking in his eyes. he saw the blow coming, and quick as light he countered. never on parade in the old school corps did his rifle come to his shoulder more steadily than it came now; not a nerve throbbed as he pressed (not pulled) the trigger, nor was it until he stood _alone_ upon that narrow path that his knees began to rock beneath him, while the cold perspiration poured down his drawn white face in streams. one man only besides corbett saw that drama; one man, whose features wore a look of which hell might have been proud, so fiendish was it in its disappointed malice, when through the dust he saw the red flame flash, and then, almost before the report reached him, saw the body of the big buckskin, a limp bagful of broken bones, splash heavily into the seton lake. but the look passed as a cloud passes on a windy morning, and the next moment cruickshank was at corbett's side, a flood of congratulations and inquiries pouring from his ready lips. as for ned, now that the danger was over, he was utterly unstrung, and a bold enemy might have easily done for him that which the runaway horse had failed to do. perhaps that thought never occurred to any enemy of ned's; perhaps the quick, backward glance, in which cruickshank recognized old roberts' purple features, was as effectual a safeguard to the young man's life as even his own good rifle had been; be that as it may, a few moments later ned stumbled along after his friend to a place of safety, and there sat down again to collect himself. meanwhile, roberts and cruickshank stood looking at one another, an expression in the old poet's face, which neither corbett nor cruickshank had ever seen there before, the hand in his coat pocket grasping a revolver, whose ugly muzzle was ready to belch out death from that pocket's corner at a moment's notice. at last cruickshank spoke in a voice so full of genuine sorrow, that even roberts slackened his hold upon the weapon concealed in his coat pocket. "you've had a near shave to-day, corbett, and it was my fault. i am almost ashamed to ask you to forgive me." "how--what do you mean? did you fire that shot?" "i did, like a cursed idiot," replied cruickshank. roberts' face was a study for an artist. speechless surprise reigned upon it supreme. "i did," cruickshank repeated. "i fired at a grouse that was hooting in a bull-pine by the track, and i suppose that that scared the cayuse--though i've never known a pack-horse mind a man shooting before." "nor i," muttered roberts. "i suppose you didn't notice if you hit that fool-hen, colonel cruickshank?" "no; i don't suppose i did. i'd enough to think of when i saw what i had done." "well, it didn't fly away, and it ain't there now," persisted roberts. "perhaps you'd like to go and look for it." however, cruickshank took no notice of roberts' speech, but held out his hand to corbett with such an honest expression of sorrow, that if it was not sincere, it was superb as a piece of acting. without a word corbett took the proffered hand. there are some natures which find it hard to suspect evil in others, and ned corbett's was one of these. only he made a mental note, that though cruickshank had only made two mistakes since starting from douglas, they had both been of rather a serious nature. only one man climbed down to look at the dead cayuse as it lay half hidden in the shallow water at the edge of the lake, and that was only a chinaman. of course he went to see what he could save from the wreck; equally, of course, he found nothing worth bringing away; found nothing and noticed nothing, or if he did, only told what he had seen to old roberts. there seemed to be an understanding between these two, for phon trusted the hearty old shropshireman as much as he seemed to dread and avoid the colonel. chapter viii. their first "colours." "lillooet at last!" steve chance was the speaker, and as his eyes rested upon the frazer, just visible from the first bluff which overlooks the lillooet, his spirits rose so that he almost shouted aloud for joy. there beneath him, only a short mile away, lay most of the things which he longed for: rest after labour, good food, and pleasant drinks. steve's cravings may not have been the cravings of an ideal artist's nature, but let those who would cavil at them tramp for a week over stone-slides and through alkaline dust, and then decide if these are not the natural longings of an ordinary man. to tell the whole truth, steve had amused himself and his comrade roberts for more than a mile by discussing what they would order to eat and drink when once they reached comparative civilization again. even the hardest of men tire in time of bacon and beans and tea. a "john collins," a seductive fluid, taken in a long glass and sipped through a straw, was perhaps what steve hankered after most; but there were many other things which he longed for besides that most delectable of drinks, such for instance as a "full bath," a beefsteak, and clean sheets to follow. alas, poor steve! there was the frazer to wash in if he liked, and no doubt he could have obtained something which called itself a steak at the saloon, but a "john collins" and clean sheets he was not likely to obtain west of chicago. indeed, to this day long glasses and "drinketty drinks" are rare in the wild west; "drunketty drinks" out of short thick vulgar little tumblers being the order of the day. and apart from all this, lillooet, though larger in than it is to-day, was even then but a poor little town, a town consisting only of one long straggling street, which looked as if it had lost its way on a great mud-bluff by the river. benches of yellow mud and gray-green sage-brush rose above and around the "city," tier above tier, until they lost themselves in the mountains which gathered round, and deep down at the foot of the bluffs the frazer roared along. since chance had last seen the frazer at westminster its character had considerably changed. there it was a dull heavy flood, at least half a mile in breadth from bank to bank; here it was an angry torrent, roaring between steep overhanging banks, nowhere two hundred yards apart. there the river ran by flat lands, and fields which men might farm; here the impending mountains hung threateningly above it. the most daring steamboat which had ever plied upon the frazer had not come nearer to lillooet than lytton, and that was full forty miles down stream. in one thing only the frazer was unchanged. at lillooet, as at westminster, it was a sordid yellow river, with no sparkle in it, no blue backwaters, no shallows through which the pebbles shone like jewels through liquid sunshine. and yet, artist though he was in a poor tradesman-like fashion, steve gazed on the frazer with a rapture which no other stream had ever awakened in him. at the portage between seton and anderson lakes he had passed a stream such as an angler dreams of in his dusty chambers on a summer afternoon, but he had hardly wasted a second glance upon it. only trout lay there, great purple-spotted fellows, who would make the line vibrate like a harp string, and thrash the water into foam, ere they allowed themselves to be basketed; but in the frazer, though the fish were only torpid, half-putrid salmon, that would not even take a fly, there was gold, and gold filled steve's brain and eyes and heart just then to the exclusion of every other created thing. all he wanted was gold, gold; and his spirits rose higher and higher as he noted the flumes which ran along the river banks, and saw the little groups of blue-shirted chinamen who squatted by their rockers, or shovelled the gravel into their ditches. so keen, indeed, was steve to be at work amongst his beloved "dirt," that tired though he was, he persuaded ned to come with him and wash a shovelful of it, whilst dinner was being prepared. right at the back of the town a little company of white men had dug deep into the gravel of the beach, set their flumes, and turned on a somewhat scanty supply of water, and here steve obtained his first "colours." a tall old man who ran the mine lent him a shovel, and showed him where to fill it with likely-looking dirt; taught him how to dip the edge of his shovel in the bucket, and slowly swill the water thus obtained round and round, so as to wash away the big stones and the gravel which he did not want. the operation looks easier than it is, and at first steve washed his shovel cleaner than he meant to, in a very short time. by and by, however, he learnt the trick, and was rewarded by seeing a patch of fine gravel left in the hollow of the shovel, with here and there a tiny ruby amongst it, and here and there an agate. the next washing took away everything except a sediment of fine black sand,--sand which will fly to a magnet, and is the constant associate and sure indication of gold. steve was going to give this another wash when old pete stopped him. "steady, my lad, don't wash it all away; there it is, don't you see it!" and sure enough there it was, up by the point of the shovel, seven, eight--a dozen small red specks, things that you almost needed a microscope to see, not half as beautiful as the little rubies or the pure white agates; but this was gold, and when the old miner, taking back his shovel, dipped it carelessly into the water of his flume, chance felt for a moment a pang of indignation at seeing his first "colours" treated with such scant ceremony, although the twelve specks together were not, in all probability, worth a cent. but the sight of the gold put new life into chance and filled phon's veins with fever. one night at lillooet, steve said, was rest enough for him; and most of that night he and phon spent either down by the river or in the saloon, watching the chinese over their rockers, or listening to the latest accounts from cariboo. men could earn good wages placer mining at lillooet in ' , even as they can now, but all who could afford it were pushing on up stream to golden cariboo. what was five dollars a day, or ten, or even twenty for the matter of that, when other men were digging out fortunes daily on williams creek and antler cunningham's, and the cottonwood? and in this matter cruickshank humoured steve's feverish impatience to get on. here, as at douglas, the gallant colonel showed a strange reluctance to mingle with his fellows, or at least with such of them as had passed a season in the upper country, and even went so far as to camp out a mile away from the town, to give the pack animals a better chance of getting good feed, and to secure them, so he said, against all temptations to stray up stream with somebody else. horseflesh was dear at lillooet in ' ; and the colonel said that morals were lax, though why they should have been worse than at westminster, ned could not understand. however, it suited him to go on, so he raised no objection to cruickshank's plans, more especially as the rest did not seem beneficial to his honest old chum, roberts, who had been the centre of a hard-drinking, hard-swearing lot of mining men, ever since he arrived at lillooet. whenever ned came near, these men sunk their voices to a whisper, and once when cruickshank came in sight, the scowl upon their brows grew so dark, and their mutterings so ominous, that the colonel took the hint and vanished immediately. when ned saw him next he was at their trysting-place, a mile and a half from the saloon, and very impatient to be off,--so impatient, indeed, that he absolutely refused to wait for roberts, who, he "guessed," was drunk. "those old-timers are all the same when they get amongst pals, and as for roberts, we are deuced well rid of him, he is no use anyway," said the colonel. this might very well be cruickshank's opinion. it was not ned's, and ned had a way of thinking and acting for himself, so without any waste of words he bade his comrades "drive ahead," whilst he turned back in search of roberts. by some accident this worthy had not heard of the intended start, and was, as ned expected, as innocent of any intention to desert as he was of drunkenness. when ned found him he was sitting in the barroom with a lot of his pals, and the conversation round him had grown loud and angry; indeed, as ned entered, a rough, weather-beaten fellow in his shirt sleeves was shouting at the top of his voice, "what the deuce is the good of all this jaw? lynch the bilk, that's what i say, and save trouble." but ned's appearance put a stop to the proceedings, though an angry growl broke out when he was overheard to say that cruickshank and steve had started half an hour ago, and that he himself had come back to look for old roberts. "don't you go, bob," urged one of his comrades; "them young britishers are bound to stay by their packs, but you've no call to." "not you. you'll stay right here, if you ain't a born fool," urged another. but bob was not to be coaxed or bantered out of his determination to stay by his brother salopian. "no, lads," he retorted, "i ain't a born fool, and i ain't the sort to go back on a pal. if corbett goes i'm going, though i don't pretend to be over-keen on the job." "wal, if you will go, go and be hanged to you; only, bob, keep your eye skinned, and, i say, _shoot fust_ next time, _shoot fust_; now don't you forget it!" with which mysterious injunction bob's big friend reeled up from the table (he was half-drunk already), shook hands, "liquored" once more, and left. he said he had some business to attend to down town; and as it was nearly noon, and he had done nothing but smoke and drink short drinks since breakfast-time, he was probably right in thinking that it was time to attend to it. whilst this gentleman rolled away down the street with a fine free stride, requiring a good deal of sea-room, ned and his friend had to put their best feet foremost (as the saying is) to make up for lost time. when you are walking fast over rough ground you have not much breath left for conversation, and this, perhaps, and the roar of the sullen river, accounts for the fact that the two men strode along in silence, neither of them alluding to the conversation just overheard in the saloon, although the minds of both were running upon that subject, and ned noticed that the pistol which roberts pulled out and examined as they went along was a recent purchase. "hullo, you've got a new gun, rob," he remarked. everything with which men shoot is called a gun in british columbia. "yes, it's one i bought at lillooet. i hadn't got a good one with me." "well, i don't suppose you'll want it, now you have got it," replied corbett. "well, i don't know. i _might_ want it to shoot grouse with by the side of the trail." and the old fellow laid such an emphasis upon his last words and chuckled so grimly, that ned half suspected that he had wetted his whistle once too often after all. chapter ix. under the balm-of-gilead tree. from noon of the day upon which ned corbett and old roberts strode out of lillooet until the night upon which we meet them again was a fortnight and more, a fortnight of which i might, if i chose, write a history, but it would only be the history of almost every mining party and pack-train that ever went up the frazer. the incidents of those days are indelibly engraved upon the memories of steve and of corbett, but to roberts they passed without remark and left no impression behind. the life was only the ordinary miner's life; and there was nothing new to the old-timer in buoyant hopes wearing away day by day; nothing new in the daily routine of camps broken by starlight and pitched again at dusk; in trails blocked by windfalls or destroyed by landslips; in packs which would shift, tie them ever so tightly; in stones which cut the moccasins, and prickly pears which filled the sole with anguish; or in cruel fire-hardened rampikes, which tore the skin to rags and the clothes to ribands. three weeks upon the road had done its work upon the party, had added much to their knowledge, and taken much away that was useless from their equipment. when they left westminster they were five smart, well-fed, civilized human beings; when they struggled up out of the valley of the frazer towards cariboo, at soda creek, they were five lean, weather-hardened men, their clothes all rags and patches, their skin all wounded and blistered, every "indispensable adjunct of a camp," as made by mr. silver, discarded long ago; but every article of camp furniture which was left, carried where it could be got at, ready when it was wanted, and thoroughly adapted to the rough and ready uses of those who took the trouble to "pack it along." even to steve it seemed ages now since his nostrils were used to any other odour than the pungent scent of the pines; ages since his ears listened to any other sound than the roar of the yellow river and the monotonous tinkle of the leader's bell; ages even since washing had been to him as a sacred rite, and a clean shirt as desirable as a clean conscience. and yet corbett and chance had seen, on their way up, men who led harder lives than theirs; blue-shirted, bearded fellows, who carried their all upon their own shoulders; and others who had put their tools and their grub in the craziest of crafts, and, climbing one moment and wading the next, strove to drag it up stream in the teeth of the frazer. as ned saw the frail canoes rear up on end against the angry waters, he understood why the old river carried so many down stream whose dead hands grasped no dollars, whose dead lips told no tales. but the river trail had come to an end at last, and the five were now steering north-east for the bold mountains and their gold-bearing rivers and creeks. they had now put many a mile between themselves and soda creek, and were lying smoking round their camp-fire, built under a huge balm-of-gilead tree, which stood in the driest part of what we call a swamp, and canadians a meadow. the pack-saddles were set in orderly line, with their ropes and cinches neatly coiled alongside them; the packs were snug under their _manteaux_, and the tent was pitched as men pitch a tent who are used to their work, not with its sides all bellying in, strained in one place slack in another, but just loose enough to allow for a wetting if it should happen to rain in the night. now and again the bell of one of the pack animals sounded not unmusically from some dark corner of the swamp, or the long "ho-ho" of kalula, the night-owl, broke the silence, which but for these sounds would have been complete. suddenly a voice said: "great scott! do you know what the date is?" since the pipes had been lighted no one had spoken, and as cruickshank broke the silence, it was almost under protest that ned rolled round on his blanket to face the speaker, and dropped a monosyllabic "well?" the men were too tired to talk, and night, which in these northern forests is very still, had thrown its spell upon them. steve and phon merely turned their heads inquiringly to the speaker, who sat upon a log turning over the leaves of a little diary, and waited. "to-morrow will be the th of may." "the th of may--what then?" asked ned dreamily. he was hardly awake to everyday thoughts yet. "what then! what then! why, if you are not at williams creek by the st of june your claims can be jumped by anyone who comes along." "but can't we get there by the st of june?" asked ned, sitting up and taking his pipe out of his mouth. "impossible. if you could drive the ponies at a trot you could only just do it. it is five good days' journey with fresh animals, and we have only four to do it in, and grizzlies wouldn't make our ponies trot now." "well, what are we to do?" broke in chance. "you calculated the time, and said that we had enough and to spare." "i know i did, but i made a mistake." "oh to blazes with your _mistakes_, colonel cruickshank," cried chance angrily; "they seem to me a bit too expensive to occur quite so often." "don't lose your temper, my good sir. i couldn't help it, but i am willing to atone for it. i calculated as if april had thirty-one days in it, and it hasn't; and, besides, i've dropped a day on the road somehow." "looking for horses," growled roberts, "or shooting grouse, maybe." "what do you propose to do, colonel cruickshank?" asked corbett, whose face alone seemed still perfectly under his own control. "well, mr. corbett, i've led you into the scrape, so i must get you out of it. if either you or roberts will stay with me i'll bring the horses on for you to williams creek, whilst the rest can start away right now and make the best of their time to the claims. you could do the distance all right if it wasn't for the pack-ponies." "but how could _i_ stay?" asked corbett. "well, you needn't, of course, if roberts doesn't mind staying; otherwise you could assign your interest in your claim to him, and he could go on and hold it for you." "but it will be deuced hard work for two men to manage nine pack-ponies over such a trail as this." "it won't be any violets," replied cruickshank, "you may bet on that; but it's my fault, so i'll 'foot the bill.'" "i don't know about its being your fault either," broke in corbett, "i was just as big an ass as a man could be. i ought to have calculated the time for myself. can't we all stop and chance it?" "what, and lose a good many thousand dollars paid, and every chance of making a good many thousand more, for which we have been tramping over a month--that would be lunacy!" broke in chance. "well, if you don't mean to lose the claims, i know no other way of getting to williams creek in time," said cruickshank; and, looking up at the sky, he added, "you might have two or three hours' sleep, and then be off bright and early by moonlight. the moon rises late to-night." it was a weird scene there by that camp-fire; and there were things written on the faces of those sitting round it, which a mere outsider could have read at a glance. the moon might be coming up later on, but just at that moment there was neither moon nor star, only a black darkness, broken by the occasional sputtering flames of the wood fire. out of the darkness the men's faces showed from time to time as the red gleams flickered over them; the faces of corbett, steve, and roberts full of perplexity and doubt; the eyes of phon fixed in a frightened fascinated stare upon the colonel; and cruickshank's face white with suppressed excitement, the coarse, cruel mouth drawn and twitching, and the eyes glaring like the eyes of a tiger crouching for its prey. "well, what had we better do?" asked corbett at last from somewhere amongst the shadows, and cruickshank's eyes shifted swiftly to where steve and roberts lay, as if anxious to forestall their answer. "i'll stay, ned corbett. it's safer for me than it would be for you," said roberts. "i can only lose a little time, not much worth to anyone, and you have a good deal to lose." after all it was only a small question. they had driven the pack animals now for a month, and, whoever stayed, would only at the worst have to drive them for another week. the work, of course, would be rather heavy with only two to divide it among; but on the other hand those who went ahead would have to make forced marches and live upon very short rations. ned was rather surprised then that roberts answered as if it was a matter of grave import, and that his voice seemed to have lost the jolly ring which was natural to it. "don't stop if you don't like to, old chap. phon can assign his interests to you and stay behind instead." "no, no, me halò stay. halò! halò!" and the little chinaman almost shrieked the last word, so emphatic was his refusal. "it's no good leaving phon," replied roberts, casting a pitying look towards that frightened heathen; "he would see devils all the time, and be of no use after it got dark. i tell you, i'll stay and take care of the ponies; and now you had better all turn in and get some sleep. you will have to travel pretty lively when you once start. i'll see to your packs." probably ned had been mistaken from the first, but if any feeling had shaken his friend's voice for a moment, it had quite passed away now, and roberts was again his own genial, helpful self. after all, he was the very best person to leave behind. except cruickshank, he was the only really good packer amongst them. he was as strong as a horse, and besides, he had no particular reason for wanting to be at williams creek by the st of june. "you really don't mind stopping, rob?" asked corbett. "not a bit. why should i? i'd do a good deal more than that for you, if it was only for the sake of the dear old country, my lad." again, just for a moment, there seemed to be a sad ring in his voice, and he stretched out his hand and gripped ned's in the darkness. ned was surprised. "the old man is a bit sentimental to-night," he thought. "it's not like him, but, i suppose, these dismal woods have put him a little off his balance. they _are_ lonesome." with which sage reflection ned turned his eyes away from the dark vista down which he had been gazing, and rolling round in his blankets forgot both the gloom and the gold. for two or three hours the sleepers lay there undisturbed by the calls of the owls, or the stealthy tread of a passing bear, which chose the trail as affording the best road from point to point. at night, when there is no chance of running up against a man, no one appreciates a well-made road better than a bear. he will crash through the thickest brush if necessary, but if you leave him to choose, he will avoid rough and stony places as carefully as a christian. towards midnight cruickshank, who had been tossing restlessly in his blankets, sat up and crouched broodingly over the dying embers, unconscious that a pair of bright, beady eyes were watching him suspiciously all the time. but phon made no sign. he was only a bundle of blankets upon the ground, a thing of no account. by and by, when cruickshank had settled himself again to sleep, this bundle of blankets sat up and put fresh logs on the camp-fire. the warmth from them soothed the slumberers, and after a while even cruickshank lay still. phon watched him for some time, until convinced that his regular breathing was not feigned, but real slumber, and then he too crept away from the fire-side, not to his own place, but into the shadow where roberts lay. after a while an owl, which had been murdering squirrels in their sleep, came gliding on still wings, and lit without a sound on the limb of a tall pine near the camp. the light from the camp-fire dazzled its big red-brown eyes, but after a little time it could see that two of the strange bundles, which lay like mummies round the smouldering logs, were sitting up and talking together. but the owl could not catch what they said, except once, when it saw a bright, white gleam flash from the little bundle like moonlight showing through a storm-cloud, and then as the bigger bundle snatched the white thing away, the listening owl heard a voice say: "no, my god, no! that may do very well for a chinee; it won't do for a britisher, phon!" and another voice answered angrily: "why not? you white men all fool. you savey what _he_ did. s'pose you no kill him, by'm bye he--" but the rest was lost to the owl, and a few minutes later, just as it raised its wings to go, it saw the smaller bundle wriggle across the ground again to its old place by the embers. chapter x. the shadows begin to fall. when corbett woke, the first beams of the rising moon were throwing an uncertain light over the forest paths, and the children of night were still abroad, the quiet-footed deer taking advantage of the moonlight to make an early breakfast before the sun and man rose together to annoy them. the camp-fire had just been made up afresh, and a frying-pan, full of great rashers, was hissing merrily upon it, while a kettle full of strong hot coffee stood beside it, ready to wash the rashers down. men want warming when they rise at midnight from these forest slumbers, and roberts, knowing that it would be long ere his friends broke their fast again, had been up and busy for the last half-hour, building a real nor'-west fire, and preparing a generous breakfast. cruickshank too was up, if not to speed the parting, at any rate to see them safely off the premises, a smile of unusual benevolence on his dark face. between them, he and roberts put up the travellers' packs, taking each man's blankets as he got out of them, and rolling in them such light rations as would just last for a four days' trip. in twenty minutes from the time when they crawled out of their blankets, the three stood ready to start. "are you all set?" asked cruickshank. "all set," replied chance. "then the sooner you 'get' the better. it will be as much as your heathen can do to make the journey in time, i'll bet." "why, is the trail a very bad one?" "oh, it's all much like this, but it's most of it uphill, and there may be some snow on the top. but you can't miss your way with all these tracks in front." "you will be in yourself a day or two after us, won't you?" asked corbett. "yes. if you don't make very good time i daresay i shall, although the snow may delay the ponies some. but don't you worry about them. i'll take care of the ponies, you can trust me for that." "then, if you will be in so soon, i won't trouble to take anything except one blanket and my rifle," remarked ned. "oh, take your rocker. it looks more business-like; and, besides, all the millionaires go in with 'nothing but a rocker-iron for their whole kit, and come out worth their weight in gold.'" there was a mocking ring in cruickshank's voice as he said this, at variance with his oily smile, but steve chance took his words in good faith. steve still believed in the likelihood of his becoming a millionaire at one stroke of the miner's pick. "i guess you're right, colonel. i'll take my rocker-iron, whatever else i leave behind. lend a hand to fix it on to my pack, will you?" and then, when cruickshank had done this, steve added with a laugh: "i shall consider you entitled to (what shall we say?) one per cent on the profits of the mine when in full swing, for your services, colonel." "don't promise too much, chance. you don't know what sort of a gold-mine you are giving away yet;" and the speaker bent over a refractory strap in steve's pack to hide an ugly gleam of white teeth, which might have had a meaning even for such an unsuspicious fool as ned corbett, who at this moment picked up his winchester and held out his hand to cruickshank. "good-bye, colonel," he said. "what with the claims and the packs, we have trusted you now with every dollar we have in the world. lucky for us that we are trusting to the honour of a soldier and a gentleman, isn't it? good-bye to you." it was the kindliest speech ned had ever made to cruickshank. weeks of companionship, and the man's readiness to atone for his mistake, had had their effect upon corbett's generous nature; but its warmth was lost upon the colonel. either he really did not see, or else he affected not to see the outstretched hand; in any case he did not take it, and ned went away without exchanging that silent grip (which a writer of to-day has aptly called "an englishman's oath") with the man to whom he had intrusted his last dollar. as for old roberts, he followed his friends for a couple of hundred yards upon their way, and then wrung their hands until the bones cracked. "give this to rampike when you see him, ned. i guess he'll be at williams creek, or antler; williams creek most likely," said the old poet in parting, and handed a note with some little inclosure in it to ned. "all right, i won't forget. till we meet again, rob;" and corbett waved his cap to him. "till we meet again!" roberts repeated after him, and stood looking vacantly along the trail until steve and corbett passed out of sight. then he, too, turned and tramped back to camp, cheering himself as he went with a stave of his favourite ditty. the last the lads heard of their comrade on that morning was the crashing of a dry twig or two beneath old roberts' feet, and the refrain of his song as it died away in the distance-- "riding, riding, riding on my old pack-mule." ned corbett could not imagine how he had ever thought that air a lively one. it was stupidly mournful this morning, or else the woods and the distance played strange tricks with the singer's voice. but if ned was affected by an imaginary minor key in his old friend's singing, a glimpse at the camp he had left would not have done much to restore his cheerfulness. the embers had died down, and looked almost as gray and sullen as the face of the man who sat and scowled at them from a log alongside. the only living thing in camp besides the colonel was one of those impudent gray birds, which the up-country folk call "whisky-jacks." of course he had come to see what he could steal. that is the nature of jays, and the whisky-jack is the canadian jay. at first the bird stood with his head on one side eyeing the colonel, uncertain whether it would be safe to come any closer or not. but there was a fine piece of bacon-rind at the colonel's feet, so the bird plucked up his courage and hopped a few paces nearer. he had measured his distance to an inch, and with one eye on the colonel and one on the bacon, was just straining his neck to the utmost to drive his beak into the succulent morsel, when the man whom he thought was asleep discharged a furious kick at an unoffending log, and clenching his fist ground out between his teeth muttered: "a soldier and a gentleman! a soldier and a gentleman! yes, but it came a bit too late, mr. edward corbett. hang it, i wish you had stayed behind instead of that fool, roberts." of course the "whisky-jack" did not understand the other biped's language, but he was a bird of the world, and instinct told him that his companion in camp was dangerous; so, though the bacon-rind still lay there, he flitted off to a tree hard by, and spent the next half-hour in heaping abuse upon the colonel from a safe distance. that "whisky-jack" grew to be a very wise bird, and in his old days used to tell many strange stories about human bipeds and the balm-of-gilead camp. but there was half a mile of brush between ned and their old camp, so he saw nothing of all this; and after the fresh morning air had roused him, and the exercise had set his blood going through his veins at its normal pace, he went unconcernedly on his way, talking to steve as long as there was room enough for the two to walk side by side, and then gradually forging ahead, and setting that young yankee a step which kept him extended, and made poor little phon follow at a trot. though ned and steve had grown used to isolation upon the trail with ten laden beasts between the two, they made several attempts upon this particular morning to carry on a broken conversation, or lighten the road with snatches of song. perhaps it was that they were making unconscious efforts to drive away a feeling of depression, which sometimes comes over men's natures with as little warning as a storm over an april sky. but their efforts were in vain; nature was too strong for them. in the great silence amid these funereal pines their voices seemed to fall at their own feet, and ere long the forest had mastered them, as it masters the indians, and the birds, and the wild dumb beasts which wander about in its fastnesses. the only creature which retains its loquacity in a pine-forest is the squirrel, and he is always too busy to cultivate sentiment of any kind. cruickshank had warned them that the trail led uphill, and it undoubtedly did so. at first the three swung along over trails brown with the fallen pine needles of last year, soft to the foot and level to the tread, with great expanses of fruit bushes upon either side,--bushes that in another month or two would be laden with a repast spread only for the bear and the birds. salmon-berry and rasp-berry, soap-berry and service-berry, and two or three different kinds of bilberry were there, as well as half a dozen others which neither ned nor steve knew by sight. but the season of berries was not yet, so they wetted their parched lips with their tongues and passed on with a sigh. then the road began to go uphill. they knew that by the way they kept tripping over the sticks and by the increased weight of their packs. by and by steve thought they would come to a level place at the top, and there they would lie down for a while and rest. but that top never came, or at least the sun was going round to the south, and it had not come yet. and then the air began to grow more chill, and the trees to change. there were no more bushes, or but very few of them; and the trees, which were black dismal-looking balsams, were draped with beard-moss, the winter food of the cariboo, and there was snow in little patches at their feet. when the sun had gone round to the west the snow had grown more plentiful, and there were glades amongst the balsams, and at last steve was glad, for they had got up to the top of the divide. but he was wrong again, for again the trail rose, and this time through a belt of timber which the wind had laid upturned across their path. heavens! how heavy the packs grew then, and how their limbs ached with stepping over log after log, bruising their shins against one and stumbling head-first over another. at first steve growled at every spiked-bough which caught and held him, and groaned at every sharp stake which cut into the hollow of his foot. but anger in the woods soon gives place to a sullen stoicism. it is useless to quarrel with the unresponsive pines. the mountains and the great trees look down upon man's insignificance, and his feeble curse dies upon his lips, frozen by the terrible sphinx-like silence of a cold passionless nature. as long as the sunlight lasted the three kept up their spirits fairly well. the glades in their winter dress, with the sunlight gleaming upon the dazzling snow and flashing from the white plumes of the pines, were cheery enough, and took corbett's thoughts back to christmas in the old country; besides, there were great tracks across one glade--tracks like the tracks of a cow, and ned was interested in recognizing the footprints of the beast which has given its name to cariboo. but when the sun went, everything changed. a great gloom fell like a pall upon man and nature: the glitter which made a gem of every lakelet was gone, and the swamps, which had looked like the homes of an ideal father christmas, relapsed into dim shadowy places over whose soft floors murder might creep unheard, whilst the balsam pines stood rigid and black, like hearse plumes against the evening sky. "ned, we can't get out of this confounded mountain to-night, can we?" asked chance. "no, old man, i don't think we can," replied ned, straining his eyes along the trail, which still led upwards. "then i propose that we camp;" and chance suited the action to the word, by heaving his pack off his shoulders and dropping on to it with a sigh of relief. perhaps the three sat in silence for five minutes (it certainly was not more), asking only for leave to let the aching muscles rest awhile; though even this seemed too much to ask, for long before their muscles had ceased to throb, before steve's panting breath had begun to come again in regular cadence, the chill of a winter night took hold upon them, stiffened their clothes, and would shortly have frozen them to their seats. "this is deuced nice for may, isn't it, steve?" remarked ned with a shiver. "lend me the axe, phon; it is in your pack. if we don't make a fire we shall freeze before morning. steve, you might cut some brush, old chap, and you and phon might beat down some of the snow into a floor to camp on. i'll go and get wood enough to last all night;" and corbett walked off to commence operations upon a burnt "pine stick," still standing full of pitch and hard as a nail. but ned was used to his axe, and the cold acted on him as a spur to a willing horse, so that he hewed away, making the chips fly and the axe ring until he had quite a stack of logs alongside the shelter which steve had built up. then the sticks began to crackle and snap like chinese fireworks, and the makers of the huge fire were glad enough to stand at a respectful distance lest their clothes should be scorched upon their backs. that is the worst of a pine fire. it never gives out a comfortable glow, but either leaves you shivering or scorches you. having toasted themselves on both sides, the three travellers found a place where they would be safe from the wood smoke, and still standing pulled out the rations set apart for the first day's supper, and ate the cold bacon and heavy damper slowly, knowing that there was no second course coming. when you are reduced to two slices of bread and one of bacon for a full meal, with only two such meals in the day, and twelve hours of abstinence and hard labour between them, it is wonderful how even coarse store bacon improves in flavour. i have even known men who would criticise the cooking at a london club, to collect the stale crumbs from their pockets and eat them with apparent relish in the woods, though the crumbs were thick with fluff and tobacco dust! as they stood there munching, ned said: "i suppose, steve, we did wisely in coming on?" "what else could we have done, ned?" "yes, that's it. what else could we have done? and yet--" "and yet?" repeated steve questioningly. "what is your trouble, ned?" "do you remember my saying, when i bought the claims, that with cruickshank under our eyes all the time we should have a good security for our money?" "yes, and now you have let him go. i see what you mean; but you can rely upon roberts, can't you?" "as i would upon myself," replied corbett shortly. "but still i have broken my resolution." "oh, well, that is no great matter; and besides, i don't believe that the colonel would do a crooked thing any more than we would." "he-he! he-he-he!" it was a strangely-harsh cackle was phon's apology for a laugh, and coming so rarely and so unexpectedly, it made the two speakers start. but they could get nothing out of the man when they talked to him. he was utterly tired out, and in another few minutes lay fast asleep by the fire. "i am afraid that quaint little friend of ours doesn't care much for the colonel," remarked ned. "oh, phon! phon thinks he is the devil. he told me so;" and steve laughed carelessly. what did it matter what a chinaman thought! a little yellow-skinned, pig-tailed fellow like phon was not likely to have found out anything which had escaped steve's yankee smartness. chapter xi. "jump or i'll shoot." three days after they left the balm-of-gilead camp, ned corbett and his two friends stood upon a ridge of the bald mountains looking down upon the promised land. "so this is eldorado, is it?" ned corbett himself was the speaker, though probably those who had known him at home or in victoria would have hardly recognized him. all the three gold-seekers had altered much in the last month, and standing in the bright sunlight of early morning the changes wrought by hard work and scanty food were very apparent. bronzed, and tired, and ragged, with a stubble of half-grown beards upon their chins, with patches of sacking or deer-skin upon their trousers, and worn-out moccasins on their feet, none of the three showed signs of that golden future which was to come. beggars they might be, but surely croesus never looked like this! "we shall make it to-day, ned," remarked chance, taking off his cap to let the cool mountain breeze fan his brow. "we may, if we can drag him along, but he is very nearly dead beat;" and the direction in which ned glanced showed his companion that he was speaking of a limp bundle of blue rags, which had collapsed in a heap at the first sign of a halt. "why not leave phon to follow us?" asked steve in a low tone. low though the tone was, the bundle of blue rags moved, and a worn, shrivelled face looked piteously up into ned's. "no, no, steve," replied corbett. "all right, phon, i'll not leave you behind, even if i have to pack you on my own shoulders." thus reassured, the chinaman collapsed once more. there was not a muscle in his body which felt capable of further endurance, and yet, with the gold so near, and his mind full of superstitious horrors, he would have crawled the rest of the journey upon his hands and knees rather than have stayed behind. "thank goodness, there it is at last!" cried corbett a minute later, shading his eyes with his hand. "that smoke i expect rises from somewhere near our claims;" and the speaker pointed to a faint column of blue which was just distinguishable from the surrounding atmosphere. "i believe you are right, ned. come, phon, one more effort!" and steve helped the chinaman on to his legs, though he himself was very nearly worn out. ned took up the slender pack which phon had carried until then, and added it to the other two packs already upon his broad shoulders. after all the three packs weighed very little, for ned's companions had thrown away everything except their blankets, and steve would have even thrown his blanket away had not ned taken charge of it. ned knew from experience that so long as he sleeps fairly soft and warm at night a man's strength will endure many days, but once you rob him of his rest, the strongest man will collapse in a few hours. as for their food, that was not hard to carry. each man had a crust still left in his pocket, and more than enough tobacco. along the trail there were plenty of streams full of good water, and if bread and water and tobacco did not satisfy them, they would have to remain unsatisfied. it had been a hard race against time, and the last lap still remained to be run; but that smoke was the goal, and with the goal in sight even phon shuffled along a little faster, though he was so tired that, whenever he stumbled he fell from sheer weakness. the bald mountains so often alluded to in cariboo story are ranges of high upland, rising above the forest level, and entirely destitute of timber at the top. here in late summer the sunnier slopes are slippery with a luxuriant growth of long lush grasses and weeds, and ablaze with the vivid crimson of the indian pink. in early spring (and may is early spring in cariboo) there is still snow along the ridges, and even down below, though the grasses are brilliantly green, the time of flowers has hardly yet come. here and there as the three hurried down they came across big boulders of quartz gleaming in the sun. these were as welcome to steve as the last milestone on his road home to a weary pedestrian. where the quartz was, there would the gold be also, argued steve, and the thought roused him for a moment out of the mechanical gait into which he had fallen. but he soon dropped into it again. a hill had risen and shut the column of smoke out of his sight, and the trail was leading down again to the timber. away far to the east a huge dome of snow gleamed whitely against the sky-line. that was the outpost of the rockies. but steve had no eyes even for the rockies. all he saw was a sea of endless brown hills rolling and creeping away fold upon fold in the distance, all so like one to another from their bald ridges to the blue lakes at their feet, that his head began to spin, and he almost thought that he must be asleep, and this some nightmare country in which he wandered along a road that had no end. luckily ned roused him from this dreamy fit from time to time, or it might well have happened that steve's journey would have ended on this side of williams creek in a rapid slide from the narrow trail to the bottom of one of the little ravines along which it ran. both men were apparently thinking of the same subject. so that though their sentences were short and elliptical, they had no difficulty in understanding each other's meaning. men don't waste words on such a march as theirs. "another three hours ought to do it," ned would mutter, shifting his pack so as to give the rope a chance of galling him in a fresh place. "if we get there by midnight, i reckon it would do." "yes, if we could find the claims." "ah, there is that about it! have you got the map?" "yes. i've got that all right. oh, we shall do it in good time;" and ned looked up at his only clock, the great red sun, which was now nearly overhead. the next moment corbett's face fell. the path led round a bluff, beyond which he expected to see the trail go winding gradually down to a little group of tents and huts gathered about williams creek. instead of that he found himself face to face with one of those exasperating gulches which so often bar the weary hunter's road home in the frazer country. the swelling uplands rolled on, it was true, sinking gradually to the level of williams creek, and he could see the trail running from him to his goal in fairly gentle sweeps, all except about half a mile of it, and that half-mile lay right in front of him, and was invisible. it had sunk, so it seemed to ned, into the very bowels of the earth, and another hundred yards brought him to the edge of the gulch and showed him that this was the simple truth. as so often happens in this country which ice has formed (smoothing it here and cutting great furrows through it elsewhere), the downs ended without warning in a precipitous cliff leading into a dark narrow ravine, along the bottom of which the gold-seekers could just hear the murmur of a mountain stream. it was useless to look up and down the ravine. there was no way over and no way round. it was a regular trap. a threadlike trail, but well worn, showed the only way by which the gulch could be crossed, and as ned looked at it he came to the conclusion that if there was another such gulch between him and williams creek it would probably cost him all he was worth, for no one in his party could hope to cross two such gulches before nightfall. "it's no good looking at it, come along, steve!" he cried, and grasping at any little bush within reach to steady his steps, ned began the descent. who ever first made that trail was in a hurry to get to williams creek. the recklessness of the gold miner, determined to get to his gold, and careless of life and limb in pursuit of it, was apparent in every yard of that descent, which, despising all circuitous methods, plunged headlong into the depths below. twice on the way down steve only owed his life to the stout mountain weeds to which his fingers clung when his feet forsook him, and once it was only ned's strong hand which prevented phon from following a great flat stone which his stumbling feet had sent tobogganing into the dark gulf below. for two or three minutes ned had to hold on to phon by the scruff of the neck before he was quite certain that he was to be trusted to walk alone again. even steve kept staring into that "dark-profound" into which the stone had vanished in a way which corbett did not relish. though he had never felt it himself, he knew all about that strange fascination which seems to tempt some men, brave men too, to throw themselves out of a railway-carriage, off a pier-head, or down a precipice, and therefore ned was not sorry to be at the bottom of that precipitous trail without the loss of either steve or phon. "say, ned, how does that strike you? it's a 'way-up' bridge, isn't it, old man?" and the speaker pointed to a piece of civil engineering characteristic of cariboo. two tall pines had grown upon opposite edges of the narrow ravine in which the gulch ended. from side to side this ravine was rather too broad for a single pine to span, and far down below, somewhere in the darkness of it, a stream roared and foamed along. the rocks were damp with mist and spray, but the steep walls of the narrow place let in no light by which the prisoned river could be seen. in order to cross this place, men had loosened the roots of the two pines with pick and shovel, until the trees sinking slowly towards each other had met over the mid-stream. then those who had loosened the roots did their best to make them fast again, weighting them with rocks, and tethering them with ropes. when they had done this they had lashed the tops of the trees together, lopped off a few boughs, run a hand-rope over all, and called the structure a bridge. over this bridge ned and his comrades had now to pass, and as he looked at the white face and quaking legs of phon, and then up at the evening sky, ned turned to steve and whispered in his ear: "pull yourself together, steve. this is a pretty bad place, but we have got to get over at once or not at all. that fellow will faint or go off his head before long." luckily for ned, steve chance had plenty of what the yankees call "sand." "i'm ready, go ahead," he muttered, keeping his eyes as much as possible averted from the abyss towards which they were clambering. "i'll go first," said corbett, when they had reached the roots of the nearest pine; "then phon, and you last, steve." then bending over his friend he whispered, "threaten to throw him in if he funks." of course the bridge in front of corbett was not the ordinary way to williams creek. pack-trains had come to williams creek even in those early days, and clever as pack-ponies are, they have not yet developed a talent for tree climbing. so there was undoubtedly some other way to williams creek. this was only a short cut, a route taken by pedestrians who were in a hurry, and surely no pedestrians were ever in a much greater hurry than steve and ned and phon. consider! their all was on the other side of that ravine; all their invested wealth and all their hopes as well; all the reward for weeks of weary travel, as well as rest, and shelter, and food. they had much to gain in crossing that ravine, and the slowly sinking sun warned them that they had no time to look for a better way round. they must take that short cut or none. and yet when ned got closer to the rough bridge he liked it less than ever. where the trees should have met and joined together a terrible thing had happened. ned could see it now quite plainly from where he stood. a wind, he supposed, must have come howling up the gulch in one of the dark days of winter, a wind so strong that when the narrow gully had pent it in, it had gone rushing along, smashing everything that it met in its furious course, and amongst other things it had struck just the top of the arch of the bridge. the result was that just at the highest point there was a gap, not a big gap, indeed it was so small that some of the ropes still held and stretched from tree to tree, but still a gap, six feet wide with no bridge across it, and black, unfathomable darkness down below. ned corbett was one of those men who only see the actual danger which has to be faced, the thing which has to be done--that which is, and not that which may be. for instance, ned saw that he had to jump from one stout bough to another, that he would have to cling to something with his hands on the other side, and that it would not do to make a false step, or to clutch at a rotten bough. that was all he saw. so he leapt with confidence (he had taken twenty worse leaps in an afternoon in the gymnasium at home for the fun of the thing), and of course he alighted in safety, clambered down the other pine-tree trunk, and landed safe and sound on the farther shore. he had never stayed to think of the awful things which would have happened if he had slipped; of that poor body of his which might have gone whirling round and round through the darkness, until it plunged into the waters out of sight of the sun and his fellow-men. but all men are not made after this fashion. when ned turned towards the bridge he had just passed his face turned white, and his hands, which had until then been so firm trembled. what he saw was this. phon had been driven ahead of steve, as corbett and steve had arranged. as long as the big broad trunk of the pine was beneath him, with plenty of strong boughs all round him to cling to, phon had listened to steve and obeyed him. now it was different. phon had come to the end of the pine, to the place from which corbett had leaped, and nothing which steve could say would move him another inch. chinamen are not trained in athletics as white men are, and to phon that six-foot jump appeared to be a simply impossible feat. steve might threaten what he liked, but jump phon would not. the mere sight of the horrible darkness below made his head reel, and his fingers cling to the rough pine like the fingers of a drowning man to a plank. and now ned noticed a worse thing even than this phon had been driven to the very end of the tree by steve, and steve himself was close behind him. the result was that the weight of two men had to be borne at once by the thin end of what, after all, was but a small pine, and one extended almost like a fishing-rod across the ravine. so the tree began to bow with the weight, and then to lift itself again until it was swinging and tossing, swaying more and more after every recoil, so that at each swing ned expected to see one or both of his friends tossed off into the gulf below. there must come an end to such a scene as this sooner or later, and ned could see but one chance of saving his friend. "chance," he shouted, "hold tight! i am going to shoot that cursed chinaman!" the miserable wretch heard and understood the words, and saw the winchester, the same which had sent the runaway cayuse spinning down the stone-slide, come slowly up to corbett's shoulder. "jump or i'll shoot! it's your last chance!" and phon heard the clank of the pump as his master forced up a cartridge into the barrel of his rifle. it was now death anyway. phon realized that, and even at that moment his memory showed him plainly a picture of that pinto mare, whose bruised and battered body, with a great ghastly hole between the eyes, he had seen by the edge of seton lake. that last thought decided him, and with a scream of fear he sprang out, and managed to cling, more by sheer luck than in any other way, to the pine on the williams creek side of the ravine. when ned grounded arms and reached out to help phon across the last few feet of the bridge he was wet through with perspiration, and yet he was as cool as a new-made grave. "ned," said steve five minutes later, "i would give all the gold in cariboo if i had it, rather than cross that place again!"--and he meant it. for a few minutes steve's gold fever had abated, and in the terror of death even the chinaman had forgotten the yellow metal. and yet their journey was now over, and within half an hour's walk of them lay the claims they had bought, the wonderful spot of earth out of which they were to dig their heart's desire, the key to all pleasures and the master of nine men out of every ten--gold! ned laughed to himself. was a steady head and the agility of a very second-rate gymnast worth more than all the gold in cariboo? [illustration: "with a scream of fear the chinaman sprang out."] chapter xii. a sheer swindle. it is hard to sever the idea of a journey's end from ideas of rest and comfort. a is the starting-point, b the goal, and no matter how distant, no matter how wild the region in which b lies, the mind of the traveller from a to b is sure to picture b as a centre of creature comforts and a haven of luxurious rest. thus it was then that steve and corbett hurried through the lengthening shadows, eager for the city that was to come, their eyes strained to catch a glow of colour, and their ears alert for the first hum which should tell of the presence of their fellow-men. after the gloom of the northern forests, the silence of the pack-trail, and the monotony of forced marches, they were ready to welcome any light however garish, any revelry however mad it might be. life and light and noise were what both hankered after as a relief from the silence and solitude of the last few days, and it is this natural craving for change in the minds of men who have been too much alone, which accounts for half the wild revels of the frontier towns. as a matter of history, the first impression made by williams creek upon the sensitive mind of the artist chance was one of disappointment. perhaps it was that the heavy shadows of the mountains drowned all colour, or that the day was nearly over and the dance-house not yet open; whatever the cause williams creek struck chance with a chill. it was a miserable, mean-looking little place for so much gold to come from. in his visions of the mines steve had dwelt too much upon the glitter of the metal, and too little on the dirt and bare rock from which the gold has to be extracted; extracted, too, by hard labour, about the hardest labour probably which the bodies of men were ever made to undergo. as his eyes gradually took in the details of the scene, steve chance remembered cruickshank's glowing word-pictures of the mines, and his own gaudy map of them, and remembering these things a great fear fell upon him. steve had accomplished a pilgrimage over a road upon which stronger men had died, and brave men turned back, and now the shrine of his golden god lay at his feet, and this is what it looked like. in the shadow of a spur of wooded mountains, lay a narrow strip of land which might by comparison be called flat. it was lower than the bald mountains which were at its back, so the melted snows of last winter had trickled into it, until the whole place was a damp, miserable bog, through the centre of which the waters had worn themselves a bed, and made a creek. there were many such bogs and many such creeks about the foothills of the bald mountains, but these were for the most part hidden by an abundant growth of pine, or adorned by a wealth of long grass and the glory of yellow lily and blue larkspur. but this bog was less fortunate than its fellows. gold had been found in the creek which ran through it, so that instead of the spring flowers and the pines, there were bare patches of yellow mud, stumps rough and untrained where trees had stood, tunnels in the hillside, great wooden gutters mounted high in the air to carry off the stream from its bed and pour it into all manner of unexpected places, piles of boulders and rubbish, so new and unadorned by weed or flower that you knew instinctively that nature had had no hand in their arrangement. and everywhere amongst this brutal digging and hewing there were new log huts, frame shanties, wet untidy tents, and shelters made of odds and ends, shelters so mean that an african bushman would have turned up his nose at them. instead of the telegraph and telephone wires that run overhead in ordinary cities, there were in the mining camp innumerable flumes, long wooden boxes or gutters, to carry water from point to point. these gutters were everywhere. they ran over the tops of the houses, they came winding down for miles along precipitous side-hills, and they ran recklessly across the main street; for traffic there was none in those days, or at any rate none which could not step over, or would not pass round the miners' ditch. in rights of way were disregarded up in cariboo, but an inch of water if it could be used for gold-washing was a matter of much moment. "i say, ned, this looks more like a chinese camp than a white man's, doesn't it?" remarked steve with a shudder. "what did you expect, steve,--a second san francisco?" "not that; but this place looks so dead and seems so still." "silence, they say, is the criterion of pace," quoted ned; "but i can hear the noise of the rockers and the rattle of the gravel in the sluices. it looks to me as if men were at work here in grim earnest.--good-day. how goes it, sir?" the last part of corbett's speech was addressed to a man of whom he just caught sight at that moment, standing in a deep cutting by the side of the trail, and busily employed in shovelling gravel into a sluice-box at his side. "day," grunted the miner, not pausing to lift his head to look at the man who addressed him until he had finished his task. "are things booming here still?" asked chance. "booming, you bet! why, have you just come up from the river?" and the man straightened his back with an effort and jerked his head in the general direction of the frazer. "that's what," replied steve, dropping naturally into the brief idioms of the place. "seen anything of the bacon train?" asked the miner after a pause, during which he had again ministered to the wants of his sluice-box. "the bacon train! what's that?" "brown's bacon train from oregon. guess you haven't, or you'd know about it. bacon is played out in williams creek, and we are all going it straight on flour." the thought of "going it straight on flour" was evidently too much for steve's new friend, for he actually groaned aloud, and dug his shovel into the wall of his trench with as much energy as if he had been driving it into the ribs of the truant bacon brown. "that will suit us royally," ejaculated ned. "we shall have a small train here in a day or two, and there's a good deal of bacon amongst our stores." "you've got a train acomin'! by thunder! i thought i knowed your voices. ain't you them two britishers as were along of cruickshank?" "strike me pink if it isn't rampike!" cried steve, and the next minute the old gentleman who had helped steve in his little game of poker climbed out of the mud-pie he was making, and shook hands, even with the chinaman. "but where's roberts, and where's cruickshank?" he asked. corbett told him. "wal, as you've left roberts with him i suppose it's all right. did you meet any boys going back from these parts?" "only two, going back for grub," replied ned. "i guess they told you how short we were up here, and they are worse off at antler." "no, they said very little to us. they had a bit of a yarn with cruickshank though. he was leading out and met them first. he didn't say anything about the want of grub to us." "that's a queer go. why, it would almost have paid you to go to antler instead of coming here. you would get two dollars a pound for bacon up there." "ah! but you see we were bound to be here for the st of june, because of those claims we bought." "is that so? bob did say summat about those claims. do you know where they are?" "here's our map," replied corbett, producing the authorized map of dewd and cruickshank, upon which the three claims had been duly marked. "is dewd in the camp?" he added. "i don't know; but come along, there goes cameron's triangle. let us go and get some 'hash,' and we can find out about dewd and the claims." and so saying rampike laid aside his shovel, put on his coat, and led the way down to a big tent in the middle of the mining camp. here were gathered almost half the population of williams creek for their evening meal, the other half having finished theirs and departed to work upon the night-shift; for most of the claims were worked night and day, their owners and the hired men dividing the twenty-four hours amongst them. here, as on board the steamer, rampike was evidently a man of some account; one able to secure a place for himself and his chums in spite of the rush made upon the food by the hungry mob in its shirt sleeves. at first all three men were too busy with their knives and forks to notice anyone or hear what men were saying about themselves, but in a little while, when the edge of appetite was dulled, ned caught the words repeated over and over again--"bacon brown's men, i guess," and at last had to answer point blank to a direct question, that he had "never heard of mr. brown before." "these fellows hain't seen brown at all," added rampike. "they're looking for dewd. have you seen him anywhere around?" at the mention of dewd's name a broad grin passed over the faces of those who heard it, and one man looked up and remarked that a good many people had been inquiring kindly after dewd lately. the speaker was a common type amongst the miners, but in those early days his rough clothes and refined speech struck ned as contrasting strangely. truth to tell, he had been educated at eton and oxford, had thrown up a good tutorship to come out here, and here he was happy as a king, though all his classical education was thrown away, and his blue pantaloons were patched fore and aft with bits of sacking once used to contain those favourite brands of flour known respectively as "self-rising" and the "golden gate." as he rose to his feet with the names of the brands printed in large letters on either side of him, he looked something between a navvy and a "sandwich man." "dewd," he went on, "has been playing poker lately a little too well to please the boys. say, o'halloran, do you know where dewd is?" "faith and i don't. if i did, sandy m'donald would give me half his claim for the information. hullo, have you got here already, sonny? i was before ye though." and ned's red-headed friend of fighting proclivities held out his hand to him over the heads of his neighbours. "what does sandy want him for?" asked someone in the crowd. "you'd betther ax sandy. all i know is that he went gunning for him early this morning, and if he wasn't so drunk that he can't walk he'd be afther him still." "who's drunk, pat,--dewd or sandy?" "oh, don't be foolish! whoever heard of dewd touching a drop of good liquor. that's the worst of that mane shunk; he gets you blind drunk first and robs you afther." "what, have you been bitten too, o'halloran?" asked the tutor; and while the laugh was still going at the wry face poor corny o'halloran pulled, rampike and his three friends slipped quietly out of the room. "i guess we may as well locate those claims of yourn right away," remarked rampike as soon as they were clear of cameron's tent, "so as there'll be no trouble about securing them to-morrow. not as i think any one is likely to jump 'em. let me see your map." ned handed over the map before alluded to. "why, look ye here, these claims are right alongside the nugget, the richest claim on the creek!" cried their friend, after studying the map for a few minutes. "quite so, that is what gives them their exceptional value," remarked chance, quoting from memory cruickshank's very words. "oh, that's what gives them their 'ceptional vally, is it, young man?" sneered rampike. "wal, i guess they ought to have a 'ceptional vally' to make it worth while working them there;" and rampike, who was now standing by the nugget claim alongside the bed of the creek, pointed upwards to where the bluffs, two hundred feet high, hung precipitously over their heads. it was no good arguing, no good swearing that the map must be wrong, that cruickshank had marked the wrong lots, that there was a mistake somewhere. "just one of the colonel's mistakes, that's what it is. come and see the gold commissioner, he'll straighten it out for you," retorted rampike, hurrying the three off into the presence of a big handsome man, whose genial ways and handsome face made "the judge" a great favourite with the miners. all he could do he did, and was ready to go far beyond the obligations of his office in his desire to help cruickshank's victims. it was a very common kind of fraud after all. the colonel had drawn a sufficiently accurate map of the williams creek valley; he had even given accurately every name upon that map, and moreover the claims which he had sold to corbett & co. adjoined the nugget claim, and had been regularly taken up and bonded by his partner and himself. cruickshank's story indeed was true in every particular. gold was being taken out of the nugget mine at the rate of several lbs. per diem; why should it not be taken out of the claims which it adjoined? there was only one objection to cruickshank's map,--he had not drawn it in relief. there was only one objection to corbett's claim--the surface of it would have adjoined the surface of the nugget claim had they both been upon the same level, only,--only, you see, they were not. there was a trifling difference of two hundred and fifty feet in the altitude of the nugget claim and the bluff adjoining it, and corbett's claim was on the top of that bluff. now a claim on the top of a bluff, where no river could ever have run to deposit gold, and whither no water could be brought to wash for gold, was not considered worth two thousand dollars even in cariboo. chapter xiii. the bullet's message. "wal, those'll maybe make vallible building lots when williams creek has growed as big as 'frisco, but somehow trade in building lots ain't brisk here just now." no one answered old rampike. steve and ned felt rather hurt at the levity of his remarks. it is poor fun even for a rich man to be robbed of six thousand dollars, and neither ned nor steve were rich men. in fact, in losing the six thousand dollars they had lost their all except the pack-train. "it ain't no manner of good to grizzle over it," continued this philosopher, "cruickshank has got the cinch on you to rights this time. six thousand dollars cash, the pleasure of your company from victoria, and your pack-train to remember you by! ho! ho!" and although it was very annoying to ned, and quite contrary to rampike's nature to do so, he laughed aloud at his own grim joke. the laugh roused chance. he was a yankee to the tips of his finger-nails, one of those strange beings who "bust and boom" by turns--millionaires to-day, bankrupts to-morrow, equally sanguine, happy, and go-ahead in either extreme. "ned," he said, his face relaxing into a somewhat wintry smile, "i guess you were right after all. cruickshank is no britisher, you bet." "glad you think so; hang him!" growled ned. "no britisher could ever have planned so neat a swindle," continued steve meditatively. "by jove, it is a 'way up'!" and this strange young man really seemed lost in admiration at the smartness from which he himself had suffered. "i don't see much to admire in a thief and a liar. we prefer honesty to smartness in my country, thank god!" there was no disguising the fact that ned corbett was in a very ugly temper. not being one of those who look upon the whole struggle for wealth as a game of chance and skill, in which everything is allowable except a plain transgression of the written rules of the game, he could not even simulate any admiration for a successful swindler's smartness. old rampike saw his mood, and laying his hand on his shoulder gave him a friendly shake. "never mind, sonny," he said. "it's no good calling names; and as for being stone-broke, why there isn't a man in cariboo to-day, i reckon, who hasn't been stone-broke, aye and most of 'em mor'n once or twice." "oh, yes, i suppose that is so," said ned a little wearily, but rousing himself all the same. "what can a man earn here as a digger in another fellow's claim?" "anything he likes to ask almost. men who are worth anything at all as workers are scarce around these parts." "then we sha'n't starve, that is some consolation. by the way, i have a note here for you. this confounded business nearly made me forget it;" and so saying corbett produced from an inner pocket the little note given him by roberts at the balm-of-gilead camp. for a few moments rampike twisted and turned the note about, trying to decipher the faint pencil-marks in the dim light. at last he got the note right side up and began to read. evidently he hardly understood what he read at first, for those who were watching him saw that he read the note through a second time, as if looking for some hidden meaning in every word. when he had done this a vindictive bitter oath burst from between his set teeth. "if cruickshank ain't dead by now, my old pal roberts is. you may bet on that. look ye here!" and the speaker handed ned a flattened, blood-stained bullet which he had taken from roberts' letter. "do you know what that is?" he asked. "it looks like a revolver bullet," answered ned. "and so it is. that's the identical bullet as dan cruickshank fired at a grouse and _hit a cayuse_ with. pretty shooting, wasn't it?" and rampike ground his teeth with anger. "what the deuce do you mean?" cried steve in blank astonishment. "mean--mean! why, that if you warn't such a durned tenderfoot you'd have tumbled to the whole thing long ago! men like cruickshank don't leave horses unhobbled by mistake, don't hit and scare pack-horses on a stone-slide by mistake, don't get to williams creek a day late by mistake. oh, curse his mistakes! if he makes one more there'll be the best pal and the sweetest singer in cariboo lying dead up among them pines." "do you mean that cruickshank did these things on purpose?" asked corbett slowly, his face growing strangely hard as he spoke. "read rob's letter," said rampike, and gave ned the scrap of paper on which rob had found time to write a brief record of the journey from douglas, ending his story in these words--"cruickshank means corbett mischief, so i am staying instead of the lad. what his game is with the pack-ponies i am blowed if i know, but if i don't come in with them inside of a week, do some of you fellows try and get even with the colonel for the sake of your old pal roberts." for several minutes after reading this note no one spoke; each man was thinking out the situation after his own fashion. "will you trust me with grub for a fortnight, rampike?" asked ned at last. "yes, lad, if you like; but you won't want to borrow. men like you can earn all they want here;" and the miner looked appreciatively at the big-limbed man before him. "i'll earn it by and by, rampike. i'm going after roberts first," replied ned quietly. "how's that?" demanded rampike. "i'm going after roberts and cruickshank. can i have the grub?" "if that's your style, you can have all the grub you want if i have to go hungry for a week. when will you start?" "it will be dark in two hours," replied ned, "and the moon comes up about midnight. i shall start as soon as the moon is up." "impossible, man!" cried chance. "i could not drag myself to the top of that first bluff unless i had had twenty-four hours' solid sleep, if my life depended upon it." "i know, old fellow, and i don't want you to; but you see a life may depend upon it." "but you aren't going alone, corbett. i'll not hear of that." "we will talk about that by and by, steve. let us go and turn in for a little while now. i am dead tired myself." and so saying corbett turned on his heel and followed rampike to his hut, where the old man found room for all three of them upon the floor. "if steve and i go to look for roberts can you find a job for our chinaman until we come back? i should not like the poor beggar to starve," said ned, pointing to where phon lay already fast asleep. the moment he laid down his head phon had gone to sleep, and since then not a muscle had twitched to show that he was alive. whatever his master might choose to arrange for his benefit the chinaman was not likely to overhear or object to. "oh yes, i can fix that easy enough. i'll set him to wash in my own claim. i can afford to pay him good wages as well as feed him. men are scarce at williams creek." again for a time there was silence in the hut, corbett and rampike puffing away at their pipes, and steve chance trying hard to keep his eyes open as if he suspected mischief. at last nature got the better of him; the young yankee's head dropped on his arm, and in another moment he was as sound asleep as phon. then ned stood up and went over to sit beside the old miner rampike, remarking as he did so: "thank heaven steve is off at last. i thought the fellow never meant to go to sleep." "what! do you mean to leave him behind?" asked rampike. "does he look as if he could do another week's tramping?" retorted ned, glancing at the limp, worn-out figure of his friend. "he has pluck enough to try, but he would only hinder me." "if that's so, i'll chuck my claim and come along too." "nonsense, you can't afford to lose your claim; and, besides, you couldn't help me." "couldn't help you! how's that?" snorted rampike indignantly. "a man can always hunt better alone than with another fellow. one makes less noise than two in the woods." "but you ain't going hunting?" "yes i am,--hunting big game too." and there was a light in ned corbett's eye, as he overhauled his winchester, that looked bad for an enemy. "you ain't afraid of--losing your way?" asked rampike. he was going to say "you ain't afraid of cruickshank, are you?" but a look on corbett's face stopped that question. "no, i'm used to the woods," ned answered shortly; and then again for a while the two men smoked on in silence. presently corbett knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it away carefully in his pocket. "do you work in the night-shift on your place?" he asked rampike. "either me or my partner is there all the while." "shall you be there to-night?" "i'll be going on at midnight, but i'll fix up a pack with some grub in it for you before i go." "thank you, i'll leave that to you, if i may. will you call me before you go? i mean to try to get all the sleep i can before the moon is up." "well, lie down right now. i'll call you, you bet. you're a good sort for a britisher--give us a shake;" and rampike held out a hand as hard and as honest as the pick-handle to which it clung day after day. perhaps it was the thought of his old friend's danger which made rampike blind and careless, or perhaps it was only his natural clumsiness. in any case he steered very badly for his own door, so badly indeed that he tripped over chance's prostrate form, dealing him a kick that might have roused a dead man. but steve only turned over restlessly in his sleep, like one who dreams, and then lay as still again as ever. ned smiled. "no danger of waking him, i think, when i want to go. poor old steve! the loss of the money does not seem to spoil your sleep much." five minutes later, when rampike had gone out to get together the provisions which his guest needed, anyone listening to that guest's regular breathing would have been of opinion that the loss of the dollars troubled ned corbett as little as it troubled steve chance. chapter xiv. what the wolf found. about midnight rampike returned to his hut, and as the moonlight streamed through the doorway across the floor, corbett rose without a word and joined the old miner outside. "you didn't need much waking, lad." "no; and yet i slept like a top. but i _felt_ you were coming, and now every nerve in my body is wide awake." rampike looked at his companion curiously. "you're a strong man, ned corbett, but take care. i've known stronger men than you get the 'jim-jams' from overwork." ned laughed. he hardly thought that a man who had not tasted liquor for a month was likely to suffer much from the "jim-jams." "that's all right," said rampike testily. "you may laugh, but i've seen more of this kind of life than you'll ever see, and i tell you, you'd better stay where you are." "what! and let cruickshank go?" "what are you going to do with cruickshank when you catch him?" "bring him back to look at the _mistake_ he made about my claims," answered corbett grimly. "and suppose cruickshank don't feel like coming back? it's more than likely that he won't." "then it will be a painful necessity for roberts and myself to pack him back." "if you get him back the law can't touch him, and the boys won't lynch him just for swindling a tenderfoot." "the law can't touch him?" "why, certainly not. if you were such a blessed fool as to buy claims without a frontage on the crik, that's your business. he didn't say as they weren't on the top of a mountain." "but no mountain was shown on his map," argued corbett. "i guess he'd say as he couldn't draw maps well and the one steve chance copied was the best he knew how to make. he sold you what he said he'd sell you, and if you didn't ask any questions that's your fault." this was a new view of the case to corbett, and for a moment he felt staggered by it, but only for a moment. after all, it was not for the sake of the claims that he had made up his mind to pursue cruickshank. "thanks, rampike, for trying to make me stay here. i know what you mean, but i am not as nearly 'beat' as you think i am, and i wouldn't leave old roberts alone with that scoundrel even if i was. have you got the grub there?" "well, if that's your reason for going i've no more to say, except as i reckon roberts is pretty good at taking care of himself. however, a pal's a pal, and if you mean to stay by him, i'll not hinder you. here's the grub;" and so saying he helped ned to fix a little bundle upon his shoulders, taking care that whatever weight there was should lie easily in the small of his back. "it's only dried venison," continued rampike, "and i didn't put any bread in. bread weighs too much and takes up too much room. you can go it on meat straight for a week, can't you?" "i'll try to. give chance a helping hand if you can. he is a regular rustler if you can get him any work to do." "don't worry yourself about your pals. you are going to look for dick rampike's old partner, and you may bet your sweet life that he won't let _your_ pals starve." the two men, who had been walking slowly through the mining camp, had now reached the foot of the trail by which ned had arrived at williams creek. "well, good-bye, rampike," said ned, stopping and holding out his hand. "it's no good your coming any farther. don't let steve follow me." "good-bye, lad; i'll see that steve chance don't follow you. he ain't built to go your pace," he added, looking after ned, "if he wanted to, but there'll be me and some of the boys after you afore long, if there's going to be any trouble;" and with this consoling reflection in his mind, the old hard-fist returned to his cabin, pulled off his long gum boots, and lay down on the floor beside the still sleeping chance and phon. mr. rampike had not as yet had time to furnish his country residence, and after all, in his eyes a bed was rather a useless luxury. 'what's the matter with a good deal floor?' he often used to ask; and as he never got a satisfactory answer, he never bothered to build himself a bunk. meanwhile ned corbett was standing for a moment on the top of a bluff above williams creek, whence he could still see the lights of the camp, and still hear faint strains of music from the dance-house and the monotonous "clink, clink" of the miner's pick. the next moment he turned his back upon it all; a rising bank shut out the last glimpse of the fires and the last faint hum of human life. the forest swallowed them up, and ned was alone with the silence. never in all his life had he been in so strange a mood as he was that night. it seemed to him that every nerve and muscle in his body, every faculty of his brain, had been tuned to concert pitch. all his old calmness had deserted him, and in place of it a very fire of impatience devoured him. wherever the trail allowed of it he broke into a long swinging run, and yet, though the miles flew past him, he was not satisfied. on! on! a voice seemed to cry to him, and in spite of his speed the voice still urged him to further efforts. that was the worst of it. instead of the silence the forest seemed full of voices,--not voices which spoke to his ear, but voices which cried to the soul that was within him. the shadows were full of these inarticulate cries, the night air throbbed with them, all nature was full of them, and of a secret which he alone seemed unable to grasp. but it was no good standing still to listen, so he pressed on until he came to the bridge of pines where the day before phon had clung, swinging between this world and the next. here corbett hesitated for the first time, standing at the top of that arch of pines, looking across the black gulf in which the unseen waters moaned horribly. if his foot slipped or his hands failed him for the tenth part of a second, he would drop from the moonlight into eternal darkness, leaving no trace behind by which men could tell that ned corbett had ever existed. for a moment a cold horror seized him, he clung wildly to the boughs round him and looked backwards instead of forwards. but this fit only lasted for a moment, and then the bold english blood came back to his heart with a rush. "good heavens!" he muttered, "am i turning chinaman?" and as he muttered it he launched himself boldly across the gap, caught at the rope to steady himself, and having crossed the bridge set his face firmly once more for the bald mountains above him. all through the night corbett maintained that long swinging stride, climbing steadily up the steep hills and passing swiftly down the forest glades, tireless as a wolf and silent as a shadow. when the dawn came he paused in his race, and sat down for a quarter of an hour to eat a frugal meal of dried meat. had he been living the normal life of a civilized man in one of the cities of europe, he would have needed much less food and eaten much more. all civilized human beings overeat themselves. perhaps if the food at the bristol or the windsor was served as dry and as little seasoned as rampike's venison, less would be eaten and more digested. breakfast over, ned resumed his course. even during his hurried meal he had been restless and anxious to get on. fatigue seemed not to touch him, or a power over which mere human weariness could not prevail, possessed him. as the air freshened and the stars paled, the tits and "whisky-jacks" began their morning complaints, their peevish voices convincing ned that they had been up too long the night before. a little later the squirrels began to chatter and swear angrily at him as he passed, and a gray old _coyoté_ slinking home to bed stood like a shadow watching him as he went, wondering, no doubt, who this early-rising hunter might be, with the swift silent feet, white set face, and stern blue eyes which looked so keen and yet saw nothing. then the sun rose, and at last, taking a hint from the tall red-deer, ned threw himself down on the soft mosses, trusting in the sun to warm him in his slumbers, as it does all the rest of that great world which gets on very well without blankets. until the shadow had crept to the other side of the tree under which he lay, ned corbett slept without moving; then he rose again, ate a few mouthfuls of dried meat, took a modest draught of the white water which foamed and bubbled through the moss of the hillside, and again went on. one day went and another came, and still corbett held on his course, and on the third day he had his reward. at last on the trail in front of him he saw the tracks of horses, nine in number, all of them shod before and behind as his own had been, and the tracks of _one_ man driving them. that was singular. there were two men left with ned corbett's pack-train. where had the other gone to? backwards and forwards he went, bending low over the trail and scrutinizing every inch of it, but he could see no sign of that other man. perhaps he had tired and had found room upon one of the least laden of the pack animals. it would be hard upon the beast and most uncomfortable for the rider, but it was possible. or perhaps the tracks of the man who "led out" had been quite obliterated by the feet of the beasts which followed him. that too was possible, and ned remembered how he had noticed upon the trail that a horse's stride and a man's were almost exactly the same length, so that it might be that for a few hundred yards at any rate one of the animals had gone step for step over cruikshanks or old rob's tracks. but this could not have lasted for long; either the man or the beast would have strayed a yard or two from the track once in the course of a mile; but corbett had examined the tracks for more than a mile, and still the story of them was the same: "nine pack-horses driven by one man over the trail nearly a week ago;" that was the way the tracks read, and ned could make nothing else out of them. there was one thing, however, worth mentioning. corbett had hit upon the tracks on the path by which he himself had come from the balm-of-gilead camp to williams creek, at a point as nearly as he could judge five miles on the williams creek side of that camp. so far then the pack-train had followed him, but at this point it had turned away almost at right angles to follow a well-beaten trail which corbett and steve had overlooked when they passed it a week earlier. "that, i suppose, is where we went wrong, and this must be the proper pack-trail to williams creek," soliloquized ned, and then for a moment he stood, doubting which way he should turn. should he follow his pack-train, or should he go back until the tracks told him something of that other man, whose feet had left no record on the road? the same instinct which had urged him on for the last three days, took hold upon him again and turned him almost against his will towards the old balm-of-gilead camp. it was nearly dark when he reached it, and he would perhaps have passed it by, but that he stumbled over the half-burnt log which had been used as the side log for his own fire. since ned had camped there a little snow had fallen, a trifling local storm such as will take place in the mountains even in may, and this had sufficed to hide almost all trace of the camp in that rapidly waning light. as well as he could, corbett examined the camp, going carefully over every inch of it; but the only thing he could find was a cartridge belt, hung up on the branch of a pine,--a cartridge belt half full of ammunition for a revolver. this he at once recognized as belonging to roberts. "by jove, that's careless," he muttered, "and unlike the old man. i should have thought at any rate that he would have found out his loss before he got very far away, and have come back for the belt." in another quarter of an hour it was too dark to see his hand before his face, so making the best of a bad business ned sat down at the foot of a big pine, and leaning his back against it tried to doze away the time until the moon should rise and enable him to proceed on his way. but though corbett's muscles throbbed and his limbs trembled from over-exertion, no sleep would come to him. in spite of himself his brain kept on working, not in its ordinary methodical fashion, but as if it were red-hot with fever. indeed poor ned began to think that he was going mad. if he were not, what was this new fancy which possessed him? for some reason beyond his own comprehension his brain would now do nothing but repeat over and over again the refrain of roberts' favourite song. the tune of "the old pack-mule" had taken possession of him and would give him no peace. without his will his fingers moved to the time of it; if he tried to think of something else his thoughts put themselves in words, and the words fell into the metre of it, and at last he became convinced that he could actually with his own bodily ears hear the refrain of it, sad and distant as he had last heard it before leaving that camp. there it came again, wailing up out of the darkness, the very ghost of a song, and yet as distinct as if the singer's mouth had been at his ear-- "riding, riding, riding on my old pack-mule." when things had gone as far as this, ned sprang to his feet with a start. there was no doubt about _that_ weird note anyway; and though it was but the howl of a wolf which roused him from his doze, ned shuddered as the long-drawn yell died away in the darkness, which was now slowly giving way to the light of the rising moon. brave man though he was, ned corbett felt a chill perspiration break out all over him, and his heart began to beat in choking throbs. the wolf's weird music had a meaning for him which he had never noticed in it before. he knew now why it was so sad. had it not in it all the misery of homeless wandering, all the hopelessness of the ishmael, whose hand is against every man as every man's hand is against him, all the bitterness of cold and hunger and darkness? was his own lot to be like the wolf's? "great scott, this won't do!" cried the lad, and snatching up his pack he blundered away upon the trail, prepared to face anything rather than his own fancies. as he moved away down the trail corbett thought that he caught a glimpse of the beast, whose hideous voice had dispelled his dreams and jarred so roughly upon his nerves. fear makes most men vicious, and corbett was very human in all his moods, so that his first impulse on seeing the beast which had frightened him was to give it the contents of his revolver. stooping down to see more clearly, he managed to get a faint and spectral outline of his serenader against the pale moonlight, and into the middle of this he fired. a wolf's body is not at any time too large a mark for a bullet, even if it be a rifle bullet; but a wolf's body is a very small mark indeed for a revolver bullet at night, and so ned found it, and missed. to his intense surprise, however, the gray shadow was in no hurry to be gone. though the report of the revolver seemed curiously loud in the absolute silence of a northern night, the wolf only cantered a few yards and then stood still again, and again sent his hideous cry wailing through the forest aisles. "curse you, you won't go, won't you?" hissed ned, his nerve completely gone, and his heart full of unreasonable anger; and again he fired at the brute, and this time rushed in after his shot, determined if he could not kill him with a bullet to settle matters with the butt. but the wolf vanished in the uncertain light as if he had really been a shadow, and his howl but the offspring of corbett's fancy. for a few yards ned followed in the direction in which the beast seemed to have gone, until his eyes fell upon a swelling in the snow, near to which the wolf had been when the first shot was fired. what is that other sense which we all of us possess and for which there is no name,--that sense which is neither sight nor hearing, nor any of the other three common to our daily lives? before ned corbett's eyes there lay a low swelling mound of snow, smooth white snow, still and cold in the pale moonlight. there were ten thousand other mounds just like it in the forest round him, and yet before _this_ mound corbett stood rooted to the ground, whilst his eyes dilated and he felt his hair rising with horror, and in the utter stillness heard his own heart thundering against his side. until that moment ned corbett had never looked upon the dead. he had heard and read of death, and knew that in his turn he too must die; but as it chanced, he had never yet seen that dumb blind thing which live men bury, saying this _was_ a man. and yet it needed not the disappointed yell of that foul scavenger to tell him what lay beneath the snow. slowly he compelled himself to draw near, and stooping he completed with reverent hands what the claws of the hungry beast had already begun, and then the moon and the man, with wan white faces, looked down together upon all that remained of cheery old rob. corbett knew at last why there had been no peace for him in the forests that night. there was no mystery about his old comrade's death. the whole foul story of murder was written so large that the woods knew it, and were full of it. this was the story which the shuddering pines had whispered all along the trail, and at last corbett had grasped their secret and knew what the voices kept saying. just where the curly hair came down upon his friend's sturdy neck, was a small dark hole; a trifling wound it looked to have killed so strong a man, and yet when the bullet struck him there, roberts had fallen without knowing who had struck him. then for one moment, perhaps, the man who did this thing had stood glaring at what he had done, more afraid of the dead man at his feet than his victim had ever been of any man. the position of the body told the rest of the story. though he could kill him, cruickshank dared not leave those death-sharpened features staring up to heaven appealing for vengeance against the murderer, so he had seized the corpse by its wrists and dragged it away from the camp-fire, away to where the dark balsams threw their heaviest shadows, and there left it, its arms stretched out stiff and rigid for the snows to cover and hide until it should melt away into the earth whence it came. and what was corbett to do? men do not weep for men--their grief lies too deep for that--and, moreover, there is nothing practical in tears. and yet what was corbett to do? he might hide the dead again for awhile, but in the end he would be meat for the wolf and the raven. "oh god!" he cried in the bitterness of his spirit, "is this nothing unto thee? dost thou see what man has done?" and even then, while the infinitely small pleaded from the depth of the forest to the infinitely mighty, a little wind came and shook the tops of the pines, and the dawn came. thereafter, as far as corbett knew, time ceased. only the pines went by and the trail slipped past under his feet, until, in spite of all his efforts, and although the trees seemed still to go past him, he himself stood still. then there came a humming in the air and the thunder of a great river in his ears, and the earth began to rise and fall, and suddenly it was night! * * * * * * * * it was on a monday morning that ned corbett started from williams creek to search for cruickshank, and on saturday old bacon brown from oregon brought his train into antler, and with it a tall, fair-haired man, whom he had found upon the trail some fifteen miles back he said--a man whom he guessed had had the "jim-jams" pretty bad, "and come mighty nigh to sending in his chips, you bet." chapter xv. in the dance-house. "chassey to the right, chassey to the left, swing your partners round, and all promenade!" sang old dad, fiddler and master of ceremonies at antler, british columbia. it was early in june. the moon was riding high above the pine-trees, and the men of the night-shifts were dropping in one by one for a dance with lilla and katchen before going to supper. claw-hammer coats and boiled shirts were not insisted upon in the antler dance-house, so most of the men swaggered in in their gray suits and long gum boots, all splashed with blue mud, and took their waltz just as we should take our sherry and bitters, as a pleasant interlude between business and dinner. some fellows found time to eat and sleep, and a few were said to wash, but no one could afford to waste time in changing his clothes at the cariboo gold-mines in ' . when your overalls wore out you just handed your dust over the store-keeper's counter and got into a new pair right there, and some fellows took off their gum boots when they lay down for a sleep. wasn't that change enough? at any rate the hurdy girls were content with their partners, and their partners were all in love with the "hurdies." now, it may be that some unfortunate person who knows nothing of anything west of chicago may read this book, and may want to know what a "hurdy" is or was, for, alas! the "hurdies," like the dodo, are extinct. be it known then to all who do not know it already, that the hurdy-gurdy girls (to give them their full title) were douce, honest lassies from germany, who, being fond of dancing and fond of dollars, combined business with pleasure, and sold their dances to the diggers at so many pinches of dust per dance. it was an honest and innocent way of earning money, and if any sceptic wants to sneer at the gentle hurdies, there need be no difficulty in finding an "old-timer" to argue with him; only the arguments used in cariboo are forcible certainly, and might even seem somewhat "rocky" to a mild-mannered man. well, now you know what a "hurdy" was, and when i tell you that a troop of hurdies had just come up from kamloops, you will understand that antler was very much _en fête_ on this particular june night. indeed, the long wooden shanty known as the dance house was full to overflowing, full of miners having what they considered a good time--dancing in gum boots, drinking bad whisky, singing songs, and swearing wonderfully original "swears." but there was no popping of pistols, no flashing of bowie-knives at antler. that might do very well in californian mining camps, but in british columbia, in early days, even the strong men had been taught by a stronger to respect the law. so old dad took command in the noisy room, and was under no apprehension for his personal safety. he might be dead drunk before morning or "dead-broke" before the end of the season, but there was very little chance that a stray bullet would end his career before that terrible time came round when the camp would be deserted, and he would have to sneak away to the lower country to earn his living by pig-feeding and "doing chores." but the pig-feeding days were far distant still, so that this most dissolute yet tuneful fiddler continued to incite his clients to fresh efforts in dancing. there were those, though, even at antler, who were too staid, or too shy, or too stolid to dance, and for the benefit of such as these small tables had been arranged, not too far from the refreshments--small tables at which they could sit and smoke in peace. at one of these, in a pause between the dances, a tall, fair-haired girl, all smiles and ribbons, came to a halt before a solitary, dark-visaged misanthrope, who sat abstractedly chewing the end of an unlit cigar. [illustration: lilla accosts the colonel in the dance-house.] "what's the trouble, colonel? have you anyone murdered?" the words were lightly spoken, and a laugh rippled over the speaker's pretty face, but no answering smile came into the smoker's deep-set eyes. on the contrary, he sprang to his feet with so fierce an oath that lilla started back, and the smokers at the next table turned with savage scowls to see who it was who dared to swear at their little german sweetheart. "by mighty, i believe the girl's right!" said one of these; "the fellow looks pretty scared." "like enough. a fellow who cain't speak civil to a woman might do anything," growled another. this last was a yankee, and yankees have a great respect for the ladies, all honour to them for it. meanwhile the colonel and the dancing-girl stood facing each other, the smile dying out of her face as the scowl died out of his. she was half-frightened, and he had overheard his neighbours' remarks, and recognized the necessity for self-control. "i beg your pardon, lilla. what a brute you must think me! but don't you know better than to wake a sleeping dog suddenly?" "but no dog is so mean as to bite a woman," protested lilla. "that's so, and _i_ only barked. i've been so long packing all alone that i have lost my company manners. won't you forgive me, lilla?" and he held out his hand to her. now it was part of lilla's business to pour oil upon the troubled waters of society at antler, and, besides, the colonel was an old acquaintance and excellent dancer, so lilla took his hand. "well, i'll try, but you pay me a fine. see, not once have you asked me to dance this time in antler. now dance with me." "is that all, lilla? come then." and so saying he offered the girl his arm, and walked away with her to another part of the room out of ear-shot of the angry yankee. "i wanted to talk to you, lilla," he began; but just then the music struck up, and the girl, who had quite recovered her spirits, beat the ground with a pretty impatient toe, exclaiming, "the talk will keep; come on now, we mustn't lose a bar of it." and then, as her partner steered her gracefully over the floor, she gave a little contented sigh and muttered, "so you have not forgotten. ach, himmel! this is to dance." and indeed the dark-faced man might have committed many crimes, but he was not one to trample upon a woman's tenderest feelings by treading on her toes, tearing her dress out at the gathers, and disregarding good music. on the contrary, he had a perfect ear for time, steered by instinct, and held his partner like one who was proud of her and wanted to show her off to advantage. when the music ceased, and not until then, lilla and the colonel stopped dancing, and the girl had just enough breath left to say in a tone of absolute conviction: "you _must_ be a good man, i think, you dance so well." "of course i'm a good man, lilla," laughed her partner. "why should i not be?" "well, i don't know, but you frightened me pretty bad just now. what was it with you?" "oh, nothing--at least nothing much. i was sulky and you startled me. are you never sulky, lilla?" "what is that sulky, _traurig_?" asked the girl. "no, not quite. more like what you feel when a frock won't fit you, lilla." "so! i understand: well, wherefore are you sulky?" "i can't sell my freight at my price. just think what rough luck it was for me that bacon brown got in so soon after me. and after bringing the stuff so far and _at such a cost too_!" and again for a moment the colonel's face looked white and drawn in the lamp light. the frazer river trail was a bad one, but once its perils were passed there seemed to be no reason why an old packer should turn pale at the mere memory of them. "ach, sacrifice!" cried the girl. "you sell your bacon a dollar a pound, and you call that sacrifice. have you no shame?" "all very well for you, lilla. you are a girl who owns a gold-mine; i'm only a poor packer. by the way, have you done anything more about pete's creek since last season?" "no, but i think i'll do something soon." "better send me to find it for you, lilla, before someone else gets hold of it, and give me a share in it for my work. i'll take you, and you keep the creek. how will that do?" "and what do i become--ach, i mean what shall i get for my share?" her partner laid his hand upon his heart and made her his most impressive bow, but the girl only burst out laughing merrily. perhaps the noise and bright lights of a dance-house are unfavourable to sentiment. "ach so, colonel. bacon a dollar a pound, and you will trade yourself for the richest gold-mine in cariboo and me! _danke schön_," and she curtsied to him laughingly. "as you please, lilla. but will you bet me that i don't know where your creek is?" "i know you don't know anything about it, except what i told you last fall." "don't be too sure. you'd better trust me, lilla. it isn't the other side of the frazer in the chilcotin country, is it?" "i told you so much, and then--" "it isn't up at the head of the chilcotin?" "on which bank?" "the right." "ach so! i knew you didn't know," and then the girl stopped, and for a moment suspicion looked out from her simple blue eyes. lilla wasn't quite sure whether her dancing partner had not been trying to pump her. but the colonel saw the look, and knowing that he had obtained all the information which he was likely to get, he deftly turned the conversation into a fresh channel. "of course it's only my chaff, lilla. i would rather have the pretty gold on your head than all the gold in pete's creek, even if there was such a place, which i doubt. but who is the new invalid you are nursing?" "a britisher as you are, colonel; only i find him better-looking," replied lilla mischievously. "he might easily be that, lilla. i'm getting old, my dear, with waiting for you. but how did you find this new treasure?" "bacon brown brought him in." "brown brought him in! when?" "three days from to-day--when his train came along." "where did he find him? is he one of his men?" "ach no. i tell you he is english not yankee. brown found him dying on the trail." "on the trail! where?" "i don't know quite where, but somewhere between this place and where the trail forks for williams creek." whilst the girl had been speaking her companion had shifted his position, so that he now stood with his back to the light, so that no casual observer would have noticed even if his face should turn white and his hand shake. "what is your friend like, and what was the matter with him, lilla?" asked the colonel after a while, with a certain show of carelessness, dropping out his words disjointedly between his efforts to light a cigar. "well, i can hardly tell you, he lies down all the time. he is too weak to stand up, but he looks a fine man, tall and big--oh, very big, and hair like a deutscher's, and blue eyes, more blue, i think, than mine;" and she opened those pretty orbs very wide to let her questioner see how very blue eyes would have to be to be bluer than her own. "is that so, and lilla is half in love with him already? oh, lilla, lilla! and when will this beautiful person be well again?" "don't talk foolishness," replied the girl, blushing furiously. "how could i love a man who has the 'jim-jams?'" "the 'jim-jams!' what! from drink?" "i don't know. but there, there's the music, come along;" and once more lilla bore away the best waltzer in antler to the tune of some slow rhythmical german air. during the dance the girl said nothing, and after it was over she left her partner for someone else (mind you, dancing meant business for lilla); but towards the end of the evening she sought out the colonel again, and leading him on one side, said: "what will you do when you have sold your freight?" "i don't know. anything. why?" "i have a fancy, and you shall not laugh at me. pete gave me the map to find his creek when he died. that is good. now comes another englishman, also dying. i am, what do you call it--_abergläubig_?" "i don't know superstitious perhaps?" "perhaps superstitious. suppose this man gets well, he has no money, he is dead-broke, and very young. do you see?" "i see. you say he is ill and a 'dead-beat.' most of your patients are that way, lilla." "no, he is not a 'dead-beat.' i think he is--ach, well no matter. but see here, if you will give money for the outfit and grub, and take this man along when he is well again, i will give you the map, and you two can take half the mine between you. is that good?" "but why give him a quarter of your mine?" "i give you a quarter also; and i tell you pete was english, and you say you are english, and he is english. i think pete would have liked it so, and this shall bring me luck." "as you please, lilla. i would go for you for nothing. shall i have the map to-night?" and at that moment the light fell upon the man's face, which he had moved somewhat during the conversation, and showed that the mouth was twitching and the eyes glittering with strong excitement which would not be entirely suppressed. "no, not to-night. when corbett is well. i may change my mind before then, you know, and give you all the mine, and myself too--who knows!" and with a nod and a smile, half mocking, half friendly, lilla the hurdy girl turned on her heel and left the dancing-room for a little poorly furnished chamber, where, behind a hudson bay blanket hung up as a curtain, lay ned corbett in the first quiet sleep he had enjoyed since bacon brown found him insensible upon the trail which leads to antler. chapter xvi. the price of blood. it was neither day nor night in antler, but that time between the two when the stars are fading and the moon has set and the sun has not yet risen. the men of the night-shift had gone back to the claims; the hurdy girls had all followed lilla's example and slipped away to their own rooms, and though the big dancing hall was still open, the only people in it were a few maudlin topers dozing over their liquor. out in the main street there was no light, no light either of sun or moon; no light at all except one feeble ray which flickered from lilla's window, and fell upon the black water which hurried through the wooden boxes laid across the highway. by and by a man came out of the gloom, blundered heavily over the boxes, and swore savagely below his breath as if the boxes had consciously conspired for his downfall. when he had picked himself up again from the mud, this night-bird stood looking fixedly towards the light. had he swayed unsteadily from side to side, and perhaps fallen again, there would have been nothing worth watching about him. rye whisky, the fresh night air, and the ditches laid across the roads, used often to persuade very honest gentlemen to pass their nights beside the gutter. but this man stood firmly upon his feet, looking steadily at the light ahead of him. presently he appeared to have made up his mind, for after looking up and down the road to see whether anyone was watching him, he stole up to the window and crouched beside it in such a position that he could peer in unseen. inside the room the light fell upon bare wooden walls, from which hung a little mirror, and a man's coat and broad-brimmed hat. there was a rifle in one corner, and half the room appeared to be partitioned off from the rest by a bright red hudson bay blanket hung up as a curtain. in spite of the rifle and the coat an expert would have decided at once that the room was a woman's room. there was a trimness about it not masculine, a cleanliness not indian. whatever a red lady's virtues may be, cleanliness and order are not among them. but the figures upon which the light fell explained the anomaly of a rifle and a mirror hung side by side in a miner's shack, and explained, too, why a room in which hung a miner's coat and hat was swept and garnished and in order. in a bunk against the wall lay a fair-haired man, his eyes shut in sleep, with one powerful arm thrown limp and nerveless upon the outside of his bed. the man who watched him felt a nervous twitching at his throat as his eyes rested upon the big brown hand, contrasting so strongly with the white linen upon which it rested; for lilla had given her patient of her best, and ned corbett was sleeping between the only pair of sheets in cariboo. the worst was evidently over for corbett. the fever, or whatever his disease had been, had left him, worn and pulled down it is true; but the peacefulness of his sleep, the calm child-like restfulness of his face, told both his watchers that unless a relapse took place his young life would be as strong in him as ever before many days had passed. the colonel, peering in at lilla's face as she sat and watched her patient, saw very little chance of a relapse whilst _she_ was corbett's nurse. if tender care and ceaseless watching would save him, corbett would be saved. the colonel fancied, indeed, that he saw even more than this. his eyes ever since very early days had peered deep into the hearts of men and women; not from sympathy with them, not even from idle curiosity, but to see what profit could be made out of them. now he thought that he recognized in lilla's eyes, and in the caressing touch of her hand as she brushed back corbett's yellow hair, something which he had often seen before, something which he had generally turned to his own advantage at whatever cost to the woman. "the little fool!" he muttered. "she has got stuck on him because he has blue eyes and yellow hair like a deutscher. great scott, what simpletons these women are!" perhaps the colonel's guess as to the state of lilla's heart was a shrewd one, perhaps not. at any rate if the girl was in love with her handsome patient she was not herself conscious of it as yet, and as she sat crooning the tender words of a german love song, she was unconscious that they had any special meaning for her. "_du du liegst mir im hertzen,_" she sang; but as she sang, she believed that the only feeling which stirred her heart for the sick man at her side was one of pity for a helpless bankrupt brother. for some time lilla sat dreaming and crooning scraps of german songs, and then a thought seemed to strike her, and she drew from her bosom a little leather case. opening this she drew from it what looked like an old bill, and indeed it was an old bill-head, frayed and torn as if it had been carried for many, many months in some traveller's pocket. but there was no account of goods delivered and still unpaid for upon that dirty scrap of paper. as lilla turned it to catch the light, the man at the window had a glimpse of it, and started as if someone had struck him. "old pete's map, by thunder!" he exclaimed; and so loudly did he speak, or so noisy was his movement as he tried to obtain a better view of that precious document, that lilla heard something, and replacing the paper in her pocket rose and came to the window. there was only a thin partition of rustic boarding and the bosom of a woman's dress between the most reckless scoundrel in cariboo and the key to cariboo's richest gold-mine. he could hear her breathing on the other side of that thin partition, and he knew that his strong fingers could tear it down and wrench away that secret before the woman and the sick man her friend could even call assistance. but he dared not do the deed. life was still more than gold to him, and he knew that earth would be hardly large enough to hide the man who should wrong lilla from the vengeance of the hard-fists she had danced with and sung to in their merry moods, and nursed like a sister in their sickness. "no," he muttered, when lilla had resumed her seat, "i daren't do it, and i daren't stay another hour. if that fool gets his wits back the cat will soon be out of the bag, and the only question of interest to me will be,--'is it to be begbie or lynch?' if the boys knew, i believe it would be lynch!" and muttering and grinding his teeth, a prey to rage and baffled greed, colonel cruickshank turned and retraced his steps to his own quarters. once, and only once, he stopped before he reached them, and stood with knitted brows like one who strives to master some difficult problem. at last a light came into his face, and his coarse mouth opened in an evil grin--"i will, by jove i will! it will be as safe there as anywhere. cruickshank, my boy, you shall double the stakes and go for the pot. if i had only seen more of that map--" the rest of his sentence was lost as he entered the shack where his goods were stored, and half an hour later, when the sun was still only colouring the sky a faint saffron along the horizon, he strode up to the store of ben hirsch, general dealer, money-changer, and purchaser of gold-dust at antler. old ben was fairly early himself that morning. he had smoked so much the night before (being a german jew) that he really needed a breath of fresh air to pull him together, before he engaged in another day of chicanery, bargaining, and theft. but the sight of the dashing colonel at such an hour in the morning considerably astonished him. there was something wrong somewhere, of that he felt quite certain, and wherever there was anything wrong there was profit for the wise old jew. so his beady eyes twinkled beside his purple beak, and he gave the man he looked upon as his prey the heartiest greeting. "goot-mornin', colonel, goot-mornin'. ach, vot a rustler you are! no vonder zat you make much gold. haf you zold ze pacon yet?" "not a cent's worth, uncle. will you buy?" "ach! you laugh at me. i haf no monish, you know i haf no monish. ze freight eats up all ze profit." "keep that for tenderfeet, ben," replied cruickshank roughly. "freight on needles won't bring them up to fifty cents apiece, even in cariboo. will you buy or won't you? i've no time to talk." "vot is your hurry, colonel? ze pacon and ze peans von't shpoil." the colonel turned to go. "_ach, himmel!_" cried the jew, throwing up his hands deprecatingly. "how these english herren are fiery. colonel, dear herr colonel, pe so goot as to listen." "well, what is it? i'll give you five minutes in which to make a bid. after that i'm off straight to williams creek." "pacon is cheap zere, colonel; almost cheaper zan here. put i vill puy. are ve not from of olt be-friended? vot you zay, twenty-five cents ze pound?" "twenty-five fiddlesticks! do you think i don't know the market prices?" but it is not worth while to record all the haggling between hirsch and cruickshank. it was a match between the jew, cool, crafty, and cringing, and the christian (save the mark!), hurried, and full of strange oaths as become a soldier, "sudden and quick in quarrel." from the very outset the colonel had one eye on ben and the other on the door, and his ears seemed pricked to catch the tramp of men who might be coming in pursuit. of course the jew saw this, and every time the colonel started at some sudden sound, or reddened and swore at his obstinate haggling, ben's ferret-like eyes gleamed with fresh cunning and increased intelligence. like an expert angler he had mastered his fish, and knew it, and meant now to kill him at his leisure, without risking another struggle. and yet (to maintain the metaphor) this fisher of men all at once lowered his point and seemed to let his captive go. "vell, colonel, all right. suppose you give ze ponies in, i give you your price." "you're a hungry thief, ben. the ponies are worth the money; but i am not going to do any more packing, so take them and be hanged to you." "goot. it is a deal zen." "yes, if i may keep the pinto. i want a pony to pack my tools and blankets on." "tools. vot! you go prospecting, eh?" "yes. i think so." "ach so! by and by you strike it rich. then you bring your dust to old ben--eh, colonel?" "maybe. but where are those dollars?" "how vill you have them, colonel,--in notes or dust?" asked the jew. "in dust, of course; those flimsy things would wear out before i could get them down the frazer. besides, i've heard that your notes aren't always just like other people's, ben;" and the colonel pushed over a little pile of dirty "greenbacks." "ach, these are goot notes; but the gold is goot too, colonel. vill you veigh it?" "you bet i will," replied the colonel, making no parade of confidence in his friend. there was good gold in old ben's safe, but the tenderfoot who did not know good gold from bad often got "dust" of the wrong kind. this cruickshank knew, so that he was careful to examine the quality of the dust in the two small canvas bags, and careful, too, in the weighing of them--trying the scales, and leaving no hole open for fraud to creep through. at last even he was satisfied. "yes, ben, that will do--it's good for the money." "goot dust, isn't it? very goot dust and full measure. see!" and the old jew put it in the scales again. "but, _donner und blitzen_, vot vants ze sheriff so early?" the last part of the sentence was jerked out at the top of his voice by the dealer in gold as he turned excitedly to stare out of the little window on his left. "the sheriff! did you say the sheriff? give me the gold. where is he?" cruickshank had turned as white as the dead, and his hand shook as if he had the palsy, but for all that he managed to snatch up the two small canvas bags from the counter and hide them away in the bosom of his flannel shirt. "i zink i zee him go into ze dance-house. but vot is your hurry, colonel? shtay and vet ze deal. vot, you von't! ah vell, ze rye is not pad." and so saying mr. benjamin hirsch filled a small glass for himself, and with a wink drank to his departing guest. ben hirsch was certainly right in calling colonel cruickshank a rustler, a yankee term for a man who does not let the grass grow under his feet. half an hour after ben's cry of "sheriff" the colonel stole out of antler, driving old job in front of him, with blankets, gold-pan, and all the rest of a prospector's slender outfit, securely fastened upon the pony's back. as soon as he was well out of sight of the camp, the fugitive diverged from the main trail, and took instead a little-used path, leading direct over a difficult country to soda creek, on the frazer. along this he drove his pony at a speed which made that wall-eyed, cow-hocked quadruped grunt and groan in piteous fashion. in all his days job had never before found a master who could and would get a full day's work out of him, without giving him a single chance to wander or even knock his packs off amongst the timber. at last, when the sun had begun to go west, cruickshank paused, sat down upon a log, and lit his pipe. as he smoked and thought, the lines went out of his face, until he almost looked once more the oily, plausible scoundrel whom we first met in victoria. "yes," he muttered, "it was a bold game, but i made my bluff stick. why, if old ben knew that i didn't have even a pair to draw to, wouldn't he 'raise cain?'" and so saying, he put his hand inside his shirt and drew out the two little bags of gold-dust, weighing them nicely in his hands, and regarding them as lovingly as a mother would her first-born. for a minute or two his fingers played with the strings which fastened the mouth of each sack, but finally thought better of it and put them back into his pocket without untying them. to this man life was a game of poker, and for the present he considered that he had risen a winner though the odds had been against him, and with his winnings in his pocket he smacked old job on the quarters, held up his head, and felt ready for a fresh deal. and old ben--what of him? did he hurry away to secure the pack-ponies and their loads, or to see what the sheriff wanted at the dance-house? not a bit of it. _he_ knew (none better) that the sheriff was away at williams creek, and he knew, too,--he knew enough of human nature to be sure that dan cruickshank would never return to antler unless he was brought back against his will. he had sold his packs and his ponies for two little bags of gold ("of gold, ho, ho!" chuckled the jew), and even if he should find anything wrong with the gold he would not dare to come back to claim his packs. "i vonder vot dan has peen up to," mused the son of israel. "he play ze carts a leetle too vell for his friends, i know, put it must pe zomething worse zan zat. ach vell, it was ver goot zat i knew a leetle how to conjure;" and still chuckling and muttering to himself, he took from a shelf just below the counter two small bags similar to those in cruickshank's shirt front, and put them tenderly and reverently away in his safe. _they_ contained good gold-dust. those which cruickshank was carrying away contained a good many things, the price of innocent blood for instance, but ben hirsch would not have given many dollars for all that they contained. whilst the colonel was looking for the sheriff, ben had substituted bags of copper pyrites for bags of gold. chapter xvii. chance's gold-fever returns. "well, steve, what is the news? i can see that you are just bursting with intelligence. out with it, little man." "bell has struck it rich again. it's a fortune this time, they say." "is that all? poor bell! he'll be drunk, then, at victoria the whole of the winter. i shouldn't be surprised if this second stroke of luck killed him." the speakers were our old friends ned corbett and steve chance, and when steve joined him ned was sitting with his long gum boots tucked under a table in the antler dance-house, smoking his evening pipe. it was nearly a month since cruickshank had stolen away from antler, and since then ned had recovered all his old strength and vigour. at first he had brooded incessantly over cruickshank's escape, but as the days went by he realized that there was no chance for him, without knowledge of the country and without funds, against a man like the colonel, with a fortnight's start of him. together with one or two miners to whom he had told his tale he had made an attempt to follow cruickshank's tracks, and had succeeded in tracking him and his pony as far as the main trail to soda creek. here the tracks, which were already old, became confused with others, and sorely against their will the pursuers had to give up the chase. "cruickshank has got clean away with you this journey, partner, and i guess you may as well own up to it," was the verdict of one of his comrades. and ned, recognizing the justice of it, threw up the sponge, and owned himself beaten for the time; but although he said no more about the claims or the packs or the comrade of whom he had been robbed, he consoled himself with the thought that life was long and had in it many chances, and that whenever his chance came, however late, it would find his hand as strong and as quick to take vengeance as it was to-day. as soon as his story had become known, and men had seen what manner of man he was, ned had found no difficulty in getting employment in the claims, and, indeed, he had done so well that he had been induced to send a message to his friends at williams creek, in answer to which steve and phon had hastened to join him at antler. rampike promised to come up later on in the fall, but as yet he had plenty to do in his own claim. for a full fortnight the three comrades had worked away steadily with pick and shovel, and now, in spite of all his troubles, ned was his own cheery self again, proud of the strength which enabled him to do almost as much as two other men, and content with the work which kept him supplied with all the necessaries of life. but if ned corbett was content, his comrades were not. steve hated the daily labour for daily wage, and phon was hardly strong enough for the work, and anxious to go off prospecting on his own account. "what a phlegmatic old cuss you are, ned! don't you envy bell a bit?" "not i. why should i? i am strong and well again, thank god. i've plenty of fresh air and hard work, and i'm earning ten dollars a day--" "and spending eight. you won't make a fortune that way." "who said that i should? who said that i wanted to? why, my dear chap, just think for a moment. if i did make a fortune i should have to stop at home and invest it and look after it. _stop at home_, do you hear, steve?" "you'll die a pauper, ned," asserted chance solemnly. "and you, perhaps, a millionaire. poor old chap! i'm sorry for you. i am indeed. well, lilla, what can i do for you?" and ned, rising, took off his hat, as if he had been saluting a duchess. "the boys want a song, ned. will you sing for them?" asked the girl, her pretty eyes brightening and her cheeks flushing as she took ned's hand. somehow, though ned had often sought her, he had seen very little of his gentle nurse since he had become convalescent. "bother the boys!" quoth this young man of big muscle and limited intelligence. "i'm not going to do any work to-night. i have earned enough money for the day; but," he added quickly as he saw the girl's look of disappointment, "i'll sing for you, little sister, and you can give the money to the next dead-beat you nurse back again to life." "i never nursed any dead-beats," began lilla. "oh no, of course not. never heard of ned corbett, or pete of lost creek, or any of that crowd, did you, lilla? now i'm going to sing;" and with that he threw back his head, and sang in a full rich baritone a song of his canadian lumbering days:-- a song of the axe. when winter winds storm, and the snow-flakes swarm, and the forest is soft to our tread; when the women folk sit, by their fires fresh lit, oh, ho, for the toque of red! with our strong arms bare, it's little we care for politics, rates, or tax; let the good steel ring on the forest king-- oh, ho, for the swing of the axe! your diamonds may glitter, your rubies flame, our gems are but frozen dew; yet yours grow tame, being always the same, ours every night will renew. let the world rip: tighten your grip, make the blades glitter and shine; at it you go, swing to each blow, and down with the pride of the pine! for the trees, i ween, which have long grown green in the light of the sun and the stars, must bend their backs to the lumberer's axe, mere timber and planks and spars! then oh, ho, ho! for the carpet of snow! oh, ho, for the forest of pine! wealth shall be yours, with its business and bores, health and hard labour be mine! "_health and hard labour be mine!_" thundered a score of voices, and a score of strong labour-hardened hands came crashing down upon the rough deal tables. "bravo, ned!" "that's your sort for cariboo!" "mate, we'll wet that song if you please," and a dozen other similar expressions of approval rewarded ned for his efforts, but steve chance did not go as far as the rest of the audience. "a pretty good song, ned," he said, "with lots of shouting in it, but no sense." "give us a better, little one," replied his friend good-naturedly. "ah, lilla, you are a brick--i beg your pardon, but i don't know the german for a fairy who brings a thirsty man just what he wants;" and ned buried his moustache in a foaming glass of lager. "that beats all the champagne and such like trash into fits," he added with a sigh of satisfaction as he put down the empty glass. "now, steve, beat my song if you can." "beat it! no trouble to do that. if the boys don't shout themselves silly over my chorus i'll take a back seat." "you wouldn't stay there if you did," laughed ned; "but drive on, my boy." thus adjured, steve got up and sang with a spirit and go of which i am unable to give any adequate idea, the song of-- the yankee dollar. with sword or shovel, pick or pen, all strive to win the yellow ore; and "bust or boom," our natural doom, is but to love the dollar more. _chorus._ the yankee doodle dollar, oh! i'm no saint or scholar, oh! i only know, that high or low, all love the yankee dollar, oh! in miner's ditch some strike it rich, and some die in the collar, oh! but live or die, succeed or sigh, all strive to win the dollar, oh! "chorus, gentlemen,--'_the yankee doodle dollar_ oh!'" sang chance, and the whole room rose to him and sang as one man-- the yankee doodle dollar, oh! i'm no saint or scholar, oh! i only know, that high or low, all love the yankee dollar, oh! there was no question as to steve's victory. ned had stirred the hearts of a few, and pleased all, but steve had played upon the principal chord in the heart of antler, and for weeks the men hummed the empty words and whistled the frivolous, ranting little air of "_the yankee doodle dollar, oh!_" until even its author was sick of it. "you see, ned, everyone thinks the same except you," said chance, when the applause had somewhat moderated. "why the deuce are you so pig-headed? now that we have saved a few dollars why should we not go prospecting and make our pile like other people? i'm sick of all this picking and scratching in other men's claims." "'yo mun larn to scrat afore yo peck,'" replied ned stolidly, quoting a good old shropshire proverb; "and 'scratting' for ten dollars a day doesn't seem to me to be very badly-paid labour." "you forget, ned, that this cain't last. how do you mean to live during the winter?" "sufficient unto the day--" began ned, and then suddenly altering his tone he added, "what is it that you want me to do, steve?" "what do i want you to do? why, what any other man in cariboo would do if he had half your chance. take lilla's offer and go and look for pete's creek for her." "pete's creek! why, my dear steve, you don't seriously believe in that cock-and-bull story, do you?" "don't you believe lilla?" retorted chance. "of course i believe lilla," replied corbett hotly, "but she only tells the story as it was told to her." "by a dying man who knew that he was dying, to a woman who had nursed him for weeks like a sister! according to you, pete must have been a worse liar than ananias, ned." "i didn't say pete lied either, but pete may not have been sane when he died. you know that he had been drinking like a fish before lilla got hold of him." "yes, and slept out a couple of nights in the snow. i know that. but he died of pleurisy, not of the jim-jams." "well, have your own way, but nothing will make me believe in that creek. it had too much gold in it," replied corbett. "and even if i did believe in it, why should i take lilla's gold? hasn't she done enough for me already?" "perhaps. but if you don't get it for her, i guess someone else will come along and find it for himself." "why don't you go for it, steve, if you believe in it?" "so i would if lilla would trust me; but you see lilla is not spoons on me, and she is on you." corbett flushed to the roots of his yellow hair. "don't talk rot, chance, and leave lilla's name alone." "i'm not talking rot," said chance seriously. "but say, ned, do you mean to marry that girl?" "marry your grandmother! i don't mean to marry anyone, and no one is such a fool as to want to marry me." "all right, ned, don't lose your temper; but i know, old chap, that you would not like to get lilla talked about, and the boys are beginning to say that lilla got rid of her heart when you got rid of your fever." "the boys are a parcel of chattering idiots, whose mouths will get stopped pretty roughly if they talk like that before me," growled ned. "but really, steve, this is too ridiculous. fancy anyone wanting to marry me!" and the speaker looked down with a grin at his mud-spattered, much-mended pants, passed his hand meditatively over a rough young beard of three months' growth, and burst out laughing. ned corbett was heart-whole, and he did not see why everyone else should not be as lucky in that respect as himself. chapter xviii. on the colonel's trail again. the day after the conversation recorded in the last chapter happened to be sunday--a day which at antler differed very little from any other day, except that a few tenderfeet, mostly britishers, struck work on that day, and indulged in what some of their friends called a "good square loaf." ned corbett was one of these sunday loafers. of course there was no church at antler, nor any parson except upon very rare occasions. but ned had an ear for the anthems which the mountain breezes are always singing, and an eye for nature's attitude of reverence towards her creator. every sunday it was ned's wont to go out by himself, and lie on a rock in the sun out of hearing of the noise of the great mining-camp, saying nothing at all himself, but thinking a good deal, and keeping quite quiet to hear what nature had to say to him. as he was coming away from such a loaf as this, he met lilla wandering up the banks of a mountain stream, gathering berries and wild flowers. ned thought that his little friend had never looked prettier than she did at that moment--her soft yellow hair blown out by the breeze, her little figure moving gracefully amongst the boulders, the colour of wild roses in her cheeks, and a deep strong light in her blue eyes, like the light of the stars when there is frost in the northern sky. for a little while he watched her, as she hummed a song amongst the flowers and added fresh treasures to the already overgrown bouquet in her hand. "if she would take a man just as he is, she would make a sweet little wife for a cariboo miner," thought the young man; "that is, if he meant always to remain a cariboo miner. but, poor child! i'm afraid she'd find a shropshire welcome rather chilly even after cariboo. ah! well," he added to himself as he went jumping over the boulders to meet her, "luckily i don't want a wife, and lilla doesn't want a husband." the next moment lilla and he stood face to face. "did i frighten you, lilla?" he asked, picking up some flowers which the girl had dropped. "did you think i was a grizzly?" "not so bad as that, ned. but what do you up here?" "i'm taking a 'cultus coolee,'" replied he, using the indian phrase in use among the miners for a walk which has no object. "you are doing the same, i fancy. let us do it together." "what! you wish to come with me? well, come then," replied lilla. "you can help me carry these." ned took the bouquet, and after a while said, "i have been wanting to have a good talk with you, lilla, for some time." "so, ned! what is it about?" she tried hard to speak in an unconcerned off-hand way, but in spite of her, her colour rose and then paled, and her voice had an unnatural ring in it. ned looked at her. could there be anything in what steve suggested the other night? he asked himself, and then almost in the same second he repented him of the thought. ned corbett was not one of those men who twist their moustaches complacently, and conclude that every woman they meet must fall in love with them. "i want you to tell me about pete and his creek again," he said. "steve chance is awfully keen to go prospecting, and to go and look for this gold-mine of yours." "and why not, ned? i wish you would, for my sake." "i would do a good deal for your sake, lilla," he answered; "but i can't believe in this creek, you know." "not believe in it! why not, ned?" "there was too much gold in it; the whole story is too much like a fairy tale. and then, you know, when you took him in, pete was as penniless as i was." "penniless! what's that?" "hadn't a cent to his name, i mean, and you fed him and took care of him." "ach, so. well, what has that to do with the creek?" "people who find gold-mines ought not to be dependent upon good little girls like you for their bread and cheese. it's not natural, you know." "ach, now you make me to understand. but you yourself, you don't know cariboo ways. pete had plenty of dust, oh, lots and lots of dust, when he came down; but, of course, he blew it all in before i saw him." to anyone not conversant with mining life that "of course" of lilla's was delicious. to the steady-going collector of hard-earned copper and silver it seems anything but a matter of course to "blow in" a fortune in a fortnight; but then things were not done in an ordinary jog-trot fashion either in california in ' or in cariboo in ' . "oh! of course, of course!" returned ned with a smile which he could not hide. "i beg your pardon, lilla. i had forgotten for a moment that i was in cariboo, and thought as if i were at home again. well, and what was the matter with your beggared croesus when you found him?" "if you mean what was the matter with pete, i have before told you. he drink too much one night, and then he fall asleep in the snow, and when he wake in the morning he have the pleurisy, i think you call him." it was a long sentence for lilla, who was getting a little bit roused by the young scoffer at her side; and, moreover, her english was always best when produced in small quantities. "and why did they bring him to you?" "where else could they take him? the boys can't leave their claims to nurse sick men, and at night they are too tired to nurse anyone. and besides--" "and besides," interrupted her companion, "lilla is never tired. oh, dear, no! her eyes never want sleep, nor her limbs rest after dancing with all those roughs on a floor like a ploughed field." "don't you call the boys roughs, ned. they are not rough to me. of course i had to nurse old pete. what are women meant for?" "something better than camp-life in cariboo," replied corbett warmly; "but it is just as well for me that you don't think so." "well, and so i nursed him," continued the girl, disregarding ned's last speech altogether; "and sometimes he told me where he had been, and how much gold he had found, and at last one day when he knew that he must die he told me of this creek in chilcotin with gold in the bed of it--free gold, coarse gold in nuggets and lumps, and as much as ever you want of it." "why did he not bring down more of it, instead of letting you keep him as you kept me?" asked the doubter. "_ach, himmel!_ keep you! i didn't keep you. you are too proud, and will pay for every little thing; but old pete, he understood cariboo ways. to-day you strike it rich and i am stone-broke. very well. i lend you a handful of dollars and start you again. you don't need to thank me. any gambler would do as much. by and by i strike it even rockier than you struck it. all right, then you 'ante' up for me. that's cariboo." "is it?" asked ned, looking into the eager friendly face of this exponent of a new commercial creed. "is that cariboo? well, lilla, i expect samaria must be somewhere in cariboo. but finish your story about pete." "oh, pete! well, pete just died quietly, and he knew it was coming, and before it came he pulled out this," and the girl drew from her bosom an old frayed bill-head which we have seen before, "and gave it to me, and told me that as soon as i found--ach, what am i saying? i forget." and lilla suddenly brought her story to an abrupt conclusion, with stumbling tongue and flaming cheeks, for as a fact the old man had told her that this map of his was the key to much gold, and that when she should have found a man worthy of her, she was to send him to bring it to her, and it should be to her for a dowry. but this was not quite what the honest little hurdy girl cared to tell ned corbett at present. however, ned never noticed her embarrassment. his eyes were busy with the document in his hand. "it seems a good clear map, and looks as if the man who made it was quite sane," he muttered. "sane? what is that--'sane?'" asked lilla. "level-headed" answered ned shortly. "you bet he was level-headed, ned. _ach, mein freund_, how you doubt! i tell you there are not many men in cariboo who would not go to look for that creek, if i would let them." again ned remembered steve's words, "she'll only trust you because she has lost her heart to you." "did you ever give anyone a hint as to where the creek was, lilla?" "no, never. at least no, i didn't tell him, but one man nearly guessed once." "nearly guessed once?" "yes. he said he knew more than i thought and i had better trust him, and wasn't the creek at the head of the chilcotin? and i said, 'well, which side of the chilcotin?' and then he smiled, and i felt angry. and when he said on the right bank i was glad, and i cried 'no, it isn't, i knew you didn't know.' and then he smiled more, and i saw that i had told him what he wanted to know. but after all that is not much, is it?" "who was the man, lilla?" "colonel--colonel--ach, i forget, there are so many colonels in america." "true, but what was he like?" ned had a queer fancy to know who this clever cross-examiner might be. "a thick dark man, stout and smooth." "with a lot of rings on his fingers?" "yes, always lots of rings. oh, he was a fine man, and such a dancer!" "cruickshank." "that is it--cruickshank, colonel cruickshank. but how did you know, ned?" "oh, i have seen him before," replied corbett quietly. this was indeed news to him, but he felt that he must be very careful not to frighten lilla, to whom oddly enough the name of the man who had robbed corbett had never yet been mentioned. that he had been robbed of course she knew, but by one of those strange accidents which often happen, she had never heard who had robbed him. "so that is all you can tell me about the creek is it, lilla?" said ned after a long pause. "well, if you still wish me to go at the end of this week, i will go for you; if i find it you shall pay me ten dollars a day for my work, and phon and steve the same; and if not,--well, if not, i shall have earned a right to teaze you if you believe in such cock-and-bull stories for the future." and ned gave lilla her bouquet and prepared to leave her, for they had by this time reached the door of her little cottage. "oh no, ned, that is not so at all, at all. if you don't find it, of course i pay the cost; and if you do, we go shares in the find." "as you please, lilla, but we have got to find the creek first," and so saying he turned and strode off to his own hut. there were many reasons now why he should go to look for pete's creek, but the belief in pete's creek or the hope of finding it was not amongst them. cruickshank knew something of the whereabouts of the creek, cruickshank with his insatiable love of gold; and ned himself had tracked him towards soda creek, where he must cross the frazer to get to chilcotin. yes, that was it. the tables were turning at last, and if there was such a place as pete's creek, ned would find cruickshank there, and shoot him like a bear over a carcase. chapter xix. "good-bye, lilla." it was not ned corbett's nature to say much about what he felt. like most of his countrymen ned was reserved to a fault, and prided himself upon an impassive demeanour, suffering failure or achieving success with the same quiet smile upon his face. the english adage "don't cry until you are hurt" had been only a part of the law of his childhood; the rest of it read according to his teachers: "and then grin and bear it." but even steve, who knew corbett as intimately as one man can know another, was astounded at the readiness with which, after one wild effort to grapple with the man who had killed roberts, corbett had been content to settle down quietly to his daily labour in the claims at antler. he could understand that his friend would take his own losses quietly. steve, like all yankees and all true gamblers, was a good loser himself, and didn't expect to hear a man make a moan over his own misfortunes, but he had not expected to see ned abandon his vengeance so readily. after lilla's incidental mention of cruickshank, steve began to understand his friend better. his impatience to be on the war-path again was the real thing; the assumed calmness and content had after all been but the mannerism of the athlete, who smiles a sweet smile as he waits whilst the blows rain upon him, for a chance of knocking his man out of time before his own eyes close and his own strength fails him. "so! you've only been lying low all this time, old man, and i thought you had forgotten," said chance, when ned told him of his conversation with lilla. "great scott, i wouldn't care to be cruickshank!" "forgotten!" echoed corbett. "do you suppose i am likely to forget that roberts risked his life for mine, and that cruickshank took it--took it when the old man sat with his back to him, and his six-shooter hanging in a tree?" "no, i don't suppose you would forget, ned. when shall we start? phon and myself could be ready to 'pull out' to-morrow." "that would suit me, steve, but i am afraid that you and phon are embarking on a wild-goose chase. i don't believe in that creek of pete's one bit more now than i did before i saw lilla's map." "that's all right, ned; but you see cruickshank believed in it, and so do we." "yes, cruickshank believed in it, and in looking for the one we shall find the other. that is why i am going." "i know all about that; but as long as we both want to find the same place, i don't see that it matters a row of beans why we want to find it," replied steve. "and mind you," he added, "i would be just as glad to let a little daylight into cruickshank as you would." "very well, if that is your way of looking at it, we need lose no more time. you are old enough to know your own business." "that's what. how about a cayuse?" "i bought one yesterday for a hundred dollars." "a hundred dollars! great scott, what a price!" "yes, it is a good deal, but old dad wouldn't let the beast go for less. he calculated it at so much a pound, and told me that if i knew where to get fresh meat cheaper in antler i'd better buy it." "fresh meat! i like that. has old dad taken to selling beef upon the hoof, then?" "seems so. anyway i had to pay for the bobtail almost as if i were buying beefsteak by the hundredweight." "well, i suppose we cain't help ourselves; we shall only be stone-broke again. it appears to be a chronic condition with us. let's go and look at the brute." an inspection of the bobtail did not bring much consolation to either steve or ned, for in spite of the smart way in which he had been docked, he was as ragged and mean-looking a brute as anyone could want to see. besides, he was what the up-country folk call "a stud," and anyone who has ever driven these beasts, knows that they add vices peculiar to their class to the ordinary vices of the cayuse nature. "he ain't a picture, but we've got to make the best of him," remarked steve. "so if you'll just fix things with lilla, i'll see about getting grub and a pack-saddle. we _might_ be ready to start to-night." this was steve's view on tuesday at mid-day. at five o'clock on wednesday he was a humbler man, heartily thankful that at last he really had got together most of the things necessary for one pack-horse. the last twenty-four hours had been passed, it seemed to him, in scouring the whole country for pack-saddles, sweat-clothes, cinch-hooks, and all sort of things, which hitherto (when cruickshank and roberts had had charge of the train) had seemed always at hand as a matter of course. "hang me if the cayuse doesn't want more fixing than a brooklyn belle," muttered steve. "but say, ned," he added aloud, "do you mean to start to-night?" in another two hours it would be comparatively dark in the narrow canyons through which the trail to soda creek ran, and in two hours the three travellers could not hope to make much of a journey. "better wait till to-morrow, boys," remarked an old miner who had been lending a hand with the packing, trying in vain to show ned how the diamond hitch ought to go. "it ain't no manner of use starting out at this time o' day." "i would start if it were midnight, jack," replied corbett resolutely. "once we get under weigh things will go better, but if we stayed over the night in camp, something would be sure to turn up to waste another day. are you ready there, steve?" "all set, sonny," replied steve, giving a final try at the cinch for form's sake. "then just drive on. i am going to get the map from lilla;" and so saying he bent his steps towards the dance-house, whilst, one leading and the other driving, his companions trudged away along the trail to soda creek. when he reached the dance-house lilla was waiting for him, and together the two turned their backs upon antler and walked slowly away under the pines. "so then," said lilla, "you will really go away to-night." "yes, we are really going, lilla, to look for your golden creek. don't you feel as if you were a millionaire already? chance does, i know, and has decided to whom he will leave his estate when he dies." ned spoke lightly, and laughed as he spoke. he saw that the girl was depressed, and wanted to cheer her up. but lilla only gave a little shiver, though the evening air was far from cold. "don't talk of dying, ned. it is not good to talk of. men die fast enough out here." she was thinking, poor little soul! how very near death that gallant yellow-haired friend of hers had been when she first saw him, and perhaps death might come near him again whilst she was not by to watch over him. ned looked surprised at her mood, but passed lightly to another subject. "as you please, lilla. where am i to find you when we come back from chilcotin?" "_das weiss der lieber gott_," she answered, speaking half to herself. and then recovering herself she added in a firmer voice, "either here or at kamloops: most likely at kamloops, if you are not back soon." "but we shall be back soon. what ails you to-night?" "it is nothing, ned; but it seems as if summer had gone soon this year, and these great mountains will all be white again directly. i don't think you will get back here this fall." "not get back this fall! why, surely, lilla, you don't think that we mean to jump your claims, or make off with your gold?" "no, no! of course not. i know you don't care for the gold, ned, like the other men. you don't care for anything like other men, i think." "don't i? just wait until i come back from chilcotin and pour buckets of dust into your lap. see if i won't want my share then?" "i wonder how long it will be that i must wait, ned? i think sometimes that we shall never meet again. tell me, do you think such atoms as we are could ever find their way to one another, up _there_? it seems so hard to lose one's friends for ever." and the girl looked despairingly up into the great blue vault above them, wherein even the greatest of the stars are but as golden motes. "yes, little sister," answered ned seriously. "i don't think that such as you will have much difficulty in finding their way up there." after this the two were silent for some time, standing on a rise above antler, looking out upon the deepening gloom of the evening, ned's heart very full of tenderness towards the little woman to whom he owed so much. it would have been so easy, ned could not help thinking, to put his arm round her and comfort her; but then, would that be a good thing for either of them? the world was all before them, and the world was not all cariboo. "come, lilla," he said at last, "this won't do. the night air is chilling you. you must run back now. what would the boys say if their little favourite came back without her smile? by george, they would give me a short shrift if they thought that it was my fault." "the boys! ach, what do the boys care? all women can laugh, and dance, and sing. one woman is all the same to them as another." well as ned knew his little companion, he had never seen her in this mood before, and his face betrayed the wonder which her bitterness awoke in him. a woman's eyes are quick, even in her trouble, to note the effect of her words upon anyone she cares for, so that lilla saw the expression in ned's face, and tried hard to rally her courage and laugh her tears away. after her fashion the poor little hurdy girl was as proud as any titled dame on earth, and since ned had not said that he loved her, she would try hard to keep her own pitiful little secret to herself. "don't look like that, ned. don't you know when i am acting. but, seriously, i am cross to-night. i wanted my gold, and i wanted to keep my play-fellow too. we have been such good friends--haven't we, ned?" it was no good. in spite of her that treacherous voice of hers would falter and break in a way quite beyond her control. flight seemed to her the only chance. "ach well, this is folly," she said. "_auf wiedersehen_, my friend," and she held out to him both her hands. it was a dead still evening, and just at that moment the horn of the pale young moon came up over the fringe of dark pine-trees and lit up lilla's sweet face, finding in it a grace and purity of outline which the daylight overlooked. but even the moonlight could add nothing to the tenderness of those honest blue eyes, which had grown so dim and misty in the last few minutes, or to the sweetness of that tender mouth, whose lips were so pitifully unsteady now. "_auf wiedersehen_" ned repeated after her. "_auf wiedersehen_, lilla,--we shall meet again." for a while he stood irresolute. what did shropshire or all the world indeed matter to him? he asked himself, and in another moment he might have spoken words which would surely have marred his own life and not made hers one whit happier. luckily just then a wild laugh broke the silence and recalled ned to himself. it was only the owl who laughed, but it sufficed. the dangerous charm of the silence was broken, and pressing the girl's hand to his lips he dashed away up the trail. steve chance and phon had made nearly four miles and begun to pitch camp whilst he was getting that map. chapter xx. the accursed river. this world is a world of contrasts, in which laughter and tears, darkness and light, unite to make the varied pattern of our lives. when ned corbett left lilla standing with tears which would not be denied upon her white cheeks, he felt as if he should never laugh again, and the ball in his throat rose as if it would choke him. in spite of the pace at which he strode through the moonlit forest aisles, his thoughts dwelt persistently upon the girl he had left behind him, or if they wandered at all from her, it was only to remind him of that snow-covered camp in the forest, at which he had taken his last farewell of that other true friend of his. and yet half an hour after he had wrung poor lilla's hands in parting, ned corbett stood watching his comrades, his sides aching with suppressed laughter. phon's voice was the first sound to warn ned that he had almost reached the camp, but phon and steve were both far too absorbed in the problem before them to notice his approach. "you sure you no savey tie 'um hitch?" asked the chinaman, who was standing with his hand upon the pack-ropes, whilst chance held the cayuse by the head. "no, phon, i no savey. you savey all right, don't you?" "i savey one side," replied the chinaman. "s'pose the ole man throw the lopes, i catch 'um and fix 'um, but i no savey throw 'um lopes." "what the devil are we to do then?" asked chance, looking helplessly at the pack and its mysterious arrangement of ropes. "if the old man does not overtake us to-night we can't start before he gets here to-morrow morning. i wonder what the deuce is keeping him?" phon gave a grunt of contempt at his white companion's want of intelligence. he had a way of looking upon steve as somewhat of an ignoramus. "what keep the ole man? you halo comtax anything, chance. young woman keep him of course. young woman always keep ole man long time, all same china. you bet i savey." "you bet you are a jolly saucy heathen, who wants kicking badly," laughed steve. "but say, if corbett does not come along, what _are_ you going to do with the packs?" "i fix 'um, you see," replied phon, suddenly brightening again and taking the pony by the head. "now then, you hold him there--hold him tight. he heap bad cayuse;" and phon handed the lead-rope to chance, whilst he himself swarmed nimbly up a bull-pine under which the pony now stood. a few feet from the ground (say seven or eight) a bare limb projected over the trail, from which the chinaman could just manage to reach the top of the packs, so as to tie them firmly to the bough upon which he stood. this done he descended again from his perch, hobbled the pack animal, and stood back to survey his work. he had tied up the pony's legs, and tied him up by his packs to a bull-pine. things looked fairly safe, but phon was not content. "you hold him tight!" he sung out; "s'pose he go now he smash everything." a minute later phon had undone the cinch and set the pack-saddle and its load free from the pony's back, and then picking up a big stake he hit the unfortunate cayuse a hearty good thump over the quarters, and bade him "git, you siwash!" the result was funny. a general separation ensued, in which--thanks to a pair of active heels--(horse's) a little blue bundle of chinese manufacture went in one direction, a hobbled cayuse went jumping away like a lame kangaroo in another, while the pack swung in all the mystery of its diamond hitch intact upon the bough of the bull-pine. it was a quaint method of off-saddling a pack-pony, but as phon explained when he had picked himself up again, it saved the trouble of fixing the packs next day. but such scenes as these are of more interest to those to whom packing is a part of their daily toils than to the average englishman. the ordinary traveller puts his luggage in the van, or has it put in for him, and glides over his journey at the rate of forty miles an hour without even seeing, very often, what kind of country he is passing through. it is quite impossible to travel quite as fast as this through cariboo even on paper; but i will make the journey as short as i can, though for phon and his friends it was weary work at first, with a pack-horse which would not be driven and could not be led. when the ordinary lead-rope had been tried and found useless, phon slipped a clove-hitch round the brute's lower jaw, after which he and corbett together led, throwing all their weight upon the rope and pulling for all they were worth. it seemed as if this must move even a mule; but its principal effect upon the "stud" was to make him sit down upon his quarters in regular tug-of-war fashion, rolling his eyes hideously, and squealing with rage. the application of motive power (by means of a thick stick) to his other end only elicited a display of heels, which whizzed and shot about steve's ears until he determined to "quit driving." after this the steed proceeded some distance of his own accord, and flattering terms were showered upon him. "after all he only wanted humouring," ned said; "horses were just alike all the world over. kindness coupled with quiet resolution was all that was necessary for the management of the most obstinate brute on earth." so spoke corbett, after the manner of englishmen, and the "stud" poked out his under lip and showed the whites of his eyes. he knew better than that, and for some time past had had his eye upon a gently sloping bank covered with young pines and some dead-fall. as he reached this he tucked in his tail, bucked to see if he could get his pack off, and failing in that let go with both heels at the man behind him, and then rolled over and over down the bank until he stuck fast amongst the fallen timber, where he lay contentedly nibbling the weeds, whilst his owners took off his packs and made other arrangements for his comfort, without which he pretended that it was absolutely impossible for him to get up again. this sort of thing soon becomes monotonous, and our amateur prospectors found that though they were doing a good deal of hard work they were not making two miles an hour. luckily for all concerned the "stud" died young, departing from this life on the third day out from antler, a victim to the evil effects of about a truss of poison weed which he had picked up in his frequent intervals for rest by the roadside. it was with a sigh of sincere relief that corbett and steve and phon portioned out the pack among them, and said adieu to their dead cayuse. whilst he lived they felt that they could not leave behind them an animal for which they had paid a hundred dollars, but now that he was dead they were free from such scruples, and proceeded upon their journey at a considerably increased rate of speed. flower-time was past in cariboo, and the whole forest was full of fruit. upon every stony knoll, where the sun's rays were reflected from white boulders or charred black stumps, there grew innumerable dwarf raspberry canes, bearing more fruit than leaves. by the side of the trail the broad-leaved salmon-berry held up its fruit of crimson velvet, just high enough for a man to pluck it without stooping, and every bush which steve and ned passed was loaded either with the purple of the huckle-berry or the clear coral red of the bitter soap-berry. best of all berries to ned's mind was that of a little creeper, the fruit of which resembled a small huckle-berry, and reminded the thirsty palate of the combined flavours of a pine-apple and a ribston pippin. altogether, what with the fool-hens and the grouse (which were too careful of their young to care properly for themselves) and the berries, it was evident to ned that no man need starve in the forests of cariboo in early autumn; but there were broad tracks through the long grass and traces amongst the ruined bushes of another danger to man's life every bit as real and as terrible as the danger of starvation. the fruit season is also the bear season, and the long sharp claw-marks in front of the track told corbett that the bears were not all black which used the trail at night and rustled in the dense bush by day. though they never had the luck to meet one, ned and steve had their eyes skinned and their rifles loaded for grizzly every day until they issued from the forest on to the bare lands above the frazer. as they could not get a canoe at soda creek they had to tramp down stream to chimney creek, where a few chinamen were washing for gold. these men, in return for some trifling gift of stores, took the party across the river, and so worked upon the mind of their fellow-countryman with stories of the great "finds" up stream of which they had heard that his eyes began to glisten with the same feverish light which had filled them at lillooet. the frazer had a peculiar fascination for phon, and no wonder, for there is something about this river unlike all other rivers--something which it owes neither to its size nor its beauty. the frazer looks like a river of hell, if hell has rivers. from where ned corbett stood, high up above the right bank, he could get glimpses of the river's course for some miles. everywhere the scene was the same, a yellow turbid flood, surging savagely along through a deep gully between precipitous mud bluffs, whose sides stained here and there with metallic colours--vivid crimson and bright yellow, made them look as if they had been poured hot and hissing from nature's cauldron, and that so recently that they had not yet lost the colours of their molten state. the rolling years are kind to most things, beautifying them with the soft tints of age or veiling them with gracious foliage, but the banks of the frazer still look raw and crude; the gentler things of earth will have nothing to do with the accursed river, in which millions of struggling salmon rot and die, while beside its waters little will grow except the bitter sage bush and the prickly pear. when corbett and chance reached chimney creek the fall run of salmon was at its height, and added, if possible, to the weird ugliness of the river. from mid-stream to either bank every inch of its surface was broken by the dorsal fins or broad tails of the travelling fish, while in the back waters, and under shelter of projecting rocks, they lay in such thousands that you could see the black wriggling mass from a point several hundred yards away. from the shingle down below you could if you chose kill salmon with stones, or catch them with your hands, but you could not walk without stepping on their putrefying bodies, which while they still lived and swam took the vivid crimson or sickly yellow of the frazer's banks. they looked (these lean leprous fish) as if they had swallowed the yellow poison of the river, and it was burning their bodies alive. and yet like the men their betters they still struggled up and up, reckless of all the dangers, though out of every hundred which went up the frazer not three would ever find their way back again to the strong wholesome silvery sea. the glutted eagles watched for them, the bears preyed upon them, indians speared them; they were too weak almost to swim; their bodies were rotting whilst they still lived, and yet they swam on, though their strength was spent and they rolled feebly in a flood through which, only a few months earlier, they would have shot straight and strong as arrows fresh loosed from the bow. gold and desolation and death, and a river that roared and rattled as if playing with dead men's bones; a brittle land, where the banks fell in and the ruined pines lay, still living, but with their heads down and their roots turned up to the burning sky; a land without flowers, jaundiced with gold and dry with desire for the fairer things of earth--this is what corbett saw, and seeing, he turned away with a shudder. "my god!" he said, "gold should grow there; nothing else will; even the fish rot in that hell broth!" "you aren't polite to father frazer, ned. so i will propitiate him;" and the yankee turned to the yellow river, and holding high a silver dollar he cried, "see here, old river, steve chance of n'york is dead broke except for this, and this he gives to you. take his all as an offering. the future he trusts to you." and so saying steve sent his last coin spinning out into the gully, where for a moment it glittered and then sunk and was lost, swallowed up in the waves of the great river, which holds in her bed more wealth than has ever been won from nature by the greed and energy of man. chapter xxi. pete's creek. for an hour steve and ned toiled steadily up the yellow banks, bluff rising above bluff and bench above bench, and all steep and all crumbling to the tread. the banks of the frazer may possess the charm of picturesqueness of a certain kind for the tourist to whom time is no object, and for whom others work and carry the packs, but they were hateful as the treadmill and a very path of thorns to the men who toiled up them carrying a month's provisions on their backs, and wearing worn-out moccasins upon their swollen, bleeding feet. it was with a sigh of heartfelt thankfulness that corbett and chance topped the last bench, and looked away to the west over the undulating forest plateau of chilcotin. men know chilcotin now, or partly know it, as the finest ranching country west of calgary, but in the days of which i am writing it was very little known, and steve and his friends looked upon the long reaches and prairies of yellow sun-dried grass, dotted here and there with patches of pine forest, as sailors might look upon the coast of some untrodden island. to steve and phon this yellow table-land was the region of fairy gold. it was somewhere here that the yellow stuff which all men love lay waiting for man to find it. surely it was something more than the common everyday sun which made those chilcotin uplands so wondrously golden! so thought steve and phon. to ned all was different. as far as the eye could see a thousand trails led across the bluffs, gradually fading away in the distance. they were but cattle trails--the trails of the wild cattle of those hills--blacktail deer and bighorn sheep, but to ned they were paths along which the feet of murder had gone, and his eye rested on the dark islands of pine, as if he suspected that the man he sought lurked in their shadow. "well, ned, which is the way? let's look at the map," said chance. ned produced the map, and together the two men bent over it. "the trail should run south-west from the top of this ridge, until we strike what old pete calls here a 'good-sized chunk of a crik.' that is our first landmark. 'bear south-west from the big red bluff,' he says--and there's the bluff," and ned pointed to a big red buttress of mud upon the further bank of the frazer. "that's so, ned, but i can see another big red bluff, and there are any number of trails leading more or less south-west," replied chance. "well, let's take the biggest," suggested corbett, and no one having any better plan to propose, his advice was taken. for some time all went well. the trail was plain enough for a blind man to follow, and the walking, after that which they had experienced in the forest and along the banks of the frazer, was almost a pleasure to them. unfortunately there were a few drawbacks to the pleasures of travel even in chilcotin. in cariboo and up the frazer the indians had already learnt that the white man's rifle could kill nearly as far as a man could see, and they respected the white men, or feared them, which did as well. but in chilcotin the red men were untamed (they are less tamed still, probably, than any indians on the pacific coast), and it was necessary for ned and his friends to take care lest they should blunder unasked into some hunter's camp. this upon the evening of their first day upon these table-lands they very nearly did, but as luck would have it, they saw the thin column of blue smoke winding up from a clump of pines just in time, and slunk away into the bed of pete's "good-sized chunk of a crik," where they lay without a fire until the dawn of the next day. luckily for them the nights were still fairly warm as high-land nights go, but after sundown the air is always fresh upon these high tablelands, and no one was sorry when the day broke. the expedition, steve chance opined, had ceased to be "a picnic." food was becoming somewhat scarce, and already ned in his capacity of leader had put them upon rations of one tin cupful of flour per diem, two rashers of bacon, and a little tea. a cupful of flour means about four good-sized slices of bread, and although a man can live very well upon two slices of bread for breakfast and two at dinner, with a rasher of bacon and a little weak tea at each meal, and nothing between meals except twelve hours' hard work in the open air, he ought not to be sneered at if he feels a craving for some little luxury in the way of sugar or butter, or even another slice of bread. every now and then, it is true, something fell to one of the rifles; but they dared not shoot much for fear of attracting the attention of wandering indians, and besides it is astonishing how little game men see upon the march. you can march or hunt, but it is difficult to both march and hunt successfully at the same time. on the third day upon the chilcotin table-lands, the trail which the prospectors had been following "played out." for four or five miles it had grown fainter and fainter, and now the party stood out in the middle of a great sea of sunburnt grass, with no road before them and no land-marks to guide them. "i'll tell you what it is, steve, we have rather made a mess of this journey. it seems to me that unless there is something wrong with the sun we have been bearing too much to the west. it looks as if we were going a point to the north of west, instead of south-west, as we intended to do," said ned after a careful survey of their position. "likely enough," assented his companion. "i don't see how a fellow is to keep his course amongst all these ups and downs. besides, we followed the trail." "yes, and the trail has played out. i expect it was only a watering trail, though it is funny that it seems to start out of the middle of nowhere. let's steer by the sun and go nearly due south. we must hit off the chilcotin in that way." "what, the chilcotin river? yes, that seems a good idea. lead on, macduff!" so it was that with his companion's assent ned turned nearly south, and hour after hour strode on in silence over the yellow downs, until the sun had sank below the horizon. "it's time to camp, ned," cried steve, who had fallen a good deal behind his companions; "and that is rather a snug-looking hollow on our left. we should be sheltered from that beastly cold night-wind in there. what do you say?" "all right, if you must stop," replied ned, looking forward regretfully. "but ought we not to make another mile or two before we camp?" "you can do what you please, but i cain't crawl another yard, and don't mean to try to. bring yourself to an anchor, ned, and let's have grub." of course ned yielded. it was no good going on alone. "say, ned," cried steve a few minutes later, "we aren't the first to camp here. look at this." "this" was the carcase of a mule-deer, which lay in the hollow in which steve wanted to camp. "well, old chap, that spoils your hollow, i'm afraid. it is too high to be pleasant as a bed-fellow. by jove, look here!" and stooping, ned picked up the empty shell of a winchester cartridge. "the fellow who killed that deer has camped right alongside his kill," remarked steve. "see here, he has cut off a joint to carry away with him;" and steve pointed to where a whole quarter had evidently been neatly taken off with a knife. "it's some indian, i reckon, out hunting." "no, that is no indian's work, steve. an indian would have cleaned his beast, and even if he did not mean to come back for the meat he would have severed the joints and laid them neatly side by side. it is almost a part of his religion to treat what he kills with some show of respect. the man who slept here was a white man." "cruickshank?" suggested steve. "yes, i think so," replied ned quietly. "but he must have been here some weeks ago." "great scott! then we'll get the brute yet." "we may, but he has a long start of us, and the grub is getting very light to carry;" and ned lifted his little pack and weighed it thoughtfully. and ned was right, the man had a long start of them. from the evening upon which they found the ungralloched stag to the end of the month corbett and his friends wandered about day after day looking for pete's creek or cruickshank, but found neither. they had reached the chilcotin of course, and on its banks had been lucky enough to kill one of a band of sheep, upon which they lived for some days, but they could find no traces of that stream which, according to the old miner, flowed over a bed of gold into the river. they had washed pansful of dirt from a score of good-sized streams, and phon had let no rill pass him without peering into it and examining a little of the gravel over which its waters ran, but so far the gold-seekers had not found anything which seemed likely to pay even moderate daily wages. neither had they found anywhere traces of cruickshank. between the dead stag and the chilcotin they had come across two or three camps, probably the camps of the man who had killed that stag, but even corbett began to doubt if the man could be a white man. whoever he was he had worn moccasins, had had but one pack animal with him, and there were no scraps of paper, or similar trifles, ever left about the camps to show that he had carried with him any of the scanty luxuries which even miners sometimes indulge in. it was odd that he left no indian message in his old camps--no wooden pegs driven in by the dead camp-fire, with their heads bent the way he was going. but this proved nothing. he might be a white or he might be an indian. in either case it looked as if, after hunting on the left bank of the chilcotin, he had crossed to the other bank as if making for empire valley, and, knowing as much as he knew about the position of pete's creek, cruickshank would hardly have been likely to leave the left bank. ned began to fear that his quest was as hopeless as steve's. it was a chill, dark evening, with the first menace of winter in the sky, when ned announced that the grub would not hold out more than another week. "we have made it go as far as possible, and of course if we kill anything we can live on meat 'straight' again for a time, but i think, steve, we have hunted this country pretty well for pete's creek, and we may as well give it up," said ned. "and how about cruickshank? do you think he has cleared out, or do you think he has never been here?" "i don't know what to think, but i expect we shall come across old rampike on the frazer, and i shall stop and hunt with him." that word "hunt" has an ugly sound when the thing to be hunted is a man like yourself, and steve looked curiously into ned's face. would he never get tired and give up the chase, this quiet man who looked as if he had no malice in his nature, and yet stuck to his prey with the patience of a wolf? "what do you propose, ned? fix things your own way. i am sick of dry bread and sugarless tea, anyway." corbett laughed. he thought to himself that had he been as keen after the gold as steve had been, he would hardly have remembered that the tea had no sugar in it. phon, to his mind, was a much better stamp of gold-seeker than his volatile yankee friend. "all right! if you leave it to me, i propose that we go down to the frazer, following the chilcotin to its mouth, and prospecting the sources of all these little streams as we go. you see, so far we have only been low down near the bed of the chilcotin. what i propose to do now, is to keep along the divide where the streams rise. at any rate we shall see more game up there than down here." "_nawitka_ and _hyas sloosh_, as the siwashes say. any blessed thing you please, ned, only let us get out of this before we starve. what do you say, phon?" "very good, not go yet," replied the chinaman. "s'pose not find gold down low, find him high up." "phon sticks to his guns better than you do, steve," remarked corbett. "i daresay. a herring-gutted chinaman may be able to live on air. i cain't." but the morrow brought phon the reward of his faith, and twenty-four hours from the time when steve chance had asked only to be allowed to "get out of the confounded country by the shortest road," he would not have left it for ten thousand dollars. this was how it happened. about mid-day, the sun being unusually hot, a halt had been called to smoke the mid-day pipe and rest legs wearied with the steep climb from the river bed to the crest of the divide. "don't you think, ned, we might be allowed a square inch of damper for lunch to-day? we are going back now, and i am starving," said steve. "all right. half a damper among the three if you like, but not a mouthful more." even this was more than he had hoped for, so steve chewed the heavy damp morsel carefully; not that he distrusted the powers of his digestion, but because he was anxious to make the most of every crumb of his scanty repast. just below where the three were sitting grew a patch of orange-coloured indian pinks. "i guess there's water not far from those flowers," remarked steve, "and i want a drink badly before i light my pipe." dry bread is apt to stick in a man's gullet however hungry he may be, so that the three went down together, and found that, as steve suspected, the pinks were growing in a damp spot, from which oozed a tiny rill, which, as they followed it, grew and grew until the rapidity of its growth roused their curiosity, and led them on long after they had found the drinking-place they sought. all at once it seemed as if the stream had been augmented by water from some subterranean source, for its volume grew at a bound from that of a rill to that of a good-sized mountain stream, which gurgled noisily through the mosses for a few hundred yards, and then plunged through a cleft in the rocks to reappear, three or four hundred feet below, a dark rapid mountain-torrent, running between walls of wet black rock. "it is a queer-looking place, isn't it, steve? any fellow might go all over this country and miss seeing that creek. i wonder if it is worth while climbing down that place to prospect it?" but whilst the strongest stood doubting, the weakest of the party had scrambled like a cat over the rocks, and could now be seen on his knees by the brink of the dark waters, washing as he had never washed before. at last the little blue figure sprang to its feet, and waving its arms wildly, yelled: "_chicamon! chicamon!_ me find him. _hyóu chicamon!_" (_anglice_ heaps of money). diphtheria, cholera, the black death itself, rapid though they are in their spread, and appalling though they are in their strength, are sluggish and weak compared to the gold fever. in one moment, at that cry of "chicamon! chicamon!" (money! money!), chance had recovered from his fatigue, corbett had awakened from his dreams of vengeance, and both together were scrambling recklessly down the rocks to the pool, beside which phon was again kneeling, washing the golden dirt. in spite of his native phlegm and his professed disregard for gold, ned corbett actually jostled his companions in his eagerness to get to the water; and though his pet pipe dropped from his mouth and broke into a hundred pieces, he never seemed to know what had happened to him. when phon washed his first panful of dirt in pete's creek it was broad noon; when ned corbett straightened his back with a sigh and came back for a moment almost to his senses, it was too dark to see the glittering specks in their pans any longer. from noon to dusk they had toiled like galley slaves, without a thought of time, or fatigue, or hunger, and yet two of these were weak, tired men, and the third, under ordinary circumstances, really had quite a beautiful contempt for the sordid dollar. when corbett looked at the gleaming yellow stuff, and realized what power it had suddenly exerted over him, he actually felt afraid of it. there was something uncanny about it. but there was no longer any doubt about pete's creek. they had struck it this time, and no mistake; and if there was much "dirt" like that which they had been washing since noon, a few months of steady work would make all three rich men for life. in most places which they had seen, the gold had been found in dust: here it was in flakes and scales, as big as the scales upon the back of a chub. in most places a return of a few cents to the pan would have been considered "good enough:" here the return was not in cents but in dollars, and yet even now what was this which phon the chinaman was saying, his features working as if he were going into an epileptic fit? "this nothing, nothing at all! you wait till to-mollow. then we see gold,--heap gold not all same this, but in _lumps_!" and he got up and walked about, nodding his head and muttering: "you bet you sweet life! heap gold! you bet you sweet life!" whilst the red firelight flickered over his wizened features, and dwelt in the corners of his small dark eyes, until he resembled one of those quaint chinese devils of whom he stood so much in awe. as far as ned and his companions could calculate, their first seven hours' work had yielded them something like a thousand dollars-worth of pure gold; and already ned corbett almost regretted the price he had paid for it, as he listened to the eager, crazy chatter of his companions, and tried in vain to put together the good old pipe which he had shattered in his rush for that yellow metal, which gleamed evilly, so ned thought, from the tin pannikin upon chance's knee. there was another thing which corbett could not forget. it was true that they had found pete's creek and the gold, but there was no trace of cruickshank. chapter xxii. gold by the gallon! after the finding of pete's creek there was no more talk of returning to the frazer. in corbett's camp the reign of gold had begun, so that no man spoke of anything or thought of anything but the yellow metal. gold was a god to all the three of them, and phon and chance and corbett alike bowed their backs and worshipped, grovelling on their knees and toiling with pick and pan and rocker all the day long. only corbett rebelled at all against the tyranny of the strange god, and he rebelled in thought only. each day, in his heart, he swore should be the last which he would waste down by the creek, and yet every fresh dawn found him at his place with the others. luckily for the gold-seekers, pete's creek was rich in other things besides mere gold. trout abounded in the water, and huckle-berries grew thick some little distance down stream; and in addition to these good things corbett soon discovered that the trails which ran thread-like over the face of the cliffs above pete's creek owed their existence to the feet of generations upon generations of white goats--staid stolid brutes, with humps upon their backs, little black horns upon their heads, wide frills to their hairy pantaloons, and beards worn as seafaring men used to wear them, all round their chins and cheeks. these were the aborigines of pete's creek, and were if anything more confiding and more easily killed than the trout. every morning at early dawn the gold-seekers saw the goats clambering slowly back to the lairs, in which they hid during the daytime, and just after dark the rattling stones told them that their neighbours were on their way down again to the lowlands. whenever ned wanted one for the pot, the stalk was a very simple thing, the goat standing looking at the approaching gunner with stony indifference, until a bullet rolled him over. food was plentiful enough about the creek, and ned was able to lay aside what little flour remained, keeping it until the time came when winter should make a move to some lower camping ground an absolute necessity. so then the three had nothing to do but to gather up the gold-dust, and add pile to pile and bag to bag of the precious metal. all worked with energy, but no one with such tireless patience, such feverish vigour, as the little chinaman. compared to him chance was a sluggard, and even corbett's strength was no match for the ceaseless activity of this withered, yellow little mortal, whose bones stared through his skin, and whose eyes seemed to be burning away their sockets. the stars as they faded in the morning sky saw phon come down to work; the sun at mid-day beat upon his head but could not drive him away from his rocker; and night found him discontented because the hours in which man can labour are so few and so short. as long as phon could see the "colours" in his pan he stuck to his work, and when he could see no longer he carried his treasure to camp and kept it within reach of him, and if possible under the protection of ned and ned's rifle. even in the night season this slave of gold took no rest. in victoria in old days the devils used to come to him, and tell him all manner of things--when to gamble and when not to gamble, for instance; now they haunted him, and filled him with fears lest someone else should snatch his treasure from him. in spite of the absolute stillness which reigned round the creek, phon believed that he was watched day and night, nor could corbett's rough rebukes or chance's chaff shake him in this belief. twice he woke up, screaming that someone was taking away the gold, and once he swore positively that he had seen a face looking at him as he washed the rich dirt--a face which peered at him from the bushes, and disappeared without a sound before he could identify it. there were no tracks, so of course phon was dreaming; but perhaps, even if there had been anyone watching from the place at which phon saw the face, he would not have left a very distinct track, as the rock just there was as hard and unimpressionable as adamant. corbett, as he watched his servant muttering to himself and glancing nervously over his shoulder at every wind which stirred in the bush, felt convinced that the gold had turned his brain. and yet in some things phon was sane enough. it happened that there was, in a sudden bend of the stream, a great boulder, which broke the course of the water, and sent it boiling and gurgling in two small streams about the boulder's base. from the very first this boulder fascinated phon. for centuries it had stood in the same place, until green things had grown upon it, and gray lichens had spread over it. it was a favourite resting-place for the white-breasted dipper on his way up stream; the fish used to lie in the shelter of it, where their struggle against the water need not be so severe, or to wait for the food which was washed off its piers and buttresses: and sometimes even the deer would come and stand knee-deep in the stream, to rub the velvet off their horns against its angles. but phon the chinaman had guessed a secret which the old rock had kept for centuries--a secret which neither the birds nor the fish nor the deer, nor even those wise white-bearded patriarchs, the goats, had ever heard a whisper of. that rock was set in gold, and phon knew it. year by year the pebbles and the gravel and disintegrated rock were washed lower and lower down the bed of the stream, and all the while the gold kept sinking and staying, whilst the gravel and sand went on. but even gold must move, however slowly, in the bed of a rapid stream, and at last golden sand and flakes and nuggets all came to the bend where phon's rock stood. here the gold stopped. gravel might rest for a while, and then rattle on again; pebbles and boulders might be torn away from their anchorage under the lee of the rock by the eager waters, but gold never. once there phon knew it would stay, clinging to the bottom, and even working under the rock itself. knowing this phon looked at the rock, and greed and discontent tortured him beyond endurance. he had already amassed far more gold than he could possibly spend upon the paltry pleasures he cared for; but he loved the yellow metal for itself, not for the things it can purchase, and this being so, he proceeded to match his cunning against the strength of the rock. first he gathered great piles of quick burning wood from the banks and piled them upon his victim as if he would offer a sacrifice to mammon, and this he set fire to, bringing fresh supplies of wood as his fire burnt low. after a while the rock beneath the fire grew to a white heat, and then by means of a wooden trough which he had made, phon turned a stream of cold water from the creek upon the place where the fire had been, and these things he continued to do for many days, until at last the giant yielded to the pigmy, and the great boulder, which for centuries had withstood the force of the stream in flood-time and the grinding ice in winter, began to break up and melt away before the cunning of a wizened, yellow-skinned imp from china. about this time, and before the rock was finally split up and removed, phon suggested that it would be better to try to divert the stream from its bed at some point just above the rock, so that they might be able to get at the gold when the boulder had been removed. to do this flumes had to be made, and axes were in request to hew them out. at the first mention of axes steve became uneasy. there had been two axe-heads in the outfit originally, and he had been intrusted with one of them, and had lost it. "i know i had it in the last camp," he asserted. "then you had better go back for it; the last camp is only about five hours' tramp from here. or if you think that you can't find your way to it, i will go," remarked corbett. "i can find my way all right," replied chance in an injured tone, nettled at the implied slur upon his woodcraft; "but do you think it is worth while going back for it?" "certainly. you could no doubt make a hundred dollars here in the time it will take you to get that axe, but a hundred dollars would not buy us an axe-head at pete's creek." this argument being unanswerable, steve took the back track, and after being away from camp all day, returned about sundown with the missing axe and an old buckskin glove. "so you found the axe, i see?" was corbett's greeting when the two met. "yes, i found it; i knew to a dot where i left it. but it was deuced careless to leave it anyway, wasn't it? by the way, you did not leave anything behind you in that camp, did you?" "no, not i. i always go round camp before leaving to look for things. i only wonder that i did not see your axe." "oh, you wouldn't do that, i left it sticking in a cotton-wood tree a quarter of a mile from camp. but didn't you leave your 'mitts' behind?" "no, my dear chap. i tell you i don't leave things behind. here are my mitts;" and the speaker drew from his pocket a pair of buckskin gloves much frayed and worn. "then who in thunder is the owner of this?" exclaimed chance, holding up a single glove very similar in make to those which corbett wore. "your own glove, i expect, steve, isn't it? i haven't seen you wearing any lately, and one wants them pretty badly amongst these rocks. you thought that you had caught me tripping, did you, my boy?" and ned laughed heartily at his companion's crest-fallen appearance. "no, ned, this isn't mine," replied steve seriously. "see here, it would hold both my hands." "that is odd. where did you find it, steve?" and taking the glove in his hands ned examined it carefully. "you can't tell how long it has been out," he muttered, "the chipamuks or some other little beasts have gnawed the fingers; but the only wonder is that they haven't destroyed it altogether. where did you say you found it?" "about a quarter of a mile from camp. a bear has been round the camp since we were there, and i was following his trail for a bit to see what i could make of it when i came across this." "was it a grizzly's or a black bear's track which you followed?" "i couldn't make out. the ground was hard, and i'm not much good at tracking. i could hardly be sure that it was a bear's track at all." "it wasn't a man's track by any chance?" "confound it, ned, i am not such an infernal fool as you seem to think. yesterday you suggested that i couldn't find my way to the old camp, and now you ask me whether i know a bear's track from a man's." "don't lose your temper about it, old fellow. a man's track is very like a bear's, especially if the man wears moccasins and the ground is at all hard. of course if you are certain that what you saw were bears' tracks there's an end of it. after all, this glove may have been where you found it since last summer. it might have been pete's perhaps." and so the matter dropped and the glove was forgotten, for there were many things to occupy the attention of ned and steve in those days; and as for phon, he never even heard of the glove, being busy at the time upon some engineering work in connection with that great boulder of his at the bend in the stream. for several days the chinaman had ceased to wash or dig, all his time being devoted to preparations for the removal of the boulder, and at last, one morning, when the gully was full of the pent smoke of his fires, he was ready for the last act in his great work, and came to corbett and chance for help. on the top of the rock were the ashes of phon's fires, and at its feet, where once the waters ran, was dry ground, while from summit to base the rock itself was split into a hundred pieces, so small as to offer no serious difficulties to the united efforts of the three men who wanted to remove them. for centuries the rock had stood upon a kind of shelf, from which the three men, using a pine-pole as a lever, pitched one great fragment after another until the whole of the rock's bed lay bare. then for a moment they paused, while the smoke drifted about them, and the corded veins stood out strangely upon their pale faces. surely they were dreaming, or their eyes were tricked by the smoke! phon had guessed that the boulder had caught and held some portion of the gold which had come down the mountain stream in the course of the last few centuries, but the sight upon which he gazed now was such as even he had only dreamed of when the opium had possession of him body and soul. the bed of the boulder was a bed of gold--gold in flakes and lumps and nuggets; gold in such quantities that as steve and ned looked at it a doubt stole into their minds. surely, they thought, it cannot be for this common, ugly stuff, of which there is so much, that men toil and strive, live and die, and are damned! [illustration: "gold--gold in flakes, and lumps, and nuggets."] the wet pebbles amongst which the gold lay were twice as beautiful, and as ned wiped the perspiration from his brow he thought that a quart of gold would be but a small price to pay for a quart of honest bass. but phon had no such fancies. with a wild cry, like the cry of a famished beast, the chinaman threw himself into the hollow he had cleared, clawing and scratching at the gold with his long, lean hands until his nails were all broken and his flesh torn and bleeding. nor was chance far behind phon in the scramble. together the two delved and scratched and picked about the bed-rock, amassing little piles and stacks of nuggets from the size of a pea to the size of a hen's egg, and so busy were they and so intent upon their labour that neither of them noticed corbett, who after phon's first wild cry had turned away in disgust, and now sat solemnly smoking on a log by the camp-fire. taking his pipe from his mouth, he blew away a long wreath of fragrant smoke, and as he watched it dissolve in space his thoughts fashioned themselves into these strange words: "confound your gold anyway! i don't want any more of it in my share of life's good things." chapter xxiii. the hornet's nest. after the removal of phon's boulder there was no more talk of washing with pan or rocker, no more thought of digging or mining. even chance and phon were content with the quantity of gold which lay ready to their hands at pete's creek. the only trouble was that at pete's creek the yellow stuff was absolutely worthless, and that between pete's creek, where the gold lay, and those cities of men in which gold is of more value than anything else upon earth, were several hundred miles of wild country, where a man might be lost in the forest, or drowned in the river, or starved on the mountain, just like a beggarly _coyoté_, and that although he was richer than a rothschild. steve had heard of men in cariboo who had paid others ten dollars a day to carry their gold-dust for them, and he would gladly have done as much himself; but, unluckily, the only men within reach of him were as rich as he was, and wanted help just as badly. so steve joined corbett and phon, and the three men sat together looking down upon as much wealth as would buy the life-long labour, aye, the very bodies and souls, of a hundred ordinary men, and yet they were conscious that it was about even betting that they would all three die beggars--die starving for want of a loaf of bread, though each man carried round his waist the price of a score of royal banquets! steve was the first to break the silence. pointing away over the rolling forest lands, towards the bed of the frazer river, he said: "it looks pretty simple, ned, and i guess we could get there and back in a week." "do you? you would be a good woodsman if you got to the river in a week, and a better one if you ever found your way back here at all." "how's that? you don't mean to say that you think it possible that we shall lose the creek again now that we have found it?" "we ought not to, steve, but that is a bad country to get through and an easy one to get lost in;" and corbett's eyes dwelt mistrustingly upon the dark, dense woods, the deep gullies, the impervious stretches of _brûlé_, and the choking growth of young pines which lay between the knoll upon which they sat and the distant benches of the frazer river. "well what had we better do, ned? if we don't take care we shall get caught in a cold snap before we know where we are." "we had better leave here to-morrow morning, i think, steve, carrying all the gold we can with us, and make straight for the frazer. there we may meet some miners going out for the winter, and if they have not struck it rich themselves they may be willing to pack the stuff out for us. if not, we must look for old rampike and wait for the spring." "what! and put up with nearly another year of this dog's life with all _that_ lying there?" "i'm afraid so, steve. you can't order a special train from here to new york though you are a millionaire." for a little while steve chance sat moodily biting at the stem of his unlit pipe, and then he asked corbett-- "are you going to join rampike for his fall hunt, ned?" "certainly. why not?" "oh, i don't know, only i thought that you might have changed your mind;" and chance's eyes wandered round to the pile of gold nuggets over which phon kept guard. "that can make no difference, steve. i don't want what cruickshank stole from me. i want to settle with him for my countryman's life." "much good that will do poor old roberts. but as you please. we are all mad upon one subject or another. do you still think that cruickshank is somewhere hereabouts?" "i don't think that he is on this side of the river or we should have come across his tracks before now, but i fancy he is somewhere in this chilcotin country." "you don't think that that glove could have been his?" "you said that there were no men's tracks anywhere near it, so i suppose not." "that's so; but i've seen some of your tracks since, ned, which looked awfully like those bear tracks. i'm hanged if i know whether they were bear tracks after all!" "it is a pity you were so positive about them at first then. but it is too late now in any case. if the tracks were made by cruickshank he is far enough from here by now." again the conversation ceased for a time, the only sound being the rattle of pete's creek in the dark gorge below. "it is a pity the goats have all cleared out. don't you think you could find one, ned, before we start?" asked chance at length. "no, i'm certain that i could not. we must be content with trout (if phon can catch any), and the flour which i saved when we struck the creek." "ah, i had forgotten that. is there much of it?" "about half a pound apiece _per diem_ for a week." "short commons for a hungry man, especially as the berries are nearly all gone." "it _will_ be hungry work for us until we reach the frazer, but there is a little goat's meat left and the fish." "say, phon, you think you catch plenty fish by to-morrow?" "s'pose you come 'long an' help i catch 'em," replied phon. "all right, i'll come. how much gold you pack along with you, phon?" steve added as the three went down to the creek to fish. "me halo pack any," was phon's unexpected reply. "halo pack any! why, don't you want any gold?" "yes, me want him, but me not pack any. me not go to-mollow. me stop here!" "stop here! what, alone! how about the devils?" poor phon glanced nervously over his shoulder. the shadows were growing deeper and deeper amongst the pine stems, and the trees were creaking and groaning with a little wind which generally rose about sundown. "s'pose you want find men carry gold to victollia, one man go catch 'em. one man plenty. s'pose two man stop here, that heap good. no one steal 'um gold then," and the speaker pointed to the bags of dust. "nonsense, phon. who do you suppose would take the gold?" "debil take him; debil take him, sure. debil watch him all the time. s'pose all go, debil take him quick." "well, i'm afraid your friend the devil will take the stuff to-morrow morning, for to-morrow morning we all leave this place. you had better pack as much dust as you can carry if you are afraid to leave it." "no. me halo pack any. s'pose all go, me stop 'lone." it was a resolute reply in spite of the man's frightened face, and the tone of it arrested ned's attention. "have you ever really seen anyone about the camp?" he asked. "no, me halo see him, me halo see him. only me know him there. all the time he go lound an' lound and look at the gold and come closer. me halo see him, me feel him looking all the time. stop here, misser ned, stop here." "the gold has made you crazy, phon," said ned, somewhat contemptuously, disregarding the piteous appeal in the man's tone and gesture. "however, if you like to stay, it will do no harm. you can catch plenty of fish, and we shall be back in a fortnight or so." and then turning to steve, ned added, in a lower tone: "he'll change his mind when he sees us start, and if he doesn't we cannot drag him through that country against his will." that night the three discoverers of pete's creek worked as hard to collect a store of little trout as they had ever worked to gather gold, and at dawn two of the three stood ready to start on their march to the frazer. in spite of all ned's persuasions phon remained firm in his resolution to stay with his treasure. for him the woods were devil-haunted; articulate voices whispered in every wind; faces of fear were reflected from every starlit pool; and yet, in spite of all the terrors which walk at night, phon refused to leave his gold. in him greed was stronger even than fear. "he will be raving mad before we get back," muttered ned, as he gazed at the frail blue figure crouching over the camp-fire; "but what can we do? we can't 'pack' the fellow along with us." "no, we cain't do that," replied steve. "poor beggar! i wouldn't be in his shoes for all the gold in the creek." and as he stared in a brown study at the charred stumps and rough white woodwork in that gloomy canyon, at the broken rock and the dead fires, chance began unconsciously to hum the air of "the old pack-mule." "confound you, steve," cried corbett angrily, "stop that! isn't it bad enough to hear the winds crooning that air all night, and the waters of the creek keeping time to it? shut up, for heaven's sake, and come along!" and without waiting for an answer ned turned his back upon the gold camp and plunged boldly into the woods between it and the frazer. it had been arranged that corbett should go ahead with the rifle, and that chance should follow him with an axe. "any fool can blaze a tree, but it takes a quick man to roll over a buck on the jump," had been steve's verdict, and he had allotted to himself the humbler office. from the moment they left camp until nightfall, it seemed to steve that he and his companion did nothing but step over or crawl under logs of various sizes and different degrees of slipperiness. to follow the sinuous course of a mountain stream through a pine-forest may look easy enough from a distance, but in reality to do so at all closely is almost impossible. as for pete's creek, it ran through a deep and narrow canyon, the walls of which were precipitous rocks, along which no man could climb. the bed of the creek for the most part was choked with great boulders, amongst which the water broke and foamed, rendering wading impossible; and along the edges of the canyon up at the top the pines grew so thick, or the dead-falls were so dense, that it was all ned could do to keep within hearing of the creek. the constant forking of the stream made careful blazing very necessary, and this took time, and the course of the stream was so tortuous that they had frequently to walk four miles to gain one in the direction in which they wanted to go, so that when at last they reached a bare knoll, from which they could look out over the forest, it seemed to ned and steve that the frazer valley was no nearer, and the crawling folds of the great chilcotin mountains no more distant than they had been at dawn. but the folds of the mountains were already full of inky gloom, and it was evident that a stormy night was close at hand, so that whether they had made many miles or few upon their way, it was imperatively necessary to camp at once. almost before the fire had been lighted night fell, a night of intense darkness and severe cold, a cold which seemed to be driven into the tired travellers by a shrill little wind, which got up and grew and grew until the great pines began to topple down by the dozen. from time to time one or other of the sleepers would wake with a shiver and collect fresh fuel for the dying fire, or rearrange the log which he had laid at his back to keep the wind off; but in spite of every effort the night was a weary and a sleepless one both for ned and steve, and in the morning, winter, the miner's deadliest foe, had come. for a month or more yet there might not be any serious snowfall, but the first flakes of snow were melting upon corbett's clothes when he got up for the last time that night and found that the dawn had come. far away upon the distant crest of the black mountains at his back, ned saw the delicate lace-work of the first snow-storm of the year like a mantilla upon the head of some stately spanish beauty. "by jove, steve, we have no time to lose," said ned. "look at that!" and he pointed to the mountains. "if this is going to be an early winter, phon is a lost man." "lead on, ned," replied steve, "i'll follow you as long as my legs will let me, but if you can find any way of avoiding those dead-falls to-day, do so. nature never meant me for a squirrel or a blondin." "the only other way if you don't like balancing along these logs is down there over these boulders, and the water there is thigh-deep in places, and cold as ice;" and corbett pointed to the bed of the creek a hundred feet below. "let's try it for a change, ned, it cain't be worse than this," panted steve, who at the moment was crawling on his hands and knees through a mesh-work of burnt roots and rampikes. "all right, come along," said ned, and using their hands more than their feet, the two men crept down the rock wall of the canyon until they reached the bed of the creek. here things went fairly well with them at first. the water was icy cold, but their limbs were so bruised and feverish that the cold water was pleasant to them; and though the boulders over which they had to climb were slippery and hard to fall against, they were not more slippery and very little harder than the logs above. after two or three miles of wading, however, steve's limbs began to get too numbed with cold to carry him any further, and a return to dry land became necessary. looking up for some feasible way out of the trap into which they had fallen, ned at last caught sight of what appeared to be fairly open country along the edge of the canyon, and of a way up the rock wall which, though difficult, was not impossible. "here we are, steve," he cried as soon as he saw the opening. "here's an open place and a fairly easy way to it. come along, let's get out of this freezing creek;" and so saying he went at the rock wall and began to scramble up like a cat. steve was either too tired or too deliberate to follow his friend at once, and in this instance it was well for him that he was so, for a second glance showed him a far easier way to the upper edge of the canyon than the direct route taken by ned. clambering slowly up by the easier way of the two, steve was surprised not to find ned waiting for him when he at length gained the top of the rocks, and still more surprised when, after waiting for some minutes, he heard a faint voice below him calling him by name. "steve! steve!" cried the voice. "what is it, and where are you, ned?" answered chance. "here, underneath you. look sharp and lend me a hand, i can't hold on much longer!" by ned's tones his need was urgent, and yet chance could not get a glimpse of him anywhere. dropping on to his knees and crawling to the edge, steve leaned over until half his body was beyond the edge of the cliff. then he saw his friend, but even then he did not comprehend his peril. the rock wall at the point at which ned had tried to scale it ended in a kind of coping, which now projected over his head; but as if to make amends for this, a stout little juniper bush offered the climber a convenient hand-rail by which to swing himself up on to the top. and yet with the juniper within reach of him, there hung ned corbett yelling for help. "why don't you get hold of the bush, ned, and haul yourself up? i cain't reach you from here," cried steve. "daren't do it!" came the short answer. "there's a hornet's nest on it!" and as ned spoke steve caught sight of a great pear-shaped structure of dry mud which hung from the bush over the creek. "well, get down and come round my way." "can't do it. i can't get back," answered ned, who, like many another climber, had managed to draw himself up by his hands to a spot from which descent was impossible. at that moment, whilst steve was devising some kind of extempore ladder or rope, there was a rattle of falling stones, and a cry: "look out, steve, catch hold of me if you can!" and as the frail hold of his hands and feet gave way, ned made a desperate spring and clutched wildly at the very bough from which that innocent-looking globe of gray mud hung. the next moment, at the very first oscillation of their home, out rushed a host of furious-winged warriors straight for corbett's face. luckily for him steve had clutched him by the wrist, and though the sudden attack of the hornets upon his eyes made ned himself let go his hold, his friend managed to maintain his until, amid a perfect storm of angry wings and yellow bodies, the two lay together upon the top of the cliff. if steve had let go at that moment when the hornets rushed out to war, ned corbett must have fallen back upon the rocks at the bottom of the canyon, and there would have been an end to all his troubles. as it was he lay upon the top of the cliffs, and realized that the worst of his troubles were but beginning. "are you much stung, steve?" he asked. "you bet i am, ned. look! that would hardly go into an eight-and-a-half lavender kid now," and steve held out his right hand, which was already much swollen. but ned did not take any notice of it. instead he pressed his hands against his eyes and writhed with pain, and when steve laid his hand on him he only muttered: "my god! my god! steve, how will you and phon ever find your way out? i am stone blind!" chapter xxiv. drowning in the forest. perhaps no two men were ever in more desperate plight than were steve chance and ned corbett as they lay upon the edge of pete's creek canyon in the chilcotin country on that d of october, . for a week at least they had been living upon very meagre rations, made up principally of brook trout and berries; for a day and a half they had been stumbling hurriedly through one of the densest mountain forests in british columbia; and now, when chance's strength was exhausted and the grub half gone, ned the guide and hunter was utterly bereft of sight. for ten long minutes the two sat silent, then ned lifted his head in a helpless dazed way, and steve saw that both his eyes were completely closed by the hornets' stings. "chance, old chap, this is bad luck, but it will all rub off when it's dry. there are only two things now for you to choose between, either you must go on alone and bring help for phon and myself from the frazer, or go back and bring phon out with you. you and he could catch a fresh supply of trout up at the pool, enough at any rate to keep body and soul together." "and what is to become of you, ned?" "oh, i shall get all right. i must get on as best i can in the dark for a day or two, and then if you can spare me the rifle, i shall be able to forage for myself. if you _can_ spare the rifle i can do with half my share of the grub." steve chance laughed. it was not the time which most men would have chosen for laughing, but still steve chance laughed a quiet dry laugh. the yankee didn't like hard times, and didn't pretend to, but he had got into a corner, and had not the least idea of trying to back out of it. "say, ned, is that what you'd expect an 'old countryman' to do? i guess not. and if it comes to that, men don't go back on a pal in the new country any more than they do in the old. if you stay here, i stay with you. if we get out of this cursed country we get out together, and if we starve we starve together. let's quit talking nonsense;" and chance, whose spirit was about two sizes too big for his body, got up and busied himself about making a fire and a rough bed for his sick comrade, as if he himself had just come out for a pic-nic. now you may rail at fortune, and the jade will only laugh at you: you may pray to her, and she will turn a deaf ear to your prayers: you may try to bribe her, and she will swallow your bribes and give you nothing in return: but if you harden your heart and defy her, in nine cases out of ten she will turn and caress you. thus it was in steve's case. he was as it were fighting upon his knees, half dead but cheery still, and the woman-heart of fortune turned towards him, and from the time when he set himself to help his blind comrade things began to mend. in the first place, when he tried the creek for trout, he found no difficulty in catching quite a respectable string of fish in a little over an hour, although for the last two days he and ned had almost given up fishing as useless outside phon's pool. then on the way back from his fishing he met a stout old porcupine waddling off to winter quarters. stout as he was, the porcupine managed to move along at quite a lively pace until he reached a pine, up which he went as nimbly as a monkey; but steve was ready to do a good deal of climbing to earn a dinner, and did it (and the porcupine, too, "in the eye"). thanks to these unhoped-for supplies of fish and fresh meat the two companions were able to camp and rest for a couple of days, during which the inflammation in ned's eyes abated considerably, although he still remained totally blind, in spite of the rough-and-ready poultices of chewed rose-leaves constantly prepared for him by steve. "do you feel strong enough to walk, ned, if i lead you?" asked steve after breakfast, on the third morning in the hornet's-nest camp. "yes, i'm strong enough, but you can't lead a blind man through this country." "cain't i? i've been looking round a bit, and it's pretty clear ahead of us. i've caught a good lot of trout now, and if you will carry the rifle and the axe, ned, i'll try if i cain't find a way out for both of us." "and how about blazing the trail?" "oh, i reckon we must let that slide. we can go by the creek when we want to get in again. my blazing don't amount to much so far, anyway." "why not?" "well, it's no good raising cain now, old man, because the thing is done. i said 'any fool could blaze a trail,' and i was wrong; seems as if i'm a fool who cain't blaze one. anyway, i blazed all those trees for the first two days as _they came to me_, not as they passed me, and i reckon my blazes won't show much from this side of the trees." a moment's reflection will make the whole significance of steve's admission plain even to those who have never seen a blazed tree. in making a new trail through a thickly-timbered country it is customary to blaze or chip with the axe a number of trees along the trail, so that anyone following you has only to look ahead of him and he will see a succession of chipped trees clearly defining the path. if the trail is to be a permanent one, the man blazing it chips both sides of the marked tree, so that a man coming from either end of the trail can see the blazes. if, however, you only want to enable a friend or pack-train to follow you, you save time and blaze the trees as you come up to them, on the side facing you as you advance. this of course affords no guidance to you if you want to return along your own trail, and this was exactly what steve had done. but bad as his mistake was, it was too late to set it right, and realizing this ned made light of it, hoping against hope that whenever his eyes should be opened again he would be able to recognize the country through which they had passed, and so find his way back to phon. but in his heart ned never expected to see phon or the golden creek again. as he trudged along in the darkness, holding on to the end of steve's stick, he could hear the refrain of that old song following him; and though his eyes were shut he could see again both those camps in the woods, the one in which he had found roberts dead, and the one in which, as he now believed, he had left phon his servant to die. as a rule ned's mind was far too busy with the things around him to indulge in dreams and forebodings, but now that his eyes were shut his head was full of gloomy fancies and prophesies of evil. "i can't hear the creek any longer, steve," he said at length, as he and his guide paused for breath. "no, and i'm afraid, old fellow, that you won't hear it again. i've lost it somehow or other, trying to get round those dead-falls." "are you sure that you can't hit it off again?" "sure! you bet i'm sure. what do you suppose that we have been going round and round for the last half hour for? i've tried all i know to strike it again." "that's bad, but it can't be helped; steer by the sun now and the wind. the frazer is down below us, to our left front." for an hour leader and led blundered on in silence. following ned's advice steve took his bearings carefully, and then tried to steer his course by the sun and the way the wind blew upon his cheek. but in an hour he was, to use an americanism, "hopelessly turned round." you cannot go straight if you want to in the woods unless you have a gang of men with you to cut a road through live timber and dead-fall alike; you must diverge here to escape a canyon, there to avoid a labyrinth of young pines, and even if you try to cut across a dead-fall you will be obliged to achieve your object by tacking from point to point, just as the fallen trees happen to lie. when he took his bearings, steve was confident that nothing could make him mistake his general direction: a quarter of an hour later, when he had sunk out of sight of the sun, in a perfect ocean of young pines, he began to doubt whether his course lay to his right or to his left. the sun was hidden from him, no wind at all touched his cheek, and in that hollow amongst the pines he could not tell even which way the land sloped. he felt like a drowning man over whom the waves were closing, and in his helplessness he became more and more confused, until at last he was hardly certain whether the sun rose in the east or in the west. to the man who sits quietly at home and reads this it may seem incredible that a level-headed man, and no mean woodsman as woodsmen go, should ever entirely lose his head and distrust his memory of the common things which he has known all his life. and yet in real life this happens. men will get so confused as to doubt whether the needle of their compass points to the north or _from_ the north, and so muddled as to their landmarks as to be driven to the conclusion that "something has gone wrong" with the compass, making it no longer reliable. as for steve he had lost confidence in everything, and was wandering at random amongst woods which seemed endless--woods which shut out all life and stifled all hope, which laid hold of him and his comrade with cruel half-human hands, stopping and tripping their tired feet and tearing flesh as well as clothes to ribands. "are we getting near the bench country yet, steve?" asked ned at length. "we don't seem to me to be going very straight." "how can you tell, ned? are you beginning to see a little?" "devil a bit, but it feels as if we were scrambling along side-hills instead of going steadily downhill all the time, though i daresay it is only my fancy. i'm not used to going about with my eyes shut." "and _i_ am," said steve bitterly. "that is just what i've been doing all my life, and now we shall both have to pay for it. we may as well sit down and die here, ned. i cain't keep this farce up any longer. i'm clean turned round and have been all day;" and with a great weary sigh steve chance sank down upon a log and buried his head in his hands. he was utterly broken down, physically and mentally, by the difficulties of forest travel. even to the hunter these british columbian forests are full of difficulties, but to a man like steve they are more full of dangers than the angriest ocean. for an hour or two hours, or for half a day, a patient man may creep and crawl through brush and choking dead-fall, putting every obstacle aside with gentle temperate hand, and hoping for light and an open country; but even the most patient temper yields at last to the persistent buffets of every mean little bough, and the most enduring strength breaks down when dusk comes and finds the forest tangle growing thicker at every step. to steve chance every twig which lashed him across the eyes, every log against which he struck his shins, had become a sentient personal enemy, whose silence and apathy only made his attacks the harder to bear, until before the multitude of his enemies and the darkness of the trackless woods, the young yankee's strength and courage failed him, and he sat down ready if need be to die, but too thoroughly exhausted to make another effort for life. had there been a ray of hope to cheer him he would have kept on, but a day's wandering in the dark labyrinths of a mountain forest, where the winds have built up barriers of fallen pines, and where the young trees rise in dark green billows above the bodies of their unburied predecessors, is enough to kill hope in the most buoyant heart. "don't throw up the sponge, steve," said a voice at his elbow. "we'll reach the frazer yet." the speaker was blind, and though he had never opened his mouth to complain all through that weary day, be sure that the led man had borne many a shrewd buffet which his leader had escaped. if the forest was dark to steve, it was darker to blind ned corbett, but he at any rate was unbeaten still. "i think that i shall be able to see a little to-morrow, steve," he went on; "and i believe that i can put your head straight now." "i don't see how even you can do that, ned," replied chance despondently. "don't you? well, let's try. are there any deer tracks near us?" "yes, here's an old one leading right past the log we are sitting on." "that's good. now follow that downhill, and if you lose sight of it look for another and follow that downhill too. the stags may go a long way round, but it is long odds that they will go at last to water, and all water in this country leads to the frazer." ned's reasoning seemed so sound to steve that for a time it inspired him with fresh energy, and although at nightfall he had not yet reached the promised stream, he rose again next day with some faint hope to renew the search. but the stags of chilcotin were neither blind nor lame nor tired, so that a journey which occupied more than a day at the pace at which tired men travel, was but an afternoon's ramble for them. for the men, their followers, the end was very near. at mid-day upon the fourth day of corbett's blindness, he and steve were slowly picking their way through logs and over boulders which seemed to everlastingly repeat themselves, when ned felt a jerk at the stick by which steve led him, and the dry sal-lal bushes crushed and the stick hung limply in his hand. there was no one holding on to the other end of it! "what, steve, down again?" he cried. "hold up, old man!" but there was no answer. "steve," he cried again, "are you hurt?" but not even a rustling bush replied. whatever was the matter, steve chance lay very still. "great heavens, he can't be dead!" muttered the poor fellow; and the horror of the thought made the cold perspiration break out upon his brow. "steve! steve!" he cried, and falling upon his knees he groped among the bushes until his hand rested upon his comrade's quiet face. there was no blood upon either brow or cheek (ned's questioning hand could tell that much), so no stone had struck him in his fall, and as he pressed his hand against steve's chest a faint fluttering told ned that life was not yet extinct. but if not extinct it was at a very low ebb, and when he had raised his comrade's head and made a rough pillow for it of logs, ned corbett sat down in the silence and in the darkness to wait alone for death. he could do no more for steve. if he wanted water he could not get it, indeed if he dared to move a yard or two away it was ten to one but that he would never find his way back again. there was food enough in his pack for one more slender meal, and probably the food in poor chance's pack would never be wanted by him, but when that was gone, unless god gave him back his sight, strong man though he was, ned corbett could only sit there day by day in the darkness and starve to death. he wondered whether a death by starvation was painful, whether in such straits as his it would be unmanly to kiss the cold muzzle of his good winchester and then go straight to his maker and ask him what he had done amiss that all these troubles should have come upon him. but ned corbett put the thoughts away from him. suicide was after all only a way of sneaking out of danger and away from pain--it was a form of "funking;" and though ill luck might dog him, and bully him, and eventually kill him, ned ground his teeth and swore that it should not make him "funk." but it did seem hard to think of steve's sanguine hopes as they sat in their tent by victoria's summer sea, to think of the weary pack-trail to williams creek, the worthless claims, old roberts' stony face gazing piteously to heaven, the gold in piles at pete's creek, and all the rest of it; and then to think that their share in the play must end here, drowned in a forest of pines, lost in the dark and forgotten, whilst that thief would return to the light and live out his days amongst his fellow-men in wealth and honour. just at this point the bushes at ned's feet stirred, and a faint voice murmured: "ned--are you there, ned?" in a moment cruickshank was forgotten, and the whole pageant of the unsuccessful past vanished. steve lived, that was enough for ned. "yes, old man, of course i am. what is it?" "where am i, ned, and what has happened?" "you've tumbled down and stunned yourself, i think, steve; but lie still a little and you'll come round all right." "i don't think that's it, old man. i'm not in any pain, but i think (don't get riled at me)--i think i am going to send in my chips!" "nonsense, steve. don't make a blessed school-girl of yourself." corbett spoke roughly to rouse his comrade to fresh effort, but his own voice was very husky in spite of himself. "it's no good, ned, you cain't get another kick out of me; and it doesn't much matter, anyway. do you remember that indian superstition about the owls hooting when a chief is going to die?" "one of poor rob's yarns, wasn't it?" "yes, one of rob's. there! do you hear the owls now? there must be a dozen of them at least." "what rubbish, steve; and anyway you aren't a chief, and the owls only hoot for a chief's death." chance did not answer, but instead, from somewhere high up in the mountain forest, came a deep hollow "whoo, whoo!" answered almost immediately from the pines just below where the white men lay. again and again the cries reverberated through the forest, and chance shuddered as he heard the hollow prophecy of death, whilst corbett, who had started to his feet, stood straining every muscle and every sense to catch each note of that weird hooting. suddenly a smile spread over his swollen features as he said: "do you hear that, steve?" and at the same moment a sharp "thud, thud" seemed to come through the forest and stop suddenly at the very edge of the clearing in which ned stood, and steve turning feebly on his elbow saw a beautiful black and gray face, out of which stared two great eyes, and above it were ears, long twitching ears, which seemed to drink in every forest whisper. for a moment steve saw this, and noted how the shadow of the fluttering leaves played over the deer's hide, and then there came a sudden flash of white, and in a few great bounds the apparition vanished, clearing six-foot logs as if they had been sheep hurdles. "a mule deer, wasn't it?" asked ned, who in spite of his blindness seemed to have understood all that was happening. "yes, a mule deer, and a rare big one too. of course i was too slow and too weak to get the rifle;" and with a groan steve sank back upon his side and shut his eyes again. "no matter, steve, the owls will get him, and we shall have our share. did you hear that?" as ned spoke a rifle-shot woke the mountain echoes, followed by another and another, each shot lower down the mountain than the one preceding it. "great scott, how infamously they shoot!" muttered ned. "the first fellow wounded him and he isn't down yet. ah, there--at last!" he added, as a fourth shot was followed by an owl's cry, differing somewhat from those which had preceded the advent of the deer. "what do you mean, ned?" asked chance, who had been sitting up watching and listening open-mouthed to his comrade's soliloquy. "mean? why, indians, of course. 'whoo, whoo' means 'where are you?' and 'hè, hè' means 'i've killed, come and help me pack him home;'" and ned put his hands to his mouth, and drawing a deep breath sent the deep sepulchral call-note of the owl echoing through the forest. "it's life or death, steve," he remarked; "if the indians aren't friendly it's death, but it will be a better death anyway than starving here in the dark." chapter xxv. in the camp of the chilcotins. as the echoes of ned's hoot died away amongst the pines, both he and steve became conscious that they were no longer alone. someone else had entered the clearing, and a pair of human eyes were intently fixed upon them. this both the white men knew, not by sight or hearing, but by that other sense for which we have no better name than instinct. they had not heard a rustle among the leaves, nor had steve seen so much as a shadow upon the grass, and yet both men turned simultaneously towards the same point, and ned, in spite of his blindness, said "_clahowyah_" as confidently as if he held his visitor by the hand. "_clahowyah_" (how do?), repeated a deep guttural voice from the shadow of the pines, and as he spoke a broad-shouldered wiry redskin stepped softly over the logs to meet the whites. if he always moved as silently as he moved then, it was no wonder that the listening deer so often found themselves looking down the barrel of anahem's hudson bay musket before their great ears had given them any warning of their danger. "thank god, we are saved," whispered ned, as the chief's words reached him. "he has traded with whites, or he wouldn't speak chinook. lead me up to him." but anahem saw the outstretched hand as soon as chance, and stepping quickly forward took it. "_mika halo nanitch?_" (you don't see?), he asked. "_halo!_" replied ned, and he pointed to his swollen eyelids. "_mika comtax_--by and by _skookum nanitch_" (i understand, by and by you'll see all right), replied the chief, and then turning he repeated the owl's call twice, and almost immediately a low answer came to him from the woods above. luckily for steve and ned, the chief of the chilcotins had met many white men when in his early days he had hunted on the stikeen river, and all those whom he had met had been servants of a company which has always kept good faith with its indian neighbours and employés. the honesty and fair dealing of the hudson bay company saved the two white men's lives from anahem and his tribesmen, as it has saved many a hundred lives both of redskins and whites since the day when the two races first met. anahem knew that a fresh class of whites had lately come into his country--whites who cared nothing for skins and trading, but who spent all their time digging and making mud-pies by the river banks. he knew it because he had heard of them, had seen their strange canoes upon the frazer, bottom upwards sometimes; and once he had found one of their tin cups, with something scratched upon it, hanging to a pine-tree, underneath which lay a little pile of bones which the _coyotés_ had cleaned. probably these men, he thought, were gold-diggers, and lost as that other one had been lost, whose bones he had seen; but at any rate they were both very weak, and one was blind, so for the sake of that great company which was honest, anahem determined to help these men, who, within half an hour of their first meeting with the chief, lay warm and at rest within the glow of his camp-fire. then it seemed to steve that their troubles fell away from them like the forest shadows before the firelight, and it seemed already years ago since he and ned had sat down in the bushes to die. anahem's tribe was out for its fall hunt, and ned and steve had luckily wandered within the arms of the great drag-net of men, which was still sweeping the hillsides for game. as they lay by the camp-fire ned and his companion could hear the hunters calling to each other; but the net was broken now, and the cries were the cries of the owl who has killed, not of the owl who still seeks his quarry. here and there high up amongst the woods steve could see a little column of smoke, marking the spot where some belated hunter had made up his mind to pass the night. the fire would serve to cook his food and keep him warm; and if any friend chose to come and help him home with his game, the smoke would guide him. but most of the hunters brought back their game to camp that night, dragging it along the trails, or packing it on their backs, so that before steve slept he had seen fifteen carcases brought in as the result of this one hunt. he had often wondered in old days, how men who neither ploughed nor sowed nor kept cattle could manage to live through the long winter months: now he wondered no longer. the chilcotins had been in camp for a week, and there were only six men amongst them who had muskets, and yet there were four great stacks of raw hides in their camp already--stacks as high as a man's head, and on every bough within a hundred yards of the fires were hanging strips and chunks of deers' meat. the camp reminded steve of the appearance of a hawthorn bush, in which a butcher-bird has built its nest,--the whole place was red with raw meat, and there were piles of soft gray down and hair, three and four feet high. these were the scrapings of a hundred hides, roughly cleaned by the indian women during the week. in such a camp as anahem's hunger is an easy thing to cure, and that and blindness were ned's chief complaints; and even the blindness yielded in a day or two to a certain dressing prepared for ned by the squaws. but steve chance did not recover as easily as corbett did. the prostration from which he suffered was too severe to be cured by a long night's rest and a couple of square meals. at night he lay and tossed in broken slumbers, and dreams came to him which wearied him more than if he had never slept. he saw, so he said, the gold-camp every night of his life, and phon the only human being in it; and all the while phon stood in a flood of gold dust, which rose higher and higher, until it swelled and broke over him and ran on a yellow heavy flood like the flood of the frazer. day after day ned waited and hoped against hope, until the chilcotins were ready to strike their camp and go home for the winter. he had already done his utmost to persuade anahem to search for phon, but the chief took very little notice of him. either he thought that ned like steve was rambling in his mind, or he did not understand him (for anahem spoke very little chinook, and ned spoke less), or, and that is probable too, he did not think it mattered much what became of a chinaman; and as to the gold, if it really was there, it would probably wait until the white men could go and look for it themselves. if ned would have gone with him, anahem would have gone perhaps to look for the creek; but ned could not leave chance whilst he was ill, and steve would not get well, so that ended the matter. there seemed only one course open to ned, and he prepared to take it. anahem had told him as they talked one night over the camp-fire that he had seen the smoke of a white man's fire coming from a dug-out on the banks of the frazer. "how long ago was that?" asked ned. "on my way up here, about the time of the young moon," answered anahem. "then that may be rampike," muttered ned; and the next day he got anahem to show him the direction in which the dug-out lay. "could i get there in two days?" he asked. "a _skukum_ (strong) indian could. the sick white man can be there on the third day at nightfall." this was enough for ned. next morning he bought some meat and dried salmon from his indian friends, and guided by anahem and followed by chance he left the camp. if chance's strength would hold out until they could reach the dug-out, he could nurse him there at his leisure, and by and by, when steve was stronger, ned and rampike could go out together to look for phon and cruickshank. it was not impossible after all that they should find phon still alive, though fish and roots and the inner bark of trees would be all that he could get to live upon. but would chance's strength hold out? that was the trouble. he was terribly worn and weak, and his eyes shone feverishly, and he neither slept well nor eat well in spite of the fresh keen air. as he followed anahem up a steep bluff steve panted and his knees were unsteady, and when the chief stopped at last upon a bald ridge overlooking the pine-woods, he lay back upon his light load saying, "it's as well you've stopped, chief, at last. another hundred yards, and i should have bucked my pack off." anahem looked surprised that even a sick man should complain of such a trifling hill. an old squaw would have carried two sacks (a hundred pounds) of flour up it without a murmur, and steve's pack did not weigh half that. "your bones," he said, smiling rather contemptuously, "white bone, our bones wild bone," and then turning to corbett he pointed out to him where the deep-bellied frazer roared along in the valley below the pine-woods, and to one spot upon its banks, where, so he said, was the white man's dug-out. "you see," he said, "where the sun will set." "_nawitka_" (certainly), answered ned. "now, look on the frazer's banks under there where the sun will set, and you will see one patch all the same, like blood." "yes, i see it." "now, look to that side of it," and he waved his hand to the left, "and you will see one great mud-mountain like this;" and with his stick he drew in the sandy soil at his feet a picture of a great cathedral organ, with pipes reaching from the river to the sky. ned was startled by the strange likeness which the chief's picture bore to a thing which the chief could never have seen, but he held his peace and looked for the mud-mountain. "yes, chief," he said. "i see a great mountain of mud, but i cannot see the shape of it from here." "not see the shape of him! ah, my friend not see well yet," said anahem pityingly; and though ned knew very well that his sight was as good as it had ever been, he said nothing. he didn't want anahem to think that wild sight like wild bone was better than the civilized samples of the same. "well, you see the mountain. by and by you come closer and see his shape. under that mountain, in the bank on this side the river, stop one white man. you keep along this trail," and anahem pointed to the track upon which they stood, "along the ridge, and by and by it will go downhill, and on the night of the third day you will see the white man. good-bye," and before they knew that he was going the old chief turned, and like the shifting shadow of a cloud which the winds blow across the hillside, he moved away and was gone. there was no sound as he went--no twig snapped, no overall scraped against the bushes. in silence he had come, and in silence he had gone. for a moment the two with "parted lips and straining eyes stood gazing where he sank," for indeed it seemed to them as if the sea of the woods had opened and swallowed up their friend. then chance spoke: "a creepy old gentleman, ned; rather like one of phon's devils." "a deuced good devil to us, anyway. if we ever find phon and the gold we shall owe our good luck to him, as we owe him our lives." "yes, i wish he had stopped. i should like to have given him a 'potlatch.'" "just as well that you didn't offer him anything. he might have liked this rifle, but i really doubt whether he knows enough about gold-dust to make him value that." "that's what, ned. but come on and let us get through this beastly forest to those open benches below;" and chance made as if he would burst his way through the barriers of serried pines which intervened between him and the frazer valley. "what, again, steve?" cried ned. "isn't one lesson enough for you? if you tried that you would be lost again in ten minutes. no more short cuts for me. i mean to stick to the trail, and you must follow me;" and so saying corbett took up his bundle and went ahead at a quiet steady pace which, in five or six hours, brought steve to the land of his desire, where what trees there were were great bull-pines standing far apart, and giving men lots of room for their feet below and wide glimpses of heaven above their heads. as soon as they reached the open country chance's spirits improved, and his strength came back with his spirits, but for all that he was still so weak that the progress which ned and he made was very slow, and their provisions were again at a perilously low ebb when they came in sight of that strange freak of nature, opposite to which dwelt (so they hoped) their old friend rampike. the bluff was exactly as anahem had drawn it: an organ cast in some titanic mould, the pipes of it two hundred feet from base to summit, and stained with all manner of vivid metallic colours. at its foot was the gray frazer, and the dull sky of early winter hung low about its head; but the organ was dumb from all eternity, unless those were its voices which ignorant men attributed to the winds and the fretting foaming river. for awhile the two wanderers stood staring in wonder at this strange landmark, and then steve's weary face lit up with a smile and a mist came over his eyes. "ned, as i hope for heaven, there's smoke!" and he stretched out his arm and pointed to where a thin blue column curled up against the sky. ned saw the smoke as clearly as steve, but in spite of steve's entreaties he absolutely refused to press on towards it. "no, old fellow, we will camp here for a couple of hours, and you must eat and sleep. that smoke is a long way from here yet, and we may miss it to-night after all when we get low down amongst those sand-hills." from where they stood the column of smoke looked within a stone's-throw, but corbett knew well how the clear atmosphere of british columbia can deceive eyes unused to measure distance amongst her mountains. so in spite of steve's protestations the two men camped, and though he did not know it, steve ate ned's lunch, and ned carried steve's away in his pocket in case they should not be able to reach the river by nightfall. that slender ration in ned's pocket was the very last food which the two men possessed, and ned was already reproaching himself for his rashness in starting so poorly provided. "what if after all rampike should not be at the dug-out, or, if there, should be himself short of grub?" luckily for steve and ned it seemed as if fortune had almost spent her malice upon them, for that evening as they reached the edge of the last bench above the frazer, they saw that they had steered a true course. right below them, issuing from a little black funnel in the mud-bank itself, rose the column of smoke, and in the bed of the river, upon a sand-bar, they could see a man working a cradle. chapter xxvi. rampike's winter quarters. "hallo, there! hallo!" cried steve as soon as his eyes fell upon the man and his rocker; but steve's voice was so pitiably weak and small in a country where mud-banks are built like mountains, that it did not even wake an echo. "come along, steve; it's no good shouting for half an hour yet. look out for the prickly pears!" said ned, and so saying he plunged into a little ravine, whose beggarly barrenness cried aloud to winter to come and hide it from the face of the sun. "it's all very well to tell a man to look out for them," answered steve in the peevish voice of sickness, "but there is nothing else to step on. it's all thorns and sharp stones in this confounded country." "never mind, stick to it, old chap." "just what i am doing, worse luck to it," muttered steve, trying to tear himself away from a patch of little cacti upon which he had inadvertently sat down. ned turned and saw steve's plight, and the white woe-begone face of his comrade only heightened the comedy of the position. so that there, at the last gasp, sick and worn-out, these two failures, with their stomachs empty and their soles full of thorns, stood and laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks. from the next step in the bench which led to the river ned joined his deep bass to steve's, and together they shouted their loudest to attract the man's attention. in vain. whoever he was the man worked on, bending over his rocker, with the gold fever at his heart and the boom of the great river in his ears. "it's no good, we must go right down to him," said ned; and five minutes later he and steve stood together upon the bar on which the man was at work. but so intent was he upon his rocking, or so silent was the approach of his visitors' bare and bleeding feet over the great boulders, that it was not until ned's shadow fell upon him that the gold-worker was aware of a stranger's presence. then quick as thought he sprang to his feet, snatching up a winchester as he did so, and covering his men with it before he had time to look into their faces. "stand off!" he roared, "or by 'mity i'll let light through you!" and for the moment it seemed a mere toss-up whether he would shoot or not. but the men he spoke to were as reckless of life as he was. hardship had taught them that a human life is not such a wonderfully big stake as the fat townsmen seem to think. "you're in a tearing hurry to shoot, ain't you?" asked steve coolly. "how would it be if we were to talk first? don't you know us, rampike?" at the first sound of steve's voice the miner had dropped his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and now he came forward, and holding out a huge hairy paw, yellow with river mud, said simply, "shake." it was not a very effusive greeting, but men don't "gush" much in the upper country, and yet that glimpse of a friendly face, and grip of a friendly hand, acted as a wonderful restorative upon the tired natures of both steve and ned. the sky itself seemed to get clearer and the mountain air less chill now that they had run against a "pal" once more. "wal, sonny, did you strike pete's creek?" was old rampike's first question after they had all three "shaken some." "we did so," answered steve. "any 'pay' up there?" "i should smile," replied the yankee, using the slang of his country, and throwing down the belt of dust which he had clung to through all his wanderings. "why, this is free gold!" "you bet it is; and there is enough for everyone we know and to spare," added steve, "where that came from." for a minute or two rampike only turned the gold over and over in his hands and said nothing. at last he asked: "did you git cruickshank?" "no, never saw him," answered ned. "praise the lord you ain't got everything. i ain't sure as i wouldn't ruther look at him through the back-sights of this here, than find a crik like yourn;" and the old man passed his hand caressingly along the barrel of his " . ." "but, say, you look mighty hard set. have you any grub along with you?" "not an ounce of flour, and this is the last of our meat;" and so saying ned pulled out of his pocket the ration which he had kept for chance. "it's pretty lucky that i'm well heeled in the way of provisions, ain't it, else we'd all starve. wal, come along up to the 'dug-out;'" and so saying he picked up his coat and rifle and led up to the bluff, until all three stood before the door of his winter residence. next to the homes of the pre-historic cavemen, and a few rude stone-heaps in which the caucasian ossetes live, the "dug-outs" along the frazer river are the most miserable abodes ever fashioned for themselves by men. and yet these holes in the hill, with doors and roofs aflush with the hillside, are better adapted to resist the intense cold of a british columbian winter than either frame-shack or log-hut. "come right in, lads," said rampike, putting his foot against the planks which served him for a door, and thus rudely clearing the way for his visitors into a little dark interior with walls and floor of frazer river mud. a rough table, a solitary chair, and a kind of bench furnished the hovel somewhat more luxuriously than might have been expected, but unless you took a deep interest in geology the walls and general surroundings in rampike's reception-room were distinctly crude and unpleasant. if, however, you cared for geology, you could study specimens of the frazer river system through the wide chinks between the boards which walled the room without even leaving your chair. indeed, there was more "bed rock," as rampike called it, than boarding in the composition of his walls. but neither geology nor furniture attracted any attention from steve or ned. when they entered the cabin their eyes lit upon two things only, and it was a good hour before they took any real interest in anything else. the two centres of attraction were a frying-pan and a billy, round which all three men knelt and served, making themselves into cooks, stokers, or bellows, until the billy sang on the hearth and the bacon hissed in the pan. then for a while there was silence, and this story does not begin again until someone struck a match upon the seat of his pants. i believe it was rampike, because, having had more experience than steve, he could bolt his food faster. i know that it was not ned, for he could never finish his meal until about the end of steve's first pipe. steve said it was because the englishman eat so much. ned said that in england men eat their food, in america they "swallered down their grub." "swallerin' down your grub," he said, "was a faster but less satisfactory process than eating your food." but as i wish to remain upon friendly terms with both disputants, i cannot enter into this matter. "do you reckon to go in again this fall?" asked rampike, without any prelude but a puff of tobacco smoke. "to the creek?" said ned, reaching across his neighbour for the billy. "yes, we must go in, and that soon." "what's your hurry? steve here cain't travel, and you're pretty nigh played out though you are hard; and as for the gold, that'll stay right there till spring." "you forget that there were three of us at antler. phon is up at the creek now." "phon! what, that chinee! is he up at the crik?" "if he is alive he is," answered ned. "he may have starved for all i know." "starved! not he; but you'll never see _that_ heathen agen. he'd live on dirt or nothin' at all, any chinee can do that; but you bet your life he ain't up there now. he's just skipped out to victoria by some other road with all the dust he can pack along. that's what phon has done." "you don't know him, jim, and you aren't fair to him. no westerner ever is fair to a chinaman. phon will stay by the creek. my only fear is that we sha'n't be able to find the creek." "not find the crik, you say! why, ned corbett, _you_ ain't no bloomin' tenderfoot in the woods, are you? you ain't likely to forgit your way to the bank when the whole business belongs to you?" "perhaps not, but i've been blind for a week;" and then answering the inquiry in rampike's eyes, ned lighted his pipe and told the whole story of his own and steve chance's wanderings, from the time when they struck pete's creek until their return to the frazer. now and again rampike broke in upon the thread of the narrative with some pertinent question, or a comment as forcible as a kick from a mule, but he managed to keep his pipe going pretty steadily until ned came to steve's feat in "blazing." then the old man's wrath broke out, and his pipe even dropped from his mouth. for a moment he looked at steve in speechless indignation, and then he expressed himself thus: "strike me pink," he said, "ef a real down-easter ain't a bigger born fool in the woods than any bloomin' britisher i ever heerd tell on. that's so." after this there was a pause, during which steve snored peacefully, and old rampike, having made an exhaustive examination of the bowl of his pipe, proceeded to refill it with chips from his plug of t. & b. at length ned began again: "you've been looking for the creek yourself, haven't you?" "no. i stayed right here, making wages on that bar there." "i wonder who made those camps then which we found along the divide. i can't think that those were indian camps;" and ned told his companion of the camps which he and steve had stumbled upon during their search for pete's creek, as well as of that glove found by the bear tracks. "bear tracks!" growled rampike, "not they. a softy who would blaze the wrong side of a tree wouldn't know bear tracks from the tracks of a gal's shoe with a french heel to it. cruickshank's tracks, that's what _they_ was, and ef you don't see more of 'em before you get your gold out of pete's crik you may call me the biggest liar in cariboo!" "you don't mean to say that you think cruickshank would dare to dog _us_?" "dog _you_! that man would dog the devil for gold." this was a new idea to ned. if there was any truth in it, then all phon's stories of faces seen in the pool, of eyes which watched the gold, of figures which rustled ever so lightly over the dry sal-lal on the canyon's edge, when all save phon and the night owls slept, all these stories might be something more than the imaginings of a crazed chinaman's brain. for a while ned sat silently smoking and looking thoughtfully into the embers. then he rose, and knocking the ashes out of his pipe said: "i am going to look for phon to-morrow if steve seems well enough to be left here. shall you come?" "yes, i reckon i may as well. you cain't hev all the sport, sonny. i'm ruther partial to gunning myself." chapter xxvii. the search for phon. for ten days or a fortnight after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, rampike and ned corbett wandered about the country trying to "locate" pete's creek. they started, as they had arranged to, upon the very next morning, leaving steve chance with ample provisions, to sleep and eat and rest himself after the hard times which he had been through, or if he wanted a little exercise and amusement there was the bar down below the dug-out upon which he could earn very fair wages by using rampike's rocker. from the dug-out to the mouth of the chilcotin was no great distance, and ned felt certain that anyone who knew his way to it could reach the camp in which he had left phon in one day from the river's mouth. unfortunately neither he nor rampike knew their way to it, and still more unfortunately they went the wrong way to work to find it. at the end of a fortnight they both saw their mistakes, but it was too late to remedy them. instead of taking up his own tracks at once and trying to follow them back through the woods to the creek, ned had taken rampike up the course of the chilcotin, in the hope that he would be able to identify pete's creek amongst the hundred and one creeks and streams which emptied themselves into the main river from its right bank. in this he failed signally, and when the search was over it was somewhat late to take up the back tracks, which were already faint and partly obliterated. however, there was nothing else to be done, so rampike and corbett started again, following the tracks step by step until they came at last to the chilcotins' camp. here they found dead fires and dry bones, and piles upon piles of soft gray fur, and over all these signs of slaughter more than one track of the inquisitive deer whose kinsmen had been so ruthlessly butchered all round. where the principal camp-fire had stood, was a message written to whomsoever it might concern, a message written with twelve unpeeled sticks, each about six inches long, driven into the ground one behind the other, in indian file, their tops or heads all bent one way, towards the south. there were two other sticks, but these were peeled and white, and their heads bowed towards the frazer. old rampike touched the sticks with the toe of his moccasin. "pretty good writin', i call that," said he; "beats school-teachers' english to my mind. 'twelve injuns gone south, two whites gone down to the frazer,' that's what that fellow says, and the piles of fur will tell you why they were all here, and a squint at them bones will give you a pretty fair notion when they went away." so far, no doubt, the records were plain enough. unfortunately it had not occurred to the indian historians to point out from which direction those two whites had come to them, and a short distance outside the limits of the chilcotin camp all trace of them ceased, for winter had come upon the chilcotin uplands. the higher ned went the colder the weather grew, until at last he felt that he had fairly entered the domain of the ice king. on the bald hills the yellow grass was hidden, and on the long pastures the little clumps of pines were powdered and plumed with snow. all colour had gone from the landscape. there were no more red flushes of indian pinks amongst the sun-dried grass, no more gleamings of sunlight upon lakes of sapphire blue. all was white, white, dead white, or a still more lifeless gray where the wind had swept the lakelets and left the rough ice bare. in the glare of the winter sun, ice crystals floated instead of the mites which used to dance in the summer sunshine, and on those gray blots, which had been lakes where ducks called and shook their dripping wings, stood now the mud-huts of the musk-rats, and beside them at the edge of the ice stood their owners, rigid, silent, and watchful, as everything seemed to be in this silent winter-world. as far as the eye could see, in heaven or on the earth, there was nothing which lived or moved except those musk-rats, and you could not tell that they lived until the ice crunched under your feet. then they vanished. there was no sound. you did not see them go, only when you looked again the little rigid figures were there no longer. even old rampike almost shivered as the biting wind caught him when he topped the ridge, and he drew his coat together and buttoned it as he turned to ned. "it's real winter up here, sonny, and i reckon it will be mighty lonesome for that heathen of yours by the crik, unless he and cruickshank hev jined and gone into partnership. i'm beginning to think as he has got starved after all." ned made no reply. it _was_ horribly lonesome; but if phon and cruickshank had met, ned didn't think that the chinaman would care whether the sun warmed or the winter wind froze him, whether he lay alone or in the midst of his fellow-men. ned had a hideously vivid recollection of another snow scene, and of a certain little black bullet hole in the nape of a man's neck. well, after all, he reflected, death by gunshot might be preferable to a slow death by starvation and cold, and day by day it became more abundantly clear that neither rampike nor ned would find their way to phon that winter. the snow had changed the whole surface of the country so thoroughly that even had ned passed through every inch of it with his eyes open he would never have recognized it again. there were hollows where before there had been hills, hills where there had been hollows. the drifting snow had made a false surface to the land and covered every landmark; and, moreover, the two searchers began to feel that it would not do to remain in the uplands any longer, unless they too would be cut off and buried away from their fellow-men by the tons upon tons of soft feathery stuff which the skies threatened to pour down upon them every day. "it's no good talking, ned, we're beat and we've got to give in. if your heathen hasn't skipped out some other way he's a corpse, that's just what he is, and we've no call to risk our skins collecting corpses," said rampike as he sat in the dug-out, to which the two had returned after nearly three weeks' search for phon. "the almighty seems to have a down on you, my lad, someways, and if one may say so without harm, he seems to be standin' in with cruickshank, but you bet he'll straighten it out by and by. up to now cruickshank has won every trick, and you're jest about broke; but no matter, we'll stay right with him all the while, and we'll get four kings or a straight flush and bust the beggar sky-high at the finish: see if we don't. what we've got to do now is jest to hole up like the bars. winter's coming right away." it was a long speech for rampike, but the occasion was a serious one, and the old man felt that it would require all the influence which he could bring to bear to make ned corbett accept his defeat, and take some thought for his own safety. "what makes you think that winter is so close?" ned asked. "wal, there's a many reasons. the weather has been hardenin' up slowly all the while, and yesterday i saw the tracks of a little bunch of ewes along the top of that bench above us. the big-horns are comin' down, and when they come down you may look out for real winter. you bet." after this there was silence for a time. steve and ned were thinking of the long account unsettled between themselves and cruickshank, and a little too of the weary months during which they must lie dormant, as rampike said, "like bears in a hole." at last there was a clatter on the floor. jim's pipe had fallen from his mouth, and the old man was snoring peacefully in that beauty sleep with which he generally preluded his night's rest. as he lay there with his coat under his head and his patched flannel shirt turned up to his elbows, showing a hard sinewy forearm, jim rampike was a type of that strong wild manhood which flooded the west from ' to ' , spending its force in a search for gold in spite of nature and in the face of any odds, and yet utterly careless of the gold when won. let those who will preach upon the sordid motives which drew all that muscle and pluck to the west; others will remember how freely the miners squandered that for which they risked so much. there were no misers amongst the miners of the west; the fortunes they made were mere counters in a game which they played, not for the stakes but for the sake of the game itself--for its very dangers and hardships; and, thanks chiefly to one strong man, who still lives in the country which owes him so much, their game was played in british columbia with less loss of life and less lawlessness than in any other mining centre in america. to jim mining or prospecting was what big game hunting is to richer men. he had prospected alone for months in the rockies, he had won big stakes in california in the great "rushes," and he had starved and toiled, loafed and squandered in turn, until his hair was as gray as a badger's coat and his lean frame strong and wiry as a wolf's. when he made a pile he set himself diligently to "paint the nearest town red." drinks for every man and jewellery for every woman he met as long as the dust lasted was his motto; and if the dust which he had taken months to gather would not melt quick enough by fairer means, he would smash costly mirrors, fill champagne glasses only to sweep rows of them down with his cane until the champagne or the dust was all gone, or else he would put every cent upon the turn of a card in the hands of a man whom he knew did not play fair. in a month at most jim's spree was over. for that month he had been the most noticeable fool in a town of noisy roisterers; at the end of it he was "dead-broke" again and happy. then without an idea of the eccentricity either of his own or the gambler's conduct, he would betake himself to that worthy and borrow from him enough gold to begin life again; and to the gambler's credit be it said, that he never refused to grant such a loan, never looked for interest upon it, nor troubled himself much about the return of the capital. freely if dishonestly he came by his gains, freely at any rate he gave; and many a man owes a good turn to the very men whose delicate sense of touch drew more gold into their pockets than was ever won by any single miner's pick. they are, after all, only symbols for which we all of us spend our lives, and if the yellow dust led the old man to live the life he loved, and which suited him, what did it matter? as ned watched the red firelight flicker about the strong square jaw, and redden like blood on the great forearm, he felt that there was at any rate one man in cariboo in whom he could unhesitatingly trust. before turning over to sleep ned softly opened the door of the hut and looked out. the night was clear and bright, so clear that the hills opposite seemed to have come closer to the hut than they had been by day. overhead stars and moon seemed to throb with a strange vitality, and burn with a cold fire all unlike the faint and far presentment of stars in an english sky. nor was the boom of the river, which was as the accompaniment to every song of nature's changing moods, the only sound upon the night air. there was a voice somewhere amongst the stars--a loud clear "honk, honk!" a cry of unseen armies passing overhead, and ned as he listened recognized in the cry of the geese another of nature's prophecies of winter. but the cry of the geese and the boom of the river only emphasized the solitude which reigned around. nature was alone on the frazer that night, except for one great shadowy figure which ned suddenly became aware of, moving upon the sand-bar upon which he had first seen rampike. for a while corbett thought that the moon was playing strange freaks with him, and so thinking he covered his eyes and changed his position. but no, it was no fancy. from side to side with a slow swinging motion the great dark bulk lurched silently along. if its tread had been as heavy as that of a battalion, ned would not have heard it at that distance through the roar of the river, but that never occurred to him. the form gave him the idea of noiseless motion, and besides, at the second glimpse, he knew the beast that he was watching. the lord of the frazer walked in his own domain. a moment before the mystery of the night had ned corbett in its clutches, but the sight of the grizzly banished dreams at once, and the moon a minute later looked down upon another actor in the night's drama, one who hid his shining rifle barrels beneath his ragged coat, and tried hard but in vain to still the loud beatings of his heart; for the sight of so noble a foe stirred the blood of the shropshireman as fiercely as the sight of the gold had stirred phon's sluggish blood. but the hunter toils in vain quite as often as his brother the gold-seeker, and when ned corbett reached the river bed the bear had gone--gone so silently and so speedily that but for those huge tracks in one of which both ned's feet found room, corbett would have vowed that what he had seen was but another shadow of that haunted river bed. chapter xxviii. the king of the big-horns. "this here's the last day's huntin' as you'll get for quite a while, and don't you forget it." the speaker was rampike, and he spoke with the emphasis of conviction. ned corbett, who stood beside him at the door of the dug-out, seemed inclined to argue with him, but rampike did not wait to hear what he had to say. "you think," said the old man, "as it ain't partickler cold jest because the air is dry and there's plenty of sunshine. wait until you get out of the sunshine and you'll know more about it. why, look there at the old river--she don't close up for nothing." ned looked in the direction indicated by rampike's outstretched hand, and noticed for the first time that on the yellow flood of the frazer a strange white scum had risen, which seemed to gather as it drifted by so as to almost impede the river's progress in places. this was the beginning of the ice. "there'll be a bridge to-morrow, i shouldn't wonder, as you mout drive cattle over. if you want any more huntin' you'd better get it to-day. we could do with another sheep or two." and so saying the old man went back into the cabin. the air of british columbia is so dry and the sunlight so bright, that until the shadows begin to fall or the wind begins to blow, it never occurs to anybody that the thermometer may have fallen to "ten below." to ned corbett, as he shouldered his rifle and climbed the first hill, it seemed that the weather was about what you would expect in england in october, but he changed his mind after he had been for five minutes in a narrow gully with a northern aspect into which no sunlight came. there indeed he began to wonder why, in spite of his toil, he earned no healthy glow such as exercise should bring, and even when he emerged upon the top of the bench he was almost afraid to open his mouth lest the bitter cold should creep down his throat and freeze his vitals. but there was that upon the glittering snow-covered table-land which diverted his attention from the cold. at first he thought that the herds of some distant rancher had wandered to the frazer, and were now feeding before him in little mobs and bunches of from ten to twenty head. there were so many beasts in sight, and in the wonderfully clear atmosphere they looked so large, their dark coats contrasting with the snow upon which they stood, that it never occurred to ned that they were sheep. a second glance, however, revealed the truth, just as a second thought reminded him that there was no rancher then in british columbia from whom these herds could have wandered. here and there ned could see the yellowish-white sterns of a band feeding from him, or the splendid sweep of a noble pair of horns against the clear sky. these were no domestic cattle, bred to be butchered, but a great army of big-horns driven from their mountain haunts by the advance of winter. for a while ned lay and looked at them as they scraped away the snow to get at the sweet sun-dried grasses beneath, and then he began to consider how best he might win some trophy from them with which to adorn the hall of that long, low house of his father's which looked from shropshire across the hills to wales. there were giants amongst them, ned could see that, and his fingers itched to pull the trigger at more than one great ram; but the chiefs of the herd, nine in number, lay like nine gray images of stone in the middle of a level, park-like expanse, round which the smaller beasts fed and kept guard. for a long time corbett lay and looked at the silent nine, with their heads turned in different directions, as if each had undertaken to watch one particular quarter for a coming foe. at last one of the nine rose slowly, and stood looking intently towards corbett. at the moment he himself had risen somewhat upon his hands and knees to get a fairer view of the coveted horns, and possibly at a thousand yards the ram had seen enough of ned's cap above the sky-line to make him suspicious. had a gray-faced old ewe seen as much she would have given the alarm, but the ram was bolder or more careless. for ten minutes corbett had to remain as he was, his head rigid, and the spines of a prickly pear running into the palms of his hands. at the end of that time the ram lowered his head, turned round, and lay down again. it was only an odd-looking boulder, he thought, after all; but had he looked ten minutes later the ram would have missed that boulder upon the sky-line, for ned corbett was going at his best pace downhill to a point from which he thought that he could creep to within two hundred yards of his prey. ned was going at his best pace, because the sun stood so high in the heavens, that under ordinary circumstances the sheep would have already been on the move for the timber. as it was there could not be much time to spare in spite of the temptations of the new-found pasture, and as ned's snow-clogged moccasins kept letting him down upon the hillside, he just lay where he fell, and, in his own words, "let himself rip" until he reached the bottom. there he pulled up with a jerk, a somewhat bruised and breathless person, but utterly reckless of such small matters as bruises if he could only get up to his point of vantage in time. alas for the hopes of mortals! when ned corbett had reached the top of the opposite bank his breath was coming thick and short, and great drops of perspiration were splashing on to the snow from his brow, but there was not one single sheep in sight where half an hour before he had seen five hundred. the white table-land was empty. ned could have seen a sparrow on it if there had been one to see, but there was no living thing there, only across and across it were the tracks of many feet, and in one place where the rams had been, long plunging tracks, and then, as it were, a road along which the herd had trotted steadily away to the timbered gulches above. that stalker's curse, the wind, had brought some hint of ned's presence to the watchful beasts, and they had not waited for anything more. "confound the wind!" ned muttered, "i'll be shot if i can understand how it happened;" and plucking a few hairs from his yellow head he let them go, and watched them as they drifted straight back into his face. "the wind is all right now," he growled. "well, i've not done with them yet;" and having made quite sure that the nine chiefs had gone up a certain gully, he began to make another detour in order to get above them. up and up he went, the snow getting deeper as he climbed higher, and the trees growing wider apart. now and again he had to force his way through a thick place of young pines, where, as his shoulders brushed against them, the boughs discharged whole avalanches of soft, heavy snow upon his head, half blinding him for the moment. once he saw the sunlight gleam upon what looked like a spear-head low down on the other side of a pine-hole, but as he looked a big brown ear flickered forward beside the spear-head, and next moment a great stag had risen, and for half a second stood looking at the intruder. but ned let the stag go. he did not want stags just then, and, besides, in the green timber on the ridge where he stood there were lots of them, and all large ones. the little fellows lived lower down, it seemed. so he pushed on, until all at once the frost got hold of him. in a moment his heart seemed to stop beating, his knee remained bent in the very act of climbing over a log, his hands stuck to his sides, and his eyes stared as if he had seen a ghost. right below him, not sixteen paces away, stood the statue of the thing he sought. it could not be a live beast; it was too still. only for a second ned dared to look before he sank into the snow behind a juniper bush, but in that second he saw that what he looked on was the statue of an old, old ewe, big almost as a six-year old ram, and gray with age, her villainously-inquisitive head turned (luckily for ned) downhill. for a few seconds the ewe stood searching the depths of the gully below, and then, without so much as a glance uphill, tossed her head in the air and walked silently forward past corbett's hiding-place. one after another, all at the same sober pace and all as silent as shadows, ten or a dozen old ewes went by in the footsteps of the first. then there was a little noise--you would not have heard it anywhere else, but in the silence of the snow it was quite loud--and forty or fifty ewes and lambs went by, all, even the lambs, looking inquiringly down into the gully below, but none of them wasting so much as a glance upon the ground above them. after the lambs had gone by there was a pause, a break in the stream, and corbett's heart began to throb louder than it had any right to. so far he had not even drawn a bead upon the sheep. sixty beasts at least had gone by him one after another within sixteen paces, and he had let them go. he knew well from experience that the last comers would be the rams, and last of all would come the master of the flock. there was a kind of knoll just below him, and the first sight he got of each new-comer was upon this. one after another the sheep appeared, like figures upon a pedestal, at this spot, stood awhile, gazed, and then passed on. at last a ram stood there, his great horns standing out very wide from his head. "not of much account," thought the hunter. "he's a four-year old; maybe fourteen inches round the butt--not more anyway," and he let him go. twice after that ned raised his rifle and refrained. the biggest had not come yet. at last he could stand it no longer. how could he tell that the beauty before him was not the master ram? and if so, in another second he would be gone. the rifle rang through the mountains, a dozen blue grouse rattled out of the pines and swung downhill on wide, motionless wings, the ram toppled right over and went bumping down the gully out of sight. there was a wild rush of hurrying feet and the thud, thud of beasts that leapt from rock to rock, and then all was still. rushing forward in the direction taken by the herd, corbett found himself stopped by a ravine--a deep-cut, uncompromising cleft in the rock, bare stone on either side, and a sheer fall between of some hundreds of feet, and from side to side not less than twenty-five to thirty feet across. ned stopped dead. this was beyond any man's power, even with a fair run and a good take-off, and yet every lamb in that band had jumped it--jumped it clear! as he stood marvelling at the great leap before him, a stone rattled down from the other side of the ravine, and raising his eyes corbett saw what many a man has sought season after season in vain, a ram, big and square-built as a mountain pony, with great horns curling close against his head in a perfect curve, horns which measured at the very least, eighteen good inches round the butt. ned had only a second to look at him in, and even before he could pull the trigger the ram had turned; but for all that ned heard the loud smack of his bullet, and he knew that it was not the rock against which it had struck. "got him right on the shoulder-blade," he muttered, as he started full of hope to circumnavigate the head of the ravine. it was a long way round, but ned got over the ground quickly, and soon found his wounded beast hobbling slowly away upon three legs. for two solid hours ned followed his ram, who, in spite of his wound, could go just fast enough to keep his pursuer out of range. meanwhile the sun was sinking fast, and in spite of himself ned had to admit that he must give up the chase. even for an eighteen-inch head he dared not risk a night out on these mountains with the thermometer at ten degrees below zero. "just one more ridge," he muttered to himself, "and then i'll give him up;" and so muttering he climbed painfully through the deep snow to the top of yet one more of those little ridges, over so many of which he had climbed that day. as his head came over the sky-line, ned's heart dropped into his boots, and he felt the sickness of despair. the ram had vanished. he could see for half a mile in front of him, but there was no ram. could it be that after all that weary tramp, and in spite of all those great splashes of blood, his prey had gathered fresh strength, and making a final effort had got clean away from him? for a moment ned thought that it must be so, but the next his eye lighted upon what looked like a great gray boulder, a boulder though which had no snow upon it, and which moved ever so little. then as he rushed forward the gray thing staggered to its knees, lurched heavily forward, and lay still again. a few seconds later ned corbett's hands clutched the solid crown of one who had been a king amongst the high places of the earth. but there was no time for rest, much less for exultation. the crimson of the setting sun was already beginning to flush along the forest floors, and ned, as he looked over the country below him, felt his heart grow sick at the thought that if he returned as he came he could not reach the hut before dark. was there no other way--no short cut? ned rather thought that there was, and determined to try it. instead of going up and down every gully on the face of the range, he would make for the edge of the divide and follow it round until he reached a point opposite to his camp, then he would descend, taking his chance of finding an easy way down. but before starting on his homeward journey, ned hacked off the head of his victim and bound it (a heavy load) upon his own shoulders. if he had to stop out all night and risk death by frost-bite, he might as well take with him a souvenir of his hardships should he be lucky enough to survive them. as for the meat, rampike and steve could help him bring that in, later on. if the _coyotés_ let it alone it would keep well enough; and ned thought that a rag, which he had drawn through his rifle barrels and fastened to the carcase, would keep off the _coyotés_. having made his preparations he started, and toiled steadily until he reached the ridge, where the walking became infinitely easier. ned had not much time to look about him, but for all that his eyes were not shut, and he could not help noticing one valley some distance away in the opposite direction to his camp. it seemed to him that he had seen that valley before, but it was far off, and the light was failing. it was night when ned reached the dug-out; there was a harsh grinding sound down in the river bed, and his clothes, which had been wet with perspiration, were frozen stiff and cold. but as he gazed at his ram's head, ned corbett was content. chapter xxix. phon's return. the day after ned corbett's sheep-hunt was too cold even to go and bring in the carcase. a wind had risen, not much of a wind it is true, but just enough to drive the cold right through a man like blades of sharp steel, so that ned and steve and rampike remained in the dug-out, smoking and trying to keep warm, or from time to time going to the door to watch the great river gradually yielding to the power of the frost. the white scum of the day before had grown into blocks and hummocks of ice, and these came down grinding and roaring through the mist. in one more night the great frazer would be fettered for the winter. in the mist which hung over the freezing waters, everything assumed unnatural proportions. rocks loomed out like mountains, bushes like forest trees, and a sneaking fox looked larger than a grizzly bear. it was a weird scene, and it held corbett and his companions fascinated until the bitterness of the cold drove them back for a few moments to their fire. in this way they spent their day until nearly three o'clock, when the light began to fail, and corbett, who was at the door, cried to rampike, who was inside the hut: "great scott, jim, come here! what is that?" "that" to which corbett's pointing finger called attention was a strange upright mass of ice, which came riding towards them upon a little floe, a floe which later on was caught and whirled round and round in a backwater of the river just below the cabin. "a tree, ain't it, steve?" said jim, appealing to chance, who had followed him out. "a tree, i reckon, ned, as has got wedged in somehow among the drift." "yes, i guess it's a tree," steve assented. "but what with the mist and the way the thing dances around, it's mighty hard to tell what it is." "well, i'm getting as full of fancies as a woman," said ned, "but i could have sworn when i saw it first, that that thing was a man." "a man? by heaven, it _is_ a man!" yelled jim. "look, look!" and with white, scared face he stared at the thing as it came circling round again in the endless, meaningless dance of the drift through the mist. "if it's a man, it is no good standing here," said corbett quickly. "bear a hand to drag him ashore." and snatching a rope from the inside of the hut, he sprang down the steep bank to the shore, though the faces of his followers showed plainly enough that, terrible as dead men always are to the living, there was something about this river-waif which made him a horror greater even than the dead who die on land. by some strange chance the body (for it was a body) had got jammed between two pieces of drift in such a manner that it stood upright, waist-high above the flood, bowing and curtseying with every movement of the water, but so coated with ice that, but for its general outline and a rag of clothing which still fluttered from it, none could have guessed its nature. for a moment corbett feared that it would break out of the backwater, and be whirled down the stream before he could get his rope over it; but no, the stream had not done with its plaything yet. the winter would be a long one, and what matter if this wayfarer by the frazer tarried even a day and a night in the backwater? the rocks had stayed there for hundreds of years. there was no hurry about such things. round and round in the same order came the hummocks, a bit of a wrecked canoe on one, on the next only the wreck of a man. round and round whirled the long loop of corbett's lariat, until the silent rider came bowing past him within his reach. then the rope flew out, and the long loop poised and settled silently about the rider's neck. quick as thought ned was jerked upon his knees, and for a moment it seemed as if the angry river would suck him in and add him to the number of its ghastly dancers. but ned was young and strong and loved life, so that he stayed himself against a great boulder and called aloud for help. "hold on to the rope!" he yelled to his comrade. "the thing fights like a salmon!" do you know what it is to feel the electric thrill which travels all down your spine when you stick in a good fish? do you know how his every struggle vibrates along your own nerves, until your heart almost stops with excitement? if you do, you may be able to picture what those three men felt as the frozen corpse plunged and struggled on the rope, now sucked down by the under-tow, now springing beneath the buffets of the drifting ice. ned shuddered and felt sick as he braced himself against its unholy strength; but the shropshire breed is like the bull-dog's, once fast in anything it will never let go whilst life lasts; so that in spite of the river, and the fear which chilled his marrow, ned persisted until he drew his ghastly capture hand over hand to shore. there is something very horrible in the helpless way in which the head of a drowned man rolls about when you lay him down once more upon dry land, but even that is not so ghastly as were the actions of the warped and rigid mummy which corbett and his friends carried to their cabin. from the waist up the body was stiff and straight, but below the waist the legs had been frozen into such strange curves and angles, that when they laid it down upon the floor the corpse went rolling and bumping over and over, and then lay rocking to and fro as if it would never be still. every gust of wind set it in motion again, and the horror of the thing grew to such an extent that ned at last rose, saying: "i can't stand this, boys; the thing seems to be laughing at us. let's fix it in a chair so as to keep it still until morning." "and what are you going to do with it, then?" asked chance. "bury it, i suppose, steve. oughtn't we to?" "wal, i don't want to dictate to no man, but ef you're goin' to make a practice of bringing corpses to this shanty, i quit," remarked jim, who had been strongly opposed to robbing the frazer of its prey from the first. "don't cut up rough, old chap. if your body was going down in that seething hell of waters, you'd be glad if anyone would drag you ashore and give you decent burial. let it bide until to-morrow, jim, and i'll bury it myself." "very well. that's a go. now just lend a hand to cinch him on to this chair for the night, so as he won't be crawlin' around in the dark;" and old jim with ned's assistance fastened the body into a chair which stood by the rough deal board which served them for a table, and there left it. why is it that, to even the boldest men, the dead are so very terrible? is it their inhuman calm, their silence, or the mystery to which they alone hold the key, that awes and chills the hottest human heart? whatever the cause of it, the nameless terror exists, and neither strong ned corbett, nor scoffing chance, nor hard old jim were proof against it. with that _thing_ sitting in their one seat waiting for the morning to come that it might be buried, all three men crept away into the furthest corner of their tiny shack, and, trembling at every log which creaked and sputtered on the hearth, covered their heads with their blankets and prayed for daylight to come. but the hours of the night are longer than those of the day. the lesson-books say that the twenty-four hours are all of the same length, just sixty minutes of sixty seconds in each, but the lesson-books lie. who that has lain awake from midnight till dawn will believe that the six hours before sunrise are no longer than the six which succeed sunset? of course they are longer, but the hours of that one night in the hillside above the fast-freezing frazer were the longest since god made the world. down below the listeners could hear the grinding and roaring of the frozen river, and the shriek of the rising night wind as it tore through the deep canyons. now and again a loud report echoed in the stillness as an ice-crack spread from side to side of some frozen mountain lake, and all night long there were inarticulate murmurs and groanings of water prisoned beneath ice, and the long howling of starved wolves amongst the snow. the indians believe that their dead hunters assume the forms of wolves, and if so, the whole of the dead chilcotins were out hunting, adding their hideous voices to those other voices of the night, which had in them nothing that was familiar, nothing that was in sympathy with man or man's daily life. it seemed to the sleepless listeners that their own souls had lost their way and strayed into some waste place, where it was always winter and always night, and then as they strained their ears so that they could hear the beat of each others' hearts, a terrible thing happened. it was only a chair which creaked, but the creaking of it seemed to deaden every other sound, and nature herself held her breath to listen. there it was again! creak, creak, creak, and a scraping sound upon the mud floor. unless the ears of three men had gone crazy with fright, that grisly visitor of theirs was pushing its chair along the floor as if it would rise up and be gone. all through the night the noises went on: the chair creaked, the feet of the dead moved upon the floor, and once in the dim light of early dawn, one who dared to look for a moment, fancied that he saw a long lean hand move slowly across the table. yet even fear yields at last to sleep, and before the full dawn came there were four sleepers in that hut,--three who should wake and one who should sleep on for ever, and all four comrades, who for a little while had pursued that will-o'-the-wisp, wealth, together. for the dead man was phon! the ice shroud which had hidden him before had melted in the night, and the strength of the frost had gone out of his poor dead limbs, and in the searching white light of the day he lay huddled up on the chair, his head fallen forward upon the table, and his body a limp mass of faded blue rags. even before ned raised his head they all knew him, and when ned pointed silently to a little dark spot at the nape of the dead man's neck, no one expressed any surprise. there had been just such another mark at the nape of dead robert roberts' neck. "two!" groaned rampike. "my god, two of 'em, and we ain't beginning to get level with him yet!" before they saw the corpse upon the previous evening the men had been sitting, according to their wont, round their rough table smoking and poring over chance's old map of british columbia. that map was the nearest approach to a book in their possession, and they often studied it and made yarns about it; but the night of phon's arrival all three had bent over it with more than their ordinary interest, because ned had told them of his fancy that he had recognized a certain valley from the main ridge. it was just in front of this map that the corpse had been placed, when rampike had cinched it into its chair for the night. "i guess we had better clear 'em all away," said the old man after a pause, and with a comprehensive wave of his hand he indicated the corpse and the map, the cups and the half-smoked pipes which still littered the table. ned and steve came to their comrade's assistance, and the three made as if they would lift phon from his seat, but at the very first touch all shrank back, while chance cried out: "look at its hand! look, look, it is writing!" like men in a nightmare the three stood, unable to move or to speak, whilst that long lean hand which lay upon the map moved slowly along. like the finger of a clock, or a shadow upon a dial, it crept along slowly, slowly, and ever as it went they heard the grating of one long untrimmed nail against the canvas. it seemed to the onlookers that the hand took hours to travel across three inches of the map, and then the limp body gave a lurch and slid with a soft heavy thud to the ground. the slight movement caused by jim's first touch had disturbed the balance of the body, out of which all the rigid strength of the frost had now gone, so that the slackened muscles left to themselves shrank up and collapsed. this was what really happened, but to rampike and the rest it seemed that the dead wrote. "that's jest what he's come for. thet's the way to pete's crik as he's bin a showin' you, and thet's where you'll find the man as shot him and old rob. bear a hand, we can carry him out now. i guess there ain't no call for him here any longer." and so saying rampike took hold of the corpse, and with ned's assistance bore it out and laid it down upon the snow. upon the map upon which phon's dead hand had rested there was a fine wet line drawn by his nail--a line which led from the very spot where the dug-out stood upon the bank of the frazer, to a point upon the right bank of the chilcotin, a good deal to the north of the spot at which corbett believed that the gold-camp lay. steve chance took a pencil, and whilst the others bore out the body he marked the line carefully, that it might not dry up and vanish away. even as he did so, a wild cry which he knew well came from the bench above the cabin. it began in a low key, and rose higher and higher until it was like the wail of a banshee, then it died away sullenly, and steve heard rampike's voice outside the cabin calling to him: "come along and lend a hand, steve. if we don't bury him pretty soon those blasted wolves will get him." steve hurried out, and together the three tried hard to make some sort of a grave for phon in the hillside. they might as well have tried to dig into adamant. "it ain't no good," growled rampike at length; "and if you jest bury him in the snow the wolves'll get him. not as it matters much." "we'd better put him back in the frazer than leave him here," said ned. "that's so. he cain't stay in the cabin now as he's thawed out, but i ain't sure as we can get him back agen into the river." jim was right. the earth which the chinaman had robbed of its hidden treasure refused to receive him; the friends he had lived amongst would have none of him, now that death's seal was upon him; and even the river, which had spewed him up upon its banks, had now closed its portals against him, so that it was only after half an hour's hard labour that chance and corbett were able to hew out a hole in the solid ice, through which to send back its dead to the frazer. for one moment ned corbett stood with his hat in his hand, looking up to the sky, wondering whither the spark of life had gone and commending it to its creator, and then he pushed the body head first through the hole. the ice round the spot where the three men stood was clear and still fairly thin, so that they saw, or thought that they saw, a face pressed against it for a moment, staring with wild eyes towards the world of the living, and then the stream caught it and it shot down and was gone. the man had dreamed all his life of the golden secrets which lay in the bed of the mighty frazer. he had looked forward to the days when he should carry the golden spoils of british columbia to his own sunny land; but fate had mastered him, and though his body might roll amongst those golden sands, and his dead hands touch the heavy nuggets, it would profit him nothing. the dead have no need of gold! chapter xxx. cruickshank at last! after the burial of phon there was no more rest for the men in the "dug-out." the frazer was frozen hard, and offered a firm white way by which the three outcasts might return to some place where there were warmth and light and the voices of their fellow-men. but none of the three cared to profit by this way of escape. to them a mist seemed always to hang over the river, and the voices of the dead came to them through it; and to ned corbett it seemed that day and night one mournful old tune rang in his ears, and day and night rampike polished his rifle and thought of the "pal" he had lost, and the murderer who had escaped him. "it ain't no manner of use, ned," he said one day towards the end of winter, when the ice was already breaking up. "i know as i might jest as well stay another month, and then go with you to look for this crik. but i cain't do it. somethin' keeps callin' to me to git, and i mean makin' a start to-morrow whether you and steve come or stay." they had been together all through the dreary winter, and had hoped to go out together in the spring, back to that summer land by the sea from which they had all come. they were weary for awhile of the rush and struggle for wealth, and were pining for the smell of the salt waves and the drowsy lap of the sea upon the shore. they had talked over these things together when the noonday was dark with falling snow, and now that spring was at hand they little liked the idea of being parted. "hold hard, old man," said corbett. "let us see if we can't arrange to go together. which way do you think of going?" "thar's only one way, the way as _he_ showed us," answered rampike, nodding over his shoulder towards the river down which phon had gone to his rest. for a few minutes corbett made no answer, but sat staring fixedly out of the little window at the frazer. "it's infernal foolishness," he said at last--"infernal foolishness, i know, and yet i feel as you do, jim. i shall never rest until i have tried phon's way. i'm getting as superstitious as a siwash." "superstitious is a mighty long word, but it don't amount to much. there's a heap of things happens as you cain't account for." "perhaps," assented ned, and then took up once more steve's ragged map of british columbia, and studied for the hundredth time the course traced upon it by the dead man's nail. "it runs south-south-east from here," he said. "yes, i know, and that'll be clar up that bluff and on to the divide, and then over a lot of gulches, i reckon, until we strike the chilcotin. it'll be a pretty rough trail, you bet." "well, rough or smooth, jim, if steve doesn't mind waiting here for us, i'll come with you and start as soon as you please. what do you say, steve?" now steve chance, as the reader knows, was by nature a decent obliging fellow, and, moreover, steve had had all the rough travel that he cared about for years to come, so he answered readily enough. "if you'll pass me your word that you'll be back inside of three weeks, i'll stay. but you don't expect to see cruickshank, i hope?" "i know as we shall see him," said rampike quietly. "summat tells me as _his_ time's up." the very next day rampike and corbett started up the bluffs above the dug-out. down below them the ice in the frazer was already beginning to "run," but the snow on the mountain-sides lay hard and unmelted still, so that travelling without snowshoes was fatiguing in the last degree. from the top of the ridge the two men got a good view of the country through which they had to travel. the mountains, as far as they could see, followed the course of the frazer until its junction with the chilcotin, where they bent into a kind of elbow; in fact the two rivers and their attendant mountains formed two sides of a triangle, between which lay gulches and ravines innumerable, and the base of this triangle was the course laid out for them by phon. "looks as if that chinee corpse had bin laughin' at us after all," muttered rampike. "a man would want wings to cross that country." "never mind, let's try it, jim," said corbett; and together the two men pressed on, floundering sometimes up to their armpits in the deep snow, and sometimes finding an easy way where the country at first sight appeared impassable. on the third day of their journey, towards evening, they entered a narrow snow-choked canyon, which seemed to lead through the second main ridge of mountains to the chilcotin. as they entered this canyon ned corbett paused and looked searchingly up and down it, as if looking for some sign to distinguish it from its fellows. but he found none. like a hundred others which they had seen, this gully was deep and narrow and full of snow. the pines which grew on its sides seemed only just able to keep their heads above the white flood. somewhere far down below, no doubt, there was a creek, which sang and flashed in the summer sunlight; but it was buried now out of sight by the snow and gagged by the frost. "do you think you know this here place, ned?" asked rampike, who had been watching his comrade's face. "i _feel_ as if i did, and yet i can't see anything, jim, that i could swear to." "is that so? well, it's no matter, because we must stick to this canyon anyway. it leads out on to the chilcotin," replied the old man, and so saying he led on. after a while he paused. "say, ned, is that a sheep-trail across there on the other side?" ned looked hard in the direction indicated, shading his eyes with his hand to get a better view. "it looks more like a bear's trail," he replied, "only the bears are all holed up still." "it's pretty well used, whatever it is, and i guess we should find it a sight better travelling there than it is here. shall we try it?" as it happened the snow was exceptionally deep where the two men stood, so that they sank up to their knees at every step. a beaten trail of any kind would therefore save them an infinite amount of labour. "yes, let's," said ned, with the brusqueness of a man who needs all his breath for other uses. to get to the trail corbett and rampike had to cross the canyon, and in places this was almost impossible, both men sinking from time to time almost out of sight in the snow. twice rampike voted that they should give up the attempt, and twice corbett persuaded him to go on. at last, sweating and trembling with exertion, they got clear of the worst of the snow and stood upon the edge of the trail. for a moment no one noticed anything. they were both too tired to use their eyes even. then a sudden gleam of triumph flashed into rampike's face, and he swore savagely between his teeth, as he was wont to do when anything moved him deeply. bending over the trail he scrutinized it carefully, fingering the soiled snow, and making an impression with his own foot that he might compare it with the tracks before him. when he raised his face to corbett's he had regained all his old coolness, but there was a cold glitter in his eyes which spoke of repressed excitement. "what is it, jim?" asked corbett. "what is it? don't you see? it's the trail of the bar we've bin' huntin' this long while, that's what it is. i suppose we'd better toss for the shot." the trail was the trail of a man. the moment corbett looked carefully at it he saw that; and yet, cold-blooded as it seemed to him afterwards, he never hesitated for a moment, but when rampike produced a coin and sent it spinning into the air, cried "heads!" with all the eagerness of a boy tossing for first innings in a cricket match. "tails it is! that thar is a lucky coin to me," said rampike; "that's why i always pack it around." and so saying he replaced an old english shilling in his pocket and began examining the lock of his winchester, whilst ned looked anxiously up and down the valley as if he expected every moment to see their foe come into sight. "oh, no fear of his comin' just yet awhile," said jim, noticing his comrade's glances. "he went up the canyon about an hour ago, and i don't reckon as he'll be along this way agen before morning. i wonder what he's up to, anyway?" to men like rampike and corbett the testimony of the trail upon which they stood put some facts beyond all dispute. that some man who wore moccasins used it at least twice a day, and had so used it for a month past, they knew as certainly as they knew anything. that he had passed along the trail within the hour they also knew, and that he was cruickshank they guessed with a confidence which left no room for doubt. "i guess, ned, as this here must be pete's crik as we've got into." "that is what i've been thinking for some time," replied ned. "then that's his trail to the diggings from the river. but what does he want at the river so often? that licks me." as ned had no explanation to offer, the two stood silent for a moment, until the old man's eyes fell upon the tracks which he and ned had made across the canyon. "if we don't hide those we shall scare our game," he muttered. "lend a hand, ned, to cover some of them up." "i guess that'll do," he admitted, after half an hour's hard work. "looks as if a bar had come across until he smelled them tracks of his and then turned back agen. cruickshank 'll never notice, anyway, so we may as well foller this trail to the river. step careful into his tracks, ned. i'd like to see what he has been at on the river." these were the last words spoken by either corbett or rampike for quite half an hour, during which they followed one another in indian file, stepping carefully into the same footprints, so that to anyone but a skilled tracker, it would appear at first sight that only one man had used the trail. at the end of half an hour they paused. the roaring of a great river was in their ears, and the grinding of a drift ice. "that's the chilcotin," whispered corbett. "the frazer, more like," replied rampike. "yes, i thought as much," he added a moment later as he came round a corner of the bluff round which the trail ran. "we've struck the junction of them two rivers. this creek runs in pretty nigh the mouth of the chilcotin." almost whilst he was yet speaking, corbett caught the speaker by the belt and dragged him down in the snow at his side. in spite of the suddenness and roughness of such treatment the old man uttered no protest. the question he wanted to ask was in his eyes as he turned his head cautiously and looked into his comrade's face, but with his lips he made no sound. putting his lips to jim's ear, ned whispered: "there's a canoe just below us on the beach, lie still whilst i take a look at it;" and then he crawled away upon his belly until he could peer from behind a boulder on the sky-line, at the valley below. in that valley, between steep banks and piles of great ice-worn boulders, the last two hundred yards of the chilcotin river rushed by to join the frazer, and amongst these boulders, at the very edge of the open water, lay a rough indian canoe. at the side of the canoe the trail stopped. "so that's the carcase as we have to watch," said rampike's voice in ned's ear. "there's no need to keep down, lad, he ain't here. let's go along the trail and take a look." and so saying rampike rose and walked down to the canoe. the sight which there met his eyes and ned's struck both men dumb for a while with wonder. what they saw was the work of one man, in one winter, without proper tools, without sufficient food, and with the awful odds against him of place and weather. "the devil fights hard for his own," muttered ned; and indeed it seemed as if one man, unaided by supernatural powers, could not have accomplished what this man had done. corbett forgot that the greed of gold is almost a supernatural power. out of the trunk of a tree, felled by his own hands, the man who dwelt in this snow-choked canyon had made himself a canoe, his one tool the blade of his axe. the canoe so built was neither beautiful nor strong, but it was just strong enough for a fearless man to risk his life in, and beautiful enough, when it had its cargo on board, to tempt nine men out of ten to risk their souls to obtain it. for the cargo of that canoe was the world's desire--the omnipotent, all-purchasing gold! in a hundred small sacks this cargo was stored away, each sack made either of deer-skin or the clothes of the man who made them. he had risked his life and sacrificed the blood of others to get the yellow dust, and now he gave the very clothes from off his back, in spite of the bitter winter cold, to make sacks to save it in. as ned looked and counted the sacks, and thought of old roberts and phon, of the money wasted and the toil unrewarded, he sighed. for the first time he regretted that he had lost the toss. "wal, come on, ned," said rampike, breaking in upon this train of thought suddenly, "i'm goin' to watch right here. it's mighty lucky as we came when we did. that fellow means to skip as soon as ever the river clears." ned said nothing, but in silence followed his companion to a lair behind a great block of gray stone, from which they could look down upon the trail opposite to them. "i guess it's safest here, though if the ice breaks up a bit more we sha'n't be able to get back if we want to," said rampike; for in order to reach a position which commanded cruickshank's trail, rampike had led the way across the river, stepping warily across the ice, which was already split up into great pieces, which ground against each other and moved slowly with the stream. "it's not more than a hundred yards, i reckon, and i'll back her to shoot good that far, even by moonlight," were the last words which rampike muttered as he drew a bead upon an imaginary figure on the trail across the river, and after this silence came and wrapped the two men round. all through the gloaming and the night, even until the dawn, there was only a great gray stone which stood upon one side of the chilcotin and looked down upon the trail on the other side. there was no movement anywhere save the movement of the ice in the river and of the moon as she rose and sank again in the clear night sky, nor was there any sound save the grinding of the ice as it broke into smaller and yet smaller pieces, and was borne along to join the hurtling mass which was hurrying down the frazer. at first the shadows crept out into the valley, and one who was watching them gripped his rifle hard, and his breath came thick and fast. again the moon rose and the shadows fled, and all was white and motionless and dumb. after this it grew darker again; the moon had gone and a chill wind made the watchers shiver, and one of them drew a white thread out of the material of his coat, and doubled it and tied it round the muzzle of his rifle, so that it made a great knot where the sight was, serviceable instead of a sight in the half darkness. the wind was cold, and the watchers' clothes were rigid with frost, but rampike's fingers scarcely trembled as he tied that knot, and his face was firm and cold as ice. at last there was a sound far away up the canyon. "crunch crunch, crunch crunch," it sounded with a regularity unlike any sound in nature. it was no rolling of the rocks, no creaking of the frozen pines, not even the tread of any beast of prey. it was the step of a man, and colonel or no colonel, the man whose tread echoed in that wintry dawn, brought with him to his doom some traces of that early training which had come to him from the drill-sergeant. in the streets of a great city a hundred men may pass and no one hears their tread, or knows that he hears it, and yet in spite of the roaring of the rivers and the grinding of the ice, this one man's tread, even in the snow, seemed like the tread of an army, and the sound of it grew and grew until corbett knew that the heavens heard it, and that its vibrations were echoed in hell. at the last they saw him, this man richer than all other men, this man yellow with gold and crimson with other men's blood, and what they saw was a wan, ragged figure, worn to a mere skeleton, its shoulders bent, plodding heavily along with the last load of yellow dust, stolen from pete's creek, hanging heavily in its hands. for a moment corbett doubted if this could really be that same stalwart, smooth-tongued knave who had jockeyed him out of his dollars for three useless claims, but a sharp metallic "clink" upon the rock beside him called him back to himself and reminded him that rampike had no doubts even if he had. inch by inch ned saw the long barrel of the winchester pushed out over the rock, until it rested firmly, its deadly muzzle dark in the dim light of dawn. slowly rampike lowered his head until his cheek lay against the cold metal and his eye trained the weapon upon the man who for gold had not hesitated to kill two of his fellows. one more beat of his heart and he too would feel the kiss of the cold lead and go whither those others had gone. "my god, i can't do it!--cruickshank!" cried corbett, and as he cried out he sprang to his feet and threw up rampike's rifle. "cruickshank!" the cry startled the silence, so that all nature seemed to shudder at the sound, and "cruickshank!" "cruickshank!" the rocks repeated until the sound died away amongst the snows at the head of the canyon. at the first sound of that cry he whose name it was stopped, and as he turned to look across the river the white light of dawn came down and struck him across the face, so that those who looked could see the lines graven on it by fear and hunger and remorse, and then his hands went wildly up towards heaven and he fell. the path which he had trodden so often crossed at this place a sheer slope of hardened snow, in which he had cut footsteps for himself, narrow indeed, but sufficient for the safety of a careful man. until now he had never slipped or dreamed of slipping, and yet now with that cry in his ear, with the last load of gold in his hand, with the river almost clear enough for flight, he slipped and fell. those who looked saw only a face full of mad fear, they heard only the clang of the metal wash-pan, which he wore as miners wear it, at his belt, and then, quick as the first ray of the dawn shoots across the mountain-side, cruickshank shot down that ice-slope, and with a dull heavy plunge, sank in the ice-choked river. for minutes, which seemed hours, the two men who lay behind the rock neither spoke nor moved, only they stared with wide eyes at the empty trail where he had stood, and the jostling hummocks of ice in the river amongst which he sank. "wal," said rampike at last, "that's all, and i guess we take the pot." and he turned to where the canoe full of gold, the price of three men's lives, lay alone in the gray light of dawn. even as he spoke the canoe moved. some will say that the ice on which it rested had been sucked away by the rising river, and that so, it slid down naturally and was borne along with all the other river waifs,--dead pines and dead men's bodies. but rampike, who saw the thing, says that hands like the hands of the dead laid hold upon it and drew it away. then they watched it drift out amongst the ice into the frazer, and there for a while the great river played with it, and moaned and laughed over it by turns, and then it sank, and the gold that was in it, and the sin which that gold begot, are a portion of the load which the old river is so glad to lay down as she rushes into the salt sea beyond the sand-heads at new westminster. _l'envoi._ my story is told, and the days which i wrote of have passed away, but something is still left to remind old-timers of the rush of ' . pete's creek is still yielding a fair return for work done upon it by a company, whose chairman is our old friend, steve chance, but such pockets as that found under phon's boulder have never been found again. as for ned corbett, he is a rancher now on those yellow chilcotin uplands, and the gold which pleases him best is that left by the sun upon his miles and miles of sweet mountain grass. if others have more gold, ned has all that gold can purchase by the frazer or elsewhere, work which he loves, and such health, spirits, and moderate wealth as should satisfy an honest man. +---------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographical errors have been corrected. | | | +---------------------------------------------------+ birds of a feather by robert silverberg illustrated by wood [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy magazine november . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] getting specimens for the interstellar zoo was no problem--they battled for the honor--but now i had to fight like a wildcat to keep a display from making a monkey of me! it was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alien life-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rented office. as i came down the block from the hotel, i could hear and see and smell them with ease. my three staff men, auchinleck, stebbins and ludlow, walked shieldwise in front of me. i peered between them to size the crop up. the aliens came in every shape and form, in all colors and textures--and all of them eager for a corrigan contract. the galaxy is full of bizarre beings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the old exhibitionist urge. "send them in one at a time," i told stebbins. i ducked into the office, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession to begin. the name of the planet was mactavish iv (if you went by the official terran listing) or ghryne (if you called it by what its people were accustomed to calling it). i thought of it privately as mactavish iv and referred to it publicly as ghryne. i believe in keeping the locals happy wherever i go. through the front window of the office, i could see our big gay tridim sign plastered to a facing wall: wanted--extraterrestrials! we had saturated mactavish iv with our promotional poop for a month preceding arrival. stuff like this: want to visit earth--see the galaxy's most glittering and exclusive world? want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrills of show business on romantic terra? if you are a non-terrestrial, there may be a place for you in the corrigan institute of morphological science. no freaks wanted--normal beings only. j. f. corrigan will hold interviews in person on ghryne from thirdday to fifthday of tenmonth. his last visit to the caledonia cluster until , so don't miss your chance! hurry! a life of wonder and riches can be yours! * * * * * broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousand languages, always bring them running. and the corrigan institute really packs in the crowds back on earth. why not? it's the best of its kind, the only really decent place where earthmen can get a gander at the other species of the universe. the office buzzer sounded. auchinleck said unctuously, "the first applicant is ready to see you, sir." "send him, her or it in." the door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me on nervous little legs. he was a globular creature about the size of a big basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs and five double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body. there was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones, one above each arm. plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth. his voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. "you are mr. corrigan?" "that's right." i reached for a data blank. "before we begin, i'll need certain information about--" "i am a being of regulus ii," came the grave, booming reply, even before i had picked up the blank. "i need no special care and i am not a fugitive from the law of any world." "your name?" "lawrence r. fitzgerald." i throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quick cough. "let me have that again, please?" "certainly. my name is lawrence r. fitzgerald. the 'r' stands for raymond." "of course, that's not the name you were born with." the being closed his eyes and toddled around in a -degree rotation, remaining in place. on his world, that gesture is the equivalent of an apologetic smile. "my regulan name no longer matters. i am now and shall evermore be lawrence r. fitzgerald. i am a terraphile, you see." * * * * * the little regulan was as good as hired. only the formalities remained. "you understand our terms, mr. fitzgerald?" "i'll be placed on exhibition at your institute on earth. you'll pay for my services, transportation and expenses. i'll be required to remain on exhibit no more than one-third of each terran sidereal day." "and the pay will be--ah--$ galactic a week, plus expenses and transportation." the spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clapping on one side, two on the other. "wonderful! i will see earth at last! i accept the terms!" i buzzed for ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we were signing this alien up at half the usual pay, and ludlow took him into the other office to sign him up. i grinned, pleased with myself. we needed a green regulan in our show; the last one had quit four years ago. but just because we needed him didn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. a terraphile alien who goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a terran monicker would work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him get to earth. my conscience won't let me really _exploit_ a being, but i don't believe in throwing money away, either. the next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from aldebaran ix. our outfit has all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next few decades, and so i got rid of him in a couple of minutes. he was followed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from donovan's planet, four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. we already had a couple of his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, being so plump and cheerful. i passed him along to auchinleck to sign at anything short of top rate. next came a bedraggled sirian spider who was more interested in a handout than a job. if there's any species we have a real over-supply of, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave it a try anyway. he got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even get the handout he was angling for. i don't approve of begging. the flora of applicants was steady. ghryne is in the heart of the caledonia cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. we had figured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right. * * * * * it was the isolationism of the late th century that turned me into the successful proprietor of corrigan's institute, after some years as an impoverished carnival man in the betelgeuse system. back in , the world congress declared terra off-bounds for non-terrestrial beings, as an offshoot of the terra for terrans movement. before then, anyone could visit earth. after the gate clanged down, a non-terrestrial could only get onto sol iii as a specimen in a scientific collection--in short, as an exhibit in a zoo. that's what the corrigan institute of morphological science really is, of course. a zoo. but we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; we advertise and they come flocking to us. every alien wants to see earth once in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it. we don't keep too big an inventory. at last count, we had specimens before this trip, representing different intelligent life-forms. my goal is at least one member of at least different races. when i reach that, i'll sit back and let the competition catch up--if it can. after an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven new specimens. at the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids, fifty of the reptilian natives of ghryne, seven sirian spiders, and no less than nineteen chlorine-breathing procyonites wearing gas masks. it was also my sad duty to nix a vegan who was negotiating through a ghrynian agent. a vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but i didn't see how we could take one on. they're gentle and likable beings, but their upkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just any old kind of meat either. so we had to do without the vegan. "one more specimen before lunch," i told stebbins, "to make it an even dozen." he looked at me queerly and nodded. a being entered. i took a long close look at the life-form when it came in, and after that i took another one. i wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. so far as i could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an earthman. he sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. he was tall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, and though he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby look about him. he said, in level terran accents, "i'm looking for a job with your outfit, corrigan." "there's been a mistake. we're interested in non-terrestrials only." "i'm a non-terrestrial. my name is ildwar gorb, of the planet wazzenazz xiii." * * * * * i don't mind conning the public from time to time, but i draw the line at getting bilked myself. "look, friend, i'm busy, and i'm not known for my sense of humor. or my generosity." "i'm not panhandling. i'm looking for a job." "then try elsewhere. suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. you're as earthborn as i am." "i've never been within a dozen parsecs of earth," he said smoothly. "i happen to be a representative of the only earthlike race that exists anywhere in the galaxy but on earth itself. wazzenazz xiii is a small and little-known planet in the crab nebula. through an evolutionary fluke, my race is identical with yours. now, don't you want me in your circus?" "no. and it's not a circus. it's--" "a scientific institute. i stand corrected." there was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. i guess i recognized a kindred spirit or i would have tossed him out on his ear without another word. instead i played along. "if you're from such a distant place, how come you speak english so well?" "i'm not speaking. i'm a telepath--not the kind that reads minds, just the kind that projects. i communicate in symbols that you translate back to colloquial speech." "very clever, mr. gorb." i grinned at him and shook my head. "you spin a good yarn--but for my money, you're really sam jones or phil smith from earth, stranded here and out of cash. you want a free trip back to earth. no deal. the demand for beings from wazzenazz xiii is pretty low these days. zero, in fact. good-by, mr. gorb." he pointed a finger squarely at me and said, "you're making a big mistake. i'm just what your outfit needs. a representative of a hitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect! look here, examine my teeth. absolutely like human teeth! and--" i pulled away from his yawning mouth. "good-by, mr. gorb," i repeated. "all i ask is a contract, corrigan. it isn't much. i'll be a big attraction. i'll--" "_good-by, mr. gorb!_" he glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered to the door. "i thought you were a man of acumen, corrigan. well, think it over. maybe you'll regret your hastiness. i'll be back to give you another chance." he slammed the door and i let my grim expression relax into a smile. this was the best con switch yet--an earthman posing as an alien to get a job! but i wasn't buying it, even if i could appreciate his cleverness intellectually. there's no such place as wazzenazz xiii and there's only one human race in the galaxy--on earth. i was going to need some real good reason before i gave a down-and-out grifter a free ticket home. i didn't know it then, but before the day was out, i would have that reason. and, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. * * * * * the first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of a kallerian. the kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. i had turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from miazan, and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the delta worlds. hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when the kallerian came striding in, not even waiting for stebbins to admit him officially. he was big even for his kind--in the neighborhood of nine feet high, and getting on toward a ton. he planted himself firmly on his three stocky feet, extended his massive arms in a kallerian greeting-gesture, and growled, "i am vallo heraal, freeman of kaller iv. you will sign me immediately to a contract." "sit down, freeman heraal. i like to make my own decisions, thanks." "you will grant me a contract!" "will you please sit down?" he said sulkily, "i will remain standing." "as you prefer." my desk has a few concealed features which are sometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointed life-forms. my fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case of trouble. the kallerian stood motionless before me. they're hairy creatures, and this one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering his body. two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanket of fur. he was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of his warlike race. i said, "you'll have to understand, freeman heraal, that it's not our policy to maintain more than a few members of each species at our institute. and we're not currently in need of any kallerian males, because--" "you will hire me or trouble i will make!" i opened our inventory chart. i showed him that we were already carrying four kallerians, and that was more than plenty. the beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. "yes, you have four representatives--of the clan verdrokh! none of the clan gursdrinn! for three years, i have waited for a chance to avenge this insult to the noble clan gursdrinn!" at the key-word _avenge_, i readied myself to ensnarl the kallerian in a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but he didn't move. he bellowed, "i have vowed a vow, earthman. take me to earth, enroll a gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!" * * * * * i'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, and one of the most important of those principles is that i never let myself be bullied by anyone. "i deeply regret having unintentionally insulted your clan, freeman heraal. will you accept my apologies?" he glared at me in silence. i went on, "please be assured that i'll undo the insult at the earliest possible opportunity. it's not feasible for us to hire another kallerian now, but i'll give preference to the clan gursdrinn as soon as a vacancy--" "no. you will hire me now." "it can't be done, freeman heraal. we have a budget, and we stick to it." "you will rue! i will take drastic measures!" "threats will get you nowhere, freeman heraal. i give you my word i'll get in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for another kallerian. and now, please, there are many applicants waiting--" you'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in a zoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. and there's always the chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insulting all the others. i nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and auchinleck and ludlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left. they surrounded the towering kallerian and sweet-talkingly led him away. he wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knocked them both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw, but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he was out in the hall. i mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz stebbins for the next applicant. but before my finger touched the button, the door popped open and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry stebbins. "come here, you!" "stebbins?" i said gently. "i'm sorry, mr. corrigan. i lost sight of this one for a moment, and he came running in--" "please, please," squeaked the little alien pitifully. "i must see you, honored sir!" "it isn't his turn in line," stebbins protested. "there are at least fifty ahead of him." "all right," i said tiredly. "as long as he's in here already, i might as well see him. be more careful next time, stebbins." stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out. * * * * * the alien was a pathetic sight: a stortulian, a squirrely-looking creature about three feet high. his fur, which should have been a lustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. his tail drooped. his voice was little more than a faint whimper, even at full volume. "begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. i am a being of stortul xii, having sold my last few possessions to travel to ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview with yourself." i said, "i'd better tell you right at the outset that we're already carrying our full complement of stortulians. we have both a male and a female now and--" "this is known to me. the female--is her name perchance tiress?" i glanced down at the inventory chart until i found the stortulian entry. "yes, that's her name." the little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. "it is she! it is she!" "i'm afraid we don't have room for any more--" "you are not in full understanding of my plight. the female tiress, she is--was--my own fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my life and my love." "funny," i said. "when we signed her three years ago, she said she was single. it's right here on the chart." "she lied! she left my burrow because she longed to see the splendors of earth. and i am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry, languishing in sadness and pining for her return. you _must_ take me to earth!" "but--" "i must see her--her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. i must reason with her. earthman, can't you see i must appeal to her inner flame? _i must bring her back!_" my face was expressionless. "you don't really intend to join our organization at all--you just want free passage to earth?" "yes, yes!" wailed the stortulian. "find some other member of my race, if you must! let me have my wife again, earthman! is your heart a dead lump of stone?" * * * * * it isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed by sentiment. i felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but i wasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrel happy--not to mention footing the transportation. i said, "i don't see how we can manage it. the laws are very strict on the subject of bringing alien life to earth. it has to be for scientific purposes only. and if i know in advance that your purpose in coming isn't scientific, i can't in all conscience _lie_ for you, can i?" "well--" "of course not." i took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam right along. "now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up, i might conceivably have done it. but no--you had to go unburden your heart to me." "i thought the truth would move you." "it did. but in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulent criminal act. friend, i can't do it. my reputation means too much to me," i said piously. "then you will refuse me?" "my heart melts to nothingness for you. but i can't take you to earth." "perhaps you will send my wife to me here?" there's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison an unwanted specimen. all i have to do is declare it no longer of scientific interest, and the world government will deport the undesirable alien back to its home world. but i wouldn't pull a low trick like that on our female stortulian. i said, "i'll ask her about coming home. but i won't ship her back against her will. and maybe she's happier where she is." the stortulian seemed to shrivel. his eyelids closed half-way to mask his tears. he turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like a living dishrag. in a bleak voice, he said, "there is no hope then. all is lost. i will never see my soulmate again. good day, earthman." he spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping. i watched him shuffle out. i do have _some_ conscience, and i had the uneasy feeling i had just been talking to a being who was about to commit suicide on my account. * * * * * about fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. then life started to get complicated again. nine of the fifty were okay. the rest were unacceptable for one reason or another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. the haul for the day so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. i had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the kallerian's outraged pride and the stortulian's flighty wife when the door opened and the earthman who called himself ildwar gorb of wazzenazz xiii stepped in. "how did _you_ get in here?" i demanded. "your man happened to be looking the wrong way," he said cheerily. "change your mind about me yet?" "get out before i have you thrown out." gorb shrugged. "i figured you hadn't changed your mind, so i've changed my pitch a bit. if you won't believe i'm from wazzenazz xiii, suppose i tell you that i _am_ earthborn, and that i'm looking for a job on your staff." "i don't care _what_ your story is! get out or--" "--you'll have me thrown out. okay, okay. just give me half a second. corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am i--but that fellow of yours outside _is_. he doesn't know how to handle alien beings. how many times today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?" i scowled at him. "too damn many." "you see? he's incompetent. suppose you fire him, take me on instead. i've been living in the outworlds half my life; i know all there is to know about alien life-forms. you can use me, corrigan." i took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling of the office before i spoke. "listen, gorb, or whatever your name is, i've had a hard day. there's been a kallerian in here who just about threatened murder, and there's been a stortulian in here who's about to commit suicide because of me. i have a conscience and it's troubling me. but get this: i just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up and go home to earth. i don't want you hanging around here bothering me. i'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back to claiming you're an unknown life-form from wazzenazz xiii, the answer is that i'm not looking for any of _those_ either. now will you scram or--" the office door crashed open at that point and heraal, the kallerian, came thundering in. he was dressed from head to toe in glittering metalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wielding a sword the length of a human being. stebbins and auchinleck came dragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt. "sorry, chief," stebbins gasped. "i tried to keep him out, but--" heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him out with a roar. "earthman, you have mortally insulted the clan gursdrinn!" * * * * * sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, i was ready to let him have it at the first sight of actual violence. heraal boomed, "you are responsible for what is to happen now. i have notified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing the death of a life-form! suffer, earthborn ape! suffer!" "watch it, chief," stebbins yelled. "he's going to--" an instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshgun trigger, heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged it savagely through his body. he toppled forward onto the carpet with the sword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. a few driblets of bluish-purple blood spread from beneath him. before i could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office door flew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in the green sashes of the local police force. their golden eyes goggled down at the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me. "you are j. f. corrigan?" the leader asked. "y-yes." "we have received word of a complaint against you. said complaint being--" "--that your unethical actions have directly contributed to the untimely death of an intelligent life-form," filled in the second of the ghrynian policemen. "the evidence lies before us," intoned the leader, "in the cadaver of the unfortunate kallerian who filed the complaint with us several minutes ago." "and therefore," said the third lizard, "it is our duty to arrest you for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than $ , galactic or two years in prison." "hold on!" i stormed. "you mean that any being from anywhere in the universe can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and _i'm_ responsible?" "this is the law. do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield to this late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise?" "well, no, but--" "failure to deny is admission of guilt. you are guilty, earthman." * * * * * closing my eyes wearily, i tried to wish the whole babbling lot of them away. if i had to, i could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it was going to put an awful dent in this year's take. and i shuddered when i remembered that any minute that scrawny little stortulian was likely to come bursting in here to kill himself too. was it a fine of $ , per suicide? at that rate, i could be out of business by nightfall. i was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannounced arrival. the small figure of the stortulian trudged through the open doorway and stationed itself limply near the threshold. the three ghrynian policemen and my three assistants forgot the dead kallerian for a moment and turned to eye the newcomer. i had visions of unending troubles with the law here on ghryne. i resolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again--or, if i _did_ come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself against crackpots. in heart-rending tones, the stortulian declared, "life is no longer worth living. my last hope is gone. there is only one thing left for me to do." i was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackers going down the drain. "stop him, somebody! he's going to kill himself! he's--" then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked me flying out from behind my desk before i had a chance to fire the meshgun. my head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, i guess i wasn't fully aware of what was going on. gradually the scene took shape around me. there was a monstrous hole in the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and i saw the three ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving stortulian. the man who called himself ildwar gorb was getting to his feet and dusting himself off. he helped me up. "sorry to have had to tackle you, corrigan. but that stortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. he was out to get you." i weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. a flying fragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. the smell of ashed plaster was everywhere. the police were effectively cocooning the struggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh. "evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about stortulian psychology, corrigan," gorb said lightly. "suicide is completely abhorrent to them. when they're troubled, they kill the person who caused their trouble. in this case, you." * * * * * i began to chuckle--more of a tension-relieving snicker than a full-bodied laugh. "funny," i said. "what is?" asked the self-styled wazzenazzian. "these aliens. big blustery heraal came in with murder in his eye and killed _himself_, and the pint-sized stortulian who looked so meek and pathetic damn near blew my head off." i shuddered. "thanks for the tackle job." "don't mention it," gorb said. i glared at the ghrynian police. "well? what are you waiting for? take that murderous little beast out of here! or isn't murder against the local laws?" "the stortulian will be duly punished," replied the leader of the ghrynian cops calmly. "but there is the matter of the dead kallerian and the fine of--" "--one hundred thousand dollars. i know." i groaned and turned to stebbins. "get the terran consulate on the phone, stebbins. have them send down a legal adviser. find out if there's any way we can get out of this mess with our skins intact." "right, chief." stebbins moved toward the visiphone. gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. "hold it," the wazzenazzian said crisply. "the consulate can't help you. i can." "you?" i said. "i can get you out of this cheap." "_how_ cheap?" gorb grinned rakishly. "five thousand in cash plus a contract as a specimen with your outfit. in advance, of course. that's a heck of a lot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?" i eyed gorb uncertainly. the terran consulate people probably wouldn't be much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless they were really serious, and i knew from past experiences that no officials ever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. on the other hand, giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. "tell you what," i said finally. "you've got yourself a deal--but on a contingency basis. get me out of this and you'll have five grand and the contract. otherwise, nothing." gorb shrugged. "what have i to lose?" * * * * * before the police could interfere, gorb trotted over to the hulking corpse of the kallerian and fetched it a mighty kick. "wake up, you faker! stop playing possum and stand up! you aren't fooling anyone!" the ghrynians got off the huddled little assassin and tried to stop gorb. "your pardon, but the dead require your respect," began one of the lizards mildly. gorb whirled angrily. "maybe the dead do--but this character isn't dead!" he knelt and said loudly in the kallerian's dishlike ear, "you might as well quit it, heraal. listen to this, you shamming mountain of meat--_your mother knits doilies for the clan verdrokh_!" the supposedly dead kallerian emitted a twenty-cycle rumble that shook the floor, and clambered to his feet, pulling the sword out of his body and waving it in the air. gorb leaped back nimbly, snatched up the stortulian's fallen blaster, and trained it neatly on the big alien's throat before he could do any damage. the kallerian grumbled and lowered his sword. i felt groggy. i thought i knew plenty about non-terrestrial life-forms, but i was learning a few things today. "i don't understand. how--" the police were blue with chagrin. "a thousand pardons, earthman. there seems to have been some error." "there seems to have been a cute little con game," gorb remarked quietly. i recovered my balance. "try to milk me of a hundred grand when there's been no crime?" i snapped. "i'll say there's been an error! if i weren't a forgiving man, i'd clap the bunch of you in jail for attempting to defraud an earthman! get out of here! and take that would-be murderer with you!" they got, and they got fast, burbling apologies as they went. they had tried to fox an earthman, and that's a dangerous sport. they dragged the cocooned form of the stortulian with them. the air seemed to clear, and peace was restored. i signaled to auchinleck and he slammed the door. "all right." i looked at gorb and jerked a thumb at the kallerian. "that's a nice trick. how does it work?" * * * * * gorb smiled pleasantly. he was enjoying this, i could see. "kallerians of the clan gursdrinn specialize in a kind of mental discipline, corrigan. it isn't too widely known in this area of the galaxy, but men of that clan have unusual mental control over their bodies. they can cut off circulation and nervous-system response in large chunks of their bodies for hours at a stretch--an absolutely perfect imitation of death. and, of course, when heraal put the sword through himself, it was a simple matter to avoid hitting any vital organs en route." the kallerian, still at gunpoint, hung his head in shame. i turned on him. "so--try to swindle me, eh? you cooked this whole fake suicide up in collusion with those cops." he looked quite a sight, with that gaping slash running clear through his body. but the wound had begun to heal already. "i regret the incident, earthman. i am mortified. be good enough to destroy this unworthy person." it was a tempting idea, but a notion was forming in my showman's mind. "no, i won't destroy you. tell me--how often can you do that trick?" "the tissues will regenerate in a few hours." "would you mind having to kill yourself every day, heraal? and twice on sundays?" heraal looked doubtful. "well, for the honor of my clan, perhaps--" stebbins said, "boss, you mean--" "shut up. heraal, you're hired--$ a week plus expenses. stebbins, get me a contract form--and type in a clause requiring heraal to perform his suicide stunt at least five but no more than eight times a week." i felt a satisfied glow. there's nothing more pleasing than to turn a swindle into a sure-fire crowd-puller. "aren't you forgetting something, corrigan?" asked ildwar gorb in a quietly menacing voice. "we had a little agreement, you know." "oh. yes." i moistened my lips and glanced shiftily around the office. there had been too many witnesses. i couldn't back down. i had no choice but to write out a check for five grand and give gorb a standard alien-specimen contract. unless.... "just a second," i said. "to enter earth as an alien exhibit, you need proof of alien origin." he grinned, pulled out a batch of documents. "nothing to it. everything's stamped and in order--and anybody who wants to prove these papers are fraudulent will have to find wazzenazz xiii first!" we signed and i filed the contracts away. but only then did it occur to me that the events of the past hour might have been even more complicated than they looked. suppose, i wondered, gorb had conspired with heraal to stage the fake suicide, and rung in the cops as well--with contracts for both of them the price of my getting off the hook? it could very well be. and if it was, it meant i had been taken as neatly as any chump i'd ever conned. carefully keeping a poker face, i did a silent burn. gorb, or whatever his real name was, was going to find himself living up to that contract he'd signed--every damn word and letter of it! * * * * * we left ghryne later that week, having interviewed some eleven hundred alien life-forms and having hired fifty-two. it brought the register of our zoo--pardon me, the institute--to a nice pleasant specimens representing intelligent life-forms. ildwar gorb, the wazzenazzian--who admitted that his real name was mike higgins, of st. louis--turned out to be a tower of strength on the return voyage. it developed that he really _did_ know all there was to know about alien life-forms. when he found out i had turned down the -foot-long vegan because the upkeep would be too big, gorb-higgins rushed off to the vegan's agent and concluded a deal whereby we acquired a fertilized vegan ovum, weighing hardly more than an ounce. transporting _that_ was a lot cheaper than lugging a full-grown adult vegan, besides which, he assured me that the infant beast could be adapted to a diet of vegetables without any difficulty. he made life a lot easier for me during the six-week voyage to earth in our specially constructed ship. with fifty-two alien life-forms aboard, all sorts of dietary problems arose, not to mention the headaches that popped up over pride of place and the like. the kallerian simply refused to be quartered anywhere but on the left-hand side of the ship, for example--but that was the side we had reserved for low-gravity creatures, and there was no room for him there. "we'll be traveling in hyperspace all the way to earth," gorb-higgins assured the stubborn kallerian. "our cosmostatic polarity will be reversed, you see." "hah?" asked heraal in confusion. "the cosmostatic polarity. if you take a bunk on the left-hand side of the ship, you'll be traveling on the right-hand side all the way there!" "oh," said the big kallerian. "i didn't know that. thank you for explaining." he gratefully took the stateroom we assigned him. higgins really had a way with the creatures, all right. he made us look like fumbling amateurs, and i had been operating in this business more than fifteen years. somehow higgins managed to be on the spot whenever trouble broke out. a highly strung norvennith started a feud with a pair of vanoinans over an alleged moral impropriety; norvennithi can be _very_ stuffy sometimes. but gorb convinced the outraged being that what the vanoinans were doing in the washroom was perfectly proper. well, it was, but i'd never have thought of using that particular analogy. i could list half a dozen other incidents in which gorb-higgins' special knowledge of outworld beings saved us from annoying hassles on that trip back. it was the first time i had ever had another man with brains in the organization and i was getting worried. when i first set up the institute back in the early s, it was with my own capital, scraped together while running a comparative biology show on betelgeuse ix. i saw to it that i was the sole owner. and i took care to hire competent but unspectacular men as my staffers--men like stebbins, auchinleck and ludlow. only now i had a viper in my bosom, in the person of this ildwar gorb-mike higgins. he could think for himself. he knew a good racket when he saw one. we were birds of a feather, higgins and i. i doubted if there was room for both of us in this outfit. * * * * * i sent for him just before we were about to make earthfall, offered him a few slugs of brandy before i got to the point. "mike, i've watched the way you handled the exhibits on the way back here." "the _other_ exhibits," he pointed out. "i'm one of them, not a staff man." "your wazzenazzian status is just a fiction cooked up to get you past the immigration authorities, mike. but i've got a proposition for you." "propose away." "i'm getting a little too old for this starcombing routine," i said. "up to now, i've been doing my own recruiting, but only because i couldn't trust anyone else to do the job. i think you could handle it, though." i stubbed out my cigarette and lit another. "tell you what, mike--i'll rip up your contract as an exhibit, and i'll give you another one as a staffman, paying twice as much. your job will be to roam the planets finding new material for us. how about it?" i had the new contract all drawn up. i pushed it toward him, but he put his hand down over mine and smiled amiably as he said, "no go." "no? not even for twice the pay?" "i've done my own share of roaming," he said. "don't offer me more money. i just want to settle down on earth, jim. i don't care about the cash. honest." it was very touching, and also very phony, but there was nothing i could do. i couldn't get rid of him that way. i had to bring him to earth. the immigration officials argued about his papers, but he'd had the things so cleverly faked that there was no way of proving he wasn't from wazzenazz xiii. we set him up in a key spot of the building. the kallerian, heraal, is one of our top attractions now. every day at two in the afternoon, he commits ritual suicide, and soon afterward rises from death to the accompaniment of a trumpet fanfare. the four other kallerians we had before are wildly jealous of the crowds he draws, but they're just not trained to do his act. but the unquestioned number one attraction here is confidence man mike higgins. he's billed as the only absolutely human life-form from an extraterrestrial planet, and though we've had our share of debunking, it has only increased business. funny that the biggest draw at a zoo like ours should be a home-grown earthman, but that's show business. * * * * * a couple of weeks after we got back, mike added a new wrinkle to the act. he turned up with a blonde showgirl named marie, and now we have a woman from wazzenazz too. it's more fun for mike that way. and downright clever. he's too clever, in fact. like i said, i appreciate a good confidence man, the way some people appreciate fine wine. but i wish i had left ildwar gorb back on ghryne, instead of signing him up with us. yesterday he stopped by at my office after we had closed down for the day. he was wearing that pleasant smile he always wears when he's up to something. he accepted a drink, as usual, and then he said, "jim, i was talking to lawrence r. fitzgerald yesterday." "the little regulan? the green basketball?" "that's the one. he tells me he's only getting $ a week. and a lot of the other boys here are drawing pretty low pay too." my stomach gave a warning twinge. "mike, if you're looking for a raise, i've told you time and again you're worth it to me. how about twenty a week?" he held up one hand. "i'm not angling for a raise for _me_, jim." "what then?" he smiled beatifically. "the boys and i held a little meeting yesterday evening, and we--ah--formed a union, with me as leader. i'd like to discuss the idea of a general wage increase for every one of the exhibits here." "higgins, you blackmailer, how can i afford--" "easy," he said. "you'd hate to lose a few weeks' gross, wouldn't you?" "you mean you'd call a strike?" he shrugged. "if you leave me no choice, how else can i protect my members' interests?" after about half an hour of haggling, he sweated me into an across-the-board increase for the entire mob, with a distinct hint of further raises to come. but he also casually let me know the price he's asking to call off the hounds. he wants a partnership in the institute; a share in the receipts. if he gets that, it makes him a member of management, and he'll have to quit as union leader. that way i won't have him to contend with as a negotiator. but i _will_ have him firmly embedded in the organization, and once he gets his foot in the door, he won't be satisfied until he's on top--which means when i'm out. * * * * * but i'm not licked yet! not after a full lifetime of conniving and swindling! i've been over and over the angles and there's one thing you can always count on--a trickster will always outsmart himself if you give him the chance. i did it with higgins. now he's done it with me. he'll be back here in half an hour to find out whether he gets his partnership or not. well, he'll get his answer. i'm going to affirm, as per the escape clause in the standard exhibit contract he signed, that he is no longer of scientific value, and the feds will pick him up and deport him to his home world. that leaves him two equally nasty choices. those fake documents of his were good enough to get him admitted to earth as a legitimate alien. how the world police get him back there is their headache--and his. if he admits the papers were phony, the only way he'll get out of prison will be when it collapses of old age. so i'll give him a third choice: he can sign an undated confession, which i will keep in my safe, as guarantee against future finagling. i don't expect to be around forever, you see, though, with that little secret i picked up on rimbaud ii, it'll be a good long time, not even barring accidents, and i've been wondering whom to leave the corrigan institute of morphological science to. higgins will make a fine successor. oh, one more thing he will have to sign. it remains the corrigan institute as long as the place is in business. try to outcon me, will he? grifters' asteroid by h. l. gold harvey and joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. or so they thought! angus johnson knew differently. he charged them five buckos for a glass of water--and got it! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories may . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] characteristically, harvey ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity, though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. but joe mallon, with no dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of land that had been termed a spaceport. when harvey staggered pontifically into the battered metalloy saloon--the only one on planetoid --his tall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing something incoherent. they met in the doorway, violently. "we're delirious!" joe cried. "it's a mirage!" "what is?" asked harvey through a mouthful of cotton. joe reeled aside, and harvey saw what had upset his partner. he stared, speechless for once. in their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panacea purveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. but never had they seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in two hands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in the remaining pair. the bartender, a big man resembling the plumpish harvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering this impossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruit juice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. "nonsense," harvey croaked uncertainly. "we have seen enough queer things to know there are always more." he led the way inside. through thirst-cracked lips he rasped: "water--quick!" without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought out two glasses of water. the interplanetary con-men drank noisily, asked for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. meanwhile, the bartender had taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. harvey and joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water so fast, but they were beginning to revive. they noticed the bartender's impersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. "strangers, eh?" he asked at last. "solar salesmen, my colonial friend," harvey answered in his usual lush manner. "we purvey that renowned martian remedy, _la-anago yergis_, the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves in the ancient ruined city of la-anago. medical science is unanimous in proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history of therapeutics." "yeah?" said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaser glasses without washing them. "where you heading?" "out of mars for ganymede. our condenser broke down, and we've gone without water for five ghastly days." "got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port?" joe asked. "we did. he came near starving and moved on to titan. ships don't land here unless they're in trouble." "then where's the water lead-in? we'll fill up and push off." "mayor takes care of that," replied the saloon owner. "if you gents're finished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos." harvey grinned puzzledly. "we didn't take any whiskey." "might as well. water's five buckos a glass. liquor's free with every chaser." harvey's eyes bulged. joe gulped. "that--that's robbery!" the lanky man managed to get out in a thin quaver. the barkeeper shrugged. "when there ain't many customers, you gotta make more on each one. besides--" "besides nothing!" joe roared, finding his voice again. "you dirty crook--robbing poor spacemen! you--" [illustration: _"you dirty crook!" joe roared. "robbing honest spacemen!"_] harvey nudged him warningly. "easy, my boy, easy." he turned to the bartender apologetically. "don't mind my friend. his adrenal glands are sometimes overactive. you were going to say--?" * * * * * the round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. "folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em," he said, shaking his head. "lemme explain about the water here. it's bitter as some kinds of sin before it's purified. have to bring it in with buckets and make it sweet. that takes time and labor. waddya think--i was chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? i charge because i gotta." "friend," said harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eight five-bucko bills, "here is your money. what's fair is fair, and you have put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be an unconscionable interjection of a middleman between nature and man's thirst." the saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. "if that's an apology, i accept it. now the mayor'll discuss filling your tanks. that's me. i'm also justice of the peace, official recorder, fire chief...." "and chief of police, no doubt," said harvey jocosely. "nope. that's my son, jed. angus johnson's my name. folks here just call me chief. i run this town, and run it right. how much water will you need?" joe estimated quickly. "about seventy-five liters, if we go on half rations," he answered. he waited apprehensively. "let's say ten buckos a liter," the mayor said. "on account of the quantity, i'm able to quote a bargain price. shucks, boys, it hurts me more to charge for water than it does for you to pay. i just got to, that's all." the mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks with them. the planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intently watched the crude level-gauge, crying "stop!" when it registered the proper amount. then johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger and wetted his lips expectantly. harvey bravely counted off the bills. he asked: "but what are we to do about replenishing our battery fluid? ten buckos a liter would be preposterous. we simply can't afford it." johnson's response almost floored them. "who said anything about charging you for battery water? you can have all you want for nothing. it's just the purified stuff that comes so high." after giving them directions that would take them to the free-water pool, the ponderous factotum of planetoid shook hands and headed back to the saloon. his six-armed assistant followed him inside. "now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague?" said harvey as he and joe picked up buckets that hung on the tank. "johnson, as i saw instantly, is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly." "just the same," joe griped, "paying for water isn't something you can get used to in ten minutes." in the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang from the igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents, according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. they filled their buckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. * * * * * it was on the sixth trip that joe caught a glimpse of jupiter-shine on a bright surface off to the left. the figure, , with the bucko sign in front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keeping a faint suspicion alive in him. so he called harvey and they went to investigate. among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender mound that was unmistakably a buried pipe. "what's this doing here?" harvey asked, puzzled. "i thought johnson had to transport water in pails." "wonder where it leads to," joe said uneasily. "it leads _to_ the saloon," said harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing the pipe back toward the spaceport. "what i am concerned with is where it leads _from_." five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion of scrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burst into the open--before a clear, sparkling pool. mutely, harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. "i am growing suspicious," he said in a rigidly controlled voice. but joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water and tasting it. "sweet!" he snarled. they rushed back to the first pool, where joe again tasted a sample. his mouth went wry. "bitter! he uses only one pool, the sweet one! the only thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor's conscience." "the asteroidal poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on," said harvey slowly. his eyes grew cold. "joseph, the good-natured artist in me has become a hard and merciless avenger. i shall not rest until we have had the best of this colonial con-man! watch your cues from this point hence." fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. but at the door they stopped and their fists unclenched. "thought you gents were leaving," the mayor called out, seeing them frozen in the doorway. "glad you didn't. now you can meet my son, jed. him and me are the whole earthman population of johnson city." "you don't need any more," said harvey, dismayed. johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hair and held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously been born and raised in low gravity. for any decent-sized world would have kept him down near the general dimensions of a man. he held out an acre of palm. harvey studied it worriedly, put his own hand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again when his fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressed one. "pleased to meet you," piped a voice that had never known a dense atmosphere. the pursuit of vengeance, harvey realized, had taken a quick and unpleasant turn. something shrewd was called for.... "joseph!" he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. "don't you feel well?" even before the others could turn to him, joe's practiced eyes were gently crossing. he sagged against the door frame, all his features drooping like a bloodhound's. "bring him in here!" johnson cried. "i mean, get him away! he's coming down with asteroid fever!" "of course," replied harvey calmly. "any fool knows the first symptoms of the disease that once scourged the universe." "what do you mean, _once_?" demanded johnson. "i come down with it every year, and i ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. get him out of here!" "in good time. he can't be moved immediately." "then he'll be here for months!" harvey helped joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. the mayor and his gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathe in tiny, uncontaminating gasps. "you'll find everything you want in the back room," johnson said frantically, "sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suction cups--" "relics of the past," harvey stated. "one medication is all modern man requires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever." "what's that?" asked the mayor without conviction. instead of replying, harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-hand rocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. he returned within a few minutes, carrying a bottle. * * * * * joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowly crossing and uncrossing. harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly, put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink. when joe tried to pull away, harvey was inexorable. he made his partner drink until most of the liquid was gone. then he stepped back and waited for the inevitable result. joe's performance was better than ever. he lay supine for several moments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomed to perpetual wryness. slowly, however, he sat up and his features straightened out. "are--are you all right?" asked the mayor anxiously. "much better," said joe in a weak voice. "maybe you need another dose," harvey suggested. joe recoiled. "i'm fine now!" he cried, and sprang off the bar to prove it. astonished, johnson and his son drew closer. they searched joe's face, and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. "well, i'll be hanged!" johnson ejaculated. "_la-anago yergis_ never fails, my friend," harvey explained. "by actual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-three minutes, depending on the severity of the attack. luckily, we caught this one before it grew formidable." the mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. "if you don't charge too much," he said warily, "i might think of buying some." "we do not sell this unbelievable remedy," harvey replied with dignity. "it sells itself." "'course, i'd expect a considerable reduction if i bought a whole case," said johnson. "that would be the smallest investment you could make, compared with the vast loss of time and strength the fever involves." "how much?" asked the mayor unhappily. "for you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundred buckos." johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression of doing so. "f-four hundred," he offered. "not a red cent less than four seventy-five," harvey said flatly. "make it four fifty," quavered johnson. "i dislike haggling," said harvey. the final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos and fifty redsents. magnanimously, harvey added: "and we will include, _gratis_, an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of mercurian handicraftsmanship." johnson stabbed out a warning finger. "no tricks now. i want a taste of that stuff. you're not switching some worthless junk on me." harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. the mayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. the ensuing minute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle which the man gradually won. "there ain't no words for that taste," he gulped when it was safe to talk again. "medicine," harvey propounded, "should taste like medicine." to joe he said: "come, my esteemed colleague. we must perform the sacred task to which we have dedicated ourselves." with joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed the clearing and entered the ship. as soon as they were inside, joe dropped his murderous silence and cried: "what kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of that snake oil?" "that was not poison," harvey contradicted quietly. "it was _la-anago yergis_ extract, plus." "plus what--arsenic?" "now, joseph! consider my quandary when i came back here to manufacture our specific for all known ailments, with the intention of selling yonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods--an entire case, mind you. was i to mix the extract with the water for which we had been swindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? where would our profit have been, then? no; i had to use the bitter free water, of course." "but why use it on me?" joe demanded furiously. harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. "did johnson ask to taste it, or did he not? one must look ahead, joseph. i had to produce the same _medicine_ that we will now manufacture. thus, you were a guinea pig for a splendid cause." "okay, okay," joe said. "but you shoulda charged him more." "joseph, i promise you that we shall get back every redsent of which that swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables he possesses. we could not be content with less." "well, we're starting all right," admitted joe. "how about that thing with six arms? he looks like a valuable. can't we grab him off?" harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. "i have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity. apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him. at first i purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with our streamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolic suckers. later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on the audio-visiphone. then our triumph--we shall sell him at a stupendous figure to the zoo!" * * * * * joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and harvey carried the case of medicine to the saloon. the mayor had already cleared a place of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put it down carefully. then he took the elaborate bottle-opener harvey gave him, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. it must have been at least as good as the first; he gagged. "that's the stuff, all right," he said, swallowing hard. he counted out the money into harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariously balanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his pain at paying for it. then he glanced out to see the position of jupiter, and asked: "you gents eaten yet? the restaurant's open now." harvey and joe looked at each other. they hadn't been thinking about food at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. "it's only water we were short of," harvey said apprehensively. "we've got rations back at the ship." "_h-mph!_" the mayor grunted. "powdered concentrates. compressed pap. suit yourselves. we treat our stomachs better here. and you're welcome to our hospitality." "your hospitality," said harvey, "depends on the prices you charge." "well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying," answered the mayor promptly. "what's more, the kind of dinner i serve here you can't get anywhere else for any price." swiftly, harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. he saw none. "let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, joe," he said guardedly. johnson immediately fell into the role of "mine host." "come right in, gents," he invited. "right into the dining room." he seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more or less private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was little chance of company. genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen with two menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins, silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails, which were on the house. then he stood by for orders. harvey and joe studied the menu critically. the prices were phenomenally low. when they glanced up at johnson in perplexity, he grinned, bowed and asked: "everything satisfactory, gents?" "quite," said harvey. "we shall order." for an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, the culinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. and the service was as extraordinary as the meal itself. with four hands, genius played deftly upon a pair of mellow venusian _viotars_, using his other two hands for waiting on the table. "we absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen," harvey whispered excitedly when johnson and the native were both in the kitchen, attending to the next course. "he would make any society hostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sum to women like mrs. van schuyler-morgan, merely for his hire." "think of a fast one fast," joe agreed. "you're right." "but i dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often," complained harvey. "i wish johnson would stay either swindler or honest merchant. this dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet i estimate our check at a mere bucko twenty redsents." the mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. "it's been a great honor, gents," he said. "ain't often i have visitors, and i like the best, like you two gents." as if on cue, genius came out and put the check down between joe and harvey. harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished in a yelp of horror. "what the devil is this?" he shouted.--"how do you arrive at this fantastic, idiotic figure--_three hundred and twenty-eight buckos_!" * * * * * johnson didn't answer. neither did genius; he simply put on the table, not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. with one of his thirty fingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty with rage. the minute note read: "services and entertainment, buckos redsents." "you can go to hell!" joe growled. "we won't pay it!" johnson sighed ponderously. "i was afraid you'd act like that," he said with regret. he pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it on his vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. "afraid i'll have to ask the sheriff to take over." johnson, the "sheriff," collected the money, and johnson, the "restaurateur," pocketed it. meanwhile, harvey tipped joe the sign to remain calm. "my friend," he said to the mayor, and his tones took on a schoolmasterish severity, "your long absence from earth has perhaps made you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered the folk-lore of your native planet. such as, for example: 'it is folly to kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'penny wise is pound foolish.'" "i don't get the connection," objected johnson. "well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you put out of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantial deal. my partner and i were prepared to make you a sizable offer for the peculiar creature you call genius. but by reducing our funds the way you have--" "who said i wanted to sell him?" the mayor interrupted. he rubbed his fingers together and asked disinterestedly: "what were you going to offer, anyhow?" "it doesn't matter any longer," harvey said with elaborate carelessness. "perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway." "that's right," johnson came back emphatically. "but what would your offer have been which i would have turned down?" "which one? the one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?" "either one. it don't make no difference. genius is too valuable to sell." "oh, come now, mr. johnson. don't tell me no amount of money would tempt you!" "nope. but how much did you say?" "ah, then you will consider releasing genius!" "well, i'll tell you something," said the mayor confidentially. "when you've got one thing, you've got one thing. but when you've got money, it's the same as having a lot of things. because, if you've got money, you can buy this and that and this and that and--" "this and that," concluded joe. "we'll give you five hundred buckos." "now, gents!" johnson remonstrated. "why, six hundred would hardly--" "you haven't left us much money," harvey put in. the mayor frowned. "all right, we'll split the difference. make it five-fifty." harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. then he stood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensively acquired. "i really hate to deprive you of this unique creature," he said to johnson. "i should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only your filial mammoth to keep you company." "i sure will," johnson confessed glumly. "i got pretty attached to genius, and i'm going to miss him something awful." harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing off the table almost all at once. "my friend," he said, "we take your only solace, it is true, but in his place we can offer something no less amazing and instructive." the mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. "what is it?" he asked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at its worst and expects nothing better. "joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room of the ship," harvey instructed. to johnson he explained: "you must see the wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. my partner will soon have it here for your astonishment." joe's face grew as glum as johnson's had been. "aw, harv," he protested, "do we have to sell it? and right when i thought we were getting the key!" "we must not be selfish, my boy," harvey said nobly. "we have had our chance; now we must relinquish fate to the hands of a man who might have more success than we. go, joseph. bring it here." unwillingly, joe turned and shuffled out. * * * * * on a larger and heavier world than planetoid , johnson's curiosity would probably have had weight and mass. he was bursting with questions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. for his part, harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a venusian amoeba until joe came in, lugging a radio. "is that what you were talking about?" the mayor snorted. "what makes you think i want a radio? i came here to get away from singers and political speech-makers." "do not jump to hasty conclusions," harvey cautioned. "another word, and i shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had, with the sole exceptions of joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventor of this absolutely awe-inspiring device." "i ain't in the market for a radio," johnson said stubbornly. harvey nodded in relief. "we have attempted to repay our host, joseph. he has spurned our generosity. we have now the chance to continue our study, which i am positive will soon reward us with the key to an enormous fortune." "well, that's no plating off our bow," joe grunted. "i'm glad he did turn it down. i hated to give it up after working on it for three whole years." he picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. "now, hold on!" the mayor cried. "i ain't _saying_ i'll buy, but what is it i'm turning down?" joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. his face sorrowful, harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. "to make a long story, mr. johnson," he said, "joseph and i were among the chosen few who knew the famous doctor dean intimately. just before his tragic death, you will recall, dean allegedly went insane." he banged his fist on the bar. "i have said it before, and i repeat again, that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredit his greatest invention--this fourth dimensional radio!" "this what?" johnson blurted out. "in simple terms," clarified harvey, "the ingenious doctor discovered that the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged by energy of all quanta. there has never been any question that the inhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized than ourselves. consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge would find himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!" the mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. "and this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?" "it does, mr. johnson! only charlatans like those who envied doctor dean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact." the mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and stared thoughtfully at the battered cabinet. "well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts," he conceded. "but how could you understand what they're saying? folks up there wouldn't talk our language." again harvey smashed his fist down. "do you dare to repeat the scurvy lie that broke dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?" johnson recoiled. "no--no, _of course not_. i mean, being up here, i naturally couldn't get all the details." "naturally," harvey agreed, mollified. "i'm sorry i lost my temper. but it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcasts emanating from the super-dimension were in english! why should that be so difficult to believe? is it impossible that at one time there was communication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admired our language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their own hyper-scientific trimmings?" "why, i don't know," johnson said in confusion. "for three years, joseph and i lost sleep and hair, trying to detect the simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosed broadcasts into our primitive english. it eluded us. even the doctor failed. but that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his could stand only so much. and the combination of ridicule and failure to solve the mystery caused him to take his own life." johnson winced. "is that what you want to unload on me?" "for a very good reason, sir. patience is the virtue that will be rewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. a man who could devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously a person with unusual patience." "yeah," the mayor said grudgingly, "i ain't exactly flighty." "therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!" johnson asked skeptically: "how about a sample first?" * * * * * harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. after several squeals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: "there are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which, howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either or both hagasanipaj, by all means. this does not refly, on the brother man, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo...." harvey switched off the set determinedly. "wait a minute!" johnson begged. "i almost got it then!" "i dislike being commercial," said harvey, "but this astounding device still belongs to us. would we not be foolish to let you discover the clue before purchasing the right to do so?" the mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonized longing. "how much do you want?" he asked unhappily. "one thousand buckos, and no haggling. i am not in the mood." johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing harvey's set features, paid with the worst possible grace. "don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, harv?" joe asked. "what about the batteries?" demanded johnson with deadly calm. "a very small matter," harvey said airily. "you see, we have been analyzing these broadcasts for three years. in that time, of course, the batteries are bound to weaken. i estimate these should last not less than one terrestrial month, at the very least." "what do i do then?" harvey shrugged. "special batteries are required, which i see joseph has by chance brought along. for the batteries, the only ones of their kind left in the system, i ask only what they cost--one hundred and ninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less." johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near his gun. but he paid the amount harvey wanted. moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyors collected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. before they were outside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tensely to a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: "oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. if you rue amount it, how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak--" "i'll get it!" they heard johnson mutter. then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached their ears, and a shrill question: "what's that, papa?" "a fortune, jed! those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thing like--" joe gazed at harvey admiringly. "another one sold? harv, that spiel pulls them in like an ether storm!" together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship. above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silently moved on. joe opened the gangway door. "come on in, pal," he said to genius. "we're shoving off." the planetoid man grinned foolishly. "can't go arong with you," he said with an apologetic manner. "i rike to, but pressure fratten me out if i go." "what in solar blazes are you talking about?" harvey asked. "i grow up on pranetoid," genius explained. "on big pranet, too much pressure for me." the two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. "did johnson know that when he sold you?" joe snarled. "oh, sure." the silly grin became wider than ever. "peopre from earth buy me rots of times. i never reave pranetoid, though." "joseph," harvey said ominously, "that slick colonist has put one over upon us. what is our customary procedure in that event?" "we tear him apart," joe replied between his teeth. "not mister johnson," advised genius. "have gun and badge. he shoot you first and then rock you up in prison." harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. "true. there is also the fact, joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier in the radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for his regrettable dishonesty." * * * * * unwillingly, joe agreed. while genius retreated to a safe distance, they entered the ship and blasted off. within a few minutes the automatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of the asteroid belt. "i got kind of dizzy," joe said, "there were so many deals back and forth. how much did we make on the sucker?" "a goodly amount, i wager," harvey responded. he took out a pencil and paper. "medicine, . ; radio, , ; batteries, . total--let's see-- buckos and redsents. a goodly sum, as i told you." he emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation table and began counting. finished, he looked up, troubled. "how much did we have when we landed, joseph?" "exactly buckos," joe answered promptly. "i can't understand it," said harvey. "instead of double our capital, we now have only buckos and redsents!" feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. "drinking water, ; battery water, free; meal, ; planetoid man, . total: buckos!" he stared at the figures. "we paid out almost as much as we took in," he said bitterly. "despite our intensive efforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents." "why, the dirty crook!" joe growled. but after a few moments of sad reflection, harvey became philosophical. "perhaps, joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. we were, after all, completely in johnson's power. the more i ponder, the more i believe we were lucky to escape. and, anyhow, we did make fifty redsents on the swindler. a moral victory, my boy." joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowly and asked: "remember that bottle-opener we gave him?" "certainly," harvey explained. "what about it?" "how much did it cost us?" harvey's eyebrows puckered. suddenly he started laughing. "you're right, joseph. we paid forty-six redsents for it on venus. so, after all that transacting of business, we made four redsents!" "four redsents, hell!" joe snapped. "that was the sales tax!" he glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. "you remember those yokels on mars' flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold?" "_goldbricks!_" harvey said succinctly. grinning, joe set the robot-controls for mars. [illustration: _paul palmer_] the train boy. by horatio alger, jr. author of "the errand boy," "frank fowler, the cash boy," "tom thatcher's fortune," "joe's luck," "tony, the hero," etc. illustrated. [illustration] new york a. l. burt, publisher. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by street & smith, in the office of the librarian of congress at washington. contents chapter. page. i.--the train for chicago ii.--a leap from the train iii.--paul palmer at home iv.--an unwelcome visitor v.--paul to the rescue vi.--birds of a feather vii.--a rejected suitor viii.--the struggling artist ix.--the first sitting x.--miss framley's economy xi.--paul gets into trouble xii.--paul's critical position xiii.--grace dearborn at home xiv.--the artist's secret xv.--a fellow-conspirator xvi.--an unwelcome appearance xvii.--paul defends his mother xviii.--grace dearborn's party xix.--the artist's recreation xx.--a persevering suitor xxi.--miss framley's mortification xxii.--an unexpected change xxiii.--a catastrophe xxiv.--the train-wrecker xxv.--paul changes his business xxvi.--mr. bradford's office xxvii.--serving a tyrant xxviii.--mr. manson is surprised xxix.--the book-keeper's triumph xxx.--paul is promoted xxxi.--paul and his successor xxxii.--jim scott xxxiii.--cheyenne xxxiv.--major ashton in a quandary xxxv.--wooing the widow xxxvi.--paul sells the mine xxxvii.--diamond cut diamond xxxviii.--a scene at omaha xxxix.--a thief foiled xl.--the lady's secret xli.--major ashton's engagement xlii.--a revelation xliii.--major ashton at bay xliv.--conclusion the train boy. chapter i. the train for chicago. the four o'clock afternoon train from milwaukee, bound for chicago, had just passed truesdell, when the train boy passed through the cars with a pile of magazines under his arm. he handed them to the right and left for passengers to examine, and after an interval passed back again, to receive pay for any that might be selected, and gather up the rest. "here's the latest magazines!" he cried, in a pleasant voice. "harpers, scribner's, lippincott's!" as he is to be our hero, i will pause a moment to sketch paul palmer. he was a boy of sixteen, of medium height for a boy of that age, with dark brown hair, bright, sparkling eyes, not without a suggestion of mirthfulness, and round cheeks, with a healthful color. it would be hard to find a more attractive-looking boy than paul. the first passenger he came to on his return round was an old lady, bordering upon seventy, who was quite unaccustomed to traveling, and knew very little of railways and their customs. when the magazine had been put in her hands she received it with glad complacency, supposing it to be a gift from the railroad corporation. she hunted up her spectacles, and was looking at the pictures with considerable interest when paul touched her on the arm. "want my ticket a'ready?" she asked, thinking it to be the conductor. "no, ma'am," answered paul, smiling. "please give me the magazine." "why, you give it to me yourself," said the old lady in surprise. "no, i only handed it to you to examine," said paul. "i thought, to be sure, you give it to me, and i was goin' to carry it to my darter sarah ann as a present. i'm goin' to spend a week with sarah ann." paul smiled. he had met before unsophisticated travelers ready to impart their family affairs to any one sufficiently interested to listen to them. "you can do it now," he said, "if you will buy the magazine. every body likes to read harper's." "how much do you ax for it?" asked the old lady, cautiously. "thirty-five cents." "lands sake!" exclaimed the old lady, in dismay. "thirty-five cents for a picture-book!" "there's some very nice reading in it, ma'am," said paul, patiently. "maybe there is, but there ain't any covers." "if there were i should ask a good deal more." "i'll pay you ten cents," said the old lady, with the air of one who was making a very liberal offer. "couldn't take it, ma'am. i should fail if i did business that way," said paul. "well, i guess you'd better take it, then. i can't afford to pay thirty-five cents for a picture-book." paul took the magazine, and passed on. the next passenger was a young lady. she, too, had harper's magazine in her hand. "won't you take fifteen cents for it?" she asked, with a smile, for she had heard the colloquy between paul and the old lady. "i am afraid not," said paul, smiling back, for he understood her. "then i must pay your price." she drew out a purse, through the meshes of which gleamed not only silver but gold, and put half a dollar into paul's hand. he was about to return her fifteen cents in change, when she said, pleasantly: "never mind. keep the change for yourself." "thank you," answered paul, politely. "i should be glad of many customers like yourself." "have you parents living?" asked the young lady. "my mother is living, but my father died two years since." "and i suppose you help your mother with your earnings?" "yes, miss, i give them all to her." "i was sure you were a good boy," said the young lady, with a charming smile. "tell me, now, do you earn good wages by selling papers and magazines on the train?" "yes, miss, more than i could get in a store or office. last week i made eight dollars. some lucky weeks i have made as much as eleven." "have you no brother or sister?" "yes, i have a little sister, ten years old." "and a brother?" "i have a half-brother--ten years older than myself," answered paul, with evident hesitation. "and does he help your mother also?" inquired the young lady. paul shook his head. "we don't see much of him," he answered. "he isn't very steady, and is more likely to ask help of us than to give it." "and he is a strong, young man!" exclaimed the young lady, indignantly. "why, he can't have any sense of pride or honor." "not much. we can do better without him than with him." "it is lucky for your mother and sister that you are different from him." "that is true enough, miss. i should be ashamed to act like him." "what is your little sister's name?" "grace." "why, that is my name. she is a namesake of mine." "then i hope she will be like her namesake," said paul, gallantly. "i see you are old enough to pay compliments," said the young lady, smiling. "do you know what i feel like doing?" "no." "i am going to send a gift to my namesake. here;" and, opening her purse once more, she drew from it a two dollar and a half gold piece, and put it into paul's hand. "do you really mean this for grace?" asked the boy, almost incredulous. "certainly." "though you never saw her?" "i have seen her brother," said the young lady, "and i have a very good opinion of him." "thank you very much. grace will be delighted." "do you live in chicago?" "yes, miss." "some time bring your little sister to call on me. i live with my aunt, mrs. sheldon, in ashland avenue." she handed paul her card. glancing at it, he ascertained that the name of his liberal friend was grace dearborn. "grace shall certainly come, if only to thank you for her present," said paul. after the boy passed on, mrs. sheldon, who sat in the seat just behind, said: "upon my word, grace, you are extremely liberal to a perfect stranger." "no doubt, aunt; but i took a fancy to the boy." "how do you know he told you the truth?" "i would stake my life upon his truth," said grace, warmly. "did you ever see him before?" "never." mrs. sheldon shrugged her shoulders. "you must have great confidence in your knowledge of human nature, then," she said. "i have, aunt," said the young lady, smiling. "well, my dear, you are rich, and are quite able to indulge your quixotic liberality." "thanks to providence, aunt." "and to your father." the two would have taken seats beside each other had there been an opportunity, but when they entered the car the best they could do was to take outside seats, one directly behind the other. miss dearborn's seat companion was a young man of about thirty, with a complexion preternaturally pale, the pallor being heightened by his intensely black hair and mustache. he was well dressed, and on the middle finger of his right hand he wore a cameo ring, which was apparently of considerable value. when grace dearborn was holding her colloquy with paul, the young man glanced from behind the paper he was reading, and took notice of the well-filled purse which she displayed. there was a covetous glitter in his eyes, which could hardly have been expected from one whose appearance seemed to indicate that he was in easy circumstances. he noticed also that grace replaced the purse in a pocket on the side nearest to him. "i must have that purse," said luke denton to himself. i may as well say that denton, originally of good family, had so given himself up to evil courses that he had been disowned by his relatives, and was reduced to making a living by preying upon the community. in fact, he was an unscrupulous adventurer, and not above being a thief. chapter ii. a leap from the train. luke denton still held the paper before him, and appeared to be reading it; but it had ceased to have an interest for him. he cast furtive glances from behind it at the young lady by his side, and watched for an opportunity to transfer to his own pocket the coveted purse. this was likely to be more easily effected because grace dearborn, though she had taken but slight notice of him, had made up her mind from a casual glance that he was what is technically called a gentleman. that her purse was in danger from a man so well dressed never occurred to her. it so happened that grace was an interested observer of nature, and so as the train sped over the road she looked, now out of the windows at one side, now out of them at the other. to a novice, theft under such circumstances would have been difficult, but it was not the first time luke denton had practiced the art of a pickpocket. he seized the opportunity when grace was looking across the car, stealthily to insert his hand into her pocket and draw therefrom the well-filled purse, the young lady meanwhile being quite unconscious that she was suffering a loss. her aunt, too, had her attention otherwise bestowed, for she was reading the magazine which her niece had just bought of the train boy. it looked as if luke would easily be able to escape with his booty before his theft could be discovered. indeed he had made up his mind to leave the train at libertyville, a small station close at hand, so as to be out of the way when grace realized her loss; but, unfortunately for him, there had been an unsuspected witness of his adroit act. paul was just entering the car at the moment, and his first glance, not unnaturally, was directed toward the pretty young lady who had shown herself so generous to his little sister. he was startled when he saw her pocket being picked, and was rather surprised that the gentlemanly looking person at her side should be the thief. "what shall i do?" he asked himself. his first impulse was to go forward, apprise miss dearborn of her loss, and denounce her seat companion. but this might enable luke to drop the purse and assume the airs of an innocent man. perhaps denton in his rage might even attack him. paul therefore framed a different plan. he passed through the car into the next, where he met the conductor. to him he briefly communicated what he had seen. "you have done right, paul," said the conductor, who personally knew him. "ten to one the gentleman will be for getting out at libertyville, unless we are beforehand with him. there is no time to be lost, as we are only about a mile from the station. come back with me." the conductor entered the car where grace was seated, with paul close at his heels. luke denton was looking out of the window, having folded his newspaper. "in five minutes i shall be safe," thought he, as not far ahead he caught a distant view of the few houses which constituted libertyville. the purse he had slipped into the pocket of his pantaloons. meanwhile the conductor and paul had approached, and stood beside the seat. "miss dearborn," said paul, as the young lady looked up with a smile of recognition, "will you feel for your purse?" the young lady looked surprised, and luke denton startled. he was not ready to commit himself, however, not yet being sure that his agency was suspected. grace felt in her pocket, and said, in surprise: "it is gone!" "is it possible?" ejaculated denton, affecting surprise. "perhaps it dropped on the floor." he was trying slyly to get at his pocket to see that the purse was found on the floor, when paul said: "it is in that man's pocket!" all eyes were turned upon denton, who, with a fierce oath, exclaimed: "boy, take care how you insult _me_!" "i am only telling the truth," said paul, steadily. with a glance of alarm and distrust grace ran precipitately from her seat, and luke denton was not slow in seizing the opportunity to escape. he jumped up, nearly overturned the conductor, as he dashed down the aisle, flung open the door of the car, and with the recklessness born of desperation and the fear of arrest, with only an instant's hesitation, _jumped from the platform_! the train was not going at full speed. as it approached libertyville if was moving slowly, and probably the rate of speed did not exceed fifteen miles per hour. "good heavens, the man will be killed!" said grace, alarmed. the conductor sprang to the platform, and so did paul. they saw denton roll over once or twice, and then pick himself up, apparently not seriously injured. "the fellow is safe!" he said, turning to miss dearborn. "thank heaven!" "but he has carried off your purse." "i don't care for that. that is, i don't care for it in comparison with the man's life." "you are more good-natured than many would be who had suffered such a loss." "there wasn't a large sum of money in the purse," said grace. "do you remember how much?" asked paul. "i had fifty dollars when i left milwaukee." "and you gave me two dollars and a half for my little sister." "and bought a _harper's magazine_ of you," added grace, smiling. "then there should be forty-seven dollars left," continued the train boy. "i suppose so. i wish now i had given you the whole of it for your little sister." "you were very generous as it was, miss dearborn." "still i think it would have done her more good than the gentleman who so unceremoniously borrowed it." "miss dearborn," said paul, with a sudden reflection, "now that you have lost all your money, let me hand you back this gold piece." and he offered her the quarter-eagle which she had given him for his little sister. "oh, no, there is no need that i should recall my gift," she said, shaking her head. "to be sure i am temporarily penniless, but my aunt will see that i don't want. aunt caroline, is my credit good with you?" "to be sure, grace," said the matronly lady whom she addressed. "and you can certify that the loss of my purse won't embarrass me seriously?" "i think not," said mrs. sheldon, "considering that you have an income of----" here she stepped discreetly, just as she was about to reveal an important secret. "say six hundred dollars a year," chimed in grace, laughing. "you see, paul," she continued, addressing our hero, "you need have no compunctions about keeping my gift to your sister. it won't entail any distressing economy." they had reached libertyville, and paul went out on the platform with his papers. of course nothing was to be seen or heard of denton, who had jumped off the train fully three-quarters of a mile back. to the station master the conductor hurriedly communicated what had passed, and enjoined him to detain denton if he should appear at the station, and try to purchase a ticket for the seven o'clock train, which would start a little over an hour later. again the train moved on. "there is no loss without some little gain, aunt caroline," said grace. "as my seat companion has taken french leave, there will be room for you to sit beside me the rest of the journey." "rather dearly purchased, grace," said the elder lady, "since it costs you forty-seven dollars." "oh, i consider your company worth that sum," said the young lady, playfully. "really, grace, you have taken your loss very coolly." "would it do any good to make a lament over it, aunt?" "no, perhaps not, but you seem in just as good spirits as if you had lost nothing." "so i am, but i should not be if i were a poor seamstress, or a milliner's apprentice, for instance. then it would be a serious thing for me." "well, grace, all i can say is that it would annoy me very much if i had met with such a loss. i dare say i shouldn't sleep to-night." "that would be foolish, aunt, to lose sleep as well as money." at seven o'clock the train ran into the depot, and miss dearborn and her aunt rose from their seats. "can i call a carriage, miss dearborn?" asked paul, politely. "if you please, paul." "my dear, you are too familiar with that boy," said mrs. sheldon, while paul was gone in search of a hack. "he seems very well bred, aunt, and he is certainly polite and obliging." "come and see me, and bring your little sister," said grace, smiling, as paul handed her into the hack and closed the door after her. paul touched his hat, and then, leaving the depot, bent his steps toward his humble home, where supper and a warm welcome awaited him. chapter iii. paul palmer at home. in a small two-story house, not far from the junction of a side street with lake street, lived mrs. palmer, paul's mother. it was rather shabby-looking externally, being sadly in want of paint, but mrs. palmer's rooms on the second floor were neatly, though plainly furnished, and scrupulously clean. there was an outside staircase, so that the second floor was independent of the first. paul ran up stairs, and opened the door, entering at once into the sitting-room, where his mother and sister were seated. mrs. palmer's face brightened at the sight of paul. he was always full of life and gayety, and his coming never failed to cheer her. "so you are back again, paul," she said, smiling a welcome. "yes, mother, and i am hungry, i can tell you. is supper most ready?" "it will be in five minutes," said his mother, folding up her work and going into the adjoining room. "i have got some dipped toast for you to-night." "just what i like." "but i delayed putting the toast into the dip till you came. there is some minced meat." "in other words, hash," said paul, laughing. "i think you will find it good, in spite of the name." "oh, i am sure to like it, since it is home-made. at the restaurants i am a little afraid; i don't know but it may be made of dogs or cats." "do they make it of dogs or cats, paul?" asked his little sister, curiously. "i don't know," said paul; "i won't swear to it. all i know is that there's a lot of dogs and cats that disappear mysteriously every year in chicago." meanwhile mrs. palmer had been busily completing her arrangements for supper, and it was ready within the five minutes mentioned. "supper's ready, paul. i haven't made you wait long," she said. "no, mother; you're always on time, like an express train." "what sort of a day have you had, paul? did you sell much?" "yes, more than usual. how much do you think i made?" "a dollar and a quarter?" "more than that. a dollar and seventy-five cents." "that is very good indeed. it would take me a week to make as much as that by sewing." "they pay mean wages for sewing, mother. i wouldn't slave at that kind of work." "i shouldn't like to depend upon that kind of work altogether, but i can just as well earn something that way. i don't want you to support grace and me in idleness." "no danger of your being idle, mother. that doesn't come natural to you. some time or other i hope to support you as a lady." "i hope you will be prospered, paul; but i shall never be willing to fold my hands and do nothing." "then again i don't want always to live in this poor place," pursued paul. "it is comfortable. i feel fortunate in having so good a home." "it would be easier to find a better one if we could afford to pay more rent. of course this will do for the present. what have you been doing to-day, grace?" "i went to school this morning, and i have been studying arithmetic and geography at home since school was over." "you will become a famous scholar in time, grace." "i never expect to know as much as mother," said grace. "i hope you will know a good deal more," said mrs. palmer. "you know ever so much, mother." "you think so now, because i know more than you; but the time will come when you will understand better how little your mother knows." "didn't you use to keep school, mother?" "yes, but school-teachers don't know everything. well, paul, what have you seen to-day? to go to milwaukee and back would be a great event to grace and myself in our quiet course of life." "i've got used to it, mother. it's all in the day's work. oh, i mustn't forget to tell you a lady had her pocket picked on our train to-day." "tell me about it, paul," said grace, with eager interest. so paul told the story, very much as it has already been told in the last chapter. "did the pickpocket really jump off the train when it was going?" asked grace, her eyes wide open. "yes, grace." "did he get hurt?" "no; the conductor and i watched from the platform, and saw him turn two or three somersets, but he got up quickly and made off." "it was taking a dangerous risk," said mrs. palmer. "yes; it is more of a risk than i would take for forty-seven dollars." "was that the sum taken?" "yes." "poor young lady! what a loss it will be to her!" "she happens to be a rich young lady, mother. she didn't mind it any more than i would if i should lose ten cents, and perhaps not as much." "do you think the man will be caught, paul?" "i don't know. i suppose he will keep in hiding for awhile. anyhow, he got off with the money. i suppose he doesn't feel very friendly to me, as i was the one who detected him in the theft." "does he know that?" "oh, yes." mrs. palmer looked rather alarmed. "be on your guard against him, paul. he may do you a mischief sometime." "i don't doubt he would like to; but i don't believe he will ride on that railroad again very soon, and i would not recommend him to go about much in chicago." "how do you know the lady was rich, paul?" asked grace. "i know more than that. i know what her name is," said paul. "what is it?" "grace dearborn." "why, her first name is the same as mine." "so it is. don't you think she might send a present to her namesake?" "she doesn't know anything about me," said the little girl. "don't be too sure of that." "how should she?" "because i told her. i can tell you something more. she sent you a present." "really and truly?" asked grace, in a flutter of excitement. "yes, really and truly. now what do you hope it is?" "i don't know, i'm sure. i should like a nice doll. i've got a rag baby, but that isn't as good." "she didn't send you a doll." "no; i didn't expect she would; she wouldn't have any with her." "no; young ladies do not generally carry dolls round with them. still, you can buy a doll with what she did give you." paul drew from his vest-pocket the small gold piece, and handed it to his little sister. "how much is it, paul?" asked grace, who wasn't in the habit of seeing gold coin. "two dollars and a half, gracie." "why, that's ever so much money. i can get a nice doll on state street for half a dollar." "so you can, and keep the rest of the money for something useful." "miss dearborn was very kind," said mrs. palmer. "i suppose she made the present before she lost her purse." "yes. she invited me to bring grace to call upon her some day. she lives on ashland avenue." "i should like to go, paul." "so you shall, gracie." meanwhile all the family had done justice to the supper, which, though certainly very plain, was palatable. as they rose from the supper-table, paul took his hat from a peg, and said: "i'll take a little walk, mother." "in what direction, paul?" "i shall go to randolph street, and perhaps stroll down as far as state street. it is rather lively that way." "very well, paul. i suppose you won't be out late?" "oh, no. i always tell you beforehand when i stay out." paul had hardly been gone twenty minutes when an unsteady step was heard on the staircase outside, and there was a loud knock on the outer door. "i'm afraid it's stephen," said mrs. palmer, nervously. "i wish paul were at home!" [illustration: "you don't seem very glad to see me," said stephen, scowling.] chapter iv. an unwelcome visitor. mrs. palmer herself went to the door and opened it. there entered a thickset young man, of very dark complexion, with an unhealthy color on his bloated cheeks. his dress was disarranged, his hat sat on his head with a rakish slant downward, revealing coarse, unkempt black hair. "good-evening, mother," said the new-comer, staggering forward and sinking into the rocking-chair usually occupied by the widow herself. "good-evening, stephen," said mrs. palmer, gravely. "evenin', sister grace," said the intruder, looking about for a glimpse of the little girl, who was staring at him uneasily. the little girl responded reluctantly. "where's paul?" he asked next. "he's gone out for a short walk." "no matter. i don't like paul; he puts on airs. he doesn't treat me with the respect due to a--hic--older brother." "paul's a good boy," said grace, rather indignantly; for, though timid, she was always ready to rush to the defense of her favorite brother. "hey! what's that? no impudence, little chicken. don't you know i'm your brother, and more than twice as old as you?" grace was about to reply, but her mother gave her a warning glance. "you don't seem very glad to see me," said stephen, scowling. "i should be more glad to see you if your habits were good, stephen," said mrs. palmer, gravely. "who says--hic--that my habits ain't good? show me the man; that's all i want. show him to me, i say. if it's paul, i'll let him know who i am," said stephen, belligerently. "i don't need any one to tell me, stephen. your appearance is sufficient to show that you have been drinking." "all gentlemen drink, mother. it's good for the health. i ain't one of your sneaking 'sons of temperance.' i know how to behave, i want you to understand. i'm a gentleman, i am." "gentlemen don't stagger when they walk, and talk thick as you do, stephen." "you needn't lecture me any more, mrs. palmer--don't you hear?" said stephen, becoming irritated. "when i come in of an evenin' to make a neighborly call, you might treat me different. have you had supper?" "yes." "i haven't. i haven't eaten a blessed thing since mornin'." "if you would like, i will get you something, stephen." "that's the way to talk, old lady. i 'cept--hic--your kind invitation." "my mother isn't an old lady," said grace, who was as ready to stand up for her mother as for her brother. "my mother isn't an old lady!" repeated stephen, with drunken gravity. "what is she, then? she isn't an old gentleman. of course not." "hush, grace!" said mrs. palmer. "it's of no consequence whether i am called an old lady or not. would you like some tea, stephen?" she inquired. "you haven't got any whisky in the house, have you, mother?" "no; we don't keep it. tea will be much better for you." in a few minutes a cup of tea, some cold meat, and bread and butter were placed before stephen, who ate and drank with eager relish. it was true, as he had said, that he had not broken his fast since morning, though he had drank since then more than was good for him. his meal seemed somewhat to sober him. "i say, mother," he began, pushing back his chair from the table, "you're livin' in luxury, while i'm a poor, miserable fellow without a home." "i am sorry to hear it, stephen. it is your own fault. you are surely able to earn a comfortable living for yourself." "my health ain't good, and i can't get work half the time." it seemed very ridiculous to one who observed his strong frame to think of him as being in poor health. "your health would be better if you would abstain from drink, stephen," said mrs. palmer. "oh, hush up! i've had enough of that talk. i'm a gen'leman, and i'll do as i please. mother, will you do me a favor?" "what is it, stephen?" "lend me five dollars. i'll pay it back 'morrow or next day--honor of a gen'leman." mrs. palmer surveyed her visitor with some indignation, and answered, sharply: "are you not ashamed, stephen palmer, to ask such a thing of me?" "why should i be 'shamed?" "you, a strong young man, with only yourself to support, ask me, a weak woman, dependent upon a boy for support, to lend you money?" "i'll pay it back 'morrow or next day." "you know very well you would do no such thing. you would spend it in a drunken carouse with your disorderly companions. no, stephen palmer, i have no money for you, or such as you." "is that the way you treat a son of yourn?" "you are no son of mine. you are my step-son, but your bad conduct troubled your father for years before his death. you have no claim upon me or mine." stephen eyed her with dull anger. even in his drunken condition he felt the severity of her words. "i say, mrs. palmer, what did you do with my father's money--the money that ought to have come to me? you cheated me out of it, and you are livin' in luxury, while i have no home." "you know very well," said mrs. palmer, disdainfully, "that your poor father left no property, except the little furniture you see in these poor rooms. he might have been in good circumstances had you not involved him in losses, and reduced him to poverty by your bad courses." "you've got all the money between you--you, and paul, and grace," persisted stephen, angrily. "you know it's a wicked falsehood, stephen!" said grace, firing up like a kitten at her step-brother's insulting words. "you're a bad man!" "hoity-toity! i'm a bad man, am i, little vixen?" said stephen, glowering at her. "yes, you are!" "hush, grace! little girls should not talk too much!" said her mother, fearing that stephen might become dangerously incensed and proceed to violence. though he was affected by drink, she felt that she could not offer any adequate resistance in such a case. "if paul would only come home!" she said to herself. he was only a boy; still with him in the house she would feel comparatively safe. "come, old lady," said stephen, "i see you want to get rid of me. give me some money, and i will begone." "i have no money for you, stephen." "didn't paul bring home some money to-night?" paul often handed his mother the money he had earned during the day, and would probably do so before he went to bed, but fortunately, as she considered, he had not yet done so. "he brought home money, but he has it in his own pocket," she answered. "are you sure he didn't give it to you?" asked stephen, suspiciously. "no, he did not." "then he ought to. he's a selfish boy, to--hic--keep it all himself." "he doesn't keep it himself. he will probably hand it to me before he goes to bed." "then i'll come round to-morrow mornin', and you can give me some." "it will be of no use, stephen. paul's money goes to support the family, and you have no claim upon it." "haven't you any money in the house, mrs. palmer?" "i decline to answer the question, stephen palmer. all i can say is, that i have no money for you." "come, old lady, you're puttin' on airs. i won't have it. do you hear me? i say i won't have it!" and the wretched fellow pounded on the table fiercely with his fist. just then, most unluckily, grace started, and let the gold piece, which she had been holding firmly in her hand, fall on the floor. her brother espied it, and his eyes gleamed with drunken joy. "ho, ho!" he said. "gold pieces rollin' 'round! you're mighty poor, ain't you? that's just what i need." he got up from the chair, and approaching grace, who by this time had picked up the gold, seized her roughly by the arm, and exclaimed: "give me that gold piece, young one, or i'll wring your neck!" grace shrank and cowered under his brutal grasp, but still clutched the money, though pale with terror. "it's mine!" she said. "you sha'n't have it." "we'll see!" said the ruffian, tightening his grasp and shaking her roughly. chapter v. paul to the rescue. of course a contest between a burly ruffian of twenty-five and a little girl of ten could only terminate in one way. stephen palmer forcibly opened the closed hand of his little step-sister, and snatched from it the coveted coin, which he exultingly held aloft, crying: "i told you i would have it, you little minx." grace began to cry, and mrs. palmer exclaimed, in justifiable indignation: "are you not ashamed, stephen palmer, to rob a little girl like grace?" "who talks of robbery?" retorted stephen. "i've only borrowed it from her." he laughed tauntingly, for he understood, while he spoke, what little chance grace would have of recovering her money through his voluntary restitution. "borrowed it!" repeated mrs. palmer, with bitter emphasis. "it is theft, and nothing else." "do you call me a thief?" blustered stephen, scowling. "you are nothing better, stephen palmer!" returned his step-mother, now thoroughly aroused. "take care what you say, mrs. palmer!" said stephen, advancing a step toward her. "i'm a bad man when i get mad." "you never said a truer word," said mrs. palmer, more courageous in defense of grace than she would have been for herself. "look here! you just drop that," said stephen, doggedly, "or i may do you harm." "that would not be surprising," retorted the widow, undaunted. "a man who will rob a little girl won't hesitate to strike a woman." the intoxicated young man was thoroughly incensed by his step-mother's sarcasm, and forgot the little manliness he ever possessed. "if you think so, i'll make your words come true," he said, savagely, and advanced toward mrs. palmer with uplifted arm. mrs. palmer turned pale, and grace uttered a shriek of terror. "don't strike my mother, you bad man!" she called out. this diverted the current of stephen's wrath, and he turned upon the little girl. "i'll whip you if you prefer it, miss saucebox," he said, and grasped grace by the shoulder. mrs. palmer sprang forward to rescue her child, but the struggle was by no means equal. the ruffian would probably have injured both but for an opportune arrival. paul was at the foot of the outside staircase when he heard his little sister's scream. he had a tender love for the little girl, and the thought that she was in some peril gave wings to his feet. he fairly flew up stairs, and burst into the room like a tornado. one glance enabled him to understand the situation. he seized stephen, and forcibly wrenched him from grace. "what does all this mean?" he demanded, turning to his mother. "it means that stephen has stolen your sister's gold piece, and when i remonstrated was on the point of assaulting us both." "you contemptible coward!" exclaimed paul, turning upon his step-brother with flashing eyes, his manner full of disdainful contempt. even stephen cowered a little before the boy's scorn. "i borrowed the money, that's all," he said. "it's a great thing to make such a fuss about. and what's more," he continued, resuming his swaggering tone, "i won't stand any impudence from a young whelp like you. do you hear?" "grace," said paul, not noticing the young man's words, "has he got your gold piece now?" "yes," answered grace, half crying. "give me back that money!" said paul, sternly. "not much!" sneered stephen. "i'll keep it if it's only to spite you. do you hear that?" "give me back that money!" persisted paul, resolutely. "no, thank you," answered stephen, mockingly. "this time next year you may call for it, and if it's convenient i may give it up." paul opened wide the outer door, and looked out into the street. as he looked, a policeman was just passing. "shall i hand you over to the police?" he asked, significantly, pointing at the guardian of the city's peace. for the first time stephen looked uneasy. "don't try to frighten me with such nonsense," he said. "you wouldn't dare to call him in." "you'll see whether i will," said paul, coolly. stephen looked his young step-brother full in the face, and saw that paul was in earnest. his bullying had failed of its effect, and he had a decided aversion to an encounter with the police. "take your money!" he said, flinging the gold piece on the floor. "i only wanted to scare you a little." "grace, you can pick up your money," said paul. "as for you, you young rascal," continued stephen, scowling fiercely at paul, "i won't forget your impertinence of to-night. i'll get even with you some day, see if i don't." "your threats won't prevent my defending my mother and sister against your brutal violence," said paul, calmly. stephen staggered out of the room, nearly tumbling down the staircase in his drunken unsteadiness. all felt relieved when he had gone. "i should have lost my nice present but for you, paul," said grace. "i came home just in time," said paul. "i hope stephen will keep away now. i never want to see him." "i never knew him to act so disgracefully before," said mrs. palmer. "he has fallen into bad habits, and keeps disreputable company, i fear." "there isn't much doubt about that, mother," said paul. "i have more than once seen him walking with thieves and gamblers. now i know where i have seen that pickpocket before," he exclaimed, with sudden energy. "what do you mean, paul?" "i told you about the man who jumped from the train to-day after picking miss dearborn's pocket. well, there was something in his face that looked familiar, but i couldn't think where i had met him, though i was sure i had seen him before. now i remember meeting him walking in randolph street with stephen one day last week." "you don't think stephen is a pickpocket?" asked mrs. palmer. "no; it takes training to make a pickpocket. stephen isn't light-fingered enough to succeed in any such business; but a man that keeps company with pickpockets isn't likely to be much better than they." "i am afraid, paul," said mrs. palmer, anxiously, "that stephen with some of his bad companions may lie in wait for you and do you some injury." "i will try to take care of myself, mother," said paul. "why should there be so many wicked people in the world?" sighed the widow. "i can't see how stephen turned out so badly. his father was a good man, and i have heard that he had a good mother; but mr. palmer always had a great deal of trouble with him from a boy." "he is lazy, and wants to get a living without work," answered paul. "then again, he drinks." "that alone is enough. oh, paul, i hope you will never fall into intemperate habits." "you need not fear for me, mother," said paul, firmly. "i despise drunkenness as much as anybody can." "yes, you are very different from stephen, heaven be thanked! how could i get along without you, paul?" "i hope you won't have to get along without me, mother. but i have been thinking that stephen may possibly come round here again to annoy you and steal grace's money. grace, you had better let me put the money into a savings-bank for you." "that is well thought of, paul. then it will be safe, even if we do have a second visit from stephen. what do you say, grace?" "here it is, paul," said the little girl. "you take care of it for me." "i will put it into a bank saturday evening, when some of the savings-banks are open. i don't think stephen will be able to get it away from me." "if stephen has any sense of shame he will not come here again very soon," said the widow. paul went to bed early, for he must take the : train for milwaukee in the morning. he slept soundly, for his day's work had fatigued him. chapter vi. birds of a feather. stephen palmer left the residence of his step-mother in a state of furious indignation against the whole family, but his anger was hotter against paul than either of the other two members. it is rather mortifying for a young man to find himself worsted by a boy ten years his junior, and stephen was obliged to confess that he himself had come off second best. the worst of it was, that he had lost the gold coin which he so much coveted. he was really hard up, his whole available funds amounting to only ten cents. the gold piece would have been to him a real bonanza. he had counted upon taking a cheap seat at hooley's theater, and thus passing a pleasant evening, but of course that must be given up, and there was nothing to do but to go back to his dingy little room, since anywhere else he would need to spend money. "confound the boy!" ejaculated stephen. "i'd like to wring his neck. how dare he talk up to me as he did? but for him," he continued, dolefully, "i would have got off with the gold. i'll get even with him sometime, see if i don't." stephen thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and moodily made his way to his lodging-house. it was a shabby brick house of three stories, not far from the lake. he had been up late the night before, and thought he would lie down for awhile to rest. later in the evening, perhaps, he would go out, and might have the good fortune to fall in with some one of his companions who was better fixed than himself financially. he opened the door with a latch-key, and was making his way up stairs when a little girl of twelve called out from the back stairs in a shrill voice: "mr. palmer, my mother wants to see you." "well, she can see me if she comes where i am," said stephen, not very good-naturedly. he paused on the stairs, and a woman in a faded calico dress soon made her appearance, coming up from below. "what's wanted, mrs. jones?" asked stephen, uncomfortably, for he could guess what his landlady wished to see him about. "i'd be thankful, mr. palmer, if you'd pay me your rent. you're owin' for two weeks and a half, and i need the money very much." "i can't pay you to-night," said stephen. "that's what you're always a-sayin'. didn't you promise me the money last tuesday, when the two weeks was up?" "i've been disappointed of some money that i expected," muttered palmer. "if i had it i'd give it to you." "that don't pay for my groceries and fuel," said mrs. jones, evidently much dissatisfied with his answer. "who said it did?" "if you'll pay me some money on account," said the landlady, beginning to understand the character of her lodger, "i'll wait a little longer." "i tell you i haven't got any money by me, except this," and stephen drew out the dime which constituted his sole wealth. "i suppose you don't want that." "i'll take it on account." "no, you don't. i ain't going to strip myself of every penny to oblige a cormorant of a lodging-house keeper." "is that all you've got to say to me, mr. palmer?" asked mrs. jones, indignantly. "what more do you want? don't i promise to pay you when i have the money?" "do you do any work?" demanded the landlady. "do you earn anything?" "yes." "at what business?" "that's my affair. however, i don't mind telling you that i--speculate." "speculate--on ten cents!" retorted the landlady, in a sarcastic tone. "all my capital's locked up in stocks at present," said stephen, with ready falsehood. "i may have five hundred dollars coming in next week." "i don't know whether to believe you or not," said mrs. jones, with justifiable skepticism. "do you doubt the word of a gentleman?" blustered stephen. "if you call yourself a gentleman, act accordin'. i've got just one thing to say, mr. palmer--if you don't pay me three weeks' lodgin' by next tuesday, out you go, or my name isn't jones. i can't afford to let my rooms to them as don't pay me." "it'll be all right next tuesday," said stephen, glad of the reprieve. "there's two or three parties that owe me more than the amount of your bill, but they don't pay up." this was an utter fabrication, as there was no one in the city or elsewhere whom stephen could rightfully claim as a debtor, but then a regard for truth was not one of his strong points. stephen went up stairs to his room, and lay down on the bed. he soon fell asleep, and was still sleeping, when he was aroused by a loud pounding at his door. "who's there?" he cried out, only half awake. "come and see," was the reply, in an impatient voice. stephen tumbled out of bed and opened the door. "luke denton!" he said. "why, what on earth's the matter with you?" luke denton it was, but by no means in as good trim as when we first made his acquaintance in the railroad car. there were patches of mud on his coat and pantaloons; there was a long scratch on one of his hands, and a bruise on his forehead, while his nose appeared to have been bleeding. for a man who was generally very careful of his appearance it was certainly rather a strange plight to be in. "have you been in a fight?" stephen asked, not unnaturally. "no, but i'd like to be in just one," growled denton. "who do you want to fight with?" "look here, stephen! isn't that boy--the train boy, i mean, on the milwaukee road--a brother of yours?" "yes." "i can't help it--i'd like to mash him, and i will if i get the chance." "you have my permission," said stephen, "and i'd like to stand by and see you do it." "then there isn't much love lost between you two?" "you'd better believe there isn't. but what has he been doing to you? you don't mean to say he is the cause of all that?" and he pointed to luke's disordered dress. "yes, he is." "how did it happen?" "he made me jump out of the train when it was going fifteen or twenty miles an hour." "but how did he make you do it?" asked stephen, puzzled. "i can't understand." "you see, i was sitting near a nice young lady, who had a purse pretty well filled. i noticed it when she took out a gold coin and gave it to the boy for his sister." "oh, that's the way grace came by her gold, then!" "what! do you know about it?" "the girl showed it to me this evening," said stephen. "but go on." "it occurred to me that i stood more in need of the money than she, and i managed to slip my hand into her pocket and draw it out." "i wish i could do it," said stephen, "but i can't. my fingers are too clumsy. i should be sure to be caught." "i would have got off well enough--in fact, i had made up my mind to get off at libertyville, when that sneak of a boy came up and exposed me." "did he see you take the purse?" "it seemed so. i didn't know any one was looking when i took the money." "what did you do?" "the young lady jumped up in a fright. i saw my opportunity. i had the inside seat, so i sprang for the door, and, without much thought of the risk i ran, made a flying leap from the train." "you might have been killed. i wouldn't dare to risk it." "perhaps i wouldn't if i had had time to think; but i didn't. well, i landed and rolled over two or three times, enough to get these bruises and stain my clothes. i suppose i was lucky to escape without breaking my neck or limbs, but i feel too sore to be very thankful." "there's a later train, starting from libertyville. i walked to deerfield, and a hard time i had of it. if the train hadn't been nearly an hour late, i wouldn't have caught it. as it was i did, and here i am." "i suppose you didn't save the money?" "yes, but i did," chuckled luke. "look at this." he drew out the purse, and displayed it to his companion, whose eyes glistened as he saw the gold. "how much is there?" "nearly fifty dollars." "i'd be willing to be bruised a little for that sum." "i would have got it without a bruise but for that brother of yours--dash him!" "i owe him a grudge myself. i'm with you." "you must hide me for a day or two till this blows over. the police may be on my track." "that depends on whether my landlady will let me stay. she's been driving me for back rent." "how much do you owe her?" "two weeks and a half at two dollars a week." "here, take that and pay her." stephen took the five-dollar gold coin which his companion flung on the bed, but no part of it found its way into the hands of mrs. jones. chapter vii. a rejected suitor. in one of the handsomest houses on ashland avenue lived grace dearborn, the young lady whose acquaintance paul had made on the train. perhaps it would be more proper to say that her aunt, mrs. sheldon, lived here, and grace was a member of her family. mr. sheldon was dead, and his widow carried on her husband's business--a large retail drygoods store--through the help of the former chief clerk, now promoted to general manager, under whose wise and faithful superintendence the store flourished, and yielded to the widow an ample yearly income. but if the aunt was wealthy so was the niece. miss dearborn had come into possession of an independent fortune of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which was so invested as to net her seven per cent., or a little more than ten thousand dollars a year. as this fact was generally known, it will not be thought strange that miss dearborn was much sought after in society, and her hand was considered a great prize in the matrimonial lottery. thus far, however, she had resisted all solicitations, and society waited in vain to hear of her engagement. let us go back a week, and introduce miss dearborn at home on a wednesday evening. she had been chatting with her aunt on indifferent matters, when a servant appeared with a card in the presence of the two ladies. "a gentleman to see you, miss grace," she said. "who is it, my dear?" asked mrs. sheldon, as grace took the card from the servant's hand. "major ashton," answered grace, reading from the card. "will you see him?" "i suppose i have no good excuse for declining," said the young lady, shrugging her shoulders. "he may wish to see you on important business," said mrs. sheldon, playfully. "i hope not," said the young lady, looking alarmed. "if i thought so, i wouldn't go down." "oh, don't let my words influence you, my dear. it may be an ordinary call. besides, if it were not, the major is considered a desirable _parti_." "not by me," returned grace, with emphasis. "what have you to object to him? he is good-looking." "ye-es, i suppose so," admitted grace, with evident reluctance. "let me assure you, my dear grace, that he is considered decidedly _distingue_." "i would sooner admit that than that he is _good-looking_. he doesn't look _good_ to me." "what is the matter with him?" "there is a look in his eyes that i don't like. it is a cruel look, as if he had a latent fierceness and hardness in his disposition." "all fancy, grace." "perhaps so; but i don't fancy his looks." "then he is rich." "i suppose he is, though i don't know." "he must be. he lives like a gentleman of large means." "i don't attach much importance to wealth, aunt. surely, in a husband, other things are more important." "you wouldn't marry a penniless lover?" "why not, if i respected and loved him?" "my dear grace, you alarm me. i never supposed you entertained such quixotic notions. some day we may have you eloping with a dry-goods clerk, or a poverty-stricken artist, or----" "don't borrow trouble, aunt caroline," said the young lady, with a merry laugh. "you don't get rid of me so easily. it is possible, of course, that i may fulfill your prediction, for i have money enough to enable my future husband to live respectably; but i'll give you fair warning and sufficient notice. but i must go down, or the major will be getting impatient." descending to the drawing-room, grace saluted courteously a gentleman who rose from a sofa, and advanced to meet her with considerable _empressement_ of manner. "you are very kind to consent to see me, miss dearborn," he said. "oh, no," answered grace, smiling. "i should have been unkind to decline, since i have no good reason for doing so." "at any rate, suffer me to interpret it as kind, since it pleases me to do so. you do not know how much i attach to it in the present instance." a slight shade of dissatisfaction flitted over the face of miss dearborn, for the words and manner of her visitor clearly pointed to a declaration of love, which she wished to avoid, if possible. she was not like some young ladies in society, desirous of extending the list of her conquests. "thank you, major ashton," she answered, lightly, "but compliments are more in place in the ballroom." "i do not mean it as a compliment, miss dearborn. compliments are often insincere. i beg you to believe that i am sincere." "don't let us make too much of a trifle, major ashton. i am ready to believe you are sincere. have you been to the opera?" there was a brief season of italian opera in chicago, and this led to the question. "yes," answered the major. "might i hope that you will accept an invitation to accompany me tomorrow evening?" he asked, eagerly. "i am afraid i must decline. i am expecting company, or, rather, my aunt is." "then, perhaps, another evening?" suggested the major. "i fear i cannot accept during the present engagement. you are very kind to invite me." "i wish i might have the privilege of always attending you, miss dearborn." grace blushed, but not with pleasure. "what opera did you attend?" she inquired, coldly. "'norma.' i can't say it is my favorite, but the parts were well sung." "i have never heard it. in fact, i have to confess that i do not enjoy the opera as much as many. probably my musical taste is not sufficiently developed." she spoke rapidly, and somewhat nervously, hoping to prevent the major from carrying out what she perceived to be his intention. but she had to do with a man who was resolute of purpose. "miss dearborn--grace--" he said, abruptly, "i hope you are not quite unprepared for what i came here this evening to say. it consists of but three words--_i love you_!" "of course, i am very much flattered," said grace, hurriedly, "but i am sorry to hear it." "why should you be sorry?" "because it is quite impossible for me to reciprocate your feelings." "don't say that, miss dearborn," returned major ashton, in a tone of mingled disappointment and mortification. "can you not learn to love me?" "love does not come by learning, or by any conscious effort, major ashton. it should be spontaneous, and come from the heart." "i do not wish to be vain, or to speak egotistically, miss dearborn, but i am generally considered an eligible match. my social position you know, and i am able to support a wife in luxury----" "i do not care to question it," interrupted grace. "i hope you will transfer your flattering proposal to some one who may prove to you a good wife, and----" "i cannot transfer my devotion as easily as you imagine," said ashton in a tone of annoyance. "i have long loved you, and thought of you as the one woman with whom i desired to walk through life. your refusal, if persisted in, will wreck my happiness." grace was tempted to survey somewhat closely the man who thus declared that he should be miserable without her. he did not look like a despairing lover. his sleek black hair and whiskers, the rather insipid regularity of his features, his evident foppish attention to his dress, hardly indicated a soul moved to its lowest depths by romantic and despairing passion. self-conceit, vanity, a high degree of self complacency could be read in the major's face, but he did not look like a man who would jump into lake michigan, a victim to the tender passion. grace did not feel that there was any cause to make herself miserable on her suitors account. "i hope, major ashton," she replied, courteously, "that time may soften whatever disappointment you feel. pardon my saying that you have never appeared to me the one man with whom i should wish to walk through life, and this being the case, i should wrong both myself and you by accepting you." "you will consider my proposal? you may change your mind?" "do not hope it, major ashton," said grace, firmly. "it can never be. and now you will allow me to bid you good-evening." she left the room swiftly, and major ashton had no choice but to terminate his call. "confound the girl!" he muttered, when he reached the street. "she was my trump card, and she has failed me! what shall i do next?" chapter viii the struggling artist. "here's all the illustrated papers!" of course the speaker was paul, and again we go back, this time four weeks. it was the same afternoon train from milwaukee, and there were but twenty miles to travel before reaching chicago. the conductor chanced to be making his rounds at the same time. he was calling for the tickets in order to punch them. among the rest he came to a young man, slender and graceful, and with one of those faces that seem to win upon a stranger at first sight--a thoroughly good face, with an expression of refinement and intellectual power. he appeared, however, to be in limited circumstances, for his coat was well worn, and in places there was a suspicious shiningness indicating a respectable antiquity. "ticket!" said the conductor, addressing himself to the young man. the young man felt in his coat-pocket for his ticket, but it was gone--at least, he could not find it. an expression of alarm overspread his face. "i can't find my ticket," he murmured, in perplexity. the conductor listened coldly, and, it must be added, with incredulity. he had met such cases before. "then you can pay me the value of the ticket," he said. the young man's face flushed. small as the sum was, he did not have it. "will you be kind enough to give me time, and i may find the ticket?" he said. "i will wait till we reach the next station," said the official, coldly. "then you must either show me the ticket or pay your fare." "if i can do neither?" "of course i must ask you to leave the train," and the conductor passed on. paul stood where he could hear this colloquy, and he noticed the distress of the young man. his sympathies were aroused, for he suspected that the passenger had not enough money to replace the missing ticket. he, too, knew what it was to be poor, and he pitied him. "excuse me, sir," he said, approaching the young man, after the conductor had passed on, "but have you lost your ticket?" "yes, i fear that i have." "where did you get on?" "at deerfield." "that is not so bad as if it were a through ticket from milwaukee." "no, but i am unable to replace it. i--i am not provided with the necessary money." "the ticket is less than a dollar." "yes, but even that small sum i have not at hand." "i hope you won't be offended if i offer to lend you the money," said paul. "offended! i thank you heartily, for it is very necessary that i reach chicago this evening. my mother is sick, and would be anxious." paul drew from his pocket a dollar bill, and placed it in the young man's hand. "you are very kind to a stranger. give me your address, that i may send it to you." paul did so, adding: "don't put yourself to any trouble. there is no hurry. wait till it is convenient." "thank you again," said the young man, recovering his cheerfulness. "i hope some time to return the favor. i am an artist, and i will paint your portrait for half price, whenever you get ready to give me a sitting." "thank you," answered paul, laughing. "i must wait for that till i am a little richer." frederic vernon, for this was his name, had settled in chicago six months previously, with his invalid mother, hoping to make a fair living as an artist, for he was a clever portrait painter, but he met the usual fortune of young men of merit who establish themselves in a large city without influential friends. orders came in slowly, and he was obliged to accept paltry prices, far below the value of his work. yet he would not have complained if he could have obtained enough work, and been promptly paid for such as he did. on the day subsequent to his adventure in the cars, chance, or let us say providence, brought him a liberal patroness. grace dearborn, returning from a shopping excursion, had taken a seat in one of the city horse-cars when her attention was attracted by the conversation of two young ladies who were sitting near her. "that's a fine portrait of yours, sarah," said one. "isn't it?" said the other, complacently. "pa says it is as well painted as if we had employed a tip-top artist." "didn't you?" "no; it was painted by a young man, as poor as poverty, who is obliged to work for any sum people are willing to pay. fancy, i only paid twenty dollars." "only twenty dollars?" "yes; he wanted more, of course, and it took him three or four weeks to paint it, but that was all i would pay. pa gave me fifty dollars to pay for a portrait, so i made thirty dollars out of it," said the selfish girl, complacently. "i should think he would starve--the artist, i mean." "he did look dreadfully seedy, but that was nothing to me, you know." "i'm a great mind to get him to paint my portrait." "you'd better. let him know that you are a friend of mine, and the price i paid, and he will paint yours for the same." "i will. what is his address?" "no.--state street." the other took down the address, and so did grace. gifted with a warm, sympathetic nature, she could hardly repress the disgust she felt at the miserable selfishness of the two handsomely dressed girls, who counted it a smart thing to obtain the services of an accomplished artist at a price which would have poorly compensated a hod carrier. "i may as well have my portrait painted," she said to herself. "it will give me an excuse for helping this young man, who has been so cruelly underpaid by one who could evidently afford to pay him fairly." the next morning frederic vernon was sitting in his plain studio in a fit of despondency. he had just had a visit from miss framley, who had given him an order for a portrait, after beating him down to twenty dollars. in vain he had told her that he could not afford to work so cheap. she protested that she would not pay a cent more than her friend. vernon was on the point of declining the commission, but he reflected with a sigh that work even at that price was better than to be idle, and he sadly consented. miss framley, well pleased with the success of her negotiation, swept out of the studio, in her seal-skin sacque and costly silk, feeling that she would be applauded by her father--a wholesale pork merchant--for her financial success. on the stairs, as she was descending, she met miss dearborn, whom she recognized by sight, and would have been glad to know. "is miss dearborn going to patronize the artist?" she thought. "if he gets many patrons like her, he will be getting fashionable, and put up his prices. i am glad i have made my bargain." miss dearborn entered the studio, and a hasty glance satisfied her that the artist was indeed poor. she glanced at the artist, and felt an immediate interest in him. though shabbily dressed, she read refinement and nobility of character in his expressive face, and was extremely glad she had come. "mr. vernon, i believe," she said, gently. the artist bowed. "i am told you paint portraits." another bow. "i will give you a commission, if you have the time to execute it." "i have something too much of that," said vernon, smiling faintly. "i will gladly accept your commission." "if you have other work requiring your present attention, i am not in haste." "i have just agreed to paint the portrait of a miss framley----" "whom i met on the stairs?" "probably; she just went out." "then i will wait till you have executed her commission. meanwhile allow me to pay you one-half in advance." frederic vernon stared in amazement, as she put in his hands two fifty-dollar bills. "a hundred dollars!" he ejaculated. "yes." "do you know that i have agreed to paint miss framley's portrait for twenty dollars?" "i am sorry to hear it. i propose to pay a good price for good work. there is my card. be kind enough to apprise me when you are ready for me." "miss dearborn," said the artist, his face lighting up with gratitude, "you have done a great favor to a struggling man. miss framley beat me down, while you offer to pay a price such as only an artist of established reputation would dare to charge." "i'm only anticipating matters a little," said grace, smiling, as she left the studio. "god bless her!" ejaculated the artist, fervently. "i was almost discouraged, but now hope lights my pathway. i will move mother out of that dingy room into a lighter and more cheerful apartment." chapter ix. the first sitting. two days later the young artist sent word to grace that he was ready to give her a first sitting. she was not long in finding her way to the studio. "you have not delayed miss framley on my account?" she said. "no, but miss framley has gone to milwaukee for a week, leaving me at leisure." when grace, following directions, had seated herself in the required attitude, vernon engaged her in conversation about books and authors, and each discovered that the other had a mind rarely cultivated. miss dearborn's face lighted up, and became animated. she forgot that she was sitting for her portrait, and for that very reason, perhaps, afforded a better study for the young artist. he could not help, from time to time, directing glances of scarcely disguised admiration at the fair sitter. but of this she was unconscious. when the sitting closed, she was surprised to learn that she had been in the studio two hours. "i hope you have not found it very tedious," said vernon, apologetically. "on the contrary," answered grace, smiling. "the time has passed quickly." "i am glad of that. then you won't mind giving another sitting soon?" "to-morrow, if you like." "i should like it exceedingly, if it will not interfere with your engagements." "oh, my engagements are those of an idle young lady, and can easily be put off. may i see what progress you have made?" "i would rather you would not look just yet. i have only made a beginning." "i will be patient, then. indeed, i can't say i am over anxious. my own face is quite familiar enough to me." "if i can make it look natural, i shall be quite contented." "i have confidence in your talent. besides, i have heard one of your portraits highly praised." "indeed! may i ask where?" "i cannot tell you. it is a friend of miss framley." "miss cutler?" "very likely. i don't know either of the young ladies, but i overheard them in a street-car commending highly the portrait you had painted of miss cutler. they seemed equally pleased," she added with a smile, "with the low price which you asked for your work." "which she compelled me to accept, rather," said vernon, with a curl of the lip. "i should starve if all my patrons were as bent upon a good bargain." "mr. vernon," said grace, earnestly, "i don't think you will have to paint another portrait at such a ridiculously low price." "not if all were as generously disposed as you," returned vernon, gratefully. "there may be others disposed to pay you a fair price. indeed, i have persuaded my aunt to sit to you when my portrait is finished." "how can i thank you for your kindness, miss dearborn?" "no thanks are required where an equivalent service is rendered." frederic vernon was elated by this second order, for he judged that the compensation would be equally liberal. this was the case, for it was grace who paid for her aunt's portrait. mrs. sheldon at first objected to sitting till her niece assured her that she wished the portrait for her own room, and wished the privilege of paying for it. "but, my dear, it will be so tedious sitting in the young man's studio for an hour or two at a time." "oh, my dear aunt, i won't force you to do it alone. i will accompany you." "if you will, grace, i shall not mind it so much. i am afraid you will find it stupid." "oh, no; i think not. i can carry a magazine or novel, you know." "to be sure." grace did carry some reading matter, but made little progress in it. she and vernon always found something to talk about, and sometimes her aunt joined in, when the subject was not above her comprehension. she, too, approved the artist. "really, my dear," she said, "the young man seems very intelligent, and, indeed, _distingue_, if his clothes were better." "artists cannot dress handsomely at their work, aunt caroline." "no, i suppose not. still, i fancy mr. vernon is poor. he has a very plain studio." "he hopes to get into a better one soon, he tells me." "he looks as if he had seen better days," said mrs. sheldon, reflectively. "i've a great mind to ask him." "oh, pray don't, aunt caroline!" said grace, in alarm. "why not?" "he may be sensitive on the subject. it may arouse painful thoughts." "possibly; then i won't speak of it." "i wouldn't, if i were you." when grace's portrait was sent home, she took pains to show it to her friends in the hope that she might procure additional work for the young artist. she was successful, and before mrs. sheldon's was completed, mr. vernon had received three orders from friends of the heiress, one a gentleman, who felt safe in patronizing one whom miss dearborn spoke well of. with considerable diffidence, on the recommendation of grace, vernon ventured to charge the same sum--two hundred dollars--and was surprised to find that his new patrons more readily agreed to pay this sum than the very modest price he had formerly asked. they took it for granted that a man who demanded such prices must be an artist of high rank, and agreed to his terms without a word. the fact that he had felt justified in taking a more commodious and spacious studio, and had purchased a new suit, helped him, for most people judge by appearances. before he left the old studio, however, he had a call from a friend of miss framley and miss cutler, who ignorant of the favorable turn in his affairs, expected to obtain his work on equally favorable terms. frederic vernon was alone when the young lady--miss henrietta simmons--came sailing in, rustling in silk, and modeled after the latest fashion plate. "mr. vernon, i suppose?" she said, condescendingly. "the same, miss." "two of my friends, miss cutler and miss framley, have sat to you for their portraits." the artist bowed. "really, you succeeded very well in both," said the young lady, patronizingly. "thank you for saying so." "i have about made up my mind to employ you." "i shall be glad to accept your commission." "i suppose the terms will be the same," said the young lady, carelessly. "i am afraid not." "miss framley told me you wouldn't charge me any more than she paid." "miss framley is in error." "i might be willing to pay you twenty-five dollars," said the young lady, disappointed, "though i felt sure you would charge me no more than my friends." "i am charging two hundred dollars now for portraits," said the young artist, gravely. "two hundred dollars!" ejaculated the visitor. "surely, no one would pay you that." "i have three orders on hand, each of which will pay me that sum." "i can't understand it," said miss simmons, bewildered. "i believe the quality of my work is getting known and appreciated," said vernon, smiling at the young lady's amazement. "your friends were fortunate enough to employ me when i was wholly unknown." some months after--to anticipate a little--when vernon had become a fashionable portrait painter, miss simmons actually sat to him, and paid his price. it is the way of the world. we are willing to pay any sum at the bidding of fashion, with little regard to what we pay for. but while vernon's worldly success had improved, there was another consequence of his acquaintance with grace which disquieted him. in spite of all the arguments which reason could offer, he felt that he was drifting--had already drifted--into love for the beautiful girl to whose kindness of heart he owed his new prosperity. chapter x. miss framley's economy. three days passed, and nothing more had been seen of stephen palmer in his step-mother's humble home. "i hope he'll keep away," said paul. "his coming can do no good, and gives no pleasure to any of us." "i agree with you, paul, though it seems hard to say that of one of the family." "he has never behaved like one of the family," said paul. "he was a wayward boy, and even at an early age gave considerable trouble to his father and myself." "he hasn't improved as he has grown older, mother." "i am glad you are not like him, paul." "then i am not altogether a nuisance," said paul, laughingly. "you are my main support--the staff on which i lean, my dear son. you have always been a good boy." "the staff will be stronger some day, mother," said paul, cheerfully. "i am not always going to have you spoil your eyes by sewing." "i feel better to be doing something. that reminds me--i have just finished some work for miss framley. do you think you can carry it after supper?" this conversation took place at the tea-table. "certainly, mother; you know i always go out for a walk, and i can just as well go to mr. framley's as anywhere else. how much am i to collect on it?" "a dollar and a half, i think, won't be too much. it has taken me four days." "you ought to charge more, mother. think of a dollar and a half for four days' work! why, it won't half pay you," said paul, indignantly. "i don't dare charge more, paul, or the framleys will give me no more work. i was recommended to her by her friend, miss cutler, as one who would work cheap, and in the only interview i had with her she impressed this upon me as a matter of great importance." "is she poor? does she need to grind you down to such low prices?" "no; she lives in an elegant house on wabash avenue, and she is always dressed in the most costly style. no doubt she has plenty of money at command." "then she can't be a lady," said paul, decidedly. "she certainly thinks herself so," said mrs. palmer. "her father is a man once poor, and still uneducated, who made a good deal of money during the war, and is now ambitious to live in style." "shoddy!" said paul, contemptuously. "that explains it." "nevertheless i am glad to obtain work from them, paul." "provided they will pay a reasonable price. you had better let me charge two dollars, mother." "no, it will not do. i shall be satisfied with a dollar and a half." "very well, mother. of course it is for you to decide." paul finished his supper, and, taking the bundle, made his way--partly by walking, partly by riding--to wabash avenue. the houses on this avenue were handsome, and looked like the abodes of luxury. "i wish mother could live here," said paul to himself. "it makes me discontented with our poor home, after seeing so much elegance." at last he reached the house of mr. framley, whose daughter has already made her appearance in our story as the economical patron of art. paul ascended the steps and rang the bell. the summons was answered by a man-servant, who surveyed paul with an air of lofty superiority. "well, young feller," he said, "what have you got there?" "a bundle of work for miss framley, old feller!" answered paul. "was you addressin' me?" demanded the flunkey, angrily. "i was." "i am not an old feller." "young feller, then, if you like it better." "you are an impertinent boy." "i have no business with you," said paul, coolly. "take that bundle to your mistress, if you please, and say to her that the bill is one dollar and a half." "you can call for the money some other time," and the servant was about to close the door, when paul said, sharply: "that won't do, i can't come here twice. tell miss framley what i said." the servant retired, grumbling, and soon returned with a dollar bill, which he offered to paul. "miss framley says the work isn't extra well done, and a dollar's enough. you can take it and go." paul's eyes flashed with justifiable indignation. "i should like to see miss framley," he said. "this won't do." "she won't see you. better take the money and go." "i will take the money--on account, but not in full payment. i wish to see miss framley." that young lady was listening at the head of the stairs, being desirous of hearing whether the messenger made any fuss about her mean reduction of a reasonable price, and thought it best to descend the stairs and argue the matter. "are you the son of mrs. palmer?" she asked. "yes, miss framley." "then tell your mother she asks too much for her work. a dollar is quite enough for the little she did." "do you know how long she was occupied with your work?" said paul. "no; i suppose she did it in a day or two," answered the young lady, in a tone of indifference. "it occupied four days, and you wish to pay her at the rate of twenty-five cents per day." "really, it is nothing to me if your mother is a slow worker. i oughtn't to suffer for that." "wasn't the work well done?" "tolerably well." "my mother is noted for her excellent work, miss framley. she is entitled to one dollar and a half for this piece of work, and that isn't enough. if she had taken my advice, she would have charged you two dollars." "really, you are a very presuming boy," said miss framley. "my friend, miss cutler, told me your mother would work cheap, and so i employed her. if she is contented with a dollar, i will send her some more work." "she will not be contented with a dollar," said paul, firmly. "i insist upon the price named." miss framley drew out her purse, and, taking a half-dollar from it, with a spiteful air handed it to our hero. "there," she said, "take it, but don't expect me to employ your mother again." "i don't," said paul. "good-evening." "it is absolute extortion," said the economical young lady, as she went up stairs again. "it is very provoking, for mrs. palmer sews exquisitely. if i hold off for awhile, i may bring her to my terms. twenty-five cents a day is a very fair price for such easy work as sewing, _in my opinion_." "well," thought paul, as he bent his steps homeward, "there are certainly some mean people in the world. evidently miss framley is rich, but i wouldn't be as mean as she for all her money." he wasn't far from home when, in passing one of the brilliantly lighted stores on clark street, his attention was drawn to a young lady just descending from a carriage. as the light fell upon her face, he recognized his traveling acquaintance of a few days before. "miss dearborn!" he cried, hastening forward with a pleasant smile of recognition. grace turned. "why, it is my friend of the train!" she said, cordially. "aunt caroline"--for mrs. sheldon was just behind her--"this is paul palmer, who tried to save my purse from the pickpocket." "it is a pity he had not succeeded, grace. i presume the unprincipled man has spent most of it by this time." "very likely," said grace, with a laugh. "well, paul, have you met with any more adventures, or rescued any more young ladies from the schemes of dangerous men?" "i have not had a chance, miss dearborn." "but i don't doubt you would be ready. how is my namesake?" "she is very well. she was delighted with your present." "i am glad of that. can you spare five minutes, or are you in a hurry?" "oh, no, i have plenty of time." "then come into this store with me." paul followed grace, wondering a little why she made the request. when he came out he carried in his hand a very pretty child's cloak which miss dearborn had purchased. "give it to your little sister, with my love," she said. "how generous you are, miss dearborn! grace won't be able to sleep tonight for joy." "be sure you remember your promise to bring her around to see me." "thank you. will the evening do? i am on the train during the day." "come next thursday evening--i will expect you." "there is some difference between miss dearborn and miss framley," thought paul. chapter xi. paul gets into trouble. with a glad heart, notwithstanding the loss of miss framley's patronage, paul bent his steps toward his humble home. grace was still up, not being willing to go to bed till her brother came home. "what is there in that bundle, paul?" she asked. "you have not brought the work back, paul?" asked his mother, apprehensively, for it would have been a serious thing to spend more time on it, when her time was so poorly paid for. "no," answered paul; "i left the work." "was miss framley at home? did you collect the money?" "yes; but i had some difficulty about it. do you think, she was mean enough to try to turn me off with a dollar." "a dollar for four days' work! how can the rich be so inconsiderate?" sighed mrs. palmer. "inconsiderate!" exclaimed paul, indignantly. "that isn't the word--it's downright meanness." "wouldn't she pay you the dollar and a half?" "yes; i insisted on it. i gave her a piece of my mind." "i hope you didn't make her angry, paul. she won't give me any more work." "no, she won't; but you mustn't mind that. i'll find some one that will pay you better. here is the money, mother." the widow took the three half-dollars which were handed her, with a sigh. in spite of paul's confident assurance, she felt disappointed at having lost miss framley's custom. she was not so hopeful as she had been at paul's age, having met with her share of the world's rebuffs. "you haven't told me what you've got in that bundle, paul," said grace, returning to the charge. "i'll show you, miss curiosity," said paul, and proceeded to open it. "oh, how lovely!" exclaimed grace, spell-bound with rapturous admiration as the beautiful little cloak was held up before her. "it's for me," said paul, gravely. "how does it fit?" and he threw it over his shoulders and walked about, the little cloak barely descending to his waist. "it doesn't fit you at all, paul. isn't it for me?" "for you? who would buy such a nice cloak for you, do you think?" "i am afraid you have been very extravagant, paul," said his mother. "the cloak is very pretty, but we cannot afford such things." "it didn't cost me a cent, mother." "then who gave it to you? not miss framley?" "i should say not," answered paul, contemptuously. "catch her giving five cents' worth to anybody! no; it was miss grace dearborn, the same young lady that sent grace the gold piece." "where did you see her? did you call at the house?" so paul had to tell the story, which does not require repeating, and grace tried on the cloak, which proved to be an excellent fit, though it hardly harmonized with the child's plain print dress. "some time i'll buy you a new dress, grace," said her brother, "a dress that you can wear with the cloak. i wish you had it by next thursday evening." "why then, paul?" asked his mother. "because i have promised to take grace with me to see miss dearborn on that evening." the pleasure excited by the gift was such that mrs. palmer was unusually jubilant, notwithstanding the loss of one of her customers. she did not seem wholly forsaken, and fortune appeared again to have smiled upon her. meanwhile, though paul did not know it, trouble was preparing for him. he had two enemies--one his own brother, stephen, already introduced; the other luke denton, whose designs he had frustrated in the car. luke had not forgiven him for the leap which he was obliged to make from the moving train, and the bruises which he received in consequence. "i'll be even with the young sneak--see if i don't," said luke, vengefully, to stephen, as they sat together in the room of the latter, smoking. "don't blame you a bit," said stephen. "i can't help it if he is your brother," continued luke. "he's injured me, and i'll make him suffer for it." "you needn't think i'm going to stand up for him," said stephen; "i hate him myself. didn't he prevent me from----" "robbing your little sister," said luke, finishing out the sentence. "i didn't mean to rob her," said stephen, half-angrily. "i needed the money, and was only goin' to borrow it for a day or two." luke denton laughed. he did not admire stephen, though he kept his company, and felt a malicious pleasure in saying disagreeable things. "of course; that's understood," he said. "you'd have gone round and returned the loan, with interest; that's the way you always do." "i don't like your way of talkin', luke," said stephen, frowning. "you may not mean anything; but i don't like it." "well, never mind that. the main thing is--we both hate that impertinent stripling, and you won't feel very bad if he gets into a scrape, even if you are his brother." "no; i shall be glad of it." "then i reckon you'll have a chance to be glad very soon." "how is that? is there anything in the wind?" luke nodded, and in a few sentences detailed a plan which he had devised during the time his physical injuries had obliged him to remain in the retirement of his friend's room. stephen laughed approvingly. "good!" he said. "couldn't be better! good enough for the pious little fraud! after that, he won't lecture me so much--me, his elder brother! i wonder i haven't wrung his neck before now." "he might resist, you know," said luke, dryly. "do you think i ain't a match for the little cur?" blustered stephen. "i think he might give you more trouble than you think for. he's strong and muscular for a boy of his age, and he isn't a coward. i'll give him credit for so much." this led to more boasts on the part of stephen, to which his companion listened, with an amused smile. he despised stephen, who was far inferior to himself in education and manners; for luke was fitted for a better career than he had been led to adopt. the next afternoon paul was returning to chicago by the usual train. he had met with fair success in selling his papers and books; indeed with rather more than the average, having sold three bound novels, which sale afforded him a handsome profit. in passing through the cars, his attention had been turned more than once to an old man, with a long gray beard and hair of the same color, who was dressed in rather an old-fashioned suit. experience had taught him that men of that appearance are seldom likely to buy anything more than a daily paper, and he had not left any circulars with the old quaker, for such his broad-brimmed hat showed him to be. "come here, boy!" called the old gentleman, as he was passing the second time. "what has thee to sell?" "all the illustrated papers and magazines," answered paul. "i have besides some novels, if you want to look at them." "nay, my young friend; life is too brief to read such light books. has thee the _atlantic monthly_?" "yes, sir; here it is." the old man took it, and began gravely to turn over the pages. "what does thee ask for it?" he inquired. "thirty-five cents." "my wife ruth likes to read it. i think i will purchase it," said the old man. so saying, he put his hand into his pocket to feel for his wallet. quickly an expression of alarm came over his face, and he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by all the passengers near by: "i have been robbed! i cannot find my wallet!" "it may have dropped out of your pocket," suggested paul. "nay, i see it. it is in thy pocket, thou young thief!" exclaimed the old man, reaching out his hand and drawing forth a large wallet from the side pocket of paul's sack coat. "it is truly sad to see such depravity in one so young." "do you mean to say i took your wallet?" asked paul, thunderstruck. "it cannot be otherwise. did i not find it in thy pocket? is there an officer present? this boy should be arrested." "i am a detective," said a man near by, showing his badge. "then it is thy duty to arrest the boy. he is a thief!" poor paul! brave as he was, his heart sank as he saw the passengers regarding him with suspicion. "i am innocent," he said. "i never stole in my life." "so young and so hardened!" said the old man, sorrowfully; and paul saw that his denial was not credited. [illustration: "i did not steal the wallet," paul said firmly.] chapter xii. paul's critical position. paul felt that he was in a tight place. he could not understand how the wallet could have got into his pocket. yet there it was, and appearances were decidedly against him in spite of his innocence. "i did not steal the wallet," he said, firmly. "then how came it in thy pocket?" asked the old man. "i don't know. some one must have put it there." "verily that is a poor excuse," said the aged quaker. "it's too thin!" said a young man near by, who thought himself a wit. "it won't wash!" paul looked at him in disdain. still it troubled him, because he feared the other passengers would agree with the speaker. just then the conductor entered the car. he was a firm friend of paul, whom he had known ever since he first came on board the train. "what is the matter?" asked the conductor, looking with surprise at the group around paul. "a pocket-book has been stolen, i believe," said a quiet passenger. the conductor walked up to the scene of excitement. paul looked up at him with a feeling of relief. "mr. bates," he said, "do you think i would steal?" "certainly not, paul. who charges you with it?" "this gentleman here," answered our hero, pointing to the quaker. "i fear thee is guilty, for i discovered my wallet in thy pocket," said the quaker, mildly. "is this true, paul?" asked the conductor, puzzled. "yes." "can you explain it?" "no. this gentleman asked me for a magazine, and, on looking for his money, could not find his pocket-book." "i looked in thy pocket, and straightway found it," supplemented the quaker. "what made you look there?" asked the conductor. "i thought the boy might have yielded to a sudden temptation. it grieves me to think he was so weak." the detective here spoke. "conductor," said he, "do you know this boy well?" "yes, sir." "has any charge ever been made against him before?" "no, sir." "has he ever been suspected of dishonesty to your knowledge?" "certainly not. he is the most popular train boy we ever had. i would stake a years salary on his honesty." "thank you, mr. bates," said paul, gratefully. he felt gratified, in this trying emergency, to find that there was one man who had full confidence in him. "he looks honest," said the detective, thoughtfully. "verily, appearances are deceitful," said the quaker. "i cannot afford to lose my money because the boy looks honest. was not the wallet found in his pocket? i call upon thee, officer, to arrest him." paul felt very uncomfortable. though he was buoyed up by the consciousness of his innocence, he was troubled by the thought that he might be carried back to chicago handcuffed, or at any rate under arrest. suppose he should meet some one whom he knew, would it not always be remembered against him, even if he were acquitted? "you wish to press the charge, then?" said the detective. "verily, it is my duty." "i hope, sir," said paul, "you will not injure me to that extent. i swear to you that i am innocent." "probably thee art equally regardless of honesty and the truth." "will you be prepared to appear in court upon the charge to-morrow morning?" asked the detective. "yes, verily," answered the quaker, with a little hesitation. "do you live in chicago?" "nay, i live in philadelphia." "of course, all the broadbrims come from philadelphia," said the witty young man. "yea, verily, they do." "friend, do not deride me," said the old quaker, looking rebukingly at the speaker. "what is your name, sir?" asked the officer. "my name is ephraim perry," answered the old man. "where are you staying in chicago?" "at the commercial hotel." "shall you be there to-morrow morning?" "yea, verily." "it strikes me," thought the detective, who was himself a native of philadelphia, "he rather overdoes the 'yea, verily.' i have lived in philadelphia, and i never heard any of the 'friends' use the expression so freely." "how do you identify the wallet?" he asked, aloud. "how do you know it is yours?" "by the appearance." "appearances are deceitful, as you said a little while ago. can you tell me what are the contents?" so saying, the detective, to whom the wallet had been passed, made a motion to open the wallet. "i trust thee will not open the wallet," said the quaker, hastily. "why not?" "it contains private papers." "such as what? it is necessary that i should satisfy myself that the wallet is really yours." "will thee not take my word?" asked the quaker, uneasily. "will you swear that the pocket-book is yours?" "yes. nay, i never swear," said the quaker, hastily interrupting himself. "i will affirm." "i am ready to swear that i didn't take the wallet," said paul. "that is different," said the quaker. "will not that be satisfactory?" asked the quaker, turning to the detective. "no." "does thee doubt my word?" asked the old man, reproachfully, and seeming very uneasy. "not necessarily, but i think you may be mistaken," answered the detective, composedly. "yes, open the wallet," said the conductor, who, as paul's friend, was led to hope that the result of the search might, somehow or other, turn out for paul's advantage. "thee shall not do it!" exclaimed the old quaker, in excitement. "it is my property, and no one shall open it." he thrust out his hand and tried to clutch it, but the detective held it above his head. "i cannot understand your reluctance," he said. "is there anything in it that you are anxious to conceal?" "nay," answered the quaker, faintly; "but it is my property." "will you tell me what is in it?" the old man was silent. "then i will open it." "ha!" exclaimed the detective, drawing out two pieces of pasteboard. "here are two pool tickets; and here," drawing out another paper, "is a lottery ticket. do quakers deal in such articles?" "some evil-disposed person must have put them there," said the old man, nervously, "the boy----" "the boy had no chance. come, sir, i believe you are masquerading. let me see. here is a card--luke denton. ha! i begin to see what it all means." with a quick and unsuspected movement, the detective grasped the hat of the pretended quaker, and next seized his wig, which came off readily in his hands, displaying to the gaze of the astonished passengers the dark hair and the face of a man of thirty-five, instead of an old man of over sixty. "the pickpocket that jumped from the train!" exclaimed paul, in excitement. "i recognize him now," said the conductor. "this is clearly a plot to get you into trouble." "yea, verily," chimed in the witty young man. "i'll clip your feathers some time, young man!" said denton, scowling at the speaker. "my quaker friend," said the detective, "you are wanted for that little affair on the cars the other day." he produced a pair of handcuffs. luke denton struggled vigorously, but the conductor assisted, and his hands were soon securely fastened. "i congratulate you, paul," said the conductor. "it was a mean plot, and might have succeeded. but i never doubted you." "i know you didn't, mr. bates. i shall never forget that," said paul, gratefully. "i came near succeeding," said denton, grimly. "the next time i will wholly succeed." "perhaps not," rejoined the detective. "your disguise was very good, mr. denton; but there was one thing you forgot." "what is that?" "to wear gloves. any one would know that the hands did not belong to an old man. besides, quakers don't generally wear rings. i suspected you from the first." "what a consummate fool i was!" muttered denton, in disgust. "i ought to have thought of that." chapter xiii. grace dearborn at home. grace dearborn sat before the fire in her aunt's handsome house, with a writing-desk in her lap. before her was a sheet of note-paper on which she had commenced writing a list of names. her aunt sat near her, dictating a list of persons who were to receive cards of invitation to a party which she proposed giving in honor of her niece's birthday. grace had been writing busily for some time. "any one else, aunt caroline?" she asked. "i believe i have included every one. let me think. oh, i came near forgetting major ashton. how stupid of me!" "major ashton," repeated grace, as she wrote the name. "it would have been singular if we had forgotten to include him," said the elder lady. "i did not forget him," returned grace. "then why did you not remind me?" "i suppose because i was not very anxious to have him invited." "yet he did you the honor of offering you his hand?" "he may have considered it an honor; i didn't," said grace, decidedly. "at all events it was a compliment." "be it so! if he would accept his rejection as final i should not mind, but on the two or three occasions since when we have met he has tried to introduce the subject again. he does not seem willing to take no for an answer." "why not reconsider the matter, grace? he is rich----" "as if i cared for that." "well, he is fashionable, and is met everywhere in society. he would give his wife a desirable position." "will that compensate for the lack of love, aunt caroline?" "perhaps not, but love would come in time." "love must come _before_ marriage in my case, aunt caroline. with major ashton it would never come afterward." "you speak very decidedly, grace." "no more so than i feel. to be quite frank with you, i am more than indifferent to major ashton. i positively dislike him." "why? can you assign any reason?" "none that will fully explain my feelings. the fact is, i cannot myself account for the antipathy with which he inspires me. it seems almost instinctive. without knowing anything against him i feel convinced that he is a bad and dangerous man." "this is silly, grace." "it may be so, but i can't help it." "you do not object to my inviting him to your party?" "no. i have no right to do that, or rather i do not wish to; since it would be a gratuitous slight. he must come, of course, though i would rather he were away." "that is all, then, unless any other name occurs to you." "there is one other name, aunt caroline," said grace, hesitatingly. "well?" "mr. vernon." "what mr. vernon?" "mr. frederic vernon, the artist." "but, grace, he is not in society. he does not belong to our circle." "he is a gentleman, aunt caroline, and is worthy of social recognition." "my dear child, he is very poor. i doubt whether he has a dress suit to appear in." "that is his affair. he may not come, but it will be polite in us to invite him." "you are rather quixotic, grace." "why do you think so? i know mr. vernon to be well educated, and possessed of culture and refinement in a higher degree than many of the gentlemen who will receive invitations. i feel like recognizing him as an equal. do you seriously object?" "oh, no! send him a card if you wish. i only wished to set before you the singularity of inviting a poor, obscure artist to a fashionable party. we may be criticised." "we propose to please ourselves, not the critics, aunt caroline," answered grace, with a curl of the lip. "now, there is one on your list whom i think much more unfit than mr. vernon, who is qualified to appear anywhere among gentlemen and ladies." "to whom do you refer, grace?" "to miss framley." "do you know anything against her? she was recently introduced to me at a party, and made herself very agreeable. i could not very well help sending her a card." "i know she is vulgar, and mean in money matters. before i ever met her i got an insight into her character from a chance conversation which i overheard between herself and a friend in a street car." "she visits at good houses." "oh, yes, i believe her father is rich, and i know they live in handsome style, but that doesn't save her from being vulgar and ill-bred." "you are disposed to be too critical, grace. it won't do to judge our fashionable acquaintances too rigidly. we must take the world as we find it." "smiling on those who are prosperous, and frowning on those who are not wealthy. we must, in other words, apply the standard of gold to all." "no; that is overstating it. but if we find persons in good society we may feel safe in associating with them; then, if we prove mistaken, we can throw the responsibility on society. to be deceived in good company is excusable." "you judge such matters from a worldly stand-point, aunt caroline." "oh, well, i am a woman of the world, my dear," said mrs. sheldon, shrugging her shoulders. "well, that completes our list, and we can prepare the cards at our leisure." the same evening, about eight o'clock, the servant entered miss dearborn's presence, and said: "there is a young man at the door who wishes to see you." "who is it? did he give you his card?" "i don't believe he has any, miss grace," said the girl, laughing. "it's a boy about sixteen, and a little girl." "oh, it's my train boy!" exclaimed grace, with animation. soon paul and his little sister entered the room. our hero's manner was modest, but self-possessed, while grace clung to him bashfully. "i am glad to see you, paul," said the young lady, with a bright smile. "thank you, miss dearborn." "so this is your little sister, and my little namesake. how do you do, my dear child?" grace answered, bashfully, that she was very well. "you see, miss dearborn, grace is wearing the cloak you were kind enough to give her." "and very well it becomes her, too. is your mother well, paul?" "yes, miss dearborn, thank you." "i suppose she keeps house with grace while you are away during the day?" "yes; but she also sews when she has an opportunity." "i suppose she is not very well paid sometimes?" "very poorly at the best; but in some cases those who employ her are very mean. now, there was miss framley----" "miss framley!" repeated grace, with interest. "tell me the story." paul did tell the story already familiar to us. "and this person is to be present at my party!" thought grace, with an uncontrollable feeling of disgust. "i shall find it hard to be ordinarily polite to her." "you must not think all ladies are as inconsiderate, paul," she said. "has your mother leisure to do some sewing for me?" "she will be glad to do so, miss dearborn." "then, if you can call here to-morrow evening, i will have a bundle ready. i shall pay her double the price she charged miss framley." "you are very kind, miss dearborn, and my mother will be overjoyed. i do not wish her to sew at all, but she is unwilling to give it up." paul and his sister remained an hour, grace exerting herself far more to entertain them than she would have done had they been fashionable callers. "how did you like her, gracie?" asked paul, as they were walking homeward. "she's awful nice, paul," said the little girl. "so i think," said paul. chapter xiv. the artist's secret. frederic vernon sat in his studio, toying with his brush. the canvas was before him, but he seemed to be in a brown study. "what has got into me?" he asked himself, impatiently. "i cannot fix my mind upon my work. i am no longer on the verge of destitution, or compelled to labor for a mere pittance; yet my mind is less at ease than when i hardly knew where the next day's food was to come from." vernon's circumstances had improved. he had taken a lighter and more cheerful studio, and moved with his mother into better rooms. he was no longer forced to court the penurious patronage of young ladies like miss framley, and, thanks to the influence of miss dearborn, he was never without some work in hand. yet, though he ought to have been cheerful, he found himself restless, and his work often had to wait upon his moods. "frederic, what is the matter with you?" asked his mother, earnestly, one day. "why do you ask, mother? i am well," he answered, evasively. "you have lost your appetite, and your mind seems preoccupied. is anything troubling you?" "anything troubling me?" he asked, with a forced smile. "what a strange idea!" "nay, my son; you cannot conceal it from your mother's eyes that something is amiss with you. what is it?" "i am sure i cannot tell, mother." "is not your work proceeding well, frederic?" "oh, yes. i had another order to-day." "you should look happy, then, my son. compare your position to-day with what it was three months since. then----" "i was almost a beggar, mother." "true." "forced to paint portraits for mean, shoddy people for a mere song." "yes. but things have changed with you now, frederic." "yes, thanks to providence--and grace dearborn." unconsciously he pronounced this name with a tenderness which revealed to his mother something that he had not intended she should know. a look of intelligence overspread her face. "i begin to see how it is, my boy," she said, gently. "how what is, mother?" "i think i understand what is the matter with you." "have you turned seeress?" he asked, smiling faintly. "no; but i can minister to a mind diseased when i know the nature of the disease." "well, what is my disease, mother mine?" he asked, lightly. "frederic, you are in love!" "in love!" he repeated, flushing. "then perhaps you can tell with whom i am in love?" "i think i can." "say on, mother." "you love grace dearborn." he started, and his face flushed. "what makes you think that, mother?" he asked, slowly. "your face would tell me if i had no other evidence. is it not true?" "well, mother, you have my secret," he answered, after a pause. "you know my disease. now canst thou minister to a mind diseased?" "perhaps so." "i know what you would say. you would tell me to root out the foolish fancy from my heart, and devote myself unflinchingly to my art. well, mother, i have tried it, and i have failed." "you mistake me, frederic. if you feel that your love for this young lady is deep and earnest, such a love as comes but once in a life-time, let her know of it, and give her a chance to accept or reject it." "mother, are you mad? do you know that grace dearborn is a wealthy heiress--that she moves in the most exclusive society of chicago--that she is admired by many who are rated as eligible matches?" "yes, i know all that--or i have guessed it from what you have told me. and what then?" "do you think of the difference between us? what am i?" "you are an artist, a gentleman, and a man of talent." "even were it so, i earn, for my entire income, less in all probability than this young lady spends for her wardrobe in a single year." "that may be, frederic." "and yet you bid me hope?" "yes, i bid you hope. if miss dearborn is what i think she is, she will not set an undue estimate upon wealth. she will understand how many vulgar and ill-bred men possess it, and will rate higher the talent, the refinement, and the culture of a gentleman, and the good heart that makes him ever a loyal and affectionate son. such a man cannot fail to make a desirable husband." "ah, mother," said vernon, smiling, "you are a mother, and, like all mothers, you overrate your son. if grace would but look upon me with your eyes, perhaps i might hope. as it is, were i to open my lips to her, i should only subject myself to the mortification of having my suit contemptuously spurned." "that would never be. even if rejected, there would be nothing to injure your pride or bring a blush of mortification to your cheek." "i think you are right there, mother. grace is too gentle, too much of a lady, to let me see how unjustifiable were my hopes." "frederic, will you be guided by me in this matter?" "let me hear your advice first, mother. then i will decide." "try to make yourself more worthy of her. make the most of your talent. become something more than a portrait painter. become a great artist; and when all men acknowledge your talent, miss dearborn will be proud to accept your devotion, and to reward it. is my advice good?" "mother, you put new life into me," said the young man, his face glowing with new hope. "i have always wished to become a true artist. i am a portrait painter because poverty made it necessary." "and you would become an artist if you could?" "yes; it is my strongest wish." "then form the plan of some great picture, select some worthy and inspiring subject, devote your leisure to it, and think that you are working for her you love." "i will mother. you are not only my best friend, but my wisest counselor. henceforth i shall feel that i have an object for which to labor." frederic vernon returned to his studio with quickened steps, and resumed work with an ardor he had not felt since grace dearborn sat in his studio as the subject of his brush. it was some time before a suitable idea came to him, but at last it flashed upon him, and he gave to his picture all the time he could save from his sittings. in the midst of his labors there appeared to him one day the postman. it was a dainty missive he held in his hand, addressed, in delicate chirography, to frederic vernon, esq. vernon opened it, and read with a quickened movement of the heart a card of invitation to a party given by mrs. caroline sheldon, to celebrate the birthday of her niece, miss grace dearborn. vernon's face lighted up with joy. "she has not forgotten me, then," he said to himself. then came the thought, "shall i go?" would he feel at home in the fashionable circle to which he would be a stranger? he hesitated, but it was not for long. "since grace bids me, for i know it was at her suggestion that i am invited, i will attend." just then his studio was invaded by a young lady, upon whose portrait he was engaged. she did not come alone. with her was major ashton, who has already been named as the unsuccessful suitor of grace. vernon laid down the invitation hastily, but it was still open, and major ashton, who was observant, saw it, and a glance revealed to him its contents. his face betrayed his surprise and annoyance. "is it possible that miss dearborn has invited this portrait painter to her party?" he asked himself. then his eyes dwelt critically on the refined and handsome face of the artist, and a vague feeling of jealousy sprang up within him, for he was still firmly resolved upon marrying grace. "but no," he thought, recovering himself; "grace would not stoop to a fellow like that. she only wishes to patronize him." chapter xv. a fellow-conspirator. stephen palmer, since his discomfiture, had not visited his step-mother or grace. he felt that he hated the whole family, but most of all paul. a bully never forgives the one, boy or man, who humiliates him; and stephen felt the more mortified and incensed because our hero was so much younger than himself. paul was his equal in height, but stephen was broader and stronger, and but for his habits of intoxication, which robbed him of his strength, would have given his young brother a good deal of trouble. when luke denton first unfolded to stephen the plan he had in view for getting paul into trouble, the young man was delighted. "what a head you've got, luke!" he said, admiringly. "you like the plan, then?" said luke, who did not object to flattery, though he had a very poor opinion of stephen's understanding. "it's capital! couldn't be better!" exclaimed stephen. "i flatter myself it's rather a clever notion," said luke, complacently. "you don't mind your brother being arrested for theft, then?" "no, curse him! he sets up for a young saint, lectures me, who am almost old enough to be his father." "still, he is your brother," said luke, dryly. "a pretty sort of brother he is! why, he wouldn't give me a penny to save me from starvation. the other day, when i was dead broke, and wanted to borrow a trifle, he made such a row that i had to give it up. there isn't any love lost between paul and me." "what will become of your mother and sister if paul goes to prison?" "i don't know, and i don't care," said stephen, spitting viciously. "they may starve, for all i care." "upon my word, you're a relation worth having," said luke, lazily puffing at a meerschaum pipe, for he was somewhat fastidious in his tastes, and disdained the common clay pipe which stephen was not above using. in truth, he despised the man with whom he nevertheless spent a considerable part of his time. there was a community of vice between them, but luke was by nature refined and stephen coarse. "you wouldn't expect me to take the young puppy's place and work for them, would you?" demanded stephen. "if i had a mother and sister, i would do just that," said denton; and he spoke with sincerity, for, with all his want of principle, he was not without domestic affection. "you wouldn't if you had folks like mine," said stephen. "they don't care a pinch of snuff for me." "strange, when you are so attractive--have such taking ways," said luke, ironically. "don't talk that way, luke denton, for i don't like it," returned stephen, sullenly. "you must let me have my little joke, stephen. what would the world be without innocent mirth and friendly banter? so you like my plan?" "yes; but can you do it? can you play the quaker?" "dost thee doubt it?" stephen went off into a fit of laughter, though there didn't seem much to laugh at. "don't be frivolous. restrain thy mirth, and fix thy mind on serious things," continued luke, in a tone which he thought befitting the words. again stephen betrayed symptoms of suffocation. he went out with denton, and assisted in dressing him in the costume which he hired for the successful personation of a quiet friend. "you'll do," he said, in high satisfaction. "dost thee feel sure, friend stephen?" "oh, you're too funny for anything! shall i go with you to the depot?" "not for a hundred dollars! it would destroy my reputation as a grave and upright quaker to be seen in such disreputable company. i will go my ways alone, friend stephen, but anon i will return and favor thee with a report of my success. if i don't fail, that young brother of yours will spend the night at the station-house." "when he is tried i'll go and see it. it'll be nuts to me to see the young sneak tried for theft." "i'll do my best to carry out your kind wishes for his welfare." so luke denton set out on his errand, and we already know how he fared--how into the pit which he dug for another he fell himself. it was he and not paul that spent the night in confinement. stephen waited impatiently for his return. he was eager to hear the details of the scheme, which he did not doubt would turn out as he wished. he wanted to hear how paul acted when confronted with the charge of theft, and was impatient to have the afternoon pass away and denton return. but he waited in vain an hour or more after the train should be in, and still his friend did not appear. still, he did not dream that denton himself had got into trouble, and was hindered by circumstances which he could not control from coming round to see him. as time passed he became more restless and anxious. "denton might have come round to tell me," he muttered, peevishly. "he might have known that i would want to hear." after awhile he concluded to go round to denton's lodgings and see if he were in. he might be tired, and lying down. it was not far he had to go. luke denton lived in more style than himself. when he was able he paid his rent, and when his purse was low he did not pay. if, after a time, his landlady became importunate, he removed to some other place. probably he did not pay more rent--perhaps not as much--in the course of a year as stephen, for he had a more persuasive and plausible manner, and could obtain credit on the score of his appearance, while stephen's only went against him. "is mr. denton in?" asked stephen, of the servant who answered his summons. "no, sir." "i suppose he has been in this evening?" "no; he went away early in the day, and has not been home since." "can anything have happened to him?" thought stephen. "no, he could take care of himself. but what a fool i am!" he exclaimed, with a sudden thought. "of course he wouldn't come home in those quaker clothes. very likely he's carried 'em back to the place where he borrowed 'em." so stephen went round there, but found the place closed. there seemed no way of finding out what he wanted to know that night. yes, there was. he would go round to the lodgings of mrs. palmer, and find out whether paul had returned. if not, he would be safe in frightening them and demanding a loan, for, as usual, he was short of money. "that's a good idea," he said to himself. "if paul isn't at home, and has not been home, i'll know it's all right, and luke will be round in good time to tell me how it all came out. yes, that's the best thing i can do." so stephen bent his steps in the direction of his step-mother's humble home. when his knock was heard, paul said: "mother, that's stephen's knock. don't let him know where i am. i'll hide in the next room, and hear what he has to say. i suspect he had something to do with the attempt that was made to get me into trouble to-day. perhaps i can find out." "if he asks me if you are here, what am i to say? i must tell the truth." paul whispered a few words in his mother's ear, and then hastily retreated into the inner room, while mrs. palmer went forward and opened the door to her step-son. chapter xvi. an unwelcome appearance. "good-evening, mamma!" said stephen, airily, as he stepped over the threshold, and entered the room. "good-evening, stephen," said mrs. palmer, soberly. stephen glanced hastily in all directions in search of paul, and was glad to find no trace of him. "where's sister grace?" he inquired. "she has gone to bed, stephen. she always goes to bed at eight o'clock." "has she spent that gold piece yet, that she was too selfish to lend to her poor brother?" "that is a matter you can have no interest in, stephen." "none of my business, eh?" "i didn't say that." "you meant it, all the same. where's paul?" "do you know where he is? have you come to tell me, stephen?" this question was asked with some appearance of anxiety, and stephen at once jumped to the conclusion that all things had gone as he desired, and paul had fallen into the trap which had been prepared for him. "why, you don't mean to say the kid isn't at home?" said stephen, an irrepressible smile lighting up his face. "well, that's a good one. most likely he's in the station-house. ho, ho!" "and you laugh at the thought!" said mrs. palmer, indignantly. "oh, he ain't any better than other boys. you think he can't do anything wrong, but i'll bet you half a dollar he's been caught stealing or something." "wherever paul is, i am sure he is not in the station-house," said mrs. palmer, positively. "don't be too sure of that," chuckled stephen. "he's a sly one, paul is. you wouldn't think butter'd melt in his mouth, but i know him better'n you do." "paul is a good son and brother, and always has been." "and i suppose i am not," sneered stephen. "you must question your own conscience on that subject," said mrs. palmer. "you are only my step-mother. you don't expect me to support you and the kids, do you?" asked stephen, coarsely. "no; i only desire that you will let us alone. we can get on without your help," returned the widow, with dignity. "that is, if paul remains all right; but you can't be sure of that. he may slip up any time, and become a boarder at the expense of the state." "if you have come here to slander paul, you can hardly expect that you will be welcome." "oh, well, i know that paul is your idol. he can't do anything wrong. i shouldn't wonder if he was in a scrape now." "what kind of a scrape? don't leave me in suspense, stephen." stephen palmer was not over supplied with brains, and he was foolish enough to fall into the trap, and speak of what he could not be supposed to know. "i heard a report," he said, "that paul had been arrested for stealing in the milwaukee train to-day." "where did you get your information?" asked mrs. palmer. "she doesn't believe it," said stephen to himself. "never mind; she may have to before long." "i don't care to mention where i heard it," he answered. "it is not true." "perhaps it isn't; but if that's the case, why doesn't he come home?" "he may have been detained by business." "oh, yes; very important business!" chuckled stephen. "i guess he'll find it very important and pressing." "is that what you have come to tell me, stephen palmer?" "no, not exactly. the fact is, mrs. palmer, i am hard up." "i believe you always are." "right you are. the fact is, i am very unlucky. nothing seems to go right with me. i have a hard struggle to get along." "there's one remedy you might find, stephen," said the widow, sternly. "what is that?" "work." "work!" repeated stephen, angrily. "and where am i to find work? haven't i tried to get something to do everywhere?" "i don't know; but from what i know of you, i presume not. a man who really wants to work won't go so long without it as you have." "much you know about it. i tell you everything is crowded. how much money do you think i have got left?" "how should i know?" "that's all," said stephen, drawing a quarter from his vest-pocket and flipping it up in the air. "mrs. palmer, you must help me." "if you are hungry stephen, though it is a late hour, i will give you something to eat." "thank you! i don't want any of your cold victuals," sneered the vagabond. "then i can do nothing for you." "yes, you can. give me the little girl's gold piece. you needn't pretend that she has spent it, for i know better." "whether that is the case or not, i decline to let you have it." "look here, widow," said stephen, his brow darkening, "i ain't going to be trifled with or bluffed off; not this time. when down here before i wasn't quite myself, and that young puppy, paul, thought it safe to bully me. things are different now. i am perfectly sober, and i know what i'm about. so i tell you once more i want that money, and i advise you to get it for me, or else give me as much out of your own pocket." "surely you are not in earnest, stephen palmer. you won't persist in this unmanly demand?" "then you don't know me. paul is not here to defend you now, and i advise you not to make me angry." stephen rose from his seat, and advanced toward his step-mother with an ugly look on his mean, evil-looking face. mrs. palmer started back, and uttered just one word: "paul!" at the call, paul, who had found it difficult to restrain himself from rushing into the room sooner, sprang through the door, and, his young face flaming with just indignation, confronted his step-brother. chapter xvii. paul defends his mother. to say that stephen was astonished hardly expresses the truth. he stood with open mouth, staring at our hero, as if panic-stricken by his sudden appearance. "where did you come from?" he asked, amazement prevailing over every other sensation. "from the next room, where i heard your contemptible attempt to extort money from my mother." at another time stephen would have resented this speech, but now he was anxious to find out what had happened to his friend, and how paul had managed to escape the snare that had been so carefully laid for him. "how long have you been at home?" he asked. "i got home at the usual time. what makes you ask?" "did anything happen to-day?" asked stephen. foolishly he was betraying himself, and paul saw clearly that he knew of the plot, even if he were not concerned in it. he resolved that stephen should betray himself yet further. "what should happen?" he asked. "i heard you were arrested for theft," said stephen. "what kind of theft?" "stealing a wallet." "where did you hear it?" "never mind!" answered stephen, sullenly. "i heard it, and that's enough." "it seems then you were misinformed." "didn't you have any trouble at all?" asked stephen, perplexed. "yes, something happened. a man pretended that i had stolen his wallet." "didn't i say so!" stephen exclaimed, triumphantly. "this dutchman----" proceeded the train boy. "dutchman!" said stephen, hastily. "i thought it was a quaker." "now i think of it, it was a quaker," said paul, quietly. "what made you say dutchman?" "i wanted to find out how much you knew about it. did you know this quaker?" "did i know the quaker? i don't know any quakers." "i thought you might. in that case, you won't feel any interest in knowing what became of him." "did--did anything happen to him?" asked stephen, in alarm. "you seem anxious," said paul, keenly. "don't trifle with me, boy. tell me what happened to him. as you've told part of the story you may as well tell the rest." "he proved to be no quaker at all," said paul. "if he was a friend of yours, as i conclude, i think you will have a chance to see him in court to-morrow." "arrested!" gasped stephen, in dismay. "yes, his plan didn't succeed. it is probably a disappointment to him and to you, but it serves you both right for conspiring against a boy." "who said i had anything to do with it?" asked stephen. "you have let it out yourself. i don't want any further proof." "after this base conspiracy against your step-brother, stephen palmer," said the widow, with dignity, "i hope you will have the decency to stay away. had you behaved with any decent regard to the tie that exists between us, i would not say this----" "you'll repent this, mrs. palmer!" said stephen, his face showing the malice he felt. "you treat me like a dog, you and your son there. i'll be even with you yet." he left the room and the house, slamming the door behind him, but he did not renew his demand for money. chapter xviii. grace dearborn's party. the evening of grace's birthday party arrived. a large number of invitations had been sent out, for mrs. sheldon had a large circle of acquaintances and friends the daily papers had already mentioned the forthcoming party as likely to be one of the most memorable of the season. mrs. sheldon determined to spare no expense to make it so. she was not vulgarly lavish, but there are occasions when she thought money should be spent freely. moreover, she was determined to do what she could to secure a brilliant matrimonial alliance for her niece, of whose beauty she was justifiably proud. indeed she was a natural match-maker, though she was compelled not to allow grace to see her maneuvers too plainly, as nothing would have been more repugnant to the niece than to think she was set up as a prize in a matrimonial lottery. a professional confectioner was given _carte blanche_ for the supper, which was to be _recherche_, and the decorations were put into the hands of a man whose taste was unimpeachable. "aunt caroline," said grace, "i am afraid you are going to large expense on my party." "why should i not, my dear?" "it seems wasteful. how many poor families could be relieved by the money it will cost!" "what a quixotic idea, grace! in my opinion the poor have quite enough done for them. would you have us give up all amusements for their sake?" "no, i won't go so far as that. still it ought to check undue extravagance to reflect that we have so many that are destitute among us." "they shall have their turn, grace. i am sure you spend a great deal of money on the poor." "not half enough, aunt." "then spend more, but in this matter don't object to my spending what i like." "i know, my dear aunt, it is all done for my sake." "and very properly, my dear. i have no daughter, and all my interest centers in you. by the way, i met major ashton in the street yesterday." "indeed!" said grace, indifferently. "poor fellow, he looks downcast. your repulse has wounded him sorely. he loved you deeply." a silvery laugh from grace greeted this announcement, made with due solemnity. "really, my dear aunt," she said, "i can't conceive of major ashton loving anybody as well as himself." "you do him wrong, grace." "perhaps so, but i do not believe it." "he is coming to the party." "i supposed he would," said grace, shrugging her shoulders. "and i do hope, grace, you will treat him kindly." "i shall treat him politely, aunt caroline, if that is what you mean. that is my duty, since he is to be our guest." "major ashton could marry brilliantly." "let him, then." "everybody considers him an eligible _parti_." "then there is little cause for me to pity him. there are plenty who will have compassion on him, and console him for my coldness." "you must admit that he is a thorough gentleman, grace." "my dear aunt, i am rather tired of major ashton as a topic of conversation. suppose we drop him. i am ready to admit everything you desire--he is elegant, a good match, fascinating, if you will, but he will need to carry his fascinations to another market." "she seems resolute," thought mrs. sheldon, "but she may change her mind after all. who was it said it is always best to begin with a little aversion?" in fact, mrs. sheldon had gone so far as to encourage major ashton, and led him to think that there was hope for him after all. he was very ready to accept this assurance, because he desired to do so. there was no danger, however, of the major breaking his heart, for it was grace's fortune he was in love with, not herself. in fact, he was so far from romantic that the idea crossed his mind that if the niece refused to have anything to do with him, he might perhaps take up with the aunt. "mrs. sheldon is a well-preserved woman," he reflected, "fifteen years older than myself, perhaps, but her fortune is even greater than miss dearborn's, and would set my affairs right at once, besides insuring my comfort for the balance of my life. she must be worth at least a quarter of a million." thinking, then, of the widow as a _dernier resort_, he treated her with a flattering deference and courtly politeness that prepossessed her still more in his favor, though she had not the faintest idea of the direction of his thoughts with regard to herself. at last the evening came. the house was a blaze of light and splendor. carriage after carriage rolled up the street and deposited its load at mrs. sheldon's door. presently the rooms were well filled with elegantly dressed ladies and irreproachably attired young men, who, in turn, paid their respects to the givers of the party. grace was tastefully and even richly dressed, but suffered herself, in the matter of attire, to be eclipsed by more than one of her guests. her aunt insisted on her wearing a superb diamond necklace belonging to herself, but she declined. "no, aunt; i don't want to array myself in borrowed plumes," she said. "the necklace is yours; wear it yourself." which mrs. sheldon did at last. she was ready to lend it to her niece, but was not insensible to the glances of admiration which it attracted when displayed on her own neck. "it must be worth twenty thousand dollars!" thought major ashton. "really, the old girl is radiant. if she ever becomes mrs. major ashton, in place of her niece resigned, i shall slyly substitute a necklace of paste and convert the jewels to my own use. it is sinful that so much good money should be locked up." it was well for the major's popularity with mrs. sheldon that she could not read his thoughts. her necklace was her most valued possession, and nothing except actual need would have induced her to part with it. grace looked about from time to time for the young artist. finally she saw him approaching to salute her. "i am glad to see you here, mr. vernon," she said, with a smile of welcome. "you are late." "yes, miss dearborn. i hope you will excuse it. as you are aware, i have few acquaintances here--indeed i do not often stray into such fashionable surroundings--and only came for a brief space, to show my appreciation of your kind courtesy in inviting me here, and to offer my congratulations on your birthday." "thank you, mr. vernon, they are welcome. i hope your mother is well." "very well, thank you, and i am sure she will feel proud of your inquiry." "i believe most of my guests have arrived, and i may venture to leave my duties as assistant hostess. if you will favor me with your arm, i will walk about a little." with a flush of gratification the artist tendered his arm, and the two promenaded through the elegant parlors, attracting general attention. "why, i declare!" said miss framley to her escort; "do you see that?" "see what?" "miss dearborn, promenading with that young man?" "why shouldn't she? he is quite distinguished in his appearance." "distinguished?" repeated miss framley, with a sneer. "i guess you don't know him." "he isn't a cook, is he--or a waiter?" "no; but he is a poor portrait painter. why, he painted my picture for twenty dollars, and he was glad of the job," said miss framley, who was innately vulgar. "poor devil! then he must have been hard up," said the gentleman, to whom it occurred that this was an illustration of miss framley's meanness. "oh, yes, he was poor enough; but i believe he is doing a little better now. still, it is singular that miss dearborn should single him out as her escort from so many. i wouldn't promenade with him!" continued the young lady, tossing her head. "i ought to feel flattered that you prefer me, miss framley." "oh, you are quite a different kind of person," said the young lady, with a coquettish smile. there was another who saw the two pass him with equal disgust, and more dissatisfaction. this was major ashton. "upon my soul!" he said to himself. "what can grace dearborn see in that beggar? i'll soon separate them!" he stepped up with his usual assurance, and, bowing, said: "may i venture to relieve this gentleman of his pleasant duty, and substitute myself in his place?" "not at present, major ashton," said grace, coldly; "unless mr. vernon is weary of his charge." "far from it," said the young artist. "presuming puppy!" muttered major ashton, as the two passed on. chapter xix. the artist's recreation. whether frederic vernon read in major ashton's face the disgust he felt at the compliment grace bestowed upon him in singling him out as her companion, i am not sure. it is clear, however, that the young artist cared little for it. he was enjoying the companionship of the only young lady who had ever had power to stir his heart, and for the moment did not allow himself to think of the distance between them. grace, on her part, was not insensible to the fact that vernon, though poor, was as noble in appearance as any of her guests. the young artist had been remarkably extravagant in providing himself with a dress-suit of fine quality, and no one would argue his poverty from his appearance. "i hope, mr. vernon," said the heiress, "that you have plenty of orders." "enough, at all events, to fill up my time," answered vernon, "thanks, i am very sure, to your friendly recommendation." "i feel entirely justified in recommending you," said grace. "it is friendly, nevertheless." "i shall not dispute that, for i wish to be friendly." "i am sincerely grateful for all your kindness, miss dearborn," said the artist, earnestly. "it has done me more good than perhaps you dream of." "i am sincerely glad to hear it, mr. vernon." "before painting your portrait i will confess that i was tempted at times to despair. i had been for a long time struggling hard, and apparently with little hopes of success. my sitters were unwilling to pay me even the paltry price i asked." "i believe the young lady we have just passed was one of your sitters?" said grace, referring to miss framley, who had bestowed her attentions upon a callow youth of eighteen, failing to secure a more eligible partner. "miss framley? yes; but i have small cause to desire such a patronage. she stared at me as i entered, as if surprised to meet me here." "i trust it did not pain you much," said grace, archly. vernon laughed. "i hope i shall have no worse troubles," he said. "to that i am resigned." "then i shall be quite at ease about you on that score. and now, mr. vernon, i fear i must ask you to hand me to a seat, as my other guests will be claiming my attention." "thank you for favoring me so far, miss dearborn," said vernon, as he complied with the young lady's request. the young artist caught sight of one of his late sitters, and presenting himself, was graciously received, so that he was not compelled to be a wall-flower. "it would be like his impudence," thought miss framley, "for the penniless artist to make up to me. if he does, i will soon send him about his business." miss framley did not have the opportunity, however, to give vernon the rebuff she had in view, as he took no notice of her save by a slight bow. this annoyed her, and she straightway charged him mentally with ingratitude in slighting one of his patrons. consistency was not one of miss framley's strong points. had she seen him leaning against the wall unnoticed, she would have been pleased; but vernon, who was gifted with unusual external attractions, seemed to have no difficulty in making his way, and was kindly received by young ladies whom miss framley was compelled to acknowledge as her social superiors. she looked on discontentedly from a corner where she was temporarily pining from neglect, when major ashton approached. he was far from admiring miss framley, but he knew that her father was reputed rich, and he thought it best to keep in with her as a possible resort in the event of his other plans failing. "are you in a reverie, miss framley?" he asked. "not precisely, major ashton," responded the young lady, smiling with pleasure at being noticed by so desirable an acquaintance; "i was resting for a moment. really fashionable life is so exhausting--parties and engagements nearly every night in the week. however, you know all about that." "i am not so easily fatigued, perhaps, as if i belonged to the fairer sex. will you accept my arm for a promenade, or are you too much fatigued?" "oh, i am quite rested, i assure you," said the young lady, joyfully. "i see the portrait painter is here," remarked major ashton, with a carelessness he did not feel. "yes; isn't it strange miss dearborn should invite him?" returned miss framley, eagerly. "really almost a beggar, as you may say." "is he poor, then?" asked the major. "he was miserably poor, but i believe he is doing better now. why, he used to paint portraits for twenty dollars!" "hardly enough to pay for the materials," said ashton, shrugging his shoulders. "oh, he was glad enough to get orders at that price. i took pity on him myself, and gave him an order." "very considerate of you, upon my word!" said major ashton. if there was sarcasm in his words, miss framley, who was not over sharp, except in money matters, did not perceive it. "i always try to be considerate," she responded, complacently. "but, as you were saying, it is very singular miss dearborn should pay so much attention to a man in his sphere of life." "i think it was you who said it, miss framley; however, i am disposed to agree with you." "and then she selects him as her first escort, and lowers herself, as one may say, to his level." "perhaps she feels a special interest in him," suggested major ashton. there was a suspicion of jealousy in his tone as he said this. "oh, dear, no! that would be too ridiculous. she may feel a patronizing interest in him, and think it will do him good in the way of business to pay him attention. grace is so quixotic, you know, major ashton." grace would have been amazed had she heard herself spoken of so familiarly by a young lady to whom she had hardly spoken a dozen words in her life. "i suppose you are quite intimate with her?" said miss framley's escort, pointedly. "why, no; i can't say we are intimate," said miss framley, slowly; "although, of course, i know her very well." "i infer from what you say that i shall not be likely to meet the portrait painter at your house, miss framley." "decidedly not!" said the young lady, tossing her head. "i hope i choose my company better. i am sure i don't know what ma would say if i should introduce such a person into the house--ma is _very_ particular." "and very properly, i am sure." major ashton politely refrained from laughing, though he happened to know that mrs. framley, who was now so very particular, had been a very respectable saleswoman in a small dry-goods store up to the time of her marriage with jeremiah framley, who was at that time a drummer in the employ of a second-class house in the city. "miss framley is very amusing," thought the major, "though i fancy she would be a great bore to a matrimonial partner. i hope it may never be my sad destiny to marry her; though, as her father is rich, i may some day sacrifice myself to her." how we deceive ourselves! miss framley was under the impression that the stylish major, of whose attentions she was proud, was struck with her, and she was already speculating as to the prominent place she might take in society as mrs. major ashton, when a waltz struck up. "shall we dance, or are you too fatigued?" asked the major. "oh, not at all! it has quite passed off, i assure you," said the delighted young lady, and they moved off to the inspiring strains of one of strauss' waltzes. miss framley didn't appear to advantage as a dancer. her figure was dumpy, and she had no ear for music, so that her pace was somewhat heavy and elephantine. the major was a graceful dancer, but it was all he could do to make up for his partner's deficiencies. he soon tired of the attempt, and handed his unwilling partner to a seat. "i was not at all tired, major," she said, insinuatingly. "but i was," he answered, rather abruptly. he took leave with a bow, and five minutes later found the opportunity which he had been seeking all the evening to speak to miss dearborn. chapter xx. a persevering suitor. grace saw the approach of major ashton, and surmised his object in seeking an interview. she would have avoided it, but she was at the moment unengaged, and major ashton was one of her guests. she owed him a measure of courtesy. when he offered his arm she accepted it with a bow, which she tried to accompany with a cordial manner. "i congratulate you on the success of your party, miss dearborn," the major commenced. "thank you, major ashton. then i may consider it such?" "decidedly. i trust it may prove auspicious, since it is given in honor of your birthday." "thank you again. you are very kind." "shall we go into the conservatory?" asked major ashton, as they approached the door that led into it. "as you please," said grace, hesitating. she was considering how soon she could politely get rid of the major. they entered the conservatory, which at the time was occupied by another couple. major ashton glanced at them with a frown, for they were in his way. presently they went back into the parlor, and his opportunity was found. "miss dearborn--grace," he began, hurriedly, "i have been waiting for this chance to speak to you. i hope you have reconsidered your answer to my suit. i hope you have reflected how much my happiness is involved in your smiling upon my love." "i am sorry you have renewed the subject, major ashton," said grace, her cheek flushing with the annoyance she felt. "i could not do otherwise. i am pleading for life." the words and tone were earnest enough, but failed to convey to grace the idea of sincerity. she was persuaded that major ashton, less than any of her acquaintances, was in danger of dying of a broken heart, and she felt provoked that he should try to impose upon her. "let me suggest, major ashton," she said, "that you have ill chosen your opportunity. to-night, at least, you might spare me." "spare you!" repeated major ashton, in evident pique. "is then what i say so disagreeable to you?" "it is unwelcome tonight at least." "then will you grant me another interview?" he asked, earnestly. "doubtless you are right. i should not take up your time to-night. i will leave you at once if you will let me call to-morrow, or any other day soon." "you may call, if you desire it, but i must say, plainly, that it will do no good. the answer i have already given you is final." "i am not accustomed to be treated with such disdain," said ashton, biting his lip. "it may seem conceited to say so, but there is more than one young lady here to-night who would gladly accept what i have offered you. miss framley for instance." "then let me suggest that you offer your heart where it will be gladly accepted," returned grace, calmly. if major ashton fancied he could excite miss dearborn's jealousy, the fancy was a very ridiculous one. she was entirely willing he should bestow himself wherever he chose--even upon miss framley. "i hope you don't think i would throw myself away upon a vulgar shoddyite like miss framley." "miss framley is my guest, major ashton," said grace, with quiet dignity. "it doesn't become me to hear any words to her discredit." "i think i can penetrate your secret, miss dearborn," said major ashton, with a sneer. "you look with favor upon that poverty-stricken portrait painter with whom you so ostentatiously paraded early in the evening." "you forget yourself, major ashton," said grace, with chilling hauteur. she dropped his arm, and left the conservatory unattended, her cheek flushed, and her heart stirred with indignation. she came nearer to hating major ashton at that moment than ever before. he had insulted her, and though she was not one to make a scene, she was not likely soon to forgive or to forget it. yet there was something in his words which was not altogether displeasing. they let in a sudden light, by which she read her own heart, and, with a quicker pulsation, she was compelled to confess that she did feel an interest in the young artist. just then, too, lifting her eyes, she met the gaze of frederic vernon fixed upon her with an intensity which she could not fail to interpret. "he loves me!" she thought, and the thought gave her no displeasure. she had no time to analyze her feelings, but of this she felt certain. vernon, meeting her gaze, turned away in some confusion, but grace was mistress of herself. approaching him, she said, smiling: "i hope you are enjoying yourself, mr. vernon." "more so than i anticipated, miss dearborn," he answered, recovering himself. "then you did not anticipate enjoyment?" she asked. "nay, do not misunderstand me. i am of late a stranger to such gay scenes, and i did not expect to meet many whom i knew, or with whom i could converse." "there is miss framley," said grace. "miss framley does not feel inclined to notice me. i think she considers me too humble for recognition." "that is amusing, certainly," said grace. "it is quite true." "i sympathize with you, mr. vernon. do not let miss framley's cruelty weigh upon you." "i can bear it since i have your sympathy," answered vernon, smiling brightly. "how handsome he is when he smiles," thought grace. "it is clear he is a gentleman, notwithstanding the sneer of major ashton." "pardon me if i leave your parlor early, miss dearborn," said vernon. "i may not readily gain opportunity of seeing you to take leave, and do so now." "but why do you leave us so early, mr. vernon?" "my mother will sit up till i return, and for her the hour is already late." "then i will make no protest. a mother should always be considered." "i was sure you would understand my reason. i shall be able to tell her that i have enjoyed myself. she wished me to come." "you must introduce me to your mother some day, mr. vernon. i want to know her." "and she will be delighted to know you." of all the gay company frederic vernon was the first to go. "so the portrait painter is gone!" said major ashton to miss framley, whom he ran across once more. "yes. poor fellow, he was evidently out of his element, and anxious to get away." "could not you detain him, miss framley, by your powerful fascinations?" "as if i would try!" returned miss framley, tossing her head. "you are too cruel!" "he looked at me as if he would like to claim acquaintance," said miss framley, complacently, "but i can tell you, major ashton, i am very careful about my company." "but he was an acquaintance of yours," said ashton. "in the same way that ma knows the butcher and baker. i don't choose to let him think we are social equals. american society is too promiscuous, as ma often says. don't you think so yourself, major ashton?" "no doubt your honored mother is right," answered ashton, with a mocking smile. "how nice it must be to live in england, and meet those dear, delightful earls, and dukes, and barons!" exclaimed miss framley, rapturously. "did you ever know an earl or a duke, major ashton?" "yes, i made the acquaintance of an earl once. we were passengers on the same steamer." "dear me, what a privilege! and how did he look?" "to the best of my remembrance he had the same number of eyes and ears as the rest of us." "but didn't he look very _distangay_? oh, how i should have admired to know him!" "he seemed very plain-looking, and he was perhaps the worst dressed man among the passengers." "that is so strange!" miss framley's idea of an earl or a duke was a tall, majestic person, attired in purple and fine linen, with high-bred, aristocratic features, that might readily distinguish him from inferior beings. "oh, how i envy you the privilege of knowing him! did you really become intimate?" "very!" answered major ashton, concealing under a grave face the amusement he felt. "he told me confidentially how disagreeable his mother-in-law, the countess of somerset, was, and asked my advice as to how to manage her." "how interesting!" ejaculated miss framley, opening wide her eyes, as she speedily swallowed the major's words. she felt that it was something to know the intimate mind of an earl. she remained till the end of the party, and went home fully persuaded that major ashton admired her. chapter xxi. miss framley's mortification. "paul," said mrs. palmer, "are you at leisure this evening?" "yes, mother, if you have anything for me to do." paul had another plan for the evening, but he felt that duty required him to defer that, and place himself at the service of his mother. in this he showed a good feeling and sense of duty which may well be copied by such of my readers as are young and dependent upon their parents for more than they fully understand. "i don't like to take up your time when you have been all day at work for us." "never mind that, mother. why, i enjoy my work. i should feel lost without it." "i have got miss dearborn's work done, paul, and if you can spare time, i should like to have you take it to her." "i am perfectly ready to do that, mother," said paul, promptly, "i shall be glad to see her on my own account." "i don't know how much i ought to charge her for the work," said mrs. palmer, reflecting. "i don't believe she will object to your price, mother, whatever it is. she is quite a different young lady from miss framley." "then you may say two dollars, if she asks the price," said his mother. the work was neatly done up, and paul took charge of it. at about eight o'clock he ascended the steps of mrs. sheldon's handsome house, and rang the bell. "is miss dearborn at home?" he asked of the servant who answered his summons. "yes," answered grace, smiling, for she chanced to hear the question as she passed through the hall. "good-evening, paul. how is your little sister?" "very well, miss dearborn. if she had known i was coming here, she would have wanted to come, too." "you must bring her soon." "won't she trouble you, miss dearborn?" "children never trouble me. i like them. come in and sit down," for paul was still standing in the vestibule. "i suppose you have brought my work." "yes; mother has finished it." "sarah, you may take the bundle." "won't you look at it, miss dearborn? perhaps it may not suit you." "i am not afraid of that, paul. still i will examine it." the examination was followed by cordial praise, which was deserved, for mrs. palmer was an admirable needlewoman. "did your mother mention the price, paul?" asked the young lady. "she named two dollars." grace drew out a pearl porte-monnaie, and drew therefrom a bill, which she handed to paul. "give your mother that, with my compliments on her good work," she said. paul saw that it was a five-dollar bill. "i am afraid i can't change this," he said. "it is not necessary," returned grace, with a smile. "but it is a five. i said two dollars." "tell your mother that if she thinks this too much, she may regard the balance as a gift." "you are very generous, miss dearborn," said paul, his eyes brightening with the thought of his mother's pleasure when she received such liberal payment. "if i am, i can take small credit for it, since i am blessed with a fortune." "i wish all rich people were like you," said paul, impulsively. "don't flatter me, paul. i am probably vain enough already." "i may thank you at any rate, miss dearborn." paul rose to go, not wishing to intrude further upon the young lady. "if you are going home directly, will you object to taking some more work to your mother?" "i shall be very glad to do it." "then wait here five minutes and i will send sarah to you with a bundle. say to your mother that i shall be able to give her almost constant employment, as i am interested in a number of poor families for whom i have garments made up as the most useful gifts i can bestow upon them." "this will be good news to mother." "then i shall be the better pleased if i can oblige her while securing excellent work." paul went home directly, with the more alacrity because he had such good news to communicate. his mother, as he anticipated, was very much elated by her good fortune. "it is so different from miss framley's way of dealing," she said. "there are not many young ladies like miss dearborn," said paul. "you are right there, paul. if there were more, the world would be better off." just then the postman called with a postal for mrs. palmer. it ran thus: "miss framley will be obliged if mrs. palmer will call or send to her house to-morrow evening for some work. she hopes that mrs. palmer will not be unreasonable in her charges." "that's cool!" ejaculated paul. "i thought miss framley did not intend to give me any more work," said his mother. "so she said, but it seems she has changed her mind." "i didn't think she would." "oh, she probably finds it difficult to get her work done as well elsewhere, and finds it for her interest to employ you again." "she will think any fair price unreasonable." "of course she will. if you will be guided by my advice, mother, you will decline to take her work again." "it is certainly unpleasant working for one who is unwilling to pay fairly." "then don't do it. miss dearborn said she would give you enough work to occupy your time, and you know she will pay you handsomely." "then if you think best, paul," said mrs. palmer, doubtfully, for it seemed a rash thing, in the light of her former struggles, to decline work. "i do think it best, mother, and i shall be glad to call there myself and give her your answer." the next evening, therefore, paul repaired to the framley mansion, and found the young lady at home. he was not invited in, but miss framley came to the door to speak to him. "you sent a postal to my mother, miss framley," he commenced. "oh, you are the palmer boy," said miss framley, condescendingly. "my name is paul palmer." "i have decided to let your mother have my work again, though she charged an extortionate price for the last." the fact was, as paul surmised, that miss framley had found it impossible to find any other seamstress whose work pleased her as much as his mother's, but of course she did not choose to admit that. she preferred to have it understood that she was conferring a favor. "my mother never charges extortionate prices," said paul, gravely. "as a boy, you are not a suitable judge," said the young lady, sharply. "you may say to your mother that there are plenty who would like to do my work, but as she is a widow, and poor, i have taken pity on her, and----" "there is no occasion for that, miss framley," said paul. "my mother can get along very well without your work." "it seems to me you are taking a great deal on yourself, young man," said miss framley, sharply. "i have a great mind to give out my work elsewhere." "you will have to do that, miss framley," said paul, with evident satisfaction, "for my mother requests me to say that she cannot do any more work for you." "did she tell you to say this?" demanded miss framley, astonished. "yes." "i never heard of such a thing!" ejaculated the mortified young lady. "are you sure this is not a message of your own?" "quite so. miss dearborn has promised her as much work as she can do, at about three times the rate you are willing to pay. good-evening!" "i believe i hate miss dearborn?" inwardly commented the vexed miss framley. "somehow she interferes with me in everything i undertake. if she chooses to throw away her money, i sha'n't. and now where am i to find another seamstress like mrs. palmer? i wish i hadn't offended her." but it was too late. miss framley must pay the penalty of her meanness. paul walked home, feeling that the day had been an unusually satisfactory one. yet how little can we foresee the future? within the next twenty-four hours a great danger menaced him. chapter xxii. an unexpected change. paul was on his way home, when, in turning a corner, he came face to face with his step-brother, stephen. the latter was much better dressed than when paul last saw him. he had thrown aside the shabby and soiled suit, which had seen service so long that it looked entitled to be relieved upon a pension. he wore now a new suit, which did not fit him particularly well, having evidently been purchased at a ready-made clothing store, but it was at least new, and made stephen look as respectable as the nature of the case would admit. "hallo, young one!" said stephen, with a grin; "where are you bound?" "i'm going home," answered paul, surveying his half-brother with a puzzled glance. "how's the old lady?" "do you mean my mother?" "of course i do. i don't mean grace." "she's well," answered paul, briefly. "she don't like me, and she don't treat me well," said stephen; "but i don't bear no malice. the world is big enough for both of us." "i hope you are prospering," said paul, again regarding the new suit. "yes; i'm getting along better'n i was. how do you like my clothes?" "they are an improvement on your old ones." "i should say so myself. come, paul, you're a smart boy, if you are rather cranky sometimes. being as we are brothers, i'll stand treat. come in and take a drink." he made a movement to enter a saloon close at hand, but paul held back. "thank you all the same, stephen," he said, "but i don't drink." "don't be afraid. it'll do you good." paul shook his head. he knew it would do no good to argue the point, so he simply declined once more. "don't be offended, stephen," he said. "i should have no objection to drinking with you if i drank at all, but i've signed the pledge." "none but babies and simpletons sign the pledge," said stephen, contemptuously. "if that's the case, you will have to count me either the one or the other." "can you change me a ten?" asked stephen, drawing out a wallet, and producing a ten-dollar bill. "i haven't so much money with me," answered paul, rather surprised at stephen's wealth, for he saw other bills besides in the pocket-book. "if you had a five now, i'd exchange, and let you give the balance to sister grace as a present, so that she needn't think brother stephen quite so bad as she thinks." paul did not have a five, having given the one he received from miss dearborn to his mother. even if he had had it with him, he would have felt indisposed to avail himself of his half-brother's surprising generosity, having grievous doubts whether stephen had come by his present wealth honestly. "thank you, stephen," he said. "i haven't a five, but i thank you all the same for your offer. you must have found profitable employment." this was said with a rising inflection calculated to call for stephen's confidence, but the latter evaded the inquiry. "yes, i've been lucky," he answered. "i've been speculating." again paul was puzzled. how could stephen speculate without capital, for it was quite certain that he had none. "if i only had a five," stephen said, meditatively, "i'd hand you one for grace." "some other time," said paul. "well, good-night. tell grace i wanted to send her something. tell your mother, too, and she may think better of me. if you won't drink with me, i shall have to drink by myself." with a hasty nod, stephen opened the door of the saloon and entered, while paul resumed his journey home. "i don't understand it at all," he said to himself. "i never saw stephen in such a generous mood before. how can he have got hold of all that money? i hope it is honestly come by. i think i had better not tell mother about his offer, or she might relent and invite him to call. we shall do better without him." chapter xxiii. a catastrophe. "all the latest magazines and papers! harper's, frank leslie's, the _new york weekly_!" of course the speaker was paul, and he was making his rounds on the succeeding day in the milwaukee train. "come here, my boy. let me see what you have got." the speaker was an elderly gentleman, with gray hair and beard, tall and portly. his handsome suit of the finest broadcloth, the solid gold chain, as thick almost as a cable, that spanned his waistcoat, and his general air, indicated prosperity and wealth. paul recognized him as a frequent traveler on his train. he even knew his name, and was aware that he was a substantial chicago manufacturer, who had a branch establishment at milwaukee. the name of alexander bradford was well known in business circles, and his name was at any time good at the bank where he dealt for a hundred thousand dollars, while the sum of his wealth was generally estimated at considerably over a million. "certainly, mr. bradford," answered paul, politely, as he approached the rich man with alacrity. "ha, you know my name," said mr. bradford. "oh, yes, sir; i have seen you often on the train." "i can return the compliment, my young friend," said bradford, smiling, "but i am not familiar with your name." "my name is not quite so well known as yours, mr. bradford. i am paul palmer, at your service!" "paul palmer! the name sounds very well, my boy. some day it may be well known, too. i was not very conspicuous myself at your age. come, now, how much do you manage to earn in the course of a week?" "i seldom fall short of seven dollars. sometimes i get up as high as ten." "how old are you?" "sixteen." "at your age i was earning about half as much as you." "but you didn't depend on it, sir?" "yes, i did. i was a poor boy; had to paddle my own canoe, just as you are doing--had a mother to help, too." "i have a mother and sister to assist," returned paul. "you don't say so?" mr. bradford remarked, surveying paul with increased interest. "then your father is not living?" "no, sir." "i see you are a good boy. do you give most of your wages to your mother?" "yes, sir." "and you don't think it hard, eh? you don't feel as if you'd rather spend it on yourself, eh?" "if my mother didn't need it, i should certainly like to spend a little more on myself, but i am glad to feel that i am able to take care of her." "that's well, my boy; i quite approve of that. by the way--it was you, i believe, who caught the pickpocket that took miss dearborn's money?" "yes, sir. were you on the train at the time?" "yes; i was in the same car. it did you a great deal of credit. you are evidently sharp." "thank you, sir." "i suppose you don't always expect to be a train boy?" "i think i shall have to retire by the time i reach fifty, sir; i can't very well pass for a boy then." "ho, ho!" laughed the old gentleman, appreciating the joke. "i should say not. and what are you looking to do in place of it?" "i should like to get a place in a counting-room or store," said paul; "but at present i couldn't afford to take such a situation." "it would lead to more." "yes, sir; but i could not expect at first to earn more than half as much as i do on the train. while i have my mother and sister to support, i do not dare to make a change." "very true," said the old gentleman, thoughtfully. remaining silent, paul was about to move on, when mr. bradford called him back. "stay, my young friend," he said; "i haven't made a purchase yet." he selected an illustrated paper and a magazine, and drew from his vest-pocket a two-dollar bill, which he handed to our hero. "ten and thirty-five are forty-five," said paul, in a business-like tone. "i must give you a dollar and fifty-five cents in change." "never mind, paul," said mr. bradford, waving his hand. "keep it for yourself, or, rather, give it to your mother." "thank you, sir," said paul, gratefully, for the gift was equal to his profits for a good day's work. he was about to resume his walk through the car when there was a sudden shock. passengers were hurled from their seats; there were screams of fright and pain, and a confusion hard to describe. the train had run off the track! chapter xxiv. the train-wrecker. what havoc a single minute--nay, a half minute, can make! here was a train full of passengers, easy in mind, moving at a speed not beyond the average. not a thought of anxiety or apprehension was in the mind of any. the thought of the pleasant welcome that awaited them at the end of the journey in the great city, not more than ten miles away, warmed the hearts of the travelers, and brought to some faces a contented smile. thirty seconds pass, and the train is a wreck--the cars lying on their sides, some of the passengers insensible, some maimed, a few, alas! dead. and what has brought all this about? half a dozen rails, lying beside the track, have been placed on it by some fiend, regardless of the suffering and death he is likely to cause, in order to obtain a chance to plunder the ill-fated passengers. such men are scoundrels for whom hanging would be too good. among those who suffered least was the train boy. he was partially stunned, but almost immediately recovered his consciousness and his wits. he sprang to his feet and looked around him. the boy, unaccustomed to scenes of suffering, shuddered as he saw the mutilated victims of the latest railway horror. the groans which he heard pierced his heart, and he could scarcely forbear groaning. here lay a mother and her child, both dead, the child's dead hand closely grasping the hand of the mother who could neither help him nor herself. but i do not propose to harrow up the soul of the reader by an enumeration of the terrible scene. i am chiefly interested in giving an account of what has a bearing upon our hero and his history. while paul, scarcely recovered from his bewilderment, was looking about him, his attention was drawn to a sight that stirred his indignation. lying upon his back close by was alexander bradford, the rich manufacturer. he was breathing heavily, but appeared insensible. bending over him was an ill-looking man, with an expression of covetous greed, coolly engaged in rifling the pockets of the helpless victim. it was not a passenger. paul knew that at a glance, for he had repeatedly gone through the train, and his memory of faces was excellent. "that man wrecked the train, or had something to do with it," paul instantly concluded, "and now he is gathering in his harvest. i will take the liberty of interfering with his little game." [illustration: paul brought down his club on the man's arm with such force that he howled with pain.] he looked about for a weapon, and had not far to look. a piece of wood from the _debris_ of the broken train furnished him a convenient club. he did not like to use it till he had given the train-wrecker warning, however. "stop your villainous work!" he exclaimed, with honest indignation. the robber looked up suddenly, but seeing only a boy, recovered his audacity. "mind your business, boy," he answered. "i know what i'm about." "so do i," said paul, resolutely, "and i order you to stop." "you do, hey? i'll break your head, young man, and pay you well for your impudence." he had the prostrate manufacturer's pocket-book in his hand as he spoke, and was about transferring it to his pocket, when paul, perceiving that no time was to be lost, brought down his club on the man's arm with such force that he howled with pain and dropped the pocket-book, exclaiming: "you've broken my arm, you young vagabond! i'll kill you for that!" but he was in too great pain to set about it at once. he began to nurse his injured arm, casting the while black looks of hatred at the intrepid train boy. just then mr. bradford opened his eyes. "where am i?" he asked, in a bewildered voice. paul bent over him, and asked, anxiously: "are you much hurt, mr. bradford?" "is it you, my boy. tell me where i am." "an accident has happened. the train ran off the track." "i understand now. it was all so sudden. i was reading, and must have become unconscious." "are you hurt? are any of your limbs broken, sir?" asked paul, anxiously. as paul was bending over mr. bradford, the boy saw a quick expression of terror on the rich man's face. "look out!" he said, in agitation. paul, instinctively guessing that the danger came from the villain he had foiled, sprang aside just in time to avoid a terrible blow which had been aimed at his head by the very club he had himself used. the blow falling on empty air, by its very impetuosity upset the wretch who sought to inflict it, and he tumbled prone over the body of bradford. but he had made a serious mistake. the engineer of the train, a man of immense strength, had seen the abortive attempt, and he sprang forward. when the train-wrecker was attempting to rise, he found himself seized by the collar by an iron hand. he was jerked to his feet with a power against which he was powerless to contend, and shaken till his bones seemed to rattle. "what are you trying to do, you rascal?" he exclaimed. "stop shaking me, and i will tell you," said the man, sullenly. "there; now tell me at once," said the engineer, still grasping him firmly, but ceasing to shake him. "that boy almost broke my arm," said the train-wrecker, with a look of furious malice, "and i mean to get even with him; that's the whole of it." "no; it isn't quite the whole," said paul. "what were you doing when i struck you?" "taking care of this man." "taking care of him!" retorted the train boy, in a tone of sarcasm. "i'll tell you how he was taking care of him, mr. barnes; he was rifling his pockets." "you lie!" said the man, ferociously. "i tell the truth. you had in your hand mr. bradford's wallet, which you had taken from his pocket, and you were about transferring it to your own." "ha!" exclaimed the engineer, a sudden light breaking upon him. "were you a passenger on this train?" "yes." "did you see him, paul, in your rounds?" asked the official. "no. i am sure he was not on the train." "the boy lies! as if he could remember all the passengers!" "here is a man that will remember," said paul, as the conductor came up. "mr. bingham, was this man a passenger?" the conductor scanned the face of the wrecker, and promptly answered: "no. if i had collected fare from him i should have remembered him." "i believe this is the man that wrecked the train," said the engineer. "it's a base lie!" exclaimed the train-wrecker, growing pale, as he saw his crime brought home to him. "you are all in a conspiracy against me." as two other passengers came up, the engineer asked: "is there any one here that remembers seeing this man?" "i do," said a plain, farmer-looking man, who had just come up. "you were not on the train yourself," said the conductor, suspiciously, thinking it was one of the wrecker's confederates. "of course i wasn't," was the prompt reply. "i was forty rods away, in yonder field. i saw this man placing the rails on the track, just before the train came along; and surmising mischief, i hurried to the road to see if i could signal the train and save it. but i came too late. the scoundrel had done his work." the brawny engineer, at this confirmation of his suspicions, shook the hapless wrecker as if he would shake him to pieces, and was about to order him bound, when a shot from some unknown quarter penetrated the forehead of the villain, and with a half-uttered cry he fell to the earth. who fired the fatal shot was never discovered, but only two rods away stood a tall man, rough in aspect, who looked like a western hunter. he stood motionless and impassive, but it was generally supposed that it was he who dealt swift retribution to the fiend whose success only brought him death. it was felt that his fate was deserved, and no troublesome inquiries were made. no one could pity the wretch who died amid the ruin he had wrought. chapter xxv. paul changes his business. the shooting of the train-wrecker for the moment diverted notice from the victims of the catastrophe; but their condition speedily recalled the attention of those who were unhurt. paul once more bent over mr. bradford, and repeated his inquiry: "are you much hurt, mr. bradford?" "i can't tell you. i will try to get up, if you will help me." with some difficulty, for the manufacturer was a heavy man, paul raised him to a sitting position. "oh, my arm!" cried mr. bradford, wincing. paul noticed that his left arm hung helpless at his side. "i must have broken my arm," he said; "i can't raise it." "i am very sorry," said paul, his voice showing that he was sincere. "it is not a time for regret, since i have escaped a more serious peril. i feel that i am fortunate in comparison with some of these poor people. never mind me, paul; go and see whom you can help." paul did as he was directed, and rendered effectual assistance. i am sure my readers will not wish me to go into details, but prefer that i should confine myself to what has direct bearing upon paul and his fortunes. when paul found time he came again to mr. bradford's side. "paul," he said, "have you heard whether a train has been sent for to carry us to the city?" "yes, mr. bradford. one will be here in half an hour." "i am afraid of taking cold in my arm. is there a house near by?" the farmer already introduced overheard the question, and said: "yes, sir, my house is near at hand." "my good friend," said the manufacturer, "can you arrange to keep me over night? i fear i may take cold here, and my arm is already feeling stiff. of course i will see you compensated for your trouble." "whether you do or not, you are welcome to stay at my house." "paul, i want you to stay with me if you will," said mr. bradford. "we will telegraph to both of our families that we are safe, so that the news of the accident need not terrify them." "yes, sir, i shall be glad to stay with you, if i can let mother know that no harm has befallen me." "is there a telegraph office near?" "at the next station, only a quarter of a mile distant." "then after you have seen about my removal, will you telegraph for me?" "certainly, sir." "have you money with you?" "yes, sir, plenty for that purpose." "very well. keep an account of what you spend, and i will repay you. charge me with the expense of both telegrams." "thank you, sir." paul attended to his errand, and in half an hour mrs. palmer received the following message: "an accident has happened, but i am safe. i shall not return to-night. am taking care of a gentleman who is hurt. "paul." fortunately this was the first intelligence paul's mother received of the railroad disaster, so that she had no time to feel frightened. had she heard the boys crying the extra containing an account of the accident, she would have been in terrible suspense. "heaven be thanked," she ejaculated, devoutly, "that my boy has been preserved!" she sent out grace to buy an extra as soon as it appeared, and shuddered as she read the terrible details. stephen, too, read the paper, but he could not tell whether paul was hurt, for no list of names was as yet transmitted. "why, that's paul's train!" he soliloquized. "ten to one he's killed or wounded. i don't want him killed, but if he's only broken a limb, it may teach him a lesson." what the lesson was, stephen did not specify, and it might have been hard to say why his young brother needed a lesson, unless it had been criminal in him to work diligently to support his mother and sister. he had declined to contribute to the support of an able-bodied brother, and my readers may be inclined to think with me that he was quite justified in that. stephen bought a later edition of the paper, and eagerly scanned the list of casualties. "i don't see his name," he muttered. "well, he always was lucky, while i had all the bad luck. humph! things don't seem to be distributed very equally in this world. however, i'm getting along pretty well now," stephen concluded, complacently. meanwhile paul, as well as mr. bradford, was installed in the best bedroom at the farm-house. a local doctor set the arm, and paul lay on a lounge, ready to answer any calls. he was prompt and attentive, and mr. bradford congratulated himself on having secured so attentive a nurse. "paul," said mr. bradford the next morning, "you have been of great service to me." "i am glad i have been able to, sir," answered paul. "you are a good boy." "thank you, sir." "how much did you tell me you earned on the train?" "seldom less than seven dollars. one week i made as high as ten." "how old are you?" "sixteen." "that is very good pay for a boy of your age." "yes, sir; i don't know any other employment that would give me as much." "but of course you must give it up sooner or later." "i thought of that, sir." "will you be sorry?" "only because when i take a position elsewhere i must make up my mind to earn considerably less, and i can't see my way clear to do it while my mother and sister are so dependent upon me." "i suppose you know that i am a rich man?" "yes, sir, i have always heard so," answered paul, not quite understanding why mr. bradford should say it. "i have always held that a rich man owes a debt to the world, and should try to liquidate it by doing all the good in his power." "i am afraid all rich men don't feel so," said paul. "no; riches are apt to harden the heart, while they should soften it. i am glad to think that there are many who feel with me. but to return to your prospects. i infer that if you were offered a position paying you as well as this train service you would accept it. am i right?" "yes, sir." "how much do you make on an average?" "daily or weekly, sir?" "weekly." paul considered a moment, and answered: "eight dollars." "very good; then i will give you a chance to better yourself. i will take you into my employ, dating from yesterday." "and give me eight dollars a week?" asked paul, eagerly. "ten dollars. i want you to better yourself, you know." "you are very kind, sir," said paul, gratefully, "but i am afraid i can't earn as much as that." "possibly not. few boys of your age are worth as much. but you rendered me yesterday a great service. you saved me from robbery. how much now do you think my wallet contained?" "a hundred dollars," guessed paul, to whom that seemed a considerable sum for a man to carry about. "over two thousand!" answered mr. bradford, quietly. paul's face showed the amazement he felt. "isn't it imprudent to carry round so much?" he suggested. "i had the amount paid me in milwaukee, in bills, and had no resource but to take it in that form. but for you that wretch would have got off safely with it. you see, therefore, that you have saved me more than enough to pay your wages for two years, even on the liberal scale i suggest." "i was very fortunate to fall in with you, mr. bradford. it has given me the opening i have wanted for a long time." "i hope it may prove fortunate for both of us. consider yourself, then, already in my employ. after breakfast i shall send you to chicago for my own physician, under whose care i hope myself to go thither this afternoon." chapter xxvi. mr. bradford's office. mr. bradford was removed to chicago in the afternoon, and at his luxurious house was considerably better off than in the farmer's best chamber. he had to keep his room for three or four weeks, but the fracture was not a serious one, and though confined to the house he was on the whole very comfortable for a sick man. his sickness did not interfere with, nor delay the carrying out of his promise to paul. he arranged to have the train boy enter his service immediately, and to that end, on the morning after his removal, dispatched paul to his counting-house with a verbal message to his book-keeper that paul was to be employed there. "it happens," he said to paul, "that i have really a vacancy for a boy. the one i have hitherto employed, and who is in fact still in my employ, is to prepare for college in accordance with the wishes of a wealthy uncle, who has offered to defray his expenses, and it is understood that i will release him as soon as i can suit myself with another boy." "that is lucky for me," said paul. "yes, things happen favorably for you." "i hope i shall be able to perform my duties to your satisfaction," said paul. "i do not doubt it. there is nothing very difficult, and john (the present boy) can in a single day give you all the information you need. by the by, mr. manson, the book-keeper, will be somewhat disappointed, as he wanted the place for his nephew." "i don't like to stand in the way of any other boy," said paul, considerately. "you will not. this nephew--julius clay--i happen to know is an unreliable boy, who is disobedient at home, and would not give me satisfaction. in any event i wouldn't take him." "won't mr. manson be prejudiced against me?" asked paul. "he has no right to be. i am under no obligations to employ a boy i have no confidence in, however nearly related he may be to mr. manson. in any event i shall be your friend, and i am inclined to think that will be sufficient to save you from annoyance." nevertheless paul, who had some knowledge of human nature, felt sorry that his entrance at the office was likely to prove disagreeable to a man occupying so important a position as the book-keeper. "however, mr. bradford is my friend," he said to himself, "and i won't trouble myself." mr. manson had, of course, heard of his employer's narrow escape from death, and he had gone up to congratulate him, but had not actually seen him, mr. bradford at the time being asleep. he knew nothing of the details of the casualty, except what he had read in the daily papers, and was quite ignorant of paul's existence even. he therefore had no warning of the engagement which was to bring disappointment to him and his nephew. about ten o'clock in the morning--for paul had previously called by appointment at mr. bradford's house--our hero entered that gentleman's counting-room. sitting on a high stool was a tall, thin, sallow-complexioned man, who looked to be rather over thirty years of age. this was emanuel manson, the book-keeper. to do him justice it must be admitted that mr. manson was an excellent book-keeper. he understood his business thoroughly, and was rapid and accurate. personally mr. bradford had never liked him, but he appreciated his abilities, and did not allow personal feeling to interfere with retaining him. "business is business, and friendship is friendship," the manufacturer said to himself. "there is many a man whom i would like better, who yet might prove very inefficient in my business. i should be foolish to discharge manson." so mr. manson was likely to retain his place so long as he did not offend his employer in any inexcusable way. mr. bradford was a mild man, but when he was roused he could act with decision. mr. manson turned on his stool as paul entered. "well, boy, what do you want?" he asked, in a manner that could not be considered affable. "is this mr. manson?" asked paul, removing his hat. "yes. why?" demanded the book-keeper, curtly. "i come from mr. bradford," said our hero. "well, deliver your message, and don't take up my time unnecessarily." paul felt that he should dislike him, but answered, politely: "he has engaged me as office-boy." "engaged _you_!" exclaimed the book-keeper, frowning. "who are you?" it was hard to answer politely, but paul did. "my name is paul palmer," he said, composedly. "and where did you fall in with mr. bradford, pray?" paul felt that the book-keeper had no business to ask these questions, but he resolved that, so far as he was concerned, there should be nothing to complain of, and he responded in the same tone as before: "on the train." "and what were you doing on the train, if i may inquire?" "selling papers and magazines." "oh! a train boy!" "yes, sir." "have you ever been in a position before?" "not in an office." "what under heaven could induce mr. bradford to engage you?" asked the book-keeper, irritably. "i must refer you to mr. bradford himself," answered paul, with dignity. "i shall certainly speak to mr. bradford on the subject," said mr. manson, significantly. "i am inclined to think there is some mistake. we have a boy already." "mr. bradford told me he wished to leave, and that in a day he would initiate me into my duties." "mr. bradford has about the same as engaged another boy," said the book-keeper, with increasing irritability. "he must have forgotten it." "i shall be ready to make way for him whenever mr. bradford says the word," said paul, quietly. manson was surprised and displeased to find paul so calm. it was easy to see that he was not a boy who would allow himself to be bullied or trodden upon. mr. manson already hated him for that. he was a natural tyrant, and liked to see boys quail under his displeasure. the present boy was a mild, good-natured boy, whom he could easily make nervous. indeed, john graves was a boy more fond of study than business, and he hailed the termination of his engagement with the more pleasure, because mr. manson found so much fault, and gave him so much discomfort. at that moment john entered. he naturally looked inquiringly at paul, but he addressed himself to the book-keeper. "here is the mail, mr. manson," he said. "why weren't you gone a week for it?" snarled the book-keeper. "i went as fast as i could, sir," said john, troubled. "didn't you stop to play on the way?" "no, sir." "humph! when i was a boy i could do twice as much in a given time as you. here is a boy who has been sent to take your place--_for the present_." these last words were pronounced with an emphasis which paul understood, though john did not. he only heard what he considered to be the intelligence of his own release. "then can i go?" he asked, eagerly. "no; you are to remain through the day to instruct this new boy in his duties." "all right." "go to the bank with these checks, and you, whatever your name is, can go with him." when the two boys were in the street, john asked, pleasantly: "what is your name?" "paul palmer. and yours?" "john graves. so you are going to be my successor?" "yes; i hope you are not sorry to go?" "oh, i am delighted. now i can go to school, and get away from old manson. but i suppose i ought not to say anything against him to you." "i have had a little specimen of his manners. he doesn't seem to like my coming into the office." "no; he wanted the place for his nephew, julius clay." "do you know julius?" "yes; he's just such another as his uncle in temper, but not in ability. mr. manson is an excellent book-keeper, but julius would make a poor office-boy. do you think you can stand the book-keeper's temper?" "i will get along with him as well as i can," answered paul. "mr. bradford is my friend." "that is good; but you'll hate old manson before the end of a week." chapter xxvii. serving a tyrant. if paul was prejudiced against the book-keeper thus early, mr. manson was not prepossessed in his favor. he would have been prejudiced against any boy who was selected to fill the place he designed for his nephew, but besides this there was an indefinable something in paul's air and manner that led him to anticipate difficulty in maintaining his authority. "i shall have trouble with that boy, i'm thinking," he said to himself, with a vicious stab of the pen in the unoffending paper before him. "well, that will be bad for him, i reckon. he looks like a mighty independent young vagabond. i shall have to take him in training." the duties of paul's new place were not difficult to learn. he didn't need to be shown the way to the post-office, or bank, and he was as well acquainted with the streets and localities of chicago as any boy had occasion to be. so when the day was over, he bade a friendly good-night to john graves with the remark: "i guess i can get along by myself now, john, but i hope to see you sometimes." "good-night, paul. i hope you will get along with the book-keeper." "i will try to," answered paul. "that is, i will do all i can reasonably be expected to, but i shall not allow him to run over me." "he'll make the attempt, you may be sure of that." "by the way, john, do you mind telling me how much pay you have received--how much a week, i mean?" "four dollars a week for the first six months. then i was promoted to five, though the book-keeper tried hard to prevent it." "if you had been his nephew it would have been different." "oh, he would have given julius five dollars, perhaps six, to start with." "very likely." paul was glad john did not ask him how much he was to receive, as it would have been difficult to explain why he should be so favored. in fact, john supposed no bargain had been made, and that paul had questioned him in order to ascertain what he was himself likely to be paid. paul presented himself the next morning at the office at the usual hour, which he had been told was eight o'clock. "good-morning, sir!" he said to the book-keeper, who had just arrived. "humph, you're late!" said manson, sourly. just then a public clock struck eight, and the strokes were audible to both. "not by that clock, mr. manson," said paul, significantly. "humph! that clock's always slow." paul did not think it necessary to answer. "well, go to work! don't stand idling there!" said manson, sharply. "yes, sir, if you will let me know what to do," said paul, not in the least nervous. "dust off my desk, and be quick about it." paul did as he was directed. "now go to the post-office. wait, here is the key to our box." paul went and returned immediately, making unusually good time, but it is easy for an unreasonable man to find fault, if he has fully made up his mind to do so. "what made you so long?" demanded the book-keeper, irascibly. paul was provoked, and had no hesitation in showing his sense of the book-keeper's unreasonableness. "because i haven't wings, or seven league boots," he answered, coolly. "how do you dare speak thus to me?" demanded manson, in a rage. "because, sir, neither you nor any one else can make better time without running." as paul said this, he looked mr. manson in the eye, and manson saw that the boy did not mean to be imposed upon. but he did not propose to relinquish his habit of finding fault readily. "that's gammon!" he said; "i know what boys are like. they all waste time." "i don't," answered paul, briefly. "don't be impudent." "then, sir, don't be unreasonable." "i have a good mind to discharge you on the spot," said the book-keeper. "as you please, sir. if mr. bradford sustains you, i shall make no request to remain." manson felt that he had not come out of the controversy best. paul exhibited a coolness and composure that surprised and annoyed him. "he won't stay here long, if i can help it," he said to himself. "why, he actually defies me." nevertheless, paul's quiet resolution made him more wary in his dealings with paul, as he did not like to run the risk of defeat. "you can take this note to mr. bradford," he said, an hour later. he would have preferred to send some one else, for he did not care that paul should have an opportunity of getting into the good graces of his employer; but he had no choice. this was the boy's duty, and no one else could be spared. the note related to business on which mr. bradford would expect to be consulted. "take that," he said, "and come back some time to-day." "i shall come back as soon as mr. bradford releases me." "take care you do." all this was very annoying, and, indeed, insulting, but paul was judicious, and, while resisting aggression and injustice, knew that he could not make mr. manson civil or polite. arrived at the house of mr. bradford, paul was shown into the presence of the manufacturer. "good-morning, paul!" said mr. bradford, pleasantly. "good-morning, sir. i have come with a note from mr. manson." mr. bradford took it and read it quickly. he took out a pencil and wrote at the bottom a couple of lines. "that is my answer," he said, returning it to paul. "how do you like mr. manson?" asked the manufacturer. "not very well, sir." "i suppose he does not appear to like you?" "no, sir; it is very clear he does not." paul stopped there. "have you any complaints to make?" asked mr. bradford. "no, sir; i don't care to say anything; but i would like to ask you a favor." "what is it, paul?" "if mr. manson makes any complaints against me, will you give me an opportunity to defend myself?" "certainly i will. do you apprehend that he will complain of you?" "i am pretty sure he will." "why?" "he seems determined to find fault with me. however, i shall not be the first to complain. i propose to do my duty faithfully, and will bear his scolding as well as i can. if i suit you, sir, i shall be satisfied. i don't expect to suit mr. manson." "well said, paul. i won't inquire into your relations with the book-keeper, but if he complains of you, you may rest assured that i will give you a chance to defend yourself." "thank you, sir; that is all i ask." paul returned to the office, and when, as he expected, mr. manson charged him with loitering on the way, he heard him with a cool contempt, which angered the book-keeper more than spoken words. "really, this is the most impertinent boy we ever had in the office. he does not seem to mind me any more than if i was a porter." accustomed to have boys quail before him, he was provoked at the coolness with which paul bore his taunts and reproaches, and he felt all the more resolved either to get him dismissed, or to make him anxious to resign. among other things, he was accustomed to employ the office-boy to run on his private errands, though, of course, wholly unauthorized to do so, and he expected to employ paul in the same manner. about three o'clock he summoned paul, and said to him: "you may go to my room, no. h---- street, and ask my landlady to give you a bundle of dirty clothes, which you will carry to the laundry, no. m---- street." paul looked at him in astonishment. "are the clothes mr. bradford's?" he asked. "no, you little fool, they are mine." "then, sir, i must decline to take them. i am in mr. bradford's employ, not yours." "do you decline to do as i bid you?" gasped manson, at white heat. "yes, sir. i am not employed to do any such work." "you'll repent this!" exclaimed the book-keeper, mortified and incensed. "it seems you defy my authority." "no, sir; i shall do whatever you have a right to demand of me." "i'll have you out of this office before the end of the week. see if i don't." paul walked away, not appearing in the least terrified by this threat. chapter xxviii. mr. manson is surprised. emanuel manson felt too late that he had made a mistake. he had intended to humiliate paul by making him his own errand boy, but our hero's firm refusal to serve him made the humiliation his own. he did not venture to report the matter to mr. bradford, for he knew that he had no right to call upon paul to do his own errands; yet to let it pass would seem like a confession of weakness. "i can't do anything at present," he decided, "but i will take the first opportunity to prejudice mr. bradford against the young rascal and procure his dismissal." in other words, mr. manson proposed to bide his time. he had no idea of foregoing his vengeance, but thought it politic to defer it. meanwhile he had plenty of opportunities to make things disagreeable to paul, and availed himself of them. at the end of the first week a very disagreeable surprise awaited mr. manson. the time came to pay off the clerks, and among others paul. he drew from the cash-box four dollars and handed it to our hero, with the remark: "there's your pay, though it is more than you have earned." paul glanced at the two two-dollar bills which lay in his hand, and said, quietly: "why do you pay me four dollars?" "three would be enough, but i didn't suppose you would be modest enough to admit it." "i am not. i suppose mr. bradford hasn't told you how much my wages are to be." "how much?" inquired the book-keeper, with a sneer. "ten dollars, i presume." "you are right. i will trouble you to give me six dollars more." "are you crazy?" gasped manson. "not that i am aware of," answered paul, coolly. "if you are trying to humbug me, you may as well give up the attempt. i wasn't born last year." "i am neither crazy nor trying to humbug you," said paul, with easy self-possession. "mr. bradford has kindly agreed to pay me ten dollars a week, and----" "i never heard a more outrageous falsehood!" ejaculated manson. "the idea of paying a raw, inexperienced boy ten dollars a week! why, it is utterly ridiculous. i shall take care to report your attempted swindle to mr. bradford." "just as you like, mr. manson; but first, will you cast your eyes over this note?" paul produced a folded sheet of note-paper, and passed it to the book-keeper. manson read to his amazement these words over the signature of alexander bradford: "i have fixed the wages of paul palmer at ten dollars per week, and you are authorized to pay him that sum." "where did you get this paper?" asked manson. "from mr. bradford." "when?" "yesterday. he thought you would require his authority for paying so large a sum." "how do i know but you have forged this note?" asked manson. "probably you know mr. bradford's handwriting and signature. besides, it would be foolish in me to attempt a forgery which would immediately be found out." in fact, manson knew that the note was genuine. he could not be mistaken in mr. bradford's handwriting, but he wanted to find some excuse for delaying or refusing payment. on the whole, he did not venture to do either, as he knew his employer would be offended. "there's your money," he said, throwing the balance on the desk. "i can't say i understand it at all. i shall feel it necessary to speak to mr. bradford on the subject." "i wish you would, sir, so as to remove any doubts you may have." "it is about three times as much as you have earned." "i won't dispute you, sir. i am quite aware that it is more than i can earn." "then why did mr. bradford pay you so much?" "probably he will tell you when you speak to him on the subject." manson was baffled, but he felt all the more annoyed that his nephew julius had lost a situation which carried so much pay with it. he dispatched paul on an errand, and during his absence julius came in. "well, julius," said his uncle, "i have just been paying that boy who has got your place." "i wish you had been paying me. i haven't got a cent to my name. four dollars would have come mighty convenient." "four dollars!" "yes; isn't that what he gets? three dollars would be too mean." "the boy gets _ten dollars_ a week!" "ten dollars!" gasped julius. "oh, come now, you're fooling." "not at all. do you see that?" he showed julius the note of mr. bradford previously referred to. "good gracious! i can't believe it!" exclaimed julius. "why, it's tremendous pay. can't you turn him off and get me in his place? what a swell i'd cut on ten dollars a week!" "i wish you had the place," said manson, thoughtfully; "but i don't know how to manage it." "try to think of some way, uncle emanuel," pleaded julius. "i should have liked it at four, for ma only gives me a dollar a week allowance, and that is hardly enough to buy my cigarettes." "you'd be a good deal better off if you gave up cigarettes. they are doing you no good." and here mr. manson gave his nephew good advice. "put me in the place, and i'll do whatever you want me to," said julius. "i'll do my part," said the book-keeper. chapter xxix. the book-keeper's triumph. in less time than was anticipated mr. bradford came to the office, his arm being so far well that it no longer gave him any trouble. the book-keeper did not delay long to open his batteries upon paul. on the second day, our hero being out, manson began: "i would like to say a few words to you, mr. bradford, about the new boy." "about paul?" asked mr. bradford, lifting his eyes from the morning paper. "yes, sir." "very well, proceed." "i can't say i am satisfied with him, sir." "indeed! what is the matter?" "he is not respectful to me." "indeed!" "i may say he is positively impudent at times." "that surprises me. he seems to me very unlikely to be guilty of such offenses." "i dare say; he is very artful. i presume he is very respectful to you. that is policy." "i should suppose he would consider it politic to be respectful to you also, mr. manson." "all the other boys have, but this boy puts on a great many airs. in fact, he is mighty independent. i suppose it is on account of the extremely high wages he receives." "yes, ten dollars is very high pay for a boy of his age," admitted mr. bradford. "of course he doesn't earn it. he doesn't earn half as much." "you may be right. i should not be inclined to pay another boy nearly as much." mr. manson was sorry to hear this, as, could he obtain the position for julius at ten dollars a week, his young nephew had agreed to pay him a commission of two dollars a week, which the book-keeper, being fond of money, was not above accepting. "have you any other complaints to make about paul?" asked mr. bradford. "doesn't he attend to his duties?" "fairly well," manson admitted, reluctantly, the fact being that there had never been a boy in the office so efficient as our hero, the ex-train boy. "humph! i am glad to hear that." "still it is of course disagreeable to have a boy under me who treats me with insolence." "do i understand, then, that you would prefer to have a change?" inquired the manufacturer. "i don't want to make any trouble, sir," said the book-keeper, who could be polite enough to his employer, "but i should really be glad to have another boy in paul's place." "very well. i have been thinking of making a change myself." manson could hardly believe his ears. he had entertained very small hope of effecting his purpose, and mr. bradford's ready acquiescence in his wishes filled him with delight. "if i might venture the suggestion," he added, encouraged by his success, "i should be glad if you would give the place to my nephew julius." "i don't know how julius will suit me," said mr. bradford, "but i will try him for a week." "at ten dollars a week?" suggested mr. manson. "at _four_ dollars a week!" replied the manufacturer, with emphasis. "that is all boys of his age usually get. there were special reasons why i paid paul more." manson was disappointed that julius should be paid only ordinary boys' wages, but still it was a great triumph to have paul discharged, and julius put in his place. "now," he said to himself, "i've the whip-hand of the young rascal. i'll pay him off." "shall i tell him, sir, when he comes in?" asked the book-keeper. "no; i propose to tell him myself. send him in to me when he gets back from his errand." "yes, sir, i will," promptly responded the book-keeper, resuming his own work with a satisfied smile. ten minutes later paul came in from the post office, bringing the afternoon mail. chapter xxx. paul is promoted. "you are to go to mr. bradford at once," said manson, as he received the letters paul had brought. there was a triumphant smile on the book-keeper's face which paul did not fail to observe. "what does it mean?" he thought. "has he been complaining of me?" this would not have troubled him but for manson's evident satisfaction. it was clear, he thought, that something disagreeable was about to happen during the interview that awaited paul. however, he did not propose to give his enemy the satisfaction of knowing that he had given him anxiety. he merely said in his usual tone, "very well, sir," and proceeded to open the door of the inner office. "mr. manson told me you wished to see me, sir," he said. "oh, yes," said mr. bradford, wheeling round in his office chair. "manson has been making complaints against you." "i am not surprised at that, sir. from the first, he appears to have disliked me. may i ask what he says?" "he says you are not respectful to him." "i am as respectful as i can be, but he is continually finding fault. it is impossible to please him." "he wants me to discharge you." paul's heart beat quickly. it would be a misfortune to him to leave so good a place, especially as he was not sure whether he could regain his place as train boy, and it would operate against him to have it known that he had been discharged by mr. bradford. "of course, sir," he answered, soberly, "that is as you please." "moreover," the manufacturer proceeded, "he wants me to take his nephew, julius, in your place." "i knew he wanted julius in my place," said paul, despondently. "and i have about made up my mind to let him try the experiment." the blow had fallen! poor paul thought it hard, but his pride sustained him. he could not understand, however, how mr. bradford could so desert him and side with his enemy, the book-keeper. "then, sir, i suppose i am to go," he answered. "well, i can hardly employ two boys in the office, since there is not more than work enough for one." "i am very sorry, sir," said paul, in a subdued tone. "i have tried to be faithful to you." "and that is the reason why i intend to promote you," said the manufacturer, smiling. promote! the word fell like music on paul's ears. it was all right. his friend had not deserted him after all. "oh, thank you, sir," he said, his face brightening. "come now, paul, you didn't really think i meant to discharge you, did you?" "it looked like it, sir," said paul. "i shouldn't have made you feel so uncomfortable," said his employer. "now about this change. i am letting manson have his way only to prove to him how unfit julius is for the post. he hasn't tried him yet. when he does he will find him idle, lazy, and unreliable, and he will find such fault that his nephew will probably himself resign the place in disgust." "i don't know," said paul. "ten dollars will reconcile him as it did me." "oh, bless your soul! julius isn't to have ten dollars. he is to have four, like all his predecessors except yourself." on the whole paul was rather glad of that. it made mr. manson's momentary triumph less important. "now about your own affairs," said mr. bradford. "are you willing to leave chicago and travel west?" "i would like it above all things, sir," said paul, his eyes sparkling. "i thought you would. well, i am about to give you an important commission. do you know where the black hills are situated?" "yes, sir; in wyoming." "precisely. well, i suppose you know that multitudes have flocked there in search of gold." "yes, sir." "i myself own half a mine there. it is known as the blackstone. a man named fox, who is resident at the mine, owns the other half, and its working is done under his direction. now i have a shrewd suspicion that he is cheating me, taking advantage of my absence and probable inability to form any adequate judgment of the mine and its value." "what makes you think so, sir?" "his continually writing discouraging accounts of the mine, expressing his great disappointment with it. in his last letter he winds up by saying that he is willing to give or take two thousand dollars for it, though it cost the two of us ten thousand." "doesn't he run a risk in making such an offer?" "yes, but he thinks i can't attend to it myself, and will sacrifice my interest readily, just to get rid of anxiety." "i see." "now i want you to go out and form a judgment as to the man's motives, and get an idea of the real value of the mine." "but, sir, i don't know anything about mines." "very true. still you have good common sense, and can institute inquiries without exciting suspicion. no one would suppose i would select as my agent a boy of sixteen." "perhaps it is rash," said paul. "nine out of ten would say so, but somehow i have more confidence in you than in many men, and i believe you would serve me faithfully." "you are right there, sir, at any rate." "now as to the compensation. will twenty-five dollars a week and your traveling expenses content you?" "twenty-five dollars!" ejaculated paul. "are you in earnest?" "quite so. paul, i don't pay you according to your age, but according to the nature of your work, and twenty-five dollars a week is not too much. now, when can you start?" "day after to-morrow, sir." "that will do." "i was thinking how i could arrange about my mother, mr. bradford. she will need money while i am gone." "she can call every saturday at the office and collect what you thinks she needs. shall it be ten dollars a week? if so, it can be deducted from your week's wages." "that will be very satisfactory, sir." "very well. go home, make preparations for setting out, and come to me to-morrow for instructions. don't tell anybody except your mother where you are going." "all right sir." as paul entered the presence of the book-keeper, the latter glanced at him eagerly to see his downcast looks. he was perplexed to see that paul seemed in excellent spirits, and feared mr. bradford had reconsidered his decision. but paul reassured him. "mr. manson," he said, "i am about to leave you." "so mr. bradford has found you out, and discharged you," sneered manson. "at any rate," answered paul, "i shall no longer be office-boy. julius is to take my place." "if you had been more respectful to me you might have staid," said manson. "mr. bradford didn't say anything about that," said paul, smiling. "well, good-day." "there's something about this i don't understand," thought the perplexed book-keeper. "i thought he would make a fuss. well, at any rate, i've carried my point. he's bounced, and julius is in his place." chapter xxxi. paul and his successor. about eleven o'clock the next forenoon paul, after making some necessary arrangements, took his way toward mr. bradford's counting-room. as he turned into state street he encountered julius, who had already entered upon the duties of his office. naturally, julius adopted his uncle's theory, that paul had given dissatisfaction and been discharged, and, as he bore no good will to our hero, he was gratified at the thought. "hallo!" he called out, not averse to exulting over his predecessor. "good-morning, julius," said paul, affably. "i've got your place," said julius, not attempting to conceal his satisfaction. "yes," answered paul. "he doesn't seem to mind it," commented julius to himself. "i suppose he is too proud to show me how he feels." "what did the old man bounce you for?" asked julius, rather curious on the subject. "you must ask him," said paul, still pleasantly. "my uncle always told me you wouldn't stay," said julius. "perhaps he got me turned off," suggested paul. "i reckon he did. he didn't like you much." "no; there wasn't much love lost between us." "where are you going now?" "round to the office." "what for?" "to see mr. bradford." "if you want him to take you on again," said julius, rather uneasily, "you might as well give it up. he won't do it." "are you quite sure?" "oh, yes," answered julius, hurriedly; "my uncle wouldn't let him do it." "i thought mr. bradford was boss, not your uncle," paul ventured to observe. "he'll let my uncle choose the office-boy, and of course uncle emanuel prefers me." "don't be alarmed, julius. i won't try to deprive you of your place. still i want to see mr. bradford." "oh, i know what you want," said julius, nodding. "suppose you tell me?" "you want mr. bradford to give you a recommendation, so you can get another place." "you are sharp, julius," said paul, laughing. "it doesn't take much sharpness to see that." "where are you going?" "to the post-office." "very well. we may meet in the office. good-morning." "i don't understand that boy," said julius to himself. "anybody would think he was all right, instead of having lost his place and a salary of ten dollars a week. it's awful mean of the old man to pay me only four. i'm worth as much as paul any day." such was the idea of julius, and he was by no means singular in thinking well of himself. that is rather common among men as well as boys. paul went on his way and soon reached the office. the book-keeper turned his head as he entered. when his eyes rested on paul he frowned. "_you_ back again?" he said. "i am back again, mr. manson," replied paul, composedly. "what do you want?" asked manson, rudely. "my business is not with you, but with mr. bradford," answered paul, coldly. "it appears to me you have no business whatever in this office after being discharged," continued manson. "it is plain mr. bradford doesn't tell you all his affairs," said paul. "what do you mean by that?" "i am still in mr. bradford's employ, though not as office-boy." "is this true?" asked manson, in a tone of unpleasant surprise. "yes, sir. i am here now by mr. bradford's appointment." the book-keeper's countenance fell. where now was his triumph? as the post of office-boy was the lowest in the establishment, it was clear paul had been promoted, and the book-keeper would no longer have the satisfaction of ordering him about or giving him annoyance. chapter xxxii. jim scott. by advice of mr. bradford, paul selected the chicago, rock island, pacific route to omaha, where he took passage on the union pacific road as far as cheyenne, in the southern part of wyoming, known as the "magic city of the plains." he was very much interested in what he saw from the car windows as he rolled over the prairies of illinois and the fertile plains of iowa. he gazed eagerly at the mississippi river, of which he had heard so much, and was somewhat disappointed to find it so narrow at the point of crossing. on again from omaha, five hundred miles and over, till the train halted at cheyenne, and he got out at the station. as he stood on the platform, while the train went on, he was accosted by a roughly dressed man, who might be a miner to judge from his slouch hat, his loose-fitting clothes, and his long and rather ragged-looking beard, which seemed a stranger both to razor and scissors. "goin' to stop here, young man?" "i shall stop over to-night, i think," answered paul. "and to-morrow i reckon you go to the hills?" "that is my intention," said paul, guardedly. "i don't know but i'll go there myself, though i did calculate to stay here, or hereabouts, for a time." "have you ever been to the mines?" asked paul. "have i ever been there? well, i should smile," answered the stranger, expectorating profusely. "why, i own a hotel in custer city. i left my cousin in charge, while i made a run down here to learn the fashions." this he said with a grim smile, and a glance at his rough attire "have you found them?" asked paul. "well, i haven't followed 'em. where might you be from, youngster?" "from chicago." "i was there once, long ago, but i drifted on to california, and lived there up among the mountains for seven or eight years. somehow i didn't get rich. but, one day, i heard of the black hills, and dusted for 'em." "i hope good luck came to you there," said paul, politely. "you bet it did. why, youngster, rough as i look, i consider myself worth to-day from fifty to a hundred thousand dollars." paul looked at his new acquaintance with respect as a successful man. "that is a good deal of money," he said. "so it is. sometimes i wake up and forget that i'm rich. seems to me i'm the same shiftless vagabond that lived for years among the california mountains, but there's a heap of satisfaction in findin' i'm mistaken." "so i should think." "and what's more, i don't mean to gamble away my pile, as most miners do. i'm gettin' on in life, and i can't afford it." "that is where you are sensible," said paul. "and now, youngster, if i may be so bold, what's your name?" "paul palmer." "that sounds like a story name." "but it's my real name, for all that." "do you expect to make your fortune out there?" "i don't know. i hope to find something to do." "you're pretty young to be travelin' alone." "yes; i am only sixteen." "have you got money enough to keep you along till you get something to do?" "i think i can get along." "if you get into any trouble, just call on jim scott--that's me--and i'll see you through." "mr. scott, i am very much obliged to you for such a kind offer to a stranger." "_mr._ scott? oh, you mean me! i'd rather you'd call me jim--it comes more natural." "then i say, thank you, jim," said paul, offering his hand. "that's all right," said mr. scott, in a tone of satisfaction. "now come round to the hotel, and i'll put you up to a wrinkle or two, and we'll talk over our trip to custer city." "then you are going, too?" "yes, if you don't mind my company." "i shall be glad to have the benefit of your experience." paul knew that it behooved him to avoid sudden acquaintanceships, but there was something in mr. scott's manner, rough as his appearance was, that inspired confidence. chapter xxxiii. cheyenne. paul looked about him with eager curiosity, for he had all a youth's keen zest in visiting unknown places. he saw one long street, of unusual width, lined with an indiscriminate variety of buildings from one-story saloons and offices to two and three-story buildings. the inter-ocean hotel, in front of which his guide halted, was a fine brick structure of three stories, which seemed hardly at home in the loosely built town, which had sprung up as if by magic on the prairies. "this is where i put up," said mr. scott. "i'll take a room here, if they can give me one." "i'll see that you have one. they know me--jim scott--and they'd make room if they hadn't one. do you know what they used to call this settlement?" "no." "'hell on wheels' was the name they give it in early days." "was that to invite settlers?" asked paul, laughing. "i expect it was because it was about the roughest, most lawless place between omaha and frisco. why the principal occupation of the first settlers was gamblin', drinkin' rot-gut whisky, and shootin'. there wasn't a day passed hardly but some chap was found lyin' in the street with a hole in his head or a bullet in his heart. i tell you them was rough times." "i hope things have changed," said paul, by no means prepossessed in favor of cheyenne by what he had heard. "if they haven't, i don't think i shall stay here long." "oh, yes, it's settled down, so that life is pretty safe. they had to raise a vigilance committee to set things straight like they did in frisco. it's all right now." "i am glad to hear it." meanwhile they had entered the hotel, and paul succeeded in securing a room adjoining that of mr. scott, or jim scott, as he insisted on being called. after he had washed and changed his clothing, he sat down to a substantial meal, which he enjoyed with the hearty appetite of youth. then mr. scott invited him to take a walk about the town. "i say, youngster, have you got a father and mother?" "my father is dead, but i have a mother and sister living." "and what did your mother say to your comin' out here?" "she was willing, knowing that i had my own way to make." "i haven't chick or child myself. i had a wife once, but she died twenty years ago. now i've got money, but sometimes i feel lonely." "it isn't too late for you to marry again, mr. scott." "mr. scott?" "i mean jim." "maybe you're right, but there ain't many women would hitch on to me except for my money, and i'm better without such. i say, youngster, do you mind my keepin' company with you while you stay in these parts?" "certainly not, jim. i shall feel fortunate in having one with me who knows so much more about the country than i." "that's all right, then. when do you want to start for custer city?" "to-morrow, if there is a chance." "then i'll get ready, too." "what is the distance?" "two hundred and fifty miles, and pretty long miles, some of 'em." "do we travel by stage?" "yes. one has been put on lately. when i went first, i traveled by wagon, and was a week on the road, maybe ten days. now, if you travel at night, we can reach custer city in forty-eight hours or thereabouts." "i suppose the road is a lonely one?" "you may say that. as far as fort laramie it is pretty well settled. there is a ranch about every twelve miles." "do you call that well settled?" "well," said jim, "we call it so out here." "i shouldn't think people would feel crowded, living at such distances." "we like plenty of room, you see, paul." the next morning paul and his new friend started for custer city, and in due time arrived at the black hills metropolis without any adventures that need recording. chapter xxxiv. major ashton in a quandary. we must now leave our hero for a time and return to chicago, to look after some of the other characters whom we have introduced in our story. major ashton, after a late breakfast, sat in a handsome apartment, with several letters before him. these he had examined without much apparent satisfaction. finally he threw down the last with a gesture of impatience. "they all sing the same tune," he said, irritably. "they are all poor trades-people, who want money. here's my tailor, who ventures to hope i will call round and settle his little bill--two hundred and seventeen dollars!--as he is in great want of money. what business has the rascal to want money? i dare say he has a plentiful bank account, made by fleecing customers like myself. then there's jones, the boot-maker, wants me to pay up his bill of sixty-five dollars for boots and shoes. i can't remember having all the things he charges for. i dare say the rogue has charged for what i never had. then here's my landlady has left on my table a bill for the last two months' board, at the rate of thirty-five dollars a week. really, it looks as if all my creditors had combined to annoy me on this particular evening. "the worst of it is," continued the major, after a slight pause, "i don't see any way out of the difficulty. i haven't even money enough to pay my way in a cheap boarding-house. if i should descend to such degradation, farewell to all my social position. managing mammas would no more angle for me, and even miss framley would turn up her plebeian pug nose at me, though it would seem as if nature had saved her the necessity. at present she is trying in desperate earnest to catch me." the major was not misled by vanity. miss framley knew very well that the major was regarded as a great catch, and that a match with him would give her a distinguished position in society. moreover, she was under the mistaken impression that he was wealthy. the mistake was a natural one. the major was always arrayed with irreproachable elegance, wore expensive jewelry, was known to live handsomely, and indeed to possess all the outward marks of prosperity. she would gladly have embraced the opportunity to become mrs. major ashton. at one time the major thought of giving her the opportunity. he knew that framley _pere_ was rich, and that miss framley had fifty thousand dollars in her own right. how far this money would be at the command of her husband was an important question. miss framley forever spoiled her chances one day, when she incautiously expressed the determination to have her fortune settled on herself. she was not speaking to the major, but he overheard her. "forewarned is forearmed," he said to himself. "miss framley is a pill which must be sugar-coated to be taken, or, as i may say, well gilded. if the girl expects to make a good match on the score of her own personal attractions, she makes an egregious mistake. no, young lady, i must have your money paid over, or secured to me on the wedding-day, or your name can never be mrs. ashton." of course, while there seemed a chance of securing grace dearborn, the major never gave a thought to miss framley, but grace's manner at the ball convinced him that to cherish further hopes in that quarter would be a mere waste of time. he could never hope to marry her, except against her will, and was compelled to leave her out of the account. for grace, it must be owned, he cherished as warm an affection as he was capable of feeling for any one, and he would have married her even with the proviso that all her wealth should be settled on herself. he was, at all events, a man of taste, and he understood very well the difference between grace and miss framley. his affairs now had reached a point when it seemed necessary to take some step to relieve himself from the claims of creditors, who were daily becoming more clamorous. in his perplexity, one door of relief seemed to open to him. his brow cleared, he brought down his hand upon the table, and exclaimed: "now i see my way clear. it won't be so great a sacrifice after all. if i can't be grace's husband, i will be her uncle." chapter xxxv. wooing the widow. mrs. sheldon was sitting in her morning-room when a servant appeared and announced that major ashton was in the parlor. "major ashton!" repeated the widow. "did you tell him miss grace was out?" "yes'm; but he said it was of no consequence; he wanted to see you." "i suppose he wants to inquire about his chances with grace," thought mrs. sheldon. "i am sorry i can't give him any encouragement. i never knew grace more prejudiced against a man than she is against the major. tell him i will come down at once." this last to the servant. major ashton, as already foreshadowed, had changed his plan of campaign--or, rather, he had changed the object of his campaign. knowing that he could not secure the niece, he had come to lay siege to the aunt. he felt fortunate in having hit a time when miss dearborn was out. it was rather a delicate matter to make such a sudden change, and required a good deal of tact; but major ashton had considerable confidence in his ability to make the transfer without exciting suspicion. he looked about the room in which he was seated, and surveyed with satisfaction the signs everywhere of opulence in the owner. "what matter if the widow is fifteen years my senior?" he said to himself. "i am not going to marry her out of sentiment, but for solid pecuniary reasons. the older she is, the more chance there is of her leaving me my freedom with her fortune before i am an old man." his reflections were interrupted by the entrance of mrs. sheldon, who advanced to meet him with a gracious smile. "i am glad to see you, major," she said. "thank you, mrs. sheldon," he replied, in a tone and with an _empressement_ new to him and to her. "poor fellow! he is in trouble," she thought, not suspecting his change of front. "he wants my assistance." "grace is not at home," she said, supposing this information would interest him. "indeed!" he returned, with languid indifference. "out shopping, i suppose?" "really, major, you don't show much interest in the subject. but then that's the way with you men. you are all of you fickle and faithless." "no, mrs. sheldon; you do me injustice--i am the soul of fidelity. but you know as well as i do that miss dearborn will have nothing to say to me." "'faint heart ne'er won fair lady,' major." "i will answer in the old couplet: "'if she be not fair to me, what care i how fair she be?'" "does that mean that you have quite abandoned the field?" asked mrs. sheldon, in some surprise. "so far as miss dearborn is concerned--yes." "and you don't consider yourself fickle?" "no. the fact is, my dear mrs. sheldon, i can't go on loving one who doesn't care a rap for me. i could have loved your niece to the end of my life if she had reciprocated my affection; but as she does not, i shall quietly resign her." "you are sure you won't break your heart, major?" said the widow, laughing. "do i look like it?" "well, no; i can't say you do." "i have not even sworn never to marry," continued major ashton. "perhaps you have already made a second choice?" "i have." "and you have come to tell me of it? how delightful!" "i wish i could be sure you would say that after hearing the name of that choice." "perhaps i may. who is it?" "now for it!" thought the major. "now to test the value of soft sawder!" he drew his chair nearer that of mrs. sheldon, and began to speak. "in paying my attention to miss dearborn," he said, "i had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the attractive qualities of another. i was not conscious of the interest which that other excited in me till my heart, thrown back upon itself in its loneliness, sought another object for its affection. do you understand?" "i don't think i do," murmured mrs. sheldon. "please be more explicit." "i will. mrs. sheldon, i am a man of few words, and you may think me abrupt. will you deign to accept that which your niece has rejected? will you be my wife?" mrs. sheldon had not dreamed of marrying again, but she was a woman, and accessible to flattery. she admired the major; she knew that he was considered a catch, and though she did not love him, she reflected with exultation that it would be a great triumph for her to carry off the prize for which so many had sought. "you surprise me very much, major ashton," she said. "i did not dream of this." "but it is not disagreeable to you, let me hope?" "i am of course flattered by your preference, but i am as old as the hills. are you aware, major ashton, that i shall soon be forty-one?" "she's fifty-one if she's a day!" thought the enamored lover; and he was right. "you are at the meridian of your beauty, dear mrs. sheldon," he said, taking her unresisting hand. "i am older than you." "not much. i am thirty-eight." he was really thirty-five. "there are but three years between us," he resumed. "shall three years separate us?" "you do not look thirty-eight." "nor you forty-one," returned major ashton. "heaven forgive me for the lie!" he said, _sotto voce_. "what would grace--what would the world say?" asked the widow, coyly. "why need we care what either will say? possibly miss dearborn may regret her decision, but it will be too late. i would not resign you now for her." "are you sincere in this, major?" asked mrs. sheldon, with gratified vanity. "shall i swear it, my dear one?" "no; i will believe you, though it seems strange to me that you should prefer me to one so young and fair." "at my age, dear mrs. sheldon, a man wants a home presided over by a fond and faithful wife, who will not have her head turned by the frivolities of fashion, but will live for her husband. i do not think i am mistaken in thinking that you will make me such a wife." "i hope i may, dear major." "then you grant my suit?" "can you not give me a week?" asked the widow, thinking it best not to grasp at the offer too eagerly. "i could, but i would rather not. can you not end my suspense to-day? we have no one to consult. we can decide for ourselves. why need we delay?" "well, major, if you insist upon it, i must say yes," said the widow, "though i fear we are both acting foolishly." "i am not, at any rate," said the major; and he was doubtless right, for the object of his devotion was worth at least a quarter of a million, while he was harassed by creditors whom he could not satisfy. of what followed it is needless to speak. half an hour later major ashton left the house, successful and complacent. henceforth he would find his path clear. he had only to whisper the secret of his engagement to appease even his most troublesome creditors. the husband of the wealthy mrs. sheldon would be quite a different person from the impecunious major ashton. when grace dearborn returned, she found a new look on her aunt's face--a look of mingled complacence and confusion--for which she could not account. "has anything happened, aunt caroline?" she asked. "not that i am aware of. major ashton has been here." "then i am glad i was absent," said grace, hastily. "he would not have troubled you," said mrs. sheldon. "he is not very likely to renew his suit." "i am glad to hear that," said grace, somewhat surprised, nevertheless. "indeed he is engaged to be married to--another." "that's news, indeed. who is it, aunt caroline?" asked grace, with genuine curiosity. "i hardly know how to tell you," said the widow, in a tone which gave grace an inkling of the truth, amazing as it was. "perhaps he is going to marry you," she said. "you have guessed it, grace," said the widow, in graceful confusion. there was a dead silence. "don't you congratulate me?" she asked, somewhat irritably. "my dear aunt, i hope you will be happy; but it seems so--strange," grace replied. "i don't know why it should be so strange." "at any rate, aunt caroline, i hope it may be for your happiness;" and grace, kissing her aunt hurriedly, left the room. "grace is jealous," thought mrs. sheldon, smiling a little to herself. "she begins to value him now that she has lost him." it is hardly necessary to say that she was entirely mistaken. it was evident to grace why the major had sought her aunt in marriage, and she felt that his motives were wholly mercenary. chapter xxxvi. paul sells the mine. after a fatiguing trip paul and his eccentric acquaintance reached custer city. it was a rough journey, but paul enjoyed it, and he was equally entertained and instructed by the comments of his traveling companion, who on his part formed a special liking for paul. "did you say you owned a hotel in custer city, mr. scott?" asked paul, when they were near the end of the journey. "jim scott owns such a hotel," answered mr. scott, significantly. "beg pardon, i mean jim. if the price isn't high, i will stop there." "the price is high and the accommodations very or'nary," said scott, frankly, "but the price to you won't be anything. you'll be there as my company." "oh, but jim, you won't make any money if you act so generously; but i thank you all the same." "i don't want to make any money out of you, youngster." "i haven't done anything to deserve such kindness, jim." "then we'll say you haven't. look here, youngster, old jim's been prospered, and he's got no one to spend his money on. it won't hurt him to give you free board, and he's goin' to do it." paul grasped the rough hand of his new friend, and frankly accepted the offer, which acceptance jim appeared to regard as a personal favor. he was installed in a tolerably comfortable room in the black hills hotel--as comfortable, at any rate, as the hotel, which was a rough-looking structure, afforded, and soon made himself at home. of course, curiosity soon induced him to roam about the town. it was composed of extemporaneous structures, for the town was as yet in its infancy, and built somewhat on the plan of cheyenne, and other towns which he had seen along the union pacific road. the town lots had been staked out sixty by one hundred and fifty feet in size, and the principal street, which had been named after general crook, was two hundred feet wide. other streets were a hundred and fifty feet wide. the "city" was certainly of mushroom growth, not less than four hundred buildings having been erected in a single month. to paul everything seemed new, strange, and delightful. it was a state of society to which he had not been accustomed, and excited his curiosity and interest. he found that fashionable attire was not at all required in custer city. men went about dressed like day laborers of the humblest sort, who at home had been accustomed to the comforts and refinements of life. everything was free and unconventional, and so everybody felt thoroughly independent. some of the leading citizens lived in jim scott's hotel, which was pretty well filled. occupying a room just opposite paul's was a small, elderly man, with stiff, gray hair, a wizened face, and crafty eyes. "who is my opposite neighbor, jim?" asked paul, with some curiosity. "oh, that's old fox--simeon fox." paul pricked up his ears. he remembered that mr. bradford's partner in the blackstone mine bore the name of fox. if this was the man, he didn't doubt from his looks that he was capable of outwitting and swindling his employer. he didn't think it politic, however, just at present to show any particular interest in the man. "what is his business?" inquired paul, in an indifferent tone. "he is part owner of one of our best mines." "what is the name of the mine?" "the blackstone mine." "you say he is part owner; who is the partner?" "some rich man in chicago. ten to one old simeon will fleece him." "i suppose such a mine as that is worth considerable money." "oh, yes." "about how much?" "why, youngster, you don't want to buy into it, do you?" "not in the present state of my finances," answered paul, laughing. "oh, well, i'd give thirty thousand dollars myself for the blackstone mine." thirty thousand dollars! that would make fifteen thousand dollars for a half interest, and simeon fox had tried to induce mr. bradford to sell his half for two thousand dollars! this was an obvious swindle. "would mr. fox sell out for that sum, do you think?" asked paul. "it's likely he wouldn't. he's making too much money out of it. but, youngster, you seem particularly interested in the mine." "i am," answered paul, quietly. he had rapidly decided that it would be for his interest to reveal to jim scott his real business at custer city. "well, that's strange! what can it be to you?" "jim, can you keep a secret?" "can i? i reckon!" "then i will tell you one. i am sent out here by mr. bradford, of chicago, simeon fox's partner." scott whistled, and looked at paul in evident amazement. "he must have great confidence in you, youngster, to send out a boy of your age." "i think he has," answered paul, with pardonable pride. "now, i want to know if you will help me?" in answer mr. scott put his hard and horny hand into the boy's, and said: "you can depend on jim scott every time." "then i'll tell you how the case stands. this fox is continually sending on discouraging accounts about the mine to mr. bradford, and he lately offered him two thousand dollars for his half." "the mean cuss! i beg your pardon, that ain't the word i meant to use, but maybe its the best." "he thought mr. bradford would get discouraged, and sell out without taking any trouble to verify his statement." "i see." "but he suspected there was a conspiracy to cheat him, and he sent me out with full power to act for him." "that's a good 'un! and old fox doesn't know of your bein' here." "he has no idea that mr. bradford has sent a messenger." "i shall be glad to see the old rascal taken in." "mr. bradford gave five thousand dollars for his half of the mine." "and it was a good bargain at that price. but he never ought to have taken simeon fox as a partner." "what would you advise me to do, jim?" "you might take old fox at his word, and buy his half for two thousand dollars." "then the swindle would be on our side." "no, because he proposed the trade." "mr. bradford is a rich man, and though he wants justice in the matter, he does not care to take any advantage." "then, paul, i'll tell you what you'd better do." "what, jim?" "have you full authority to act for mr. bradford?" "yes, as i can show you." "i'll take your word for it. sell to me." "are you willing to buy?" "yes, if you'll give me a good bargain?" "what would you consider a good bargain, jim?" "i'll pay you twelve thousand dollars for the share you have to sell, money down, or my draft on chicago." "will it be worth that to you?" "it will be worth more or i wouldn't buy, but it isn't worth that to your principal, for he can't be here to look after old fox with his tricks." "he may try some of them on you, jim." "i'll risk it. he'll find i get up in the morning as early as he does. to be plain with you, paul, i'll make him an offer, give or take, and either way i shall make money. if the whole mine is in my hands i can make it pay." "very well, jim. i am ready to accept your offer." "i didn't much think," said scott, laughing, "when i came across you in cheyenne, that i should buy a mine of you." "you didn't think i carried one about with me?" said paul, laughing. "i sha'n't let simeon know about our bargain just yet. i want you to have a talk with him, and see what the old rascal has to say." [illustration: paul approached the old man, and said, politely: "i believe i am speaking to mr. fox."] chapter xxxvii. diamond cut diamond. in accordance with jim scott's wish, and also because he desired to have a better idea of simeon fox, paul took a walk one morning out to the blackstone mine. all seemed activity, and, under the personal direction of mr. fox, the work was proceeding well. after a few minutes spent in looking about him, paul approached the old man, and said, politely: "i believe i am speaking to mr. fox?" "yes, that's my name," said the other, fixing his small, round eyes searchingly on our young hero. "you are manager of the blackstone mine?" "yes; but i have no work to give out," answered the old man, brusquely--"got all i want." paul smiled. "i think you make a mistake," he replied. "i am not looking for work." "then if you have no business with me, i can't stand here wasting my time." "i have business with you, mr. fox. in fact, i have come to custer city on purpose to see you." "i can't waste my time with boys," said simeon fox, rudely. "i come from chicago," said paul, composedly. the old man looked at him sharply. "what's your name?" he asked. "paul palmer." "how old are you?" "sixteen." "then you'd better wait till you grow a little older before you take up the time of a business man." "i come from mr. bradford," continued paul. "eh?" ejaculated simeon fox, astonished. "mr. bradford, who owns one-half of the blackstone mine, has sent me out here to look after his interests." "then mr. bradford must be a fool to employ a whipper-snapper like you." "that remains to be seen. at any rate, i have come out here with full powers to act for him in any way i see fit." "do you expect me to believe all that, youngster?" demanded fox, surveying our hero disdainfully. "please read that," said paul, drawing out a paper which conferred upon him the power he claimed. "well," answered simeon fox, "it strikes me there must be a great scarcity of business men in chicago, when my partner is obliged to send out a half-grown boy like you." "that doesn't alter the fact that i represent mr. bradford, does it?" "no," answered the old man, slowly. he was thinking to himself: "it will be easy to hoodwink this boy. he is inexperienced, and will swallow all i say." "well," he said, aloud, with a change of manner, "that's my partner's affair, not mine. now, young man, what have you to say to me?" "how is the mine doing, mr. fox?" simeon fox screwed up his face into a doleful expression, and shook his head. "badly," he answered. "doesn't it come up to your expectations?" "no. you can tell mr. bradford that we were badly taken in when we bought it." "you paid ten thousand dollars, mr. bradford tells me." "yes; and half the money is thrown away." "you don't consider it worth what was paid, then?" simeon fox shook his head. "we shall never get our money back." "will you give five thousand dollars for mr. bradford's share in the mine?" "young man, do you take me for a fool?" demanded fox, with seeming indignation. "quite the contrary, mr. fox," answered paul, smiling. "then why do you ask me such ridiculous questions?" "i was merely trying to get your idea of the value of the mine." "well, now you know it." "you think it is not worth ten thousand dollars?" "no!" answered mr. fox, with emphasis. "then," continued paul, "you will have no hesitation in accepting the offer i am about to make you." "an offer?--you make me?" said the old man, suspiciously. "yes, sir. i offer you, in mr. bradford's name, five thousand dollars for your half of the mine." "you offer me--five thousand dollars!" ejaculated fox, staring at paul in surprise and consternation. "exactly so." "when i tell you it is too much?" "yes, i am offering you a good bargain." "do you mean to throw away mr. bradford's money?" gasped fox. "no; but if mr. bradford finds fault with me, i will stand the blame." "i don't understand this," said mr. fox, nervously. "you are joking with me." "i may joke sometimes, mr. fox, but i would not be so disrespectful as to joke with you in a matter of this kind." "why do you offer me five thousand dollars when i say the property--the whole property--is not worth that?" demanded fox, irritably. "i don't understand you, mr. fox. you admit that i offer you a good price, and yet you make objection to accepting it." "what would mr. bradford do with the mine if he bought it? he isn't coming out here," said fox, eying paul searchingly. "i should select a man to superintend it." "you!" repeated fox, contemptuously. "what do you know about mines?" "i should try to learn something," answered paul, good-naturedly. "i never in all my life heard of such a ridiculous thing as intrusting such important business to a beardless boy. why, you haven't even a mustache." "i hope to have one in due time," said paul, laughing. "well, i can't waste any more time with you," said fox, crustily, and he turned away. "stay a moment, mr. fox," said paul. "i have made you a serious offer. do you accept it or not?" "no!" shouted fox, angrily. "then all i can say is, you have refused a good offer." "a good offer!" shouted fox. "why, the mine is worth----" then he stopped short in confusion, for he was about to commit himself badly. paul finished out his sentence for him. "the mine is worth a good deal more than i have offered. that is quite true, mr. fox." "i didn't say anything of the kind," snarled fox. "no, but you were going to. and now, mr. fox, as i see i can't do any business with you, i may as well tell you that i have sold out mr. bradford's share of the mine for a satisfactory price, and shall not have any further occasion to take up your time with business." "you have sold mr. bradford's share?" ejaculated fox, in dismay. "yes." "to whom?" "to jim scott." "jim scott! i won't agree to it," returned fox, in intense disgust, for he knew that he could not cheat his new partner. "your permission was not needed," said paul. "either of you had a perfect right to dispose of his share of the property to any one he pleased." "why didn't you offer it to me?" asked fox, looking deeply disappointed. "to be plain with you, mr. fox, because it has been your policy to depreciate the property. you wouldn't have paid five thousand dollars, while scott has paid me more than twice as much." "i must see him," muttered simeon fox; and he went back to the hotel, looking as if he had just been invited to his own funeral. two days afterward jim scott drew paul aside. "paul," he said, "i have just sold my share of the mine to simeon fox." "i hope you didn't lose anything by the trade." "i guess not," chuckled jim. "i made the old sinner pay sixteen thousand dollars." "you don't say so!" "he fought hard, but he had to pay it. and now do you know what i am going to do?" "no." "i have made four thousand dollars by the trade. i am going to give you half of it." "oh, mr. scott--jim, i mean!" "yes, paul. you helped me make the money, and half of it is fairly yours." two thousand dollars! paul was not sure whether he was awake or dreaming, but there flashed upon him all the advantage he would derive from so large a sum of money, and that he could emancipate his mother at once from the slavery of the needle, and he clasped jim's hand in fervent gratitude. chapter xxxviii. a scene at omaha. paul had good reason to exult in the success of his mission. he had certainly done well for his employer, for he had sold out his mining property at a profit of seven thousand dollars, while as for himself he had two thousand dollars to show as the recompense of his shrewdness. our hero did not immediately leave custer city, but looked about him, as instructed by mr. bradford. the result was that he purchased a new mine, paying three thousand dollars, one thousand being on his own account, the other two-thirds on behalf of his employer. this he left in charge of his new friend, jim scott, and, when matters had been fully arranged, started on his way home. at omaha paul decided to stop over for twenty-four hours, having a little business to attend to for mr. bradford. he applied at a hotel for accommodations. "i am sorry," said the landlord, "that i can't give you a room by yourself. i am crowded." paul hesitated, for he didn't like sharing the room of a total stranger. "are the other hotels in the city likely to be full?" he asked. "more than likely. still, you can try." however, paul didn't care to take the time for searching, when there was such a slight chance of success. "where can you put me?" he asked. "in no. . there is one gentleman there, who seems quiet; i don't think he will disturb you." "are there two beds?" "yes." "then i suppose i may as well make it do." paul was accordingly shown up to no. . he found that it was what is called a double room. that is, there were two beds in it. "where is the other gentleman?" he asked. "he won't be in till late in the evening," was the reply. "do you happen to remember his name?" paul inquired. "john davenport." "where does he hail from?" "kansas city." "probably he is all right," thought our hero, "though i don't quite like the idea of rooming with a complete stranger. well, i will take the room." it was about the middle of the afternoon. paul deposited his carpet-bag in the room, but what articles of value he had he left for safe keeping in the office of the hotel, as prudent travelers generally do, at any rate when they find themselves paired off with strangers. deferring his business to the next day, paul took a walk about the streets and made himself familiar with the outward appearance of a city which has become one of the most important on the transcontinental route. he admired the new high-school building, built on the site of the old capitol, with its spire rising nearly two hundred feet above the street, the elegant private dwellings on the hill, and perhaps more than all, the huge railroad bridge that spans the missouri river. everywhere he marked signs of prosperity and enterprise, and he felt that it must be inspiring to live where growth is so rapid. he used his time well, and went back to the hotel to supper. about nine o'clock, feeling fatigued with his journey, he decided to go up stairs to bed, so as to feel quite refreshed the next day. the room was empty, his roommate, mr. davenport, of kansas city, not having arrived. paul undressed and got into bed. how long he had slept he did not know, but he woke all at once, and from his bed looked on a sight which instantly awakened him thoroughly. a man was exploring his carpet-bag, which for convenience he had deposited on the table, in search, no doubt, of valuables. "what are you doing there?" demanded paul, sitting up in bed. the man turned suddenly, and revealed to paul the well known features of luke denton. chapter xxxix. a thief foiled. until that moment denton had not taken the trouble to notice the face of his roommate. he had only observed that he was a boy. the recognition was mutual, and it is hard to tell who was the more surprised. "the train boy, as i'm a sinner!" ejaculated denton, in amazement. "luke denton!" ejaculated paul in turn. "how came you here?" asked the man. "what are you doing with my carpet-bag?" demanded paul. "oh, bother!" returned denton, defiantly. "that's my business!" "i should say that it was my business," retorted paul. "where do you keep your money? i don't find any in the bag." "i don't keep any there." "give me your pocket-book quick, youngster. i am hard up, and i must have money." as he spoke he advanced toward the bed. "you can't have mine, mr. denton," said paul. "when did you get out of jail?" "boy, do you want me to kill you?" demanded denton, fiercely. "no, and i sha'n't permit you to rob me either." "listen to me!" said denton, rapidly. "i am a desperate man, as i have already told you. i have escaped from prison, but i have used up what money i had. i must have more. i don't forget that you were the means of sending me to prison, but if you will give me all the money you have about you, i will let you go this time." "suppose i refuse?" said paul. "then i will strangle you first, and rob you afterward," answered luke denton, wickedly. as he spoke he moved nearer the bed, but he paused suddenly when paul drew a revolver from beneath his pillow, and pointed it at him. "stop there, mr. luke denton," he said, firmly. "i should be very unwilling to shoot you, but i mean to defend myself. one step nearer and i fire!" "you wouldn't dare do it," said denton, chafing with disappointment. "you'd better not take the risk." "i was only joking," said denton. "i thought i would see if i could scare you. i'm going to bed." "not in this room." "what do you mean?" "you don't go to bed in this room," repeated paul. "this room is mine. i have a better claim to it than you, for i engaged it first." "i do not feel safe in passing the night in your company." "that is nothing to me." "listen, luke denton. unless you leave this room at once i will ring the bell, summon the landlord, and denounce you as an escaped convict." luke denton was so angry that, had he been armed, he might have fired at our hero, but his stock of money had been too limited to allow him to purchase a pistol. "nonsense!" he said. "i will do you no harm." "are you going?" asked paul, still keeping him covered with his weapon. there was no help for it. with a muttered execration luke denton left the room, and paul, glad to be rid of him, locked the door, and breathed a sigh of relief. it may be well to add here that denton was not recaptured, but months afterward was shot in california by a miner whom he had robbed. it was a sad ending to a life which might have been honorably spent, for he was a man of excellent abilities and capacity, but preferred the hazardous career of a thief to the more prosaic paths of industry and honesty. next day paul purchased a ticket for chicago. as he stood at the depot waiting for his train his attention was drawn to the pale and sorrowful face of a woman who had just inquired the price of a ticket to chicago, and, as if it were beyond her means, turned away with a deep sigh. "are you in trouble, madam?" he asked. "yes," she answered. "it is important for me to go to chicago, but i have not money enough within five dollars." "i will advance the money," said paul, stirred with pity. "god bless you, young man!" exclaimed the lady, fervently. "you don't know how important it is for me to make this journey." chapter xl. the lady's secret. with great politeness paul selected a seat for the lady, took charge of her traveling-bag, and then, without betraying the least curiosity, took a seat in front of her. "you are taking a great deal of trouble for me," she said, gratefully. "no trouble at all," said paul, cheerfully. "that shows you have a kind heart. have you a mother?" "yes, madam;" and paul's face brightened as he thought how soon he should see her. he had not got weaned from his home and his mother, though he had reached the age at which many boys consider themselves entitled to do it. "god grant she may long be spared to you!" said the lady. "perhaps you have a son?" said paul, kindly. "no; but if i had, i could wish he were such as you." "thank you." "dutiful and affectionate to his mother, as i am sure you are, and kind and obliging even to strangers, as you have been to me." "i am afraid you have been unfortunate, madam," said paul, respectfully. "yes, i have met with sorrow. i will make you my confidant, since your kindness entitles you to my confidence." "do not think it necessary to speak of your troubles if it will give you pain," said our hero. "it will bring me relief to speak to some one who will sympathize with me." paul could not interpose further objection. moreover, he was not without curiosity, and was desirous of learning in what way his new friend had suffered. "eight years since," she commenced, "in the city of san francisco, i met a gentleman who seemed struck with my appearance. at all events, he paid me marked attention, and it was not long before he asked my hand in marriage. i must premise that my father was considered rich, and i myself had a fortune of fifty thousand dollars at my own disposal. it had been bequeathed me by a sister of my mother. i forgot too late that it was the knowledge of this fact that had attracted my suitor, and that he was quite indifferent to me. however, i suspected nothing at the time. my lover, for he persuaded me that he was such, was not lacking in devotion. moreover, he had agreeable manners, and was well calculated by his smooth plausibility to deceive any one, certainly an inexperienced girl like myself. "well, to cut matters short, his suit was accepted. not only did i favor him, but my father and mother were both well pleased with the match. we made a brief journey as far as los angeles, and on our return purchased a pleasant house on california street. "though my money was at my own disposal, i could not long resist the entreaties of my husband to give him the management of it. he professed to know how to invest it so as to double it in a year's time. on the strength of expected gains he lived in more expensive style than i thought prudent, and wasted more than i can guess at the gaming-table. at any rate, in less than two years the property was gone, and my father was obliged to come to our help. "now that i had nothing left, my husband began to treat me with cruel neglect. i feared even that he would raise his hand against me, and such was my misery that i hardly knew whether i was relieved or otherwise when one morning i found my husband missing, and a letter of farewell on my bureau, stating that i should never again see him." "have you never seen him since?" asked paul, with interest. "never; but i have known for some time that he was in chicago." "and you wish to rejoin him?" "no, but to foil him in his wicked plans. i learned, four days since, that he was about to marry an estimable lady in chicago, wholly forgetful of the wife he had deserted. i felt that there was no time to lose. as i knew my father would not consent to my journeying alone on such an errand, i departed from san francisco secretly, and, as it proved, with insufficient money. you came to my assistance, and i shall take care that you do not lose by it." "i have no anxiety on that point," said paul. "but i do not wish you to suffer for your kindness. you can do me still another favor." "what is that?" "when we reach chicago i do not wish to go to a hotel. if your mother will allow me to stay with her temporarily, i shall feel much indebted to her and to you." "my mother lives in a very plain--indeed, in an humble style." "as if i cared for that. i know she is good, since she has a good son." paul saw no objection, and, on reaching chicago, took the lady at once to his mother's lodgings. chapter xli. major ashton's engagement. the announcement that her aunt had agreed to marry major ashton was intensely disagreeable to grace dearborn. she knew, if her aunt did not, that he was simply a mercenary adventurer, who, failing to secure her hand and fortune, was now scheming for her aunt's larger fortune, and willing to take her hand with it, in spite of the disparity in their years. "my dear aunt," she said, "i hope you will consider well the step you propose to take." "why should i need to consider?" asked mrs. sheldon, somewhat displeased. "i have known the major for a considerable time, and i know the estimation in which he is held in chicago." "i do not think he is an honorable, reliable man." "oh, i understand very well why you are prejudiced against him, grace," said her aunt, sharply. "and why, aunt caroline?" "because he was a suitor of yours, and you are mortified to think he should accept your rejection as final, and so soon pay his attentions in another quarter." "my dear aunt," said grace, earnestly, "you were never more mistaken. i feel no interest in him or his marriage, save as it affects you." mrs. sheldon was inwardly sensible that she was acting foolishly, and this made her only the more indisposed to listen to her niece's remonstrances. "what objections can you possibly think of, grace? perhaps you do not think well of second marriages." "it is not that, aunt caroline. i think second marriages are often wise." "and why not in this case?" demanded mrs. sheldon, coldly. "you are aware, aunt caroline, that you are considerably older than major ashton." "not so very much older. major ashton tells me he is thirty-eight." "he does not look that. but even then you----" "are a _little_ older," admitted the widow, wondering whether grace knew her real age. at any rate, she knew it would be of no use to call herself forty, as her niece had something like a correct idea of how much she exceeded that age. "however," she added, quickly steering away from a topic which was not acceptable, "that is major ashton's affair. i myself made that objection, and mentioned my age, but he said, like a true gentleman as he is, that it was unimportant in comparison with the similarity of our tastes." "i had not supposed that you and major ashton were so similar in your tastes," said grace, puzzled. "because you have never understood or appreciated the major, grace," returned her aunt. "then you are quite decided upon this marriage, aunt caroline?" said grace, wistfully. "quite so, grace." "then i can only hope, aunt caroline, that it will meet your wishes and expectations." "i am willing to run the risk, grace," said her aunt, complacently. as grace left the room mrs. sheldon said to herself: "i expected grace would feel disturbed. she may say what she likes, but it is clear to me that she is jealous and mortified that the major has so soon recovered from her rejection of him." chapter xlii. a revelation. grace felt that her aunt's strange resolution to marry was likely to affect her seriously. hitherto she had formed one of her aunt's household, and bearing a part of the expenses, had lived under her aunt's protection. she felt that should her aunt marry major ashton this arrangement must be broken up. she was not willing to live under the same roof with major ashton, with that gentleman holding toward her the embarrassing relation of uncle. nothing could be further from the truth than her aunt's hypothesis that grace was suffering from jealousy and mortified pride. so far from it, she felt an active dislike for the major, and regarded him with contempt as an unscrupulous fortune hunter. when the question of her own future came up before her, she was perplexed, and with reason. save mrs. sheldon, she had no near relatives, and she did not feel inclined to set up an independent establishment for herself, and live alone--that is, until she should marry. at present there was no prospect of marriage. of suitors who had offered themselves there was no lack, but on none of them did she for a moment seriously think. so far as they were concerned she was heart-whole. had she never met one to whom she could fancy herself happily united? if so, she had not admitted it even to herself. on the day after the conversation with her aunt, she was sitting idly at her desk, her mind occupied by the embarrassments of her position, when the servant entered the room. "miss grace," she said, "there is a lady in the parlor who wishes to see you." "a lady? who is it? did she give you her card?" "no, miss grace." "did you ever see her before?" "she has never been here before. i think, miss grace," added the girl, hesitating, "that it is some one in trouble." "what makes you think so, jane?" "because she looks so sad." "does she seem like a poor woman?" "she was dressed very respectably," answered jane, who appeared to be in doubt how to answer the question. "tell her i will be down directly," said grace, who could not find it in her heart to refuse a person in trouble, though she suspected there would be an appeal for money. as she was known to be an heiress, such applications were of very common occurrence. five minutes later grace entered the drawing-room. seated on the sofa was a woman, dressed in sober tints, and apparently rather past middle life. she rose as grace entered, but in the imperfect light the young lady did not recognize her. "miss dearborn, you do not remember me?" she said. "i cannot at this moment recall you," was the answer. "i am mrs. vernon." "the artist's mother," said grace, quickly. "the same." "i hope all is well with you--and him! you look sad." "i have reason to be, miss dearborn. my poor son is very sick. i do not know if he will live." grace could not account for the effect of these words, or for the thrill of emotion which agitated her, for she had not read the secret of her own heart. "how long has this been?" she asked, hurriedly. "for a week only. frederic seems to be suffering from a slow fever, and the physician tells me that the chief difficulty in the way of recovery is the mental depression which weighs him down." "has he not been prospering? is he in pecuniary trouble?" "no; he has been unusually prosperous, and has on hand more orders than he could attend to if he were in health." "have you any knowledge of any other cause for his depression?" "yes, miss dearborn; i know it only too well. it is for this i came here to see you." "name it. if there is anything i can do----" "don't promise too hastily. you may be offended if i tell you my poor boy's secret." "no, no," answered grace; but her agitation showed that she began to suspect. "plainly then, my dear young lady, he is madly, hopelessly in love with you." grace half-rose from her seat, while her expressive face showed a variety of contending emotions. "do not be angry," implored mrs. vernon. "the poor boy cannot help it. he never would have dared speak to you, nor would he have allowed me to come to you had he known my intention." "may you not be mistaken?" asked grace, in a low voice. "no; he has spoken to me more than once about his love, and in his delirium your name has been constantly upon his lips." grace was deeply moved. "i did not dream of this," she said; "it distresses me." "i knew you would sympathize with us," said the poor mother. "i should like to do more. tell me--what can i do for you both?" "i was about to tell you. are you willing to call on my poor boy, to let him see you once more? a few kind words would do him much good, and perhaps turn the scales in his favor." "i will go--i will go at once, if you wish me." "how kind you are! no wonder my poor boy loves you. oh, miss dearborn, i wish you were poor like ourselves, so that frederic might have some hope of gaining your hand. i know of course it is useless. he is a poor artist--you a rich heiress, and a favorite in society." grace did not reply, but speedily made herself ready and accompanied mrs. vernon to her lodgings. they were modest, but no longer humble. as the young artist prospered he took care to remove his mother from the poor home which they had been forced to occupy, and were at present in neat apartments, in a respectable part of the city. "i will go in and prepare him," said the mother. [illustration: "i am sorry to see you so ill, mr. vernon," said grace.] grace remained waiting in the outer room till, summoned by mrs. vernon, she entered the sick-chamber. the artist was reclining on the bed, his face thinned, and his eyes unnaturally bright with fever. over his wasted face there came a look of glad rapture as he saw the one he loved enter the room. "grace--miss dearborn!" he cried. "this is, indeed, kind. mother, you did not tell me who had come to see me." "no; i wished to surprise you, my boy." "it is a glad surprise," he murmured. "i am so sorry to see you so ill, mr. vernon," said grace, approaching, with a look of pity on her face. "why did i not know before that you were ill?" "i did not know that you would care--much," he said, slowly. "i do care much; i look upon you as a valued friend." his eyes fell as he heard these words. yes, she looked upon him as a friend; but with that he felt he never could be content. "thank you," he said; "you were always kind." after a pause, he said: "miss dearborn, i am afraid you would no longer be kind if you knew all." "i am sure there is nothing that would change my good opinion of you." "ah! but there may be. if you knew how presumptuous i have been! i have a great mind to tell you, if you will first promise me your forgiveness." "i promise it!" said grace, in a low voice. "then, miss dearborn, grace, forgetting the difference between us, forgetting that you were a rich and brilliant heiress, and i a poor and struggling artist, i confess that i have dared to love you!" she did not start nor exhibit surprise, for she had been forewarned. instead she smiled. "surely it is not hard to forgive such an offense as that," she said. "then you are not angry?" he asked, eagerly. "no; why should i be when an honorable man--a man of talent--pays me the highest compliment in his power." "thank you. you make me very happy," sighed vernon, with relief. "ah! if things were different, if you were poor i might hope that you would look upon me with favor." "is my fortune such an impediment then, frederic?" asked grace, smiling. "surely," he exclaimed, his face glowing with sudden hope, "you do not mean----" "i mean that there is nothing in your proposal to offend me. i mean that, if you will give me time, i will question my own heart, and if it responds, my fortune shall not separate us." "god bless you!" exclaimed vernon, and his face wore a look of happiness to which it had long been a stranger. do any of my readers doubt how it will end? chapter xliii. major ashton at bay. "well, mother, have you any news to tell me?" asked paul, when he had received a joyful welcome from his mother and sister. "there is one item," said mrs. palmer. "of course you have not forgotten miss dearborn?" "as if i would be likely to! i don't forget one who has been so kind to all of us. what about her?" "she is to be married--a very romantic marriage too--to a young portrait painter, who is rich in talent, but has no money." "well, i hope he is worthy of her. miss dearborn has money enough for both." "her aunt, too--mrs. sheldon--is to be married." "what, she?" laughed paul. "why, she must be almost sixty." "don't let her hear that you have said that, or she will never forgive you." "but she is that, isn't she?" "she is perhaps fifty or over." "and who is the happy man?" asked paul, smiling. "major ashton." as she pronounced his name there was a sudden exclamation from the lady whom paul had brought home with him. "major ashton!" she exclaimed, her face indicating distress. "yes," answered mrs. palmer, in response. "do you know him?" "do i know him?" repeated the lady, pressing her hand to her side. "_he is my husband!_" "your husband!" exclaimed paul, in surprise and perplexity. "then how can he marry another?" "it is a wicked deception!" said the strange lady. "this marriage must be stopped. i cannot permit him to deceive a worthy lady, as mrs. sheldon doubtless is. is she wealthy?" "she is very wealthy," said mrs. palmer. "i have heard her fortune estimated at a quarter of a million." "that explains it," said his unfortunate wife. "he only thinks of money. he married me for money, and he would make her a second victim." "she must beat least fifteen years older than the major," said mrs. palmer. "he would care little for that, since it is not love but money that influences him. where does mrs. sheldon live? i must see her at once, and warn her." "i know where she lives," said paul. "i will accompany you, if you wish." "will you, indeed, be so kind?" "certainly. i shall be glad to do anything for a family that has been so kind to my mother and myself." half an hour later paul stood on the steps of mrs. sheldon's handsome house, with the lady at his side. "is mrs. sheldon at home?" he asked of the servant, who answered his call. "i believe so. what name shall i say?" "paul palmer. will you say that my business is urgent?" "you can come in," said the servant. so the two entered the parlor, and in a few minutes mrs. sheldon, in some surprise at the message, entered also. paul rose and bowed. "you are my niece's _protege_, i believe," said mrs. sheldon, "or rather the boy in whom she is interested." "yes, madam, miss dearborn has been very kind to me." "you have a message for me?" asked the widow, looking inquiringly at the lady with paul. "this lady wishes to speak to you," said paul. "oh, indeed," said mrs. sheldon, coldly. "madam," cried the stranger, in unmistakable emotion, "is this true what i hear? are you engaged to marry major ashton?" "by what right do you inquire?" demanded mrs. sheldon, haughtily. "by what right? oh, madam, by the best of all rights. _i am his wife!_" mrs. sheldon stared at the stranger in dismay and incredulity. "i cannot believe this," she said, sharply. "you must be beside yourself." "no, madam; it is only too true. look! i have my marriage certificate. you must believe that." rapidly she told her story, and, though much against her will, mrs. sheldon was forced to believe the truth of the story. it was terribly mortifying to find that she had come so near being duped, and her heart was stirred with indignation against the smooth-tongued deceiver, who had so craftily schemed against her happiness. scarcely was the story told when a ring was heard at the door, and the servant entering announced "major ashton." "bring him in!" said mrs. sheldon, sternly. "now i shall know the truth." major ashton, dressed in the most careful manner, with a rose in his button-hole, his heart full of happy anticipations of the fortune that would soon be his, was ushered in. he did not at first notice the other occupants of the room, but hurried to mrs. sheldon, with a very good affectation of a lover's fervor. he was about to press a kiss on the widow's cheek, when she stepped back and said: "major ashton, i wish to introduce you to this lady." mrs. ashton, the ill-used wife, rose at the words, and threw aside her veil. "oh, reginald!" she cried, reproachfully. one look was enough, and he stood as if paralyzed. "confusion!" he muttered. "what evil fate brought you here?" "i came to prevent your doing a wicked thing, reginald. i came to prevent your deceiving this good lady as you deceived, or worse than deceived me." by this time major ashton had partially recovered his self-possession. he meant to fight it out if possible. "how did you escape from the asylum?" he asked. "from the asylum!" repeated his wife. "what do you mean?" "mrs. sheldon," said the major, turning to his affianced bride, "i am sorry you have been disturbed by a madwoman. this lady is my sister. for years she has been confined in a mad-house. she is under the singular delusion that she is my wife, and she may have told you so." mrs. sheldon looked relieved, but it was only for a moment. she remembered the certificate. "i have seen your marriage certificate," she said. "a forged paper," he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "mrs. sheldon," said the wife, "i beg of you not to believe him. he has no sister, and i have heard him say he never had any. of my marriage i can call living witnesses, but it will take time. if, however, you will telegraph to my father in san francisco, you will have speedy proof of the falsehood of his assertions." "i believe you," said the widow. "i do not think you would deceive me." "then you choose to be humbugged by a madwoman?" said major ashton. "have you no more confidence in me?" "i will reserve my opinion. are you willing that i should telegraph to san francisco?" major ashton hesitated a moment. he saw that his last chance was gone. his wife's story was sure to be confirmed. "well," he said, recklessly, "the game is up! it is unfortunately true that i am tied to this lady. i hoped before this she would do me the favor to die and leave me free." "go, sir!" said mrs. sheldon, indignantly. "i am fortunate in being saved from marriage with such a man." "i sha'n't break my heart," said the major, mockingly. "i am sorry to lose your fortune, but for yourself, i am well rid of the engagement. if you had not been blind, you would have understood that nothing but your money would have induced me to marry a woman old enough to be my mother." this was the unkindest cut of all. poor mrs. sheldon sank back in an arm-chair in a fit of hysterics, and the major, with a cynical smile, left the room. the widow was a kind-hearted woman, and, when she came to herself, generously insisted upon mrs. ashton remaining under her roof till she had recovered from the fatigue of her journey. later she purchased her a return ticket to san francisco, and secured an escort for her. she expressed a hope that her recreant husband would return to his duty, but mrs. ashton shook her head. "i could never trust him," she said. "i am better off with my father," and mrs. sheldon felt that she was right. major ashton disappeared from chicago, but where he went has not transpired. perhaps amid other scenes he may be laying snares for other heiresses. mrs. sheldon, at any rate, has been saved from his arts. chapter xliv. conclusion. mr. emanuel manson was considerably surprised to see paul walk into the office the morning after his arrival. he was not aware that our hero was still in mr. bradford's employ. though it had been at first suggested that mrs. palmer should come weekly to receive a part of paul's salary, mr. bradford afterward decided to give his young agent a hundred dollars in advance, which was placed in his mother's hands, and obviated the necessity of her calling. seeing and hearing nothing of paul, therefore, mr. manson naturally concluded that he had been discharged, and was seeking for employment elsewhere. "good-morning, mr. manson!" said paul, politely. "what, you here again?" exclaimed manson, by no means pleased. "yes, i am here again." "it was hardly worth your while to come," said the book-keeper, with a sneer. "we have no vacancy." paul smiled, for he saw what was meant. "is julius here still?" he asked. "yes, he is, and likely to stay. you needn't flatter yourself you can step into his place." "i haven't the slightest wish to do so," said paul, good-naturedly. "because you are so prosperous, i suppose," sneered manson. "you've hit it, mr. manson. i am too prosperous to wish to interfere with julius." "what are you doing?" asked the book-keeper, not without some curiosity. "i have been traveling for a house in this city." "indeed! it was a fortunate house." "i agree with you, mr. manson. i have done very well for them." "you travel! i'd as soon send a baby." "i dare say _you_ would. is mr. bradford in?" "yes, but he is busy." "nevertheless, i will venture to disturb him." "you'd better not; he won't like it." but paul had already opened the door of the inner office, and stood in the presence of mr. bradford. "bless my soul, paul! i am glad to see you," said the manufacturer, rising and shaking hands cordially with our hero. "when did you arrive?" "yesterday afternoon, and i tried to get a chance to call, but----" "of course, your mother wanted to see you. it's all right. now let me know all about your trip." paul gave a summary of results, and his employer listened with evident surprise and approval. "you have done splendidly," he said. "i did not dream of realizing so much for the mine. and you got the better of fox, too. i value that as much as i do the money you have made for me. besides your wages, i shall make you a present of five hundred dollars, to show my appreciation of your services." "thank you very much, mr. bradford, but i have been handsomely rewarded by another party," and he mentioned the two thousand dollars paid him by jim scott. "i am all the more pleased," said mr. bradford. "i was not sure whether i ought to accept it," said paul. "you were right in doing so, since it was neither given nor promised till after you had sold the mine. that, however, will make no difference with my gift." as he spoke, he wrote a check for $ and handed it to paul, who expressed his gratitude warmly. "i have also," paul continued, "made an investment for you and myself." "what is that?" "i had an opportunity to purchase a promising mine for three thousand dollars. i secured two-thirds for you, and one-third for myself." "so it seems we are partners, paul," said mr. bradford, smiling. "yes, sir, as far as that goes." "very well. i ratify your action." at this moment a telegraph boy appeared with a dispatch, which he handed to mr. brandford. "what's this?" said the manufacturer. "who is jim scott?" "the man i left in charge of our mine." "read that, then." paul took the telegram and read: "your mine is developing richly. will you sell for fifteen thousand dollars?" paul's eyes sparkled with delight, not alone at his prospective profit, but at this proof of his financial shrewdness. "well, paul, what shall we do?" asked the manufacturer, smiling. "it is your affair, and you shall decide." "we might sell half on that basis," suggested paul. "very good. write the dispatch, and it shall be sent at once. moreover, i will consider you half-owner, and you shall give me back that check for five hundred dollars. then we shall have each invested one thousand five hundred dollars." "thank you very much, mr. bradford, i can hardly believe this is real." it was indeed hard to realize that besides the thousand dollars which remained to him after the investment, he would receive three thousand seven hundred and fifty for the sale of half his share, and retain the other half, which was probably worth quite as much more. it was probably no exaggeration to say that he was worth eight thousand dollars, while three months since he was glad when he managed to earn eight or ten dollars a week as a train boy. "by the way, paul," said the manufacturer, "i hope you won't retire from business, now you are rich." "i should not like to be idle, sir." "i will engage you to travel for my firm, then, and your compensation will depend on your success. will that suit you?" "yes, sir; i can ask for nothing better. when shall i report for service?" "you may come here daily to get acquainted with the details of our trade. i shall not send you out again for a few weeks." as paul passed out of the office, the book-keeper said: "well, won't mr. bradford take you on again?" "i have never been out of mr. bradford's employment," answered paul, smiling. "what!" ejaculated manson. "you don't mean to say you have been traveling for our firm?" "that is just what i do say. when i gave up my position to julius, i was promoted to traveling salesman." "well, well, i never heard the like. mr. bradford must be crazy." paul smiled, and went out. it was not long before the book-keeper found how paul stood, and his manner changed accordingly--not from friendship, but from policy. as i write, paul is nearing his twenty-first birthday. on the day he attains his majority he is to be admitted into the firm as junior partner. he is worth fully twenty thousand dollars, and with his business capacity bids fair eventually to become very rich. he has bought a comfortable house for his mother, who, i need hardly say, does not need now to take in sewing. near them live grace and her artist husband. they have recently returned from italy, where frederic vernon studied art enthusiastically, and with success. he no longer paints portraits, but devotes his attention to general art. mrs. sheldon is still a widow, and content to remain so. she is thankful now for the narrow escape she had from major ashton, who would have dissipated her fortune and made her wretched. though she did not approve grace's choice of a husband, she became reconciled long ago, and is an almost daily visitor at mrs. vernon's happy home. stephen palmer's temporary prosperity was owing to a connection with counterfeiters. he fled the country to avoid arrest, going first to canada. once he wrote in great distress to paul, and our hero sent him a hundred dollars. for the sake of the relationship, paul would gladly set him up in some business; but stephen is a ne'er-do-well, and will probably never amount to anything. mr. manson, the book-keeper, is still at his post, but julius was long ago succeeded by another boy. he proved too idle and careless even for his uncle to tolerate. he envies paul's success, but will never emulate the diligence and fidelity which made it possible. the end. the alger series for boys uniform with this volume. this series affords wholesome reading for boys and girls, and all the volumes are extremely interesting.--_cincinnati commercial-gazette._ =joe's luck; or, a brave boy's adventurer in california.= by horatio alger, jr. =julian mortimer; or, a brave boy's struggles for home and fortune.= by harry castlemon. =adrift in the wilds; or, the adventures of two shipwrecked boys.= by edward s. ellis. =frank fowler, the cash boy.= by horatio alger, jr. =guy harris, the runaway.= by harry castlemon. =the slate-picker; a story of a boy's life in the coal mines.= by harry prentice. =tom temple's career.= by horatio alger jr. =tom, the ready; or, up from the lowest.= by randolph hill. =the castaways; or, on the florida reefs.= by james otis. =captain kidd's gold. the true story of an adventurous sailor boy.= by james franklin fitts. =tom thatcher's fortune.= by horatio alger jr. =lost in the caÃ�on. the story of sam willett's adventures on the great colorado of the west.= by alfred r. calhoun. =a young hero; or, fighting to win.= by edward s. ellis. =the errand boy; or, how phil brent won success.= by horatio alger jr. =the island treasure; or, harry darrel's fortune.= by frank h. converse. =a runaway brig; or, an accidental cruise.= by james otis. =a jaunt through java. the story of a journey to the sacred mountain by two american boys.= by e. s. ellis. =captured by apes; or, how philip garland became king of apeland.= by harry prentice. =tom the boot-black; or, the road to success.= by horatio alger jr. =roy gilbert's search. a tale of the great lakes.= by william p. chipman. =the treasure-finders. a boy's adventures in nicaragua.= by james otis. =budd boyd's triumph; or, the boy firm of fox island.= by william p. chipman. =tony, the hero; or, a brave boy's adventures with a tramp.= by horatio alger jr. =captured by zulus. a story of trapping in africa.= by harry prentice. =the train boy.= by horatio alger jr. =dan the newsboy.= by horatio alger jr. =search for the silver city. a story of adventure in yucatan.= by james otis. =the boy cruisers; or, paddling in florida.= by st. george rathborne. * * * * * _the above stories are printed on extra paper, and bound in handsome cloth binding, in all respects uniform with this volume, at $ . per copy._ _for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent post-paid on receipt of price, by the publisher, =a. l. burt, reade st., new york=._ burt's home library. comprising two hundred and fifty titles of standard works, embracing fiction, essays, poetry, history, travel, etc., selected from the world's best literature, written by authors of world-wide reputation. printed from large type, on good paper, and bound in handsome cloth binding, uniform with this volume. price, cents per copy. [illustration] =adam bede.= by george eliot. =Ã�sop's fables.= =alhambra, the.= by washington irving. =alice lorraine.= by r. d. blackmore. =all sorts and conditions of men.= by besant and rice. =andersen's fairy tales.= =arabian nights entertainments.= =armadale.= by wilkie collins. =armorel of lyonesse.= by walter besant. =auld licht idylls.= by james m. barrie. =aunt diana.= by rosa n. carey. =autobiography of benjamin franklin.= =averil.= by rosa n. carey. =bacon's essays.= by francis bacon. =barbara heathcote's trial.= by rosa n. carey. =barnaby rudge.= by charles dickens. =berber, the.= by w. s. mayo. =betrothed, the.= by allessandro manzoni. =bleak house.= by charles dickens. =bondman, the.= by hall caine. =bride of the nile, the.= by george ebers. =burgomaster's wife, the.= by george ebers. =cast up by the sea.= by sir samuel baker. =caxtons, the.= by bulwer-lytton. =charles auchester.= by e. berger. =charles o'malley.= by charles lever. =children of the abbey.= by regina maria roche. =children of gibeon.= by walter besant. =child's history of england.= by charles dickens. =christmas stories.= by charles dickens. =cloister and the hearth.= by charles reade. =confessions of an opium-eater.= by thomas de quincey. =consuelo.= by george sand. =corinne.= by madame de stael. =countess of rudolstadt.= by george sand. =cousin pons.= by honore de balzac. =cranford.= by mrs. gaskell. =crown of wild olive, the.= by john ruskin. =daniel deronda.= by george eliot. =daughter of an empress, the.= by louisa muhlbach. =daughter of heth, a.= by wm. black. =david copperfield.= by charles dickens. =deemster, the.= by hall caine. =deerslayer, the.= by james fenimore cooper. =dombey & son.= by charles dickens. =donal grant.= by george macdonald. =donald ross of heimra.= by william black. =donovan.= by edna lyall. =dream life.= by ik. marvel. =east lynne.= by mrs. henry wood. =egoist, the.= by george meredith. =egyptian princess, an.= by george ebers. =eight years wandering in ceylon.= by sir samuel baker. =emerson's essays.= by ralph waldo emerson. =emperor, the.= by george ebers. =essays of elia.= by charles lamb. =esther.= by rosa n. carey. =far from the madding crowd.= by thos. hardy. =felix holt.= by george eliot. =fifteen decisive battles of the world.= by e. s. creasy. =file no. .= by emile gaboriau. =first violin.= by jessie fothergill. =for faith and freedom.= by walter besant. =frederick the great, and his court.= by louisa muhlbach. =french revolution.= by thomas carlyle. =from the earth to the moon.= by jules verne. =goethe and schiller.= by louisa muhlbach. =gold bug, the, and other tales.= by edgar a. poe. =gold elsie.= by e. marlitt. =great expectations.= by charles dickens. =great taboo, the.= by grant allen. =great treason, a.= by mary hoppus. =green mountain boys, the.= by d. p. thompson. =grimm's household tales.= by the brothers grimm. =grimm's popular tales.= by the brothers grimm. =gulliver's travels.= by dean swift. =handy andy.= by samuel lover. =hardy norseman, a.= by edna lyall. =harold.= by bulwer-lytton. =harry lorrequer.= by charles lever. =heir of redclyffe.= by charlotte m. yonge. =henry esmond.= by william m. thackeray. =her dearest foe.= by mrs. alexander. =heriot's choice.= by rosa n. carey. =heroes and hero worship.= by thomas carlyle. =history of pendennis.= by william m. thackeray. =house of the seven gables.= by nathaniel hawthorne. =how to be happy though married.= =hunchback of notre dame.= by victor hugo. =hypatia.= by charles kingsley. =idle thoughts of an idle fellow.= by jerome k. jerome. =in far lochaber.= by william black. =in the golden days.= by edna lyall. =in the heart of the storm.= by maxwell grey. =it is never too late to mend.= by charles reade. =ivanhoe.= by sir walter scott. =jack's courtship.= by w. clark russell. =jane eyre.= by charlotte bronte. =john halifax, gentleman.= by miss muloch. =kenilworth.= by sir walter scott. =kit and kitty.= by r. d. blackmore. =kith and kin.= by jessie fothergill. =knickerbocker's history of new york.= by washington irving. =knight errant.= by edna lyall. =l'abbe constantin.= by ludovic-halevy =lamplighter, the.= by maria s. cummins. =last days of pompeii.= by bulwer-lytton. =last of the barons.= by bulwer-lytton. =last of the mohicans.= by james fenimore cooper. =light of asia, the.= by sir edwin arnold. =little dorrit.= by charles dickens. =lorna doone.= by r. d. blackmore. =louise de la valliere.= by alexandre dumas. =lover or friend?= by rosa n. carey. =lucile.= by owen meredith. =maid of sker.= by r. d. blackmore. =man and wife.= by wilkie collins. =man in the iron mask.= by alexandre dumas. =martin chuzzlewit.= by charles dickens. =mary st. john.= by rosa n. carey. =master of ballantrae, the.= by r. l. stevenson. =master of the ceremonies, the.= by g. m. fenn. =masterman ready.= by captain marryat. =merle's crusade.= by rosa n. carey. =micah clarke.= by a. conan doyle. =michael strogoff.= by jules verne. =middlemarch.= by george eliot. =midshipman easy.= by captain marryat. =mill on the floss.= by george eliot. =molly bawn.= by the duchess. =moonstone, the.= by wilkie collins. =mosses from an old manse.= by nathaniel hawthorne. =mysterious island, the.= by jules verne. =natural law in the spiritual world.= by henry drummond. =nellie's memories.= by rosa n. carey. =newcomes, the.= by william m. thackeray. =nicholas nickleby.= by charles dickens. =no name.= by wilkie collins. =not like other girls.= by rosa n. carey. =old curiosity shop.= by charles dickens. =old ma'm'selle's secret.= by e. marlitt. =old myddelton's money.= by mary cecil hay. =oliver twist.= by charles dickens. =only the governess.= by rosa n. carey. =on the heights.= by berthold auerbach. =our bessie.= by rosa n. carey. =our mutual friend.= by charles dickens. =pair of blue eyes, a.= by thomas hardy. =past and present.= by thomas carlyle. =pathfinder, the.= by james fenimore cooper. =pere goriot.= by honore de balzac. =phantom rickshaw, the.= by rudyard kipling. =phra, the phoenician.= by edwin l. arnold. =picciola.= by x. b. saintine. =pickwick papers.= by charles dickens. =pilgrim's progress.= by john bunyan. =pilot, the.= by james fenimore cooper. =pioneers, the.= by james fenimore cooper. =prairie, the.= by james fenimore cooper. =pride and prejudice.= by jane austen. =prime minister, the.= by anthony trollope. =princess of thule, a.= by wm. black. =professor, the.= by charlotte bronte. =put yourself in his place.= by charles reade. =queen hortense.= by louisa muhlbach. =queenie's whim.= by rosa n. carey. =ralph the heir.= by anthony trollope. =red rover.= by james fenimore cooper. =reproach of annesley.= by maxwell grey. =reveries of a bachelor.= by ik. marvel. =rhoda fleming.= by george meredith. =ride to khiva, a.= by captain fred barnaby. =rienzi.= by bulwer-lytton. =robinson crusoe.= by daniel defoe. =rob roy.= by sir walter scott. =romance of a poor young man.= by octave feuillet. =romance of two worlds.= by marie corelli. =romola.= by george eliot. =rory o'more.= by samuel lover. =sartor resartus.= by thomas carlyle. =scarlet letter, the.= by nathaniel hawthorne. =scottish chiefs.= by jane porter. =search for basil lyndhurst.= by rosa n. carey. =second wife, the.= by e. marlitt. =self-help.= by samuel smiles. =sense and sensibility.= by jane austen. =sesame and lilies.= by john ruskin. =shadow of the sword.= by robert buchanan. =shirley.= by charlotte bronte. =silas marner.= by george eliot. =silence of dean maitland.= by maxwell grey. =sketch-book, the.= by washington irving. =social departure, a.= by sara jeannette duncan. =soldiers three, etc.= by rudyard kipling. =springhaven.= by r. d. blackmore. =spy, the.= by james fenimore cooper. =st. katharine's by the tower.= by walter besant. =story of an african farm.= by olive schreiner. =swiss family robinson.= by jean rudolph wyss. =tale of two cities.= by charles dickens. =talisman, the.= by sir walter scott. =tartarin of tarascon.= by alphonse daudet. =tempest tossed.= by theodore tilton. =ten years later.= by alexandre dumas. =terrible temptation, a.= by charles reade. =thaddeus of warsaw.= by jane porter. =thelma.= by marie corelli. =three guardsmen.= by alexandre dumas. =three men in a boat.= by jerome k. jerome. =tom brown at oxford.= by thomas hughes. =tom brown's school days.= by thomas hughes. =tom burke of "ours."= by charles lever. =tour of the world in eighty days, a.= by jules verne. =treasure island.= by robert louis stevenson. =twenty thousand leagues under the sea.= by jules verne. =twenty years after.= by alexandre dumas. =twice told tales.= by nathaniel hawthorne. =two admirals.= by james fenimore cooper. =two chiefs of dunboy.= by james a. froude. =two on a tower.= by thomas hardy. =two years before the mast.= by r. h. dana, jr. =uarda.= by george ebers. =uncle max.= by rosa n. carey. =uncle tom's cabin.= by harriet beecher stowe. =undine and other tales.= by de la motte fouque. =vanity fair.= by william m. thackeray. =vicar of wakefield.= by oliver goldsmith. =villette.= by charlotte bronte. =virginians, the.= by william m. thackeray. =vicomte de bragelonne.= by alexandre dumas. =vivian grey.= by benjamin disraeli. =water witch, the.= by james fenimore cooper. =waverly.= by sir walter scott. =wee wifie.= by rosa n. carey. =westward ho!= by charles kingsley. =we two.= by edna lyall. =what's mine's mine.= by george macdonald. =when a man's single.= by j. m. barrie. =white company, the.= by a. conan doyle. =wide, wide world.= by susan warner. =widow lerouge, the.= by emile gaboriau. =wilhelm meister's apprenticeship.= by goethe (carlyle). =wing-and-wing.= by james fenimore cooper. =woman in white, the.= by wilkie collins. =won by waiting.= by edna lyall. =wooing o't.= by mrs. alexander. =world went very well then, the.= by walter besant. =wormwood.= by marie corelli. =wreck of the grosvenor, the.= by w. clark russell. =zenobia.= by william ware. _for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent post-paid on receipt of price by the publisher, =a. l. burt, new york=._ transcriber's notes: text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=. inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been standardized. innocent at large by poul and karen anderson illustrated by wood [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction july . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] a hayseed martian among big-planet slickers ... of course he would get into trouble. but that was nothing compared to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble! the visiphone chimed when peri had just gotten into her dinner gown. she peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp of translucence which had set the president of antarctic enterprise--or had it been the chairman of the board?--back several thousand dollars. then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checked with a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe loosely on top and tight around the hips. after all, some of the men who knew her private number were important. she undulated to the phone and pressed its accept. "hello-o, there," she said automatically. "so sorry to keep you waiting. i was just taking a bath and--oh. it's you." gus doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. "holy success," he whispered in awe. "you sure the wires can carry that much voltage?" "well, hurry up with whatever it is," snapped peri. "i got a date tonight." "i'll say you do! with a martian!" * * * * * peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. "you must have heard wrong, gus. he's the heir apparent of indonesia, inc., that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you can just blank right out again. i saw him first!" doran's thin sharp face grinned. "you break that date, peri. put it off or something. i got this martian for you, see?" "so? since when has all mars had as much spending money as one big-time marijuana rancher? not to mention the heir ap--" "sure, sure. but how much are those boys going to spend on any girl, even a high-level type like you? listen, i need you just for tonight, see? this martian is strictly from gone. he is here on official business, but he is a yokel and i do mean hayseed. like he asked me what the christmas decorations in all the stores were! and here is the solar nexus of it, peri, kid." doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. "he has got a hundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audit his accounts at home. one hundred million good green certificates, legal tender anywhere in the united protectorates. and he has about as much backbone as a piece of steak alga. kid, if i did not happen to have experience otherwise with a small nephew, i would say this will be like taking candy from a baby." peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches and cream left overnight on pluto. "badger?" she asked. "sure. you and sam wendt handle the routine. i will take the go-between angle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because i have other plans for him too. but if we can't shake a million out of him for this one night's work, there is something akilter. and your share of a million is three hundred thirty-three--" "is five hundred thousand flat," said peri. "too bad i just got an awful headache and can't see mr. sastro tonight. where you at, gus?" * * * * * the gravity was not as hard to take as peter matheny had expected. three generations on mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chest a trifle, but the genes had come from earth and the organism readjusts. what set him gasping was the air. it weighed like a ton of wool and had apparently sopped up half the atlantic ocean. ears trained to listen through the martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted by earth's. the passport official seemed to bellow at him. "pardon me for asking this. the united protectorates welcome all visitors to earth and i assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visa provokes no questions. but since you came on an official courier boat of your planet, mr. matheny, regulations force me to ask your business." "well--recruiting." the official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, and chuckled patronizingly. "i am afraid, sir, you won't find many people who wish to leave. they wouldn't be able to see the teamsters hour on mars, would they?" "oh, we don't expect immigration," said matheny shyly. he was a fairly young man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyed head that seemed too large for his slender body. "we learned long ago that no one is interested any more in giving up even second-class citizenship on earth to live in the republic. but we only wanted to hire----uh, i mean engage--an, an advisor. we're not businessmen. we know our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporations unless we get some--a five-year contract...?" he heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself. "well, good luck." the official's tone was skeptical. he stamped the passport and handed it back. "there, now, you are free to travel anywhere in the protectorates. but i would advise you to leave the capital and get into the sticks--um, i mean the provinces. i am sure there must be tolerably competent sales executives in russia or congolese belgium or such regions. frankly, sir, i do not believe you can attract anyone out of newer york." "thanks," said matheny, "but, you see, i--we need--that is.... oh, well. thanks. good-by." he backed out of the office. * * * * * a dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. the crowd, a rainbow of men in pajamas and robes, women in neo-sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swept him against the rail. for a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared a hundred feet down at the river of automobiles. _phobos!_ he thought wildly. _if the barrier gives, i'll be sliced in two by a dorsal fin before i hit the pavement!_ the august twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. he could see neither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. the forest of multi-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across more acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but--he used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a pipe in company with orion. on summer evenings, that is, when the temperature wasn't too far below zero. _why did they tap me for this job?_ he asked himself in a surge of homesickness. _what the hell is the martian embassy here for?_ he, peter matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of sociodynamics at devil's kettle university. of course, he had advised his government before now--in fact, the red ankh society had been his idea--but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on tenthday night and an occasional trip to swindletown-- _my god_, thought matheny, _here i am, one solitary outlander in the greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and i'm supposed to find my planet a con man!_ he began walking, disconsolately, at random. his lizardskin shirt and black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty years out of date. he should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily, but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him whenever he did check in. the few martians who had been to earth had gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could name on a twenty-four-hour basis. but it would be a long time before mars had such machines. if ever. the city roared at him. he fumbled after his pipe. _of course_, he told himself, _that's why the embassy can't act. i may find it advisable to go outside the law. please, sir, where can i contact the underworld?_ he wished gambling were legal on earth. the constitution of the martian republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article was a practical necessity. life was bleak enough on the deserts, without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend who was happily trying to mark the cards. matheny would have found a few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. but more, he would have been among people he understood. the frightful thing about the earthman was the way he seemed to exist only in organized masses. a gypsy snake oil peddler, plodding his syrtosaur wagon across martian sands, just didn't have a prayer against, say, the grant, harding & adams public relations agency. * * * * * matheny puffed smoke and looked around. his feet ached from the weight on them. where could a man sit down? it was hard to make out any individual sign through all that flimmering neon. his eye fell on one that was distinguished by relative austerity. the church of choice _enter, play, pray_ that would do. he took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. "ah, brother, welcome," said a red-haired usherette in demure black leotards. "the peace that passeth all understanding be with you. the restaurant is right up those stairs." "i--i'm not hungry," stammered matheny. "i just wanted to sit in--" "to your left, sir." the martian crossed the lobby. his pipe went out in the breeze from an animated angel. organ music sighed through an open doorway. the series of rooms beyond was dim, gothic, interminable. "get your chips right here, sir," said the girl in the booth. "hm?" said matheny. she explained. he bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a fifty-buck coin down a slot marked contributions, and sipped the martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games. he stopped, frowned. bingo? no, he didn't want to bother learning something new. he decided that the roulette wheels were either honest or too deep for him. he'd have to relax with a crap game instead. he had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the congregation really noticed him. then it was with awe. the first few passes he had made were unsuccessful. earth gravity threw him off. but when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. it was a customary form of challenge on mars. here, though, they simply pushed chips toward him. he missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simple courtesy. the next time around, he threw for a seven just to get the feel. he got a seven. the dice had not been substituted on him. "i say!" he exclaimed. he looked up into eyes and eyes, all around the green table. "i'm sorry. i guess i don't know your rules." "you did all right, brother," said a middle-aged lady with an obviously surgical bodice. "but--i mean--when do we start actually _playing_? what happened to the cocked dice?" * * * * * the lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. "sir! this is a church!" "oh--i see--excuse me, i, i, i--" matheny backed out of the crowd, shuddering. he looked around for some place to hide his burning ears. "you forgot your chips, pal," said a voice. "oh. thanks. thanks ever so much. i, i, that is--" matheny cursed his knotting tongue. _damn it, just because they're so much more sophisticated than i, do i have to talk like a leaky boiler?_ the helpful earthman was not tall. he was dark and chisel-faced and sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell cloak and curly-toed slippers. "you're from mars, aren't you?" he asked in the friendliest tone matheny had yet heard. "yes. yes, i am. m-my name's peter matheny. i, i--" he stuck out his hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. "damn! oh, excuse me, i forgot this was a church. never mind the chips. no, please. i just want to g-g-get the hell out of here." "good idea. how about a drink? i know a bar downshaft." matheny sighed. "a drink is what i need the very most." "my name's doran. gus doran. call me gus." they walked back to the deaconette's booth and matheny cashed what remained of his winnings. "i don't want to--i mean if you're busy tonight, mr. doran--" "nah. i am not doing one thing in particular. besides, i have never met a martian. i am very interested." "there aren't many of us on earth," agreed matheny. "just a small embassy staff and an occasional like me." "i should think you would do a lot of traveling here. the old mother planet and so on." "we can't afford it," said matheny. "what with gravitation and distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for pleasure. not to mention our dollar shortage." as they entered the shaft, he added wistfully: "you earth people have that kind of money, at least in your more prosperous brackets. why don't you send a few tourists to us?" "i always wanted to," said doran. "i would like to see the what they call city of time, and so on. as a matter of fact, i have given my girl one of those old martian rings last ike's birthday and she was just gazoo about it. a jewel dug out of the city of time, like, made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... i tell you, she _appreciated_ me for it!" he winked and nudged. "oh," said matheny. * * * * * he felt a certain guilt. doran was too pleasant a little man to deserve-- "of course," matheny said ritually, "i agree with all the archeologists it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what can we do? we must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent." "trouble with it is, i hear mars is not so comfortable," said doran. "i mean, do not get me wrong, i don't want to insult you or anything, but people come back saying you have given the planet just barely enough air to keep a man alive. and there are no cities, just little towns and villages and ranches out in the bush. i mean you are being pioneers and making a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck for their ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know." "i do know," said matheny. "but we're poor--a handful of people trying to make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woods and seas. we can't do it without substantial help from earth, equipment and supplies--which can only be paid for in earth dollars--and we can't export enough to earth to earn those dollars." by that time, they were entering the paul bunyan knotty pine bar & grill, on the rd level. matheny's jaw clanked down. "whassa matter?" asked doran. "ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic technician before?" "uh, yes, but--well, not in a -d image under ten magnifications." matheny followed doran past a sign announcing that this show was for purely artistic purposes, into a booth. there a soundproof curtain reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices. "what'll you have?" asked doran. "it's on me." "oh, i couldn't let you. i mean--" "nonsense. welcome to earth! care for a thyle and vermouth?" matheny shuddered. "good lord, no!" "huh? but they make thyle right on mars, don't they?" "yes. and it all goes to earth and sells at dollars a fifth. but you don't think we'd _drink_ it, do you? i mean--well, i imagine it doesn't absolutely _ruin_ vermouth. but we don't see those earthside commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much." * * * * * "well, i'll be a socialist creeper!" doran's face split in a grin. "you know, all my life i've hated the stuff and never dared admit it!" he raised a hand. "don't worry, i won't blabbo. but i am wondering, if you control the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices, why do you call yourselves poor?" "because we are," said matheny. "by the time the shipping costs have been paid on a bottle, and the earth wholesaler and jobber and sales engineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage, and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separate earth taxes--there's very little profit going back to the distillery on mars. the same principle is what's strangling us on everything. old martian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight charges and the middlemen here put them out of the mass market." "have you not got some other business?" "well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels and so on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and i understand our travel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. but all that has to be printed on earth, and the printer and distributor keep most of the money. we've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but only one has been really successful--_i was a slave girl on mars_. "our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one. again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authors never have been protected the way a businessman is. we do make a high percentage of profit on those little certificates you see around--you know, the title deeds to one square inch of mars--but expressed absolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we start shopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants." "how about postage stamps?" inquired doran. "philately is a big business, i have heard." "it was our mainstay," admitted matheny, "but it's been overworked. martian stamps are a drug on the market. what we'd like to operate is a sweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on earth forbid that." * * * * * doran whistled. "i got to give your people credit for enterprise, anyway!" he fingered his mustache. "uh, pardon me, but have you tried to, well, attract capital from earth?" "of course," said matheny bitterly. "we offer the most liberal concessions in the solar system. any little mining company or transport firm or--or anybody--who wanted to come and actually invest a few dollars in mars--why, we'd probably give him the president's daughter as security. no, the minister of ecology has a better-looking one. but who's interested? we haven't a thing that earth hasn't got more of. we're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few political malcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill of liberties to the incorporated state--what could general nucleonics hope to get from mars?" "i see. well, what are you having to drink?" "beer," said matheny without hesitation. "huh? look, pal, this is on me." "the only beer on mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetary freight charges tacked on," said matheny. "heineken's!" doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. "this is a real interesting talk, pete," he said. "you are being very frank with me. i like a man that is frank." matheny shrugged. "i haven't told you anything that isn't known to every economist." _of course i haven't. i've not so much as mentioned the red ankh, for instance. but, in principle, i have told him the truth, told him of our need; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough._ the beer arrived. matheny engulfed himself in it. doran sipped at a whiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of the martian. "ahhh!" said matheny. "bless you, my friend." "a pleasure." "but now you must let me buy you one." "that is not necessary. after all," said doran with great tact, "with the situation as you have been describing--" "oh, we're not _that_ poor! my expense allowance assumes i will entertain quite a bit." doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. "you're here on business, then?" "yes. i told you we haven't any tourists. i was sent to hire a business manager for the martian export trade." "what's wrong with your own people? i mean, pete, it is not your fault there are so many rackets--uh, taxes--and middlemen and agencies and et cetera. that is just the way earth is set up these days." * * * * * matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of doran's pajama top. "exactly. and who set it up that way? earthmen. we martians are babes in the desert. what chance do we have to earn dollars on the scale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buy and sell our whole planet before breakfast? why, we couldn't afford three seconds of commercial time on a lullaby pillow 'cast. what we need, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows earth, who's an earthman himself. let him tell us what will appeal to your people, and how to dodge the tax bite and--and--well, you see how it goes, that sort of, uh, thing." matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second bottle of beer. "but where do i start?" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote him anew. "i'm just a college professor at home. how would i even get to see--" "it might be arranged," said doran in a thoughtful tone. "it just might. how much could you pay this fellow?" "a hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. that's earth years, mind you." "i'm sorry to tell you this, pete," said doran, "but while that is not bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in newer york. plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit where he is now at. and i am sure he would not want to settle on mars permanently." "i could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe," said matheny. "that is, well, i can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses and, well ... let me buy you a drink!" doran's black eyes frogged at him. "you might at that," said the earthman very softly. "yes, you might at that." matheny found himself warming. gus doran was an authentic bobber. a hell of a swell chap. he explained modestly that he was a free-lance business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange some contacts.... "no, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. if you have got to stick to beer, pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. what is akvavit? well, i will just take and show you." a hell of a good bloke. he knew some very funny stories, too, and he laughed at matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a big-city taste like his. "what i really want," said matheny, "what i really want--i mean what mars really needs, get me?--is a confidence man." "a what?" "the best and slickest one on earth, to operate a world-size con game for us and make us some real money." "con man? oh. a slipstring." "a con by any other name," said matheny, pouring down an akvavit. * * * * * doran squinted through cigarette smoke. "you are interesting me strangely, my friend. say on." "no." matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. the walls of the booth seemed odd, somehow. they were just leatheroid walls, but they had an odd quality. "no, sorry, gus," he said. "i spoke too much." "okay. forget it. i do not like a man that pries. but look, let's bomb out of here, how about it? go have a little fun." "by all means." matheny disposed of his last beer. "i could use some gaiety." "you have come to the right town then. but let us get you a hotel room first and some more up-to-date clothes." "_allez_," said matheny. "if i don't mean _allons_, or maybe _alors_." the drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered him; the room rate at the jupiter-astoria sobered him still more. _oh, well_, he thought, _if i succeed in this job, no one at home will quibble._ and the chamber to which he and doran were shown was spectacular enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to show the vertical incandescence of the towers. "whoof!" matheny sat down. the chair slithered sensuously about his contours. he jumped. "what the dusty hell--oh." he tried to grin, but his face burned. "i see." "that is a sexy type of furniture, all right," agreed doran. he lowered himself into another chair, cocked his feet on the -d and waved a cigarette. "which speaking of, what say we get some girls? it is not too late to catch them at home. a date here will usually start around hours earliest." "what?" "you know. dames. like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. such as you." "me?" matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. "me? exotic? why, i'm just a little college professor. i g-g-g, that is--" his tongue got stuck on his palate. he pulled it loose and moistened uncertain lips. "you are from mars. okay? so you fought bushcats barehanded in an abandoned canal." "what's a bushcat? and we don't have canals. the evaporation rate--" "look, pete," said doran patiently. "she don't have to know that, does she?" "well--well, no. i guess not no." "let's order you some clothes on the pneumo," said doran. "i recommend you buy from schwartzherz. everybody knows he is expensive." * * * * * while matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with his new raiment, doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer. "you said one thing, pete," doran remarked. "about needing a slipstring. a con man, you would call it." "forget that. please. i spoke out of turn." "well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what mars does need. and maybe i have got a few contacts." "what?" matheny gaped out of the bathroom. doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him. "i am not that man," he said frankly. "but in my line i get a lot of contacts, and not all of them go topside. see what i mean? like if, say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, i could not do it. i would not want to know anything about it. but i could tell you a phone number." he shrugged and gave the martian a sidelong glance. "sure, you may not be interested. but if you are, well, pete, i was not born yesterday. i got tolerance. like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have got to think positively." matheny hesitated. if only he hadn't taken that last shot! it made him want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. and therefore maybe he became overcautious. they had instructed him on mars to take chances if he must. "i could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea," he said slowly. "but it would have to be under security." "okay by me. room service can send us up an oath box right now." "what? but--but--" matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that he had landed on earth less than six hours ago. in the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in. doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an instant's hesitation. "i shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever you may tell me under security, now or at any other time," he recited. then, cheerfully: "and that formula, pete, happens to be the honest-to-zebra truth." "i know." matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. "i'm sorry to--to--i mean of course i trust you, but--" "forget it. i take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work. maybe i can help you. i like you, pete, damn if i don't. and, sure, i might stand to get an agent's cut, if i arrange--go ahead, boy, go ahead." doran crossed his legs and leaned back. "oh, it's simple enough," said matheny. "it's only that we already are operating con games." "on mars, you mean?" "yes. there never were any old martians. we erected the ruins fifty years ago for the billingsworth expedition to find. we've been manufacturing relics ever since." "_huh?_ well, why, but--" "in this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetary haul," said matheny. "not many terrestrial archeologists get to mars and they depend on our people to--well, anyhow--" "i will be clopped! good for you!" * * * * * doran blew up in laughter. "that is one thing i would never spill, even without security. i told you about my girl friend, didn't i?" "yes, and that calls to mind the little girl," said matheny apologetically. "she was another official project." "who?" "remember junie o'brien? the little golden-haired girl on mars, a mathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? she collected earth coins." "oh, that. sure, i remember--hey! you didn't!" "yes. we made about a billion dollars on that one." "i will be double damned. you know, pete, i sent her a hundred-buck piece myself. say, how is junie o'brien?" "oh, fine. under a different name, she's now our finance minister." matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind his back. "there were no lies involved. she really does have a fatal disease. so do you and i. every day we grow older." "uh!" exclaimed doran. "and then the red ankh society. you must have seen or heard their ads. 'what mysterious knowledge did the old martians possess? what was the secret wisdom of the ancient aliens? now the incredibly powerful semantics of the red ankh (not a religious organization) is available to a select few--' that's our largest dollar-earning enterprise." he would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it would have been too presumptuous. he was talking to an earthman, who had heard everything already. doran whistled. "that's about all, so far," confessed matheny. "perhaps a con is our only hope. i've been wondering, maybe we could organize a martian bucket shop, handling martian securities, but--well, i don't know." "i think--" doran removed the helmet and stood up. "yes?" matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension. "i may be able to find the man you want," said doran. "i just may. it will take a few days and might get a little expensive." "you mean.... mr. doran--gus--you could actually--" "i cannot promise anything yet except that i will try. now you finish dressing. i will be down in the bar. and i will call up this girl i know. we deserve a celebration!" * * * * * peri was tall. peri was slim. peri smoldered when she walked and exploded when she stretched. her apartment was ivory and ebony, her sea-green dress was poured on, and the neo-sino mode had obviously been engineered to her personal specifications. she waved twelve inches of jade cigarette holder, lifted her glass and murmured throatily: "to you, pete. to mars." "i, i, i," stammered matheny. he raised his own glass. it slopped over. "oh, damn! i mean ... gosh, i'm so sorry, i--" "no harm done. you aren't used to our gravity yet." peri extended a flawless leg out of her slit skirt and turned it about on the couch, presumably in search of a more comfortable position. "and it must seem terribly cramped here on earth, pete," she continued. "after roaming the desert, hunting, sleeping under the twin moons. two moons! why, what girl could resist that?" "uh, well, as a matter of fact, the moons are barely visible," floundered matheny. "must you spoil my dreams?" she said. "when i think of mars, the frontier, where men are still men, why, my breast swells with emotion." "uh, yes." matheny gulped. "swell. yes." she leaned closer to his chair. "now that i've got you, don't think you'll get away," she smiled. "a live martian, trapped!" doran looked at his watch. "well," he said, "i have got to get up tomorrow, so i had better run along now." "ta-ta," said peri. matheny rose. she pulled him down beside her. "oh, no, you don't, mars lad. i'm not through with you yet!" "but, but, but," said matheny. doran chuckled. "i'll meet you on the terrace at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow," he said. "have fun, pete." the door closed on him. peri slithered toward her guest. he felt a nudge and looked down. she had not actually touched him with her hands. "gus is a good squiff," she said, "but i wondered if he'd ever go." "why, why ... what do you mean?" croaked matheny. "haven't you guessed?" she kissed him. it was rather like being caught in a nuclear turbine with soft blades. _matheny_, said matheny, _you represent your planet._ _matheny_, said matheny, _shut up._ time passed. "have another drink," said peri, "while i slip into something more comfortable." her idea of comfort was modest in one sense of the word: a nightdress or something, like a breath of smoke, and a seat on matheny's lap. "if you kiss me like that just once more," she breathed, "i'll forget i'm a nice girl." matheny kissed her like that. the door crashed open. a large man stood there, breathing heavily. "what are you doing with my wife?" he bawled. "sam!" screamed peri. "i thought you were in australia!" * * * * * "and he said he might settle out of court," finished matheny. he stared in a numb fashion at his beer. "he'll come to my hotel room this afternoon. what am i going to do?" "it is a great shame," said doran. "i never thought.... you know, he told everybody he would be gone on business for weeks yet. pete, i am more sorry than i can express." "if he thinks i'll pay his miserable blackmail," bristled matheny, "he can take his head and stick--" doran shook his own. "i am sorry, pete, but i would pay if i was you. he does have a case. it is too bad he just happened to be carrying that loaded camera, but he is a photographer and our laws on earth are pretty strict about unlicensed correspondents. you could be very heavily fined as well as deported, plus all the civil-damage claims and the publicity. it would ruin your mission and even make trouble for the next man mars sent." "but," stuttered matheny, "b-but it's a badger game!" "look," said doran. he leaned over the table and gripped the martian's shoulder. "i am your friend, see? i feel real bad this happened. in a way, it is my fault and i want to help you. so let me go talk to sam wendt. i will cool him off if i can. i will talk down his figure. it will still cost you, pete, but you can pad your expense account, can't you? so we will both come see you today. that way there will be two people on your side, you and me, and sam will not throw his weight around so much. you pay up in cash and it will be the end of the affair. i will see to that, pal!" matheny stared at the small dapper man. his aloneness came to him like a blow in the stomach. _et tu, brute_, he thought. he bit his lip. "thanks, gus," he said. "you are a real friend." * * * * * sam blocked the doorway with his shoulders as he entered the room. doran followed like a diminutive tug pushing a very large liner. they closed the door. matheny stood up, avoiding sam's glare. "okay, louse," said sam. "you got a better pal here than you deserve, but he ain't managed to talk me into settling for nothing." "let me get this--i mean--well," said matheny. "look, sir, you claim that i, i mean that your wife and i were, uh, well, we weren't. i was only visiting--" "stow it, stow it." sam towered over the martian. "shoot it to the moon. you had your fun. it'll cost you. one million dollars." "_one mil_--but--but--gus," wailed matheny, "this is out of all reason! i thought you said--" doran shrugged. "i am sorry, pete. i could not get him any farther down. he started asking fifty. you better pay him." "no!" matheny scuttled behind a chair. "no, look here! i, peter matheny of the martian republic, declare you are blackmailing me!" "i'm asking compensation for damages," growled sam. "hand it over or i'll go talk to a lawyer. that ain't blackmail. you got your choice, don't you?" matheny wilted. "yes." "a megabuck isn't so bad, pete," soothed doran. "i personally will see that you earn it back in--" "oh, never mind." tears stood in matheny's eyes. "you win." he took out his checkbook. "none of that," rapped sam. "cash. now." "but you claimed this was a legitimate--" "you heard me." "well--could i have a receipt?" begged matheny. sam grinned. "i just thought i'd ask," said matheny. he opened a drawer and counted out one hundred ten-kilo-buck bills. "there! and, and, and i hope you choke on it!" sam stuffed the money in a pocket and lumbered out. doran lingered. "look here, pete," he said, "i will make this up to you. honest. all you have got to do is trust me." "sure." matheny slumped on the bed. "not your fault. let me alone for a while, will you?" "listen, i will come back in a few hours and buy you the best dinner in all the protectorates and--" "sure," said matheny. "sure." doran left, closing the door with great gentleness. * * * * * he returned at , entered, and stopped dead. the floor space was half taken up by a screen and a film projector. "what happened, pete?" he asked uncertainly. matheny smiled. "i took some tourist movies," he said. "self-developing soundtrack film. sit down and i'll show you." "well, thanks, but i am not so much for home movies." "it won't take long. please." doran shrugged, found a chair and took out a cigarette. "you seem pretty well cheered up now," he remarked. "that is a spirit i like to see. you have got to have faith." "i'm thinking of a sideline business in live photography," said the martian. "get back my losses of today, you know." "well, now, pete, i like your spirit, like i say. but if you are really interested in making some of that old baroom, and i think you are, then listen--" "i'll sell prints to people for home viewing," went on matheny. "i'd like your opinion of this first effort." he dimmed the transparency and started the projector. the screen sprang into colored motion. sam wendt blocked the doorway with his shoulders. "who knows, i might even sell you one of the several prints i made today," said matheny. "okay, louse," said sam. "life is hard on mars," commented matheny in an idle tone, "and we're an individualistic culture. the result is pretty fierce competition, though on a person-to-person rather than organizational basis. all friendly enough, but--oh, by the way, how do you like our martian camera technology? i wore this one inside my buttonhole." doran in the screen shrugged and said: "i am sorry, pete." doran in the chair stubbed out his cigarette, very carefully, and asked, "how much do you want for that film?" "would a megabuck be a fair price?" inquired matheny. "uh ... huh." "of course, i am hoping sam will want a copy too." doran swallowed. "yeah. yes, i think i can talk him into it." "good." matheny stopped the projector. he sat down on the edge of the table, swinging one leg, and lit his pipe. its bowl glowed in the dimness like the eye of a small demon. "by the way," he said irrelevantly, "if you check the newscast tapes, you'll find i was runner-up in last year's all-martian pistol contest. it's a tough contest to win. there are no bad shots on mars--survival of the fittest, you know." * * * * * doran wet his lips. "uh, no hard feelings. no, none at all. but say, in case you are, well, you know, looking for a slipstring, what i came here for was to tell you i have located the very guy you want. only he is in jail right now, see, and it will cost--" "oh, no!" groaned matheny. "not the syrtis prospector! kids are taught that swindle in kindergarten." doran bowed his head. "we call it the spanish prisoner here," he said. he got up. "i will send the price of those films around in the morning." "you'll call your bank and have the cash pneumoed here tonight," said matheny. "also sam's share. i daresay he can pay you back." "no harm in trying, was there?" asked doran humbly. "none at all." matheny chuckled. "in fact, i'm grateful to you. you helped me solve my major problem." "huh? i did what? how?" "i'll have to investigate further, but i'm sure my hunch will be confirmed. you see, we martians have stood in awe of earthmen. and since for a long time there's been very little contact between the two planets except the purely official, impersonal sort, there's been nothing to disabuse us. it's certainly true that our organizations can't compete with yours, because your whole society is based on organizations. but now, by the same token, i wonder if your individuals can match ours. ever hear of the third moon? no? the whipsaw play? the aqueduct squeeze? good lord, can't you even load a derrel set?" matheny licked his chops. "so there's our martian export to earth. martian con men. i tell you this under security, of course--not that anyone would believe you, till our boys walk home with the shirt off the terrestrial back." he waved an imperious pipe-stem. "hurry up and pay me, please. i've a date tonight with peri. i just called her up and explained the situation and she really _does_ seem to like martians." [illustration: francisco de quevedo villegas velasquez. pinxt. autogravure] pablo de segovia the spanish sharper translated from the original of francisco de quevedo-villegas illvstrated with one hvndred and ten drawings by daniel vierge together with comments on them by joseph pennell and an essay on the life and writings of quevedo by henry edward watts _london_ printed by unwin brothers at the _gresham press_ for t fisher unwin and published by him at _paternoster buildings_ contents. page comments on the drawings of daniel urrabieta vierge, and also a letter from the artist iii quevedo and his works: with an essay on the picaresque novel xv book i. chap. i. giving an account of who he is and whence he sprung chap. ii. how i went to school, and what happened to me there chap. iii. how i went to a boarding school in quality of servant to don diego coronel chap. iv. of my convalescence, and departure for the university of alcalá de henares chap. v. of our entrance into alcalá, of the footing we had to pay, and the tricks they played upon us chap. vi. of the wicked old housekeeper, and the first knavish pranks i played at alcalá chap. vii. how i received news of my father's death, parted from don diego, and what course of life i resolved on for the future chap. viii. my journey from alcalá to segovia, and what happened by the way till i came to rejas, where i lay that night chap. ix. of what happened to me on the road to madrid with a poet chap. x. of what i did at madrid, and what happened to me on my way to cerecedilla, where i passed the night chap. xi. the kind entertainment i had at my uncle's, the visits i received; how i recovered my inheritance and returned to madrid chap. xii. of my flight from segovia, with what happened to me by the way to madrid chap. xiii. in which the gentleman pursues his journey, and his promised tale of his life and condition book ii. chap. i. of what happened to me at my coming to madrid as soon as i arrived there, until nightfall chap. ii. in which the same subject is pursued, with other strange incidents chap. iii. the further proceedings of this sharping gang, till they were thrown all together into gaol chap. iv. in which the prison is described and what happened therein, until the old woman was whipped, my companions exposed to shame, and myself let out on bail chap. v. how i took a lodging, and the misfortune that befel me therein chap. vi. in which the same subject is pursued, with other strange incidents chap. vii. in which the story is continued, with other incidents and notable misfortunes chap. viii. of my cure and other strange things chap. ix. in which i turn player, poet, and gallant of nuns; which characters are daintily painted chap. x. of what happened to me at seville, till i took ship for the indies comments on the drawings of daniel vierge by ioseph pennell and an essay on the life and writings of quevedo by henry edward watts comments on the drawings of daniel urrabieta vierge. _and also a letter from the artist._ to attempt to introduce daniel vierge to the few artists of the world who are artists, would be, on my part, an impertinence, since his work is as well known to them as it is to myself. to attempt to introduce him to the rest of the world would be no less impertinent, since apparently most men care nothing for the illustrator, though they may, without ever troubling to know him, delight in his work. but the appearance of _pablo de segovia_, not in french or spanish, but in english, illustrated by vierge's completed series of drawings, is worthy of note and, possibly, of some comment. vierge's first edition of this book was published in paris in , by bonhoure, and the drawings not only made his own name famous throughout the entire artistic world, but renewed the popularity of quevedo. the book--and when i speak of it i refer to the illustrations and not to the letter-press--was the most brilliant, the most daring, the most original which had ever appeared. from the head-piece of the first chapter nearly to the end, almost every page contained a perfect picture which amazed all who studied it, and delighted all who could appreciate it. these exquisite little drawings displayed a knowledge of form, of action, of light and shade, of architecture, expressed with a brilliancy of handling which has never been surpassed. to make such a statement is to challenge criticism. but if there have been any more artistic drawings, or engravings of drawings, produced from the time of dürer or bellini, rembrandt or of piranesi, i have yet to find them, though i have gone in search of them through the chief museums and galleries of europe. in comparison with vierge, dürer knows nothing of light and shade, bellini and vandyke and holbein are heavy and laboured in their handling, while piranesi and canaletto have but an historical interest. it is true that to-day in many ways by many men vierge is nearly approached, but he has been the inspirer and the master of them all. the ninety little process blocks in bonhoure's edition showed the knowledge of the past, combined with the brilliancy and go of the present. but after a certain page there came a blank, and the letter-press dragged on--a libretto without the music. all that one knew was contained in a short note by the publisher: vierge had been stricken with a grave malady, for some years he disappeared as a working artist. those years, however, were spent in struggling against an affliction which would have killed a man less strong, but from which he has emerged able to complete his most important work. i am sure that vierge would be the last, either himself to advertise his frightful misfortune, now happily over, or to wish to have it advertised by others. it is enough to say that when his entire right side was paralysed, and he lost the power of speech, he simply trained himself to work with his left hand, and to-day, as is proved by the last twenty illustrations in this book, and the pages of _le monde illustré_ week after week, he is producing drawings which are unsurpassed. i hate and abominate the painter who fills columns with the recital of his misfortunes, telling you how he lost his paint brush, or how he had never a canvas of the right size, and soulfully lamenting the degeneracy of an age which knows quite too much to appreciate him. i can almost worship a man who silently conquers a living death. vierge is an artist who, like all great artists, has worked for his art--and his bread and butter. he is an illustrator, and, though therefore he has no hope of devoting a gallery to his own glorification, any museum which might be so fortunate as to secure the original drawings from which these reproductions were made, would become for artists a place of pilgrimage. [illustration] his first publisher thought it enough to state, in the smallest possible types on the title page, that the story of _pablo_ was _illustrée de nombreux dessins par d. vierge_--many publishers are not even so generous as this, and ignore the artist-illustrator altogether. to give the man, to whose genius the whole reason of the new edition was due, a few lines in a publisher's preface, was, i suppose, very kind and thoughtful and considerate. but the french government has since decorated vierge with the legion of honour, and the french artists have awarded him a gold medal for these very designs. the charm and interest of the old illuminated missals lie not in the text, which often can be gotten elsewhere or is of no account, but in the pictures or decorations themselves, the work of the illustrators of that day. while the illuminations are prized, the names of the artists are usually forgotten. so, too, the work of contemporary illustrators is almost invariably dismissed by the critic with a sneer or with patronage, if indeed it be noticed at all. still, there are some of us who know that these _great little masters_ of illustration have spent more time and thought over the production of the _cuts_ which _embellish_ an author, than the author himself did on the text, and not infrequently knows far more about the subject. but because the criticism of books is, as a rule, in the hands of men who know nothing about art, their drawings are ignored. or perhaps the degeneracy of modern illustration, and the want of ability of engravers and reproductive artists, is lamented by men who could not tell the difference between a process block and an etching, though they are certain that the old work, the originals of which they never saw, is much better than that which we are doing to-day and which they do not want to see. fewer people, probably, have seen vierge's quevedo since it has been published, than in a day sit and gape, and yawn in awe-struck ignorance before the sistine madonna; and yet the latter is as blatant a piece of shoddy commercialism as has ever been produced; the quevedo is a pure work of art. indeed, never in the history of the world were there such marvellous drawings produced as to-day. but while collectors, dealers, and directors of museums squabble over a piece of dirty paper, or throw public funds and private money away for drawings of which, if dürer or rembrandt, or any painter of distinction, perpetrated them, he should have been ashamed, none has the wit to spend as many pennies on the drawings of modern men with no popular reputation, as they do pounds for the work of others who have a widespread, and possibly justly merited fame, but no knowledge of the art they practise. go through the national galleries of germany, and though you will find tons of miserable scrawls produced by painters, outside of berlin you will scarcely come across a drawing by menzel or klinger. in the much-belauded gallery of munich, you will not find an example of dietz or any of the men who to-day are the leaders of german art; if you want to see them you must go to the publishing offices of _fliegende blätter_. and how many charles keenes or frederick sandys' does the british nation possess? or where, outside of the offices of the _century magazine_ and _harper's_, can you see a comprehensive collection of the work of american illustrators? in france, if you wish to study drawings produced by the cleverest of french draughtsmen, you must go, not to the louvre or the luxembourg, but to the elysée montmartre or the chat noir. so long as print sellers and curators have no real knowledge of art, one may expect the present state of affairs to continue. until art be taken as seriously as literature, and be discussed with as much thought and care and attention by men who understand it practically as well as theoretically--for the theory of art is or no value, and the practice is everything--illustration will not find its proper place as one of the most living and important of the fine arts. but, no matter--the great illustrator is quite as much of a creator as the great painter or the great sculptor. if the illustrator print his conception of an author's meaning upon the same page as the latter's text, this does not belittle him any more than it increases a painter's greatness to give his picture the place of honour in a museum, or the sculptor's genius to allow him to obstruct the traffic of a street. the first issue of _pablo de segovia_ completely revolutionised the art of illustration and created a new school of illustrators, the influence of which is now felt all over the world, even by artists to whom the name of vierge is absolutely unknown, and by critics who, in praising their friends, are really only testifying to the greatness of the master whose name they never heard. and here i should like to say that i make no pretension to having discovered daniel vierge, although i have been accused of it; this book discovered him to all artists. when it came to reproduction, most of the drawings had to be much reduced. this was beautifully done by gillot (and it is interesting to compare the latter's work of ten years ago with that in this volume done by him to-day), while the printing of lahure was most careful and satisfactory; but the appearance of vierge's work in many cases was entirely changed, though he himself knew how it would be changed. vierge, as anyone can see from these new reproductions, drew openly, freely, boldly, but most carefully. the reproductions in bonhoure's edition gave one the impression of exquisite delicacy, a refinement of line which did not altogether exist in the original drawings, but was produced because the artist knew exactly what he wanted, and because the engraver was able to obtain it. the drawings were made upon white paper--bristol board or drawing paper--with a pen and liquid indian ink. vierge uses now a glass pen like an old stylus, and this, i believe, he prefers to all others. the drawings were then given to gillot, the photo-engraver, who, by means of photography and handwork, produced in a metal block a reproduction of the original drawing which could be printed with type. it is a favourite, but fallacious, statement of the art critics that mechanical reproduction not only ruins the drawing, but is not to be compared to facsimile woodcutting. this is absolutely untrue if the artist is a craftsman, and the engraver, who is a craftsman, is also an artist. vierge and gillot fulfill these conditions. no woodcutter, not even whitney, collins, gamm or léveillé (there are, unfortunately, none in england to be considered) could reproduce any one of these drawings in the wood a bit better than gillot has done by the mechanical process. many of vierge's lines are so clear and so pure and so simple, that they would be comparatively easy to cut in the wood. other arrangements of lines are so complex, that no woodcutter could ever follow them, but would have to suggest them. gillot has reproduced them perfectly, and almost altogether by mechanical means. but, granted that the woodcutters could have made equally good reproductions, unless you could find a consummate artist, who, for the love of the thing, was willing to give years of his life to it, it would be much more sensible to do what has been done--give the work to a mechanical engraver like gillot. for the woodcutter would be sure to put some of his own personality into his block, and for my part i prefer vierge unadulterated. but it is one of the art critic's absurd canons of belief that in taking work away from woodcutters and handing it over to mechanical reproducers you are ruining the art of wood-engraving. the process man has merely removed much drudgery from the wood-engraver, and obtained for him the chance to produce work of his own. in the reproduction of pen drawings like those of vierge, nearly as much depends upon the printer as upon anyone else, and i look forward with much interest to the appearance the book will present. even authorities on the subject of illustration continually go wrong in this matter, by accusing artists, who know perfectly well what they are about, of being unable to draw for reproduction, when the engraver's proofs which are sent them are almost perfect, though the final result is almost invariably ruined, owing in some degree to the artlessness of printers, who, of course, in a fine book should never be trusted, but principally to the imperfections of the modern steam-printing press, and quality of the paper supplied by publishers. no illustrated book can have full justice done to it unless it is printed by hand as carefully as an etching. no art critic displays anything but his small knowledge of the subject when he blames the artist for what may be due to the incapacity of the engraver or the imperfections of the press. though the critic and the public have only to consider the result--the printed book--in almost every case, the artist is absolutely helpless, as he is not allowed to have anything to do with this result. that comparative perfection may be reached has, however, been shown, on the one hand, by the productions of the kelmscott press in hand-work, and, on the other, by the de vinne press with steam. fifty years ago vierge's illustrations could not have been printed with type. because once this could not be done--because until the present century and the coming of menzel and fortuny there never was a man who could draw like vierge; are not new styles of reproduction to be invented for his benefit, and new methods of printing to be employed? no doubt the early printed books, now the pride of the collector and the dealer, were sneered at by the illuminator and damned by the critic. some day bonhoure's edition of _pablo_ will be quite as highly prized as the most precious caxton. i have no intention of going into the analysis of the motives which prompted vierge to undertake the illustration of _pablo de segovia_. i have never asked him why he took it up, and most likely if he were asked it would be impossible for him to suggest any reason, other than that the book appealed to him. i do not believe that any artist could definitely explain why he endeavoured to produce a certain work of art. he merely wanted to do it, and then the opportunity presented itself. nor do i think the literary artist would know why he wrote a certain novel. the idea came to him, and he had to. the literary man can describe his sensations, and tell you how he actually walked across the street to see a house, or re-wrote a page which did not please him, or hunted for months for a character: it is the fashion for him to do so. the artist experiences the same sensations. he not only has to go across the street to see the house, but he may probably have to stand before it, on the side-walk, for a couple of days amidst the crowd and traffic, working under the most difficult conditions; he too has to search for his model, and, when he has found him, obtain the actual costumes he wants, or have them made. the literary man, too, can get almost all his accessories out of books, or if he has to go to a museum and cannot send some one, a glance and a few words are enough. the result, if well done, is hailed as great literature; but the artist, who probably has worked quite as long, quite as hard, and put quite as much brains into his work, is told, if he is told anything, that his drawings are pretty. he seldom has the opportunity of showing how well and how faithfully he has done his part. it is more than possible that if he has really studied his subject carefully the author will not like the result, and the public will complain because the artist has given them more than the author was able to make them see for themselves, or else they will demand a photograph because he has made them look at nature with his eyes. however, it cannot any longer be said that the illustrator's life is not reasonably successful. the paris exhibition of brought the gold medal, to which i have referred, to vierge for these very drawings, and the french nation has since decorated him, and in his case it certainly was a reward for merit and nothing else. then, also, in illustrating a book like _pablo_, of course a certain amount of latitude was allowable. the artist could pick and choose his architecture in the most picturesque spots of spain, and produce a harmonious whole. nor did he have to consider quevedo's personal whims; in this case the author, being dead, could not demand that the artist should illustrate exactly those portions of his work which are not illustratable, or which do not appeal to him. he could work away at just the time when he wished to; having no _salon_ to get ready for, he could make his drawings in whatever fashion he chose, trying all kinds of methods and experiments, with no hanging committee to reject him because his originality would cast their own productions into the shade; he could then have his drawings joyfully accepted by a publisher, and work sympathetically with the engraver and printer. but it was just when he thought success within his grasp, and the book was almost finished, that he was paralysed. vierge's case, so far as the first edition of _pablo_ is concerned, is one of the most cruel. the relations of artists and publishers that is, publishers who understand the production of fine books--have usually been happy. but there are exceptions. i cannot point out whether these drawings, from the author's point of view, illustrate the text. i have never read the whole book. but i only care to consider the illustrations as the most remarkable series of little pictures in black and white that have been produced. that this will be admitted i do not believe for a minute. more probably dürer or botticelli will be cited, and the nobility of their composition extolled, and the purity of their ideals dilated upon, while the meanness of vierge's imagination, and the baseness of his ideals, are exhibited as a painful contrast. i find, however, vierge's true and brilliant realism much more interesting than the conventional idealism of the past. the man who can interest and delight you by the way he draws an old shoe, or a broken pot, as vierge has done, is quite as great as he who must take a heavenly host to produce the same impression. and from the point of view of technique vierge's work is the most perfect that has been done, and it is this quality alone--that is technique--which has made the reputation of rembrandt and velasquez. it is not because of its subject that a picture is great, but because of the manner in which it is worked out. to rank subject above execution, from which it is absolutely inseparable, is intolerable to the artist, and is merely a device of the inartistic to palm off their incompetent productions. nowhere save among teutonic nations would it be necessary to make this explanation. but in a land where _art_ with a _mission_, and a big _a_, has descended upon the people, it cannot be too strongly insisted upon. it may be well, therefore, to show wherein the greatness of vierge's technique lies. it is most evident in his power of expressing many facts with the fewest possible lines. each one of these lines is put down with the thought of the engraver for ever in his mind. this, however, does not mean that he is less free in his handling. it merely implies his complete command of his materials. the art of leaving out, and yet conveying the right impression, probably is the most difficult in the world. like all art, which is most subtle, it appears ridiculously easy. every line is drawn with the utmost care--a care so great that it is not apparent. the figures in the little pictures are worked out with a thorough knowledge of anatomy. the architecture and landscapes, and especially one or two drawings of mountains, have been studied and rendered in marvellous fashion. all these pictures are filled with the sunlight and atmosphere of the south; and all look so simple and so slight that anyone would think he could almost do them himself. possibly he could--almost. for the boundary between good work and bad is nearly imperceptible; in fact, it is quite so except to a few artists. and it is really only to those few artists that a work of art does truly appeal in its entirety. this, as a whole, is the last and the most important complete work which vierge has ever produced. but for a man who probably has so many working years before him--vierge cannot be much more than forty--it may be the first of a long series of masterpieces. i know that he has schemes for such work in his head, and he has now found the most important person for an illustrator--a publisher. but even should he never be able to realise his dreams of illustrating the great authors of his own country, he has already done more than most men: not only has he produced work which has delighted the artistic world, work which will live, but he has created a method and a science of illustration acknowledged by the few to be hitherto unequalled for brilliancy of execution and adaptability for the printing press. joseph pennell. note.--at my request, vierge has furnished the following brief details of so much of his life and work as he wishes to make public:-- _ fevrier, ._ _ ...je suis né le mars, , des l'âge de ans je commençais à crayonner, il parait que c'était mon seul amusement d'enfant; mon pêre me voyant des dispositions serieuses pour le dessin me fit travailler sans relâche._ _ma santé jusqu'à ans était délicate; pour ce motif mes parents ont quetté la ville, pour habiter un endroit, prés de madrid, nommé pinto, et là tout en remettant ma santé du matin au soir je prenais des croquis d'après nature._ _en j'entrais à l'école des beaux arts de madrid, j'avais comme maîtres_, madrazo, fédérico, m. de hatt, borglini, _etc. en , le juillet, j'obtonais une mention honorable notée excelente. en , le juillet, même récompense; en , le juin, un diplome d'honneur. c'est à cette époque que j'ai illustré_ "madrid la nuit," _écrit par_ eusebio blasco; "les mystéres de rome et du globe." _a la suite au musée de madrid, j'ai copié quantité d'études de peinture d'après_ velasquez _et_ gohia. _en j'arrivais à paris avec l'espoire de ne faire que de la peinture, à peine dans cette ville la guerre franco-allemande éclata, par cet incident je me suis trouvé accaparé par_ "le monde illustré" _et par_ "la vie moderne." _a cette même époque j'ai illustré quantité de livres, entres autres_, "les travailleurs de la mer," "année terrible," "notre-dame de paris" _et d'autres écrits par_ victor hugo; "la mosaïque," "le musée des familles," "le magasin pitoresque," "le grand tacagno" _de_ quevedo, "les contes" _d_'edgar poe, _et aussi_ "l'histoire de france et la revolution" _de_ michelet _et quantité d'autres. en je fus nommé commandant ordinaire de la reine d'espagne isabelle la catholique. le septembre, , j'ai reçu la médaille d'or à l'exposition universelle de paris de , et le novembre, , ma décoration de chevalier de la légion d'honneur...._ vierge. quevedo and his works: _with an essay on the_ picaresque _novel_. not more unquestioned is cervantes' claim to be the first of spanish humorists than that of quevedo to be the second. among his own countrymen the title, which is generally the more disputable, has been by a singular consensus of opinion assigned to quevedo. the author of _don quixote_ apart, who is with the immortals, there is no greater name among the writers of spain than that of the author of _the visions_, of _don pablo_, of innumerable poems, pamphlets, satires, pieces of wit, and works serious, moral, sportive, and fanciful. in that golden age, prolific of authors, the hundred years between the birth of cervantes and the prime of calderon, there was no genius so fruitful in every kind of intellectual product. poet, politician, humorist, satirist, theologian, moralist, historian, novelist--quevedo stands out a prodigy of learning, wit, and quick and various invention, even among the crowd of gifted writers who made that period famous in letters. he has been called the spanish juvenal--the spanish ovid--the spanish lucian. he is something of all these, and yet is unlike any of them. he wrote lyrics with the grace, simplicity, and ease of horace. he is as prodigal of humour as rabelais, whom he resembles also in his unfastidiousness, his obscurity, and his extravagance. he has been likened to our english swift, to whom he is akin in the quality of his mordant wit, and almost approaches in his anti-humanity; but he is lacking in the creative force of the author of _gulliver_. not unlike swift was quevedo in fortune as in genius, for it was disappointed ambition which wore out his heart and drove him to satire, to visions, and assaults on human folly and vice. from his earliest years quevedo was marked for distinction. when scarcely more than twenty-three he corresponded with the great scholars of germany and the low countries, the great lipsius hailing him as _magnum decus hispanorum_, and in complimentary epistles urging him to undertake the vindication of homer. if we may believe the contemporary records, quevedo had by this time acquired all profane knowledge and human learning. he was versed in all the languages, even hebrew, greek, and arabic. he began to write early, and continued to write during the whole of his busy and turbulent life, with an industry, energy, and fecundity which made him the wonder of his age. the catalogue of his works embraces every department of authorship, and there appears to be no species of composition, from an exhortation to a holy life to the more than ribald canzonet, which he did not attempt. the gayest themes were as much to his mind as the gravest studies, and from _paul the apostle_ he could pass at will to _paul the sharper_, with no apparent effort of wit or strain of conscience. some of his works have been lost, but enough remains to testify to the astonishing vigour, exuberance, and versatility of his genius. there are religious treatises and biographies of saints, a _defence of the faith_, and a homily on the sacred cradle and sepulchre. there is a metrical translation of _epictetus_, and another of (the false) _phocylides_. there is a life of _marcus brutus_. there are letters to kings and statesmen, and tracts on the currency. there are satires in verse and lampoons in prose. there are poems, odes, ballads, and sonnets innumerable. even the drama he did not leave unattempted, though his comedies have perished, together with many other works, including _considerations on the new testament_ and a _treatise on the immortality of the soul_. finally, there is the _picaresque_ novel here presented to the english reader under the title of _don pablo de segovia_, or _paul the sharper_. francisco de quevedo, or, to give him his full title, francisco de gomez de quevedo villegas, was born at madrid on the th of september, . he was thus thirty-three years younger than cervantes, eighteen years younger than lope de vega, and some twenty years older than calderon. his father had been a servant to the emperor charles v., and his mother was a lady in attendance upon philip ii.'s fourth wife, anne of austria. the family of quevedo drew its source from the mountains of old castile, near burgos. this was a circumstance of which every good spaniard of the age was proud, as proving that he was descended from the pure gothic race, who maintained their hold of the soil even after the moorish invasion, and therefore was an _old christian_, of blood unmixed with moor or jew. from his parents' position the young francisco must have been early trained in the life of the court and brought into contact with those who dispensed the power and patronage of the king. he was educated at the university of alcalá de henares, then in the height of its fame. at fifteen he graduated in theology, and soon afterwards acquired great distinction for his attainments in the civil and common law and in the learned languages. that he was early distinguished as a scholar is proved by his correspondence with lipsius and other foreign men of learning, by whom he was addressed as an equal. for some time, however, quevedo seems to have lived the usual life of a gay cavalier of the court, indulging, as he confesses himself, in the pleasures of his age and the time, and taking part in those adventures which formed matter for his lighter works. at twenty-three he was already a poet distinguished enough to be included in espinosa's _flores de poetas ilustres_ ( ). a few years afterwards was published the first collection of his prose satires, which are better known to the world as _visions_--the _zahurdas de pluton_ (_pigstyes of pluto_), with a dedication to the conde de lemos--a mæcenas of the period, to whom afterwards cervantes dedicated the second part of his _don quixote_. the pieces which are known as _visions_ are among the most characteristic and original, as they have been the most popular, of all quevedo's works. they bear such titles as _el sueño de las calaveras_ (_the dream of skulls_); _el alguacil alguacilado_ (_the catchpole caught_); _visita de los chistes_ (_visitation of the jests_); _el mundo por de dentro_ (_the world inside out_); _el entremetido, la dueña, y el soplon_ (_the intermeddler, the duenna, and the informer_); and (the authorship of which is more doubtful) _la casa de los locos de amor_ (_the house of the love-madmen_). these, which were published at various times, are satires of a kind then new to the world, or known only in the works of lucian; audacious and somewhat extravagant of conception; abounding in wit, in fancy, and in humour; various in character and in design, but all intended to ridicule or censure some reigning folly or vice or abuse. they have been called _visions_ because most of them are cast in the form of dreams, in which the author takes us into the world below, among the devil and his attendants, who are introduced with many lively touches of wit and strokes of humour. it is an invention which has been in favour with poets and satirists of all time, from lucian to dante, and from dante to lord byron. by these _visions_ (by himself never so called collectively) the name of quevedo has been chiefly made known out of spain. they are among the most characteristic of his works, in which his audacious humour and impetuous fancy found full exercise and a congenial element. they have been often translated into the various european languages, and were much read and quoted in the commerce of letters. besides these, the _visions_ proper, which are serious satires levelled at the abuses and the evils of the times, there were numerous other squibs, jests, and pasquinades, of less solid substance or of lower aim, in rebuke of the fashionable follies or the vulgar tastes, such as _el cuento de los cuentos_ (_the tale of tales_), which is levelled at the excessive use of proverbs; _el caballero de la tenaza_ (_the knight of the forceps_), being the apology of a miser for himself; _la perinola_ (_the teetotum_), which is a personal attack on the fussy and frivolous perez de montalvan, one of quevedo's favourite butts. there are numerous others, of which the very titles are so coarse as not to be fit for mention--ephemeral and obscure, which have died with the occasions which gave them birth. that at least before quevedo was esteemed, by those best capable of judging, as among the best wits of the time, appears from the very flattering notice of him which is contained in cervantes' _viage del parnaso_ (_voyage to parnassus_). he is there called _apollo's son--son of the muse calliope_; and his aid is declared to be absolutely necessary in the war which the god of poetry is about to wage with the bad poets. it is true that cervantes was in the habit of praising almost everybody, but from the warmth of the terms used, and from other indications in quevedo's own works, we may infer that the two greatest wits of the period had, as great wits rarely have, a just appreciation of each other. lope de vega also, who was of a different order of genius, as well of a nature dissimilar, ever suspicious of a rival and jealous of the applause given to another, could bring himself to speak of quevedo in his _laurel de apolo_ as _prince of the lyric poets_, the juvenal of spanish verse, who might rival pindar and replace apollo himself if the god were to fail. but before quevedo had made his name in letters he was destined to earn distinction in a public career, which afforded him a rare opportunity for displaying the versatility of his talents and the soundness of his judgment. debarred from the profession of arms by his physical infirmity--he was lame of both feet from his birth--he was driven to seek a career in civil employment. an adventure which befell him at madrid served to fix his destiny. being in a church at madrid during the holy week, he saw a gallant of the court offer a gross insult to a modest woman. he interfered to protect her, swords were drawn, and quevedo slew the aggressor. the slain man being discovered to be a person of rank, nearly related to those who had power at court, quevedo was forced to fly the country, taking refuge in sicily, then a dependency of spain. the governor or viceroy of the island was don pedro tellez giron, duke of osuna, a powerful grandee, of whom it was said that _nature made him a very little gentleman and his deeds a very great lord_; a man of mark in the civil and military transactions of philip iii. quevedo was made his secretary by the duke, and employed in many delicate and important affairs of state, in all of which he is declared to have proved, on the duke's own testimony, his prudence, courage, and ability. the duke of osuna was transferred, in , from the government of sicily to that of naples, and thither he was followed by quevedo, who was made minister of finance. in the interval between his employment in sicily and his higher office at naples, quevedo was despatched to madrid on a confidential mission in connection with the revenues of the island, and was able to commend himself so greatly to the authorities that the affair of the fatal duel was condoned and a pension of four hundred ducats bestowed on him. at naples quevedo discharged his duties of financial secretary with great ability and conspicuous success, so that we are told that, while he reduced the burdens of the people, he augmented the revenues of the state. during the years following he seems to have been employed in various high and secret diplomatic businesses in connection with the policy of the ambitious and turbulent duke, his master, being entrusted with the duties of a plenipotentiary at rome and at venice, and managing them, according to the contemporary historians, with much address and discretion. in the course of his political adventures quevedo was involved, in , in that strange affair among conspiracies which has since been so great a puzzle to historians, the so-called _conjuracion de venise_, which has furnished st. real with a subject for his history, and otway with characters and a plot for his tragedy. whether there really was, on the part of the spanish viceroy of naples, an attempt to overthrow the government of the venetian republic, or whether, as later historians are inclined to believe, the whole business was planned by the agents of the venetian senate to enable them to reach certain of their political enemies, is a question which is still under controversy--a controversy in which we are not concerned to take a part. certain it is that quevedo contrived, as an agent of spain, to make himself a person the most ungrateful to the republic, which pursued him, for some months afterwards, with a fury of hate and bitterness of malice, which, though flattering to his character of political _intriguant_, seem irreconcilable with the theory of his innocence. he even ran a narrow risk of losing his life when on a visit, apparently secret and unauthorized, to venice. he was chased by the officers of justice, and only escaped, we are told, through the completeness of his disguise, being habited in the rags of a beggar, and his perfect command of the venetian dialect. he had the honour of being afterwards burnt in effigy, a compliment he returned by pouring a stream of invective on venice and her government out of the resources of his abundant rhetoric. venice he called _the lumber-house of the world--the toll-booth of princes--a republic such as cannot be credited and cannot be forgotten--greater than it is fitting for her to be, and less than she gives herself out to be; powerful in treaties, and feeble in power; sumptuous in arsenals, profuse in ships; terrible to those who fear the hulks of a fleet, where fleet is none--a dominion which exposes the hollowness of many fears. it is a state the more prone to dissensions of all that exist, more hurtful to her friends than to her enemies, whose embrace is a peaceful war_,--with a good deal else, in a tone which savours of very bitter recollections. quevedo had now arrived at the zenith of his fame and fortunes. in he was in madrid, where he was received with great honour by the king, philip iii., and his minister, the all-powerful duke of lerma. he was advanced to the much-coveted distinction of a knight of the order of santiago. the highest posts seemed to be awaiting him at home, through favour of the feeble and besotted king, then under the influence of a corrupt and incapable favourite, who was himself ruled by his minion, don rodrigo calderon. the ambition of quevedo, as all his serious works clearly show, was rather for power as a man of affairs than for fame as a man of letters. but now he was destined to encounter a sudden change of fortune. the death of philip iii. brought to the throne, in , his son, philip iv., then a lad of seventeen, under the dominion of his gentleman of the bedchamber, known to history as the count-duke olivares. all the principal officers of the late administration were dismissed in disgrace. even the powerful and able duke of osuna, whose brilliant and successful rule in naples had shed so much lustre on the reign of the feeble philip iii., was recalled from his post. his ministers and secretaries were involved in his fate. quevedo was sentenced to exile from court, and confined to his patrimonial village of la torre de juan abad, where he was kept in a kind of imprisonment for more than three years. to a man of his fervid temperament and aspiring hopes this was a punishment worse than death, which seems for ever after to have embittered his soul and soured his temper. writing to the president of castile to complain of his miserable state and the treatment to which he was subjected, he tells him that _he had seen many men condemned to death, but no one condemned to make away with himself_. he was ultimately allowed to go free without being told of what charge there had been against him or any reason given for his detention. henceforth quevedo seems to have abandoned all hopes of preferment at court, exhibiting more philosophy and more steadfastness in his resolve to abstain from further thoughts of political life than other men of letters have shown, in a similar turn of fate, who have been endowed with the same taste for the delights of office. he seems to have recovered some portion of the royal favour. he was offered various high posts in the state, among others the embassy to genoa, but he refused them, and would only accept the honorary title of king's secretary. he did not wholly exclude himself from politics, however, but, like swift, continued to vex himself with public affairs, showing by his sensibility to the follies and errors of statesmen where his heart lay, and what was the secret of the _saeva indignatio_ by which he was tortured. he was free with his pen in condemnation of crying abuses and defects in the administration. he was prolific of letters, pamphlets, and satires in prose and verse, all written with a boldness and freedom to which the age was unaccustomed, which brought their author frequently into trouble. he assailed a scheme for the debasement of the coinage with a courage and a power of wit and sarcasm such as were not excelled even by the famous drapier, on the same theme, a hundred years later. he exposed certain abuses in the distribution of the patronage of the military order of santiago with a fearlessness which cost him another period of banishment from court. he wrote letters to the king of france (louis xiii.) and others, more or less directly impugning the conduct of affairs then under the worthless favourite, the count-duke of olivares. in quevedo, being in his fifty-fourth year, married--to the surprise, and somewhat to the amusement, of his friends. his way of life hitherto had scarcely been such as to proclaim his confidence in the married state; and a letter which he had written to his friend, the widowed duchess of lerma, on the qualities required of a wife, had seemed to set his standard of taste so high as to condemn him to celibacy. his wife died soon after their marriage, leaving quevedo with fresh troubles, arising out of his satirical humour, or rather from his reputation for satire. he had betaken himself, after his wife's death, to his country retreat at torre de juan abad to seek consolation in literature; and this was probably his busiest period of production. he wrote a life of marcus brutus, of which the scarcely concealed intention was to point to the cæsar who then tyrannized over spain. he aimed satires in verse, after the classical model, at the reigning favourite. he wrote the _politica de dios y gobierno de cristo_ (_policy of god and government of christ_), which, under the guise of a religious work, was a biting satire on the king and the count-duke. he wrote other works, some of which have perished, distinguished by elegance of style and energy of expression, none of them deserving of more than a passing mention, and all belonging rather to the political history than to the literature of spain. to this period also, probably, are to be referred the greater part of those satirical works, under the name of _visions_, which have chiefly contributed to make the name of quevedo known to the nations outside of spain--those bitter, half-humorous, half-serious, and all-fantastical inventions, such as _the dream of skulls_ and _the world inside out_. in , when it might have seemed to him that fortune had already done her worst to plague him, and he had no more either to hope or fear from kings or ministers, there happened to quevedo the worst of all the calamities which marked his busy and troubled life. a satirical sonnet was found under the king's napkin at supper, which contained violent reflections on the government of the count-duke olivares. quevedo was believed to be the author, and, without any inquiry or trial, he was seized at dead of night, in the duke of medina celi's palace, and hurried off to a dungeon under the cells of the royal convent of san marcos at leon. here he was kept in strict confinement for nearly four years, in spite of a pitiful appeal to olivares, in which, while protesting his innocence of the offence imputed to him, quevedo wrote: _no clemency can add many years to my life; no rigour can take many away_. he was asked to declare which of the many satires there were going about were his and which were not, but he returned a proud and disdainful answer. the real author of the lampoon for which quevedo was punished was discovered soon after, but this made little or no difference in the treatment to which he was subjected. in vain did he entreat the count-duke for justice and relief. he pleaded that he was blind of the left eye, crippled, and afflicted with ulcers, declaring that he sought not liberty but change of regimen and of prison, _and this change, the gospel says, christ granted to a great number of devils who besought it of him_. in vain were all these pleas. they were probably glad to be able to silence, on any pretext, that bold and biting tongue, which had already done so much to proclaim to posterity the iniquities of the government. it was not until after the fall of the count-duke himself, amidst the rejoicings of the whole nation, that quevedo was restored to liberty. but his four years' imprisonment, during part of which time he had been treated, as he complains, _like a wild beast_ shut up alone without human intercourse, had ruined his health and broken his spirits. his estate had been sequestrated, and he was never able to recover more than a small part of it, so that poverty was added, for the first time in his life, to his other trials. worn out by his infirmities, he died at last, of an imposthume in the chest, contracted during his imprisonment in a damp cell of the convent, on the th of september, , having previously made his peace with god and the church in the usual manner. more fortunate than his master and great contemporary, cervantes, quevedo survives in canvas and in marble, so that we are able to realize the external features of the man. his portrait by velasquez, representing him with a huge pair of spectacles on his nose and the cross of santiago on his left bosom, is that by which he is best known. there is also a bust of him in the public library at madrid. the first of his biographers, the neapolitan tarsia, has drawn this picture of him, evidently from recollection, in words: _quevedo was of middling stature; his hair black and somewhat frizzled_ (encrespado), _his eyes very brilliant, but so short of sight that he constantly wore spectacles; the nose and other features well proportioned; and of a medium frame well made above, although lame and crippled in both feet, which were twisted inwards; somewhat bulky without being misshapen; very fair of countenance, and in the main with all those marks co-existent in his person which physiognomists commend as indicating a good temperament and a virtuous disposition_. his biography by tarsia, published in , is a dull and tedious piece of work. by far the best account of quevedo is that which i have made the basis of this sketch, the biography attached to the only complete collection of quevedo's works, by don aureliano fernandez guerra y orbe, which forms three volumes in rivadeneyra's _biblioteca de los autores españoles_. the _essai sur la vie et les oeuvres de quevedo_, by ernest merimée (paris, ), is a careful and painstaking work, of which the materials have been taken from guerra y orbe. to judge the character of the man is easier for posterity than to estimate the worth of his products in literature. the greater part of his writings, those which brought him most fame in his lifetime, men have ceased to read even in spain itself. of the eleven octavo volumes which constituted the first complete edition of quevedo's works ( - ) it may be said that it would be no loss to the world had three-fourths shared the doom which their author, on his death-bed, requested might overtake them all. the orthodox would thus have been saved much scandal, the expurgators a great deal of trouble, the critics and the commentators an endless amount of curious inquiry. the theology and the politics (these in quevedo are much confused) have already perished. the satires have been visited by the destiny which invariably attends the works of wit which are dedicated to passing uses, when literature stoops to the service of politics. but while the graver works of quevedo, those which won him the applause of the learned and the favour of the great, have perished or are sunk into oblivion, there have survived enough of those lighter pieces born of his humour or his fancy, which he could scarcely be got to own in his lifetime, to keep his name alive and to secure for him a permanent place in literature. his lyrics are among the best in the language, and still keep their place in every collection of classic castilian poetry. those written in his early days, which include odes, sonnets, ballads, _quintillas_, and _redondillas_, mostly cast in a light and graceful mould, are distinguished for elegance of language, delicacy of fancy, and simple, tender expression. his burlesque poems (which include some pieces of a breadth such as excludes them from polite society), written in the _picaresque_ dialect, of which, like cervantes, he was a past master--the _jácaras_, in which the people, the _gitanos_, the _jaques_, and the _buzos_, speak the language of _germania_--the _langue verte_ of spain--are said still to be heard in the country, sung to the strumming of guitars. his regular verse is chiefly satire in the manner of juvenal, against the corruption of morals and the evils of misgovernment. of his prose writings the best are those which are purely sportive and fanciful, without serious intention, as the _visita de los chistes_, where he makes pleasant fun of the personages which figure in the old proverbs and popular sayings, as mateo pico, who is enshrined in the phrase, _no dijerá mas mateo pico_; agrages, the boaster from _amadis of gaul_, who is for ever quoted as saying, _agora lo verédes_ (see _don quixote, passim_); pero grullo, the prophet who prophesied only of what he knew had come to pass; calainos, of the ballad _cabalgaba calainos_; don diego de noche; marta, who is for ever expressing her satisfaction that though she died she died with a bellyful; and villadiego, whose breeches have immortalized his name; with juan ramos, and the rest. the fun which quevedo makes out of this flimsy material is only to be understood by those who know the proverbs of spain, and the great part they play in the national talk and literature. less innocent, perhaps, are some of quevedo's other burlesque pieces, which neither gods, men, nor county councillors may allow. in these the poet sins, however, more from carelessness of humour than grossness of imagination. it is not his ideas that are nasty so much as his words which are coarse. he uses words at random, and is reckless of the effect produced, letting his fancy run away with his pen, to the detriment of his art. he is wanting in the exquisite simplicity and delicacy of the master of whose work he was a chief admirer, whose style he followed, and in whose path he attempted to walk--his friend, miguel de cervantes. so passionate was his love for _don quixote_ that we are told he would throw down the book in an ecstasy and declare that he would gladly burn all his works to be able to write something like _don quixote_. between the two wits it is pleasant to record that there was nothing like jealousy. cervantes, in the references he makes to quevedo, seems to speak with more than his wonted kindliness of the younger man, as though from personal intimacy. in the _voyage to parnassus_ quevedo is rallied upon his lameness with a freedom which only a friend might take. in summing up the roll of the good poets who are to be apollo's allies in the winning of parnassus, the name of quevedo is last on the list. but cervantes interrupts the god-messenger to remind him of quevedo's infirmity:-- _scarce can francisco de quevedo be_ _in time, i said. nay, quoth he, on this cruise_ _i do not go, unless he go with me;_ _he is apollo's son, son of the muse_ _calliope; we cannot, it is clear,_ _go hence without him; i do not choose;_ _he is the scourge of all the poets drear,_ _and from parnassus, at the point of wit,_ _will chase the miscreants we expect and fear!_ _my lord, i said, his pace is most unfit,_ _he'll be a century upon the route!_ _quoth mercury: it matters not a whit;_ _for be the poet gentleman to boot,_ _upon a dappled cloud, and through the air,_ _he shall be borne, his courtly taste to suit!_[ ] in the delightful prose appendix to the same poem, the _adjunta al parnaso_, don pancracio de roncesvalles brings to cervantes' house a letter from the god apollo, dated the nd of july, . in this there is another reference to quevedo: _if don francisco de quevedo hath not left for sicily, where they await him, seize him by the hand and tell him he must not fail to visit me in a neighbourly way; for his late sudden departure gave me no time to talk with him._ quevedo's worldly circumstances, as the owner of a landed estate, and his rank in the public service under the powerful duke of osuna, kept him, happily, free from that necessity of writing for bread which oppressed the fine genius but could not stifle the kind heart of the author of _don quixote_. but they did not preserve him from the envy of his other less fortunate brothers of the pen. with lope de vega, with whom he could have no rivalry, whom he survived ten years, his relations seem to have been tolerably friendly--that is to say, they exchanged compliments and commendatory sonnets. with góngora there was too much similarity of humour to be much love. they had various tilts at each other, in which there was too much venom spilt for either to emerge with honour. when góngora abandoned his early simplicity of style and took to that affected and extravagant way of writing which came to be called after him, _gongorismo_, which corresponded to the disease called _euphuism_ in england and _marinism_ in italy--quevedo took up his lance against the intruder and in defence of the language, writing a pamphlet, _la culta latiniparla_, in which, under the guise of a catechism for the instruction of ladies of culture in the new way of speech, he quizzes his rival and the new invention very happily. a french critic and student of spanish letters, m. germond de lavigne, in his account of quevedo, has shown himself so far lost to the sense of humour as to call this piece _un discours critique litteraire_; which is as though we should class swift's _argument against the abolition of christianity_ among works of devotion. quevedo's wit had little effect in checking the depraved fashion of writing; and it is sad to tell that he himself, in his later years, was infected with the barbarous taste, and gongorized like the rest. góngora bitterly resented the attack upon his style, and there passed between the two much dyslogistic verse in the shape of epigram and sonnet. góngora relieves his feelings by a poem in which he charges his critic with being no great scholar, and with _wandering slow with heavy pace_--one who _sleeps in spanish and dreams in greek_--insinuating that he is unsound in his religion. in another sonnet góngora sneers at his critic's learning, his limping gait, and his blindness, laughs at his red cross of santiago, and his adventures, calling him _borracho_ (drunkard), _pedante gofo_ (stupid pedant), _muy crítico y muy lego_, &c. quevedo retorted with equal spirit and good taste, reflecting on his rival's origin, and hinting that he was no better catholic than he should be:-- _he de untarte mis versos con tocino_ _porque no me los roas, gongorilla._ (i have to anoint my verses with bacon fat that you may not gnaw them, gongorilla.) the point of which jest, heightened by the contemptuous diminutive, lies in the hint that góngora, then a priest in orders, was no _old christian_, but either jew or morisco. another enemy of quevedo was perez de montalvan, a writer of plays the favourite disciple, parasite, and bully of lope de vega--whom our satirist was fond of assailing in verse and prose for his dogmatism, his arrogance and his _inscrutable ignorance_. montalvan took his revenge in a volume entitled _el tribunal de la justa venganza_, written under an assumed name, in which quevedo's satirical works are tried and condemned for their offences against religion and morality. among the works of quevedo, that which, perhaps, is most characteristic of his genius, and most valuable as a picture of contemporary life and manners, is _don pablo de segovia_, here presented in an english dress, and, as we venture to believe, in a most appropriate and harmonious setting, through the art of m. vierge. _don pablo de segovia_, otherwise known as _el gran tacaño_ (_the great sharper_), is a prime sample of that species of romance which was native of the soil of spain--there first engendered at least, and flourishing nowhere else in the same vigour and luxuriance--the _picaresque_ novel. the _picaro_--from _picar_, to peck, to nibble at--if he was not a special product of spain, throve there in the sixteenth century as he did nowhere else in the nations. he was not necessarily a rogue, but always a vagabond. he was one who was at odds with the world--a remnant left over in the making of society--a survival of the age gone by. of his order were all the broken men of the time--a time in which there was much breaking of men--those who lived by their wits on the witless, the mumpers and beggars, strolling quacks, sham pilgrims, charm-sellers, discharged or runaway soldiers, thieves by profession and knaves by necessity, gypsies, bullies and bravoes, jail-birds, roughs, prisoners, and the baser sort of parasites--the excrement of life, the scum and draff of society. in this kind of material, admirable stuff for the humorist and the painter, spain was especially rich in the sixteenth century. a capital sample of the accomplished _picaro_ is ginés de pasamonte, the galley-slave freed by _don quixote_, who robbed _sancho_ of his ass, and afterwards appeared as _master peter_, the puppet-showman. he is the typical rogue, whose model in youth, in manhood, and in age is to be found on the canvas of velasquez and of murillo. he is a stock figure in the national drama. he must have been a familiar sight to the spaniards of that age, standing at every street corner, every convent door. he was as common as the poor poet in the market-place. the favourite haunts of the _picaresque_ gentry, the bohemian and the alsatian, are they not enumerated by the roguish inn-keeper in _don quixote_, himself one of the craft, who plays so deftly upon the knight and his humour?--_the fish-market of malaga, the islets of riarán, the compass of seville, the aqueduct-square of segovia, the olive grove of valencia, the suburbs of granada, the strand of san lucar, the clot-fountain of cordova, the pot-houses of toledo._[ ] the causes of this rank growth of the _picaresque_ element in spain are to be sought in the national history. the long series of exhausting wars in the netherlands and in italy; the discovery and development of america; the monstrous multiplication of monks, priests, and religious houses during the reigns of philip and of his successor--these three, the chief causes of spain's decadence, may be taken to account for the poverty, and the vice, and the bitterness of the struggle for existence, of which the _picaresque_ order, in its extraordinary luxuriance, was the outgrowth. the cutpurses, the beggars, the professional rogues and sharpers, were but the product of the unwholesome working of the organs of life--the remainder ruffianry of that period of diseased energy. the internal corruption, of which they were the signs, was the consequence of the fever which shook the frame and the fury which stirred the blood of spain during all that period of seeming grandeur but of real disease. the _picaro_ was the adventurer who had missed his chance in the general scramble, who did not or could not go to flanders or to america, or who, having been, had returned empty. he was the _conquistador_ out of date--the gold-seeker run to seed. how near he was to the failures of the church--the vagabond friar, the religious mendicant--is clearly seen from this story of _paul the sharper_, as well as from the other tales of the class. the peace of , which secured the independence of holland and put an end to the long war in the low countries, only aggravated the evil condition of spain, by filling the country with a swarm of needy adventurers and disabled and discharged soldiers, for whom the state made no provision. how fruitful a source of demoralization and misery they were we may learn from all the literature of the period, from _don quixote_ downwards. as for america, the reaction of the tide which brought wealth and new life to spain had set in even before the middle of the sixteenth century. the flood which carried all the men of enterprise and independent spirit to peru or to mexico had left spain drained of her best life-blood. the sudden influx of gold tended to sharpen the distinction between rich and poor--to make it more difficult for the poor to live, while spoiling them for honesty. the old castilian simplicity of life was destroyed, and the antique honour, the legacy left by the heroic age which closed with the fall of granada, corrupted. the new rich introduced luxuries and vices which till then had been alien to the spanish character. the fortunate adventurers who came back from the new world were as great a terror to public morals through their extravagance and their recklessness, as the unsuccessful through their destitution and despair. the national inclination to the sins of pride, idleness, and boastfulness--how could it happen but that it should be enormously fostered and heightened by the easy conquests in america, following upon the shrinking of the martial power and the prodigious swelling of the ecclesiastical? with nearly ten thousand monasteries and nunneries, and more than thirty thousand monks, of the two orders, franciscan and dominican, alone--is it a wonder that the spain of philip iii. should be hastening to decay? the _picaro_ was the fungus which grew out of this mass of corruption. to these running sores was added the expulsion of the moriscoes under philip iii.--an act of cruelty equally base, barbarous, and stupid, of which the direct consequences were an increase in the cost of life, the stagnation of trade, and the decline of industry, commerce, and agriculture. the blow which reduced the forces of national industry by nearly a million of honest, hardy, thrifty, and skilful workmen, could not but lead to a great increase of poverty, of vice, and of disorder. on this waste, and out of this rottenness, fattened and throve exceedingly the rank weed _picaro_. the _gusto picaresco_, of which _don pablo de segovia_ is the purest expression, arose in spain upon the decay of the so-called romance of chivalry. indeed, the first book in that kind, _lazarillo de tormes_, was published when the chivalric romance was in full blast, fifty years before _don quixote_ was written; nor is there any evidence to show that the author was actuated by a spite against the prevailing fashion. on the contrary, if the author was, as i presume he was, diego hurtado de mendoza, we know that he was a fond admirer of _amadis_, taking only that book with him and _celestina_--that curious tragi-comedy, which was, in some sense, a forerunner of the _picaresque_ novel--when despatched to the eternal city as ambassador of charles v. there was a close connection between the romantical books of the later period and the earliest of the _picaresque_ stories. the _picaro_, in fact, is the direct descendant and the legitimate child of the debased knight-errant. the public were beginning to get weary of the endless histories of the knights-adventurers--all equally puissant and valorous--and longed for common food. it was not the adventurers, however, of which people were sick, but of the dull and stupid books which pretended to tell of their exploits. whatever chivalry there was in spain had died out before the blighting influence of the second philip--that antithesis incarnate of all romance. the taste for low life was a natural and to a great extent a healthy reaction from the unwholesome diet, miscalled romance and of chivalry, on which the people had fed. the successor of the knight-errant, the _picaro_, was a good deal like the last of the line preceding, with much the same features. he was more picturesque than the knight-errant, and no greater rogue. _little lazarus_ and his kin, _paul the sharper_, _justina_, _rinconete_, and _cortadillo_, spoke at least the language of the people. it was a return to nature--the triumph of the real over the romantic--a veritable revolution, which doubtless led the way to a healthier taste and a higher art. the revolt against the old style was headed by the book which still stands at the head of _picaresque_ literature, _lazarillo de tormes_--the work, according to the best tradition and authority, of the famous castilian statesman, diplomatist, and writer, diego hurtado de mendoza. i write this with full cognizance of the attempt recently made by m. morel-fatio, in the _revue de deux mondes_, to deprive mendoza of that honour. it is contended by m. morel-fatio that there is no direct evidence of mendoza's being the author of _lazarillo_; that he never claimed it as his writing; that it was only attributed to him fifty years after his death; and that an equal if not superior claim is that of father juan de ortega, general of the order of hieronymite monks, to whom the book is ascribed by a monk of his fraternity, in a work published in . the arguments by which m. morel-fatio maintains his theory seem to me to be wholly insufficient against mendoza's claim, and extravagantly wild and weak in favour of ortega's. it is true that mendoza never declared himself to be the author of _lazarillo de tormes_. there was ample reason why he should not. the book was first published in ; and immediately on its appearance was suppressed by order of the inquisition, and put in the _index expurgatorius_. but in mendoza was at the very climax of his public reputation, having just returned from italy with great credit as charles v.'s ambassador to the pope. it was scarcely a time which he would choose to put his name to a book which had been declared offensive to faith and morals, in which the abuses of the church were boldly attacked, and even its ceremonies ridiculed. the next year philip ii. came to the throne, when mendoza found himself in disgrace, and had to retire to his estates. it was a period still less favourable for his appearing as the author of a loose and ribald book called _lazarillo de tormes_. again, it is contended that mendoza, a grave and haughty noble, of the proudest family in spain, who aspired to high place and power at court, could hardly have written such a story, dealing with low life and vulgar people. but mendoza was a man of varied accomplishments, of wide knowledge of life, unencumbered with the prejudices of caste and of singular literary gifts, who might have been one of the great authors of spain had he not been content to be a great statesman. he had been trained for the church, had been a student at salamanca, and had served in the spanish armies in italy. he was thus thoroughly well equipped with all that was required to qualify him for loose literature. moreover, as one who had been intended for the priesthood--a calling which he abandoned for soldiership--he could be no friend to the cloth, and was precisely the man to ridicule, as he has done, the abuses of the church and the vices of the priests, even to caricature the _bulero_ and the hawker of indulgences. lastly, there is this further circumstance in support of his claim that he was known to be a lover of popular literature, and had shown precisely the same literary talent, humour, and idiomatic grace which are characteristic of _lazarillo_, in some acknowledged letters, still extant, in which he satirizes, with ample knowledge of their tricks and way of life, the _catariberas_--the needy adventurers and greedy office-seekers of the period. as to ortega, whose claim, first put forth only as a piece of rumour--and, in such a case, of scandal--in , and never since by any spanish authority repeated--is it necessary to dwell on the absurdity of an ecclesiastic of his eminence writing a book against the vices of his own caste and assailing his own order--a book dealing with the lives of rogues and vagabonds--which had to be suppressed by the church as soon as it appeared? nor has m. morel-fatio been able to produce any scrap of ortega's writing, of character and style like _lazarillo_. priests and monks have, indeed, in that age and in every other, produced much loose literature. it was a priest who wrote _la picara justina_, the dirtiest of its class. it was a dominican monk who is charged with the authorship of the false second part of _don quixote_. without occupying any more of my space on this subject, it is enough to repeat that the weight of testimony since the days of nicolas antonio, the learned and accurate author of the _bibliotheca hispana nova_, to the present time, is in favour of diego hurtado de mendoza as the author of _lazarillo de tormes_. of the _picaresque_ stories, _lazarillo de tormes_, though imperfect and without a proper conclusion, must still be regarded as the first in merit as it was the first in time. it has been the model for all its numerous successors, just as the _amadis of gaul_ of the previous fashion had been the model for the romances of chivalry. for gaiety of humour, the easy and natural tone of life and simplicity of colouring, it has been held in great favour ever since its appearance; by no one relished more than by the author of _don quixote_. the next in date was _guzman de alfarache_, by mateo aleman, a native of seville, of which the first part was published in . this, though almost as popular as its predecessor, and even more frequently reprinted and translated, has been much over-praised. it is, in truth, a somewhat arid and tedious performance, written in a poor style. the hero is less interesting than his class, for he is not only a rogue but a hypocrite, who pretends to deceive himself as much as he deceives others, and aspires to be good and pious, which makes him less picturesque and more immoral than if he were a _picaro_ proper and true. next to follow in that line was the _picara justina_, published in , the work of a dominican whose real name was andrés perez. for the better prevention of scandal, father perez, being likewise the author of divers devotional books, assumed the name of lopez de ubeda. justina has nothing to recommend her, not even her viciousness. she is false, affected, and silly, and worthy to end, as she does, by becoming the wife of guzman de alfarache. the book is perhaps the worst of its class, in art as in ethics, being made additionally nauseous by the moral warnings and tags of virtuous sentiment with which the chapters conclude. perhaps anterior to both _guzman de alfarache_ and _picara justina_, though not published till , were cervantes' two sketches of _picaresque_ life, _rinconete y cortadillo_ and _los perros de mahudes_, the scene of which is laid in the triana, the suburb of seville, then, as now, the favourite home and head-quarters of the _picaresque_ gentry. there is internal evidence to show that both these stories, which are clearly drawn from real life and actual experience, were written before the death of philip ii., in . cervantes resided at seville with his family between and , and there is little doubt that the picture he draws of seville low life is of this period. _rinconete y cortadillo_, in all the qualities of the higher art, must be placed at the head of this species of literature. although only a sketch, it is brimful of humour, wit, and life, drawn with the same delicate and masterly hand which has given us _don quixote_. what is admirable in the picture is the skill with which a repulsive subject is treated, so that, while preserving all its truth, it is redeemed from grossness. there is not a word which is offensive to taste; yet the thieves, the bullies, the _bona robas_, and the other delightful but most improper people, move and breathe and talk as _full of life as if they lived indeed_. in others of his books, cervantes has shown his wide and profound knowledge--doubtless born of actual experience--of this lower order of humanity, as in his _rufian dichoso_, the _fortunate bully_, and in some of his plays and interludes. it is needless to follow in detail the history of the later experiments in the _gusto picaresco_. as we approach later times the stories become duller and more respectable. the _marcos de obregon_ of vicente espinel appeared in . it is a story of adventure abroad rather than of low life at home, not wanting in spirit, and with a more regular construction than most stories of this class, from which le sage has stolen very largely and boldly in his _gil blas_, even appropriating the name of the hero, and giving it to one of his characters. in came another of the _picaresque_ brood, called _alonso, mozo de muchos amos_ (_alonso, servant of many masters_), by one yanez y rivera, which deals with the humours of domestic service. we need not occupy ourselves with the long string of lesser works of this character, which are rather romances of real life than _picaresque_ tales--the _niña de los embustes_ (the _child of tricks_) and the _garduña de sevilla_ (the _she-marten of seville_) of solorzano; the _diablo cojuelo_ (the _lame devil_) of guevara, and _estevanillo gonzalez_, attributed to the same author, which is the pretended autobiography of a buffoon, better known by le sage's french version than in the original. last of all, we come to that which by some is reckoned to be the _picaresque_ novel _par excellence_--the well-known work of le sage himself, in collaboration with many others, called _gil blas_. this, with all its merits, is no _picaresque_ novel at all, except in an oblique sense as being the work of a _picaroon_--a clever theft by an adept in literary conveyance, the very autolycus of authors. while the matter is spanish, the form and, oddly enough, a great deal of the spirit, is french. i will not go into the question of what were the sources from which le sage drew his story. that very spanish and yet curiously french work (_spanish bricks in french mortar_) is a wonderful piece of literary craft, showing a genius in the art of stealing which is equal to that of original composition, and even more rare. but _gil blas_, when all is said, is not a true _picaroon_, of the breed of _lazarillo_ and _rinconete_. he is an impostor, but in another than the true sense. he is a fortune-hunter, who looks closely to the main chance, who descends to be respectable, who aims at a social position, like _jerome paturot_. he marries twice, and lives comfortably in a fine house--a prosperous gentleman, after bidding hope and fortune farewell. he is no more a _picaro_ than _ruy blas_ is a spaniard or djalma an indian prince. of the _picaresque_ novel, which is the special product of spain--never successfully acclimatized in any other country, and as entirely spanish as the _olla_ or the _gazpacho_--one of the purest specimens is _don pablo de segovia (paul the sharper), exemplo de vagamundos y espejo de tacaños--pattern of vagabonds and mirror of rogues_. the book is generally known as _el buscon_, or _el gran tacaño_. the latter title, which is not quevedo's, was made the leading designation of the book after the author's death, and is still that by which the book is most popular in spain. _buscon_ is from _buscar_, to seek, and means a pursuer of fortune, a searcher after the means of life, a _cadger_. _tacaño_ is ingeniously derived by old covarrubias, in the earliest spanish dictionary, from the greek [greek: kakós], being a corruption of _cacaño_; or from the hebrew _tachach_, which is said to mean fraud and deceit. _don pablo_, however his titles may be derived, is generally admitted to be the perfect type of an adventurer of the _picaresque_ school. the book of his exploits, though left, like so many spanish books, unfinished, is described by quevedo's best critic as _of all his writings the freest from affectation, the richest in lively and natural humours, the brightest, simplest, and most perspicuous; in which he comes nearest to the amenity, artlessness, and delightful and delicate style of don quixote_. these praises are not undeserved, although the knight of industry, in his quest of adventures, is very far from being of kin to the warrior of chivalry, the gentle and perfect knight of la mancha. disfigured as it is by all quevedo's faults of style and manner, _don pablo_ deserves to be rescued from the fate to which its faults of language, rather than its defects of taste or its failure in the moral part, have hitherto consigned it, at least in england. as a picture of low, vagabond life, it necessarily deals with vice, but it cannot be said that the vice is rendered attractive. all the characters are bad, in the sense that they all belong to the class who have failed to achieve a decent life. the company is not select in which we move, but it can hardly be said that there is contamination in it any more than we get from looking at hogarth's _gin lane_, or the _borrachos_ of velasquez. from beginning to end _don pablo's_ career is one of undisguised trickery, dissimulation, and lying. all his companions are thieves, or impostors, or rogues, patent or undetected. the scenes are laid almost entirely in the lowest places--in the slums of segovia, of madrid, and of seville, mostly in prison or in some refuge from the law. the manners of the people, men and women, are as repulsive as their morals; and they talk (which is not unusual) after their natures. when we concede all this we admit the worst which can be said of quevedo's work, and impute nothing against the author, either as artist or moralist. it is difficult to imagine any virtue of a texture so frail as to be injured by the reading of _paul the sharper_. there is no vice in the book, even though it deals exclusively with vicious people. there is nothing hurtful in the character of the complete rogue, nor is he painted in any but his natural colours, as a mean, sordid vagabond, who does or says nothing whatever to gild his trade or to embellish his calling. this is the crowning merit of quevedo's book, among those of its class, that there are no shabby tricks played upon the reader, such as other writers of even higher pretensions are guilty of--no attempt to pass off a rogue as though he were a hero in distress--a creature deserving of sympathy, who is only treating the world as the world treated him--a victim of fortune, whose ill-usage by society justifies his attitude towards the social system. there is no sentiment expended over _paul of segovia_. there is no snivelling over his low condition, or railing at his unhappy lot. he is not conscious of his degradation. he is a thief, the son of a thief, with a perfect knowledge of what his mother is; but he makes no secret of his calling, nor indulges in excuses for himself or his family. the other heroes of the _picaresque_ novel make some faint pretence to decent behaviour, but _paul_ never deviates into respectability. he is _picaro_ to the fingers' ends--in either sense. through all his changes of character and of costume he is still rogue, entire and perfect, without any sprouts of honesty or repinings after a better life. the _naïveté_ with which he tells of his exploits, without boasting and without shame, is of the highest art--true to nature, nor offensive to morality. whether he is cheating a jailer or bilking a landlady, dodging the _alguacil_ or bamboozling the old poet, or befooling the nun, or tricking the bully, he is always true to himself, without affectation or conceit of being other than he is. there are no asides, where either the hero or the author (as the bad modern custom is) communes with his conscience, or finds excuses for himself, or draws a moral, or in some way or other imparts to the reader how much superior he (the writer) is to his hero, and how conscious he is of the reader's presence, giving him to understand, in a manner unflattering to his intelligence, how that all that he writes is in joke and not to be taken in bad part. that quevedo does not do so is his chief point of art in the book, which deserves to be ranked among the best of its class, as a chapter out of the great comedy of human life. the simplicity with which the story is told, without those digressions and interruptions to which the spanish story-teller is so prone, make it a work almost unique among books of the kind. for once quevedo has spoken in a language direct and plain, without a riddle or a hidden motive. it is of course a satire, but a satire of the legitimate kind, not upon persons, but upon mankind--against general vice, not against particular sins. the characters of the story, which seems rather to tell itself than to be told, are all such as were the common property of the comic writers of the period, but scarcely anywhere else are they found invested with so much of the breath of life. _don pablo_ himself, his companions, his fellow-students, the crazy old poet, the villainous jailer, the braggart _espadachins_, the poor _hidalgo_, the strolling players, the beggars, the gay ladies, the jail-birds, bullies, and thieves--every member of that unclean company, with all their unsavoury surroundings, is a real, living personage. _don pablo de segovia_ was first published in , at saragossa, and had a great success, several editions being called for before the author's death. there is reason to believe that it was written some years before, being probably circulated in manuscript among the author's friends before being printed, as was the custom of the time. in quevedo had been lately released from the first of his imprisonments at torre de san juan abad, and had partially recovered the favour of the court. it was a period when the printers were most busy with his works--when satires, political apologues, religious tracts, visions, burlesque and piquant odes, fantasies, and calls to devotion were being poured forth abundantly out of his fruitful brain. señor guerra y orbe believes that _don pablo_ was written in . that it was composed before is proved, i think, by the character of the book, which is certainly more juvenile than belongs to a man of forty-six, as well as by a piece of evidence to be found within. in chapter viii., when on the road to torrejon, _don pablo_ comes up with a crazy man mounted on a mule, who proves to be a master of the art of fencing, with several extravagant projects in his brain for the good of the kingdom. among these he has two schemes to propose to the king for the reduction of ostend. now the great siege of ostend, which is doubtless the one referred to, was that which ended, after three years' fighting in which an extraordinary number were slain on both sides, in september, . it is a reasonable conjecture, therefore, that _don pablo_, at least as far as chapter viii., was written prior to this date. the chapters in which the students' adventures at alcalá are described seem to me also to bear internal evidence of having been written when the impression of university life was still fresh upon the author. this theory of the date of _don pablo_ makes the author a young man of twenty-three when the book was composed; and the book itself the third, in order of time, of the _picaresque_ romances, following closely after _guzman de alfarache_. _don pablo de segovia_ has been always popular in its native country, and has been frequently translated into other languages. señor guerra y orbe notes more than forty editions of the original in spain and in the spanish dominions. an italian translation, by juan pedro franco, appeared in at venice. a french version, by geneste, was included among the burlesque works of quevedo, translated into that language in . other early french versions are those of lyons and of brussels. in m. germond de lavigne brought out his translation of _don pablo_ which is spirited and readable, but a good deal changed from the original. portions of other works by quevedo are inserted in the text, a prologue borrowed from the _hora de todos_, and a conclusion added from out of the manufactory of m. lavigne himself. in m. lavigne's latest edition of appeared the first of m. vierge's admirably spirited and characteristic sketches. _don pablo_ was early introduced into the english tongue, though it is perhaps the least known of quevedo's works. the _visions_, translated by the indefatigable sir roger l'estrange, first appeared in , and went through many editions in that and the succeeding century. the english version has the merit, which belongs to all l'estrange's work, of being in good, sound, and vigorous language, lively and not inelegant, but it is far from faithful to the original, the translator taking great liberties with his author in the attempt to bring him up to the level of the _humour of the times_. the _visions_ were much read and often quoted by english writers of the last century. the _buscon_, shorn of much of his stature, was englished by _a person of quality_ so early as , with a dedication to a lady. it was still further reduced in , both in size and art, though most of the grossness was left untouched. the well-known captain john stevens, who translated mariana's _history_ and professed (without warrant) to improve and correct shelton's _don quixote_ (which he did not do to any appreciable extent), also took quevedo in hand, translating _don pablo_, among other _comical pieces_, in . a new translation was given to the world in by don pedro pineda, a teacher of the spanish language, then resident in london. pineda it was who revised the spanish text of the splendid edition of _don quixote_, published at the charge of lord carteret in , four handsome quarto volumes--the first in which print and paper did full justice to cervantes' masterpiece. though a person of little humour, who fell a victim to cervantes' irony in the matter of the poet lofraso and his _fortuna de amor_, pineda was a competent spanish scholar, at least for that age. how far his english was his own we have no means of knowing, but his _perfect knowledge of the language of the original_ recommended him to the editors of the edition of _quevedo's works_, published at edinburgh in , as a person fit to revise and correct the version of mr. stevens. that version, though not satisfactory in all respects, is still the best we have in english. it is almost too faithful to the original in respect that it retains many expressions, phrases, and words, of the kind in which quevedo loved to indulge, which, however appropriate in the mouths of the speakers in a thieves' den or a convict prison, are scarcely delicate enough for the taste of the modern english public, or necessary to bring out the full humour of the story. the text of the english translation of , corrected and revised, is that which has been followed in the present publication, of which the immediate object is less to rescue quevedo's story from oblivion than to bring to the notice of the public the singular merit of his countryman, m. vierge (daniel urrabieta), as an artist in black and white. h. e. watts. [illustration] the history of the life of the sharper called don pablo the pattern of vagabonds and mirror of rogues. [illustration] book i. chap. i. _giving an account of who he is and whence he sprung._ i sir, was born at segovia, my father's name was clemente pablo, a native of the same town; may god keep him in heaven. i need not speak of his virtues, for those are unknown, but by trade he was a barber, though so high minded, that he took it for an affront to be called by any name but that of a cheek-shearer and beard-tailor. they say he came of a good stock, and his actions showed it. he was married to aldonza saturno de rebollo, daughter to octavio de rebollo codillo, and grandchild to lepido ziuraconte. the town foully suspected that she was no old christian,[ ] though she strongly urged the names of her progenitors, to prove herself descended from those great men that formed the triumvirate at rome. she was very handsome, and so famous, that all the ballad rhymers of her time made verses of her, which were sung about the streets. she ran through many troubles, when first married, and long after, for there were scandalous tongues in the neighbourhood that did not stick to say my father was willing to wear the horns, provided they were tipped with gold. it was proved upon him, that whilst he was lathering the beards of those he was to trim, a small brother of mine, about seven years of age, rifled their pockets. the little angel died of a whipping he had in the gaol; and my father was much concerned at the loss, because he won the hearts of them all. he was himself a while in prison for some small trifles of this nature; but i am told he came off so honourably, that at his first walking abroad from gaol two hundred cardinals went behind him, of whom ne'er a one was monsignor,[ ] and the ladies stood at their windows to see him pass by; for my father always made a good figure, either a-foot or a-horseback. i do not speak it out of vanity, for everybody knows that to be foreign to me. [illustration] [illustration] my mother, good woman, had no share of troubles. an old woman that bred me, commending her one day, said, she was of such a taking behaviour, that she bewitched all she had to do with; but they say, she talked something concerning her intercourse with a great he-goat, which had like to have brought her to the stake, to try whether she had anything of the nature of the salamander, and could live in fire. it was reported that she had an excellent hand at soldering cracked maidens, and disguising of grey hairs. some gave her the name of a pleasure-broker, others of a reconciler; but the ruder sort, in coarse language, called her downright bawd, and universal money-catcher. it would make anybody in love with her to see with what a pleasant countenance she took this from all persons. i shall not spend much time in relating what a penitential life she led; but she had a room into which nobody went besides herself, and sometimes i was admitted on account of my tender years; it was all beset with dead men's skulls, which she said were to put her in mind of mortality, though others in spite to her pretended they were to put tricks upon the living. her bed was corded with halters malefactors had been hanged in; and she used to say to me: "d'ye see these things? i show them as remembrances to those i have a kindness for, that they may take heed how they live, and avoid coming to such an end." my parents had much bickering about me, each of them contending to have me brought up to his or her trade; but i, who from my infancy had more gentleman like thoughts, applied myself to neither. my father used to say to me: "my child, this trade of stealing is no mechanic trade, but a liberal art." then pausing and fetching a sigh, he went on: "there is no living in this world without stealing. why do you think the constables and other officers hate us as they do? why do they sometimes banish, sometimes whip us at the cart's tail, and at last hang us up like flitches of bacon without waiting for all saints' day to come?"[ ] (i cannot refrain from tears when i think of it, for the good old man wept like a child, remembering how often they had flogged him.) "the reason is, because they would have no other thieves among them but themselves and their gang; but a sharp wit brings us out of all dangers. in my younger days i plied altogether in the churches, not out of pure religious zeal, and had been long ago carted, but that i never told tales, though they put me to the rack; for i never confessed but when our holy mother the church commands us. with this business and my trade, i have made a shift to maintain your mother as decently as i could." "you maintain me!" answered my mother, in a great rage (for she was vexed i would not apply me to the sorcery), "it was i that maintained you; i brought you out of prison by my art, and kept you there with my money. you may thank the potions i gave you for not confessing, and not your own courage. my good pots did the feat; and were it not for fear i should be heard in the streets, i would tell all the story, how i got in at the chimney, and brought you out at the top of the house." her passion was so high, that she would not have given over here, had not the string of a pair of beads broke, which were all dead men's teeth she kept for private uses. i told them very resolutely i would apply myself to virtue, and go on in the good way i had proposed, and therefore desired them to put me to school, for nothing was to be done without reading and writing. they approved of what i said, though they both muttered at it a while betwixt them. my mother fell to stringing her dead men's teeth, and my father went away, as he said, to trim one--i know not whether he meant his beard or his purse. i was left alone, praising god that he had given me such clever parents, and so zealous for my welfare. [illustration] [illustration] chap. ii. _how i went to school, and what happened to me there._ the next day my primer was bought, and my schoolmaster bespoke. i went to school, sir, and he received me with a pleasant countenance, telling me i had the looks of a sharp lad and intelligent. that he might not seem to be mistaken in his judgment, i took care to learn my lessons well that morning. my master made me sit next to him, and gave me good marks every day, because i came first and went away last, staying behind to run on some errands for my mistress, and thus i gained all their affections. they favoured me so much that all the boys were envious. i made it my business to keep company with gentlemen's sons, above all others, but particularly with a son of don alonso coronel de zuñiga: i used to eat my afternoon's luncheon with him, went to his house every holiday, and waited on him upon other days. the other boys, either because i took no notice of them, or that they thought i aimed too high, were continually giving of me nicknames relating to my father's trade. some called me mr. razor, others mr. stuckup. one to excuse his envy would say he hated me, because my mother had sucked the blood of his two little sisters in the night; another, that my father had been sent for to his house to frighten away the vermin, for nothing was safe where he came. some, as i passed by cried out, "cat"; others, "puss, puss." another said, "i threw rotten oranges at his mother when she was carted." yet, for all their backbiting, glory to god, my shoulders were broad enough to bear it; and though i was out of countenance yet i took no notice, but put all up, till one day a boy had the impudence to call me son of a whore and a witch; he spoke it so plain, that though i had been glad it had been better wrapped up, i took up a stone, and broke his head. away i went, running as fast as i could to my mother to hide me, telling her all the story. she said, "it was very well done of you, and like yourself; but you were in the wrong that you did not ask him who told him so." hearing what she said, and having always had high thoughts, i turned to her, and said, "mother, all that troubles me is, that some of the slanders by told me i had no cause to be disturbed at it; and i did not ask them what they meant, because he was so young that said it." i prayed her to tell me, whether i could have given him the lie with a safe conscience, or whether i was begot in a huddle, by a great many, or was the true son of my father. she laughed, and answered, "god a-mercy, lad, are you so cunning already! you'll be no fool, you have sense enough; you did very well in breaking his head, for such things are not to be said, though never so true." this struck me to the heart, and i was so very much out of countenance, that i resolved, as soon as possible, to lay hold of all i could, and leave my father's house. however, i dissembled; my father went and healed the boy; all was made up, and i went to school again. my master received me in an angry manner, till being told the occasion of the quarrel, his passion was assuaged, considering the provocation given me. don alonso de zuñiga's son, don diego, and i were very great all this while, because he had a natural affection for me; and besides, i used to change tops with him, if mine were better than his; i gave him any thing i had to eat, and never asked for what he had; i bought him pictures, i taught him to wrestle, played at leap frog with him, and was so obliging in all respects, that the young gentleman's parents observing how fond he was of my company, would send for me almost every day to dine and sup, and sometimes to stay all night with him. [illustration] [illustration] it happened one day soon after christmas, as we were going to school, that a counsellor, called pontio de aguirre, passed along the street; little don diego seeing him, bid me call him pontius pilate, and run away when i had done. to please my friend, i did so, and the man was so affronted at it, that he scoured after me as hard as he could, with a knife in his hand to stab me, so that i was forced to take sanctuary in my master's house, crying out with might and main. the man was in as soon as i; my master saved me from his doing me any mischief, promising to whip me, and was as good as his word, though my mistress, in consideration of the great service i did her, interceded for me. he bid me untruss, and every lash he gave me, cried, "will you ever call pontius pilate again?" i answered, "no, sir," every time he put the question; and it was such a warning to me, that dreading the name of pontius pilate, the next day, when we were ordered to say our prayers, according to custom, coming to the creed (pray observe the innocent cunning) instead of saying "he suffered under pontius pilate," believing i was never more to name pilate, i said, "he suffered under pontio de aguirre." my master burst out a laughing at my simplicity, and to see how i dreaded the lashing; and embracing me, promised to forgive the two first whippings i should deserve, which i took as a great favour of fortune, and a kindness in him. to be brief, came shrove-tide, and our master to divert the boys, and make sport, ordered that there should be a king of cocks[ ] among us, and we casts lots for that honour among twelve he had appointed for it. i was the lucky person it fell upon, and spoke to my father and mother to provide me fine clothes. when the day came, abroad i went upon a starved poor jade of a horse, that fell to saying his prayers at every step; his back looked like a saw; his neck like a camel's, but somewhat longer; his head like a pig, only it had but one eye, and that moon-blind; all this plainly showed the knavery of his keeper, who made him do penance, and fast, cheating him of his provender. thus i went, swinging from side to side, like a jointed baby, with all the rest of the boys after me, tricked up as fine as so many puppets, till we came into the market place--the very naming of it frights me; and coming to the herb-women's stalls, the lord deliver us from them, my horse being half starved, snapped up a small cabbage, which no sooner touched his teeth but it was down his throat, though, by reason of the length of his neck, it came not into his belly for a long time after. the herb-woman who, like the rest of them, was an impudent jade, set up the cry, the others of the trade flocked about her, and among them abundance of the scoundrels of the market; all these fell a pelting the poor king with carrot and turnip tops, rotten oranges, and all the offals of the market. considering the enemies' forces were all foot,[ ] and therefore i ought not to charge them a-horseback, i would have alighted, but my horse received such a shot in the head that as he went to rear, his strength failing him, we both came down into the sewer. you may imagine what a condition i was in. by this time my subjects, the boys, had armed themselves with stones, and charging the herb-women, broke two of their heads. for my part after my fall into the sewer, i was good for little, unless it were to drive all from me with stink and filth. the officers coming up, seized two of the herb-women and some of the boys, searching them for their weapons, which they took away, for some had drawn daggers they wore for the greater show, and others short swords. they came to me, and seeing no weapons about me, because i had taken them off, and put them into a house to be cleaned, with my hat and cloak, one of them asked me for my arms; i answered, that in that filthy condition i had none but what were offensive to the nose alone. i cannot but acquaint you, sir, by the by, that when they began to pelt me with the rotten oranges, turnip-tops, &c., my hat being stuck with feathers, as they do the bawds in spain when they cart them, i fancied they mistook me for my mother, and thought they threw at her, as they had done several times before. this foolish notion being got into my young head, i began to cry out, "good women, though i wear feathers in my cap, i am none of aldonza saturno de rebollo; she is my mother"; as if they could not perceive that by my shape and face. however, the fright i was in may excuse my ignorance, especially considering the misfortune came so suddenly upon me. to return to the officer; he would willingly have carried me to prison, but did not, because he could not find a clean place to lay hold of me, for i was all over mire. some went one way, and some another, and i went directly home from the market place, punishing all the noses i met by the way. as soon as i got home i told my father and mother all the story, who were in such a passion to see me in that nasty pickle, that they would have beat me. i excused myself the best i could, laying all the blame on the two leagues of attenuated horse they had provided for me; and finding nothing would appease them, left the house, and went away to see my friend don diego, whom i found at home with a broken head, and his parents fully resolved, for this reason, that he should go to school no more. there was i informed, that my steed, finding himself in distress, summoned up all the strength he had to salute his enemies with his heels, but was so weak that he put out his hips with the effort, and lay in the mud expiring. considering that all the sport was spoiled, the mob alarmed, my parents in a rage, my friend's head broken, and my horse dead, i resolved to go no more to school, nor to my father's house, but to stay and wait upon don diego, or rather to bear him company, which his parents were well pleased with, because their son was so taken with me. i wrote home to tell them i had no need to go to school any longer, for though i could not write a good hand, that was no fault, because it was more becoming me, who designed to be a gentleman, to write an ill one; and therefore, from that time, i renounced the school, to save them charges, and their house, that they might have no trouble with me. i acquainted them where and what post i was in, and that i should see them no more, till they gave me leave. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] chap. iii. _how i went to a boarding school in quality of servant to don diego coronel._ [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] don alonso resolved to send his son to a boarding-school; both to wean him from his tender keeping at home, and at the same time to ease himself of that care. he was informed there was a master of arts in segovia whose name was cabra, that made it his business to breed up gentlemen's sons;[ ] thither he sent his, and me to wait on him. the first sunday after lent we were brought into the house of famine, for it is impossible to express the penury of the place. the master was a skeleton, a mere shotten herring, or like a long slender cane, with a little head upon it, and red haired; so that there needs no more to be said to such as know the proverb, that "neither cat nor dog of that colour is good." his eyes were sunk into his head, as if he had looked through a fruit bottle, or the deep windows in a linen draper's shop; his nose turning up, and somewhat flat, for the bridge was almost carried away with an inundation of a cold rheum, for he never had the disease, because it costs money; his beard had lost its colour for fear of his mouth, which being so near, seemed to threaten to eat it for mere hunger; his teeth had many of them forsaken him for want of employment, or else were banished for being idle livers; his neck as long as a crane's, with the gullet sticking out so far, as if it had been compelled by necessity to start out for sustenance; his arms withered; his hands like a bundle of twigs, each of them, taken downwards, looking like a fork or a pair of compasses; with long slender legs. he walked leisurely, and whensoever he happened to move any thing faster his bones rattled like a pair of snappers. his voice was weak and hollow; his beard bushy and long, for he never trimmed to save charges, though he pretended it was so odious to him to feel the barber's hands all over his face that he would rather die than endure it. one of the boys cut his hair. in fair weather he wore a thread-bare cap, an inch thick in grease and dirt, made of a thing that was once cloth, and lined in scurf and dandruff. his cassock, some said, was miraculous, for no man knew what colour it was of; some seeing no sign of hair on it, concluded it was made of frogs' skins; others said it was a mere shadow, or a phantom; near at hand it looked somewhat black, and at a distance bluish. he wore no girdle, cuffs, nor band; so that his long hair and scanty short cassock made him look like the messenger of death. each shoe might have served for a philistine's coffin. as for his chamber, there was not so much as a cob-web in it, the spiders being all starved to death. he put spells upon the mice, for fear they should gnaw some scraps of bread he kept. his bed was on the floor, and he always lay upon one side, for fear of wearing out the sheets; in short, he was the archpauper and protomiser. into this prodigy's hands i fell, and lived under him with don diego. the night we came, he showed us our room, and made us a short speech, which was no longer, out of mere good husbandry. he told us how we were to behave ourselves, and the next morning we were employed till dinner time; thither we went, the masters dined first, and the servants waited. the dining-room was as big as a half peck; five gentlemen could eat in it at one table. i looked about for the cat, and seeing none, asked a servant, who was an old hand, and in his leanness bore the mark of the boarding-school, how it came they had none? the tears stood in his eyes, and he said, "what do you talk of cats? pray who told you that cats loved penance and mortification? your fat sides show you are a new comer." this, to me, was the beginning of sorrow; but i was worse scared, when i observed that all those who were before us in the house looked like so many pictures of death. master cabra said grace, and sat down, and they ate a meal, which had neither beginning nor end. they brought the broth in wooden dishes, but it was so clear, that narcissus going to drink of it would be in worse danger than at the fountain. i observed how eagerly they all dived down after a poor single pea that was in every dish. every sip he gave, cabra cried, "by my troth there is no dainty like the olla, or boiled meat and broth. let the world say what it will, all the rest is mere gluttony and extravagancy." as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he belched out all the porrenger, saying, "this is good for the health, and sharpens the wit." a curse on thee and thy wit, thought i, and at the same time saw a servant like a walking ghost, and no more substantial, bring in a dish of meat, which looked as if he had picked it off his bones. among it was one poor stray turnip, at whose sight the master said, "what, have we turnips to-day? no partridge is, in my opinion, to compare to them. eat heartily, for i love to see you eat." he gave every one such a wretched bit of meat, that i believe it all stuck to their nails, and between their teeth, so that no part of it ever went into their bellies. cabra looked on, and said, "eat away, for it is a pleasure to me to see what good stomachs you have." think what a comfort this was for them that were pining with hunger! when dinner was over, there remained some scraps of bread on the table, and a few hits of skin and bones in the dish, and the master said, "let this be left for the servants; they must dine too; it is not for us to gormandize all." a vengeance on thee, and may what thou hast eaten choke thee, thou wretched miser! thought i; what a consternation have you put my guts into! he gave thanks, and said, "now let us give way to the servants, and go ye use some exercise until two of the clock, lest your dinner do you harm." i could no longer forbear laughing for my life, but burst out into a loud fit. he was very angry, and bid me learn to behave myself modestly, ripping up two or three old mouldy sentences, and so went his way. we sat down, and i seeing such short commons, and hearing my guts roar for provender, being cunning and stronger than the rest, clapped both hands in the dish, as others did, and whipped down two scraps of bread out of three there were left, and one piece of skin. the others began to murmur, and making a noise, in came cabra, saying, "eat lovingly together like brethren, since god provides for you; do not fall out, for there is enough for you all." this said, he returned to sun himself, and left us to ourselves. i declare it, there was one of these servants, his name surre, a biscayner, who had so absolutely forgot the way and method of eating, that he put a small bit of crust, which fell to his share, to his eyes twice, and even the third time knew not how to carry it to his mouth. i asked for drink; the rest, who had scarce broke their fast, never thinking of it, and they gave me a dish with some water, which i had no sooner laid to my lips, but the sharp-gutted lad i spoke of, snatched it away, as if i had been tantalus and that the flitting river he stands in up to the chin. thus we passed on till night. don diego asked me how he should do to persuade his guts that they had dined, for they would not believe it. that house was an hospital of dizzy heads, proceeding from empty stomachs, as others are of surfeits. supper-time came, for afternoonings were never heard of there; it was much shorter than the dinner, and not mutton, but a little roasted goat: sure the devil could never have contrived worse. our starveling master cabra said, "it is very wholesome and beneficial to eat light suppers, that the stomach may not be overburdened"; and then he quoted some cursed physician, that was long since in hell. he extolled spare diet, alleging that it prevented uneasy dreams, though he knew that in his house it was impossible to dream of anything but eating. they supped, and we supped, and none had supper. we went to bed, and neither don diego nor i could sleep one wink all that night, for he lay contriving how to complain to his father, that he might remove him, and i advising him so to do; and at last i said to him, "pray, sir, are you sure we are alive, for, to tell you the truth, i have a strong fancy that we were slain in the battle with the herb-women, and are now souls suffering in purgatory, in which case it will be to no purpose to talk of your father's fetching us away, without he has our souls prayed out of this "place of punishment." having spent the whole night in this discourse, we got a little nap towards morning, till it was time to rise; six o'clock struck, cabra called, and we all went to school; but when i went to dress me, my doublet was two handfuls too big; and my breeches, which before were close, now hung so loose as if they had been none of my own. my very teeth were already all furred, and looked as yellow as amber; such a wonderful change had one day wrought. when we came to school, i was ordered to decline some nouns, and was so wonderful hungry, that i ate half my words for want of more substantial diet. any man will easily believe this, who does but hear what cabra's man told me, which was, that at his first coming he saw two great flanders geldings brought into the house, and two days after they went out perfect racers, so light, that the very wind would carry them away; that he saw mastiff dogs come in, and in less than three hours they went out converted into greyhounds; that one lent he saw abundance of men, some thrusting their heads, some their feet, and some their whole body, into the porch; and this continued a long time, very many people flocking from all parts to do so; and that he asking one day, what could be the meaning of it, cabra was very angry, but one in the crowd answered, "some of those "people are troubled with chilblains, others with the itch, and others with lice; all which distempers and vermin died as soon as they came into that house, so that they never felt them more." he assured me this was very true, and i, who was acquainted with the house, believe it, which i am fain to take notice of, lest what i say should be looked upon as an hyperbole. [illustration] to return to the school, he set us our lesson, and we conned it, and so we went on in the same course of life i have here delivered, only that our master added bacon in the boiling of his pot, because going abroad one day, he was told that to boil meat without bacon, betokened a scandalous race descended either from moors or jews. for this reason he provided a small tin case, all full of holes, like a nutmeg-grater, which he opened, and put in a bit of bacon that filled it; then shutting the box close, hung it with a string in the pot, that some relish of it might come through the holes, and the bacon remain for the next day. afterwards he thought this too great an expense, and therefore for the future only dipped the bacon into the pot. it is easy to guess what a life we led with this sort of diet and usage. don diego and i were in such miserable condition, that since we could find no relief as to eating, after a month was expired, we contrived, at last, not to rise so early in the morning, and therefore resolved to pretend we were sick, but not feverish, because that cheat we thought would be easily discovered. the head or tooth-ache were inconsiderable distempers; at last we said we had the gripes, believing, that rather than be at a penny charges, our master would apply no remedy. the devil ordered worse than we expected, for cabra had an old receipt, which descended to him by inheritance from his father, who was an apothecary. as soon as he was told our distemper, he prepared a clyster, and sending for an old aunt of his, threescore and ten years of age, that served him for a nurse upon occasion, ordered her to give each of us a potion. she began with don diego; the poor wretch shrunk up, and the old jade being blind, and her hands shaking, instead of giving him it inwardly, let it fly betwixt his shirt and his back up to his very poll; so that became an outward ornament which should have served for a lining within. only god knows how we were plagued with the old woman. she was so deaf, that she heard nothing, but understood by signs, though she was half blind; and such an everlasting prayer, that one day the string of her beads broke over the pot as it was boiling, and our broth came to table sanctified. some said, "these are certainly black ethiopian pease"; others cried they were in mourning, and wondered what relation of theirs was dead. our master happened to bite one of them, and it pleased god that he broke his teeth. on fridays the old woman would dress us some eggs, but so full of her reverend grey hairs, that they appeared no less aged then herself. it was a common practice with her to dip the fire-shovel into the pot instead of the ladle, and to serve up porrengers of broth stuffed with coals, vermin, chips, and knots of flax she used to spin, all which she threw in to fill up and cram the guts. in this misery we continued till the next lent, at the beginning of which one of our companions fell sick. cabra, to save charges, delayed sending for a physician, till the patient was just giving up the ghost and desired to prepare for another world; then he called a young quack, who felt his pulse, and said, "hunger had been beforehand with him, and prevented his killing that man." these were his last words; the poor lad died, and was buried meanly because he was a stranger. this struck a terror into all that lived in the house; the dismal story flew all about the town, and came at last to don alonso coronel's ears, who having no other son, began to be convinced of cabra's inhumanity, and to give more credit to the words of two mere shadows, for we were no better at that time. he came to take us from the boarding-school, and asked for us, though we stood before him; so that finding us in such a deplorable condition, he gave our pinch-gut master some hard words. we were carried away in two chairs, taking leave of our famished companions, who followed us, as far as they could, with their eyes and wishes, lamenting and bewailing, as those do who remain slaves at algiers when their other associates are ransomed. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] chap. iv. _of my convalescence, and departure for the university of alcalá de henares._ when we came to don alonso's house, they laid us very gently on to two beds, for fear of rattling our bones, they were so bare with starving; then with magnifying glasses they began to search all about our faces for our eyes, and were a long time before they could find out mine, because i had suffered most, being treated like a servant, and consequently mine was a royal hunger. physicians were called, who ordered the dust should be wiped off our mouths with fox-tails, as if we had been paintings; and indeed we looked like the picture of death; and that we should be nourished with good broths and light meats, for fear of overloading our weak stomachs. who can be able to express the rejoicing there was in our guts, the first good soup that we tasted, and afterwards when we came to eat some fowl? all these things to them were unknown novelties. the doctors gave order that for nine days nobody should talk in our chamber, because our stomachs were so empty that the least word returned an echo in them. these and such like precautions used caused our spirits to return to us in some measure; but our jaws were so tanned and shrivelled up that there was no stretching of them, and therefore care was taken that they should be every day gently forced out, and, as it were, set upon the last with the bottom of a pestle. in a few days we got up to try our limbs, but still we looked like the shadows of other men, and so lean and pale as if we were lineally descended from the fathers in the desert. we spent the whole day in praising god for having delivered us out of the clutches of the most inhuman cabra, and offered up our earnest prayers, that no christian might ever fall into that miserable thraldom. if ever, when we were eating, we happened to think of the miserable boarding-school table, it made us so hungry that we devoured twice as much as at any other time. we used to tell don alonso, how, when cabra sat down to table, he would inveigh against gluttony though he never knew any thing of it in his life; and he laughed heartily when we informed him that, in speaking of the commandment "thou shall not kill," he made it extend to partridges and capons, and such other dainties as never came within his doors, and even to killing of hunger, which he certainly counted a heinous sin, and therefore had an aversion to all eating. we were three whole months upon our recovery, and at the end thereof don alonso began to think of sending his son to alcalá, to finish his humanity. he asked me whether i would go, and i thinking i could never be far enough from that inhuman monster of misery and famine, offered to serve his son faithfully, as experience should show. he provided him another servant, in the nature of steward, to look after him, and give an account of the money he sent for his expenses, by bill upon one julian merluza. we put all our equipage into a cart belonging to one diego monge; it consisted of a small bed for our master, and a truckle bed to run under it, for me and the steward whose name was aranda, five quilts, four pair of sheets, eight pillows, four hangings, a trunk of linen, and other furniture for a house. we went ourselves into a coach in the evening, a little before nightfall, and about midnight came to the ever accursed lone inn of viveros. the inn-keeper was a morisco, and a downright thief; and all my life i never saw cat and dog so united in peace as that day.[ ] he received us very lovingly, because he and the carters went snacks, for we travelled so slowly that they were there before us. he came to the coach-side, gave me his hand to alight, and asked me, "whether i was going to the university?" i told him i was. he put me into the house, where two bullies were with some wenches, a curate praying by them, an old covetous shopkeeper endeavouring to forget his supper, and two scoundrelly shabby scholars, contriving how to fill their bellies free of cost. my master, as being the last comer and but a boy, said, "landlord, get what you have in the house for me and two servants." "we are all your servants, sir," said the sharpers, "and will wait on you. here, landlord, take notice; this gentleman will stand treat; fetch out all you have in the larder." this said, one of them stepped up to don diego, and taking off his cloak, laid it by, saying, "pray, sir, sit down and rest you." this puffed me up so full of vanity that the inn was too little to hold me. one of the damsels said, "what a well shaped gentleman it is; is he going to his studies? are you his servant, sir?" i fancying that every word they said was sincere, answered, "that i and the other were both his servants." they asked me his name, and it was scarce out of my mouth, before one of the scholars went up to him, with tears in his eyes, and embracing him, as if he had been his brother, said, "o my dear don diego! who would have thought, ten years ago, to have seen you thus. unhappy man, i am in such a condition that you will not know me." my master and i were both amazed, and swore we had never seen him in all our days. the scholar's companion stared don diego in the face, and said to his friend, "is this the gentleman of whose father you told me so many stories? it is extraordinary fortunate that we have met him, and know him. he is grown very tall; god bless him." with this he began to cross himself, and seemed so overjoyed, that any man would have thought we had been brought up together. don diego made him many compliments; and as he was asking him his name, out came the innkeeper, and laid the cloth; and smelling the joke, said, "let that alone and talk of it after supper, for the meat will be cold." one of the bullies stepped up, and set stools for everybody, and an arm chair for don diego; the other of them brought in a dish. the scholars said, "do you sup, sir, and whilst they dress what the house affords for us, we will wait on you at table." "god forbid," answered don diego; "pray, gentlemen, sit down if you please." the bullies, though he did not speak to them, readily answered, "presently, good sir; all is not ready yet." when i saw some invited and the others invite themselves, my heart was in my mouth, and i dreaded what came to pass; for the scholars laying hold of the salad, which was a good dishful, and looking upon my master, said, "it would be unreasonable that these ladies should be left supperless, where a gentleman of such quality is; pray, sir, give them leave to take a bit." my master, like a true cully, invited them to partake. they sat down, and between the scholars and them, in a trice, there was but one single lettuce of all the salad left, which last bit don diego had; and as the accursed students gave it him, he said, "sir, you had a grandfather, who was my father's uncle, that swooned at the sight of a lettuce; he was a man of such an odd disposition." this said, he fetched himself down a brick of bread, and his companion did the like. the damsels had made a great hole in a good loaf; but yet the poor curate ate more than all of them with his eyes and wishes. the bullies bringing in a whole side of kid roasted, and a dish of pigeons and bacon boiled, took their places at the table, saying to the priest, "why, father, what makes you stand there? draw near and reach a bit, for don diego treats us all." no sooner were the words spoken but he sat down. when my master perceived that they had all intruded upon him he began to be much concerned. they divided the spoil, giving don diego some few bones to pick; the rest the curate and the others devoured. the bullies said, "pray, sir, do not eat too much supper, lest it does you harm"; and the devil of a scholar answered, "besides, sir, you must begin to practice to be abstemious considering the life you are to lead at alcalá." i and the other servant prayed heartily that god would put it into their hearts to leave something; and when they had devoured every bit, and the curate was picking the bones over again, one of the bullies turned about, and said, "god bless us, we have left nothing for the servants; come hither, gentlemen. here, landlord, give them all the house affords; take this pistole to pay for it." up started immediately my master's confounded imaginary kinsman, i mean the scholar, saying, "with your leave, good sir, i must tell you, i fear your breeding is not much; it is a sign you are not acquainted with my cousin; he will provide for his own servants and for ours too, if we had any, as he has done for us." "be not in a passion, sir," replied the other, "we did not know so much before." when i saw all this sly dissimulation, i began to curse them and thought i should never have done. the cloth was taken away, and they all desired don diego to go to bed. he would have paid for the supper, but they answered that in the morning would be time enough. they stayed a while chatting together; my master asked the scholar his name, and he answered don something coronel. the devil confound the deceitful dog, whosoever he is. then perceiving that the griping shopkeeper was asleep, he said, "will you have a little sport, sir, to make you laugh? let us put some trick upon this fellow, who has eaten but one pear upon the road, and is as rich as a jew." the bullies cried, "god-a-mercy, master licentiate, do so, it is but right." with this approbation he drew near the poor sleeping old fellow, and slipped a wallet from under his feet, untied it, and took out a box, all the company flocking about, as if it had been lawful prize taken in war. he opened it, and found it full of lozenges; all which he took out, and supplied their place with stones, chips, and any rubbish that came next to hand, then laid about a dozen of little glittering stones there are among some fine lime with which in spain, they plaster the outsides of houses, which glitters in the sun like bits of glass. this done, he shut up the box, and said, "i have not done yet, for he has a leather bottle"; out of which he poured all the wine, only some little he left in the bottom, and then stuffed it up with tow and wool, and stopped it. the scholar put all again into the wallet, and a great stone into the hood of his travelling coat, and then he and all the rest went to bed, to sleep about an hour or little more. [illustration] [illustration] when it was time to set out, all the company waked and got up, and still the old man slept; they called him and he could not get up for the weight of the stone that was in his hood. he looked to see what it was, and the innkeeper pretended to quarrel with him, saying, "god 'o my life, could you pick up nothing else to carry away, father, but this stone? i had been finely served, gentlemen, if i had not discovered it; i value it above an hundred crowns because it is good for the pain in the stomach." the old man swore and cursed that he had not put it into his hood; the bullies reckoned up the bill, which came to six crowns; but the best arithmetician in christendom could never have made out that sum. the scholars asked what service they could do us at alcalá; the reckoning was paid, we breakfasted, and the old man took up his wallet; but for fear we should see what he had in it, and so he might be obliged to distribute any, he untied it in the dark under his great coat, and laid hold of a bit of lime well daubed, which he clapped into his mouth, and going to crunch it with a tooth and a half he had, was like to lose them both. he began to spit and make faces, what with the pain, and what with the loathsome bit he had put into his mouth. we all went up to him, and the curate among the first, asking, "what ailed him?" he began to curse and swear, dropped down the wallet, and the scholar came up to him, saying, "get behind me, satan; here is the cross." the other opened a breviary and would persuade him he was possessed, till at last he told what ailed him, and begged they would give him leave to wash his mouth with some wine he had in his leather bottle. they let him go, he opened his bottle, and pouring into a small dish, out came a little wine, so hairy and full of tow, that there was no drinking or enduring the sight of it. then the old man fell a raving beyond measure, but seeing all the company burst their sides with laughing, he was fain to grow calm, and get up into the waggon with the bullies and wenches. the curate and scholars mounted on asses, and we went into the coach. we were scarce gone from the door before they all began to banter and ridicule us, declaring the trick they had put upon us. the innkeeper cried, "good master freshman, a few of these handsels will make you old and wise." the cursed scholar said, "pray, cousin, the next time scratch when it itches, and not afterwards." in short, every one had his say; but we thought best to take no notice, though, god knows, we were quite out of countenance. at length we got to alcalá and alighted at an inn, where we spent all that day, for we came in at nine in the morning, in reckoning up the particulars of our last supper, but could never make out the account. [illustration] [illustration] chap. v. _of our entrance into alcalá, of the footing we had to pay, and the tricks they played upon us._ towards the evening, before it was dark, we left the inn, to go to the house that had been hired for us, which was without the santiago gate, in a court full of scholars; but in our house there were only three families of us. the owner, or landlord of it was one of those who believe in god out of complaisance or only in outward show, such as they vulgarly called moriscos; for there are abundance of this sort of people, and of those that have great noses and cannot endure the smell of bacon. yet i do not by this mean to reflect upon the people of quality, which are there very numerous and unspotted in blood. the landlord received me with a worse countenance than if i had been an inquisitor come to ask him for his billet of faith; i know not whether he did it to make us respect him the more, or whether it was the nature of the beast, for it is no wonder they should be ill natured who are of such bad principles. we brought in our goods, made the beds, and rested that night. when it was day, all the scholars in the house came in their shirts to demand entrance money of my master. he being an utter stranger to that affair, asked me, "what it was they would be at?" whilst i at the same time, for fear of what might happen, thrust myself between two quilts, with only half my head out, like a tortoise. they demanded a couple of crowns, which were given them; and they set up a hellish cry, singing, "long live our companion, and let him be admitted into our friendship; let him enjoy all the privileges of a freeman, and be allowed to have the itch, to be greasy, and as hungry as we are." this said, they all tumbled down the stairs, we dressed ourselves, and set out for the schools. my master was conducted by some collegians, his father's friends, and so took his place in the school; but i, being to go to another place, went all alone, and began to quake for fear. i had scarce set my foot into the great court, before they all faced me, and began to cry, "a new fellow!" the better to colour the matter, i fell a-laughing, as if i had not regarded it; but it availed me not, for eight or nine of them standing about me began to grin and laugh out. i blushed; would to god i had not, for immediately one that was next me clapped his hand to his nose, and stepping aside, said, "this lazarus is for rising from the dead, he stinks so." then they all stood off, stopping their noses. i thinking to escape that way, held my nose too, and said, "you are in the right, gentlemen, here is a great stink." they all burst out a-laughing, and getting farther off, gathered about a hundred strong. they began to hawk, and give the alarm with their throats, and by their coughing, and opening and shutting of their mouths, i perceived what they were preparing for me.[ ] by this time i was daubed all over from head to foot; but a sly dog observing that i was covered, and had nothing on my face, came running towards me, crying out, as if he had been in a passion, "enough; do not murder him." after all this they would have necked me as they do rabbits to kill them; but there was no touching me, without carrying off some part of their loathsome bounty, which hung all about my wretched cloak, then turned grey with filth, though it came in black. they left me, looking all over like an old man's spitting-sheet. i went home, though i scarce knew the way; and it was good luck that this happened in the morning, for i met but two or three boys, who, i believe, were good-natured, for they only threw half a dozen dirty clouts at me, and went their ways. i got into the house, and the moorish landlord seeing me, fell a-laughing, and made show us if he would have spit upon me; which i dreading, cried out, "hold, landlord, for i am not the picture of christ!" would to god i had never said it, for he laid on to me several pounds with a couple of weights he had in his hand. having got this good help besides all the rest, though half revenged, i went up, and was a long time before i could find out where to take hold of my cloak and cassock. at last i took them off, hanged them up on the terrace, and laid me down upon the bed. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] my master coming in found me asleep, and not knowing of my loathsome disaster, was in a passion, and fell a-tugging me by the hair so furiously, that had i not waked immediately he had made me bald before my time. i started up, crying out and complaining, and he still more passionate, said, "this is a fine way of serving me, pablo; 'tis a new way of life." this went to my heart, and i answered, "you are a great comfort to me, sir, in my afflictions; do but see what a condition that cloak and cassock are in, which have served for handkerchiefs to the filthiest noses that ever poisoned clean linen." this said, i fell a-weeping; which he perceiving, believed me, looked for the cassock, and seeing it, took pity on me, and said, "pablo, be on your guard, and take care of yourself, for you have no father or mother to take your part here." i told him all that had befallen me, and he ordered me to strip and go to my chamber, where four servants of the other lodgers in the house lay. i went to bed and slept, and being refreshed with that and a good supper, i found myself as well as if nothing had happened to me. but when misfortunes begin to fall, there is such a series of them linked together, as if they would never have an end. the other servants came to bed, who all saluted and asked me, "whether i was sick, and what made me so soon a-bed?" i told them the whole story; and immediately, as if they had been innocence itself, they began to cross themselves, and said, "was there ever such wickedness acted? this would not be tolerated among infidels." another cried, "the proctors are in the fault, that they do not take care to prevent it. shall you know them again?" i answered, i should not, and thanked them for the kindness they seemed to show me. this discourse lasted till they stripped, went to bed, put out the candle, and i fell asleep, as if i had been with my mother and brothers. it was about twelve of the clock, i believe, when one of them waked me, roaring out in a dismal manner, "help, help; they kill me; thieves!" at the same time there was a noise in his bed of voices and lashes. i held up my head, and said, "what is the matter there?" as soon as ever i uncovered myself, they laid on to my back with a rope made into a cat-o'-nine-tails. i cried out, and would have got up; the other complained as much as i, but it was me only they flogged. i called out for help in god's name, but the lashes fell so thick upon me, they having pulled all the clothes off me, that i had no other refuge but to creep under the bed. i did so, and immediately the other three, who seemed to be sleeping, began all to roar out, and i hearing the lashes still, concluded that some stranger scourged us all. in the meanwhile the hell-hound that was next me, skipped into my bed. this done the lashes ceased, and all four of them got up, crying out again, "it is a great villainy, and not to be endured." still i lay under my bed, whining like a dog that is pinched in a door, and shrinking myself all up, as if i had been drawn together by the cramp. the others made as if they had shut the door; then i crept out, got into my bed again, and asking, whether any of them was hurt, they all complained bitterly. i lay down, covered myself up warm, and fell asleep again; and happening to tumble about in my sleep, when i waked, i found myself all daubed up to my very neck. they all got up, and i pleaded the flogging for an excuse to lie a-bed. the devil himself could not turn me from one side. i was full of confusion, considering whether the fright and disorder had occasioned my committing myself in my sleep. in short, i was innocent and guilty at the same time, and knew not what excuse to make for myself. it is impossible to express the anguish i was in, what with shame, what with my finger that was disjointed, and what with the dread of being cramped. at length, fearing they would really put that villainy in execution, for they had really put cords about my thighs, i made as if i came to myself; yet i was not so quick, but that the rogues being knavishly bent, had whipped the cords about my thighs, and tugged so hard that they sunk them an inch into my flesh. then they left me, crying, "bless us, what a puny creature you are." i cried for mere vexation, and they archly said, "it is all for your health's good to be bemired; hold your peace." this done, they washed me, laid me in the bed again, and went their way. being left alone, i lay and considered, that what i had endured in one day at alcalá was worse than all my sufferings under cabra at the boarding-school. at noon i dressed me, cleaned my cloak and cassock the best i could, washing it like an old clout, and waited for my master, who, when he came, asked me, "how i did?" all the family dined, and so did i, though i ate but little, having but an indifferent stomach at that time, and after dinner we all met to chat in an open gallery. the other servants, when they had sufficiently bantered me, discovering the trick they had put upon me, laughed heartily. i was worse out of countenance than before, and said to myself, "look to yourself, pablo, be on the alert." i resolved to begin a new course of life; we were all made friends, and from that day forward lived as lovingly in the house together as if we had been all one mother's children, and no man disturbed me any more at the schools or public places. [illustration] [illustration] chap. vi. _of the wicked old housekeeper, and the first knavish pranks i played at alcalá._ [illustration] do as you see them do, says the proverb; and it is well said. i took it so seriously into consideration, that i fully resolved to play the knave among knaves, and to outdo them all if possible. i know not whether i succeeded as i designed, but i am sure i used all my endeavours. i began by making a law, that it should be no less than death for any pigs to come into our house, or for any of our old housekeeper's chickens to run out of the yard into our room. it happened one day, that two of the most elegant porkers that ever my eyes beheld slipped into our domain; i was then at play with the other servants, and hearing them grunt, said to one of my companions, "go, see who it is that grunts in our house." he went, and brought word they were two swine. no sooner had i heard these words but i went out in a passion, saying, "it was a great deal of impudence in them to grunt in other people's houses." then clapping the door to, in the same heat of blood, i ran my sword into the throats of them both, and then we cut off their heads. to prevent their cry being heard abroad, we all set up our throats, roaring as loud as possibly we could, as if we had been singing; and so they gave up the ghost among us. we paunched them, saved the blood, and by the help of our straw bed, half singed them in the back yard; so that when our masters came home all was over, though after an indifferent manner; only the puddings were not yet made, which was not for want of expedition, for we had left half they had in the guts, merely to save loss of time. don diego and our steward were told the story, and flew into such a passion against me that the other lodgers, who were ready to burst with laughing, thought fit to take my part. don diego asked me what i could say for myself if the thing should be found out, and i should be taken up for it? i answered i would plead hunger, which is the common refuge of all scholars; and if that was not enough, i would urge that, seeing them come into the house without knocking as if they had been at home, i thought they had been our own. they all laughed at my plea, and don diego said, "by my troth, pablo, you begin to understand your trade." it was very well worth observing the difference between my master and me, he so sober and religious, and i so arch and knavish, so that the one was a foil to the other and served to set off either his virtue or vice. our old housekeeper was pleased to the very heart, for we both played our parts, and had conspired against the larder. i was caterer, and a very judas in my employment, and ever since retained an inclination to cribbing and stealing. the meat always wasted in the old jade's keeping, and she never dressed wether-mutton when she could get ewe or goat; besides, she picked the flesh off the bones before she boiled them, so that the dishes served up looked as it the cattle had died of a consumption; and the broth was so clear, that, had it been consolidated, it might have passed for crystal; only now and then for change, that the soup might look a little fat, she clapped in a few candle ends. when i was by she would say to my master, "in troth, sir, little pablo is the best servant in spain, bating his unluckiness; but that may well enough be borne with, because he is honest. he buys the best the market affords." i gave the same character of her, and so we put upon the whole house. if there was any store of coals, bacon, or oil laid in, we stole half of it, and some while after would say, "pray, gentlemen, retrench your expenses a little, for if you go on at this rate, you had need have a mint of money; the coals or the oil is spent, but no wonder at the rate that you use it; you had best order more to be brought in. sir, give little pablo the money, and you will have a better account of it." money was accordingly given me, and we sold them the other half we had stole, and half of what we brought, and that was in full. if ever i happened to buy anything in the market at the real value, then the old housekeeper and i would pretend to fall out and quarrel, and she seeming to be in a passion, would say, "do not tell me, pablo, that this is a pennyworth of salad." then i would seem to cry, and make a great deal of noise, went to complain to my master, and persuaded him to send the steward to inquire, that the old woman might be convinced, who still scolded on designedly. the steward went and found as i said, by which means both master and steward were imposed upon, and had the better opinion of me for my honesty, and of the housekeeper for her care. don diego being thus fixed in his good opinion of me, used to say to her, "would to god pablo were otherwise as virtuous as he is honest; i see plainly he is as trusty as you represent him." thus we held them in ignorance, and sucked them like horse leeches. i do not at all doubt, sir, but you wonder how much we might cheat them of at the year's end; the total was certainly considerable, yet i suppose we were not obliged to make restitution, for the old woman never missed going to church daily, yet i never saw any disposition in her to restore the least part; nor did i perceive any scruple of conscience she made of it, though she was so great a saint. she always wore a pair of beads about her neck, so big that the wood of them might have served to roast a sirloin of beef. it was all hung with crosses, medals, pictures, and other trinkets, on all which she said she prayed every night for her benefactors. she had a catalogue of an hundred and odd saints that were her patrons; and in truth she had need of no less help to bear her out of all her wickedness. her chamber was over my master's, where she set up more prayers than a blind begger. and all in latin, such as it was, for neither mortals on earth nor angels in heaven could understand it, which she did to appear the more innocent and simple; but we were ready to split our sides with laughing. besides these she had many other excellent qualifications, for she was an extraordinary messenger of love and contriver of pleasure, which is the same as a bawd; but her excuse to me was that it came to her by descent, just as the kings of france had the gift of curing the king's evil. you will imagine perhaps that we always lived in unity; but who does not know that the two best friends, if they are covetous, and live together, will endeavour to cheat one another; and i took care to let slip no opportunity. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] the old woman kept hens in the yard, and had about a dozen or fourteen well-grown chickens, which made my teeth water to be at them, or they were fit to be served up to any gentleman's table. it happened on day that when going to feed them, as the common custom is in spain, she called them together, crying, _pio, pio, pio_. this she repeated very often, and i being upon the catch, cried out as loud as she, "as god shall save me, mistress, i wish i had seen you kill a man, or clip the king's coin, for then i might have kept your counsel--rather than do as you have done; and now i must be forced to discover it. the lord have mercy upon us both!" she seeing me act all that concern and disorder, was somewhat startled, and said, "why, what have i done, pablo? if you are in jest, do not tease me any longer." "what do you mean by jesting?" said i; a curse on it, i cannot possibly avoid giving information to the inquisition, else i shall be excommunicated." "the inquisition," quoth she, trembling like a leaf on a tree; "why, have i committed any crime against religion?" "why, there's the case," answered i; "don't you think to dally with the inquisitors. you had better own you were in the wrong, that you spoke like a fool; eat your words, and not deny the blasphemy and irreverence." she replied in a great consternation: "but tell me, pablo, will they punish me if i recant?" "no," said i, "for then they will only absolve you." "then i recant," quoth she; "but do you tell me what it is i am to recant, for i know nothing of it as i hope for mercy." "bless me," replied i, "is it possible you should be so dull as not to reflect that, but i don't know how to express it--the disrespect was so great that i am afraid to repeat it. don't you remember you called the chickens _pio, pio_, and pius is the name of several popes, vicars of christ, and heads of the church? now, do you consider whether that be any trifling sin? she stood as if she had been thunder-struck, and after a while cried, "'tis true i said so, pablo, but may i be curs'd if i did it with any ill design. i recant; do you consider whether some means may not be found to avoid informing against me? for i shall die if they get me into the inquisition." "provided you will take your oath," answered i, "on the holy altar, that you did it not with any ill intent. i may, upon that assurance, forbear impeaching you; but then you must give me those two chickens that fed when you were calling them by that most sanctified name of the popes, that i may carry them to an officer of the inquisition for him to burn them, for they are defiled; and in the next place, you must swear positively never to be guilty of the like again. this you must do now, for to-morrow i'll swear." for the better fixing of this notion in her head, i went on: "the worst of it is, cipriana" (for that was her name), "that i shall be in danger, for the inquisitor will ask whether i am not the person, and may put me to trouble. do you e'en carry them yourself, for i am afraid." "for the lord's sake," cried she, "pablo, take pity on me, and do you carry them; there is no danger of your coming to any harm." i made her press me a long while, and at last, though it was the thing i aimed at, i suffered myself to be persuaded. i took the chickens, hid them in my chamber, made show as it i went abroad, and came in again, saying, "it has fallen out better than i expected; the cunning officer would fain have come after me to see the woman, but i gave him the slip cleverly, and did the trick." she hugged and kissed me, and gave me another chicken for my pains, which i carried to his companions, had them all dressed at the cook's, and ate them with my fellow-servants. don diego and the housekeeper came to hear of the trick, and all the family made excellent sport with it. the old woman had like to have fretted herself to death for mere vexation, and was a thousand times in the mind, for revenge, to discover all my cheats, but that she was as deep in the dirt as i was in the mire. being thus at variance with the old woman, and no way now left to put upon her, i contrived new ways to play my pranks, and fell to that the scholars call snatching and shoplifting, at which sport i had many pleasant adventures. one night, about nine of the clock, at which time there are but few people abroad, passing through the great street, i spied a confectioner's shop open, and in it a basket of raisins upon the counter. i whipped in, took hold of it, and set off a-running. the confectioner scoured after me, and so did several neighbours and servants. being loaded, i perceived that though i had the start they would overtake me, and therefore turning the corner of the street, i clapt the basket upon the ground, sat down upon it, and wrapping my cloak about my leg, began to cry out, holding it with both hands, "god forgive him, he has trod upon me and crippled me." they heard what i said, and when they came up i began to cry, "for the lord's sake pity the lame! i pray god you may never be lame!" they came to me, panting, and out of breath, and said, "friend, did you see a man run this way?" "he is a-head of you," answered i, "for he trod upon me." with this they started again, and vanished. i was left alone, carried my basket home and told the story, which they would not believe, though they highly applauded the ingenuity, for which reason i invited them to see me steal a box of sweetmeats another night. they came, and observing that all the boxes were so far within the shop that there was no reaching them, concluded the thing was impracticable, especially because the confectioner, having heard what had happened to the other one, was upon his guard. however, i went on, and drawing my sword, which was a stiff tuck, about a dozen paces short of the shop, run on, and when i came up to the door, i cried out, "you are a dead man," and made a strong pass just before the confectioner's breast, who dropped down, calling for help, and my sword run clear through a box of sweetmeats, which i drew out with it and carried off. they were all amazed at the contrivance, and ready to burst with laughing, to hear the confectioner bid the people search him, for he was certainly wounded, and knew the other to be a man he had a falling out with; but when he turned about, the other boxes being disordered by the pulling out of that one, he discovered the cheat, and fell a blessing himself as if he would never have done. the truth of it is, i never ate anything that pleased me so well. my companions used to say, i could maintain the family with what i lifted, which is only a modest term for stealing. being then but a boy, and hearing myself commended for these knavish pranks, it encouraged me to commit more. i used to bring home my girdle hung all round with little pitchers, which i stole from nuns, begging some water to drink of them, and when they turned it out in their wheel, i went off with the mugs, they being shut up, and not able to help themselves; so that it became a fashion not to give out anything without a pledge for the vessel. [illustration] [illustration] after this i promised don diego and his companions that i would one night disarm the round. the night was appointed, and we set out upon the exploit. i went foremost with another servant of our family, and as soon as i discovered the watch, went up as if i had been in a great fright, saying, "is it the round?" they answered, "it was." then said i, "is the officer here?" they replied, "he was." then i kneeled down, and said, "sir, it is in your power to do me right, to revenge my wrong, and to do the public a great piece of service; be pleased to hear a word or two i have to communicate in private, if you desire to secure some notorious criminals." he stepped aside, and some of his officers were laying hands on their swords, and others taking out their rods of authority, whilst i said, "sir, i am come from seville, in pursuit of six of the most notorious malefactors in the world; they are all thieves and murderers, and among them is one that killed my mother and a brother of mine, without any provocation but to exercise his barbarity. this is proved upon him, and they all come, as i heard them say, with a french spy; and by what i can further guess from their words, he is sent (then i lowered my voice) by antonio perez."[ ] at these words the officer gave a start, and cried, "where are they?" "they are, sir," said i, "in a house of ill-fame; do not stay, good sir; the souls of my mother and brother will requite you with their prayers, and the king will reward you." he said very earnestly, "good god! let us lose no time; follow me all of you, and give me a target." i took him aside again, and added, "sir, the whole business will be spoiled if you do so; the only way to do it is, for them all to go in without swords, and one by one, for they are above in the rooms, and have pistols, and as soon as they see any come with swords, knowing that none can wear them but officers of justice, they will be sure to fire. it is better only to go in with your daggers, and then seize them by the arms behind, for we are enough of us." the officer being eager to secure them at any rate, approved of my contrivance. by this time we were come near the place, and the officer, thus instructed by me, ordered them all to hide their swords in a field there is just before the house, under the grass. they did so, and went on. i had already instructed my companion that as soon as ever they laid their swords down, he should seize them, and make the best of his way home. he did so, and when they were all going into the house, i stayed out the last; and as soon as they were entered, being followed by several people they picked up by the way, i gave them the slip, and turned short into a narrow lane that comes out near the victoria, running all the way as swift as a greyhound. when the round was all in the house, and found none there but scholars and scoundrels--which is all one--they began to look about for me, and not finding me, suspected it was some trick put upon them. being thus disappointed, they went to take their swords, but there was no sign of them. it is impossible to tell what pains the officer, attended by the rector of the university, took that night. they searched all the town to the very beds, and when they came to ours, i was in bed, with a nightcap on, and close covered, for fear of being known, a candle lighted in one hand and a crucifix in the other, with a sham priest praying by me, and all the rest of my companions on their knees about the bed. the rector, with all his officers, came in, and seeing that spectacle, went out again, supposing no such prank could be played by any there. they made no search, but the rector prayed by me, and asked whether i was speechless; they answered, i was; and so away they went, in despair of making any discovery. the rector swore he would deliver up the offender, if he could find him; and the officer vowed he would hang him, though he were the son of a grandee of spain. i got up, and this prank makes sport at alcalá to this very day. to avoid being tedious, i omit giving an account of my robbing in the open market, as if it had been on a mountain; not a box or case escaped me, but i had it home, and kept the house in fuel all the year; and as for the apple-women, nothing was ever safe in their stalls or standings, for i had declared perpetual war against them, on account of the affront put upon me when i was king at segovia. i pass by the contributions i raised on the fields of beans, vineyards, and orchards, all about that part of the country. these and the like practices gained me the reputation of a mischievous, cunning fellow among all people. the young gentlemen were so fond of me, that i had scarce leisure to wait on don diego, whom i honoured as he deserved for the great kindness he bore me. [illustration] [illustration] chap. vii. _how i received news of my father's death, parted from don diego, and what course of life i resolved on for the future_ at length don diego received a letter from his father, and with it one for me, from an uncle of mine, whose name was alonso ramplon, a man near akin to all the virtues, and very well known in segovia as being the finisher of the law, and for four years past the carrying out of all its decrees went through his hands. in short, to speak plain, he was the executioner or hangman; but such a clever fellow at his business that it would not vex a man to be hanged by him, he did it so neatly. this worthy person wrote to me from segovia to alcalá as follows: "son pablo (for so he called me for the much love he bore me)-- "the great affairs of this employment in the which it has pleased his majesty to place me, have been the occasion of my not writing to you before; for if there be any thing to find fault with in the king's service, it is the great trouble and attendance it requires; which, however, is in some measure requited by the honour of being his servant. it troubles me to be forced to send you disagreeable news; but your father died eight days ago, with as much bravery and resolution as ever man did; i speak of my own knowledge, as having trussed him up myself. the cart became him as well as if it had been a chariot, and all that saw the rope about his neck concluded him as clever a fellow as ever was hanged. he looked up all the way he went at the windows, very much unconcerned, courteously bowing to all the tradesmen, that left their shops to gaze at him, and turned up his whiskers several times. he desired the priests that went to prepare him for death, not to be too eager, but to rest and take a breathing time, extolling any remarkable expressions they used. being come to the triple tree, he presently set his foot on the ladder, and went up it nimbly, not creeping on all-four as others do; and perceiving that one of the rounds of it was cracked through, he turned to the officers attending, and bid them get it mended for the next that came, because all men had not his spirit. i cannot express how much his person and carriage were applauded. at the top of the ladder he sat down, set his clothes handsomely about him, took the rope and clapped the noose to his ear, and then perceiving the jesuit was going to preach to him, he turned to him and said, 'father, i accept of the will for the deed. let us have a few staves of a psalm, and have done quickly, for i hate to be tedious.' this was done accordingly; he charged me to put on his cap a little to one side and to wipe his mouth, which i did. and then he swang, without shrinking up his legs, or making ugly faces; but kept such sedateness in his countenance that it was a pleasure to behold him. i quartered him out, and left the several parts on the highways. god knows what a trouble it is to me to see him there daily treating the crows and ravens. i cannot give you a much better account of your mother, for, though still living, she is a prisoner in the inquisition at toledo, because she would not let the dead rest in their graves. they give out that every night she used to salute a great he-goat, kissing him on the eye which has no pupil. in her house were found as many arms, legs, and heads as would have stocked a charnel house; and she reckoned it one of her smallest abilities to counterfeit virgins and solder cracked virtues. they say she would fly up a chimney, and ride faster upon a broom-staff than another can upon the best andalusian nag. i am sorry she disgraces us all, and me more particularly as being the king's officer, and such kindred does not become my post. dear child, here are some goods of your father's that have been concealed to the value of four hundred ducats; i am your uncle, and all i have is yours. upon sight hereof you may come away hither, for your skill in latin and rhetoric will qualify you to make you an excellent hangman. let me have your answer speedily, and till then god keep you, &c." [illustration] i must confess, i was much troubled at this fresh disgrace, and yet, in some measure, i was glad of it, for the scandalous lives of parents make their greatest misfortunes a comfort to their children. i went away hastily to don diego, who was then reading his father's letter, in which he ordered him to leave the university and return home, but not to take me with him, because of the account he had received of my trickiness. he told me he must be gone, and how his father commanded him to part with me, which he was sorry for; and i was so much more. he added, he would recommend me to another gentleman, his friend, to serve him. i smiled, and answered, "sir, the case is altered; i have other designs in my head, and aim at greater matters, so that i must take another course; for though hitherto i was at the foot of the ladder, in order to mount, you must understand that my father has got up to the top of it." with this i told how bravely he had died, at his full stretch; how he was carved out, and served up as a feast to the birds of the air. that my good uncle, the executioner, had sent me the whole account, and acquainted me with my mammy's confinement; for i could be plain with him, because he knew all my pedigree. he seemed to be much concerned, and asked how i intended to bestow myself. i informed him of all my resolutions and so the very next day he went away for segovia, very melancholy, and i stayed in the house, without taking the least notice of my misfortune. i burned the letter, for fear it might be dropped, and somebody read it, and began to provide for my journey to segovia, designing to take possession of what was my due, and to know my kindred, that i might shun them. [illustration] [illustration] chap. viii. _my journey from alcalá to segovia, and happened by the way till i came to rejas, where i lay that night._ at length the day came when i left the sweetest life i have ever known. i cannot express how much it troubled me to leave so many friends and dear acquaintance, for they were very numerous. i sold what little i had got underhand, to bear my charges on the way; and with some tricks and sleights of hand, made up about forty crowns, hired a mule, and left my lodging, where i had nothing to leave behind. the lord alone knows what a hue and cry there was after me; the shoemaker roared for the shoes he had trusted me with; the old housekeeper scolded for her wages; the landlord fretted for his rent. one cried, "my heart always misgave me that i should be so served"; another said, "they were much in the right who told me that this fellow was a cheat." [illustration] [illustration] in short, i was so generally beloved that i left half the town in tears for me when i came away, and the other half laughing at those that bemoaned themselves. i diverted myself with these thoughts along the road, when having passed through the town of torote, i overtook a man riding on a he-mule, with a pannel. he talked to himself very rapidly, and was so wrapt in imagination that he did not perceive me, though i was close by his side. i saluted him, and he returned the courtesy; then i asked which way he was travelling; and after a few such questions and answers had passed between us, began to discourse about the turks coming down, and the king's forces. then he began to lay a scheme for recovering of the holy land, and the taking of algiers; by which discourse i perceived that he was mad upon politics and government. we went on with our dialogue as became a couple of pleasant fellows, and skipping from one subject to another, fell last upon flanders. there i hit his vein, for he fetched up a deep sigh, and said, "that country has cost me more than it has done the king; for i have been upon a project about these fourteen years, which were it not impracticable, as it is, would have set all right there long ago." "what can that be," answered i, "which is so convenient and useful, and yet at the same time impracticable, and not to be put in execution?" "who told you," replied he, very hastily, "that it cannot be put in execution? it can be executed, for its being impracticable is another matter; and were it not for fear of being troublesome, i would tell you what is; but it will all out; for i design very suddenly to print it, with some other small works of mine, among which i propose to the king two several methods for recovering ostend."[ ] i entreated him to acquaint me with them; and he, pulling some papers out of his pocket, showed me a draught of the enemy's works and of ours, and said, "sir, you plainly see that all this difficulty lies in this inlet of the sea; now, my contrivance is to suck it dry with sponges, and so to remove that obstacle." this wild notion made me burst into a loud fit of laughter, and he, looking me earnestly in the face, went on, "i never showed it to anybody but has done the same as you do, for they are all mightily pleased with it." "truly," replied i, "it is an extraordinary pleasure and satisfaction to me to be acquainted with a design so novel and reasonable; but, sir, be pleased to consider, that when you have once sucked up the water that is in it, the sea will throw in more." "the sea will do no such thing," answered he, "for i have examined it very nicely; besides that, i have found out an invention to sink the sea twelve fathoms all about there." i durst not make any objection, for fear he should say he had a project to draw down the sky to us. in all my days i never met with such a madman. he told me that juanelo, a famous engineer, who brought water from the river tagus up a vast hill, to serve the city toledo, had done nothing; for he was now contriving to bring the whole river up to that city a much easier way; and when he came to explain the method, it was to be by a spell; pray do but mind whether ever such follies were heard of in the world; but he went on, and added, "yet i do not design to put this in execution, unless the king will first settle a good estate upon me, and knight me, for i am capable enough of that honour, because i have good testimonials of my gentility." this rambling, wild discourse lasted us to torrejon, where he stayed to see a kinswoman. i went on very well pleased, and laughing heartily at the projects he spent his time in. [illustration] i had not gone far before i spied at a distance a mule loose, and a man by her a-foot, who looking into a book, drew some lines, and measured them with a pair of compasses. he leaped and skipped about from side to side, and now and then laying one finger upon the other, made several extravagant motions. i must confess, that stopping at a good distance some time to observe him, i at first concluded he was a conjurer, and was almost afraid to go on. at last i resolved to venture, and drawing near, he spied me, shut his book, and going to mount, his foot slipped out of the stirrup and he fell. i helped him up, and he said, "i took not the due proportion in rising, to make the half circumference of mounting." i did not understand what he meant, but presently guessed what he was, for a more extravagant distracted man was never born of a woman. he asked whether i was going to madrid in a direct line, or took a circumflex road? though i did not understand him, yet i answered, "that by circumflex." next he asked me whose sword that was by my side? and having answered it was mine, he viewed it, and said, "that bar ought to be longer, to ward off the cuts that are made upon the centre of the thrusts." and thus he went on, sputtering out such a parcel of big words, that i was fain to ask him what his profession was? he told me that he was a solid master of the noble science of defence, and would make it good upon any ground in spain. i could not forbear laughing, and answered, "by my troth, sir, i rather took you for a conjurer, when i saw you describing circles, and making such antic motions in the field." "the reason of that," replied he, "was because there occurred to me a thrust in quart, fetching the greater compass, to engage my adversary's sword, and killing him before he can say his soul is his own, that he may not discover who did it; and i was then reducing of it to mathematical rules." "is it possible," said i, "that the mathematics should be concerned in that affair?" "not only the mathematics," quoth he, "but divinity, philosophy, music, and physic." "i do not question it as to the last," said i, "since that art aims at killing." "do not make a jest of it," continued he, "for i will now teach you an excellent guard, and at the same time you shall lay on the great cuts, which shall contain the spiral lines of the sword." "i do not understand one word of all you say," answered i. and he again, "why, here you have them in this book, which is called, _the wonders of the sword_.[ ] it is an excellent one, and contains prodigious things; and to convince you of it, at rejas, where we shall lie to-night, you shall see me perform wonders with two spits; and you need not question but that whosoever reads this book, will kill as many as he pleases." "either that book teaches men how to make plagues," replied i, "or it was written by some doctor of physic." "what do you mean by a doctor?" replied he. "he is an extraordinary wise man, and i could find in my heart to say more." [illustration] [illustration] we held on this ridiculous discourse till we came to rejas, and went into an inn; but as we were alighting, he called out to me as loud as he could, to be sure first to form an obtuse angle with my legs, and then reducing them to parallel lines, to come perpendicularly to the ground. the landlord seeing me laugh, did so to, and asked me, "whether that gentleman was an indian, that he spoke in such a sort." i thought i should have died with laughing between them; but he presently went up to the host, and said, "pray, sir, lend me a couple of spits to make two or three angles, and i will restore them immediately." "lord bless me, sir," answered the host, "give me the angles, and my wife will roast them in a trice, though they are a sort of birds i never heard the names of before." "they are no birds," replied the other; and turning to me, added, "pray, sir, do but observe the effects of ignorance. let me have the spits, for i want them only to fence with, and perhaps you will see me do that to-day which may be worth more to you than all you have got in your life." in fine, the spits were in use, and we were fain to take up with two long ladles. never was anything so ridiculous seen in this world. he gave a skip, and said, "this sally gains me more ground, and puts by my adversary's sword; now i make my advantage of the remiss motion to kill in the natural way; this should be a cut, and this a thrust." he came not within a mile of me, but danced round with his ladle; now i standing still all the while, all his motions looked as if he were fencing with a pot that is boiling over the fire. then he went on, saying, "in short, this is the true art, not like the drunken follies of fencing-masters, who understand nothing but drinking." the words were scarce out of his mouth before a great he-mulatto stepped out of the next room, with a pair of whiskers like two brushes, a hat as big as an umbrella, a buff-doublet under a loose coat, bandy-legged, hook-nosed, and with two or three signs of the cross on his face, a dagger that might have served goliath, and a hanging look, and said, "i am an approved master, and have my certificate about me, and by this light i'll make an example of any man that dare presume to reflect upon so many brave fellows as profess the noble science."[ ] seeing we were likely to be in a broil, i stept in, and said, "he had not spoken to him, and therefore he had no occasion to be affronted." "draw your sword, if you have ever a one," added he, "and let us try who has most skill, without playing the fool with ladles." my poor wretched companion opened his book, and cried aloud, "here it is, as i say, in the book, and it is printed by authority; and i'll maintain with the ladle that all it contains is true; or else without the ladle, either here, or upon any other ground; and if anybody does not believe it, let us measure it." this said, he pulled out his compasses, and went on, "this is an obtuse angle." the fencing-master drew his dagger, and replied, "i neither know who is angle, nor who is obtuse; nor did i ever hear such words before; but i'll cut you in pieces with this dagger in my hand." he ran at the poor devil, who fled from him amain, skipping about the house, and crying, "he cannot hurt me, for i have gained upon his sword." the landlord and i parted them, with the help of other people that came in, though i was scarce able to stand for laughing. the honest madman was put into his chamber, and i with him. we supped, and all the house went to bed. about two of the clock he got up in his shirt, and began to ramble about the room, skipping and sputtering a deal of nonsense in mathematical terms. he waked me and not satisfied with this, went down to the landlord to give him a light, saying he had found a fixed object for the cross pass upon the bow. the landlord wished him at the devil for waking him; but still the other tormented him, till he called him a madman, and then he came up and told me, if i would rise i should see the curious fence he had found out against the turks and their scimitars, and added, he would go show it to the king immediately, because it was very advantageous to christendom. by this time it was day, we all got up and paid our shot. we reconciled the madman and the fencing-master, who went away, saying, "that what my companion alleged was good in itself, but it made more men mad than skilful at their weapon, because not one in a hundred understood the least part of it." [illustration] [illustration] chap. ix. _of what happened to me on the road to madrid with a poet._ i held on my journey to madrid, and my mad companion went off to go another road; when he had gone a little way he turned back very hastily, and calling on me as loud as he could, though we were in the open where none could hear us, he whispered in my ear, "pray, sir, let me conjure you, as you hope to live, not to discover any of the mighty secrets i have acquainted you with, relating to the art of fencing, but keep them to yourself, since you are a man of sound judgment." i promised so to do; he went his way again, and i fell a-laughing at the comical secret. i travelled about a league without meeting anybody, and was considering with myself how difficult a matter it was for me to tread the paths of virtue and honour, since it was requisite, in the first place, that i should hide the scandal of my parents, and then have so much worth myself as to conceal me from their shame. these thoughts seemed to me so honourable, that i congratulated myself on them, and said, "it will be much more honourable in me, who had none to learn virtue from, than in those who had it hereditary from their predecessors." my head was full of these ideas, when i overtook a very old clergyman riding on a mule towards madrid. we fell into discourse, and he asked me whence i came? i told him, from alcalá. "god's curse," said he, "on those low people, since there was not one man of sense to be found among them." i asked how could that be said of such a town, where there were so many learned men? he answered, in a great passion, "learned! i'll tell you how learned, sir! i have for these fourteen years last past made all the songs and ballads and the verses for the bedels at corpus christi and christmas, in the village of majalahonda,[ ] where i am reader; and those you call learned men, when i put up some of my works among the rest, at the public act, took no notice of mine. and that you may be sensible, good sir, of the wrong they did me, i will read them to you;" and accordingly he began as follows: _come, shepherds, let us dance and play_ _on great saint corpus christi's day;_ _for he comes down to give its thanks,_ _for all our kind and loving pranks._ _when we have drunk and made all even,_ _he flies back again to heaven._ _what he does there i cannot say,_ _since here with us he will not stay._ _come, shepherds, let us dance and play, &c._ [illustration] having read this admired piece, which was too long to remember any more of it, he proceeded: "now, sir, could the very inventor of doggerel himself have said any thing finer than this? do but consider what a deal of mystery there is in that word _shepherds_; it cost me about a month's hard study." i could no longer contain myself within bounds, for i was ready to burst, and so breaking out into a loud fit of laughter, i said, "it is most wonderful; but i observe you call great saint _corpus christi_, whereas _corpus christi_ is not the name of a saint, but a festival instituted in honour of the blessed sacrament." "that's a pretty fancy," replied he, scornfully, "i'll show you him in the calendar, and he is canonized, and i'll lay my head on it." i could not contend any more with him for laughing at his unaccountable ignorance, but told him his verses deserved to be highly rewarded, for i had never seen anything more comical in my life. "no?" said he; "then pray hear a little of a small book i have written in honour of the eleven thousand virgins. i have composed fifty stanzas, of eight verses each, to every one of them; a most excellent piece." for fear of being pestered with so many millions of his lines, i desired him to show me anything that was not godly; and then he began to recite a comedy, which had as many acts as there are days in a year. he told me he writ it in two days, and that was the rough draught, and might be about half a ream of paper. the name of it was _noah's ark_; the whole represented by cocks and mice, asses, foxes, and wild boars, like Æsop's fables. i extolled both the plot and the conduct; and he answered, "i ought not to commend it because it is my own, but the like was never made in the world, besides that it is altogether new; and if i can but get it acted, there will be nothing so fine. all the difficulty lies in that, for if it were not, could anything be so sublime and lofty? however, i have contrived to have it all acted by parrots, jackdaws, magpies, starlings, and all other sorts of birds as speak, and to bring in monkeys for the farce." "that indeed will be very extraordinary," answered i. "all this is nothing," replied the old man, "to what i have done for the sake of a woman i love. here are nine hundred and one sonnets, and twelve rondeaux"--as if he had been reckoning up pounds, shillings, and pence--"made in praise of my mistress's legs." i asked him whether he had ever seen them? he replied he had not, on his word as a priest, but that all his conceits were by way of prophecy. though it was a diversion to hear his nonsense, i must confess i dreaded such a multitude of barbarous verses, and therefore endeavoured to turn off the discourse another way, telling him i saw hares. "then," cried he, "i'll begin with one, in which i compare her legs to that creature." still to bring him off that subject, i went on, "don't you see that star, sir, which appears by daylight?" "as soon as i have done with this," replied he, "i will read you the thirtieth sonnet, where i call her a star, for you talk as if you were acquainted with my fancies." it was such a vexation to me to find i could name nothing but what he had writ some nonsense upon, that i was all joy when i perceived we drew near madrid, believing he would then give over for shame; but it proved quite contrary, for as soon as we came into the street, he began to raise his voice, to show what he was. i entreated him to forbear, lest if the boys should once get the scent of a poet, all the rotten oranges and cabbage stumps in the town should come after us, in regard the poets were declared madmen, in a proclamation set out against them, by one that had been of the profession, but recanted and took up in time. this put him in a great consternation, and he begged me to read it to him if i had it. i promised him so to do when we came to the lodging-house; and accordingly we went to one where he used to alight, and found at least a dozen blind ballad-singers at the door. some knew him by the scent, and others by his voice, and all of them gave him a volley of welcomes. he embraced them all, and then some began to ask him for verses on the day of judgment in a lofty, bombastical style, that might provoke action; others would have commemorations for the departed; and so the rest, every one according to his fancy, giving him eight reals a-man earnest. he dismissed them, and said to me, "i shall make above three hundred reals of the blind men, and therefore, with your leave, sir, i'll withdraw for awhile now, to compose some lines, and after dinner we will hear the proclamation read, if you please." wretched life! for none are more miserable than those madmen that get their bread by such as are as mad as themselves. [illustration] [illustration] chap. x. _of what i did at madrid, and what happened to me on my way to cerecedilla, where i passed the night._ the poet withdrew awhile to study profaneness and nonsense for the blind ballad-singers till it was dinner-time, which being over, they desired to have the proclamation read, and having nothing else to do at that time, i drew it out and complied with their desires. i have inserted it here, because i reckon it ingenious, and pat to the purposes mentioned in it. it ran as follows: a proclamation. _against addle-headed, numskull, and dry-brained poets._ the old poetaster laughed out very heartily when he heard this title, and said, "i might have had business cut out till to-morrow; i thought this had concerned me, and it is only against numskull poets." i was mightily pleased with his conceit, as if he had been a horace or a virgil. i skipped over the preamble, and began with the first article, which was as follows: in regard that this sort of vermin, called poets, are our neighbours and christians, though wicked ones, and considering they spend all their days in worshipping of eyes, mouths, noses, and old ribbons and slippers, besides many other abominable sins they are guilty of, we think fit to direct and ordain, that all common halfpenny poets be confined together against easter, as lewd women are wont to be, and that care be taken to convince them of their evil practices, and to convert them; and to this purpose we do appoint monasteries of penitent poets. _item._ observing the excessive heats and droughts in the dog-days, caused by the abundance of suns, and other brighter stars, created and produced by those high-flying poets, we enjoin perpetual silence as to all heavenly beings, and appoint two months' vacation for the muses, as well as for the law, that they may have some time to recruit and recover the continual charge they are at. _item._ forasmuch as this infernal sect of men, condemned to eternal flights, as murderers of good words and ravishers of sentences, have infected the women with the plague of poetry, we declare that we look upon this mischief done them as a sufficient revenge for the damage we received from their sex at the beginning of the world; and to supply the present wants and necessities the world now labours under, we do farther ordain, that all the songs and other verses, made by poets in praise of women, be burned like old lace, to take out the gold and silver they put into their lady's hair and skins, and that all the oriental pearls, rubies, and precious stones be picked out of them, since they are so full of those rich metals and jewels. here the old poetaster was quite out of patience, and starting up in a fume, cried, "they had even as good rob us of all we have. pray, sir, let us have no more of it, for i design to reverse that judgment, and remove the cause, not to chancery, for that would be a wrong to my coat and dignity, but to the spiritual court, where i will spend all i am worth. it would be very pleasant that i, who am a churchman, should put up with that wrong. i will make it appear that an ecclesiastical poet's verses are not liable to that proclamation, and to lose no time, i will go and prove it in open court immediately." i could have laughed heartily at him, but for the more expedition, because it grew late, i said to him, "sir, this proclamation is made only for diversion, and is of no force, nor binding, as having no lawful authority." "a vengeance on it," replied the old man, in a great heat, "you should have told me so much before, sir, and might have saved me all this trouble. do you consider what a thing it is for a man to have a stock of eight hundred thousand songs and ballads by him, and to hear such a decree? proceed, sir, and god forgive you for putting me into such a fright." then i went on thus: _item._ for that very many, since they left their ancient idolatry of heathen gods and goddesses, still retaining some pagan superstitions, are turned shepherds, which is the cause that the cattle are withered up with drinking nothing but their tears, and parched with the fire that continually burns in their souls, and so charmed with their music, that they forget to feed; we do ordain, that they quit that employment, and that such as love solitude have hermitages appointed them, and the rest be coachmen and watermen, because those are callings given to much mirth and ribaldry. "it was some scoundrel, cuckoldy whoreson," cried the mad rhymer, "that contrived this proclamation; and if i knew the dog, i would write such a satire upon him as should fret his soul, and all that read it. what a pretty figure a smooth-faced man as i am would make in a hermitage? and would it be fit for a person dignified as reader to turn coachman? enough, sir, those jests are not to be borne with." "i told you before," said i, "that this is all a jest, and as such you may hear it." this said, i proceeded: _item._ to prevent all wrongs, we do appoint that, for the future, no verses be imported from france or italy, or other foreign parts, whence our poets steal, and pretend to make them their own; and that whatsoever poet shall be found guilty of this offence, be obliged to wear good clothes, and to keep himself clean and sweet for a week at least. our poet was very well pleased with this decree, for he wore a cassock that was grey with age, and so ragged, that it was a wonder he could go about without dropping in pieces. his gown and other accoutrements were only fit to manure the ground, which made me smile. and i told him: it is further ordained, that all women, who fell in love with mere poets, should be reputed as desperate persons, who hang or drown themselves, and as such never be buried in hallowed ground. and considering the mighty crop of roundelays, sonnets, songs and ballads, these over-rank years have produced, we do ordain, that all parcels of them, which have escaped the grocers and tobacconists as unworthy those employments, be sent to the necessary houses, without any appeal allowed them. to conclude; i came to the last article which runs thus: however, taking it into our pitiful consideration, that there are three sorts of persons in the nation so very miserable that they cannot live without this sort of poets, which are players, blind men, and ballad-singers; we do ordain that there may be some journeymen of this profession, provided they be licensed by the aldermen-poets of their wards; with this limitation, that the players-poets shall not use any devils or conjurers in their farces, nor conclude their comedies in matrimony; that the blind men shall not sing dismal stories which happened at jerusalem or morocco, nor patch up their verses with "eke also, and well a-day," and the like; and, that the ballad-singers shall no longer run upon gil and pascual, nor quibble upon words, nor contrive their songs so, that altering but the names, they may serve upon all occasions. to conclude, we command all poets in general to discard jupiter, venus, apollo, and all the herd of heathen gods and goddesses, on pain of having none but them to pray by them on their deathbed. [illustration] all that heard the proclamation read were highly pleased, and begged copies of it; only the old man began to swear by his bible, that it was a satire upon him, because of what it contained concerning the blind men, and that he knew what he did better than any man, and went on, saying, "do not mistake me, i once lay in the same house with liñan, and dined several times with espinel, and was in madrid as near lope de vega as to any man in the room, and have seen don alonso de ercilla a thousand times, and have a picture at home of the divine figueroa, and i bought the old breeches padilla left off when he became a friar, which i still wear, though bad enough." these were all old spanish famous poets, with whom he pretended to be thus acquainted, as if the knowledge of them would have made his nonsense the more tolerable. at the same time he showed us the breeches, which set all the company into such a fit of laughing, that none of them cared to leave the lodging. but it was now two of the clock, and having to travel further, we left madrid. i took my leave of him, though unwillingly enough, and travelled on towards the pass on the mountains. it pleased god, to divert me from evil thoughts, that i met with a soldier; we fell into discourse. he asked me whether i came from the court? i told him i only passed through the town. "it is fit for nothing else," answered the soldier, "it is full of base people; by the lord, i had rather lie at a siege up to the waist in snow, expecting a kind bullet, and half starved, than endure the insolencies they offer a man of honour." i replied, he should consider that at court there were people of all sorts, and that they made great account of any person of worth. he cut me off short, saying in a great passion, "why, i have been this half year at court, suing for a pair of colours, after twenty campaigns, and having shed my blood in the king's service, as appears by these wounds." and at the same time he showed me a scar half a quarter long on his groin, which was as plain a tumour as the light of the sun; and two seams on his heels, saying, they had been shots; but i concluded, by some i have of the same sort, that they had been chilblains broken. he pulled off his hat to show me his face, where appeared a long gash from ear to ear, and quite across his nose, besides other smaller cuts, that made it look like a mathematical draught, all of lines. "these," said he, "i received at paris, serving my god and my king, for whom i have had my countenance carved out and disfigured; and in return, i have received nothing but fair words, which are equivalent at present to foul actions. let me entreat you, learned sir, to read these papers; for, by heavens, a more remarkable man, i vow to god, never went into the field"; and he spoke truth, for he had marks enough to be known by. with this, he began to pull out tin-cases, and to show me a multitude of papers, which i believed belonged to another, whose name he had borrowed. i read them, and said a thousand things in his praise, pretending that neither the cid nor bernardo could compare with him. he laid hold of what i said in a passion, and cried, "to compare with me; by this light! no more can garcia de paredes, julian romero, nor others as great as they! damn all they did, there was no cannon in their days. the devil take me, bernardo would be a mere chicken now. pray, sir, do you but inquire in the low countries about the exploit performed by the person that wanted a tooth in front, and you will hear what they say of it." "are you the person, sir?" said i. and he replied, "why, who do you think it was? do you not see here is a breach in my teeth? but let us talk no more of it, for it does not become a man to praise himself." this discourse held us along till we overtook a hermit riding on an ass, with a long beard like a brush, lean, and clad in sackcloth. we saluted him as usual with the words _deo gratias_; and he began to extol the corn on the ground, and in it the mercies of god. the soldier immediately flew out, and said, "father, i have seen pikes charged against me thicker than that corn; and i vow to god, i did all that man could do at the sacking of antwerp, that i did by the lord!" the hermit reproved him for swearing so much, and he answered, "it is a sign you were never a soldier, father, since you reprove me for exercising my calling." it made me laugh to hear what he made soldiery to consist in, and perceived he was some scoundrel, who knew little of that noble profession, but that infamous part most used by the scum of those that follow it. [illustration] we came at length to the pass in the mountains, the hermit praying all the way on a pair of beads so big, it was a load; and every bead he dropped sounded like a stroke with a mallet. the soldier compared the rocks to the forts he pretended to have seen, observed what place was strong, and where the cannon might be planted for battery. i had my eyes fixed on them both, and was as much afraid of the hermit's monstrous beads as of the soldier's extravagant lies. "how easily," said he, "would i blow up a great part of this pass with gunpowder, and do all travellers good service." thus we came to cerecedilla, and went into an inn all three of us, after night-fall; we ordered supper, though it was friday, and in the meanwhile the hermit said, "let us divert ourselves awhile, for idleness is the source of all vice. let us play for ave marias;" and so saying, he dropped a pack of cards out of his sleeve. i could not but laugh at that pleasant sight, considering the great beads; but the soldier cried, "let us have a friendly game as far as an hundred reals will go i have about me." being covetous, i said i would venture the like sum, and the hermit, rather than disoblige, consented, telling us he had about two hundred reals to buy oil for the lamp. i must confess i thought to have sucked up all his oil, but may the turk always succeed as i did. we played at lanskenet, and the best of it was he pretended that he did not understand the game, and made us teach it him. he let us win for two deals, but then turned so sharp upon us, that he left us bare, and became our heir before we were dead. the dog palmed upon us so slily, it was a shame to see him; he would now and then let us draw a single stake, and then double it upon us. the soldier, every card he lost, let fly half a score oaths, and twice as many curses, wrapped up in blasphemies. for my part, i was eating my nails, whilst the hermit drew my money to him. he called upon all the saints in heaven, and in short left us penniless. we would have played on upon some little pledges, but when he had won my six hundred reals and the soldier's hundred, he said that was only for pastime, and we were all brethren, and therefore he would not meddle any farther. "do not swear," said he, "for you see i have had good luck, because i prayed to god." we believed him, as not knowing the sleight he had at packing the cards; the soldier swore he would never play again, and so did i. "a curse on it," cried the poor ensign, for he then told me he was so; "i have been among turks and infidels, but was never so stripped." the good hermit laughed at all we said, and pulled out his beads again. having never a stiver left, i desired him to treat me at supper, and pay for our lodgings till we came to segovia, since he had cleared our pockets. he promised so to do, devoured threescore eggs, the like i never beheld, and said he would go take his rest. we all lay in a great hall among other people, all the rooms being taken up before. i lay down very melancholy. the soldier called the landlord, and gave him charge of his papers in the tin cases, and a bundle of tattered shirts, and so we went to sleep. the hermit made the sign of the cross, and we blessed ourselves from him. [illustration] [illustration] he slept, and i watched, contriving how to get his money from him. the soldier talked in his sleep about his hundred reals, as if they had not been past retrieving. when it was time to rise, he called hastily for a light, which was brought, and the landlord gave the soldier his bundle, but forgot his papers. the poor ensign made the house ring, calling for his services. the landlord was amazed, and everybody pressing that he should give them, he ran out and brought three close-stools, saying, "there is one for each of you, would you have any more?" (for in spanish, services is a polite word for a close-stool.) this had like to have spoiled all, for the soldier got up in his shirt, with his sword in his hand, and ran after the landlord, swearing he would murder him; because he made a jest of him, who had been at the battles of lepanto, st. quintin, and several others, and brought him close-stools instead of the papers he had given him. we all ran after to hold him, and could not, whilst the landlord cried, "sir, you asked me for services; i was not bound to know, that in the language of soldiers, they gave that name to the certificates of their exploits." at length we appeased them, and returned to our room. the hermit, fearing the worst, lay abed, pretending the fright had done him harm; however, he paid our reckoning, and we set out towards the mountain, very much disturbed at his behaviour towards us, and much more for that we had not been able to get his money from him. we came up with a genoese, i mean one of those bankers who help to drain spain of all its money. he was going up the mountain, with a servant behind him, and an umbrella over his head, much like a rich usurer. we fell into discourse with him, and still he turned it to talk of money, for they are a people that seem born for nothing but the purse. he presently fell upon besançon, and to argue whether it were convenient or no to put out money at besançon. at last the soldier and i asked him what gentleman that was he talked of? he answered, smiling, "it is a town in italy, where all the great money-dealers meet to settle the exchange and value of coin." by which we understood that besançon was the great exchange of usurers. he entertained us on the way, telling he was undone because a bank was broke in which he had above sixty thousand ducats; and swore by his conscience to all he said, though i am of opinion that conscience among traders is like a virtue among whores, which they sell though they have none. scarce any trader has any conscience, for being informed that it has a sting, they leave it behind them with the navel-string when they come into the world. we held on our conversation till we spied the walls of segovia, which was a great satisfaction to me, though the thoughts of what i had endured under the wicked cabra, at the starving boarding-school, would have given a check to my joy. when i came to the town, i spied my father waiting upon the road, which brought tears to my eyes; but i went on, being much altered since i left the place, for i began to have a beard and was well clad. i parted from my company, and considering who was most likely to know my uncle besides the gallows, i could not imagine whom to apply myself to. i went up and asked several people for alonso ramplon, and nobody could give me any tidings of him, everyone said he did not know him: i was very glad to find so many honest men in my town. as i stood there, i heard the common crier set up his note, and after him my good uncle playing his part. there came a file of bareheaded fellows, naked to the waist, before my uncle, and he played a tune upon all their backs, going from the one to the other. i stood gazing at this sight, with a man i had been inquiring of, and told him i was a person of high birth; when i saw my uncle draw near, and he espying me, ran to embrace me, calling me nephew. i thought i should have died for shame; i never looked back to take leave of the man i was with, but went along with my uncle, who said to me, "you may follow till i have done with these people, for we are now upon our return, and you shall dine with me to-day." i, being mounted on my mule, and thinking in that gang i should be but one degree less exposed than those that were whipped, told him i would wait there, and stepped a little aside, so very much out of countenance that had not the recovery of my inheritance depended on him, i would never more have spoken to him, or been seen in that place. he concluded his exercise, came back, and carried me to his house, where i alighted, and we dined. [illustration] [illustration] chap. xi. _the kind entertainment i had at my uncle's, the visits i received; how i recovered my inheritance and returned to madrid._ [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] my worthy uncle was lodged near the slaughterhouse, at a water-seller's house. we went in, and he said to me, "my lodging is not a palace, but i assure you, nephew, it stands conveniently for my business." we went up such a pair of stairs that i longed to be at the top, to know whether there was any difference betwixt it and the ladder at the gallows. there we came into such a low room that we walked about as if we had been all full of courtesy, bowing to one another. he hung up the cat-of-nine-tails on a nail, about which there were others with halters, broad knives, axes, hooks, and other tools belonging to the trade. he asked me why i did not take off my cloak and sit down? i answered, "i did not use to do so." i cannot express how much i was out of countenance at my uncle's infamous profession, who told me it was lucky that i came at such a time, for i should have a good dinner, because he had invited some friends. as we were talking, in came one of those that beg money at the church-doors for the release of souls, in a purple gown down to his heels, and rattling his questing box, said, "i have got as much to-day by my souls as you have done by the rogues you flogged." they made grimaces at one another; the wicked soul-broker tucked up his long robe, discovering a pair of bandy legs and canvas breeches, and began to shift about, asking whether clement was come? my uncle told him he was not, when at the same time in came an acorn thresher--i mean a swineherd, wrapped up in a clout, with a pair of wooden shoes on. i knew him by his horn he had in his hand, which had been more fashionable had it been upon his head. he saluted us after his manner, and next to him in came a left-handed squinting mulatto, with a hat that had brims like an umbrella and a crown like a sugar-loaf; his sword with more guards about it than at the king's hunting; a buff-doublet; and a face as full of scars as if it had been made of patches stitched together. he sat down, saluting all the company, and said to my uncle, "by my troth, alonso, flat nose and the nailer have been well mauled to-day." up started he of the souls, and cried "i gave flechilla, the hangman of ocana, four ducats, to put on the ass apace and play with a slender cat-of-nine-tails, when i was fly-flapp'd there." "by the lord," quoth the mulatto, "i was too kind to the dog lobrezno at murcia, for the ass went a snail's gallop all the way, and the rogue laid them on so, that my back was all weals." "my back is virgin still," said the swineherd. "to every hog comes his martinmas," answered the beggar.[ ] "i must say that for myself," quoth my good uncle, "that of all whipsters i am the man, who am true and trusty to these that bespeak me; these to-day gave me five crowns, and they had a parcel of friendly lashes with the single cat-of-nine-tails." i was so much out of countenance to see what good company my uncle kept, that my blushes betrayed me, and the mulatto perceiving it, said, "is this reverend gentleman the person that suffered the other day, and had a certain number of stripes given him?" i answered, "i was none of those that suffered as they had done." with this my uncle started up, and said, "this is my nephew, a graduate at alcalá, and a great scholar." they begged my pardon, and made tenders of great friendship. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] i was quite mad to eat my dinner, receive what was due, and get as far as i could from my uncle. the cloth was laid, and the meat drawn up in an old hat, as they draw up the alms that is given in prisons. it was dished up in broken platters, and pieces of old crocks and pans, being dressed in a stinking cellar, which was still more plague and confusion to me. they sat down, the beggar at the upper end, and the rest as it fell out. i will not tell what we ate, but only that they were all dainties to encourage drinking. the mulatto, in a trice, poured down three pints of pure red. the swineherd seeing the cup stand at me, still whipt it off, pledging more healths than we spoke words; no man called for water, or so much as thought of it. five good meat pasties were served up; they raised the crusts, and taking a holy-water sprinkler, said a short prayer for the soul to whom the flesh belonged. then said my uncle, "you remember, nephew, what i wrote to you about your father; it now comes afresh into my mind." they all ate, but i took up only with the bottoms, and ever since then i have retained the custom of saying a prayer for the soul departed when i eat meat pies. the pots went round without ceasing, and the mulatto and the beggar plied it so hard, that a dish of scurvy sausages, looking like fingers of blacks cut off, being set upon the table, one of them asked what they meant by serving up dressed charcoal? my uncle by this time was in such a condition, up to the throat in wine, with one eye almost out and the other half drowned, that laying hold of one of the sausages, in a hoarse and broken voice, he said, "by this bread, which is god's creature, made to his own image and likeness, i never ate better black meat, nephew." it made me laugh with one side of my mouth, and fret with the other, to see the mulatto, stretching out his hand, lay hold of the salt-dish, and cry, "this pottage is hot;" and at the same time the swineherd took a whole handful of salt, and clapping it into his mouth, said, "this is a pretty provocative for drinking." after all this medley there came some soup, so orderly was our entertainment. the beggar laying hold of a porringer with both hands, cried, "god's blessing on cleanliness;" and instead of clapping of it to his mouth, laid it to his cheek, where he poured it down, scalding his face and washing himself in grease from head to foot, in a most shameful manner. being in this miserable plight, he tried to get up, but his head being too heavy, he was fain to rest with both his hands upon the table, which was only a board set upon two tressels, so that it overturned and begrimed all the rest; and then he cried that the swineherd had pushed him. the swineherd seeing the other fall upon him, scrambled up, and laying hold of his horn trumpet, beat it about his ears. they grappled and clung so close together that the beggar set his teeth in the swineherd's cheek, and both of them rolling on the ground, made such a wambling in the swineherd's belly, that he cast up all he had ate and drunk in the beggar's face. my uncle, who was the soberest of all the company, asked who had brought so many clergy into the house? perceiving that they all looked through multiplying glasses, i parted the two combatants, made them friends, and helped up the mulatto, who lay on the ground maudlin drunk, and weeping bitterly. i laid my uncle on his bed, who made a low bow to a tall wooden candlestick he had, thinking it had been one of his guests. next i took away the swineherd's horn, but there was no silencing him after all the rest were asleep; he was still calling for his horn, and said, "no man ever could play more tunes on it, and he would now imitate the organ." in short, i never left them till they were all fast asleep; then i went abroad, and spent the afternoon in seeing the town; i passed by cabra's house, and heard he was dead, but never asked of what distemper, knowing he could die of none as long as it was possible to starve. at night i returned home, full four hours after i had gone out, and found one of the company awake, crawling about the room on all-four to find the door, and complaining he had lost the house. i raised him up, and let the rest sleep till eleven at night, when they awaked of themselves, stretching and yawning. one of them asked, "what a clock it was?" the swineherd, who had not laid half his fumes, answered, "it was still afternoon, and the weather piping hot." the beggar, as well as he could speak, asked for his cloak, saying, "the distressed families had been long neglected, the whole care of their souls lying upon his hands;" and thinking to go to the door, he went to the window, where seeing the stars, he cried out to the others, telling them, "that the sky was hill of stars at noonday, and there was a mighty eclipse." they all blessed themselves, and kissed the ground. having observed the villainy of the beggar, i was much scandalized, and resolved to take heed of that sort of men. the sight of all these abominable practices made me the more impatient to be among gentlemen and persons of worth. i got them all away one by one, the best i could, and put my uncle to bed, who, though not foxed, was drunk enough, and made the best shift i could myself, with my own clothes, and some of the poor departed souls' that lay about the room. thus we passed the night, and in the morning i discoursed my uncle about seeing my inheritance and taking possession of it, telling him i was quite tired, and knew not with what. he stretched one leg out of bed, and got up; we had much talk concerning my affairs, and i had enough to do with him, he was so tipsy and dull. at length i prevailed with him to tell me of part or my inheritance, though not all; and so he told me of three hundred ducats my worthy father had got by sleight of hand, and left them in custody of a decent woman, that was the receiver of all that was stolen for ten leagues round the country. to be short, i received and pouched my money, which my uncle had not yet drank out, nor consumed; and that was very much, considering he was such a brutal man; but the reason was, he thought it would serve me to take my degrees, and, with a little learning, i might come to be a cardinal, which to him seemed no difficult matter. when he understood i had the money, he said to me, "my child, pablo, it will be your own fault if you do not thrive and are not a good man since you have a good example before you. you have got money, and i will always be your friend, for all i have and all i earn is yours." i returned him thanks for his kind offers. we spent the day in extravagant talk, and in returning visits to the aforesaid persons. they passed the afternoon playing at knuckle-bones, the same company--my uncle, the swineherd, and the beggar, this last squandering the money of the poor at a villainous rate. it was wonderful to see how dexterous they were at it, catching them up in the air and shaking them up as they fell on the wrist. night came on, the guests went away, and my uncle and i to bed, for he had now got me a quilt. when it was day, i got up before he was awake, and went away, without being perceived, to an inn, locking the door on the outside, and thrusting in the key at a cranny. i went away, as i have said, to an inn, to hide myself, and wait the next opportunity to go to madrid. i left him a letter sealed up in the room, wherein i gave an account of my departure, and the reasons that moved me so to do, desiring he would make no inquiry after me, for i would never see him more. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] chap. xii. _of my flight from segovia, with what happened to me by the way to madrid._ a carrier was setting out that morning with a load from the inn for madrid. he had a spare ass, which i hired, and went before to wait for him without the city gate. he came accordingly; i mounted, and began my journey, and said to myself, "farewell to thee for ever, thou knave of an uncle, "dishonour of our family, stretcher of wind-pipes." i considered i was going to madrid, the court of spain, where, to my great satisfaction, nobody knew me, and there i must trust to my ingenuity. the first thing i resolved to do was to lay aside my scholar's habit, and clothe myself in the fashion. but let us return to my uncle, who was in a great rage at the letter i left him, which was to this effect: "mr. alonso ramplon. "since it has pleased god to show me such signal mercies, as to take away my good father, and to order my mother to be conveyed to toledo, where i know the best that can come of her is to vanish away in smoke; all i could wish for at present would be to see you served as you serve others. i design to be singular in my family, for i can never make more than one, unless i fall under your hands, and you carve me up as you do others. do not inquire after me, for i am in duty bound to deny the kindred that is between us. serve god and the king." [illustration] it is impossible to express how, in all likelihood, he railed and swore at me; but let us leave him there, and return to my journey. i was mounted on a dappled ass of la mancha, and wished with all my heart that i might meet nobody; when on a sudden i discovered at a distance a gentleman going a-pace, with his cloak hanging on his shoulders, his sword by his side, close breeches, and boots on, altogether, to outward appearance, genteel enough, with a clean starched band, and his hat on one side. i conceived he was some man of quality that was walking, and had left his coach behind him; and accordingly, when i came up, i saluted him. he looked at me, and said, "it is very likely, good sir, that you travel more easy on that ass than i do with all my equipage." imagining he had meant his coach and servants he left behind, i answered, "in troth, sir, i reckon it more easy travelling than in a coach, for though there is no dispute that you go very easily in that you have left behind you, yet the jolting of it is troublesome." "what coach behind?" replied he, much disturbed, and turning short to look about him, the sudden motion made his breeches drop down, for it broke the one point he had to hold them up; and though he saw me ready to burst with laughing, he asked to borrow one of me. perceiving he had no more shirt than would come within the waistband of his breeches, and scarce reach to acquaint his breech he had any, i replied, "as i hope for mercy, sir, you had best wait till your servants come up, for i cannot possibly assist you, having but one single point to hold up my own breeches." "if you are in jest, sir," quoth he, holding his breeches in his hands, "let it pass, for i do not understand what you mean by servants." with this he went on, and was so plain in letting me know he was poor, that before we had gone half a league together, he owned he should never be able to get to madrid, unless i would let him ride upon my ass awhile, he was so tired with walking with his breeches in his hands, which moved me to compassion, and i alighted. he was so encumbered with his breeches, that i was fain to help him up, and was much surprised at what i discovered by my feeling; for behind, as far as was covered with the cloak, the hinder parts had no other fence against the eyes and the air. he, being sensible of the discovery i had made, very discreetly prevented what reflection i might make by saying, "all is not gold that glitters, sir licentiate," giving me that title on account of my long scholar's robe; "no doubt but when you saw my fine starched band, and the show i made, you fancied i was the lord knows who.[ ] little do you think how many fine outsides are as bare within as what you felt." i assured him upon my word that i had conceited much different matters from what i found. "why then, sir," replied he, "let me tell you, all you have seen as yet is nothing, for everything about me is remarkable, and no part of me is truly clad. such as you see me, i am a real substantial gentleman, of a good family and known seat on the mountains; and could i but feed my body as i keep my seat and gentility, i should be a happy man. but as the world goes, good sir, there is no keeping up noble blood without bread and meat, and, god be praised, it runs red in every man's veins; nor can he be a worthy person who is worth nothing.[ ] i am now convinced of the value of a good pedigree, for being ready to starve one day, they would not give a chop of mutton in the cook's-shop for mine; for they said it was not flourished with gold letters; but the leaf gold on pills is more valuable, and few men of letters have any gold. i have sold all to my very burial-place, that nothing may be called mine when i am dead, for my father toribio rodriguez vallejo gomez de ampuero y jordan lost all he had in the world by being bound for others. i have nothing now left to sell but the title of don, and i am so unfortunate, that i can find nobody that has occasion for it, because there is scarce a scoundrel now but usurps it." though the poor gentleman's misfortunes were intermixed with something that was comical, i could not but pity him, asked his name, whither he was going, and what to do? he answered with all his father's names, don toribio rodriguez vallejo gomez de ampuero y jordan. never did i hear such an empty sounding jingling name, or so like the clattering of a bell, as beginning in _don_ and ending in _dan_. he added, he was going to madrid, because a threadbare elder brother, as he was, soon grew tainted and mouldy in a country town, and had no way to subsist; and therefore he was going to the common refuge of distressed persons, where there is room for all, and open house kept for wandering spongers: "and i never want five or six crowns in my pocket," said he, "as soon as i am there, nor a good bed, meat, and drink, and sometimes a forbidden pleasure; for a good wit at court is like the philosopher's stone, which converts all it touches into gold." this to me was the most welcome news i had ever heard; and therefore, as it were to divert the tediousness of our journey, i desired him to inform me how, and by whom, he, and others in his condition, could live at court; for to me it appeared a very difficult matter, because everyone there seemed so far from being contented with his own, that he aimed at what belonged to others. "there are many of all sorts," replied my spark, "but flattery is like a master-key, which introduces a man wheresoever he pleases, in such great places; and that you may not think strange of what i say, do but listen to my adventures and contrivances, and you will be convinced of the truth of it." [illustration] [illustration] chap. xiii. _in which the gentleman pursues his journey, and his promised tale of his life and condition._ [illustration] "the first thing you are to observe is, that at court there are always the wisest and the weakest, the richest and the poorest, and the extremes of all other sorts. there the virtuous are concealed, and the wicked not taken notice of; and there live a sort of people like myself, who are not known to have any estates, real or personal, nor does it appear whence they came, or how they live. among ourselves we are distinguished by several names, some are called gentlemen-mumpers, others sharpers, others pinchguts, others barebones, and others commoners; but in general we live by our wits. for the most part, we cheat our guts of their due, for it is a very dangerous and troublesome thing to live upon others. we are scarecrows at all good tables, the terror of cook-shops, and always unbidden and unwelcome guests, living like chameleons by the air, and so contented. when we happen to dine upon a leek, we strut and look as big as if stuffed with capon. whosoever comes to visit us, never fails to find mutton and fowl bones, and parings of fruit about the house, and the doors strewed with feathers and young coney skins; all which we pick up over night, about the streets, to credit us the next day. as soon as the friend comes in, we fall into a passion, and cry, 'it is a strange thing that i can never make this maid sweep the room in time. good sir, excuse me, for i have had some friends at dinner, and these servants never mind their business,' &c. such as do not know us believe it, and think we have had an entertainment. next, as for dining at other men's houses, whensoever we have spoke but three words with a man, we take care to know where he lives, thither we are sure to make just at eating-time, when we know he is at table; we tell him his conversation has so charmed us, that we are not able to keep away, for he is the most taking person in the world. if he asks whether we have dined, and they have not yet begun, we answer in the negative. if they invite us, we never stay to be asked twice, because those ceremonies have often made us go with hungry bellies. if they have begun to eat, we say we have dined, and then, though the master of the house carves up his fowl, or any joint of meat never so dexterously, that we may have the opportunity of chopping up a mouthful or two, we cry, 'by your leave, sir, pray let me have the honour of being your carver, for i remember (naming some duke or earl that is dead, god rest his soul), used to take more delight in seeing me carve than in eating.' this said, we lay hold of the knife, cut out curious bits, and say, 'how deliciously it smells! it would be an affront to the cook not to taste it; what a delicate hand she has at seasoning!' with this we fall on, and down goes half the meat in the dish for a taste. if there be bacon, we call it our delight; if mutton, the only thing we love; if but a turnip, an excellent morsel; and so everything that comes in our way is ever the thing that we most admire. if all this fails, we are sure of the alms of some monastery, which we do not receive in public among the beggars, but privately, endeavouring to persuade the friars that we rather take it out of devotion than for want. [illustration] "it is pleasant enough to see one of us in a gaming-house, how diligently he attends, snuffs the candles, reaches the pots, fetches cards, applauds all the winner says, and all this for a poor real or two he gives him. we carry in our mind the whole inventory of our wardrobe or ragshop, in order to dress us; and as in some places they observe set times for prayer, so do we for mending and botching. it is wonderful to see what variety of rubbish we lay up, and produce upon occasion. we look upon the sun as our mortal enemy, because he discovers our darns, stitches, and patches; and yet are forced to be beholden to him, standing up with our legs wide open in the morning where he shines in, to discover by the shadows on the ground what shreds or rags hang between our legs, and then with a pair of scissors we trim the breeches. now that part betwixt the thighs being so apt to wear, it is very odd to observe what gaps we make behind to fill up the forepart, so that very often the posteriors are hacked away till they remain quite naked. only the cloak is privy to this secret, and therefore we are very cautious of windy days, and of going upstairs that are light, or mounting a-horseback. we make it our business to study postures against the light; and if it prove a very bright day, we walk with our legs as close as may be, and sit as if our knees were clung together, for fear lest we open them the gashes may appear. there is nothing about us but what has been another thing before, and may have a particular history writ of it; as for instance, you see this waistcoat. sir, it was once a pair of wide-kneed breeches, grandchild to a short cape, and great-grandchild to a long mourner's cloak, which was its first parent, and now it waits to be converted into footing for stockings, and forty other things. our socks were once handkerchiefs, descended from towels, which had been shirts, and those the issue of sheets; after all this, they are made into paper, on which we write, and at last burn to make blacking for our shoes, where i have seen it perform wonders, recovering many a pair that was condemned as only fit for the dunghill. at night we never fail to get at the greatest distance we can from the light, for fear of discovering our threadbare cloaks and woolless coats, for there is no more nap on them than is upon a stone; and though it pleases god to give us hair on our faces, we have none on our clothes; and therefore, to save the expense of a barber, we always contrive to stay till two of us want trimming together, and then we scrape one another, following the advice of the gospel, 'be helpful to one another, like loving brethren.' besides, we always take care not to intrude into the houses of others, for everyone keeps his own and timely notice is given to avoid contention, being very jealous in the point of eating. it is an indispensable duty among us to ride about all the great noted streets once a quarter, though it be on an ass-colt, and once a year to go in a coach, when we are sure to sit as close to the door as possible, thrusting out our heads, bowing to all that pass by to be seen, and talking to our friends and acquaintance, though they do not see or mind us. if any unmannerly creature happens to bite us before ladies, we have ways to scratch in public, without being taken notice of; for if it happened to be on the thigh, we tell a story of a soldier we saw had a shot through there, clapping our fingers on the place that itches, and clawing instead of pointing. if it is in the church, and they sting on our breasts, we beat them by way of devotion, though it be at a christening; for the back, we lean against a pillar or wall, and rub it there, as if we only stood up to observe something. to deal ingenuously, as to the matter of lying, not one word of truth ever comes out of our mouths. in all companies we run over a bead-roll of dukes and counts, making some of them our friends, and others our relations, always observing that those great men must be either dead or very remote. the best of all is that we never fall in love, unless it be to earn our bread; for by our constitutions, coy ladies, though never so beautiful, are absolutely forbidden; so that we ever court a tripe-man for our meat, the landlady for our lodging, the starcher for our band and other necessaries; and though such slender diet makes us unfit to satisfy them all, yet we keep them in good humour. will anybody that sees the boots on my legs believe they are upon the bare skin, without any stockings? or will any one that sees my curious starched band imagine i have no shirt? let me tell you, sir, a gentleman may make a shift without those things, but there is no living for him without a set starched band. this is an outward ornament, altogether necessary to grace a man; and besides, when he has turned it and wound it every way, the starch in it will make him a mess as good as watergruel. in short, reverend sir, a gentleman of our stamp must go through all sorts of wants and hardships, and that is the way to live at court. sometimes he flourishes and rolls in plenty, and at another time he falls into an hospital; but still he lives; and he who knows how to manage is a king, though he has never so little." i was so well pleased with the gentleman's strange ways of living, and so much diverted with his relation, that i went on a-foot as far as rozas, where we lay that night. the squire supped with me, for he had not one doit, and i thought myself beholden to him for his instructions, because they led me into abundance of secrets, and put me into the way of sharping. i acquainted him with my designs before we went to bed, which he returned with a thousand embraces, telling me he had always been in hopes since he met me that his words would work some good effect on a person of my capacity. he offered me his service towards introducing me at madrid into the society of the tricking brotherhood, and a lodging among them. i accepted of his kindness, without letting him know what was my treasure in ducats, which was only an hundred reals, which, with the kindness i had done, and was still continuing, purchased his friendship. i bought him three points from our landlord; he tied up his hose, we rested that night, got up early in the morning, and away we went to madrid. end of book one. [illustration] the history of the life of the sharper called don pablo the pattern of vagabonds and mirror of rogues. [illustration] book ii. chap. i. _of what happened to me at my coming to madrid as soon as i arrived there, until nightfall._ [illustration] [illustration] we got to madrid at ten o'clock in the morning, and went lovingly together by consent to the house where don toribio's friends lived. a very old woman miserably clad opened the door; he inquired for his friends, and she answered, they were gone out a-seeking. we continued by ourselves until noon, diverting the time, he encouraging me to follow the sponging course of life, and i listening carefully to his advice. half an hour after twelve in came a scarecrow, clad in black baize down to his heels, more threadbare than his conscience. they talked to one another in the thieves' cant, the result whereof was his embracing me and offering his service. we discoursed awhile, and then he pulled out a glove, in which were sixteen reals, and a letter, by virtue of which he had collected that money, pretending it was a licence to beg for a woman in distress. he took the money out of the glove, drew another to it out of his pocket, and folded them together as physicians do. i asked him why he did not wear them? and he answered, because they were both for one hand, and that way they served as well as if they had been fellows. all this while i observed he did not let go his cloak, which was wrapped about him; and, being but a novice, for my better information took the liberty to inquire why he still hugged himself up so close in his cloak? he replied, "my friend, there is a great rent down my back, made up with a patch of old stuff, besides a great spot of oil; this piece of a cloak hides all, and thus i can appear abroad." at length he unwrapped himself, and under his cassock i perceived a great bulk sticking out, which i took to have been trunk-breeches, for it looked like them, until he, going in to louse himself, tucked up his coats, and i perceived there were only two hoops of pasteboard tied to his waist, and joined to his thighs, which stuck out under his mourning, for he wore neither shirt nor breeches, but was so naked that he had scarce anything to lose. he went into the lousing room, and turned a little board that hung at the door, on which was written, "one is lousing," that no other might go in until he had done. i blessed god with all my heart to see how he had provided for men, giving them ingenuity if they wanted riches. "for my part," said my friend, "i have something the matter with my breeches with travelling, and therefore must withdraw to mend." he asked whether there were any rags? the old woman, who gathered them twice a week about the streets, as the rag-women do for the paper mills, to cure the incurable diseases of those gentlemen, answered there were none; and that don lorenzo yñiguez del pedroso had kept his bed a fortnight for want of them, being bad of his coat. at this time in came one booted, in a travelling garb, a grey suit, and a hat bridled up on both sides. the others told him who i was, and he, saluting me very lovingly, laid down his cloak; and it appeared--who would imagine it?--that the fore part of his coat was of grey cloth, and the back of white linen, well stained with sweat. i could not forbear laughing, and he very demurely said, "you'll come into action, and then you won't laugh; i'll lay a wager you don't know why i wear my hat with the brims bridled up." i answered, "out of gallantry, and that they may the better see your face." "that's your mistake," said he, "i do it to prevent them seeing; it is because i have no hatband, and this hides it." this said, he pulled out about twenty letters, and as many reals, saying, he could not deliver those. everyone was marked a real postage, and they were all folded alike. he signed any name that came into his head, writ news of his own making, and delivered them in that habit to people of fashion, receiving the postage, which he practised once a month; all which to me was very amazing. [illustration] next came two others, one of them with a cloth coat, reaching but half way down his wide walloon trunks, and a cloak of the same, with his band ruffled up to hide the lining, which was rent. the breeches were of camlet, but only as far as appeared, for all the rest was of red baize. this man was jangling and wrangling with the other, who wore a ruff for want of a band, a hanging coat for want of a cloak, and went upon a crutch, with one leg bound up in rags and furs, because he had but one stocking. he pretended to be a soldier, and had been so, but a scurvy one and in peaceful regions, and by the privilege of a soldier intruded into any house. he in the coat and half breeches cried, "the one half, or at least a considerable part, is due to me; if you do not give it me, i swear to god----" "do not swear to god," replied the other, "for i am not lame at home, and if you prate, i'll lay this crutch about your ears." "you shall give it." "i shall not give it." so they came to high words, and gave one another the lie; then falling to blows, the clothes in a moment flew all about in rags at the first handling. we parted them, and inquiring into the cause of the quarrel, the soldier cried, "put tricks upon me! you shall not have the value of a doit. you must understand, gentlemen, that being at st. saviour's church, there came a child to this poor fellow, and asked him whether i was the ensign juan de lorenzana? who answered, i was, because he saw he had something in his hand. with this, he brought the child to me, and, calling me ensign, said, 'here, sir, see what this child would have with you.' i understood the trick, and said i was the man, took his message, and with it a dozen of handkerchiefs, returning an answer to his mother, who sent them to some person of that name. now he demands half, and i'll be torn in pieces before i'll part with them; my own nose shall have the wearing of them all out." the cause was adjudged in his favour, only he was forbid blowing his nose in them, and ordered to deliver them up to the old woman, to make ruffles and cuffs for the honour of the community, to represent shirt-sleeves; for blowing the nose was absolutely prohibited. when night came we all went to bed, and lay as close together as herrings in a barrel, or tools in a tweezer-case. as for supper, there was not so much as a thought of it; most of the gang never stripped, for they were naked enough to go to bed as they went all day. [illustration] [illustration] chap. ii. _in which the same subject is pursued, with other strange incidents._ day came, and we all started to action. i was as well acquainted with them already as if we had been one mother's children; for there is ever an easiness and sweetness in things evil. it was very pleasant to see one put on his shirt at ten several times, because it consisted of as many several clouts, and say a prayer at every one, like a priest that is vesting to go to the altar. one could not find the way into his breeches; another called out for help to put on his doublet, for none of them knew the right side from the wrong, or the head from the heels. when this was over, which afforded no little pleasure, they all laid hold of their needles and thread, and it was darn, stitch, and patch. one fixed an arm against a wall, to draw together the rents in a sleeve; another kneeled down, to botch up the holes in his hose; another clapped his head betwixt his legs, to come at a breach upon his buttocks. bosco[ ] never painted such variety of strange figures as i saw there; they botched, and the old woman supplied them with materials, rags and clouts of all the colours of the rainbow, which she had picked up on saturday night. [illustration] when the mending time was over, as they called it, they all viewed one another narrowly to see what was amiss, in order to go abroad a-shifting. i told them i would have them order my dress, for i designed to lay out the hundred reals i had on a suit of clothes, and leave off my cassock. "that must not be," said they, "let the money be put into the common stock; we will clothe him immediately out of our wardrobe, and appoint him his walk in the town, where he shall range and nibble for himself." i consented, deposited the money, and in a trice they made me a mourning cloth coat out of my cassock, cut my long cloak into a short one, and trucked the remains of it for an old hat new dressed, making a hatband very neatly of some cotton picked out of inkhorns. they took off my band and wide-kneed breeches, and instead of these, put me on a pair of close hose, slashed only in front, for the sides and the back part were nothing but sheep-skins. the silk stockings they gave me were not half stockings, for they reached but four fingers below the knees, the rest being covered with a tight pair of boots over my own red hose. the collar they gave me was all in rags, and when they put it on, they said, "the collar is somewhat imperfect on the sides and behind; if anybody looks at you, sir, you must be sure to turn about as they do, like the sun-flower, which still moves as he does. if there happen to be two at once observing you on both sides, fall back; and to prevent being observed behind, let your hat hang down on your neck, so that the brim may cover the band, leaving all your forehead bare; and if anybody asks why you wear it so, tell him, it is because you dare show your face in any part of the world." next they gave me a box containing black and white thread, sewing silk, packthread, a needle, a thimble, bits of cloth, linen, and silk, with other shreds and scraps, and a knife. to my girdle they fastened a tinder-box, with steel and flint in a little pouch, saying, "this box will carry you through the world, without the help of friends or relations; this contains all we stand in need of; take and keep it." they appointed the ward of san luis for my walk, and so i entered upon my employment. we all went out together, but because i was a novice, they ordered him that brought and converted me to be my god-father in the trade of sharping. [illustration] [illustration] we set out very gravely, walking in state, with our beads in our hands, and made towards my precinct. we paid respect to all we met, taking off our hats to the men, though we had rather have taken their cloaks; to the women we bowed low, because they are fond of respect and proud of being honoured. my worthy tutor, as he went along, would say to one creditor, "i shall receive money to-morrow;" to another, "have patience for a day or two; the bankers put me off." one asked him for his cloak, another for his girdle; by which i perceived he was such a true friend to his friend, that he had nothing which was his own. we went in and out from one side-walk to another, winding and turning about, to avoid the houses of creditors. here one whipped out to demand his house-rent, there another the hire of his sword, presently a third the loan of his sheets and shirts; so that one seemed to be a gentleman on hire, like a mule. it happened he spied a man at a good distance, who, as he told me, was ready to tear him to pieces for a debt, but could not tear the money from him. to prevent being known by him, he let fall his long hair, which before was tucked up behind his ears, and looked like a shock dog that was never shorn. then he clapped a patch upon one eye, and began to talk to me in italian. he had time enough to do this before the other came up, who had not yet observed him. i declare i saw the man turn round and round, as a dog does before he lies down; he blessed himself as if he had been bewitched, and went away, saying, "god bless me, i durst have sworn it had been he; what a mighty mistake i had like to commit; he who has lost oxen always fancies he hears their bells." i was ready to burst with laughing to see what a figure my friend made; he stepped into a porch to tuck up his hair again, and pull off his patch, and said, "this is the dress for denying of debts; learn, my friend, for you will see a thousand such shifts in this town." we went on, and at the corner of a street took two slices of gingerbread and as many drams of brandy of one of the sisterhood, who gave it us for nothing, after wishing my director welcome to town, who said, "this puts a man in a condition to make shift without a dinner for this day, for at worst he is sure of so much." it went to my very heart to think it was doubtful whether we should have any dinner, and answered him very disconsolately on behalf of my stomach, to which he replied, "you are a man of small faith, and repose little confidence in our mumping profession. god almighty provides for the crows and jackdaws, and even for scriveners; and should he fail us poor pinchguts? you have but a poor stomach." "you are in the right," quoth i, "but still i fear i shall make it poorer, for there is nothing in it." [illustration] as we were talking after this manner, a clock struck twelve, and being yet a stranger to that profession, my stomach took no notice of the gingerbread, but i was as if i had eaten nothing. being thus put in mind again of that want, i turned to my conductor, and said, "my friend, this business of starving is very hard to be learned at first; i was used to feed like a farmer, and am now brought to fast like an anchorite. it is no wonder you are not hungry, who have been bred to it from your infancy, like king mithridates with poison, so that it is now familiar and habitual to you. i do not perceive you take any diligent care to provide belly-timber, and therefore i am resolved to shift as well as i can." "god o' my life," quoth he, "what a pleasant spark you are! it is but just now struck twelve, and are you in such a mighty haste already? your stomach is very exact to its hours, and immediately cries out cupboard; but it must practise patience, and learn to be in arrears at times. what, would you be cramming all day? the very beasts can do no more. it does not appear in history that ever knight of our order was troubled with indigestion. i told you already, that god provides for all men, yet, if you are in such stress, i am going to receive alms at the monastery of st. jerome, where there are friars fat as capons; there i will stuff my crop. if you will go along with me, well and good; if not, every one take his own course." "farewell," said i, "my wants are not so small as to be satisfied with the leavings of others; every man shift for himself." [illustration] [illustration] my friend walked very upright, now and then looking down to his feet, and took out a few crumbs of bread, which he carried for that purpose in a little box; these he strewed about his beard and clothes, so that he looked as if he had dined. i coughed and hawked to conceal my weakness, wiping my whiskers, muffled up with my cloak upon the left shoulder, playing with my tens, for i had but ten beads upon my string. all that saw me believed i had dined, and had they thought creatures were then dining upon me they had guessed right. all my confidence was in my crowns i had sunk, though it smote my conscience that it was against the rules of our profession to pay for a dinner, being obliged to feed upon the public; but i was resolved to break the fast and transgress the ordinances. by this time i was come to the corner of the street of san luis, where a pastry-cook lived. on the counter lay a curious mutton pie, delicately baked, and piping hot out of the oven; my nose stumbled at it, and i made a full set like a dog at a partridge, fixing my eyes and gazing so steadfastly that it shrunk up as if it had been blasted. it had been pleasant enough to know how many ways i cast about to steal it, and then again i resolved to buy it. by this time it struck one, which put such a damp upon me, that i resolved to roll into the next cook's shop. as i was steering towards one, it pleased god that i met with a friend of mine, called the licentiate flechilla, who came swinging his cassock down the street, his face all flushed and his long robes full of daglocks. as soon as he spied me, he ran to embrace me, and yet i wonder he should know me in that condition. i returned his embrace. he asked how i did? and i answered, "i have plenty of stories to tell you, mr. licentiate; all that troubles me is, that i must be gone to-night." "i am sorry for that," quoth he, "and were it not late, and that i am going in haste to dinner, i would stay with you; but a sister i have that is married, and her husband expects me." "is mistress anne here?" said i. "so then i'll leave all, and go and wait upon her; that is a duty i cannot dispense with." hearing him say he had not yet dined, made me sharp; away i went with him, and by the way told him, that a wench he had been very fond of at alcalá was then in town, and i could get him admittance into her house. he was mightily pleased at this motion, for i purposely contrived to talk of such things as might be pleasing to him. this discourse held us till we came to his sister's house; in we went; i made very great tenders of service to both husband and wife, and they believing that i had come on invitation, coming as i did at that hour of the day, began to excuse themselves, saying, they would have made some provision had they thought of such a guest. i laid hold of the opportunity, and invited myself, telling them i was no stranger but an old friend, and should take it unkindly to be treated with ceremony. they sat down, i did so too; and the better to stop the other's mouth, who had not invited me, nor ever thought of any such thing, every now and then i gave him a remembrance of the wench, saying, she had asked for him, and was infinitely fond of him, with many more lies to that purpose, which made him bear the more patiently with my cramming, for such havoc as i made in the first course was never seen. the boiled meat was served up; i tumbled the best part of it down my throat in a moment, without nicety, but in such a hurry as if i had not thought it safe enough betwixt my teeth. as i hope for mercy, i laid about me at such a rate, as if my life depended on it, and things vanished in my presence as quickly as corpses are said to disappear in the old burying ground of valladolid. no doubt but they observed how i poured down the soup, how soon i drained the dish, how clean i picked the bones, and how cleverly i despatched the meat, and to say the truth, at every turn i clapped a good hunch of bread into my pocket till it could hold no more. when the cloth was removed, the licentiate and i stepped aside to talk about our going to the aforesaid wench's house, which i represented to him as a very easy matter; but as we were talking at the window, i pretended somebody had called to me from the street, and answered, "sir, i come this moment;" asked leave of my friend, promising to return immediately. i left him waiting for me, and so he might have done to this day, for i slipped away, and my belly being full had no more occasion for him. i met him several times after, and excused myself, telling a thousand lies, which are not to our purpose. rambling thence about the streets at random, i came to the guadalajara gate, and sat down on one of the benches that are at the mercers' door. as god would have it, there came two of those creatures that raise money upon their handsome faces to the shop; they were both close veiled, with only one eye bare to see their way, and attended by an old woman and a little page boy. they asked for some very rich new fashion embroidered velvet. to commence a discourse, i began to play and pun upon the velvet, turning and winding, till i brought it to all the waggish lewd meanings i had a mind to. i perceived my freedom had put them in hopes they might carry off some present from the shop; and knowing i could be no loser, i offered them whatsoever they pleased. they stood out a little, pretending they did not use to accept of any thing from persons they were not acquainted with. i laid hold of that opportunity, telling them that i owned it was a presumption in me to offer them any thing there, but that i desired them to accept of a parcel of rich silks sent me from milan, which that page of mine should carry them at night, pointing to one that stood over the way bareheaded, waiting for his master, who was in a shop. and that they might take me for some man of quality, and well known, i pulled off my hat to all the judges, privy-counsellors and gentry that went by, bowing as if we had been very well acquainted, though i knew none of them. these outward shows, and my taking a piece of gold of my hidden treasure, on pretence of giving an alms to a poor body that begged of me, made them conclude i was some gentleman of note. they made as if to go home because it grew late, and took their leave, charging me to be sure the page should go as privately as might be. i begged of them, but as a favour and token of their good will, a pair of beads, all set and linked in gold, which the handsomest of them had in her hand, as a pledge for me to visit them the next day without fail. they made some difficulty to part with it, till i offered them a hundred crowns in pawn for it, which they refused, hoping by that means to draw me in for a better penny, asked where i lodged, and told me their quarters, desiring me to observe that they could not receive messages at all times, because they were persons of quality. i led them through the high street, and before we turned out of it made choice of the largest and fairest house i could, which had a coach without horses standing at the door, telling them it was mine, and at their service, as were the horses and master of them. my name, i told them, was don alvaro de cordova, and in i went by the gate right before their faces. at our coming out of the shop, i remember, i called over one of the pages from the other side of the way, beckoning to him very stately with my hand, and pretending to order him and the rest of them to wait there till i came, but in reality only asked whether he did not belong to my uncle the commander; he answered me he did not, and so i dismissed him, setting myself off with borrowed feathers. when it was dark night we all went home, and, coming in, i found the counterfeit soldier, that had the clouted leg, with a white wax flambeau they had given him to attend a funeral, and he run away with it. this fellow's name was magazo, born at olias; he had been captain in a play, and had fought abundance of moors in a sword-dance. when he talked with any that had served in the low countries, he told them he had been in china; and if he happened to meet with any that had been there, he pretended he had served in flanders. he talked much of encamping, and lying out in the field, though he had never been in any unless it were to louse himself; named abundance of strongholds, and knew none but the common gaols; highly extolled the memory of don john of austria, commended the duke of alva for a generous, true friend, and had abundance of names of noted turks, galleys, and great officers at his fingers' ends, all which he had picked out of a ballad then in vogue concerning the like affairs. but being altogether unacquainted with geography or anything of the sea, discoursing about the famous battle of lepanto, he said that lepanto was a very brave turk. the poor wretch was so ignorant that he served to make us excellent sport. soon after in came my companion with his nose beaten almost flat to his face, all his head wrapped up in clouts very bloody and dirty. we asked him how he came into that pickle? he told us he went to the alms at the monastery of st. jerome, and asked for a double portion, pretending it was for some poor people that could not beg; the friars stopped so much from the common mumpers to give it him, that they, being provoked, tracked him, and found he was sucking it up with might and main in a dark corner behind a door. they fell into a dispute whether it was lawful to cheat to fill one's own belly, and to rob others to serve one's self. the contest rose to high words, which were followed with blows, and those raised many knobs and bumps on his head. they attacked him with the pots they received the pottage in, and the damage done to his nose came by a wooden dish they gave him to smell to, more hastily than had been convenient. they took away his sword; out came the porter at the noise, and had enough to do to part them. in short, our poor brother found himself in so much danger that he offered to return all he had eaten, and it would not serve his turn; for they insisted that he begged for others, and had no feeling of his trade. out started from among the rest of the gang a two-handed mendicant scholar, crying, "do but behold the figure made up of clouts like a rag baby, as poor as a pastrycook in lent, as full of holes as a flageolet, all patches like a magpie, as greasy as an oilman, and as tattered as an old flag! pitiful scoundrel, there are those that receive the holy saints' alms that are fit to be bishops, or for any other dignity; i myself am a graduate of siguenza." the porter interposed, hearing a little old fellow cry out that though he came there for pottage he was descended from the famous great captain, and had many lofty relations. but i will leave them here, since our companion was now got off, and endeavouring to shake his bones into their places again. [illustration] [illustration] chap. iii. _the further proceedings of this sharping gang, till they were thrown all together into gaol._ [illustration] [illustration] the next that came was merlo diaz, his girdle hung all round with earthen cups and glasses, which he had got at nunneries, begging drink at the wheel, without the least remorse of conscience. don lorenzo de pedroso relieved him, coming in with an excellent good cloak, which he had exchanged at a billiard table for his own, which had no sign it had been made of wool, it was so threadbare. this fellow used to take off his cloak, as if he designed to play, and to lay it among the rest, and then not agreeing about the match, he returned to the place, took up the cloak he liked best, and went his way; the same he did at nine-pins and other games. all this was nothing in comparison of don cosme, who came in with a regiment of boys at his tail, that were troubled with the king's evil, cancers, or leprosy, or were hurt or lame. he played the white witch, or doctor, that cured by prayers and blessings, having to this purpose learned some superstitious ceremonies and cramp words of an old woman. by this cheat he got more than all the rest together, for if anyone came to be cured without something to make a show under his cloak, or the jingle of money in his pocket, or the cry of some live fowl, he was never at leisure. he had made fools of half the town, making them believe whatsoever he pleased, for there never was so absolute a master at lying, insomuch that he never spoke truth but accidentally. his common discourse was of heaven; when he came into a house he always said, "god be here;" and going out, "the lord have you in his keeping." he carried with him all the apparatus of hypocrisy; a pair of beads as big as walnuts; the fag end of a scourge, bloodied from his nose, he would contrive to be peeping out from under his cloak; when he shrugged to remove the creatures that bit him, he persuaded others it was the hair cloth he wore next his skin, and that this starving was a voluntary fast. then would he tell stories of strange temptations he had overcome; if the devil happened to be named, he cried, "the lord deliver and preserve us," kissed the ground when he went into the church, called himself unworthy sinner, never lifted up his eyes to look at women, though he might their coats. these cheats had so far prevailed on the multitude that they begged his prayers, and might as well have applied themselves to the devil; for he was not only a gamester, but a very shark or pickpocket, who never took the name of god in vain, being always sure to get something by it. as for women, he had several children scattered about, and two hermitesses with child at that time. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] the next that came was polanco, making a great noise, and asking for a long, sad-coloured gown, a big cross, an overgrown false beard, and a bell. he used to go about at night in this dress, crying, "remember you are to die, and be kind to the souls departed, &c.," which brought him in considerable alms; and when he found a house open, he went in, and if nobody was in the way stole all that came to his hand. if anybody saw him, he rung his bell, and in a dismal tone, as he knew how to frame it, cried, "remember, brethren, &c." all these and many more contrivances, and strange ways of stealing, i learned in a month i continued among them. to return where i left off: i showed the beads and told them the story; they applauded my ingenuity, and the old woman took them, and went about saying they belonged to a poor maiden gentlewoman, who was fain to sell them for bread, having her story ready for every occasion. the old jade wept whenever she pleased, wrung her hands, and sighed most bitterly; she called all the people, children; and over a good smock, jerkin, gown and petticoats, wore a tattered long robe of sackcloth, given her by an anchorite, her friend, who lived on the mountains by alcalá. her business was to manage the wardrobe, to counsel and conceal; but the devil, who is always kind to his servants, so ordered it, that going one day to a house to sell some clothes and other things, somebody there knew their own goods, sent for an officer, secured the old hag, whom we called mother lebrusca, and she presently discovered all the plot, told how we all lived, and that we were gentlemen of prey. the officer left her in the gaol, and came to our house, where he found me and all my companions. he had half a dozen under-catchpoles along with him, and removed the whole sharping congregation to the prison, where our gentility saw itself in great peril. [illustration] [illustration] chap. iv. _in which the prison is described and what happened therein, until the old woman was whipped, my companions exposed to shame, and myself let out on bail._ they clapped on each of us, as we came in, two pair of irons, and took us off to the dungeon; but i made use of the money i had to prevent falling into that hell, pulling out a pistole, and making it glitter in the gaoler's eyes, saying, "pray, sir, be pleased to hear me a word in private." he having seen a glimpse of the gold, took me aside, and i went on, "i beseech you, sir, take pity of an unfortunate man." then i took him lovingly by the hand, and clapped in the piece, which he greedily grasped, being used to such ceremonies, and answered, "i will examine into your disorder, and if it is dangerous, you shall not go down into the hole." i understood him, and submitted myself humbly, so that he left me out, and turned down my companions. i will not take up time by relating what sport we made in the prison and as we went along the streets; for being pushed and dragged along, bound, some of us without cloaks, and others with them, it was comical to see such a parcel of ragamuffins, all patches, and parti-coloured black and white, like magpies. the officers knew not how to take fast hold of them, they were all in such tatters; some they thought to grasp by the flesh, and finding none, for it was all starved away, they feared to be answerable for disjointing the bones. others lost their coats and breeches by the rough handling of those unmerciful fellows. when they unbound the rope, as they led them all in, the rags and clouts dropped off with it. at night i was carried to the common side, where i had a little bed allotted me. it was odd to see some lie down in their whole case, without taking of the least rag they wore in the day. others at one motion put off all the clothes they had; others played; but at last we were made fast, and the light put out. we all forgot our irons, and took our rest very favourably. [illustration] the gaoler then fancying i would drop him another pistole rather than be let down into the hole, ordered me to be buried among the rest, which i resolved to endure rather than break bulk any more. i was conveyed down, where my old friends received me with a great shout and much satisfaction. that night i lay cool, without anything to cover me; when it was day, we all came out of the dungeon, saw one another's faces, and presently our companions demanded the usual garnish-money, on pain of a good liquoring. i presently disbursed six reals; but my companions having nothing to give, the matter was left over till night. among the rest in the dungeon, was a tall one-eyed young fellow, with a great pair of whiskers, a sour look, round shouldered, and those well flogged. he had a whole smith's forge upon him, double fetters on his legs, and a great chain hanging from his neck; they called him the giant; and he said of himself that he was in prison for petty trifles, which i concluded to be some mere larceny; and if anybody asked him whether that was the crime, he answered in the negative, but that it was for backward sins. when the gaoler reproved him for his tricks, he would call him the hangman's pantryman, and general storekeeper of sin. at other times he would cry, "you are a fool to contend with one that will vanish in smoke; by the lord i will stifle you as i go off." this he had said, expecting to be burnt alive. he contracted friendship with another they called robledo, and by a nickname the tumbler, who said he was in prison for his dexterity, which consisted in making everything vanish he laid his hands on. he had been lashed by all the beadles and hangmen in spain; his face was all over cuts and scars; his ears were at a great distance, for he carried but one about him, having left the other behind him in his travels; his nose was soldered together, having been cleft with a cut of a sword. four other rampant fellows, like lions in heraldry, herded with those two, all of them loaded with chains, and condemned to thrash the sea, that is, to the galleys. these said they might boast, in a short time, that they had served the king both by sea and land; and a man would not believe how impatiently they expected their commission. these people taking it ill that my comrades had not discharged the duty of garnish, contrived to give them a sound lashing at night, with a curious rope's end, provided for that purpose. when night came we were put into the dismal vault, they put out the light, and i presently secured myself under my bed; two of them began to whistle, and a third to lay about him with the rope's end. the sparks perceiving it was like to go ill with them, crowded themselves up so close together, all the flesh of their bones being before devoured by the mange and lice, that they found room enough in a cranny between the boards, lying like so many fleas in a seam, or bugs in a bedstead. the lashes sounded on the boards, but the bodies they were designed for lay close without speaking a word. the whipsters observing they did not complain, laid aside their discipline, and began to pelt them with stones, bricks, and rubbish, they had gathered to that effect. this project succeeded better, for a stone hit don toribio on the neck, and raised a bunch as thick as his fist. he cried out "murder!" and the knaves, that he might not be heard, fell a-singing all together, and rattled their chains. don toribio struggled with his companions to get undermost, and in the scuffle, their bones rattled like castanets, their coats fell all in tatters, and not a rag was left upon them. the stones flew about so thick, that in a short space poor don toribio had as many knobs on his head as there are on a pine-apple. finding there was no manner of protection against that dreadful shower of hail that fell upon us, but there he was like to die a martyr, without being guilty of the least piety or religion, he cried out, begging they would let him get out of that place, and he would pay immediately, delivering up his clothes in pledge. the persecutors consented, and though his companions would have held him, because he sheltered them, he got up the best he could, all battered, and came over to my side. the rest were not so quick at promising the same, but that they had as many knocks as hairs on their heads, yet offered up their clothes towards paying the garnish; thinking it was better to lie abed for want of clothes than for broken bones. accordingly they were let go for that night, but in the morning they had orders to strip; they did so, and it appeared that all their clothes put together would not bring one halfpenny loaf. they lay abed, that is, wrapped up in a blanket belonging to the public. [illustration] i slipped out of the dungeon, desiring them to excuse me for not bearing them company, because it was not convenient. i greased the gaoler over again with three pieces of eight, and being informed who the clerk was that had the charge of prosecuting us, sent for him by a young running thief. he came, i got into a room with him, and after some discourse concerning our business in general, i told him i had some little money, which i desired him to keep for me; and that as far as might be done with safety, he would favour an unfortunate young gentleman who had been unadvisedly drawn into that offence. "believe me, sir," said he, when he had grasped the ready, "the whole matter depends upon us; and "he that has a mind to be a knave, may do a great deal of mischief. i "have sent more men to the gallows without any cause, but for my pleasure, than there are words in an indictment. leave it to me, and do not question but i'll bring you off safe and sound." this said, he made as if he was going away, but came back again from the door to ask something for honest diego garcia, the constable, for it was convenient to stop his mouth with a silver gag; something more he hinted at concerning the clerk of the court; saying, "it is in this clerk's power, sir, to undo a man by turning up the whites of his eyes, raising his voice, making a noise to rouse a magistrate or recorder when they are asleep, as it often happens, and many other such dangerous actions." i apprehended him, and lugged out fifty reals more; in return for which he bid me set my cloak right, taught me two cures for a cold i had got in the prison; and to conclude, said, "make yourself easy, the gaoler will be kind to you, if you give him but a piece of eight, for these sort of people do nothing out of good nature, but all for interest." i could not but smile at his hint, he went his way, and i gave the gaoler a crown; he knocked off my irons, and gave me leave to go to his house. he had a wife like a whale, and two daughters as ugly as the devil, and as wicked, yet of the game, in spite of their faces. [illustration] it happened that the gaoler, whose name was one blandones de san pablo, and his wife's donna anna moraez, came home to dinner one day, when i was there, in a great rage, fuming, and would not eat. his wife dreading some mighty thing had happened, drew near, and tormented him so long with the usual importunities, that at last he said, "what the devil d'ye think ails me? that scoundrel dog of almendros, the lodging-house keeper, having some words with me about farming the gaol, told me you are not spotless." "has the villain ever scoured me?" cried she. "by my grandame's soul, you don't deserve to be called man since you did not tear his beard for him. did i ever employ his servants to clean me?" then turning to me, she went on, "by the lord, he cannot call me jew, like himself, for of the four parts he has, two are villain and two are jew. by my troth, don pablo, had i heard him, i would have put him in mind that the inquisition had laid the st. andrew's cross upon his back." the gaoler in very doleful manner replied, "alas, wife! i held my peace because he told me you were doubly and trebly allied to that race; for he did not talk of your not being spotless on account of swine, but for not eating their flesh." "then he called me jew," quoth she, "and you could take it so calmly. brave times! is that the regard you have for the honour of donna anna moraez, the daughter of estefania rubio and juan de madrid, both of them well known to god and all the world." "daughter to juan de madrid?" said i. "to juan de madrid of auñon," cried she. "by the lord," quoth i, "the rogue that spoke so is a whoreson jew and a cuckold." then turning to them, i went on: "the honoured juan de madrid, whose soul rest in peace, was my father's own cousin-german, and i will make it appear what he was, and whence he came, for it concerns me; and if once i get out of prison, i'll make the dog eat his words. i have my pedigree here in town in gold letters, which makes out both families." they were all overjoyed with their new relation, and much encouraged to hear of the pedigree; and at the same time i had no such thing, nor did i know who they were. the husband began to sift out the point of kindred, coming to particulars, but i to prevent being caught in a lie, made as if i was going out in a passion, swearing and cursing. they all held me, desiring no more might be said of the matter. every now and then i would let fly, "juan de madrid! what a pedigree i have of his!" another time, as if i were musing, i dropt, "juan de madrid the elder, father to juan de madrid, was married to anna de azevedo the stout," and then i was quieted a little. in short i managed this tack so well, that the gaoler kept me at bed and board in his house; and then the honest clerk, at his request, and for the bribe i gave him, ordered the business so well, that the old woman was taken out before them all upon a dapple grey ass, with a crier before her, making proclamation that she was a thief, and close at her heels the hangman, scoring her on the ribs as he had been directed by the gentlemen of the long robe. then followed all my companions upon braying palfreys, bareheaded and faced, thus to be exposed to public shame, like standing on the pillory, and so ragged that they could not hide their nakedness. after this solemnity they were banished for six years. for my part i was bailed out with the assistance of the clerk; and the other at the court played his part, for he changed his tone, spoke low, skipped over some words, and swallowed whole sentences. [illustration] [illustration] chap. v. _how i took a lodging, and the misfortune that befel me therein._ being out of prison, i found myself all alone and destitute of friends, though i was told they were travelling towards seville at the public expense; yet i would not follow them, but went away to a lodging. here i fell in with a fair, clear skinned wench, free, pleasant, sometimes forward and sometimes coy. she lisped a little, was afraid of mice, prided herself upon her hands; and the better to show them, always snuffed the candles, carved up the meat at table, and held them up at church; in the street was always pointing where everybody lived; sitting in company continually contrived to be pinning up her head-gear; and of all games loved to play at draughts, because then her hands were never off the board. she would frequently yawn, though she had no need, to show her teeth, and then cross her mouth; and in short the whole house had so much of her hands, that her very father and mother were out of patience with them. they entertained me very well in their house, for they made it their business to let lodgings, and could receive but three at once, which, at this time, were myself, a portuguese, and a catalonian. all of them were very courteous to me; i liked the wench well enough by way of diversion, and thought it a convenience to have her in the house. i courted her; told her abundance of pleasant stories i had picked up to pass the time; brought them home news, though there were none abroad; did them all the service i could, provided it cost nothing; persuaded them i understood witchcraft, and was a conjurer, and could make it appear as if the house were sinking, or all in a flame, without doing the least harm; all which the credulous, foolish women easily believed. all the family were civil and kind to me; but all this did not amount to love, for being but indifferently clad, though i had somewhat mended my apparel with the help of the gaoler, keeping up the kindred by continual sponging at his house; they did not take so much notice of it as i could have wished. to gain the reputation of being a man of wealth, though i concealed it, i contrived to send some of my acquaintance to ask for me when i was not at home. one of these came and inquired for don ramiro de guzman, for i had told them that was my name, having been informed by my friends that changing of names was not expensive, and might prove very advantageous. the man, i say, inquired for don ramiro, a rich merchant, who had lately farmed two branches of the revenue of the king. neither the old nor the young landlady knew me by this description, and therefore answered that no such man lived there, but only one don ramiro de guzman, who was rather ragged than rich, a little fellow, hard favoured, and poor. "that is the person i want," replied the man; "and as light as you make of him, i would desire no more, if it were god's will, than as much as he is worth above two thousand ducats a year." he told them a great many more lies of this sort; they stood amazed, and he left them a sham bill of exchange he pretended he had on me for nine thousand ducats, desiring them to get me to accept it. both mother and daughter gave credit to my wealth, and immediately pricked me down for a husband. i came home very unconcerned, as if i knew nothing of the matter; immediately they gave me the bill of exchange, baying, "wealth and love are hardly to be concealed, don ramiro. it is very well that you make us such strangers to what you are, when you know we have so much kindness for you." i made as if i was displeased at his leaving the bill, and went away to my chamber. it was pleasant to see how they changed their note as soon as they thought i had money; they said everything became me, admired every word i spoke, and i was the most accomplished person in the world. [illustration] perceiving they had bit at the bait i had laid for them, i made the wench acquainted with my affections, which she received with much joy, returning a thousand loving expressions, and so we parted for that time. the next night, the more to confirm them in the conceit of my wealth, i shut myself up in my chamber, which was parted from theirs only by a thin wall of lath and plaster, and taking out fifty crowns, counted them over so often that they reckoned six thousand. this contrivance of making them believe i was rich, succeeded as well as i could wish, for their whole study was to please and make much of me. the portuguese, who lodged in the house with me, was called don vasco de meneses, and was knight of the famous order of christ in portugal. he wore a black cloak, a pair of boots, a little band, and large whiskers, and was passionately in love with donna berenguela de rebolledo, for that was our mistress's name. when he courted her, he would make long speeches, sighing like a nun at a sermon in lent, and singing very scurvily. there was continual bickering between him and the catalonian, who was the most wretched, miserable creature that ever god put life into; for, like a tertian ague, he fed but once in three days, and the bread was so hard that it had broke several of his teeth. his way of making love was looking big and bullying, though at the same time he had no more heart than a hen, and cackled as much. these two perceiving i had got the start of them in the amorous adventure, made it their whole business to rail at me. the portuguese said i was a shabby, lousy scoundrel; the catalonian gave out that i was a pitiful coward. i knew all they said, and sometimes heard it, but did not think fit to make any reply. in short, the wench gave me a full hearing, and received my love letters, which i began, according to the laudable custom, with "pardon my presumption," "the power of your beauty," &c. then i went on with the terms of passion and flames, and feigned myself her slave, sealing it with a heart struck through with a dart. after all this ceremony we came to plain _thee_ and _thou_; and to clench the notion of my quality, already conceived, i went abroad, hired a mule, and muffling myself up in my cloak, and changing my voice, asked for myself, inquiring whether don ramiro de guzman, lord of valcerado and vellorete, lived there. the wench made answer, "here is a gentleman of that name, of a low stature," and described me. i replied he was the man, and desired her to tell him that diego de solarzano, his steward, was going to receive his rents, and called as he went by to kiss his hand. having left this message i went away, and came home awhile after. they received me with the greatest joy imaginable, complaining that i would not let them know i was lord of valcerado and vellorete, and delivered the message they had for me. this made the wench mad to secure such a rich husband, and so she contrived that i should talk with her at one o'clock in the morning, getting out of a gallery upon the tiles her window looked over. [illustration] the devil, who is always contriving of mischief, so ordered it, that at night, being eager to improve that opportunity, i went up into the gallery, and getting out of it upon the tiles, where i was to entertain my lady, my feet slipped, and i came down upon a neighbour's house, who was a notary, with such force, that i broke all the tiles, and left the print of them in my sides. the dreadful noise waked half the house, and fancying there had been thieves, for that sort of people are always apprehensive of them, they came out upon the top of the house. i would have hid myself behind a chimney, which made the suspicion the greater; for the notary, with the assistance of two servants and a brother, beat me like a stock-fish, and bound me in the presence of my mistress, without any regard to what i could say for myself. she laughed heartily, because having told her before that i could play abundance of odd pranks by the help of the magic art, she concluded the fall had been only a trick to make sport, and therefore lay calling to me to come up, for i had done enough. this and the beating made me roar out unmercifully; and the best of it was, that she believed it was all sham, and laughed immoderately. the notary began to draw up a process, and because he heard some keys rattle in my pocket, he not only said, but writ it down, that they were picklocks, though they were showed him, and it was impossible to beat it out of him. i told him i was don ramiro de guzman, at which he laughed heartily. seeing myself in a wretched condition, unmercifully beaten before my mistress, and like to be hurried away to gaol with a scandalous name, though innocent, i knew not what course to take. i fell upon my knees before the notary, and begged of him for the love of god, but all that would not prevail with him to quit me. hitherto we were still upon the tiles, for these people have never the more conscience for being the nearer heaven; they then took me down below, through a skylight that was over a kitchen. [illustration] [illustration] chap. vi. _in which the same adventure is pursued, with various other incidents._ i had not one wink of sleep all that night, thinking on my misfortune, which was not my falling upon the tiles, but into the cruel and merciless clutches of the notary; and when i called to mind the pretended picklocks he had found in my pocket, and how many leaves he had writ of my process, i perceived there is nothing in nature increases so fast as a crime, when a notary has the handling of it. i spent the night in hatching schemes; sometimes i resolved to beg him for jesus christ's sake; but then reflecting how he was used, when upon earth, by men of that kidney, i put off doing so. i tried several times to unbind myself, but he presently heard me, and came to see if all was fast; for he was more watchful, studying how to make out a lie, than i was to clear myself. he got up by break of day, and was dressed so early, that there was no creature stirring in the whole house besides himself and the devil that prompted him; he laid hold of a good leather belt, strapped me soundly with it over and over again, and reproved me severely for the vile sin of thieving, as being a thing he was so well acquainted with himself. this was the posture we were in, he laying on me, and i almost resolved to give him money, which is the only thing in nature that mollifies those stony hearts. by this time my mistress, who had seen my fall and cudgelling, being convinced it was a real misfortune and no enchantment, had, by her earnest prayers and entreaties, prevailed upon the portuguese and catalonian to come to my assistance, as they did. the notary hearing them speak to me, immediately drew out his pen to insert them into his process as accessories. the portuguese had not patience to hear it, but let fly some ill language, telling him he was a man of quality, and the king's servant, and that i was a very honest gentleman, and it was very knavishly done to bind me after that manner. this said, he began to unbind me, and the notary to cry out for help. in came two servants of his, half bum-bailiff and half porter, treading upon their own cloaks, and tearing their bands, as they use to do, to make it appear as if they had been beaten in the execution of their office, and roared out for all people to aid and assist them in the king's name. however, the portuguese and catalonian unbound me, and the notary perceiving there was nobody to stand by him, said, "i vow to god i am not to be so served, and were not you, gentlemen, persons of such worth, it might cost you dear; however, bid these witnesses be contented, and take notice, that i serve you generously without any prospect of interest." i understood the hint; took out a piece of eight and gave it him, and had a very good mind to return the beating he had given me, but forbore rather than own the receipt of it, and went away with them, returning hearty thanks for my deliverance, my face all bruised with the cuffs and my back weal'd with cudgelling. the catalonian made very merry, and advised the wench to marry me to invert the proverb, "that i might not be cuckolded first and beaten after, but first beaten and then cuckolded." he called me a bold desperate fellow, ironically alluding to my cudgelling, which sly way of his still put me out of countenance. if i happened to go in to give them but a friendly visit, he presently began a discourse of thrashing, of canes and cudgels. finding myself thus run down, and that they began to discover the cheat of my riches, i laid about how to get away from the house and carry off my equipage, without paying for my diet or lodging, which amounted to some money. i agreed with one, licentiate brandalagas, of the town of hornillos, and two friends of his, that they should come and seize upon me. they came at the day appointed, told the landlady they were sent by the inquisition, and charged her with secresy. the whole family quaked for fear, because i had pretended to them that i was a conjurer. they spoke not a word against carrying me off, but when they saw my equipage moving they would have made a seizure for what i owed, but the others answered, "that all the goods belonged to the inquisition." at this they had no word to say; they let them go peaceably, and when they were gone, said, "they had always dreaded it." the portuguese and catalonian positively affirmed that those who used to inquire for me were devils; that i had certainly a familiar spirit, and when the women told them how much money i had counted, they swore it was no money, though it seemed so, and the others believed them. [illustration] i got clear off, and saved all my diet and lodging, and then, with the advice of those that had stood my friends, i contrived to alter my dress into the genteel fashion, to put on strait breeches, and a great collar, and get a scoundrel by the name of a page, and two rogues for footmen, as the mode then was. the others encouraged me so to do, showing how i might make myself at once by that means, getting a wife with a great fortune, by making such a figure, which frequently happened at madrid; adding, that they would put me in the way, finding out one for my turn, and contriving how i might gain admittance. covetousness prevailing, and the desire of a wife, i consented, searched all the brokers' shops, bought my wedding clothes, hired a horse, and mounted in great state that very day, but could not light on a footman. away i made to the high street, and stopped at a saddler's shop, as if i were buying some furniture. two gentlemen on horseback asked me, "whether i was about buying a rich embroidered saddle and housing i had in my hand?" i laid it down immediately, saying, "it was at their service, if they liked it," and kept them awhile with a thousand compliments. at length they said they would go and divert themselves in the prado. i told them i would wait on them, if they would give me leave; and left word with the saddler, that in case my pages and footmen came thither, he should send them after me, describing the livery to him; which said, i clapped in between the two gentlemen, and away we went. by the way i considered with myself, that none who saw us could possibly guess or decide to which of us the pages and footmen belonged, or which of us had none. i began to talk very loud of the tilting and other sports on horseback at talavera, and of a piebald horse i had, highly commending a lusty stallion i expected from cordova. every page or footman i met on horseback i stopped, asking, "whose it was?" then talked of his marks like a jockey, and asked, "whether he was to be sold?" then i would make him take a turn or two up and down the street, and though there were no fault, would find one in the bridle, and tell him how to mend it. fortune so ordered it that i met with several opportunities of showing my talent. the gentlemen were mystified, and, as i fancied, thought with themselves, "what upstart country squire is this?" one of them had a plain badge of knighthood on his breast, the other his hanging at a chain set with diamonds; and therefore, to amuse them, i said i was looking out to buy some choice horses for myself and a kinsman of mine that were to be at some sports on horseback. when we came to the prado, i took my feet out of the stirrups, turning my heels out and walking easily, with my cloak hanging upon one shoulder, and my hat in my hand. everybody gazed at me; one said, "i have seen that spark walk on foot;" another, "the scoundrel makes a pretty figure." i made as if i did not hear them, and walked on. the two gentlemen went up to a coach full of ladies, and desired me to amuse them awhile. i left the side where the young ones were, and went to the other where there was a mother and an aunt, two pleasant old jades, the one about fifty years of age, the other little less. i told them a thousand amorous lies, and they listened to them; for there is no woman, though never so old, but has a good conceit of herself; offered to treat them, and asked whether the other ladies were married? they replied they were maids, and it was easy enough to guess at it by their talk. then i made the usual compliment, wishing they might see them well preferred to their mind, and they were much taken with it. next they asked me how i spent my time at court? to which i answered, that i kept out of the way from a father and mother, who would fain marry me, against my will, to a woman that was ugly, foolish, and of a mean family, only because she had a vast portion. "and for my part, ladies," i said, "i had rather have a wife well born, in her smock, than the wealthiest jew that is; for, god be praised, my patrimony is worth about forty thousand ducats a year; and if i succeed in a law suit, which goes hitherto well on my side, i shall want no more." the aunt hearing this account, very promptly cried, "lord, sir, i admire you for that humour. do not marry unless you please, and with a woman of a good family, for i do assure you, that though i am not very rich, i have refused to marry off my niece, who has had very rich suitors, because they were not of quality. she is poor, it is true, for her portion is but six thousand ducats; but as for blood she is inferior to none." "i do not question that, madam," said i. at this the damsels ended their discourse with the gentlemen, and asked for some refreshment. the two gazed upon one another, and began to quake for fear; but i laying hold of the opportunity, told them i was sorry my pages were out of the way, because i had nobody to send home for some boxes of sweetmeats. they returned thanks, and i desired them to be the next day at the summer-house in the prado, and i would send them a cold refection. they accepted of the invitation, told me their address, and inquired after mine; so the coach went off, and my companions and i made towards our homes. they observing that i was so generous in offering the treat, began to take a fancy to me, and the more to oblige me, desired i would sup with them that night. i stood off a little, but not too long, and supped with them, sending out several times to seek my servants, and swearing i would turn them away. when it struck ten i told them i had an assignation, and therefore begged they would excuse me for that time and went away; first engaging them to meet the next day at the summer-house. from them i went to return the hired horse to the owner, and thence home, where i found my companions playing at _reversis_. i told them what had happened and of the engagement i had made. we resolved to send the collation without fail, and to lay out two hundred reals on it. having thus ordered affairs, we went to bed, where i own i could not sleep all night for thinking how i should invest the dowry, for i could not resolve whether it were better with it to build a good house, or to put it out to interest, not knowing which would be better and of more benefit for me. [illustration] [illustration] chap. vii. _in which the story is continued, with other incidents and notable misfortunes._ [illustration] in the morning we got up to provide the plate, servants, and collation; and there being nothing in this world that money cannot command, as being a thing worshipped by all men, i found a nobleman's butler that furnished plate, and undertook to wait himself with three of his fellow-servants. the forenoon was spent in arranging affairs, and after dinner i hired a nag and at the appointed time set out for the summer-house. i had abundance of papers sticking out of my pockets; besides that, my coat being unbuttoned, some peeped out at my bosom, as if i had been a man of mighty business. when i came to the place the ladies and gentlemen were there; the former received me with much show of love, and the latter talked to me by plain _thee_ and _thou_, in token of familiarity. i had told them my name was don philip tristan, and nothing was to be heard in all their mouths but don philip and don philip; but i told them i had been so entirely taken up with some business of the king's and the accounts of my estate, that i had much ado to be as good as my word, and therefore they must expect a hurried repast. by this time the butler came with all his tackle, plate and servants; the gentlemen and ladies looked at me and held their peace. i ordered him to go into the eating-room and lay the cloth, whilst we went to divert ourselves at the fish-ponds. the old women drew near to fawn and flatter, and i was glad to see the young girls unveiled, for since i was born i never saw so delicate a creature as that was whom i designed for my wife. a skin as white as alabaster, delicate fair hair, a singular fresh colour in her cheeks, a little mouth, fine, small teeth standing close together, a well-shaped nose, large black eyes, tall of stature, charming hands, with a delicate little lisp. the other was not amiss, but more wanton, and i suspected she had been handled. we went to the fish-ponds, saw all that could be seen, and by her talk i found that my intended bride would have been in danger in herod's days of being included among the innocents. in short, she had not a grain of sense; however, as i never love them for counsellors or jesters, but only to take my pleasure with them--and if they are ugly and clever it is like lying with aristotle or seneca or a book--i always pitch upon those that are properest for the use i would make of them. this consideration comforted me; we went towards the banqueting-house, and as we passed along a branch of the hedge got hold of the lace of my band, and tore it a little; the young lady stepped up and pinned it with a silver pin, and her mother bade me send it to her house the next day, and donna anna, so the maiden was called, would mend it. all the repast was in excellent order, hot and cold, fruit and sweetmeats. when the cloth was taken away, i spied a gentleman coming along the garden with two servants after him, and who should this be but my old master, don diego coronel. he drew near, and, seeing me in this habit, could not take his eyes off me, talked to the women, calling them cousins, and all the time turned to look again and again. i kept talking to the butler, while the other two gentlemen, my master's friends, were in deep discourse with him. he asked them, as afterwards appeared, my name, and they answered, it was don philip tristan, a very honest gentleman of a great estate. i saw him cross himself, and at length he came up to me before them all, and said, "sir, will you pardon me, for, by the lord, till i heard your name, i took you for a different person from what you are; in my life i never saw anything so like a servant i had at segovia, called little pablo, the son of a barber in that town." they all laughed heartily, and i used all the art i could to forbear betraying myself by blushing, and said, "i long mightily to see that man, because abundance of people had told me i was extremely like him." "good god," cried don diego, "like him! i never saw such a resemblance, his very shape, voice and mien. i declare to you, sir, it is a marvel, and i never beheld any two so exactly alike." the old women, mother and aunt, asked how it was possible that a gentleman of such quality should be so like that mean scoundrel. and that there should be no suspicion on them, one said, "i know don philip very well, it was he that entertained us at ocaña, by my husband's order." i took the cue, and answered, "i should always be ready to do them all the service i could everywhere." don diego offered his service and begged pardon for the affront of taking me for the barber's son, adding, "sir, you will scarce believe it, but his mother was a witch, his father a thief, his uncle the hangman, and he himself the wickedest base fellow in the world." it is easy to guess what i felt, hearing such scandalous things said of me to my face; i sat upon thorns, though i did all i could to dissemble my uneasiness. my two new acquaintance and i took our leave, and don diego went into the coach with the ladies. then he asked them what was the meaning of the treat, and their being with me? the mother and aunt told him i was heir to so many thousand ducats a year, and had a mind to marry anna; that he might inquire into the matter, and he would see how proper an affair it was, and how advantageous to their family. this discourse lasted till they got home, which was near the church of st. philip. my comrades and i went together to their house, as we had done the night before, and they having a mind to fleece me, asked me whether i would play. i guessed at their meaning, and set to it; the cards were brought; i let them win at first, but soon fetched it about; won about three hundred reals, took my leave and went home. there i found my two companions, the licentiate brandalagas, and pedro lopez, who were practising new cheats upon the dice. as soon they saw me, they left off to inquire how i had sped. i only told them that i had been in great danger; how i had met with don diego, and how i came off. they comforted and encouraged me to proceed, and not to desist from the enterprise by any means. we had now notice given us that they used to play at an apothecary's house close by. i understood the game at that time tolerably well, had cards made for the purpose, and knew all sorts of cheats, so we resolved to go put in for the plate among them. i sent my friends before me, who at their coming, asked them whether they would please to play with a monk of the order of st. benedict, who was just come to town to be cured of a tedious distemper among his relations and friends, and was well stocked with crowns and ducats? this set them all a-gog, and they cried, "let the friar come, in god's name." "he is a man of note in the order," added pedro lopez, "and being out for a sally, has a mind to amuse himself for a few hours, and does it only for company's sake." "let him come," quoth they, "we do not care what his motive is." "we tell you so much as a caution," answered brandalagas. "enough," said the man of the house, "you need say no more." this satisfied them that the thing was so, and the lie was believed. my two acolytes came for me, and i was dressed with my nightcap on, in a benedictine habit, which i had got by the wheel of fortune in my rambles, a pair of spectacles on my nose, and a short, bushy beard, to show as if it were grown since my sickness. i walked in very demurely, sat down, and we began to play. they all combined to put upon me, but i swept all before me, being much sharper at it than they, so that in about three hours' time i won upwards of thirteen hundred reals. i gave them a trifle for luck, and took my leave with the usual compliment of, "the lord be praised," charging them not to be scandalised to see me play, for it was mere diversion and nothing else. they who had lost their money cursed themselves to the pit of hell. i took my leave again, and we sallied out, got to our lodging about half after one, divided our booty, and so to bed. [illustration] this was some satisfaction to me for the unlucky accident before. i got up in the morning to hire a horse, but they were all let, by which i perceived there were more in my case besides myself. to walk the streets a-foot did not look well, especially at that time. i went towards st. philip's, where i found a lawyer's footman with a horse in his hand, waiting for his master, who had just alighted to hear mass in that church. i clapt four reals in his hands, to let me ride two or three turns along the next street, where my mistress lived. he consented; i mounted; rode twice up and down the street, without seeing anybody, but at the third turn donna anna looked out. when i saw her, thinking to show off my horsemanship, and being but an indifferent jockey and unacquainted with the horse's qualities, i gave him two cuts with the whip, reining him in at the same time; he reared first, then striking out behind, set a-running at full speed, so that i came clear over his head into a puddle. i had no other recourse in this pitiful plight, all beset with boys, and in the presence of my mistress, but to cry out, "a cursed dog! my sorrel would never have done so. i shall pay for these mad pranks one time or other. they told me of his tricks, and yet i would needs be defying him." by this time the footman brought me the horse again, for he had stopt as soon as he had thrown me; i mounted again, and don diego coronel, who lived in the same house with his kinswoman, hearing the noise, looked out. the sight of him startled me very much; he asked, "whether i had any hurt?" i answered, "no," though at the same time one of my legs was almost lamed. the footman pressed me hard to give him his horse, for fear his master should come out of the church and see me, for he was going to court. it was my misfortune, that as he was speaking to me, the lawyer came behind us, and knowing his steed, ran at the footman, beating him about the head and face with his fist, and asking him, as loud as he could cry, "how he durst have the impudence to let anybody ride his horse?" and what was worst of all, he turned to me, and in a very angry manner, bade me get down with many curses. all this was in the full view of my mistress and don diego coronel, which put me as much out of countenance as if i had been whipped at the cart's tail. i was wonderfully cast down and melancholy, and with good cause, to have two such misfortunes befal me upon so small a spot of ground. in fine, i was fain to alight; the lawyer mounted, and went his way; and i the better to carry off the business, staid in the street, talking to don diego, and said, "i never mounted such an unlucky jade in all my days. my cream-coloured horse is yonder by st. philip's church, and is very hard-mouthed when he sets a-galloping. i was telling some people there how i used to ride him at full speed, and pull him up at one check. they told me, i could not do it with a horse that stood there, which was the lawyer's you saw; i resolved to try; you cannot imagine what a restive jade it is, and has such a scurvy saddle, that it was a wonder he did not kill me." "it was so, indeed," answered don diego; "and yet, sir, you seem hurt in that leg." "i do so," replied i, "and therefore i'll go take my own horse and get home." the young lady was fully satisfied that all i said was true, for i could perceive she was much concerned at my fall; but don diego, who saw farther, grew suspicious through what had happened with the lawyer in the street. this proved the cause of my ruin, besides many other unlucky accidents that befel me; and the greatest of all was, that when i went home and came to a chest, where in a portmanteau i had left all the remains of my inheritance, and what i won at play, except only an hundred reals i had about me, i found my good friends the licentiate brandalagas and pedro lopez had laden themselves with it, and were fled. this was a mortal stroke, and i stood confounded, not knowing which way to turn myself, and saying, "a curse on him that puts his trust in ill-gotten wealth, which goes as it comes." unhappy man! what shall i do? i could not tell whether it were best to go myself, or send a hue and cry after them. i did not like this course, because if they should happen to be taken, they would charge me with the disguise of the monk's habit, and other matters, and that was the direct way to the gallows; and as for following of them, i knew not which way. at last, for fear of spoiling my marriage, which i looked upon as secure, and likely to make amends for all losses, i resolved to stay and push it on vigorously. i dined, after dinner hired a horse, went away towards my mistress's street; and having no footman, and it not being decent to be seen without one, i waited at the corner of the street until some man passed by that looked like one, and away i went after him, making him a footman, though he was none. at the other end of the street i did the like, standing out of sight until another went by like the former, and then rode down again. i know not whether it was a conviction of the truth that i was the very scoundrel that don diego suspected, or the fresh cause of suspicion, on account of the lawyer's horse and footman, or what else that did it, but he took care to inquire who i was, what i lived on, and observed all my actions. at last he discovered the whole intrigue the strangest way that could be imagined, for i pressed on the business of matrimony very hotly, plying the ladies continually with letters; and don diego being as eagerly importuned by them, who were in haste to conclude it, as he was upon the scent after me, met the licentiate flechilla, the man i invited myself to dine with, when first i entered myself among the sharping gang at madrid before my imprisonment. this man taking it ill that i had not gone to see him again, according to promise, happening to talk with don diego, and knowing i had been his servant, told him how i met him when i went to dine with him; and that but two days ago he had seen me on horseback, and i informed him i was going to be married to a great fortune. this was enough for don diego, who returning home immediately, met with the two gentlemen i had made myself so familiar with, gave them an account of the whole affair, and desired them to be ready at night to give me a good thrashing in his street, where he would contrive i should be, and they might know me by his cloak, which he would take care i should have on. they agreed, saw me presently in the street, and all of them carried it so fair at that time, that i never thought myself so secure of their friendship as then. we continued talking together how to divert ourselves at night, till towards the close of the evening the two gentlemen took their leave, and went down the street. don diego and i being left by ourselves, turned towards the church of st. philip. when we came to the next turning, don diego said to me, "let me beg the favour of you, don philip, to change cloaks with me, for i have occasion to go this way, and would not be known." "with all my heart," answered i. i took his cloak very innocently, and gave him mine in an unhappy hour, offering to go along and stand by him if need were; but he having projected to stand by me to break my bones, replied, "he was obliged to go alone, and therefore desired me to leave him." [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] no sooner had i parted from him, but the devil contrived that two who were lying in wait there to give him a thrashing on account of a wench, thinking, by the cloak, that i was don diego, fell a-cudgelling me as thick as hail; i cried out, and by my voice and face they discovered i was the wrong man, at which they ran away, and i was left with my beating, which raised three or four big lumps on my head. i had to make a halt, not daring to go into my mistress's street a while for fear. at last about twelve, which was the time when i talked with her, i came up to the door where one of don diego's friends that waited for me, being ready with a good cudgel, gave me two blows across the shins, which laid me flat on the ground; as soon as i was down, the other played his part, giving me a slash across the face from ear to ear. they then took away my cloak, and left me on the ground, saying, "this is the reward of false, deceitful, base-born scoundrels." i cried out for help, not knowing to whom i was beholden for that usage, though, by what they said at parting, i guessed it might perhaps be the landlord i had cheated, with the contrivance of being taken up by the inquisition, or the gaoler i had so long imposed upon, or my companions who had fled; for, to say the truth, i expected that cut from so many places, that i could not be positive from whom it might come. don diego was the person i least suspected, and i was farthest from the mark; but still cried out, "thieves! thieves!" which at length brought the watch, who took me up, and spying a gash a foot long on my face, and that i had no cloak, nor could tell how that misfortune came, they carried me away to a surgeon's house, where i was dressed; then they asked where i lived, and thither they conducted me. i went to bed and lay all night awake, full of remorse and confusion; my face being cut in two, my body bruised, and my legs so crippled with the cudgelling, that i could not stand nor had scarce any feeling in them. in fine, i was wounded, robbed, and in such a condition, that i could neither follow my friends, nor proceed with my marriage, nor stay in madrid, nor get away. [illustration] [illustration] chap. viii. _of my cure, and other strange things._ [illustration] the next morning, by break of day, the lady of the house appeared at my bed's head. she was a good sort of old woman, at the years of discretion, past fifty-five, a great pair of beads in her hand, a face like a dried apple, or a walnut shell, it was so full of furrows. she had a great name in the neighbourhood, and so she lay in bed till noon when she pleased, and with as many as pleased. she promoted pleasure and contrived delight; her name was one la guia; her trade to let lodgings at home, and hire others abroad. her house was never without lodgers all the year round. it was pleasant to see how she instructed a young girl in veiling herself, teaching her what parts of her face she must be sure to expose to sight. if she had good teeth, she advised her to be always a-laughing, though it were at a visit of condolence; if she had fine hands, she taught her to be always playing with them; if fair hair, to have some loose locks peeping out under the veil; if good eyes, to be continually ogling; and if sparkling small ones, to shut and then open them wide, and be sure to look up. as for washes, and other cosmetics for the skin, she would make an ethiopian as fair of complexion as a dane; so that many women came to her, and went home so altered, that their own husbands did not know them; but her greatest art consisted in mending virgins, and making up damsels. all this i saw performed by the time i had been but eight days in the house; and to complete all, she directed the women how to pick pockets, and taught them what pretty expressions they should use. she showed them how they should wheedle a jewel out of a man; young girls were to do it by way of pleasantry and jest, ripe maids as a due, and old women as a piece of respect and obligation. she put them in the way how to beg money, and how to draw rings and other trinkets. upon occasion, she quoted some famous ones of her own profession at alcalá, at burgos, and in other parts of spain where any had gained renown in this art of cullying. i have given this account of her that i may be pitied, considering into what hands i was fallen; and the words she said to me may be the more taken notice of. she was always very fond of proverbs, and began her speech after this manner: "'where you take and not put, you soon reach the bottom'; 'as you sow, so will you reap'; 'as the wedding so the cake.' my son, don philip, to deal plainly, i do not understand you, nor can i conceive how you live. you are young, and it is no wonder you should be somewhat wild, without considering, that even whilst we sleep, we are travelling to our end. i, who have now one foot in the grave, have the privilege to tell you so much. it is very odd i should be told that you spent much money, and nobody knows how; and that you have, since you came to town, sometimes appeared like a scholar, sometimes a sharper, and sometimes like a gentleman. all this comes of keeping company; for, my son, 'tell me where you herd, and i'll tell you what you are'; and 'birds of a feather flock together'; and 'many a good bit is lost between the lip and the dish.' go, you fool; if you had a hankering after women, did not you know that i had always a good stock of that commodity by me, and that i live by that trade? i breed them up to hand, and fit them for that business, and then i have them ready at my beck. what occasion have you to be drawn away by one scoundrel to-day, and by another rascal to-morrow; picking up a dirty drab here, and a pickled jade there, who fleece you to keep another? i vow and swear you had saved many a crown if you had applied yourself to me, for i am not over fond of money. by my father's soul, and as i hope for mercy, i would not have asked you now for what is due for lodging, but that i want it for some private uses, and to buy some little candles and herbs." she had her gallipots, though she was neither surgeon or apothecary, and if anybody greased her she anointed herself, and flew out with the smoke.[ ] i perceived that all her discourse and long speech ended in a dun; for though that was her text, she did not begin with it as others do, but made it her conclusion; when i found that i was not at all to seek for the occasion of her loving visit, which was the first she made me whilst i lodged in her house, excepting only one day, when she came to answer for herself, because she heard i had been told some story about her witchcraft, and that when the officers came to seize her, she had cast such a mist before their eyes, that they could neither find the house nor the street. she came then to tell me it was all a mistake, for they meant another of her name; and no wonder, for there were more of the name and profession. i paid her down the money, and as i was telling it out, ill fortune, which always attends me, and the devil, who never forgets to plague me, so ordered it, that the officers came to seize her for a scandalous liver, and had information that her gallant was in the house. they came directly into my room, and seeing me in bed and her by me, they laid hold of us both, gave me half a score good blows, and dragged me out of bed. two others held her fast, saluting her with the titles of bawd and witch. who would have thought it of a woman that lived as i have said? the noise the constables made, and my cries, gave the alarm to her gallant, who was a fruiterer, and lay in the next room within. he set off a-running. they observing it, and being informed by another lodger in the house that i was not the man, scoured after, and laid hold of him, leaving me well beaten and my hair torn off; yet for all i had endured, i could not forbear laughing to hear how the dogs complimented the old woman. one cried, "how gracefully you will look in a cart, mother; by my troth, it will be a great satisfaction to me to see a thousand or two of rotten oranges and turnip tops fly after you." another said, "we have taken care that you shall make a good show, and be well attended." at last they caught her bully, bound them both, begged my pardon, and left me to myself. [illustration] [illustration] it was some comfort to me to see my good landlady in the way to preferment, so that all my care was to be in a readiness that i might throw one rotten orange at her; though considering what a maid of hers, who was left behind, told me, i much doubted whether ever they could secure her in prison, for she talked of flying, and some other matters i did not at all like. i lay eight days in the house under the surgeon's hands, and was scarce able to go abroad at the end of them, for they were fain to stitch up my face, and i could not go without crutches. by this time my money was spent, for the hundred reals all went in lodging, diet, and cure; so that to avoid further expenses, when my treasure was gone, i resolved to go abroad upon crutches, and sell my linen and clothes, which were very good. i did so and with part of the money bought an old leather jerkin, a canvas waistcoat, a patched beggar's great coat down to my ankles, spatter-dashes on my legs, and great clouted shoes, the hood of the great coat on my head, a large brass crucifix about my neck, and a pair of beads in my hand. a mumper, who was a master at his trade, taught me the doleful tone and proper phrases for begging, so i began immediately to practise it about the streets. sixty reals i had left i sewed up in my doublet, and so set up for a beggar, much confiding in my cant. i went about the streets for a whole week, howling in a dismal tone, and repeating my lesson after this manner: "good christian servants of the lord, take pity on a poor distressed, miserable, wounded, and maimed creature, that has no comfort of his life." this was my working day note, but on sundays and holidays i altered my voice, and said, "good charitable people, for the exalted princess, queen of the angels, mother of god, give an alms to the poor cripple whom the lord has visited." then i stopped a little, which does good service, and went on again: "see my poor limbs were blasted, unhappy wretch that i am, as i was working in a vineyard; i lost the use of all my precious limbs; for i was as strong and as sound as any of you are, the lord be for ever praised, and preserve your health and limbs." thus the farthings came tumbling in by shoals; i got abundance of money, and was in a way of getting much more, had i not been thwarted by an ill-looking lusty young fellow, lame of both arms and with but one leg, who plied my own walks in a wheelbarrow, and picked up more pence than i did, though he begged not half so genteelly; for he had a hoarse voice, which ended in a squeak, and said, "faithful servants of jesus christ, behold how the lord hath afflicted me for my sins; give one farthing to the poor, god will reward you," and then he added, "for the sweet jesu's sake." this brought him a mighty revenue, and i observed it, and for the future i cut off the _s_, and said only _jesu_, because i perceived it moved to greater devotion. in short, i altered my phrases as occasion served, and there was no end of my gettings. i had both my legs bound up in a leather bag, and lay in a surgeon's porch, with a beggar that plied at the corner of a street, one of the arrantest knaves that ever god put life into. he was very rich, and as it were our superior, and earned as much as all of us. his belly hung out in a bunch; besides, he bound one arm tight with a rope above the shoulder, which made his hand look as if it were lame, swoln, and had an inflammation. he lay flat on his back, with all the rupture naked, which was as big as his head, and cried, "behold my misery, see how the lord chastises his servants." if a woman happened to pass by, "sweet, beautiful lady, the lord bless your dear soul." most of them would give him an alms for calling them handsome, and would make that their way to their visits, though it were not their road. if any ragged soldier came by, he called him "noble captain;" if any other sort of man, "good worthy gentleman;" if he saw anybody in a coach, "right honourable lord;" and if a clergyman on a mule, "most reverend archdeacon." in short, he was a most intolerable flatterer, and had particular ways of begging on holidays. i contracted such intimacy with him that he acquainted me with a secret, which in a few days made us rich; and it was, that he kept three little boys, who begged about the streets, stole everything that came in their way, which they brought to him, and he was the receiver; besides, he had two small children that learned to pick pockets, and he went halves with them. being so well instructed by such an able master, i took to the same courses, and he provided me with fit instruments for my purpose. in less than a month's time i had got above forty crowns clear of expenses, and at last, designing that we should go away together, he disclosed to me the greatest secret and cunningest design that ever beggar had in his head, which we both joined in; and it was, that between us we every day stole four or five children, which being cried, we presently appeared, inquired what marks they had to be known by, and said, "good god, sir, i found this child at such a time, and had i not come as i did, a cart had run over it, but i have taken care of it." they readily paid us the reward, and it throve so well, that i got above fifty crowns more, and by this time my legs were well, though i still wore them wrapped in clouts. i resolved to leave madrid and go away to toledo, where i knew nobody and nobody knew me. having taken this resolution, i bought an old suit of grey clothes, a sword and bands, took leave of valcazar, the beggar i last mentioned, and went about the inns to find some way to go to toledo. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] chap. ix. _in which i turn player, poet, and gallant of nuns; which characters are daintily painted._ [illustration] at a certain inn i met with a company of strolling players, who were going to toledo, and had three carts with them. it pleased god that among the gang i found one who had been my fellow-student at alcalá, who had played the wag, and was turned actor. i told him what a mind i had to go to toledo, and he scarce knew me for the scar across my face, and he could not forbear crossing himself at the sign of my cross.[ ] in conclusion, for a small spill of money, he was so much my friend as to prevail with the rest to let me go with them. we were a scratch lot, men and women together, and i was mightily taken with one of the crew, who was the chief dancer, and acted the queen and other great parts in plays, for she was a notable jilt. her husband happened to sit next to me, and not thinking to whom i spoke, but following my inclination, i asked him, "how could a man do to have a little talk with this woman, that i might spend twenty crowns upon her, for i have a great liking to her?" "it does not become me to answer your question, as i am her husband," replied the man, "nor is it fit i should talk of any such thing; but to speak without feeling, for i have none, she deserves to have any money spent upon her, for there is not a more dainty bit of flesh upon the earth, nor such a playsome wench." this said, he leaped out of the cart, and got into another, in all likelihood that i might have an opportunity of making my addresses to her. i was pleased with the man's answer, and perceived it may be said of such men, that they had wives as if they had none. i laid hold of the opportunity; she asked me whither i was going, and some questions concerning my life and circumstances; and in conclusion, after much talk, postponed the affair to toledo. we diverted ourselves by the way as best we could, and i happened to act a piece out of a play of san alejo that i had borne a part in when i was a boy, which i did so well, that they took a liking to me, and learning of my friend, who was in the company, of all my misfortunes and hard circumstances which i had made him acquainted with, she asked me whether i would make one among them? they so highly extolled their strolling course of life, and i was then in such want of some support, and so fond of the wench, that i agreed with the manager for two years. writings were signed between us to oblige me to stay with them, so they gave me my allowance, and allotted my parts, and thus we came to toledo. they gave me two or three prologues to get by heart, and some other grave parts, which suited well with my voice. i applied myself to it, and spoke the first prologue in the town, which was about a ship in distress, as they all are, and wanting provisions, which put into that port. i called the folks a "senate," begging their attentions, pardon for all faults, and so went off. there was great clapping of hands, and in fine i was liked on the stage. we acted a play, written by one of our actors, and i wondered how they should come to be poets, for i thought it belonged only to very learned and ingenious men, and not to persons so extremely ignorant. but it is now come to such a pass that every head of them writes plays, and every actor makes drolls and farces; though formerly i remember no plays would go down but such as were written by the good lope de vega and doctor ramon. in short, the play was acted the first day, and no soul could make anything of it. the second day we began it again, and as god would have it, there was some warlike exploit to begin with; and i came upon the stage in armour, and with a target on my arm, which was a great mercy, or else i had infallibly been pelted to death with cabbage-stalks and pumpkins, and all things that came to hand. such a storm of hail was never seen, and the play deserved it, for it represented a king of normandy in a hermit's habit, without any sense or reason, had two scoundrel footmen to make sport, and when they came to unravel the plot, there was nothing but marrying of all the company, and there was an end; so that, to say the truth, we got but what we deserved. we all fell foul of our companion, the pretended poet, and i bade him consider what a danger we had escaped, and take warning by it; he answered, he had not made one word of the play, but only picked up bits and scraps, some from one and some from another, as they came in his way, which he had jumbled together, like a beggar's cloak made of all sorts of rags; and the ill luck was, that it had not been neatly joined. he owned, that all the players who wrote plays, were obliged to make restitution, because they only stole from all the parts they acted, which was easily done, and they were willing to run all hazards in hopes of getting ten or twenty crowns. besides that, going about all the country, and being shown plays by several persons, they borrowed them to read, and then stole them, to which, when they had done, they only added some scurvy part, and left out another better, and so they called it their own; protesting that no player ever knew how to write a scene any other way. i liked the contrivance and took a great fancy to try it myself, as having some small turn for poetry, and being somewhat versed in poets, for i had read garcilaso, and others, and so i resolved to fall into that trade; so that with this, and my actress, and my own playing, i made a shift to live. by that time we had been a month at toledo, acting several new plays, and endeavouring to retrieve our first failure, and they had come to call me little alonso, for i had given out that my name was alonso, to which the generality added the title of the cruel, because i had acted a part of that nature, to the great liking of the pit and upper galleries. i had now got several new suits of clothes, and there were some heads of other strollers who endeavoured to inveigle me away from my company. i set up for a critic of comedy, commented on the famous actors, reprehended the attitudes of pinedo, gave my vote for sanchez's natural sedateness, called morales pretty good, so that my advice was always taken in contriving the scenes and adorning the stage; and if any play came to be offered, it was left to me to examine it. being encouraged by this applause, i made my maiden effort as a poet in a little ballad, and then wrote a small farce, which was well approved of. next i ventured a play, and that it might not escape being a thing divine, made it all of devotion, and full of the blessed virgin. it began with music, had fine shows of souls in purgatory, and devils appearing, as was the fashion then, with old gibberish when they appeared, and strange shrieks when they vanished. the mob was mightily pleased with my rhymes about satan, and my long discourses about his falling from heaven, and such like. in short the play was acted, and well liked. i had more business than i could turn my hands to, for all sorts of lovers flocked to me, some would have songs on their mistress's eyes, others on their foreheads, others on their white hands, and others on their golden locks. there was a set price for everything; but i sold cheap to draw the more custom, because there were other shops besides mine. as for godly ballads, i supplied all the country clerks and runners of monasteries; and the blind men were my best friends, for they never allowed less than eighty reals, and i always took care they should be bombastic, and stuffed with cramp words, which neither they nor i understood. i brought up many new fashions in verse, as tailors do in clothes, and was the first that concluded my songs like sermons, praying for grace in this world and glory in the next. thus was i happy, with the wind blowing fair as i could wish, my pockets full of money, highly in vogue, and in such a prosperous condition that i aimed at being chief of a company of strollers. my house was handsomely furnished, for the devil put into my head to buy the old mouldy tapestry of taverns to hang my rooms at a cheap rate, all which cost me about five or six crowns; for they afforded a better prospect than any the king has, for being so ragged you might see through any part of them, which you cannot do through any of his. the oddest thing happened to me one day that ever was heard of, which i will not forbear to make known, though it be to my shame. when i was writing a play, i used to shut myself up at home in the garret, where i kept close and dined. the maid used to bring up my dinner, and leave it there; and it was my way to act all i wrote, and talk aloud, as if i had been upon the stage. as the devil would have it, when the maid was coming up the stairs, which were dark and steep, with the dish of meat and plates in her hand, i was composing a scene of hunting a bear, and, being wholly intent upon my play, cried out as loud as i could: "_fly, fly, the bloody bear; take heed, i say,_ _alas, i'm killed, and you'll become its prey._" the poor wench, who was a silly galician, hearing me roar that i was killed, and she in danger to become a prey to the bear, thought it had been real matter of fact, and that i called to her to save herself. upon this conceit she took to her heels, and treading on her coats in the confusion, tumbled down all the stairs. the soup was spilt, the plates were broken, and she run out roaring into the street, "that a bear was killing a man." i could not be so nimble but that all the neighbours were about me, asking where the bear was? and i could scarce make them believe me, though i told them it was the maid's foolish mistake, for i was only acting a part of a play. i lost my dinner that day; my companions were told of it, and all the town made sport with it. many such accidents befel me whilst i followed the trade of poetising, and would not forsake that wicked course of life. [illustration] it happened, as frequently does to that sort of people, that the chief of our company, being known to have done very well at toledo, was arrested for some old debts and thrown into gaol, which broke up our gang, and everyone went his own way. as for my part, though my comrades would have introduced me into other companies, having no great inclination to that calling, for i had followed it out of mere necessity; i thought of nothing but taking my pleasure, being then well dressed and in no want of money. i took my leave of them all, they went their ways; and i, who had proposed to quit an ill course of life, by desisting from being a stroller, to mend the matter, dropped out of the frying-pan into the fire, for i fell into much worse. i became a candidate for antichrist; to speak plainly, i became a gallant of nuns. the encouragement i had to commit this madness, was, that i understood there was a nun, the goddess venus herself, at whose request i had written abundance of little devout pastorals; and she had taken some liking to me on that account, and seeing me act saint john the evangelist in a sacramental play. the good lady made very much of me, and told me there was nothing troubled her so much as my being a player; for i had pretended to her that i was the son of a gentleman of quality, and therefore she pitied me, and i at last resolved to send her the following lines: "i have quitted the company of players, rather to comply with your desires, than because it was otherwise convenient for me so to do; but to me all the company in the world, without yours, is solitude. i shall now have the more opportunity of being yours, as being absolutely my own master. let me know when i may have speech with you, and when i shall know when i may be happy, &c." the runner carried the note, the good nun was wonderfully pleased to hear of my change of life, and answered me as follows:-- "i rather expect to be congratulated than to congratulate you on your good fortune; for my wishes and your prosperity are inseparable. you may be looked upon as recovered out of a desperate estate; it only remains that you persevere, as i shall do. i question whether there will be any liberty at the grate to-day; but do not fail to come at even-song, for there at least we shall see one another, and perhaps i may find means to put some trick upon the lady abbess. farewell." i liked the note, for the woman was really witty, and very handsome. after dinner i put on the best suit i used to act the gallant in on the stage, went to church, pretended to pray, and then began to examine every inch of the grating and veil before the choir, to see if i could discover her. at length it pleased god i had the good fortune, or rather the devil contrived me the ill luck, that i heard the old sign; i began to cough, she answered--it was a cough of barabbas. we followed each other in the catarrh, and it seemed as if they had strewn pepper in the church. at last, when i was quite weary of coughing, a wheezy old woman appeared at the grate, and i discovered my mistake; for this is a very uncertain sign in a convent, because, as it serves for a sign among young ones, it is habitual with old ones, and when a man thinks it a call to catch a nightingale, he finds nothing but an owl. i stayed a long time in the church, till even-song began, which i heard out, for the admirers of nuns have this madness, besides all the rest, that they must play the hypocrite and pray against their will; besides that, they never go beyond the eve, being ever in expectation, but the day of enjoyment never comes. i never failed being at even-song, and stretched out my neck a handful longer than it was, to endeavour to see into the choir. the sacristan and clerk were my constant companions, and i was well received by the vicar, who was a pleasant man, and walked as stiff and upright as if a spit had been run through him. i went by times to take my place in a court the nuns' windows looked into, where it was comical to see the strange postures of others, as mad pretenders as myself. one gazed without ever so much as winking; another stood with one hand on his sword, and his beads on the other, like a statue upon a tomb; another with his arms stretched out as if he were flying; some gaping, as if they would have had their hearts fly out at their mouths; some leaning against the walls, as if they had come to support them; some walking as if to be bought for their pacing, like horses; and others with _billets doux_ in their hands, like falconers, to bring the hawk to the lure. the jealous lovers were in another band; some smiling, and gazing up at their mistresses; others reading verses, and showing them; one, pacing the terrace with a damsel in hand out of pique; another, talking to a suborned servant-maid, who was giving him a letter. all this was below where we were, but above the place for the nuns was a little old tower, all full of cracks, chinks, and peeping holes, where appeared nothing but a confusion--here a hand, there a foot, in another place a head, in another a handkerchief, a glove, or the like; some walked, others coughed, and so everyone had her particular way. in summer it is pleasant enough to see the men so parched and the women so cool. in winter some of us stay so long in the wet that we are mouldy, and the moss grows upon us; neither snow nor rain can drive us away; and all this is only to see a woman through a grate and a glass, like some holy relic, or curious piece of workmanship, for that is all we can ever expect. it is just like falling in love with a blackbird in a cage, if ever she talks; or with a fine picture, if she does not. the greatest favour ever to be attained is to touch the ends of the fingers. they lean their heads against the double grates, and shoot volleys of fine conceits through those loopholes. 'tis perfect love at hide and seek, and yet for this we study to talk fine and whisper, must endure every old woman that chides, every doorkeeper that commands, and every one at the wheel that gives what answer she pleases. i had followed this cursed employment so long that i was well looked upon by the lady abbess, civilly treated by the good priest, and a familiar with the clerk, for we hid our folly from them; and this is all the happiness such madmen can aspire to. i began to be weary of the doorkeeper's turning me away, and of the nuns begging, and methought how dear i endeavoured to purchase a place in hell, which others have at so easy a rate, and that i even anticipated to take share of it in this world by such extravagant means. it was plain that i rode post to perdition, and threw away my soul only for a few looks. when i talked to her, for fear of being overheard by the rest, i used to thrust my head so close to the grate, that the print of it would not come out in two days, and at the same time spoke so low that she could not understand one word without a trumpet at her ear. everybody that saw me, cried, "a curse on thee, thou wicked, nun-hunting dog!" besides many other worse compliments. all these things brought me to my senses, and i resolved to quit my nun, even though it cost me my living; and this i determined to do on st. john's day. i had come to know what nuns were. i need not tell you, sir, how the she-votaries of st. john get themselves hoarse of spite, so that, instead of chanting the mass, they groan it; nor do they wash their faces, but don their old garments. i got off her the value of fifty crowns of her work, in silk stockings, rich purses, and sweetmeats, pretending to have them raffled for; but as soon as i had them in possession, i set out for seville to try my fortune there, as the greater city. the pious reader may guess how much the nun was concerned, not for me, but what i cheated her of. [illustration] [illustration] chap. x. _of what happened to me at seville, till i took ship for the indies._ i had a good journey from toledo to seville, for i was sharp at play, had loaded dice, both high and low, and could palm a dice, hold four, and throw out three; besides, i had false cards, and knew how to pack any, and turn up what i pleased, and abundance of other fine arts and sleights of hand, which i pass by as tedious, and for fear they might rather serve to teach others evil practices, than for warnings of what they are to shun; but perhaps some few words of advice may be of use to such as are not skilled in those practices; and they who read my book, if they are cheated, may thank themselves. never think yourself safe because you find the cards, for they will change them upon you whilst a candle is snuffing. take care they make no scratches or other marks on the cards; and if my reader is a poor vagabond, he must observe, that, among that gang of rake-hells, they prick the cards they would know with a pin, or handle them so as to leave a crease. if you happen to play among a better sort of people, take heed of cards which are originally falsified, and have private marks on the pasteboard. never trust to a clean card, nor think yourself safe with a foul one, for the cheat is equal in both. take heed the dealer never bends any cards more than others, which is a certain way to pick your pocket; and observe that no motions be made with the fingers, or no hints given by the first letters of words. i will not let you farther into this secret; this is enough to make you always stand upon your guard, for you may be assured i do not tell the hundredth part of the cheats. being master of these arts, i got to seville at my fellow-travellers' expense, winning all the hire of the mules, my other charges, and money to boot, of them and my landlords at the inns. i alighted at that they call _the moor_, where i was found out by one of my schoolfellows at alcalá, whose name was mata, but he, thinking it did not make noise enough, had changed it to matorral. he dealt in men's lives, and sold cuts and slashes, a trade which throve well with him; he carried the sign of it on his face, where he had received his share. he always made his bargain to a nicety for length and depth, when he was to bestow any, and said, "no man is so absolute a master, as he who has been well hacked and hewn himself." and he was in the right, for his face was one seam, and himself all slashes. he told me, i must go sup with him and his comrades, and they would bring me back to the inn. i went with him, and when we were in his lodging, he said, "come, spark, lay by your cloak and look like a man, for this night you shall see all the brave fellows in seville; and that they may not look upon you as a cully, tumble your band, thrust out your back, and let your cloak hang loose, as if it were dropping off, for we hate to see any man's cloak set fast upon his back. screw your chops about, and make faces with both sides of your mouth, then talk big, using the rough words of us gentry." i learned his lesson, and he lent me a dagger, broad enough to have been a scimitar, and for length it wanted nothing of a sword but the name. now drink off this quart of wine," said he, "for without you vapour you will not look like a true bully." we had gone so far in my instructions, and i was half seas over with what i had drank, when in came four of the gang, with faces like old gout-shoes, bound about the middle like monkeys with their cloaks instead of ropes, their hats standing a tiptoe on their heads, and cocked up, as if the brims were nailed to the crowns; a whole armourer's shop about them in swords and daggers, and the points of them beating against their right heels; their eyes staring, their whiskers turned up, and their beards like brushes. they made their compliment with their mouths, and then, in a hoarse tone, and clipping their words, saluted my companion in a gibberish, who answered in like manner. they sat down, and spoke not one word to ask who i was, but one of them looking at matorral, and opening his mouth, thrust out his under lip, by way of pointing at me. my introducer answered in the same language, laying hold of his beard, and looking down; after which they all got up, embraced, and expressed a great deal of kindness for me. i returned the same compliments, which were like smelling to so many hogsheads of wine. when it was supper time, in came a parcel of strapping scoundrels to wait at table, whom the topping bullies call under-spur-leathers. we all sat down together at table, and the first thing they served up was a dish of pickles, which as soon as they had tasted, they all fell to drinking to my honour, by way of welcome; and till i saw them drink to it, i must confess i never knew i had any. next came fish and flesh, all of it high seasoned to promote drinking. there was a great bowl full of wine, like a half tub, on the ground, and he that was to pledge, lay all along to drink by wholesale. i was taken with the contrivance, but by the time a few healths had gone about we none of us knew one another. they fell to talk of warlike affairs, and oaths flew as thick as hail. a matter of twenty or thirty persons were cut out for destruction. the mayor of the city was adjudged to be cut in pieces; then they talked of the glorious memory of domingo tirynado and gayon, and poured out wine in quantity for the soul of escamilla.[ ] some that were maudlin wept bitterly, calling to mind the untimely end of alonzo alvarez, one of their brethren, whose body was exposed on a gibbet for the crows to feast on. by this time my companion's brains were turned topsy-turvy, and laying hold of a loaf, and looking earnestly on the candle, he said with a hoarse voice, "by this, which is the face of god, and by that light which came out of the angel's mouth, if you think fit, gentlemen, we will this very night maul the sergeant's man that pursued our poor one-eyed friend." they all set up a dismal cry, ratifying the proposal made by an oath after this manner: they drew their daggers, laid their hands on the edge of the bowl, and lying along with their chops to it, said, "as we drink this wine, so will we suck the blood of every informing catchpole." "who was this alonzo alvarez," said i, whose death is so much regretted?" "he was," answered one of them, "a brave fighting lad, a man of spirit, full of mettle, and a good companion. let us go, for the devil begins to be strong in me." this said, we all went out a catchpole-hunting. being quite overcome with wine, and all my reason drowned, i never reflected on the danger i was running myself into. we came to the strand, where we met the round, which no sooner appeared, but our swords were drawn and we attacked them. i did like the rest, and at the first charge we made way for the filthy souls of two catchpoles to fly out of their bodies. the constable took to his heels, and ran up the street, crying out for help. we could not pursue, because he had too much the start, but took sanctuary in the cathedral, where we were sheltered against justice, and slept as much as was requisite to discharge the fumes of the wine we had drank. when we came to our senses, i could not but wonder that two catchpoles should be killed by, and a constable fly from, a parcel of mere hogsheads of wine, for we were no better at that time. we fared well in our sanctuary, for the gay nymphs of the town flocked to us, and spent all they had upon us. a strapping jade, called la grajales, took a fancy to me, and clothed me from head to foot in her own colours. i liked this sort of living better than any i had yet tried, and therefore resolved to stick to my trusty grajales till death. i learnt all the cant, and in a short time was an absolute master among the ruffians. the officers of justice took all possible care to search for us, and kept rounds about the sanctuary; yet for all that we took our rambles after midnight in disguise. perceiving that this was like to be a tedious business, and that ill fate pursued me everywhere, though it made me never the wiser to take warning for the future, tiring me out like a true obstinate sinner, i therefore, with the advice of my doxy grajales, resolved to go to the indies, taking her along with me, to try whether i could meet with better fortune in another country. but it proved worse, for they never mend their condition who only change places without mending life and manners. [illustration] footnotes: [ ] from mr. j. y. gibson's spirited translation of _el viage del parnaso_ ( ). [ ] _don quixote_, part i., chap. iii. [ ] _i.e._, she was jew. [ ] _cardinal_, a weal raised by a lash. [ ] in allusion to the proverb--_á cada puerco viene su san martin_--to every pig comes its martinmas. [ ] in allusion to the shrove-tide sport of throwing at cocks. [ ] _era batalla nabal_, a play upon the word _nabal_, meaning "belonging to turnips (_nabos_)" as well as "naval." [ ] no imaginary but a real personage, whose true name was antonio cabreriza. [ ] the morisco was called _dog_ by the christians; and _cat_ (gato) was a cant word for thief. [ ] there is a scene here which will not bear an english dress. the scholars stand around and spit at pablo. there is no other humour of which the reader is deprived. [ ] the famous secretary of philip ii., whose intrigues against spain never ceased till his death in . [ ] ostend was taken by the spaniards under espinola, on the nd september, , after a siege which lasted more than three years. [ ] a book so named, written by a famous master of the sword, pacheco de narvaez, was published at madrid in . [ ] there was actually a famous fencing-master, a mulatto, francisco hernandez, of whom his rival, narvaez, wrote slightingly. probably they are both ridiculed in this passage. [ ] majalahonda is a village ten miles from madrid, famous for the rudeness of its inhabitants and their speech. see _don quixote_, part ii., chap. xix. [ ] _demandador_--one who begs for alms for the release of the souls of the poor from purgatory, elsewhere called facetiously _animero_. [ ] in the original _que era un conde de irlos_. the conde de irlos was one of the heroes of the ancient ballads. he was the marquis de carabas of spanish legend. [ ] literally, "he who is nothing cannot be a son of something," _i.e._, _hidalgo_--_hijo de algo_. [ ] _bosco_--jerome bosch, a dutch painter who settled in spain in the latter half of the fifteenth century, famous for his eccentric works--the spanish callot. [ ] meaning that she pretended to practise witchcraft, like others of her calling. [ ] _signum crucis_--slang for a sword-cut across the face. [ ] noted bravoes of the period. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: fufil=> fulfill {pg ix} appearence=> appearance {pg x} je suis ne le mars=> je suis né le mars {pg xiv} c'etait=> c'était {pg xiv} d'etudes=> d'études {pg xiv} etait=> était {pg xiv} ecrits=> écrits {pg xiv} they began to hauk=> they began to hawk {pg } crying out amain=> crying out again {pg } us usual=> as usual {pg } my neice=> my niece {pg } memoirs of extraordinary popular delusions by charles mackay author of "the thames and its tributaries," "the hope of the world," etc. "il est bon de connaitre les delires de l'esprit humain. chaque people a ses folies plus ou moins grossieres." millot vol i. london: richard bentley, new burlington street. publisher in ordinary to her majesty. . contents of the first volume the mississippi scheme the south sea bubble the tulipomania relics modern prophecies popular admiration for great thieves influence of politics and religion on the hair and beard duels and ordeals the love of the marvelous and the disbelief of the true popular follies in great cities the o. p. mania the thugs, or phansigars national delusions. n'en deplaise a ces fous nommes sages de grece; en ce monde il n'est point de parfaite sagesse; tous les hommes sont fous, et malgre tous leurs soins, ne different entre eux que du plus ou du moins. boileau. in reading the history of nations, we find that, like individuals, they have their whims and their peculiarities; their seasons of excitement and recklessness, when they care not what they do. we find that whole communities suddenly fix their minds upon one object, and go mad in its pursuit; that millions of people become simultaneously impressed with one delusion, and run after it, till their attention is caught by some new folly more captivating than the first. we see one nation suddenly seized, from its highest to its lowest members, with a fierce desire of military glory; another as suddenly becoming crazed upon a religious scruple, and neither of them recovering its senses until it has shed rivers of blood and sowed a harvest of groans and tears, to be reaped by its posterity. at an early age in the annals of europe its population lost their wits about the sepulchre of jesus, and crowded in frenzied multitudes to the holy land: another age went mad for fear of the devil, and offered up hundreds of thousands of victims to the delusion of witchcraft. at another time, the many became crazed on the subject of the philosopher's stone, and committed follies till then unheard of in the pursuit. it was once thought a venial offence in very many countries of europe to destroy an enemy by slow poison. persons who would have revolted at the idea of stabbing a man to the heart, drugged his pottage without scruple. ladies of gentle birth and manners caught the contagion of murder, until poisoning, under their auspices, became quite fashionable. some delusions, though notorious to all the world, have subsisted for ages, flourishing as widely among civilized and polished nations as among the early barbarians with whom they originated,--that of duelling, for instance, and the belief in omens and divination of the future, which seem to defy the progress of knowledge to eradicate entirely from the popular mind. money, again, has often been a cause of the delusion of multitudes. sober nations have all at once become desperate gamblers, and risked almost their existence upon the turn of a piece of paper. to trace the history of the most prominent of these delusions is the object of the present pages. men, it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, and one by one. in the present state of civilization, society has often shown itself very prone to run a career of folly from the last-mentioned cases. this infatuation has seized upon whole nations in a most extraordinary manner. france, with her mississippi madness, set the first great example, and was very soon imitated by england with her south sea bubble. at an earlier period, holland made herself still more ridiculous in the eyes of the world, by the frenzy which came over her people for the love of tulips. melancholy as all these delusions were in their ultimate results, their history is most amusing. a more ludicrous and yet painful spectacle, than that which holland presented in the years and , or france in and , can hardly be imagined. taking them in the order of their importance, we shall commence our history with john law and the famous mississippi scheme of the years above mentioned. the mississippi scheme some in clandestine companies combine; erect new stocks to trade beyond the line; with air and empty names beguile the town, and raise new credits first, then cry 'em down; divide the empty nothing into shares, and set the crowd together by the ears. defoe. the personal character and career of one man are so intimately connected with the great scheme of the years and , that a history of the mississippi madness can have no fitter introduction than a sketch of the life of its great author, john law. historians are divided in opinion as to whether they should designate him a knave or a madman. both epithets were unsparingly applied to him in his lifetime, and while the unhappy consequences of his projects were still deeply felt. posterity, however, has found reason to doubt the justice of the accusation, and to confess that john law was neither knave nor madman, but one more deceived than deceiving; more sinned against than sinning. he was thoroughly acquainted with the philosophy and true principles of credit. he understood the monetary question better than any man of his day; and if his system fell with a crash so tremendous, it was not so much his fault as that of the people amongst whom he had erected it. he did not calculate upon the avaricious frenzy of a whole nation; he did not see that confidence, like mistrust, could be increased, almost ad infinitum, and that hope was as extravagant as fear. how was he to foretell that the french people, like the man in the fable, would kill, in their frantic eagerness, the fine goose he had brought to lay them so many golden eggs? his fate was like that which may be supposed to have overtaken the first adventurous boatman who rowed from erie to ontario. broad and smooth was the river on which he embarked; rapid and pleasant was his progress; and who was to stay him in his career? alas for him! the cataract was nigh. he saw, when it was too late, that the tide which wafted him so joyously along was a tide of destruction; and when he endeavoured to retrace his way, he found that the current was too strong for his weak efforts to stem, and that he drew nearer every instant to the tremendous falls. down he went over the sharp rocks, and the waters with him. he was dashed to pieces with his bark, but the waters, maddened and turned to foam by the rough descent, only boiled and bubbled for a time, and then flowed on again as smoothly as ever. just so it was with law and the french people. he was the boatman and they were the waters. john law was born at edinburgh in the year . his father was the younger son of an ancient family in fife, and carried on the business of a goldsmith and banker. he amassed considerable wealth in his trade, sufficient to enable him to gratify the wish, so common among his countrymen, of adding a territorial designation to his name. he purchased with this view the estates of lauriston and randleston, on the frith of forth on the borders of west and mid lothian, and was thenceforth known as law of lauriston. the subject of our memoir, being the eldest son, was received into his father's counting-house at the age of fourteen, and for three years laboured hard to acquire an insight into the principles of banking, as then carried on in scotland. he had always manifested great love for the study of numbers, and his proficiency in the mathematics was considered extraordinary in one of his tender years. at the age of seventeen he was tall, strong, and well made; and his face, although deeply scarred with the small-pox, was agreeable in its expression, and full of intelligence. at this time he began to neglect his business, and becoming vain of his person, indulged in considerable extravagance of attire. he was a great favourite with the ladies, by whom he was called beau law, while the other sex, despising his foppery, nicknamed him jessamy john. at the death of his father, which happened in , he withdrew entirely from the desk, which had become so irksome, and being possessed of the revenues of the paternal estate of lauriston, he proceeded to london, to see the world. he was now very young, very vain, good-looking, tolerably rich, and quite uncontrolled. it is no wonder that, on his arrival in the capital, he should launch out into extravagance. he soon became a regular frequenter of the gaming-houses, and by pursuing a certain plan, based upon some abstruse calculation of chances, he contrived to gain considerable sums. all the gamblers envied him his luck, and many made it a point to watch his play, and stake their money on the same chances. in affairs of gallantry he was equally fortunate; ladies of the first rank smiled graciously upon the handsome scotchman--the young, the rich, the witty, and the obliging. but all these successes only paved the way for reverses. after he had been for nine years exposed to the dangerous attractions of the gay life he was leading, he became an irrecoverable gambler. as his love of play increased in violence, it diminished in prudence. great losses were only to be repaired by still greater ventures, and one unhappy day he lost more than he could repay without mortgaging his family estate. to that step he was driven at last. at the same time his gallantry brought him into trouble. a love affair, or slight flirtation, with a lady of the name of villiers [miss elizabeth villiers, afterwards countess of orkney] exposed him to the resentment of a mr. wilson, by whom he was challenged to fight a duel. law accepted, and had the ill fortune to shoot his antagonist dead upon the spot. he was arrested the same day, and brought to trial for murder by the relatives of mr. wilson. he was afterwards found guilty, and sentenced to death. the sentence was commuted to a fine, upon the ground that the offence only amounted to manslaughter. an appeal being lodged by a brother of the deceased, law was detained in the king's bench, whence, by some means or other, which he never explained, he contrived to escape; and an action being instituted against the sheriffs, he was advertised in the gazette, and a reward offered for his apprehension. he was described as "captain john law, a scotchman, aged twenty-six; a very tall, black, lean man; well shaped, above six feet high, with large pockholes in his face; big nosed, and speaking broad and loud." as this was rather a caricature than a description of him, it has been supposed that it was drawn up with a view to favour his escape. he succeeded in reaching the continent, where he travelled for three years, and devoted much of his attention to the monetary and banking affairs of the countries through which he passed. he stayed a few months in amsterdam, and speculated to some extent in the funds. his mornings were devoted to the study of finance and the principles of trade, and his evenings to the gaming-house. it is generally believed that he returned to edinburgh in the year . it is certain that he published in that city his "proposals and reasons for constituting a council of trade." this pamphlet did not excite much attention. in a short time afterwards he published a project for establishing what he called a land-bank [the wits of the day called it a sand-bank, which would wreck the vessel of the state.], the notes issued by which were never to exceed the value of the entire lands of the state, upon ordinary interest, or were to be equal in value to the land, with the right to enter into possession at a certain time. the project excited a good deal of discussion in the scottish parliament, and a motion for the establishment of such a bank was brought forward by a neutral party, called the squadrone, whom law had interested in his favour. the parliament ultimately passed a resolution to the effect, that, to establish any kind of paper credit, so as to force it to pass, was an improper expedient for the nation. upon the failure of this project, and of his efforts to procure a pardon for the murder of mr. wilson, law withdrew to the continent, and resumed his old habits of gaming. for fourteen years he continued to roam about, in flanders, holland, germany, hungary, italy, and france. he soon became intimately acquainted with the extent of the trade and resources of each, and daily more confirmed in his opinion that no country could prosper without a paper currency. during the whole of this time he appears to have chiefly supported himself by successful play. at every gambling-house of note in the capitals of europe, he was known and appreciated as one better skilled in the intricacies of chance than any other man of the day. it is stated in the "biographie universelle" that he was expelled, first from venice, and afterwards from genoa, by the magistrates, who thought him a visitor too dangerous for the youth of those cities. during his residence in paris he rendered himself obnoxious to d'argenson, the lieutenant-general of the police, by whom he was ordered to quit the capital. this did not take place, however, before he had made the acquaintance in the saloons, of the duke de vendome, the prince de conti, and of the gay duke of orleans, the latter of whom was destined afterwards to exercise so much influence over his fate. the duke of orleans was pleased with the vivacity and good sense of the scottish adventurer, while the latter was no less pleased with the wit and amiability of a prince who promised to become his patron. they were often thrown into each other's society, and law seized every opportunity to instil his financial doctrines into the mind of one whose proximity to the throne pointed him out as destined, at no very distant date, to play an important part in the government. shortly before the death of louis xiv, or, as some say, in , law proposed a scheme of finance to desmarets, the comptroller. louis is reported to have inquired whether the projector were a catholic, and, on being answered in the negative, to have declined having anything to do with him. [this anecdote, which is related in the correspondence of madame de baviere, duchess of orleans, and mother of the regent, is discredited by lord john russell, in his "history of the principal states of europe, from the peace of utrecht;" for what reason he does not inform us. there is no doubt that law proposed his scheme to desmarets, and that louis refused to hear of it. the reason given for the refusal is quite consistent with the character of that bigoted and tyrannical monarch.] it was after this repulse that he visited italy. his mind being still occupied with schemes of finance, he proposed to victor amadeus, duke of savoy, to establish his land-bank in that country. the duke replied that his dominions were too circumscribed for the execution of so great a project, and that he was by far too poor a potentate to be ruined. he advised him, however, to try the king of france once more; for he was sure, if he knew anything of the french character, that the people would be delighted with a plan, not only so new, but so plausible. louis xiv died in , and the heir to the throne being an infant only seven years of age, the duke of orleans assumed the reins of government, as regent, during his minority. law now found himself in a more favourable position. the tide in his affairs had come, which, taken at the flood, was to waft him on to fortune. the regent was his friend, already acquainted with his theory and pretensions, and inclined, moreover, to aid him in any efforts to restore the wounded credit of france, bowed down to the earth by the extravagance of the long reign of louis xiv. hardly was that monarch laid in his grave ere the popular hatred, suppressed so long, burst forth against his memory. he who, during his life, had been flattered with an excess of adulation, to which history scarcely offers a parallel, was now cursed as a tyrant, a bigot, and a plunderer. his statues were pelted and disfigured; his effigies torn down, amid the execrations of the populace, and his name rendered synonymous with selfishness and oppression. the glory of his arms was forgotten, and nothing was remembered but his reverses, his extravagance, and his cruelty. the finances of the country were in a state of the utmost disorder. a profuse and corrupt monarch, whose profuseness and corruption were imitated by almost every functionary, from the highest to the lowest grade, had brought france to the verge of ruin. the national debt amounted to millions of livres, the revenue to millions, and the expenditure to millions per annum; leaving only three millions to pay the interest upon millions. the first care of the regent was to discover a remedy for an evil of such magnitude, and a council was early summoned to take the matter into consideration. the duke de st. simon was of opinion that nothing could save the country from revolution but a remedy at once bold and dangerous. he advised the regent to convoke the states-general, and declare a national bankruptcy. the duke de noailles, a man of accommodating principles, an accomplished courtier, and totally averse from giving himself any trouble or annoyance that ingenuity could escape from, opposed the project of st. simon with all his influence. he represented the expedient as alike dishonest and ruinous. the regent was of the same opinion, and this desperate remedy fell to the ground. the measures ultimately adopted, though they promised fair, only aggravated the evil. the first, and most dishonest measure, was of no advantage to the state. a recoinage was ordered, by which the currency was depreciated one-fifth; those who took a thousand pieces of gold or silver to the mint received back an amount of coin of the same nominal value, but only four-fifths of the weight of metal. by this contrivance the treasury gained seventy-two millions of livres, and all the commercial operations of the country were disordered. a trifling diminution of the taxes silenced the clamours of the people, and for the slight present advantage the great prospective evil was forgotten. a chamber of justice was next instituted, to inquire into the malversations of the loan-contractors and the farmers of the revenues. tax collectors are never very popular in any country, but those of france at this period deserved all the odium with which they were loaded. as soon as these farmers-general, with all their hosts of subordinate agents, called maltotiers [from maltote, an oppressive tax.], were called to account for their misdeeds, the most extravagant joy took possession of the nation. the chamber of justice, instituted chiefly for this purpose, was endowed with very extensive powers. it was composed of the presidents and councils of the parliament, the judges of the courts of aid and of requests, and the officers of the chamber of account, under the general presidence of the minister of finance. informers were encouraged to give evidence against the offenders by the promise of one-fifth part of the fines and confiscations. a tenth of all concealed effects belonging to the guilty was promised to such as should furnish the means of discovering them. the promulgation of the edict constituting this court caused a degree of consternation among those principally concerned which can only be accounted for on the supposition that their peculation had been enormous. but they met with no sympathy. the proceedings against them justified their terror. the bastile was soon unable to contain the prisoners that were sent to it, and the gaols all over the country teemed with guilty or suspected persons. an order was issued to all innkeepers and postmasters to refuse horses to such as endeavoured to seek safety in flight; and all persons were forbidden, under heavy fines, to harbour them or favour their evasion. some were condemned to the pillory, others to the gallies, and the least guilty to fine and imprisonment. one only, samuel bernard, a rich banker, and farmer-general of a province remote from the capital, was sentenced to death. so great had been the illegal profits of this man,--looked upon as the tyrant and oppressor of his district,--that he offered six millions of livres, or , pounds sterling, to be allowed to escape. his bribe was refused, and he suffered the penalty of death. others, perhaps more guilty, were more fortunate. confiscation, owing to the concealment of their treasures by the delinquents, often produced less money than a fine. the severity of the government relaxed, and fines, under the denomination of taxes, were indiscriminately levied upon all offenders. but so corrupt was every department of the administration, that the country benefited but little by the sums which thus flowed into the treasury. courtiers, and courtiers' wives and mistresses, came in for the chief share of the spoils. one contractor had been taxed in proportion to his wealth and guilt, at the sum of twelve millions of livres. the count * * *, a man of some weight in the government, called upon him, and offered to procure a remission of the fine, if he would give him a hundred thousand crowns. "vous etes trop tard, mon ami," replied the financier; "i have already made a bargain with your wife for fifty thousand." [this anecdote is related by m. de la hode, in his life of philippe of orleans. it would have looked more authentic if he had given the names of the dishonest contractor and the still more dishonest minister. but m. de la hode's book is liable to the same objection as most of the french memoirs of that and of subsequent periods. it is sufficient with most of them that an anecdote be ben trovato; the veto is but matter of secondary consideration.] about a hundred and eighty millions of livres were levied in this manner, of which eighty were applied in payment of the debts contracted by the government. the remainder found its way into the pockets of the courtiers. madame de maintenon, writing on this subject, says, "we hear every day of some new grant of the regent; the people murmur very much at this mode of employing the money taken from the peculators." the people, who, after the first burst of their resentment is over, generally express a sympathy for the weak, were indignant that so much severity should be used to so little purpose. they did not see the justice of robbing one set of rogues to fatten another. in a few months all the more guilty had been brought to punishment, and the chamber of justice looked for victims in humbler walks of life. charges of fraud and extortion were brought against tradesmen of good character, in consequence of the great inducements held out to common informers. they were compelled to lay open their affairs before this tribunal in order to establish their innocence. the voice of complaint resounded from every side, and at the expiration of a year the government found it advisable to discontinue further proceedings. the chamber of justice was suppressed, and a general amnesty granted to all against whom no charges had yet been preferred. in the midst of this financial confusion law appeared upon the scene. no man felt more deeply than the regent the deplorable state of the country, but no man could be more averse from putting his shoulders manfully to the wheel. he disliked business; he signed official documents without proper examination, and trusted to others what he should have undertaken himself. the cares inseparable from his high office were burdensome to him; he saw that something was necessary to be done, but he lacked the energy to do it, and had not virtue enough to sacrifice his case and his pleasures in the attempt. no wonder that, with this character, he listened favourably to the mighty projects, so easy of execution, of the clever adventurer whom he had formerly known, and whose talents he appreciated. when law presented himself at court, he was most cordially received. he offered two memorials to the regent, in which he set forth the evils that had befallen france, owing to an insufficient currency, at different times depreciated. he asserted that a metallic currency, unaided by a paper money, was wholly inadequate to the wants of a commercial country, and particularly cited the examples of great britain and holland to show the advantages of paper. he used many sound arguments on the subject of credit, and proposed, as a means of restoring that of france, then at so low an ebb among the nations, that he should be allowed to set up a bank, which should have the management of the royal revenues, and issue notes, both on that and on landed security. he further proposed that this bank should be administered in the king's name, but subject to the control of commissioners, to be named by the states-general. while these memorials were under consideration, law translated into french his essay on money and trade, and used every means to extend through the nation his renown as a financier. he soon became talked of. the confidants of the regent spread abroad his praise, and every one expected great things of monsieur lass. [the french pronounced his name in this manner to avoid the ungallic sound, aw. after the failure of his scheme, the wags said the nation was lasse de lui, and proposed that he should in future be known by the name of monsieur helas!] on the th of may, , a royal edict was published, by which law was authorised, in conjunction with his brother, to establish a bank, under the name of law and company, the notes of which should be received in payment of the taxes. the capital was fixed at six millions of livres, in twelve thousand shares of five hundred livres each, purchasable one-fourth in specie and the remainder in billets d'etat. it was not thought expedient to grant him the whole of the privileges prayed for in his memorials until experience should have shown their safety and advantage. law was now on the high road to fortune. the study of thirty years was brought to guide him in the management of his bank. he made all his notes payable at sight, and in the coin current at the time they were issued. this last was a master-stroke of policy, and immediately rendered his notes more valuable than the precious metals. the latter were constantly liable to depreciation by the unwise tampering of the government. a thousand livres of silver might be worth their nominal value one day and be reduced one-sixth the next, but a note of law's bank retained its original value. he publicly declared at the same time that a banker deserved death if he made issues without having sufficient security to answer all demands. the consequence was, that his notes advanced rapidly in public estimation, and were received at one per cent. more than specie. it was not long before the trade of the country felt the benefit. languishing commerce began to lift up her head; the taxes were paid with greater regularity and less murmuring, and a degree of confidence was established that could not fail, if it continued, to become still more advantageous. in the course of a year law's notes rose to fifteen per cent. premium, while the billets d'etat, or notes issued by the government, as security for the debts contracted by the extravagant louis xiv, were at a discount of no less than seventy-eight and a half per cent. the comparison was too great in favour of law not to attract the attention of the whole kingdom, and his credit extended itself day by day. branches of his bank were almost simultaneously established at lyons, rochelle, tours, amiens, and orleans. the regent appears to have been utterly astonished at his success, and gradually to have conceived the idea, that paper, which could so aid a metallic currency, could entirely supersede it. upon this fundamental error he afterwards acted. in the mean time, law commenced the famous project which has handed his name down to posterity. he proposed to the regent, who could refuse him nothing, to establish a company, that should have the exclusive privilege of trading to the great river mississippi and the province of louisiana, on its western bank. the country was supposed to abound in the precious metals, and the company, supported by the profits of their exclusive commerce, were to be the sole farmers of the taxes, and sole coiners of money. letters patent were issued, incorporating the company, in august . the capital was divided into two hundred thousand shares of five hundred livres each, the whole of which might be paid in billets d'etat, at their nominal value, although worth no more than livres in the market. it was now that the frenzy of speculating began to seize upon the nation. law's bank had effected so much good, that any promises for the future which he thought proper to make were readily believed. the regent every day conferred new privileges upon the fortunate projector. the bank obtained the monopoly of the sale of tobacco; the sole right of refinage of gold and silver, and was finally erected into the royal bank of france. amid the intoxication of success, both law and the regent forgot the maxim so loudly proclaimed by the former, that a banker deserved death who made issues of paper without the necessary funds to provide for them. as soon as the bank, from a private, became a public institution, the regent caused a fabrication of notes to the amount of one thousand millions of livres. this was the first departure from sound principles, and one for which law is not justly blameable. while the affairs of the bank were under his control, the issues had never exceeded sixty millions. whether law opposed the inordinate increase is not known, but as it took place as soon as the bank was made a royal establishment, it is but fair to lay the blame of the change of system upon the regent. law found that he lived under a despotic government, but he was not yet aware of the pernicious influence which such a government could exercise upon so delicate a framework as that of credit. he discovered it afterwards to his cost, but in the mean time suffered himself to be impelled by the regent into courses which his own reason must have disapproved. with a weakness most culpable, he lent his aid in inundating the country with paper money, which, based upon no solid foundation, was sure to fall, sooner or later. the extraordinary present fortune dazzled his eyes, and prevented him from seeing the evil day that would burst over his head, when once, from any cause or other, the alarm was sounded. the parliament were from the first jealous of his influence as a foreigner, and had, besides, their misgivings as to the safety of his projects. as his influence extended, their animosity increased. d'aguesseau, the chancellor, was unceremoniously dismissed by the regent for his opposition to the vast increase of paper money, and the constant depreciation of the gold and silver coin of the realm. this only served to augment the enmity of the parliament, and when d'argenson, a man devoted to the interests of the regent, was appointed to the vacant chancellorship, and made at the same time minister of finance, they became more violent than ever. the first measure of the new minister caused a further depreciation of the coin. in order to extinguish the billets d'etat, it was ordered that persons bringing to the mint four thousand livres in specie and one thousand livres in billets d'etat, should receive back coin to the amount of five thousand livres. d'argenson plumed himself mightily upon thus creating five thousand new and smaller livres out of the four thousand old and larger ones, being too ignorant of the true principles of trade and credit to be aware of the immense injury he was inflicting upon both. the parliament saw at once the impolicy and danger of such a system, and made repeated remonstrances to the regent. the latter refused to entertain their petitions, when the parliament, by a bold, and very unusual stretch of authority, commanded that no money should be received in payment but that of the old standard. the regent summoned a lit de justice, and annulled the decree. the parliament resisted, and issued another. again the regent exercised his privilege, and annulled it, till the parliament, stung to fiercer opposition, passed another decree, dated august th, , by which they forbade the bank of law to have any concern, either direct or indirect, in the administration of the revenue; and prohibited all foreigners, under heavy penalties, from interfering, either in their own names, or in that of others, in the management of the finances of the state. the parliament considered law to be the author of all the evil, and some of the counsellors, in the virulence of their enmity, proposed that he should be brought to trial, and, if found guilty, be hung at the gates of the palais de justice. law, in great alarm, fled to the palais royal, and threw himself on the protection of the regent, praying that measures might be taken to reduce the parliament to obedience. the regent had nothing so much at heart, both on that account and because of the disputes that had arisen relative to the legitimation of the duke of maine and the count of thoulouse, the sons of the late king. the parliament was ultimately overawed by the arrest of their president and two of the counsellors, who were sent to distant prisons. thus the first cloud upon law's prospects blew over: freed from apprehension of personal danger, he devoted his attention to his famous mississippi project, the shares of which were rapidly rising, in spite of the parliament. at the commencement of the year an edict was published, granting to the mississippi company the exclusive privilege of trading to the east indies, china, and the south seas, and to all the possessions of the french east india company, established by colbert. the company, in consequence of this great increase of their business, assumed, as more appropriate, the title of company of the indies, and created fifty thousand new shares. the prospects now held out by law were most magnificent. he promised a yearly dividend of two hundred livres upon each share of five hundred, which, as the shares were paid for in billets d'etat, at their nominal value, but worth only livres, was at the rate of about per cent. profit. the public enthusiasm, which had been so long rising, could not resist a vision so splendid. at least three hundred thousand applications were made for the fifty thousand new shares, and law's house in the rue de quincampoix was beset from morning to night by the eager applicants. as it was impossible to satisfy them all, it was several weeks before a list of the fortunate new stockholders could be made out, during which time the public impatience rose to a pitch of frenzy. dukes, marquises, counts, with their duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses, waited in the streets for hours every day before mr. law's door to know the result. at last, to avoid the jostling of the plebeian crowd, which, to the number of thousands, filled the whole thoroughfare, they took apartments in the adjoining houses, that they might be continually near the temple whence the new plutus was diffusing wealth. every day the value of the old shares increased, and the fresh applications, induced by the golden dreams of the whole nation, became so numerous that it was deemed advisable to create no less than three hundred thousand new shares, at five thousand livres each, in order that the regent might take advantage of the popular enthusiasm to pay off the national debt. for this purpose, the sum of fifteen hundred millions of livres was necessary. such was the eagerness of the nation, that thrice the sum would have been subscribed if the government had authorised it. law was now at the zenith of his prosperity, and the people were rapidly approaching the zenith of their infatuation. the highest and the lowest classes were alike filled with a vision of boundless wealth. there was not a person of note among the aristocracy, with the exception of the duke of st. simon and marshal villars, who was not engaged in buying or selling stock. people of every age and sex, and condition in life, speculated in the rise and fall of the mississippi bonds. the rue de quincampoix was the grand resort of the jobbers, and it being a narrow, inconvenient street, accidents continually occurred in it, from the tremendous pressure of the crowd. houses in it, worth, in ordinary times, a thousand livres of yearly rent, yielded as much as twelve or sixteen thousand. a cobbler, who had a stall in it, gained about two hundred livres a day by letting it out, and furnishing writing materials to brokers and their clients. the story goes, that a hump-backed man who stood in the street gained considerable sums by lending his hump as a writing-desk to the eager speculators! the great concourse of persons who assembled to do business brought a still greater concourse of spectators. these again drew all the thieves and immoral characters of paris to the spot, and constant riots and disturbances took place. at nightfall, it was often found necessary to send a troop of soldiers to clear the street. law, finding the inconvenience of his residence, removed to the place vendome, whither the crowd of agioteurs followed him. that spacious square soon became as thronged as the rue de quincampoix: from morning to night it presented the appearance of a fair. booths and tents were erected for the transaction of business and the sale of refreshments, and gamblers with their roulette tables stationed themselves in the very middle of the place, and reaped a golden, or rather a paper, harvest from the throng. the boulevards and public gardens were forsaken; parties of pleasure took their walks in preference in the place vendome, which became the fashionable lounge of the idle, as well as the general rendezvous of the busy. the noise was so great all day, that the chancellor, whose court was situated in the square, complained to the regent and the municipality, that he could not hear the advocates. law, when applied to, expressed his willingness to aid in the removal of the nuisance, and for this purpose entered into a treaty with the prince de carignan for the hotel de soissons, which had a garden of several acres in the rear. a bargain was concluded, by which law became the purchaser of the hotel, at an enormous price, the prince reserving to himself the magnificent gardens as a new source of profit. they contained some fine statues and several fountains, and were altogether laid out with much taste. as soon as law was installed in his new abode, an edict was published, forbidding all persons to buy or sell stock anywhere but in the gardens of the hotel de soissons. in the midst among the trees, about five hundred small tents and pavilions were erected, for the convenience of the stock-jobbers. their various colours, the gay ribands and banners which floated from them, the busy crowds which passed continually in and out--the incessant hum of voices, the noise, the music, and the strange mixture of business and pleasure on the countenances of the throng, all combined to give the place an air of enchantment that quite enraptured the parisians. the prince de carignan made enormous profits while the delusion lasted. each tent was let at the rate of five hundred livres a month; and, as there were at least five hundred of them, his monthly revenue from this source alone must have amounted to , livres, or upwards of , pounds sterling. the honest old soldier, marshal villars, was so vexed to see the folly which had smitten his countrymen, that he never could speak with temper on the subject. passing one day through the place vendome in his carriage, the choleric gentleman was so annoyed at the infatuation of the people, that he abruptly ordered his coachman to stop, and, putting his head out of the carriage window, harangued them for full half an hour on their "disgusting avarice." this was not a very wise proceeding on his part. hisses and shouts of laughter resounded from every side, and jokes without number were aimed at him. there being at last strong symptoms that something more tangible was flying through the air in the direction of his head, marshal was glad to drive on. he never again repeated the experiment. two sober, quiet, and philosophic men of letters, m. de la motte and the abbe terrason, congratulated each other, that they, at least, were free from this strange infatuation. a few days afterwards, as the worthy abbe was coming out of the hotel de soissons, whither he had gone to buy shares in the mississippi, whom should he see but his friend la motte entering for the same purpose. "ha!" said the abbe, smiling, "is that you?" "yes," said la motte, pushing past him as fast as he was able; "and can that be you?" the next time the two scholars met, they talked of philosophy, of science, and of religion, but neither had courage for a long time to breathe one syllable about the mississippi. at last, when it was mentioned, they agreed that a man ought never to swear against his doing any one thing, and that there was no sort of extravagance of which even a wise man was not capable. during this time, law, the new plutus, had become all at once the most important personage of the state. the ante-chambers of the regent were forsaken by the courtiers. peers, judges, and bishops thronged to the hotel de soissons; officers of the army and navy, ladies of title and fashion, and every one to whom hereditary rank or public employ gave a claim to precedence, were to be found waiting in his ante-chambers to beg for a portion of his india stock. law was so pestered that he was unable to see one-tenth part of the applicants, and every manoeuvre that ingenuity could suggest was employed to gain access to him. peers, whose dignity would have been outraged if the regent had made them wait half an hour for an interview, were content to wait six hours for the chance of seeing monsieur law. enormous fees were paid to his servants, if they would merely announce their names. ladies of rank employed the blandishments of their smiles for the same object; but many of them came day after day for a fortnight before they could obtain an audience. when law accepted an invitation, he was sometimes so surrounded by ladies, all asking to have their names put down in his lists as shareholders in the new stock, that, in spite of his well-known and habitual gallantry, he was obliged to tear himself away par force. the most ludicrous stratagems were employed to have an opportunity of speaking to him. one lady, who had striven in vain during several days, gave up in despair all attempts to see him at his own house, but ordered her coachman to keep a strict watch whenever she was out in her carriage, and if he saw mr. law coming, to drive against a post, and upset her. the coachman promised obedience, and for three days the lady was driven incessantly through the town, praying inwardly for the opportunity to be overturned. at last she espied mr. law, and, pulling the string, called out to the coachman, "upset us now! for god's sake, upset us now!" the coachman drove against a post, the lady screamed, the coach was overturned, and law, who had seen the accident, hastened to the spot to render assistance. the cunning dame was led into the hotel de soissons, where she soon thought it advisable to recover from her fright, and, after apologizing to mr. law, confessed her stratagem. law smiled, and entered the lady in his books as the purchaser of a quantity of india stock. another story is told of a madame de boucha, who, knowing that mr. law was at dinner at a certain house, proceeded thither in her carriage, and gave the alarm of fire. the company started from table, and law among the rest; but, seeing one lady making all haste into the house towards him, while everybody else was scampering away, he suspected the trick, and ran off in another direction. many other anecdotes are related, which even, though they may be a little exaggerated, are nevertheless worth preserving, as showing the spirit of that singular period. [the curious reader may find an anecdote of the eagerness of the french ladies to retain law in their company, which will make him blush or smile according as he happens to be very modest or the reverse. it is related in the letters of madame charlotte elizabeth de baviere, duchess of orleans, vol. ii. p. .] the regent was one day mentioning, in the presence of d'argenson, the abbe dubois, and some other persons, that he was desirous of deputing some lady, of the rank at least of a duchess, to attend upon his daughter at modena; "but," added he, "i do not exactly know where to find one." "no!" replied one, in affected surprise; "i can tell you where to find every duchess in france:--you have only to go to mr. law's; you will see them every one in his ante-chamber." m. de chirac, a celebrated physician, had bought stock at an unlucky period, and was very anxious to sell out. stock, however continued to fall for two or three days, much to his alarm. his mind was filled with the subject, when he was suddenly called upon to attend a lady, who imagined herself unwell. he arrived, was shown up stairs, and felt the lady's pulse. "it falls! it falls! good god! it falls continually!" said he, musingly, while the lady looked up in his face, all anxiety for his opinion. "oh! m. de chirac," said she, starting to her feet, and ringing the bell for assistance; "i am dying! i am dying! it falls! it falls! it falls!" "what falls?" inquired the doctor, in amazement. "my pulse! my pulse!" said the lady; "i must be dying." "calm your apprehensions, my dear madam," said m. de chirac; "i was speaking of the stocks. the truth is, i have been a great loser, and my mind is so disturbed, i hardly know what i have been saying." the price of shares sometimes rose ten or twenty per cent. in the course of a few hours, and many persons in the humbler walks of life, who had risen poor in the morning, went to bed in affluence. an extensive holder of stock, being taken ill, sent his servant to sell two hundred and fifty shares, at eight thousand livres each, the price at which they were then quoted. the servant went, and, on his arrival in the jardin de soissons, found that in the interval the price had risen to ten thousand livres. the difference of two thousand livres on the two hundred and fifty shares, amounting to , livres, or , pounds sterling, he very coolly transferred to his own use, and, giving the remainder to his master, set out the same evening for another country. law's coachman in a very short time made money enough to set up a carriage of his own, and requested permission to leave his service. law, who esteemed the man, begged of him as a favour, that he would endeavour, before he went, to find a substitute as good as himself. the coachman consented, and in the evening brought two of his former comrades, telling mr. law to choose between them, and he would take the other. cookmaids and footmen were now and then as lucky, and, in the full-blown pride of their easily-acquired wealth, made the most ridiculous mistakes. preserving the language and manners of their old, with the finery of their new station, they afforded continual subjects for the pity of the sensible, the contempt of the sober, and the laughter of everybody. but the folly and meanness of the higher ranks of society were still more disgusting. one instance alone, related by the duke de st. simon, will show the unworthy avarice which infected the whole of society. a man of the name of andre, without character or education, had, by a series of well-timed speculations in mississippi bonds, gained enormous wealth, in an incredibly short space of time. as st. simon expresses it, "he had amassed mountains of gold." as he became rich, he grew ashamed of the lowness of his birth, and anxious above all things to be allied to nobility. he had a daughter, an infant only three years of age, and he opened a negotiation with the aristocratic and needy family of d'oyse, that this child should, upon certain conditions, marry a member of that house. the marquis d'oyse, to his shame, consented, and promised to marry her himself on her attaining the age of twelve, if the father would pay him down the sum of a hundred thousand crowns, and twenty thousand livres every year, until the celebration of the marriage. the marquis was himself in his thirty-third year. this scandalous bargain was duly signed and sealed, the stockjobber furthermore agreeing to settle upon his daughter, on the marriage-day, a fortune of several millions. the duke of brancas, the head of the family, was present throughout the negotiation, and shared in all the profits. st. simon, who treats the matter with the levity becoming what he thought so good a joke, adds, "that people did not spare their animadversions on this beautiful marriage," and further informs us, "that the project fell to the ground some months afterwards by the overthrow of law, and the ruin of the ambitious monsieur andre." it would appear, however, that the noble family never had the honesty to return the hundred thousand crowns. amid events like these, which, humiliating though they be, partake largely of the ludicrous, others occurred of a more serious nature. robberies in the streets were of daily occurrence, in consequence of the immense sums, in paper, which people carried about with them. assassinations were also frequent. one case in particular fixed the attention of the whole of france, not only on account of the enormity of the offence, but of the rank and high connexions of the criminal. the count d'horn, a younger brother of the prince d'horn, and related to the noble families of d'aremberg, de ligne, and de montmorency, was a young man of dissipated character, extravagant to a degree, and unprincipled as he was extravagant. in connexion with two other young men as reckless as himself, named mille, a piedmontese captain, and one destampes, or lestang, a fleming, he formed a design to rob a very rich broker, who was known, unfortunately for himself, to carry great sums about his person. the count pretended a desire to purchase of him a number of shares in the company of the indies, and for that purpose appointed to meet him in a cabaret, or low public-house, in the neighbourhood of the place vendome. the unsuspecting broker was punctual to his appointment; so were the count d'horn and his two associates, whom he introduced as his particular friends. after a few moments' conversation, the count d'horn suddenly sprang upon his victim, and stabbed him three times in the breast with a poniard. the man fell heavily to the ground, and, while the count was employed in rifling his portfolio of bonds in the mississippi and indian schemes to the amount of one hundred thousand crowns, mille, the piedmontese, stabbed the unfortunate broker again and again, to make sure of his death. but the broker did not fall without a struggle, and his cries brought the people of the cabaret to his assistance. lestang, the other assassin, who had been set to keep watch at a staircase, sprang from a window and escaped; but mille and the count d'horn were seized in the very act. this crime, committed in open day, and in so public a place as a cabaret, filled paris with consternation. the trial of the assassins commenced on the following day, and the evidence being so clear, they were both found guilty and condemned to be broken alive on the wheel. the noble relatives of the count d'horn absolutely blocked up the ante-chambers of the regent, praying for mercy on the misguided youth, and alleging that he was insane. the regent avoided them as long as possible, being determined that, in a case so atrocious, justice should take its course; but the importunity of these influential suitors was not to be overcome so silently, and they at last forced themselves into the presence of the regent, and prayed him to save their house the shame of a public execution. they hinted that the princes d'horn were allied to the illustrious family of orleans, and added that the regent himself would be disgraced if a kinsman of his should die by the hands of a common executioner. the regent, to his credit, was proof against all their solicitations, and replied to their last argument in the words of corneille,-- "le crime fait la honte, et non pas l'echafaud:" adding, that whatever shame there might be in the punishment he would very willingly share with the other relatives. day after day they renewed their entreaties, but always with the same result. at last they thought that if they could interest the duke de st. simon in their layout, a man for whom the regent felt sincere esteem, they might succeed in their object. the duke, a thorough aristocrat, was as shocked as they were, that a noble assassin should die by the same death as a plebeian felon, and represented to the regent the impolicy of making enemies of so numerous, wealthy, and powerful a family. he urged, too, that in germany, where the family of d'aremberg had large possessions, it was the law, that no relative of a person broken on the wheel could succeed to any public office or employ until a whole generation had passed away. for this reason he thought the punishment of the guilty count might be transmuted into beheading, which was considered all over europe as much less infamous. the regent was moved by this argument, and was about to consent, when law, who felt peculiarly interested in the fate of the murdered man, confirmed him in his former resolution, to let the law take its course. the relatives of d'horn were now reduced to the last extremity. the prince de robec montmorency, despairing of other methods, found means to penetrate into the dungeon of the criminal, and offering him a cup of poison, implored him to save them from disgrace. the count d'horn turned away his head, and refused to take it. montmorency pressed him once more, and losing all patience at his continued refusal, turned on his heel, and exclaiming, "die, then, as thou wilt, mean-spirited wretch! thou art fit only to perish by the hands of the hangman!" left him to his fate. d'horn himself petitioned the regent that he might be beheaded, but law, who exercised more influence over his mind than any other person, with the exception of the notorious abbe dubois, his tutor, insisted that he could not in justice succumb to the self-interested views of the d'horns. the regent had from the first been of the same opinion, and within six days after the commission of their crime, d'horn and mille were broken on the wheel in the place de greve. the other assassin, lestang, was never apprehended. this prompt and severe justice was highly pleasing to the populace of paris; even m. de quincampoix, as they called law, came in for a share of their approbation for having induced the regent to show no favour to a patrician. but the number of robberies and assassinations did not diminish. no sympathy was shown for rich jobbers when they were plundered: the general laxity of public morals, conspicuous enough before, was rendered still more so by its rapid pervasion of the middle classes, who had hitherto remained comparatively pure, between the open vices of the class above and the hidden crimes of the class below them. the pernicious love of gambling diffused itself through society, and bore all public, and nearly all private, virtue before it. for a time, while confidence lasted, an impetus was given to trade, which could not fail to be beneficial. in paris, especially, the good results were felt. strangers flocked into the capital from every part, bent, not only upon making money, but on spending it. the duchess of orleans, mother of the regent, computes the increase of the population during this time, from the great influx of strangers from all parts of the world, at , souls. the housekeepers were obliged to make up beds in garrets, kitchens, and even stables, for the accommodation of lodgers; and the town was so full of carriages and vehicles of every description, that they were obliged in the principal streets to drive at a foot-pace for fear of accidents. the looms of the country worked with unusual activity, to supply rich laces, silks, broad-cloth, and velvets, which being paid for in abundant paper, increased in price four-fold. provisions shared the general advance; bread, meat, and vegetables were sold at prices greater than had ever before been known; while the wages of labour rose in exactly the same proportion. the artisan, who formerly gained fifteen sous per diem, now gained sixty. new houses were built in every direction; an illusory prosperity shone over the land, and so dazzled the eyes of the whole nation that none could see the dark cloud on the horizon, announcing the storm that was too rapidly approaching. law himself, the magician whose wand had wrought so surprising a change, shared, of course, in the general prosperity. his wife and daughter were courted by the highest nobility, and their alliance sought by the heirs of ducal and princely houses. he bought two splendid estates in different parts of france, and entered into a negotiation with the family of the duke de sully for the purchase of the marquisate of rosny. his religion being an obstacle to his advancement, the regent promised, if he would publicly conform to the catholic faith, to make him comptroller-general of the finances. law, who had no more real religion than any other professed gambler, readily agreed, and was confirmed by the abbe de tencin in the cathedral of melun, in presence of a great crowd of spectators. [the following squib was circulated on the occasion:-- "foin de ton zele seraphique, malheureux abbe de tencin, depuis que law est catholique, tout le royaume est capucin thus, somewhat weakly and paraphrastically rendered by justansond, in his translation of the "memoirs of louis xv:"-- "tencin, a curse on thy seraphic zeal, which by persuasion hath contrived the means to make the scotchman at our altars kneel, since which we all are poor as capucines?] on the following day he was elected honorary churchwarden of the parish of st. roch, upon which occasion he made it a present of the sum of five hundred thousand livres. his charities, always magnificent, were not always so ostentatious. he gave away great sums privately, and no tale of real distress ever reached his ears in vain. at this time, he was by far the most influential person of the state. the duke of orleans had so much confidence in his sagacity, and the success of his plans, that he always consulted him upon every matter of moment. he was by no means unduly elevated by his prosperity, but remained the same simple, affable, sensible man that he had shown himself in adversity. his gallantry, which was always delightful to the fair objects of it, was of a nature, so kind, so gentlemanly, and so respectful, that not even a lover could have taken offence at it. if upon any occasion he showed any symptoms of haughtiness, it was to the cringing nobles, who lavished their adulation upon him till it became fulsome. he often took pleasure in seeing how long he could make them dance attendance upon him for a single favour. to such of his own countrymen as by chance visited paris, and sought an interview with him, he was, on the contrary, all politeness and attention. when archibald campbell, earl of islay, and afterwards duke of argyle, called upon him in the place vendome, he had to pass through an ante-chamber crowded with persons of the first distinction, all anxious to see the great financier, and have their names put down as first on the list of some new subscription. law himself was quietly sitting in his library, writing a letter to the gardener at his paternal estate of lauriston about the planting of some cabbages! the earl stayed for a considerable time, played a game of piquet with his countryman, and left him, charmed with his ease, good sense, and good breeding. among the nobles who, by means of the public credulity at this time, gained sums sufficient to repair their ruined fortunes, may be mentioned the names of the dukes de bourbon, de guiche, de la force [the duke de la force gained considerable sums, not only by jobbing in the stocks, but in dealing in porcelain, spices, &c. it was debated for a length of time in the parliament of paris whether he had not, in his quality of spice-merchant, forfeited his rank in the peerage. it was decided in the negative. a caricature of him was made, dressed as a street porter, carrying a large bale of spices on his back, with the inscription, "admirez la force."], de chaulnes, and d'antin; the marechal d'estrees, the princes de rohan, de poix, and de leon. the duke de bourbon, son of louis xiv by madame de montespan, was peculiarly fortunate in his speculations in mississippi paper. he rebuilt the royal residence of chantilly in a style of unwonted magnificence, and, being passionately fond of horses, he erected a range of stables, which were long renowned throughout europe, and imported a hundred and fifty of the finest racers from england, to improve the breed in france. he bought a large extent of country in picardy, and became possessed of nearly all the valuable lands lying between the oise and the somme. when fortunes such as these were gained, it is no wonder that law should have been almost worshipped by the mercurial population. never was monarch more flattered than he was. all the small poets and litterateurs of the day poured floods of adulation upon him. according to them he was the saviour of the country, the tutelary divinity of france; wit was in all his words, goodness in all his looks, and wisdom in all his actions. so great a crowd followed his carriage whenever he went abroad, that the regent sent him a troop of horse as his permanent escort, to clear the streets before him. it was remarked at this time, that paris had never before been so full of objects of elegance and luxury. statues, pictures, and tapestries were imported in great quantities from foreign countries, and found a ready market. all those pretty trifles in the way of furniture and ornament which the french excel in manufacturing, were no longer the exclusive play-things of the aristocracy, but were to be found in abundance in the houses of traders and the middle classes in general. jewellery of the most costly description was brought to paris as the most favourable mart. among the rest, the famous diamond, bought by the regent, and called by his name, and which long adorned the crown of france. it was purchased for the sum of two millions of livres, under circumstances which show that the regent was not so great a gainer as some of his subjects, by the impetus which trade had received. when the diamond was first offered to him, he refused to buy it, although he desired, above all things, to possess it, alleging as his reason, that his duty to the country he governed would not allow him to spend so large a sum of the public money for a mere jewel. this valid and honourable excuse threw all the ladies of the court into alarm, and nothing was heard for some days but expressions of regret, that so rare a gem should be allowed to go out of france; no private individual being rich enough to buy it. the regent was continually importuned about it; but all in vain, until the duke de st. simon, who, with all his ability, was something of a twaddler, undertook the weighty business. his entreaties, being seconded by law, the good-natured regent gave his consent, leaving to law's ingenuity to find the means to pay for it. the owner took security for the payment of the sum of two millions of livres within a stated period, receiving, in the mean time, the interest of five per cent. upon that amount, and being allowed, besides, all the valuable clippings of the gem. st. simon, in his memoirs, relates, with no little complacency, his share in this transaction. after describing the diamond to be as large as a greengage, of a form nearly round, perfectly white, and without flaw, and weighing more than five hundred grains, he concludes with a chuckle, by telling the world, "that he takes great credit to himself for having induced the regent to make so illustrious a purchase." in other words, he was proud that he had induced him to sacrifice his duty, and buy a bauble for himself, at an extravagant price, out of the public money. thus the system continued to flourish till the commencement of the year . the warnings of the parliament, that too great a creation of paper money would, sooner or later, bring the country to bankruptcy, were disregarded. the regent, who knew nothing whatever of the philosophy of finance, thought that a system which had produced such good effects could never be carried to excess. if five hundred millions of paper had been of such advantage, five hundred millions additional would be of still greater advantage. this was the grand error of the regent, and which law did not attempt to dispel. the extraordinary avidity of the people kept up the delusion; and the higher the price of indian and mississippi stock, the more billets de banque were issued to keep pace with it. the edifice thus reared might not unaptly be compared to the gorgeous palace erected by potemkin, that princely barbarian of russia, to surprise and please his imperial mistress: huge blocks of ice were piled one upon another; ionic pillars, of chastest workmanship, in ice, formed a noble portico; and a dome, of the same material, shone in the sun, which had just strength enough to gild, but not to melt it. it glittered afar, like a palace of crystals and diamonds; but there came one warm breeze from the south, and the stately building dissolved away, till none were able even to gather up the fragments. so with law and his paper system. no sooner did the breath of popular mistrust blow steadily upon it, than it fell to ruins, and none could raise it up again. the first slight alarm that was occasioned was early in . the prince de conti, offended that law should have denied him fresh shares in india stock, at his own price, sent to his bank to demand payment in specie of so enormous a quantity of notes, that three waggons were required for its transport. law complained to the regent, and urged on his attention the mischief that would be done, if such an example found many imitators. the regent was but too well aware of it, and, sending for the prince de conti, ordered him, under penalty of his high displeasure, to refund to the bank two-thirds of the specie which he had withdrawn from it. the prince was forced to obey the despotic mandate. happily for law's credit, de conti was an unpopular man: everybody condemned his meanness and cupidity, and agreed that law had been hardly treated. it is strange, however, that so narrow an escape should not have made both law and the regent more anxious to restrict their issues. others were soon found who imitated, from motives of distrust, the example which had been set by de conti in revenge. the more acute stockjobbers imagined justly that prices could not continue to rise for ever. bourdon and la richardiere, renowned for their extensive operations in the funds, quietly and in small quantities at a time, converted their notes into specie, and sent it away to foreign countries. they also bought as much as they could conveniently carry of plate and expensive jewellery, and sent it secretly away to england or to holland. vermalet, a jobber, who sniffed the coming storm, procured gold and silver coin to the amount of nearly a million of livres, which he packed in a farmer's cart, and covered over with hay and cow-dung. he then disguised himself in the dirty smock-frock, or blouse, of a peasant, and drove his precious load in safety into belgium. from thence he soon found means to transport it to amsterdam. hitherto no difficulty had been experienced by any class in procuring specie for their wants. but this system could not long be carried on without causing a scarcity. the voice of complaint was heard on every side, and inquiries being instituted, the cause was soon discovered. the council debated long on the remedies to be taken, and law, being called on for his advice, was of opinion, that an edict should be published, depreciating the value of coin five per cent. below that of paper. the edict was published accordingly; but, failing of its intended effect, was followed by another, in which the depreciation was increased to ten per cent. the payments of the bank were at the same time restricted to one hundred livres in gold, and ten in silver. all these measures were nugatory to restore confidence in the paper, though the restriction of cash payments within limits so extremely narrow kept up the credit of the bank. notwithstanding every effort to the contrary, the precious metals continued to be conveyed to england and holland. the little coin that was left in the country was carefully treasured, or hidden until the scarcity became so great, that the operations of trade could no longer be carried on. in this emergency, law hazarded the bold experiment of forbidding the use of specie altogether. in february an edict was published, which, instead of restoring the credit of the paper, as was intended, destroyed it irrecoverably, and drove the country to the very brink of revolution. by this famous edict it was forbidden to any person whatever to have more than five hundred livres ( pounds sterling) of coin in his possession, under pain of a heavy fine, and confiscation of the sums found. it was also forbidden to buy up jewellery, plate, and precious stones, and informers were encouraged to make search for offenders, by the promise of one-half the amount they might discover. the whole country sent up a cry of distress at this unheard-of tyranny. the most odious persecution daily took place. the privacy of families was violated by the intrusion of informers and their agents. the most virtuous and honest were denounced for the crime of having been seen with a louis d'or in their possession. servants betrayed their masters, one citizen became a spy upon his neighbour, and arrests and confiscations so multiplied, that the courts found a difficulty in getting through the immense increase of business thus occasioned. it was sufficient for an informer to say that he suspected any person of concealing money in his house, and immediately a search-warrant was granted. lord stair, the english ambassador, said, that it was now impossible to doubt of the sincerity of law's conversion to the catholic religion; he had established the inquisition, after having given abundant evidence of his faith in transubstantiation, by turning so much gold into paper. every epithet that popular hatred could suggest was showered upon the regent and the unhappy law. coin, to any amount above five hundred livres, was an illegal tender, and nobody would take paper if he could help it. no one knew to-day what his notes would be worth to-morrow. "never," says duclos, in his secret memoirs of the regency, "was seen a more capricious government-never was a more frantic tyranny exercised by hands less firm. it is inconceivable to those who were witnesses of the horrors of those times, and who look back upon them now as on a dream, that a sudden revolution did not break out--that law and the regent did not perish by a tragical death. they were both held in horror, but the people confined themselves to complaints; a sombre and timid despair, a stupid consternation, had seized upon all, and men's minds were too vile even to be capable of a courageous crime." it would appear that, at one time, a movement of the people was organised. seditious writings were posted up against the walls, and were sent, in hand-bills, to the houses of the most conspicuous people. one of them, given in the "memoires de la regence," was to the following effect:--"sir and madam,--this is to give you notice that a st. bartholomew's day will be enacted again on saturday and sunday, if affairs do not alter. you are desired not to stir out, nor you, nor your servants. god preserve you from the flames! give notice to your neighbours. dated saturday, may th, ." the immense number of spies with which the city was infested rendered the people mistrustful of one another, and beyond some trifling disturbances made in the evening by an insignificant group, which was soon dispersed, the peace of the capital was not compromised. the value of shares in the louisiana, or mississippi stock, had fallen very rapidly, and few indeed were found to believe the tales that had once been told of the immense wealth of that region. a last effort was therefore tried to restore the public confidence in the mississippi project. for this purpose, a general conscription of all the poor wretches in paris was made by order of government. upwards of six thousand of the very refuse of the population were impressed, as if in time of war, and were provided with clothes and tools to be embarked for new orleans, to work in the gold mines alleged to abound there. they were paraded day after day through the streets with their pikes and shovels, and then sent off in small detachments to the out-ports to be shipped for america. two-thirds of them never reached their destination, but dispersed themselves over the country, sold their tools for what they could get, and returned to their old course of life. in less than three weeks afterwards, one-half of them were to be found again in paris. the manoeuvre, however, caused a trifling advance in mississippi stock. many persons of superabundant gullibility believed that operations had begun in earnest in the new golconda, and that gold and silver ingots would again be found in france. in a constitutional monarchy some surer means would have been found for the restoration of public credit. in england, at a subsequent period, when a similar delusion had brought on similar distress, how different were the measures taken to repair the evil; but in france, unfortunately, the remedy was left to the authors of the mischief. the arbitrary will of the regent, which endeavoured to extricate the country, only plunged it deeper into the mire. all payments were ordered to be made in paper, and between the st of february and the end of may, notes were fabricated to the amount of upwards of millions of livres, or , , pounds sterling. but the alarm once sounded, no art could make the people feel the slightest confidence in paper which was not exchangeable into metal. m. lambert, the president of the parliament of paris, told the regent to his face that he would rather have a hundred thousand livres in gold or silver than five millions in the notes of his bank. when such was the general feeling, the superabundant issues of paper but increased the evil, by rendering still more enormous the disparity between the amount of specie and notes in circulation. coin, which it was the object of the regent to depreciate, rose in value on every fresh attempt to diminish it. in february, it was judged advisable that the royal bank should be incorporated with the company of the indies. an edict to that effect was published and registered by the parliament. the state remained the guarantee for the notes of the bank, and no more were to be issued without an order in council. all the profits of the bank, since the time it had been taken out of law's hands and made a national institution, were given over by the regent to the company of the indies. this measure had the effect of raising for a short time the value of the louisiana and other shares of the company, but it failed in placing public credit on any permanent basis. a council of state was held in the beginning of may, at which law, d'argenson (his colleague in the administration of the finances), and all the ministers were present. it was then computed that the total amount of notes in circulation was millions of livres, while the coin in the country was not quite equal to half that amount. it was evident to the majority of the council that some plan must be adopted to equalise the currency. some proposed that the notes should be reduced to the value of the specie, while others proposed that the nominal value of the specie should be raised till it was on an equality with the paper. law is said to have opposed both these projects, but failing in suggesting any other, it was agreed that the notes should be depreciated one-half. on the st of may, an edict was accordingly issued, by which it was decreed that the shares of the company of the indies, and the notes of the bank, should gradually diminish in value, till at the end of a year they should only pass current for one half of their nominal worth. the parliament refused to register the edict--the greatest outcry was excited, and the state of the country became so alarming, that, as the only means of preserving tranquillity, the council of the regency was obliged to stultify its own proceedings, by publishing within seven days another edict, restoring the notes to their original value. on the same day (the th of may) the bank stopped payment in specie. law and d'argenson were both dismissed from the ministry. the weak, vacillating, and cowardly regent threw the blame of all the mischief upon law, who, upon presenting himself at the palais royal, was refused admitance. at nightfall, however, he was sent for, and admitted into the palace by a secret door,[duclos, memoires secrets de la regence.] when the regent endeavoured to console him, and made all manner of excuses for the severity with which in public he had been compelled to treat him. so capricious was his conduct, that, two days afterwards, he took him publicly to the opera, where he sat in the royal box, alongside of the regent, who treated him with marked consideration in face of all the people. but such was the hatred against law that the experiment had well nigh proved fatal to him. the mob assailed his carriage with stones just as he was entering his own door; and if the coachman had not made a sudden jerk into the court-yard, and the domestics closed the gate immediately, he would, in all probability, have been dragged out and torn to pieces. on the following day, his wife and daughter were also assailed by the mob as they were returning in their carriage from the races. when the regent was informed of these occurrences he sent law a strong detachment of swiss guards, who were stationed night and day in the court of his residence. the public indignation at last increased so much, that law, finding his own house, even with this guard, insecure, took refuge in the palais royal, in the apartments of the regent. the chancellor, d'aguesseau, who had been dismissed in for his opposition to the projects of law, was now recalled to aid in the restoration of credit. the regent acknowledged too late, that he had treated with unjustifiable harshness and mistrust one of the ablest, and perhaps the sole honest public man of that corrupt period. he had retired ever since his disgrace to his country-house at fresnes, where, in the midst of severe but delightful philosophic studies, he had forgotten the intrigues of an unworthy court. law himself, and the chevalier de conflans, a gentleman of the regent's household, were despatched in a post-chaise, with orders to bring the ex-chancellor to paris along with them. d'aguesseau consented to render what assistance he could, contrary to the advice of his friends, who did not approve that he should accept any recall to office of which law was the bearer. on his arrival in paris, five counsellors of the parliament were admitted to confer with the commissary of finance, and on the st of june an order was published, abolishing the law which made it criminal to amass coin to the amount of more than five hundred livres. every one was permitted to have as much specie as he pleased. in order that the bank-notes might be withdrawn, twenty-five millions of new notes were created, on the security of the revenues of the city of paris, at two-and-a-half per cent. the bank-notes withdrawn were publicly burned in front of the hotel de ville. the new notes were principally of the value of ten livres each; and on the th of june the bank was re-opened, with a sufficiency of silver coin to give in change for them. these measures were productive of considerable advantage. all the population of paris hastened to the bank, to get coin for their small notes; and silver becoming scarce, they were paid in copper. very few complained that this was too heavy, although poor fellows might be continually seen toiling and sweating along the streets, laden with more than they could comfortably carry, in the shape of change for fifty livres. the crowds around the bank were so great, that hardly a day passed that some one was not pressed to death. on the th of july, the multitude was so dense and clamorous that the guards stationed at the entrance of the mazarin gardens closed the gate, and refused to admit any more. the crowd became incensed, and flung stones through the railings upon the soldiers. the latter, incensed in their turn, threatened to fire upon the people. at that instant one of them was hit by a stone, and, taking up his piece, he fired into the crowd. one man fell dead immediately, and another was severely wounded. it was every instant expected that a general attack would have been commenced upon the bank; but the gates of the mazarin gardens being opened to the crowd, who saw a whole troop of soldiers, with their bayonets fixed, ready to receive them, they contented themselves by giving vent to their indignation in groans and hisses. eight days afterwards the concourse of people was so tremendous, that fifteen persons were squeezed to death at the doors of the bank. the people were so indignant that they took three of the bodies on stretchers before them, and proceeded, to the number of seven or eight thousand, to the gardens of the palais royal, that they might show the regent the misfortunes that he and law had brought upon the country. law's coachman, who was sitting on the box of his master's carriage, in the court-yard of the palace, happened to have more zeal than discretion, and, not liking that the mob should abuse his master, he said, loud enough to be overheard by several persons, that they were all blackguards, and deserved to be hanged. the mob immediately set upon him, and, thinking that law was in the carriage, broke it to pieces. the imprudent coachman narrowly escaped with his life. no further mischief was done; a body of troops making their appearance, the crowd quietly dispersed, after an assurance had been given by the regent that the three bodies they had brought to show him should be decently buried at his own expense. the parliament was sitting at the time of this uproar, and the president took upon himself to go out and see what was the matter. on his return he informed the councillors, that law's carriage had been broken by the mob. all the members rose simultaneously, and expressed their joy by a loud shout, while one man, more zealous in his hatred than the rest, exclaimed, "and law himself, is he torn to pieces?" [the duchess of orleans gives a different version of this story; but whichever be the true one, the manifestation of such feeling in a legislative assembly was not very creditable. she says, that the president was so transported with joy, that he was seized with a rhyming fit, and, returning into the hall, exclaimed to the members:-- "messieurs! messieurs! bonne nouvelle! le carfosse de lass est reduit en canelle!"] much undoubtedly depended on the credit of the company of the indies, which was answerable for so great a sum to the nation. it was, therefore, suggested in the council of the ministry, that any privileges which could be granted to enable it to fulfil its engagements, would be productive of the best results. with this end in view, it was proposed that the exclusive privilege of all maritime commerce should be secured to it, and an edict to that effect was published. but it was unfortunately forgotten that by such a measure all the merchants of the country would be ruined. the idea of such an immense privilege was generally scouted by the nation, and petition on petition was presented to the parliament, that they would refuse to register the decree. they refused accordingly, and the regent, remarking that they did nothing but fan the flame of sedition, exiled them to blois. at the intercession of d'aguesseau, the place of banishment was changed to pontoise, and thither accordingly the councillors repaired, determined to set the regent at defiance. they made every arrangement for rendering their temporary exile as agreeable as possible. the president gave the most elegant suppers, to which he invited all the gayest and wittiest company of paris. every night there was a concert and ball for the ladies. the usually grave and solemn judges and councillors joined in cards and other diversions, leading for several weeks a life of the most extravagant pleasure, for no other purpose than to show the regent of how little consequence they deemed their banishment, and that when they willed it, they could make pontoise a pleasanter residence than paris. of all the nations in the world the french are the most renowned for singing over their grievances. of that country it has been remarked with some truth, that its whole history may be traced in its songs. when law, by the utter failure of his best-laid plans, rendered himself obnoxious, satire of course seized hold upon him, and, while caricatures of his person appeared in all the shops, the streets resounded with songs, in which neither he nor the regent was spared. many of these songs were far from decent; and one of them in particular counselled the application of all his notes to the most ignoble use to which paper can be applied. but the following, preserved in the letters of the duchess of orleans, was the best and the most popular, and was to be heard for months in all the carrefours of paris. the application of the chorus is happy enough:-- aussitot que lass arriva dans notre bonne ville, monsieur le regent publia que lass serait utile pour retablir la nation. la faridondaine! la faridondon. mais il nous a tous enrich!, biribi! a la facon de barbari, mort ami! ce parpaillot, pour attirer tout l'argent de la france, songea d'abord a s'assurer de notre confiance. il fit son abjuration. la faridondaine! la faridondon! mais le fourbe s'est converti, biribi! a la facon de barbari, mon ami! lass, le fils aine de satan nous met tous a l'aumone, il nous a pris tout notre argent et n'en rend a personne. mais le regent, humain et bon, la faridondaine! la faridondon! nous rendra ce qu'on nous a pris, biribi! a la facon de barbari, mon ami! the following smart epigram is of the same date:-- lundi, j'achetai des actions; mardi, je gagnai des millions; mercredi, j'arrangeai mon menage, jeudi, je pris un equipage, vendredi, je m'en fus au bal, et samedi, a l'hopital. among the caricatures that were abundantly published, and that showed as plainly as graver matters, that the nation had awakened to a sense of its folly, was one, a fac-simile of which is preserved in the "memoires de la regence." it was thus described by its author: "the 'goddess of shares," in her triumphal car, driven by the goddess of folly. those who are drawing the car are impersonations of the mississippi, with his wooden leg, the south sea, the bank of england, the company of the west of senegal, and of various assurances. lest the car should not roll fast enough, the agents of these companies, known by their long fox-tails and their cunning looks, turn round the spokes of the wheels, upon which are marked the names of the several stocks, and their value, sometimes high and sometimes low, according to the turns of the wheel. upon the ground are the merchandise, day-books and ledgers of legitimate commerce, crushed under the chariot of folly. behind is an immense crowd of persons, of all ages, sexes, and conditions, clamoring after fortune, and fighting with each other to get a portion of the shares which she distributes so bountifully among them. in the clouds sits a demon, blowing bubbles of soap, which are also the objects of the admiration and cupidity of the crowd, who jump upon one another's backs to reach them ere they burst. right in the pathway of the car, and blocking up the passage, stands a large building, with three doors, through one of which it must pass, if it proceeds further, and all the crowd along with it. over the first door are the words, "hopital des foux," over the second, "hopital des malades," and over the third, "hopital des gueux." another caricature represented law sitting in a large cauldron, boiling over the flames of popular madness, surrounded by an impetuous multitude, who were pouring all their gold and silver into it, and receiving gladly in exchange the bits of paper which he distributed among them by handsfull. while this excitement lasted, law took good care not to expose himself unguarded in the streets. shut up in the apartments of the regent, he was secure from all attack, and, whenever he ventured abroad, it was either incognito, or in one of the royal carriages, with a powerful escort. an amusing anecdote is recorded of the detestation in which he was held by the people, and the ill treatment he would have met, had he fallen into their hands. a gentleman, of the name of boursel, was passing in his carriage down the rue st. antoine, when his further progress was stayed by a hackneycoach that had blocked up the road. m. boursel's servant called impatiently to the hackneycoachman to get out of the way, and, on his refusal, struck him a blow on the face. a crowd was soon drawn together by the disturbance, and m. boursel got out of the carriage to restore order. the hackney-coachman, imagining that he had now another assailant, bethought him of an expedient to rid himself of both, and called out as loudly as he was able, "help! help! murder! murder! here are law and his servant going to kill me! help! help!" at this cry, the people came out of their shops, armed with sticks and other weapons, while the mob gathered stones to inflict summary vengeance upon the supposed financier. happily for m. boursel and his servant, the door of the church of the jesuits stood wide open, and, seeing the fearful odds against them, they rushed towards it with all speed. they reached the altar, pursued by the people, and would have been ill treated even there, if, finding the door open leading to the sacristy, they had not sprang through, and closed it after them. the mob were then persuaded to leave the church by the alarmed and indignant priests; and, finding m. boursel's carriage still in the streets, they vented their ill-will against it, and did it considerable damage. the twenty-five millions secured on the municipal revenues of the city of paris, bearing so low an interest as two and a half per cent., were not very popular among the large holders of mississippi stock. the conversion of the securities was, therefore, a work of considerable difficulty; for many preferred to retain the falling paper of law's company, in the hope that a favourable turn might take place. on the th of august, with a view to hasten the conversion, an edict was passed, declaring that all notes for sums between one thousand and ten thousand livres; should not pass current, except for the purchase of annuities and bank accounts, or for the payment of instalments still due on the shares of the company. in october following another edict was passed, depriving these notes of all value whatever after the month of november next ensuing. the management of the mint, the farming of the revenue, and all the other advantages and privileges of the india, or mississippi company, were taken from them, and they were reduced to a mere private company. this was the deathblow to the whole system, which had now got into the hands of its enemies. law had lost all influence in the council of finance, and the company, being despoiled of its immunities, could no longer hold out the shadow of a prospect of being able to fulfil its engagements. all those suspected of illegal profits at the time the public delusion was at its height, were sought out and amerced in heavy fines. it was previously ordered that a list of the original proprietors should be made out, and that such persons as still retained their shares should place them in deposit with the company, and that those who had neglected to complete the shares for which they had put down their names, should now purchase them of the company, at the rate of , livres for each share of livres. rather than submit to pay this enormous sum for stock which was actually at a discount, the shareholders packed up all their portable effects, and endeavoured to find a refuge in foreign countries. orders were immediately issued to the authorities at the ports and frontiers, to apprehend all travellers who sought to leave the kingdom, and keep them in custody, until it was ascertained whether they had any plate or jewellery with them, or were concerned in the late stock-jobbing. against such few as escaped, the punishment of death was recorded, while the most arbitrary proceedings were instituted against those who remained. law himself, in a moment of despair, determined to leave a country where his life was no longer secure. he at first only demanded permission to retire from paris to one of his country-seats; a permission which the regent cheerfully granted. the latter was much affected at the unhappy turn affairs had taken, but his faith continued unmoved in the truth and efficacy of law's financial system. his eyes were opened to his own errors, and during the few remaining years of his life, he constantly longed for an opportunity of again establishing the system upon a securer basis. at law's last interview with the prince, he is reported to have said--"i confess that i have committed many faults; i committed them because i am a man, and all men are liable to error; but i declare to you most solemnly that none of them proceeded from wicked or dishonest motives, and that nothing of the kind will be found in the whole course of my conduct." two or three days after his departure the regent sent him a very kind letter, permitting him to leave the kingdom whenever he pleased, and stating that he had ordered his passports to be made ready. he at the same time offered him any sum of money he might require. law respectfully declined the money, and set out for brussels in a postchaise belonging to madame de prie, the mistress of the duke of bourbon, escorted by six horse-guards. from thence he proceeded to venice, where he remained for some months, the object of the greatest curiosity to the people, who believed him to be the possessor of enormous wealth. no opinion, however, could be more erroneous. with more generosity than could have been expected from a man who during the greatest part of his life had been a professed gambler, he had refused to enrich himself at the expense of a ruined nation. during the height of the popular frenzy for mississippi stock, he had never doubted of the final success of his projects, in making france the richest and most powerful nation of europe. he invested all his gains in the purchase of landed property in france--a sure proof of his own belief in the stability of his schemes. he had hoarded no plate or jewellery, and sent no money, like the dishonest jobbers, to foreign countries. his all, with the exception of one diamond, worth about five or six thousand pounds sterling, was invested in the french soil; and when he left that country, he left it almost a beggar. this fact alone ought to rescue his memory from the charge of knavery, so often and so unjustly brought against him. as soon as his departure was known, all his estates and his valuable library were confiscated. among the rest, an annuity of , livres, ( pounds sterling,) on the lives of his wife and children, which had been purchased for five millions of livres, was forfeited, notwithstanding that a special edict, drawn up for the purpose in the days of his prosperity, had expressly declared that it should never be confiscated for any cause whatever. great discontent existed among the people that law had been suffered to escape. the mob and the parliament would have been pleased to have seen him hanged. the few who had not suffered by the commercial revolution, rejoiced that the quack had left the country; but all those (and they were by far the most numerous class) whose fortunes were implicated, regretted that his intimate knowledge of the distress of the country, and of the causes that had led to it, had not been rendered more available in discovering a remedy. at a meeting of the council of finance, and the general council of the regency, documents were laid upon the table, from which it appeared that the amount of notes in circulation was millions. the regent was called upon to explain how it happened that there was a discrepancy between the dates at which these issues were made, and those of the edicts by which they were authorised. he might have safely taken the whole blame upon himself, but he preferred that an absent man should bear a share of it, and he therefore stated that law, upon his own authority, had issued millions of notes at different times, and that he (the regent) seeing that the thing had been irrevocably done, had screened law, by antedating the decrees of the council, which authorised the augmentation. it would have been more to his credit if he had told the whole truth while he was about it, and acknowledged that it was mainly through his extravagance and impatience that law had been induced to overstep the bounds of safe speculation. it was also ascertained that the national debt, on the st of january, , amounted to upwards of $ millions of livres, or more than , , pounds sterling, the interest upon which was , , pounds. a commission, or visa, was forthwith appointed to examine into all the securities of the state creditors, who were to be divided into five classes, the first four comprising those who had purchased their securities with real effects, and the latter comprising those who could give no proofs that the transactions they had entered into were real and bona fide. the securities of the latter were ordered to be destroyed, while those of the first four classes were subjected to a most rigid and jealous scrutiny. the result of the labours of the visa was a report, in which they counselled the reduction of the interest upon these securities to fifty-six millions of livres. they justified this advice by a statement of the various acts of peculation and extortion which they had discovered, and an edict to that effect was accordingly published and duly registered by the parliaments of the kingdom. another tribunal was afterwards established, under the title of the chambre de l'arsenal, which took cognizance of all the malversations committed in the financial departments of the government during the late unhappy period. a master of requests, named falhonet, together with the abbe clement, and two clerks in their employ, had been concerned in divers acts of peculation, to the amount of upwards of a million of livres. the first two were sentenced to be beheaded, and the latter to be hanged; but their punishment was afterwards commuted into imprisonment for life in the bastile. numerous other acts of dishonesty were discovered, and punished by fine and imprisonment. d'argenson shared with law and the regent the unpopularity which had alighted upon all those concerned in the mississippi madness. he was dismissed from his post of chancellor, to make room for d'aguesseau; but he retained the title of keeper of the seals, and was allowed to attend the councils whenever he pleased. he thought it better, however, to withdraw from paris, and live for a time a life of seclusion at his country-seat. but he was not formed for retirement, and becoming moody and discontented, he aggravated a disease under which he had long laboured, and died in less than a twelvemonth. the populace of of paris so detested him, that they carried their hatred even to his grave. as his funeral procession passed to the church of st. nicholas du chardonneret, the burying-place of his family, it was beset by a riotous mob, and his two sons, who were following as chief-mourners, were obliged to drive as fast as they were able down a by-street to escape personal violence. as regards law, he for some time entertained a hope that he should be recalled to france, to aid in establishing its credit upon a firmer basis. the death of the regent, in , who expired suddenly, as he was sitting by the fireside conversing with his mistress, the duchess de phalaris, deprived him of that hope, and he was reduced to lead his former life of gambling. he was more than once obliged to pawn his diamond, the sole remnant of his vast wealth, but successful play generally enabled him to redeem it. being persecuted by his creditors at rome, he proceeded to copenhagen, where he received permission from the english ministry to reside in his native country, his pardon for the murder of mr. wilson having been sent over to him in . he was brought over in the admiral's ship, a circumstance which gave occasion for a short debate in the house of lords. earl coningsby complained that a man, who had renounced both his country and his religion, should have been treated with such honour, and expressed his belief that his presence in england, at a time when the people were so bewildered by the nefarious practices of the south sea directors, would be attended with no little danger. he gave notice of a motion on the subject; but it was allowed to drop, no other member of the house having the slightest participation in his lordship's fears. law remained for about four years in england, and then proceeded to venice, where he died in , in very embarrassed circumstances. the following epitaph was written at the time:-- "ci git cet ecossais celebre, ce calculateur sans egal, qui, par les regles de l'algebre, a mis la france a l'hopital." his brother, william law, who had been concerned with him in the administration both of the bank and the louisiana company, was imprisoned in the bastile for alleged malversation, but no guilt was ever proved against him. he was liberated after fifteen months, and became the founder of a family, which is still known in france under the title of marquises of lauriston. in the next chapter will be found an account of the madness which infected the people of england at the same time, and under very similar circumstances, but which, thanks to the energies and good sense of a constitutional government, was attended with results far less disastrous than those which were seen in france. the south sea bubble at length corruption, like a general flood, did deluge all, and avarice creeping on, spread, like a low-born mist, and hid the sun. statesmen and patriots plied alike the stocks, peeress and butler shared alike the box; and judges jobbed, and bishops bit the town, and mighty dukes packed cards for half-a-crown: britain was sunk in lucre's sordid charms. --pope. the south sea company was originated by the celebrated harley, earl of oxford, in the year , with the view of restoring public credit, which had suffered by the dismissal of the whig ministry, and of providing for the discharge of the army and navy debentures, and other parts of the floating debt, amounting to nearly ten millions sterling. a company of merchants, at that time without a name, took this debt upon themselves, and the government agreed to secure them, for a certain period, the interest of six per cent. to provide for this interest, amounting to , pounds per annum, the duties upon wines, vinegar, india goods, wrought silks, tobacco, whale-fins, and some other articles, were rendered permanent. the monopoly of the trade to the south seas was granted, and the company, being incorporated by act of parliament, assumed the title by which it has ever since been known. the minister took great credit to himself for his share in this transaction, and the scheme was always called by his flatterers "the earl of oxford's masterpiece." even at this early period of its history, the most visionary ideas were formed by the company and the public of the immense riches of the eastern coast of south america. everybody had heard of the gold and silver mines of peru and mexico; every one believed them to be inexhaustible, and that it was only necessary to send the manufactures of england to the coast, to be repaid a hundredfold in gold and silver ingots by the natives. a report, industriously spread, that spain was willing to concede four ports, on the coasts of chili and peru, for the purposes of traffic, increased the general confidence; and for many years the south sea company's stock was in high favour. philip v of spain, however, never had any intention of admitting the english to a free trade in the ports of spanish america. negotiations were set on foot, but their only result was the assiento contract, or the privilege of supplying the colonies with negroes for thirty years, and of sending once a year a vessel, limited both as to tonnage and value of cargo, to trade with mexico, peru, or chili. the latter permission was only granted upon the hard condition, that the king of spain should enjoy one-fourth of the profits, and a tax of five per cent. on the remainder. this was a great disappointment to the earl of oxford and his party, who were reminded much oftener than they found agreeable of the "parturiunt montes, nascitur ridiculus mus." but the public confidence in the south sea company was not shaken. the earl of oxford declared, that spain would permit two ships, in addition to the annual ship, to carry out merchandise during the first year; and a list was published, in which all the ports and harbours of these coasts were pompously set forth as open to the trade of great britain. the first voyage of the annual ship was not made till the year , and in the following year the trade was suppressed by the rupture with spain. the king's speech, at the opening of the session of , made pointed allusion to the state of public credit, and recommended that proper measures should be taken to reduce the national debt. the two great monetary corporations, the south sea company and the bank of england, made proposals to parliament on the th of may ensuing. the south sea company prayed that their capital stock of ten millions might be increased to twelve, by subscription or otherwise, and offered to accept five per cent. instead of six upon the whole amount. the bank made proposals equally advantageous. the house debated for some time, and finally three acts were passed, called the south sea act, the bank act, and the general fund act. by the first, the proposals of the south sea company were accepted, and that body held itself ready to advance the sum of two millions towards discharging the principal and interest of the debt due by the state for the four lottery funds of the ninth and tenth years of queen anne. by the second act, the bank received a lower rate of interest for the sum of , , pounds shillings due to it by the state, and agreed to deliver up to be cancelled as many exchequer bills as amounted to two millions sterling, and to accept of an annuity of one hundred thousand pounds, being after the rate of five per cent, the whole redeemable at one year's notice. they were further required to be ready to advance, in case of need, a sum not exceeding , , pounds upon the same terms of five per cent interest, redeemable by parliament. the general fund act recited the various deficiencies, which were to be made good by the aids derived from the foregoing sources. the name of the south sea company was thus continually before the public. though their trade with the south american states produced little or no augmentation of their revenues, they continued to flourish as a monetary corporation. their stock was in high request, and the directors, buoyed up with success, began to think of new means for extending their influence. the mississippi scheme of john law, which so dazzled and captivated the french people, inspired them with an idea that they could carry on the same game in england. the anticipated failure of his plans did not divert them from their intention. wise in their own conceit, they imagined they could avoid his faults, carry on their schemes for ever, and stretch the cord of credit to its extremest tension, without causing it to snap asunder. it was while law's plan was at its greatest height of popularity, while people were crowding in thousands to the rue quincampoix, and ruining themselves with frantic eagerness, that the south sea directors laid before parliament their famous plan for paying off the national debt. visions of boundless wealth floated before the fascinated eyes of the people in the two most celebrated countries of europe. the english commenced their career of extravagance somewhat later than the french; but as soon as the delirium seized them, they were determined not to be outdone. upon the nd of january , the house of commons resolved itself into a committee of the whole house, to take into consideration that part of the king's speech at the opening of the session which related to the public debts, and the proposal of the south sea company towards the redemption and sinking of the same. the proposal set forth at great length, and under several heads, the debts of the state, amounting to , , pounds, which the company were anxious to take upon themselves, upon consideration of five per cent. per annum, secured to them until midsummer ; after which time, the whole was to become redeemable at the pleasure of the legislature, and the interest to be reduced to four per cent. the proposal was received with great favour; but the bank of england had many friends in the house of commons, who were desirous that that body should share in the advantages that were likely to accrue. on behalf of this corporation it was represented, that they had performed great and eminent services to the state, in the most difficult times, and deserved, at least, that if any advantage was to be made by public bargains of this nature, they should be preferred before a company that had never done any thing for the nation. the further consideration of the matter was accordingly postponed for five days. in the mean time, a plan was drawn up by the governors of the bank. the south sea company, afraid that the bank might offer still more advantageous terms to the government than themselves, reconsidered their former proposal, and made some alterations in it, which they hoped would render it more acceptable. the principal change was a stipulation that the government might redeem these debts at the expiration of four years, instead of seven, as at first suggested. the bank resolved not to be outbidden in this singular auction, and the governors also reconsidered their first proposal, and sent in a new one. thus, each corporation having made two proposals, the house began to deliberate. mr. robert walpole was the chief speaker in favour of the bank, and mr. aislabie, the chancellor of the exchequer, the principal advocate on behalf of the south sea company. it was resolved, on the nd of february, that the proposals of the latter were most advantageous to the country. they were accordingly received, and leave was given to bring in a bill to that effect. exchange alley was in a fever of excitement. the company's stock, which had been at a hundred and thirty the previous day, gradually rose to three hundred, and continued to rise with the most astonishing rapidity during the whole time that the bill in its several stages was under discussion. mr. walpole was almost the only statesman in the house who spoke out boldly against it. he warned them, in eloquent and solemn language, of the evils that would ensue. it countenanced, he said, "the dangerous practice of stockjobbing, and would divert the genius of the nation from trade and industry. it would hold out a dangerous lure to decoy the unwary to their ruin, by making them part with the earnings of their labour for a prospect of imaginary wealth." the great principle of the project was an evil of first-rate magnitude; it was to raise artificially the value of the stock, by exciting and keeping up a general infatuation, and by promising dividends out of funds which could never be adequate to the purpose. in a prophetic spirit he added, that if the plan succeeded, the directors would become masters of the government, form a new and absolute aristocracy in the kingdom, and control the resolutions of the legislature. if it failed, which he was convinced it would, the result would bring general discontent and ruin upon the country. such would be the delusion, that when the evil day came, as come it would, the people would start up, as from a dream, and ask themselves if these things could have been true. all his eloquence was in vain. he was looked upon as a false prophet, or compared to the hoarse raven, croaking omens of evil. his friends, however, compared him to cassandra, predicting evils which would only be believed when they came home to men's hearths, and stared them in the face at their own boards. although, in former times, the house had listened with the utmost attention to every word that fell from his lips, the benches became deserted when it was known that he would speak on the south sea question. the bill was two months in its progress through the house of commons. during this time every exertion was made by the directors and their friends, and more especially by the chairman, the noted sir john blunt, to raise the price of the stock. the most extravagant rumours were in circulation. treaties between england and spain were spoken of, whereby the latter was to grant a free trade to all her colonies; and the rich produce of the mines of potosi-la-paz was to be brought to england until silver should become almost as plentiful as iron. for cotton and woollen goods, with which we could supply them in abundance, the dwellers in mexico were to empty their golden mines. the company of merchants trading to the south seas would be the richest the world ever saw, and every hundred pounds invested in it would produce hundreds per annum to the stockholder. at last the stock was raised by these means to near four hundred; but, after fluctuating a good deal, settled at three hundred and thirty, at which price it remained when the bill passed the commons by a majority of against . in the house of lords the bill was hurried through all its stages with unexampled rapidity. on the th of april it was read a first time; on the th, it was read a second time; on the th, it was committed; and on the th, was read a third time, and passed. several peers spoke warmly against the scheme; but their warnings fell upon dull, cold ears. a speculating frenzy had seized them as well as the plebeians. lord north and grey said the bill was unjust in its nature, and might prove fatal in its consequences, being calculated to enrich the few and impoverish the many. the duke of wharton followed; but, as he only retailed at second-hand the arguments so eloquently stated by walpole in the lower house, he was not listened to with even the same attention that had been bestowed upon lord north and grey. earl cowper followed on the same side, and compared the bill to the famous horse of the siege of troy. like that, it was ushered in and received with great pomp and acclamations of joy, but bore within it treachery and destruction. the earl of sunderland endeavoured to answer all objections; and, on the question being put, there appeared only seventeen peers against, and eighty-three in favour of the project. the very same day on which it passed the lords, it received the royal assent, and became the law of the land. it seemed at that time as if the whole nation had turned stockjobbers. exchange alley was every day blocked up by crowds, and cornhill was impassable for the number of carriages. everybody came to purchase stock. "every fool aspired to be a knave." in the words of a ballad, published at the time, and sung about the streets, ["a south sea ballad; or, merry remarks upon exchange alley bubbles. to a new tune, called 'the grand elixir; or, the philosopher's stone discovered.'"] then stars and garters did appear among the meaner rabble; to buy and sell, to see and hear, the jews and gentiles squabble. the greatest ladies thither came, and plied in chariots daily, or pawned their jewels for a sum to venture in the alley. the inordinate thirst of gain that had afflicted all ranks of society, was not to be slaked even in the south sea. other schemes, of the most extravagant kind, were started. the share-lists were speedily filled up, and an enormous traffic carried on in shares, while, of course, every means were resorted to, to raise them to an artificial value in the market. contrary to all expectation, south sea stock fell when the bill received the royal assent. on the th of april the shares were quoted at three hundred and ten, and on the following day, at two hundred and ninety. already the directors had tasted the profits of their scheme, and it was not likely that they should quietly allow the stock to find its natural level, without an effort to raise it. immediately their busy emissaries were set to work. every person interested in the success of the project endeavoured to draw a knot of listeners around him, to whom he expatiated on the treasures of the south american seas. exchange alley was crowded with attentive groups. one rumour alone, asserted with the utmost confidence, had an immediate effect upon the stock. it was said, that earl stanhope had received overtures in france from the spanish government to exchange gibraltar and port mahon for some places on the coast of peru, for the security and enlargement of the trade in the south seas. instead of one annual ship trading to those ports, and allowing the king of spain twenty-five per cent. out of the profits, the company might build and charter as many ships as they pleased, and pay no per centage whatever to any foreign potentate. visions of ingots danced before their eyes, and stock rose rapidly. on the th of april, five days after the bill had become law, the directors opened their books for a subscription of a million, at the rate of pounds for every pounds capital. such was the concourse of persons, of all ranks, that this first subscription was found to amount to above two millions of original stock. it was to be paid at five payments, of pounds each for every pounds. in a few days the stock advanced to three hundred and forty, and the subscriptions were sold for double the price of the first payment. to raise the stock still higher, it was declared, in a general court of directors, on the st of april, that the midsummer dividend should be ten per cent., and that all subscriptions should be entitled to the same. these resolutions answering the end designed, the directors, to improve the infatuation of the monied men, opened their books for a second subscription of a million, at four hundred per cent. such was the frantic eagerness of people of every class to speculate in these funds, that in the course of a few hours no less than a million and a half was subscribed at that rate. in the mean time, innumerable joint-stock companies started up everywhere. they soon received the name of bubbles, the most appropriate that imagination could devise. the populace are often most happy in the nicknames they employ. none could be more apt than that of bubbles. some of them lasted for a week, or a fortnight, and were no more heard of, while others could not even live out that short span of existence. every evening produced new schemes, and every morning new projects. the highest of the aristocracy were as eager in this hot pursuit of gain as the most plodding jobber in cornhill. the prince of wales became governor of one company, and is said to have cleared , pounds by his speculations. [coxe's walpole, correspondence between mr. secretary craggs and earl stanhope.] the duke of bridgewater started a scheme for the improvement of london and westminster, and the duke of chandos another. there were nearly a hundred different projects, each more extravagant and deceptive than the other. to use the words of the "political state," they were "set on foot and promoted by crafty knaves, then pursued by multitudes of covetous fools, and at last appeared to be, in effect, what their vulgar appellation denoted them to be--bubbles and mere cheats." it was computed that near one million and a half sterling was won and lost by these unwarrantable practices, to the impoverishment of many a fool, and the enriching of many a rogue. some of these schemes were plausible enough, and, had they been undertaken at a time when the public mind was unexcited, might have been pursued with advantage to all concerned. but they were established merely with the view of raising the shares in the market. the projectors took the first opportunity of a rise to sell out, and next morning the scheme was at an end. maitland, in his history of london, gravely informs us, that one of the projects which received great encouragement, was for the establishment of a company "to make deal-boards out of saw-dust." this is, no doubt, intended as a joke; but there is abundance of evidence to show that dozens of schemes hardly a whir more reasonable, lived their little day, ruining hundreds ere they fell. one of them was for a wheel for perpetual motion--capital, one million; another was "for encouraging the breed of horses in england, and improving of glebe and church lands, and repairing and rebuilding parsonage and vicarage houses." why the clergy, who were so mainly interested in the latter clause, should have taken so much interest in the first, is only to be explained on the supposition that the scheme was projected by a knot of the foxhunting parsons, once so common in england. the shares of this company were rapidly subscribed for. but the most absurd and preposterous of all, and which showed, more completely than any other, the utter madness of the people, was one, started by an unknown adventurer, entitled "company for carrying on an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is." were not the fact stated by scores of credible witnesses, it would be impossible to believe that any person could have been duped by such a project. the man of genius who essayed this bold and successful inroad upon public credulity, merely stated in his prospectus that the required capital was half a million, in five thousand shares of pounds each, deposit pounds per share. each subscriber, paying his deposit, would be entitled to pounds per annum per share. how this immense profit was to be obtained, he did not condescend to inform them at that time, but promised, that in a month full particulars should be duly announced, and a call made for the remaining pounds of the subscription. next morning, at nine o'clock, this great man opened an office in cornhill. crowds of people beset his door, and when he shut up at three o'clock, he found that no less than one thousand shares had been subscribed for, and the deposits paid. he was thus, in five hours, the winner of , pounds. he was philosopher enough to be contented with his venture, and set off the same evening for the continent. he was never heard of again. well might swift exclaim, comparing change alley to a gulf in the south sea,-- subscribers here by thousands float, and jostle one another down, each paddling in his leaky boat, and here they fish for gold, and drown. now buried in the depths below, now mounted up to heaven again, they reel and stagger to and fro, at their wit's end, like drunken men meantime, secure on garraway cliffs, a savage race, by shipwrecks fed, lie waiting for the foundered skiffs, and strip the bodies of the dead. another fraud that was very successful, was that of the "globe permits," as they were called. they were nothing more than square pieces of playing cards, on which was the impression of a seal, in wax, bearing the sign of the globe tavern, in the neighbourhood of exchange alley, with the inscription of "sail cloth permits." the possessors enjoyed no other advantage from them than permission to subscribe, at some future time, to a new sail-cloth manufactory, projected by one who was then known to be a man of fortune, but who was afterwards involved in the peculation and punishment of the south sea directors. these permits sold for as much as sixty guineas in the alley. persons of distinction, of both sexes, were deeply engaged in all these bubbles, those of the male sex going to taverns and coffee-houses to meet their brokers, and the ladies resorting for the same purpose to the shops of milliners and haberdashers. but it did not follow that all these people believed in the feasibility of the schemes to which they subscribed; it was enough for their purpose that their shares would, by stock-jobbing arts, be soon raised to a premium, when they got rid of them with all expedition to the really credulous. so great was the confusion of the crowd in the alley, that shares in the same bubble were known to have been sold at the same instant ten per cent. higher at one end of the alley than at the other. sensible men beheld the extraordinary infatuation of the people with sorrow and alarm. there were some, both in and out of parliament, who foresaw clearly the ruin that was impending. mr. walpole did not cease his gloomy forebodings. his fears were shared by all the thinking few, and impressed most forcibly upon the government. on the th of june, the day the parliament rose, the king published a proclamation, declaring that all these unlawful projects should be deemed public nuisances, and prosecuted accordingly, and forbidding any broker, under a penalty of five hundred pounds, from buying or selling any shares in them. notwithstanding this proclamation, roguish speculators still carried them on, and the deluded people still encouraged them. on the th of july, an order of the lords justices assembled in privy council was published, dismissing all the petitions that had been presented for patents and charters, and dissolving all the bubble companies. the following copy of their lordships' order, containing a list of all these nefarious projects, will not be deemed uninteresting at the present day, when there is but too much tendency in the public mind to indulge in similar practices:-- "at the council chamber, whitehall, the th day of july, . present, their excellencies the lords justices in council. "their excellencies, the lords justices in council, taking into consideration the many inconveniences arising to the public from several projects set on foot for raising of joint stock for various purposes, and that a great many of his majesty's subjects have been drawn in to part with their money on pretence of assurances that their petitions for patents and charters, to enable them to carry on the same, would be granted: to prevent such impositions, their excellencies, this day, ordered the said several petitions, together with such reports from the board of trade, and from his majesty's attorney and solicitor general, as had been obtained thereon, to be laid before them, and after mature consideration thereof, were pleased, by advice of his majesty's privy council, to order that the said petitions be dismissed, which are as follow:-- " . petition of several persons, praying letters patent for carrying on a fishing trade, by the name of the grand fishery of great britain. " . petition of the company of the royal fishery of england, praying letters patent for such further powers as will effectually contribute to carry on the said fishery. " . petition of george james, on behalf of himself and divers persons of distinction concerned in a national fishery; praying letters patent of incorporation to enable them to carry on the same. " . petition of several merchants, traders, and others, whose names are thereunto subscribed, praying to be incorporated for reviving and carrying on a whale fishery to greenland and elsewhere. " . petition of sir john lambert, and others thereto subscribing, on behalf of themselves and a great number of merchants, praying to be incorporated for carrying on a greenland trade, and particularly a whale fishery in davis's straits. " . another petition for a greenland trade. " . petition of several merchants, gentlemen, and citizens, praying to be incorporated, for buying and building of ships to let or freight. " . petition of samuel antrim and others, praying for letters patent for sowing hemp and flax. " . petition of several merchants, masters of ships, sail-makers, and manufacturers of sail-cloth, praying a charter of incorporation, to enable them to carry on and promote the said manufactory by a joint stock. " . petition of thomas boyd, and several hundred merchants, owners and masters of ships, sailmakers, weavers, and other traders, praying a charter of incorporation, empowering them to borrow money for purchasing lands, in order to the manufacturing sail-cloth and fine holland. " . petition on behalf of several persons interested in a patent granted by the late king william and queen mary, for the making of linen and sail-cloth, praying that no charter may be granted to any persons whatsoever for making sail-cloth, but that the privilege now enjoyed by them may be confirmed, and likewise an additional power to carry on the cotton and cotton-silk manufactures. " . petition of several citizens, merchants, and traders in london, and others, subscribers to a british stock, for a general insurance from fire in any part of england, praying to be incorporated for carrying on the said undertaking. " . petition of several of his majesty's loyal subjects of the city of london, and other parts of great britain, praying to be incorporated, for carrying on a general insurance from losses by fire within the kingdom of england. " . petition of thomas burges, and others his majesty's subjects thereto subscribing, in behalf of themselves and others, subscribers to a fund of , , pounds, for carrying on a trade to his majesty's german dominions, praying to be incorporated, by the name of the harburg company. " . petition of edward jones, a dealer in timber, on behalf of himself and others, praying to be incorporated for the importation of timber from germany. " . petition of several merchants of london, praying a charter of incorporation for carrying on a salt-work. " . petition of captain macphedris, of london, merchant, on behalf of himself and several merchants, clothiers, hatters, dyers, and other traders, praying a charter of incorporation, empowering them to raise a sufficient sum of money to purchase lands for planting and rearing a wood called madder, for the use of dyers. " . petition of joseph galendo, of london, snuff-maker, praying a patent for his invention to prepare and cure virginia tobacco for snuff in virginia, and making it into the same in all his majesty's dominions." list of bubbles. the following bubble companies were by the same order declared to be illegal, and abolished accordingly:-- . for the importation of swedish iron. . for supplying london with sea-coal. capital, three millions. . for building and rebuilding houses throughout all england. capital, three millions. . for making of muslin. . for carrying on and improving the british alum works. . for effectually settling the island of blanco and sal tartagus. . for supplying the town of deal with fresh water. . for the importation of flanders lace. . for improvement of lands in great britain. capital, four millions. . for encouraging the breed of horses in england, and improving of glebe and church lands, and for repairing and rebuilding parsonage and vicarage houses. . for making of iron and steel in great britain. . for improving the land in the county of flint. capital, one million. . for purchasing lands to build on. capital, two millions. . for trading in hair. . for erecting salt-works in holy island. capital, two millions. . for buying and selling estates, and lending money on mortgage. . for carrying on an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is. . for paving the streets of london. capital, two millions. . for furnishing funerals to any part of great britain. . for buying and selling lands and lending money at interest. capital, five millions. . for carrying on the royal fishery of great britain. capital, ten millions. . for assuring of seamen's wages. . for erecting loan-offices for the assistance and encouragement of the industrious. capital, two millions. . for purchasing and improving leasable lands. capital, four millions. . for importing pitch and tar, and other naval stores, from north britain and america. . for the clothing, felt, and pantile trade. . for purchasing and improving a manor and royalty in essex. . for insuring of horses. capital, two millions. . for exporting the woollen manufacture, and importing copper, brass, and iron. capital, four millions. . for a grand dispensary. capital, three millions. . for erecting mills and purchasing lead mines. capital, two millions. . for improving the art of making soap. . for a settlement on the island of santa cruz. . for sinking pits and smelting lead ore in derbyshire. . for making glass bottles and other glass. . for a wheel for perpetual motion. capital, one million. . for improving of gardens. . for insuring and increasing children's fortunes. . for entering and loading goods at the custom-house, and for negotiating business for merchants. . for carrying on a woollen manufacture in the north of england. . for importing walnut-trees from virginia. capital, two millions. . for making manchester stuffs of thread and cotton. . for making joppa and castile soap. . for improving the wrought-iron and steel manufactures of this kingdom. capital, four millions. . for dealing in lace, hollands, cambrics, lawns, &c. capital, two millions. . for trading in and improving certain commodities of the produce of this kingdom, &c. capital, three millions. . for supplying the london markets with cattle. . for making looking-glasses, coach glasses, &c. capital, two millions. . for working the tin and lead mines in cornwall and derbyshire. . for making rape-oil. . for importing beaver fur. capital, two millions. . for making pasteboard and packing-paper. . for importing of oils and other materials used in the woollen manufacture. . for improving and increasing the silk manufactures. . for lending money on stock, annuities, tallies, &c. . for paying pensions to widows and others, at a small discount. capital, two millions. . for improving malt liquors. capital, four millions. . for a grand american fishery. . for purchasing and improving the fenny lands in lincolnshire. capital, two millions. . for improving the paper manufacture of great britain. . the bottomry company. . for drying malt by hot air. . for carrying on a trade in the river oronooko. . for the more effectual making of baize, in colchester and other parts of great britain. . for buying of naval stores, supplying the victualling, and paying the wages of the workmen. . for employing poor artificers, and furnishing merchants and others with watches. . for improvement of tillage and the breed of cattle. . another for the improvement of our breed of horses. . another for a horse-insurance. . for carrying on the corn trade of great britain. . for insuring to all masters and mistresses the losses they may sustain by servants. capital, three millions. . for erecting houses or hospitals, for taking in and maintaining illegitimate children. capital, two millions. . for bleaching coarse sugars, without the use of fire or loss of substance. . for building turnpikes and wharfs in great britain. . for insuring from thefts and robberies. . for extracting silver from lead. . for making china and delft ware. capital, one million. . for importing tobacco, and exporting it again to sweden and the north of europe. capital, four millions. . for making iron with pit coal. . for furnishing the cities of london and westminster with hay and straw. capital, three millions. . for a sail and packing cloth manufactory in ireland. . for taking up ballast. . for buying and fitting out ships to suppress pirates. . for the importation of timber from wales. capital, two millions. . for rock-salt. . for the transmutation of quicksilver into a malleable fine metal. besides these bubbles, many others sprang up daily, in spite of the condemnation of the government and the ridicule of the still sane portion of the public. the print-shops teemed with caricatures, and the newspapers with epigrams and satires, upon the prevalent folly. an ingenious card-maker published a pack of south sea playing-cards, which are now extremely rare, each card containing, besides the usual figures, of a very small size, in one corner, a caricature of a bubble company, with appropriate verses underneath. one of the most famous bubbles was "puckle's machine company," for discharging round and square cannon-balls and bullets, and making a total revolution in the art of war. its pretensions to public favour were thus summed up, on the eight of spades:-- a rare invention to destroy the crowd of fools at home, instead of fools abroad. fear not, my friends, this terrible machine, they're only wounded who have shares therein. the nine of hearts was a caricature of the english copper and brass company, with the following epigram:-- the headlong fool that wants to be a swopper of gold and silver coin for english copper, may, in change alley, prove himself an ass, and give rich metal for adulterate brass. the eight of diamonds celebrated the company for the colonization of acadia, with this doggrel:-- he that is rich and wants to fool away a good round sum in north america, let him subscribe himself a headlong sharer, and asses' ears shall honour him or bearer. and in a similar style every card of the pack exposed some knavish scheme, and ridiculed the persons who were its dupes. it was computed that the total amount of the sums proposed for carrying on these projects was upwards of three hundred millions sterling, a sum so immense that it exceeded the value of all the lands in england at twenty years' purchase. it is time, however, to return to the great south sea gulf, that swallowed the fortunes of so many thousands of the avaricious and the credulous. on the th of may, the stock had risen as high as five hundred, and about two-thirds of the government annuitants had exchanged the securities of the state for those of the south sea company. during the whole of the month of may the stock continued to rise, and on the th it was quoted at five hundred and fifty. in four days after this it took a prodigious leap, rising suddenly from five hundred and fifty to eight hundred and ninety. it was now the general opinion that the stock could rise no higher, and many persons took that opportunity of selling out, with a view of realising their profits. many noblemen and persons in the train of the king, and about to accompany him to hanover, were also anxious to sell out. so many sellers, and so few buyers, appeared in the alley on the rd of june, that the stock fell at once from eight hundred and ninety to six hundred and forty. the directors were alarmed, and gave their agents orders to buy. their efforts succeeded. towards evening confidence was restored, and the stock advanced to seven hundred and fifty. it continued at this price, with some slight fluctuation, until the company closed their books on the nd of june. it would be needless and uninteresting to detail the various arts employed by the directors to keep up the price of stock. it will be sufficient to state that it finally rose to one thousand per cent. it was quoted at this price in the commencement of august. the bubble was then full-blown, and began to quiver and shake, preparatory to its bursting. many of the government annuitants expressed dissatisfaction against the directors. they accused them of partiality in making out the lists for shares in each subscription. further uneasiness was occasioned by its being generally known that sir john blunt, the chairman, and some others, had sold out. during the whole of the month of august the stock fell, and on the nd of september it was quoted at seven hundred only. the state of things now became alarming. to prevent, if possible, the utter extinction of public confidence in their proceedings, the directors summoned a general court of the whole corporation, to meet in merchant tailors' hall, on the th of september. by nine o'clock in the morning, the room was filled to suffocation; cheapside was blocked up by a crowd unable to gain admittance, and the greatest excitement prevailed. the directors and their friends mustered in great numbers. sir john fellowes, the sub-governor, was called to the chair. he acquainted the assembly with the cause of their meeting, read to them the several resolutions of the court of directors, and gave them an account of their proceedings; of the taking in the redeemable and unredeemable funds, and of the subscriptions in money. mr. secretary craggs then made a short speech, wherein he commended the conduct of the directors, and urged that nothing could more effectually contribute to the bringing this scheme to perfection than union among themselves. he concluded with a motion for thanking the court of directors for their prudent and skilful management, and for desiring them to proceed in such manner as they should think most proper for the interest and advantage of the corporation. mr. hungerford, who had rendered himself very conspicuous in the house of commons for his zeal in behalf of the south sea company, and who was shrewdly suspected to have been a considerable gainer by knowing the right time to sell out, was very magniloquent on this occasion. he said that he had seen the rise and fall, the decay and resurrection of many communities of this nature, but that, in his opinion, none had ever performed such wonderful things in so short a time as the south sea company. they had done more than the crown, the pulpit, or the bench could do. they had reconciled all parties in one common interest; they had laid asleep, if not wholly extinguished, all the domestic jars and animosities of the nation. by the rise of their stock, monied men had vastly increased their fortunes; country-gentlemen had seen the value of their lands doubled and trebled in their hands. they had at the same time done good to the church, not a few of the reverend clergy having got great sums by the project. in short, they had enriched the whole nation, and he hoped they had not forgotten themselves. there was some hissing at the latter part of this speech, which for the extravagance of its eulogy was not far removed from satire; but the directors and their friends, and all the winners in the room, applauded vehemently. the duke of portland spoke in a similar strain, and expressed his great wonder why anybody should be dissatisfied: of course, he was a winner by his speculations, and in a condition similar to that of the fat alderman in joe miller's jests, who, whenever he had eaten a good dinner, folded his hands upon his paunch, and expressed his doubts whether there could be a hungry man in the world. several resolutions were passed at this meeting, but they had no effect upon the public. upon the very same evening the stock fell to six hundred and forty, and on the morrow to five hundred and forty. day after day it continued to fall, until it was as low as four hundred. in a letter dated september th, from mr. broderick, m.p. to lord chancellor middleton, and published in coxo's walpole, the former says,--"various are the conjectures why the south sea directors have suffered the cloud to break so early. i made no doubt but they would do so when they found it to their advantage. they have stretched credit so far beyond what it would bear, that specie proves insufficient to support it. their most considerable men have drawn out, securing themselves by the losses of the deluded, thoughtless numbers, whose understandings have been overruled by avarice and the hope of making mountains out of mole-hills. thousands of families will be reduced to beggary. the consternation is inexpressible--the rage beyond description, and the case altogether so desperate that i do not see any plan or scheme so much as thought of for averting the blow, so that i cannot pretend to guess what is next to be done." ten days afterwards, the stock still falling, he writes,--"the company have yet come to no determination, for they are in such a wood that they know not which way to turn. by several gentlemen lately come to town, i perceive the very name of a south-sea-man grows abominable in every country. a great many goldsmiths are already run off, and more will daily. i question whether one-third, nay, one-fourth, of them can stand it. from the very beginning, i founded my judgment of the whole affair upon the unquestionable maxim, that ten millions (which is more than our running cash) could not circulate two hundred millions, beyond which our paper credit extended. that, therefore, whenever that should become doubtful, be the cause what it would, our noble state machine must inevitably fall to the ground." on the th of september, at the earnest solicitation of mr. secretary craggs, several conferences were held between the directors of the south sea and the directors of the bank. a report which was circulated, that the latter had agreed to circulate six millions of the south sea company's bonds, caused the stock to rise to six hundred and seventy; but in the afternoon, as soon as the report was known to be groundless, the stock fell again to five hundred and eighty; the next day to five hundred and seventy, and so gradually to four hundred. [gay (the poet), in that disastrous year, had a present from young craggs of some south sea stock, and once supposed himself to be master of twenty thousand pounds. his friends persuaded him to sell his share, but he dreamed of dignity and splendour, and could not bear to obstruct his own fortune. he was then importuned to sell as much as would purchase a hundred a year for life, "which," says fenton, "will make you sure of a clean shirt and a shoulder of mutton every day." this counsel was rejected; the profit and principal were lost, and gay sunk under the calamity so low that his life became in danger.--johnson's lives of the poets.] the ministry were seriously alarmed at the aspect of affairs. the directors could not appear in the streets without being insulted; dangerous riots were every moment apprehended. despatches were sent off to the king at hanover, praying his immediate return. mr. walpole, who was staying at his country-seat, was sent for, that he might employ his known influence with the directors of the bank of england to induce them to accept the proposal made by the south sea company for circulating a number of their bonds. the bank was very unwilling to mix itself up with the affairs of the company; it dreaded being involved in calamities which it could not relieve, and received all overtures with visible reluctance. but the universal voice of the nation called upon it to come to the rescue. every person of note in commercial politics was called in to advise in the emergency. a rough draft of a contract drawn up by mr. walpole was ultimately adopted as the basis of further negotiations, and the public alarm abated a little. on the following day, the th of september, a general court of the south sea company was held at merchant tailors' hall, in which resolutions were carried, empowering the directors to agree with the bank of england, or any other persons, to circulate the company's bonds, or make any other agreement with the bank which they should think proper. one of the speakers, a mr. pulteney, said it was most surprising to see the extraordinary panic which had seized upon the people. men were running to and fro in alarm and terror, their imaginations filled with some great calamity, the form and dimensions of which nobody knew. "black it stood as night-- fierce as ten furies--terrible as hell." at a general court of the bank of england held two days afterwards, the governor informed them of the several meetings that had been held on the affairs of the south sea company, adding that the directors had not yet thought fit to come to any decision upon the matter. a resolution was then proposed, and carried without a dissentient voice, empowering the directors to agree with those of the south sea to circulate their bonds, to what sum, and upon what terms, and for what time, they might think proper. thus both parties were at liberty to act as they might judge best for the public interest. books were opened at the bank for a subscription of three millions for the support of public credit, on the usual terms of pounds per cent. deposit, per cent. premium, and pounds per cent. interest. so great was the concourse of people in the early part of the morning, all eagerly bringing their money, that it was thought the subscription would be filled that day; but before noon, the tide turned. in spite of all that could be done to prevent it, the south sea company's stock fell rapidly. their bonds were in such discredit, that a run commenced upon the most eminent goldsmiths and bankers, some of whom having lent out great sums upon south sea stock were obliged to shut up their shops and abscond. the sword-blade company, who had hitherto been the chief cashiers of the south sea company, stopped payment. this being looked upon as but the beginning of evil, occasioned a great run upon the bank, who were now obliged to pay out money much faster than they had received it upon the subscription in the morning. the day succeeding was a holiday (the th of september), and the bank had a little breathing time. they bore up against the storm; but their former rivals, the south sea company, were wrecked upon it. their stock fell to one hundred and fifty, and gradually, after various fluctuations, to one hundred and thirty-five. the bank, finding they were not able to restore public confidence, and stem the tide of ruin, without running the risk of being swept away with those they intended to save, declined to carry out the agreement into which they had partially entered. they were under no obligation whatever to continue; for the so called bank contract was nothing more than the rough draught of an agreement, in which blanks had been left for several important particulars, and which contained no penalty for their secession. "and thus," to use the words of the parliamentary history, "were seen, in the space of eight months, the rise, progress, and fall of that mighty fabric, which, being wound up by mysterious springs to a wonderful height, had fixed the eyes and expectations of all europe, but whose foundation, being fraud, illusion, credulity, and infatuation, fell to the ground as soon as the artful management of its directors was discovered." in the hey-day of its blood, during the progress of this dangerous delusion, the manners of the nation became sensibly corrupted. the parliamentary inquiry, set on foot to discover the delinquents, disclosed scenes of infamy, disgraceful alike to the morals of the offenders and the intellects of the people among whom they had arisen. it is a deeply interesting study to investigate all the evils that were the result. nations, like individuals, cannot become desperate gamblers with impunity. punishment is sure to overtake them sooner or later. a celebrated writer [smollett.] is quite wrong, when he says, "that such an era as this is the most unfavourable for a historian; that no reader of sentiment and imagination can be entertained or interested by a detail of transactions such as these, which admit of no warmth, no colouring, no embellishment; a detail of which only serves to exhibit an inanimate picture of tasteless vice and mean degeneracy." on the contrary, and smollett might have discovered it, if he had been in the humour--the subject is capable of inspiring as much interest as even a novelist can desire. is there no warmth in the despair of a plundered people?--no life and animation in the picture which might be drawn of the woes of hundreds of impoverished and ruined families? of the wealthy of yesterday become the beggars of to-day? of the powerful and influential changed into exiles and outcasts, and the voice of self-reproach and imprecation resounding from every corner of the land? is it a dull or uninstructive picture to see a whole people shaking suddenly off the trammels of reason, and running wild after a golden vision, refusing obstinately to believe that it is not real, till, like a deluded hind running after an ignis fatuus, they are plunged into a quagmire? but in this false spirit has history too often been written. the intrigues of unworthy courtiers to gain the favour of still more unworthy kings; or the records of murderous battles and sieges have been dilated on, and told over and over again, with all the eloquence of style and all the charms of fancy; while the circumstances which have most deeply affected the morals and welfare of the people, have been passed over with but slight notice as dry and dull, and capable of neither warmth nor colouring. during the progress of this famous bubble, england presented a singular spectacle. the public mind was in a state of unwholesome fermentation. men were no longer satisfied with the slow but sure profits of cautious industry. the hope of boundless wealth for the morrow made them heedless and extravagant for to-day. a luxury, till then unheard-of, was introduced, bringing in its train a corresponding laxity of morals. the overbearing insolence of ignorant men, who had arisen to sudden wealth by successful gambling, made men of true gentility of mind and manners, blush that gold should have power to raise the unworthy in the scale of society. the haughtiness of some of these "cyphering cits," as they were termed by sir richard steele, was remembered against them in the day of their adversity. in the parliamentary inquiry, many of the directors suffered more for their insolence than for their peculation. one of them, who, in the full-blown pride of an ignorant rich man, had said that he would feed his horse upon gold, was reduced almost to bread and water for himself; every haughty look, every overbearing speech, was set down, and repaid them a hundredfold in poverty and humiliation. the state of matters all over the country was so alarming, that george i shortened his intended stay in hanover, and returned in all haste to england. he arrived on the th of november, and parliament was summoned to meet on the th of december. in the mean time, public meetings were held in every considerable town of the empire, at which petitions were adopted, praying the vengeance of the legislature upon the south sea directors, who, by their fraudulent practices, had brought the nation to the brink of ruin. nobody seemed to imagine that the nation itself was as culpable as the south sea company. nobody blamed the credulity and avarice of the people,--the degrading lust of gain, which had swallowed up every nobler quality in the national character, or the infatuation which had made the multitude run their heads with such frantic eagerness into the net held out for them by scheming projectors. these things were never mentioned. the people were a simple, honest, hard-working people, ruined by a gang of robbers, who were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered without mercy. this was the almost unanimous feeling of the country. the two houses of parliament were not more reasonable. before the guilt of the south sea directors was known, punishment was the only cry. the king, in his speech from the throne, expressed his hope that they would remember that all their prudence, temper, and resolution were necessary to find out and apply the proper remedy for their misfortunes. in the debate on the answer to the address, several speakers indulged in the most violent invectives against the directors of the south sea project. the lord molesworth was particularly vehement. "it had been said by some, that there was no law to punish the directors of the south sea company, who were justly looked upon as the authors of the present misfortunes of the state. in his opinion they ought, upon this occasion, to follow the example of the ancient romans, who, having no law against parricide, because their legislators supposed no son could be so unnaturally wicked as to embrue his hands in his father's blood, made a law to punish this heinous crime as soon as it was committed. they adjudged the guilty wretch to be sown in a sack, and thrown alive into the tyber. he looked upon the contrivers and executors of the villanous south sea scheme as the parricides of their country, and should be satisfied to see them tied in like manner in sacks, and thrown into the thames." other members spoke with as much want of temper and discretion. mr. walpole was more moderate. he recommended that their first care should be to restore public credit. "if the city of london were on fire, all wise men would aid in extinguishing the flames, and preventing the spread of the conflagration before they inquired after the incendiaries. public credit had received a dangerous wound, and lay bleeding, and they ought to apply a speedy remedy to it. it was time enough to punish the assassin afterwards." on the th of december an address, in answer to his majesty's speech, was agreed upon, after an amendment, which was carried without a division, that words should be added expressive of the determination of the house not only to seek a remedy for the national distresses, but to punish the authors of them. the inquiry proceeded rapidly. the directors were ordered to lay before the house a full account of all their proceedings. resolutions were passed to the effect that the calamity was mainly owing to the vile arts of stockjobbers, and that nothing could tend more to the re-establishment of public credit than a law to prevent this infamous practice. mr. walpole then rose, and said, that "as he had previously hinted, he had spent some time upon a scheme for restoring public credit, but that, the execution of it depending upon a position which had been laid down as fundamental, he thought it proper, before he opened out his scheme, to be informed whether he might rely upon that foundation. it was, whether the subscription of public debts and encumbrances, money subscriptions, and other contracts, made with the south sea company should remain in the present state?" this question occasioned an animated debate. it was finally agreed, by a majority of against , that all these contracts should remain in their present state, unless altered for the relief of the proprietors by a general court of the south sea company, or set aside by due course of law. on the following day mr. walpole laid before a committee of the whole house his scheme for the restoration of public credit, which was, in substance, to ingraft nine millions of south sea stock into the bank of england, and the same sum into the east india company, upon certain conditions. the plan was favourably received by the house. after some few objections, it was ordered that proposals should be received from the two great corporations. they were both unwilling to lend their aid, and the plan met with a warm but fruitless opposition at the general courts summoned for the purpose of deliberating upon it. they, however, ultimately agreed upon the terms on which they would consent to circulate the south sea bonds, and their report, being presented to the committee, a bill was brought in, under the superintendence of mr. walpole, and safely carried through both houses of parliament. a bill was at the same time brought in, for restraining the south sea directors, governor, sub-governor, treasurer, cashier, and clerks from leaving the kingdom for a twelvemonth, and for discovering their estates and effects, and preventing them from transporting or alienating the same. all the most influential members of the house supported the bill. mr. shippen, seeing mr. secretary craggs in his place, and believing the injurious rumours that were afloat of that minister's conduct in the south sea business, determined to touch him to the quick. he said, he was glad to see a british house of commons resuming its pristine vigour and spirit, and acting with so much unanimity for the public good. it was necessary to secure the persons and estates of the south sea directors and their officers; "but," he added, looking fixedly at mr. craggs as he spoke, "there were other men in high station, whom, in time, he would not be afraid to name, who were no less guilty than the directors." mr. craggs arose in great wrath, and said, that if the innuendo were directed against him, he was ready to give satisfaction to any man who questioned him, either in the house or out of it. loud cries of order immediately arose on every side. in the midst of the uproar lord molesworth got up, and expressed his wonder at the boldness of mr. craggs in challenging the whole house of commons. he, lord molesworth, though somewhat old, past sixty, would answer mr. craggs whatever he had to say in the house, and he trusted there were plenty of young men beside him, who would not be afraid to look mr. craggs in the face, out of the house. the cries of order again resounded from every side; the members arose simultaneously; everybody seemed to be vociferating at once. the speaker in vain called order. the confusion lasted several minutes, during which lord molesworth and mr. craggs were almost the only members who kept their seats. at last the call for mr. craggs became so violent that he thought proper to submit to the universal feeling of the house, and explain his unparliamentary expression. he said, that by giving satisfaction to the impugners of his conduct in that house, he did not mean that he would fight, but that he would explain his conduct. here the matter ended, and the house proceeded to debate in what manner they should conduct their inquiry into the affairs of the south sea company, whether in a grand or a select committee. ultimately, a secret committee of thirteen was appointed, with power to send for persons, papers, and records. the lords were as zealous and as hasty as the commons. the bishop of rochester said the scheme had been like a pestilence. the duke of wharton said the house ought to show no respect of persons; that, for his part, he would give up the dearest friend he had, if he had been engaged in the project. the nation had been plundered in a most shameful and flagrant manner, and he would go as far as anybody in the punishment of the offenders. lord stanhope said, that every farthing possessed by the criminals, whether directors or not directors, ought to be confiscated, to make good the public losses. during all this time the public excitement was extreme. we learn, front coxe's walpole, that the very name of a south sea director was thought to be synonymous with every species of fraud and villany. petitions from counties, cities, and boroughs, in all parts of the kingdom, were presented, crying for the justice due to an injured nation and the punishment of the villanous peculators. those moderate men, who would not go to extreme lengths, even in the punishment of the guilty, were accused of being accomplices, were exposed to repeated insults and virulent invectives, and devoted, both in anonymous letters and public writings, to the speedy vengeance of an injured people. the accusations against mr. aislabie, chancellor of the exchequer, and mr. craggs, another member of the ministry, were so loud, that the house of lords resolved to proceed at once into the investigation concerning them. it was ordered, on the st of january, that all brokers concerned in the south sea scheme should lay before the house an account of the stock or subscriptions bought or sold by them for any of the officers of the treasury or exchequer, or in trust for any of them, since michaelmas . when this account was delivered, it appeared that large quantities of stock had been transferred to the use of mr. aislabie. five of the south sea directors, including mr. edward gibbon, the grandfather of the celebrated historian, were ordered into the custody of the black rod. upon a motion made by earl stanhope, it was unanimously resolved, that the taking in or giving credit for stock without a valuable consideration actually paid or sufficiently secured; or the purchasing stock by any director or agent of the south sea company, for the use or benefit of any member of the administration, or any member of either house of parliament, during such time as the south sea bill was yet pending in parliament, was a notorious and dangerous corruption. another resolution was passed a few days afterwards, to the effect that several of the directors and officers of the company having, in a clandestine manner, sold their own stock to the company, had been guilty of a notorious fraud and breach of trust, and had thereby mainly caused the unhappy turn of affairs that had so much affected public credit. mr. aislabie resigned his office as chancellor of the exchequer, and absented himself from parliament until the formal inquiry into his individual guilt was brought under the consideration of the legislature. in the mean time, knight, the treasurer of the company, and who was intrusted with all the dangerous secrets of the dishonest directors, packed up his books and documents, and made his escape from the country. he embarked in disguise, in a small boat on the river, and proceeding to a vessel hired for the purpose, was safely conveyed to calais. the committee of secrecy informed the house of the circumstance, when it was resolved unanimously that two addresses should be presented to the king; the first praying that he would issue a proclamation, offering a reward for the apprehension of knight; and the second, that he would give immediate orders to stop the ports, and to take effectual care of the coasts, to prevent the said knight, or any other officers of the south sea company, from escaping out of the kingdom. the ink was hardly dry upon these addresses before they were carried to the king by mr. methuen, deputed by the house for that purpose. the same evening a royal proclamation was issued, offering a reward of two thousand pounds for the apprehension of knight. the commons ordered the doors of the house to be locked, and the keys to be placed upon the table. general ross, one of the members of the committee of secrecy, acquainted them that they had already discovered a train of the deepest villany and fraud that hell had ever contrived to ruin a nation, which in due time they would lay before the house. in the mean time, in order to a further discovery, the committee thought it highly necessary to secure the persons of some of the directors and principal south sea officers, and to seize their papers. a motion to this effect having been made, was carried unanimously. sir robert chaplin, sir theodore janssen, mr. sawbridge, and mr. f. eyles, members of the house, and directors of the south sea company, were summoned to appear in their places, and answer for their corrupt practices. sir theodore janssen and mr. sawbridge answered to their names, and endeavoured to exculpate themselves. the house heard them patiently, and then ordered them to withdraw. a motion was then made, and carried nemine contradicente, that they had been guilty of a notorious breach of trust--had occasioned much loss to great numbers of his majesty's subjects, and had highly prejudiced the public credit. it was then ordered that, for their offence, they should be expelled the house, and taken into the custody of the sergeant-at-arms. sir robert chaplin and mr. eyles, attending in their places four days afterwards, were also expelled the house. it was resolved at the same time to address the king, to give directions to his ministers at foreign courts to make application for knight, that he might be delivered up to the english authorities, in ease he took refuge in any of their dominions. the king at once agreed, and messengers were despatched to all parts of the continent the same night. among the directors taken into custody, was sir john blunt, the man whom popular opinion has generally accused of having been the original author and father of the scheme. this man, we are informed by pope, in his epistle to allen, lord bathurst, was a dissenter, of a most religious deportment, and professed to be a great believer. he constantly declaimed against the luxury and corruption of the age, the partiality of parliaments, and the misery of party spirit. he was particularly eloquent against avarice in great and noble persons. he was originally a scrivener, and afterwards became, not only a director, but the most active manager of the south sea company. whether it was during his career in this capacity that he first began to declaim against the avarice of the great, we are not informed. he certainly must have seen enough of it to justify his severest anathema; but if the preacher had himself been free from the vice he condemned, his declamations would have had a better effect. he was brought up in custody to the bar of the house of lords, and underwent a long examination. he refused to answer several important questions. he said he had been examined already by a committee of the house of commons, and as he did not remember his answers, and might contradict himself, he refused to answer before another tribunal. this declaration, in itself an indirect proof of guilt, occasioned some commotion in the house. he was again asked peremptorily whether he had ever sold any portion of the stock to any member of the administration, or any member of either house of parliament, to facilitate the passing of the hill. he again declined to answer. he was anxious, he said, to treat the house with all possible respect, but he thought it hard to be compelled to accuse himself. after several ineffectual attempts to refresh his memory, he was directed to withdraw. a violent discussion ensued between the friends and opponents of the ministry. it was asserted that the administration were no strangers to the convenient taciturnity of sir john blunt. the duke of wharton made a reflection upon the earl stanhope, which the latter warmly resented. he spoke under great excitement, and with such vehemence as to cause a sudden determination of blood to the head. he felt himself so ill that he was obliged to leave the house and retire to his chamber. he was cupped immediately, and also let blood on the following morning, but with slight relief. the fatal result was not anticipated. towards evening he became drowsy, and turning himself on his face, expired. the sudden death of this statesman caused great grief to the nation. george i was exceedingly affected, and shut himself up for some hours in his closet, inconsolable for his loss. knight, the treasurer of the company, was apprehended at tirlemont, near liege, by one of the secretaries of mr. leathes, the british resident at brussels, and lodged in the citadel of antwerp. repeated applications were made to the court of austria to deliver him up, but in vain. knight threw himself upon the protection of the states of brabant, and demanded to be tried in that country. it was a privilege granted to the states of brabant by one of the articles of the joyeuse entree, that every criminal apprehended in that country should be tried in that country. the states insisted on their privilege, and refused to deliver knight to the british authorities. the latter did not cease their solicitations; but in the mean time, knight escaped from the citadel. on the th of february the committee of secrecy made their first report to the house. they stated that their inquiry had been attended with numerous difficulties and embarrassments; every one they had examined had endeavoured, as far as in him lay, to defeat the ends of justice. in some of the books produced before them, false and fictitious entries had been made; in others, there were entries of money, with blanks for the name of the stockholders. there were frequent erasures and alterations, and in some of the books leaves were torn out. they also found that some books of great importance had been destroyed altogether, and that some had been taken away or secreted. at the very entrance into their inquiry, they had observed that the matters referred to them were of great variety and extent. many persons had been intrusted with various parts in the execution of the law, and under colour thereof had acted in an unwarrantable manner, in disposing of the properties of many thousands of persons, amounting to many millions of money. they discovered that, before the south sea act was passed, there was an entry in the company's books of the sum of , , pounds, upon account of stock stated to have been sold to the amount of , pounds. this stock was all fictitious, and had been disposed of with a view to promote the passing of the bill. it was noted as sold at various days, and at various prices, from to per cent. being surprised to see so large an account disposed of, at a time when the company were not empowered to increase their capital, the committee determined to investigate most carefully the whole transaction. the governor, sub-governor, and several directors were brought before them, and examined rigidly. they found that, at the time these entries were made, the company was not in possession of such a quantity of stock, having in their own right only a small quantity, not exceeding thirty thousand pounds at the utmost. pursuing the inquiry, they found that this amount of stock, was to be esteemed as taken in or holden by the company, for the benefit of the pretended purchasers, although no mutual agreement was made for its delivery or acceptance at any certain time. no money was paid down, nor any deposit or security whatever given to the company by the supposed purchasers; so that if the stock had fallen, as might have been expected, had the act not passed, they would have sustained no loss. if, on the contrary, the price of stock advanced (as it actually did by the success of the scheme), the difference by the advanced price was to be made good to them. accordingly, after the passing of the act, the account of stock was made up and adjusted with mr. knight, and the pretended purchasers were paid the difference out of the company's cash. this fictitious stock, which had been chiefly at the disposal of sir john blunt, mr. gibbon, and mr. knight, was distributed among several members of the government and their connexions, by way of bribe, to facilitate the passing of the bill. to the earl of sunderland was assigned , pounds of this stock; to the duchess of kendal , pounds; to the countess of platen , pounds; to her two nieces , pounds; to mr. secretary craggs , pounds; to mr. charles stanhope (one of the secretaries of the treasury) , pounds; to the swordblade company , pounds. it also appeared that mr. stanhope had received the enormous sum of , pounds as the difference in the price of some stock, through the hands of turner, caswall, and co., but that his name had been partly erased from their books, and altered to stangape. aislabie, the chancellor of the exchequer, had made profits still more abominable. he had an account with the same firm, who were also south sea directors, to the amount of , pounds. he had, besides, advised the company to make their second subscription one million and a half, instead of a million, by their own authority, and without any warrant. the third subscription had been conducted in a manner as disgraceful. mr. aislabie's name was down for , pounds; mr. craggs, senior, for , pounds; the earl of sunderland's for , pounds; and mr. stanhope for , pounds. this report was succeeded by six others, less important. at the end of the last, the committee declared that the absence of knight, who had been principally intrusted, prevented them from carrying on their inquiries. the first report was ordered to be printed, and taken into consideration on the next day but one succeeding. after a very angry and animated debate, a series of resolutions were agreed to, condemnatory of the conduct of the directors, of the members of the parliament and of the administration concerned with them; and declaring that they ought, each and all, to make satisfaction out of their own estates for the injury they had done the public. their practices were declared to be corrupt, infamous, and dangerous; and a bill was ordered to be brought in for the relief of the unhappy sufferers. mr. charles stanhope was the first person brought to account for his share in these transactions. he urged in his defence that, for some years past, he had lodged all the money he was possessed of in mr. knight's hands, and whatever stock mr. knight had taken in for him, he had paid a valuable consideration for it. as to the stock that had been bought for him by turner, caswall, and co. he knew nothing about it. whatever had been done in that matter was done without his authority, and he could not be responsible for it. turner and co. took the latter charge upon themselves, but it was notorious to every unbiased and unprejudiced person that mr. stanhope was a gainer of the , pounds which lay in the hands of that firm to his credit. he was, however, acquitted by a majority of three only. the greatest exertions were made to screen him. lord stanhope, the son of the earl of chesterfield, went round to the wavering members, using all the eloquence he was possessed of to induce them either to vote for the acquittal or to absent themselves from the house. many weak-headed country-gentlemen were led astray by his persuasions, and the result was as already stated. the acquittal caused the greatest discontent throughout the country. mobs of a menacing character assembled in different parts of london; fears of riots were generally entertained, especially as the examination of a still greater delinquent was expected by many to have a similar termination. mr. aislabie, whose high office and deep responsibilities should have kept him honest, even had native principle been insufficient, was very justly regarded as perhaps the greatest criminal of all. his case was entered into on the day succeeding the acquittal of mr. starthope. great excitement prevailed, and the lobbies and avenues of the house were beset by crowds, impatient to know the result. the debate lasted the whole day. mr. aislabie found few friends: his guilt was so apparent and so heinous that nobody had courage to stand up in his favour. it was finally resolved, without a dissentient voice, that mr. aislabie had encouraged and promoted the destructive execution of the south sea scheme with a view to his own exorbitant profit, and had combined with the directors in their pernicious practices to the ruin of the public trade and credit of the kingdom: that he should for his offences be ignominiously expelled from the house of commons, and committed a close prisoner to the tower of london; that he should be restrained from going out of the kingdom for a whole year, or till the end of the next session of parliament; and that he should make out a correct account of all his estate, in order that it might be applied to the relief of those who had suffered by his malpractices. this verdict caused the greatest joy. though it was delivered at half-past twelve at night, it soon spread over the city. several persons illuminated their houses in token of their joy. on the following day, when mr. aislabie was conveyed to the tower, the mob assembled on tower-hill with the intention of hooting and pelting him. not succeeding in this, they kindled a large bonfire, and danced around it in the exuberance of their delight. several bonfires were made in other places; london presented the appearance of a holiday, and people congratulated one another as if they had just escaped from some great calamity. the rage upon the acquittal of mr. stanhope had grown to such a height that none could tell where it would have ended, had mr. aislabie met with the like indulgence. to increase the public satisfaction, sir george caswall, of the firm of turner, caswall, & co. was expelled the house on the following day, and ordered to refund the sum of , pounds. that part of the report of the committee of secrecy which related to the earl of sunderland was next taken into consideration. every effort was made to clear his lordship from the imputation. as the case against him rested chiefly on the evidence extorted from sir john blunt, great pains were taken to make it appear that sir john's word was not to be believed, especially in a matter affecting the honour of a peer and privy councillor. all the friends of the ministry rallied around the earl, it being generally reported that a verdict of guilty against him would bring a tory ministry into power. he was eventually acquitted, by a majority of against ; but the country was convinced of his guilt. the greatest indignation was everywhere expressed, and menacing mobs again assembled in london. happily no disturbances took place. this was the day on which mr. craggs, the elder, expired. the morrow had been appointed for the consideration of his case. it was very generally believed that he had poisoned himself. it appeared, however, that grief for the loss of his son, one of the secretaries of the treasury, who had died five weeks previously of the small-pox, preyed much on his mind. for this son, dearly beloved, he had been amassing vast heaps of riches: he had been getting money, but not honestly; and he for whose sake he had bartered his honour and sullied his fame, was now no more. the dread of further exposure increased his trouble of mind, and ultimately brought on an apoplectic fit, in which he expired. he left a fortune of a million and a half, which was afterwards confiscated for the benefit of the sufferers by the unhappy delusion he had been so mainly instrumental in raising. one by one the case of every director of the company was taken into consideration. a sum amounting to two millions and fourteen thousand pounds was confiscated from their estates towards repairing the mischief they had done, each man being allowed a certain residue, in proportion to his conduct and circumstances, with which he might begin the world anew. sir john blunt was only allowed , pounds out of his fortune of upwards of , pounds; sir john fellows was allowed , pounds out of , pounds; sir theodore janssen, , pounds out of , pounds; mr. edward gibbon, , pounds out of , pounds.; sir john lambert, pounds out of , pounds. others, less deeply involved, were treated with greater liberality. gibbon, the historian, whose grandfather was the mr. edward gibbon so severely mulcted, has given, in the memoirs of his life and writings, an interesting account of the proceedings in parliament at this time. he owns that he is not an unprejudiced witness; but, as all the writers from which it is possible to extract any notice of the proceedings of these disastrous years, were prejudiced on the other side, the statements of the great historian become of additional value. if only on the principle of audi alteram partem, his opinion is entitled to consideration. "in the year ," he says, "my grandfather was elected one of the directors of the south sea company, and his books exhibited the proof that before his acceptance of that fatal office, he had acquired an independent fortune of , pounds. but his fortune was overwhelmed in the shipwreck of the year twenty, and the labours of thirty years were blasted in a single day. of the use or abuse of the south sea scheme, of the guilt or innocence of my grandfather and his brother directors, i am neither a competent nor a disinterested judge. yet the equity of modern times must condemn the violent and arbitrary proceedings, which would have disgraced the cause of justice, and rendered injustice still more odious. no sooner had the nation awakened from its golden dream, than a popular, and even a parliamentary clamour, demanded its victims; but it was acknowledged on all sides, that the directors, however guilty, could not be touched by any known laws of the land. the intemperate notions of lord molesworth were not literally acted on; but a bill of pains and penalties was introduced--a retro-active statute, to punish the offences which did not exist at the time they were committed. the legislature restrained the persons of the directors, imposed an exorbitant security for their appearance, and marked their character with a previous note of ignominy. they were compelled to deliver, upon oath, the strict value of their estates, and were disabled from making any transfer or alienation of any part of their property. against a bill of pains and penalties, it is the common right of every subject to be heard by his counsel at the bar. they prayed to be heard. their prayer was refused, and their oppressors, who required no evidence, would listen to no defence. it had been at first proposed, that one eighth of their respective estates should be allowed for the future support of the directors; but it was speciously urged, that in the various shades of opulence and guilt, such a proportion would be too light for many, and for some might possibly be too heavy. the character and conduct of each man were separately weighed; but, instead of the calm solemnity of a judicial inquiry, the fortune and honour of thirty-three englishmen were made the topics of hasty conversation, the sport of a lawless majority; and the basest member of the committee, by a malicious word, or a silent vote, might indulge his general spleen or personal animosity. injury was aggravated by insult, and insult was embittered by pleasantry. allowances of pounds or shilling were facetiously moved. a vague report that a director had formerly been concerned in another project, by which some unknown persons had lost their money, was admitted as a proof of his actual guilt. one man was ruined because he had dropped a foolish speech, that his horses should feed upon gold; another, because he was grown so proud, that one day, at the treasury, he had refused a civil answer to persons much above him. all were condemned, absent and unheard, in arbitrary fines and forfeitures, which swept away the greatest part of their substance. such bold oppression can scarcely be shielded by the omnipotence of parliament. my grandfather could not expect to be treated with more lenity than his companions. his tory principles and connexions rendered him obnoxious to the ruling powers. his name was reported in a suspicious secret. his well-known abilities could not plead the excuse of ignorance or error. in the first proceedings against the south sea directors, mr. gibbon was one of the first taken into custody, and in the final sentence the measure of his fine proclaimed him eminently guilty. the total estimate, which he delivered on oath to the house of commons, amounted to , pounds shillings pence, exclusive of antecedent settlements. two different allowances of , pounds and of , pounds were moved for mr. gibbon; but, on the question being put, it was carried without a division for the smaller sum. on these ruins, with the skill and credit of which parliament had not been able to despoil him, my grandfather, at a mature age, erected the edifice of a new fortune. the labours of sixteen years were amply rewarded; and i have reason to believe that the second structure was not much inferior to the first." the next consideration of the legislature, after the punishment of the directors, was to restore public credit. the scheme of walpole had been found insufficient, and had fallen into disrepute. a computation was made of the whole capital stock of the south sea company at the end of the year . it was found to amount to thirty-seven millions eight hundred thousand pounds, of which the stock allotted to all the proprietors only amounted to twenty-four millions five hundred thousand pounds. the remainder of thirteen millions three hundred thousand pounds belonged to the company in their corporate capacity, and was the profit they had made by the national delusion. upwards of eight millions of this were taken from the company, and divided among the proprietors and subscribers generally, making a dividend of about pounds shillings pence per cent. this was a great relief. it was further ordered, that such persons as had borrowed money from the south sea company upon stock actually transferred and pledged at the time of borrowing to or for the use of the company, should be free from all demands, upon payment of ten per cent. of the sums so borrowed. they had lent about eleven millions in this manner, at a time when prices were unnaturally raised; and they now received back one million one hundred thousand, when prices had sunk to their ordinary level. but it was a long time before public credit was thoroughly restored. enterprise, like icarus, had soared too high, and melted the wax of her wings; like icarus, she had fallen into a sea, and learned, while floundering in its waves, that her proper element was the solid ground. she has never since attempted so high a flight. in times of great commercial prosperity there has been a tendency to over-speculation on several occasions since then. the success of one project generally produces others of a similar kind. popular imitativeness will always, in a trading nation, seize hold of such successes, and drag a community too anxious for profits into an abyss from which extrication is difficult. bubble companies, of a kind similar to those engendered by the south sea project, lived their little day in the famous year of the panic, . on that occasion, as in , knavery gathered a rich harvest from cupidity, but both suffered when the day of reckoning came. the schemes of the year threatened, at one time, results as disastrous; but they were happily averted before it was too late. the south sea project thus remains, and, it is to be hoped, always will remain, the greatest example in british history, of the infatuation of the people for commercial gambling. from the bitter experience of that period, posterity may learn how dangerous it is to let speculation riot unrestrained, and to hope for enormous profits from inadequate causes. degrading as were the circumstances, there is wisdom to be gained from the lesson which they teach. the tulipomania. quis furor o cives!--lucan. the tulip,--so named, it is said, from a turkish word, signifying a turban,--was introduced into western europe about the middle of the sixteenth century. conrad gesner, who claims the merit of having brought it into repute,--little dreaming of the extraordinary commotion it was to make in the world,--says that he first saw it in the year , in a garden at augsburg, belonging to the learned counsellor herwart, a man very famous in his day for his collection of rare exotics. the bulbs were sent to this gentleman by a friend at constantinople, where the flower had long been a favourite. in the course of ten or eleven years after this period, tulips were much sought after by the wealthy, especially in holland and germany. rich people at amsterdam sent for the bulbs direct to constantinople, and paid the most extravagant prices for them. the first roots planted in england were brought from vienna in . until the year the tulip annually increased in reputation, until it was deemed a proof of bad taste in any man of fortune to be without a collection of them. many learned men, including pompeius de angelis and the celebrated lipsius of leyden, the author of the treatise "de constantia," were passionately fond of tulips. the rage for possessing them soon caught the middle classes of society, and merchants and shopkeepers, even of moderate means, began to vie with each other in the rarity of these flowers and the preposterous prices they paid for them. a trader at harlaem was known to pay one-half of his fortune for a single root--not with the design of selling it again at a profit, but to keep in his own conservatory for the admiration of his acquaintance. one would suppose that there must have been some great virtue in this flower to have made it so valuable in the eyes of so prudent a people as the dutch; but it has neither the beauty nor the perfume of the rose--hardly the beauty of the "sweet, sweet-pea;" neither is it as enduring as either. cowley, it is true, is loud in its praise. he says-- "the tulip next appeared, all over gay, but wanton, full of pride, and full of play; the world can't show a dye but here has place; nay, by new mixtures, she can change her face; purple and gold are both beneath her care-- the richest needlework she loves to wear; her only study is to please the eye, and to outshine the rest in finery." this, though not very poetical, is the description of a poet. beckmann, in his history of inventions, paints it with more fidelity, and in prose more pleasing than cowley's poetry. he says, "there are few plants which acquire, through accident, weakness, or disease, so many variegations as the tulip. when uncultivated, and in its natural state, it is almost of one colour, has large leaves, and an extraordinarily long stem. when it has been weakened by cultivation, it becomes more agreeable in the eyes of the florist. the petals are then paler, smaller, and more diversified in hue; and the leaves acquire a softer green colour. thus this masterpiece of culture, the more beautiful it turns, grows so much the weaker, so that, with the greatest skill and most careful attention, it can scarcely be transplanted, or even kept alive." many persons grow insensibly attached to that which gives them a great deal of trouble, as a mother often loves her sick and ever-ailing child better than her more healthy offspring. upon the same principle we must account for the unmerited encomia lavished upon these fragile blossoms. in , the rage among the dutch to possess them was so great that the ordinary industry of the country was neglected, and the population, even to its lowest dregs, embarked in the tulip trade. as the mania increased, prices augmented, until, in the year , many persons were known to invest a fortune of , florins in the purchase of forty roots. it then became necessary to sell them by their weight in perits, a small weight less than a grain. a tulip of the species called admiral liefken, weighing perits, was worth florins; an admiral von der eyk, weighing perits, was worth florins; a shilder of perits was worth florins; a viceroy of perits, florins, and, most precious of all, a semper augustus, weighing perits, was thought to be very cheap at florins. the latter was much sought after, and even an inferior bulb might command a price of florins. it is related that, at one time, early in , there were only two roots of this description to be had in all holland, and those not of the best. one was in the possession of a dealer in amsterdam, and the other in harlaem. so anxious were the speculators to obtain them that one person offered the fee-simple of twelve acres of building ground for the harlaem tulip. that of amsterdam was bought for florins, a new carriage, two grey horses, and a complete suit of harness. munting, an industrious author of that day, who wrote a folio volume of one thousand pages upon the tulipomania, has preserved the following list of the various articles, and their value, which were delivered for one single root of the rare species called the viceroy:-- florins. two lasts of wheat.............. four lasts of rye............... four fat oxen................... eight fat swine................. twelve fat sheep................ two hogsheads of wine........... four tuns of beer............... two tons of butter.............. one thousand lbs. of cheese..... a complete bed.................. a suit of clothes............... a silver drinking cup........... ----- ----- people who had been absent from holland, and whose chance it was to return when this folly was at its maximum, were sometimes led into awkward dilemmas by their ignorance. there is an amusing instance of the kind related in blainville's travels. a wealthy merchant, who prided himself not a little on his rare tulips, received upon one occasion a very valuable consignment of merchandise from the levant. intelligence of its arrival was brought him by a sailor, who presented himself for that purpose at the counting-house, among bales of goods of every description. the merchant, to reward him for his news, munificently made him a present of a fine red herring for his breakfast. the sailor had, it appears, a great partiality for onions, and seeing a bulb very like an onion lying upon the counter of this liberal trader, and thinking it, no doubt, very much out of its place among silks and velvets, he slily seized an opportunity and slipped it into his pocket, as a relish for his herring. he got clear off with his prize, and proceeded to the quay to eat his breakfast. hardly was his back turned when the merchant missed his valuable semper augustus, worth three thousand florins, or about pounds sterling. the whole establishment was instantly in an uproar; search was everywhere made for the precious root, but it was not to be found. great was the merchant's distress of mind. the search was renewed, but again without success. at last some one thought of the sailor. the unhappy merchant sprang into the street at the bare suggestion. his alarmed household followed him. the sailor, simple soul! had not thought of concealment. he was found quietly sitting on a coil of ropes, masticating the last morsel of his "onion." little did he dream that he had been eating a breakfast whose cost might have regaled a whole ship's crew for a twelvemonth; or, as the plundered merchant himself expressed it, "might have sumptuously feasted the prince of orange and the whole court of the stadtholder." anthony caused pearls to be dissolved in wine to drink the health of cleopatra; sir richard whittington was as foolishly magnificent in an entertainment to king henry v; and sir thomas gresham drank a diamond, dissolved in wine, to the health of queen elizabeth, when she opened the royal exchange: but the breakfast of this roguish dutchman was as splendid as either. he had an advantage, too, over his wasteful predecessors: their gems did not improve the taste or the wholesomeness of their wine, while his tulip was quite delicious with his red herring. the most unfortunate part of the business for him was, that he remained in prison for some months, on a charge of felony, preferred against him by the merchant. another story is told of an english traveller, which is scarcely less ludicrous. this gentleman, an amateur botanist, happened to see a tulip-root lying in the conservatory of a wealthy dutchman. being ignorant of its quality, he took out his penknife, and peeled off its coats, with the view of making experiments upon it. when it was by this means reduced to half its original size, he cut it into two equal sections, making all the time many learned remarks on the singular appearances of the unknown bulb. suddenly the owner pounced upon him, and, with fury in his eyes, asked him if he knew what he had been doing? "peeling a most extraordinary onion," replied the philosopher. "hundert tausend duyvel," said the dutchman; "it's an admiral van der e. yck." "thank you," replied the traveller, taking out his note-book to make a memorandum of the same; "are these admirals common in your country?" "death and the devil," said the dutchman, seizing the astonished man of science by the collar; "come before the syndic, and you shall see." in spite of his remonstrances, the traveller was led through the streets, followed by a mob of persons. when brought into the presence of the magistrate, he learned, to his consternation, that the root upon which he had been experimentalizing was worth four thousand florins; and, notwithstanding all he could urge in extenuation, he was lodged in prison until he found securities for the payment of this sum. the demand for tulips of a rare species increased so much in the year , that regular marts for their sale were established on the stock exchange of amsterdam, in rotterdam, harlaem, leyden, alkmar, hoorn, and other towns. symptoms of gambling now became, for the first time, apparent. the stockjobbers, ever on the alert for a new speculation, dealt largely in tulips, making use of all the means they so well knew how to employ, to cause fluctuations in prices. at first, as in all these gambling mania, confidence was at its height, and everybody gained. the tulip-jobbers speculated in the rise and fall of the tulip stocks, and made large profits by buying when prices fell, and selling out when they rose. many individuals grew suddenly rich. a golden bait hung temptingly out before the people, and, one after the other, they rushed to the tulip marts, like flies around a honeypot. every one imagined that the passion for tulips would last for ever, and that the wealthy from every part of the world would send to holland, and pay whatever prices were asked for them. the riches of europe would be concentrated on the shores of the zuyder zee, and poverty banished from the favoured clime of holland. nobles, citizens, farmers, mechanics, seamen, footmen, maidservants, even chimney-sweeps and old clotheswomen, dabbled in tulips. people of all grades converted their property into cash, and invested it in flowers. houses and lands were offered for sale at ruinously low prices, or assigned in payment of bargains made at the tulip-mart. foreigners became smitten with the same frenzy, and money poured into holland from all directions. the prices of the necessaries of life rose again by degrees; houses and lands, horses and carriages, and luxuries of every sort, rose in value with them, and for some months holland seemed the very antechamber of plutus. the operations of the trade became so extensive and so intricate, that it was found necessary to draw up a code of laws for the guidance of the dealers. notaries and clerks were also appointed, who devoted themselves exclusively to the interests of the trade. the designation of public notary was hardly known in some towns, that of tulip notary usurping its place. in the smaller towns, where there was no exchange, the principal tavern was usually selected as the "showplace," where high and low traded in tulips, and confirmed their bargains over sumptuous entertainments. these dinners were sometimes attended by two or three hundred persons, and large vases of tulips, in full bloom, were placed at regular intervals upon the tables and sideboards, for their gratification during the repast. at last, however, the more prudent began to see that this folly could not last for ever. rich people no longer bought the flowers to keep them in their gardens, but to sell them again at cent. per cent. profit. it was seen that somebody must lose fearfully in the end. as this conviction spread, prices fell, and never rose again. confidence was destroyed, and a universal panic seized upon the dealers. a had agreed to purchase ten sempers augustines from b, at four thousand florins each, at six weeks after the signing of the contract. b was ready with the flowers at the appointed time; but the price had fallen to three or four hundred florins, and a refused either to pay the difference or receive the tulips. defaulters were announced day after day in all the towns of holland. hundreds who, a few months previously, had begun to doubt that there was such a thing as poverty in the land, suddenly found themselves the possessors of a few bulbs, which nobody would buy, even though they offered them at one quarter of the sums they had paid for them. the cry of distress resounded everywhere, and each man accused his neighbour. the few who had contrived to enrich themselves hid their wealth from the knowledge of their fellow-citizens, and invested it in the english or other funds. many who, for a brief season, had emerged from the humbler walks of life, were cast back into their original obscurity. substantial merchants were reduced almost to beggary, and many a representative of a noble line saw the fortunes of his house ruined beyond redemption. when the first alarm subsided, the tulip-holders in the several towns held public meetings to devise what measures were best to be taken to restore public credit. it was generally agreed, that deputies should be sent from all parts to amsterdam, to consult with the government upon some remedy for the evil. the government at first refused to interfere, but advised the tulip-holders to agree to some plan among themselves. several meetings were held for this purpose; but no measure could be devised likely to give satisfaction to the deluded people, or repair even a slight portion of the mischief that had been done. the language of complaint and reproach was in everybody's mouth, and all the meetings were of the most stormy character. at last, however, after much bickering and ill-will, it was agreed, at amsterdam, by the assembled deputies, that all contracts made in the height of the mania, or prior to the month of november , should be declared null and void, and that, in those made after that date, purchasers should be freed from their engagements, on paying ten per cent. to the vendor. this decision gave no satisfaction. the vendors who had their tulips on hand were, of course, discontented, and those who had pledged themselves to purchase, thought themselves hardly treated. tulips which had, at one time, been worth six thousand florins, were now to be procured for five hundred; so that the composition of ten per cent. was one hundred florins more than the actual value. actions for breach of contract were threatened in all the courts of the country; but the latter refused to take cognizance of gambling transactions. the matter was finally referred to the provincial council at the hague, and it was confidently expected that the wisdom of this body would invent some measure by which credit should be restored. expectation was on the stretch for its decision, but it never came. the members continued to deliberate week after week, and at last, after thinking about it for three months, declared that they could offer no final decision until they had more information. they advised, however, that, in the mean time, every vendor should, in the presence of witnesses, offer the tulips in natura to the purchaser for the sums agreed upon. if the latter refused to take them, they might be put up for sale by public auction, and the original contractor held responsible for the difference between the actual and the stipulated price. this was exactly the plan recommended by the deputies, and which was already shown to be of no avail. there was no court in holland which would enforce payment. the question was raised in amsterdam, but the judges unanimously refused to interfere, on the ground that debts contracted in gambling were no debts in law. thus the matter rested. to find a remedy was beyond the power of the government. those who were unlucky enough to have had stores of tulips on hand at the time of the sudden reaction were left to bear their ruin as philosophically as they could; those who had made profits were allowed to keep them; but the commerce of the country suffered a severe shock, from which it was many years ere it recovered. the example of the dutch was imitated to some extent in england. in the year tulips were publicly sold in the exchange of london, and the jobbers exerted themselves to the utmost to raise them to the fictitious value they had acquired in amsterdam. in paris also the jobbers strove to create a tulipomania. in both cities they only partially succeeded. however, the force of example brought the flowers into great favour, and amongst a certain class of people tulips have ever since been prized more highly than any other flowers of the field. the dutch are still notorious for their partiality to them, and continue to pay higher prices for them than any other people. as the rich englishman boasts of his fine race-horses or his old pictures, so does the wealthy dutchman vaunt him of his tulips. in england, in our day, strange as it may appear, a tulip will produce more money than an oak. if one could be found, rara in tetris, and black as the black swan alluded to by juvenal, its price would equal that of a dozen acres of standing corn. in scotland, towards the close of the seventeenth century, the highest price for tulips, according to the authority of a writer in the supplement to the third edition of the "encyclopedia britannica," was ten guineas. their value appears to have diminished from that time till the year , when the two most valuable species in england were the don quevedo and the valentinier, the former of which was worth two guineas and the latter two guineas and a half. these prices appear to have been the minimum. in the year , a common price was fifteen guineas for a single bulb. in , so foolish were the fanciers, that a bulb of the species called the miss fanny kemble was sold by public auction in london for seventy-five pounds. still more astonishing was the price of a tulip in the possession of a gardener in the king's road, chelsea. in his catalogues, it was labelled at two hundred guineas! thus a flower, which for beauty and perfume was surpassed by the abundant roses of the garden,--a nosegay of which might be purchased for a penny,--was priced at a sum which would have provided an industrious labourer and his family with food, and clothes, and lodging for six years! should chickweed and groundsel ever come into fashion, the wealthy would, no doubt, vie with each other in adorning their gardens with them, and paying the most extravagant prices for them. in so doing, they would hardly be more foolish than the admirers of tulips. the common prices for these flowers at the present time vary from five to fifteen guineas, according to the rarity of the species. relics. a fouth o' auld knick-knackets, rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, wad haud the lothians three, in tackets, a towmond guid; an' parritch pats, and auld saut backets, afore the flood. burns. the love for relics is one which will never be eradicated as long as feeling and affection are denizens of the heart. it is a love which is most easily excited in the best and kindliest natures, and which few are callous enough to scoff at. who would not treasure the lock of hair that once adorned the brow of the faithful wife, now cold in death, or that hung down the neck of a beloved infant, now sleeping under the sward? not one. they are home-relics, whose sacred worth is intelligible to all; spoils rescued from the devouring grave, which, to the affectionate, are beyond all price. how dear to a forlorn survivor the book over whose pages he has pored with one departed! how much greater its value, if that hand, now cold, had written a thought, an opinion, or a name, upon the leaf! besides these sweet, domestic relics, there are others, which no one can condemn; relics sanctified by that admiration of greatness and goodness which is akin to love; such as the copy of montaigne's florio, with the name of shakspeare upon the leaf, written by the poet of all time himself; the chair preserved at antwerp, in which rubens sat when he painted the immortal "descent from the cross;" or the telescope, preserved in the museum of florence, which aided galileo in his sublime discoveries. who would not look with veneration upon the undoubted arrow of william tell--the swords of wallace or of hampden--or the bible whose leaves were turned by some stern old father of the faith? thus the principle of reliquism is hallowed and enshrined by love. but from this germ of purity how numerous the progeny of errors and superstitions! men, in their admiration of the great, and of all that appertained to them, have forgotten that goodness is a component part of true greatness, and have made fools of themselves for the jaw-bone of a saint, the toe-nail of an apostle, the handkerchief a king blew his nose in, or the rope that hanged a criminal. desiring to rescue some slight token from the graves of their predecessors, they have confounded the famous and the infamous, the renowned and the notorious. great saints, great sinners; great philosophers, great quacks; great conquerors, great murderers; great ministers, great thieves; each and all have had their admirers, ready to ransack earth, from the equator to either pole, to find a relic of them. the reliquism of modern times dates its origin from the centuries immediately preceding the crusades. the first pilgrims to the holy land brought back to europe thousands of apocryphal relics, in the purchase of which they had expended all their store. the greatest favourite was the wood of the true cross, which, like the oil of the widow, never diminished. it is generally asserted, in the traditions of the romish church, that the empress helen, the mother of constantine the great, first discovered the veritable "true cross" in her pilgrimage to jerusalem. the emperor theodosius made a present of the greater part of it to st. ambrose, bishop of milan, by whom it was studded with precious stones, and deposited in the principal church of that city. it was carried away by the huns, by whom it was burnt, after they had extracted the valuable jewels it contained. fragments, purporting to have been cut from it were, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, to be found in almost every church in europe, and would, if collected together in one place, have been almost sufficient to have built a cathedral. happy was the sinner who could get a sight of one of them; happier he who possessed one! to obtain them the greatest dangers were cheerfully braved. they were thought to preserve from all evils, and to cure the most inveterate diseases. annual pilgrimages were made to the shrines that contained them, and considerable revenues collected from the devotees. next in renown were those precious relics, the tears of the saviour. by whom and in what manner they were preserved, the pilgrims did not often inquire. their genuineness was vouched by the christians of the holy land, and that was sufficient. tears of the virgin mary, and tears of st. peter, were also to be had, carefully enclosed in little caskets, which the pious might wear in their bosoms. after the tears the next most precious relics were drops of the blood of jesus and the martyrs. hair and toe-nails were also in great repute, and were sold at extravagant prices. thousands of pilgrims annually visited palestine in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, to purchase pretended relics for the home market. the majority of them had no other means of subsistence than the profits thus obtained. many a nail, cut from the filthy foot of some unscrupulous ecclesiastic, was sold at a diamond's price, within six months after its severance from its parent toe, upon the supposition that it had once belonged to a saint. peter's toes were uncommonly prolific, for there were nails enough in europe, at the time of the council of clermont, to have filled a sack, all of which were devoutly believed to have grown on the sacred feet of that great apostle. some of them are still shown in the cathedral of aix-la-chapelle. the pious come from a distance of a hundred german miles to feast their eyes upon them. at port royal, in paris, is kept with great care a thorn, which the priests of that seminary assert to be one of the identical thorns that bound the holy head of the son of god. how it came there, and by whom it was preserved, has never been explained. this is the famous thorn, celebrated in the long dissensions of the jansenists and the molenists, and which worked the miraculous cure upon mademoiselle perrier: by merely kissing it, she was cured of a disease of the eyes of long standing. [voltaire, siecle de louis xiv.] what traveller is unacquainted with the santa scala, or holy stairs, at rome? they were brought from jerusalem along with the true cross, by the empress helen, and were taken from the house which, according to popular tradition, was inhabited by pontius pilate. they are said to be the steps which jesus ascended and descended when brought into the presence of the roman governor. they are held in the greatest veneration at rome: it is sacrilegious to walk upon them. the knees of the faithful must alone touch them in ascending or descending, and that only after they have reverentially kissed them. europe still swarms with these religious relics. there is hardly a roman catholic church in spain, portugal, italy, france, or belgium, without one or more of them. even the poorly endowed churches of the villages boast the possession of miraculous thigh-bones of the innumerable saints of the romish calendar. aix-la-chapelle is proud of the veritable chasse, or thigh-bone of charlemagne, which cures lameness. halle has a thighbone of the virgin mary; spain has seven or eight, all said to be undoubted relics. brussels at one time preserved, and perhaps does now, the teeth of st. gudule. the faithful, who suffered from the tooth-ache, had only to pray, look at them, and be cured. some of these holy bones have been buried in different parts of the continent. after a certain lapse of time, water is said to ooze from them, which soon forms a spring, and cures all the diseases of the faithful. at a church in halle, there is a famous thigh-bone, which cures barrenness in women. of this bone, which is under the special superintendence of the virgin, a pleasant story is related by the incredulous. there resided at ghent a couple who were blessed with all the riches of this world, but whose happiness was sore troubled by the want of children. great was the grief of the lady, who was both beautiful and loving, and many her lamentations to her husband. the latter, annoyed by her unceasing sorrow, advised her to make a pilgrimage to the celebrated chasse of the virgin. she went, was absent a week, and returned with a face all radiant with joy and pleasure. her lamentations ceased, and, in nine months afterwards, she brought forth a son. but, oh! the instability of human joys! the babe, so long desired and so greatly beloved, survived but a few months. two years passed over the heads of the disconsolate couple, and no second child appeared to cheer their fire-side. a third year passed away with the same result, and the lady once more began to weep. "cheer up, my love," said her husband, "and go to the holy chasse, at halle; perhaps the virgin will again listen to your prayers." the lady took courage at the thought, wiped away her tears, and proceeded on the morrow towards halle. she was absent only three days, and returned home sad, weeping, and sorrow-stricken. "what is the matter?" said her husband; "is the virgin unwilling to listen to your prayers?" "the virgin is willing enough," said the disconsolate wife, "and will do what she can for me; but i shall never have any more children! the priest! the priest!--he is gone from halle, and nobody knows where to find him!" it is curious to remark the avidity manifested in all ages, and in all countries, to obtain possession of some relic of any persons who have been much spoken of, even for their crimes. when william longbeard, leader of the populace of london, in the reign of richard i, was hanged at smithfield, the utmost eagerness was shown to obtain a hair from his head, or a shred from his garments. women came from essex, kent, suffolk, sussex, and all the surrounding counties, to collect the mould at the foot of his gallows. a hair of his beard was believed to preserve from evil spirits, and a piece of his clothes from aches and pains. in more modern days, a similar avidity was shown to obtain a relic of the luckless masaniello, the fisherman of naples. after he had been raised by mob favour to a height of power more despotic than monarch ever wielded, he was shot by the same populace in the streets, as if he had been a mad dog. his headless trunk was dragged through the mire for several hours, and cast at night-fall into the city ditch. on the morrow the tide of popular feeling turned once more in his favour. his corpse was sought, arrayed in royal robes, and buried magnificently by torch-light in the cathedral, ten thousand armed men, and as many mourners, attending at the ceremony. the fisherman's dress which he had worn was rent into shreds by the crowd, to be preserved as relics; the door of his hut was pulled off its hinges by a mob of women, and eagerly cut up into small pieces, to be made into images, caskets, and other mementos. the scanty furniture of his poor abode became of more value than the adornments of a palace; the ground he had walked upon was considered sacred, and, being collected in small phials, was sold at its weight in gold, and worn in the bosom as an amulet. almost as extraordinary was the frenzy manifested by the populace of paris on the execution of the atrocious marchioness de brinvilliers. there were grounds for the popular wonder in the case of masaniello, who was unstained with personal crimes. but the career of madame de brinvilliers was of a nature to excite no other feelings than disgust and abhorrence. she was convicted of poisoning several persons, and sentenced to be burned in the place de greve, and to have her ashes scattered to the winds. on the day of her execution, the populace, struck by her gracefulness and beauty, inveighed against the severity of her sentence. their pity soon increased to admiration, and, ere evening, she was considered a saint. her ashes were industriously collected, even the charred wood, which had aided to consume her, was eagerly purchased by the populace. her ashes were thought to preserve from witchcraft. in england many persons have a singular love for the relics of thieves and murderers, or other great criminals. the ropes with which they have been hanged are very often bought by collectors at a guinea per foot. great sums were paid for the rope which hanged dr. dodd, and for those more recently which did justice upon mr. fauntleroy for forgery, and on thurtell for the murder of mr. weare. the murder of maria marten, by corder, in the year , excited the greatest interest all over the country. people came from wales and scotland, and even from ireland, to visit the barn where the body of the murdered woman was buried. every one of them was anxious to carry away some memorial of his visit. pieces of the barn-door, tiles from the roof, and, above all, the clothes of the poor victim, were eagerly sought after. a lock of her hair was sold for two guineas, and the purchaser thought himself fortunate in getting it so cheaply. so great was the concourse of people to visit the house in camberwell lane, where greenacre murdered hannah brown, in , that it was found necessary to station a strong detachment of police on the spot. the crowd was so eager to obtain a relic of the house of this atrocious criminal, that the police were obliged to employ force to prevent the tables and chairs, and even the doors, from being carried away. in earlier times, a singular superstition was attached to the hand of a criminal who had suffered execution. it was thought that by merely rubbing the dead hand on the body, the patient afflicted with the king's evil would be instantly cured. the executioner at newgate, sixty or seventy years ago, derived no inconsiderable revenue from this foolish practice. the possession of the hand was thought to be of still greater efficacy in the cure of diseases and the prevention of misfortunes. in the time of charles ii as much as ten guineas was thought a small price for one of these disgusting relics. when the maniac, thom, or courtenay, was shot, in the spring of , the relic-hunters were immediately in motion to obtain a memento of so extraordinary an individual. his long, black beard and hair, which were cut off by the surgeons, fell into the hands of his disciples, by whom they are treasured with the utmost reverence. a lock of his hair commands a great price, not only amongst his followers, but among the more wealthy inhabitants of canterbury and its neighbourhood. the tree against which he fell when he was shot, has already been stripped of all its bark by the curious, and bids fair to be entirely demolished within a twelvemonth. a letter, with his signature to it, is paid for in gold coins; and his favourite horse promises to become as celebrated as his master. parties of ladies and gentlemen have come to boughton from a distance of a hundred and fifty miles, to visit the scene of that fatal affray, and stroke on the back the horse of the "mad knight of malta." if a strict watch had not been kept over his grave for months, the body would have been disinterred, and the bones carried away as memorials. among the chinese no relics are more valued than the boots which have been worn by an upright magistrate. in davis's interesting description of the empire of china, we are informed, that whenever a judge of unusual integrity resigns his situation, the people all congregate to do him honour. if he leaves the city where he has presided, the crowd accompany him from his residence to the gates, where his boots are drawn off with great ceremony, to be preserved in the hall of justice. their place is immediately supplied by a new pair, which, in their turn, are drawn off to make room for others before he has worn them five minutes, it being considered sufficient to consecrate them that he should have merely drawn them on. among the most favourite relics of modern times, in europe, are shakspeare's mulberry-tree, napoleon's willow, and the table at waterloo, on which the emperor wrote his despatches. snuffboxes of shakspeare's mulberry-tree, are comparatively rare, though there are doubtless more of them in the market than were ever made of the wood planted by the great bard. many a piece of alien wood passes under this name. the same may be said of napoleon's table at waterloo. the original has long since been destroyed, and a round dozen of counterfeits along with it. many preserve the simple stick of wood; others have them cut into brooches and every variety of ornament; but by far the greater number prefer them as snuff-boxes. in france they are made into bonbonnieres, and are much esteemed by the many thousands whose cheeks still glow, and whose eyes still sparkle at the name of napoleon. bullets from the field of waterloo, and buttons from the coats of the soldiers who fell in the fight, are still favourite relics in europe. but the same ingenuity which found new tables after the old one was destroyed, has cast new bullets for the curious. many a one who thinks himself the possessor of a bullet which aided in giving peace to the world on that memorable day, is the owner of a dump, first extracted from the ore a dozen years afterwards. let all lovers of genuine relics look well to their money before they part with it to the ciceroni that swarm in the village of waterloo. few travellers stop at the lonely isle of st. helena, without cutting a twig from the willow that droops over the grave of napoleon. many of them have since been planted in different parts of europe, and have grown into trees as large as their parent. relic-hunters, who are unable to procure a twig of the original, are content with one from these. several of them are growing in the neighbourhood of london, more prized by their cultivators than any other tree in their gardens. but in relics, as in everything else, there is the use and the abuse. the undoubted relics of great men, or great events, will always possess attractions for the thinking and refined. there are few who would not join with cowley in the extravagant wish introduced in his lines "written while sitting in a chair made of the remains of the ship in which sir francis drake sailed round the world:"-- and i myself, who now love quiet too, almost as much as any chair can do, would yet a journey take an old wheel of that chariot to see, which phaeton so rashly brake. modern prophecies. as epidemic terror of the end of the world has several times spread over the nations. the most remarkable was that which seized christendom about the middle of the tenth century. numbers of fanatics appeared in france, germany, and italy at that time, preaching that the thousand years prophesied in the apocalypse as the term of the world's duration, were about to expire, and that the son of man would appear in the clouds to judge the godly and the ungodly. the delusion appears to have been discouraged by the church, but it nevertheless spread rapidly among the people. [see gibbon and voltaire for further notice of this subject.] the scene of the last judgment was expected to be at jerusalem. in the year , the number of pilgrims proceeding eastward, to await the coming of the lord in that city, was so great that they were compared to a desolating army. most of them sold their goods and possessions before they quitted europe, and lived upon the proceeds in the holy land. buildings of every sort were suffered to fall into ruins. it was thought useless to repair them, when the end of the world was so near. many noble edifices were deliberately pulled down. even churches, usually so well maintained, shared the general neglect. knights, citizens, and serfs, travelled eastwards in company, taking with them their wives and children, singing psalms as they went, and looking with fearful eyes upon the sky, which they expected each minute to open, to let the son of god descend in his glory. during the thousandth year the number of pilgrims increased. most of them were smitten with terror as with a plague. every phenomenon of nature filled them with alarm. a thunder-storm sent them all upon their knees in mid-march. it was the opinion that thunder was the voice of god, announcing the day of judgment. numbers expected the earth to open, and give up its dead at the sound. every meteor in the sky seen at jerusalem brought the whole christian population into the streets to weep and pray. the pilgrims on the road were in the same alarm:-- lorsque, pendant la nuit, un globe de lumiere s'echappa quelquefois de la voute des cieux, et traca dans sa chute un long sillon de feux, la troupe suspendit sa marche solitaire. [charlemagne. pomme epique, par lucien buonaparte.] fanatic preachers kept up the flame of terror. every shooting star furnished occasion for a sermon, in which the sublimity of the approaching judgment was the principal topic. the appearance of comets has been often thought to foretell the speedy dissolution of this world. part of this belief still exists; but the comet is no longer looked upon as the sign, but the agent of destruction. so lately as in the year the greatest alarm spread over the continent of europe, especially in germany, lest the comet, whose appearance was then foretold by astronomers, should destroy the earth. the danger of our globe was gravely discussed. many persons refrained from undertaking or concluding any business during that year, in consequence solely of their apprehension that this terrible comet would dash us and our world to atoms. during seasons of great pestilence men have often believed the prophecies of crazed fanatics, that the end of the world was come. credulity is always greatest in times of calamity. prophecies of all sorts are rife on such occasions, and are readily believed, whether for good or evil. during the great plague, which ravaged all europe, between the years and , it was generally considered that the end of the world was at hand. pretended prophets were to be found in all the principal cities of germany, france, and italy, predicting that within ten years the trump of the archangel would sound, and the saviour appear in the clouds to call the earth to judgment. no little consternation was created in london in by the prophecy of the famous whiston, that the world would be destroyed in that year, on the th of october. crowds of people went out on the appointed day to islington, hampstead, and the fields intervening, to see the destruction of london, which was to be the "beginning of the end." a satirical account of this folly is given in swift's miscellanies, vol. iii. entitled, "a true and faithful narrative of what passed in london on a rumour of the day of judgment." an authentic narrative of this delusion would be interesting; but this solemn witticism of pope and gay is not to be depended upon. in the year the citizens of london were again frightened out of their wits by two shocks of an earthquake, and the prophecy of a third, which was to destroy them altogether. the first shock was felt on the th of february, and threw down several chimneys in the neighbourhood of limehouse and poplar; the second happened on the th of march, and was chiefly felt in the north of london, and towards hampstead and highgate. it soon became the subject of general remark, that there was exactly an interval of a month between the shocks; and a crack-brained fellow, named bell, a soldier in the life guards, was so impressed with the idea that there would be a third in another month, that he lost his senses altogether, and ran about the streets predicting the destruction of london on the th of april. most people thought that the first would have been a more appropriate day; but there were not wanting thousands who confidently believed the prediction, and took measures to transport themselves and families from the scene of the impending calamity. as the awful day approached, the excitement became intense, and great numbers of credulous people resorted to all the villages within a circuit of twenty miles, awaiting the doom of london. islington, highgate, hampstead, harrow, and blackheath, were crowded with panic-stricken fugitives, who paid exorbitant prices for accommodation to the housekeepers of these secure retreats. such as could not afford to pay for lodgings at any of those places, remained in london until two or three days before the time, and then encamped in the surrounding fields, awaiting the tremendous shock which was to lay their high city all level with the dust. as happened during a similar panic in the time of henry viii, the fear became contagious, and hundreds who had laughed at the prediction a week before, packed up their goods, when they saw others doing so, and hastened away. the river was thought to be a place of great security, and all the merchant vessels in the port were filled with people, who passed the night between the th and th on board, expecting every instant to see st. paul's totter, and the towers of westminster abbey rock in the wind and fall amid a cloud of dust. the greater part of the fugitives returned on the following day, convinced that the prophet was a false one; but many judged it more prudent to allow a week to elapse before they trusted their dear limbs in london. bell lost all credit in a short time, and was looked upon even by the most credulous as a mere madman. he tried some other prophecies, but nobody was deceived by them; and, in a few months afterwards, he was confined in a lunatic asylum. a panic terror of the end of the world seized the good people of leeds and its neighbourhood in the year . it arose from the following circumstances. a hen, in a village close by, laid eggs, on which were inscribed, in legible characters, the words "christ is coming." great numbers visited the spot, and examined these wondrous eggs, convinced that the day of judgment was near at hand. like sailors in a storm, expecting every instant to go to the bottom, the believers suddenly became religious, prayed violently, and flattered themselves that they repented them of their evil courses. but a plain tale soon put them down, and quenched their religion entirely. some gentlemen, hearing of the matter, went one fine morning, and caught the poor hen in the act of laying one of her miraculous eggs. they soon ascertained beyond doubt that the egg had been inscribed with some corrosive ink, and cruelly forced up again into the bird's body. at this explanation, those who had prayed, now laughed, and the world wagged as merrily as of yore. at the time of the plague in milan, in , of which so affecting a description has been left us by ripamonte, in his interesting work "de peste mediolani", the people, in their distress, listened with avidity to the predictions of astrologers and other impostors. it is singular enough that the plague was foretold a year before it broke out. a large comet appearing in , the opinions of astrologers were divided with regard to it. some insisted that it was a forerunner of a bloody war; others maintained that it predicted a great famine; but the greater number, founding their judgment upon its pale colour, thought it portended a pestilence. the fulfilment of their prediction brought them into great repute while the plague was raging. other prophecies were current, which were asserted to have been delivered hundreds of years previously. they had a most pernicious effect upon the mind of the vulgar, as they induced a belief in fatalism. by taking away the hope of recovery--that greatest balm in every malady--they increased threefold the ravages of the disease. one singular prediction almost drove the unhappy people mad. an ancient couplet, preserved for ages by tradition, foretold, that in the year the devil would poison all milan. early one morning in april, and before the pestilence had reached its height, the passengers were surprised to see that all the doors in the principal streets of the city were marked with a curious daub, or spot, as if a sponge, filled with the purulent matter of the plague-sores, had been pressed against them. the whole population were speedily in movement to remark the strange appearance, and the greatest alarm spread rapidly. every means was taken to discover the perpetrators, but in vain. at last the ancient prophecy was remembered, and prayers were offered up in all the churches that the machinations of the evil one might be defeated. many persons were of opinion that the emissaries of foreign powers were employed to spread infectious poison over the city; but by far the greater number were convinced that the powers of hell had conspired against them, and that the infection was spread by supernatural agencies. in the mean time the plague increased fearfully. distrust and alarm took possession of every mind. everything was believed to have been poisoned by the devil; the waters of the wells, the standing corn in the fields, and the fruit upon the trees. it was believed that all objects of touch were poisoned; the walls of the houses, the pavement of the streets, and the very handles of the doors. the populace were raised to a pitch of ungovernable fury. a strict watch was kept for the devil's emissaries, and any man who wanted to be rid of an enemy, had only to say that he had seen him besmearing a door with ointment; his fate was certain death at the hands of the mob. an old man, upwards of eighty years of age, a daily frequenter of the church of st. antonio, was seen, on rising from his knees, to wipe with the skirt of his cloak the stool on which he was about to sit down. a cry was raised immediately that he was besmearing the seat with poison. a mob of women, by whom the church was crowded, seized hold of the feeble old man, and dragged him out by the hair of his head, with horrid oaths and imprecations. he was trailed in this manner through the mire to the house of the municipal judge, that he might be put to the rack, and forced to discover his accomplices; but he expired on the way. many other victims were sacrificed to the popular fury. one mora, who appears to have been half a chemist and half a barber, was accused of being in league with the devil to poison milan. his house was surrounded, and a number of chemical preparations were found. the poor man asserted, that they were intended as preservatives against infection; but some physicians, to whom they were submitted, declared they were poison. mora was put to the rack, where he for a long time asserted his innocence. he confessed at last, when his courage was worn down by torture, that he was in league with the devil and foreign powers to poison the whole city; that he had anointed the doors, and infected the fountains of water. he named several persons as his accomplices, who were apprehended and put to a similar torture. they were all found guilty, and executed. mora's house was rased to the ground, and a column erected on the spot, with an inscription to commemorate his guilt. while the public mind was filled with these marvellous occurrences, the plague continued to increase. the crowds that were brought together to witness the executions, spread the infection among one another. but the fury of their passions, and the extent of their credulity, kept pace with the violence of the plague; every wonderful and preposterous story was believed. one, in particular, occupied them to the exclusion, for a long time, of every other. the devil himself had been seen. he had taken a house in milan, in which he prepared his poisonous unguents, and furnished them to his emissaries for distribution. one man had brooded over such tales till he became firmly convinced that the wild flights of his own fancy were realities. he stationed himself in the market-place of milan, and related the following story to the crowds that gathered round him. he was standing, he said, at the door of the cathedral, late in the evening, and when there was nobody nigh, he saw a dark-coloured chariot, drawn by six milk-white horses, stop close beside him. the chariot was followed by a numerous train of domestics in dark liveries, mounted on dark-coloured steeds. in the chariot there sat a tall stranger of a majestic aspect; his long black hair floated in the wind--fire flashed from his large black eyes, and a curl of ineffable scorn dwelt upon his lips. the look of the stranger was so sublime that he was awed, and trembled with fear when he gazed upon him. his complexion was much darker than that of any man he had ever seen, and the atmosphere around him was hot and suffocating. he perceived immediately that he was a being of another world. the stranger, seeing his trepidation, asked him blandly, yet majestically, to mount beside him. he had no power to refuse, and before he was well aware that he had moved, he found himself in the chariot. onwards they went, with the rapidity of the wind, the stranger speaking no word, until they stopped before a door in the high-street of milan. there was a crowd of people in the street, but, to his great surprise, no one seemed to notice the extraordinary equipage and its numerous train. from this he concluded that they were invisible. the house at which they stopped appeared to be a shop, but the interior was like a vast half-ruined palace. he went with his mysterious guide through several large and dimly-lighted rooms. in one of them, surrounded by huge pillars of marble, a senate of ghosts was assembled, debating on the progress of the plague. other parts of the building were enveloped in the thickest darkness, illumined at intervals by flashes of lightning, which allowed him to distinguish a number of gibing and chattering skeletons, running about and pursuing each other, or playing at leap-frog over one another's backs. at the rear of the mansion was a wild, uncultivated plot of ground, in the midst of which arose a black rock. down its sides rushed with fearful noise a torrent of poisonous water, which, insinuating itself through the soil, penetrated to all the springs of the city, and rendered them unfit for use. after he had been shown all this, the stranger led him into another large chamber, filled with gold and precious stones, all of which he offered him if he would kneel down and worship him, and consent to smear the doors and houses of milan with a pestiferous salve which he held out to him. he now knew him to be the devil, and in that moment of temptation, prayed to god to give him strength to resist. his prayer was heard--he refused the bribe. the stranger scowled horribly upon him--a loud clap of thunder burst over his head--the vivid lightning flashed in his eyes, and the next moment he found himself standing alone at the porch of the cathedral. he repeated this strange tale day after day, without any variation, and all the populace were firm believers in its truth. repeated search was made to discover the mysterious house, but all in vain. the man pointed out several as resembling it, which were searched by the police; but the demon of the pestilence was not to be found, nor the hall of ghosts, nor the poisonous fountain. but the minds of the people were so impressed with the idea that scores of witnesses, half crazed by disease, came forward to swear that they also had seen the diabolical stranger, and had heard his chariot, drawn by the milk-white steeds, rumbling over the streets at midnight with a sound louder than thunder. the number of persons who confessed that they were employed by the devil to distribute poison is almost incredible. an epidemic frenzy was abroad, which seemed to be as contagious as the plague. imagination was as disordered as the body, and day after day persons came voluntarily forward to accuse themselves. they generally had the marks of disease upon them, and some died in the act of confession. during the great plague of london, in , the people listened with similar avidity to the predictions of quacks and fanatics. defoe says, that at that time the people were more addicted to prophecies and astronomical conjurations, dreams, and old wives' tales than ever they were before or since. almanacs, and their predictions, frightened them terribly. even the year before the plague broke out, they were greatly alarmed by the comet which then appeared, and anticipated that famine, pestilence, or fire would follow. enthusiasts, while yet the disease had made but little progress, ran about the streets, predicting that in a few days london would be destroyed. a still more singular instance of the faith in predictions occurred in london in the year . the city swarmed at that time with fortune-tellers and astrologers, who were consulted daily by people of every class in society on the secrets of futurity. as early as the month of june , several of them concurred in predicting that, on the st day of february, , the waters of the thames would swell to such a height as to overflow the whole city of london, and wash away ten thousand houses. the prophecy met implicit belief. it was reiterated with the utmost confidence month after month, until so much alarm was excited that many families packed up their goods, and removed into kent and essex. as the time drew nigh, the number of these emigrants increased. in january, droves of workmen might be seen, followed by their wives and children, trudging on foot to the villages within fifteen or twenty miles, to await the catastrophe. people of a higher class were also to be seen, in waggons and other vehicles, bound on a similar errand. by the middle of january, at least twenty thousand persons had quitted the doomed city, leaving nothing but the bare walls of their homes to be swept away by the impending floods. many of the richer sort took up their abode on the heights of highgate, hampstead, and blackheath; and some erected tents as far away as waltham abbey, on the north, and croydon, on the south of the thames. bolton, the prior of st. bartholomew's, was so alarmed that he erected, at very great expense, a sort of fortress at harrow-on-the-hill, which he stocked with provisions for two months. on the th of january, a week before the awful day which was to see the destruction of london, he removed thither, with the brethren and officers of the priory and all his household. a number of boats were conveyed in waggons to his fortress, furnished abundantly with expert rowers, in case the flood, reaching so high as harrow, should force them to go further for a resting-place. many wealthy citizens prayed to share his retreat, but the prior, with a prudent forethought, admitted only his personal friends, and those who brought stores of eatables for the blockade. at last the morn, big with the fate of london, appeared in the east. the wondering crowds were astir at an early hour to watch the rising of the waters. the inundation, it was predicted, would be gradual, not sudden; so that they expected to have plenty of time to escape, as soon as they saw the bosom of old thames heave beyond the usual mark. but the majority were too much alarmed to trust to this, and thought themselves safer ten or twenty miles off. the thames, unmindful of the foolish crowds upon its banks, flowed on quietly as of yore. the tide ebbed at its usual hour, flowed to its usual height, and then ebbed again, just as if twenty astrologers had not pledged their words to the contrary. blank were their faces as evening approached, and as blank grew the faces of the citizens to think that they had made such fools of themselves. at last night set in, and the obstinate river would not lift its waters to sweep away even one house out of the ten thousand. still, however, the people were afraid to go to sleep. many hundreds remained up till dawn of the next day, lest the deluge should come upon them like a thief in the night. on the morrow, it was seriously discussed whether it would not be advisable to duck the false prophets in the river. luckily for them, they thought of an expedient which allayed the popular fury. they asserted that, by an error (a very slight one) of a little figure, they had fixed the date of this awful inundation a whole century too early. the stars were right after all, and they, erring mortals, were wrong. the present generation of cockneys was safe, and london 'would be washed away, not in , but in . at this announcement, bolton, the prior, dismantled his fortress, and the weary emigrants came back. an eye-witness of the great fire of london, in an account preserved among the harleian mss. in the british museum, and recently published in the transactions of the royal society of antiquaries, relates another instance of the credulity of the londoners. the writer, who accompanied the duke of york day by day through the district included between the fleet-bridge and the thames, states that, in their efforts to check the progress of the flames, they were much impeded by the superstition of the people. mother shipton, in one of her prophecies, had said that london would be reduced to ashes, and they refused to make any efforts to prevent it. [this prophecy seems to have been that set forth at length in the popular life of mother shipton:-- "when fate to england shall restore a king to reign as heretofore, great death in london shall be though, and many houses be laid low."] a son of the noted sir kenelm digby, who was also a pretender to the gifts of prophecy, persuaded them that no power on earth could prevent the fulfilment of the prediction; for it was written in the great book of fate that london was to be destroyed. hundreds of persons, who might have rendered valuable assistance, and saved whole parishes from devastation, folded their arms and looked on. as many more gave themselves up, with the less compunction, to plunder a city which they could not save. the prophecies of mother shipton are still believed in many of the rural districts of england. in cottages and servants' halls her reputation is great; and she rules, the most popular of british prophets, among all the uneducated, or half-educated, portions of the community. she is generally supposed to have been born at knaresborough, in the reign of henry vii, and to have sold her soul to the devil for the power of foretelling future events. though during her lifetime she was looked upon as a witch, she yet escaped the witch's fate, and died peaceably in her bed at an extreme old age, near clifton in yorkshire. a stone is said to have been erected to her memory in the church-yard of that place, with the following epitaph:-- "here lies she who never lied; whose skill often has been tried: her prophecies shall still survive, and ever keep her name alive." "never a day passed," says her traditionary biography, "wherein she did not relate something remarkable, and that required the most serious consideration. people flocked to her from far and near, her fame was so great. they went to her of all sorts, both old and young, rich and poor, especially young maidens, to be resolved of their doubts relating to things to come; and all returned wonderfully satisfied in the explanations she gave to their questions." among the rest, went the abbot of beverley, to whom she foretold the suppression of the monasteries by henry viii; his marriage with anne boleyn; the fires for heretics in smithfield, and the execution of mary queen of scots. she also foretold the accession of james i, adding that, with him, "from the cold north, every evil should come forth." on a subsequent visit she uttered another prophecy, which, in the opinion of her believers, still remains unfulfilled, but may be expected to be realised during the present century:-- "the time shall come when seas of blood shall mingle with a greater flood. great noise there shall be heard--great shouts and cries, and seas shall thunder louder than the skies; then shall three lions fight with three, and bring joy to a people, honour to a king. that fiery year as soon as o'er, peace shall then be as before; plenty shall everywhere be found, and men with swords shall plough the ground." but the most famous of all her prophecies is one relating to london. thousands of persons still shudder to think of the woes that are to burst over this unhappy realm, when london and highgate are joined by one continuous line of houses. this junction, which, if the rage for building lasts much longer, in the same proportion as heretofore, bids fair to be soon accomplished, was predicted by her shortly before her death. revolutions--the fall of mighty monarchs, and the shedding of much blood are to signalise that event. the very angels, afflicted by our woes, are to turn aside their heads, and weep for hapless britain. but great as is the fame of mother shipton, she ranks but second in the list of british prophets. merlin, the mighty merlin, stands alone in his high pre-eminence--the first and greatest. as old drayton sings, in his poly-olbion:-- "of merlin and his skill what region doth not hear? the world shall still be full of merlin every year. a thousand lingering years his prophecies have run, and scarcely shall have end till time itself be done." spenser, in his divine poem, has given us a powerful description of this renowned seer-- ".......who had in magic more insight than ever him before, or after, living wight. "for he by words could call out of the sky both sun and moon, and make them him obey; the land to sea, and sea to mainland dry, and darksome night he eke could turn to day-- huge hosts of men he could, alone, dismay. and hosts of men and meanest things could frame, whenso him list his enemies to fray, that to this day, for terror of his name, the fiends do quake, when any him to them does name. "and soothe men say that he was not the sonne, of mortal sire or other living wighte, but wondrously begotten and begoune by false illusion of a guileful sprite, on a faire ladye nun." in these verses the poet has preserved the popular belief with regard to merlin, who is generally supposed to have been a contemporary of vortigern. opinion is divided as to whether he were a real personage, or a mere impersonation, formed by the poetic fancy of a credulous people. it seems most probable that such a man did exist, and that, possessing knowledge as much above the comprehension of his age, as that possessed by friar bacon was beyond the reach of his, he was endowed by the wondering crowd with the supernatural attributes that spenser has enumerated. geoffrey of monmouth translated merlin's poetical odes, or prophecies, into latin prose, and he was much reverenced, not only by geoffrey, but by most of the old annalists. in a "life of merlin, with his prophecies and predictions, interpreted and made good by our english annals," by thomas heywood, published in the reign of charles i, we find several of these pretended prophecies. they seem, however, to have been all written by heywood himself. they are in terms too plain and positive to allow any one to doubt for a moment of their having been composed ex post facto. speaking of richard i, he says:-- "the lion's heart will 'gainst the saracen rise, and purchase from him many a glorious prize; the rose and lily shall at first unite, but, parting of the prey prove opposite. * * * * but while abroad these great acts shall be done; all things at home shall to disorder run. cooped up and caged then shall the lion be, but, after sufferance, ransomed and set free." the sapient thomas heywood gravely goes on to inform us, that all these things actually came to pass. upon richard iii he is equally luminous. he says:-- "a hunch-backed monster, who with teeth is born, the mockery of art and nature's scorn; who from the womb preposterously is hurled, and, with feet forward, thrust into the world, shall, from the lower earth on which he stood, wade, every step he mounts, knee-deep in blood. he shall to th' height of all his hopes aspire, and, clothed in state, his ugly shape admire; but, when he thinks himself most safe to stand, from foreign parts a native whelp shall land." another of these prophecies after the event tells us that henry viii should take the power from rome, "and bring it home unto his british bower;" that he should "root out from the land all the razored skulls;" and that he should neither spare "man in his rage nor woman in his lust;" and that, in the time of his next successor but one, "there should come in the fagot and the stake." master heywood closes merlin's prophecies at his own day, and does not give even a glimpse of what was to befall england after his decease. many other prophecies, besides those quoted by him, were, he says, dispersed abroad, in his day, under the name of merlin; but he gives his readers a taste of one only, and that is the following:-- "when hempe is ripe and ready to pull, then englishman beware thy skull." this prophecy, which, one would think, ought to have put him in mind of the gallows, the not unusual fate of false prophets, and perchance his own, he explains thus:--"in this word hempe be five letters. now, by reckoning the five successive princes from henry viii, this prophecy is easily explained: h signifieth king henry before named; e, edward, his son, the sixth of that name; m, mary, who succeeded him; p, philip of spain, who, by marrying queen mary, participated with her in the english diadem; and, lastly, e signifieth queen elizabeth, after whose death there was a great feare that some troubles might have arisen about the crown." as this did not happen, heywood, who was a sly rogue in a small way, gets out of the scrape by saying, "yet proved this augury true, though not according to the former expectation; for, after the peaceful inauguration of king james, there was great mortality, not in london only, but through the whole kingdom, and from which the nation was not quite clean in seven years after." this is not unlike the subterfuge of peter of pontefract, who had prophesied the death and deposition of king john, and who was hanged by that monarch for his pains. a very graphic and amusing account of this pretended prophet is given by grafton, in his chronicles of england. there is so much homely vigour about the style of the old annalist, that it would be a pity to give the story in other words than his own. [chronicles of england, by richard grafton; london, , p. .] "in the meanwhile," says he, "the priestes within england had provided them a false and counterfeated prophet, called peter wakefielde, a yorkshire man, who was an hermite, an idle gadder about, and a pratlyng marchant. now to bring this peter in credite, and the kyng out of all credite with his people, diverse vaine persons bruted dayly among the commons of the realme, that christe had twice appered unto him in the shape of a childe, betwene the prieste's handes, once at yorke, another tyme at pomfret; and that he had breathed upon him thrice, saying, 'peace, peace, peace,' and teachyng many things, which he anon declared to the bishops, and bid the people amend their naughtie living. being rapt also in spirite, they sayde he behelde the joyes of heaven and sorowes of hell, for scant were there three in the realme, sayde he, that lived christainly. "this counterfeated soothsayer prophecied of king john, that he should reigne no longer than the ascension-day next followyng, which was in the yere of our lord , and was the thirteenth yere from his coronation; and this, he said, he had by revelation. then it was of him demanded, whether he should be slaine or be deposed, or should voluntarily give over the crowne? he aunswered, that he could not tell; but of this he was sure (he sayd), that neither he nor any of his stock or lineage should reigne after that day. "the king hering of this, laughed much at it, and made but a scoff thereat. 'tush!' saith he, 'it is but an ideot knave, and such an one as lacketh his right wittes.' but when this foolish prophet had so escaped the daunger of the kinge's displeasure, and that he made no more of it, he gate him abroad, and prated thereof at large, as he was a very idle vagabond, and used to trattle and talke more than ynough, so that they which loved the king caused him anon after to be apprehended as a malefactor, and to be throwen in prison, the king not yet knowing thereof. "anone after the fame of this phantasticall prophet went all the realme over, and his name was knowen everywhere, as foolishnesse is much regarded of the people, where wisdome is not in place; specially because he was then imprisoned for the matter, the rumour was the larger, their wonderynges were the wantoner, their practises the foolisher, their busye talkes and other idle doinges the greater. continually from thence, as the rude manner of people is, olde gossyps tales went abroade, new tales were invented, fables were added to fables, and lyes grew upon lyes. so that every daye newe slanders were laide upon the king, and not one of them true. rumors arose, blasphemyes were sprede, the enemyes rejoyced, and treasons by the priestes were mainteyned; and what lykewise was surmised, or other subtiltye practised, all was then lathered upon this foolish prophet, as 'thus saith peter wakefield;' 'thus hath he prophecied;' 'and thus it shall come to pass;' yea, many times, when he thought nothing lesse. and when the ascension-day was come, which was prophecyed of before, king john commanded his royal tent to be spread in the open fielde, passing that day with his noble counseyle and men of honour, in the greatest solemnitie that ever he did before; solacing himself with musickale instrumentes and songs, most in sight among his trustie friendes. when that day was paste in all prosperitie and myrth, his enemyes being confused, turned all into an allegorical understanding to make the prophecie good, and sayde, 'he is no longer king, for the pope reigneth, and not he.'" [king john was labouring under a sentence of excommunication at the time.] "then was the king by his council perswaded that this false prophet had troubled the realme, perverted the heartes of the people, and raysed the commons against him; for his wordes went over the sea, by the help of his prelates, and came to the french king's care, and gave to him a great encouragement to invade the lande. he had not else done it so sodeinely. but he was most lowly deceived, as all they are and shall be that put their trust in such dark drowsye dreames of hipocrites. the king therefore commanded that he should be hanged up, and his sonne also with him, lest any more false prophets should arise of that race." heywood, who was a great stickler for the truth of all sorts of prophecies, gives a much more favourable account of this peter of pomfret, or pontefract, whose fate he would, in all probability, have shared, if he had had the misfortune to have flourished in the same age. he says, that peter, who was not only a prophet, but a bard, predicted divers of king john's disasters, which fell out accordingly. on being taxed for a lying prophet in having predicted that the king would be deposed before he entered into the fifteenth year of his reign, he answered him boldly, that all he had said was justifiable and true; for that, having given up his crown to the pope, and paying him an annual tribute, the pope reigned, and not he. heywood thought this explanation to be perfectly satisfactory, and the prophet's faith for ever established. but to return to merlin. of him even to this day it may be said, in the words which burns has applied to another notorious personage, "great was his power and great his fame; far kenned and noted is his name? his reputation is by no means confined to the land of his birth, but extends through most of the nations of europe. a very curious volume of his life, prophecies, and miracles, written, it is supposed, by robert de bosron, was printed at paris in , which states, that the devil himself was his father, and that he spoke the instant he was born, and assured his mother, a very virtuous young woman, that she should not die in child-bed with him, as her ill-natured neighbours had predicted. the judge of the district, hearing of so marvellous an occurrence, summoned both mother and child to appear before him; and they went accordingly the same day. to put the wisdom of the young prophet most effectually to the test, the judge asked him if he knew his own father? to which the infant merlin replied, in a clear, sonorous voice, "yes, my father is the devil; and i have his power, and know all things, past, present, and to come." his worship clapped his hands in astonishment, and took the prudent resolution of not molesting so awful a child, or its mother either. early tradition attributes the building of stonehenge to the power of merlin. it was believed that those mighty stones were whirled through the air, at his command, from ireland to salisbury plain, and that he arranged them in the form in which they now stand, to commemorate for ever the unhappy fate of three hundred british chiefs, who were massacred on that spot by the saxons. at abergwylly, near caermarthen, is still shown the cave of the prophet and the scene of his incantations. how beautiful is the description of it given by spenser in his "faerie queene." the lines need no apology for their repetition here, and any sketch of the great prophet of britain would be incomplete without them:-- "there the wise merlin, whilom wont (they say), to make his wonne low underneath the ground, in a deep delve far from the view of day, that of no living wight he mote be found, whenso he counselled with his sprites encompassed round. "and if thou ever happen that same way to travel, go to see that dreadful place; it is a hideous, hollow cave, they say, under a rock that lies a little space from the swift barry, tumbling down apace amongst the woody hills of dynevoure; but dare thou not, i charge, in any case, to enter into that same baleful bower, for fear the cruel fiendes should thee unwares devour! "but, standing high aloft, low lay thine care, and there such ghastly noise of iron chaines, and brazen caudrons thou shalt rombling heare, which thousand sprites, with long-enduring paines, doe tosse, that it will stun thy feeble braines; and often times great groans and grievous stownds, when too huge toile and labour them constraines; and often times loud strokes and ringing sounds from under that deep rock most horribly rebounds. "the cause, they say, is this. a little while before that merlin died, he did intend a brazen wall in compass, to compile about cayr merdin, and did it commend unto these sprites to bring to perfect end; during which work the lady of the lake, whom long he loved, for him in haste did send, who thereby forced his workmen to forsake, them bound till his return their labour not to slake. "in the mean time, through that false ladie's traine, he was surprised, and buried under biere, ne ever to his work returned again; natheless these fiendes may not their work forbeare, so greatly his commandement they fear, but there doe toile and travaile day and night, until that brazen wall they up doe reare." [faerie queene, b. . c. . s. -- .] amongst other english prophets, a belief in whose power has not been entirely effaced by the light of advancing knowledge, is robert nixon, the cheshire idiot, a contemporary of mother shipton. the popular accounts of this man say, that he was born of poor parents, not far from vale royal, on the edge of the forest of delamere. he was brought up to the plough, but was so ignorant and stupid, that nothing could be made of him. everybody thought him irretrievably insane, and paid no attention to the strange, unconnected discourses which he held. many of his prophecies are believed to have been lost in this manner. but they were not always destined to be wasted upon dull and inattentive ears. an incident occurred which brought him into notice, and established his fame as a prophet of the first calibre. he was ploughing in a field when he suddenly stopped from his labour, and, with a wild look and strange gestures, exclaimed, "now, dick! now, harry! o, ill done, dick! o, well done, harry! harry has gained the day!" his fellow labourers in the field did not know what to make of this rhapsody; but the next day cleared up the mystery. news was brought by a messenger, in hot haste, that at the very instant when nixon had thus ejaculated, richard iii had been slain at the battle of bosworth, and henry vii proclaimed king of england. it was not long before the fame of the new prophet reached the ears of the king, who expressed a wish to see and converse with him. a messenger was accordingly despatched to bring him to court; but long before he reached cheshire, nixon knew and dreaded the honours that awaited him. indeed it was said, that at the very instant the king expressed the wish, nixon was, by supernatural means, made acquainted with it, and that he ran about the town of over in great distress of mind, calling out, like a madman, that henry had sent for him, and that he must go to court, and be clammed; that is, starved to death. these expressions excited no little wonder; but, on the third day, the messenger arrived, and carried him to court, leaving on the minds of the good people of cheshire an impression that their prophet was one of the greatest ever born. on his arrival king henry appeared to be troubled exceedingly at the loss of a valuable diamond, and asked nixon if he could inform him where it was to be found. henry had hidden the diamond himself, with a view to test the prophet's skill. great, therefore, was his surprise when nixon answered him in the words of the old proverb, "those who hide can find." from that time forth the king implicitly believed that he had the gift of prophecy, and ordered all his words to be taken down. during all the time of his residence at court he was in constant fear of being starved to death, and repeatedly told the king that such would be his fate, if he were not allowed to depart, and return into his own country. henry would not suffer it, but gave strict orders to all his officers and cooks to give him as much to eat as he wanted. he lived so well, that for some time he seemed to be thriving like a nobleman's steward, and growing as fat as an alderman. one day the king went out hunting, when nixon ran to the palace gate, and entreated on his knees that he might not be left behind to be starved. the king laughed, and, calling an officer, told him to take especial care of the prophet during his absence, and rode away to the forest. after his departure, the servants of the palace began to jeer at and insult nixon, whom they imagined to be much better treated than he deserved. nixon complained to the officer, who, to prevent him from being further molested, locked him up in the king's own closet, and brought him regularly his four meals a day. but it so happened that a messenger arrived from the king to this officer, requiring his immediate presence at winchester, on a matter of life and death. so great was his haste to obey the king's command, that he mounted on the horse behind the messenger, and rode off, without bestowing a thought upon poor nixon. he did not return till three days afterwards, when, remembering the prophet for the first time, he went to the king's closet, and found him lying upon the floor, starved to death, as he had predicted. among the prophecies of his which are believed to have been fulfilled, are the following, which relate to the times of the pretender:-- "a great man shall come into england, but the son of a king shall take from him the victory." "crows shall drink the blood of many nobles, and the north shall rise against the south." "the cock of the north shall be made to flee, and his feather be plucked for his pride, that he shall almost curse the day that he was born," all these, say his admirers, are as clear as the sun at noon-day. the first denotes the defeat of prince charles edward, at the battle of culloden, by the duke of cumberland; the second, the execution of lords derwentwater, balmerino, and lovat; and the third, the retreat of the pretender from the shores of britain. among the prophecies that still remain to be accomplished, are the following:-- "between seven, eight, and nine, in england wonders shall be seen; between nine and thirteen all sorrow shall be done!" "through our own money and our men shall a dreadful war begin. between the sickle and the suck all england shall have a pluck," "foreign nations shall invade england with snow on their helmets, and shall bring plague, famine, and murder in the skirts of their garments." "the town of nantwich shall be swept away by a flood" of the two first of these no explanation has yet been attempted; but some event or other will doubtless be twisted into such a shape as will fit them. the third, relative to the invasion of england by a nation with snow on their helmets, is supposed by the old women to foretell most clearly the coming war with russia. as to the last, there are not a few in the town mentioned who devoutly believe that such will be its fate. happily for their peace of mind, the prophet said nothing of the year that was to witness the awful calamity; so that they think it as likely to be two centuries hence as now. the popular biographers of nixon conclude their account of him by saying, that "his prophecies are by some persons thought fables; yet by what has come to pass, it is now thought, and very plainly appears, that most of them have proved, or will prove, true; for which we, on all occasions, ought not only to exert our utmost might to repel by force our enemies, but to refrain from our abandoned and wicked course of life, and to make our continual prayer to god for protection and safety." to this, though a non sequitur, every one will cry amen! besides the prophets, there have been the almanack makers, lilly, poor robin, partridge, and francis moore, physician, in england, and matthew laensbergh, in france and belgium. but great as were their pretensions, they were modesty itself in comparison with merlin, shipton, and nixon, who fixed their minds upon higher things than the weather, and who were not so restrained in their flights of fancy as to prophesy for only one year at a time. after such prophets as they, the almanack makers hardly deserve to be mentioned; no, not even the renowned partridge, whose wonderful prognostications set all england agog in , and whose death, at a time when he was still alive and kicking, was so pleasantly and satisfactorily proved by isaac bickerstaff. the anti-climax would be too palpable, and they and their doings must be left uncommemorated. popular admiration for great thieves. jack. where shall we find such another set of practical philosophers who, to a man, are above the fear of death? wat. sound men and true! robin. of tried courage and indefatigable industry! ned. who is there here that would not die for his friend? harry. who is there here that would betray him for his interest? mat. show me a gang of courtiers that could say as much! dialogue of thieves in the beggars' opera. whether it be that the multitude, feeling the pangs of poverty, sympathise with the daring and ingenious depredators who take away the rich man's superfluity, or whether it be the interest that mankind in general feel for the records of perilous adventures, it is certain that the populace of all countries look with admiration upon great and successful thieves. perhaps both these causes combine to invest their career with charms in the popular eye. almost every country in europe has its traditional thief, whose exploits are recorded with all the graces of poetry, and whose trespasses-- "--are cited up in rhymes, and sung by children in succeeding times." [shakspeare's rape of lucretia.] those travellers who have made national manners and characteristics their peculiar study, have often observed and remarked upon this feeling. the learned abbe le blanc, who resided for some time in england at the commencement of the eighteenth century, says, in his amusing letters on the english and french nations, that he continually met with englishmen who were not less vain in boasting of the success of their highwaymen than of the bravery of their troops. tales of their address, their cunning, or their generosity, were in the mouths of everybody, and a noted thief was a kind of hero in high repute. he adds that the mob, in all countries, being easily moved, look in general with concern upon criminals going to the gallows; but an english mob looked upon such scenes with 'extraordinary interest: they delighted to see them go through their last trials with resolution, and applauded those who were insensible enough to die as they had lived, braving the justice both of god and men: such, he might have added, as the noted robber macpherson, of whom the old ballad says-- "sae rantingly, sae wantonly, sae dauntingly gaed he: he played a spring, and danced it round beneath the gallows tree." among these traditional thieves the most noted in england, or perhaps in any country, is robin hood, a name which popular affection has encircled with a peculiar halo. "he robbed the rich to give to the poor;" and his reward has been an immortality of fame, a tithe of which would be thought more than sufficient to recompense a benefactor of his species. romance and poetry have been emulous to make him all their own; and the forest of sherwood, in which he roamed with his merry men, armed with their long bows, and clad in lincoln green, has become the resort of pilgrims, and a classic spot sacred to his memory. the few virtues he had, which would have ensured him no praise if he had been an honest man, have been blazoned forth by popular renown during seven successive centuries, and will never be forgotten while the english tongue endures. his charity to the poor, and his gallantry and respect for women, have made him the pre-eminent thief of all the world. among english thieves of a later date, who has not heard of claude duval, dick turpin, jonathan wild, and jack sheppard, those knights of the road and of the town, whose peculiar chivalry formed at once the dread and the delight of england during the eighteenth century? turpin's fame is unknown to no portion of the male population of england after they have attained the age of ten. his wondrous ride from london to york has endeared him to the imagination of millions; his cruelty in placing an old woman upon a fire, to force her to tell him where she had hidden her money, is regarded as a good joke; and his proud bearing upon the scaffold is looked upon as a virtuous action. the abbe le blanc, writing in , says he was continually entertained with stories of turpin--how, when he robbed gentlemen, he would generously leave them enough to continue their journey, and exact a pledge from them never to inform against him, and how scrupulous such gentlemen were in keeping their word. he was one day told a story with which the relator was he the highest degree delighted. turpin, or some other noted robber, stopped a man whom he knew to be very rich, with the usual salutation--"your money or your life!" but not finding more than five or six guineas about him, he took the liberty of entreating him, in the most affable manner, never to come out so ill provided; adding that, if he fell in with him, and he had no more than such a paltry sum, he would give him a good licking. another story, told by one of turpin's admirers, was of a robbery he had committed upon a mr. c. near cambridge. he took from this gentleman his watch, his snuff-box, and all his money but two shillings, and, before he left him, required his word of honour that he would not cause him to be pursued or brought before a justice. the promise being given, they both parted very courteously. they afterwards met at newmarket, and renewed their acquaintance. mr. c. kept his word religiously; he not only refrained from giving turpin into custody, but made a boast that he had fairly won some of his money back again in an honest way. turpin offered to bet with him on some favourite horse, and mr. c. accepted the wager with as good a grace as he could have done from the best gentleman in england. turpin lost his bet and paid it immediately, and was so smitten with the generous behaviour of mr. c. that he told him how deeply he regretted that the trifling affair which had happened between them did not permit them to drink together. the narrator of this anecdote was quite proud that england was the birthplace of such a highwayman. [the abbe, in the second volume, in the letter no. , dressed to monsieur de buffon, gives the following curious particulars of the robbers of , which are not without interest at this day, if it were only to show the vast improvement which has taken place since that period:--"it is usual, in travelling, to put ten or a dozen guineas in a separate pocket, as a tribute to the first that comes to demand them: the right of passport, which custom has established here in favour of the robbers, who are almost the only highway surveyors in england, has made this necessary; and accordingly the english call these fellows the 'gentlemen of the road,' the government letting them exercise their jurisdiction upon travellers without giving them any great molestation. to say the truth, they content themselves with only taking the money of those who obey without disputing; but notwithstanding their boasted humanity, the lives of those who endeavour to get away are not always safe. they are very strict and severe in levying their impost; and if a man has not wherewithal to pay them, he may run the chance of getting himself knocked on the head for his poverty. "about fifteen years ago, these robbers, with the view of maintaining their rights, fixed up papers at the doors of rich people about london, expressly forbidding all persons, of whatsoever quality or condition, from going out of town without ten guineas and a watch about them, on pain of death. in bad times, when there is little or nothing to be got on the roads, these fellows assemble in gangs, to raise contributions even in london itself; and the watchmen seldom trouble themselves to interfere with them in their vocation."] not less familiar to the people of england is the career of jack sheppard, as brutal a ruffian as ever disgraced his country, but who has claims upon the popular admiration which are very generally acknowledged. he did not, like robin hood, plunder the rich to relieve the poor, nor rob with an uncouth sort of courtesy, like turpin; but he escaped from newgate with the fetters on his limbs. this achievement, more than once repeated, has encircled his felon brow with the wreath of immortality, and made him quite a pattern thief among the populace. he was no more than twenty-three years of age at the time of his execution, and he died much pitied by the crowd. his adventures were the sole topics of conversation for months; the print-shops were filled with his effigies, and a fine painting of him was made by sir richard thornhill. the following complimentary verses to the artist appeared in the "british journal" of november th, . "thornhill! 'tis thine to gild with fame th' obscure, and raise the humble name; to make the form elude the grave, and sheppard from oblivion save! apelles alexander drew-- cesar is to aurelius due; cromwell in lilly's works doth shine, and sheppard, thornhill, lives in thine!" so high was jack's fame that a pantomime entertainment, called "harlequin jack sheppard," was devised by one thurmond, and brought out with great success at drury lane theatre. all the scenes were painted from nature, including the public-house that the robber frequented in claremarket, and the condemned cell from which he had made his escape in newgate. the rev. mr. villette, the editor of the "annals of newgate," published in , relates a curious sermon which, he says, a friend of his heard delivered by a street-preacher about the time of jack's execution. the orator, after animadverting on the great care men took of their bodies, and the little care they bestowed upon their souls, continued as follows, by way of exemplifying the position:--"we have a remarkable instance of this in a notorious malefactor, well known by the name of jack sheppard. what amazing difficulties has he overcome! what astonishing things has he performed! and all for the sake of a stinking, miserable carcass; hardly worth the hanging! how dexterously did he pick the chain of his padlock with a crooked nail! how manfully he burst his fetters asunder!--climb up the chimney!--wrench out an iron bar!--break his way through a stone wall!--make the strong door of a dark entry fly before him, till he got upon the leads of the prison! then, fixing a blanket to the wall with a spike, he stole out of the chapel. how intrepidly did he descend to the top of the turner's house!--how cautiously pass down the stair, and make his escape to the street door! "oh! that ye were all like jack sheppard! mistake me not, my brethren; i don't mean in a carnal, but in a spiritual sense, for i propose to spiritualise these things. what a shame it would be if we should not think it worth our while to take as much pains, and employ as many deep thoughts, to save our souls as he has done to preserve his body! "let me exhort ye, then, to open the locks of your hearts with the nail of repentance! burst asunder the fetters of your beloved lusts!--mount the chimney of hope!--take from thence the bar of good resolution!--break through the stone wall of despair, and all the strongholds in the dark entry of the valley of the shadow of death! raise yourselves to the leads of divine meditation!--fix the blanket of faith with the spike of the church! let yourselves down to the turner's house of resignation, and descend the stairs of humility! so shall you come to the door of deliverance from the prison of iniquity, and escape the clutches of that old executioner the devil!" but popular as the name of jack sheppard was immediately after he had suffered the last penalty of his crimes, it was as nothing compared to the vast renown which he has acquired in these latter days, after the lapse of a century and a quarter. poets too often, are not fully appreciated till they have been dead a hundred years, and thieves, it would appear, share the disadvantage. but posterity is grateful if our contemporaries are not; and jack sheppard, faintly praised in his own day, shines out in ours the hero of heroes, preeminent above all his fellows. thornhill made but one picture of the illustrious robber, but cruikshank has made dozens, and the art of the engraver has multiplied them into thousands and tens of thousands, until the populace of england have become as familiar with jack's features as they are with their own. jack, the romantic, is the hero of three goodly volumes, and the delight of the circulating libraries; and the theatres have been smitten with the universal enthusiasm. managers have set their playmongers at work, and jack's story has been reproduced in the shape of drama, melodrama, and farce, at half a dozen places of entertainment at once. never was such a display of popular regard for a hero as was exhibited in london in for the renowned jack sheppard: robbery acquired additional lustre in the popular eye, and not only englishmen, but foreigners, caught the contagion; and one of the latter, fired by the example, robbed and murdered a venerable, unoffending, and too confiding nobleman, whom it was his especial duty to have obeyed and protected. but he was a coward and a wretch;--it was a solitary crime--he had not made a daring escape from dungeon walls, or ridden from london to york, and he died amid the execrations of the people, affording a melancholy exemplification of the trite remark, that every man is not great who is desirous of being so. jonathan wild, whose name has been immortalised by fielding, was no favourite with the people. he had none of the virtues which, combined with crimes, make up the character of the great thief. he was a pitiful fellow, who informed against his comrades, and was afraid of death. this meanness was not to be forgiven by the crowd, and they pelted him with dirt and stones on his way to tyburn, and expressed their contempt by every possible means. how different was their conduct to turpin and jack sheppard, who died in their neatest attire, with nosegays in their button-holes, and with the courage that a crowd expects! it was anticipated that the body of turpin would have been delivered up to the surgeons for dissection, and the people seeing some men very busily employed in removing it, suddenly set upon them, rescued the body, bore it about the town in triumph, and then buried it in a very deep grave, filled with quick-lime, to hasten the progress of decomposition. they would not suffer the corpse of their hero, of the man who had ridden from london to york in four-and-twenty hours to be mangled by the rude hands of unmannerly surgeons. the death of claude duval would appear to have been no less triumphant. claude was a gentlemanly thief. according to butler, in the famous ode to his memory, he "taught the wild arabs of the road to rob in a more gentle mode; take prizes more obligingly than those who never had breen bred filous; and how to hang in a more graceful fashion than e'er was known before to the dull english nation." in fact, he was the pink of politeness, and his gallantry to the fair sex was proverbial. when he was caught at last, pent in "stone walls and chains and iron grates,"--their grief was in proportion to his rare merits and his great fame. butler says, that to his dungeon "--came ladies from all parts, to offer up close prisoners their hearts, which he received as tribute due-- * * * * never did bold knight, to relieve distressed dames, such dreadful feats achieve, as feeble damsels, for his sake, would have been proud to undertake, and, bravely ambitious to redeem the world's loss and their own, strove who should have the honour to lay down, and change a life with him." among the noted thieves of france, there is none to compare with the famous aimerigot tetenoire, who flourished in the reign of charles vi. this fellow was at the head of four or five hundred men, and possessed two very strong castles in limousin and auvergne. there was a good deal of the feudal baron about him, although he possessed no revenues but such as the road afforded him. at his death he left a singular will. "i give and bequeath," said the robber, "one thousand five hundred francs to st. george's chapel, for such repairs as it may need. to my sweet girl who so tenderly loved me, i give two thousand five hundred; and the surplus i give to my companions. i hope they will all live as brothers, and divide it amicably among them. if they cannot agree, and the devil of contention gets among them, it is no fault of mine; and i advise them to get a good strong, sharp axe, and break open my strong box. let them scramble for what it contains, and the devil seize the hindmost." the people of auvergne still recount with admiration the daring feats of this brigand. of later years, the french thieves have been such unmitigated scoundrels as to have left but little room for popular admiration. the famous cartouche, whose name has become synonymous with ruffian in their language, had none of the generosity, courtesy, and devoted bravery which are so requisite to make a robber-hero. he was born at paris, towards the end of the seventeenth century, and broken alive on the wheel in november . he was, however, sufficiently popular to have been pitied at his death, and afterwards to have formed the subject of a much admired drama, which bore his name, and was played with great success in all the theatres of france during the years , , and . in our own day the french have been more fortunate in a robber; vidocq bids fair to rival the fame of turpin and jack sheppard. already he has become the hero of many an apocryphal tale--already his compatriots boast of his manifold achievements, and express their doubts whether any other country in europe could produce a thief so clever, so accomplished, so gentlemanly, as vidocq. germany has its schinderhannes, hungary its schubry, and italy and spain a whole host of brigands, whose names and exploits are familiar as household words in the mouths of the children and populace of those countries. the italian banditti are renowned over the world; and many of them are not only very religious (after a fashion), but very charitable. charity from such a source is so unexpected, that the people dote upon them for it. one of them, when he fell into the hands of the police, exclaimed, as they led him away, "ho fatto pitt carita!"--"i have given away more in charity than any three convents in these provinces." and the fellow spoke truth. in lombardy, the people cherish the memory of two notorious robbers, who flourished about two centuries ago under the spanish government. their story, according to macfarlane, is contained in a little book well known to all the children of the province, and read by them with much more gusto than their bibles. schinderhannes, the robber of the rhine, is a great favourite on the banks of the river which he so long kept in awe. many amusing stories are related by the peasantry of the scurvy tricks he played off upon rich jews, or too-presuming officers of justice--of his princely generosity, and undaunted courage. in short, they are proud of him, and would no more consent to have the memory of his achievements dissociated from their river than they would to have the rock of ehrenbreitstein blown to atoms by gunpowder. there is another robber-hero, of whose character and exploits the people of germany speak admiringly. mausch nadel was captain of a considerable band that infested the rhine, switzerland, alsatia, and lorraine during the years , , and . like jack sheppard, he endeared himself to the populace by his most hazardous escape from prison. being confined, at bremen, in a dungeon, on the third story of the prison of that town, he contrived to let himself down without exciting the vigilance of the sentinels, and to swim across the weser, though heavily laden with irons. when about half way over, he was espied by a sentinel, who fired at him, and shot him in the calf of the leg: but the undaunted robber struck out manfully, reached the shore, and was out of sight before the officers of justice could get ready their boats to follow him. he was captured again in , tried at mayence, and sentenced to death. he was a tall, strong, handsome man, and his fate, villain as he was, excited much sympathy all over germany. the ladies especially were loud in their regret that nothing could be done to save a hero so good-looking, and of adventures so romantic, from the knife of the headsman. mr. macfarlane, in speaking of italian banditti, remarks, that the abuses of the catholic religion, with its confessions and absolutions, have tended to promote crime of this description. but, he adds, more truly, that priests and monks have not done half the mischief which has been perpetrated by ballad-mongers and story-tellers. if he had said play-wrights also, the list would have been complete. in fact, the theatre, which can only expect to prosper, in a pecuniary sense, by pandering to the tastes of the people, continually recurs to the annals of thieves and banditti for its most favourite heroes. these theatrical robbers; with their picturesque attire, wild haunts, jolly, reckless, devil-may-care manners, take a wonderful hold upon the imagination, and, whatever their advocates may say to the contrary, exercise a very pernicious influence upon public morals. in the memoirs of the duke of guise upon the revolution of naples in and , it is stated, that the manners, dress, and mode of life of the neapolitan banditti were rendered so captivating upon the stage, that the authorities found it absolutely necessary to forbid the representation of dramas in which they figured, and even to prohibit their costume at the masquerades. so numerous were the banditti at this time, that the duke found no difficulty in raising an army of them, to aid him in his endeavours to seize on the throne of naples. he thus describes them; [see also "foreign quarterly review," vol. iv. p. .] "they were three thousand five hundred men, of whom the oldest came short of five and forty years, and the youngest was above twenty. they were all tall and well made, with long black hair, for the most part curled, coats of black spanish leather, with sleeves of velvet, or cloth of gold, cloth breeches with gold lace, most of them scarlet; girdles of velvet, laced with gold, with two pistols on each side; a cutlass hanging at a belt, suitably trimmed, three fingers broad and two feet long; a hawking-bag at their girdle, and a powder-flask hung about their neck with a great silk riband. some of them carried firelocks, and others blunder-busses; they had all good shoes, with silk stockings, and every one a cap of cloth of gold, or cloth of silver, of different colours, on his head, which was very delightful to the eye." "the beggars' opera," in our own country, is another instance of the admiration that thieves excite upon the stage. of the extraordinary success of this piece, when first produced, the following account is given in the notes to "the dunciad," and quoted by johnson in his "lives of the poets." "this piece was received with greater applause than was ever known. besides being acted in london sixty-three days without interruption, and renewed the next season with equal applause, it spread into all the great towns of england; was played in many places to the thirtieth and fortieth time; at bath and bristol, &c. fifty. it made its progress into wales, scotland, and ireland, where it was performed twenty-four days successively. the ladies carried about with them the favourite songs of it in fans, and houses were furnished with it in screens. the fame of it was not confined to the author only. the person who acted polly, till then obscure, became all at once the favourite of the town; [lavinia fenton, afterwards duchess of bolton.] her pictures were engraved and sold in great numbers; her life written, books of letters and verses to her published, and pamphlets made even of her sayings and jests. furthermore, it drove out of england, for that season, the italian opera, which had carried all before it for ten years." dr. johnson, in his life of the author, says, that herring, afterwards archbishop of canterbury, censured the opera, as giving encouragement, not only to vice, but to crimes, by making the highwayman the hero, and dismissing him at last unpunished; and adds, that it was even said, that after the exhibition the gangs of robbers were evidently multiplied. the doctor doubts the assertion, giving as his reason that highwaymen and housebreakers seldom frequent the playhouse, and that it was not possible for any one to imagine that he might rob with safety, because he saw macheath reprieved upon the stage. but if johnson had wished to be convinced, he might very easily have discovered that highwaymen and housebreakers did frequent the theatre, and that nothing was more probable than that a laughable representation of successful villany should induce the young and the already vicious to imitate it. besides, there is the weighty authority of sir john fielding, the chief magistrate of bow street, who asserted positively, and proved his assertion by the records of his office, that the number of thieves was greatly increased at the time when that opera was so popular. we have another instance of the same result much nearer our own times. schiller's "rauber," that wonderful play, written by a green youth, perverted the taste and imagination of all the young men in germany. an accomplished critic of our own country (hazlitt), speaking of this play, says it was the first he ever read, and such was the effect it produced on him, that "it stunned him, like a blow." after the lapse of five-and-twenty years he could not forget it; it was still, to use his own words, "an old dweller in the chambers of his brain," and he had not even then recovered enough from it, to describe how it was. the high-minded, metaphysical thief, its hero, was so warmly admired, that several raw students, longing to imitate a character they thought so noble, actually abandoned their homes and their colleges, and betook themselves to the forests and wilds to levy contributions upon travellers. they thought they would, like moor, plunder the rich, and deliver eloquent soliloquies to the setting sun or the rising moon; relieve the poor when they met them, and drink flasks of rhenish with their free companions in rugged mountain passes, or in tents in the thicknesses of the forests. but a little experience wonderfully cooled their courage; they found that real, every-day robbers were very unlike the conventional banditti of the stage, and that three months in prison, with bread and water for their fare, and damp straw to lie upon, was very well to read about by their own fire sides, but not very agreeable to undergo in their own proper persons. lord byron, with his soliloquising, high-souled thieves, has, in a slight degree, perverted the taste of the greenhorns and incipient rhymesters of his country. as yet, however, they have shown more good sense than their fellows of germany, and have not taken to the woods or the highways. much as they admire conrad the corsair, they will not go to sea, and hoist the black flag in emulation of him. by words only, and not by deeds, they testify their admiration, and deluge the periodicals and music shops of the hand with verses describing pirates' and bandits' brides, and robber adventures of every kind. but it is the play-wright who does most harm; and byron has fewer sins of this nature to answer for than gay or schiller, and the modern dramatizers of jack sheppard. with the aid of scenery, fine dresses, and music, and the very false notions they convey, they vitiate the public taste, not knowing, "-----------vulgaires rimeurs quelle force ont les arts pour demolir les moeurs." in the penny theatres that abound in the poor and populous districts of london, and which are chiefly frequented by striplings of idle and dissolute habits, tales of thieves and murderers are more admired, and draw more crowded audiences, than any other species of representation. there the footpad, the burglar, and the highwayman are portrayed in unnatural colours, and give pleasant lessons in crime to their delighted listeners. there the deepest tragedy and the broadest farce are represented in the career of the murderer and the thief, and are applauded in proportion to their depth and their breadth. there, whenever a crime of unusual atrocity is committed, it is brought out afresh, with all its disgusting incidents copied from the life, for the amusement of those who will one day become its imitators. with the mere reader the case is widely different; and most people have a partiality for knowing the adventures of noted rogues. even in fiction they are delightful: witness the eventful story of gil blas de santillane, and of that great rascal don guzman d'alfarache. here there is no fear of imitation. poets, too, without doing mischief, may sing of such heroes when they please, wakening our sympathies for the sad fate of gilderoy, or macpherson the dauntless; or celebrating in undying verse the wrongs and the revenge of the great thief of scotland, rob roy. if, by the music of their sweet rhymes, they can convince the world that such heroes are but mistaken philosophers, born a few ages too late, and having both a theoretical and practical love for "the good old rule, the simple plan, that they should take who have the power, that they should keep who can," the world may, perhaps, become wiser, and consent to some better distribution of its good things, by means of which thieves may become reconciled to the age, and the age to them. the probability, however, seems to be, that the charmers will charm in vain, charm they ever so wisely. influence of politics and religion on the hair and beard. speak with respect and honour both of the beard and the beard's owner. hudibras, the famous declaration of st. paul, "that long hair was a shame unto a man" has been made the pretext for many singular enactments, both of civil and ecclesiastical governments. the fashion of the hair and the cut of the beard were state questions in france and england from the establishment of christianity until the fifteenth century. we find, too, that in much earlier times men were not permitted to do as they liked with their own hair. alexander the great thought that the beards of his soldiery afforded convenient handles for the enemy to lay hold of, preparatory to cutting off their heads; and, with the view of depriving them of this advantage, he ordered the whole of his army to be closely shaven. his notions of courtesy towards an enemy were quite different from those entertained by the north american indians, amongst whom it is held a point of honour to allow one "chivalrous lock" to grow, that the foe, in taking the scalp, may have something to catch hold of. at one time, long hair was the symbol of sovereignty in europe. we learn from gregory of tours that, among the successors of clovis, it was the exclusive privilege of the royal family to have their hair long, and curled. the nobles, equal to kings in power, would not show any inferiority in this respect, and wore not only their hair, but their beards, of an enormous length. this fashion lasted, with but slight changes, till the time of louis the debonnaire, but his successors, up to hugh capet, wore their hair short, by way of distinction. even the serfs had set all regulation at defiance, and allowed their locks and beards to grow. at the time of the invasion of england by william the conqueror, the normans wore their hair very short. harold, in his progress towards hastings, sent forward spies to view the strength and number of the enemy. they reported, amongst other things, on their return, that "the host did almost seem to be priests, because they had all their face and both their lips shaven." the fashion among the english at the time was to wear the hair long upon the head and the upper lip, but to shave the chin. when the haughty victors had divided the broad lands of the saxon thanes and franklins among them, when tyranny of every kind was employed to make the english feel that they were indeed a subdued and broken nation, the latter encouraged the growth of their hair, that they might resemble as little as possible their cropped and shaven masters. this fashion was exceedingly displeasing to the clergy, and prevailed to a considerable extent in france and germany. towards the end of the eleventh century, it was decreed by the pope, and zealously supported by the ecclesiastical authorities all over europe, that such persons as wore long hair should be excommunicated while living, and not be prayed for when dead. william of malmesbury relates, that the famous st. wulstan, bishop of worcester, was peculiarly indignant whenever he saw a man with long hair. he declaimed against the practice as one highly immoral, criminal, and beastly. he continually carried a small knife in his pocket, and whenever anybody, offending in this respect, knelt before him to receive his blessing, he would whip it out slily, and cut off a handful, and then, throwing it in his face, tell him to cut off all the rest, or he would go to hell. but fashion, which at times it is possible to move with a wisp, stands firm against a lever; and men preferred to run the risk of damnation to parting with the superfluity of their hair. in the time of henry i, anselm, archbishop of canterbury, found it necessary to republish the famous decree of excommunication and outlawry against the offenders; but, as the court itself had begun to patronize curls, the fulminations of the church were unavailing. henry i and his nobles wore their hair in long ringlets down their backs and shoulders, and became a scandalum magnatum in the eyes of the godly. one serlo, the king's chaplain, was so grieved in spirit at the impiety of his master, that he preached a sermon from the well-known text of st. paul, before the assembled court, in which he drew so dreadful a picture of the torments that awaited them in the other world, that several of them burst into tears, and wrung their hair, as if they would have pulled it out by the roots. henry himself was observed to weep. the priest, seeing the impression he had made, determined to strike while the iron was hot, and, pulling a pair of scissors from his pocket, cut the king's hair in presence of them all. several of the principal courtiers consented to do the like, and, for a short time, long hair appeared to be going out of fashion. but the courtiers thought, after the first glow of their penitence had been cooled by reflection, that the clerical dalilah had shorn them of their strength, and, in less than six months, they were as great sinners as ever. anselm, the archbishop of canterbury, who had been a monk of bec, in normandy, and who had signalized himself at rouen by his fierce opposition to long hair, was still anxious to work a reformation in this matter. but his pertinacity was far from pleasing to the king, who had finally made up his mind to wear ringlets. there were other disputes, of a more serious nature, between them; so that when the archbishop died, the king was so glad to be rid of him, that he allowed the see to remain vacant for five years. still the cause had other advocates, and every pulpit in the land resounded with anathemas against that disobedient and long-haired generation. but all was of no avail. stowe, in writing of this period, asserts, on the authority of some more ancient chronicler, "that men, forgetting their birth, transformed themselves, by the length of their haires, into the semblance of woman kind;" and that when their hair decayed from age, or other causes, "they knit about their heads certain rolls and braidings of false hair." at last accident turned the tide of fashion. a knight of the court, who was exceedingly proud of his beauteous locks, dreamed one night that, as he lay in bed, the devil sprang upon him, and endeavoured to choke him with his own hair. he started in affright, and actually found that he had a great quantity of hair in his mouth. sorely stricken in conscience, and looking upon the dream as a warning from heaven, he set about the work of reformation, and cut off his luxuriant tresses the same night. the story was soon bruited abroad; of course it was made the most of by the clergy, and the knight, being a man of influence and consideration, and the acknowledged leader of the fashion, his example, aided by priestly exhortations, was very generally imitated. men appeared almost as decent as st. wulstan himself could have wished, the dream of a dandy having proved more efficacious than the entreaties of a saint. but, as stowe informs us, "scarcely was one year past, when all that thought themselves courtiers fell into the former vice, and contended with women in their long haires." henry, the king, appears to have been quite uninfluenced by the dreams of others, for even his own would not induce him a second time to undergo a cropping from priestly shears. it is said, that he was much troubled at this time by disagreeable visions. having offended the church in this and other respects, he could get no sound refreshing sleep, and used to imagine that he saw all the bishops, abbots, and monks of every degree, standing around his bed-side, and threatening to belabour him with their pastoral staves; which sight, we are told, so frightened him, that he often started naked out of his bed, and attacked the phantoms sword in hand. grimbalde, his physician, who, like most of his fraternity at that day, was an ecclesiastic, never hinted that his dreams were the result of a bad digestion, but told him to shave his head, be reconciled to the church, and reform himself with alms and prayer. but he would not take this good advice, and it was not until he had been nearly drowned a year afterwards, in a violent storm at sea, that he repented of his evil ways, cut his hair short, and paid proper deference to the wishes of the clergy. in france, the thunders of the vatican with regard to long curly hair were hardly more respected than in england. louis vii. however, was more obedient than his brother-king, and cropped himself as closely as a monk, to the great sorrow of all the gallants of his court. his queen, the gay, haughty, and pleasure-seeking eleanor of guienne, never admired him in this trim, and continually reproached him with imitating, not only the headdress, but the asceticism of the monks. from this cause, a coldness arose between them. the lady proving at last unfaithful to her shaven and indifferent lord, they were divorced, and the kings of france lost the rich provinces of guienne and poitou, which were her dowry. she soon after bestowed her hand and her possessions upon henry duke of normandy, afterwards henry ii of england, and thus gave the english sovereigns that strong footing in france which was for so many centuries the cause of such long and bloody wars between the nations. when the crusades had drawn all the smart young fellows into palestine, the clergy did not find it so difficult to convince the staid burghers who remained in europe, of the enormity of long hair. during the absence of richard coeur de lion, his english subjects not only cut their hair close, but shaved their faces. william fitzosbert, or long-beard, the great demagogue of that day, reintroduced among the people who claimed to be of saxon origin the fashion of long hair. he did this with the view of making them as unlike as possible to the citizens and the normans. he wore his own beard hanging down to his waist, from whence the name by which he is best known to posterity. the church never showed itself so great an enemy to the beard as to long hair on the head. it generally allowed fashion to take its own course, both with regard to the chin and the upper lip. this fashion varied continually; for we find that, in little more than a century after the time of richard i, when beards were short, that they had again become so long as to be mentioned in the famous epigram made by the scots who visited london in , when david, son of robert bruce, was married to joan, the sister of king edward. this epigram, which was stuck on the church-door of st. peter stangate, ran as follows-- "long beards heartlesse, painted hoods witlesse, gray coats gracelesse, make england thriftlesse." when the emperor charles v. ascended the throne of spain, he had no beard. it was not to be expected that the obsequious parasites who always surround a monarch, could presume to look more virile than their master. immediately all the courtiers appeared beardless, with the exception of such few grave old men as had outgrown the influence of fashion, and who had determined to die bearded as they had lived. sober people in general saw this revolution with sorrow and alarm, and thought that every manly virtue would be banished with the beard. it became at the time a common saying,-- "desde que no hay barba, no hay mas alma." we have no longer souls since we have lost our beards. in france, also, the beard fell into disrepute after the death of henry iv, from the mere reason that his successor was too young to have one. some of the more immediate friends of the great bearnais, and his minister sully among the rest, refused to part with their beards, notwithstanding the jeers of the new generation. who does not remember the division of england into the two great parties of roundheads and cavaliers? in those days, every species of vice and iniquity was thought by the puritans to lurk in the long curly tresses of the monarchists, while the latter imagined that their opponents were as destitute of wit, of wisdom, and of virtue, as they were of hair. a man's locks were the symbol of his creed, both in politics and religion. the more abundant the hair, the more scant the faith; and the balder the head, the more sincere the piety. but among all the instances of the interference of governments with men's hair, the most extraordinary, not only for its daring, but for its success is that of peter the great, in . by this time, fashion had condemned the beard in every other country in europe, and with a voice more potent than popes or emperors, had banished it from civilized society. but this only made the russians cling more fondly to their ancient ornament, as a mark to distinguish them from foreigners, whom they hated. peter, however resolved that they should be shaven. if he had been a man deeply read in history, he might have hesitated before he attempted so despotic an attack upon the time-hallowed customs and prejudices of his countrymen; but he was not. he did not know or consider the danger of the innovation; he only listened to the promptings of his own indomitable will, and his fiat went forth, that not only the army, but all ranks of citizens, from the nobles to the serfs, should shave their beards. a certain time was given, that people might get over the first throes of their repugnance, after which every man who chose to retain his beard was to pay a tax of one hundred roubles. the priests and the serfs were put on a lower footing, and allowed to retain theirs upon payment of a copeck every time they passed the gate of a city. great discontent existed in consequence, but the dreadful fate of the strelitzes was too recent to be forgotten, and thousands who had the will had not the courage to revolt. as is well remarked by a writer in the "encyclopedia britannica," they thought it wiser to cut off their beards than to run the risk of incensing a man who would make no scruple in cutting off their heads. wiser, too, than the popes and bishops of a former age, he did not threaten them with eternal damnation, but made them pay in hard cash the penalty of their disobedience. for many years, a very considerable revenue was collected from this source. the collectors gave in receipt for its payment a small copper coin, struck expressly for the purpose, and called the "borodovaia," or "the bearded." on one side it bore the figure of a nose, mouth, and moustachios, with a long bushy beard, surmounted by the words, "deuyee vyeatee," "money received;" the whole encircled by a wreath, and stamped with the black eagle of russia. on the reverse, it bore the date of the year. every man who chose to wear a beard was obliged to produce this receipt on his entry into a town. those who were refractory, and refused to pay the tax, were thrown into prison. since that day, the rulers of modern europe have endeavoured to persuade, rather than to force, in all matters pertaining to fashion. the vatican troubles itself no more about beards or ringlets, and men may become hairy as bears, if such is their fancy, without fear of excommunication or deprivation of their political rights. folly has taken a new start, and cultivates the moustachio. even upon this point governments will not let men alone. religion as yet has not meddled with it; but perhaps it will; and politics already influence it considerably. before the revolution of , neither the french nor belgian citizens were remarkable for their moustachios; but, after that event, there was hardly a shopkeeper either in paris or brussels whose upper lip did not suddenly become hairy with real or mock moustachios. during a temporary triumph gained by the dutch soldiers over the citizens of louvain, in october , it became a standing joke against the patriots, that they shaved their faces clean immediately; and the wits of the dutch army asserted, that they had gathered moustachios enough from the denuded lips of the belgians to stuff mattresses for all the sick and wounded in their hospital. the last folly of this kind is still more recent. in the german newspapers, of august , appeared an ordonnance, signed by the king of bavaria, forbidding civilians, on any pretence whatever, to wear moustachios, and commanding the police and other authorities to arrest, and cause to be shaved, the offending parties. "strange to say," adds "le droit," the journal from which this account is taken, "moustachios disappeared immediately, like leaves from the trees in autumn; everybody made haste to obey the royal order, and not one person was arrested." the king of bavaria, a rhymester of some celebrity, has taken a good many poetical licences in his time. his licence in this matter appears neither poetical nor reasonable. it is to be hoped that he will not take it into his royal head to make his subjects shave theirs; nothing but that is wanting to complete their degradation. duels and ordeals there was an ancient sage philosopher, who swore the world, as he could prove, was mad of fighting. * * * hudibras, most writers, in accounting for the origin of duelling, derive it from the warlike habits of those barbarous nations who overran europe in the early centuries of the christian era, and who knew no mode so effectual for settling their differences as the point of the sword. in fact, duelling, taken in its primitive and broadest sense, means nothing more than combatting, and is the universal resort of all wild animals, including man, to gain or defend their possessions, or avenge their insults. two dogs who tear each other for a bone, or two bantams fighting on a dunghill for the love of some beautiful hen, or two fools on wimbledon common, shooting at each other to satisfy the laws of offended honour, stand on the same footing in this respect, and are, each and all, mere duellists. as civilization advanced, the best informed men naturally grew ashamed of such a mode of adjusting disputes, and the promulgation of some sort of laws for obtaining redress for injuries was the consequence. still there were many cases in which the allegations of an accuser could not be rebutted by any positive proof on the part of the accused; and in all these, which must have been exceedingly numerous in the early stages of european society, the combat was resorted to. from its decision there was no appeal. god was supposed to nerve the arm of the combatant whose cause was just, and to grant him the victory over his opponent. as montesquieu well remarks, ["esprit des loix," liv. xxviii. chap. xvii.] this belief was not unnatural among a people just emerging from barbarism. their manners being wholly warlike, the man deficient in courage, the prime virtue of his fellows, was not unreasonably suspected of other vices besides cowardice, which is generally found to be co-existent with treachery. he, therefore, who showed himself most valiant in the encounter, was absolved by public opinion from any crime with which he might be charged. as a necessary consequence, society would have been reduced to its original elements, if the men of thought, as distinguished from the men of action, had not devised some means for taming the unruly passions of their fellows. with this view, governments commenced by restricting within the narrowest possible limits the cases in which it was lawful to prove or deny guilt by the single combat. by the law of gondebaldus, king of the burgundians, passed in the year , the proof by combat was allowed in all legal proceedings, in lieu of swearing. in the time of charlemagne, the burgundian practice had spread over the empire of the francs, and not only the suitors for justice, but the witnesses, and even the judges, were obliged to defend their cause, their evidence, or their decision, at the point of the sword. louis the debonnaire, his successor, endeavoured to remedy the growing evil, by permitting the duel only in appeals of felony, in civil cases, or issue joined in a writ of right, and in cases of the court of chivalry, or attacks upon a man's knighthood. none were exempt from these trials, but women, the sick and the maimed, and persons under fifteen or above sixty years of age. ecclesiastics were allowed to produce champions in their stead. this practice, in the course of time, extended to all trials of civil and criminal cases, which had to be decided by battle. the clergy, whose dominion was an intellectual one, never approved of a system of jurisprudence which tended so much to bring all things under the rule of the strongest arm. from the first they set their faces against duelling, and endeavoured, as far as the prejudices of their age would allow them, to curb the warlike spirit, so alien from the principles of religion. in the council of valentia, and afterwards in the council of trent, they excommunicated all persons engaged in duelling, and not only them, but even the assistants and spectators, declaring the custom to be hellish and detestable, and introduced by the devil for the destruction both of body and soul. they added, also, that princes who connived at duels, should be deprived of all temporal power, jurisdiction, and dominion over the places where they had permitted them to be fought. it will be seen hereafter that this clause only encouraged the practice which it was intended to prevent. but it was the blasphemous error of these early ages to expect that the almighty, whenever he was called upon, would work a miracle in favour of a person unjustly accused. the priesthood, in condemning the duel, did not condemn the principle on which it was founded. they still encouraged the popular belief of divine interference in all the disputes or differences that might arise among nations or individuals. it was the very same principle that regulated the ordeals, which, with all their influence, they supported against the duel. by the former, the power of deciding the guilt or innocence was vested wholly in their hands, while, by the latter, they enjoyed no power or privilege at all. it is not to be wondered at, that for this reason, if for no other, they should have endeavoured to settle all differences by the peaceful mode. while that prevailed, they were as they wished to be, the first party in the state; but while the strong arm of individual prowess was allowed to be the judge in all doubtful cases, their power and influence became secondary to those of nobility. thus, it was not the mere hatred of bloodshed which induced them to launch the thunderbolts excommunication against the combatants; it a desire to retain the power, which, to do them justice, they were, in those times, the persons best qualified to wield. the germs of knowledge and civilization lay within the bounds of their order; for they were the representatives of the intellectual, as the nobility were of the physical power of man. to centralize this power in the church, and make it the judge of the last resort in all appeals, both in civil and criminal cases, they instituted five modes of trial, the management of which lay wholly in their hands. these were the oath upon the evangelists; the ordeal of the cross, and the fire ordeal, for persons in the higher ranks; the water ordeal, for the humbler classes; and, lastly, the corsned, or bread and cheese ordeal, for members of their own body. the oath upon the evangelists was taken in the following manner: the accused who was received to this proof, says paul hay, count du chastelet, in his memoirs of bertrand du guesclin, swore upon a copy of the new testament, and on the relics of the holy martyrs, or on their tombs, that he was innocent of the crime imputed to him. he was also obliged to find twelve persons, of acknowledged probity, who should take oath at the same time, that they believed him innocent. this mode of trial led to very great abuses, especially in cases of disputed inheritance, where the hardest swearer was certain of the victory. this abuse was one of the principal causes which led to the preference given to the trial by battle. it is not all surprising that a feudal baron, or captain of the early ages, should have preferred the chances of a fair fight with his opponent, to a mode by which firm perjury would always be successful. the trial by, or judgment of, the cross, which charlemagne begged his sons to have recourse to, in case of disputes arising between them, was performed thus:--when a person accused of any crime had declared his innocence upon oath, and appealed to the cross for its judgment in his favour, he was brought into the church, before the altar. the priests previously prepared two sticks exactly like one another, upon one of which was carved a figure of the cross. they were both wrapped up with great care and many ceremonies, in a quantity of fine wool, and laid upon the altar, or on the relics of the saints. a solemn prayer was then offered up to god, that he would be pleased to discover, by the judgment of his holy cross, whether the accused person were innocent or guilty. a priest then approached the altar, and took up one of the sticks, and the assistants unswathed it reverently. if it was marked with the cross, the accused person was innocent; if unmarked, he was guilty. it would be unjust to assert, that the judgments thus delivered were, in all cases, erroneous; and it would be absurd to believe that they were left altogether to chance. many true judgments were doubtless given, and, in all probability, most conscientiously; for we cannot but believe that the priests endeavoured beforehand to convince themselves by secret inquiry and a strict examination of the circumstances, whether the appellant were innocent or guilty, and that they took up the crossed or uncrossed stick accordingly. although, to all other observers, the sticks, as enfolded in the wool, might appear exactly similar, those who enwrapped them could, without any difficulty, distinguish the one from the other. by the fire-ordeal the power of deciding was just as unequivocally left in their hands. it was generally believed that fire would not burn the innocent, and the clergy, of course, took care that the innocent, or such as it was their pleasure or interest to declare so, should be so warned before undergoing the ordeal, as to preserve themselves without any difficulty from the fire. one mode of ordeal was to place red-hot ploughshares on the ground at certain distances, and then, blindfolding the accused person, make him walk barefooted over them. if he stepped regularly in the vacant spaces, avoiding the fire, he was adjudged innocent; if he burned himself, he was declared guilty. as none but the clergy interfered with the arrangement of the ploughshares, they could always calculate beforehand the result of the ordeal. to find a person guilty, they had only to place them at irregular distances, and the accused was sure to tread upon one of them. when emma, the wife of king ethelred, and mother of edward the confessor, was accused of a guilty familiarity with alwyn, bishop of winchester, she cleared her character in this manner. the reputation, not only of their order, but of a queen, being at stake, a verdict of guilty was not to be apprehended from any ploughshares which priests had the heating of. this ordeal was called the judicium dei, and sometimes the vulgaris purgatio, and might also be tried by several other methods. one was to hold in the hand, unhurt, a piece of red-hot iron, of the weight of one, two, or three pounds. when we read not only that men with hard hands, but women of softer and more delicate skin, could do this with impunity, we must be convinced that the hands were previously rubbed with some preservative, or that the apparently hot iron was merely cold iron painted red. another mode was to plunge the naked arm into a caldron of boiling water. the priests then enveloped it in several folds of linen and flannel, and kept the patient confined within the church, and under their exclusive care, for three days. if, at the end of that time, the arm appeared without a scar, the innocence of the accused person was firmly established. [very similar to this is the fire-ordeal of the modern hindoos, which is thus described in forbes's "oriental memoirs," vol. i. c. xi.--"when a man, accused of a capital crime, chooses to undergo the ordeal trial, he is closely confined for several days; his right hand and arm are covered with thick wax-cloth, tied up and sealed, in the presence of proper officers, to prevent deceit. in the english districts the covering was always sealed with the company's arms, and the prisoner placed under an european guard. at the time fixed for the ordeal, a caldron of oil is placed over a fire; when it boils, a piece of money is dropped into the vessel; the prisoner's arm is unsealed, and washed in the presence of his judges and accusers. during this part of the ceremony, the attendant brahmins supplicate the deity. on receiving their benediction, the accused plunges his hand into the boiling fluid, and takes out the coin. the arm is afterwards again sealed up until the time appointed for a re-examination. the seal is then broken: if no blemish appears, the prisoner is declared innocent; if the contrary, he suffers the punishment due to his crime." * * * on this trial the accused thus addresses the element before plunging his hand into the boiling oil:--"thou, o fire! pervadest all things. o cause of purity! who givest evidence of virtue and of sin, declare the truth in this my hand!" if no juggling were practised, the decisions by this ordeal would be all the same way; but, as some are by this means declared guilty, and others innocent, it is clear that the brahmins, like the christian priests of the middle ages, practise some deception in saving those whom they wish to be thought guiltless.] as regards the water-ordeal, the same trouble was not taken. it was a trial only for the poor and humble, and, whether they sank or swam, was thought of very little consequence. like the witches of more modern times, the accused were thrown into a pond or river; if they sank, and were drowned, their surviving friends had the consolation of knowing that they were innocent; if they swam, they were guilty. in either case society was rid of them. but of all the ordeals, that which the clergy reserved for themselves was the one least likely to cause any member of their corps to be declared guilty. the most culpable monster in existence came off clear when tried by this method. it was called the corsned, and was thus performed. a piece of barley bread and a piece of cheese were laid upon the altar, and the accused priest, in his full canonicals, and surrounded by all the pompous adjuncts of roman ceremony, pronounced certain conjurations, and prayed with great fervency for several minutes. the burden of his prayer was, that if he were guilty of the crime laid to his charge, god would send his angel gabriel to stop his throat, that he might not be able to swallow the bread and cheese. there is no instance upon record of a priest having been choked in this manner. [an ordeal very like this is still practised in india. consecrated rice is the article chosen, instead of bread and cheese. instances are not rare in which, through the force of imagination, guilty persons are not able to swallow a single grain. conscious of their crime, and fearful of the punishment of heaven, they feel a suffocating sensation in their throat when they attempt it, and they fall on their knees, and confess all that is laid to their charge. the same thing, no doubt, would have happened with the bread and cheese of the roman church, if it had been applied to any others but ecclesiastics. the latter had too much wisdom to be caught in a trap of their own setting.] when, under pope gregory vii, it was debated whether the gregorian chant should be introduced into castile, instead of the musarabic, given by st. isidore, of seville, to the churches of that kingdom, very much ill feeling was excited. the churches refused to receive the novelty, and it was proposed that the affair should be decided by a battle between two champions, one chosen from each side. the clergy would not consent to a mode of settlement which they considered impious, but had no objection to try the merits of each chant by the fire ordeal. a great fire was accordingly made, and a book of the gregorian and one of the musarabic chant were thrown into it, that the flames might decide which was most agreeable to god by refusing to burn it. cardinal baronius, who says he was an eye-witness of the miracle, relates, that the book of the gregorian chant was no sooner laid upon the fire, than it leaped out uninjured, visibly, and with a great noise. every one present thought that the saints had decided in favour of pope gregory. after a slight interval, the fire was extinguished; but, wonderful to relate! the other book of st. isidore was found covered with ashes, but not injured in the slightest degree. the flames had not even warmed it. upon this it was resolved, that both were alike agreeable to god, and that they should be used by turns in all the churches of seville? [histoire de messire bertrand du guesclin, par paul hay du chastelet. livre i. chap. xix.] if the ordeals had been confined to questions like this, the laity would have had little or no objection to them; but when they were introduced as decisive in all the disputes that might arise between man and man, the opposition of all those whose prime virtue was personal bravery, was necessarily excited. in fact, the nobility, from a very early period, began to look with jealous eyes upon them. they were not slow to perceive their true purport, which was no other than to make the church the last court of appeal in all cases, both civil and criminal: and not only did the nobility prefer the ancient mode of single combat from this cause, in itself a sufficient one, but they clung to it because an acquittal gained by those displays of courage and address which the battle afforded, was more creditable in the eyes of their compeers, than one which it required but little or none of either to accomplish. to these causes may be added another, which was, perhaps, more potent than either, in raising the credit of the judicial combat at the expense of the ordeal. the noble institution of chivalry was beginning to take root, and, notwithstanding the clamours of the clergy, war was made the sole business of life, and the only elegant pursuit of the aristocracy. the fine spirit of honour was introduced, any attack upon which was only to be avenged in the lists, within sight of applauding crowds, whose verdict of approbation was far more gratifying than the cold and formal acquittal of the ordeal. lothaire, the son of louis i, abolished that by fire and the trial of the cross within his dominions; but in england they were allowed so late as the time of henry iii, in the early part of whose reign they were prohibited by an order of council. in the mean time, the crusades had brought the institution of chivalry to the full height of perfection. the chivalric spirit soon achieved the downfall of the ordeal system, and established the judicial combat on a basis too firm to be shaken. it is true that with the fall of chivalry, as an institution, fell the tournament, and the encounter in the lists; but the duel, their offspring, has survived to this day, defying the efforts of sages and philosophers to eradicate it. among all the errors bequeathed to us by a barbarous age, it has proved the most pertinacious. it has put variance between men's reason and their honour; put the man of sense on a level with the fool, and made thousands who condemn it submit to it, or practise it. those who are curious to see the manner in which these combats were regulated, may consult the learned montesquieu, where they will find a copious summary of the code of ancient duelling. ["esprit des loix," livre xxviii. chap. xxv.] truly does he remark, in speaking of the clearness and excellence of the arrangements, that, as there were many wise matters which were conducted in a very foolish manner, so there were many foolish matters conducted very wisely. no greater exemplification of it could be given, than the wise and religious rules of the absurd and blasphemous trial by battle. in the ages that intervened between the crusades and the new era that was opened out by the invention of gunpowder and printing, a more rational system of legislation took root. the inhabitants of cities, engaged in the pursuits of trade and industry, were content to acquiesce in the decisions of their judges and magistrates whenever any differences arose among them. unlike the class above them, their habits and manners did not lead them to seek the battle-field on every slight occasion. a dispute as to the price of a sack of corn, a bale of broad-cloth, or a cow, could be more satisfactorily adjusted before the mayor or bailiff of their district. even the martial knights and nobles, quarrelsome as they were, began to see that the trial by battle would lose its dignity and splendour if too frequently resorted to. governments also shared this opinion, and on several occasions restricted the cases in which it was legal to proceed to this extremity. in france, before the time of louis ix, duels were permitted only in cases of lese majesty, rape, incendiarism, assassination, and burglary. louis ix, by taking off all restriction, made them legal in civil eases. this was not found to work well, and, in , philip the fair judged it necessary to confine them, in criminal matters, to state offences, rape, and incendiarism; and in civil cases, to questions of disputed inheritance. knighthood was allowed to be the best judge of its own honour, and might defend or avenge it as often as occasion arose. among the earliest duels upon record, is a very singular one that took place in the reign of louis ii (a.d. ). ingelgerius, count of gastinois, was one morning discovered by his countess dead in bed at her side. gontran, a relation of the count, accused the countess of having murdered her husband, to whom, he asserted, she had long been unfaithful, and challenged her to produce a champion to do battle in her behalf, that he might establish her guilt by killing him.[memoires de brantome touchant les duels.] all the friends and relatives of the countess believed in her innocence; but gontran was so stout and bold and renowned a warrior, that no one dared to meet him, for which, as brantome quaintly says, "mauvais et poltrons parens estaient." the unhappy countess began to despair, when a champion suddenly appeared in the person of ingelgerius, count of anjou, a boy of sixteen years of age, who had been held by the countess on the baptismal font, and received her husband's name. he tenderly loved his godmother, and offered to do battle in her cause against any and every opponent. the king endeavoured to persuade the generous boy from his enterprise, urging the great strength, tried skill, and invincible courage of the challenger; but he persisted in his resolution, to the great sorrow of all the court, who said it was a cruel thing to permit so brave and beautiful a child to rush to such butchery and death. when the lists were prepared, the countess duly acknowledged her champion, and the combatants commenced the onset. gontran rode so fiercely at his antagonist, and hit him on the shield with such impetuosity, that he lost his own balance and rolled to the ground. the young count, as gontran fell, passed his lance through his body, and then dismounting, cut off his head, which, brantome says, "he presented to the king, who received it most graciously, and was very joyful, as much so as if any one had made him a present of a city." the innocence of the countess was then proclaimed with great rejoicings; and she kissed her godson, and wept over his neck with joy, in the presence of all the assembly. when the earl of essex was accused, by robert de montfort, before king henry ii, in , of having traitorously suffered the royal standard of england to fall from his hands in a skirmish with the welsh, at coleshill, five years previously, the latter offered to prove the truth of the charge by single combat. the earl of essex accepted the challenge, and the lists were prepared near reading. an immense concourse of persons assembled to witness the battle. essex at first fought stoutly, but, losing his temper and self-command, he gave an advantage to his opponent, which soon decided the struggle. he was unhorsed, and so severely wounded, that all present thought he was dead. at the solicitation of his relatives, the monks of the abbey of reading were allowed to remove the body for interment, and montfort was declared the victor. essex, however, was not dead, but stunned only, and, under the care of the monks, recovered in a few weeks from his bodily injuries. the wounds of his mind were not so easily healed. though a loyal and brave subject, the whole realm believed him a traitor and a coward because he had been vanquished. he could not brook to return to the world deprived of the good opinion of his fellows; he, therefore, made himself a monk, and passed the remainder of his days within the walls of the abbey. du chastelet relates a singular duel that was proposed in spain.[histoire de messire bertrand du guesclin, livre i. chap. xix.] a christian gentleman of seville sent a challenge to a moorish cavalier, offering to prove against him, with whatever weapons he might choose, that the religion of jesus christ was holy and divine, and that of mahomet impious and damnable. the spanish prelates did not choose that christianity should be com promised within their jurisdiction by the result of any such combat, and they commanded the knight, under pain of excommunication, to withdraw the challenge. the same author relates, that under otho i a question arose among jurisconsults, viz. whether grandchildren, who had lost their father, should share equally with their uncles in the property of their grandfather, at the death of the latter. the difficulty of this question was found so insurmountable, that none of the lawyers of that day could resolve it. it was at last decreed, that it should be decided by single combat. two champions were accordingly chosen; one for, and the other against, the claims of the little ones. after a long struggle, the champion of the uncles was unhorsed and slain; and it was, therefore, decided, that the right of the grandchildren was established, and that they should enjoy the same portion of their grandfather's possessions that their father would have done had he been alive. upon pretexts, just as frivolous as these, duels continued to be fought in most of the countries of europe during the whole of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. a memorable instance of the slightness of the pretext on which a man could be forced to fight a duel to the death, occurs in the memoirs of the brave constable, du guesclin. the advantage he had obtained, in a skirmish before rennes, against william brembre, an english captain, so preyed on the spirits of william troussel, the chosen friend and companion of the latter, that nothing would satisfy him but a mortal combat with the constable. the duke of lancaster, to whom troussel applied for permission to fight the great frenchman, forbade the battle, as not warranted by the circumstances. troussel nevertheless burned with a fierce desire to cross his weapon with du guesclin, and sought every occasion to pick a quarrel with him. having so good a will for it, of course he found a way. a relative of his had been taken prisoner by the constable, in whose hands he remained till he was able to pay his ransom. troussel resolved to make a quarrel out of this, and despatched a messenger to du guesclin, demanding the release of his prisoner, and offering a bond, at a distant date, for the payment of the ransom. du guesclin, who had received intimation of the hostile purposes of the englishman, sent back word, that he would not accept his bond, neither would he release his prisoner, until the full amount of his ransom was paid. as soon as this answer was received, troussel sent a challenge to the constable, demanding reparation for the injury he had done his honour, by refusing his bond, and offering a mortal combat, to be fought three strokes with the lance, three with the sword, and three with the dagger. du guesclin, although ill in bed with the ague, accepted the challenge, and gave notice to the marshal d'andreghem, the king's lieutenant-general in lower normandy, that he might fix the day and the place of combat. the marshal made all necessary arrangements, upon condition that he who was beaten should pay a hundred florins of gold to feast the nobles and gentlemen who were witnesses of the encounter. the duke of lancaster was very angry with his captain, and told him, that it would be a shame to his knighthood and his nation, if he forced on a combat with the brave du guesclin, at a time when he was enfeebled by disease and stretched on the couch of suffering. upon these representations, troussel, ashamed of himself, sent notice to du guesclin that he was willing to postpone the duel until such time as he should be perfectly recovered. du guesclin replied, that he could not think of postponing the combat, after all the nobility had received notice of it; that he had sufficient strength left, not only to meet, but to conquer such an opponent as he was; and that, if he did not make his appearance in the lists at the time appointed, he would publish him everywhere as a man unworthy to be called a knight, or to wear an honourable sword by his side. troussel carried this haughty message to the duke of lancaster, who immediately gave permission for the battle. on the day appointed, the two combatants appeared in the lists, in the presence of several thousand spectators. du guesclin was attended by the flower of the french nobility, including the marshal de beaumanoir, olivier de mauny, bertrand de saint pern, and the viscount de la belliere, while the englishman appeared with no more than the customary retinue of two seconds, two squires, two coutilliers, or daggermen, and two trumpeters. the first onset was unfavourable to the constable: he received so heavy a blow on his shield-arm, that he fell forward to the left, upon his horse's neck, and, being weakened by his fever, was nearly thrown to the ground. all his friends thought he could never recover himself, and began to deplore his ill fortune; but du guesclin collected his energies for a decisive effort, and, at the second charge, aimed a blow at the shoulder of his enemy, which felled him to the earth, mortally wounded. he then sprang from his horse, sword in hand, with the intention of cutting off the head of his fallen foe, when the marshal d'andreghem threw a golden wand into the arena, as a signal that hostilities should cease. du guesclin was proclaimed the victor, amid the joyous acclamations of the crowd, and retiring, left the field to the meaner combatants, who were afterwards to make sport for the people. four english and as many french squires fought for some time with pointless lances, when the french, gaining the advantage, the sports were declared at an end. in the time of charles vi, about the beginning of the fifteenth century, a famous duel was ordered by the parliament of paris. the sieur de carrouges being absent in the holy land, his lady was violated by the sieur legris. carrouges, on his return, challenged legris to mortal combat, for the twofold crime of violation and slander, inasmuch as he had denied his guilt, by asserting that the lady was a willing party. the lady's asseverations of innocence were held to be no evidence by the parliament, and the duel was commanded with all the ceremonies. "on the day appointed," says brantome, [memoires de brantome touchant les duels.] "the lady came to witness the spectacle in her chariot; but the king made her descend, judging her unworthy, because she was criminal in his eyes till her innocence was proved, and caused her to stand upon a scaffold to await the mercy of god and this judgment by the battle. after a short struggle, the sieur de carrouges overthrew his enemy, and made him confess both the rape and the slander. he was then taken to the gallows and hanged in the presence of the multitude; while the innocence of the lady was proclaimed by the heralds, and recognized by her husband, the king, and all the spectators." numerous battles, of a similar description, constantly took place, until the unfortunate issue of one encounter of the kind led the french king, henry ii, to declare solemnly, that he would never again permit any such encounter, whether it related to a civil or criminal case, or the honour of a gentleman. this memorable combat was fought in the year . francois de vivonne, lord of la chataigneraie, and guy de chabot, lord of jarnac, had been friends from their early youth, and were noted at the court of francis i for the gallantry of their bearing and the magnificence of their retinue. chataigneraie, who knew that his friend's means were not very ample, asked him one day, in confidence, how it was that he contrived to be so well provided? jarnac replied, that his father had married a young and beautiful woman, who, loving the son far better than the sire, supplied him with as much money as he desired. la chataigneraie betrayed the base secret to the dauphin, the dauphin to the king, the king to his courtiers, and the courtiers to all their acquaintance. in a short time it reached the ears of the old lord de jarnac, who immediately sent for his son, and demanded to know in what manner the report had originated, and whether he had been vile enough not only to carry on such a connexion, but to boast of it? de jarnac indignantly denied that he had ever said so, or given reason to the world to say so, and requested his father to accompany him to court, and confront him with his accuser, that he might see the manner in which he would confound him. they went accordingly, and the younger de jarnac, entering a room where the dauphin, la chataigneraie, and several courtiers were present, exclaimed aloud, "that whoever had asserted, that he maintained a criminal connexion with his mother-in-law, was a liar and a coward!" every eye was turned to the dauphin and la chataigneraie, when the latter stood forward, and asserted, that de jarnac had himself avowed that such was the fact, and he would extort from his lips another confession of it. a case like this could not be met or rebutted by any legal proof, and the royal council ordered that it should be decided by single combat. the king, however, set his face against the duel [although francis showed himself in this case an enemy to duelling, yet, in his own case, he had not the same objection. every reader of history must remember his answer to the challenge of the emperor charles v. the emperor wrote that he had failed in his word, and that he would sustain their quarrel single-handed against him. francis replied, that he lied--qu'il en avait menti par la gorge, and that he was ready to meet him in single combat whenever and wherever he pleased.] and forbade them both, under pain of his high displeasure, to proceed any further in the matter. but francis died in the following year, and the dauphin, now henry ii, who was himself compromised, resolved that the combat should take place. the lists were prepared in the court-yard of the chateau of st. germain-en-laye, and the th of july was appointed for the encounter. the cartels of the combatants, which are preserved in the "memoires de castelnau," were as follow:-- "cartel of francois de vivonne, lord of la chataigneraie. "sire, "having learned that guy chabot de jarnac, being lately at compeigne, asserted, that whoever had said that he boasted of having criminal intercourse with his mother-in-law, was wicked and a wretch,--i, sire, with your good-will and pleasure, do answer, that he has wickedly lied, and will lie as many times as he denies having said that which i affirm he did say; for i repeat, that he told me several times, and boasted of it, that he had slept with his mother-in-law. "francois de vivonne." to this cartel de jarnac replied:-- "sire, "with your good will and permission, i say, that francois de vivonne has lied in the imputation which he has cast upon me, and of which i spoke to you at compeigne. i, therefore, entreat you, sire, most humbly, that you be pleased to grant us a fair field, that we may fight this battle to the death. "guy chabot." the preparations were conducted on a scale of the greatest magnificence, the king having intimated his intention of being present. la chataigneraie made sure of the victory, and invited the king and a hundred and fifty of the principal personages of the court to sup with him in the evening, after the battle, in a splendid tent, which he had prepared at the extremity of the lists. de jarnac was not so confident, though perhaps more desperate. at noon, on the day appointed, the combatants met, and each took the customary oath, that he bore no charms or amulets about him, or made use of any magic, to aid him against his antagonist. they then attacked each other, sword in hand. la chataigneraie was a strong, robust man, and over confident; de jarnac was nimble, supple, and prepared for the worst. the combat lasted for some time doubtful, until de jarnac, overpowered by the heavy blows of his opponent, covered his head with his shield, and, stooping down, endeavoured to make amends by his agility for his deficiency of strength. in this crouching posture he aimed two blows at the left thigh of la chataigneraie, who had left it uncovered, that the motion of his leg might not be impeded. each blow was successful, and, amid the astonishment of all the spectators, and to the great regret of the king, la chataigneraie rolled over upon the sand. he seized his dagger, and made a last effort to strike de jarnac; but he was unable to support himself, and fell powerless into the arms of the assistants. the officers now interfered, and de jarnac being declared the victor, fell down upon his knees, uncovered his head, and, clasping his hands together, exclaimed:--"o domine, non sum dignus!" la chataigneraie was so mortified by the result of the encounter, that he resolutely refused to have his wounds dressed. he tore off the bandages which the surgeons applied, and expired two days afterwards. ever since that time, any sly and unforeseen attack has been called by the french a coup de jarnac. henry was so grieved at the loss of his favourite, that he made the solemn oath already alluded to, that he would never again, so long as he lived, permit a due]. some writers have asserted, and among others, mezeraie, that he issued a royal edict forbidding them. this has been doubted by others, and, as there appears no registry of the edict in any of the courts, it seems most probable that it was never issued. this opinion is strengthened by the fact, that two years afterwards, the council ordered another duel to be fought, with similar forms, but with less magnificence, on account of the inferior rank of the combatants. it is not anywhere stated, that henry interfered to prevent it, notwithstanding his solemn oath; but that, on the contrary, he encouraged it, and appointed the marshal de la marque to see that it was conducted according to the rules of chivalry. the disputants were fendille and d'aguerre, two gentlemen of the household, who, quarrelling in the king's chamber, had proceeded from words to blows. the council, being informed of the matter, decreed that it could only be decided in the lists. marshal de la marque, with the king's permission, appointed the city of sedan as the place of combat. fendille, who was a bad swordsman, was anxious to avoid an encounter with d'aguerre, who was one of the most expert men of the age; but the council authoritatively commanded that he should fight, or be degraded from all his honours. d'aguerre appeared in the field attended by francois de vendome, count de chartres, while fendille was accompanied by the duke de nevers. fendille appears to have been not only an inexpert swordsman, but a thorough coward; one who, like cowley, might have heaped curses on the man, "-------(death's factor sure), who brought dire swords into this peaceful world." on the very first encounter he was thrown from his horse, and, confessing on the ground all that his victor required of him, slunk away ignominiously from the arena. one is tempted to look upon the death of henry ii as a judgment upon him for his perjury in the matter of duelling. in a grand tournament instituted on the occasion of the marriage of his daughter, he broke several lances in encounters with some of the bravest knights of the time. ambitious of still further renown, he would not rest satisfied until he had also engaged the young count de montgomeri. he received a wound in the eye from the lance of this antagonist, and died from its effects shortly afterwards, in the forty-first year of his age. in the succeeding reigns of francis ii, charles ix, and henry iii, the practice of duelling increased to an alarming extent. duels were not rare in the other countries of europe at the same period; but in france they were so frequent, that historians, in speaking of that age, designate it as "l'epoque de la fureur des duels." the parliament of paris endeavoured, as far as in its power lay, to discourage the practice. by a decree dated the th of june , it declared all persons who should be present at duels, or aiding and abetting in them, to be rebels to the king, transgressors of the law, and disturbers of the public peace. when henry iii was assassinated at st. cloud, in , a young gentleman, named l'isle marivaut, who had been much beloved by him, took his death so much to heart, that he resolved not to survive him. not thinking suicide an honourable death, and wishing, as he said, to die gloriously in revenging his king and master, he publicly expressed his readiness to fight anybody to the death who should assert that henry's assassination was not a great misfortune to the community. another youth, of a fiery temper and tried courage, named marolles, took him at his word, and the day and place of the combat were forthwith appointed. when the hour had come, and all were ready, marolles turned to his second, and asked whether his opponent had a casque or helmet only, or whether he wore a sallade, or headpiece. being answered a helmet only, he said gaily, "so much the better; for, sir, my second, you shall repute me the wickedest man in all the world, if i do not thrust my lance right through the the middle of his head and kill him." truth to say, he did so at the very first onset, and the unhappy l'isle marivaut expired without a groan. brantome, who relates this story, adds, that the victor might have done as he pleased with the body, cut off the head, dragged it out of the camp, or exposed it upon an ass, but that, being a wise and very courteous gentleman, he left it to the relatives of the deceased to be honourably buried, contenting himself with the glory of his triumph, by which he gained no little renown and honour among the ladies of paris. on the accession of henry iv that monarch pretended to set his face against duelling; but such was the influence of early education and the prejudices of society upon him, that he never could find it in his heart to punish a man for this offence. he thought it tended to foster a warlike spirit among his people. when the chivalrous crequi demanded his permission to fight don philippe de savoire, he is reported to have said, "go, and if i were not a king, i would be your second." it is no wonder that when such were known to be the king's disposition, his edicts attracted but small attention. a calculation was made by m. de lomenie, in the year , that since the accession of henry, in , no less than four thousand french gentlemen had lost their lives in these conflicts, which, for the eighteen years, would have been at the rate of four or five in a week, or eighteen per month! sully, who reports this fact in his memoirs, does not throw the slightest doubt upon its exactness, and adds, that it was chiefly owing to the facility and ill-advised good-nature of his royal master that the bad example had so empoisoned the court, the city, and the whole country. this wise minister devoted much of his time and attention to the subject; for the rage, he says, was such as to cause him a thousand pangs, and the king also. there was hardly a man moving in what was called good society, who had not been engaged in a duel either as principal or second; and if there were such a man, his chief desire was to free himself from the imputation of non-duelling, by picking a quarrel with somebody. sully constantly wrote letters to the king, in which he prayed him to renew the edicts against this barbarous custom, to aggravate the punishment against offenders, and never, in any instance, to grant a pardon, even to a person who had wounded another in a duel, much less to any one who had taken away life. he also advised, that some sort of tribunal, or court of honour, should be established, to take cognizance of injurious and slanderous language, and of all such matters as usually led to duels; and that the justice to be administered by this court should be sufficiently prompt and severe to appease the complainant, and make the offender repent of his aggression. henry, being so warmly pressed by his friend and minister, called together an extraordinary council in the gallery of the palace of fontainebleau, to take the matter into consideration. when all the members were assembled, his majesty requested that some person conversant with the subject would make a report to him on the origin, progress, and different forms of the duel. sully complacently remarks, that none of the counsllors gave the king any great reason to felicitate them on their erudition. in fact, they all remained silent. sully held his peace with the rest; but he looked so knowing, that the king turned towards him, and said:--"great master! by your face i conjecture that you know more of this matter than you would have us believe. i pray you, and indeed i command, that you tell us what you think and what you know." the coy minister refused, as he says, out of mere politeness to his more ignorant colleagues; but, being again pressed by the king, he entered into a history of duelling both in ancient and modern times. he has not preserved this history in his memoirs; and, as none of the ministers or counsellors present thought proper to do so, the world is deprived of a discourse which was, no doubt, a learned and remarkable one. the result was, that a royal edict was issued, which sully lost no time in transmitting to the most distant provinces, with a distinct notification to all parties concerned that the king was in earnest, and would exert the full rigour of the law in punishment of the offenders. sully himself does not inform us what were the provisions of the new law; but father matthias has been more explicit, and from him we learn, that the marshals of france were created judges of a court of chivalry, for the hearing of all causes wherein the honour of a noble or gentleman was concerned, and that such as resorted to duelling should be punished by death and confiscation of property, and that the seconds and assistants should lose their rank, dignity, or offices, and be banished from the court of their sovereign. [le pere matthias, tome ii. livre iv.] but so strong a hold had the education and prejudice of his age upon the mind of the king, that though his reason condemned, his sympathies approved the duel. notwithstanding this threatened severity, the number of duels did not diminish, and the wise sully had still to lament the prevalence of an evil which menaced society with utter disorganization. in the succeeding reign the practice prevailed, if possible, to a still greater extent, until the cardinal de richelieu, better able to grapple with it than sully had been, made some severe examples in the very highest classes. lord herbert, the english ambassador at the court of louis xiii repeats, in his letters, an observation that had been previously made in the reign of henry iv, that it was rare to find a frenchman moving in good society who had not killed his man in a duel. the abbe millot says of this period, that the duel madness made the most terrible ravages. men had actually a frenzy for combatting. caprice and vanity, as well as the excitement of passion, imposed the necessity of fighting. friends were obliged to enter into the quarrels of their friends, or be themselves called out for their refusal, and revenge became hereditary in many families. it was reckoned that in twenty years eight thousand letters of pardon had been issued to persons who had killed others in single combat. ["elemens de l'histoire de france, vol. iii. p. .] other writers confirm this statement. amelot de houssaye, in his memoirs, says, upon this subject, that duels were so common in the first years of the reign of louis xiii, that the ordinary conversation of persons when they met in the morning was, "do you know who fought yesterday?" and after dinner, "do you know who fought this morning?" the most infamous duellist at that period was de bouteville. it was not at all necessary to quarrel with this assassin to be forced to fight a duel with him. when he heard that any one was very brave, he would go to him, and say, "people tell me that you are brave; you and i must fight together!" every morning the most notorious bravos and duellists used to assemble at his house, to take a breakfast of bread and wine, and practise fencing. m. de valencay, who was afterwards elevated to the rank of a cardinal, ranked very high in the estimation of de bouteville and his gang. hardly a day passed but what he was engaged in some duel or other, either as principal or second; and he once challenged de bouteville himself, his best friend, because de bouteville had fought a duel without inviting him to become his second. this quarrel was only appeased on the promise of de bouteville that, in his next encounter, he would not fail to avail himself of his services. for that purpose he went out the same day, and picked a quarrel with the marquis des portes. m. de valencay, according to agreement, had the pleasure of serving as his second, and of running through the body m. de cavois, the second of the marquis des portes, a man who had never done him any injury, and whom he afterwards acknowledged he had never seen before. cardinal richelieu devoted much attention to this lamentable state of public morals, and seems to have concurred with his great predecessor, sully, that nothing but the most rigorous severity could put a stop to the evil. the subject indeed was painfully forced upon him by his enemies. the marquis de themines, to whom richelieu, then bishop of lucon, had given offence by some representations he had made to mary of medicis, determined, since he could not challenge an ecclesiastic, to challenge his brother. an opportunity was soon found. themines, accosting the marquis de richelieu, complained, in an insulting tone, that the bishop of lucon had broken his faith. the marquis resented both the manner and matter of his speech, and readily accepted a challenge. they met in the rue d'angouleme, and the unfortunate richelieu was stabbed to the heart, and instantly expired. from that moment the bishop became the steady foe of the practice of duelling. reason and the impulse of brotherly love alike combined to make him detest it, and when his power in france was firmly established, he set vigorously about repressing it. in his "testament politique," he has collected his thoughts upon the subject, in the chapter entitled "des moyens d'arreter les duels." in spite of the edicts that he published, the members of the nobility persisted in fighting upon the most trivial and absurd pretences. at last richelieu made a terrible example. the infamous de bouteville challenged and fought the marquis de beuoron; and, although the duel itself was not fatal to either, its consequences were fatal to both. high as they were, richelieu resolved that the law should reach them, and they were both tried, found guilty, and beheaded. thus did society get rid of one of the most bloodthirsty scoundrels that ever polluted it. in two noblemen fought a duel, in which they were both killed. the officers of justice had notice of the breach of the law, and arrived at the scene of combat before the friends of the parties had time to remove the bodies. in conformity with the cardinal's severe code upon the subject, the bodies were ignominiously stripped, and hanged upon a gallows, with their heads downwards, for several hours, within sight of all the people. [mercure de france, vol. xiii.] this severity sobered the frenzy of the nation for a time; but it was soon forgotten. men's minds were too deeply imbued with a false notion of honour to be brought to a right way of thinking: by such examples, however striking, richelieu was unable to persuade them to walk in the right path, though he could punish them for choosing the wrong one. he had, with all his acuteness, miscalculated the spirit of duelling. it was not death that a duellist feared: it was shame, and the contempt of his fellows. as addison remarked more than eighty years afterwards, "death was not sufficient to deter men who made it their glory to despise it; but if every one who fought a duel were to stand in the pillory, it would quickly diminish the number of those imaginary men of honour, and put an end to so absurd a practice." richelieu never thought of this. sully says, that in his time the germans were also much addicted to duelling. there were three places where it was legal to fight; witzburg, in franconia, and uspach and halle, in swabia. thither, of course, vast numbers repaired, and murdered each other under sanction of the law. at an earlier period, in germany, it was held highly disgraceful to refuse to fight. any one who surrendered to his adversary for a simple wound that did not disable him, was reputed infamous, and could neither cut his beard, bear arms, mount on horseback, or hold any office in the state. he who fell in a duel was buried with great pomp and splendour. in the year , just after louis xiv had attained his majority, a desperate duel was fought between the dukes de beaufort and de nemours, each attended by four gentlemen. although brothers-in-law, they had long been enemies, and their constant dissensions had introduced much disorganization among the troops which they severally commanded. each had long sought an opportunity for combat, which at last arose on a misunderstanding relative to the places they were to occupy at the council board. they fought with pistols, and, at the first discharge, the duke de nemours was shot through the body, and almost instantly expired. upon this the marquis de villars, who seconded nemours, challenged hericourt, the second of the duke de beaufort, a man whom he had never before seen; and the challenge being accepted, they fought even more desperately than their principals. this combat, being with swords, lasted longer than the first, and was more exciting to the six remaining gentlemen who stayed to witness it. the result was fatal to hericourt, who fell pierced to the heart by the sword of de villars. anything more savage than this can hardly be imagined. voltaire says such duels were frequent, and the compiler of the "dictionnaire d'anecdotes" informs us, that the number of seconds was not fixed. as many as ten, or twelve, or twenty, were not unfrequent, and they often fought together after their principals were disabled. the highest mark of friendship one man could manifest towards another, was to choose him for his second; and many gentlemen were so desirous of serving in this capacity, that they endeavoured to raise every slight misunderstanding into a quarrel, that they might have the pleasure of being engaged in it. the count de bussy rabutin relates an instance of this in his memoirs. he says, that as he was one evening coming out of the theatre, a gentleman, named bruc, whom he had not before known, stopped him very politely, and, drawing him aside, asked him if it was true that the count de thianges had called him (bruc) a drunkard? bussy replied, that he really did not know, for he saw the count very seldom. "oh! he is your uncle!" replied bruc; "and, as i cannot have satisfaction from him, because he lives so far off in the country, i apply to you." "i see what you are at," replied bussy, "and, since you wish to put me in my uncle's place, i answer, that whoever asserted that he called you a drunkard, told a lie!" "my brother said so," replied bruc, "and he is a child." "horsewhip him, then, for his falsehood," returned de bussy. "i will not have my brother called a liar," returned bruc, determined to quarrel with him; "so draw, and defend yourself!" they both drew their swords in the public street, but were separated by the spectators. they agreed, however, to fight on a future occasion, and with all regular forms of the duello. a few days afterwards, a gentleman, whom de bussy had never before seen, and whom he did not know, even by name, called upon him, and asked if he might have the privilege of serving as his second. he added, that he neither knew him nor bruc, except by reputation, but, having made up his mind to be second to one of them, he had decided upon accompanying de bussy as the braver man of the two. de bussy thanked him very sincerely for his politeness, but begged to be excused, as he had already engaged four seconds to accompany him, and he was afraid that if he took any more, the affair would become a battle instead of a duel. when such quarrels as these were looked upon as mere matters of course, the state of society must have been indeed awful. louis xiv very early saw the evil, and as early determined to remedy it. it was not, however, till the year , when he instituted the "chambre ardente," for the trial of the slow poisoners and pretenders to sorcery, that he published any edict against duelling. in that year his famous edict was promulgated, in which he reiterated and confirmed the severe enactments of his predecessors, henry iv and louis xiii, and expressed his determination never to pardon any offender. by this celebrated ordinance a supreme court of honour was established, composed of the marshals of france. they were bound, on taking the office, to give to every one who brought a well-founded complaint before them, such reparation as would satisfy the justice of the case. should any gentleman against whom complaint was made refuse to obey the mandate of the court of honour, he might be punished by fine and imprisonment; and when that was not possible, by reason of his absenting himself from the kingdom, his estates might be confiscated till his return. every man who sent a challenge, be the cause of offence what it might, was deprived of all redress from the court of honour--suspended three years from the exercise of any office in the state--was further imprisoned for two years, and sentenced to pay a fine of half his yearly income. he who accepted a challenge, was subject to the same punishment. any servant, or other person, who knowingly became the bearer of a challenge, was, if found guilty, sentenced to stand in the pillory and be publicly whipped for the first offence, and for the second, sent for three years to the galleys. any person who actually fought, was to be held guilty of murder, even though death did not ensue, and was to be punished accordingly. persons in the higher ranks of life were to be beheaded, and those of the middle class hanged upon a gallows, and their bodies refused christian burial. at the same time that louis published this severe edict, he exacted a promise from his principal nobility that they would never engage in a duel on any pretence whatever. he never swerved from his resolution to pursue all duellists with the utmost rigour, and many were executed in various parts of the country. a slight abatement of the evil was the consequence, and in the course of a few years one duel was not fought where twelve had been fought previously. a medal was struck to commemorate the circumstance, by the express command of the king. so much had he this object at heart, that, in his will, he particularly recommended to his successor the care of his edict against duelling, and warned him against any ill-judged lenity to those who disobeyed it. a singular law formerly existed in malta with regard to duelling. by this law it was permitted, but only upon condition that the parties should fight in one particular street. if they presumed to settle their quarrel elsewhere, they were held guilty of murder, and punished accordingly. what was also very singular, they were bound, under heavy penalties, to put up their swords when requested to do so by a priest, a knight, or a woman. it does not appear, however, that the ladies or the knights exercised this mild and beneficent privilege to any great extent; the former were too often themselves the cause of duels, and the latter sympathised too much in the wounded honour of the combatants to attempt to separate them. the priests alone were the great peacemakers. brydone says, that a cross was always painted on the wall opposite to the spot where a knight had been killed, and that in the "street of duels" he counted about twenty of them. [brydone's "tour in malta." .] in england the private duel was also practised to a scandalous extent, towards the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the seventeenth centuries. the judicial combat now began to be more rare, but several instances of it are mentioned in history. one was instituted in the reign of elizabeth, and another so late as the time of charles i. sir henry spelman gives an account of that which took place in elizabeth's reign, which is curious, perhaps the more so when we consider that it was perfectly legal, and that similar combats remained so till the year . a proceeding having been instituted in the court of common pleas for the recovery of certain manorial rights in the county of kent, the defendant offered to prove by single combat his right to retain possession. the plaintiff accepted the challenge, and the court having no power to stay the proceedings, agreed to the champions who were to fight in lieu of the principals. the queen commanded the parties to compromise; but it being represented to her majesty that they were justified by law in the course they were pursuing, she allowed them to proceed. on the day appointed, the justices of the common pleas, and all the council engaged in the cause, appeared as umpires of the combat, at a place in tothill-fields, where the lists had been prepared. the champions were ready for the encounter, and the plaintiff and defendant were publicly called to come forward and acknowledge them. the defendant answered to his name, and recognised his champion with the due formalities, but the plaintiff did not appear. without his presence and authority the combat could not take place; and his absence being considered an abandonment of his claim, he was declared to be nonsuited, and barred for ever from renewing his suit before any other tribunal whatever. the queen appears to have disapproved personally of this mode of settling a disputed claim, but her judges and legal advisers made no attempt to alter the barbarous law. the practice of private duelling excited more indignation, from its being of every-day occurrence. in the time of james i the english were so infected with the french madness, that bacon, when he was attorney-general, lent the aid of his powerful eloquence to effect a reformation of the evil. informations were exhibited in the star chamber against two persons, named priest and wright, for being engaged, as principal and second, in a duel, on which occasion he delivered a charge that was so highly approved of by the lords of the council, that they ordered it to be printed and circulated over the country, as a thing "very meet and worthy to be remembered and made known unto the world." he began by considering the nature and greatness of the mischief of duelling. "it troubleth peace--it disfurnisheth war--it bringeth calamity upon private men, peril upon the state, and contempt upon the law. touching the causes of it," he observed, "that the first motive of it, no doubt, is a false and erroneous imagination of honour and credit; but then, the seed of this mischief being such, it is nourished by vain discourses and green and unripe conceits. hereunto may be added, that men have almost lost the true notion and understanding of fortitude and valour. for fortitude distinguisheth of the grounds of quarrel whether they be just; and not only so, but whether they be worthy, and setteth a better price upon men's lives than to bestow them idly. nay, it is weakness and disesteem of a man's self to put a man's life upon such liedger performances. a man's life is not to be trifled with: it is to be offered up and sacrificed to honourable services, public merits, good causes, and noble adventures. it is in expense of blood as it is in expense of money. it is no liberality to make a profusion of money upon every vain occasion, neither is it fortitude to make effusion of blood, except the cause of it be worth." [see "life and character of lord bacon," by thomas martin, barrister-at-law.] the most remarkable event connected with duelling in this reign was that between lord sanquir, a scotch nobleman, and one turner, a fencing-master. in a trial of skill between them, his lordship's eye was accidentally thrust out by the point of turner's sword. turner expressed great regret at the circumstance, and lord sanquir bore his loss with as much philosophy as he was master of, and forgave his antagonist. three years afterwards, lord sanquir was at paris, where he was a constant visitor at the court of henry iv. one day, in the course of conversation, the affable monarch inquired how he had lost his eye. sanquir, who prided himself on being the most expert swordsman of the age, blushed as he replied that it was inflicted by the sword of a fencing-master. henry, forgetting his assumed character of an antiduellist, carelessly, and as a mere matter of course, inquired whether the man lived? nothing more was said, but the query sank deep into the proud heart of the scotch baron, who returned shortly afterwards to england, burning for revenge. his first intent was to challenge the fencing-master to single combat, but, on further consideration, he deemed it inconsistent with his dignity to meet him as an equal in fair and open fight. he therefore hired two bravos, who set upon the fencing-master, and murdered him in his own house at whitefriars. the assassins were taken and executed, and a reward of one thousand pounds offered for the apprehension of their employer. lord sanquir concealed himself for several days, and then surrendered to take his trial, in the hope (happily false) that justice would belie her name, and be lenient to a murderer because he was a nobleman, who, on a false point of honour, had thought fit to take revenge into his own hands. the most powerful intercessions were employed in his favour, but james, to his credit, was deaf to them all. bacon, in his character of attorney-general, prosecuted the prisoner to conviction; and he died the felon's death, on the th of june, , on a gibbet erected in front of the gate of westminster hall. with regard to the public duel, or trial by battle, demanded under the sanction of the law, to terminate a quarrel which the ordinary course of justice could with difficulty decide, bacon was equally opposed to it, and thought that in no case should it be granted. he suggested that there should be declared a constant and settled resolution in the state to abolish it altogether; that care should be taken that the evil be no more cockered, nor the humour of it fed, but that all persons found guilty should be rigorously punished by the star chamber, and these of eminent quality banished from the court. in the succeeding reign, when donald mackay, the first lord reay, accused david ramsay of treason, in being concerned with the marquis of hamilton in a design upon the crown of scotland, he was challenged by the latter to make good his assertion by single combat. [see "history of the house and clan of mackay."] it had been at first the intention of the government to try the case by the common law, but ramsay thought he would stand a better chance of escape by recurring to the old and almost exploded custom, but which was still the right of every man in appeals of treason. lord reay readily accepted the challenge, and both were confined in the tower until they found security that they would appear on a certain day, appointed by the court, to determine the question. the management of the affair was delegated to the marischal court of westminster, and the earl of lindsay was created lord constable of england for the purpose. shortly before the day appointed, ramsay confessed in substance all that lord reay had laid to his charge, upon which charles i put a stop to the proceedings. but in england, about this period, sterner disputes arose among men than those mere individual matters which generate duels. the men of the commonwealth encouraged no practice of the kind, and the subdued aristocracy carried their habits and prejudices elsewhere, and fought their duels at foreign courts. cromwell's parliament, however,--although the evil at that time was not so crying,--published an order, in , for the prevention of duels, and the punishment of all con cerned in them. charles ii, on his restoration, also issued a proclamation upon the subject. in his reign an infamous duel was fought--infamous, not only from its own circumstances, but from the lenity that was shown to the principal offenders. the worthless duke of buckingham, having debauched the countess of shrewsbury, was challenged by her husband to mortal combat, in january . charles ii endeavoured to prevent the duel, not from any regard to public morality, but from fear for the life of his favourite. he gave commands to the duke of albemarle to confine buckingham to his house, or take some other measures to prevent him flora fighting. albemarle neglected the order, thinking that the king himself might prevent the combat by some surer means. the meeting took place at barn elms, the injured shrewsbury being attended by sir john talbot, his relative, and lord bernard howard, son of the earl of arundel. buckingham was accompanied by two of his dependants, captain holmes and sir john jenkins. according to the barbarous custom of the age, not only the principals, but the seconds, engaged each other. jenkins was pierced to the heart, and left dead upon the field, and sir john talbot severely wounded in both arms. buckingham himself escaping with slight wounds, ran his unfortunate antagonist through the body, and then left the field with the wretched woman, the cause of all the mischief, who, in the dress of a page, awaited the issue of the conflict in a neighbouring wood, holding her paramour's horse to avoid suspicion. great influence was exerted to save the guilty parties from punishment, and the master, as base as the favourite, made little difficulty in granting a free pardon to all concerned. in a royal proclamation issued shortly afterwards, charles ii formally pardoned the murderers, but declared his intention never to extend, in future, any mercy to such offenders. it would be hard after this to say who was the most infamous, the king, the favourite, or the courtezan. in the reign of queen anne, repeated complaints were made of the prevalence of duelling. addison, swift, steele, and other writers, employed their powerful pens in reprobation of it. steele especially, in the "tatler" and "guardian," exposed its impiety and absurdity, and endeavoured, both by argument and by ridicule, to bring his countrymen to a right way of thinking. [see "spectator," nos. . , and ; and "tatler," nos. , , , , , and ; and "guardian," no. .] his comedy of "the conscious lovers" contains an admirable exposure of the abuse of the word honour, which led men into an error so lamentable. swift, writing upon the subject, remarked that he could see no harm in rogues and fools shooting each other. addison and steele took higher ground, and the latter, in the "guardian," summed up nearly all that could be said upon the subject in the following impressive words:--"a christian and a gentleman are made inconsistent appellations of the same person. you are not to expect eternal life if you do not forgive injuries, and your mortal life is rendered uncomfortable if you are not ready to commit a murder in resentment of an affront; for good sense, as well as religion, is so utterly banished the world that men glory in their very passions, and pursue trifles with the utmost vengeance, so little do they know that to forgive is the most arduous pitch human nature can arrive at. a coward has often fought--a coward has often conquered, but a coward never forgave." steele also published a pamphlet, in which he gave a detailed account of the edict of louis xiv, and the measures taken by that monarch to cure his subjects of their murderous folly. on the th of may, , sir cholmely deering, m.p. for the county of kent, was slain in a duel by mr. richard thornhill, also a member of the house of commons. three days afterwards, sir peter king brought the subject under the notice of the legislature, and after dwelling at considerable length on the alarming increase of the practice, obtained leave to bring in a bill for the prevention and punishment of duelling. it was read a first time that day, and ordered for a second reading in the ensuing week. about the same time the attention of the upper house of parliament was also drawn to the subject in the most painful manner. two of its most noted members would have fought, had it not been that queen anne received notice of their intention, and exacted a pledge that they would desist; while a few months afterwards, two other of its members lost their lives in one of the most remarkable duels upon record. the first affair, which happily terminated without a meeting, was between the duke of marlborough and the earl pawlet. the latter, and fatal encounter, was between the duke of hamilton and lord mohun. the first arose out of a debate in the lords upon the conduct of the duke of ormond, in refusing to hazard a general engagement with the enemy, in which earl pawlet remarked that nobody could doubt the courage of the duke of ormond. "he was not like a certain general, who led troops to the slaughter, to cause great numbers of officers to be knocked on the head in a battle, or against stone walls, in order to fill his pockets by disposing of their commissions." every one felt that the remark was aimed at the duke of marlborough, but he remained silent, though evidently suffering in mind. soon after the house broke up, the earl pawlet received a visit from lord mohun, who told him that the duke of marlborough was anxious to come to an explanation with him relative to some expressions he had made use of in that day's debate, and therefore prayed him to "go and take a little air in the country." earl pawlet did not affect to misunderstand the hint, but asked him in plain terms whether he brought a challenge from the duke. lord mohun said his message needed no explanation, and that he (lord mohun) would accompany the duke of marlborough. he then took his leave, and earl pawlet returned home and told his lady that he was going out to fight a duel with the duke of marlborough. his lady, alarmed for her lord's safety, gave notice of his intention to the earl of dartmouth, who immediately, in the queen's name, sent to the duke of marlborough, and commanded him not to stir abroad. he also caused earl pawlet's house to be guarded by two sentinels; and having taken these precautions, informed the queen of the whole affair. her majesty sent at once for the duke, expressed her abhorrence of the custom of duelling, and required his word of honour that he would proceed no further. the duke pledged his word accordingly, and the affair terminated. the lamentable duel between the duke of hamilton and lord mohun took place in november , and sprang from the following circumstances. a lawsuit had been pending for eleven years between these two noblemen, and they looked upon each other in consequence with a certain degree of coldness. they met together on the th of november in the chambers of mr. orlebar, a master in chancery, when, in the course of conversation, the duke of hamilton reflected upon the conduct of one of the witnesses in the cause, saying that he was a person who had neither truth nor justice in him. lord mohun, somewhat nettled at this remark, applied to a witness favourable to his side, made answer hastily, that mr. whiteworth, the person alluded to, had quite as much truth and justice in him as the duke of hamilton. the duke made no reply, and no one present imagined that he took offence at what was said; and when he went out, of the room, he made a low and courteous salute to the lord mohun. in the evening, general macartney called twice upon the duke with a challenge from lord mohun, and failing in seeing him, sought him a third time at a tavern, where he found him, and delivered his message. the duke accepted the challenge, and the day after the morrow, which was sunday, the th of november, at seven in the morning, was appointed for the meeting. at that hour they assembled in hyde park, the duke being attended by his relative, colonel hamilton, and the lord mohun by general macartney. they jumped over a ditch into a place called the nursery, and prepared for the combat. the duke of hamilton, turning to general macartney, said, "sir, you are the cause of this, let the event be what it will." lord mohun did not wish that the seconds should engage, but the duke insisted that "macartney should have a share in the dance." all being ready, the two principals took up their positions, and fought with swords so desperately that, after a short time, they both fell down, mortally wounded. the lord mohun expired upon the spot, and the duke of hamilton in the arms of his servants as they were carrying him to his coach. this unhappy termination caused the greatest excitement, not only in the metropolis, but all over the country. the tories, grieved at the loss of the duke of hamilton, charged the fatal combat on the whig party, whose leader, the duke of marlborough, had so recently set the example of political duels. they called lord mohun the bully of the whig faction, (he had already killed three men in duels, and been twice tried for murder), and asserted openly, that the quarrel was concocted between him and general macartney to rob the country of the services of the duke of hamilton by murdering him. it was also asserted, that the wound of which the duke died was not inflicted by lord mohun, but by macartney; and every means was used to propagate this belief. colonel hamilton, against whom and macartney the coroner's jury had returned a verdict of wilful murder, surrendered a few days afterwards, and was examined before a privy council sitting at the house of lord dartmouth. he then deposed, that seeing lord mohun fall, and the duke upon him, he ran to the duke's assistance, and that he might with the more ease help him, he flung down both their swords, and, as he was raising the duke up, he saw macartney, make a push at him. upon this deposition a royal proclamation was immediately issued, offering a reward of pounds for the apprehension of macartney, to which the duchess of hamilton afterwards added a reward of pounds. upon the further examination of colonel hamilton, it was found that reliance could not be placed on all his statements, and that he contradicted himself in several important particulars. he was arraigned at the old bailey for the murder of lord mohun, the whole political circles of london being in a fever of excitement for the result. all the tory party prayed for his acquittal, and a tory mob surrounded the doors and all the avenues leading to the court of justice for many hours before the trial began. the examination of witnesses lasted seven hours. the criminal still persisted in accusing general macartney of the murder of the duke of hamilton, but, in other respects, say the newspapers of the day, prevaricated foully. he was found guilty of manslaughter. this favourable verdict was received with universal applause, "not only from the court and all the gentlemen present, but the common people showed a mighty satisfaction, which they testified by loud and repeated huzzas." ["post boy," december l th, .] as the popular delirium subsided, and men began to reason coolly upon the subject, they disbelieved the assertions of colonel hamilton, that macartney had stabbed the duke, although it was universally admitted that he had been much too busy and presuming. hamilton was shunned by all his former companions, and his life rendered so irksome to him, that he sold out of the guards, and retired to private life, in which he died heart-broken four years afterwards. general macartney surrendered about the same time, and was tried for murder in the court of king's bench. he was, however, found guilty of manslaughter only. at the opening of the session of parliament of , the queen made pointed allusion in her speech to the frequency of duelling, and recommended to the legislature to devise some speedy and effectual remedy for it. a bill to that effect was brought forward, but thrown out on the second reading, to the very great regret of all the sensible portion of the community. a famous duel was fought in between lord byron and mr. chaworth. the dispute arose at a club-dinner, and was relative to which of the two had the largest quantity of game on his estates. infuriated by wine and passion, they retired instantly into an adjoining room, and fought with swords across a table, by the feeble glimmer of a tallow-candle. mr. chaworth, who was the more expert swordsman of the two, received a mortal wound, and shortly afterwards expired. lord byron was brought to trial for the murder before the house of lords; and it appearing clearly, that the duel was not premeditated, but fought at once, and in the heat of passion, he was found guilty of manslaughter only, and ordered to be discharged upon payment of his fees. this was a very bad example for the country, and duelling of course fell into no disrepute after such a verdict. in france, more severity was exercised. in the year , the parliament of grenoble took cognizance of the delinquency of the sieur duchelas, one of its members, who challenged and killed in a duel a captain of the flemish legion. the servant of duchelas officiated as second, and was arraigned with his master for the murder of the captain. they were both found guilty. duchelas was broken alive on the wheel, and the servant condemned to the galleys for life. a barbarous and fiercely-contested duel was fought in november , between two foreign adventurers, at bath, named count rice and the vicomte du barri. some dispute arose relative to a gambling transaction, in the course of which du barri contradicted an assertion of the other, by saying, "that is not true!" count rice immediately asked him if he knew the very disagreeable meaning of the words he had employed. du barri said he was perfectly well aware of their meaning, and that rice might interpret them just as he pleased. a challenge was immediately given and accepted. seconds were sent for, who, arriving with but little delay, the whole party, though it was not long after midnight, proceeded to a place called claverton down, where they remained with a surgeon until daylight. they then prepared for the encounter, each being armed with two pistols and a sword. the ground having been marked out by the seconds, du barri fired first, and wounded his opponent in the thigh. count rice then levelled his pistol, and shot du barri mortally in the breast. so angry were the combatants, that they refused to desist; both stepped back a few paces, and then rushing forward, discharged their second pistols at each other. neither shot took effect, and both throwing away their pistols, prepared to finish the sanguinary struggle by the sword. they took their places, and were advancing towards each other, when the vicomte du barri suddenly staggered, grew pale, and, falling to the ground, exclaimed, "je vous demande ma vie." his opponent had but just time to answer, that he granted it, when the unfortunate du barri turned upon the grass, and expired with a heavy groan. the survivor of this savage conflict was then removed to his lodgings, where he lay for some weeks in a dangerous state. the coroner's jury, in the mean while, sat upon the body of du barri, and disgraced themselves by returning a verdict of manslaughter only. count rice, upon his recovery, was indicted for the murder notwithstanding this verdict. on his trial he entered into a long defence of his conduct, pleading the fairness of the duel, and its unpremeditated nature; and, at the same time, expressing his deep regret for the unfortunate death of du barri, with whom for many years he had been bound in ties of the strictest friendship. these considerations appear to have weighed with the jury, and this fierce duellist was again found guilty of manslaughter only, and escaped with a merely nominal punishment. a duel, less remarkable from its circumstances, but more so from the rank of the parties, took place in . the combatants on this occasion were the duke of york and colonel lenox, the nephew and heir of the duke of richmond. the cause of offence was given by the duke of york, who had said, in presence of several officers of the guards, that words had been used to colonel lenox at daubigny's to which no gentleman ought to have submitted. colonel lenox went up to the duke on parade, and asked him publicly whether he had made such an assertion. the duke of york, without answering his question, coldly ordered him to his post. when parade was over, he took an opportunity of saying publicly in the orderly room before colonel lenox, that he desired no protection from his rank as a prince and his station as commanding officer; adding that, when he was off duty, he wore a plain brown coat like a private gentleman, and was ready as such to give satisfaction. colonel lenox desired nothing better than satisfaction; that is to say, to run the chance of shooting the duke through the body, or being himself shot. he accordingly challenged his royal highness, and they met on wimbledon common. colonel lenox fired first, and the ball whizzed past the head of his opponent, so near to it as to graze his projecting curl. the duke refused to return the fire, and the seconds interfering, the affair terminated. colonel lenox was very shortly afterwards engaged in another duel arising out of this. a mr. swift wrote a pamphlet in reference to the dispute between him and the duke of york, at some expressions in which he took so much offence, as to imagine that nothing but a shot at the writer could atone for them. they met on the uxbridge road, but no damage was done to either party. the irish were for a long time renowned for their love of duelling. the slightest offence which it is possible to imagine that one man could offer to another, was sufficient to provoke a challenge. sir jonah barrington relates, in his memoirs, that, previous to the union, during the time of a disputed election in dublin, it was no unusual thing for three-and-twenty duels to be fought in a day. even in times of less excitement, they were so common as to be deemed unworthy of note by the regular chroniclers of events, except in cases where one or both of the combatants were killed. in those days, in ireland, it was not only the man of the military, but of every profession, who had to work his way to eminence with the sword or the pistol. each political party had its regular corps of bullies, or fire-eaters, as they were called, who qualified themselves for being the pests of society by spending all their spare time in firing at targets. they boasted that they could hit an opponent in any part of his body they pleased, and made up their minds before the encounter began whether they should kill him, disable, or disfigure him for life--lay him on a bed of suffering for a twelve-month, or merely graze a limb. the evil had reached an alarming height, when, in the year , an opportunity was afforded to king george iii of showing in a striking manner his detestation of the practice, and of setting an example to the irish that such murders were not to be committed with impunity. a dispute arose, in the month of june , between major campbell and captain boyd, officers of the st regiment, stationed in ireland, about the proper manner of giving the word of command on parade. hot words ensued on this slight occasion, and the result was a challenge from campbell to boyd. they retired into the mess-room shortly afterwards, and each stationed himself at a corner, the distance obliquely being but seven paces. here, without friends or seconds being present, they fired at each other, and captain boyd fell mortally wounded between the fourth and fifth ribs. a surgeon who came in shortly, found him sitting in a chair, vomiting and suffering great agony. he was led into another room, major campbell following, in great distress and perturbation of mind. boyd survived but eighteen hours; and just before his death, said, in reply to a question from his opponent, that the duel was not fair, and added, "you hurried me, campbell--you're a bad man."----"good god!" replied campbell, "will you mention before these gentlemen, was not everything fair? did you not say that you were ready?" boyd answered faintly, "oh, no! you know i wanted you to wait and have friends." on being again asked whether all was fair, the dying man faintly murmured "yes:" but in a minute after, he said, "you're a bad man!" campbell was now in great agitation, and wringing his hands convulsively, he exclaimed, "oh, boyd! you are the happiest man of the two! do you forgive me?" boyd replied, "i forgive you--i feel for you, as i know you do for me." he shortly afterwards expired, and major campbell made his escape from ireland, and lived for some months with his family under an assumed name, in the neighbourhood of chelsea. he was, however, apprehended, and brought to trial at armagh, in august . he said while in prison, that, if found guilty of murder, he should suffer as an example to duellists in ireland; but he endeavoured to buoy himself up, with the hope that the jury would only convict him of manslaughter. it was proved in evidence upon the trial, that the duel was not fought immediately after the offence was given, but that major campbell went home and drank tea with his family, before he sought boyd for the fatal encounter. the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against him, but recommended him to mercy on the ground that the duel had been a fair one. he was condemned to die on the monday following, but was afterwards respited for a few days longer. in the mean time the greatest exertions were made in his behalf. his unfortunate wife went upon her knees before the prince of wales, to move him to use his influence with the king, in favour of her unhappy husband. everything a fond wife and a courageous woman could do, she tried, to gain the royal clemency; but george iii was inflexible, in consequence of the representations of the irish viceroy that an example was necessary. the law was therefore allowed to take its course, and the victim of a false spirit of honour died the death of a felon. the most inveterate duellists of the present day are the students in the universities of germany. they fight on the most frivolous pretences, and settle with swords and pistols the schoolboy disputes which in other countries are arranged by the more harmless medium of the fisticuffs. it was at one time the custom among these savage youths to prefer the sword combat, for the facility it gave them of cutting off the noses of their opponents. to disfigure them in this manner was an object of ambition, and the german duellists reckoned the number of these disgusting trophies which they had borne away, with as much satisfaction as a successful general the provinces he had reduced or the cities he had taken. but it would be wearisome to enter into the minute detail of all the duels of modern times. if an examination were made into the general causes which produced them, it would be found that in every case they had been either of the most trivial or the most unworthy nature. parliamentary duels were at one time very common, and amongst the names of those who have soiled a great reputation by conforming to the practice, may be mentioned those of warren hastings, sir philip francis, wilkes, pitt, fox, grattan, curran, tierney, and canning. so difficult is it even for the superior mind to free itself from the trammels with which foolish opinion has enswathed it--not one of these celebrated persons who did not in his secret soul condemn the folly to which he lent himself. the bonds of reason, though iron-strong, are easily burst through; but those of folly, though lithe and frail as the rushes by a stream, defy the stoutest heart to snap them asunder. colonel thomas, an officer of the guards, who was killed in a duel, added the following clause to his will the night before he died:--"in the first place, i commit my soul to almighty god, in hope of his mercy and pardon for the irreligious step i now (in compliance with the unwarrantable customs of this wicked world) put myself under the necessity of taking." how many have been in the same state of mind as this wise, foolish man! he knew his error, and abhorred it, but could not resist it, for fear of the opinion of the prejudiced and unthinking. no other could have blamed him for refusing to fight a duel. the list of duels that have sprung from the most degrading causes might be stretched out to an almost indefinite extent. sterne's father fought a duel about a goose; and the great raleigh about a tavern bill. [raleigh, at one period of his life, appeared to be an inveterate duellist, and it was said of him that he had been engaged in more encounters of the kind than any man of note among his contemporaries. more than one fellow-creature he had deprived of life; but he lived long enough to be convinced of the sinfulness of his conduct, and made a solemn vow never to fight another duel. the following anecdote of his forbearance is well known, but it will bear repetition:-- a dispute arose in a coffee-house between him and a young man on some trivial point, and the latter, losing his temper, impertinently spat in the face of the veteran. sir walter, instead of running him through the body, as many would have done, or challenging him to mortal combat, coolly took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, and said, "young man, if i could as easily wipe from my conscience the stain of killing you, as i can this spittle from my face, you should not live another minute." the young man immediately begged his pardon.] scores of duels (many of them fatal) have been fought from disputes at cards, or a place at a theatre, while hundreds of challenges, given and accepted over-night, in a fit of drunkenness, have been fought out the next morning to the death of one or both of the antagonists. two of the most notorious duels of modern times had their origin in causes no more worthy than the quarrel of a dog and the favour of a prostitute: that between macnamara and montgomery arising from the former; and that between best and lord camelford, from the latter. the dog of montgomery attacked a dog belonging to macnamara, and each master interfering in behalf of his own animal, high words ensued. the result was the giving and accepting a challenge to mortal combat. the parties met on the following day, when montgomery was shot dead, and his antagonist severely wounded. this affair created a great sensation at the time, and heaviside, the surgeon who attended at the fatal field to render his assistance, if necessary, was arrested as an accessory to the murder, and committed to newgate. in the duel between best and lord camelford, two pistols were used which were considered to be the best in england. one of them was thought slightly superior to the other, and it was agreed that the belligerents should toss up a piece of money to decide the choice of weapons. best gained it, and, at the first discharge, lord camelford fell, mortally wounded. but little sympathy was expressed for his fate; he was a confirmed duellist, had been engaged in many meetings of the kind, and the blood of more than one fellow-creature lay at his door. as he had sowed, so did he reap; and the violent man met an appropriate death. it now only remains to notice the means that have been taken to stay the prevalence of this madness of false honour in the various countries of the civilized world. the efforts of the governments of france and england have already been mentioned, and their want of success is but too well known. the same efforts have been attended with the same results elsewhere. in despotic countries, where the will of the monarch has been strongly expressed and vigorously supported, a diminution of the evil has for a while resulted, but only to be increased again, when death relaxed the iron grasp, and a successor appeared of less decided opinions upon the subject. this was the case in prussia under the great frederick, of whose aversion to duelling a popular anecdote is recorded. it is stated of him that he permitted duelling in his army, but only upon the condition that the combatants should fight in presence of a whole battalion of infantry, drawn up on purpose, to see fair play. the latter received strict orders, when one of the belligerents fell, to shoot the other immediately. it is added, that the known determination of the king effectually put a stop to the practice. the emperor joseph ii of austria was as firm as frederick, although the measures he adopted were not so singular. the following letter explains his views on the subject:-- "to general * * * * * "my general, "you will immediately arrest the count of k. and captain w. the count is young, passionate, and influenced by wrong notions of birth and a false spirit of honour. captain w. is an old soldier, who will adjust every dispute with the sword and pistol, and who has received the challenge of the young count with unbecoming warmth. "i will suffer no duelling in my army. i despise the principles of those who attempt to justify the practice, and who would run each other through the body in cold blood. "when i have officers who bravely expose themselves to every danger in facing the enemy--who at all times exhibit courage, valour, and resolution in attack and defence, i esteem them highly. the coolness with which they meet death on such occasions is serviceable to their country, and at the same time redounds to their own honour; but should there be men amongst them who are ready to sacrifice everything to their vengeance and hatred, i despise them. i consider such a man as no better than a roman gladiator. "order a court-martial to try the two officers. investigate the subject of their dispute with that impartiality which i demand from every judge; and he that is guilty, let him be a sacrifice to his fate and the laws. "such a barbarous custom, which suits the age of the tamerlanes and bajazets, and which has often had such melancholy effects on single families, i will have suppressed and punished, even if it should deprive me of one half of my officers. there are still men who know how to unite the character of a hero with that of a good subject; and he only can be so who respects the laws. "joseph." "august ." [vide the letters of joseph ii to distinguished princes and statesmen, published for the first time in england in "the pamphleteer" for . they were originally published in germany a few years previously, and throw a great light upon the character of that monarch and the events of his reign.] in the united states of america the code varies considerably. in one or two of the still wild and simple states of the far west, where no duel has yet been fought, there is no specific law upon the subject beyond that in the decalogue, which says, "thou shalt do no murder." but duelling everywhere follows the steps of modern civilization, and by the time the backwoodsman is transformed into the citizen, he has imbibed the false notions of honour which are prevalent in europe, and around him, and is ready, like his progenitors, to settle his differences with the pistol. in the majority of the states the punishment for challenging, fighting, or acting as second, is solitary imprisonment and hard labour for any period less than a year, and disqualification for serving any public office for twenty years. in vermont the punishment is total disqualification for office, deprivation of the rights of citizenship, and a fine; in fatal cases, the same punishment as that of murderers. in rhode island, the combatant, though death does not ensue, is liable to be carted to the gallows, with a rope about his neck, and to sit in this trim for an hour, exposed to the peltings of the mob. he may be further imprisoned for a year, at the option of the magistrate. in connecticut the punishment is total disqualification for office or employ, and a fine, varying from one hundred to a thousand dollars. the laws of illinois require certain officers of the state to make oath, previous to their instalment, that they have never been, nor ever will be, concerned in a duel. ["encyclopedia americana," art. duelling.] amongst the edicts against duelling promulgated at various times in europe, may be mentioned that of augustus king of poland, in , which decreed the punishment of death against principals and seconds, and minor punishments against the bearers of a challenge. an edict was also published at munich, in , according to which both principals and seconds, even in duels where no one was either killed or wounded, should be hanged, and their bodies buried at the foot of the gallows. the king of naples issued an ordinance against duelling in , in which the punishment of death is decreed against all concerned in a fatal duel. the bodies of those killed, and of those who may be executed in consequence, are to be buried in unconsecrated ground, and without any religious ceremony; nor is any monument to be erected on the spot. the punishment for duels in which either, or both, are wounded, and for those in which no damage whatever is done, varies according to the case, and consists of fine, imprisonment, loss of rank and honours, and incapacity for filling any public situation. bearers of challenges may also be punished with fine and imprisonment. it might be imagined that enactments so severe all over the civilized world would finally eradicate a custom, the prevalence of which every wise and good man must deplore. but the frowns of the law never yet have taught, and never will teach, men to desist from this practice, as long as it is felt that the lawgiver sympathises with it in his heart. the stern judge upon the bench may say to the unfortunate wight who has been called a liar by some unmannerly opponent, "if you challenge him, you meditate murder, and are guilty of murder!" but the same judge, divested of his robes of state, and mixing in the world with other men, would say, "if you do not challenge him, if you do not run the risk of making yourself a murderer, you will be looked upon as a mean-spirited wretch, unfit to associate with your fellows, and deserving nothing but their scorn and their contempt!" it is society, and not the duellist, who is to blame. female influence, too, which is so powerful in leading men either to good or to evil, takes, in this case, the evil part. mere animal bravery has, unfortunately, such charms in the female eye, that a successful duellist is but too often regarded as a sort of hero; and the man who refuses to fight, though of truer courage, is thought a poltroon, who may be trampled on. mr. graves, a member of the american legislature, who, early in , killed a mr. cilley in a duel, truly and eloquently said, on the floor of the house of representatives, when lamenting the unfortunate issue of that encounter, that society was more to blame than he was. "public opinion," said the repentant orator, "is practically the paramount law of the land. every other law, both human and divine, ceases to be observed; yea, withers and perishes in contact with it. it was this paramount law of this nation, and of this house, that forced me, under the penalty of dishonour, to subject myself to the code, which impelled me unwillingly into this tragical affair. upon the heads of this nation, and at the doors of this house, rests the blood with which my unfortunate hands have been stained!" as long as society is in this mood; as long as it thinks that the man who refuses to resent an insult, deserved that insult, and should be scouted accordingly, so long, it is to be feared, will duelling exist, however severe the laws may be. men must have redress for injuries inflicted, and when those injuries are of such a nature that no tribunal will take cognizance of them, the injured will take the law into their own hands, and right themselves in the opinion of their fellows, at the hazard of their lives. much as the sage may affect to despise the opinion of the world, there are few who would not rather expose their lives a hundred times than be condemned to live on, in society, but not of it--a by-word of reproach to all who know their history, and a mark for scorn to point his finger at. the only practicable means for diminishing the force of a custom which is the disgrace of civilization, seems to be the establishment of a court of honour, which should take cognizance of all those delicate and almost intangible offences which yet wound so deeply. the court established by louis xiv might be taken as a model. no man now fights a duel when a fit apology has been offered, and it should be the duty of this court to weigh dispassionately the complaint of every man injured in his honour, either by word or deed, and to force the offender to make a public apology. if he refused the apology, he would be the breaker of a second law; an offender against a high court, as well as against the man he had injured, and might be punished with fine and imprisonment, the latter to last until he saw the error of his conduct, and made the concession which the court demanded. if, after the establishment of this tribunal, men should be found of a nature so bloodthirsty as not to be satisfied with its peaceful decisions, and should resort to the old and barbarous mode of an appeal to the pistol, some means might be found of dealing with them. to hang them as murderers would be of no avail; for to such men death would have few terrors. shame alone would bring them to reason. the following code, it is humbly suggested to all future legislators upon the subject, would, in conjunction with the establishment of a court of honour, do much towards eradicating this blot from society. every man who fought a duel, even though he did not wound his opponent, should be tried, and, upon proof of the fact, be sentenced to have his right hand cut off. the world would then know his true character as long as he lived. if his habits of duelling were so inveterate, and he should learn to fire a pistol with his left hand, he should, upon conviction of a second offence, lose that hand also. this law, which should allow no commutation of the punishment, under any circumstances, would lend strength and authority to the court of honour. in the course of a few years duelling would be ranked amongst exploded follies, and men would begin to wonder that a custom so barbarous and so impious had ever existed amongst them. the love of the marvellous and the disbelief of the true. "well, son john," said the old woman, "and what wonderful things did you meet with all the time you were at sea?"--"oh! mother," replied john, "i saw many strange things."--"tell us all about them," replied his mother, "for i long to hear your adventures."--"well, then," said john, "as we were sailing over the line, what do you think we saw?"--"i can't imagine," replied his mother.--"well, we saw a fish rise out of the sea, and fly over our ship!" "oh! john! john! what a liar you are!" said his mother, shaking her head, and smiling incredulously. "true as death? said john; "and we saw still more wonderful things than that."--"let us hear them," said his mother, shaking her head again; "and tell the truth, john, if you can."--"believe it, or believe it not, as you please," replied her son; "but as we were sailing up the red sea, our captain thought he should like some fish for dinner; so he told us to throw our nets, and catch some."--"well," inquired his mother, seeing that he paused in his story. "well," rejoined her son, "we did throw them, and, at the very first haul, we brought up a chariot-wheel, made all of gold, and inlaid with diamonds!" "lord bless us!" said his mother, "and what did the captain say?"--"why, he said it was one of the wheels of pharaoh's chariot, that had lain in the red sea ever since that wicked king was drowned, with all his host, while pursuing the israelites."--"well, well," said his mother, lifting up her hands in admiration; "now, that's very possible, and i think the captain was a very sensible man. tell me such stories as that, and i'll believe you; but never talk to me of such things as flying fish! no, no, john, such stories won't go down with me, i can assure you!" such old women as the sailor's mother, in the above well-known anecdote, are by no means rare in the world. every age and country has produced them. they have been found in high places, and have sat down among the learned of the earth. instances must be familiar to every reader in which the same person was willing, with greedy credulity, to swallow the most extravagant fiction, and yet refuse credence to a philosophical fact. the same greeks who believed readily that jupiter wooed leda in the form of a swan, denied stoutly that there were any physical causes for storms and thunder, and treated as impious those who attempted to account for them on true philosophical principles. the reasons that thus lead mankind to believe the marvellously false, and to disbelieve the marvellously true, may be easily gathered. of all the offspring of time, error is the most ancient, and is so old and familiar an acquaintance, that truth, when discovered, comes upon most of us like an intruder, and meets the intruder's welcome. we all pay an involuntary homage to antiquity--a "blind homage," as bacon calls it in his "novum organum," which tends greatly to the obstruction of truth. to the great majority of mortal eyes, time sanctifies everything that he does not destroy. the mere fact of anything being spared by the great foe makes it a favourite with us, who are sure to fall his victims. to call a prejudice "time-hallowed," is to open a way for it into hearts where it never before penetrated. some peculiar custom may disgrace the people amongst whom it flourishes; yet men of a little wisdom refuse to aid in its extirpation, merely because it is old. thus it is with human belief, and thus it is we bring shame upon our own intellect. to this cause may be added another, also mentioned by lord bacon--a misdirected zeal in matters of religion, which induces so many to decry a newly-discovered truth, because the divine records contain no allusion to it, or because, at first sight, it appears to militate, not against religion, but against some obscure passage which has never been fairly interpreted. the old woman in the story could not believe that there was such a creature as a flying-fish, because her bible did not tell her so, but she believed that her son had drawn up the golden and bejewelled wheel from the red sea, because her bible informed her that pharaoh was drowned there. upon a similar principle the monks of the inquisition believed that the devil appeared visibly among men, that st. anthony pulled his nose with a pair of red-hot pincers, and that the relics of the saints worked miracles; yet they would not believe galileo, when he proved that the earth turned round the sun. keppler, when he asserted the same fact, could gain no bread, and little credence; but when he pretended to tell fortunes and cast nativities, the whole town flocked to him, and paid him enormous fees for his falsehood. when roger bacon invented the telescope and the magic-lantern, no one believed that the unaided ingenuity of man could have done it; but when some wiseacres asserted that the devil had appeared to him, and given him the knowledge which he turned to such account, no one was bold enough to assert that it was improbable. his hint that saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal, mixed in certain proportions, would produce effects similar to thunder and lightning, was disregarded or disbelieved; but the legend of the brazen head which delivered oracles, was credited for many ages. [godwin, in his "lives of the necromancers," gives the following version of this legend. friar bacon and friar bungay entertained the project of enclosing england with a wall, so as to render it inaccessible to any invader. they accordingly raised the devil, as the person best able to inform them how this was to be done. the devil advised them to make a brazen head, with all the internal structure and organs of a human head. the construction would cost them much time, and they must wait with patience till the faculty of speech descended upon it. finally, however, it would become an oracle, and, if the question were propounded to it, would teach them the solution of their problem. the friars spent seven years in bringing the subject to perfection, and waited day after day in expectation that it would utter articulate sounds. at length nature became exhausted in them, and they lay down to sleep, having first given it strictly in charge to a servant of theirs, clownish in nature, but of strict fidelity, that he should awaken them the moment the image began to speak. that period arrived. the head uttered sounds, but such as the clown judged unworthy of notice. "time is!" it said. no notice was taken, and a long pause ensued. "time was!"--a similar pause, and no notice. "time is passed!" the moment these words were uttered, a tremendous storm ensued, with thunder and lightning, and the head was shivered into a thousand pieces. thus the experiment of friar bacon and friar bungay came to nothing.] solomon de cans, who, in the time of cardinal richelieu, conceived the idea of a steam-engine, was shut up in the bastille as a madman, because the idea of such an extraordinary instrument was too preposterous for the wise age that believed in all the absurdities of witchcraft. when harvey first proved the circulation of the blood, every tongue was let loose against him. the thing was too obviously an imposition, and an attempt to deceive that public who believed that a king's touch had power to cure the scrofula. that a dead criminal's hand, rubbed against a wen, would cure it, was reasonable enough; but that the blood flowed through the veins was beyond all probability. in our own day, a similar fate awaited the beneficent discovery of dr. jenner. that vaccination could abate the virulence of, or preserve from, the smallpox, was quite incredible; none but a cheat and a quack could assert it: but that the introduction of the vaccine matter into the human frame could endow men with the qualities of a cow, was quite probable. many of the poorer people actually dreaded that their children would grow hairy and horned as cattle, if they suffered them to be vaccinated. the jesuit, father labat, the shrewd and learned traveller in south america, relates an experiment which he made upon the credulity of some native peruvians. holding a powerful lens in his hand, and concentrating the rays of the sun upon the naked arm of an admiring savage, he soon made him roar with pain. all the tribe looked on, first with wonder, and then with indignation and wonder both combined. in vain the philosopher attempted to explain the cause of the phenomenon--in vain he offered to convince them that there was nothing devilish in the experiment--he was thought to be in league with the infernal gods to draw down the fire from heaven, and was looked upon, himself, as an awful and supernatural being. many attempts were made to gain possession of the lens, with the view of destroying it, and thereby robbing the western stranger of the means of bringing upon them the vengeance of his deities. very similar was the conduct of that inquiring brahmin, which is related by forbes in his oriental memoirs. the brahmin had a mind better cultivated than his fellows; he was smitten with a love for the knowledge of europe--read english books--pored over the pages of the encyclopedia, and profited by various philosophical instruments; but on religious questions the brahmin was firm to the faith of his caste and the doctrine of the metempsychosis. lest he might sacrilegiously devour his progenitors, he abstained from all animal food; and thinking that he ate nothing which enjoyed life, he supported himself, like his brethren, upon fruits and vegetables. all the knowledge that did not run counter to this belief, he sought after with avidity, and bade fair to become the wisest of his race. in an evil hour, his english friend and instructor exhibited a very powerful solar microscope, by means of which he showed him that every drop of water that he drank teemed with life--that every fruit was like a world, covered with innumerable animalculae, each of which was fitted by its organization for the sphere in which it moved, and had its wants, and the capability of supplying them as completely as visible animals millions of times its bulk. the english philosopher expected that his hindoo friend would be enraptured at the vast field of knowledge thus suddenly opened out to him, but he was deceived. the brahmin from that time became an altered man--thoughtful, gloomy, reserved, and discontented. he applied repeatedly to his friend that he would make him a present of the microscope; but as it was the only one of its kind in india, and the owner set a value upon it for other reasons, he constantly refused the request, but offered him the loan of it for any period he might require. but nothing short of an unconditional gift of the instrument would satisfy the brahmin, who became at last so importunate that the patience of the englishman was exhausted, and he gave it him. a gleam of joy shot across the care-worn features of the hindoo as he clutched it, and bounding with an exulting leap into the garden, he seized a large stone, and dashed the instrument into a thousand pieces. when called upon to explain his extraordinary conduct, he said to his friend, "oh that i had remained in that happy state of ignorance wherein you first found me! yet will i confess that, as my knowledge increased, so did my pleasure, until i beheld the last wonders of the microscope; from that moment i have been tormented by doubt and perplexed by mystery: my mind, overwhelmed by chaotic confusion, knows not where to rest, nor how to extricate itself from such a maze. i am miserable, and must continue to be so, until i enter on another stage of existence. i am a solitary individual among fifty millions of people, all educated in the same belief with myself--all happy in their ignorance! so may they ever remain! i shall keep the secret within my own bosom, where it will corrode my peace and break my rest. but i shall have some satisfaction in knowing that i alone feel those pangs which, had i not destroyed the instrument, might have been extensively communicated, and rendered thousands miserable! forgive me, my valuable friend! and oh, convey no more implements of knowledge and destruction!" many a learned man may smile at the ignorance of the peruvian and the hindoo, unconscious that he himself is just as ignorant and as prejudiced. who does not remember the outcry against the science of geology, which has hardly yet subsided? its professors were impiously and absurdly accused of designing to "hurl the creator from his throne." they were charged with sapping the foundations of religion, and of propping atheism by the aid of a pretended science. the very same principle which leads to the rejection of the true, leads to the encouragement of the false. thus we may account for the success which has attended great impostors, at times when the truth, though not half so wondrous as their impositions, has been disregarded as extravagant and preposterous. the man who wishes to cheat the people, must needs found his operations upon some prejudice or belief that already exists. thus the philosophic pretenders who told fortunes by the stars cured all diseases by one nostrum, and preserved from evil by charms and amulets, ran with the current of popular belief. errors that were consecrated by time and long familiarity, they heightened and embellished, and succeeded to their hearts' content; but the preacher of truth had a foundation to make as well as a superstructure, a difficulty which did not exist for the preacher of error. columbus preached a new world, but was met with distrust and incredulity; had he preached with as much zeal and earnestness the discovery of some valley in the old one, where diamonds hung upon the trees, or a herb grew that cured all the ills incidental to humanity, he would have found a warm and hearty welcome--might have sold dried cabbage leaves for his wonderful herb, and made his fortune. in fact, it will be found in the history of every generation and race of men, that whenever a choice of belief between the "wondrously false" and the "wondrously true" is given to ignorance or prejudice, that their choice will be fixed upon the first, for the reason that it is most akin to their own nature. the great majority of mankind, and even of the wisest among us, are still in the condition of the sailor's mother--believing and disbelieving on the same grounds that she did--protesting against the flying fish, but cherishing the golden wheels. thousands there are amongst us, who, rather than pin their faith in the one fish, would believe not only in the wheel of gold, but the chariot--not only in the chariot, but in the horses and the driver. popular follies in great cities la faridondaine--la faridondon, vive la faridondaine! beranger. the popular humours of a great city are a never-failing source of amusement to the man whose sympathies are hospitable enough to embrace all his kind, and who, refined though he may be himself, will not sneer at the humble wit or grotesque peculiarities of the boozing mechanic, the squalid beggar, the vicious urchin, and all the motley group of the idle, the reckless, and the imitative that swarm in the alleys and broadways of a metropolis. he who walks through a great city to find subjects for weeping, may, god knows, find plenty at every corner to wring his heart; but let such a man walk on his course, and enjoy his grief alone--we are not of those who would accompany him. the miseries of us poor earth-dwellers gain no alleviation from the sympathy of those who merely hunt them out to be pathetic over them. the weeping philosopher too often impairs his eyesight by his woe, and becomes unable from his tears to see the remedies for the evils which he deplores. thus it will often be found that the man of no tears is the truest philanthropist, as he is the best physician who wears a cheerful face, even in the worst of cases. so many pens have been employed to point out the miseries, and so many to condemn the crimes and vices, and more serious follies of the multitude, that our's shall not increase the number, at least in this chapter. our present task shall be less ungracious, and wandering through the busy haunts of great cities, we shall seek only for amusement, and note as we pass a few of the harmless follies and whimsies of the poor. and, first of all, walk where we will, we cannot help hearing from every side a phrase repeated with delight, and received with laughter, by men with hard hands and dirty faces--by saucy butcher lads and errand-boys--by loose women--by hackney coachmen, cabriolet drivers, and idle fellows who loiter at the corners of streets. not one utters this phrase without producing a laugh from all within hearing. it seems applicable to every circumstance, and is the universal answer to every question; in short, it is the favourite slang phrase of the day, a phrase that, while its brief season of popularity lasts, throws a dash of fun and frolicsomeness over the existence of squalid poverty and ill-requited labour, and gives them reason to laugh as well as their more fortunate fellows in a higher stage of society. london is peculiarly fertile in this sort of phrases, which spring up suddenly, no one knows exactly in what spot, and pervade the whole population in a few hours, no one knows how. many years ago the favourite phrase (for, though but a monosyllable, it was a phrase in itself) was quoz. this odd word took the fancy of the multitude in an extraordinary degree, and very soon acquired an almost boundless meaning. when vulgar wit wished to mark its incredulity and raise a laugh at the same time, there was no resource so sure as this popular piece of slang. when a man was asked a favour which he did not choose to grant, he marked his sense of the suitor's unparalleled presumption by exclaiming quoz! when a mischievous urchin wished to annoy a passenger, and create mirth for his chums, he looked him in the face, and cried out quoz! and the exclamation never failed in its object. when a disputant was desirous of throwing a doubt upon the veracity of his opponent, and getting summarily rid of an argument which he could not overturn, he uttered the word quoz, with a contemptuous curl of his lip and an impatient shrug of his shoulders. the universal monosyllable conveyed all his meaning, and not only told his opponent that he lied, but that he erred egregiously if he thought that any one was such a nincompoop as to believe him. every alehouse resounded with quoz; every street corner was noisy with it, and every wall for miles around was chalked with it. but, like all other earthly things, quoz had its season, and passed away as suddenly as it arose, never again to be the pet and the idol of the populace. a new claimant drove it from its place, and held undisputed sway till, in its turn, it was hurled from its pre-eminence, and a successor appointed in its stead. "what a shocking bad hat!" was the phrase that was next in vogue. no sooner had it become universal, than thousands of idle but sharp eyes were on the watch for the passenger whose hat showed any signs, however slight, of ancient service. immediately the cry arose, and, like the what-whoop of the indians, was repeated by a hundred discordant throats. he was a wise man who, finding himself under these circumstances "the observed of all observers," bore his honours meekly. he who showed symptoms of ill-feeling at the imputations cast upon his hat, only brought upon himself redoubled notice. the mob soon perceive whether a man is irritable, and, if of their own class, they love to make sport of him. when such a man, and with such a hat, passed in those days through a crowded neighbourhood, he might think himself fortunate if his annoyances were confined to the shouts and cries of the populace. the obnoxious hat was often snatched from his head, and thrown into the gutter by some practical joker, and then raised, covered with mud, upon the end of a stick, for the admiration of the spectators, who held their sides with laughter, and exclaimed in the pauses of their mirth, "oh! what a shocking bad hat!... what a shocking bad hat!" many a nervous, poor man, whose purse could but ill spare the outlay, doubtless purchased a new hat before the time, in order to avoid exposure in this manner. the origin of this singular saying, which made fun for the metropolis for months, is not involved in the same obscurity as that which shrouds the origin of quoz and some others. there had been a hotly-contested election for the borough of southwark, and one of the candidates was an eminent hatter. this gentleman, in canvassing the electors, adopted a somewhat professional mode of conciliating their good-will, and of bribing them without letting them perceive that they were bribed. whenever he called upon or met a voter whose hat was not of the best material, or, being so, had seen its best days, he invariably said, "what a shocking bad hat you have got; call at my warehouse, and you shall have a new one!" upon the day of election this circumstance was remembered, and his opponents made the most of it, by inciting the crowd to keep up an incessant cry of "what a shocking bad hat!" all the time the honourable candidate was addressing them. from southwark the phrase spread over all london, and reigned, for a time, the supreme slang of the season. hookey walker, derived from the chorus of a popular ballad, was also high in favour at one time, and served, like its predecessor, quoz, to answer all questions. in the course of time the latter word alone became the favourite, and was uttered with a peculiar drawl upon the first syllable, and a sharp turn upon the last. if a lively servant girl was importuned for a kiss by a fellow she did not care about, she cocked her little nose, and cried "walker!" if a dustman asked his friend for the loan of a shilling, and his friend was either unable or unwilling to accommodate him, the probable answer he would receive was "walker!" if a drunken man was reeling along the streets, and a boy pulled his coat-tails, or a man knocked his hat over his eyes to make fun of him, the joke was always accompanied by the same exclamation. this lasted for two or three months, and "walker!" walked off the stage, never more to be revived for the entertainment of that or any future generation. the next phrase was a most preposterous one. who invented it, how it arose, or where it was first heard, are alike unknown. nothing about it is certain, but that for months it was the slang par excellence of the londoners, and afforded them a vast gratification. "there he goes with his eye out!" or "there she goes with her eye out!" as the sex of the party alluded to might be, was in the mouth of everybody who knew the town. the sober part of the community were as much puzzled by this unaccountable saying as the vulgar were delighted with it. the wise thought it very foolish, but the many thought it very funny, and the idle amused themselves by chalking it upon walls, or scribbling it upon monuments. but, "all that's bright must fade," even in slang. the people grew tired of their hobby, and "there he goes with his eye out!" was heard no more in its accustomed haunts. another very odd phrase came into repute in a brief space afterwards, in the form of the impertinent and not universally apposite query, "has your mother sold her mangle?" but its popularity was not of that boisterous and cordial kind which ensures a long continuance of favour. what tended to impede its progress was, that it could not be well applied to the older portions of society. it consequently ran but a brief career, and then sank into oblivion. its successor enjoyed a more extended fame, and laid its foundations so deep, that years and changing fashions have not sufficed to eradicate it. this phrase was "flare up!" and it is, even now, a colloquialism in common use. it took its rise in the time of the reform riots, when bristol was nearly half burned by the infuriated populace. the flames were said to have flared up in the devoted city. whether there was anything peculiarly captivating in the sound, or in the idea of these words, is hard to say; but whatever was the reason, it tickled the mob-fancy mightily, and drove all other slang out of the field before it. nothing was to be heard all over london but "flare up!" it answered all questions, settled all disputes, was applied to all persons, all things, and all circumstances, and became suddenly the most comprehensive phrase in the english language. the man who had overstepped the bounds of decorum in his speech was said to have flared up; he who had paid visits too repeated to the gin-shop, and got damaged in consequence, had flared up. to put one's-self into a passion; to stroll out on a nocturnal frolic, and alarm a neighbourhood, or to create a disturbance in any shape, was to flare up. a lovers' quarrel was a fare up; so was a boxing-match between two blackguards in the streets, and the preachers of sedition and revolution recommended the english nation to flare up, like the french. so great a favourite was the word, that people loved to repeat it for its very sound. they delighted apparently in hearing their own organs articulate it; and labouring men, when none who could respond to the call were within hearing, would often startle the aristocratic echoes of the west by the well-known slang phrase of the east. even in the dead hours of the night, the ears of those who watched late, or who could not sleep, were saluted with the same sound. the drunkard reeling home showed that he was still a man and a citizen, by calling "flare up" in the pauses of his hiccough. drink had deprived him of the power of arranging all other ideas; his intellect was sunk to the level of the brute's; but he clung to humanity by the one last link of the popular cry. while he could vociferate that sound, he had rights as an englishman, and would not sleep in a gutter, like a dog! onwards he went, disturbing quiet streets and comfortable people by his whoop, till exhausted nature could support him no more, and he rolled powerless into the road. when, in due time afterwards, the policeman stumbled upon him as he lay, that guardian of the peace turned the full light of his lantern on his face, and exclaimed, "here's a poor devil who's been flaring up!" then came the stretcher, on which the victim of deep potations was carried to the watchhouse, and pitched into a dirty cell, among a score of wretches about as far gone as himself, who saluted their new comrade by a loud, long shout of flare up! so universal was this phrase, and so enduring seemed its popularity, that a speculator, who knew not the evanescence of slang, established a weekly newspaper under its name. but he was like the man who built his house upon the sand; his foundation gave way under him, and the phrase and the newspaper were washed into the mighty sea of the things that were. the people grew at last weary of the monotony, and "flare up" became vulgar even among them. gradually it was left to little boys who did not know the world, and in process of time sank altogether into neglect. it is now heard no more as a piece of popular slang; but the words are still used to signify any sudden outburst either of fire, disturbance, or ill-nature. the next phrase that enjoyed the favour of the million was less concise, and seems to have been originally aimed against precocious youths who gave themselves the airs of manhood before their time. "does your mother know you're out?" was the provoking query addressed to young men of more than reasonable swagger, who smoked cigars in the streets, and wore false whiskers to look irresistible. we have seen many a conceited fellow who could not suffer a woman to pass him without staring her out of countenance, reduced at once into his natural insignificance by the mere utterance of this phrase. apprentice lads and shopmen in their sunday clothes held the words in abhorrence, and looked fierce when they were applied to them. altogether the phrase had a very salutary effect, and in a thousand instances showed young vanity, that it was not half so pretty and engaging as it thought itself. what rendered it so provoking was the doubt it implied as to the capability of self-guidance possessed by the individual to whom it was addressed. "does your mother know you're out?" was a query of mock concern and solicitude, implying regret and concern that one so young and inexperienced in the ways of a great city should be allowed to wander abroad without the guidance of a parent. hence the great wrath of those who verged on manhood, but had not reached it, whenever they were made the subject of it. even older heads did not like it; and the heir of a ducal house, and inheritor of a warrior's name, to whom they were applied by a cabriolet driver, who was ignorant of his rank, was so indignant at the affront, that he summoned the offender before the magisterial bench. the fellow had wished to impose upon his lordship by asking double the fare he was entitled to, and when his lordship resisted the demand, he was insultingly asked "if his mother knew he was out?" all the drivers on the stand joined in the query, and his lordship was fain to escape their laughter by walking away with as much haste as his dignity would allow. the man pleaded ignorance that his customer was a lord, but offended justice fined him for his mistake. when this phrase had numbered its appointed days, it died away, like its predecessors, and "who are you?" reigned in its stead. this new favourite, like a mushroom, seems to have sprung up in a night, or, like a frog in cheapside, to have come down in a sudden shower. one day it was unheard, unknown, uninvented; the next it pervaded london; every alley resounded with it; every highway was musical with it, "and street to street, and lane to lane flung back the one unvarying cry." the phrase was uttered quickly, and with a sharp sound upon the first and last words, leaving the middle one little more than an aspiration. like all its compeers which had been extensively popular, it was applicable to almost every variety of circumstance. the lovers of a plain answer to a plain question did not like it at all. insolence made use of it to give offence; ignorance, to avoid exposing itself; and waggery, to create laughter. every new comer into an alehouse tap-room was asked unceremoniously, "who are you?" and if he looked foolish, scratched his head, and did not know what to reply, shouts of boisterous merriment resounded on every side. an authoritative disputant was not unfrequently put down, and presumption of every kind checked by the same query. when its popularity was at its height, a gentleman, feeling the hand of a thief in his pocket, turned suddenly round, and caught him in the act, exclaiming, "who are you?" the mob which gathered round applauded to the very echo, and thought it the most capital joke they had ever heard--the very acme of wit--the very essence of humour. another circumstance, of a similar kind, gave an additional fillip to the phrase, and infused new life and vigour into it, just as it was dying away. the scene occurred in the chief criminal court of the kingdom. a prisoner stood at the bar; the offence with which he had been charged was clearly proved against him; his counsel had been heard, not in his defence, but in extenuation, insisting upon his previous good life and character, as reasons for the lenity of the court. "and where are your witnesses?" inquired the learned judge who presided. "please you, my lord, i knows the prisoner at the bar, and a more honester feller never breathed," said a rough voice in the gallery. the officers of the court looked aghast, and the strangers tittered with ill-suppressed laughter. "who are you?" said the judge, looking suddenly up, but with imperturbable gravity. the court was convulsed; the titter broke out into a laugh, and it was several minutes before silence and decorum could be restored. when the ushers recovered their self-possession, they made diligent search for the profane transgressor; but he was not to be found. nobody knew him; nobody had seen him. after a while the business of the court again proceeded. the next prisoner brought up for trial augured favourably of his prospects when he learned that the solemn lips of the representative of justice had uttered the popular phrase as if he felt and appreciated it. there was no fear that such a judge would use undue severity; his heart was with the people; he understood their language and their manners, and would make allowances for the temptations which drove them into crime. so thought many of the prisoners, if we may infer it from the fact, that the learned judge suddenly acquired an immense increase of popularity. the praise of his wit was in every mouth, and "who are you?" renewed its lease, and remained in possession of public favour for another term in consequence. but it must not be supposed that there were no interregni between the dominion of one slang phrase and another. they did not arise in one long line of unbroken succession, but shared with song the possession of popular favour. thus, when the people were in the mood for music, slang advanced its claims to no purpose, and, when they were inclined for slang, the sweet voice of music wooed them in vain. about twenty years ago london resounded with one chorus, with the love of which everybody seemed to be smitten. girls and boys, young men and old, maidens and wives, and widows, were all alike musical. there was an absolute mania for singing, and the worst of it was, that, like good father philip, in the romance of "the monastery," they seemed utterly unable to change their tune. "cherry ripe!" "cherry ripe!" was the universal cry of all the idle in the town. every unmelodious voice gave utterance to it; every crazy fiddle, every cracked flute, every wheezy pipe, every street organ was heard in the same strain, until studious and quiet men stopped their ears in desperation, or fled miles away into the fields or woodlands, to be at peace. this plague lasted for a twelvemonth, until the very name of cherries became an abomination in the land. at last the excitement wore itself away, and the tide of favour set in a new direction. whether it was another song or a slang phrase, is difficult to determine at this distance of time; but certain it is, that very shortly afterwards, people went mad upon a dramatic subject, and nothing was to be heard of but "tom and jerry." verbal wit had amused the multitude long enough, and they became more practical in their recreation. every youth on the town was seized with the fierce desire of distinguishing himself, by knocking down the "charlies," being locked up all night in a watchhouse, or kicking up a row among loose women and blackguard men in the low dens of st. giles's. imitative boys vied with their elders in similar exploits, until this unworthy passion, for such it was, had lasted, like other follies, its appointed time, and the town became merry after another fashion. it was next thought the height of vulgar wit to answer all questions by placing the point of the thumb upon the tip of the nose, and twirling the fingers in the air. if one man wished to insult or annoy another, he had only to make use of this cabalistic sign in his face, and his object was accomplished. at every street corner where a group was assembled, the spectator who was curious enough to observe their movements, would be sure to see the fingers of some of them at their noses, either as a mark of incredulity, surprise, refusal, or mockery, before he had watched two minutes. there is some remnant of this absurd custom to be seen to this day; but it is thought low, even among the vulgar. about six years ago, london became again most preposterously musical. the vox populi wore itself hoarse by singing the praises of "the sea, the sea!" if a stranger (and a philosopher) had walked through london, and listened to the universal chorus, he might have constructed a very pretty theory upon the love of the english for the sea-service, and our acknowledged superiority over all other nations upon that element. "no wonder," he might have said, "that this people is invincible upon the ocean. the love of it mixes with their daily thoughts: they celebrate it even in the market-place: their street-minstrels excite charity by it; and high and low, young and old, male and female, chant io paeans in its praise. love is not honoured in the national songs of this warlike race--bacchus is no god to them; they are men of sterner mould, and think only of 'the sea, the sea!' and the means of conquering upon it." such would, doubtless, have been his impression if he had taken the evidence only of his ears. alas! in those days for the refined ears that were musical! great was their torture when discord, with its thousand diversities of tone, struck up this appalling anthem--there was no escape from it. the migratory minstrels of savoy caught the strain, and pealed it down the long vistas of quiet streets, till their innermost and snuggest apartments re-echoed with the sound. men were obliged to endure this crying evil for full six months, wearied to desperation, and made sea-sick on the dry land. several other songs sprang up in due succession afterwards, but none of them, with the exception of one, entitled "all round my hat," enjoyed any extraordinary share of favour, until an american actor introduced a vile song called "jim crow." the singer sang his verses in appropriate costume, with grotesque gesticulations, and a sudden whirl of his body at the close of each verse. it took the taste of the town immediately, and for months the ears of orderly people were stunned by the senseless chorus-- "turn about and wheel about, and do just so-- turn about and wheel about, and jump, jim crow!" street-minstrels blackened their faces in order to give proper effect to the verses; and fatherless urchins, who had to choose between thieving and singing for their livelihood, took the latter course, as likely to be the more profitable, as long as the public taste remained in that direction. the uncouth dance, its accompaniment, might be seen in its full perfection on market nights in any great thoroughfare; and the words of the song might be heard, piercing above all the din and buzz of the ever-moving multitude. he, the calm observer, who during the hey-day popularity of this doggrel, "sate beside the public way, thick strewn with summer dust, and saw the stream of people there was hurrying to and fro, numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam," might have exclaimed with shelley, whose fine lines we quote, that "the million, with fierce song and maniac dance, did rage around." the philosophic theorist we have already supposed soliloquising upon the english character, and forming his opinion of it from their exceeding love for a sea-song, might, if he had again dropped suddenly into london, have formed another very plausible theory to account for our unremitting efforts for the abolition of the slave trade. "benevolent people!" he might have said, "how unbounded are your sympathies! your unhappy brethren of africa, differing from you only in the colour of their skins, are so dear to you, and you begrudge so little the twenty millions you have paid on their behalf, that you love to have a memento of them continually in your sight. jim crow is the representative of that injured race, and as such is the idol of your populace! see how they all sing his praises!--how they imitate his peculiarities!--how they repeat his name in their moments of leisure and relaxation! they even carve images of him to adorn their hearths, that his cause and his sufferings may never be forgotten! oh, philanthropic england!--oh, vanguard of civilization!" such are a few of the peculiarities of the london multitude, when no riot, no execution, no murder, no balloon, disturbs the even current of their thoughts. these are the whimseys of the mass--the harmless follies by which they unconsciously endeavour to lighten the load of care which presses upon their existence. the wise man, even though he smile at them, will not altogether withhold his sympathy, and will say, "let them enjoy their slang phrases and their choruses if they will; and if they cannot be happy, at least let them be merry." to the englishman, as well as to the frenchman of whom beranger sings, there may be some comfort in so small a thing as a song, and we may, own with him that "au peuple attriste ce qui rendra la gaite, c'est la gaudriole! o gue! c'est la gaudriole!" the o.p. mania. and these things bred a great combustion in the town. wagstaffe's "apparition of mother haggis." the acrimonious warfare carried on for a length of time by the playgoers of london against the proprietors of covent-garden theatre, is one of the most singular instances upon record of the small folly which will sometimes pervade a multitude of intelligent men. carried on at first from mere obstinacy by a few, and afterwards for mingled obstinacy and frolic by a greater number, it increased at last to such a height, that the sober dwellers in the provinces held up their hands in astonishment, and wondered that the people of london should be such fools. as much firmness and perseverance displayed in a better cause, might have achieved important triumphs; and we cannot but feel regret, in recording this matter, that so much good and wholesome energy should have been thrown away on so unworthy an object. but we will begin with the beginning, and trace the o. p. mania from its source. on the night of the th of september, , the old theatre of covent-garden was totally destroyed by fire. preparations were immediately made for the erection of a more splendid edifice, and the managers, harris and the celebrated john philip kemble, announced that the new theatre should be without a rival in europe. in less than three months, the rubbish of the old building was cleared away, and the foundation-stone of the new one laid with all due ceremony by the duke of sussex. with so much celerity were the works carried on that, in nine months more, the edifice was completed, both without and within. the opening night was announced for the th of september , within two days of a twelvemonth since the destruction of the original building. but the undertaking had proved more expensive than the committee anticipated. to render the pit entrance more commodious, it had been deemed advisable to remove a low public-house that stood in the way. this turned out a matter of no little difficulty, for the proprietor was a man well skilled in driving a hard bargain. the more eager the committee showed themselves to come to terms with him for his miserable pot-house, the more grasping he became in his demands for compensation. they were ultimately obliged to pay him an exorbitant sum. added to this, the interior decorations were on the most costly scale; and mrs. siddons, and other members of the kemble family, together with the celebrated italian singer, madame catalani, had been engaged at very high salaries. as the night of opening drew near, the committee found that they had gone a little beyond their means; and they issued a notice, stating that, in consequence of the great expense they had been at in building the theatre, and the large salaries they had agreed to pay, to secure the services of the most eminent actors, they were under the necessity of fixing the prices of admission at seven shillings to the boxes and four shillings to the pit, instead of six shillings and three and sixpence, as heretofore. this announcement created the greatest dissatisfaction. the boxes might have borne the oppression, but the dignity of the pit was wounded. a war-cry was raised immediately. for some weeks previous to the opening, a continual clatter was kept up in clubs and coffee-rooms, against what was considered a most unconstitutional aggression on the rights of play-going man. the newspapers assiduously kept up the excitement, and represented, day after day, to the managers the impolicy of the proposed advance. the bitter politics of the time were disregarded, and kemble and covent-garden became as great sources of interest as napoleon and france. public attention was the more fixed upon the proceedings at covent-garden, since it was the only patent theatre then in existence, drury-lane theatre having also been destroyed by fire in the month of february previous. but great as was the indignation of the lovers of the drama at that time, no one could have anticipated the extraordinary lengths to which opposition would be carried. first night, september th.--the performances announced were the tragedy of "macbeth" and the afterpiece of "the quaker." the house was excessively crowded (the pit especially) with persons who had gone for no other purpose than to make a disturbance. they soon discovered another grievance to add to the list. the whole of the lower, and three-fourths of the upper tier of boxes, were let out for the season; so that those who had paid at the door for a seat in the boxes, were obliged to mount to a level with the gallery. here they were stowed into boxes which, from their size and shape, received the contemptuous, and not inappropriate designation of pigeon-holes. this was considered in the light of a new aggression upon established rights; and long before the curtain drew up, the managers might have heard in their green-room the indignant shouts of "down with the pigeon-holes!"--"old prices for ever!" amid this din the curtain rose, and mr. kemble stood forward to deliver a poetical address in honour of the occasion. the riot now began in earnest; not a word of the address was audible, from the stamping and groaning of the people in the pit. this continued, almost without intermission, through the five acts of the tragedy. now and then, the sublime acting of mrs. siddons, as "the awful woman," hushed the noisy multitude into silence, in spite of themselves: but it was only for a moment; the recollection of their fancied wrongs made them ashamed of their admiration, and they shouted and hooted again more vigorously than before. the comedy of munden in the afterpiece met with no better reception; not a word was listened to, and the curtain fell amid still increasing uproar and shouts of "old prices!" some magistrates, who happened to be present, zealously came to the rescue, and appeared on the stage with copies of the riot act. this ill-judged proceeding made the matter worse. the men of the pit were exasperated by the indignity, and strained their lungs to express how deeply they felt it. thus remained the war till long after midnight, when the belligerents withdrew from sheer exhaustion. second night.--the crowd was not so great; all those who had gone on the previous evening to listen to the performances, now stayed away, and the rioters had it nearly all to themselves. with the latter, "the play was not the thing," and macheath and polly sang in "the beggar's opera" in vain. the actors and the public appeared to have changed sides--the audience acted, and the actors listened. a new feature of this night's proceedings was the introduction of placards. several were displayed from the pit and boxes, inscribed in large letters with the words, "old prices." with a view of striking terror, the constables who had been plentifully introduced into the house, attacked the placard-bearers, and succeeded, after several severe battles, in dragging off a few of them to the neighbouring watch-house, in bow street. confusion now became worse and worse confounded. the pitites screamed themselves hoarse; while, to increase the uproar, some mischievous frequenters of the upper regions squeaked through dozens of cat-calls, till the combined noise was enough to blister every tympanum in the house. third night.--the appearance of several gentlemen in the morning at the bar of the bow street police office, to answer for their riotous conduct, had been indignantly commented upon during the day. all augured ill for the quiet of the night. the performances announced were "richard the third" and "the poor soldier," but the popularity of the tragedy could not obtain it a hearing. the pitites seemed to be drawn into closer union by the attacks made upon them, and to act more in concert than on the previous nights. the placards were, also, more numerous; not only the pit, but the boxes and galleries exhibited them. among the most conspicuous, was one inscribed, "john bull against john kemble.--who'll win?" another bore "king george for ever! but no king kemble." a third was levelled against madame catalani, whose large salary was supposed to be one of the causes of the increased prices, and was inscribed "no foreigners to tax us--we're taxed enough already." this last was a double-barrelled one, expressing both dramatic and political discontent, and was received with loud cheers by the pitites. the tragedy and afterpiece were concluded full two hours before their regular time; and the cries for mr. kemble became so loud, that the manager thought proper to obey the summons. amid all these scenes of uproar he preserved his equanimity, and was never once betrayed into any expression of petulance or anger. with some difficulty he obtained a hearing. he entered into a detail of the affairs of the theatre, assuring the audience at the same time of the solicitude of the proprietors to accommodate themselves to the public wish. this was received with some applause, as it was thought at first to manifest a willingness to come back to the old prices, and the pit eagerly waited for the next sentence, that was to confirm their hopes. that sentence was never uttered, for mr. kemble, folding his arms majestically, added, in his deep tragic voice, "ladies and gentlemen, i wait here to know what you want!" immediately the uproar was renewed, and became so tremendous and so deafening, that the manager, seeing the uselessness of further parley, made his bow and retired. a gentleman then rose in the boxes and requested a hearing. he obtained it without difficulty. he began by inveighing in severe terms against the pretended ignorance of mr. kemble, in asking them so offensively what they wanted, and concluded by exhorting the people never to cease their opposition until they brought down the prices to their old level. the speaker, whose name was understood to be leigh, then requested a cheer for the actors, to show that no disrespect was intended them. the cheer was given immediately. a barrister of the name of smythe then rose to crave another hearing for mr. kemble. the manager stood forth again, calm, unmoved, and severe. "ladies and gentlemen," said he, "i wait here to know your wishes." mr. leigh, who took upon himself, "for that night only," the character of popular leader, said, the only reply he could give was one in three words, "the old prices." hereat the shouts of applause again rose, till the building rang. still serene amid the storm, the manager endeavoured to enter into explanations. the men of the pit would hear nothing of the sort. they wanted entire and absolute acquiescence. less would not satisfy them; and, as mr. kemble only wished to explain, they would not hear a word. he finally withdrew amid a noise to which babel must have been comparatively silent. fourth night.--the rioters were more obstinate than ever. the noises were increased by the addition of whistles, bugle-horns, and watchmen's rattles, sniffling, snorting, and clattering from all parts of the house. human lungs were taxed to the uttermost, and the stamping on the floor raised such a dust as to render all objects but dimly visible. in placards, too, there was greater variety. the loose wits of the town had all day been straining their ingenuity to invent new ones. among them were, "come forth, o kemble! come forth and tremble!" "foolish john kemble, we'll make you tremble!" and "no cats! no catalani! english actors for ever!" those who wish to oppose a mob successfully, should never lose their temper. it is a proof of weakness which masses of people at once perceive, and never fail to take advantage of. thus, when the managers unwisely resolved to fight the mob with their own weapons, it only increased the opposition it was intended to allay. a dozen pugilists, commanded by a notorious boxer of the day, were introduced into the pit, to use the argumentum ad hominem to the rioters. continual scuffles ensued: but the invincible resolution of the playgoers would not allow them to quail; it rather aroused them to renewed opposition, and a determination never to submit or yield. it also strengthened their cause, by affording them further ground of complaint against the managers. the performances announced on the bills were the opera of "love in a village," and "who wins?" but the bills had it all to themselves, for neither actors nor public were much burthened with them. the latter, indeed, afforded some sport. the title was too apt to the occasion to escape notice, and shouts of "who wins? who wins?" displaced for a time the accustomed cry of old prices. after the fall of the curtain, mr. leigh, with another gentleman, again spoke, complaining bitterly of the introduction of the prize-fighters, and exhorting the public never to give in. mr. kemble was again called forward; but when he came, the full tide of discord ran so strongly against him that, being totally unable to stem it, he withdrew. each man seemed to shout as if he had been a stentor; and when his lungs were wearied, took to his feet and stamped, till all the black coats in his vicinity became grey with dust. at last the audience were tired out, and the theatre was closed before eleven o'clock. fifth night.--the play was coleman's amusing comedy of "john bull." there was no diminution of the uproar. every note on the diapason of discord was run through. the prize-fighters, or hitites as they were called, mustered in considerable numbers, and the battles between them and the pitites were fierce and many. it was now, for the first time, that the letters o.p. came into general use as an abbreviation of the accustomed watchword of old prices. several placards were thus inscribed; and, as brevity is so desirable in shouting, the mob adopted the emendation. as usual, the manager was called for. after some delay he came forward, and was listened to with considerable patience. he repeated, in respectful terms, the great loss that would be occasioned to the proprietors by a return to the old prices, and offered to submit a statement of their accounts to the eminent lawyers, sir vicary gibbs and sir thomas plumer; the eminent merchants, sir francis baring and mr. angerstein; and mr. whitmore, the governor of the bank of england. by their decision as to the possibility of carrying on the theatre at the old prices, he would consent to be governed, and he hoped the public would do the same. this reasonable proposition was scouted immediately. not even the high and reputable names he had mentioned were thought to afford any guarantee for impartiality. the pitites were too wrong-headed to abate one iota of their pretensions; and they had been too much insulted by the prize-fighters in the manager's pay, to show any consideration for him, or agree to any terms he might propose. they wanted full acquiescence, and nothing less. thus the conference broke off, and the manager retired amid a storm of hisses. an irish gentleman, named o'reilly, then stood up in one of the boxes. with true irish gallantry, he came to the rescue of an ill-used lady. he said he was disgusted at the attacks made upon madame catalani, the finest singer in the world, and a lady inestimable in private life. it was unjust, unmanly, and un-english to make the innocent suffer for the guilty; and he hoped this blot would be no longer allowed to stain a fair cause. as to the quarrel with the manager, he recommended them to persevere. they were not only wronged by his increased prices, but insulted by his boxers, and he hoped, that before they had done with him, they would teach him a lesson he would not soon forget. the gallant hibernian soon became a favourite, and sat down amid loud cheers. sixth night.--no signs of a cessation of hostilities on the one side, or of a return to the old prices on the other. the playgoers seemed to grow more united as the managers grew more obstinate. the actors had by far the best time of it; for they were spared nearly all the labour of their parts, and merely strutted on the stage to see how matters went on, and then strutted off again. notwithstanding the remonstrance of mr. o'reilly on the previous night, numerous placards reflecting upon madame catalani were exhibited. one was inscribed with the following doggrel:-- "seventeen thousand a-year goes pat, to kemble, his sister, and madame cat." on another was displayed, in large letters, "no compromise, old prices, and native talent!" some of these were stuck against the front of the boxes, and others were hoisted from the pit on long poles. the following specimens will suffice to show the spirit of them; wit they had none, or humour either, although when they were successively exhibited, they elicited roars of laughter:-- "john kemble alone is the cause of this riot; when he lowers his prices, john bull will be quiet." "john kemble be damn'd, we will not be cramm'd." "squire kemble begins to tremble." the curtain fell as early as nine o'clock, when there being loud calls for mr. kemble, he stood forward. he announced that madame catalani, against whom so unjustifiable a prejudice had been excited, had thrown up her engagement rather than stand in the way of any accommodation of existing differences. this announcement was received with great applause. mr. kemble then went on to vindicate himself and co-proprietors from the charge of despising public opinion. no assertion, he assured them, could be more unjust. they were sincerely anxious to bring these unhappy differences to a close, and he thought he had acted in the most fair and reasonable manner in offering to submit the accounts to an impartial committee, whose decision, and the grounds for it, should be fully promulgated. this speech was received with cheering, but interrupted at the close by some individuals, who objected to any committee of the manager's nomination. this led to a renewal of the uproar, and it was some time before silence could be obtained. when, at last, he was able to make himself heard, he gave notice, that until the decision of the committee had been drawn up, the theatre should remain closed. immediately every person in the pit stood up, and a long shout of triumph resounded through the house, which was heard at the extremity of bow street. as if this result had been anticipated, a placard was at the same moment hoisted, inscribed, "here lies the body of new price, an ugly brat and base born, who expired on the rd of september , aged six days.--requiescat in pace!" mr. kemble then retired, and the pitites flung up their hats in the air, or sprang over the benches, shouting and hallooing in the exuberance of their joy; and thus ended the first act of this popular farce. the committee ultimately chosen differed from that first named, alderman sir charles price, bart. and mr. silvester, the recorder of london, being substituted for sir francis baring and sir vicary gibbs. in a few days they had examined the multitudinous documents of the theatre, and agreed to a report which was published in all the newspapers, and otherwise distributed. they stated the average profits of the six preceding years at and / per cent, being only and / per cent. beyond the legal interest of money, to recompense the proprietors for all their care and enterprise. under the new prices they would receive and / per cent. profit; but if they returned to the old prices, they would suffer a loss of fifteen shillings per cent. upon their capital. under these circumstances, they could do no other than recommend the proprietors to continue the new prices. this report gave no satisfaction. it certainly convinced the reasonable, but they, unfortunately, were in a minority of one to ten. the managers, disregarding the outcry that it excited, advertised the recommencement of the performances for wednesday the th of october following. they endeavoured to pack the house with their friends, but the sturdy o.p. men were on the alert, and congregated in the pit in great numbers. the play was "the beggar's opera," but, as on former occasions, it was wholly inaudible. the noises were systematically arranged, and the actors, seeing how useless it was to struggle against the popular feeling, hurried over their parts as quickly as they could, and the curtain fell shortly after nine o'clock. once more the manager essayed the difficult task of convincing madness by appealing to reason. as soon as the din of the rattles and post-horns would permit him to speak, he said, he would throw himself on the fairness of the most enlightened metropolis in the world. he was sure, however strongly they might feel upon the subject, they would not be accessory to the ruin of the theatre, by insisting upon a return to the former prices. notwithstanding the little sop he had thrown out to feed the vanity of this roaring cerberus, the only answer he received was a renewal of the noise, intermingled with shouts of "hoax! hoax! imposition!" mr. o'reilly, the gallant friend of madame catalani, afterwards addressed the pit, and said no reliance could be placed on the report of the committee. the profits of the theatre were evidently great: they had saved the heavy salary of madame catalani; and by shutting out the public from all the boxes but the pigeon-holes, they made large sums. the first and second tiers were let at high rents to notorious courtesans, several of whom he then saw in the house; and it was clear that the managers preferred a large revenue from this impure source to the reasonable profits they would receive from respectable people. loud cheers greeted this speech; every eye was turned towards the boxes, and the few ladies in them immediately withdrew. at the same moment, some inveterate petite hoisted a large placard, on which was inscribed, "we lads of the pit will never submit." several others were introduced. one of them was a caricature likeness of mr. kemble, asking, "what do you want?" with a pitite replying, "the old prices, and no pigeon-holes!" others merely bore the drawing of a large key, in allusion to a notorious house in the neighbourhood, the denizens of which were said to be great frequenters of the private boxes. these appeared to give the managers more annoyance than all the rest, and the prize-fighters made vigorous attacks upon the holders of them. several persons were, on this night, and indeed nearly every night, taken into custody, and locked up in the watchhouse. on their appearance the following morning, they were generally held to bail in considerable sums to keep the peace. this proceeding greatly augmented the animosity of the pit. it would be useless to detail the scenes of confusion which followed night after night. for about three weeks the war continued with unabated fury. its characteristics were nearly always the same. invention was racked to discover new noises, and it was thought a happy idea when one fellow got into the gallery with a dustman's bell, and rang it furiously. dogs were also brought into the boxes, to add their sweet voices to the general uproar. the animals seemed to join in it con amore, and one night a large mastiff growled and barked so loudly, as to draw down upon his exertions three cheers from the gratified pitites. so strong did the popular enthusiasm run in favour of the row, that well-dressed ladies appeared in the boxes with the letters o. p. on their bonnets. o. p. hats for the gentlemen were still more common, and some were so zealous in the cause, as to sport waistcoats with an o embroidered upon one flap and a p on the other. o.p. toothpicks were also in fashion; and gentlemen and ladies carried o.p. handkerchiefs, which they waved triumphantly whenever the row was unusually deafening. the latter suggested the idea of o. p. flags, which were occasionally unfurled from the gallery to the length of a dozen feet. sometimes the first part of the night's performances were listened to with comparative patience, a majority of the manager's friends being in possession of the house. but as soon as the half-price commenced, the row began again in all its pristine glory. at the fall of the curtain it soon became customary to sing "god save the king," the whole of the o.p.'s joining in loyal chorus. sometimes this was followed by "rule britannia;" and, on two or three occasions, by a parody of the national anthem, which excited great laughter. a verse may not be uninteresting as a specimen. "o johnny bull, be true, confound the prices new, and make them fall! curse kemble's politics, frustrate his knavish tricks, on thee our hopes we fix, t' upset them all!" this done, they scrambled over the benches, got up sham fights in the pit, or danced the famous o.p. dance. the latter may as well be described here: half a dozen, or a dozen fellows formed in a ring, and stamped alternately with the right and left foot, calling out at regular intervals, o. p.--o. p. with a drawling and monotonous sound. this uniformly lasted till the lights were put out, when the rioters withdrew, generally in gangs of ten or twenty, to defend themselves from sudden attacks on the part of the constables. an idea seemed about this time to break in upon them, that notwithstanding the annoyance they caused the manager, they were aiding to fill his coffers. this was hinted at in some of the newspapers, and the consequence was, that many stayed away to punish him, if possible, under the silent system. but this did not last long. the love of mischief was as great an incentive to many of them as enmity to the new prices. accidental circumstances also contributed to disturb the temporary calm. at the westminster quarter-sessions, on the th of october, bills of indictment were preferred against forty-one persons for creating a disturbance and interrupting the performances of the theatre. the grand jury ignored twenty-seven of the bills, left two undecided, and found true bills against twelve. the latter exercised their right of traverse till the ensuing sessions. the preferment of these bills had the effect of re-awakening the subsiding excitement. another circumstance about the same time gave a still greater impetus to it, and furnished the rioters with a chief, round whom they were eager to rally. mr. clifford, a barrister, appeared in the pit on the night of the st of october, with the letters o. p. on his hat. being a man of some note, he was pounced upon by the constables, and led off to bow street police office, where brandon, the box-keeper, charged him with riotous and disorderly conduct. this was exactly what clifford wanted. he told the presiding magistrate, a mr. read, that he had purposely displayed the letters on his hat, in order that the question of right might be determined before a competent tribunal. he denied that he had committed any offence, and seemed to manifest so intimate an acquaintance with the law upon the subject, that the magistrate, convinced by his reasoning, ordered his immediate dismissal, and stated that he had been taken into custody without the slightest grounds. the result was made known in the theatre a few minutes afterwards, where mr. clifford, on his appearance victorious, was received with reiterated huzzas. on his leaving the house, he was greeted by a mob of five or six hundred persons, who had congregated outside to do him honour as he passed. from that night the riots may be said to have recommenced, and "clifford and o. p." became the rallying cry of the party. the officious box-keeper became at the same time the object of the popular dislike, and the contempt with which the genius and fine qualities of mr. kemble would not permit them to regard him, was fastened upon his underling. so much ill-feeling was directed towards the latter, that at this time a return to the old prices, unaccompanied by his dismissal, would not have made the manager's peace with the pitites. in the course of the few succeeding weeks, during which the riots continued with undiminished fury, o. p. medals were struck, and worn in great numbers in the theatre. a few of the ultra-zealous even wore them in the streets. a new fashion also came into favour for hats, waistcoats, and handkerchiefs, on which the mark, instead of the separate letters o and p, was a large o, with a small p in the middle of it: thus, xxxxxxxxx x x x xxx x x x x x x xxx x x x x x x x x x xxxxxxxxx the managers, seeing that mr. clifford was so identified with the rioters, determined to make him responsible. an action was accordingly brought against him and other defendants in the court of king's bench. on the th of november, the attorney-general moved, before lord ellenborough, for a rule to show cause why a criminal information should not be filed against clifford for unlawfully conspiring with certain others to intimidate the proprietors of covent-garden theatre, and force them, to their loss and detriment, to lower their prices of admission. the rule was granted, and an early day fixed for the trial. in the mean time, these proceedings kept up the acerbity of the o. p.s, and every night at the fall of the curtain, three groans were given for john kemble and three cheers for john bull. it was during this year that the national jubilee was celebrated, in honour of the fiftieth year of the reign of george iii. when the riots had reached their fiftieth night, the o. p.s also determined to have a jubilee. all their previous efforts in the way of roaring, great as they were, were this night outdone, and would have continued long after "the wee short hour," had not the managers wisely put the extinguisher upon them and the lights about eleven o'clock. pending the criminal prosecution against himself, mr. clifford brought an action for false imprisonment against brandon. the cause was fixed for trial in the court of common pleas, on the th of december, before lord chief-justice mansfield. from an early hour in the morning all the avenues leading to the court were thronged with an eager multitude; all london was in anxiety for the resuit. so dense was the crowd, that counsel found the greatest difficulty in making their way into court. mr. sergeant best was retained on the part of the plaintiff, and mr. sergeant shepherd for the defence. the defendant put two pleas upon the record; first, that he was not guilty, and secondly, that he was justified. sergeant best, in stating the plaintiff's case, blamed the managers for all the disturbances that had taken place, and contended that his client, in affixing the letters o. p. to his hat, was not guilty of any offence. even if he had joined in the noises, which he had not, his so doing would not subject him to the penalties for rioting. several witnesses were then called to prove the capture of mr. clifford, the hearing of the case before the magistrate at bow street, and his ultimate dismissal. sergeant shepherd was heard at great length on the other side, and contended that his client was perfectly justified in taking into custody a man who was inciting others to commit a breach of the peace. the lord chief-justice summed up, with an evident bias in favour of the defendant. he said an undue apprehension of the rights of an audience had got abroad. even supposing the object of the rioters to be fair and legal, they were not authorized to carry it by unfair means. in order to constitute a riot, it was not necessary that personal violence should be committed, and it seemed to him that the defendant had not acted in an improper manner in giving into custody a person who, by the display of a symbol, was encouraging others to commit a riot. the jury retired to consider their verdict. the crowd without and within the court awaited the result in feverish suspense. half an hour elapsed, when the jury returned with a verdict for the plaintiff--damages, five pounds. the satisfaction of the spectators was evident upon their countenances, that of the judge expressed the contrary feeling. turning to the foreman of the jury, his lordship asked upon which of the two points referred to them, namely, the broad question, whether a riot had been committed, and, if committed, whether the plaintiff had participated in it, they had found their verdict? the foreman stated, that they were all of opinion generally that the plaintiff had been illegally arrested. this vague answer did not satisfy his lordship, and he repeated his question. he could not, however, obtain a more satisfactory reply. evidently vexed at what he deemed the obtuseness or partiality of the jury, he turned to the bar, and said, that a spirit of a mischievous and destructive nature was abroad, which, if not repressed, threatened awful consequences. the country would be lost, he said, and the government overturned, if such a spirit were encouraged; it was impossible it could end in good. time, the destroyer and fulfiller of predictions, has proved that his lordship was a false prophet. the harmless o. p. war has been productive of no such dire results. it was to be expected that after this triumph, the war in the pit would rage with redoubled acrimony. a riot beginning at half-price would not satisfy the excited feelings of the o. p.s on the night of such a victory. long before the curtain drew up, the house was filled with them, and several placards were exhibited, which the constables and friends of the managers strove, as usual, to tear into shreds. one of them, which met this fate, was inscribed, "success to o.p.! a british jury for ever!" it was soon replaced by another of a similar purport. it is needless to detail the uproar that ensued; the jumping, the fighting, the roaring, and the howling. for nine nights more the same system was continued; but the end was at hand. on the th a grand dinner was given at the crown and anchor tavern, to celebrate the victory of mr. clifford. "the reprobators of managerial insolence," as they called themselves, attended in considerable numbers; and mr. clifford was voted to the chair. the cloth had been removed, and a few speeches made, when the company were surprised by a message that their arch-enemy himself solicited the honour of an audience. it was some time ere they could believe that mr. kemble had ventured to such a place. after some parley the manager was admitted, and a conference was held. a treaty was ultimately signed and sealed, which put an end to the long-contested wars of o.p., and restored peace to the drama. all this time the disturbance proceeded at the theatre with its usual spirit. it was now the sixty-sixth night of its continuance, and the rioters were still untired--still determined to resist to the last. in the midst of it a gentleman arrived from the crown and anchor, and announced to the pit that mr. kemble had attended the dinner, and had yielded at last to the demand of the public. he stated, that it had been agreed upon between him and the committee for defending the persons under prosecution, that the boxes should remain at the advanced price; that the pit should be reduced to three shillings and sixpence; that the private boxes should be done away with; and that all prosecutions, on both sides, should be immediately stayed. this announcement was received with deafening cheers. as soon as the first burst of enthusiasm was over, the o. p.s became anxious for a confirmation of the intelligence, and commenced a loud call for mr. kemble. he had not then returned from the crown and anchor; but of this the pitites were not aware, and for nearly half an hour they kept up a most excruciating din. at length the great actor made his appearance, in his walking dress, with his cane in hand, as he had left the tavern. it was a long time before he could obtain silence. he apologized in the most respectful terms for appearing before them in such unbecoming costume, which was caused solely by his ignorance that he should have to appear before them that night. after announcing, as well as occasional interruptions would allow, the terms that had been agreed upon, he added, "in order that no trace or recollection of the past differences, which had unhappily prevailed so long, should remain, he was instructed by the proprietors to say, that they most sincerely lamented the course that had been pursued, and engaged that, on their parts, all legal proceedings should forthwith be put a stop to." the cheering which greeted this speech was interrupted at the close by loud cries from the pit of "dismiss brandon," while one or two exclaimed, "we want old prices generally,--six shillings for the boxes." after an ineffectual attempt to address them again upon this point, mr. kemble made respectful and repeated obeisances, and withdrew. the noises still continued, until munden stood forward, leading by the hand the humbled box-keeper, contrition in his looks, and in his hands a written apology, which he endeavoured to read. the uproar was increased threefold by his presence, and, amid cries of "we won't hear him!" "where's his master?" he was obliged to retire. mr. harris, the son of kemble's co-manager, afterwards endeavoured to propitiate the audience in his favour; but it was of no avail; nothing less than his dismissal would satisfy the offended majesty of the pit. amid this uproar the curtain finally fell, and the o. p. dance was danced for the last time within the walls of covent garden. on the following night it was announced that brandon had resigned his situation. this turned the tide of popular ill-will. the performances were "the wheel of fortune," and an afterpiece. the house was crowded to excess; a desire to be pleased was manifest on every countenance, and when mr. kemble, who took his favourite character of penruddock, appeared upon the stage, he was greeted with the most vehement applause. the noises ceased entirely, and the symbols of opposition disappeared. the audience, hushed into attention, gave vent to no sounds but those of admiration for the genius of the actor. when, in the course of his part, he repeated the words, "so! i am in london again!" the aptness of the expression to the circumstances of the night, was felt by all present, and acknowledged by a round of boisterous and thrice repeated cheering. it was a triumphant scene for mr. kemble after his long annoyances. he had achieved a double victory. he had, not only as a manager, soothed the obstinate opposition of the play-goers, but as an actor he had forced from one of the largest audiences he had ever beheld, approbation more cordial and unanimous than he had ever enjoyed before. the popular favour not only turned towards him; it embraced everybody connected with the theatre, except the poor victim, brandon. most of the favourite actors were called before the curtain to make their bow, and receive the acclamations of the pit. at the close of the performances, a few individuals, implacable and stubborn, got up a feeble cry of "old prices for the boxes;" but they were quickly silenced by the reiterated cheers of the majority, or by cries of "turn them out!" a placard, the last of its race, was at the same time exhibited in the front of the pit, bearing, in large letters, the words "we are satisfied." thus ended the famous wars of o. p., which, for a period of nearly three months, had kept the metropolis in an uproar. and after all, what was the grand result? as if the whole proceeding had been a parody upon the more destructive, but scarcely more sensible wars recorded in history, it was commenced in injustice, carried on in bitterness of spirit, and ended, like the labour of the mountain, in a mouse. the abatement of sixpence in the price of admission to the pit, and the dismissal of an unfortunate servant, whose only fault was too much zeal in the service of his employers,--such were the grand victories of the o. p.'s. the thugs, or phansigars. orribili favelle--parole di dolor.--dante. among the black deeds which superstition has imposed as duties upon her wretched votaries, none are more horrible than the practices of the murderers, who, under the name of thugs, or phansigars, have so long been the scourge of india. for ages they have pursued their dark and dreadful calling, moulding assassination into a science, or extolling it as a virtue, worthy only to be practised by a race favoured of heaven. of late years this atrocious delusion has excited much attention, both in this country and in india; an attention which, it is to be hoped, will speedily lead to the uprooting of a doctrine so revolting and anti-human. although the british government has extended over hindostan for so long a period, it does not appear that europeans even suspected the existence of this mysterious sect until the commencement of the present century. in the year , a gang of thugs, laden with the plunder of murdered travellers, was accidentally discovered. the inquiries then set on foot revealed to the astonished government a system of iniquity unparalleled in the history of man. subsequent investigation extended the knowledge; and by throwing light upon the peculiar habits of the murderers, explained the reason why their crimes had remained so long undiscovered. in the following pages will be found an epitome of all the information which has reached europe concerning them, derived principally from dr. sherwood's treatise upon the subject, published in , and the still more valuable and more recent work of mr. sleeman, entitled the "ramaseeana; or, vocabulary of the peculiar language of the thugs." the followers of this sect are called thugs, or t'hugs, and their profession thuggee. in the south of india they are called phansigars: the former word signifying "a deceiver;" and the latter, "a strangler." they are both singularly appropriate. the profession of thuggee is hereditary, and embraces, it is supposed, in every part of india, a body of at least ten thousand individuals, trained to murder from their childhood; carrying it on in secret and in silence, yet glorying in it, and holding the practice of it higher than any earthly honour. during the winter months, they usually follow some reputable calling, to elude suspicion; and in the summer, they set out in gangs over all the roads of india, to plunder and destroy. these gangs generally contain from ten to forty thugs, and sometimes as many as two hundred. each strangler is provided with a noose, to despatch the unfortunate victim, as the thugs make it a point never to cause death by any other means. when the gangs are very large, they divide into smaller bodies; and each taking a different route, they arrive at the same general place of rendezvous to divide the spoil. they sometimes travel in the disguise of respectable traders; sometimes as sepoys or native soldiers; and at others, as government officers. if they chance to fall in with an unprotected wayfarer, his fate is certain. one thug approaches him from behind, and throws the end of a sash round his neck; the other end is seized by a second at the same instant, crossed behind the neck, and drawn tightly, while with their other hand the two thugs thrust his head forward to expedite the strangulation: a third thug seizes the traveller by the legs at the same moment, and he is thrown to the ground, a corpse before he reaches it. but solitary travellers are not the prey they are anxious to seek. a wealthy caravan of forty or fifty individuals has not unfrequently been destroyed by them; not one soul being permitted to escape. indeed, there is hardly an instance upon record of any one's escape from their hands, so surely are their measures taken, and so well do they calculate beforehand all the risks and difficulties of the undertaking. each individual of the gang has his peculiar duty allotted to him. upon-approaching a town, or serai, two or three, known as the soothaes, or "inveiglers," are sent in advance to ascertain if any travellers are there; to learn, if possible, the amount of money or merchandize they carry with them, their hours of starting in the morning, or any other particulars that may be of use. if they can, they enter into conversation with them, pretend to be travelling to the same place, and propose, for mutual security, to travel with them. this intelligence is duly communicated to the remainder of the gang. the place usually chosen for the murder is some lonely part of the road in the vicinity of a jungle, and the time, just before dusk. at given signals, understood only by themselves, the scouts of the party station themselves in the front, in the rear, and on each side, to guard against surprise. a strangler and assistant strangler, called bhurtote and shamshea, place themselves, the one on the right, and the other on the left of the victim, without exciting his suspicion. at another signal the noose is twisted, drawn tightly by a strong hand at each extremity, and the traveller, in a few seconds, hurried into eternity. ten, twelve, twenty, and in some instances, sixty persons have been thus despatched at the same moment. should any victim, by a rare chance, escape their hands, he falls into those of the scouts who are stationed within hearing, who run upon him and soon overpower him. their next care is to dispose of the bodies. so cautious are they to prevent detection, that they usually break all the joints to hasten decomposition. they then cut open the body to prevent it swelling in the grave and causing fissures in the soil above, by which means the jackals might be attracted to the spot, and thereby lead to discovery. when obliged to bury the body in a frequented district, they kindle a fire over the grave to obliterate the traces of the newly turned earth. sometimes the grave-diggers of the party, whose office, like that of all the rest, is hereditary, are despatched to make the graves in the morning at some distant spot, by which it is known the travellers will pass. the stranglers, in the mean time, journey quietly with their victims, conversing with them in the most friendly manner. towards nightfall they approach the spot selected for their murder; the signal is given, and they fall into the graves that have been ready for them since day-break. on one occasion, related by captain sleeman, a party of fifty-nine people, consisting of fifty-two men and seven women, were thus simultaneously strangled, and thrown into the graves prepared for them in the morning. some of these travellers were on horseback and well armed, but the thugs, who appear to have been upwards of two hundred in a gang, had provided against all risk of failure. the only one left alive of all that numerous party, was an infant four years old, who was afterwards initiated into all the mysteries of thuggee. if they cannot find a convenient opportunity for disposing of the bodies, they carry them for many miles, until they come to a spot secure from intrusion, and to a soil adapted to receive them. if fear of putrefaction admonishes them to use despatch, they set up a large screen or tent, as other travellers do, and bury the body within the enclosure, pretending, if inquiries are made, that their women are within. but this only happens when they fall in with a victim unexpectedly. in murders which they have planned previously, the finding of a place of sepulture is never left to hazard. travellers who have the misfortune to lodge in the same choultry or hostelry, as the thugs, are often murdered during the night. it is either against their creed to destroy a sleeper, or they find a difficulty in placing the noose round the neck of a person in a recumbent position. when this is the case, the slumberer is suddenly aroused by the alarm of a snake or a scorpion. he starts to his feet, and finds the fatal sash around his neck.--he never escapes. in addition to these thugs who frequent the highways, there are others, who infest the rivers, and are called pungoos. they do not differ in creed, but only in a few of their customs, from their brethren on shore. they go up and down the rivers in their own boats, pretending to be travellers of consequence, or pilgrims, proceeding to, or returning from benares, allahabad, or other sacred places. the boatmen, who are also thugs, are not different in appearance from the ordinary boatmen on the river. the artifices used to entice victims on board are precisely similar to those employed by the highway thugs. they send out their "inveiglers" to scrape acquaintance with travellers, and find out the direction in which they are journeying. they always pretend to be bound for the same place, and vaunt the superior accommodation of the boat by which they are going. the travellers fall into the snare, are led to the thug captain, who very often, to allay suspicion, demurs to take them, but eventually agrees for a moderate sum. the boat strikes off into the middle of the stream; the victims are amused and kept in conversation for hours by their insidious foes, until three taps are given on the deck above. this is a signal from the thugs on the look-out that the coast is clear. in an instant the fatal noose is ready, and the travellers are no more. the bodies are then thrown, warm and palpitating, into the river, from a hole in the side of the boat, contrived expressly for the purpose. a river thug, who was apprehended, turned approver, to save his own life, and gave the following evidence relative to the practices of his fraternity:--"we embarked at rajmahul. the travellers sat on one side of the boat, and the thugs on the other; while we three (himself and two "stranglers,") were placed in the stern, the thugs on our left, and the travellers on our right. some of the thugs, dressed as boatmen, were above deck, and others walking along the bank of the river, and pulling the boat by the joon, or rope, and all, at the same time, on the look-out. we came up with a gentleman's pinnace and two baggage-boats, and were obliged to stop, and let them go on. the travellers seemed anxious; but were quieted by being told that the men at the rope were tired, and must take some refreshment. they pulled out something, and began to eat; and when the pinnace had got on a good way, they resumed their work, and our boat proceeded. it was now afternoon; and, when a signal was given above, that all was clear, the five thugs who sat opposite the travellers sprang in upon them, and, with the aid of others, strangled them. having done this, they broke their spinal bones, and then threw them out of a hole made at the side, into the river, and kept on their course; the boat being all this time pulled along by the men on the bank." that such atrocities as these should have been carried on for nearly two centuries without exciting the attention of the british government, seems incredible. but our wonder will be diminished when we reflect upon the extreme caution of the thugs, and the ordinary dangers of travelling in india. the thugs never murder a man near his own home, and they never dispose of their booty near the scene of the murder. they also pay, in common with other and less atrocious robbers, a portion of their gains to the polygars, or native authorities of the districts in which they reside, to secure protection. the friends and relatives of the victims, perhaps a thousand miles off, never surmise their fate till a period has elapsed when all inquiry would be fruitless, or, at least, extremely difficult. they have no clue to the assassins, and very often impute to the wild beasts of the jungles the slaughter committed by that wilder beast, man. there are several gradations through which every member of the fraternity must regularly pass before he arrives at the high office of a bhurtote, or strangler. he is first employed as a scout--then as a sexton--then as a shumseea, or holder of hands, and lastly as a bhurtote. when a man who is not of thug lineage, or who has not been brought up from his infancy among them, wishes to become a strangler, he solicits the oldest, and most pious and experienced thug, to take him under his protection and make him his disciple; and under his guidance he is regularly initiated. when he has acquired sufficient experience in the lower ranks of the profession, he applies to his gooroo, or preceptor, to give the finishing grace to his education, and make a strangler of him. an opportunity is found when a solitary traveller is to be murdered; and the tyro, with his preceptor, having seen that the proposed victim is asleep, and in safe keeping till their return, proceed to a neighbouring field and perform several religious ceremonies, accompanied by three or four of the oldest and steadiest members of the gang. the gooroo first offers up a prayer to the goddess, saying, "oh, kalee! kun-kalee! bhud-kalee! oh, kalee! maha-kalee! calkutta walee! if it seems fit to thee that the traveller now at our lodging should die by the hands of this thy slave, vouchsafe us thy good omen." they then sit down and watch for the good omen; and if they receive it within half an hour, conclude that their goddess is favourable to the claims of the new candidate for admission. if they have a bad omen, or no omen at all, some other thug must put the traveller to death, and the aspirant must wait a more favourable opportunity, purifying himself in the mean time by prayer and humiliation for the favour of the goddess. if the good omen has been obtained, they return to their quarters; and the gooroo takes a handkerchief and, turning his face to the west, ties a knot at one end of it, inserting a rupee, or other piece of silver. this knot is called the goor khat, or holy knot, and no man who has not been properly ordained is allowed to tie it. the aspirant receives it reverently in his right hand from his gooroo, and stands over the sleeping victim, with a shumseea, or holder of hands, at his side. the traveller is aroused, the handkerchief is passed around his neck, and, at a signal from the gooroo, is drawn tight till the victim is strangled; the shumseea holding his hands to prevent his making any resistance. the work being now completed, the bhurtote (no longer an aspirant, but an admitted member) bows down reverently in the dust before his gooroo, and touches his feet with both his hands, and afterwards performs the same respect to his relatives and friends who have assembled to witness the solemn ceremony. he then waits for another favourable omen, when he unties the knot and takes out the rupee, which he gives to his gooroo, with any other silver which he may have about him. the gooroo adds some of his own money, with which he purchases what they call goor, or consecrated sugar, when a solemn sacrifice is performed, to which all the gang are invited. the relationship between the gooroo and his disciple is accounted the most holy that can be formed, and subsists to the latest period of life. a thug may betray his father, but never his gooroo. dark and forbidding as is the picture already drawn, it will become still darker and more repulsive, when we consider the motives which prompt these men to systematic murder. horrible as their practices would be, if love of plunder alone incited them, it is infinitely more horrible to reflect that the idea of duty and religion is joined to the hope of gain, in making them the scourges of their fellows. if plunder were their sole object, there would be reason to hope, that when a member of the brotherhood grew rich, he would rest from his infernal toils; but the dismal superstition which he cherishes tells him never to desist. he was sent into the world to be a slayer of men, and he religiously works out his destiny. as religiously he educates his children to pursue the same career, instilling into their minds, at the earliest age, that thuggee is the noblest profession a man can follow, and that the dark goddess they worship will always provide rich travellers for her zealous devotees. the following is the wild and startling legend upon which the thugs found the divine origin of their sect. they believe that, in the earliest ages of the world, a gigantic demon infested the earth, and devoured mankind as soon as they were created. he was of so tall a stature, that when he strode through the most unfathomable depths of the great sea, the waves, even in tempest, could not reach above his middle. his insatiable appetite for human flesh almost unpeopled the world, until bhawanee, kalee, or davee, the goddess of the thugs, determined to save mankind by the destruction of the monster. nerving herself for the encounter, she armed herself with an immense sword; and, meeting with the demon, she ran him through the body. his blood flowed in torrents as he fell dead at her feet; but from every drop there sprang up another monster, as rapacious and as terrible as the first. again the goddess upraised her massive sword, and hewed down the hellish brood by hundreds; but the more she slew, the more numerous they became. every drop of their blood generated a demon; and, although the goddess endeavoured to lap up the blood ere it sprang into life, they increased upon her so rapidly, that the labour of killing became too great for endurance. the perspiration rolled down her arms in large drops, and she was compelled to think of some other mode of exterminating them. in this emergency, she created two men out of the perspiration of her body, to whom she confided the holy task of delivering the earth from the monsters. to each of the men she gave a handkerchief, and showed them how to kill without shedding blood. from her they learned to tie the fatal noose; and they became, under her tuition, such expert stranglers, that, in a very short space of time, the race of demons became extinct. when there were no more to slay, the two men sought the great goddess, in order to return the handkerchiefs. the grateful bhawanee desired that they would retain them, as memorials of their heroic deeds; and in order that they might never lose the dexterity that they had acquired in using them, she commanded that, from thenceforward, they should strangle men. these were the two first thugs, and from them the whole race have descended. to the early thugs the goddess was more direct in her favours, than she has been to their successors. at first, she undertook to bury the bodies of all the men they slew and plundered, upon the condition that they should never look back to see what she was doing. the command was religiously observed for many ages, and the thugs relied with implicit faith upon the promise of bhawanee; but as men became more corrupt, the ungovernable curiosity of a young thug offended the goddess, and led to the withdrawal of a portion of her favour. this youth, burning with a desire to see how she made her graves, looked back, and beheld her in the act, not of burying, but of devouring, the body of a man just strangled. half of the still palpitating remains was dangling over her lips. she was so highly displeased that she condemned the thugs, from that time forward, to bury their victims themselves. another account states that the goddess was merely tossing the body in the air; and that, being naked, her anger was aggravated by the gaze of mortal eyes upon her charms. before taking a final leave of her devotees, she presented them with one of her teeth for a pickaxe, one of her ribs for a knife, and the hem of her garment for a noose. she has not since appeared to human eyes. the original tooth having been lost in the lapse of ages, new pickaxes have been constructed, with great care and many ceremonies, by each considerable gang of thugs, to be used in making the graves of strangled travellers. the pickaxe is looked upon with the utmost veneration by the tribe. a short account of the process of making it, and the rites performed, may be interesting, as showing still further their gloomy superstition. in the first place, it is necessary to fix upon a lucky day. the chief thug then instructs a smith to forge the holy instrument: no other eye is permitted to see the operation. the smith must engage in no other occupation until it is completed, and the chief thug never quits his side during the process. when the instrument is formed, it becomes necessary to consecrate it to the especial service of bhawnee. another lucky day is chosen for this ceremony, care being had in the mean time that the shadow of no earthly thing fall upon the pickaxe, as its efficacy would be for ever destroyed. a learned thug then sits down; and turning his face to the west, receives the pickaxe in a brass dish. after muttering some incantation, he throws it into a pit already prepared for it, where it is washed in clear water. it is then taken out, and washed again three times; the first time in sugar and water, the second in sour milk, and the third in spirits. it is then dried, and marked from the head to the point with seven red spots. this is the first part of the ceremony: the second consists in its purification by fire. the pickaxe is again placed upon the brass dish, along with a cocoa-nut, some sugar, cloves, white sandal-wood, and other articles. a fire of the mango tree, mixed with dried cow-dung, is then kindled; and the officiating thug, taking the pickaxe with both hands, passes it seven times through the flames. it now remains to be ascertained whether the goddess is favourable to her followers. for this purpose, the cocoa-nut is taken from the dish and placed upon the ground. the officiating thug, turning to the spectators, and holding the axe uplifted, asks, "shall i strike?" assent being given, he strikes the nut with the but-end of the axe, exclaiming, "all hail! mighty davee! great mother of us all!" the spectators respond, "all hail! mighty davee! and prosper thy children, the thugs!" if the nut is severed at the first blow, the goddess is favourable; if not, she is unpropitious: all their labour is thrown away, and the ceremony must be repeated upon some more fitting occasion. but if the sign be favourable, the axe is tied carefully in a white cloth and turned towards the west, all the spectators prostrating themselves before it. it is then buried in the earth, with its point turned in the direction the gang wishes to take on their approaching expedition. if the goddess desires to warn them that they will be unsuccessful, or that they have not chosen the right track, the thugs believe that the point of the axe will veer round, and point to the better way. during an expedition, it is entrusted to the most prudent and exemplary thug of the party: it is his care to hold it fast. if by any chance he should let it fall, consternation spreads through the gang: the goddess is thought to be offended; the enterprise is at once abandoned; and the thugs return home in humiliation and sorrow, to sacrifice to their gloomy deity, and win back her estranged favour. so great is the reverence in which they hold the sacred axe, that a thug will never break an oath that he has taken upon it. he fears that, should he perjure himself, his neck would be so twisted by the offended bhawanee as to make his face turn to his back; and that, in the course of a few days, he would expire in the most excruciating agonies. the thugs are diligent observers of signs and omens. no expedition is ever undertaken before the auspices are solemnly taken. upon this subject captain sleeman says, "even the most sensible approvers, who have been with me for many years, as well hindoos as mussulmans, believe that their good or ill success depended upon the skill with which the omens were discovered and interpreted, and the strictness with which they were observed and obeyed. one of the old sindouse stock told me, in presence of twelve others, from hydrabad, behar, the dooah, oude, rajpootana, and bundelcund, that, had they not attended to these omens, they never could have thrived as they did. in ordinary cases of murder, other men seldom escaped punishment, while they and their families had, for ten generations, thrived, although they had murdered hundreds of people. 'this,' said the thug,' could never have been the case had we not attended to omens, and had not omens been intended for us. there were always signs around us to guide us to rich booty, and warn us of danger, had we been always wise enough to discern them and religious enough to attend to them.' every thug present concurred with him from his soul." a thug, of polished manners and great eloquence, being asked by a native gentleman, in the presence of captain sleeman, whether he never felt compunction in murdering innocent people, replied with a smile that he did not. "does any man," said he, "feel compunction in following his trade? and are not all our trades assigned us by providence?" he was then asked how many people he had killed with his own hands in the course of his life? "i have killed none," was the reply. "what! and have you not been describing a number of murders in which you were concerned?" "true; but do you suppose that i committed them? is any man killed by man's killing? is it not the hand of god that kills, and are we not the mere instruments in the hands of god?" upon another occasion, sahib, an approver, being asked if he had never felt any pity or compunction at murdering old men or young children, or persons with whom he had sat and conversed, and who had told him, perchance, of their private affairs--their hopes and their fears, their wives and their little ones? replied unhesitatingly that he never did. from the time that the omens were favourable, the thugs considered all the travellers they met as victims thrown into their hands by their divinity to be killed. the thugs were the mere instruments in the hands of bhawanee to destroy them. "if we did not kill them," said sahib, "the goddess would never again be propitious to us, and we and our families would be involved in misery and want. if we see or hear a bad omen, it is the order of the goddess not to kill the travellers we are in pursuit of, and we dare not disobey." as soon as an expedition has been planned, the goddess is consulted. on the day chosen for starting, which is never during the unlucky months of july, september, and december, nor on a wednesday or thursday; the chief thug of the party fills a brass jug with water, which he carries in his right hand by his side. with his left, he holds upon his breast the sacred pickaxe, wrapped carefully in a white cloth, along with five knots of turmeric, two copper, and one silver coin. he then moves slowly on, followed by the whole of the gang, to some field or retired place, where halting, with his countenance turned in the direction they wish to pursue, he lifts up his eyes to heaven, saying, "great goddess! universal mother! if this, our meditated expedition, be fitting in thy sight, vouchsafe to help us, and give us the signs of thy approbation." all the thugs present solemnly repeat the prayer after their leader, and wait in silence for the omen. if within half an hour they see pilhaoo, or good omen on the left, it signifies that the goddess has taken them by the left hand to lead them on; if they see the thibaoo, or omen on the right, it signifies that she has taken them by the right hand also. the leader then places the brazen pitcher on the ground and sits down beside it, with his face turned in the same direction for seven hours, during which time his followers make all the necessary preparations for the journey. if, during this interval, no unfavourable signs are observed, the expedition advances slowly, until it arrives at the bank of the nearest stream, when they all sit down and eat of the goor, or consecrated sugar. any evil omens that are perceived after this ceremony may be averted by sacrifices; but any evil omens before, would at once put an end to the expedition. among the evil omens are the following:--if the brazen pitcher drops from the hand of the jemadar or leader, it threatens great evil either to him or to the gang--sometimes to both. if they meet a funeral procession, a blind man, a lame man, an oil-vender, a carpenter, a potter, or a dancing-master, the expedition will be dangerous. in like manner it is unlucky to sneeze, to meet a woman with an empty pail, a couple of jackals, or a hare. the crossing of their path by the latter is considered peculiarly inauspicious. its cry at night on the left is sometimes a good omen, but if they hear it on the right it is very bad; a warning sent to them from bhawanee that there is danger if they kill. should they disregard this warning, and led on by the hope of gain, strangle any traveller, they would either find no booty on him, or such booty as would eventually lead to the ruin and dispersion of the gang. bhawanee would be wroth with her children; and causing them to perish in the jungle, would send the hares to drink water out of their skulls. the good omens are quite as numerous as the evil. it promises a fortunate expedition, if, on the first day, they pass through a village where there is a fair. it is also deemed fortunate, if they hear wailing for the dead in any village but their own. to meet a woman with a pitcher full of water upon her head, bodes a prosperous journey and a safe return. the omen is still more favourable if she be in a state of pregnancy. it is said of the thugs of the jumaldehee and lodaha tribes, that they always make the youngest thug of the party kick the body of the first person they strangle, five times on the back, thinking that it will bring them good luck. this practice, however, is not general. if they hear an ass bray on the left at the commencement of an expedition, and an another soon afterwards on the right, they believe that they shall be supereminently successful, that they shall strangle a multitude of travellers, and find great booty. after every murder a solemn sacrifice, called the tuponee, is performed by all the gang. the goor, or consecrated sugar, is placed upon a large cloth or blanket, which is spread upon the grass. beside it is deposited the sacred pickaxe, and a piece of silver for an offering. the jemadar, or chief of the party, together with all the oldest and most prudent thugs, take their places upon the cloth, and turn their faces to the west. those inferior thugs who cannot find room upon the privileged cloth, sit round as close to it as possible. a pit is then dug, into which the jemadar pours a small quantity of the goor, praying at the same time that the goddess will always reward her followers with abundant spoils. all the thugs repeat the prayer after him. he then sprinkles water upon the pickaxe, and puts a little of the goor upon the head of every one who has obtained a seat beside him on the cloth. a short pause ensues, when the signal for strangling is given, as if a murder were actually about to be committed, and each thug eats his goor in solemn silence. so powerful is the impression made upon their imagination by this ceremony, that it almost drives them frantic with enthusiasm. captain sleeman relates, that when he reproached a thug for his share in a murder of great atrocity, and asked him whether he never felt pity; the man replied, "we all feel pity sometimes; but the goor of the tuponee changes our nature; it would change the nature of a horse. let any man once taste of that goor, and he will be a thug, though he know all the trades and have all the wealth in the world. i never was in want of food; my mother's family was opulent, and her relations high in office. i have been high in office myself, and became so great a favourite wherever i went that i was sure of promotion; yet i was always miserable when absent from my gang, and obliged to return to thuggee. my father made me taste of that fatal goor, when i was yet a mere boy; and if i were to live a thousand years i should never be able to follow any other trade." the possession of wealth, station in society, and the esteem of his fellows, could not keep this man from murder. from his extraordinary confession we may judge of the extreme difficulty of exterminating a sect who are impelled to their horrid practises, not only by the motives of self-interest which govern mankind in general, but by a fanaticism which fills up the measure of their whole existence. even severity seems thrown away upon the followers of this brutalizing creed. to them, punishment is no example; they have no sympathy for a brother thug who is hung at his own door by the british government, nor have they any dread of his fate. their invariable idea is, that their goddess only suffers those thugs to fall into the hands of the law, who have contravened the peculiar observances of thuggee, and who have neglected the omens she sent them for their guidance. to their neglect of the warnings of the goddess they attribute all the reverses which have of late years befallen their sect. it is expressly forbidden, in the creed of the old thugs, to murder women or cripples. the modern thugs have become unscrupulous upon this point, murdering women, and even children, with unrelenting barbarity. captain sleeman reports several conversations upon this subject, which he held at different times with thugs, who had been taken prisoners, or who had turned approvers. one of them, named zolfukar, said, in reply to the captain, who accused him of murdering women, "yes, and was not the greater part of feringeea's and my gang seized, after we had murdered the two women and the little girl, at manora, in ? and were we not ourselves both seized soon after? how could we survive things like that? our ancestors never did such things." lalmun, another thug, in reply to a similar question, said, "most of our misfortunes have come upon us for the murder of women. we all knew that they would come upon us some day, for this and other great sins. we were often admonished, but we did not take warning; and we deserve our fates." in speaking of the supposed protection which their goddess had extended to them in former times, zolfukar said:--"ah! we had some regard for religion then! we have lost it since. all kinds of men have been made thugs, and all classes of people murdered, without distinction; and little attention has been paid to omens. how, after this, could we think to escape? * * * * davee never forsook us till we neglected her!" it might be imagined that men who spoke in this manner of the anger of the goddess, and who, even in custody, showed so much veneration for their unhappy calling, would hesitate before they turned informers, and laid bare the secrets and exposed the haunts of their fellows:--among the more civilized ruffians of europe, we often find the one chivalrous trait of character, which makes them scorn a reward that must be earned by the blood of their accomplices: but in india there is no honour among thieves. when the approvers are asked, if they, who still believe in the power of the terrible goddess davee, are not afraid to incur her displeasure by informing of their fellows, they reply, that davee has done her worst in abandoning them. she can inflict no severer punishment, and therefore gives herself no further concern about her degenerate children. this cowardly doctrine is, however, of advantage to the government that seeks to put an end to the sect, and has thrown a light upon their practices, which could never have been obtained from other sources. another branch of the thug abomination has more recently been discovered by the indefatigable captain sleeman. the followers of this sect are called megpunnas, and they murder travellers, not to rob them of their wealth, but of their children, whom they afterwards sell into slavery. they entertain the same religious opinions as the thugs, and have carried on their hideous practices, and entertained their dismal superstition, for about a dozen years with impunity. the report of captain sleeman states, that the crime prevails almost exclusively in delhi and the native principalities, or rajpootana of ulwar and bhurtpore; and that it first spread extensively after the siege of bhurtpore in . the original thugs never or rarely travel with their wives; but the megpunnas invariably take their families with them, the women and children being used to inveigle the victims. poor travellers are always chosen by the megpunnas as the objects of their murderous traffic. the females and children are sent on in advance to make acquaintance with emigrants or beggars on the road, travelling with their families, whom they entice to pass the night in some secluded place, where they are afterwards set upon by the men, and strangled. the women take care of the children. such of them as are beautiful are sold at a high price to the brothels of delhi, or other large cities; while the boys and ill-favoured girls are sold for servants at a more moderate rate. these murders are perpetrated perhaps five hundred miles from the homes of the unfortunate victims; and the children thus obtained, deprived of all their relatives, are never inquired after. even should any of their kin be alive, they are too far off and too poor to institute inquiries. one of the members, on being questioned, said the megpunnas made more money than the other thugs; it was more profitable to kill poor people for the sake of their children, than rich people for their wealth. megpunnaism is supposed by its votaries to be, like thuggee, under the immediate protection of the great goddess davee, or kalee, whose favour is to be obtained before the commencement of every expedition, and whose omens, whether of good or evil, are to be diligently sought on all occasions. the first apostle to whom she communicated her commands for the formation of the new sect, and the rules and ordinances by which it was to be guided, was called kheama jemadar. he was considered so holy a man, that the thugs and megpunnas considered it an extreme felicity to gaze upon and touch him. at the moment of his arrest by the british authorities, a fire was raging in the village, and the inhabitants gathered round him and implored him to intercede with his god, that the flames might be extinguished. the megpunna, says the tradition, stretched forth his hand to heaven, prayed, and the fire ceased immediately. there now only remain to be considered the exertions that have been made to remove from the face of india this purulent and disgusting sore. from the year until , the proceedings against thuggee were not carried on with any extraordinary degree of vigour; but, in the latter year, the government seems to have begun to act upon a settled determination to destroy it altogether. from to , both included, there were committed to prison, in the various presidencies, persons accused of this crime. of these, were hanged; transported; imprisoned for life; imprisoned for shorter periods; held to bail; and only acquitted. of the remainder, died in prison, before they were brought to trial, escaped, and turned approvers. one feringeea, a thug leader of great notoriety, was delivered up to justice in the year , in consequence of the reward of five hundred rupees offered for his apprehension by the government. he was brought before captain sleeman, at sangir, in the december of that year, and offered, if his life were spared, to give such information as would lead to the arrest of several extensive gangs which had carried on their murderous practices undetected for several years. he mentioned the place of rendezvous, for the following february, of some well organized gangs, who were to proceed into guzerat and candeish. captain sleeman appeared to doubt his information; but accompanied the thug to a mango grove, two stages from sangir, on the road to seronage. they reached this place in the evening, and in the morning feringeea pointed out three places in which he and his gang had, at different intervals, buried the bodies of three parties of travellers whom they had murdered. the sward had grown over all the spots, and not the slightest traces were to be seen that it had ever been disturbed. under the sod of captain sleeman's tent were found the bodies of the first party, consisting of a pundit and his six attendants, murdered in . another party of five, murdered in , were under the ground at the place where the captain's horses had been tied up for the night; and four brahmin carriers of the ganges water, with a woman, were buried under his sleeping tent. before the ground was moved, captain sleeman expressed some doubts; but feringeea, after looking at the position of some neighbouring trees, said he would risk his life on the accuracy of his remembrance. the workmen dug five feet without discovering the bodies; but they were at length found a little beyond that depth, exactly as the thug had described them. with this proof of his knowledge of the haunts of his brethren, feringeea was promised his liberty and pardon if he would aid in bringing to justice the many large gangs to which he had belonged, and which were still prowling over the country. they were arrested in the february following, at the place of rendezvous pointed out by the approver, and most of them condemned and executed. so far we learn from captain sleeman, who only brought down his tables to the close of the year . a writer in the "foreign quarterly review" furnishes an additional list of persons, committed to prison in , for being concerned in the murder and robbery of individuals. of these criminals, were sentenced to death, and to imprisonment for life, leaving , who were sentenced to transportation for life, or shorter periods of imprisonment, or who turned approvers, or died in gaol. not one of the whole number was acquitted. great as is this amount of criminals who have been brought to justice, it is to be feared that many years must elapse before an evil so deeply rooted can be eradicated. the difficulty is increased by the utter hopelessness of reformation as regards the survivors. their numbers are still calculated to amount to ten thousand persons, who, taking the average of three murders annually for each, as calculated by captain sleeman and other writers, murder every year thirty thousand of their fellow creatures. this average is said to be under the mark; but even if we were to take it at only a third of this calculation, what a frightful list it would be! when religion teaches men to go astray, they go far astray indeed! end of the first volume.